A guy who pulls your son out of bed at 11:00 p.m. to pick you up because you've been drinking for three hours with one of your best friends, who happens to be a guy. A guy who understands when you say, "I'm terrified of Carmel police and there are, like, 7 of them out." A guy who drives to the parking lot where you're waiting, where you've turned off your car and put your keys in your purse and are shivering because it's 24 degrees outside. A guy who greets you warmly (though he's undoubtedly miffed) when you climb into his car, and says, "Mommy's car broke down, so we're here to get her." A guy who says, "I know you would," when you tell him you'd do the same for him.
A guy who smiles and chuckles when you say, "God, you're a good guy."
That's the kind of guy you try to find, as long as it takes.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Wednesday, February 05, 2014
How To Face A Crisis
So, I kind of went “all out” for Matt’s 40th
birthday. It seemed like a big enough deal, and I was so happy for him to be joining me in the “40s,” plus it seems that he is well in the throes of his midlife
crisis. So I bought the boy some cookware, of course. But not just any
cookware, oh no; I spent many pretty pennies and
bought him a set of Mauviel copper cookware! Made in France since 1830, I think
it’ll get the job done.
I also put together a photo movie for him, and our sweet
family of three had dinner at Sullivan’s (thanks to Taft law firm for the gift
card). J
But the real surprise was the birthday weekend in Nashville,
Tennessee with our friends Kelly and Mike, as Kelly was also celebrating a birthday that
weekend, a mere 37. Pfft. Left the kids at home, we did. Mike and Kelly picked us up Friday morning (thank you, Matt's boss!), and it was fun to watch Kelly and Matt putting together the string of lies that Mike and I had been telling them for weeks.
Sorry, Kel, can't get together with you for your birthday, maybe soon, though? Matt, we're really not doing much for your 40th, are you OK with that? I mean, we could do something if you want...
Annnnd, we were off! Nashville bound. Matt and I enjoyed our first road trip together there over EIGHT years ago. Really? I’ve been with this guy that long? Alright, then, I
officially deem it “our town.”
Kelly and Mike were once our neighbors, but we can’t seem to
shake them, so we hang out with them all the time. Kelly and I talk about
things that matter, while Matt and Mike (M&M) spend a great deal of time on
boob and fart jokes. It’s like we’re transported right back to seventh grade,
but M&M really are quite hilarious together.
The boys' moments giggling together gave Kelly and I plenty
of time to go completely ga-ga over the band at Robert’s. See, it all evens out
in the end. The guitarist, Daniel Donato, age 18, made my palms sweat. Kelly
was speechless around Slick Joe Fick, on slap bass.
The Nashville scene is uniquely awesome. Absolutely everyone has to
stop and shuffle or twirl on the dance floor before they leave a bar, and
the memo about giving your bejeweled jeans to Goodwill was lost before it ever reached
Broadway Street. EVERY single woman was
wearing a pair but, being somewhat of a late-bloomer myself, I appreciated the
faux pas. (Indeed, I’m a late-bloomer, and because I think sparkly jeans
are silly, I never had a pair; so maybe I’m a trendsetter?)
The only real honky-tonk music left in N-ville is at
Robert’s and Layla’s, and of course the Ryman and the Opry. Like New Orleans,
there might be music on every corner, but it ain’t necessarily good music. I
heard Bon Jovi more than once, just sayin.
I’ve never had so many beers in my life (see, I am a team
player), and we did sneak in a visit to the Johnny Cash museum and my favorite,
Hatch Show Print. This was our first trip with Kelly and Mike, but deeeeeefinitely not our last.
And, for the record, although he doesn't play an instrument, my husband rocks.
Until 41, Honey.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Sleep Schism
Winter brings little encouragement. It has me
gazing out the window late at night, waiting for Dr. Zhivago to proceed by on a
horse donning a tattered soul and soiled blanket. The only thing missing is the
Russian Revolution and a kitchen full of potatoes.
No matter how much I plead, sleep will not give me
what I want. A chronic insomniac, my body lies down at night, but my brain
accelerates, and there I am, lying in an endless succession of thoughts.
Nearly every night (meaning every night), I lie down with Sam. And the “told you so” people
should kiss my grits here, because it’s undoubtedly my favorite part of each
day, the time when we giggle, tell stories, get in trouble with “Daddy,” and
sing.
He chooses from my repertoire: My Favorite Things, On Top of
Spaghetti, Over the Rainbow, You Are My Sunshine, or Silent Night.
I can barely finish Silent Night without yawning myself, so that one usually does the
trick and Sam is out cold. I doze off
next to him for about 30 minutes, but them—pop—I’m deeply and utterly…awake!
Our dog usually joins the scene, and my fervent attempt
for a few additional winks is waylaid by Waylon’s yawns and baying. I focus on
the poem in my head and the time between Sam's faint breath and Waylon's sniffy
snores. I lie there enjoying it, primarily punishing myself, for morning will
eventually, and most unfortunately, break. Sam will be bussed off to school and
Dr. Zhivago will return to the city. I'll be stuck boiling potatoes. Winter
will continue hanging out. I know I should sleep.
By the time my husband joins us, I've usually been
lying there for two hours. Sam is sprawled out on my pillow, back sleeping
(like I do, when I sleep), allowing me only a sliver of space at the bed's
edge, perhaps one arm pressed against my nose. My head is tilted back off the
pillow, and my legs are gripping somewhere toward the other side because my dog
is too pushing me off, himself lying in a flat running pose, dreaming of
chasing the mail person. I am ultimately uncomfortable, but I'm happy. I'm thinking,
it's quiet, I know I should sleep, but I am a creature of habit.
Matt tiptoes past the bed and I say, "Hi,
Honey." He gasps, "You're not asleep yet?" to which I answer,
"Nope, not yet. I'm thinking of getting up and writing for a while, but now
I'm too tired."
Then begins my Goldilocks routine of trying out all
the beds…sometimes the alchemy of Ambien saves the (next) day.
My name is Jill, and I’ve been an insomniac for
2,190 days.
I should not lie down with my son. I should not, I
should NOT.
But I've logged the number of times friends have
said, "Enjoy it while you can, because soon you'll miss
it." Hell, I already miss it. It's quality time for me, and I make my
living—true living—on not leaving out
any details.
Even with last week’s additional snow break, I
still really loved having my boy around. But Kindergarten has been berry, berry
good to me. He reads, he carries the one in addition problems, and he no
longer says the preschool phrase “Easy Peezey Lemon Squeezey,” because
preschool—come on—was so last year.
I can’t complain.
Oh - time for bed!
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Maui at Night
We took a recent trip to Maui ,
which was breathtaking and spectacular, and we want to live there. Period. I'm a little haunted, however, by how yet another culture has been ruined via the relentless need for retail
stores and knickknacks.
When the three of us go on vacation, you can bet your American currency that you won't find us at "the mall." Look if you must, but we're out exploring.
When the three of us go on vacation, you can bet your American currency that you won't find us at "the mall." Look if you must, but we're out exploring.
Explore we did, and Sam and I shared our birthday. :)
Our dear friends John and Becky choseMaui for
their wedding, John being Australian, Becky, American. It was a good halfway
point for all guests. When they asked if Sam would be the ring bearer (the ring
barrier, as he calls it) we hesitated not one second in taking him out of
kindergarten for 7 days. Take that, Sam's future!
Our dear friends John and Becky chose
We rented a condo—practically in the Pacific—in Kihei
(Kee-hey) for the beginning of the week, so we grocery shopped (asparagus
$8/lb, box of cereal $8/box) and cooked a few meals. Mostly, we ate out. We
found a little food truck selling fresh Ono and Mahi Mahi tacos, and there Sam
began his love affair with fish. We ate lunch there every day, I think, and we
even stopped by on our way to the airport the final day!
Matt surfed daily, although the waves were more Sam's size.
Sam has tremendous coordination and balance, so surfing is a breeze for that
little guy. One day we drove along the North Shore
We took in our first luau, where Sam glimpsed his first hula dancers. This ritualistic dance full of symbolic movement (water, fish, love, for instance) was once performed for the Volcano goddess, Pele. It is now performed purely for tourists' (mostly American) entertainment. Kind of sickening. The goddess Laka, keeper of the dance, had to give up hula once Christian missionaries decided it was against their principles. Banned for over a decade, the hula made its return, but as Laka was once honored with prayers, offerings and leis, now these leis come to us, paying customers.
We took in our first luau, where Sam glimpsed his first hula dancers. This ritualistic dance full of symbolic movement (water, fish, love, for instance) was once performed for the Volcano goddess, Pele. It is now performed purely for tourists' (mostly American) entertainment. Kind of sickening. The goddess Laka, keeper of the dance, had to give up hula once Christian missionaries decided it was against their principles. Banned for over a decade, the hula made its return, but as Laka was once honored with prayers, offerings and leis, now these leis come to us, paying customers.
Certainly I'm not against Christian missionaries, but must
we all evolve into one singular persona? Can we not find concord with a few
cultural differences? OK, OK, cannibalism I'll agree with...but the hula? Really?
I ziplined with the wedding party one day...what an adventure above the trees! Sam wasn't tall enough, so he and Matt stayed behind. It was a great day of bonding, but after lunch, one of our instructors, Loki, hid in the bushes pretending to be a wild boar, and I freaked out. He had a really good pig snort, and I fell for it completely. I grabbed Becky and told her to go back the way we'd been, and wouldn't let her pass. When Loki stood up, he was laughing his ass off. Becky said, "You're such a mom!" So true! I told Loki that somehow, some way, I'd get him back. I'm working on that plan now...
I ziplined with the wedding party one day...what an adventure above the trees! Sam wasn't tall enough, so he and Matt stayed behind. It was a great day of bonding, but after lunch, one of our instructors, Loki, hid in the bushes pretending to be a wild boar, and I freaked out. He had a really good pig snort, and I fell for it completely. I grabbed Becky and told her to go back the way we'd been, and wouldn't let her pass. When Loki stood up, he was laughing his ass off. Becky said, "You're such a mom!" So true! I told Loki that somehow, some way, I'd get him back. I'm working on that plan now...
The wedding was stunning, and full of messy,
casual Australian accents. Love the Aussies. John and Becky are great friends, and they
love our son to death. What more can we ask for? At the reception dinner, Sam wanted
to sit next to Becky because "she looks so pretty." Oh my, ladies
guy. Across from me, Becky's mom said, "Well, if you're only going to have
one child, you might as well raise an incredible one," which I think is
perhaps the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me. Truly, I'll never forget
that.
The day after the wedding we took the Road to Hana, the South Shore Haleakala
National Park
With the Falls being #26 on the list, somehow we forgot to
listen to #27, which was titled, "Tips for the Trip Home."
Unwise.
So, the South Shore of Maui, past Hana, where George
Harrison lived, the Magical Mystery Tour began. After all the quaint towns and
necessities of life, Maui had NOT ONE light
along the treacherous, hair-pinned-curvy road back to Kihei. When night falls
there, it crashes like your drunk friend on the couch. The deceptive lure of
the day trip became the twisted-stomach, leaning-forward-in-your-seat, wide-awake kind
of nightmare. Neither of our phones would work, and we had no idea where in the
hell—oh, I'm sorry, God's beautiful creation—we were.
40 miles of this. My go-to thought, "What would Laura
Ingalls do?" returned. There was serious silence in the car, even Sam knew
better than to ask any questions. We could barely make out the line between
land and water, and I asked Matt, cautiously, "Can you please SLOW
DOWN?"
Then I screamed, "Matt!!!!!!" He screamed back,
"What? What the hell??" (You could cut the tension with an icing
spreader.) I replied, "COWS! There are COWS in the middle of the
road!" Matt gave it a quick, "Oh, shit," and swerved out of the
way.
Then we began laughing. Nervous laughter, like when you're not mugged in NYC after you feel you're about to be. Sam asked what was going on, and I said, "Oh, just 3 cows, gray, black and brown, walking up the hill, minding their own business."
Then we began laughing. Nervous laughter, like when you're not mugged in NYC after you feel you're about to be. Sam asked what was going on, and I said, "Oh, just 3 cows, gray, black and brown, walking up the hill, minding their own business."
20 more miles, and we began to see twinkling lights. I
thought of Wordsworth.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Only these
weren't daffodils...this was a town! Oh, glorious town in Maui !
Whatever you are, we love you! And we're having dinner here!
Matt and I
stayed up very late on the lanai (after all, we were in Hawaii
The remainder
of the week we spent in a lush hotel with all the trimmings. 7 swimming pools,
Fernando Botero sculptures, marble floors, and a mall right next door. Now,
that’s America
Sunday, September 01, 2013
Kinder Care
It's Sunday, and I've been up since 6:08. This, be it told, is a consequence of kindergarten, and our new household training of "waking with the animals." I'm way better at it than my husband, a far cry from a "morning person," and my son, who is just like his dad. Go figure.
At 9:00 a.m. on a weekend morning, those two are just getting comfortable (often together), preparing to go back to sleep. They stretch, yawn, and pull the sheets over their heads when I take a peek. By then I've had a cup or two of coffee, started laundry, read something, written something, posted something, and likely mopped the kitchen floor. No one trespasses on my morning rituals, no one asks me where anything is or if I can fetch something for them, and so it's my favorite part of the day.
But Kindergarten has been most difficult for me. I cried for three days prior to Sam climbing aboard the bus (his favorite part of this ordeal, by far), and when the bus rounded the corner that first day, I said, "Sam, you don't have to get on - there's still time to home-school." I was kidding (not very much), but he said, "No!"
He likes it so far, minus the rug time. Too much rug time. And only 15 minutes of recess. An embarrassment to five-year-old energy, like the death sentence "have some fruit" when a kid craves candy. His teacher is sweet, so we can't complain. Show me a kindergarten teacher who isn't sweet, and I'll buy her the book, What Color Is My Parachute? Better jump now.
Sam asked why they have rug time so much, and I went into a spiel about the importance of the Miss Krabappels of the world having control. "Your teacher needs your undivided attention. It's like when cowboys corral cattle, or a shepherd corrals his flock..." and then I got depressed for him. I wanted to take it back and say, "Run for your life!" Damn, can't do.
I miss my buddy. I miss our listless days and our busy ones, our talks, our lunches,
playing tennis in the street, dressing like ninjas, going to the skate park before anyone else showed up, and writing down his every funny thought and sentences in a journal, which I've kept since the day I found out I was pregnant.
When Sam arrived from my C-section here in Indiana, back in 2007, I thought, "What am I supposed to do with him...all day? Every day?" POOF: he's gone. Now he's sitting at a classroom table with three other children, eating homemade lunches that I pack each morning, gathering often on a rug and getting 15 minutes of recess.
I did a "drive-in" at his school on the first day, which constituted sitting in the parking lot during that meager 15 minute window, hoping to get a glimpse of him on the monkey bars. I can't admit that to him yet, but by the time he reads this (because that carpet time must be helping with reading) he'll forgive me my trespassing (I hope). Mine was the ONLY car in the lot, and instead I caught a glimpse of myself. "Oh, hell, I'm probably being filmed," thought I, so taking myself in hand, I got a grip and sped home from inside that peanut-free school zone to become the person I always dreamed of being!
If one more person tells me to "discover" myself during this time, I will scream. I know who I am. I know exactly who I am. That has never been a problem. The only problem is the void I feel without that little guy around.
After almost 6 years of being with Sam each day, now reflecting on my life experiences (thousands), goals (eh, a few), achievements (strokes of luck) and passions (too many to count), I never dreamed that being Sam's mom was my dream. Not my only dream--of course not--but the best dream by far.
Who knew?
At 9:00 a.m. on a weekend morning, those two are just getting comfortable (often together), preparing to go back to sleep. They stretch, yawn, and pull the sheets over their heads when I take a peek. By then I've had a cup or two of coffee, started laundry, read something, written something, posted something, and likely mopped the kitchen floor. No one trespasses on my morning rituals, no one asks me where anything is or if I can fetch something for them, and so it's my favorite part of the day.
But Kindergarten has been most difficult for me. I cried for three days prior to Sam climbing aboard the bus (his favorite part of this ordeal, by far), and when the bus rounded the corner that first day, I said, "Sam, you don't have to get on - there's still time to home-school." I was kidding (not very much), but he said, "No!"
He likes it so far, minus the rug time. Too much rug time. And only 15 minutes of recess. An embarrassment to five-year-old energy, like the death sentence "have some fruit" when a kid craves candy. His teacher is sweet, so we can't complain. Show me a kindergarten teacher who isn't sweet, and I'll buy her the book, What Color Is My Parachute? Better jump now.
Sam asked why they have rug time so much, and I went into a spiel about the importance of the Miss Krabappels of the world having control. "Your teacher needs your undivided attention. It's like when cowboys corral cattle, or a shepherd corrals his flock..." and then I got depressed for him. I wanted to take it back and say, "Run for your life!" Damn, can't do.
I miss my buddy. I miss our listless days and our busy ones, our talks, our lunches,
playing tennis in the street, dressing like ninjas, going to the skate park before anyone else showed up, and writing down his every funny thought and sentences in a journal, which I've kept since the day I found out I was pregnant.
When Sam arrived from my C-section here in Indiana, back in 2007, I thought, "What am I supposed to do with him...all day? Every day?" POOF: he's gone. Now he's sitting at a classroom table with three other children, eating homemade lunches that I pack each morning, gathering often on a rug and getting 15 minutes of recess.
I did a "drive-in" at his school on the first day, which constituted sitting in the parking lot during that meager 15 minute window, hoping to get a glimpse of him on the monkey bars. I can't admit that to him yet, but by the time he reads this (because that carpet time must be helping with reading) he'll forgive me my trespassing (I hope). Mine was the ONLY car in the lot, and instead I caught a glimpse of myself. "Oh, hell, I'm probably being filmed," thought I, so taking myself in hand, I got a grip and sped home from inside that peanut-free school zone to become the person I always dreamed of being!
If one more person tells me to "discover" myself during this time, I will scream. I know who I am. I know exactly who I am. That has never been a problem. The only problem is the void I feel without that little guy around.
After almost 6 years of being with Sam each day, now reflecting on my life experiences (thousands), goals (eh, a few), achievements (strokes of luck) and passions (too many to count), I never dreamed that being Sam's mom was my dream. Not my only dream--of course not--but the best dream by far.
Who knew?
Monday, July 15, 2013
Tonsillectomy Love and Subtext
I prepared for this week for months, using most of my time consciously dreading it. Sam had a tonsillectomy last week, and I am pleasantly not astonished by his strength, tenacity and humor. The boy does amaze.
Out of the gate, it was worse than I'd imagined. Sam won't ever allow us to give half-facts, or omit details. When we told him that his tonsils would be removed, he asked, "What exactly does the doctor do?" Oh, damn. I'd forgotten who we were dealing with: little Matt. Questions, questions, more questions. ;)
So, we told him. We told him pretty much every step, and Matt concluded that the doctor would likely use a samurai machete. Sam thought briefly that that might actually be cool.
But here is the one step where we foundered: anesthesia. He'd been through it before, but we pared down the complex storytelling by summarizing: "You'll wake up and we'll be there." NOT TRUE.
He woke up, apparently, as Matt and I watched the monitor for the little "bandage" icon to appear on the waiting room screen. When it did, we were quickly led down a hallway, and I heard crying. I said, "That's my child!" Quite distressed, we turned the corner to find Sam on his hands and knees, blood on the pillow and sheets, writhing all around the bed. I touched him, said, "We're here, sweetie," and he, with his little voided tonsils said, "Mommy...!" Matt rubbed his body, and the nurses swiftly got my ass in bed with that kid. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. We didn't plan it that way!
I lay holding him, and he immediately fell asleep. The nurse said, "That's what he needed." I was being strong, stroking his hair, holding the ice pack in place, but inside I was bawling and shaking and hating it for him. Tears were streaming down my face, and a lump grew in the back of my throat, but I said things like, "There, there," because those are mom words. Matt was standing right there, definitely doing the same thing with more masculinity.
Matt and I are both perfectionists, so imagine the stress permeating the recovery room 30 minutes later, when the sound of my voice wouldn't stop talking about "it," and Matt had to "take a call" from the office. The show must go on (but at that moment, I was pissed). McCorporation.
But this horrific experience has resulted in one of the best weeks of my life. Sam and I have cuddled and stared at each other a thousand times since Tuesday. He attempts to spell things in the air instead of talking, his husky voice has raised an octave, and I'm still holding the ice pack in place. Matt calls constantly from McCorp during the day to check on us, and we've both been up half the night, every night, administering pain medications. During all of this, Sam has still managed a few "Rock to Fakies" at the skate park with his dad, and plenty of smiles.
Two things I'll never forget (and if I do, thank God I keep a daily journal): The first night, when I walked past Sam's bed on my way to get more ice, he squeaked out, "I love you, Mom."
The second night, he rubbed my arm and said, "Go to sleep, Mommy, go to sleep."
Out of the gate, it was worse than I'd imagined. Sam won't ever allow us to give half-facts, or omit details. When we told him that his tonsils would be removed, he asked, "What exactly does the doctor do?" Oh, damn. I'd forgotten who we were dealing with: little Matt. Questions, questions, more questions. ;)
So, we told him. We told him pretty much every step, and Matt concluded that the doctor would likely use a samurai machete. Sam thought briefly that that might actually be cool.
But here is the one step where we foundered: anesthesia. He'd been through it before, but we pared down the complex storytelling by summarizing: "You'll wake up and we'll be there." NOT TRUE.
He woke up, apparently, as Matt and I watched the monitor for the little "bandage" icon to appear on the waiting room screen. When it did, we were quickly led down a hallway, and I heard crying. I said, "That's my child!" Quite distressed, we turned the corner to find Sam on his hands and knees, blood on the pillow and sheets, writhing all around the bed. I touched him, said, "We're here, sweetie," and he, with his little voided tonsils said, "Mommy...!" Matt rubbed his body, and the nurses swiftly got my ass in bed with that kid. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. We didn't plan it that way!
I lay holding him, and he immediately fell asleep. The nurse said, "That's what he needed." I was being strong, stroking his hair, holding the ice pack in place, but inside I was bawling and shaking and hating it for him. Tears were streaming down my face, and a lump grew in the back of my throat, but I said things like, "There, there," because those are mom words. Matt was standing right there, definitely doing the same thing with more masculinity.
Matt and I are both perfectionists, so imagine the stress permeating the recovery room 30 minutes later, when the sound of my voice wouldn't stop talking about "it," and Matt had to "take a call" from the office. The show must go on (but at that moment, I was pissed). McCorporation.
But this horrific experience has resulted in one of the best weeks of my life. Sam and I have cuddled and stared at each other a thousand times since Tuesday. He attempts to spell things in the air instead of talking, his husky voice has raised an octave, and I'm still holding the ice pack in place. Matt calls constantly from McCorp during the day to check on us, and we've both been up half the night, every night, administering pain medications. During all of this, Sam has still managed a few "Rock to Fakies" at the skate park with his dad, and plenty of smiles.
Two things I'll never forget (and if I do, thank God I keep a daily journal): The first night, when I walked past Sam's bed on my way to get more ice, he squeaked out, "I love you, Mom."
The second night, he rubbed my arm and said, "Go to sleep, Mommy, go to sleep."
Saturday, July 13, 2013
50th Anniversary Bash
My step-mom put it best when she said, "You're the travelingest people I've ever met!" The fact that we get away often is on the Top 10 List of things I love about my marriage. Matt and I are great travelers, both open to anything new, and trying to find as much adventure in a single vacation day. It is no surprise that Sam is following in our footsteps. Sam is wide-eyed to the world, and the things he's experienced have made him a cool little dude with absolutely no attitude. We are so lucky. We cannot wait to see who he becomes; I think he's going to be quite something, but if he doesn't learn to clean up his room, we'll put the kibosh on all future ventures. Ahem.
We traveled to California for Matt's parents' 50th wedding anniversary, which was a complete surprise for them since their good-doings often go unrewarded. We left our house at 3:00 a.m., and were in Cali by 9:15 a.m.. I dropped Matt at his office there (a nice perk for him now), and Sam and I headed to a hotel in Costa Mesa. I gave the girl at the front desk our sad story (it was 10 o'clock in the morning), that we were from Indiana, that we were in town for a big surprise party that didn't take place for nearly 12 more hours, that my child was jet-lagged (he was fine) and, behold, she let us check in early. Oh, humanity! I think adding the part about Indiana always helps, because no one west of Kansas knows where Indiana is, so they give you this, "Oh, you poor thing, living life deprived" look, and bingo, you're in.
Sam and I swam all day at the hotel California, ate a really expensive lunch, I ironed everyone's clothes for dinner, and we picked Matt up early and headed to Newport Beach. I didn't feel like doing the beach thing with Sam earlier. I was in the mood for a heated pool and a bathroom really close. There's always the issue of filling your pockets with quarters to feed the meters at Newport (it's very old school), constantly keeping an eye on "your stuff," which includes your child, and I knew that it would be packed with summer tourists. It was. Matt and Sam couldn't surf that day because the beach had been "black-balled" (too many swimmers, no surfboards allowed). And the people, the thousands and thousands of people, were giving me hives.
Time for a margarita!
We whiled them away until the meeting hour, when a very large restaurant table was filled with the F'an family. All three brothers, girlfriend, token wife (that's me), cousins, and Matt's parents' best friends from Chicago. Surprise! It took Matt's parents several minutes to conceive that the party was for them. It wasn't my parents...but it was awesome to see their faces, nonetheless. Sam fell asleep three minutes later. :)
We traveled to California for Matt's parents' 50th wedding anniversary, which was a complete surprise for them since their good-doings often go unrewarded. We left our house at 3:00 a.m., and were in Cali by 9:15 a.m.. I dropped Matt at his office there (a nice perk for him now), and Sam and I headed to a hotel in Costa Mesa. I gave the girl at the front desk our sad story (it was 10 o'clock in the morning), that we were from Indiana, that we were in town for a big surprise party that didn't take place for nearly 12 more hours, that my child was jet-lagged (he was fine) and, behold, she let us check in early. Oh, humanity! I think adding the part about Indiana always helps, because no one west of Kansas knows where Indiana is, so they give you this, "Oh, you poor thing, living life deprived" look, and bingo, you're in.
Sam and I swam all day at the hotel California, ate a really expensive lunch, I ironed everyone's clothes for dinner, and we picked Matt up early and headed to Newport Beach. I didn't feel like doing the beach thing with Sam earlier. I was in the mood for a heated pool and a bathroom really close. There's always the issue of filling your pockets with quarters to feed the meters at Newport (it's very old school), constantly keeping an eye on "your stuff," which includes your child, and I knew that it would be packed with summer tourists. It was. Matt and Sam couldn't surf that day because the beach had been "black-balled" (too many swimmers, no surfboards allowed). And the people, the thousands and thousands of people, were giving me hives.
Time for a margarita!
We whiled them away until the meeting hour, when a very large restaurant table was filled with the F'an family. All three brothers, girlfriend, token wife (that's me), cousins, and Matt's parents' best friends from Chicago. Surprise! It took Matt's parents several minutes to conceive that the party was for them. It wasn't my parents...but it was awesome to see their faces, nonetheless. Sam fell asleep three minutes later. :)
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Best Medicine
So maybe you’re not up on Pseudobulbar Affect (PBA), a neurological
disorder triggering involuntary crying or laughing, so know this: scientists
claim that it is usually secondary to neurologic
disease or brain injury. Well, I guess those scientists never sat next to their brother in church when they were
young, uncontrollably laughing at absolutely nothing, while their dad sneered
down, threatening to kill them both. I may know a thing or two about this.
There was an intriguing story on NPR lately about the Tanganyika
Laughter Epidemic of 1962. It caught my ear. Tanganyika ,
now known as Tanzania , is
located near the border of Kenya .
The laughing epidemic first ignited in a mission-run boarding school for girls.
Three girls began hysterically laughing, and chuckles spread to 95 of the 159
pupils, aged 12–18. The girls were sent home, taking the monkey on their backs
with them, thus affecting 214 other people living in their villages: men, women
and teenagers. If you don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect,”
skip ahead, as this narrative will likely hold no significance for you.
The laughter compounded, as laughing attacks often do
(remember church, your dad, your brother), and in the end 14 schools were shut
down and over 1,000 people were left laughing about it. Some were probably
crying. The facts might have gone through a poorly administered game of
“telephone,” but the epidemic lasted for months.
Robert Provine, author of Laughter: A Scientific Investigation, and a professor of
psychology and assistant director of the neuroscience program at the
University of Maryland studied the case. Further research determined (with
plenty of disbelievers) that all of the girls—all of the people affected—had
one thing in common: newly found freedom. Teenage girls have all kinds of new
freedoms, and teenage girls giggle a lot, but records show that several of the
villages had been recently “freed,” as well. And with freedom comes overwhelming
giddiness, almost certainly.
As far as I know I haven’t a neurologic disease, and have
never suffered a brain injury (unless you count the years of bad dating
experiences, which, truth be told, could equate to one). I do not currently
live in a village, but last night I was stuck at Sam’s first karate promotion.
A “promotion” meant that Matt got to pay $45 for Sam to receive a new belt,
which he would have received at age 6, anyway. And by “stuck,” I mean that I
didn’t want to be there. I love Sam, I’m proud of Sam, but the building stinks
and the parents are weird. One woman brings a caged ferret while she watches
her son. It’s gross.
I sucked it up, and thankfully Sam went first, so I got to
smile and give him the “thumbs up” for the rest of the evening. Near the end of
all the kicking and kiais, the head honcho—OK, sensei—Anglo-Saxon woman to whom
all children scream, “Yes, Ma’am!” asked an eight-year-old boy how long he’d
been studying karate. She continued, “How many kids have you known the whole
time you’ve been here; I mean (this is where the Pseudobulbar Affect began),
are
there any kids that you’ve gone ‘all the way’ with?”
The eight-year-old was befuddled, as even he understood the
unfortunate moment that had captured the attention of the entire audience, and
I looked over at my husband. Big
mistake. Never, ever look at Matt when things get awkward. Matt said, “Has
he gone all the way with a kid? God,
I hope not.” That was it, I felt free. I didn’t have to watch children being
made to “drop and give her 10” because their stupid moms left their nunchucks
in the car. I didn’t have to bow inside the dojo, and I certainly didn’t have
to pet the ferret. Sensei had broken code. I began laughing, and my entire body
began shaking. I remained chortling in that “oh, god, I’m laughing in church”
kind of way, to the point of tears and mascara streaming down my cheeks. And furthermore...did no one else find this hilarious?!
Matt kept it together, leaving me as the “weird mom obviously laughing during the most important moment of this child’s life” and then I looked at Matt again. He practically spit. He let out some type of convulsion, and we both sat sniggering, shaking, red-faced, joined in the uncontrollable hysteria of our evil, little, karate-disappointed world.
Matt kept it together, leaving me as the “weird mom obviously laughing during the most important moment of this child’s life” and then I looked at Matt again. He practically spit. He let out some type of convulsion, and we both sat sniggering, shaking, red-faced, joined in the uncontrollable hysteria of our evil, little, karate-disappointed world.
Our poor, poor, dear son. He has such a long road ahead.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Rules of Surfing
I find the dreams of my next European vacation--in Tuscany--shifting to reveries of sunning myself and catching the perfect wave. Possibly, this is because I have little say in the matter, but I mustn't discount that I'm actually starting to like it. Beaches are beautiful, but too much of one is boring to me. Where's the art? Where's the fine dining? Call it my restless nature, but I want to dip my toes in more than just salt water: I want to soak up culture, experience all that I can. Matt and I compromise on this one.
Puerto Rico provided all of the above (with the exception of much fine dining). What a secret gem. Captured by the French, the British Empire and, finally, the US, this place was anything but American, and that was by far the best part. The people were plump, kind, poor and happy. Happy. Many live with practically nothing...and they are peaceful. It helped me with the skewed perspective that governs our need and greed in the States. True, I didn't bring my wedding rings with me (since Matt jammed his knuckles skate boarding, he hasn't been able to fit his over his fat fingers, so that took care of that). Crime is up everywhere, but we didn't feel one bit of it, and we weren't in the "touristy" areas. With only one day in San Juan, we stayed mostly in the surfing capital of the Caribbean, Rincon. Highway 413: Surfer's Road to Happiness.
I bought a travel book at Half Price Books before we left, but I should have checked the date. It said that Rincon was nothing much, simply for surfers. In some ways that was true. It's remote, but there was much to see and do. The hotels were lovely, but I'd forgotten just how awful Caribbean food is. Fried fish and plantains. Yuck. The only veggie we saw all week was "green salad," which was simply shredded lettuce, nothing fancy. We ordered chicken wings once and they came with mayonnaise or ketchup for dipping. Disgusting! It truly was about the surf.
Rule #725 of surfing: She will not be looking when you catch the perfect wave.
But let us replace the pronoun she with he.
I had a two hour surfing lesson in Rincon, Puerto Rico with a smiley dude named Angel Martinez.
As neighbors on the same continent, we'd be great friends. We paddled out at Domes Beach, full of threatening, jagged reef, and Angel said, "Try not to touch anything "hairy."" Oh, thanks.
The first hour went something like this: Me saying, "This sucks so bad" about 100 times; trying to get my balance on the board with Angel cheering, "Go Jeel!" behind me; scraping my knees, feet and ankles on the reef; my rib cage aching from taking the "surfing position" over and over (which is basically a cobra in Yoga); and finally saying, "I think I'm going to be sick." Angel laughed and said, "Jeel, you're funny. It's not that bad." I continued, "No, I mean, I'm really going to be sick." I jumped off my board and began dry-heaving into the clear water, giving Angel "the hand," trying to push his curiosity away from potential puke, while choking out the words, "I forgot...I get seasick."
Angel said, "Jeel, get on your board. I push you back to shore."
When my feet touched land, I said, "Well, Matt, that was a horrible experience." And that was day one.
The next day I had bruises all over me, and I told Matt that I'd be drinking margaritas all day.
Day three I said, "Damn it, I'm no quitter," so I went back out...with shoes. Angel met us at Domes again, and Matt took a few initial photos of me paddling out and taking my position. I tried once and fell immediately, and then it came...I stood up. I stood up for several seconds and had--it felt pretty huge--a smile on my face. I was riding a wave. I was a native, and I was HAPPY.
I looked toward shore. Matt was fiddling with something in his backpack, and Sam was playing in the waves. No one was looking my way. I jumped onto the reef, turned my board around, and with--it felt rather small--a tear in my eye, I paddled back to Angel. He said, "No one saw you. Matt had his head in his bag and Sam wasn't looking. This is always the way with surfing." I said, "Story of my life, Angel." He said, "You're funny, Jeel."
I got up several more times. Matt and Sam cheered and Sam kept giving me the "thumbs up." For that moment, I wish I'd had a camera. Seeing Matt smiling, seeing Sam's little face and little thumb in the air: I've already carved it into a memory that's playing on heavy rotation.
Do I have what it takes? Oh, hell, I don't know. It was an experience, but one that I'll likely try again and again! I'm not sure that Matt will ever get me on a board in the cold, brutal, shark-infested Pacific, but I'll always dip my toes...
Puerto Rico provided all of the above (with the exception of much fine dining). What a secret gem. Captured by the French, the British Empire and, finally, the US, this place was anything but American, and that was by far the best part. The people were plump, kind, poor and happy. Happy. Many live with practically nothing...and they are peaceful. It helped me with the skewed perspective that governs our need and greed in the States. True, I didn't bring my wedding rings with me (since Matt jammed his knuckles skate boarding, he hasn't been able to fit his over his fat fingers, so that took care of that). Crime is up everywhere, but we didn't feel one bit of it, and we weren't in the "touristy" areas. With only one day in San Juan, we stayed mostly in the surfing capital of the Caribbean, Rincon. Highway 413: Surfer's Road to Happiness.
I bought a travel book at Half Price Books before we left, but I should have checked the date. It said that Rincon was nothing much, simply for surfers. In some ways that was true. It's remote, but there was much to see and do. The hotels were lovely, but I'd forgotten just how awful Caribbean food is. Fried fish and plantains. Yuck. The only veggie we saw all week was "green salad," which was simply shredded lettuce, nothing fancy. We ordered chicken wings once and they came with mayonnaise or ketchup for dipping. Disgusting! It truly was about the surf.
Rule #725 of surfing: She will not be looking when you catch the perfect wave.
But let us replace the pronoun she with he.
I had a two hour surfing lesson in Rincon, Puerto Rico with a smiley dude named Angel Martinez.
As neighbors on the same continent, we'd be great friends. We paddled out at Domes Beach, full of threatening, jagged reef, and Angel said, "Try not to touch anything "hairy."" Oh, thanks.
The first hour went something like this: Me saying, "This sucks so bad" about 100 times; trying to get my balance on the board with Angel cheering, "Go Jeel!" behind me; scraping my knees, feet and ankles on the reef; my rib cage aching from taking the "surfing position" over and over (which is basically a cobra in Yoga); and finally saying, "I think I'm going to be sick." Angel laughed and said, "Jeel, you're funny. It's not that bad." I continued, "No, I mean, I'm really going to be sick." I jumped off my board and began dry-heaving into the clear water, giving Angel "the hand," trying to push his curiosity away from potential puke, while choking out the words, "I forgot...I get seasick."
Angel said, "Jeel, get on your board. I push you back to shore."
When my feet touched land, I said, "Well, Matt, that was a horrible experience." And that was day one.
The next day I had bruises all over me, and I told Matt that I'd be drinking margaritas all day.
Day three I said, "Damn it, I'm no quitter," so I went back out...with shoes. Angel met us at Domes again, and Matt took a few initial photos of me paddling out and taking my position. I tried once and fell immediately, and then it came...I stood up. I stood up for several seconds and had--it felt pretty huge--a smile on my face. I was riding a wave. I was a native, and I was HAPPY.
I looked toward shore. Matt was fiddling with something in his backpack, and Sam was playing in the waves. No one was looking my way. I jumped onto the reef, turned my board around, and with--it felt rather small--a tear in my eye, I paddled back to Angel. He said, "No one saw you. Matt had his head in his bag and Sam wasn't looking. This is always the way with surfing." I said, "Story of my life, Angel." He said, "You're funny, Jeel."
I got up several more times. Matt and Sam cheered and Sam kept giving me the "thumbs up." For that moment, I wish I'd had a camera. Seeing Matt smiling, seeing Sam's little face and little thumb in the air: I've already carved it into a memory that's playing on heavy rotation.
Do I have what it takes? Oh, hell, I don't know. It was an experience, but one that I'll likely try again and again! I'm not sure that Matt will ever get me on a board in the cold, brutal, shark-infested Pacific, but I'll always dip my toes...
Thursday, February 14, 2013
True Love and German Food
Today we celebrate Valentine's Day, our first date 8 years ago, and our love of Wienerschnitzel.
We're having our annual lunch date at the Rathskeller, where Matt and I had date #1 in 2005. We'd been trying to sync our schedules for a week or so, and the only day that worked for both of us was February 14. On the phone, I said, "Um, you know that's Valentine's Day, right?" Matt said of course he did.
He brought me a rose. I brought nothing. We both had the Wienerschnitzel. I knew we were gonna make it.
And after clearing away several cobwebs, here we are. What a beautiful ride.
I know one thing I won't be giving Matt for Valentine's Day: his own Pinterest board on my account. Several of my friends have boards for their husbands and, besides being kind of silly (oh wait, did I just delete the word "stupid"?), I just don't get this. Do husbands consult these boards? I'm thinking not.
So, Happy Valentine's Day, big hunky husband. Please do not ever get a Pinterest account. I love you.
We're having our annual lunch date at the Rathskeller, where Matt and I had date #1 in 2005. We'd been trying to sync our schedules for a week or so, and the only day that worked for both of us was February 14. On the phone, I said, "Um, you know that's Valentine's Day, right?" Matt said of course he did.
He brought me a rose. I brought nothing. We both had the Wienerschnitzel. I knew we were gonna make it.
And after clearing away several cobwebs, here we are. What a beautiful ride.
I know one thing I won't be giving Matt for Valentine's Day: his own Pinterest board on my account. Several of my friends have boards for their husbands and, besides being kind of silly (oh wait, did I just delete the word "stupid"?), I just don't get this. Do husbands consult these boards? I'm thinking not.
So, Happy Valentine's Day, big hunky husband. Please do not ever get a Pinterest account. I love you.
Wednesday, February 06, 2013
When Stars Align
I'm a little pissed that I spent two weeks carving out valuable time reading Gone Girl, which I shall now rename Damn, girl! I guessed the ending. Well, I narrowed it down to three endings, but somehow I thought Desi's part would be a little more grotesque, as in "Amy gets her just deserts." I had such high hopes for her demise. This could prove to be a disastrous movie, especially if someone like Renee Zellweger gets the part.
But on to happy things...my hubby and I had a great getaway weekend in Chicago. Stayed at a cool place, drank at cool places, ate gourmet food, listened to "the Blues" with college students (who thought we were cool and "No way!!" our ages). I was hungover for 48 hours.
Sunday morning, we walked a terribly cold 4 blocks with a devastating windchill to breakfast. I had one arm holding onto Matt, and one hand covering my chin, which I could no longer feel. We passed at least 4 crazy people running. Bundled they were, looking miserable, I said, "F*#K that." Matt replied, "Idiots. I'm going to eat a stack of pancakes."
And with this, I nuzzled his arm a little closer, knowing he is my perfect mate.
But on to happy things...my hubby and I had a great getaway weekend in Chicago. Stayed at a cool place, drank at cool places, ate gourmet food, listened to "the Blues" with college students (who thought we were cool and "No way!!" our ages). I was hungover for 48 hours.
Sunday morning, we walked a terribly cold 4 blocks with a devastating windchill to breakfast. I had one arm holding onto Matt, and one hand covering my chin, which I could no longer feel. We passed at least 4 crazy people running. Bundled they were, looking miserable, I said, "F*#K that." Matt replied, "Idiots. I'm going to eat a stack of pancakes."
And with this, I nuzzled his arm a little closer, knowing he is my perfect mate.
Tuesday, February 05, 2013
The Lonesome Dove
I've never been a joiner. And with this I mean not even slightly. I adore my friends, and I love hanging out with them, but they know never to ask me to join anything. Except maybe a book club, or a wine group, my guiltless pleasures.
I'm becoming my grandmother, that's what it is. Books, the BBC channel, a heavy sigh when the phone rings. Sam actually asked me if I'd teach him how to knit--knit!!--and I jumped a bit, said, "Why, I don't know how...I don't knit!" Damn it. I'm sure that's just around the corner. (Note to self: Pinterest board.)
I've been dutiful, even industrious, given my nature, making certain that Sam grows up knowing and spending time with people. Real people: not action figures, stuffed animals, or characters in books, but humans. I've met at local parks completely against my will, always the mom who forgot to pack a snack (aren't we just here for, like, 20 minutes?), often the mom who--OMG--hadn't taken a shower yet (at 3:30!).
But this kid is funny. He's never been into "typical" things. He thinks freely, openly...and constantly.
When he was little, we'd meet friends at the Children's Museum, me playing my part, and another other mom would say something like, "So-and-so is really into dinosaurs (as if one might possibly lean over the glass wall and lick crackers right out of her hand). He just loves them, knows all about them, each and every one." I'd reply, "Yeah, dinosaurs are neat - and boy they're big, aren't they? Yep, we learn a lot about dinosaurs."
Not at all.
Pirate swords, daggers and death traps, maybe. The occasional Backyardigans' Super Spy episode, but dinosaurs? Never.
The other day Sam asked if I'd get him a toothpick. I asked why given that it's an old man, not child, thing to use. Got some broccoli in your teeth, do you? He replied, "I'm going to make a poison dart." While I was walking into the kitchen to fetch one, he said, "Oh, and Mom, bring some poison, too."
Today, I began another freelance gig, and while I was (kidding myself) trying to get work done with Sam in the room, he sat behind me, asking, "Are all ninjas dead? I mean, you said that there's really no need for a ninja anymore (after news broke that the Japanese had worked out their civil differences in the 17th century), but I was thinking that if I lived in Japan, maybe I could be a ninja and people would need me to kill their enemies."
What do I even say to this? I blame his dad. He's always wrestling, boxing, farting and teaching him how to punch. I've actually suggested, "Can't you guys just cuddle for a while?" met only by astonished guffaws and giggles about my obvious lack of insight.
Oh, dear god, another club. And damn, would you look at that: membership is closed.
I'm becoming my grandmother, that's what it is. Books, the BBC channel, a heavy sigh when the phone rings. Sam actually asked me if I'd teach him how to knit--knit!!--and I jumped a bit, said, "Why, I don't know how...I don't knit!" Damn it. I'm sure that's just around the corner. (Note to self: Pinterest board.)
I've been dutiful, even industrious, given my nature, making certain that Sam grows up knowing and spending time with people. Real people: not action figures, stuffed animals, or characters in books, but humans. I've met at local parks completely against my will, always the mom who forgot to pack a snack (aren't we just here for, like, 20 minutes?), often the mom who--OMG--hadn't taken a shower yet (at 3:30!).
But this kid is funny. He's never been into "typical" things. He thinks freely, openly...and constantly.
When he was little, we'd meet friends at the Children's Museum, me playing my part, and another other mom would say something like, "So-and-so is really into dinosaurs (as if one might possibly lean over the glass wall and lick crackers right out of her hand). He just loves them, knows all about them, each and every one." I'd reply, "Yeah, dinosaurs are neat - and boy they're big, aren't they? Yep, we learn a lot about dinosaurs."
Not at all.
Pirate swords, daggers and death traps, maybe. The occasional Backyardigans' Super Spy episode, but dinosaurs? Never.
The other day Sam asked if I'd get him a toothpick. I asked why given that it's an old man, not child, thing to use. Got some broccoli in your teeth, do you? He replied, "I'm going to make a poison dart." While I was walking into the kitchen to fetch one, he said, "Oh, and Mom, bring some poison, too."
Today, I began another freelance gig, and while I was (kidding myself) trying to get work done with Sam in the room, he sat behind me, asking, "Are all ninjas dead? I mean, you said that there's really no need for a ninja anymore (after news broke that the Japanese had worked out their civil differences in the 17th century), but I was thinking that if I lived in Japan, maybe I could be a ninja and people would need me to kill their enemies."
What do I even say to this? I blame his dad. He's always wrestling, boxing, farting and teaching him how to punch. I've actually suggested, "Can't you guys just cuddle for a while?" met only by astonished guffaws and giggles about my obvious lack of insight.
Oh, dear god, another club. And damn, would you look at that: membership is closed.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Dog Days
I never asked for this dog and, most certainly, I never asked to be the sole caregiver to this damned dog. At least once a day he runs away. I used to yell, "Waaaaaylon! Come back, Waylon! Come on, boy, come back!"
Now, he's lucky if I shrug. He always turns to look at me shortening in his distance, and I swear I've caught him raising his front paw, giving me the "middle fingernail."
One mile walks take 35 minutes. Runs are a complete hell, and I cannot believe how much pee he saves for these. Literally, he feels that he must whiz on every bush, blade of grass, low hanging pine and mailbox post before
we really get going; but even after we’re running—full speed—he’ll launch me
into the most abrupt, chaotic halt, ripping my arms from their just-warming-up shoulder
sockets.
Car horns blast. Children snicker. People stare. There are two
things in life that make me look ridiculous:
- Mathematics contests.
- Running with my dog.
In other news, I've been planning a romantic, childless get-away for Matt's birfday. I can announce this publicly because I had to tell him that we're going somewhere so he would not book a business trip. He's in for a surprise...since it'll be coming from Groupon. :)
They had this deal: “Overnight in Springfield for two.” Are you kidding me? That’s near Columbus, Indiana, right? Let's not overwhelm him with luxury.
I like that idea about as much as I like people who say "libary."
Surprise, surprise, surprise. It's my specialty.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Devotionals
I've been reading like an old person with spare time lately, pushing myself up the hill of two books a month. I joined another book club, as a I often require a "spotter." Typically book-clubbing has me dragging my heels because 1). No one ever likes what I read and 2). I hate being "assigned" work, but this is a group of hardcore readers; smart and funny, and a few writers, in fact. My last book club had a couple of worms in it, but when one woman--the one who always cried when she told a story about her kids--chose a chick-lit book about friends who made it through breast cancer, raising kids and cheating husbands, I was so "out of there." I mean, I have real friends for all of that, so why would I waste my time stuck in idle?
Our first book was The Book Thief. A clever, sad tale about the holocaust, but the poetic prose began to wear thin, and the author was no Jonathan Safran Foer.
Our second book was Just Kids, by Patti Smith. I devoured this book daily, then regurgitated it each night to feed my husband, saying, "You must read this!" I relived every single chapter (almost acted them out), which means it's a dust collector in our house from here...I couldn't help but give away the punchline. Patti Smith is the Godmother of punk rock, and for those who are thinking, "irreverent behavior and slashed wrists" right now, well, you have it all wrong.
Patti's book won the National Book Award with its historic, raw, honest (well, whoever really knows about that), and poignant account of NYC in the 60s and 70s. My favorite poem of hers is titled Piss Factory, about getting out of South Jersey and the factory-girl life. (My personal Piss Factory comes from walking my bloodhound every day, watching him take a leak on every plant, and wondering where in the hell he stores it.)
Patti's complete devotion to Robert Mapplethorpe, coupled with her endearing muse tendencies, made me love her: great devotion thinks alike. But the utterly engrossing segment of the book was when she and Robert lived at the Chelsea Hotel, amid the getting-there hopefuls, now posthumously famous, and others whose mamas tried to raise them better:
Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungeon
Dee Dee Ramone
Bob Dylan
Janis Joplin
Jimi Hendrix
Arthur Clarke
Allen Ginsberg
William S. Burroughs
Dylan Thomas
Edie Sedgwick
...even Ryan Adams stayed there, for Christ's sake!
The last time I visited New York, I sprinted to the Chelsea (actually, I walked...I was very close). I took photos with all the other bloody touristas, soaked in the culture, and--ever-so-seriously--feared for my life.
And now, the Chelsea is closed to guests. Handfuls of pained residents remain, awaiting their fate, but can anyone relive the past? Just ask Worsdworth, just ask anyone who ever broke up: we cannot.
The Chelsea closing is likely the best thing that will ever happen to the Chelsea, because a more horrible fate would be for my son to read a book someday about the time Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift coexisted there for a while...
Thursday, June 28, 2012
The Post Op
There are a couple of things that can categorically cause divorce. There's the "obvious" stupid (and always quite regrettable) behavior, choosing a paint color for your family room, assembling a grill together, and your child's mole removal. Today, our son had his wee, cute mole removed from his tender face, wherein pandemonium ensued.
I began my day by making a pot of coffee, laying out Sam's "surgery" clothes, throwing his pre-purchased pain medication and my journal in my bag, and then attempting to wake him and his dad. Lord, have mercy - those boys love to sleep.
We made it to the hospital with time to spare (really, this is something), tricked Sam into believing he was on some secret mission where he had to count backwards into a spy mask, and watched him being led into the surgical abyss by a nurse named Jo (who was plenty tan).
He came out wearing colors that fly, eating popsicles and asking when we could "get the heck out of there." He's awesome, mature and, might I add, adorable. If I had a nickel for every nurse who said, "He's so cuuuuute," I'd have 35 cents.
Post Op: (I'm using medical terms here)
* A trip to Bob Evans. Pancakes and sausage gravy, anything you want, sweet boy.
*Puke in the back of my Volvo.
*Daddy saying, "I think I'll go into the office for a while."
*Mommy saying, "Oh, yeah, that's a good idea."
*Sam acting like a crazy person coming off of a bad cocaine habit, mistreating the dog.
*Sam sent to his room for a nap.
*Sam ripping off his surgical tape that was to remain on his stitch for 3-4 weeks.
*Mommy's little freak-out.
*Daddy's workday.
*A trip to CVS.
Remember that television commercial where the sweet host and hostess stand inside the CVS pharmacy folding their arms and smiling as yet another satisfied customer walks home (because there's a CVS on every corner)? Well, that is complete bullshit.
When I arrived at CVS (any old CVS), I stood calmly by the sign that read "Consultation." A couple of pharmacists looked down at me with a look that clearly stated, "Shit, that lady wants a consultation."
I quickly realized that the consultation line was for customers who'd graduated with high honors from the drop-off/pick-up line, and that, in essence, I was a nuisance.
A throaty voice asked, "Do you have a question?"
I replied, "Um, yes, in fact, I do have a question," followed by the details of my terrible horrible no good very bad day (omitting the pot of coffee).
Frog lady climbed off her lily pad into aisle 7A, where you can buy surgical tape, although she had NO IDEA what kind of tape I needed (one that applies directly to wounds...no, no...it seems quite simple), and so I ended my afternoon with bandage dots, some Bacitracin and a jug of hydrogen peroxide.
And, unlike some married couples who might end their day with the wife peevishly answering questions with one-word responses--simultaneously and aggressively brushing her teeth--while her worn-out husband opts to watch Simpson reruns, we made it through unscathed.
All is well, and we hope for Sam's unfaltering recovery.
I began my day by making a pot of coffee, laying out Sam's "surgery" clothes, throwing his pre-purchased pain medication and my journal in my bag, and then attempting to wake him and his dad. Lord, have mercy - those boys love to sleep.
We made it to the hospital with time to spare (really, this is something), tricked Sam into believing he was on some secret mission where he had to count backwards into a spy mask, and watched him being led into the surgical abyss by a nurse named Jo (who was plenty tan).
He came out wearing colors that fly, eating popsicles and asking when we could "get the heck out of there." He's awesome, mature and, might I add, adorable. If I had a nickel for every nurse who said, "He's so cuuuuute," I'd have 35 cents.
Post Op: (I'm using medical terms here)
* A trip to Bob Evans. Pancakes and sausage gravy, anything you want, sweet boy.
*Puke in the back of my Volvo.
*Daddy saying, "I think I'll go into the office for a while."
*Mommy saying, "Oh, yeah, that's a good idea."
*Sam acting like a crazy person coming off of a bad cocaine habit, mistreating the dog.
*Sam sent to his room for a nap.
*Sam ripping off his surgical tape that was to remain on his stitch for 3-4 weeks.
*Mommy's little freak-out.
*Daddy's workday.
*A trip to CVS.
Remember that television commercial where the sweet host and hostess stand inside the CVS pharmacy folding their arms and smiling as yet another satisfied customer walks home (because there's a CVS on every corner)? Well, that is complete bullshit.
When I arrived at CVS (any old CVS), I stood calmly by the sign that read "Consultation." A couple of pharmacists looked down at me with a look that clearly stated, "Shit, that lady wants a consultation."
I quickly realized that the consultation line was for customers who'd graduated with high honors from the drop-off/pick-up line, and that, in essence, I was a nuisance.
A throaty voice asked, "Do you have a question?"
I replied, "Um, yes, in fact, I do have a question," followed by the details of my terrible horrible no good very bad day (omitting the pot of coffee).
Frog lady climbed off her lily pad into aisle 7A, where you can buy surgical tape, although she had NO IDEA what kind of tape I needed (one that applies directly to wounds...no, no...it seems quite simple), and so I ended my afternoon with bandage dots, some Bacitracin and a jug of hydrogen peroxide.
And, unlike some married couples who might end their day with the wife peevishly answering questions with one-word responses--simultaneously and aggressively brushing her teeth--while her worn-out husband opts to watch Simpson reruns, we made it through unscathed.
All is well, and we hope for Sam's unfaltering recovery.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
That Bugs
It probably happens to you. Some say it's no big deal, and perhaps it isn't, but when someone "friend requests" you and you have no idea who they are, what do you do?
Facebook is stuck in my craw lately.
Going to a high school of 4,000, I ran into a lot of people. That doesn't mean we spoke. Following it up with I.U., I certainly met--or at least saw--a lot of faces from Indy (Kokomo, Greenwood and Columbus don't count) and "Chicago" (most kids in college who said they were from Chicago were actually from Northern IN, or a Chicago suburb, pop. 12,000).
In today's world I get weekly friend-requests from unfamiliar people. Perhaps I knew them when...but I don't know them now. Facebook will claim that we have 15 or 16 mutual friends, but when I refer to the list, I usually can't remember those people, either. Do I ignore the request? Should I have ignored the other requests? Do I accept the friend request to push my numbers up so that it seems like I know a lot more people that I really don't know? Do I want to see photos of kids whose parents I can't remember? Do I care?
Oh shit, wait: I don't really care.
My husband is a master of snubbing people he can't remember, never really liked, or wants to rid from life. I gasp: Won't that crush their delicate feelings? and he replies, "So what?"
So, because of my terrible memory for faces and names, and because it feels like strangers going through my closets, I'm gonna have to let the snubbing begin. In advance, I apologize.
I feel lighter already. One to go.
Facebook went public this week and their stock isn't selling well: I'll tell you why. It's because of people who put things like this on their status update:
Please pray for us.
For days I pray. I pray and pray and pray; meanwhile, I'm messaging that person (who I really can't remember): What's wrong? Who am I praying for? I need more details!
No response.
By this time, hundreds of people have posted things like, "I'm so sorry!" or "Let me know how I can help!" and I'm still shrugging my shoulders asking, "What the hell happened? And...who are you? Did we have a class together?
Shit.
A few days later a new post appears:
Thank you for all of the prayers and support. We're on our road to recovery.
with no...freaking...explanation.
From now on people of this nature will be deleted from my beloved book. The people I don't know can go bother someone else with whom they maybe had French class (although I skipped that class a lot, which could help explain a lot of this mess...).
Facebook is stuck in my craw lately.
Going to a high school of 4,000, I ran into a lot of people. That doesn't mean we spoke. Following it up with I.U., I certainly met--or at least saw--a lot of faces from Indy (Kokomo, Greenwood and Columbus don't count) and "Chicago" (most kids in college who said they were from Chicago were actually from Northern IN, or a Chicago suburb, pop. 12,000).
In today's world I get weekly friend-requests from unfamiliar people. Perhaps I knew them when...but I don't know them now. Facebook will claim that we have 15 or 16 mutual friends, but when I refer to the list, I usually can't remember those people, either. Do I ignore the request? Should I have ignored the other requests? Do I accept the friend request to push my numbers up so that it seems like I know a lot more people that I really don't know? Do I want to see photos of kids whose parents I can't remember? Do I care?
Oh shit, wait: I don't really care.
My husband is a master of snubbing people he can't remember, never really liked, or wants to rid from life. I gasp: Won't that crush their delicate feelings? and he replies, "So what?"
So, because of my terrible memory for faces and names, and because it feels like strangers going through my closets, I'm gonna have to let the snubbing begin. In advance, I apologize.
I feel lighter already. One to go.
Facebook went public this week and their stock isn't selling well: I'll tell you why. It's because of people who put things like this on their status update:
Please pray for us.
For days I pray. I pray and pray and pray; meanwhile, I'm messaging that person (who I really can't remember): What's wrong? Who am I praying for? I need more details!
No response.
By this time, hundreds of people have posted things like, "I'm so sorry!" or "Let me know how I can help!" and I'm still shrugging my shoulders asking, "What the hell happened? And...who are you? Did we have a class together?
Shit.
A few days later a new post appears:
Thank you for all of the prayers and support. We're on our road to recovery.
with no...freaking...explanation.
From now on people of this nature will be deleted from my beloved book. The people I don't know can go bother someone else with whom they maybe had French class (although I skipped that class a lot, which could help explain a lot of this mess...).
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
A Breath of Fresh Air
If my blog were an infant strapped inside a hot car while I ran into the grocery for a couple of things, I'd be arrested.
The rains have let loose, and there are ants inside my mailbox. I'll give them 48 hours to find new digs or they're going to have an unmemorable spring.
As I snack on green bean crisps (which Sam says are "totally gross") and sip wine, I reflect on recent happenings, spectacles and things that made me laugh really hard.
I'll begin with the latter. Matt used a jackhammer over the weekend to take out our front, God-awful-ugly sidewalk. Stomach-aching laughter....but cute, dat. I couldn't be near him, truth be told, due to the continuous giggling. Instead, I dug a new line around the house for the flower beds, ripping out grass and thick dirt with my bare, farm-raised hands. I love back-breaking work. Matt left a jagged pile of cement debris, and returned the jackhammer to the store. We both relaxed with a glass of water and a jar of Aleve.
Today, Sam and I started picking up the pile of rubble. We looked like a chain gang out there mindlessly tossing rocks into buckets. Some neighbors passed by with their dog, snickering in that we've-already-finished-our-work tone, "Having fun?" Sam responded by shouting, "We're picking up rocks. My dad isn't really a good worker." Oh my God, I laughed so damned hard.
As for spectacles, Matt and I saw Dwight Yoakam at the Palladium, one of the most fru-fru venues on the planet, and a fight broke out. In Carmel, Indiana. At the Palladium. Penny loafers and tassled leather shoes were flying everywhere. The Republican Party had never seen such nonsense in their lives! It was pretty brilliant. Well done, drunk assholes.
And, the haps. Sam began Little League, and he's doing quite well. Seems he's got a little 'Brooks' in his blood (my nephews are astonishingly good at baseball). He's sooooo into it, sleeps with his glove, wears his uniform day and night, and when other kids mess around on the field, Sam looks at them like, "Dude, we're in the middle of something here..."
He's a lefty, and the kid can hit. His team is the Boston Red Socks, unfortunately, but luckily he looks divine in red. The practices and games have been nothing short of hell frozen over here in the Midwest, due to erratic weather behavior, but it's fun to see him participating, fielding some grounders, twirling when he's bored.
And lastly, we adopted a 5-yr-old bloodhound/coonhound mix from the Indy Humane Society. It was that or a pitbull, but Matt said that all pitbulls should be eradicated from Earth, and I second that emotion. Our dog is awesome, and I love hearing Sam say, "Here boy...here good, good, good, good boy..." Aww. He came with the name Waylon, but I've taken to calling him Longfellow.
When we're away, Longfellow whines for us. Sam calls it squeaking. We pull into the garage and Sam says, "I'm sure my dog has been squeaking for me all day," and then begins calling "Here good, good boy..." This kid! This sweetheart kid. Always amazing me...
Until next time, little bloggey, rest well. I'll keep the window cracked for you.
The rains have let loose, and there are ants inside my mailbox. I'll give them 48 hours to find new digs or they're going to have an unmemorable spring.
As I snack on green bean crisps (which Sam says are "totally gross") and sip wine, I reflect on recent happenings, spectacles and things that made me laugh really hard.
I'll begin with the latter. Matt used a jackhammer over the weekend to take out our front, God-awful-ugly sidewalk. Stomach-aching laughter....but cute, dat. I couldn't be near him, truth be told, due to the continuous giggling. Instead, I dug a new line around the house for the flower beds, ripping out grass and thick dirt with my bare, farm-raised hands. I love back-breaking work. Matt left a jagged pile of cement debris, and returned the jackhammer to the store. We both relaxed with a glass of water and a jar of Aleve.
Today, Sam and I started picking up the pile of rubble. We looked like a chain gang out there mindlessly tossing rocks into buckets. Some neighbors passed by with their dog, snickering in that we've-already-finished-our-work tone, "Having fun?" Sam responded by shouting, "We're picking up rocks. My dad isn't really a good worker." Oh my God, I laughed so damned hard.
As for spectacles, Matt and I saw Dwight Yoakam at the Palladium, one of the most fru-fru venues on the planet, and a fight broke out. In Carmel, Indiana. At the Palladium. Penny loafers and tassled leather shoes were flying everywhere. The Republican Party had never seen such nonsense in their lives! It was pretty brilliant. Well done, drunk assholes.
And, the haps. Sam began Little League, and he's doing quite well. Seems he's got a little 'Brooks' in his blood (my nephews are astonishingly good at baseball). He's sooooo into it, sleeps with his glove, wears his uniform day and night, and when other kids mess around on the field, Sam looks at them like, "Dude, we're in the middle of something here..."
He's a lefty, and the kid can hit. His team is the Boston Red Socks, unfortunately, but luckily he looks divine in red. The practices and games have been nothing short of hell frozen over here in the Midwest, due to erratic weather behavior, but it's fun to see him participating, fielding some grounders, twirling when he's bored.
And lastly, we adopted a 5-yr-old bloodhound/coonhound mix from the Indy Humane Society. It was that or a pitbull, but Matt said that all pitbulls should be eradicated from Earth, and I second that emotion. Our dog is awesome, and I love hearing Sam say, "Here boy...here good, good, good, good boy..." Aww. He came with the name Waylon, but I've taken to calling him Longfellow.
When we're away, Longfellow whines for us. Sam calls it squeaking. We pull into the garage and Sam says, "I'm sure my dog has been squeaking for me all day," and then begins calling "Here good, good boy..." This kid! This sweetheart kid. Always amazing me...
Until next time, little bloggey, rest well. I'll keep the window cracked for you.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Chick Stuff
I'm baking a three-layer birthday cake for my mom today: red velvet, Devil's food and classic yellow. I've come up with the frosting design (didn't have to consult Pinterest), and it's baking now, as I write.
"Is she making these from scratch?" you might be asking. Oh, hell no.
Before Matt left for the office, he said, "Make sure it's moist. Cook it five minutes less than it calls for. Don't forget to add plenty of oil...so it's moist. And water, to make it moist."
Believe it or not, this is Matt's love language for "You're pretty creative, but a great cook you ain't."
{Digression: I finished reading The Help this week, and I've been talking like a 1960s southern, black maid all week. This is not a racist comment, as they are now heroines of mine! I'm gone have to read that book again, I liked it so well.}
My cooking has true moments of beauty, but traditionally, and I blame my English/German heritage on this, it's quite bland. And I don't follow directions. Ever.
My friend Emily writes this wonderful blog, photographing all that she cooks, and it inspires me. She's a stay-at-home mom, too, with THREE kids, and she homeschools one of them. AND she's a great cook. It's really sickening, but I love her.
Part of my problem is planning. I never go in for the kill on this. I made an Italian bake the other night, hurrying through it because I started around 5:00 p.m., and I realized that I'd forgotten to add the red wine, the KEY ingredient. When it came out of the oven, fully cooked and bland as hell, I wondered if I added the wine then, pouring a half-cup or so over cooked pasta, maybe no one would notice. A few minutes later, Matt walked in. I sprinkled a bunch of seasoned pepper on it (my best friend), and called Sam to dinner.
We sat down to eat, and I said, "I tasted it. It's OK." Matt asked, "Is it bland?" I couldn't look him in the eyes, I just nodded.
Sometimes, I like to cloak the truth in a "I made a healthier version than the recipe called for" attempt. I pretend that this works for me.
Matt and Sam are troopers. They know that deep down, cooking isn't really my thing. Just like Chick TV, Chick Lit and, basically, mindless-chick-stuff aren't my things.
Post Script:
The Devil's food looks moist; the red velvet crept out of the pan and made a mess because I think it was too hot; there's classic yellow batter all over the kitchen floor. The phone rang 5 times from the start of this blog to now. If it weren't for my editing job, and need to talk to publicity people, I'd blow up the phone. At least I do not have the E! channel on in the background...
"Is she making these from scratch?" you might be asking. Oh, hell no.
Before Matt left for the office, he said, "Make sure it's moist. Cook it five minutes less than it calls for. Don't forget to add plenty of oil...so it's moist. And water, to make it moist."
Believe it or not, this is Matt's love language for "You're pretty creative, but a great cook you ain't."
{Digression: I finished reading The Help this week, and I've been talking like a 1960s southern, black maid all week. This is not a racist comment, as they are now heroines of mine! I'm gone have to read that book again, I liked it so well.}
My cooking has true moments of beauty, but traditionally, and I blame my English/German heritage on this, it's quite bland. And I don't follow directions. Ever.
My friend Emily writes this wonderful blog, photographing all that she cooks, and it inspires me. She's a stay-at-home mom, too, with THREE kids, and she homeschools one of them. AND she's a great cook. It's really sickening, but I love her.
Part of my problem is planning. I never go in for the kill on this. I made an Italian bake the other night, hurrying through it because I started around 5:00 p.m., and I realized that I'd forgotten to add the red wine, the KEY ingredient. When it came out of the oven, fully cooked and bland as hell, I wondered if I added the wine then, pouring a half-cup or so over cooked pasta, maybe no one would notice. A few minutes later, Matt walked in. I sprinkled a bunch of seasoned pepper on it (my best friend), and called Sam to dinner.
We sat down to eat, and I said, "I tasted it. It's OK." Matt asked, "Is it bland?" I couldn't look him in the eyes, I just nodded.
Sometimes, I like to cloak the truth in a "I made a healthier version than the recipe called for" attempt. I pretend that this works for me.
Matt and Sam are troopers. They know that deep down, cooking isn't really my thing. Just like Chick TV, Chick Lit and, basically, mindless-chick-stuff aren't my things.
Post Script:
The Devil's food looks moist; the red velvet crept out of the pan and made a mess because I think it was too hot; there's classic yellow batter all over the kitchen floor. The phone rang 5 times from the start of this blog to now. If it weren't for my editing job, and need to talk to publicity people, I'd blow up the phone. At least I do not have the E! channel on in the background...
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