Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Liv loves The Wizard of Oz. She loves it to the point of obsession. When she first discovered the movie, somewhere around the time she was three, she put it in constant rotation. She cried and carried on when anyone wanted to watch anything else. I told her about how back in my day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we only got to watch it once a year. Her reaction clearly demonstrated that she felt that this was tantamount to abuse.

She had the movie. She had the soundtrack. And she had the ruby slippers. Oh boy, did she have the ruby slippers. She had ruby slippers through at least three size changes. I think she may have worn her ruby slippers to bed.

She didn't stop there, either. My mom made her a (spot on!) Dorothy dress for Halloween one year. She wanted to wear it every day. When I told her she couldn't wear it EVERY day, because I had to WASH it sometimes, tantrums of epic proportions ensued. Memaw to the rescue. She didn't make her another full on costume, but she made her two little blue gingham jumpers. So now my daughter could dress like Dorothy every day. And did. When the weather got cold, making it necessary to cover her bare legs, more tantrums occurred. "Dorothy does not wear tights! Dorothy wears blue socks!" I told her she could wear blue socks over her tights, but that wasn't authentic enough. I finally found some flesh colored tights in toddler sizes and she reluctantly acquiesced. She still shot me the stink eye when she had to put them on, but at least her little legs were covered.

She yelled at me one day for having been so thoughtless as to name her Olivia, when clearly she should have been named Dorothy. She asked if there was anything we could do to change it and make it right.

She had a blue gingham comforter and my sister painted a mural of The Emerald City on her wall. Above her bed we wrote, "There's no place like home." We had the playbill from the local Childrens' Theater Company's production of The Wizard of Oz framed. She had the Barbie's and the Madame Alexander's as well as every other toy available. She had music boxes and snow globes and figurines. If this makes her sound spoiled, rest assured, she was not. She was just so obsessed - she really had little else. It made her pretty easy to buy gifts for, because she absolutely did not mind duplicates.

Once she became old enough to read - she'd ditched the costumes by this point, but the room decor remained - she started obtaining copies of the book. She had several - picture books and abridged versions and unabridged versions and pop-up books and annotated versions. Tom read an original version to us as a family between Harry Potter books one year. Do you know I'd never actually read it before that? Once she learned that the ruby slippers were really supposed to be silver - well - let's just say there was a minor crisis of faith and leave it at that.

Somewhere in that time period Tom and I read Wicked. We didn't exactly become obsessed (Giving your suburban home a steampunk makeover isn't unusual, right? Right?), but we did squeeeee every time Gregory Maguire released a new book. When the musical came out, there were large displays in Barnes and Noble (a frequent haunt of cool folks like us) and Liv was immediately intrigued. "This is about The Wizard of Oz?" Tom and I explained the basic premise, and she was in. We bought her the soundtrack and it got heavy rotation. The show, however, was a little out of our financial reach.

It toured once and we had to miss it. That was a rough month.

Liv became old enough to read Wicked. And she did. Several times. She informed me that the name Elphaba (the Wicked Witch, if you've been living under a rock and didn't know) came from L. Frank Baum's initials. Try to pronounce LFB and see what you get. I hadn't known that. If you hadn't known it either, you learned it from Liv, not me.

I loved watching her grow - watching her follow her own yellow brick road, if you'll indulge me. From the little girl in the ruby slippers to the young lady discussing the politics of Wicked; watching her go from black and white to vivid color to muted hues.

Last night? We finally took her to see Wicked. It was a good show. Changes were made from the book (which I read once and Tom read twice and Liv read countless times) but we all agreed that they worked. The music and showmanship were amazing. Far better than that, though, was the look I saw on my daughter's face every time I glanced her way. It was like the culmination of a lifelong dream for her. My baby girl was experiencing pure, uncut joy.

Maybe I should've let her buy three T-shirts instead of just one. I'm going to have to wash it SOME time.

Denied!

I went to see Heart last night with my family.

I was going to write some typical squealy fangirl fare about how the first album I ever bought with my own money was Dreamboat Annie. I would've probably mentioned my massive girl crush on Ann Wilson. I might've mentioned that their concert shirt is my new favorite favorite - leave it to Ann and Nancy to offer a shirt that is feminine and pretty and SOFT and still has a respectable amount of sleeve. I will wear no sleeves before I'll wear those dumbass cap sleeves that draw a line across the fattest part of my arm. But not my girls. They gave me a PRETTY shirt that I'll actually wear. I love them so much. (Well - they didn't - you know - GIVE it to me - but they provided me with the opportunity to buy it - which is more than I can say for most bands who draw a very firm line between masculine and feminine and the pretty, feminine options are never an option for ME.)

I would've told you about the anticipation I felt - knowing they were backstage - knowing I was already breathing their air. I would've told you about the way I grabbed Liv's hand and screamed when I saw Ann preparing to walk onto the stage. I would've told you about how Nancy still looks like she did when I saw them last - in 1980 - touring Bebe le Strange. Her guitar hero poses are so full of girl-power and feminine/ballsy paradox that it makes me weep in a happy confusion of vulnerability and strength. I love them so much. (I said that before? No apologies. It bears repeating.)

I would've told you that I was singing every word (well, lip synching every word - no-one had paid their hard-earned to hear me sing). I would've probably mentioned that Liv leaned over during Dog and Butterfly and asked me to help her remember which song it was so she could learn it when we get home.

I would've told you all of those things and more, and you would've been pea green with envy.

But these dreams have a way of ending like a needle scratching it's way across a beloved LP. It just hasn't been that kind of summer for me.

About five songs in, I allowed my adoring gaze to leave the stage and take in my family. I just wanted to see if they were all still 'with' me. I wanted to see my own enjoyment reflected back at me through their faces. To my immediate right, Liv was digging it. To my far right, Tom was digging it. But where was Lea? She was sitting down; shaking and crying. Panic attack. Shit. "Do you want to leave?" I mouthed - concerned. It was very hot and crowded. She shook her head in the negative - not wanting to ruin this night for me. Tom offered to take her to the car and said they'd just wait it out in the car until the show was over. I said, no, we came as a family, we'll leave as a family. I thought if we could just get her out onto the concourse, away from the stifling heat and crowd she'd be ok. We could listen to the rest of the show from there and watch it on the screens. Not exactly the experience we'd hoped for, but it would do. (I think the title of my memoir might be in that last sentence somewhere...)

We made our way out of our row (To the great annoyance of all the people we walked in front of, I'm sure. Sorry.) and were immediately descended upon by a team of rent-a-cops. Just one couldn't have possibly handled the imminent threat of a family trying to get some air for their shaking, crying child. They were - hmmmm - less than gentle. They added a heaping dose of humiliation to what was already an unpleasant situation.

We left - about halfway through the show. I spent the whole walk back to the car composing a strongly worded letter to the venue in my head. (It never made it any further than that. They rarely do.) It would've talked about all the people who were actually breaking rules and being public nuisances while their crack security staff concentrated on keeping the perimeters safe from the clear danger presented by my little family trying to make it's way to an exit. It would've talked about money and how long we have to save to buy 4 tickets (and 4 T-shirts) for a show, but that we do it, because exposing our children to music is a priority of ours. It would've talked about how long I've been attending this festival (somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 years) and how, thanks to the quick and completely thoughtless actions of their security folks it is unlikely that I will return. I was attending this festival before I had my children - before I met my husband. It has been a part of me. I am SO over it. My little boycott will hurt no-one but me. I'm not stupid. I know this.

For anyone who might be wondering, Lea started breathing easier as soon as we walked out, and by the time the air conditioner in the car was hitting her full blast, she was fine.

I'm fine, too. It was only one concert. What's that - really - in the grand scheme of things?

Guilty Pleasures

We've all got them.

Maybe your day isn't complete until you've watched Kathie Lee and Hoda.

Maybe when no one is around you sing Barry Manilow hits from the seventies and weep a little bit when you get to the part about it all being very nice but not very good.

Maybe you can't wait for the next Danielle Steel project to hit the bookshelves.

(Two lies and a truth in the above, regarding the guilty pleasures attributed to yours truly, by the way. I don't think you'll have to tax your powers of deduction too hard to figure it out.)

It became apparent this morning that I actually have quite a few - maybe more than my share. I was reading the paper over the breakfast table when I said aloud, "We ought to go to this!"

"To what, Momma(kin)?"

"There's a book signing today."

"What's the book?"

"It's a rockumentary (if you will)."

"About who?"

"Who's my number one guilty pleasure?"

"Kid Rock?"

"No."

"Beastie Boys?"

"No."

"Lady Gaga?"

"Crap. I have a lot of guilty pleasures, don't I?"

"Yep. Is it about show tunes?"

"No. What does that say about me? That I have so many guilty pleasures?"

"That you harbor too much guilt?"

Mouths of babes.

"Yeah.... I don't wanna play this game anymore. It's about Poison."

A guilty pleasure two-fer, if you will. I like good music (and I like Poison). I like good literature (and I like rock tell-alls). And I am on vacation. If you can't indulge yourself with a double shot of guilty good stuff on vacation, when can you?

I've been taught not to judge a book by it's cover, but I think this cover just might be the selling point when I ask Tom to take me to the mall on what is HIS vacation, too. He makes fun of my occasional fondness for trashy books and trashy bands, but he can't deny his own fondness for trashy women. (You know - looking at them - not marrying them or dallying with them. Just so we're clear.)

Oh my God, look what the cat dragged in.

Ok, I showed you (a small portion of) mine - you show me yours! What are your guilty pleasures? Inquiring minds want to know! (You got that reference, didn't you? Aha! You read supermarket tabloids! I knew it!)

ETA: I went to the book signing and met the author, Christopher Long, who was quite gracious and charming. One of the primary photographers was there, too, and she even took a little time to talk to Lea about rock photography. Haven't read it yet, so I'll let you know. (Goodreads, ya'll!!! Join it and make me your friend, if you haven't already! Check the sidebar!)

Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder

A week ago I dropped my child off at camp. She had been very excited about this camp for several months. The day before she was scheduled to leave, however, fear and doubt set in. She didn't know any of the other campers. She didn't know any of the teachers or counselors. She had never been to the university where it was being held before. The anticipation of the classes she'd be taking had fueled her enthusiasm for months, but in those twenty-four hours leading up to the actual drop-off more practical issues seeped their way into her consciousness.

She'd been to camps before, but she'd always gone with someone else. It wasn't the prospect of being away from us that concerned her - it was the prospect of being alone.

We drove to the university last week and got her set up in her dorm room. She had three roommates, one of whom had been there last year. The four of them went off exploring while the parents sat in the small room, waiting for opening ceremonies. Throughout said ceremony, she was on the verge of tears. I put my arm around her and she didn't shrug away from my embrace - which has been her MO of late. I pulled her close and she cried. Now she, not unlike her mom, is not a beautiful, single teardrop sort of crier. She is a full-face crier; red tear-stained face, eyes filled with panic.

This was what her face looked like when we left her with her counselor. I hugged her tight one last time, looking at her counselor over her shoulder as I did, trying to convey my message in a glance: "Please take care of her. Please keep her safe. Please make her happy."

As a teacher of young children, I had been on the receiving end of quite a few of those looks. In that same capacity, I knew that those kids were usually having a great time before their parents were out of the parking lot. I knew this. I said it aloud many many times on the ride home. My husband is a saint, actually, for not throwing me out of the car. It's possible that I was just a smidge annoying. I mentioned that I'm a full-face crier, too, right? Oh, yeah. There was nothing pretty about the ride home or the night that followed. My heart hurt. Not just my sentimental heart, either. I was having a visceral reaction to the memory of walking away while my baby was in tears.

It was a rough week for me.

They don't allow the campers to make phone calls - as is the rule at most camps - so that was the visual I carried with me. Thursday I got a note from her and a post card from her counselor and I breathed a little easier - but they might've just said she was happy to make me feel better. I breathed a little easier, but I remained wary.

When we arrived at camp yesterday for their Camp Review, other children were greeting their parents. I craned my neck looking for my daughter - people - parents and campers alike - were entering the auditorium in a steady stream - but where was my baby? The director took the stage. The Review was about to begin - still no sign of Liv. I may or may not have been silently weeping at this point. You'll never know, on accounta it was silent. And I'm very good at masking my emotions. Lady Gaga's poker face has nothing on ma-ma-ma-mine. Tom knew, though, or at least had a suspicion, because I nudged him and said, "They lost her and were just too afraid to call me and let me know." He gave that the reaction it deserved. His week had been rough, too. Living with a mama bear who's been separated from her (crying!) cub is, I imagine, somewhat less than delightful.

And then she poked her head in. She was wearing zombie makeup. She searched the room and I waved, real cool-like. She returned my wave and kept searching. I wasn't who she'd been looking for. The punch in the gut of that realization was quickly forgotten, though, when I realized what it meant. She had friends. She was having fun. Wait. She was wearing zombie makeup?

The review began and we watched a chamber orchestra perform, followed by some improv, then a dance troop (S-S-S-S-A-A-A-A-F-F-F-F-E-E-E-E-T-T-T-T-Y-Y-Y-Y- Safety - Dance!) then a dramatic scene reading. I squirmed in my seat, unable to get comfortable. This may have been the natural result of spending a week not breathing with a sore heart. We want zombies! We want zombies! (That's what I wanted to chant, but I didn't because I have a lot of restraint.) Finally - zombies came on to the stage and fell into excellent fallen zombie poses. Someone hit play on the boom box. It's close to midnight - and something evil's lurking in the dark... the zombies, including my little zombie - my beautiful little zombie - fell into a step for step perfect (in this mama bears completely unbiased opinion) rendition of the Thriller dance. Who would've thought it would be zombies that brought me back to life?

On the way back to her dorm to pack up she chattered incessantly about her classes and her friends. She'd had a ball. She couldn't wait to come back next year. She wanted to go to college here - this campus was the best place EVER! She missed us, and her dog, and her rat, and her bed - but she didn't want to leave her friends or her classes or her dorm. She didn't take a break in conversation as she hit the button on the traffic light for a walk signal. We are suburban folk. A week ago she'd known nothing of waiting for signals to cross the street... She casually pointed out the buildings where her classes were, using the shortened nicknames of a seasoned student for most of them.

This was not the crying child I'd left behind five short days earlier.

This was a confident, happy, excited young lady.

I barely recognize her, but I think I'm gonna like her a lot.

Moderation

My youngest daughter is a vegetarian. The rest of the residents of our happy home are not. It's a very amicable live and let live environment. We respect her right to choose not to eat meat and she respects our right to choose to eat it. All three of us have, at some point or another, attempted the vegetarian lifestyle ourselves. It never took. We loves us some beef. Because I swore I would not be one of those mothers who cooks multiple meals every night, I have taken to cooking predominately vegetarian at home. Every now and then I'll make a meal that includes meat and make a little meatless alternative for my little veg, but for the most part we only get meat when we go out to eat. It's respectful to her, it's better for us, and it's pretty darn cost-effective.

She is out of town this week, visiting my parents.

We are having a meat-orgy of unprecedented proportions. We eased in with Chicken Cordon Bleu. Meat and cheese wrapped in meat. Then we had BLT's - heavy on the B, moderate on the T, L was offered as an option but I'm not sure any of us took it. We indulged in a simple ground beef recipe that we all enjoy but that doesn't taste good at all with meat substitute. Ask me how I know. But last night... Oh, last night our meat-a-palooza got serious.

It was steak night.

Because we so rarely indulge, I gave Tom $20 and told him to pick up steaks on the way home from work. He passes a Whole Foods on the way home and I only have quick local access to Kroger. We never have steak; we should have the good stuff.

I'm not kidding, we talked about this meal for, like, three days. We were seriously psyched about these steaks.

He called from his cell. "I'm going in to pick up the steaks. What should I get?"

"The best you can get for $20 for 3 people. Quality over quantity. Ask the folks at the counter for advice. They'll be happy to help. They'll feel important."

The phone rang again in about ten minutes. "Three T-bones, baby!"

"Three T-bones for $20? That must've been one helluva sale!"

"I kinda supplemented your $20."

"By what?"

"By doubling it."

There was a tone of giddy anticipation in his voice that is usually reserved for those evenings when both girls have sleepovers.

I hummed while I prepared the baked potatoes and the corn. I hummed a little steaky song I made up myself. "Steak, steak, I'm gonna have steak. Steak on the grill, gonna grill some steak." I guess you really need the melody to get the full effect. It was totally a good song though. I could tell, 'cause it made me feel all tingly inside.

"When is Daddy getting home with the steaks?"

"Soon! Set the table - cause he's only gonna throw 'em on the grill long enough to warm 'em up a little bit."

"ouagh" (that's my daughter making a sound no mother should ever hear her daughter make)

Once those steaks were on our plates, there was no room for anything else. Our entire plates were eclipsed by meat. Grill marks on the outside, dark pink on the inside. Steaks as big as a dinner plate. Times three. We couldn't speak, we just consumed. Lea had no desire to supplement her meal with potatoes or corn on the cob, but both were on the table. No one had any room for any on their plate. Tom and I put a little dent in our meat then put a potato on our plate. Tom still didn't have enough room, so he cut off a huge piece of steak and stacked it on top of what was already on his plate, using the bottom steak as a surface upon which to cut his top steak into bite sized pieces.

At this point Lea was squatting on her chair gnawing on a bone. When I told her to please sit on her bottom she growled at me and turned away from the table, hunched protectively around her meat, throwing furtive glances over her shoulder from time to time to make sure we knew that that piece of carnage was HERS.

We finished it, folks.

I'm not proud of that, but we did.

When I got on Facebook the next morning, I noticed that all three of us had updated our statuses to mention our steak.

Folks.

Seriously.

This is a lesson in moderation. If we hadn't been so completely deprived for so very long, I doubt that any one of us would've behaved like animals. I think I need to send the veg to a friend's house at least once a month so that the rest of us can meet our base needs. A nice little steak - the size of the palm of our hands - served with a baked potato and a nice green salad. Maybe even a little wine for the grown ups. We'll use cutlery and everything.

But the story won't be nearly as fun.



I know, I know, No One Cares What You Had For Lunch. But come on. It was steak. And besides - it was dinner.

Learned Weakness

In my past life as an Early Interventionist, learned weakness was a concept I spoke to parents about all the time. Parents of a child with a disability tend to have an urge to do things for their child because they don't want them to have to struggle. Heck, most parents have that urge - but it is often more pronounced among parents of children with special needs because just the day to day existence stuff is so often a struggle for them. They don't want to add to it if they can help it. It was my job to remind them that the struggle would make the child stronger and that the feeling of success they would achieve after working hard to meet a goal would be worth far more than achieving the goal itself.

An excellent example of a parent who chose this path presented itself when we were working with a child with multiple physical disabilities. Every night his mother made him climb the stairs for his bath. It was hard. It was a struggle. With every step he would beg her to carry him the rest of the way and she would say no. She watched him do the work. She helped him if he needed it, but she never did it for him. It was grueling for him, both physically and emotionally, but when he got to the top his pride radiated throughout the whole house. He would scream, "I did it! I did it!" announcing his nightly victory over the stairs, and his dad and his siblings would respond from wherever they were in the house, "Good job, buddy!" Mom? She would help him with his bath, help him into bed, and cry herself to sleep. Watching him struggle when she could have so easily carried him up the stairs was hell on her, but she knew that his rewards were twofold. He got the short term reward of pride in a job well done and he also got the long term reward of strengthening his body. Win/win.

Another parent on the other end of the spectrum referred to her child as her "cross to bear" and did everything - and I mean EVERYthing - for a child who was capable of actually doing quite a lot on her own - out of a sense of penance.

Twenty years later I don't have contact with either of those families, but if I had to hazard a guess as to which one was leading a more independent life, I'd put my money on that little guy who climbed the stairs every night. Although the extent of the little girl in the second scenario's disabilities was far less than his, his mother had taught him to be strong where hers had taught her to be weak. When presented with a task, his first answer would probably be a confident, "I can do that!" whereas hers is more likely to be a resigned, "I can't do that."

Her mother thought she was being kind. Her intentions were good. The result was a child who has learned only to ask for help.

Obviously one doesn't have to have a disability to be an "I can do anything" type or a "I can't do anything" type. I drew from what I know for those admittedly extreme examples.

Me? (come on - you KNEW we were gonna talk about me, right?) I was taught that I couldn't do anything. As a child I was rather obedient. I feared authority. If I was told not to do something, as a rule, I didn't do it. Case in point: In fourth grade, my Science teacher had to call my parents because I was so adamant about not lighting matches - which was something we had to do for many of our experiments. I remember being torn. I wanted to follow my teacher's instructions. I was - as we've established - a rule follower and a respecter of authority. But my parents were the ultimate authority and they'd said "never light a match". They'd been very clear on this. So, in an unprecedented move, I defied my teacher. My parents were quite embarrassed when he called and they changed the rule that night to "never light a match unless you are being closely supervised by an adult". That seemed to cover all the necessary bases.

I have never mowed a lawn. Growing up, I was told it was "too dangerous for you". I believed this without question. In the years when I might have been prone to a lawn mowing rebellion, I lived in apartments and it was not a necessity. When I got my first adult lawn, I was married and pregnant. That's no time to learn. Now it's too late. Tom has taught Lea to mow the lawn. I can't watch. There is still a little piece of me that thinks this is a very dangerous activity for a fourteen year old girl.

Even more dangerous than bumper cars.

That's right, bumper cars.

You can get whiplash, you know.

Just ask my parents.

(Avert your eyes from my arms for a second and look at the face of a 44 year old woman in her very first bumper car - 8-15-07)

So you get the idea. I was raised to believe that the world was scary and that I was ill-equipped to handle it. Somewhere along the line - not entirely by choice - I ended up alone in that big wide scary world. And I managed. I managed to drive without getting lost and pay my own bills and matriculate like a mofo and make my own mistakes. Managed? Hell, I thrived. Life was a bumper car ride and I was daring whiplash to catch up to me. I worked and played in the city and could parallel park in three swift moves. If I'd had a lawn, I would've mowed the hell out of it. I lit matches just to smell the sulfur.

That's right.

I was just that bad.

And now? Now I'm scared again. I'm scared of everything. My confidence is shot.

I hate feeling this way. I don't know what happened. I've lost my mojo. I decided to take action in what will sound like such a small way.

My sister had just cleared some ground and put down some pavers in her front yard. It looks great and it took her less than an afternoon to complete the job. I had something similar in mind in my own back yard on a much smaller scale. I asked if she'd help me do it and she agreed. But she's out of town for two and a half weeks. So I thought to myself, I thought: I can do this without her. I can do it without her and I can do it without Tom and I'll have time left over to run through the house with scissors. Pointed any damn way I please.

That was five days ago.

I don't even have the area excavated, much less the project completed. I spend a good bit of time just looking at the mess I've made and thinking, "what the hell have I done?" followed by "THIS is why I don't take on DIY projects".

Should I keep climbing the stairs? I sure would be proud of that little bit of landscaping... Or should I wait until my sister gets back and humbly turn the job over to her? She'll get it done and it will be nice. I can spend the next two weeks reading on the deck (with my chair turned so that I can't see the mess) and drinking summertime malt beverages. But then I'll have to put the scissors and the matches away and stay clear of the bumper cars.

And I kind of remember loving the bumper cars.



(hmmmm - there's got to be a nature vs nurture post in here somewhere, since my sister grew up with exactly the same parents but a completely different set of issues...)

The First Day on My Summer Vacation. I Got Up.

School's out.

Know how I could tell? The TV was on when I came down the stairs this morning.

I've made a lot of adjustments to my TV viewing habits in the past couple months. I used to have it on all the time. If I was home, it was on. It was my company. I didn't always veg in front of it (though it was nice to know that was an option), but it was on. I like to knit or crochet while I watch TV and that has been my excuse when I DO sit down to watch. "Hey! I'm being productive!" Lately I've only allowed myself to indulge in my hobby while MINDfully watching TV. That makes it sound almost Zen - which it is not. My definition of mindful TV watching is that I actually sit down to watch a show, not that I sit down to watch TV. It certainly doesn't mean that I only watch things that feed my mind. Hardly. It just means that I watch things by choice. Which reminds me: How can Glee be so predictable and still manage to make me cry? I hate myself when that happens. Stupid Glee.

We would love to be one of those families that doesn't even own a TV. And by we I mean Tom and I. And by Tom and I I mean the Tom and I that we picture ourselves being, not the Tom and I that we actually are. When we got married we didn't watch all of the same shows. On evenings where there was a conflict, either one of us had to 'give' or we ended up in separate rooms. Separate rooms are not good places for newlyweds to be. Compromises were negotiated. People were more important than TV shows. We're not newlyweds anymore, but we DO only have one TV. We watch together or we don't watch. We don't have a TV in our bedroom and we have been pretty adamant about not allowing the girls to have TVs in their bedrooms, either. Just the one. DVR and Netflix streaming have made it a lot easier for me to keep my casually made resolution to watch mindfully. I don't think I've seen a commercial in months. Stupid commercials.

But the girls? They made no such resolution. They are not as evolved as I am. Please read that with the appropriate level of sarcasm. So. So I think the next three months may be a steady stream of DeGrassi and Saved by the Bell and What I Like About You sprinkled liberally with Spongebob and The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack and Penguins of Madagascar. I don't think I will survive. It's not that these shows are necessarily BAD (Oh my dear sweet loving God, they are SO bad) - different strokes and all that - it's just that they are rerun incessantly. Over and over and over. I think there may have only been five episodes MADE of some of these shows, because it seems like they're always watching the same one. It doesn't seem to bother them. I don't get it. Ok, maybe I get it a little bit. Once when I was on bed rest I watched reruns of Soap daily for hours on end. But that was Soap, not Saved by the Bell and I was on bed rest, not summer vacation. Stupid reruns.

When it's sunny, I can go on the deck and read. There is no where in the house for me to read comfortably EXCEPT the room where the TV is, and when it's on, well... That leaves the computer. I can play on the computer. I sat down to my new obsession - Wordtwist - and the first word I found was 'sagging'. Nice. So I'm hearing America's Funniest Home Videos from the TV behind me and being judged about the natural aging process by the computer in front of me. Stupid computer.

It looks like today will maybe sunny. That cuts my rant short. Maybe I'll get to spend the day reading a good book in the sunshine. Maybe I can even get the kids to bring me lemonade. Hey! Maybe I can even get them to do some chores! (During commercials, of course.) Maybe it's gonna be a good day after all.

Happy summer!

Troubadors

What a perfect show.

I think I could just post their play list and it would be enough to make everyone who has reached a certain age sigh in happy reminiscence. These are the songs that become tangled up in our very existence; rendering themselves inseparable from the memories of times past. I sat next to a long-lost/new-found friend who leaned over to me at one point and whispered, eyes shining, clearly retrieving a memory she hadn't dusted off in years, "A friend wrote that lyric in my high school yearbook."

You've got to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. ~ Carole King, Beautiful

I reached over to hold my husband's hand. I reached across him with my other hand to hold my daughter's hand. I leaned my head into my friend's shoulder. Tom thought I was being a little silly, I could tell, but it was a wonderful moment.

Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel. ~ James Taylor, Shower the People

My best friend in the middle school years and I listened to her Tapestry album so many times I'm surprised we didn't wear it out. We sang every song, word for word; note for note, over and over and over. We hadn't experienced many of the complexities of life yet, but Ms. King paved the path for us. That friend was taken from this world in a most untimely manner a few years back, making those memories even more poignant for me.

It doesn't help to know that you're so far away. ~ Carole King, So Far Away

They closed the second set, as I'd suspected they would, with You've Got a Friend. They performed it as a beautiful duet, sitting side by side, their long and loving friendship obvious in their body language. Tom and I played that song to introduce the bridal party at our wedding.

Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there - to brighten up even your darkest night. ~ Carole King, You've Got a Friend

It was an amazing show, performed on a revolving stage to make every seat in the house a good seat. Carole King is gorgeous. I don't mean gorgeous for her age (68, according to the ever reliable Wikipedia), I mean flat out gorgeous. It would be tempting to say that she seemed most comfortable seated behind the piano, because that certainly was a natural placement for her, but she seemed equally at ease strapping on a guitar for one or two songs - indulging in guitar hero poses that delighted me to my core. When she was not seated behind the piano, she owned the stage - dancing, engaging the audience, and smiling - always smiling - her beautiful, wide, easy, real smile - all in ridiculously high and skinny heels. Well, you just go on and GO, girl!

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for, and if I make you happy I don't need to do more ~ Carole King, Natural Woman

James Taylor's voice has not changed a bit. He presents as humble, in a manner that is charming, sweet, real and - dare I say it? - sexy as hell. He looks a little older, but still younger than his 62 years (again, per Wikipedia) would indicate appropriate. But his voice? - virtually unchanged. I kept thinking that if I closed my eyes, it would be pretty easy to melt years - decades - away. I didn't, though. Not for longer than the time it took to blink. I didn't want to miss a thing.

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes; it's all right. I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore, but I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone. ~ James Taylor, You Can Close Your Eyes

I thought You've Got a Friend would be the end. When you're Carole King and James Taylor, where do you go from there? How could there be a more perfect ending for this show? They left the stage to thunderous applause and I did not anticipate an encore. Except - the house lights didn't come up. And that means...

Up on the roof we went. I was pretty emotional at this point. These two amazing and prolific talents had stirred up quite a lot of memories. I tried to subtly wipe a tear from my eye without being noticed. In doing so, my head turned slightly to the left, and there was my friend rubbing both eyes with her fists. I threw subtlety to the wind. It's highly overrated anyway. We went ahead and openly wept. It had been quite a ride.

When this old world starts getting me down, and people are just too much for me to face, I'll climb right up to the top of the stairs, and all my cares just drift right into space. ~ James Taylor, Up On The Roof

I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but I may buy this one. And I'm going to listen to it with my eyes closed.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

I went to college a mere 45 minute drive from my home, so my parents visited often. My mom did my laundry. (Yes, I was one of those kids.) Once a week she would drop off the clean and pick up the dirty. Her thought process was that it was cheaper for her than giving me quarters for the laundromat. (Again, yes, one of those kids.) These visits usually involved taking me and often a roommate or friend out to lunch. During my senior year - the year I was 21 and therefore of legal drinking age - if that visit occurred on a Friday, I would ask them to drop me off after lunch not at my house, but at the bar where I knew at least a few of my friends would already be getting their happy hour on.

Happy hour, in 1983/1984 at this particular bar, meant dime a draft or dollar a (generously poured) well drink. God, I miss the 80's.

So they - my parents - the teetotalers - would pull up in front of the bar - slip me a $5 - kiss me - and say, "Don't drink." I would exit the car in my high-waisted pegged jeans and cheap pumps that matched my top with enough money in my fist to get pretty darn drunk and still leave a tip. Oh Daddy dear, you know you're still number one - but girls - they wanna have fu-un.

Flash forward to the present.

My parents came to visit my sister and I this week. While they didn't do our laundry, they did take both of our families out to eat. At some point during the meal, my sister asked if I'd be interested in going out for a beer after dinner. Guess what I said. Go on, guess. So my mother slipped us a $20 and asked if we needed a ride to the bar. Oh Mother dear, we're not the fortunate ones - but girls (still) just wanna have fu-un.

Now $20 wasn't enough to get us drunk, or even decently buzzed. But it was enough.

And they played a lot of good 80's music.

Better With Age

Tom and I took out daughters and our niece to see Paramore at an outdoor show last night. They ended up hooking up with friends so - even though they were all around us, we were still essentially alone.

It was a very young, predominately female crowd. I won't bother to describe what that sounded or looked like - what you're imagining is probably right on target.

Tom to me: "I don't think we're the oldest people here."

Me to Tom: "You might be right. But if we're not, we're certainly in their peer group."

At one point, shortly after nightfall, we decided to take advantage of the fact that all the girls were standing so we had the blanket to ourselves. It was a beautiful night to be outdoors. We laid back and looked up at the stars.

Tom said to me, "Do you suppose those are airplanes?"

I saw right away what he meant. The stars weren't behaving like proper stars. They were blinking in and out in a way that was much more pronounced than a subtle twinkle (which is, as everyone knows, what proper little stars do). And one - no - more than one of them had tails.

"What the - is that a shooting star? I've never seen a shooting star before!"

"It can't be - I think they move faster - but it's something..."

We mused on the stars for a few moments, wondering why none of the kids were noticing the fabulous display going on right before their eyes. In years past, I may have attributed it to a contact buzz, but the smoking ban has pretty much obliterated that possibility.

And then it hit us.

We were getting this private show because when we laid down and looked up through our bifocals it distorted the images.

After we figured it out, we didn't stop. At least not right away. We were getting to trip for free AND the drive home and the morning after would be completely symptom free.

Getting old. Wearing bifocals. Bonus.

Bieber Fever

Wait, wait, come back!!! It's not contagious, and we don't have a documented full blown case of it in our house, although there has been some possible exposure. You're pretty safe, I think. It's all good.

My girls are not really into his music, so my familiarity had been limited. I saw him on The View flirting with Barbara Walters, so my first impression was that he was a sycophantic little jackass with a silly haircut.

A couple weeks ago, while enjoying a nice frosty drink at Sonic and listening to Sonic radio, One Less Lonely Girl came over the airwaves. My eldest groaned and covered her ears.

"Make it stop!"

"Who is this?"

"Justin Bieber. He SUCKS!"

"Don't say that, he does not." This declaration came, very surprisingly, from our youngest - whose tastes tend to run even harder stronger and faster than Tom's and mine.

"Do you LIKE him?"

"I don't know. Probably not. Maybe. I don't know. But I do know that he makes some of my friends very happy. And anything that makes my friends happy can't suck. Even if I don't like it myself."

"You like Justin Bieber!" my eldest sang, tauntingly.

"I'm a twelve year old girl! I'm supposed to!"

"Do you want his CD?" continued the taunting song, "because you LO-O-OVE him?"

"NO!" a pause, "maybe..."

That Sunday morning we didn't fast forward through his stint as musical guest on SNL when he appeared with Tina Fey. It wasn't my cup of tea, but I'm not exactly his target demographic. He was in a couple sketches. He was tolerable. Cute, even. He looked - safe. He looked like every shaggy haired boy with dreamy eyes I idolized in my own youth. I got it.

But more than that - and possibly the reason I was able to step back and get it - was that my daughter's words rang true: Anything that makes my friends that happy can't suck.

I remember being very happy in the mid-nineties when boy bands made a comeback. I was well into adulthood at the time, so - again - it wasn't my cup of tea - but it was so nice to glance at the covers of '16' and Tiger Beat on the news stands and see these cute, young, safe boys. The eighties saw bands like Van Halen, KISS and Motley Crue gracing their covers. Now I liked me some DLR in the eighties. Oh yes I did. The following is from a story about my first apartment that I posted at Portable Magic:

We bought ourselves a poster of David Lee Roth – 1984 was when he was arguably at the height of his hotness – stepping out of a swimming pool. The poster cut off just below the hollow beneath his hip bones. We knew he probably wasn’t naked, but it was provocative enough that we were free to imagine that he was. It was – distracting, all right.

Little girls shouldn't be reading Tiger Beat and '16' for that sort of distraction. I just read Nikki Sixx's autobiographical The Heroin Diaries. Little girls DEFINITELY shouldn't have been looking for THAT sort of distraction. Nope. As a twenty-something, Van Halen and the Crue were perfectly acceptable fantasy fodder. Early teens needed 'N Sync. They needed NKOTB.

They need Justin Bieber.

Rock on with your not-so-bad-little self, Justin.

If you make scores of little girls happy, I don't think you suck.

Every Tom, Dick and Ozzy

Warning - the following content is - well - just be warned, is all.

It's wonderful to marry and then proceed to give birth to the sort of people who enjoy the same things that you do and - better yet - who can make you laugh. I've established that my family is musical, but we are also all avid readers. We've always talked about the books we read with each other, and we particularly encourage Liv to do so because she has a lot of trouble when she is asked to summarize a book for school. "What was the book about?" generally prompts an answer that lasts twenty minutes and leaves one feeling like - without having read the book oneself - one could still probably write a pretty decent summary of the summary.

She's working on it.

So we were out to dinner last night and she had just finished a lengthy explanation of the book she'd just finished. Tom jumped on the conversation train and decided to share an anecdote from the book he'd just finished, I Am Ozzy - Ozzy Osbourne's autobiography.

"He was talking about Jack's birth and their decision to have him circumcised. Sharon is half Jewish or something, I don't know - Ozzy sort of writes like he talks. Anyway - he talked about the fact that he himself had several brothers who were not circumcised, but that he was. He asked his mother about it and she shrugged and said it was what was in fashion at the time."

I took a nice long sip of my margarita as he continued.

"So Ozzy said, 'Wait? Because it was in FASHION you cut off the end of my DICK?'"

I forced myself to swallow that mouthful of margarita rather than following my natural impulse to spit. Insert your own spit/swallow joke here - I'll wait.

"Wow. I'd like to thank you for waiting till I had a mouthful of libation before saying 'dick' in front of my daughters."

Laughs all around. When the laughter died down, though, Liv said, "I didn't completely understand all of those words, though."

Ever helpful, her sister answered, "Well, a dick is another name for a boys..."

"Not THAT word!"

Not that word indeed.

Sunrise, Sunset (or, When the Apple Outgrows the Tree)

I know I've done nothing but bitch about the cold weather and the snow and the winter and ohmygodblahblahblahblahblah - but I have to say there is one thing I will miss when it's gone for good: sunrises and sunsets behind the leafless trees. They really have been quite spectacular. I'll trade 'em for warmer weather in a heartbeat, though, don't get me wrong. Just sayin'.

This morning as I was taking Liv to school and we were watching a pretty fabulous sunrise, I mentioned something about how pretty the contrast of the stark leafless trees set off by the vibrant burning sun was. She said, "Oh! That reminds me!" and proceeded to tell me a story about school and Science class. The teacher was talking them through a compare and contrast between plant cells and animal cells. She wanted them to think like scientists. My Liv says to me, she says, "But I can't really think like a scientist. I think like a writer. My teacher thought I was taking notes - and I kind of was, because I was paying attention to what she was saying and stuff, but I wrote in my notebook: Book Idea."

She went on to share her idea with me, but I'm not going to share it with you because it was KILLER good and I hope she writes it up. I am seriously jealous of my twelve year old's book idea. There are probably a lot of things about that that are wrong.

Compromisin' Enterprisin' Anything But Tranquilizin'

So it's International Women's Day. I know this because it says so on my calendar. Also, Will Forte sang about Women's History Month on SNL.

Well, the venerable Mr. Forte addressed women in herstory (see what I did there?) pretty well, as did Maude before him.

I won't try to compete.

I read the following platitude somewhere:

Here's to wonderful women - may you know them, may you raise them, may you be them

I have been privileged to know many wonderful women in my life. I've known women who are strong in the way society values and women whose strength is quieter. I've known women who rocked the corporate world, women who rocked their babies, and women who just plain rocked. I have in my life women who are bitches, angels, geniuses, athletes, jokers, smokers and midnight tokers. I am so blessed, because I have women to laugh with, to cry with and sometimes just to be with. I know wonderful women. May you know wonderful women.

I have the huge privilege and responsibility of raising two wonderful women. My girls are beautiful and talented and unique. They are strong-willed and strong-minded. They have always been free to be who they are and (most of the time, anyway) who they are is pretty wonderful. I am raising wonderful women. May you raise wonderful women. (Even if you don't have a daughter! Remember - it takes a village!)

It would be immodest to say that I am one, so I won't - but I WILL say that I know there are folks out there who think that I am. For that I am lucky beyond measure.

eta: Those of you who generally stop here - don't! Read the Maya Angelou poem Unknown Mami posted in the comments. Seriously.

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.

My Hero

My sister doesn't read my blog. She just can't sit still long enough to bother. My parents don't read it either. They don't have a computer. Last year I wrote a lot of posts about traveling with my family and I compiled them into a self-published vanity book to give to my parents for Christmas. I gave my sister a copy, too. She can't bother to sit in front of the computer, but I figured it might be a good bathroom book. Everyone's got to sit sometimes.

My parents have shared that little volume with many of their friends. My sister liked it so much she read it 'in one sitting'. Interpret that as you like. Her major complaint, though, was that she wasn't featured enough, "There wasn't enough about ME!"

It's true, I don't write much about her. That has been a conscious decision. I felt that I was respecting her privacy. Turns out I was hurting her feelings. She mentioned last week, over a couple few beers, an incident that had occurred at the pizza shop where we both worked. She said, almost excitedly, "I bet you blogged about THAT!" I hadn't. Wanna hear it?

We had live music pretty regularly at the pizza shop. The owners were a husband/wife team and the husband took more interest in the music. He always let the performers eat and drink free. Most had a slice or two and a couple beers. One guy drank top shelf whiskey all night. It wasn't quite fair, but an equitable solution had yet to be worked out. On one particular evening, the husband wasn't there and the whiskey-drinking performer was. I poured him a drink and handed it to him, as I always did. "You didn't ring that up!" said my boss in her usual acerbic tone.

"It was for the performer."

"And?"

"And your husband always lets the performers drink..."

(In real life, of course, I referred to them by their names and not by their functions. But while my sister has cleared me to talk about her, these three folks have not done the same. It makes the conversation sound stilted, but it was easier for me to relate it this way than to make up names.)

"That's why we are always fucking struggling!" she screamed at me as the bar and restaurant filled up. She was super-classy like that. "Ring up his goddamn drinks! ALL of them!"

I am so non-confrontational. I did as I was told. It felt very wrong - especially since she hadn't informed him - but I did it.

At the end of the night I presented him with his tab. It was hefty. It was, actually, more than he earned for playing that night. He was a little taken aback. And more than a little drunk. He yelled at me. He accused me of padding his bill. He - and I'm really not proud of this part - made me cry.

As he went about tearing down the stage and I went about closing up the shop, my sister came in - more than a little drunk herself. "Why are you crying?" she asked. I braced myself for her to tease me. It would have been in character. But she didn't. As I told her what happened, I watched her morph from lovable happy drunk to volatile angry drunk in seconds flat. As she turned to confront him, I begged her not to. Two drunks fighting about me was not something I needed at that point at all. I just wanted to go home and put the night behind me. But there was no stopping her.

She stepped up onto the stage, poked him to get his attention, and pointed at me. "YOU made MY SISTER cry."

He shrugged and turned to avoid her. He was still stinging from the bill and he just wanted to get out of there fast. But like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, my sister would not be ignored. She cornered him and said, "Who are YOU to make MY SISTER cry?"

He tried again - unsuccessfully - to dodge her.

"My sister is SMART! She has more degrees than you can IMAGINE! She's FUNNY! She's way TOO NICE for her own good! She's TOO GOOD for this place! She was only doing what she was TOLD and you had NO RIGHT to make her cry!" Each of the capitalized words was punctuated by a finger poke to his chest. "That's who SHE is - who are YOU?" It was rhetorical. She didn't give him a chance to answer before the poke fest continued. "YOU? Are a BIG FAT PIECE of WIENER!"

Out of the mouths of drunks. When I relayed the story to her the next day, she said, "I called him a WHAT?"

"A big fat piece of wiener."

"What did I even mean by that?"

"You said it, not me..."

"And I got right in his face?"

"Poked his chest repeatedly."

"He's - like - really tall."

"Yeah - but he's totally old."

"Not to mention drunk."

"Not to mention a big fat piece of wiener."

Don't screw with me, people. My sister's got my back. And a black belt. And not even a tiny bit of fear or restraint. Plus, I don't even like to think about what she might call you if you hurt me.

Mother of the Year

I am not a beautiful or unique snowflake. It's a tale as old as time. I'm not boldly going where no woman has gone before. Why yes, I probably could squeeze a few more pop culture references in here, if I tried. Thank you for asking.

Every woman who has ever called a child her own has had a moment or two (or a thousand or a million) when they felt unworthy of the task. Today's mother of the year moment? Well, it involves shoes.

Liv has always had an interesting relationship with shoes. As the second daughter, she wore hand-me-down shoes from her sister for the first three years of her life. As fast as kids grow out of shoes at that age they were always in really good shape and I never gave it a second thought. Then one day - right around her third birthday - someone - probably my sister - bought her a pair of shoes. Her eyes lit up and she said "My own shoes? My very own shoes? Just for me?" I vowed that day to never make her wear hand-me-downs again. I had no idea. She never complained.

That was around the same year she discovered The Wizard of Oz and, along with it, Dorothy shoes. She, like so many toddlers before and since, NEEDED red sparkly shoes. And she had them. She had them through three size changes. She rarely if ever wore anything else for the next couple years. She wouldn't tell us when they started to get tight, because she didn't want us to take them away from her. I don't know if she just couldn't quite grok the fact that we'd buy her a new pair, or if she just didn't want a replacement because it wouldn't be the same. She had an unnatural attachment to those shoes.

Fast forward to last year. She found a pair of Iron Maiden Vans. That's right. Vans adorned with pictures of the iconic Eddie. To say she loved these shoes would be a dramatic understatement. She alternated them with her equally beloved knee high combat boots. I think it would be safe to say, wearwise, that she wore them for six solid months. Canvas shoes weren't made for that kind of abuse. They started to tear. She wore them like that for awhile, right under my oblivious nose. When I noticed, we started shopping for new shoes, but there was no satisfactory replacement to be found. And if Liv doesn't like it, Liv isn't going to wear it. I opted not to waste my money.

This morning she came downstairs to breakfast with her shoes wrapped in duct tape. Part of it was functional - where the upper had started to separate from the sole in the front - but then she'd repeated it on the back for purely aesthetic reasons. She was clearly thrilled to have Eddie back on her feet and was all ready to head out the door to school.

"You can't go to school with shoes held together by duct tape."

"Well, I can't go to school with ripped shoes."

Those were not the only two options at her disposal and I told her so. She didn't fight with me. She didn't say a word, actually. She went upstairs for a few moments, then came back down and finished her breakfast. When she left the table, I noticed that she'd changed her shoes. I also noticed that she'd been crying.

"What's wrong?"

"I was just trying to be creative."

"I know - put them back on if you want to."

"I can't."

"Yes you can - you still have a few minutes."

"No. I can't. I ripped them up. Duct tape won't fix them now."

I resisted the urge to say, "Oh, sweetie! Duct tape can fix ANYthing!" because it was time to head for the bus.

I hate that I made my baby cry.

I hate that I squelched her creativity.

But more than anything, I hate that I let my own class issues hurt her. I was more worried about what people would think than about how she felt.

I'm going to spend the day trying to forgive myself.

Right after I order a new pair of heavy metal kicks.

Just Shoveling the - um - Snow

When I was pregnant with Lea, Tom and I were newlyweds renting a home in South Jersey. I was on bed rest due to pre-eclampsia. I was bored. It was a lonely winter. Friends and family called or stopped in when they could, but their lives were going on. We lived a couple miles down an old country road. We were isolated. When Tom left for work every morning, I would start counting the hours until he'd return. When he did come home, of course, he had to cook and do laundry and clean - he didn't really have the time or energy to socialize with me. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was isolated and starved for human contact. Many of my attempts at interaction began with, "Today on Ricki Lake..." Yep. It was a lonely winter.

During that winter, we were hit with a big snow storm - the likes of which South Jersey hadn't seen in decades, if John Bathke, local anchorman extraordinaire, was to be believed. Tom was at work while Days of Our Lives was continually being interrupted with reports of the incoming inclement weather. I was secretly pleased. Not, you know, that m'stories were being interrupted - that part sucked - but that it looked like we were going to be snowed in.

I envisioned a long weekend curled up next to my honey - drinking hot chocolate, talking, maybe playing some cards - candles lit in case of a power outage, blankets wrapped around us to fend off the cold - it would be romantic. I entertained this fantasy while I watched the first tentative flakes begin to fall. There was no wind, so they fell straight down, sparkling as they landed and stuck to the already cold ground. It was beautiful. I couldn't wait for Tom to get home and share it with me. This was going to be great - a last shot at being a couple before the baby arrived.

By the time he got home, a few inches had already accumulated. He did not seem to be as excited about the prospect of being snowed in as I was. He threw together a quick dinner, then immediately donned snow gear and headed out with a spade - because we didn't have a snow shovel. (This was the first winter either of us had lived anywhere but in an apartment where snow removal was part of the contract - it hadn't occurred to us.)

We had a long circular gravel driveway.

The snow continued to fall as he shoveled. As the sun set, he came in the house and collapsed, prone on the floor, exhausted. The snow continued to fall. It was the weekend, so I figured the romantic portion of the snowstorm would begin the next day. I was mistaken. The next morning, he got up, had a cup of coffee, and headed straight back outside with the shovel. He would come in for breaks from time to time - to thaw his fingers or to grab something warm to eat or drink - then he'd head right back outside. The snow was relentless, but so was my man. He was gonna beat this mutha.

The next day I begged him to let it be. He was sore and tired and grumpy. But he went right back out in it. Part of his reasoning was that he was going to need to get out Monday morning for work and that would be much easier if he kept up with it.

"Much harder if you break your back."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Monday morning, of course, our little country road still hadn't been plowed. Our driveway was clear, but it was as far as he was gonna get. This was before the days when telecommuting was an option, so he was left with no choice but to call in, explain his situation, and let them know that he'd be there as soon as the plow hit our street.

It could've been a lovely weekend.

It was not.

That was fourteen years ago. Things change. Things stay the same.

We're under a couple few inches of snow now. Tom worked from home the last two days. The kids have been home from school. Once again, it was a perfectly lovely snow - white and fluffy and sparkling. Removing even a flake of it didn't occur to one of the four of us. Because we were huddled together under blankets around the fire drinking hot chocolate and playing cards? Hardly. Everyone is doing their own thing in the four corners of the house. It's the only way we can stay off of each others nerves. Plus, our fireplace has been out of commission for two years. People are particularly staying clear of me, because when the sky matches the landscape, and both are white, I tend to turn into the Wicked Bitch of the Midwest.

Shoveling seems futile.

Everything seems futile.

Most of my neighbors seem to be in agreement.

Most, but not one. She was shoveling when I went to bed last night at 10:30 and she was shoveling when I woke up this morning at 6:00. When the whole neighborhood is quiet - as it tends to be at those two times - it is extraordinarily loud and annoying; her diligence a judgment on our laziness. Last night I told Tom it sounded like someone playing drums - no - someone LEARNING to play drums. She is working my last nerve and I'm about to set my Flying Monkeys loose on her. I don't know where she thinks she's going anyway - our street has not been plowed.

Now would it kill somebody to bring me some damn hot chocolate?

I'm working on another novel this winter, and I thought I'd share a representative exerpt:

All work and no play makes Tammy a dull girl.

Something like seventy days till Spring. I can do this...

It's Complicated

For many years now going out en masse as an extended family to a movie on Christmas evening has been traditional in our family. It's always interesting trying to find something that will appeal to everyone and compromises are always made. This year my youngest daughter and one of my more morally conservative cousins were the ones who found themselves compromising. We decided - and mostly agreed - on 'It's Complicated'. (and we didn't actually make it until the day after Christmas, but that's neither here nor there) It was a cute little flick and a big ole check in the win column for middle-aged women. Plus, Alec Baldwin is kind of like John Travolta for me - old, young, fat, trim, it's all good... (And for those of you who saw it - we're having Croque Monseur and mixed greens with a balsamic viniagrette for dinner tonight with warm chocolate croissants for dessert. I have high hopes.)

As the love lives of our heroes became more and more complex (as the title of the film implies) I thought about how all of us could probably take that title and apply it to our lives. In my case, my love life is blissfully uncomplicated - so my story would be different - but no less complicated.

My girls and I are babysitting this week. We're watching a thoroughly delightful toddler. My youngest has never spent much time around people smaller than herself. She asked, after our first day, "So - taking care of a toddler is really just about making them happy all the time, right?"

I told her that there were basically three priorities:

1. Keep them safe.
2. Make them happy.
3. Keep them happy.

Nothing complicated about that. I remembered when my own girls were that age and those were my priorities. So simple - but it didn't always feel simple. Uncomplicated doesn't always equal easy.

Keeping my girls safe and happy are still my priorities; things haven't changed that much I suppose. Just like when they were toddlers, the things I need to keep them safe from are often the things that hold the most appeal for them. Just like when they were toddlers, when I stop them from doing something potentially dangerous, I am bad and mean. Quite often - just like when they were toddlers - there are tears. (sometimes the tears are even theirs...) Sometimes - just like when they were toddlers - keeping them safe precludes making them happy in the short run.

Unlike when they were toddlers, though, I can't keep an eye on them all the time. They spend more time every year out in the big wide world where I can't keep them safe and where they're free to make their own happiness. I have to trust that I've taught them well enough to make good choices. Sometimes they show me that I have - and I am so proud in those moments. Sometimes, however, they make decisions that horrify me. Does this mean that I haven't taught them well enough? Or does there come a point where their decisions are a reflection on them alone and not on me and my parenting skills? I imagine if there is such a point, it's not yet. They are still so tangled up in me and my identity is still so tangled up in them.

Keep them safe and happy.

It's simple.

It's complicated.

Time for the Good Stuff

So I asked my daughter to make the salad last night. Surprisingly, she happily complied. She likes feeling useful in the kitchen, I should use that to my advantage more often... Anyway. She's chopping the romaine, then calls to me in the next room, "I think I'm done."

"You THINK you're done? Are you done or not?"

"Well, I chopped all the good part and I'm down to the part they send to the school cafeteria to put in the kids' lunches."

Oh dear.

Time to stop chopping.

I wasn't cooking or (you may or may not have noticed - my poor self esteem forbids me from speculating) on the computer, because I've been making myself busy. This holiday funk I'd been experiencing needed to be broken through. I don't have much money, but I have two sticks and some string. For those who have never lived with me, that means I've been in a full on knitting frenzy for a couple days. That tends to happen this time of year. I'm missing you, my internet friends, of course, but I need to jump into the yarn stash with both feet for a couple more days. Give or take.

Time to knit.

Yesterday? While my daughter was making the salad, and I was knitting my husband walked through the door with a HUGE poinsettia for me. Now the last time this man brought me flowers was - I think it was when I told him I was pregnant with Liv. You may remember that Liv celebrated her twelfth birthday a week or two ago. So, yeah. Not a big flowers guy. And he not only brought me flowers, he brought me HUGE, BEAUTIFUL flowers! They fill the whole room, they feel festive, they - they made me want to get off the couch and make things nice to match them. Then he suggested we open a bottle of wine to go with dinner.

Time to be grateful.

My screen saver says, "Never let that which matters the most give way to that which matters the least."

Time to reflect on what matters.