The Things We Leave Behind

My dad died a couple of weeks ago, it's been a horrible and long road this year. He is done suffering and out of pain, we will miss him forever but we know it was time to go.  I feel like I should be more grief stricken at losing him, but I keep thinking about the fact that he was supposed to die a long time ago.  He had a massive heart attack in 1990 that should have killed him at the age of 48 but it didn't.  We got 25 bonus years and he got to see all the things he wanted to see, all four of his daughters grown and married to good men, all eleven of his grandchildren born and all old enough to have good solid memories of him and even two great grandchildren.  He was never "supposed" to see any of it but he beat the hell out the odds.  How sad can we be, knowing he got 25 extra years with us?  I'm sure I'm going to crumble at some point, but for now, it's okay.
We also lost mom this year, although she is still technically alive, her Alzheimer's has taken her from us with even less pity than death. I wish she was dead. There, I said it. Sometimes I feel like a horrible person for thinking, much less saying that thought out loud, but most days I don't because death is kinder than this disease.

We've spent the past couple of months getting their house ready to sell, another death like loss.  My parents bought that house in 1972, I was four years old and have only vague, gauzy memories of living anywhere else.  So many great and notable things that happened to me from the age of four are centered on that house.

2258

Three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a spooky basement and that incredible front porch were the center of my world. Growing up in the 1970s and 80s in that neighborhood was a wonderful thing.  Tons of kids and the St. Paul Seminary campus across the street was basically an extension of our own yards. The Mississippi river was just a couple of blocks away and we were walking distance to Davanni's for pizza or Mr. Orth's tiny little store for candy (don't tell mom we crossed Cretin Ave and I'll buy you some).  The families in our corner of the world were prolific, very few had only one or two kids, the rest had at least four, Us, Cheneys, Nichols, Faricys, Brandts, Vellengas, Hoffmans, Gassmans, Hannigans, Lepaks, Mauns...the list was seemingly endless and there was little chance you wouldn't find someone to play with, sometimes more than you wanted.  Games of Ditch and Spider went on for hours into the summer evenings, kids spread all over "the Sem" and our parents frequently congregating on one of the facing front porches to theoretically keep an eye on us.  

My dad hung a rope swing on a huge cottonwood tree directly across from our house that quickly became a legendary thing.  The knot took on a life of its own with the frequent additions of old t shirts, torn bath towels and the like until it was the size of a small child and very comfortable on the hundreds of butts that gave it purpose.  The Nichols boys next door could usually be counted on for a heart stopping, thrilling push that sent you soaring over the street, a moment both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.  My sister Emily was just a tiny little thing, maybe four or so, and was completely fearless on that thing, much to my mother's eternal horror.  An "around the world" push took you in a huge circle, occasionally swinging just far enough to touch the trunk of the tree as you went past, an overzealous push could send you painfully bouncing off the trunk like a ball in a pinball machine but you'd take it like a man.  A true test of your kid credit was when one of your pals would grab your ankles and spin you as fast as they could.  The trick was keeping your legs locked around the rope and a light lunch. The swing lasted until St. Thomas College bought the Seminary campus and the grounds crew began to wage war on us neighborhood kids.  It took a lot of concentrated effort and I'm betting a whole lot of swearing to get rid of that swing, culminating in a very memorable day when the groundskeeper tied it to the bumper of his pickup truck in an attempt to make the rope snap.  It didn't break, but both the bough of the tree and his bumper did.  Served him right, the fun killing rat bastard.

The process of clearing out a lifetime's of stuff is not entirely heartbreaking, although heartbreak is certainly one component.  Lots of feelings pile on, you have sadness, of course, but there are also moments of fondness, a lot of happy memories bubble to the surface and we found plenty to puzzle over, more than we imagined. 

My family is quirky, to say the least. We found the mundane, usual kind of stuff you'd expect from 40 plus years, four kids and eleven grandchildren, but then we started to find the weird stuff, the unexpected stuff and then the downright mysterious.

The usual stuff included boxes upon boxes of photographs, scrapbooks and a crap ton of Christmas decor.  My mother hosted all the holiday dinners and had a prodigious amount of fine china (Lenox with a 14K gold rim), stemware (Waterford, Tramore pattern) and at least three full silver service sets.  My mother used to say she was going to smash all the Waterford and the china before she died so we wouldn't fight over it until I informed her that none of us is classy enough to own it except for my oldest sister, Jenny.  We found thousands of address labels from Easter Seals and the March of Dimes, decks of playing cards, cloth napkins for every season and, inexplicably, hundreds of greeting cards for any and all occasions.  They had more magazine subscriptions than they could possibly have ever read in a month and I suspect those were the result of my father's soft heart and a schoolkid with a fundraising packet.  There was a lot of evidence of the many, many holidays hosted at that house, shown in the sheer volume of stray, forgotten serving dishes and baking pans found in the back of the kitchen cupboards.  The basement yielded a treasure trove of newspapers from as far back as the  killing of Dillinger, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon and 9/11.  He saved every newspaper from the Grand Forks flood of 1997, as it affected me and my family directly.  He had pennant sets, buttons and papers from both of the Minnesota Twins World Series wins, all carefully saved in clear plastic totes.  I have no idea what he meant to do with the Coca Cola Christmas six pack bottle sets he had accumulated, but there were decades worth down there.  Jars of nails, screws, bolts, nuts and washers were meticulously arranged on the shelves alongside oddities like the broken propellers from the model planes we used to fly together.  There were a few pieces of old furniture sitting along the wall, partially hiding the seven foot long, fully functional slide rule that he got from his brother one birthday. Emily and I found truly the only thing in the house I was really hoping to find, the ugliest mugs known to mankind.  Carved wooden beer mugs that I remember vividly from my youth. I hadn't seen them for many, many years and they turned up in the very back of the very bottom shelf in the cabinet behind the dining room door.  At first we only found two, so we decided we just wouldn't tell the other two sisters we had found them but the other two turned up a while later.  I was absolutely overjoyed that we could each have one.

They're Glorious!

Mom had all of our wedding dresses, along with my paternal grandmother's, a bridesmaid dress from her sister's wedding and a mystery white dress no one could identify.  Our baby books were all there, Jenny's (the oldest) faithfully filled in almost every page, Melissa's (number 2) pretty well filled in for the first three or so years, mine (number 3) has some stuff in it, but mostly abandoned by about the first birthday and Emily (number 4) MIGHT have her name filled in and hospital tag stuck in the pages somewhere.  A testament to good intentions swallowed whole by the reality of having four kids.

That's really what's in here

A fine vintage

Personally, I think the best thing unearthed was the jar containing my great grandmother Minnie's gallstones (a whole damn lot of them, poor woman), bottled in July of 1934.  Seriously, not even kidding.

I am so lucky to come from a family that not only appreciates the absurd but celebrates it.  We seek out the odd, relish the weird and give it a place of honor in our lives. Why would you do anything but?  I cannot wait for the day that someone notices that strange little jar on the shelf in the living room and picks it up to take a better look and is either grossed out or completely delighted by it.  My kids better take note of all my weird stuff, that's their inheritance, right there.

We've also discovered two very strange and poignant mysteries. The first contained within a nondescript manila envelope, one of many in an old trunk in what used to be my bedroom but has been a tv room/computer room/sunroom ever since I moved out.  There were several in the truck, innocuously labeled "DFL", "SCHOOL", "MISC" and one marked "ADOPTION".  Emily and I both paused for a long moment until I turned to her and said "See? I always told you you were adopted."  She still doesn't think it's funny, trust me, it is.  Along with a battered and well-loved copy of "The Best Loved Doll" was a sheaf of paperwork, completely filled out and notarized (by dad's brother Joe) for the adoption of an eight month old Korean baby girl.  They were one signature away from this adoption and never filed the paperwork.  We asked both Aunt Carol (Joe's wife) and my mom's sisters and not one of them knew anything about it.  My parents had never even mentioned to possibility of adoption to anyone, not their closest relatives or, upon further investigation, their closest friends.  I think I will always wonder what became of that child, my almost sister.

The other, even more mystifying item wasn't found until after my father died.  Carefully tucked behind the pictures of his wife, daughters and grandchildren were two other photographs, small black and white photos of a strange woman none of us had ever seen before, taken in the summer of 1958.  That's not even the most mysterious thing about them:

The fact that they're mugshots set us back on our heels a bit.  Dad would have been just a month shy of seventeen in July of 1958 and as far as we knew, hadn't been to Florida yet.  She doesn't resemble anyone we know, he never spoke of a friend in prison but carried these photos in his wallet until the day he died. I doubt we will ever know this particular story.

Finding these two mysteries made me realize that as well as I thought I knew them, my parents had secrets they kept their whole lives.  They're entitled to their secrets, aren't we all?  Maybe we shouldn't try to figure these things out, but that goes against out very nature.  It certainly puts an interesting light on my boring old parents...yeah, I can't say that with anything even close to a straight face.

Someday, I'll tell you all about them.

I Have No Idea What I'm Doing

Therapy is a weird thing.  The very concept is pretty strange if you really think about it, you pick a stranger seemingly at random, pour out your heart, soul and deepest secrets and expect them to have the solutions. I have to wonder how it all began.  Was there just that one guy in the village that had all the good advice?  Did one woman in the sewing circle seem to have all the answers? Does it go further back than that?  Was there a talking circle around the fire in the Neanderthal cave? Whoever has the bone has the floor? When did it evolve into an actual thing?

They died hugging it out, apparently.

      With all the mayhem, uncertainty and emotional upheaval of my mother's diagnosis, I realized I was holding on to some crap that I need to either let go of or learn to live with.  I have chosen to let go of the old stuff, mainly because trying to have it out with an Alzheimer's patient is unnecessarily cruel and completely unproductive. I decided to give the idea of "talking to a professional" a whirl.  While I have never sought therapy for myself, I did take my younger son when he was being bullied and saw real benefits come from the process.  I have always questioned those people you hear about saying something along the lines of "Oh, I love my therapist, they're the best in their field!  I've been going to him/her three times a week for the past twenty years!"  How can they be the best if you still need that much therapy?  Twenty years and you're still a non functional puddle on the floor?  I think you need to reassess what you consider progress. I am not making fun of anyone, before anyone gets outraged, I just tend to be result oriented and could never accept an apparent ongoing, never ending process as a good thing.

My own search for a therapist was not entirely easy, I evidently live in a town comprised entirely of crazy people as the first three therapists recommended as good fits for me were unavailable for months or unable to take on new clients.  I finally get an appointment with one and happened to mention the name of my intended to a friend that knows me extremely well who laughed heartily and told me to cancel that appointment and find someone else. Puzzled, I asked why and she said "Okay, remember that teacher from Harry Potter?  The one who wore all pink and had the kitten pictures all over the place?" I asked, incredulously, if she was referring to Dolores Umbridge, and she told me to imagine her with a bible in her hand.  I cancelled immediately and came up with a short checklist that my future head doctor was going to have to fulfill.

Since she's not available.

I'm not super anal or anything, I just really didn't want to waste a lot of time trying to find a good fit.  This going for help thing is a huge step for me, I usually tend to face the shitty stuff head on so I can get it over with  as soon as I can.  A false start or two would have simply driven the idea of therapy completely into the dumpster so I needed to find someone at least sort of on my wavelength from the outset.  My list of requirements was short and to the point.

• I do not need to hear "It's part of God's plan." or "God doesn't give us more than we can handle." Both of those phrases are banal at best and rage inducing for someone like me.
• You need to think "Monty Python and The Holy Grail" is hilarious. Being able to insert quotes from it into a therapy session will win my trust completely.
• You must not be offended if, when angry or highly emotional, I use "Fuck" like a comma.

Seriously

  Made a few calls, confounded a couple of receptionists and was about ready to bag the whole idea until I hit the last number on the list.  I hit the receptionist with the three bullet points and after a long pause, she said "I think Dr. W______ will be a good fit for you." In our first meeting, I mentioned this to  Dr. W_____ and he looked a little nonplussed, he had no idea what I was talking about so I told him what my requirements were.  He thought for a quick minute and laughed, "Yeah, she knows me pretty well, then."  I think I'm going to like this guy.

We're three months in at this point and I'm not entirely sure what the hell we're doing.  I haven't had any "a-ha" moments, nothing that's felt like breakthrough of any sort, and I haven't told him anything I haven't been able to talk to my husband, my sisters or my best friends about.  The closest we've gotten to anything that even felt like what I thought therapy was going to be like was when he observed that while I get teary from time to time, I don't seem to let myself full on cry.  That stayed with me for a couple of days, then I had a huge crying jag and all questions were answered.  I told him the next time I went that I don't usually cry for a few reasons:

1. The Hangover - headache and sore throat for the whole next day and sensitive eyes for two whole days afterwards.
2. If the situation is bad enough that I'm crying about it, there is a lot of shit that needs to get done, immediately.
3. Mascara

Question answered and no real emotional scarring or blockage was the reason, nothing from my deep, dark past was a factor, dammit.  I am realizing that maybe I'm in better shape than I thought, or at least I have good enough support in my life that therapy isn't really necessary.  My beloved knows all the ins, outs and players in the family; my sisters are right there with me the whole way and one of my best friends is dealing with her own crazy parent situation while the other has nothing like this going on.  I seem to have the bases well covered so I'm wondering what I'm doing with this guy.  He's really nice, I'm sure he knows his stuff and I even got him to drop an F bomb last time, so maybe my work here is done.

Or. I actually am completely off my rocker and just think I'm not crazy and everyone is just too nice to say anything.

Back From The Not Quite Dead

It has been a frightfully long time since I've written a word. There are lots of reasons, a dead laptop, a Pinterest obsession, two ailing parents and many other life gets in the way excuses I could make. I let myself drift away from this thing I love to do, I'm not even sure why. Coming back to actively writing feels necessary right now, I have missed expressing myself this way, I find myself happier when I write and I need to keep my brain active. I feel terribly rusty right now and I promise to get my shit together sooner than later.

My mother has recently been diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer's disease and that is scaring the crap out of me. The idea of getting ill, while scary, has always seemed beatable, or at least, manageable.  This is not something you can beat and can barely be managed.  For the first time in my life, we are powerless.  I have never before been unable to see a way to fix or at least live with anything that has popped up in my path.  I'm a "pull up your socks and keep going" kind of person when adversity strikes.  I'm at a loss right now.  It's uncomfortable and pisses me off.

I know where it will end, I know that someday, and sooner than I wish, I will lose both of my parents.  I would love to fool myself into thinking I'll be prepared when that day comes, but I don't really believe that is ever the case.  I have been unprepared for losing them before they actually died.  That is how this feels and I have to figure out how to grieve for someone who isn't dead.  The people I remember, the parents of my childhood are gone already, replaced by people I feel I hardly know.  There is anger on all sides, there is sadness and grief and so many bad and negative feelings that it would be so easy to succumb and let those feelings be all that is left.  I admit to a feeling of dread when the phone rings and my parents' number appears, I don't want to talk to these relative strangers who repeat everything and remember nothing and seem almost robotic, I want to talk to my mom and dad. I miss who they used to be, while not perfect, at least I knew them.

If any good has come from this, it is the knowledge that I can and always will be able to count on my family, crisis mode or not.  I am the out of town daughter, my three sisters all live within 20 miles of my parents so they are constantly on call.  During the good times, I keenly feel the sucky part of being away.  I would hear about gatherings that I missed and be a little sad and jealous that I was missing out.  Now, the feeling is very different because while I wish I was there to help and do my share, I will also, ashamedly admit to being glad for the 300 mile bubble that separates me from the frequent madness that has started to consume the situation.  I have realized that my sisters are incredible women who can handle anything that's getting tossed their way.  I have never in my life loved or admired them more than I do right now. They are strong, smart, capable and beautiful souls that leave me awestruck on a regular basis.  These women who drove me crazy, took my stuff, bossed me around and just generally annoyed me my entire childhood are the best people I know. You should be jealous because they're my sisters and not yours.

                                          Shut up, we're gorgeous.

I am lucky to come from a family that loves family, not just my sisters that are incredible, but our husbands have been just as wonderfully supportive and are feeling this almost as deeply as we are.  Our children have tolerated a lot of disruption and weirdness, they know their moms are sad and worried.  Family goes so much deeper than just holiday get togethers and occasional greetings, it's about being there when you're needed.  I have cousins that are just as remarkable as you can imagine who have not simply offered help, but rolled up their sleeves and gotten tired and dirty in actually helping.  These are the people who will save us from letting things get too dark and sad.  They are my tribe, they are my people, they are the best this world has for me.

                                               There they are.

I promise not to be too maudlin and sentimental from here on out, but it may creep in from time to time.  There's still a lot of silly in me, I just needed to lance this first.

It's Kind Of A Thing

A guy came into my store yesterday and made a rather curious declaration, "People around here are kind of strange.". I knew straight away he was not from this neck of the woods, the accent placed him far, far south of Minnesota.  Privately, I agreed with the guy, but then people are strange everywhere, right?  I asked what he meant by strange, wondering if he had perhaps run across some of our fair town's more colorful citizens.  He said he'd been in the area for a few days and couldn't get over how nice people have been.  He was crossing the street and got a little paranoid when a car stopped, thinking he was about to have a COPS moment, but the driver was simply stopping to let him cross the street. A lady at the laundromat asked him if he wanted to use the remainder of her small box of detergent as she didn't want to take that little bit home. People he doesn't know said hi to him in the grocery store and gave that little wave while driving.  The guy at the gas station greeted him like a regular customer on his second visit.  After his recitation, the poor fella looked a little wild eyed, as if he had been plopped down in Stepford and wasn't sure if he was next.  He said he's from Oklahoma and people just aren't that pleasant down there.  I assured him this wasn't an area controlled by a cult and no one had been body snatched, and what he was experiencing is simply what's referred to as "Minnesota nice".



It's funny that niceness is rare enough that it's odd, commented on and even labelled as a quirk.  It got me thinking about the whole "Minnesota nice" thing and I realized that it's a real thing.  We ARE nice people, not just the country or small town folks, but the Minneapolitans, Saint Paulites and the Duluthians as well.  We say hello to people we don't know, or at least make eye contact accompanied by a half smile or head nod.  We give up seats on crowded buses, we hold doors open and tend treat wait staff like actual human beings. We chat with strangers when we're all stuck waiting in line, we help when we someone trying to lift something heavy, we push cars out of snowbanks and put our carts away in the Kart Korral at the store.  We say please and thank you, and when we say "have a nice day" we genuinely hope you do.  "Can I help you" isn't just part of the script, we actually want to help.  Louie Anderson had a funny bit about Minnesota nice and four way stop signs that brings a smile to my face every time I encounter four cars at the four way.  He talked about the stages of the Minnesota four way stop:
1. We all smile at each other and wait for someone else to go.
2. We all wave for the guy across from us to go.
3. Everyone starts to go.
4. Repeat steps 1 and 2
5. "No no, I'll back up, you go."
6. One brave soul goes for it, breaking the stalemate and setting the others free.





 I think Minnesota nice comes from the fact that once upon a time, we truly had to rely on each other to make it. Whoever the first settlers of our fair state were, I am reasonably sure they did not settle here in January.  My bet is they showed up sometime in May and thought they had found the perfect climate.  Imagine their surprise that first December, but which time they were completely screwed and couldn't leave.  They had to help each other out, share resources and make sure the guy on the next farm was still around come spring.  Our forebears had to, literally and figuratively, huddle together to make it through.  I think some of that mindset still remains.  We see it every blizzard season in the neighbor with the nice snow blower who does the whole block.  We see it in the college guys who roam the streets looking for cars to push out of snowbanks.  We see it in the cup of coffee offered to the mail carrier as they struggle through waist high drifts.  It shows every summer on the lakes and in the parks that we flock to for as many days as we can because we know what's just around the corner.  We have the shared experience of coming out of hibernation every spring, happy to each other after the long, dark months.  We compare blizzard stories, we admire towering piles of snow that will occupy the end of driveways until May and we are glad to see everyone made it through the winter.  Minnesota nice started simply because our settler ancestors were so damn glad to see everyone made it through the winter, they just couldn't be mean to each other.
 
Yeah, something like that.


It's sometimes said mockingly, "Minnesota nice", but it's one of the best things about living here.  As Frank Burns famously said "It's nice to be nice to the nice."  I'm happy to be from a place that's known for being nice, assholes are overrated.

A Few Things To Know

I see a lot of "Rules for dating my daughter" essays out there, most of them usually involve guns or God or ridiculous, fluffy sweet bullshit. There aren't as many about dating our sons, maybe because we see girls of dating age as fragile, innocent creatures and boys are only after that one thing.  What a load a crap, this notion that boys aren't as emotionally vulnerable and girls can't look out for themselves.  We still have such a long way to go on the whole equality thing, don't we?  In the spirit of equality, here is my take on the dating rules.

If You Plan On Dating My Son, Know These Things

1. He's not a doormat because he treats you well.

He treats you well because that's how he is expected to treat you and he knows that if his father and I find out otherwise, the wrath of God will look like a love fest by comparison. Being a gentleman does not translate to being a pussy.

2. Good manners are also not a sign of weakness, nor are they an attack on your feminist sensibilities.

He will do things like open doors, help with your coat and walk you to the door because it's polite. He grew up saying "please", "thank you" and "you're welcome", you'd do well to incorporate those phrases into your vocabulary as well.

3. Make sure we, his family, like you.

You do not have anywhere near the influence over him that we do at this point in his life.  We will win in the long run if it comes down to it.  No one on this earth knows him like we do and no one loves him as fiercely.  Learn to participate in our conversations and laugh along with us and we will welcome you with open arms. We will protect him from anyone we see as dangerous and we do not forgive easily.  We can be either your best allies or your worst nightmare.

4. This is for both boys and girls: KEEP THE INTERNET OUT OF YOUR RELATIONSHIP.

Your relationship has legitimacy even when it isn't "Facebook Official", seriously.  Posting your every date, fight, conversation and sexual experience is not only unnecessary, it's stupid.  As you well know, everyone in the world has an opinion and the vast majority of the time, theirs will not mesh with yours.  This causes stupid drama and only makes everything worse.  If you thrive on that sort of thing, you will spend a lot of your time angry or crying and no one likes to be around someone like that for very long, it's exhausting and annoying. They're called "personal relationships" for a reason...they're personal!

5. Be yourself from the very start.

If you hate football, video games and zombie movies, say so right away.  Don't pretend to like them at the beginning and try to wean him off the things he loves once you've got him, it's dishonest, unfair and confusing as hell.  If you have nothing in common and are only dating him because he's cute, is a superjock or the most popular guy in school, the relationship is doomed from the beginning. Be honest about who you are because he'll find out eventually. 

6. Become proficient at at least one video game, sport or some other "guy" thing.

It'll blow his socks off and make you the most fascinating creature he's ever met.

7. Don't keep him on the string while you keep your eye out for someone better.

He deserves a girl who wants to be with him because he's a great guy. And don't sleep with his friends, chances are he will forgive them faster than he will forgive you.  Being drunk is no excuse for acting like a slut, seriously.

8. If you dress like a tramp, I'm going to point it out, to you.

We all know you are young and have a hot body.  NEWS FLASH: I did too, before I got old and squishy and had kids and began to care more about dressing for me than for boys.  I'm sure you have lovely boobs, I don't care to have them hanging out at my dinner table.  If your skirt/shorts are tiny enough that I can see your underwear preference, I will offer you a pair of sweat pants to wear while in my presence. 

9. Don't cling, physically or otherwise.

You do not need to know where he is, who he is with and what he is doing at all times, that's my job and I've been doing it for years.  I do not need or want an assistant.  It's okay to be out of touch for a while, it allows for a more interesting answer to the question "How was your day?".  Unlimited texting is a plague. 
You also do not need to be physically touching each other every moment you are together, especially if you're in the presence of other people.  It's rude and can make people uncomfortable.  I'm all for hand holding and sitting close to one another, but there is a time and place for the other stuff.  Seriously.

10.  Having his baby means you have to deal with me for the rest of my life.

I won't be one of those uninvolved, uninterested grandparents and I will not allow my son to be an uninvolved parent.  If you don't like me in your relationship now, imagine dealing with me until I die.  I will meddle, judge and interfere, I promise you this.

Many of these rules can be seen either way, they are universally applicable for the most part.  I don't need a gun or God to scare the hell out of someone, I'm an Irish Catholic mother of two, I have a million tricks up my sleeve.  Passive aggressive is my birthright. 

What Works For You

 I have been casting about for a few years for a spiritual community that fits me.  I have decided there really isn't one.
I was raised Catholic, went to Catholic school, the whole nine yards.  I even have an aunt who is a Catholic nun.  I was kicked out of Catholic high school in my sophomore year but had really left long before.  I hold no personal resentment for the church of my birth, I had no traumatic experience that drove me away, it was far more subtle and gradual than that.  As a kid, I loved going to church, dressing up in our Sunday clothes and sometimes going out for breakfast after.  I loved the ritual, I loved singing as a group, I loved the familiarity of the routine that was going to church.  The gospels and sermons never really left much of an impression on me, it was far more the experience that was church.  My long goodbye began rather early, in the third grade when I was sent to the principal and my mother was called because I asked a question that I was told was disrespectful.  (See the post titled "Sister Mary Anunciata Does Not Approve" for details.) I was not allowed to question, I was expected to accept without reservation everything the church taught me.  I am not built to accept blindly, I don't believe humans are truly capable of giving up wonder and curiosity, nor should they. It was this refusal to embrace or even allow questions that eventually led to my departure. And, as it turns out, I am WAY too liberal for the church of my birth.
My beloved and I have been married for twenty years and have had only one major, knock down, drag out fight.  Whether or not our firstborn would be baptized in the Catholic church.  He left the church long ago as well, but for him it was less a crisis of faith and more the fact that he got busy doing other things.  We did end up baptizing number one son but not number two.  Considering that number one has only ever been to church for a couple of funerals and a wedding, I think the decision to leave number two undunked was legitimate.  My issues with baptism stem solely from my feminista side, I don't buy into the whole washing away the "sins of Eve" thing .
I have three sisters and only one of us still attends Catholic church, another has become Lutheran and one has tried out a few different religions and, like me, has not found one that works for her.  I know a lot of people my age that have drifted away from their respective religions for one reason or another.  For some it is a deep division between their beliefs and the teachings of their church.  For others, life got in the way and they just never got back into the habit.  And even some that just never felt "it".  I think I fall into all three of those categories. Have we gotten too busy for church? Are we becoming too cynical for faith?  Is it laziness that keeps many of us away? I'm not sure.
  I miss the feeling of community I got from going to church and being a part of that.  I have even had friends advise me to join a church for that reason alone but that feels false to me and I would feel like I was lying.  I occasionally feel a bit envious of my friends who still have that kind of connection to their deity.  I hear more and more people call themselves spiritual rather than religious and I am definitely one of those.  I started reading (and oversharing on Facebook) some of the Dalai Lama's writings, to the point that my eldest sister called and asked if I had joined a cult. She said I seemed like I was on "bliss overload", she may have been right.  I like the idea of being excellent to yourself and being excellent to everyone else.  I can get behind the concept that being good and being happy are what God, whatever God is to you, wants for all of us.  The idea that science and religion and peacefully coexist seems logical and smart. So, Buddhism it is!  Now to find a temple in northern Minnesota....

Painful Truths

It's Christmastime, it's time for me come clean about a few things.  There are some things no one, not even my best friends and family.  I have hidden my true self from the world for far too long and I feel the time is now to reveal all.  I hope we can still be friends after you have seen the true me.

I truly love glitter and sparkle.  If I could decorate my entire house in the pretty sparklies of Christmastime, I believe I would. I love nothing more than sitting in dark room, lit only by the lights on the tree and watch the tinsel twinkle, the glittery ornaments sparkle in the low light.  My sister has referred to glitter as "the herpes of craft supplies" and she is right, glitter spilled is never truly gone.  You will find it months later, right there in the middle of everything, even though you have cleaned the defiled space any number of times, it reappears. I don't wear glittery sweaters, I don't paint into on my nails or use glitter eyeshadows, but I will shamelessly bedeck my halls with glitter.

The other shameful admission I must make here is this: I am not even slightly fond of most Christmas cookies. I don't bake them and I am not fond of eating them.  I am perhaps one of the only people who doesn't gain weight over Christmas through no effort on my part.  I appreciate the time and effort that goes into the production of the cookies, but I'd rather have just about anything else.  My father makes a huge batch of spicy meatballs every year for their Christmas party and there are always the first thing to run out. I think the cookies are pretty and all, but unless they're chocolate chip, I don't know why people even bother. Maybe the same plates of cookies should just be preserved year to year and put out every Christmas.

There they are, my secrets laid bare for the world to see.  I hope we're still friends.

On a related note, I finished my shopping today and I would like to put a few thoughts out there.  We choose to go to major centers of shopping in the weeks and days before Christmas so I think a few things need to be addressed.  We're all in the same boat, so let's treat each other like comrades in arms, weatherers of the same storm, passengers in the same lifeboat.  There's no need for rudeness, if you bump into someone you should still say "excuse me".  Letting another car into the line of cars ahead of you will not disrupt the space/time continuum, it will generally earn you a wave and a smile.  Even just the appearance of a good mood with lighten the day of others, smile at the people around you and see what happens.  Go into these remaining shopping days before Christmas with a smile on your face and a song in your heart and the "we're all in this together" mindset and you'll have a hell of a lot more fun.  Buy something weird, just for you, that makes you giggle, it eases the pain of spending a crapton of money on the ungrateful bastards you have to shop for every year!  I bought myself a glitter encrusted bird nest, you should get one.

Getting It Together

It has been quite a gap between posts, my apologies.  I try hard to keep the tone light and my posts non political, I found that difficult to do this past election cycle so I guess it was easier to not post. 
Speaking as a world citizen and not as a Republican or a Democrat, I have pretty much had it with our political system.  Grown ups, professionals, the would be leaders of our country behaving like middle schoolers.  I refuse to believe these people don't see what we, the people they are hoping will vote for them, see.  There is no room for compromise on either side, God forbid someone from one side be seen talking to or working with the enemy and no one is allowed to be moderate anymore.  When we were in school, we occasionally had to do school projects as a team, many times we would get paired up with someone we didn't necessarily get along with.  What did we do?  Sucked it up and carried on because there was work to do.  Why is it we got that lesson in the fourth grade and the leaders of our country can't manage to apply the same tactics to running the country?  I think super PACs and billionaire patrons should be banned and political ads completely eliminated.  I like the way Venezuela runs campaigns.  No politicians can buy TV or radio time, each candidate gets 30 minutes on all networks twice a week to plead their case, take callers, tap dance, read the phone book, whatever.  This is the time they have and no one can buy more.  I love the idea as much as I loathe commercials. I compare campaigns to job interviews, would you ever, in a million years, walk into an interview and say to the interviewer "You know that guy who was just in here?  He's a piece of crap and I'll tell you why." How likely are you to get that job?  How about you go in and tell them why you're wonderful and the best person for the job?  Wait, that's exactly what we do out here in the real world.  Why do we let the people who want to make laws and effect our lives in long lasting ways get away with this behavior if it's something we'd never do or tolerate in our own lives?  When did this become okay?  I think an appropriate rule of thumb for politicians should be "If we wouldn't allow our third graders to get away with it, we can't let our politicians."

If we all made a pact to only vote for the best behaved candidates, I wonder who would be left to run things?  Rational and reasonable people?  Do you think they'd get anything done?  I wonder...

Just Say It, Already

I never tolerated passive aggressive crap very well.  I am much more of a "say it and get it off your chest" kind of gal.  Don't make me try to draw conclusions and interpret silences when you're mad at me, just toss it out there and we'll go.  I have never said "It's fine." when I'm pissed off.  If I'm not happy with you, you're going to know because it's not a lot of fun to be mad and not have the culprit paying for it.  If I'm really mad at you, you should be afraid, not trying to figure out if you're the one I'm mad at, how is that any fun at all?  You're gonna know, you're gonna pay and we'll either move on or I'll burn down your house.
I have been dealing with one of the most passive aggressive people on the planet for the past three years.  We both work for the same establishment, but thankfully, never during the same hours or even in the same area.  However, three years ago, I did something so unspeakably traitorous that this woman that had been my best friend for several years now goes out of her way to try and piss me off.  Good thing I am terribly zen, and mellow, and unflappable...and pretty.  A sweater I kept in an unused drawer was the the first thing that drew her fury.  Every day, I would come into the store and the sweater was removed from the drawer and put on a shelf under the counter.  The drawer was empty, still unused, but the sweater was not allowed to be there.  I would throw it back into the drawer, as I had asked those in charge if it was okay, but every day it would move.  Noted I had written to the part time employees, informing them of issues or changes or new items would disappear to be replaced by the exact same words on a note in the passive aggressor's writing.  Far from pissing me off, it led to a photo essay and a lot of eye rolling.  Mission NOT accomplished.  Unless you are REALLY skilled, this is usually the end result of not being direct.  People will either not get it, laugh at you, or simply roll their eyes and go about their business completely undisturbed by your actions.

Facebook has allowed passive aggressiveness to soar to never before imagined heights, I'm talking I can see my house from up here heights.  There are absolute passive aggressive virtuosos out there, these are masters of the art form and we, the lesser beings, should bow before them.  I have broken them into categories, specialties, if you will:

1. The Attention Seeker:
This is usually the first step in the life cycle of the passive aggressor, simple statements posted to see if anyone is paying attention, no specific target in mind.  Examples include:

"Borrrrredddddd"   "Don't ask."  "Hating my life right now."  "At least my cat loves me." or the nice and subtle: "LMS (like my status) and I'll tell you (insert something banal here)"

These pleas for attention are as transparent as glass and less useful.  The perpetrators might as well post the more honest: "LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT MEEEEE!"

2. The General:
The people that post broad and sweeping statements that everyone knows point to one specific person.

"People suck!"   "People should know when to shut the ** up!"  "Why do people have to be like that?"

Here's the thing, they know who they are, you know who they are so why are you tap dancing? 

3. The Detailer

These are the ones that post every detail about the situation that is causing them discomfort except for the name of the ONE person they're angry at:

"Well, I guess I know who I can trust and who I know who's going to (sleep with my boyfriend/talk behind my back/steal my best friend/burn down my house/kill my dog) and they better watch their ugly blond face when walking down Elm street where they live."

 "I'm so done with crying over you and you break my heart every day and I loved you more than anyone else."

If you're going to provide the world at large with that level of detail, you might as well go all the way and identify this evildoer so we can ALL protect ourselves!


4.  The Lyricist

Pretty self explanatory, posting song lyrics that are the only way to adequately describe the level of paaaaaaaain they're going through.  99% of the time, these are Taylor Swift songs.  I'm not even going to post examples, we all have seen far too many.


I have been occasionally guilty, but I don't even register on the scale.  I am a rank amateur when compared to the expert slicing and dicing I see around me.  I can hardly wait until these people become parents and take it to the next level.   I have taught my children this simple mantra:  If you're going to say it or do it, you better be prepared to own it.  If you can't back it up and defend what you're saying, don't say it.  If you aren't willing to say it out loud, don't post it online.  If you're not ready to confront the people making you angry or sad, do not put this passive aggressive shit on the internet.  You make yourself look petty and small. 

Sister Mary Anunciata Does Not Approve

School is very different than it used to be.  I grew up in the 1970s and went to Catholic school for ten years.  Things have changed a bit, teachers nowadays can't even pat a kid on the back for a job well done.  Back in the day, they could give you a smack upside the head if they felt it was warranted.  Today, teachers don't dare with even some basic levels of discipline for fear of lawsuits from screeching parents (most of whom went to the same schools I did!).  I called my eldest son's school and specifically told his teachers to take his cell phone away if they caught him using it during class.  The fact that I had to give them permission to do so was shocking to me and the fact that only ONE of them actually did it blows my mind.  The argument from parents that they must be able to get in touch with their precious at all times is stupid, unreasonable and just plain old rude.  Once upon a not that long ago, if a parent needed to get a message to their kid during school, they called the office and said child was summoned to receive it from Sister Ellen at the desk.  Class was only interrupted for true emergencies or major breaking news.  The phones in the classrooms only connected to the principal's office and if you were the subject of a conversation over one of those phones, you were in deep shit twice over.  I was completely nonplussed when I called my son's school and asked to leave a message for one of his teachers about something rather small and was rung through to the room.  More surprising was when the teacher answered...DURING class.  The nuns would have had none of that, trust me.
In Catholic school, the nuns were it.  The boss.  The direct line to God and you better keep it in line or you KNEW they would be telling the big man about your every infraction.  The nuns were fascinating to us, we were never sure if they were entirely human (and I still have doubts about a few of them).  I remember being completely blown away when I saw Sister Mary Clarence coming out of the bathroom stall next to me.  Dear Lord help me, I heard her PEE!  I had no idea they did that, despite having a nun in my very own family.  While my family was a bit more progressive than many, we still grew up with the full Catholic experience.  The uniforms that flattered no one, the all school masses, confession once a week and the nuns that made up the vast majority of our teaching pool.  These women were remarkable, they could be the sweetest, most kind-hearted creatures on the planet but could also wield a yardstick with the elegance of a samurai.  They would join in a kickball game on the playground and expertly peg the back of an out of turn talker's head with a blackboard eraser at 25 feet, hitting their target effortlessly every time.

They broke us in easy, first grade you either got Sister Stella (sweet, soft spoken and remarkably tall for a woman in sensible shoes) or Sister Marie Noelle (not much taller than most of us and had taught many of our parents in first grade).  First grade lulled us into a false sense of security, we thought they were ALL going to be like these two dear angels.  We were terribly wrong.  I don't remember who I had for second or third grade, I think they were both lay teachers and therefore, left no huge impression on me.  Third grade was memorable only for my being sent to the principal's office for asking if Holy Communion made us cannibals.  My reasoning being this, at the same time we were being taught about transubstantiation (the bread and wine BECOME the body and blood upon being blessed), we were also learning about the cannibalistic rituals of the Aztec, I think.  I became quite concerned, not only for myself, but for all our almighty souls as we had been assured these horrible man eating peoples had not only died out, but had all gone to Hell.  Can you see where MY eight year old brain went just then?  I asked the question, was roundly scolded and sent to the office to discuss this with the principal.  My mother was called and I was sure I was going to be thrown out to be educated no further.  My mother's response was typical for her, "You know, I never thought of that...what's the answer?"  The principal simply gave me a somewhat distracted smile and let me hang out in his office reading a book until lunchtime.  I never did get an answer.  These days, that would have been the start of some sort of intensive therapy and probably long term medication.
 Fourth grade introduced us to Sister Eunice, always angry and barely able to completely contain her rage.  You knew all hell was about to break loose when she'd start to whisper, the class would slowly start to quiet down as her voice rose to the glorious, screeching crescendo of  "YOU KIDS ARE MAKING ME SO CRAZYYYYY!!!!" This scene, both awe inspiring and inevitable, would be repeated dozens of times throughout my fourth grade year.  I occasionally felt sorry for poor Sister Eunice, having such a low tolerance for any sort of childish behavior and yet, here she was, teaching fourth grade.  I always had the vague idea that she was probably being punished for something. 
Sixth grade, we started moving from room to room and had different teachers for different subjects, it was all very exciting until we met HER.  The nemesis of almost all except the few privileged and chosen among us, the school patrol.  Miss Brink.  The name alone still causes an involuntary shiver down the backs of many.  Miss Brink, it was rumored she had been a nun but had been tossed out (or had left on her own, more likely) for some horrible infraction we could never even imagine.  Miss Brink was responsible for both our religion and math classes that year. I don't think someone was thinking clearly in assigning this horror of a teacher our confirmation classes.  This woman was a cross between Jabba the Hutt and a demonic drill sergeant.  Short, blond and angry at something none of us could even fully define.  Her methods were, unconventional, at best, borderline illegal at worst.  This woman was legendary, the tales so embroidered over time and memory that I think some truths may have blurred over time.  Her classes were met with a mixture of dread and frightened anticipation, we at never seen anything like her.  A teacher who hated teaching, seemed to hate us and really taught us very little of worth.  To this day, I have retained nothing on mathematically dealing with fractions.  She had two methods of dealing with gum chewers, both probably punishable by jail time these days. The offender would either have to roll the gum around the perimeter of the room with their nose, then chew it again. The alternative was depositing your gum into a jar of ABC gum she kept in her desk, select a piece from the jar and chew away.  She delighted in grossing people out by taking out her false teeth during class, counting on the squeamish among us to "Eeeeeew" appropriately and at the designated time.  For extra points, she'd occasionally set then on some hapless student's desk during a test.  Flicking them off the desk with your pencil was worth another trip to the principal's office.  For a treat, she'd suspend all pretend teaching and line the entire class up against the back wall of the room and  blast a whiffle ball at us for "fun".  This was no ordinary whiffle ball, this thing had started life as a regulation whiffle ball, but had, over the years, been cracked, smashed and broken and then fixed with layer upon layer of masking tape until it resembled a good sized beige grapefruit.  At some point, the ball became too much for a requisite plastic bat that comes with whiffle ball sets, so she switched to aluminum,  Give that image a minute to sink in: thirty sixth graders apprehensively and with varying degrees of terror on their faces, lined up against a blackboard, huddled together for protection like travelers stranded in a blizzard, the bodies of their fellows their only protection against the battering storm.  If you got hit, you had to sit down, most of us tried to get taken out early in the game as she seemed to grow enraged the longer people remained standing.  Her determination to nail that speeding ball of masking taped death at the stragglers was a sight to behold.  The longer those foolhardy few lasted, the redder her face became, contorted with renewed determination to bring those bold enough to dodge her missiles.  Don't bother trying to hide in the coatroom, that usually ended up like some sort of hallway of death, the ball ricocheting off the walls, taking out any foolish enough to attempt refuge there.  This was a "Fun" break from, you know, non violence and constructive learning.  You see why I retained nothing? And my mother was afraid to send us to public school because of the violence.
While I'm not recommending eraser throwing and whiffle balls of certain death in today's classrooms, I'm thinking a little of that would make a hell of an impression.

Enjoy the following:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhQa3_wWrR4

You're a Dork

I like being a dork, there is a lot of freedom that comes with it.  You can enjoy things wholeheartedly and without any worry that you won't seem cool.  Cool is dull, cool is boring, cool is just that...cool, cold, uninvolved. We were all complete dorks once upon a time, some of us held onto that enthusiasm, but so many of us let it fall by the wayside.  I love encountering fellow dorks, I get pleasure from their (and my) complete excitement over things that may seem mundane.  Yesterday, a guy came into the store and spent some time browsing for his beer, the whole time humming the theme from "Raiders of the Lost Ark" (my cousin Joy was hoping he bought Rolling Rock, I think I would have peed).  I respect this man for his abandon, I think he was fully aware he was audible to the rest of the world, he wasn't obnoxious about it, he just did his thing. 
My kids roll their eyes and try to act all cool and long suffering when I get happy about an awesome song coming on at the grocery store (the music is getting SO good there!) but in the end, they're grooving right along with me.  We hoot and holler when a deliciously horrible movie comes on and watch it with unadulterated joy.  We relish silliness, we adore goofiness and we enjoy absurdity.  It's too bad that kind of thinking gets lost so easily as we get older.
I got to spend time with my family last week, the "Other Summers" cousins are the definition of what I'm talking about.  I had forgotten, over the years, how much I loved hanging out with that side of the family.  They are loud, raucous and an absolute joy to be around.  To be able to laugh with people who get you is one of life's greatest pleasures. My family thrives on the absurd, we appreciate nothing more than a straight line, and we never let one pass.  Woe betide you if you can't find the humor in almost everything.  We have, for years, had a running family joke about nubby plywood or knotty pine coffins.  Any time we have had to shop for a funeral, someone is compelled to make a comment about knotty pine.  My family are the ones who, as a group, giggle at the wrong time.  The nuns hated us as kids in church, we usually ended up being hauled out to sit next to Sister Eunice for the rest of the school year.  While we know how to behave perfectly in public, we simply choose to put a toe over the line and see who we can drag along with us.  There's usually someone next to us willing to make the jump. 
Every nine year old is a complete dork.  The reckless abandon to enjoy absolutely everything.  Everything is cool, everything awesome and you're allowed to be a dork.  I'm not sure when it's decided we have to outgrow that and leave it behind, but to be able to hang on to some of that is a gift.

I love being a dork, I married a dork, I surround myself with dorks because they're the most fun. I even like the word.  Say it out loud "dork".  It's fun to say.  Don't be so cool...JOIN US!  Splash in puddles, lick the cake batter off the beaters, dance in the aisle of the supermarket.  Stop being so blase for a bit and be a dork.  It's going to be AWESOME!

The Hard Part

I normally keep the tone of my blog light, occasionally straying into more serious territory.  Today is one one of those times. I lost someone special this week, my cousin Paul.  He had struggled with depression for many years and this week, it won. 

Paul was five years older than me, the oldest of the grandchildren on my father's side of the family.  To us, the houseful of girl cousins, Paul and his brothers were exotic, exciting creatures.  They were the brothers we never had, the first exposure to boy behaviors and cool boy stuff.  We had Barbies, they had Hot Wheels with miles of orange track in the basement.  We were jealous of their sister, Peggy, to have all those boys around...I think she spent any number of years disagreeing.  These boys were funny, loud, gross and endlessly fascinating to me and my sisters. We spent holidays together, countless summer days and evenings, we would plead with our parents to let us spend the night, we reveled in the attention of these strange alien life forms. 

Of all those boys, none were as fascinating to me as the oldest, Paul.  He was the center of the fun, handsome and hilariously funny, he looked just like Donny Osmond to me (an opinion he nether shared nor appreciated!) and I thought the world revolved around him.  Paul was my first big crush and I would follow him like a puppy.  I'm sure his idea of a good time at 13 years old was having his eight year old cousin dogging his every move.  He was endlessly patient and unfailingly kind to what I imagine was an annoying little tag along.

Family events were noisy and hilarious as we grew up, Paul and Andy, the next oldest of the boys, were our own family comedy duo.  They were Lewis and Martin without the smoking jackets or the Smothers Brothers without the snark.  Quick witted and clever, if one didn't have a smartass comment to fit the moment, the other usually did.  A viewing of old family movies featuring my two older sisters wearing horrible early 70s high-waisted dresses prompted comments of  "They were so poor they had to sell their torsos."  I have never been able to look at "empire waist" dresses without giggling madly since that time.I cannot watch or even refer to "Mr. Hulot's Holiday" without thinking of him.

I come from a family of really smart people, I mean REALLY smart people.  Not the easiest environment for someone who was a less than stellar student (me).  Paul got it, he and I used to refer to each other as "the other C student in the family".  It was reassuring to me that the star of the family was also my ally in the ongoing grade war with the rest of the clan.  It was not easy when even our respective younger siblings outshone us academically, but having someone who knew what it was like made it a damn sight easier.

 It was the 80s...shut up.

He died this week, but the depression took him away from us quite some time ago.  My family is less without him, I lost my companion in our sea of smarty-pants relatives.

He married a gorgeous and wonderful woman who stuck in there when a lot of people would have cut their losses and run for safety.  They had two of the most wonderful kids I have ever met.  Both Madeline and Joe inherited Paul's magnetism.  You WANT them to like you because they are so cool, and funny, and charming and you're cooler because you get to hang around them.  That's how he was, you felt lucky that you got to be around him. 

We didn't see each much of each these past few years because he didn't want anyone to see that he was a failure, that's what he thought of himself. This is the part I will never understand.  I look at his wife, his kids, the overwhelming love his family has for him and see success, not failure.  I wish I could have told him that.  I wish I could have made him see himself through our eyes, not his eyes, the eyes that only saw the illness. 

I loved him and I will miss him forever.

Hate To Break It To You...

There are a number of things people insist on doing, wearing or being that they seem to think is the epitome of cool, but really just aren't.  I offer these insights lovingly, constructively and in the most generous of ways:

#1 The Car
It's a car, people. It is transportation from point A to point B.  What matters most is if it runs.  Some of my favorites include the mini van that used to ba-dum its way past the house with the giant (aftermarket, obviously) speakers and sub woofer loud enough to rattle the china in the house.  Dude, you're driving a minivan, you have lost any cool you might have had.  There's the Ford Taurus with the elaborate flame paint job, I love this car so much.  I think the owner is either the most completely ironic person or the most clueless, either way, I am fully amused.  My latest, and least loved, is the yet unidentified vehicle that has take to roaring past the house through the night and into the wee hours of the morning.  I beg someone to explain the point of dual exhaust pipes accompanied by overly loud muffler (I use that word loosely).  I loathe this display of macho lunk-headedness.  It does not turn us on, it does not make us think you're the manliest man on the planet, it does not make us want to pick you for a mate.  It makes us long for a set of stop strips in the middle of our street.

What you think we see:

What we really see:

#2 The Tattoo

I like tattoos, I have one myself, a reward to me for quitting smoking.  It was relevance and means something to me.  I am all for expressing oneself, I post my thoughts here on a regular basis.  That I do not understand is the prevalence of the outrageously pornographic, grotesque or downright bizarre  imagery permanently adorning one's body.  It doesn't really matter if it's under your shirt line, on your butt or your unmentionable region, at some point, you're going to get naked for someone and will have some 'splaining to do.  Why, why, WHY did you think a wheel of cheese dripping blood and gore from the dismembered corpse of a unicorn was an image to carry with you for the rest of your life?  What makes one think a badly done portrait of the Golden Girls was going to be a turn on...EVER?

And why does Bea Arthur have red, demonlike eyes!?!?!?

#3 The Make Up

KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid.  Remember this, learn it, know it, live it.  A little goes a long way.  I am including fake tans and overdone hair in this category as well.  If your eyeshadow can be seen from space, tone it down.  If you can't yawn without causing cracks in your foundation, time to remove a few layers.  If you cannot sit in a car without your hair touching the ceiling and you are not a professional basketball player, you need to lay off the AquaNet.  If you are unrecognizable without your makeup, spend less time on your makeup...seriously!

It only works for her:

Remember, a little goes a loooooong way!  What you see and the rest of us see might be polar opposites!

The Siege

It's summer, the lovely weather, the long days, the evenings spent in the backyard enjoying the deck with a glass of wine and quiet conversation.  The sounds of summer drifting in the wide open windows, the chirp of birds, the children's laughter, the INCESSANT BARKING of the dog next door.
Don't get me wrong, I like dogs.  I am not a dog person, we don't have a dog, but I generally like them.  I am not terribly bothered by a slobbery greeting from a dog, I will pet and play and sit on the floor to give tummy rubs, I like dogs just fine.  I have developed a burning, healthy hate for all the dogs that live adjacent to me.  Imagine:  A Chihuahua to the south that is tied out at the farthest end of the yard to tangle helplessly in the unused swingset to bark for hours at a time, usually starting at about 6am.  Did you know that dogs do not lose their voices from shouting like we humans do?  True story.  I have no respect for dogs that bounce when they bark, it's not normal. Next we have the two large dogs of undefined origin to the east, across the street.  The allotted time for them to lose their minds and bark like lunatics is approximately 11pm until I call the cops.  My bedroom faces east.  It's like having a pair of car alarms going off in unison...all night.  Finally, we have the latest addition to the canine chorus from hell, the black Lab puppy to the north.  This one takes the day shift, the ALL day shift.  The record being a nearly twelve hour barkfest one Sunday.
It was supposed to be something like heaven, I had looked forward to this day for ages.  My beloved and the youngest son were going to be gone all day for gun safety field day, eldest son was working all day and I was going to have the house to myself.  My dreams included sitting in the sunshine out on the deck, reading to my heart's content; perhaps a nap on the couch with a breeze wafting in from the open sliding door, I was even planning a bit of basking in a sunbeam with the cats.

Alas, none of these moments came to pass.


  10:30am: I  bring my glass of orange juice and my book out to the deck, the late morning warming slowly and the breeze just enough to keep the bugs away.  I sigh happily and open the book I've been trying for weeks to find the time to read.  Four pages in, it begins.  The puppy mama decides to leave for a while, tying the dog up in the backyard with a scant amount of food and water and leaving with a cheery wave. The dog starts barking as soon as she pivots to walk away.

11:15am: Less than a chapter read, fly has drowned in my orange juice, getting one of those headaches that surely indicate an impending tumor.  I give up the idea of reading on the deck and head inside. Start some laundry, empty the dishwasher, clean out the fridge and take a shower.

12:30pm:  Make a nice lunch (chicken pasta salad, croissant and lemonade) and optimistically head to the deck to enjoy my girly meal and the sunshine.  Immediately about face and eat in the dining room instead.  Dog has logged 2 straight hours of barking.

1:15pm: Lunch and magazine finished, laundry loads switched, dog can't POSSIBLY still be barking after this long.  Open sliding door to do some reconnaissance, OMG, it's quiet!!!  Grab book and water bottle and prepare to...SHIT!  Sound of chair moving has roused the alarm instinct of puppy and it begins a new frenzy of yaps, growls and barking.  And now the Chihuahua has decided its role as "companion" animal dictates a moral imperative to join in.  I duck back into the house before the rest of the Greek chorus can join in. Now I'm all crabby.

1:35pm: Screw this, I'm taking a nap.

1:40pm: Shut door and windows in the family room in an attempt for some quiet.

1:44pm:  Turn on stereo to drown out residual noise.

1:48pm: I hate this song.

1:52pm: LOVE this song!

1:59pm: I'm not sleeping yet.

2:03pm: I'm bored.

2:04pm: Still bored.  Nap's not happening. Still crabby...crabbier yet .Walk over, give damn dog water.

2:10pm: Try to watch bad movie on Sci-Fi channel.

2:15pm: It hot in here, open window.  Listen for dread canine sounds...there it is. Close window, turn on fan.

4:00pm: Movie done (MegaGator vs Sharkasaurus), dog has GOT to be in exhaustion induced coma by now.  Slowly and quietly open sliding door, I press my ear to the small opening and listen...nothing!  Gather the remnants of my afternoon plan, find the iPod and stealthily make my way to my chair, the dream is still intact.  I put the earbuds in and select a favorite album, open my book, hit play...damn, only one bud works.  No matter, it's nice and peaceful.  Happysigh!

4:07pm:  ACHOO!

4:07:03pm: BARKBARKVARKBARKBARKBARKBARK! (repeat X googol)

4:08pm: Scowl, stomp, mutter, slam door.  It's definitely a tumor.

4:19pm: Mutter, swear, curse, threaten violence, scowl, mutter some more.

4:30pm: Beloved and youngest return home, they had a great day...jerks.  Beloved asks why I'm sitting here with all the doors and windows shut.  Opens them.  Shuts them immediately from look on my face. 6 hours logged, two small breaks.

4:40pm: Relay events of the day to my beloved, wait for sympathy and commiseration.  He starts to laugh.

4:42pm: Beloved looking for icepack, I'm still crabby.

5:30pm: Eldest home from work.  Relay events, stop when he starts to laugh.

5:33pm: Eldest takes ice pack from his father. Youngest wisely refrains from adding anything to discussion.

7:00pm: Dinner eaten, dishes done, family heads to backyard to burn stuff in firepit.  Dog begins to bark hysterically, I have another glass of wine.

8:30pm: Stuff burned, dog still hysterical, there is not enough wine in the house. Time logged: 10 hours.

9:15pm: Puppy mama finally returns home, dog brought in the house.

11:30pm: I've had it.  Going to bed, tumor is going to explode soon.

11:42pm:  What's that noise?

Oh yeah, forgot about them.

Monday evening: Puppy left outside while they're gone again.  They positioned their new, expensive, large inflatable pool too close to the tie-out.  Puppy has decided pool is an enemy invader and reacts accordingly.  Beloved and I debate rescue of pool and decide against it.  Puppy:1   Pool: Eaten   Me: Mwahahahaha!

And Now, For The News

I love the media, I am a news junkie of the first water.  I compulsively watch the various news channels, I check several websites on a more than once daily basis, I still read magazines and newspapers.  I MUST KNOW THINGS!  The idea of not being "in the know" is an anathema to me, I can't stand it.  I become crabby and out of sorts when too much time passes without an update of some sort, there is something going on somewhere and I have to know about it.  I'm not talking gossip and banality, I'm talking world events, life changers, that kind of thing. I will happily admit that some of my biggest crushes are news guys.

 Yes, I consider Jon Stewart a news guy, watch his show sometime, it is not only hilariously funny, but really quite informative.

 Brian Williams, solid as a rock, funny as hell when he's not behind the news desk.

Anderson Cooper's just so darn cute!

In all my obsessive news watching, I have noticed trends, both good and bad, in news coverage.  I miss the days when news organizations simply stated the facts, no spin, no creative editing, no larger agenda.  They existed only to pass on information, who, what, where, when and how.  Opinion and conjecture were only allowed on certain, clearly labeled OP-ED pages or were preceded by an announcement that the following was opinion.  We could watch or read and take it with a grain of salt or not, opinion was NEVER presented as part of the factual information, that was not only frowned upon, but punished. I think print media is still better about this sort of thing than broadcast media, simply because the print folks have to time read and reread before sending their product out into the world.  Editors are still there to proofread, correct and verify, not to create something out of nothing.
I resent the intrusion of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt into the CBS evening news, they belong on E!, or maybe MTV, not alongside a story about the latest economic downturn.  The fact that ANY legitimate news outlet spends any time at all reporting on the activities of the Kardashians makes me fear for the future. 
The advent of the 24 hour news channels has certainly helped us to this place.  How does a broadcast company keep viewers interested all the time?  What can they do that makes staying up until two o'clock on a weeknight worth it? YouTube videos.  YouTube has become a source for not only comedic clip shows, but for traditional news organizations as well.  Blurry cell phone images become "IReports", homemade stunt clips become cautionary tales and anyone who can manage to go viral becomes a celebrity for a few days.  Where did reporters go?  Once upon a time, these media hounds had access none of the rest of us did and we waited to find out from them, the professionals.  We were presented with well shot, well written, clear and concise facts.  Who, what, where, when and how. Now we have blurry, jiggly, unintelligible crap that someone has to highlight and interpret for us.  Cameramen, I love and miss you.
If you have read my previous posts, you know I am having a passionate, long term affair with the language that shows no sign of slowing down.  I love it enough to overlook its quirks and foibles, I lament its weakening with age, I dread the eventual death of sentence structure and written form.  I refuse to Twit, Tweet, whatever.  I resent the limits of 160 characters to express an idea.  Twitter and the like have added to the "sound bite" culture.  They prove that ADD is no longer a medical condition, it seems to have become a lifestyle. If something takes more than twenty seconds to read, it's not worth it?  Oh my Twits, you have no idea what you're missing.
I love headlines.  They are designed to catch you, draw you in and make you read and explore further.  That's the difference, a headline makes you want more, a Tweet gives you little more than a headline. My favorite headline this week,

 "Jackson Brothers To Tour Without Michael"

all I could think was, "Good LORD, I hope so!"

http://newsok.com/jackson-brothers-prepare-for-tour-without-michael/article/3686415

I cannot tell a lie, it DID titillate me, and I did go on to read the story.  Well played, headline writer, well played.