Oh, Unholy Night

There was a day when Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving. We'd be up with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade running in the background - only to stop and watch when they pulled out the cast of the latest Broadway musical to perform on the streets of New York. We welcomed the season by listening to Christmas music for the first time in a year. Bob cooked all day, we all sat round the well dressed table, said a heartfelt grace, ate like we would never eat again, and then I would do a mountain's worth of dishes. There would be some talk about "a walk", but it was never managed. By 10:00 p.m. we would all pass out. We slept the next day till at least 9:00 or 9:30. Those were our traditions, and they were beautiful.

With the chaos of today's economy, those traditions have been upset dramatically over the past three Thanksgivings (including yesterday) with the new un-holy tradition of "Black Friday", wherein I obsess over sales all day Thursday and ruin my sleep Thanksgiving night to join the few other sanity-challenged individuals looking to save "UP TO 80%!!" at 4:00 in the morning.

This year, the retail industry ramped it up a bit by announcing "Midnight Madness" had come. Some of the stores would be open at midnight. In truth, the idea of lining up outside the mall doors before Thanksgiving day has actually ended is really offensive to me. I thought of boycotting in protest for those staff who had to be there through the night whether they liked it or not. I hoped that their employers made it worth it for them. They do not. But I decided in favor anyway, figuring I would get in and out quickly and return to bed by 2:00 a.m. to dream of Sugar Plum Fairies and such. So at 11:45 I got in the car with Bob and headed to the mall. Once there, I saw that the mall had been transformed. It was now hell.

As we were getting off the freeway, we could see from the off ramp that shopping at midnight was much more appealing than at 4:00 - the parking lots looked entirely full. Bob and I thought about turing around at that point but Christine and Grace were already there having gone to see a late movie timed to get out as stores opened. We drove straight to the top level of the parking structure and became part of the masses that made their way through the doors. Before I could take anything in, I went straight to the sleep wear department of Macy's to buy the traditional Christmas Eve gift of pajamas. Score! I got a tremendous price. Further, there weren't that many people in the sleep wear department. It went quickly and orderly. I felt good about that. But riding down the escalator to the first floor I saw what was really happening. I began to hear the thump, thump, thumping of a bass blaring dancing rythyms and I saw, in addition to a much larger group of people my age, a staggering sea of teenagers dressed primarily in pajamas - some of them wearing blankets around themselves. Noted as well was that in spite of their nocturnal attire, makeup had been freshly applied and hair was done. This of course, because "Midnight Madness" provided a new excuse for a late-night-date-night to anyone old enough to have passed their driver's test. In total, the crowds rivaled any Cecil B. DeMille could cast. (And if you are old enough to know who Cecil B. De Mille is, you have no business being at "Midnight Madness".)

Immediately I felt my blood pressure rise. I forged ahead to my next destination watching boys and girls running around as though they had just discovered the mall for the very first time. Central to the inside portion of the mall was a DJ (a DJ?!?!?) blaring - at that moment - Cee Lo Green's "Forget You".

Ah yes - I could practically smell the chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

In front of Holisters were two barefoot young men, dressed only in board shorts, sporting six-packs for the sole purpose - apparently - of allowing giggling girls to take turns having photos taken with them using their own cell phones. Kind of like Santa. Only without the red suit. Or the beard. Or the candy cane. Or the Christmas.

Moving outside to the outdoor end of the mall, in addition to frosty weather we were treated to another DJ - this one blaring Michael Jackson' "Billie Jean"

Billie Jean is not my lover.

She's just a girl who says that I am the one.

But the kid is not my son.

Yes indeed. Missing only was the mistletoe.

And the checkout lines in the stores? Two hours. No kidding. No sale is worth that so we skipped the stores I had planned and went to the smaller stores in hopes of finding some sort of workable alternative. Bob and Grace left by 2:00 a.m. but Christine and I braved it for no other reason than that we were already there. But store after store offered nothing but looked-over summer items for deep discounts and only moderate sale prices on new merchandise. I could easily do as well online. Or on Wednesday.

We stopped for coffee - mostly because our feet needed a break. Even though we were in athletic shoes it started to feel as though we were walking on wooden balls. Finally to JC Penny at 4:00 where I buy all my husband's clothes because he treats expensive clothes no better than economy brands so I give up. And I got really good deals there. But no real sense of accomplishment.

And then - try to find a place to sit for a moment. Every chair and couch in the mall is taken by teenage pairings: girlfriends nestled in boyfriends' laps - sleeping. Ahhhhh, how sweetly and completely...annoying. I fought the impulse to slap them.

I did make a stop at "the scary store". "Hot Topic". I was looking for one item in particular and felt this was the likeliest place to have it. I was aware of making a conscience effort to look directly at the sales girl who had black and cobalt blue spiked hair, tattoos up both arms and neck, piercings in her ears, lips, tongue, nose, and eyebrows and act as if she looked as normal as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Christine wanted to stop by "The Gap". She was a braver girl than I, and so I found a chair near Nordstrom (politely waiting until 10:00 a.m. to open) to wait for her. Many people had left by then but the music was still catering to the kids. Some rapper rapping lyrics I cannot understand. And thank God.

All around me, the ornamentation of Christmas - huge trees, boughs of holly, the window of "The Gap" reading - in big giant letters: "JOY". But there was none of that here. In fairness, one should never expect to find joy or Christmas at the mall on Black Friday. Or the mall at all. But I do remember being a young girl when the day after Thanksgiving was the first day you ever saw signs of the holidays. And the stores were brimming with festivity and excitement. And the music made your heart feel light and magical. Looking out the big glass windows at 5:45 a.m. seeing the first evidence of light - what I would have given to hear a bit of Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas. For all the effort, you'd think they would have thrown this old dog a bone.

After all was said and done, I believe I can safely cross Black Friday off my list of things "to do". Forever. At 6:00 a.m. Christine and I decided to call it a nightmare and go home.

Mommy Lessons

Yesterday, for the second time, I spent the day at my friend Priscilla's house making cookies. The first thing you need to know is: I don't make cookies. Or anything really. I am a bad cook and a terrible baker. I don't think Priscilla knew that. But she took pity and asked me back.

The second thing you need to know is that the purpose of this "bake-a-thon" (this time with a couple of her other, more talented friends) was to make goodie boxes to send to our children away at college. And I don't do that either.

For my part, I brought the ingredients for oatmeal cookies. Now it is important to note that I didn't even bring Quaker Oats. I brought the generic Safeway brand and so the recipe on the box, it turns out, was inferior. Add to that the fact that I did not know my way around Priscilla's wonderful (and expensive!) KitchenAid mixer and it can be said with some certainly that I was a calamity. (I didn't secure the bowl into the base properly so when I turned it on, the beater and the base started taking a beating. In my haste to turn it off quickly, I turned the switch the wrong way - making the speed go faster still, creating all sorts of very noisy, scary sounding racket. I have never been so close to a heart attack. I know how well Priscilla takes care of her things and I certainly am not in a position to replace a $250.00 mixer right now! Tender mercies - no damage.)

As I mentioned earlier, I had had this play date once before, about a month ago when Priscilla did most everything and made her delicious Snicker Doodles. This time I was a more active, if not more reluctant, participant. Watching these other three women, comfortably maneuvering the kitchen was a little intimidating. I must say that Priscilla has a truly, truly spectacular kitchen. She has a tool for absolutely everything and everything has a well designed and organized place to live. Her home is of the gorgeous variety and her massive kitchen and breakfast room look out upon a beautiful and peaceful park-like yard. I found myself looking out that window a lot - taking in the tranquility and trying to apply it to the tasks at hand. With only fair results.

The first thing I noticed was that these three very charming ladies were fully capable of measuring, mixing, rolling and spooning - all while talking! I could not manage both those tasks at once. I could either talk or carefully follow recipe instructions. I watched as they measured vanilla by sight rather than teaspoon. I watched as they made expert cookie balls with a small scoop and laid them perfectly spaced - like little soldiers - on cookie trays. I watched as they "eyeballed" whether or not they were done in the oven. I watched as they used cookie cutters on sticky Rice Krispy Treats and pulled them off with the shapes clear and intact. I can't even do that with cookie dough. And, amazingly, nothing got dirty. Except for my work space - although I kept after it quickly. (I kept washing utensils and pans and bowls, only to find that they were still in use!)

Next while Priscilla has known these women for a few years, I noticed that her friends knew their way around her kitchen as if it were their own. They noticed her new, enviable refrigerator. They knew where all her supplies were. They could help me find things. I imagined that they knew each other well - but to know her kitchen so intimately? Why? Well, it turns out, they get together to do this about 5 times a year. For Back to School. For Halloween. For holiday. For Valentine's Day. And for end of school year. It is something of a tradition with them. Imagine that.

We made Peanut Butter Cookies, Peanut Butter Chocolate-Chip Cookies, Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, Oatmeal Raising Chocolate-Chip Cookies, Snicker Doodles, and Rice Krispy Treats and by my count we made about 250+ cookies that were distributed into 10 different care packages.

And then there were the care packages.

Once the cookies had cooled, Priscilla (organizational wizard, she) left the room and reentered carrying boxes of ribbons and bows and little cellophane bags and various colorful tissue paper. We sat down at the table and bagged small numbers of cookies in the bags, and chose ribbon that offered, hopefully, some autumn color (for the season) to tie them with. We selected not one but two or three ribbons or raffia to put together for each bag, adding color and texture. I watched as Jan (one of the other ladies) expertly cut and tied her packages. I know I am hopelessly creatively impaired, but seriously, how did she make such perfect knots with the right side of the ribbon always showing?

Again Priscilla disappeared for a moment only to return with a full stack of Priority Mail Flat Rate boxes. I mean who has those on hand?!?! I'll tell you who. Priscilla. AND she had a bag of packing peanuts. And she filled the bottom of each of the 10 boxes with them. Then the boxes were lined with pretty autumn colored tissue paper. Next several adorned bags of cookies were gingerly placed inside each of the boxes and topped with bubble wrap. But they were not sealed until we had been given stationery to write little notes to put inside.

This was an all-day event and I observed (like a duck out of water) for the most part what can only be called a labor of love. Generally, I don't do this kind of thing. But I was moved by this effort - an effort Priscilla and her friends didn't think twice about - hours of baking and preparing a cheerful package to send off to their kids in college. There is no doubt that the recipients are delighted by the sweet treats every time they arrive in the mail, but it's possible that it might be many years before they fully understand just how much love gets sealed up along with them. For that, the image of friends in a big kitchen making hundreds of cookies will stay with me.

As for my contribution - as I said, it was an inferior recipe. Calling for only brown sugar and no white, they taste more like health food cookies than your traditional oatmeal cookies. Add to that the fact that I let a couple of batches sit in the oven too long. Some have a slightly charcoal taste to them. So, to the kids of Priscilla, Mary, and Jan - my apologies. Your mothers let a novice into the kitchen with them. To my kids, there will be no question as to which ones I made. They may be hard to swallow but that strange, dry, burnt taste you can't quite recognize is the love.

Eternal Flame

Funny, the power of a song.

But first, after all the buildup from a clearly over-enthusiastic casting director, we didn't get the call back. No commercial for the family after all. Go figure. We live to see another bubble burst.

I continue to look for a job, and there is one in particular I am cautiously excited about. It seems tailor-made to my skills and interests and I have a 3rd interview scheduled. Meanwhile I continue to look because I am surely not alone in wanting this job. Like maybe there are a hundred other applicants. Or a million.

There is no doubt, this is a whole new world we live in. Nothing is secure; no future is known. Making plans, doing what you know you should be doing, following the steps, will not necessarily yield the results you set your eye on anymore. With the economy capsized and still sinking, unemployment sustained at unbelievably high rates and a pervasive feeling across the country of distrust and anger, it is impossible to not feel the stress of it. And it has become natural - so much so, that we forget what "normal" feels like. It is a challenge to remember what it felt like just to walk around in life 5, 10, 20 years ago.

But.

Today was a glorious day - perfect weather. Warm and sunny and the leaves are turning. I was preoccupied with the lists of concerns and needs and projects that I have been collecting. And then,

driving to get Grace from school, I heard The Bangle's "Eternal Flame" come on the radio. Immediately I was in the 80's - big hair, big jewelry, big shoulders, big make-up. This is a photo of me the year that song came out. I could practically smell and touch it - I remembered it well. And I felt - well - different. I liked it. (..."I don't want to lose this feeling, oh"...) It was a good feeling, floating with the song and I tried to think - what is it? What am I feeling? I remember this feeling but what is it? (..."do you feel the same or am I only dreaming?"...) Is it that I am not stressing about something? Is it that I am not worrying about every sneeze? money? kids? What is this that I am feeling??? And then it suddenly occurred to me. I was feeling joy. (..."I believe it was meant to be"...)

So thank you God, for that moment of grace. It was awesome. We could all use a little more of it.

In the meantime, "is this burning an eternal flame?" Indeed it is. Clouds may be looming but God is in our yesterdays, todays and tomorrows - and we're gonna be alright, folks.

When Fat Pays Off, Maybe...

Last night we were at a wonderful and memorable dinner party - it was sort of a dreamy "gosh-why-can't-life-always-be-like-this" evening.

As we sat down to a great dinner on a spectacular night, I began a conversation with a friend, Mary, about a healthy eating lifestyle I had recently adopted and that I had heard she had been on for some time. It's from Dr. Joel Furman's "Eat to Live" book and it made tremendous sense to me in terms of acquiring superior health - but it also promised rapid and amazing weight loss for people like me - who had had poor eating habits and are overweight. I complained to Mary that in the weeks I have been on it, I have lost very little weight and told her of my disappointment. Mary, who looks amazing (but frankly, always has), encouraged me to stick with it. And I will.

About the same time, Bob's phone buzzed. He took a quick look and his mood was elevated further by learning that he had an audition for a commercial for some pharmaceutical product today. I too was excited but I have learned over the years to temper my excitement with a big dose of reality - the odds are against him. If he goes on 10 auditions, he will likely get 3 to 4 callbacks and MAYBE book one gig. He was recently up for the phone service commercial where the one guy doesn't get the call that the flash mob dance he was in was postponed and so he starts breaking into a freakish solo in the middle of a major train terminal. He was also one of two final candidates for a role in the latest commercial for Loews. It irks him no end when he doesn't book. He walks around for days and weeks depressed that he might not ever book again. Sometimes I would rather he not get the call at all.

Hang on. I'm getting to the point.

This morning as Bob was scurrying around to prepare for the audition and I was reading the latest Vanity Fair, he received another email from his agent. She learned that they were looking for families. Did he have pictures of all of us? When he told me this he had about 10 minutes before he had to leave so I flew to my computer to find something of all 6 of us that is flattering of all 6 of us (especially me). I found two photos that fit the bill (one is the photo above); all of us in a group with me strategically hiding behind everyone else (thankfully, I am the tallest by far). I thought about needing to reactivate my SAG card - how long would that take? And Amanda and Jennifer are in school up north, so could they get here for something like this? I shot a quick text message to everyone alerting them that there was a one in a million chance that this could happen and then I really let it go because, of course, we are NOT going to get it. We are not even going to be considered. And then I settled into the considerable task of cleaning up my office. Again.

Then the phone rang. It was Bob. I asked him how it went and he hesitated for a moment and then said: "Well actually, it went really well. And you were marvelous." I asked him what he was talking about and he said that during the audition he was asked if he had a family and he offered an enthusiastic "yes". They asked if he had a photo and he produced the two I had printed out for him. He said they talked to him a long while and filmed him holding up the photo. The casting director then told him that callbacks would be on Wednesday and that she would be very surprised if the client didn't call back the whole family (with the possible exception of Grace as she was outside of the age of the kids they were looking for). She stressed that were were exactly what they were looking for.

I began to freak out. I saw my slovenly appearance in the mirrored closet door next to my desk. Every pound was screaming at me. I had given flattering photos for Bob to take. I wasn't at all sure that those photos represented me accurately. I couldn't bear the idea of going to a callback only to be looked at quizzically as if to say "Who is she?" or "How old was that photo?", or worse "Wait a minute, we didn't ask for a fat lady!". Bob is the only one with an agent in our family but she would handle the contract for all of us and I so I said: "Bob, you need to call your agent right away to have her let the casting people know that I am overweight". He stopped me in mid sentence and said: "And here's the great part - when she saw you in the photo she said: 'Oh good! I'm so glad you're wife's not skinny. She is supposed to have diabetes in this commercial.'"

Oh. I didn't think I looked overweight in those pictures. I guess I am really deluded. So okay. There is no secret. I guess everyone knows.

But if we do get this callback, I think I'm still going to run out for a new Spanx. If someone actually wants me fat, I want to look my best fat possible.

My Kitchen, My Life

Earlier last week, Grace said she saw a cockroach in my kitchen. The thought of this stirred a repulsion so deep within me that I leaped into action. My kitchen needs lots of work, but one thing I have never seen in it is a roach. Spiders? Yes. Flies, mosquitoes, crickets? Sure. But never a roach.

When we lived in Van Nuys and the girls were just babies, we had an ant infestation that ended all others. They invaded our little home and would come like an army across the floor, onto the carpet and if you happened to be laying on the floor, they would just march like a stream over you. I am not kidding. I had never seen anything like it. Daily I would clean and vacuum and disinfect but nothing would stop them and so finally I called an exterminator and they came in and did the job. Ants gone. But in a matter of a month or two I noticed, for the very first time ever, cockroaches. And they were everywhere - EVERYWHERE - big and ugly and fast. I set bait, I cleaned, I scoured, I vacuumed. I swept, I poisoned and I prayed - and nothing, NOTHING would get rid of them. I had a friend who was a contractor and I asked him, "Tim, I'm going out of my mind. You build houses. You are well versed in home pests. How can I get rid of cockroaches?" His reply: "Get some ants."

Since then, I have been very careful with the balance of nature. If I see ants, I clean and make sure everything is dry and try to divert them. But I have little problem with ants. And up till now I have had no problem with roaches. So if it was true, if Grace did see one, I was going to beat it. To a pulp. Now.

Hence a 3-day gut clean of the kitchen. It started as a project that I planned to accomplish in a few hours. But it took hold of me and it became a HERCULEAN task. Ammonia, bleach, scrubbers, mops, sponges - lots of time on my hands and knees where I didn't just clean - I scrubbed to the bone and re-lined all the shelves with new paper - every cupboard, every door, every drawer, every knob, the pantry, the refrigerator, underneath the refrigerator, the floor, every wall, every baseboard, every inch. And I hand washed everything in each of the cupboards and drawers as well. And then I purged. I eliminated everything that wasn't absolutely essential. Even if it has cost me a lot of money initially. Even some things that we sentimental but lived in the back corner of a shelf - not looked at in years. And I found lots of stuff that had been missing. And in the end, between the paper towels, the thrown out food, Tupperware, broken dishes, appliances, and general crap - there were six full trash bags that went to the garbage. (By the way, through the entire process, I didn't find a single roach!) Then I took everything off the counters that we do not use every single day and put those items away. It is now clean, uncluttered, simple - even stark. And when it was all done, my mind went from room to room and I feel a month-long attack on the house coming on.

And while I was scrubbing the floor on my hands and knees, I began to see the whole process as a metaphor for my life too. I am living in a new world. One in which unemployment and insecurity have become the new standard for millions of people - including myself. And once again, I am feeling like a complete overhaul, a re-do, a gut clean is required to be able to see it through. Since beginning this blog I have been on so many interviews. And I have seen two jobs come my way, only to be unemployed again not because of my performance, but because of the economy. It is out of my hands in so many ways. But I need to start again. So a purse dumping is in order. Again.

In Honor of Bob's Birthday

I haven't gone this long without posting since I started this blog. To say that my life has been busy would be an extreme understatement. And with busyness comes lots of stuff to comment on but that will have to wait until the dust settles from everything I have finally completed doing.

In the meantime, in honor of Bob's 51st birthday - I thought I would share another memorable moment of hilarity - at his expense.

Among the many pieces of exercise equipment I have owned and never used was a fairly high-end treadmill. It had many settings and levels and lifts and and buttons and whistles - and it was a big, heavy-duty piece of equipment. Eventually it wound up in the garage, the graveyard for all things I feel badly for not using and too guilty to get rid of.

Bob spends a lot of time in the garage. He likes to play his guitar out there and practice his tap dancing. Generally it is a "Valri-free" zone; one in which he is not likely to hear me hollering for him to "knock it off". So the treadmill became his. And as Bob is a dancer, he is in fairly good shape which meant that he could set it on a pretty high speed and run (rather than walk) on it.

Good for him.

So one day, Bob - alone in the garage - got on his treadmill, set it on a fairly high speed and started to run. But as Bob is apt to do, he got distracted. Now it is important to note that the little belt that you attach to your clothing - the one that disconnects from the treadmill to automatically switch it off should you fall off - had long since disappeared. So Bob, unattached and distracted, began to run too close to the edge and finally shot off the edge. All within a matter of about 5 seconds, both legs flew back landing him on his knees. Reaching forward to catch his fall, his hands fell on the running belt which quickly carried both arms off the machine and back behind him - pinning his body into the "Dying Swan" position from "Swan Lake". With no hands for leverage, his forehead hit the running belt which immediately caused his head to shoot backward toward his body until his neck could not longer stretch.

And so, there was Bob, the crown of his bald head stuck on the fast-moving belt, being sanded like a piece of wood - on his knees with arms pinned back and no leverage to lift himself from this painful and humiliating situation. After a few, interminable, seconds, he finally threw his body sideways and escaped the treadmill that tried to eat him.

He was a bit battered and bruised and his head was scraped up pretty badly. But he lived to see another escapade - another story for another time.

And in spite of it all, and perhaps a little bit because of it, I love him.

And that looney photo above? Yeah, there's a story behind that too.

Happy Birthday Bob.

Did EVERYONE Miss the Typo?

Spelling is a thing with me. I don't always get it right but I do know the difference between "there", "their", "they're", "its", "it's" and in general most other words. So I was mortified to see that my last published blog said that Bob and I had gone to the "dessert". How that got by me for so long was embarrassing.

Bob and Valri Go to the Desert

Without the kids.

Yesterday, August 2nd, was our 20th anniversary. It is the first time in years that we even remembered it and, in fact, it marked the second time Bob planned a getaway entirely on his own (the first being a trip to Vancouver, BC when he was there touring with "Ragtime" about 13 years ago). I should also tell you that this anniversary trip was my birthday gift. (I'm still trying to figure that one out, but I digress). Bob made a big deal.

I need to back this up 20 years to explain why Bob felt he needed to make such a big deal about this. You see, 20 years ago, when we actually got married, I did everything. I got our friend Charles to babysit the kids for the short weekend we would be gone, I made air travel arrangements and hooked a business trip on to it so that we could write it off, I arranged for all the certificates, made the appointment at San Francisco's City Hall, made reservations at a boutique hotel that I loved there (The Majestic), I packed and planned and scheduled and all Bob had to do was arrange what we would do on our 2 day honeymoon. So up we flew to San Francisco, we rented the car that I arranged for, met my friend Cyndy (maid of honor) for drinks, went to his brother's where he and his partner Steve, made us a beef wellington that I still dream about. We got up the next morning, got married, had a lovely reception (thanks again, Rick and Steve), went to the lovely hotel (with upgrade!), and the next morning when we got up and I asked Bob what we were doing, his answer was: "I don't know. What do you want to do?" Ring his freaking neck was what I wanted to do but instead we got in the car and drove to Napa and visited some wineries (when I still drank) and had a nice time but it wasn't really different from a little day excursion you might do when you're bored and suddenly get inspired to have a change of scenery. I didn't complain. Afterall, I was a newlywed - but I haven't let him forget it since - so this time - he got it right. He booked a fabulous getaway to a resort in Palm Springs complete with a-m-a-z-i-n-g spa package, fabulous dinners, breakfast in bed, etc. Everything was scheduled and planned to the tee and it was very, very nice. Good job Bob.

But it was still us. So it had to be a teeny bit weird. Driving to the dessert, I noticed our conversation was a bit, well, disconnected. I talked about my feelings, he talked about the economy. It was sort of like dialogs from two different plays being spliced together. Made no sense. But then, that that's how we roll.

So first stop was the Aerial Tram which was nice, then the resort which was beautiful and a superlative dinner. The tuna tartare was so delicious I nearly fainted. Late night swim, a big misunderstanding with bruised feelings (gotta have one of those), long talk, got back on track, breakfast in bed, spa treatments, and off to dinner again.

Oh by the way, it's like 112 degrees outside. Even at night. With occasional bursts of rain. But we weathered it anyway and drove into town for a dinner at "The Tropicale". First of all, this is the coolest place in the desert. Not the temperature but the atmosphere. It is designed to look like it was built in about 1962. It succeeds. When you walk in you feel like you're on a set from "Mad Men" - complete with high backed, foam green circular booths, moody pink spotlights hitting the walls and vintage 60's wall ornaments, mid-century style cocktail bar (with blue sugary cocktail drinks loaded with alcohol) a piano and bass playing a repertoire of "swingin'"arrangements of Rogers and Hart songs - the kind that made stars of singers like Eddie Fisher and Vic Damone. Lots of rumba beats ending with a cha-cha-cha button. Groovy. And you know it is a great place to eat because you cannot help but notice the moment you walk in that the clientele is made of of two distinct, but discerning connoisseurs - wealthy senior citizen locals and gays. Bob ordered one of those blue

cocktails and I nursed my cranberry juice with sparkling water and we ordered an amazing meal. But Bob had been a grown up for nearly 48 hours and could no longer contain himself so he had to let the little boy out to play and I was relaxed enough to just go with it so I snapped a photo. I think the fact that we were fairly hidden by the high backed booths helped. It reminded me of so many times when Bob had to behave inappropriately just for the sport of making me want to kill him. But this time, I didn't.

Bob couldn't wait for the sun to go down entirely so we could see the place in full swing, but as misfortune would have it, a big chunk of Palm Springs suddenly lost power so we sat there in the glow of a single table candle until the waitress in her polynesian style bowling shirt came to us with a hand-written bill while we worked out payment in the dark. They were closing. And we were ready. By this time, without the air conditioner, sweat was pouring from our brows. At least we finished our dinner.

With all the enthusiasm of ourselves as newlyweds 20 years ago, we planned to see a movie, go back to the bar at our hotel for a drink and then for one last late night swim, but one by one, each plan failed to materialize and when we got back to our room and Bob started the search for his "TUMS" and I contemplated packing, we automatically rolled into bed with books and TV - early. We were sad that age had taken all the "late night party" out of us, but it felt good to be settled in. It was wonderful.

The Race of Time

In the early 90's, I was in a workshop production of a show called "Closer Than Ever" and it was a compilation of a lot of songs by Maltby/Shire that dealt with people at different stages of life. There was this song called "The March of Time", which at the time, in my very early 30's, I thought was hilarious. And I sang it without any idea how it really felt to be anything other than relatively young.

I've been quiet (something of an anomaly) for the past few weeks. I think it is largely due to the fact that a few weeks ago another birthday rolled over me. And so you don't misinterpret the metaphor, it did not roll over me like a floating balloon. No, not a floating balloon but rather a monster truck rally.

Its an interesting phenomenon this aging thing. I remember so well being 9 and not being able to wait until I was "double-digit". And then came the endless wait for thirteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty-one. And I had no problem at all with the passing of each year of my twenties - until of course, 29. That wasn't so good. But turning thirty didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. In fact, I hardly felt it at all. And my thirties were great. I looked fabulous in my thirties. There was a lot going on. Many pivotal events happened in my thirties. I got divorced. I got married. I became a mom. Instantly. I got hired by Disney. We bought our current home. And every year took its sweet time passing. I was in my thirties for a very long time. Like 20 years or something. Until 39. And about two months before turning 40, I started having anxiety attacks. Until I turned 40 and then they stopped and I was just fine. And I had a baby. I went to Hawaii. Again. I went to Africa. I went to the Caribbean. I went to Cancun. I went to Canada. And all was well. Until about 47 when time started to pick up speed. And try as I might, I couldn't find the control switch.

And then - then there was 50 - which was very weird. But I was a big girl about it. I still had all the kids at home and I was still gainfully employed and I was pretty good about chasing it from my mind. Except for that time switch - which moved itself to full tilt acceleration. And the older girls started college. And I lost my job. And then I lost another job. And then menopause. And then my youngest decided not to be a kid anymore. I remember in my teens being insanely jealous of my sister Linda, one year older, who got to do everything a year earlier than I. My only revenge was to to be able to say "but when I'm 49, you'll be 50". And here we are. Both past that. Way.

I look at my profile photo on Facebook and Linked in and realize: "I need to update my photo". I look at older photos of myself that I like - even back only a couple of years and think "I need a shot like that". And then I remember that I will never look like "that" again. Even with effort. Because I am on the other side of "that". Okay so maybe I can't look like "that". I guess I can look "different". And sometimes "different" is better. Well, occasionally sometimes.

Now before you think I'm whining too much, I'm not. I'm extremely grateful for everything I have in my life. The good, and in fact, the bad - because the bad keeps me dependent on God. And really, the bad hasn't been that bad. But I am sorely looking for the room that houses that time accelerator switch. I'd be grateful if it would all just s-l-o-w-d-o-w-n.

On Becoming a Man

There has been a lot of coverage lately of Chastity Bono's (daughter of Sonny & Cher) recent testosterone therapy and surgery to become Chas Bono, a man. A lot of money could have been saved had he just waited for menopause.

As I sit here, preparing for yet another birthday, I am considering the many things about my aging self that I, frankly, did not sign on for. With diminished levels of estrogen flowing through my body I have noted some unwelcome intrusions to my being that have just planted themselves and taken root like invasive ivy.

1. Tough, dry hands. Like men's hands since they rarely lotion. And like, overnight.

2. Thinning hair. I have always had a lot of hair - very thick. In fact, I still do. But I have noticed a small, little spot at the very crown of my head that requires a little more attention - teasing, product, and fussing with - to cover. And I am not amused.

3. Beer belly. Without the beer. I carry around a lot of extra weight but my waist has always been well defined. Except I am noticing the encroachment of what we women have always kindly referred to on our husbands as "love handles" - and this is very distressing. Because in truth men, there is no love for them.

4. Whiskers. Yes, I said it. You will not find many of us willing to admit it (because the thought of it brings on chest pains) but MOST women, after menopause, have this offensive thing happen to them. The soft unnoticeable peach fuzz on our chins can "switch sides" and randomly become coarse and dark, long - and sinister. And I have to learn to look for it daily. And I carry a tweezer in my purse now because the bathroom light is not reliable.

5. Sensitivity. Okay - this is not typically a masculine thing. I bring this up because it is the single feminine thing that most of us would gladly be rid of. But it has taken over my psyche like crabgrass and I cry over everything. And I mean everything. Like commercials that have pretty music. Or tough, dry hands. Or thinning hair. Or "love handles". Or whiskers.

Yes especially whiskers.

I'm Out of Elementary School

My youngest graduated from the 6th grade last week. At her little school, elementary school goes through 6th grade, as it did when I was growing up.

Her school always puts on a wonderful ceremony for the graduating class, which is never more than 25, in this case there were only 16. All 16 were dressed up and fidgety. It is a big deal.

My older three girls graduated from this school as well and each ceremony was truly memorable. I was proud of each of my three older daughters as they stood and gave a 3 minute speech they wrote and memorized, walked forward to receive a diploma - and I was equally proud of Grace as she did the same. But there was something different in this one. This was my last. My baby, wearing a new dress that didn't have a hint of "little girl" in its design, high heeled shoes and shaved legs, french tip manicure, dangling earrings in her newly pierced ears, a hair style for older girls, and her first make-up in public, walked up to the podium and out of grammar school and after nearly 20 straight years of having a child in elementary school, I walk out with her. So while this day was all about her, it was a marker for me as well.

Grace is particularly emotional. She cries on the last day of school every year (including preschool!) weeping at the passing of age so I knew she would be a mess this go around. I carefully instructed her on the way to dab dripping eyes that are made up with mascara (under the lashes to absorb moisture and not smear black under the eyes - lest we look like Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane"...) and watched as she sat on the stage with her classmates becoming an expert on tear catching.

After all the graduates had made their speeches and received their diplomas we moved to the reception room where we all witnessed all seven girls in the class sporting red, swollen eyes as they hugged and gathered and sobbed and let me tell you, the moms were right behind them. My throat was tight and and my nostrils flared as I tried to squelch what could have become big gobby sobs had I not been well versed in stifling such things. I was proud of my daughter. She looked beautiful. It was a big day for her. But it was a big day for me too. Both Amanda and Jennifer were in attendance and when Amanda reminded me that she had graduated from this school 10 years ago, I was instantly in that day, remembering what she wore, how she stood with her friends and received an award. The following year, both Christine and Jennifer did the same - with their hair piled high on their heads - all grown up and by this time, Grace had started preschool there. And while I was equally proud of all of them, in the back of my mind was that I had another 8 years at this school and I felt I would never be done.

But this day, I looked around the walls, looked at the staff, the building in the same way Amanda, Christine and Jennifer did years ago. The way Grace was looking at it now. There is sadness in the joy. My youngest is leaving that environment but so am I. And we shall never pass this way again.

So I am catching tears with kleenex carefully placed under the lashes.

American Tragedy - Part II

In the interest of bipartisan balance, after criticizing Sarah Palin in my last post, Senators Anthony Weiner and John Edwards (a man I once supported!) are equally deserving of distain for being liars and idiots. With Edwards' recent indictment for a scandal that seems to have no end and Weiner's embarrassing tweet escapades, one can only shake their head and wonder how two such seemingly intelligent and respectable individuals could possibly think they could get away with such disgraceful and immoral behavior. Yes, they are only human but isn't that the point? Humans are not supposed to behave like pigs.

American Tragedy

With all due respect to my friends who think otherwise, after yet another embarrassing "gotcha question" thrown at her "randomly" by the news media (specifically, "What has most impressed you on your tour and what are you going to take away with you?"), I must go on record to say that Sarah Palin is an complete imbecile. I am utterly embarrassed by her. But possibly more horrifying is the fact that Wikipedia (unfortunate research source for school-aged kids) has been updated to reflect some of Ms. Palin's ridiculous rendering of Paul Revere's ride (although likely as a joke). Further, she insists she knew what she was talking about and went on to say that Paul Revere was also "ringing his bells" through the streets so that the "British could hear the warning that we were not going to tolerate them taking away our arms".

Frankly, she terrifies me.

Gut Cleaning the House

Well, I've been putting it off and putting it off. Cleaning my house, that is. I honestly don't know how but somehow I had let it get completely out of control and just the thought of tackling it left me exhausted. I didn't even know where to begin.

But there was no getting around it today. Amanda is coming home on Wednesday. And she's bringing "the boyfriend". Now normally I try to keep the house reasonably picked up and tidy for my own sake - but company - and more specifically company I have never met - calls for a much higher effort. So today it was all hands on deck for a real "gut clean".

This was not just the floors and laundry, the dusting and folding and straightening, the bathroom sinks and tubs - this was the vacuuming of pillows and furniture and cobwebs and base boards. This was the purging and organizing and taking everything out of its place and cleaning the shelves and putting it back better. This was the nooks and crannies of the refrigerator. This was the dusting of all photo and picture frames. This was the narrow attachment of the vacuum cleaner around the periphery of the carpet in every room and hallway. This was the toothbrush to the grout. This was the walls. And when it was all done, it still didn't sparkle like new because, because my house is old and needs a lot of work. And now I see clean but I see painting that needs to be done and stuff I no longer like that needs to be tossed - and lord in heaven - carpets. I need new carpets. Because they look like I have donkeys instead of dogs running around the house.

Also, somewhere in the effort I did something to my foot and now my ankle is screaming every time I step on my foot without thinking purposely about it. And I took this as a sign. A sign to quit while I'm ahead.

So I texted Amanda and I said: "How nicely does Dan's mom keep her home - and don't you DARE tell him I asked." Amanda replied almost immediately: "Pretty near spotless." And so my heart sank. Looking around at all that needed to get done to look spotless represented another full day of toothbrushes and polishing and then, at that precise moment, Bob walked through the back door after having been working on the garden - still a work in progress. But he stepped directly in with no pause so I barked loudly: "For god's sake, Bob! I just vacuumed! Did you even wipe your feet?" Having had it with my orders for the day, he replied with a chirp: "No!" And then he turned his back to me. And then he mooned me.

I took this as a sign that my first sign was confirmed.

So Dan will have to take us just as we are, given the full moon and all.

Murder in My Heart

Today I was in a bit of a rush to get home from the grocery. That parking lot is always busy and I proceed with great caution getting out of it. Not only cars but so many people everywhere. So I am driving slowly down the main artery of this parking lot - toward the exit when a woman with very short blonde hair begins, several feet ahead of me to walk - diagonally - across it. And she turned to look at me. And she continued to walk, diagonally, blocking my way for far longer than it would have taken had she just walked in a straight line. And she was S-L-O-W.

I know that pedestrians have the right of way at all times -whether in a crosswalk or the middle of a busy street. I understand this and respect it. Of course you stop for people.

But...

When you stop your car to let someone get safely across the street - an adult - and they have with them no child holding their hand, no heavy bags to carry, no seeing eye dog, no wheelchair or walking cane, no impairment - and they see you - acknowledge you even - and then make not even a pretense of picking up their pace so that you can get on with your day - and then if you should lose your mind at the arrogance of it and hit the accelerator, I believe it becomes a case for justifiable homicide.

Now that didn't happen today, but I'm just saying.

An Emmy in the Toilet

Leslie has an Emmy. We found it in her bathroom. Next to the toilet.

Saturday night was another gathering of our little group of gals from Theatre West. I've blogged about this group of women a couple of times before. We met again at Leslie's which seems to be the central venue for our sort-of-regular meets. Her house is, as previously reported, very cool and lends itself very nicely to casual and comfortable rabble rousing.

We've taken to meeting about every 6 to 8 weeks or so, or when birthdays call (on Saturday we celebrated Elise's and Leslie's) but individual birthday celebrating is secondary to what has become a grown up version of a junior high-school slumber party - complete with iTunes, potato chips, snacks, blankets, giggling, confessions, some surprising back stories, and general gab (though most of us do go home to sleep). Oh and there is alcohol (lots of it!) from which I do not partake but which rubs off on me anyway.

Now I suppose this sounds like the sort of thing many "tribes" of girlfriends engage in - and maybe it is. But it is a very unique experience for me. Because this tribe is a cast of immensely entertaining characters unlike no other. Not to say that my other friends are not interesting, unique, and fun, or that I don't enjoy their friendship just as much - but something about this group together is different. Because while we were all at Theatre West together some 25 years ago, I don't think any of us is at all like the other. We are like 7 (or 8 when Seemah comes) pieces from different puzzle games that somehow fit together to make some crazy quilt of friendship. And the picture we make - once we are assembled - looks kinda cool.

So anyway, last night Jane returned from a visit to the bathroom and announced she had given Leslie's Emmy a much needed polishing. Given where she had just been this statement seemed a bit odd - so naturally, all our ears pricked up. I knew Leslie had received an Emmy (from her work as co-executive producer and writer for "Everybody Loves Raymond"), but I had never seen it. As it turns out, Leslie had found a home for it in her bathroom on the shelf, right next to the toilet. (Ahem.) Despite such an unworthy place this coveted statue received from its owner, as women with "actress" running through our veins, it was immediately fetched, brought to the center of the table and adorned. Literally. We dressed Emmy up with jewelry, glasses, and flowers and we all had our photo taken with it. It was like playing with grown-up Barbie. Sheila a recognizable character actress who has had a successful career for the past many years, stood and posed for a photo and about 15 seconds after the shot was taken, I noticed she was still frozen in her pose - holding the trophy high and wearing a broad smile. I said: "I got the picture, Sheila." Without missing a beat, she replied: "Are you sure?" Hilarious. Anyway, it is very heavy and her wings are really sharp and Leslie has a story about an actress accidentally getting stabbed by one when her co-star walked off the stage, carelessly swinging it in his stride.

Of course Emmy wasn't the only thing going on that evening. We were loud and bawdy. We all lamented over menopause, ovarian ultrasounds, the danger of consulting WebMD and how we are all - in one way of another - hit with hard times. We got to share success stories too - a recent TV interview Jane had; a truly great voice over tape Cyndy had just recorded. But mostly we were just glad to be in each other's company - Anne, a mother of 3 boys, summing it up by stating how wonderful it was to be away from anything with a penis. We did get around to birthday cake as it was Elise's actual birthday, and once again, everyone took off their rings to place over a burning candle in hopes of getting a birthday wish too - a tradition Jane began last summer. Unfortunately, I couldn't get my ring off so I had to resort to an earring. So as you can guess, my wish was to weigh less.

In all it was a lot of silliness but I have to admit that I was rather impressed with the Emmy. I know we live in Los Angeles where they give these things out and if you are an active member of the industry there are probably only three (rather than seven) degrees of separation between you and someone who has one. But it is an enormous accomplishment nonetheless. And Leslie has one! Even if it is in the toilet. I hasten to add that there is accomplishment to go around. Sheila has an accomplished career as an actress. Cyndy is a producer/writer/actress who has her own award-winning one-woman show. Anne is doula and an actress, most recently seen on Grey's Anatomy, Elise is a writer, director, actress, coach with a very long list of credits. Jane is a doctor, actress, singer/songwriter. And I? Well, I had a great career in sales and I used to sing and sort of act and now I write this.

Our little eclectic group of friends does little more than catch up, laugh, share, eat, smoke, drink, and occasionally dress up high-profile awards when we meet but there is an "energy" (oh that word!) that is palpable among us. You can't misstep here for reasons I cannot explain other than to say it is a bit like stepping into a play, where all the characters are well written and defined and integral to the plot. Like Steel Magnolias, the Ya Ya Sisterhood, the Joy Luck Club, or the girls from Sex in the City, our little group has a heart of its own, and when we're together, we all beat to it.

End of the World

Wow. Another tornado in Joplin, Missouri took out the town and as of now at least 89 lives. There will probably be more. There were over 300 lost last month to the tornado in Alabama. Major earthquakes in Japan, Pakistan, Mexico and Turkey. Floods along the Mississippi. Tsunamis. Crazy weather. Fallen economies. There is no mistaking that recent events have an apocalyptic feel about them. So is it the end of the world? Well if it is, it isn't because some guy says he figured out the math and came up with the date.

As a Christian, I do believe that Jesus will return someday. But this focus on being ready for "the rapture" is a distraction from the work at hand. The real issue is that we don't have to wait for God to come back. God is here right now - and our ability to be ready for our own personal "judgement day", which could come at any time without warning in the form of a heart attack or car accident or a myriad of other ways - isn't going to be in passing out fliers or selling all our possessions and taking ads of warning out around the world. Our ability to be ready is in our conscious decision to be available to give sacrificially to help those in need - right here in the U.S. and abroad. There is no end to the need right now. We all give. We have to give more. Of our resources, our time, ourselves.

We can't stop earthquakes or tornadoes or floods from happening. But we can help those who are victimized by them. The bible gives a very simple solution for this. Give 1 penny out of every 10 that you have. Sounds very doable, right? Okay well what if all our pennies add up to $10,000? That means you give $1,000. That sounds pretty scary. But it is exactly the same. And we have to be willing to do it because if everyone gave 10% of what they earned to help those in need around the world, we would actually have no one in need. And that would be better for all of us.

Of course, there is a catch - it should be done in secret. Because while we may feel so generous and kind because we are willing to give 10% of what we work so hard for, in truth it has absolutely nothing to do with us. Because while we work hard for our money, we can always find thousands more who work harder and have nothing at all. The fact is that while we may work hard, it is by the grace of God that we are blessed with whatever it is we have. So when we give, we need to take ourselves out of it. We are asked to give from our blessings - which we deserve no more than the hardworking person who has nothing. We have been blessed by God so that He can use us to bless others. And it is really important that we recognize this and be grateful. Because it can all be taken from us without warning - just ask the 8.7%++ unemployed right now. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter what we have. What matters is what we have done with what we have been given. And from this attitude, we serve God. And if we serve God, we love Him and we will be ready for our own individual judgement day - however and whenever it comes. No need for panic.

One last thought. This issue of tithing (giving 10%) - it is the only place in the bible where God asks you to test Him. He says to give one tenth of everything you have and see if you are not rewarded ten-fold. I always bet on God's promises. Open a newspaper. There is someone somewhere who desperately needs one dollar from your ten.

Constructing a Case for Throwing in the Towel

I am teaching debate. Sort of.

A gazillion years ago (when I was in high school) I was in the National Forensics League. My event was Dramatic Interpretation (DI) and I would double enter in Humorous Interpretation (HI). And I was pretty good. I went to nationals twice, once as a first place winner from my district and once as a first place winner from the state. I loved these competitions. I loved winning. I loved being good.

But one of my coaches insisted that I enter in debate as well. My first go around with it was humiliating. I walked into my first round and announced to the opposing team that they were going to win. My partner was furious. The result of that particular debate ended not so much with the other team wiping the floor with me, but rather with me slitting my own wrists with a dull knife and then them wiping the floor with me as I bled and watched, and begged for a quick and merciful end and yet, never quite died. And I didn't love that so I learned the mechanics and didn't embarrass myself again. It wasn't my event, but I learned to get through it. And I learned to enjoy it.

So anyway, Grace's 6th grade teacher asked if I would be willing to introduce debate to the class.

"Sure", says I, figuring this would be simple. I would introduce them to the basics, choose a subject that they could engage in and let them go at it. And here is what I can tell you now: Simple, it ain't.

Part of the trouble is that I talk and brevity is not my strength. This may have actually helped me in debating because you have to fill a lot of time and sometimes you just have to spin it out - but to teach a room full of 11 year olds, economy of words is what will win the day. For this, I own no trophies. The first few times I was there and we were doing the spar debates everyone seemed to have fun and get excited, but as I began getting into the subject of research, and building cases, what a cross examination question was, rebuttals, terminology - I saw eyes glaze over and children began writing on their arms with sharpie pens and erasers started to fly across the room.

Uh...

So anyway, I don't know how to get them functional in debate without all this information. It seems they just want to spar - and that's a lot of fun. But research? Two weeks before graduation? Not too many takers.

So today, trying to engage the few who still have some interest while trying to keep those with roaming minds from roaming too far, I tried to give everyone a manageable assignment. In identifying the contentions of the case, I gave only one to each student to research on the Internet and told them to write a one paragraph argument. I'd be very happy with 5 complete sentences. And these kids are capable - but willing? That's another matter.

So my day ended with the following conversation with one very sweet, very earnest, but very distracted young boy:

Me: "So, what are you going to write?"

Boy: "What?"

Me: "We've been talking about this, remember?"

Boy: "Oh, yeah. What am I going to do?"

"We talked about how you were going to write an argument about how playing video games can lead to isolation."

"Oh yeah. Okay."

"And you're going to do that, right?"

"Right."

"You are."

"Yes."

"And you're going to research this how?"

"How?"

"On the Internet tonight."

"Oh yeah, on the Internet."

"Tonight right?"

"Yeah."

"Because we really need this tomorrow. Your team is counting on you. And I can count on you, right?"

"Right."

"So you are going to do this tonight and bring it in tomorrow."

"Probably not."

I kid you not. And I have to laugh, because the kid was just telling the truth.

So I think I can forget a career as a debate coach.

Is There an Embarrassing Reality Show in My Future?

They say that the appearance of one's desk is a reflection of one's mind. Just in case there was any question, here is proof that I am officially and certifiably insane.

I have never kept an uncluttered desk. But this is kind of ridiculous. I am overwhelmed at the sight of it and rather then tackle it, frankly, I think it would be easier to move.

The problem is that my bedroom isn't much better. Or the pantry. Or the closets. Or the drawers. And I am sitting here trying to figure out just how in the name of all things good and pure I ever let it get like this.

Someone told me this kind of mess is a sign of depression, but I don't feel depressed. In fact, in spite of the echo you can hear when you shout into our bank account, I am feeling fairly calm and hopeful. Still, the sight of this disorderliness just screams: "ATTENTION MUST BE PAID!!!" And yet, I am of a mind to just close my eyes and think of something less chaotic.

It's like I am a hoarder in training.

A Mom Memory

Growing up, we never made a big deal about Mother's Day. Or Father's Day for that matter. Maybe a card and breakfast in bed - but nothing like how most people celebrate. It didn't seem like a real holiday at all. Just an "oh, yeah." However, today, as my dear girls each remembered me individually, I thought about my mom.

Her name was Carol Simona Cushing Jackson and she died only a couple of months past her 49th birthday. She was a genuine "bleeding heart liberal" who stood up for unpopular causes. My mom would have enjoyed being popular but her willingness to be led by her heart, even if sometimes reluctantly, caused her to be something of an oddball to other women back in the early 60's - before hippies. She had tremendous integrity, but in those days at least, she was a little lonely.

It was 1964 when I was about 7 years old. We were living in the house on Sawleaf Street in theStarlite Hills development. Starlite Hills was a brand new neighborhood of tract homes that sat in flats at the base of the hills of Fremont, California - then mostly farmland and orchards. At the time, Fremont offered lots of new homes to new young families headed by "20-something" couples and their kids. The dads worked for companies like General Motors or Lockheed. But it was a time when no women worked and all the neighbors were friends. Except my parents were not big socializers.

I used to go over to the Hansen's down the street or to the Smith's across the street and was conscious of the fact that the moms were always visiting with one another - laughing at the kitchen table with their coffee and cigarettes. But my mom was not among them. The Brahamswho lived directly across the street, kept to themselves quite a bit too - but they were the only openly Christian family on the block and from what I have learned since, the shenanigans that took place on old Sawleaf Street between parents lived somewhere way downhill of anything scriptural. But that's another story. (And a good one!)

Perhaps it was all the shenanigans that kept my folks from getting too close to anyone as well, but at the time, I just felt like we were outcasts somehow. All the other families had better furniture and their moms all wore makeup and went to the "beauty parlor". None of that at our address. I thought I was the only one who recognized the difference between our family and the other families back then but I realize now that my mom did too. She sort of stood on the periphery of the social scene happening there at the time. My mother loved people but she didn't quite fit in on Sawleaf Street. Most of the other moms were nice to her but in the same way you are nice to people you don't really want to get to know: nice enough so that you can sleep nights. Not that they were actually mean to her, but Starlite Hills seemed - in retrospect - an extension of sorority life. My mom was not a sorority girl.

Anyway, I felt great relief when my mom struck up a friendship with Mrs. Keffer, up the street. It isn't a coincidence that my mom gravitated toward Mrs. Keffer. Mrs. Keffer was an artist and my mom loved artists. I think she secretly longed for a bohemian lifestyle and anyone with a bit of creativity in them was magnetic to her.

Mrs. Keffer made - mostly - mosaics. She made mosaic tables and such but what I remember most was that she made pictures of broken glass which she hung on the wall. She'd go out in the back yard and break up old beer, coke, and 7-Up bottles in a bag and then create some still life arrangement of fruit or whatever using all these shards of broken glass - which she ultimately framed and hung throughout the house. Even at 7, I thought she had too many of them. I remember my mom being inspired by Mrs. Keffer's artistic endeavors and tried her own hand at broken glass pictures - without quite the success. But it didn't matter, Mrs. Keffer (or Maryann, as my mom referred to her) was my mom's friend and I was grateful. For my mom to have a friend made life seem more normal to me. That was important to me. I didn't generally feel like my family was that. Normal. It didn't hurt that Maryann and Bob had two kids: Mike who was the same age as me and in my class at school and Julie, a couple of years younger but who owned the most amazing doll house I had ever seen. It had a ton of rooms which all sat on a magnetic table base. All the people had little magnets on their feet and with a wand you maneuvered underneath the base, you could move the people around from room to room without ever touching them. It was so cool! But I digress...

Central to the summer social scene in our neighborhood was the Cabana Club. This was the private pool club within walking distance of all of our houses. The Cabana Club was home to a sparkling swimming pool that warded off summertime boredom. It also offered exercise classes (ala Jack LaLaine) under the open but shaded overhang that ran along side the pool. This class was for moms only and it was led by the resident life guard/"boy-toy for bored moms", Mike. There were many rules to the club. You could not go into the pool for a full half hour after eating. Running could get you benched for 30 minutes. Girls, no matter how short their hair, had to wear those horrible rubber bathing caps that had rubber flowers or fish glued to the top and fit so tightly they made marks on your forehead that stayed for hours. Boys, no matter how long their hair, did not have to wear a bathing cap. Every 30 minutes or so Mike would blow his whistle and signal all the kids to get out of the pool so the adults could go for a swim without having to endure kid play. Even if no adults chose to go in, kids would have to sit it out until adult time was over. But we tolerated all these unfairnesses and indignities because the pool was cool and offered a party-like atmosphere. Most every family had a membership. However, my parents really struggled in those early years and there was a membership fee, so unless there was extra money around the house, we didn't join. It didn't stop us from being able to go as guests of our friends, but we'd have to pay 50 cents or something for the privileged and we were never allowed to go to the pool club parties - of which there were several in the summer.

Something was going well in 1964 though, because we did get a club membership that year and I remember feeling like we had made it. Not only did we get to go swimming whenever we felt like it, my mom could also be a part of all the "mom things" the club had going on. The Keffers were members too and Maryann and mom would take us all down and they would talk and smoke and lounge in the sun while we splashed for hours. I remember looking at my mom regularly to see if she looked happy - and she did. This made me feel that all was right with the world.

So one week during that summer they announced that there would be a contest for all the club moms. I don't recall what the prize was but the idea was that you had to to create a hat around a theme. It wasn't supposed to be a hat that you would actually wear - it was to be creative and fun - comical even. My mom was really excited about this. She said she didn't care but I knew otherwise. She expected that other moms would simply decorate one of their own real hats with stuff from around the house. The problem was, my mom forgot about Maryann.

My mother spent some time thinking about what her creation would be. I can see see her laughing and excited as she came upon her "eureka" idea. She was going to make a hat out of a dish drain and fill it with dishes. The straps to secure it onto her head would be made from dish towels. She was very pleased with her cleverness and had a great deal of fun putting it together. Furthermore, I know she thought she would win. And more to the point, I know she wanted to win.

The day of the contest, even though it was only two blocks away, we all got into the car and I clearly remember her dish drainer hat sitting on the car seat next to her. It had cups and plates and forks and knives and dish soap and dish rags adorning it and when we got to the club, we all got out of the car and watched her as she carefully placed it on her head, holding the side of it for balance. She was immensely proud as she walked into the club with her dish drain hat smiling at everyone there who clearly had not been nearly as creative a she had been. I was so excited for her. She walked past the pool with a sparkle in her eyes and her big toothy smile accepting compliments and laughing at her own "joke". A dish drain for a hat! Hilarious. My mom was experiencing some validation here - and it rubbed off on my own precarious ego.

But in an instant, I saw the sparkle leave my mom's eyes and her smile become less natural as she saw Maryann, running up to meet her. I knew immediately what was wrong. Maryann had made an enormous hat that held securely to her head - without the aid of her hand. Perched on top of her head was a large board painted blue like the water of the pool. It had a little diving board off to the side of it and she had utilized bendable cloth dolls - one bent into a diving position and secured to the diving board, two others cut in half and glued onto the "pool", their bendy arms raised high as if having a wonderful time in the water. There were also plants and flowers and chairs and details around the pool to make it look like the Cabana Club. She carried on about my mother's hat - how fabulous it was - but it was gratuitous. There was no contest and they both knew it. My mother's dish drain hat was diminished to nothing next to Maryann's Cabana Club hat. And my heart fell to my stomach. I watched as my mother pretended to be having fun during the judging parade, and as she clapped enthusiastically when Maryann went up to take her prize, awarded by Mike the boy-toy. So the dish drain hat came off and sat on the concrete next to her until we left soon after. She was not careful putting it back into the car. And she was silent as we drove home. And I remember most of all, later that night my father putting his arms around her while she cried just a little bit for having experienced such a disappointment by having been clearly beaten by her friend. And I hated Mrs. Keffer that night.

This isn't really a sad memory for me. Everyone knows the disappointment of coming in second when you want so badly to be first; this memory is a dear one. But I wish she were here today because I would put my arms around her and tell her that I loved her and that she will always be "first place" to me.

Creative Discipline

So here's something to try on your kids. Tell them to do this in their heads.

Pick a number between 1 and 5 (any number). Take that number and multiply it by 9. (They should have a two-digit number.) Take the digits from that number and add them together (example: 27 = 2+7=9). Take that number and subtract 5 from it. (They should now have an even number.) If A=1, B=2, C=3, and so on, have them assign a letter to this last number. Using the letter, ask them to think of a country in Europe that begins with that letter. Take the last letter of the country they chose and think of an animal. Finally, take the last letter of the animal and think of a fruit. Once they've done all of that say:

"The problem is, Kangaroos don't eat oranges in Denmark".

You will blow their minds and they will ask you how you did it and then you can say, "Because I know everything and I can read your mind which means I know exactly what was going on at that party you went to last night so don't ask me if you can go to another one any time soon".

Then they will look at you with guilt and you can send them to their room where they will believe they are being punished for whatever it is they did that they thought they got away with. You will have about 3 days before they try to pull the wool over your eyes again.

Not Quite What I Had in Mind...

It was only yesterday that I was praying for an improvement in our financial situation. Well, perhaps a tiny morsel of encouragement came in today's mail. A residual check from two episodes of a sitcom called "Wings" that I did back in the 80's. The check reflected residuals due me for recent basic cable airings and home video sales. The net? $13.56. So that ought to pay for... hang on, I'll think of something. I know!! 2.79 gallons of gas. If I buy the cheap.

And I have to claim it on my unemployment form this week. Which will no doubt hold my payment up two weeks while I wait for a phone interview they will schedule to follow up with me so that they can make sure that no, this check is not a result of me getting a job.

Remind me of that old saying about gift horses?

Um, Excuse Me God, But This Would Be Your Cue

My faith is being tested to the limit. I am waiting for what I have come to refer to as one of "God's 11th Hour Saves". After unemployment and excruciating taxes, we are down to what can only be called a code red level in our savings. And while Bob has hot irons a plenty in the real estate fire, nothing seems ready to move to the kiln. And there is nothing on the job front for me.

Don't get me wrong. We're not at code blue. We are paying our bills. There is food on the table. We own our cars and have greatly diminished our debt. But that big safety cushion? It is but an historical footnote. Because I think we paid General Electric's taxes with it this year. (But no, that couldn't be because General Electric owed no taxes this year. Silly me.)

So, while I am practicing deep breathing exercises, I choose to believe. I choose to doubt not. Why? Because God has never let me down. Never. As in never. And He is my rock. But...

Niggling in the back of my mind I am fighting the thought: "Well, there's always a first time." So I race to Google to find every scripture I can find on God's faithfulness and Hebrews 10:23 jumps at me: "Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful."

In the meantime, that which doesn't kill us, comes very, very close to killing us.

A Tornado Hits Our House

Remember when you were little, like four, five, or six and your whole world was about "YES"? ("Yes I can!", "Yes I will", "I can do it!") I remember that. Everything was affirmative because we were too little to know anything else. And we heard our parents say things like: "You can be anything you want to be - why, you could grow up to be the President of the United States!", or "The world is your oyster", or "If you're willing to work for it, there is nothing you can't do". We believed in ourselves because it was innate and because our parents and teachers reaffirmed it. Except for all those times as we grew older when they said: "No, honey. You won't be able to do that." Or, "Stop! You can't do that ." Or, "Honey, you've got to get real". Or the worst: "You are wasting your time on the impossible". The unintended message was that believing you can do anything was like believing in Santa Claus. Its fine if you're a kid but you really need to outgrow it. I believed the unintended message. Its a practical message. I've sent that message to my own kids.

I've got a friend who never got the message.

I met Sharon years ago when she and her talented husband and their girls started coming to our church. They are extremely successful and artistic and very hip. The live with horses, dogs, cats, chickens, and birds in a "to die for" home that they built on about 2 acres not far from our house. She is one of those natural beauties - healthy and athletic looking with a winning smile and a loud infectious laugh. She gets really excited when she talks. No. I mean really. Her eyes widen and her arms flap, her face lights up with a huge smile and she talks fast and purposefully, emphatically about the things she loves and wants to do. And like a five year old kid who never got "the message", she lives with the belief that if she can dream it, she can do it.

Sharon gets an idea for something and she's off - like a sprint runner. If you try to stop her or tell her she can't, she furrows her brow and argues with you. She is rarely deterred. I have never met anyone quite like her. When I first met her, I have to say, I thought there might be something a little wrong with her. When I realized that no, she was just "like that", I was fully intimidated by her.

When we went to Africa on a mission trip in 2005, Sharon and her family came too. We shared accommodations. She and her husband were the first ones up every morning and she was on fire to accomplish the objectives that had been laid out, and then some. I just stayed out of her way. She was like a whirling dervish and I had the feeling that I could get knocked down if I stood too close. Sometimes just thinking about what she's up to is exhausting.

In truth, for a very long time, while I always admired her, she was soooooo different from me I could not imagine why she would want to be friends with me. She is so cool. I am so dry. She is all "go, go, go", "do, do, do". I'm all "do you have a cushion for this chair?" I am a glass half-empty person. She is full glass spilling over. She is a tornado. I am an exhale.

So anyway, Sharon, as it turns out, does all her own landscaping and gardening, and decorating. And some time ago, when I was complaining about our impossible yard, she offered to take a look at it and help. I thought, well okay. Someday. Then, last Friday (a mere 5 days ago!), we were both at the church dropping off our kids for a youth group retreat and we stood outside in the parking lot and chatted for a while. I have no idea how the subject of my landscaping (or lack thereof) came up again but suddenly Sharon says "do you want me to come over now and take a look at it?" And I thought to myself: "oh no, I don't really want you to because then I have to have to explain to you why we can't do this or why we can't afford this and I know you will try to convince me that I am wrong". So naturally, I said: "Sure!" So off we went, Sharon following me in my car because she had never been here (oh my gosh, really? How horrifying!) and I stopped in front of the house. And she saw our house - the eyesore of the street - and I think she was horrified too. She took a few minutes to take it all in and then she started talking with her hands: "you need to flatten that out and put a tree there", "you need to dig all that out and put some flowers and shrubs in there". I suggested we needed to take out this huge, overgrown, un-managed 10 foot bush and she looked at me (with furrowed brow) and screamed: "Nooooooooo!" Then she smiled and said: "Why would you do that? That's a beautiful tree!"

"Really?"

"Yes. You just need to cut it back"

"Well, you'll have to show me because I can't see it at all".

And we went around the house and for the next half hour she excitedly "visioned" our yard. And then, the moment came. I had to tell her "no".

"This is really exciting Sharon but we really don't have the skills for this and we absolutely can't afford it right now".

"But Valri! This will hardly cost anything. We'll use what you have and I'll bring my 'guy' over and we can do this really fast". (Her 'guy' is this master-of-all-trades, day worker who is better than reasonable.) "I'll bring him over Monday". Now you need to know that right now, in addition to building a new studio for her husband Tim, she is getting her own two acres worked over and ready for the annual garden tour that our city sponsors. She's even being featured in the local paper. But Monday came and she and her 'guy' (Dave) were here in the morning. And we all got assignments and in 5 hours a tremendous amount had been accomplished and it all started to look - dare I say it - better. In fact, promising. In fact, it was quite impossible what got done. And to give you an idea of just how bad it was, neighbors we don't talk to honked their horns as they passed by or waved or smiled as they saw me pruning back the unruly 10 foot bush. And Sharon starts envisioning "areas" for benches and Adirondack chairs and potted plants. And she starts talking about rock she has left over from her own projects and benches she is getting rid of and suddenly, I am getting all these fabulous remnants - for free.

Today I went to her house and took a look at all the stuff she is getting rid of and then we filled her truck and came back to my house and unloaded and then - it was decided that I need to paint my house. So off to Home Depot we went, to pick out the colors. Because we are going to do it ourselves and it will hardly cost anything and we can have her "guy" and we can get it done in a couple of days. And I actually believe her.

And all the while, I am watching this woman, driving her truck from her house, to my house, to the nursery, to Home Depot, to the Salvation Army, to eat, to pick up the girls at school, to feed the horses, to drive someone else home, to run unending errands, and back to my house to survey the progress and then put her gloves on and dig in herself. And I am suddenly contemplating the relativity of time. Because time, as we know it, stops for Sharon. Because it is absolutely IMPOSSIBLE that she could get what she gets done in anything that resembles the hours we have to work with in a day. And I am completely astounded. But we have caught her enthusiasm and suddenly we are thinking in terms of "can" and "will" and Bob and I are getting really excited and we're diving into it like we had her energy. And suddenly we find ourselves tremendously uplifted at a time when we are low from experiencing unemployment and economic hardship. And my guess is that Sharon knew that getting excited about something (our yard) was exactly what we needed.

So I am moved. And speechless. Because I cannot believe that someone would put themself out and tackle such a monumental project, invest themself in our life when there is so much going on in their own, just because. Just because you are a friend and "that's what friends do". And the entire family is like that. And I am watching and taking in what it means to give - not your money (which is easy) but yourself (much harder). And I think I can take a lesson from this. I think I'm supposed to take a lesson from this.

And now I'm sore. And I'm tired. And I know that hanging on to Sharon the Tornado is going to make me dizzy - but I will be better for it. And eternally thankful as well. And while I cannot possibly repay her, she is surely storing treasure in heaven.