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.

A Whole New World

I like to keep a list of all the places I have been.  I have collected a nice little bundle of experiences from cities, states, and countries I can write off my "must see before I can't" list.

In the U.S., apart from Montana, I had been to every state I had any real interest in.  Among the states I had no real interest in was Ohio.  I mean, what on earth could there be to see in Ohio?   Except perhaps for the bizarre cement tribute to corn in Dublin, Ohio.  As luck would have it, my sales territory at work includes Ohio as well as a few other states I had no real interest in:  Nebraska, Wisconsin, Indiana.  So when I had to attend a conference in Columbus recently, I didn't get too excited.

As I planned for this trip I decided that since I was going to be out there I should see some clients in Cleveland and in Ft. Wayne.  When I saw that the distance between these cities was about 3 hours (a shorter drive than from my home to the Bay Area) I figured it made sense to drive.  Hey.  I'm a good corporate citizen - it is far more economical. But I was dreading three hours of car travel on flat, boring, uninspiring, stupid Ohio.  (What I do for my job!)

Now that it's done, all I can say is: Who knew?!?!?

About halfway from Columbus to Ft. Wayne I found myself driving on interstate thoroughfares through rural America.  These two-lane highways took me through the heart of the state where for miles and miles and miles, surrounded by trees full of fall color, corn fields, picturesque farm houses with red barns and wheat silos.  It occurred to me that I believed these images only lived in pricey gift calendars and Grandma Moses paintings.  But here I was, in it - smack in the middle of America - the one you heard about, the one you think of when you think "Americana" - but the one you suspect Hallmark made up to sell Thanksgiving cards. I found myself commenting to myself - out loud - over and over again: "oh wow!"

And then - as if it being out in the middle of "gorgeous nowhere" wasn't unsettling-ly beautiful enough, coming right at me on this two-lane thoroughfare were two men with beards, dressed in black, riding in a buggy drawn by a horse.  Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!!!  My eyes nearly popped out of my head with excitement as I realized I was seeing Amish people.  I was so exited you'd think I had stumbled onto a secret world of fairies.  (The Amish must get soooo sick of this kind of reaction.)  But I couldn't believe it!  I had seen real live Amish people!  Like in the movie "Witness".  Like an idiot who had just spotted Bigfoot - I fumbled for my iPhone to call Bob and anyone else I could reach with limited service to tell them.  Excitedly and breathlessly, I told in detail the whole story as it unfolded in front of my eyes.  I mean, imagine!  For about 20 seconds, unbelievably, I had a rare experience of  driving right next to - people.

Oh.  Right.

Okay, but not ordinary people.  Except...I think... isn't ordinary their point?

With this new perspective, let me sum up:  I drove across a lovely, picturesque part of this country and came alongside residents who have chosen a simple way of life that focuses on God, family, and community.  It was unexpected on every level and it felt extraordinary.

We Are So Laz...

Honestly, it takes a mountain to move us.  We have lived in this house since November of 1994.  Two hundred and sixteen months later, I am still fighting with closet doors that have fallen off their tracks, a broken toilet tank lid, popcorn ceilings in the living room, an upper oven that doesn't work, a wall plug in the hall bathroom that burnt out, a crack in the shower tile, and a very ugly "built-in" vanity area in the master bedroom complete with a hideous chandelier with fake crystals and the obligatory 1970s brass swag chain.  It hangs from the center of the area, surrounded by three mirrors so I always get to see it at least four times at once.  From certain angles, when the mirrors reflect off each other, I can see it infinity times!  And when we bought the house, I pointed to it and said to Bob: "that is the first thing to go."

4,380 days later...

105,120 hours later...

6,307,200 minutes later...

In the end, it all boils down to priority.  I dream of the Pottery Barn Catalog home.  Or the Restoration Hardware home.  Or any number of perfect homes.  It seems to me that in the course of 378,435,600 seconds, we have had the time and/or resources to get to a few of these things.  I'll even bet that I have spent an accumulative total of 6 months out of the 216 we've lived here talking about getting to these things.

It's just that we're lazy busy.

Ah the plans I have...

That is not to say that we don't do anything.   For instance, I single handedly installed Grace's custom closet - without power tools.  Perhaps that is why I am not in the mood to take on another project for another 43 years.  Of course, I'll be dead by then.

It would be nice though, to get rid of that "Carol Brady" chandelier.  6,307, 201 minutes later.

The Road to '75

I am having guests for dinner tonight and the house needs cleaning.  At last!  I have found something I want to avoid more than writing.

So anyway, I just got two DVDs in the mail that captured the events and images of a recent high school reunion I attended.  It was a 4-year class reunion ('72-'75) of Mission San Jose High School - home of the Warriors.  Fremont, California.

I remember clearly my mother getting ready to go to her 20th High School Class reunion in Sacramento.  I remember thinking how impossibly old that made her sound.  Needless to say, I didn't mention to my daughters how many years this represented for me.  Let them do their own math. But there I was, driving solo up the 101 to attend my 37th.  And my first.

I packed like I was taking a 3 month holiday in Europe.  I couldn't decide what ill-fitting piece of wardrobe would make me look more like my 17 year old self.  It turns out, I could have brought my cap and gown - it wouldn't have made a difference - few people recognized me.

To be fair, I didn't graduate from this high school.  I spent my senior year at another school for reasons I will only (and very kindly) call "staff issues".  Also, there were not that many people from my class who came.  But when I picked up my name tag, bearing my senior picture, I immediately saw that I would be one of the scores of people there who would suffer the indignity of witnessing other classmates, over and over again, making that quick glance to the photo on my left shoulder before exclaiming: "Vaaaaaalri!!"

My sister Linda also attended.  She was one year ahead of me and we bolstered each other.  Our old pal Joe came.  He had been a fixture at our home for most of our high school years.  Monica, Hilary, dear Larry (who only came after much begging), Jim - all members of our little theatre clique were all there.  A few of us had breakfast Saturday morning at Denny's, the coffee shop where we had spent uncountable hours, hanging out, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and gossiping and talking about the "thee-ah-tah" late into the night after play rehearsals and on weekends.  We mapped our lives in the burnt orange, vinyl covered booths of Denny's.  I have no idea where those maps went.

Monica, Linda and I snuck into the theatre at the high school Saturday afternoon for a bittersweet look at where we had spent so much of our time in school.  I was instantly back in the 70's,  like Ebenezer Scrooge visiting the ghost of high school past.  Nothing had changed and yet we no longer belonged there.

Preparing for the dinner dance was very like high school, though.  My sister and I were holed up in the bathroom of my hotel room, helping each other with make up and hair like we were getting ready for prom.  We nervously made our way to the hotel ballroom to meld into what seemed to me to be a virtual sea of middle age (who me???  But I still have a 13-year-old!).  But there we all were:  "The Rah-Rahs" (cheerleaders), "The Drama Weirdos (um, us), "The Creek Rats" (those who took advantage of modular scheduling and wandered off to the creek that ran along side the parking lot to get stoned).  And while we didn't necessarily mix in high school, we did here.  Because we had one singular thing in common: we were all in our 50s,  Um, pardon me?  (Although I must say, under the heading of "Some Things Never Change", when you left the ballroom and entered the foyer - the unmistakable waft of pot coming through the french doors leading to outside was overwhelming.)

It was great fun reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances - Sharon, Delcee, Ramona, Patti, dancing, remembering what didn't seem like that long ago.  Even hearing of grandchildren went down smoother than I thought.  I was positively thrilled to see one guy there, looking old and horrible.  I had had a killer crush on him as a freshman and he had been nothing but rude and mean to me.  But seeing Mary Kate, homecoming queen and the girl I thought was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen - walk in - still stunningly beautiful but looking all of her nearly 60 years brought it all home.   I checked my photo on my name tag.  Yup.  I had walked those decades as well.  My incredibly cool shoes did not melt away any years.  They just hurt my feet.

Sunday morning, before my trip back home, they held a little service to pay tribute to the classmates who had passed away.  Nothing prepared me for that.  There were so many.  Naturally, I had heard of some who had died over the years (Susan, Garb), but that morning I sat between Monica and Linda, grabbing hands and gasping audibly at the huge numbers of classmate photos that appeared one by one on the screen. Among them, my sister's first serious boyfriend, Steve Rompell.  Cheryl McClain, who lived on the corner of Sawleaf Street and was in Mrs. Bates' first grade class with me at Warm Springs Grammar School.  And Shelly Lafond.  I couldn't get over Shelly Lafond.  Shelly and I were not close friends.  We did not hang out after school.  I 'm not even sure how we were friends so it may seem odd that her death hit me so hard.  Maybe it was because I hadn't thought of her in years and so, it caught me completely off guard.  In my mind, I could see her so clearly with her lovely smile, arms crossed in front of her, wearing a long cable-knit sweater.  I could hear her  sweet laugh.  I can see her mascara!   How was it possible that someone so fully alive in my mind could actually not be alive?  In fact, I could see all of them so clearly -walking around, hands in pockets, talking, laughing, running through the halls, living - so real I could nearly touch them.  

What is the stuff that memories are made of?  So real and yet not at all.  Driving home that afternoon, my head was full of my past.

Time is a mystery.