Little Women. Smith Style.

Jenny, Grace, Amanda, and Christine

It is Christmas Eve and I am sitting in the living room at 9:26 a.m. looking out the window at a heavy fog.  I can't see across the street and Amy Grant is coming through the stereo reminding me that "it's the most wonderful time of the year".

I finally finished shopping on Friday.  I may pick up one or two more very little things to fill in some gaps.  But maybe not. I need to vacuum a little bit - and finish the laundry.  But my heart is filled with holiday spirit.

And I haven't felt it like this in a long time.

Yesterday was Amanda's 24th birthday and all of us sat around the dinner and did a little "remembering when" as well as looking ahead.

Amanda leaves for Australia a week from tomorrow to spend a semester working on her master's degree there.  She has evolved into a woman of such discipline and resolve.  She is an adventurer - fearless, with a joy for life and a grateful heart, blessed with kindness and wisdom.  And direction.  She is committed to healing all the wounds of the family - the kind we all collect along the way.  She is the wind and the sea.

Jenny graduates from college in May and plans to go to Spain (who knew).  She is supremely stylish and probably should have been born in the 1930's.  Her look and attitude suggest that highly charged time - she is at once glamorous and politically conscious.  She would have fit very nicely with Orson Wells and John Houseman and the wealth of idealistic artists of the time.  But she belongs here in this time too.  She is moody and funny and bright.  She is full of wit and bravura, and motivated by social justice.  She is the salt.

Christine has a year before graduating with a business degree.  Still undecided as to her next steps, she loves living in San Francisco and still is such a surprise to me.  Sweet and easy going, she is who she was the day she was born - completely lovable.  She shared the videos of her boyfriend who is an animator of stop action film.  She is private about most things but is creating a life for herself that is full of open doors.  Christine is intuitive and thoughtful - motivated my music; she still hears her own beat.  There is something mysterious and magical about her.  She is the light.

Grace, no longer a little girl, is talented and intense, smart and aspirational.  She is 10 years her sisters' junior -  but that gap is closing.  We no longer carry on two different simultaneous conversations - one adult and one youth - she holds her own in every way (she jumped into the political conversation last night like she was running for office!) She is still obsessed with boy bands and "who likes who" at school, but she has emerged from that cocoon and is fanning her new wings a bit (not quite ready to fly though, thankfully...)  She, at least for now,  is the color.

I was not a good mother.  I really wasn't.  I screamed too much.  I was distant.  In addition to having serious anxiety troubles that went too long without medication, I realize that I could not relate to a child's world.  At least not theirs.  I always expected them to be little adults - to think and act like people with life experience.  When they didn't, I was at a complete loss for what to do.  My only plan for keeping them safe and on the right track was to control as much as I could.  As you might imagine, this was neither popular nor effective.  Ultimately, I often felt like an outsider in my own house.  This was my own doing.

Or undoing.

But last night, sitting with my grown-up daughters, I felt an understanding and a kinship that was truly a gift.  I miss my "little" girls a great deal and often wish I could go back and relive some of those days, but there is warmth in a relationship with girls who have become women.  And in spite of everything, while they carry whatever battle scars received by living under our roof, they have become marvelous, amazing, gifted people.   It wasn't up to me after all.  And I say a little prayer of thanks for that.

And with Christmas music blaring - while all the girls are still sleeping off a night of late night movies on TV (till 3:00a.m.!!!), I am feeling very much like Louisa May Alcott's "Marmie" on Christmas Eve with her "Little Women".

Only they're Smiths.

I Screamed. And Then I Skated.

The Smith girls perform on ice!

Friday, the girls came home for the holidays.   It is always great to have them home but within minutes, I had to remind them that the bureau drawers in their bedrooms were empty and that everything that came out of their suitcases didn't have to live on the floor.  Shouldn't live on the floor.  Cannot live on the floor.  Pick it up.  NOW!

I had made some plans for ice skating later in the evening.  Unfortunately, it was pretty packed so our skating time was 10:00 p.m.  We had hours to kill.  So we stopped at the beautiful Four Seasons Hotel and wandered a bit, saw the "snow" they had blowing there, listened for awhile to a Buble-esque singer croon the old Christmas standards before heading out to Barnes and Noble and then finally to dinner at the Olive Garden.

Everything was lit up beautifully and I felt a pang of happiness when the girls, having spent the past year in small apartments while living the college life, remarked how beautiful "home" was.  They noted that they never thought twice about it when they lived here but seeing it through the eyes of comparison, they were awed at how wonderful it was.  I was glad they recognized it.  I had always wanted them to but when it is all you've ever known, I guess you need some experience to "see".

Every Christmas they build an ice skating rink at a promenade near the civic center.  We have taken the girls every year since I can't remember when.  It is festive and beautiful and I have photos and home movies that go back at least 15 years.  I have watched them, year after year, as they and their dad would skate and wobble on the ice.  I remember seeing each one of them get up for the first time.  I watched them all cling to the rails but ultimately find their balance and triumph.  But I have never pulled on the skates.  Ever. 

Until now.

Initially I had ordered 5 tickets but when I went to pick them up I decided at the last second to by one for myself.  I don't know what came over me.  I have bad ankles and I am not athletically inclined.  I am afraid of the ice.  I could slip.  Easily.  And I would either break both my wrists trying to break my fall or I might fall backward and break my tail bone as I landed on my backside.  Or I might die.  But this year, I opted to stare "death by ice" in the face.

I felt really stupid.  I didn't even know how to unbuckle the skates.  Amanda had to put them on me.  But once on, I was able to stand.  And walk.  I waited until all the real skaters left the waiting area and got on to the ice.   No need to rush into it.  And then I waited in line behind all the little children being coaxed on for the first time by their parents.  And once they were actually on the ice, I got on.  Behind them.  So there I was.  On the ice at the end of the line of real beginners - aged 2 to maybe 8.  And me.  Bundled up for snow (it was freezing!) and clinging for life to the rail with all the babies while everyone else whizzed by us at the lightening speed of about a quarter miles per hour.  One of my legs flew out in front of me and I screamed as I tightened my grip on the railing to save myself from imagined calamities.  Calamities that end with me in the ER.  But I righted myself and forged ahead - the giant among the dwarfs.  Like a great big duck following a line of little ducklings.  I looked like Baby Huey.

We ("the clingers") slowly followed one another and were able to go about 6 steps at once before someone slipped or got scared or needed their diaper changed.  And when one stopped, we all stopped because none of us had the courage to let go of the rail to get around the clog.  Being clearly the oldest by about 50 years, I routinely grabbed under the arm of any child close enough to reach to stop them from tumbling all the way down when they would lose their footing.  Parents seemed relieved to have a baby sitter of sorts there and I found I was being abandoned - left alone with their little ones as they took a quick turn around the rink, unencumbered.  I found myself getting angry at the people who held us up even further while they leaned against the rail to take group photos "okay now I'll take a picture and you get in the shot"...

Apart from being a little bit humiliating it was, frankly, a big bore.  And I watched as my husband and kids were having fun - holding hands, smiling, breezing by me - again and again and again.  And pretty soon I realized that clinging on to the rail was just like having your dad hold the back of the bike as you learned to ride.  You didn't really need him.  So after about 15 minutes I let go of the rail, grabbed the girls' hands and moved away from the edge, onto the freedom of the ice.  And it was oooo-kaaaay.  I didn't fall and I was able to feel my balance.  I wobbled a bit but mostly just glided.  I grew exceedingly proud of myself.  Me the uncoordinated.  Me the fraidy cat.  Me with the weak ankles and bad knees.  I was skating!

I could not believe I was actually doing it, sort of, in an awkward, skittish kind of way but nonethless.  It was like - a Christmas miracle.

I kept telling everyone to "look at me!" but no one really understood why I was acting like they owed me some kind of applause or something until I reminded them I had never done it before.  And every one of my kids as well as my husband were astonished because they had never realized that in all these years I had only sat and watched.  While they couldn't remember it, they had assumed I had participated at some time.  So they were happy to take turns skating with me.  And it felt wonderful.  Picking up a little speed and feeling the cold, crisp air against my face made me feel like a young girl again.  And we glided round and round and round for the better part of an hour.

It felt like Christmas.  All that was missing was those Charlie Brown kids singing "Christmas Time is Here".

But as soon as we got home, I got some hot chocolate, sat by the tree, and listened to the CD.

A quick peek found no clothes on the floors of the girls' rooms.

Holiday perfection.

Pray

I'm at a loss.  When I first heard the news about the Connecticut shootings I fought very hard to hold back the tears.  I was at work.

Today I am completely numb.

It is frightening to try to comprehend the complete evil that can consume a person.  This is not human behavior.  This is demonic.

While my faith is not a secret, I typically don't make a point of "religious" writings.  But here is what I believe.

At about 9:30 a.m. EST yesterday, an act from the pit of hell took place.  But it was defeated in the instantaneous welcoming of 20 children and their teachers who found themselves in paradise - a place of complete, unfathomable joy and peace.  They are not only in a better place, but they are fully realized - living in God's eternal, holy light.

It is of little comfort though, to the hundreds of family and friends of the victims who have to figure out how to go on with the gaping wounds of senseless, evil loss.

There is tremendous power in prayer.  Be a part of that.

Palm Springs, Vegas-Style

It's Christmas Time in the City

So this past weekend, Bob and Grace and I went to Palm Springs (see previous post).

I haven't really spent time in Palm Springs since the 80s when I was with husband #1.  We went occasionally and strolled along the strip where it was mostly tourist shops.  And lots of T-shirts that said things like: "My Parents Went to Palm Springs and All I Got Was This T-Shirt".  These shops were owned by the old guard - people who, at that time, were my age now - retired or nearly so.  They had been there when Sinatra ruled, politicians visited, and the mere mention of Palm Springs conjured oohs and aahs - but they were now residing over the "death" of that era.  

Palm Springs has changed a lot.

First of all, it has changed from a being primarily "retirement" to primarily "gay".  And the gay community has done with Palm Springs what they do best: they have brought the original fabulousness of the city back and made it very groovy again.  Authentic to its original  mid-century modern culture and decor, you can stroll through a virtual sea of furniture boutiques showcasing boomerang shaped coffee tables, lucite chairs and low couches with clean straight lines, and a whole lot of the color orange.  I was inspired to go home and throw out everything I own to redecorate 60's chic.  The gift shops offer vintage jewelry and clothing.  I found myself pining for a Jackie-esque yellow pill box hat in the window, a futuristic wire fruit bowl, and even a gold triangular ashtray with enough "grooves" along its edges to hold 18 cigarettes simultaneously, because the elegance of their display by such artistic proprietors made you truly appreciate the design.  It was great fun and I felt positively - Jetsons.


Loved it.

However, that doesn't mean that there isn't a big dollop of tacky.  Now I suppose tacky is in the eye of the beholder but the lobby of the Riveria Hotel is absolutely over the top.  You can't help but be impressed with the attention to the detail that went in to making it that "swingin', groovin', hangout that guys and chicks would really dig" that used to draw Sinatra and his Rat Pack  regularly- but no one said Sinatra was a standard of taste.  He had a decidedly Vegas sensibility.  Black, white, silver, gold, and oh my gosh! - mirrors!!! 

!!!

On the other hand, pool side was spectacular and we had an amazing lunch there.

Really new to the scene however, is a towering, 3-story sculpture of Marilyn Monroe in her iconic pose from "The Seven Year Itch" that commands a huge presence in the middle of town.  I am at a complete loss for why anyone would feel compelled to build a 3-Story sculpture of Marilyn holding her dress down.  I mean, haven't we seen that image uncountable billions of times in our short lives already?  Hasn't it already been used to death in advertisements and posters and books and TV shows and tributes to Marilyn and T-Shirts and everywhere else to the point that we know it inside and out?  What is the purpose?  What is the meaning?  What new perspective can we gain from yet another exploitation of this image?

Still, I told Bob and Grace to let me take their picture with her.  And it was at that moment that I recognized the perspective that this sculpture offered that really was entirely new.

I had to peek too.

Basic white cotton.

Of Vacations and Points

Using every last point... whether we want to or not.

A long time ago, before it was stupid, Bob and I purchased a "vacation ownership" in Cancun.   When we actually went to Cancun, the place we bought wasn't completed so we stayed in beautiful suites in the gorgeous Le Meridian hotel there (at their expense) and after that, we didn't pay too much attention to the "rules" of the timeshare.  We forgot about the time share.

Because it was too hard.

Let me just say that we did a LOT better with vacations plans when we just took advantage of all the timeshare companies who were pursuing us.  Back in the day (do they still do this?), if you made a certain income and were on some brand named hotel list, you were constantly getting calls and mailings  offering free rooms and excursions - sometimes even plane fare, to come to spend a few days at some great resort if you would only commit to the "45 minute" presentation.  In truth, you are in there 2 hours and 45 minutes but we went to Hawaii, Florida, San Diego, Las Vegas, San Francisco, and countless weekends - basically for free - so to give them 3 hours of time in exchange seemed fair.

And we were fair.  We told them at booking that we wouldn't buy.  They didn't care.  Because eventually, they know they'll wear you down.

I think timeshare sales people should train ALL other sales people in any other kind of business.  There is no argument they haven't got a brilliant answer for.  They show you the numbers. They get you emotionally.  And we almost bought several times.  We were sooooo close to a two bedroom ocean view at the Marriott in Maui.  But we finally got hooked on a free weekend to a beautiful resort in Palm Springs.

You get so seduced by the promise.  In our case, a 900 square foot ocean view unit in Cancun.

"The resort is almost finished and your unit will come with a full kitchen - fully stocked, washer/dryer in the unit, large sunken jacuzzi tub and huge glass shower, dining room, living room, bedroom, private balcony for outdoor dining, sleeps 5, granite counters in kitchen and bathroom, beautifully decorated and landscaped, infinity pools, three restaurants, private beach,..."

 (You close your eyes and you're suddenly being featured on "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous".)

"...and on alternate years you can easily trade it for one of two properties we have in Hawaii - one on Maui, the newest on Kauai..."

(Oh yes of yes of yes oh yes oh yes....)

"... and here is a beautiful coffee table book (for you to keep) showing all our properties across the country.  And since your unit is worth more, you can trade it when you feel like it for longer stays at other resorts..."

(Because every year in Cancun or Hawaii would be such a bore.)

"...and every year the cost for hotel rooms go up dramatically - current prices for similar accommodations are anywhere between $2500 and $5000 a week..."

(That is true...)

"...and if you sign today only, I can offer you an additional 50,000 points and a free weekend in La Jolla and dinner tonight in our 5-star restaurant..."

(Wow Bob, it is actually costing us money not to buy this...)

"...and you can always turn your vacation ownership points into points for our 5-star hotels all over the world!   Paris, Rome, Greece and we don't want you to make this commitment unless you want to but here is a pen..."

Valri J. Smith.  Signed.

And while our heads were spinning and our hearts were beating fast and we were wondering if they really did slip something into our drink, they said:

"Now we don't want you to leave until you really understand how this works."

Except they really did want us to leave before we really understood how it works because they take this moment to pull out a four-page, color coded grid with dots and dates and codes and I think it was written in Klingon - and they knew that if we were there too long we would say: "Wait a minute!  What the hell is this?  How will I ever be able to figure this out?  It is more complicated than furniture assembly instructions by Ikea!"

But we nod yes, yes, we understand because we had to get out of that room before we passed out.  And off we went with our little bag of books, and contracts, and instructions.  And as we walked we shook and held each other up and kept telling each other we had just done a good thing.  And the many thousand of dollars we spent was actually responsible.  I mean, we can will it to the girls.

But what we eventually figured out is that we have these windows of time where we can book our vacation - always too far in advance.  If we miss it, we have only a certain amount of time before we can book something else.  If it is available.  (So forget about Hawaii.)  Because we are only guaranteed our requested time in the resort we bought.  In Cancun.  If we book it within the window.  And if we miss that, and - big if - we don't miss the cut off date - can transfer the points to next year.  For a fee.  Or if we haven't missed another date, we can maybe turn them into hotel points.  For a fee.   But 50,000 resort points (a week in your timeshare) converts to about 10,000 hotel points (about a day in a mid-level hotel).  And if you have missed this opportunity, you lose all the points.  ForEVER!

And so we did.  Lose them, that is.  But we're not off the hook for the $400 annual home ownership.  (I don't remember talking about that...)

So we decided to sell it.  And it was at this precise moment when we felt the word "LOSER" start burning itself onto our foreheads.

We have kicked ourselves in the shins multiple times now for wasting this investment so we finally used it this year for a family vacation in Arizona where all 6 of us attended (and lived palatially)for a full week.  It was totally worth it.   And we still had some points left over and so Bob, never to waste a time share point again, booked us three days in Palm Springs. At an inconvenient time.  Because we nearly missed a cut off.  And we'd lose the points if we didn't go.

So here I sit.  We have returned.  Scene of the crime.

Having a mah-ve-lous time, Mr. Leach.

Fake Barbie

Brenda Starr in all her appropriateness

I have very fond memories of playing "Cowboys and Indians" with my cousins David and Bradley in the foothills behind their home in El Paso, Texas.  They may have hated having girls around but if they did, my sister Linda and I were unaware.  It was thrilling to get caught up in the imaginary wild west, hiding behind rocks and launching pretend arrows from bows made of sticks and string, or shooting cap guns.  It was vivid, exhausting play - the kind not many kids get today - and I am grateful that we had it.

But I would have rather played with Barbie.

My cousin Lynn Ellen, at 10 years old and 5 years my senior, had the most extensive collection of all things Barbie in the western hemisphere.  Millions of Barbies, clothes, shoes, gloves, cars - oh how I coveted her collection.  But Lynn Ellen would not share.  In fact, she didn't even want my sister and I to go into her room to gawk.  I remember one time begging her, promising not to hurt anything, but she was determined.  With resolve (and a little bit of shame), she ushered my sister and I out of her room and shut the door.

"Maaaaah-om -  I don't want the girls to play with my dolls", she quietly whined to her mother, my Auntie Barbara.

"Oh Lynn, they aren't going to break anything", Barbara petitioned.

"But I don't want them to".  And then she stuck around for a while to make sure her wishes would be honored.  My mother stepped in and told us that we were not to go into Lynn Ellen's room.  We should go outside and play with the boys.

And that was that.  Barbie was completely off limits to us and I wouldn't even try to sneak.  I believed Lynn Ellen would know - and while she had little to do with her "baby" female cousins - her only cousins - I didn't want Lynn Ellen to be mad at me.  I was afraid of her.  So I was left to my Barbie dreams.

Soon, as our own friends started to acquire Barbie and her friends Midge and Ken and all their accessories (especially the black patent leather carrying case!), we started pleading with our mother to give us our own Barbies as well.  It was not to be.  Why not, you ask?  Why would a mother deprive her own daughters the joy of having her own fashion Barbie with black eyeliner, bouffant hair-do, high-heeled open-toed sandals and stoic, expressionless face?  The reason, as my mother explained to us was this:  
Barbie's breasts were too big.

The idea that my mother would even utter the word "breast" in my presence made me feel like I was covered in cooties - but it also insured that I would not make an argument because then I would be forced to discuss said breasts - and I would die.  Or giggle and snort with embarrassment.

Of course, Barbie's boobs were part of the attraction.

My mother didn't think it was healthy for young girls to be so obsessed with mammalia.  But the fact that she said "no" made us even more focused on Barbie's "Double Ds" and her prescription-sized bra.  All us girls fantasized about having a chest like Barbie.  (50 years later, all I can say is, be careful what you wish for.)  But mom said no, so when we played with our friends and they brought out their Barbies, we were forced to join the table with our own stupid baby dolls and stuffed animals - toys that had no business being in the presence of the glamorous, technically deformed mannequin Mattel had created.

Then, on Christmas 1964, Santa brought Linda and me a ticket to the game.  Madame Alexander's Brenda Starr doll.

She was the same size in height as Barbie.  She had beautiful red bouffant hair with the added feature of a long red ponytail that you could twist on top of her head or let hang.  She had a lovely pink business dress (like Mad Men!)  Her legs were hinged at the knee so she could be made to sit like a real human rather than have her legs stick straight out in the air from a chair.  She was pretty - and my mother told us that Brenda Starr was a newspaper reporter who went all around the world and solved mysteries - which sounded pretty darned impressive.

Barbie didn't do, well...anything.

But most importantly, Brenda Starr had small little bumps.  Nothing close to Barbie's massive cones, but it was more than I had as a 7-year-old.  So I was happy.  And while she didn't have a bra - which was a real disappointment - she did have a lacey teddy and a pearl necklace.  Very top drawer.

When we introduced Brenda to our friends, she was not immediately accepted.  For one thing - the hinges at her knees were so sensitive that as we hopped her around on the floor to simulate walking, her legs would fling up like she was praying and we would either have to keep straightening them, have her hop around on her knees, or have her float.  It was a problem.

Secondly, she wasn't Barbie. She was fake Barbie.  We knew she was inferior.

We knew she'd have to try harder to overcome the snobbism of Barbie's world.  We knew there would never be a Ken for her.  Or even a best friend like Midge.  But we also knew that she was a Madame Alexander doll, a symbol of high quality and expense.  Brenda cost more than Barbie and because this was the biggest thing Brenda had going for her, we made sure all of our friends knew it.  And so with a snarled nose, Carol Smith and all the others had to concede.  Brenda was "in".

I'm not sure why I am remembering that story.  Maybe because its Christmas.  And maybe because I love how peculiar my mom could be.  Such a feminist in the early 60s - before anyone else.  And I can imagine her doing research to find a doll that wouldn't compromise her views, but would still give her little girls an opportunity to experience the fantasy of aspiring to womanhood.

Boobs and all.

Today, December 5th, would have been my mom's 76th birthday. 

I'd give anything for that doll.

Black Tuesday

In my continued work related travels, I was in Virginia all of last week.  I must say that of all the states I have been to for business these past several weeks, Virginia is my favorite.  Glorious.

Unfortunately, I won't be back.

As I was practicing Sudoku on an east bound plane, there were significant layoffs taking place in my office.  Several of my colleagues were let go with a restructuring of the company.  I didn't learn of it until I changed planes in Atlanta.

While I am so grateful to still have my job, I was shaken by the loss for my friends.  I remember all too well that peculiar "report to HR" email, the urgency of which unfolds like a slow acting time bomb as you begin to realize everything it says in what it doesn't say.  I cannot tell you how glad I was not to have been there when it was happening.

What a world.

I remember unemployment.  It is a devastating thing.  And it remains on your mind like a wound that won't heal.  Sort of like getting a nasty bite from your own dog - you are likely never to feel fully safe around any dog again.

With the new distribution of territory, I have lost my state in the south.  My favorite.  Ridiculous to even mention when considering the loss of a job.

I am praying for all of them.  They and all 14.7% of people in the U.S. out of work today.   They should never be far from our minds.

And may the rest of us be moved to help - in any way we can.

French Princess

In some of what I have written before I have talked a little about how my parents struggled when I was growing up.  We lived in several different houses over the years as our family rode the waves of our household economy.  Sometimes were better than others but it wasn't until I was in the 8th grade that my parents finally began to purchase their own, new furniture.

Our family finances took a turn for the better when we were renting a house on Higgins Way.  We wound up buying that house but initially we moved into it "as is" and the room Linda and I got was clearly a boy's room.  The wallpaper showed the blue, yellow, red, and brown repetitive images of baseball and football scenes.  It took a while but we got used to it.

Linda and I shared a room most of our lives.  Lisa, five years younger, got her own room from the beginning and inherited my grandmother's beautiful furniture when she moved from her home in Sacramento.  She still has it.

Linda and I, on the other hand, shared a hodgepodge of unmatched pieces of hand-me-down dressers and bureaus.  One I remember was a dresser attached to a wardrobe, the door of which was completely unattached.  Whenever we wanted to get into it we pulled the entire door off and then just shoved it back into place when we were done.

My dad could be kind of impulsive.  It was not unusual during this period for him to walk out of the house, get into the car and come home with a new treasure - like our first color television which we got while living in this house. But when my parents came home from Sears one night and my mother announced that our dad had purchased new bedroom furniture for Linda and me, I was over the moon! I couldn't even begin to imagine how my life would change with brand new bedroom furniture.  How special I would feel!  Going to bed that night I was filled with the excitement of a five year old on Christmas Eve.

When my dad was out of earshot my mother took us aside and prepared us to be a bit disappointed.  He had selected the furniture himself and my mother had tried to steer him to something else, a little more grown up,  but he was adamant.  We are 14 and 15 but it mattered little to me what it looked like - it was new, and more importantly, it was built for girls.

I remember the day it arrived.  We were at school and I was distracted all day long.  When we finally got home my mother was standing at the door of our bedroom, waiting to see our reaction.  I remember clearly feeling like I was running and crawling to that door at the same time.  I can't tell you which I actually did but when I saw it I was caught up in a young girl's dream!

It was a set of French Provincial little girls' furniture and my mother needn't have been concerned.  I was ecstatic!  It was the most beautiful furniture I had ever seen - even if it wasn't.  We got two large dressers, a desk and a vanity!  The top of the vanity lifted up to reveal a mirror and a deep space to keep make-up, brushes, and all "beauty" goods.  Movie star dreams commenced!  I couldn't wait to sit at the elegant desk to do my homework.  The experience of studying math would be so - elevated!  Each piece was shiny new, smooth, no scratches.  Lovely, pristine, white and curvy, with gold accents, antiqued hardware, and plastic tops so they could be easily be kept clean.  I had left for school that morning as discombobulated as the furniture I had lived with for so many years but now, I was transformed into a sophisticated woman of the world!   It was so French and I was so in tuned with it!  It was so -- international!

My dad has always had the uncanny ability to choose gifts that suited each of us perfectly.  I remember so many of them: a toy "genie" in a glass bottle as an child, a ruby ring, pearl earrings, a spectacular antique perfume decanter, and many more - I still have them and cherish them.  But I don't think anything matched the bedroom furniture.

I remember this as I think of my dad, living for the past many, many years in Copenhagen.  I rarely ever see him and we don't talk or write as much as we should.  He was a difficult dad but he was a good one.  While he could be hard to understand sometimes, his temper could flare easily, and sometimes his moods could be dark, he knew his girls - better than we knew him.  And he dreamed for us.

Looking back on that furniture now, it was not "keepsake".  It is out of fashion.  And we outgrew it.  But as an awkward 14 year old, I needed to feel a bit like a princess.   I was a princess on the day that furniture was delivered - in a way that only my daddy could make happen.

The Point

So last week I had to go to Vancouver, Washington to hold my sister's hand while she prepared for a surgery.  I say "had" because I knew she had nothing to worry about but it was pay back time for the uncountable times I called her after mentally giving myself cancer so that she could talk me down from the ceiling.  Plus she asked me to come - which she has never done - so I knew she was scared.  

And when someone asks, you go.

Two planes from Burbank and I arrived in Portland.  Let me just tell you now - I could live at the Portland airport.  Upscale, tasteful, clean, lots of boutique-y stores and shops and restaurants and even - unbelievably - a full-on spa - in case you want a Swedish massage between planes.  

Linda was there to meet me - at 11:30 p.m. and I was bone tired.  Back at her flat I got a chance to see her husband, Lee and youngest son, darling Colvin before pulling rank and taking his bed.  We had a big weekend ahead.  

I woke up way too early on Saturday, insuring that I would be running on empty all day.  This was not good because I was going to meet my great nephew and nieces (aged 3 months to 3.5 years) for the first time.    They are beautiful, precious, wonderful children and here is the lesson I took away with me:  I may not actually be a grandma, but I have passed into grandma-dom.  The realization of this completely freaked me out  made me feel warm and fuzzy.  Even so, I could have a week of deep sleep and still not have the energy to keep up with three toddlers.  I couldn't help but watch them run and jump and squeal and cry and play and eat and spill and undress and argue and climb and hide and fall and get boo boos and pull out every toy in the house and leave them all over every surface and drop their favorites in the toilet and have meltdowns and want to do everything they were told not to do and need changing and need walking and need bouncing and not nap - not once - not for 5 minutes - and wonder how I ever did it myself 23 years ago.  

In truth, I never did it well.   

But I watched everyone around me exhibit unending patience - something I never had and now, didn't need to have because everyone else had it in such abundance.  And so I remained calm.  All in all a very pleasant visit.  

And I got to hold the baby.  Yummy.

By Monday morning we were all thoroughly exhausted but we were up early to get to the hospital.  It wasn't until she was in surgery that it occurred to me that something could go wrong.  I was relieved when they wheeled her into post-op and then into her private room where she slept all day.  I sent Lee and Colvin to a movie since I didn't think Colvin should have to spend an entire day in a hospital room.  

I sat with Linda and read the book she had brought.  It only slight distracted me from the circumstances at hand though, as I could not reconcile that here was the girl who was wildly popular, the same girl who every single one of my few boyfriends ultimately fell in love with, the rebel, the fairy, the bohemian - and she was lying in a hospital bed, some gray in her hair, a grandmother - recovering from a surgery that was not elective.  This seemed like a rehearsal for something that will surely happen eventually, hopefully many years from now.  But I thought "what's it all about?"  

By the way,  Linda is fine.  This wasn't the kind of thing that has any kind of impact on her health.  Basically it was a hernia that happened to be fairly close to her heart.  It is no longer an issue at all.  But the reality is that life goes so fast, too fast, and I know I keep harping on the whole aging thing, but it is strangely fascinating.  We so love life, cling to it, and we are here for a blink of an eye.  So what is the point?

I was reminded of "the point" at my bible study Tuesday night.  "...no human mind has conceived the things God has prepared for those who love him -" (1 Corinthians 2:9)

Love Him.  That is the point.  After that, everything else finds its peaceful perspective.

Stupid Stuff I Learned Today

Bob is a documentary addict.  He has watched uncountable documentaries on virtually every subject imaginable.  Today it is raining.  So we sat down to join him in his interest.  On with Netflix and we settled into a documentary about - are you ready? - chickens!  (The Natural History of the Chicken, 2001.)

Among numerous bizarre stories (including a chicken that survived beheading - and went on tour!) were stories of people who loved chickens, raised chickens, babied chickens, bred chickens, and slaughtered chickens.  But of all the many stories of people and their chickens there was one singularly ridiculous inspiring story of a woman who had a number of chickens that she treated as pets.  They were free range chickens and she allowed them a good deal of "supervised" play each day.

One day she had them all out when a nor'easter hit.  She quickly gathered them all only to find that "Number 7" was missing.  Out they all went searching until they finally found good ol' Number 7 and found her frozen.  Like any good mother, the owner was not about to give her chicken up without a fight so she commenced mouth to beak resuscitation.

Number 7 survived.  It was, a stupid story  a miracle!

Oddly enough, back in the 90's when this happened, it got worldwide coverage (I don't remember the story myself but there was evidence enough in this documentary to validate the claim).  But the story does not end there.  No indeed, for the owner soon came across an "animal communicator" and it was decided that they would like to ask this now world-famous chick all about her amazing experience.  The chosen question:

"When you were frozen, near death, did you see a white light and were you traveling toward it?"

(Um, don't I have laundry to do?)

Number 7 answered (via the animal communicator) "Yes.  Yes there was a warm white light and I traveled toward it and got to it and then was told: You must go back.  Its not your time. And as I traveled back I realized that I still had work to do.  Not just to lay eggs but to let people know that there are miracles.

Because Number 7 had been such an extraordinary animal with a (super) extraordinary experience they decided that she needed a more significant name than Number 7.  So they named her Valerie and she answered to that name ever after.

Now here's the deal folks.  This woman was dead-on serious.  She believed this.  After all, it was her initial intercession that saved the bird in the first place.

Ahem.

Bob needs something new to do.

Wish List Fever

It is disgusting but it is true.  Thanksgiving is still a week off but I have been sucked into Christmas Wish List mode.

In truth, I have been shopping in advance for several years now but this time I really am offended by the Christmas commercials that began airing October 1st.  Tonight they are lighting the Christmas tree at one of our outdoor shopping areas - one of last to do so.  And I got my first Christmas card on Tuesday.

Shameful!

Be that as it may, I must wag the finger at my own self because I am chomping at the bit to get started.  Bob just sold a house so I can actually put together a reasonable (and by that I mean modest) shopping budget.  But this year I haven't a clue what to get anyone.  Really.  So instead, I have been dreaming of a wish list of my own - something I haven't done in a very long time.

Now there are a number of things I should put on my wish list - because I am a big girl and I need to think about things that I actually truly need.  Like a new mattress.  Ours is like a zillion years old now.  It was a cloud when we bought it - a fluffy, soft, pillow top California King.  But years of sleeping in the same spot mashed the pillow top on either side of the mattress where each of us sleeps to the point of creating an apex in the middle of the bed.  Every night we ran the risk of sliding off the incline plane that was created  - so we needed to brace ourselves before falling asleep - starting as close to the center as possible and slowing rolling down the hill in hopes that we wouldn't wind up on the floor before the morning alarm went off.  So we turned the mattress over only to see a tag labeled:  "This Side is Not A Sleeping Surface".  But the other side wasn't either, so how bad could it be?  Well if you like springs poking at you with each breath all night, its not so bad.  But it turns out, I don't like that so much.  But I also don't like the $1,000 it will cost me to replace it with a quality product.  Plus it would mean I was the only person that would get a Christmas gift this year.  So no, a mattress is not on the list.

I also need a new dryer.  Forget that.  And a new refrigerator.  Ditto.  My car needs new tires.  Absolutely not!  How about getting the shower re-grouted?  Okay, now I'm really thinking crazy.  All of these things need to be purchased -  on a regular day.

The fact is, no matter how old I get, no matter what the need, on Christmas morning I still want a toy.

And you spell that: i-P-a-d.

The Airport Diaries

It's Sunday and I'm finally home having spent this entire past week on the road for business.

I had been alternately excited and dreadful of this trip.  Another whole week away from home to places I have never been before to try to win the confidence and business of some potentially big clients.  Naturally, I waited until the last minute to prepare for what I knew would be uncountable hours spent in airports.  (I needed to cover my gray roots before I left but waited until 10:00 pm Sunday night and got distracted, leaving the formula on waaaaaay too long.  My head looked positively radioactive, the shade of red coming in just this side of "Bozo".  I wondered how it would play in Nebraska.)

I prepared myself for the check in process.  I hate it.  It isn't that I have to take off shoes, belt, earrings, etc., unpack my computer, put everything into individual bins to be scanned and expose my naked x-ray outline to some unknown twenty-something male (at least they have us lift our arms - women my age will appreciate what I'm getting at here), it is how rushed you feel in doing all of this as scores of people are behind you desperate to get through this as well.  I had to go through this process four times this week and it is anxiety provoking.  I prepared myself Sunday night as I went to bed by telling myself to breathe normally through the process and pray.  It was helpful but still, it all feels like cattle prodding.  Moooooooooooooooo!

At 5:30 a.m. Monday morning I was on my way to the Burbank airport for the first leg which took me to Las Vegas where I would catch a connecting flight to Omaha.  I was immediately assaulted by ching, ching, ching, ching, ching upon arrival.  Vegas won't even let you wait till you collect your baggage before they start collecting your money.  Slots are everywhere and so are armies of people from all walks of life,  intentionally dressed for this city.  Lots of glitter, lots of flash, lots of clothes with playing cards woven in the fabric - a Vegas "uniform" of sorts; an apparently appropriate "couture" regardless of the 10:00 a.m. hour.  (My hair fit right in.)  Everyone looked tired from a weekend of being robbed.

I trekked far across the corridors lined with bingo and poker machines, around corners, passing boutiques of skimpy fashion (regrettably in all sizes) to my connecting gate to wait for my plane heading for Omaha.  Once there, with a couple of exceptions, I appeared to be the youngest person waiting to board - an unexpected delight!  (Relative youth is still youth!) Everyone else was about 10 years older and apparently they all knew one another.  It had been an annual trip to Vegas for a steer show.  Hmmm.

I sat next to a couple who told me about the big flood last year in Omaha and how the state had suffered from it.  Flying in for the landing there was nothing but flat for as far as you could see: large parcels of land with dead or dying trees.  Whatever color Nebraska has to offer at this time of year had been bleached by flood and the subsequent drought of this year.  (Perhaps the color of my hair would make up for it.)  The couple sitting next to me told me they lived in the foothills.  They must live hours away.

Getting off the plane, I walked into the arrival gate.  This Monday morning, the Omaha airport was host to a smallish group of sedentary looking seniors, eyes fixed on the TV monitors - tuned not to breaking news of Hurricane Sandy - but to a woman dressed as a banana screaming at what was behind Door Number 3.  Vegas dreams die hard in Nebraska.

The next morning I got up a little early to accommodate three consecutive shampoos to try to reduce the drama of my hair color.   The water running down the drain looked like the shower scene from "Psycho".   I headed off to my appointments, and then again to the airport where I was Wisconsin bound by route of Chicago O'Hare where I had a two hour layover before my connecting flight to Milwaukee.  I have been to O'Hare many times before but I was dismayed that in such a huge hub there were no electrical outlets anywhere to be found for passengers needing to re-charge.  My cell was dead and I knew I would need its navigation feature once I got to Milwaukee.  Adding to this dilemma was the fact that my connecting flight was on the other side of the terminal (once again).  I asked for directions and upon hearing where I was headed, a very kind young man driving one of those in-terminal transports designed for disabled people and senior citizens, offered me a ride.  I felt like a lazy cheater but I hopped on anyway.  Good thing.  It was about a 10 minute ride that covered the length of about 30 football fields.  I would have surely missed my flight and have been a very old woman with bloody stubs for feet had I had attempted to walk it.  Once there though, I did finally find an outlet - against a wall with no chair.  It was there for airport staff to plug in vacuums and stuff but I plugged in and stood uncomfortably, trying to keep my carry-ons corralled until they called my plane.

The plane was one of those tiny 18 row tin cans.  We all had to walk outside in the cold, past real airplanes on the runway to board our little toy.  There were two seats on either side of the aisle.  I was in the very last row, assigned to sit next to a tremendously large man who spilled into my seat space and had the scent of someone who had worked very hard all day long on a chain gang.  Directly across the aisle was an empty seat next to a thin sleeping Asian man.  I longed for that seat, but because I am a rule follower, I took my seat next to the big man.  Truthfully, I feared that I would offend him if I opted for the alternative.  I didn't want my assigned seat mate to think I found him repellent by choosing a thin, groomed man over him.  I was an idiot.  A quick conversation midway through the flight revealed that he thought New Yorkers deserved what Hurricane Sandy did to them.  He was repellent and I no longer cared if he knew I thought so. I leaned far away from him and read about the equally repellent Jackson family, fighting with lawyers and each other for Michael's estate in this month's issue of Vanity Fair.

Finally, we arrived in Milwaukee and the airport was deserted with the exception of those few of us getting off the plane.  It was 10:30 p.m. and I still had to get a car and get to the hotel.  Milwaukee is currently chewed up with new road construction so I managed to get lost in the detours on my way to the Hyatt Place Hotel - 8/10 of a mile from the airport.

It is bone cold in Wisconsin already.  This was my first time there and I immediately knew I would not be returning until about June.  I braved the walk from the car to the lobby where the sweet receptionist wanted to explain all about the hotel and find out if I wanted to sign up for Hilton points.  It was now about 11:30 and I was ready to drop with fatigue and I realized I had only enough energy left to walk to my room or punch this girl.  As tempting as it was, I opted for the former so after signing up for the points I made it to my unexpectedly lovely room! Here is my unsolicited plug:  Hilton Place Hotels are really great!  Cheerful, contemporary, tasteful, roomy, comfortable, clean, and convenient.  Too bad I would only be conscious for about 40 minutes total - 10 minutes that night and 30 minutes in the morning before checking out.

Another day of appointments and off to the airport to fly to Detroit to catch a connection to Columbus.  I've never been to Michigan and Detroit was a surprisingly nice airport.  I guess I expected it to look like a deserted automotive assembly plant.  Another walk to the other side of the terminal - I took full advantage of all the people movers.  No matter that I was carrying only a purse and a computer bag - by now the weight of both made my arms feel not just as if they were being pulled from their sockets but like they were going to rip right off my body.

I had taken up the practice of people watching by now.  Airports are a great place for it.  My imagination  about all the people walking past me kept me amused until I realized that they were likely making up the same stories in their heads about me.  Taking a quick mental note of my appearance - I immediately stopped the game myself and prayed others would do the same.  It was so unfair of them to judge me.

I thought about the fact that 6 flights in 3 days was increasing my odds of being in a crash but this time I was seated next to a young priest.  I felt better.  The priest and I talked the whole way to Columbus and I asked him a lot of questions about the Catholic church and found that we Protestants misunderstood a lot of their beliefs - particularly about the Virgin Mary.  It was fascinating to have some of the "peculiarities" of Catholicism explained.

Columbus was another deserted airport by the time we landed - and very wet - but at least I didn't need a car here.  I jumped in a cab and closed my eyes all the way to my hotel at the Convention Center.

Appointment, appointment.  Conference, conference, conference.

Finally, Saturday morning found me back at the Columbus airport waiting for my ride to Phoenix where I would again walk across the terminal for my connecting flight to back to Burbank.  These flights were uneventful except for trying to take up Sudoku.  I had never played before and I only had a pen.  It was maddening!  Very much like thinking you've got a crossword puzzle nailed only to find that one letter that doesn't fit.  Except I think you need to be smarter for Sudoku.  And I was a complete failure.  So now I have a new obsession.

Finally, 8 airplanes and 9 airports later I am home.  In all, I accomplished most of what I wanted to accomplish.  And I got an extra hour of sleep because we set the clocks back.  And I don't have to face it again.  Until Friday when I fly to Portland to see my sister through a surgery.

In the meantime, I shall look for a Sudoku mentor.  People with no patience need not apply.

On Their Own

These are my twins, Christine and Jennifer.  I just saw this photo this afternoon on Facebook.  Seeing this picture really hit home that they are all grown up.  Because they obviously don't need me to come up with Halloween costume ideas.  I think this is pretty brilliant.

However, as a responsible parent of daughters eeking out a living to get through school, I must ask -where did you get the money for these costumes, girls?  (Sometimes getting the trophy is worth the investment...)

Top Stories of the Day

When I was a little girl (oh here we go again) the nightly news was either the Huntley-Brinkley Report or Walter Cronkite.

It was serious news.

The anchors wore suits and ties and spoke solemnly.  I don't remember any smiling.  It was a FULL 30 minutes of real world news of the day and as a little girl, I was appropriately bored to death by it.  But my dad and mom tuned in every night and we were quiet during this half hour because they were watching the news.

It was important.  It was almost scary.

The news has changed a lot since then.  It is ratings driven so there must be human interest as well as news.  And news stories complete for their place in a limited time allotment.  What is finally shown is chosen as much for its audience appeal as it is for its merit.  In fact, probably more.

Online news is questionable at best.  Your search engine captures what you view online and determines what your news preferences are.  That is what you are fed.  If you are an die-hard Republican, you are going to get your news from Fox.  If you are a die-hard Democrat, your news is likely going to be served from sources like The Huffington Post.  And on both sides you need fact checkers for the fact checkers.

In fact, there is no real news anymore (except arguably, Jon Stewart).   There is spin.  I have to be honest, I watch the news regularly but I do not have confidence that I have any idea what the hell is going on anymore.  Still, like robots, we tune in at 6:30.

So last night, on ABC World News, Diane Sawyer (whom we assume is a credible journalist or at least a credible talking head) presented - from what must have been uncountable pressing and important stories from the day - the few most important.  And here is what we got:

• Hurricane Sandy is coming and it will be really big.  
• Obama and Romney are both trying to win Ohio.  (This is not news).  
• Obama said that any Trick-or-Treaters who come from Ohio to the White House for candy will get giant candy bars.  
• Romney speaks in Ohio (saying whatever his audience wanted to hear). 
• Whoever wins the Massachusetts race will determine who has control of the Senate.  
• School buses in Baltimore run red lights.
• Commercial.  Blah, blah, blah.  

Now we will hear what has been happening in the rest of the world...  Because there is a rest of the world.  Or... so I was told. 

A reporter excitedly told us how one family sold old electronics laying around the house and made enough money to buy bunk beds for their daughters.  The girls squealed with delight.  The reporter told us we should do this too!  

Someone from Ella Fitzgerald's band, sitting in the orchestra pit at President's Kennedy's famous birthday party, recorded Marilyn Monroe singing "Happy Birthday Mr. President".  While we've seen this footage a million times before (ad nauseum) his film is in color!  It's old and the color has faded a lot but Marilyn's sparkly, form fitting dress appears to be some shade of pink.  This film will go up for auction next month.  

Research indicates that in the same way yawning can be contagious between humans, it may be contagious between humans and their dogs.

The end.  I'm not making this up.

But in case you're wondering, Diane needn't feel badly about the content of the program.  Delivering the news is only a secondary function of her job.  Her primary job is to deliver eyes.  Though, when the camera is turned off, I'll bet she throws up - just a little bit.

And so...good night - and good luck!  We'll certainly need it.

Power of Prayer

A couple of days ago I found the black hole closing in on me.  The "black hole" is a depressive state that I battle occasionally.  In my case (as those of you who have been following me for a while may know), depression often takes the form of irrational anxiety about my health.  Usually, once it is over I can write about it with a bit self deprecating humor but in case you suffer from depression and anxiety, you know its not so funny when you are in the midst of it.

So anyway, on Tuesday I was at work and I was nearly paralyzed with fear that came from who-knows-where.  Its not just the fear of death, it is the sorrow of loss, grief, every negative thought you can summon with a brain that is functioning with a temporary glitch.  I liken it to people who say they can feel a migraine coming on and live in dread and fear of the inevitable pain that they know is on its way and that they cannot stop.  So in desperation to thwart what I could feel was coming, I got on to Facebook and posted a request for prayer.

I seem to be hearing and seeing a lot of requests for prayer these days.  Even from people who are not believers or not sure they are believers.  Whether believers or not, we are born with an internal knowledge that there is something powerful, bigger than we are, whom we can call on to deliver us.  And we somehow know to pray.  And we also somehow know that there is power in it.

It goes without saying that we are living in a difficult and stressful time.  In the midst of it, we are called not to worry.  We are called to live in faith.  This is incredibly difficult since economic and political instabilities continue to loom over us and threaten what we know of this world.  But I am reminded daily that while life is not always easy, while bad things do happen, while we watch helplessly as we witness suffering all around us, we have a God who promises to walk through it with us.

For I know the plans I have for you, sayeth the Lord, 

plans to prosper you and not to harm you, 

plans to give you hope and future. - Jeremiah 29:11

This does not mean that God promises material wealth with a white picket fence, free from cares.  Far from it.  We can expect all the wonder and all the woe that comes with any life.  We will experience love and joy and we will also experience tragedy and loss.  But God does have a plan for each of us, and it offers our best hope and our best future.  And we will not be alone.  And if we put our faith in that, we will find ourselves on solid ground no matter what befalls us.  Even irrational fear and anxiety.

So after I put it out there on Facebook, friends came running:  Christians and non-Christians and even at least one non-believer, and all of them offered their prayers.  And I was supernaturally rescued from the black hole within 30 minutes - because of so many wonderful, beloved people in my life and the power of  their individual and collective prayer.  God to the rescue - through people who call on Him.

Feel free to call on mine anytime.

Learning My Place

Gettin' my groove on.  Grace's worst nightmare.

I was walking by my daughter's closed bathroom door last night, listening to her sing (presumably to the mirror with a hair brush in hand, as I did as a kid).  She really is talented and could, if she works hard and has some luck, do something with it.   But before she can walk that road, she needs to get over her infuriating judgement of what music is appropriate for her mother.

This afternoon, I am committed to the business of weekly housecleaning (where is that fairy?) and it goes so much easier with some music playing in the background.  I have a small but highly customized iPod library and it is extremely eclectic.  It ranges from old standards to worship music, from Broadway show tunes to pop - with some very unexpected stuff as well.  (For instance, "Jitterbug Boy" by Tom Waits.)  Grace nods approval of whatever she deems appropriate for me but there is nothing quite as aggravating as having her walk in with a condescending chuckle at seeing me dance to the pop sensation "Call Me Maybe" by Carley Rae Jepsen or "Single Ladies" by Beyonce.  It is a little laugh but it YELLS volumes.  And is says:  "Oh mom, do you know what you're listening to?  Because I don't think you really do.  And I really hope you never listen to it in front of people because no matter what you think, it will not make you cool.  And don't ever, EVER dance to it.  Not even in a closet in the dark.

I understand how she feels because when I was about her age, my parents had some friends over who brought the Beatles "White Album" to our house to listen to and I thought they were all unbelievably embarrassing.  I mean this was the reason they came over.  They made an event around it.  I remember my mother laughing appreciatively at "Rocky Raccoon", and both mom and dad liking "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" - I just wanted to slap them both.  In my eyes, their enjoyment of this music made them all the more pathetic.  Because it couldn't make them more cool.  It could only make them wannabees.  Nothing worse than that.  I'd have much preferred they stick to their old fuddy-duddy Percy Faith albums and accept that is where they belonged.  But I would have never chuckled at them.  Had I, I wouldn't be here to write this today.

With all that said, it is insulting when you are on the receiving end of the judgement of a 13 year old.  And my daughter feels much too free to express herself when it comes to where I stand on the "cool chain".  So with all the maturity of 13 year old, I am waiting for the next time one of her friends is over.  Because I am going to sing AND dance with Beyonce.  And Grace will have to work very hard for the rest of her life to erase the song "Single Ladies" from her mind.

"If you like it then you better put a ring on it - whoa oh oh oh oh oh..."

The Inevitable, Dreaded, Halloween Party

When costumes were easy.

Grace and I belong to a mother/daughter organization called the National Charity League.  The purpose of this organization is to give back to the community and instill in our daughters a spirit of volunteerism.

This past weekend, we volunteered to get up really early and be in Ventura to help the local chapter of the ALS Association set up for one of their important walk-a-thons.  It was difficult to give up sleeping in on the weekend, but it was worth it.  What they do is so incredibly important.

There are, however, with this organization, some mandatory volunteer events - which of course is a complete oxymoron.  This Friday is one such event.  We, along with the other mothers and daughters in our class, are responsible for putting on a Halloween party for some disadvantaged kids.  And I will tell you, as mandatory voluntary events go, this doesn't feel mandatory.  It feels like a real pleasure.

As is typical of me though, I just quickly glanced at the email that came several weeks ago:  "Friday the 19...okay...3:30...yeah, yeah...help clean up for an extra 1/2 hour of community service credit...blah, blah...  Okay, okay.  I got it."

TODAY, I received another email telling me that I needed to bring balloons.  I felt lucky to have seen this email as I rarely look at email anymore since it is so clogged (2,400+) of marketing emails from every business I ever dared to simply look at once online.  (While they all have "unsubscribe" icons, they are only there for looks.)  Anyway, it occurred to me that I might have missed other information about this event so I emailed the chairwoman asking if there was anything else I needed to know - at this late date - and she got right back to me that I had to wear a costume.

And now this feels like a mandatory volunteer event.

So now I am sitting here wondering what I have in my closet that could pass for a costume.  The best I can come up with is to wear my bathing suit and go as "insane".  But that really would be insane.  And extremely unattractive.  To say nothing of scary.

So now I have to be creative.  And that always means money.  

And by the way, Grace needs a costume as well, which narrows the options because she doesn't want to look stupid.  She wants to look cool.  

Cool Halloween costume.  Another Oxymoron.  

My Brain in Retirement

If the brain is a computer, then my hard drive must be crashing.

I speak to so many women my age who are experiencing the same thing and let me tell you - it scares you at first. But then you listen to their stories and realize - hey that's just like me!  Yes, I too forgot to put the coffee in the filter before turing on the pot.  Yes, I too can never find my car keys in the morning.  Yes, I too can never find my phone.   Yes, I too forget where I am going.  Yes, I too have spent twenty minutes looking for sunglasses only to finally find them on my head!

I have forgotten names, phone numbers, birthdays (I was never really good at those), what size pants Bob wears, appointments, words, directions, lyrics to songs, tunes to songs, virtually everything that you take for granted.

And sometimes, it is really gone.  Example:  We were in the car, talking about something I can't recall, but it must have been political because I asked: "What is the name of that film maker who did "Bowling for Columbine?" and Grace says:  "Michael Moore".  I think for a second and reply: "No. That's not the name".  Except yes, yes it is!

It's as if after years of keeping track of everyone's schedules, needs, likes, dislikes, appointments, whereabouts, play dates, teachers' names, client info, check book balance, bill due dates,  everyone's shoe sizes, who was grounded (and for what), boyfriends, breakups, girlfriends, breakups, what was in the refrigerator, anniversaries, RSVPs, and baby names, to name just a very few,  my brain just got up from its chair and left the building in protest.  And without notice.  And it appears that it is not coming back.

The computer  is the absolute worst.  I have had this wonderful old Macbook since 2007 - and it never fails anymore that I sit down to it and have to think about all the functions.  Where do I go to change the spacing between lines?  Is copy "ctrl plus c" or "apple icon plus c"?    Where is the volume key?  How do I transfer music onto my iPhone?  WHAT is my passcode??????  Its as if the sheer volume of options sends my little brain into a panic and it starts to sputter and smoke.

Danger, Will Robinson!!

So today at work, I'm sitting at my desk looking at my computer screen for the number of the client I want to call.  So I pick up the phone and start dialing but nothing happens.  I hang up the phone, thinking there is a glitch or something, pick it up again and dial again.  Nothing.  I look at the phone.  Hmmmm.  I look at the computer screen (is it the number that is the problem?).   I'm about to call IT but decide to try one last time - and it is then, in the middle of the "dial", I realize I am using the keypad on the keyboard of the computer instead of the phone.

I used to think that fog was romantic.

Sunday. Super.

It's Sunday.  That means football.

Rah.

I have never been a spectator of sports.  In fact, I am not athletically inclined at all. And I guess I should be thankful that Bob is really only interested in football - although he watches the Final Four and the World Series too.  But Sundays and Monday nights are (for what feels like way too long) all about football.

At the moment we have two teams: one purple, one white with a splash of blue, focused on a ball that they will carry for a maximum of 30 feet, at which point far too many guys than are necessary all jump on each other and lay there for several seconds for purposes I cannot imagine - other than they are all trying to get the benefit getting a load off their feet and engage in some sort of group "rest".  Someone in stripes blows a whistle and these guys peel off the human pile to reveal the guy they all piled on - usually still alive.  Sometimes he still has the ball.  Occasionally it works out differently - like now - one of the white with a splash of blue guys is being carried off the field.  Were it me, I would pray for that moment because I think you get to keep the money anyway.

A few times during the game either one or both teams cross their finish lines - finally - and they get 6 points.  And then they can kick it over a big vaulting thingy and get an extra point.  And who came up with 6 points?  Why not 3?  12?  8??  Or why not one?  I think its because getting 6 points sounds so much better that 1.   I suppose it's because all that effort for only one point hardly seems worth it.  Although I think the money should be enough to keep them all encouraged.  

And really guys - y'all know it is only 1.

A lot of old guys sit behind a desk and talk relentlessly about the game with the enthusiasm you'd think would be reserved for talk of girls.  And a lot of the players wear their hair all pulled back in long cornrow braids.  I'm thinking that they are just asking to have their hair pulled.  Today, they are all wearing hot pink socks, towels, and gloves in honor of breast cancer awareness month.  How supportive that is - in a kind of weirdly unexpected sort of way.  I try to imagine how Babe Ruth would react to that.

At the end, the winning team pour ice cold water on each other.  For that reason alone, I would throw the game.

But in a show of support I sit here with Bob and listen to him get all excited and I smile pleasantly.  But my mind is on almost anything else.