Your Post

So if we were drawing a Venn diagram of my friends, the place where the circle containing people I actually know and people I know through the blogosphere would have a very small overlap. My friend Eric is one of those rare folks who would belong in that small overlapping area. A few months ago, I told him that I was going to write a post for him for his birthday to let him in on something he didn't know. His birthday was last weekend. I worked and worked on this post, but I found myself adding details to make it accessible to readers who DON'T know us that ended up making it cumbersome and - I thought - a little boring. So I wrote him a letter, instead. When Tom read it, he said - post it with a little note explaining why it's a letter. Eric agreed that that would be okey dokey with him. I hope this will suffice as that.

One year I wrote a post for my daughter, Lea, for her birthday. When she tried to explain this to her friends outside the blogosphere, she said, "My mom wrote a post about me for my birthday. It's kind of like when normal people write you a song." I don't know what world my child is living in - where normal people are writing each other songs all the time, but there you go.

Without further ado:

Your Note

My gift is my song, and this one’s for you. – Elton John

For the most part, I like people. I like talking and I like listening. I enjoy the exchange of information, philosophies and thoughts. I am a social creature. You know – on accounta being human and all. I crave human discourse.

When I was younger, thinner, and generally more attractive, this was a much easier need to meet. There was always someone on the next barstool willing to expand upon their theories. Often they were interested in hearing mine, too. Barstool philosophy, phone calls that lasted all night, confidently meeting friends of friends of friends – it seemed that there would always be someone to talk to. It never occurred to me that it would ever not be this easy.

But as I got older, bigger, and generally less attractive, meaningful chat with strangers became more and more rare. Apparently, in the eyes of strangers, the quality of my conversations was inversely proportional to the size of my ass.

This was hurtful and surprising at first, in the days when I would still freely turn to that stranger on the next bar stool, or on the next seat on the airplane, or in line at the grocery store – whatever – and expect a friendly exchange. I soon realized, though, that while this behavior was viewed as charming when I was generally attractive, it just became intrusive and creepy as I veered away from societal standards of beauty.

I convinced myself, eventually, that it was ok for people to discount my thoughts and words. I began to believe that I indeed WAS unworthy. And then – because that wasn’t bad enough – it got worse. I convinced myself that being in my presence was a burden and that no one should be subjected to it. And I accepted that.

I accepted it.

It got to the point that I could barely remember a time when it had been different. To tell the truth, it didn’t even hurt any more. It was just the way things were.

Enter you.

We met briefly at the first Martini Club and exchanged about three sentences – enough to establish ourselves as the matriarch and patriarch of the group.

The next month, you arrived first and I was second. You beckoned me over to the barstool beside you and we talked while the rest of the crew trickled in. When conversation at the bar became cumbersome, we moved the party to a table. You sat at one end and I moved towards the other. It was my natural impulse to give you a break from my oppressive presence. I would’ve done the same for anyone. You had been kind to talk to me so long at the bar. I was grateful. I was ready to give you a chance to talk to younger, thinner, more generally attractive and therefore obviously more interesting people.

You didn’t take it.

You caught my eye before I actually sat in a different spot and patted the seat beside you. I was startled. You wanted to keep talking to ME? Even when there were so many other more societally acceptable options available to you?

I loved you a little bit in that moment.

Finding common ground and enjoying someone’s company – something I’d done effortlessly and almost constantly a couple decades before – was happening again. It took me completely by surprise.

It shouldn’t have, but it did.

Since then my confidence, while still nowhere near the levels it hit when I was younger, thinner, and generally more attractive, has improved by leaps and bounds. I no longer just assume that my presence is an imposition and a bother. I’m learning to take it on a case by case basis. I can accept that people – really GOOD people – might – just might – be able to like me for me. I trust myself enough to at least make the effort to find out.

So happy birthday, Eric my friend. My gift to you is cluing you in on your gift to me. I think I got the better end of the deal.

I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words – how wonderful life is while you’re in the world. – Elton John, again. He’s very good. He’s no David Soul, but he’s still very good.

Put That in Your Dot Com and Fax It

I am in a deeper funk than Rick James.

The Great Gray Beast is about to be devoured by lions and lambs and leprechauns and such, and I'm rooting for them - especially the lambs - but I'm not feeling as relieved as I should be. The Great Gray Beast sucked it out of me but good this year.

Y'know who DOESN'T hate February? My mom.

She has her reasons. One of them is that for the last twenty years or so she's spent the full month in warmer climes. That would sure be enough for me. But that's not her biggest or best reason. Her biggest and best reason is that her birthday is in February - tomorrow, actually, and she is - if it's possible - even more of a child about celebrating her birthday than I am. I'm sorry. Did I say birthday? She prefers birthmonth.

Anyway - in honor of Mom's birthmonth I thought I'd share a quick conversation we had yesterday. The backstory is that I told her about Beth and her campaign and Mom wanted to make some caps. She asked me for patterns, as many of you did (thank you!!!) and I told her what I told those of you who asked: there are so many patterns out there for every ability level and taste... for you computer savvy folks I followed that up with - just google chemo cap patterns. I told Mom basically the same thing then told her I'd look for her - what was she thinking about? She said, "My girlfriend down here has a computer - we can look it up. What do we do?"

I could hear her pencil scratching. "Now, should she just type in "chemo cap patterns dot com?"

"No - have her do a google search on chemo cap patterns."

"Google. Spell that."

"G-O-O-G-L-E"

"Ok. She'll know how to do that."

"Yes - she should."

"Google. Got it. Google dot com."

"Right."

We talked about other things and ended the call. When she called yesterday, she very excitedly told me, "Hey, Tam, we dot commed those patterns and we found one we liked. Then we went down to the office (they stay in a condo on the beach) and they printed it out on their fax machine. So my friend and I are gonna get started on these in the next day or two."

God love 'em.

That woman brought me a smile through the funk. And it's not even my birthmonth.

There are Dozens of Us! Dozens!

Lots of good things come in dozens. Donuts, cupcakes, never-nudes and candles on Liv's birthday cake. Yes, my youngest, my baby, my darlink girl turns 12 today.

As a preschooler, Liv loved playing dress up. Well, sure. Most kids love dress up. But Liv would stay in character for - well - I think she might have been Dorothy Gale for two full years. She had three blue gingham jumpers and went through countless pairs of ruby slippers. She would only wear blue socks. When the weather got cold and I told her she had to wear tights, she had a fit. "Dorothy doesn't wear tights! Dorothy wears blue socks!" I told her she could wear blue socks over her tights, but that didn't fly. I finally found some tights that closely matched her skin color and she reluctantly agreed to wear those. But it didn't make her any too happy. Dorothy gave way to Laura Ingalls. Laura didn't live with us as long, but she certainly lived with us vividly. Tom and I grew accustomed to being referred to as Ma and Pa. Liv wore her bonnet to go to the grocery store. Or, you know, "to go into town for dry goods."

As she got older, we found out that Liv's convictions weren't confined to character authenticity in her clothing choices. She became a vegetarian at the age of ten and has never looked back. She doesn't impose her beliefs on anyone else, but she holds firm to them for herself. Liv knows who she is and she likes herself. I know a lot of adults who haven't come to that sort of peace (raises hand shyly hoping no one will see me...). To be able to feel it at twelve - an age when many kids are feeling their most awkward, is nothing short of amazing to me.


While she may be all about the tree hugging and animal rights, that's not ALL she's all about. Liv is also a talented writer and musician. Her ideas for stories blow me away. They're sweet, and clever, and unique - just like their author. She's a natural born writer. She also plays drums, piano and baritone. She has a band with her sister and a couple other kids (Um, playing the drums. Not the baritone. Just to be clear.) and they're sounding better than Tom and I ever dreamed they'd sound so early in the game. Her genre? Metal. Speed metal, specifically. I told her she should name her band 'Paradox'. (she didn't)

How could I have talked about my Livvie Lu this long and not mentioned her wit? A day doesn't go by that she doesn't crack my stuff up at least once. And ya know what? When she's sure no one is looking? She still kisses me goodnight.

Happy Birthday, Punky Punk! You rock my world!

A Purple Letter Day

Oh, man, have I been looking forward to today. But not as much as my friend Ellin has. Today, you see, is Ellin's birthday. It's a special one. Yep. Today Ellin turns 47. Now you may be scratching your head at this point and saying, "Forty is a special one. FIFTY is a special one. But forty-seven? Isn't that one that just comes and goes?" Normally you'd be right. But forty-seven is a special one for Ellin. She hated being forty-six, and as of today SHE ISN'T ANYMORE!!!


You can clearly see that Ellin is beautiful. What you can't see is that she's strong (one of the strongest women I've ever had the privilege of knowing), loyal (she's put up with my dubious antics for around thirty-five years, but I'm far from the only one she's loyal to. If Ellin loves you, she loves you. Period.), and she makes the best pizza west of the Schuykill (if my hometown readers aren't eating Ellin's pizza at least once a week, well, what the heck is YOUR deal?)

Ellin hated being forty-six because both one of her favorite aunts AND her beloved brother passed away when they were forty-six. She dreaded turning forty-six the way many of us dread changing that decade marker on our birthday cake. Forty-six wasn't a banner year for her. She's one of the best people I know, but the world sees fit to batter her around way more than her share. She gets to practice that 'strong' trait I mentioned more often that she should. It got a workout this year.

But you know what? She made it. And today she's forty-seven. Today is a new day. Today is important. Today is big.

Ellin and I have been friends since Junior High. I had my first drink with her. (yep, she's to blame) My parents were (and are) teetotalers, but Ellin's were not, so she would go through their liquor cabinet and pour out just a little bit of everything. We'd add orange juice and call it good. (it, um, wasn't) We are probably lucky to be alive. She was also the one right next to me when I went to my first concert (Nazareth, for those who haven't heard that story before. Now you're messin' with a son-of-a-bitch.) Somewhere around tenth grade we made a countdown chart to our High School graduation. That was the day we were gonna hop in a purple van and head to California. Instead, we headed to different colleges. Sometimes, in retrospect, I wish we'd done it. College would've waited a year. Many years and many adventures later we had our first daughters within six months of each other. I could tell you stories for a month, but I won't because, well, even the guilty deserve a little privacy sometimes. Of course if I told you purely fictional stories about Helen and Sammy's adventures some day...

(Don't sweat it, babe - not gonna happen)

I love Ellin.

Happy birthday, my friend. Cheers!

Have a Fine Birthday

Thursday sort of caught me by surprise this week! Here's a birthday trip down Memory Lane.

My birthday is September 1st. My maternal great-grandmother's birthday was August 31st. My cousin Scott's birthday is September 2nd and he is my age.

What I'm telling you, here, is that I never got to have a birthday celebration just for me until I was into my early teens.

When Great-Grandma was still alive, we would always have a big reunion for her birthday. Great Grandma lived less than an hour away from us, but it was like visiting a foreign world. We were small-town; she was rural. I loved playing there when I was very young. Their grounds were endless - you could just run and run and run. When I got a little older the charm sort of wore off. Most of my mother's cousins lived right around Great-Grandma. There was a sort of complex, actually, with her old farmhouse at it's hub. They were a big extended family. We were visitors there.

When they would bring out her cake with all of it's candles - 91, 92, 93 - in truth, we didn't know EXACTLY how old Great-Grandma was when she passed away, because she had attempted to erase her date of birth from her birth certificate. She was not a vain woman, by any stretch, so I'm not exactly sure what prompted this, but there it was. We knew she was well into her nineties. You'd think that at SOME point age would become a source of pride - a badge of honor - but not Great-Grandma. She never looked a day older than 88.

In any case, they'd bring out the cake and Mom would sort of push me to the front of the throng of cousins and second cousins and cousins twice removed and tell me to help Great-Grandma blow out her candles since it was my birthday, too.

This would usually result in her saying something like, "Now who's this one?"

"That's Nancy's girl, Grandma."

"What?"

"NANCY'S GIRL!"

"Oh. Nancy's girl, y'say?"

"Yes, Grandma. It's her birthday, too."

"Now what do they call her, Nancy's girl?"

"They call her Tame-y, Grandma."

Less than an hour away, but there was a whole different dialect. Believe me. Tame-y was not a nickname anyone would've come up with for me. I had cousins (all sorts of twices and removeds) out there who I called Brine and Dibbie all through my childhood and teens. When I received an invitation to Brian's wedding, I had to think for a moment. I don't know any Brian - oh! - BRINE!!! I guess I don't have to tell you there isn't a birth certificate in my family that reads 'Dibbie', either.

"Tame-y. Well she's just fine."

Just fine was about as much praise as Great-Grandma was gonna dole out. That was pretty high praise, actually.

"Tame-y, you go get you one of those pink lozenges, if you want one."

"No thank you"

"They're right over there, honey - g'won - go."

The same conversation or some reasonable facsimile thereof would occur the following year. And the year after that. I guess when you're at some indetermined place in your nineties and have 'leventy 'leven great-grandchildren it's hard to remember. When you're under ten it's considerably easier.

Then we'd go home and celebrate with my paternal relatives. You know, the side of the family with Scott. At least I KNEW everyone at this party. And they all knew me. This one was all aunts and uncles and first cousins. Most of us lived within a 5-mile radius of my dad's homestead. My dad had only ventured two blocks away. This was OUR complex.

Mom would bake cakes using ideas from her women's magazines. In the early sixties it was a very popular and clever idea to make several large cakes and then cut them into shapes and put those shapes together like puzzles to resemble things and then frost the new shape. Mom loved making those things, because people would say, "Oh, Nancy, you're so clever." Who doesn't like being told they're clever? They always said, "Happy Birthday Tammy and Scott". My name was always first, because I was the elder by twenty-four hours, and because it's always ladies first, and because my mom made the cakes.

I was very satisfied with this until I started going to school and being invited to birthday parties. Whoa. Hold up, here. People get to have parties just for themselves? They don't have to share them with nonagenarians or (gasp) boys? Well this was a fine little howdy-do. Just fine, as my great-grandma would've said.

I started lobbying for my own party in kindergarten, but didn't get one until Jr. High. I was so excited. I mean, just over the top excited. The anticipation was as delicious as the cake my mom would've made for me if I'd wanted a cake - which I DIDN'T, because cakes are for babies (How's THAT for misguided logic?) and I wanted a cool party - would have been.

When the day of the party arrived, I was too nervous and excited to eat.

I just picked at that bowl of plums my dad had left out on the counter.

As my guests started to arrive, I greeted them with the sort of glee reserved for pubescent girls unaccustomed to seeing each other in a non-school setting on a non-school day.

There was much squealing and hugging and jumping up and down.

And they brought PREsents!

I'd always gotten presents from my mom and dad, but the parties I shared with Great-Grandma and Scott were always gift-free.

Guess what excitement plus presents plus a lot of plums equals?

Did you guess?

Do you remember Jr. High math?

Excitement plus presents plus lots of plums equals a birthday girl on the hopper (as Great-Grandma would've said) while her friends party on her brand new deck.

Well that's just fine.