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.

Hot Nights

Women going through menopause during the summer know how hot hell is.

I cannot believe how it comes over you.  You're just laying there, dying of stifling summer heat with no air conditioning, trying to think cool thoughts so you can try to sleep when suddenly, from no where, your body (clearly very angry at you for having gotten old) ups the ante by turning on some internal furnace - full bore.  This furnace has yet to be found on a CAT scan but believe me, they will find it eventually because it is there.  Your first inclination is to "drop and roll".  Realizing that, no, you are not on fire you hold your breath for a moment in anticipation of spontaneous combustion - which at this point you would welcome.

And then, as quickly as it came, it is gone.  But it will come back.  And you will go without real sleep for an undetermined time.  Three months and counting...

By the way, body - you got old, not me.

From the Eye of the Beholder

My baby is now a teenager.  Of course she was born 19 so she still has some catching up to do.

It didn't start well.  She was so ugly when she was born I was speechless.  She looked like a hairless mole rat.  I had imagined a Gerber baby.  No such luck.  The prettiest thing in her hospital photo is the pink bow they taped to her head to identify her as a female human.  Now before you start thinking how awful I am, we all laugh at this - she was a tough delivery and her face was very swollen right after she was born.  Soon, she got very cute.  But she looked like a boy.  She looked like a boy for about 4 years.  In fact, even though I dressed her in pink, people would ask me what "his" name was.  Really.



Now I look at this gorgeous teenager and wonder where she came from.  And I also know from experience that the next few years are going to fly by in a flash. She'll be gone before I know it.

But last night, after seeing a scary movie, she climbed into bed with us and put her hand on my back just so that she could feel I was there in the dark, like she did when she was little.  And even though the extra body drove me to the very edge of the bed where I couldn't move for fear of falling off, I endured it - because she was a little gooby girl again - for a little while.

(She asked for a lemon meringue pie instead of cake - like her Grandma Carol.  How would she have known that?)

Living in the Land of Huck

I have known Bob since he was 15.  To know him then is to know him now.

Bob is loyal and sensitive and good to the core.  He works hard.  He is kind.  He is generous.  He is loving and quick to forgive.  He is talented.  He is ethical.  He has great faith.

He is also a boy.

I'm told all men are boys at heart and I believe that is true.  It takes very little to make a man turn into a goofy 12-year-old, howling with laughter till milk comes out of his nose at fart jokes and The Three Stooges.  But Bob actually prefers to live in the land of Huck Finn and so I, naturally, assume the role of Aunt Polly.  You remember her?  The killjoy.  The strict one.  The grown-up.  The one no one likes.

Huckfinnian hijinks abound.   Yesterday, to warm himself, he stood on the edge of a fire pit while the flames lapped at his jeans.  I screamed.  He looked at me like I was crazy.  I mean, he was cold.

I always loved Aunt Polly.