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.