The Way I See It

I read a book once a long time ago - I have no recollection of the title or the plot, but I very clearly remember the underlying theme and how it was presented. It was about a young girl - a teenager - probably involving some sort of coming of age business. She wanted to express her perceived adulthood through her bedroom decor. She was taking home ec at school and was just learning to sew. She had purchased yards and yards of fabric with her babysitting money and had pinned it in place over bedspreads, curtains, pillows - if it could be covered with fabric, she covered it. She brought home paint swatches from the paint store and tacked those to the walls and furniture to indicate what colors she intended for them to eventually be. She cut pieces of butcher paper to fit around her lampshades and chairs, intending to cut them to size and use them for patterns so that she could eventually cover those items with fabric as well. She wanted to find a fabric that would coordinate with what she'd already bought. She knew exactly what it would look like.

She was really proud of her potential room.

The enthusiasm for redecorating was pushed aside by whatever plot the book actually had, but it didn't matter, because in her mind's eye it was already done. In her mind's eye it was a beautiful room - fully realized.

The book closed with her seeing this room - after months of fabric and paper and swatches being pinned to every surface - as it actually was. To make it what she imagined it to be would take some work. Our last image was one of her unpinning the paper and fabric and neatly folding it and putting it away. Reality. I remember wishing that it would've ended with her at the sewing machine, or with a paint brush - actually putting the work in to make this room realize it's potential. But that's not how it ended. And in retrospect, I think the author probably made the right choice.

I doubt that it would have stuck with me the way it did if she'd gone that route.

Sometimes we have to fold up our dreams and pack them away.

Looking for The One

The phone rang, and I ran my fingers through my hair in an attempt to make myself presentable before I answered it. Never mind that the person on the other end of the line couldn't see me - if I was going to be talking to HIM (oh pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let it be him) I wanted to look my best.

It wasn't him.

I'm sure my mother - who it was - heard the disappointment in my voice.

I'd just met him, but I thought it had gone really well. I liked him and he seemed to like me. When he'd asked to see me again, I was elated. I tried on clothes for an hour before I was confident I'd come up with just the right look. Accessible, but not desperate. Grooming was kicked up a notch as I waxed, polished and buffed myself to a high glow. And it had gone well. "I'll call you", he'd said as we took our leave of each other.

But it wasn't him.

I talked - or rather, listened - to my mother as I retrieved the mail. And there it was. His return address. Oh, nothing about THIS could be good. I opened it before I was back in the house, my hands trembling as I unfolded his note.

blah blah blah - pleasure meeting you - blah blah blah - many qualified applicants - blah blah blah - cannot offer you a position at this time

"I gotta go, Mom."

I hung up the phone and reread his words, surprised that at my age they could still pack such a sting. I thought we liked each other. I thought it was going well. I thought we were such a good fit. We could've been beautiful together...

This of course lead to - of course he didn't want me - why would he want me? I'm too (negative adjective of your choice here) for anyone to want me. I am worthless.

When I felt up to speaking, I shared it with a couple girlfriends who were - to their credit - very sympathetic. "He's crazy!" "He doesn't know what he's missing!" "He doesn't deserve you!" "Plenty of fish in the sea!" That's what girlfriends say. It's their job. And it even sounded kind of believable while the margaritas were still flowing. "Bartender? Another round!" But the next day when I was home alone with nothing but a hangover to keep me company while everyone else was off having a job, well, that sting returned with a vengeance.

I was hurt, then I was angry, then I was despondent. The three stages of a premature break-up. I suppose there are more - revenge sex, acceptance, moving on - those don't all work as well with my analogy. Well, not revenge sex, anyway. Dammit, I can't even have good old fashioned revenge sex! That's the only good part of a break-up! What am I gonna do? Meet a bigger, stronger, better looking but not as smart company in a bar and interview with them right in front of him? Sheesh.

Soon, I know, I won't even remember his name.

But for now it hurts.

Once - when it really WAS a break-up scenario - I was lamenting my situation with my cousin. Her daughter, a toddler at the time who we thought was out of earshot, came over to us with a confused look on her face and asked, "Him not love Tam?"

"He doesn't love Tam." I answered trying to hide my tears from her.

"But", she said, scrunching her face further in her obvious confusion, "EVERYone's gotta love Tam!"

"Not everyone."

She shook her head and frowned, clearly unable to process this information.

But that was long ago and far away.

I'm happily married to a man I adore. I have a family. I have moooooooooved on. It seemed so important once and now it's just a little tagger on the end of a post.

That toddler is in her twenties and I've forgotten his name.


(his name was Scott)

Painted Skies and Pie

I've been feeling a little despondent lately. You may (or may not - how self-centered am I, anyway?) have noticed my absence in the blogoshpere - I've just been sort of feeling like I have nothing to contribute. Not just in the blogosphere, in the whole general scheme of things. One thing a few weeks out of commission will teach you (you, in this case, being me - but I think the lesson transcends my personal experience) is that the world keeps spinning without you. It spins quite nicely, matter of fact. The sun remembers to rise and set. Dramas continue to unfold. You might be missed, but not much, and not for long. The place you held in people's days and thoughts is quickly filled in. It's the whole pulling your hand out of a bucket of water thing.

Sigh.

So that's where I've been.

But this morning, I had to take Liv to band practice. (Now don't say, "See? Someone needs you!" because if I hadn't been able to take her, arrangements could have easily been made. I'm way over myself.) I like taking her to practice at this time of year, because from the time I leave my house to the time I return, the sun rises (as it always remembers to do). Those of you who have been with me any length of time know that that is my absolutely favorite part of the day. Even if the sunrise is nothing more spectacular than the transition from dark to light, there's still just something hopeful and wonderful about it.

This morning's sunrise was more spectacular than a transition from dark to light.

We left the garage in almost complete blackness. In the fifteen minutes it took us to get to her school, we watched the sky take on cotton candy hues we laughingly described as scrumptious. Liv pointed out that she'd never thought about eating the clouds before, but today it looked like a swell idea. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs? How about Cotton Candy with a Chance of Pie? We watched the colors shift before our eyes - it was quite a show. It continued after I dropped her off with our usual exchange:

"Have a great day, love you!"

"Love you too!"

"Always happy, happy!"

"Never crappy, crappy!"

I know, my life is just one big Hallmark card. I apologize to those I've made jealous by sharing this heart-melting daily exchange. Not everyone can be as eloquent and poetic as Liv and I.

Anyway.

So I dropped her off and continued to the McDonald's drive through because it's Monopoly season, ya'll home. By the time I pulled into my garage again, it was full-on day. No remnants of the cotton candy sky remained. All blue and white and bright. The transition was over.

I'd made it through.

Now what does this all have to do with pie? Well, not a damn thing, actually. Except that pie has been on my mind (and the minds of everyone I know, apparently) recently. Everywhere I turn, it seems, someone is talking about pie. And if you're reading this and thinking, "Oh! She's talking about me!" you're probably right - but I'm talking about somebody else, too. Pie talk has been everywhere I go. I do not hate this. I do not even mildly dislike this. Come on! Who doesn't like pie? Bye, bye Miss American Pie. (No! come back!) Pie, pie, me oh my. She's my cherry pie... (okay, maybe that one didn't fit quite as well...but come on...tastes so good makes a grown man cry - sweet cherry pie...) So, yeah, everyone's talking (and I'm singing) about pie.

My mom makes an excellent pie. (It's the law or something. Baseball. Hot Dogs. Mom. Apple Pie...) Her cream pies are good, but her fruit pies are to die for. I was well into high school before I realized that most people do not serve 1/4 of a pie and call it a slice. (And I have a weight problem! Go figure!) We had pie several times a week. Pie for breakfast was no big treat - we had that at least twice a month. MmmmmMmmmmmMmmmm - Mom's pie. The thing is, I don't make many pies myself because of this. I know mine would never be as good as hers, so I don't even try. I ask her to make me a pie when I go home to visit, and it's a treat, and that's that.

But one day, when I was living faaaaaaaaar from home. (With Shrek, in Far, Far Away...) I decided it was time to give it a shot. I called my mom and asked for the secret to her amazing pie crusts. She hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then said, "Tammy, I haven't made a pie crust in years. I used to, but the roll out ones they make now are just as good with no guess work and no gambling." I was aghast. Mom's amazing crust came from the refrigerator section of my local grocery store? And I hadn't even noticed the transition - which must mean that it actually WAS just as good...

But you know what? Even with that little bit of knowledge under my belt, my pies still aren't as good as hers. Maybe I haven't been a mom long enough. Or maybe you have to know how to do it right before you start taking short cuts.

But homemade or bakery bought, one way or another, I'll be having a hunk of pie today.

Always (well, usually, anyway) happy, happy, ya'll.

The Damage Done

I debated writing this post, and once it was written I debated publishing it. But I think I needed to. Sorry to be a drag, today.

You guys know I like a nice cocktail now and then. It's not a big secret. But here's the thing: I'm a social drinker. If no-one will join me in a drink, I don't have one. I've always been that way. I'm not judging - I know a lot of people who enjoy a solitary libation from time to time and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. From time to time. But it ain't me. Drinking has never been a compulsion. I enjoy it. A lot. But I can take it or leave it.

Today a memorial service will be held for my cousin. I will not be attending, as I am currently visiting relatives from the other side of my family on the other side of the state. But I'm thinking about him and memorializing him myself the only way I know how. I hope I can do so with some degree of kindness. You see, for the second time in the course of a year, I find myself mourning the loss of someone way too young. Both were victims of the same killer, and that killer is kind of a nodding acquaintance of mine, too. I'm talking, of course, about alcohol.

My cousin was 45 years old. But he didn't live 45 years. I was thinking about that this morning when I thought about the people he's left behind. He didn't really leave anyone behind when he breathed his last breathe on Sunday. He left people behind, one at a time, years ago - when his addiction started to take over. He left his mother behind, only to return to her when everything else was lost. His wife, his children, his friends, his employability - when everyone else had finally had enough and turned their back on him, his mother took him in. He thanked her for her unconditional love by stealing from her to finance his habit.

It would be easy to hate him. He became something quite ugly and unrecognizable. There was nothing left in him of the playmate of my youth.

I don't hate him, though. I can't. None of this was him. It was his demon. The demon that licked at him for years - seducing him - making itself look playful and fun - before devouring him completely. It left a path of devastation in it's wake - a destroyed marriage, sons who wanted nothing more to do with their father, an able-bodied, educated man who couldn't find or hold a job. A man who didn't even care about any of that as long as he knew where his next bottle was coming from.

I don't mourn that man today, but I do mourn the man he might have been.

As wrong and contradictory as it may sound, I may mourn him over a glass of wine. If I can find someone to join me in one.

RIP, my cousin. May you find the peace in death that eluded you in the last years of life.

Got Cheese?

'Cause I'm bringing a little whine. Just a little taste, not a full on drunken orgy. Watch out, you might get what you're after.

We got home about an hour ago. When we pulled into our driveway, it was like I'd sat down at the shoulder press after a competitive weightlifter without bothering to adjust the weight. I quite literally felt the tears welling up before I was even out of the car.

My house was never in danger of being featured in Better Homes and Gardens (or, as they accurately spoofed on The Simpson's once, Better Homes Than Yours). But two weeks worth of weeds and grass growth didn't serve to make it any more welcoming.

Inside was better, but not by a lot.

I hate my house.

I didn't love it before we left, but it was adequate. It was what it was. It's where I keep my stuff.

Walking into it today was walking into a prison. A prison, of course, of my own making - which is small darn comfort.

As someone drank all the tequila and most of the vodka before we left, I reached for my only other go-to comfort. I drew a warm bath and threw in some scented bubbles. I had just achieved my best "Calgon, take me away" pose and was nowhere close to the Calgon mood when one of the girls walked right in and sat on the edge of the tub. She started right in on the take me, drive me, I need, I want's. I was in the frackin' tub! Is nothing sacred? I couldn't have relaxed anyway, because the bathroom is part of this house and - did I mention? - I HATE this house!

I got dressed and set about trying to cope with the fact that I LIVE in this s**thole when the other one started practicing her drums. I usually don't mind - I'm so used to it, I tune it right out - but I'm SAD! It is going right down my spine, the drumming is.

I look over to ask her to stop and she is grinning ear to ear. She missed her drums so much. She missed her dog and her rat. She was actually homesick for this place. She is as happy to be home as I am unhappy.

I can't ask her to stop being happy because I have.

So I'm home. I'll start weeding. And landscaping. And cleaning. I'll do what I can to make it liveable.

But not right this minute. The weeds will be here tomorrow. The unpacking will be here tomorrow. The laundry will be here tomorrow.

God knows, it will all still be here tomorrow.

Right this minute I'm gonna go ahead and be sad.

This Post Goes to Eleven

I have told you before that This is Spinal Tap is my favorite movie, bar none. I didn't see it in the theater, I came upon it a little later. I was 23 years old and had just gone through a pretty ugly break-up. My heart was broken, I was in debt, and I'd burned a lot of bridges. My parents let me move back in with them till I got on my feet which was not much fun for any of us. It was not a time of much laughter. I stayed in my room a lot, not unlike a surly teenager. I had a nice TV and a new water bed and a VCR. I had a very good relationship with the folks at the video store. One day This is Spinal Tap wound up rather arbitrarily in a batch of videos I had taken home to occupy my weekend.

I popped in the video and settled in on the water bed almost defying it to amuse me. I mentioned that the water bed was new, right? I hadn't quite become completely accustomed to it yet at this point in time.

Anyway.

We came to this point in the movie:



I started laughing. Just a little. A silent little giggle, really. All by myself in my brand new water bed.

And when I laughed? The whole bed moved. And when I laughed harder? It practically made waves. This, of course, made me laugh even harder. It became a circular reaction. It was more fun than I'd had in an awfully long time.

Every now and then there is that pivotal moment when things just suddenly turn around. This was one of those moments for me. I knew in that instant that I was done being a cave dweller in my parents house and feeling sorry for myself. Laughing felt good and I wanted to do more of it. I wanted to put myself in situations which would stimulate laughter rather than situations that allowed me to wallow in my own misery.

It's an exaggeration to say that Spinal Tap saved my life, but not much of one.

Since that day, Christopher Guest has been very high on my list of - just all 'round awesome entertainers. I have loved every project with which he has associated himself. He is so smart and funny and Jamie Lee Curtis is one lucky little chickadee because she gets to go home to his comedic genius every night. Tom is smart and funny, too, but no-one pays him as much - or any - money for it.

Imagine my joy when I heard that the actors were bringing their Unwigged and Unplugged tour to Columbus. Six of us decided that missing such an event was not an option. Breathing in the same room where Christopher Guest was breathing would have been enough to justify the price of tickets for me, but just for folks who aren't as easily separated from their hard-earned dollars as I am, they threw in an acoustic concert featuring songs from This is Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind.

Tom and I ready to, like, become one with the band

After a lovely dinner we headed to the theater. We didn't have to wait long before they took the stage.

Harry Shearer, Michael McKean, Christopher Guest

I turned to Tom just before the lights went down and said, "Oh, dear, I feel Squealy Fangirl rearing up something fierce. Are you askeered?"

"A little."

He needn't have feared. My exuberance was easily met by the rest of the crowd. Tom himself was laughing out loud. There was a permanent smile on my face for the entirety of the show. And that white haired lady beside me? She was havin' a ball. When her arm shot out in a classic rock and roll salute during "Heavy Duty", I thought I might pee my pants just a little. It was just - as the gentleman behind me said on leaving the theater - delightful.

I had gone to see Spinal Tap and Christopher Guest. And I got that. But I got more. A lot more.

I got three SNL alum. (why do I always forget that?) I got half the cast of The Simpson's. I got a sitcom icon from my youth. I got Count Rugen from The Princess Bride. I got songs, and stories, and a verbatim reading of the NBC censor's take on Spinal Tap (worth the price of admission, alone) I got and I got and I got. They gave and they gave and they gave.

These men are the real deal. Funny beyond all earthly expectations, surprisingly musically talented, humble (and if any man had a reason not to be...), and just all 'round entertainers.

This is what we looked like leaving the theater. I believe our smiles say it all.

Bloggers Unplugged: Osi, Me, Tom, Chris, Karen and Shannon

*all pictures courtesy of the lovely Chris - thanks Chris!

They Don't Know (About Us)

You know how you'll hear an old song and it takes you back and makes you feel all warm and gushy and young and nostalgic? That didn't happen to me tonight.

The girls have friends over. The house was loud. The hubs was frustrated with me. I wanted a beer - no, a martini - no, a margarita - no, a shot of tequila - no, a really cold shot of Jaeger. But I couldn't do any of that. Remember? The girls have friends over. Just what I want them to go home telling their parents... So no mommy juice for me. But I still needed to get out - the walls were closing in. Just for a little bit. Just for some air.

So I went to the grocery store. As you do.

As I'm shuffling through the grocery store feeling frumpy and more than just a little sorry for myself, the song "Chevy Van" is being played on the muzak. I know it's not muzak anymore, but I reserve the right to use the term anyway, because I darn well like it. Anyway. "Chevy Van". Now this is definitely not a squeeee worthy "OHMIGODILOVETHISSONG" kind of song. Although it might be a nice tune for one of those SNL skits where the stories of "the first time I heard this song, I was..." get exponentially more ridiculous and uncomfortable with each repeat of the chorus... But I digress. It was a nice little tune that came out when I was a pre-teen. I was aware of and familiar with it. That's all. But hearing it tonight at the grocery store in the mood I was in, it just made me so sad. I got that familiar hot feeling behind my eyes and I said to myself (I said) "you will not cry over a 70's country/pop song all by yourself in the middle of Kroger on a Saturday night. You. Will. Not. Now pull yourself together and head for the dairy aisle. Milk and eggs aren't going to buy themselves."

Hormones are wicked, wicked entities.

I was mourning the freedom and sweetness and beauty expressed in this song about a one-night-stand with a hitchhiker. Because I used to have tan legs and moonlight in my hair, damn it! I'm sure I did! And now I'm grocery shopping on a Saturday night AS AN OUTING!!!

Does anyone remember the Tracy Ullman video for "TheyDon'tKnow" (cleverly referenced in the title of this post) which begins with a glamorous Tracy falling in love and ends with her shuffling through the grocery store in pink fuzzy slippers, pregnant, disheveled and with a little kid or two? That was exactly how I felt.

That video ends with her looking glamorous again and driving off into the sunset with Paul McCartney, though. So there's that...

For now, though, time to "get some sleep and dream of rock and roll" (lyric - Chevy Van 1973)

Maybe it's About Forgiveness

I have not been proud of myself the last couple days.

You won't be proud of me, either.

I haven't been very nice, and I'm sorry about that. I feel bad.

But I decided I need to forgive myself, like I would forgive anyone else I love if they screwed up.

Then I need to give myself a second (third, forty-three millionth) chance and try to do better. Try to learn from my mistakes.

Mistakes like these:

My sisters birthday was Saturday. Now, a little background info to give you some perspective: My sister has a lot of friends and goes out a lot. She has a very active social life. I do not. Her birthday fell on a rare day when I had plans. Lots of plans. Plus a surprise visit in between. So I didn't call her. I didn't think it was any big deal. Figured she wouldn't be home anyway. Figured I wasn't that important (I figure that a lot - maybe something else I need to work on). Figured it was no big deal and I'd catch up with her later in the week and we'd celebrate. I figured wrong. Turns out a lot of people who were important to her figured the same thing. She was so disappointed and sad and I felt horrible for having contributed to it. I didn't think my acknowledgment would've meant anything, but it would've.

Lesson learned from this one: I need to stop bringing my own self esteem issues into everything and pay attention to others feelings and needs. Even if I think my input won't matter. It just might.

My next faux pas was even worse.

Lea has been talking all school year about how they have assigned seating at lunch and she has to sit with "the nerds". Her father and I have talked to her from the beginning about not labeling these boys - about being nice to them - about being compassionate and treating these boys like individuals - about giving them a chance. Sometimes we guilt her into a mumbled "I know" and sometimes she screams back at us, "but they're NERDS!". Yesterday after school she and her friend were talking about these boys again and, again, I interrupted them and told them they weren't being nice or thoughtful. Then her friend said, "But Tammy! He locks his pencil bag!" It was so unexpected that I laughed. I knew it was wrong to laugh, which for some stupid reason made me laugh harder. It turned into that uncontrollable silly laughter usually associated with staying up way past your bedtime. Mid-giggle I started consciously trying to stop, but I just couldn't. I was hysterical. This, of course, reinforced for Lea and her friend everything they'd been feeling all along. That these boys were different, and, worse yet, that they were deserving of ridicule. When I finally calmed myself down (and was overwhelmed with guilt and shame) I talked to both of them about how inappropriate my reaction was and how it really was important for them to be nice to these boys. They both very solemnly agreed. I think they were mocking me.

Lesson learned (hopefully!) from this one: I need to stay on guard. If need to control those reactions and not let my kids see me behaving in such a hypocritical manner. I just - need to be better. I need to practice what I preach.

We all let people down from time to time (including ourselves).

That's the third lesson, I guess. That we screw up. We're human and fallible. We hurt people, even when we don't mean to. All we can do is try to make it better, try to minimize (if not eliminate) future incidents, and, when we make mistakes, learn to forgive ourselves and keep on trying.

I feel a little better.

But not a lot.

Mixed Emotions

When I was a sophomore in high school, some 30ish years ago, I earned a letter jacket for marching band. I loved that jacket. I remember being a freshman and just longing for one. I wore it quite regularly sophomore, junior and senior year. It went to college with me, but what was a symbol of growing up and inclusion in high school became a symbol of high school past rather than college present.

The jacket retired to my parents basement. It remained there until we bought our first house, at which point it retired to our basement.

Until today.

My girls found the jacket and asked if they could try it on.

I thought it would be cute.

It was, but not in the way I expected.

Behold, my baby girl in my once beloved jacket:


She looks good, right?

She asked if she could keep it as her winter jacket. She hugged it and petted it and pretty much treated it the way I did the first day it came into my possession. And she needed a new winter jacket for Pete's sake. We'd planned to shop for one this weekend. Win/win, right? She gets a jacket she loves, my jacket gets to be worn again (with the appropriate amount of love and respect), and - bonus - I save a chunk of change by not needing to buy her a new one.

So why am I so sad?

Well, I remember this jacket as a rite of passage, almost. It indicated to the world (in my mind, at least) that I wasn't a kid anymore. It was a symbol of a new stage of maturity and I wore it proudly. Mostly to the mall.

I suppose seeing it on Olivia forces me to realize in a very tangible way that the torch is being passed.


Enjoy the ride, baby girl.

Funeral for a Friend

I feel the need to eulogize my friend Janice, who passed away this weekend. Janice, in the name of full disclosure, essentially drank herself to death. About a year and a half ago her doctor discovered liver damage and warned her that to continue drinking was a certain death sentence. A few months later her first born, in his early twenties, died in a rather freak accident. I guess she decided drinking was easier than not drinking. So she did.

In the late 80's, I was very close to Janice and her husband. She didn't have much, but she was always very generous with whatever she did have. I was just thinking about her last week, actually, following the acrylic nail tirade. She was never the type who would've indulged in something frivolous like that. I remember one year for Christmas I bought her a beautiful silk scarf. She said something to the effect of, "I don't mean to appear ungrateful, but you know what my life is like - when would I ever have occasion to use something like this?" I said, "wear it as a babushka next time you have a bad hair day, use it to tie your coat tighter around your neck when it's cold, throw it over a lampshade when you want to set a romantic mood - I don't know - just use it." I just wanted her to have something beautiful and elegant and refined. I knew it was impractical, but I still thought it was a swell gift. I'm not so sure she agreed.

Sitting in the back of the funeral chapel, I watched her three remaining sons mourn. They were sturdy young men I didn't recognize. Yet I'd held and cared for all of her babies. I wished there was something I could do for them - something I could've said to them - but I was a stranger to these boys. I felt some degree of guilt about this. I was the one who moved away and lost touch.

Janice, was a lovely, generous, unassuming woman. She deserved better than what she was dealt. As cliched as it is to say, may she rest in peace.