Tag Archives: family life

Seriously. It Tastes Like Chicken

“It tastes like chicken.”

What a lie.

Or not, really.  It tasted like chicken because it was, well, chicken.  But here’s the thing.  I was just joking and now I have to perpetuate the lie until the child is 18 so he won’t be mad at me……

A few weeks back Mark, Mom, #1 and Mr. Smooshy Kissy Cheeks and I went to lunch at Cracker Barrel.  Which, honestly, is a place I try to stay out of.  I love the kitsch.  I just dislike the food.  Or, anyway, can’t eat anything there that I’d like the taste of so it hardly makes it worth the look a person gets when they ask if there’s anything wheat-free.  I don’t think they even understand what that is.  So I resort to saying gluten-free because everyone at least gets that that’s a thing.  Then you get the look.  Like they think you think you’re the queen of Hollywood and you want to say, seriously, it just gives me an un-freaking-believable stomach ache.  So to avoid all that angst you simply ask for the “salad” realizing fully that you will have to pick the onions, croutons and half pound of cheese off yourself but at least it comes with grilled chicken.  

Mr. Smooshy-Kissy Cheeks aka Kache ordered a large chocolate milk and a yogurt and granola parfait and though I like to return him to his mother all sugared up, I knew he’d be hanging with me for another 5 hours and would be cranky as hell if there wasn’t some protein mixed in for good measure.  I offered to share my salad and he said no, thank you until I pointed to the grilled meat on top.

“Come on,” I said.  “Try some of my rattlesnake.”

He looked at me like I was crazy and I truly thought he knew I was joking.  He’d heard me order.

“It tastes like chicken,” I continued.

“Really, Mimi?”

“Yeah.”

He took a bite and his eyes got big and he nodded his little head.

“It’s good,” he said, taking another bite.  “Is it really rattlesnake?”

“Sure.”  I winked at him.

Apparently Kache missed the wink.  Or thought it was one of my tics.  I thought he was just being a good sport as he helped me finish the rest of my rattlesnake chicken.  However, when he and I were perusing the vintage style candy aisle after lunch, choosing a cinnamon stick for him and sugared orange slices (they remind me of my dad) for me I found out different.

“I wouldn’t believe rattlesnake tasted so good Mimi.”

“Yep.”

I still didn’t get it.

“I’ll eat it again some time,” he said, looking up at me with a delighted expression on his face.

I smiled.

“You are so cute,” I said.

Still didn’t get it.  I mean my gramps told us the gravy Grama poured on our mashed potatoes when she made liver and onions was bear gravy and I knew he was full of shit by the time I was five.  My brother believed him and he ate the gravy.  I just shook my head at Mike, sincerely worried about his ability to cope with life as he grew up and I couldn’t watch out for him anymore.  Four-year-olds are so dumb……

We went to Bass Pro Shop after lunch at CB and walked around looking at everything from enormous cat fish to taxidermied javelina and other assorted animals to boats bigger than my house.  It was fun watching Kache with his Papa and Uncle Bubba, checking out camping equipment and dropping quarters into the slots at the target shooting range (Brandon – #1/Uncle Bubba – is the best shot).  At one point we were looking at a backpacking cooker/thing and Kache wondered out loud whether or not we could cook rattlesnake over the small flame.  

I started to get it.  

Later, after he’d filled his mom in on our day, Kache sat with Loran and I while we planned a menu for Mother’s Day picnic at the river.

“Why don’t we just have rattlesnake,” he asked.

“Oh,” Loran said, shooting me a look.  “I’m not sure where we’d even buy that.”

“We can just go to Cracker Barrel and get it already cooked,” he said.

“Well,” I said.  “Good suggestion but we’re probably just going to have burgers.”

I looked back at Loran in complete shock because, finally, I got it.  Little Mr. Sophisticated believed every word I said!

“Of course he did,” Loran said when he was out of earshot.  “He’s eight.

I know that……..

The upshot – after hearing him talk about eating rattlesnake for the next four days, I swore EVERYONE to secrecy until Kache is 18 and can safely hear that his mimi was less than, you know, truthful.  Honestly, though, my dad told my kids all kinds of crap and they – okay they probably believed him, but I really thought Kache knew I was full of baloney…….  Turns out he trusts me.  <sigh>

Which leads me to my point.  What is honesty?  What is truth?  I’ve always held that one person’s truth does not invalidate that of another.  Unless you’re Kache and we’re at the park and some kids think I’m his mother and he decides that the actual truth is mui important to get across, and it was fine that he wanted to set them straight but did he have to disabuse me of my emotional truth that I’m hovering around 23?

SHE’S MY GRANDMOTHER!”  Literally could not have said it any louder with a megaphone.  “TELL THEM MIMI!”

I’m pretty sure you just did, buddy.”  

“SHE’S WELL INTO HER 50’S!”  

Seriously?

I thanked my only grandchild for setting everyone in the park straight about my age, to a chorus of wow, she’s old, from the rest of the under four feet crowd.  Kache turned to me and grinned because he’d known the “truth” and now so did everyone else.

“I will sell you on the way home,” I told him.  “Cheap.”

I believed in the Catholic Christian God when I was small.  As I became aware of my non-Catholic friends and relatives – you know, including my father and bestfriendcousinsister Mindy – I began to wonder how they would get themselves into Heaven and if they could save us all a lot of time and energy and just start going to my church.  I wasn’t too worried about my Grama Reenie because she already told all the Jehovah’s Witness and Mormon missionaries who came to her door that she was Catholic and, “it chases them right out the door.”  I repeated this conversation to my mother verbatim and her facial expression told me she wanted to say one thing but decided instead to advise me against asking any of my family and/or friends to give up their religion in favor of ours.

“Don’t you want them to get to Heaven,” I asked.

“They’ll be fine,” Mom said.  “They don’t need to be Catholic to get to Heaven.”

“Are you sure,” I asked.  “That’s not what the nun said in church school.”

“Don’t call her the nun,” Mom said.  “She has a name.”

“Her name is Sister Timothy Bartholomew,” I said.  “Which is silly.  She’s a girl.  And she said you have to be Catholic to go to Heaven.”

“I’m sure that’s not what she said.”

But it was and, yes, I argued the point with Mom until she gave me one of the stock adult lines about how I was a kid and she wasn’t and I should quit while I was ahead instead of in my room for the afternoon.  We did revisit the subject later and it’s where I had my first lesson in being a Cafeteria Catholic.  In short, though the Church says true salvation can only come through a personal relationship with Christ and the Eucharist, those who, through no fault of their own, don’t know Him but still sincerely seek God in thought word, and deed can still slide through the pearly gates.  I don’t know how that message translated for Mom, but it eventually came down to it’s a free-for-all to me.  It took 30 years for me to, while perusing the selections in the Catholic Cafeteria line, set my plate down and say no thank-you to all of it and seek my own truth.  In that time I observed a lot of truths.  Some I agree(d) with some not so much.  I’ll bet one of my mom’s truths is she wonders, had she steered our conversation in a different direction the first time I brought up other religions, would I be less of a heathen now.

Seriously, though, how would she have done that and remained in her truth?

The truth is we’re all searching and discovering every day.

Mom said to me once that she sometimes doesn’t recognize who I am as she didn’t raise me to be how I am.  This was said without malice or disappointment, by the way.  She was just curious. 

“I am exactly who you raised me to be,” I told her.  With an evil grin.  Revenge can be so sweet.

Just kidding.  I told her with gratitude for her beautiful example of following one’s own truth.

When #1 was born I informed my parents that we would not be perpetuating the myth of Santa Claus.  I felt like it would be a lie because, you know, it is.  Mom, in her typical respectful way, knowing I had a few years to decide as #1 was only three weeks old on his first Christmas, said okay.  Dad?  Had a conniption.  I caved quickly and “perpetuated the myth” with all five of my progeny.  And I don’t think anyone was traumatized when they found out the truth of the matter.  I wasn’t traumatized when I found out.  Maybe a little pissed because I thought Jeannie Tucker was a damn liar, standing there in the elementary school hall with me, waiting to go to the cafeteria.

“What did Santa bring you,” I asked her.

“Nothing,” said the youngest child of older parents who had several much older siblings who spoiled it all for me that fateful day when I was barely eight years old – but I’m not still bitter.  

“Nothing?”  Holy crap!  So he really does demand that you be good.  “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she said again and in an are you stupid tone of voice.  “There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.  Your mom and dad buy the presents.”

I don’t remember what happened immediately after that defining moment.  I may have blacked out.  The following Sunday, however, I sat my mother down at the dining table at Grama and Grampa’s house and asked her if what Jeannie had said was true.  She looked around at Dad, Mike (only seven) and my grandparents but apparently nobody had any brilliant ideas on how to salvage not only my childhood but that of my younger brother.  Well, and Dad’s.  My dad looooooved Christmas.

“Yes,” Mom said in a very gentle, kind of sad voice.  “It’s true.”  

I started to cry and I heard my dad ask Mom why she told me.

“What was I supposed to do,” she said.  “I couldn’t lie to her.”  She sat me on her lap and hugged me.

“Will I still get presents,” I sobbed out after a minute.

“Of course,” she said.  

I heard a chorus of adult voices assuring me of the same.  I sucked in several shaky breaths, then abruptly decided to cut my losses.  

“Okay,” I said, on my last wail, before starting to calm down.

I recovered quickly as did Mike but Dad never recovered.  The man loved Christmas.  And Thanksgiving and Halloween.  He loved perusing the candy aisles in October and picking out which kinds to buy, which kinds would be hoarded and which morsels would actually make it into the baskets of the trick-or-treaters.  This childlike sense of wonder took him all the way through the holidays and in spite of the fact that there is no Santa (and he knew it) was his truth.
I’ll never regret the years spent living the mystery of Santa myself nor those spent planning and executing the surprised on Christmas if for no other reason than it brought joy to him – to all of us.

One person’s truth does not invalidate that of another.  I believe this and I have been told, by several people that I’m wrong and that it’s too bad because I’ll have plenty of time to think about it while I’m laboring alone under my spiritual delusions or, you know, burning slowly in hell, depending to whom I am speaking.  I don’t worry any longer, however.  I don’t try to convince people I’m right because there’s really, really no point.  Their truth is theirs and it’s valid.  As for mine, well it’s my story and I’m sticking to the same.

You know. 

It tastes like chicken.  

 

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Life – According to Lucy

What is unconditional love? Is there such a thing?

That is the Universal standard, no? God’s standard?

I mean, by that standard any asshole can be, well, an asshole all the time and still be loved.

Number 1 was asking me about someone from my childhood with whom I’m friends on Facebook.
What is she really like? Is she like she seems? If so, why are you friends with her?
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think so – I mean, she always was the way she seems now and – it’s friendship at a distance. I can filter it, so to speak.’
But why?
‘She has redeeming qualities. And there are no surprises. I don’t expect things from her I know aren’t available.’
Like what?
‘Like anything beyond casual chat.’
You don’t do casual chat.
‘Sure I do.’
Okay.
‘Don’t patronize me.’
Relax Mom. You’re just a little – intense.

Note the emphasis on ‘tense.’

‘I am so easy going. I am so laid back I’m nearly horizontal.’

Number 1 was staring straight ahead at this point and I spent a second imagining the conflict in his brain where it’s more logical and he was probably wondering what he could say at this point to lead our talk back to something less subjective than my state of being at any given moment.

‘Sorry,’ I said.
No worries.
‘My friend and I share history. Some good, some bad but she seems to accept me the way I am and I can do that for her as well. Her perspective has always been valuable to me. Does that make sense?’
He nodded the way he always does when I’m winding up to speak in paragraphs.
‘I mean, we didn’t get along much when we were kids. Her sister and I were better friends but – there was something about her that I didn’t want to let go of. I did think she was just misunderstood, or vulnerable or something like that. Like someone needed to really, really reach her. I thought I was the one who could. It’s almost funny now. I couldn’t, no matter what I tried.’
Why, do you think?
‘She’s an asshole. There’s that.’

Is the fact that I am only a certain kind of friend to this person evidence that conditional love is okay? Or does everybody just love parts of people? The truth is we love, much of the time in spite of one thing or another. I happen to know for a fact that not everything about me is lovable.

No. Please. Don’t argue.

While we need not deal with a litany of what needs improvement in my personality and habits, suffice it to say I skate by on credit sometimes. You know, she was always so sweet, sort of thing. Which is bullshit, to be honest. I’m not sweet. I’m empathetic and try to be kind. It’s from the heart and it’s part how I was born and part how I was formed. But sweet? No.

I give those I love credit a lot as well. I – we all let things slide. You have to if you’re going to have relationships. However, lines have to be drawn. Not, I suppose on your love. Just – you know – the really important stuff. How much time you give. How much of yourself you put out there and on the line before you say ‘enough.’

How does one know, then, when love turns to, say, abuse? How do you know that someone is using you? How do you know when to turn and say enough? I’ve had enough. You are damaging me, us. This needs to stop. You’re out of line. How do you draw those lines without losing?

I think it’s all about what you’re gaining.

When you draw a line like that you gain yourself.

Of course, if you’re me, you are wracked with guilt for doing so, but you deal and push through.

What does that mean, you ask.

For me it means I come to terms with the fact that someone else’s truth does not diminish mine and vice versa. I’ve told this story before…….. While at a family reunion some years back, my cousin – three years my senior – apologized for treating me badly as a child. It wasn’t a purge on her part. I’m pretty sure her treatment of me hadn’t kept her up at night, though it took its toll on me. I’m not even sure it crossed her mind until that very moment. My cousin, my aunt (also three years my senior) and I were sharing memories of our childhood. There were some good ones – then there was that very large pachyderm in the room when all of us recalled the not so good ones and Sadie (cousin) said, “We didn’t treat you very well when we were kids and I’m sorry.” Her words were clearly a revelation to her. You could see it in her face.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

That was it. Except, of course, that the aunt threw in a whatever because she never saw treating me badly as doing anything wrong. She still doesn’t, and that’s her truth and I’d say another story but it was actually the beginning of the end of another story.

What Sadie said healed and inspired me. Remember when I said I’m not “perfect?” I had (have) apologies to make and where possible, I made (still make) them. It was probably more important to me than the persons to whom I apologized. I sat down to write one particular note, thinking This man has grown up, become a lawyer, married, had children – all around successful and happy. What could he possibly gain from my apology?

I apologized anyway:

Dear Joe:

I’m writing to apologize for treating you badly when we were children. I realize you’ve lived well and successfully without my words, but it’s come to my attention recently how healing it can be to hear that someone realizes they hurt you once upon a time and regrets the pain they caused. I am sorry.

He wrote back:

Dear Lorie:

Thank you. Your words meant a great deal. Truly, no apology was necessary – kids will be kids – but I appreciate it. I too know the redemptive power of reconciliation and forgiveness.

The kids will be kids thing was magnanimous of him because, let me tell you, I – along with my brother and several other kids – was a little asshole to this guy. He and I don’t have an ongoing relationship now because we never did, but we are positive energy in each other’s collective consciousness. Working toward good.

How, I’ve wondered over the years, do I get to that place with others? Words haven’t worked. With some communication was nonexistent. Not everyone likes to say everything that’s in their head. Go figure. Not everyone can face the top frigging layer of what’s in their heart and mind, let alone get in there deeper, no matter how many times and ways I tried to peal that onion.

I let many of these people go. Not with harsh words and not without feelings of loss. I am talking, after all, about people I love and who supposedly love me. There are ties, both emotional and genetic – neither to be sneezed at – but it eventually came down to survival. It came down to a question of whether or not I wanted to thrive. Did – do – I want to live or do I just want to exist? In the end – or in the beginning – it turned out to be easier than I thought. I mean – it was hard and it hurt – but when I stopped trying to control them and took possession of the fact that I had a choice in the matter there was clarity. I took myself out of the equation. Only in one case did I actually say the words “I’m letting you go with love.” It was a choice I made because the words needed to be said. They were not met with hearts and flowers and phrases like can we please make this work. It was more like middle fingers and kiss my ass.

Which was not unexpected.

You don’t walk out of someone’s life – you don’t tell your truth – without repercussions sometimes. The bottom line is, however, this is MY truth. It doesn’t diminish anyone else’s. It’s mine, though and I had to choose whether or not I was going to live it.

Do I feel happy, good, celebratory, enthusiastic about having walked away from some of the people who were very important to me?

I don’t look at it like that. To be clear, I didn’t give anyone a middle finger even when I wanted to the very, very most and when one considers how much I like the “F Word,” in all its forms, that’s saying something. I let them go. With as much love and peace as I was capable. It still hurts sometimes that we are not in each others’ lives and I have no idea if they miss me as well. Perhaps we’ll somehow circle back around to each other. The most important thing here is that I chose truth. I chose to thrive. I chose finding myself and filling my plate well over living off the scraps from someone else’s table.

I do love to mix metaphors.

We, all of us here on this planet are, as individuals and a collective consciousness, working toward something. When I let go of people (and things and places) it’s an exercise in freedom. When a relationship is becoming or continuing to be toxic it’s a huge drag on anything positive. I can’t move toward the light if part of me insists darkness is okay. My ego wanted so badly to hang in there with these relationships in order to fix what was wrong. Isn’t that my job? To bring light and love to everyone I encounter?

It’s like this – and I love this analogy. If your friend (or sibling or cousin or mother or uncle or spouse, et al) has pneumonia will it help them get better if you get sick too?

(The correct answer is no)

I mean – duh. Seriously.

I walked away for me. Not gonna lie about that. I had spent years – decades – trying to build relationships with people because we were tied by blood and I loved them and we were supposed to be close. Those relationships were the proverbial castles in the sand and I watched as they washed away again and again, only to try and rebuild them because we – well, what I just said. Finally. I stopped.

For me.

The funny thing is that my ego was okay with it. Turns out it’s not as big as I thought. Or it, like the rest of me, was tired of having the shit beat out of it. It checks in every now and then when we stalk someone’s Facebook page to see if they are showing signs of missing me, but mostly we (me, myself and our ego) just move forward with a shrug and love.

Are the people with pneumonia getting better since I stopped trying to be their doctor? If they are it’s not something they’re putting on social media. Again, that’s good because it keeps me free to be free.

I need a lot of checks and balances. Or a keeper, depending on the day.

In answer to my original question about unconditional love. Yes, it exists and I think it can be given but it has to start with unconditional love of self – which is only practical. You cannot give what you don’t have. You must form an acceptance, peace and affection for yourself before you are able to distribute those feelings to anyone else in any real, tangible sense.

I’ll leave you with a couple of my favorite quotes.

Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world.” Lucille Ball

Love your neighbor as yourself.” Mark 21:31

 

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Catching up…..Life as a Badass

Dear 23 Readers:

Oh my gosh, it’s been a long time since I sat down to write an update. I’ve been thinking of you, though and decided today is the day to reach out. There’s been a lot of change lately – nothing negative – just different. My mom is selling her house and that’s very emotional for all of us. It’s definitely time. She and Dad bought it 27 years ago and it is the “stable” home my nomadic children have known. We’ve moved so much and 1141 N. Nielson has been the port in many storms. We had Easter dinner at Mom’s and realized it will probably be our last holiday in the house. Matthew (#4) and I sat by the pool and started to talk about it but tears threatened and I am way too macho for that crap. Mark and I found out, recently that our good friends are moving back to Boston due to a job offer. Then, at work, we promoted my assistant manger to store manager at a different location. Which means a promotion for my key holder and hiring someone new for her position. Which means I have to talk to and play well with others I just met….. See? All good stuff, but change in the people in my peripheral and that always freaks me out. <sigh>

In other news, we camped Easter weekend with the fam. Part of it anyway. Loran (#3), Matthew, Kache (grandbaby) and Mark and I headed out for the last desert camp of the season. Lots of fun. A little too much tequila Saturday night after Kache fell asleep. Matt played guitar and I may or may not have sung “How Great Thou Art” acapella, at the top of my lungs, around midnight.

#momsdrunkrealizesitseasterandhastodosomethingreligious
AKA
#youcantakethegirloutofthechurchbutyoucanttakethecatholicoutofthegirl

Kimmy(#2) and her husband, Matti (note the i at the end of the name as I also refer to #4 as Matty and we try not to mix up the two. It’s worth noting we also have two Brandons – #1 as well as my nephew Casey’s husband, Brandon – differentiated by the spelling of their middle names Jeffrey for #1 and Geoffrey for nephew Brandon or by referring #1as Bubba or to Nephew as Nephew or Uncle Mooney, referencing somewhat dated family redneck jokes. Don’t ask.)

What the hell was I talking about?

Oh! #2 and Bodington went to England on a vacation I am openly envious of. They’ve been all over the place – South Africa, Ecuador, Japan – and that’s lovely, but England is on my bucket list and they got to go to Hogwarts and have high tea and see the Queen and Prince William. I am jealous.

It’s later now.

Pops left for New York (more change). Mom flew with him and will hang with family and friends that still reside in the frozen north. Her house sold, things are moving along nicely at work and my assistant moved on to his own store. <sigh>

Due to all the above mentioned change – not to mention the state of the world – I’ve been somewhat grumpy and have been making an effort to take myself out of a negative state of mind. I tend to be, by turns, cynical, annoyed, snarky and bitchy simply out of habit that is exacerbated by watching the news or Saturday Night Live and getting the latest Trump update. The negativity is like a cassette tape that’s on repeat in my head, when basically, I’m a very nice person.

Ask around.

What got me thinking about my own state of mind was Brandon’s. Admittedly, his is a bit of a challenge to me as he is Mr. Spock and I am a cross between my Aunt Gertrude, Karen on Will and Grace and the old bat Shirley McClain played in Steel Magnolias.

Don’t ask.

Anyway, one of Brandon’s favorite comedians is George Carlin. I get it. He was a funny guy. Sardonic, ironic, brilliant, fast and – largely negative. While I understand it is a comic’s job to point out the irony, etc., in daily life, depending on who they are and what their style is, things can get really dark. Carlin’s style fell into that category. I mean really, really bleak. So if Mr. Spock is listening to this guy who speaks the “truth” and does it loudly and in a somewhat angry voice, how exactly is that going to affect Mr. Spock?

Well, I don’t know. But it’s not good for Brandon.

For instance, Brandon is Agnostic. Fine. It’s his choice and frankly I don’t think God cares either. I mean, really, if God is all powerful and good and whatever, he knows Bran’s mind and heart and could really not give a shit less if #1 goes to church, a baseball game or the living room couch on a Sunday morning. However, Bran has been getting adamant about it. Even a little belligerent. And I’m like, “Dude, what? Okay. You don’t believe in the religious God. I’m good, and seriously, Supernatural is about to start. Please don’t get in the way of my Sam and Dean time.”

Yesterday we were on our way to an appointment in BFE and Bran brought his George Carlin CD. I listened for about 15 minutes, turned it off and looked at my son.

“Jesus, no wonder you’re half crazy over this crap,” I said. “You’re living your life based on the gospel according to George freaking Carlin.”

Thank God I know how to be subtle.

“You may not believe in the stuff written by whomever claims to be the scribe of God in any given part of the Bible, but please please give the same discriminatory once over to Carlin’s material. This is his schtick. You get that right? He was apparently one angry fu—.”
“Mom!”
“Sorry, but jeez! All this time I’ve been worried that you’re gonna end up punching pro-life marchers in the forehead or telling little old Mother Theresa look alikes that they’re full of sh-uh-baloney because you don’t believe so much and it was just a stupid recording of George Carlin warping your good sense!”
“Well,” said my completely unimpressed by my rant son. “If you look at things logically, he’s right about almost everything he says.”
“Perhaps if everything was black or white, but the gray areas count, Bran.”

There was more, but it got me thinking about what I listen to and what floats around in the space between my ears. In Awakening To Your Life’s Purpose, book I read and re-read endlessly, Eckhart Tolle talks about the ego and the recording it plays in our heads. A constant diatribe of discontent and negativity. We’re always something whether it’s annoyed, irritated, entitled, deprived, anxious, resentful, victimized – made up stuff that keeps us enslaved to negative feelings. Some of it, of course, can very well be rooted in real events or needs and wants, but most is habit. Think about when you’re driving and someone zooms in front of you. It startles you and you immediately decide that person did it on purpose or without any thought for you so they are suddenly the enemy and you can call them a worthless ass hat or perhaps a douche lord. Or a freaking jerk or a f&^$ing a$$hole…….. I digress.

I read something in the Buddhist Bootcamp blog that said (paraphrasing) You are not stuck in traffic. You are traffic.

Sing it with me : e – PIPH – any.

Of all the things that annoy me, it annoys me most that I am them. (That one is mine)

My point is not to demean anyone’s space. We are where we are. And I would never suggest that anxiety and/or depression are a figment of imagination. I’ve been there with both of them and for whatever reason they might exist for someone, they’re real as hell.

So are the voices.

Just kidding.

For the daily, though. The recording that plays over and over – maybe we could change it up. It’s surprisingly easy to do. The first step is to realize your ego is a separate entity from who you truly are. Your ego believes the guy cut in front of you in traffic ON PURPOSE to RUIN YOUR DAY. Sanity tells you he, like you, is just trying to get where he is going in one piece and he did a bone-headed thing. Maybe today you can refrain from telling him how many ways you’re going to eff him up when you get a hold of him the next time you see him on the freeway. Perhaps when someone walks into your store to ask directions or for something you clearly don’t sell you can summon a smile, even though they’re the 73rd person to do so, and give them the information they need instead of the finger.

Do you get where I’m going? Away from the edge and today I’ll take you with me if you want. Tomorrow I may be calling you for a lift.

Next up: Depression and Naked Disco Dancing.
……………My second cousin, once removed asked for advice, via her Facebook page, regarding something she could do to channel some extremely negative energy and (as I read it) sort of clear her space. I didn’t answer at first because, though I’ve come to think a lot of her and I adored her grandmother (my first cousin, once removed), I don’t know her well and it felt presumptuous to offer said advice.

I know. She asked. But my answer was a very personal one and it felt strange putting it out there.

Like I was naked.

Then she posted again, expressing surprise at the number of constructive suggestions she’d received when she sort of expected irreverence. SC chose a couple of the suggestions and shared her plans to follow through on them, but there was no irreverence. No silliness. No outrageous behavior to upend the blues. I responded thusly:

You wanted something irreverent? I’ve got it, I think. During times when life overwhelmed me, when sadness curled me into a fetal ball of fear under the blankets in my bed, behind closed and locked bedroom doors, my husband – whether reacting from concern or just not knowing what the hell else to do – marched in, turned on Donna Summer or Gloria Gaynor or The Bee Gees and told me to dance. I said “I’m naked under here.” He said, “Perfect! It’s pretty hard to take anything seriously when you’re dancing naked to ‘I Will Survive!'” I protested. I bitched. I cried. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So just to get rid of him I danced. Naked. To disco. There was some serious stuff bringing me down. Those dances became my fuck you to losing my mind to them. Irreverence matters. Do the constructive things you’ve mentioned but grab some irreverence as well. That’s just for you.

Just for you.

And, so you see, I was naked. And it was frightening. Not that anybody saw – except me. And nobody cared – even me – which was weird because we all know exactly how vain I used to be.

Shut up.

When I danced I discovered a kind of freedom that I hadn’t known since I was a child. It was a letting go of energy that children know instinctively how to release. As we grow into adults and buy into the trade offs that life inevitably brings – you know – make the deals to get the stuff, I think we tie up the instinct piece by piece and sell it, accidentally, for shit we never needed in the first place. It takes a level of consciousness of which most 12 to 30 year-olds are unaware to say no more often than not. And, frankly, I thought I’d said no. A lot. I thought I was pretty Zen. However, I forgot – or more likely – ignored the fact that pretending the deals I was making weren’t, in fact, deals and stuffing fear and anger in my “I’ll deal with that tomorrow” file like I was Scarlett O’Hara isn’t the same thing as being fully centered.

As if “fully centered” actually exists on this plane……

Adulting is hard. There’s no way around it. I knew it and I believed it. I just didn’t make room for it. And so, in that first summer and fall we spent in New York, when I was away from my two oldest daughters and my mother and Mom had cancer and I was still reeling from the loss of my father and I hated my job and Matthew hated me because I’d gone back on my word never to move one of my children from their home during high school and all of that didn’t even scratch the surface of the guilt and grief I was carrying from years of deals, I curled up in my bed one day and thought – well I stopped thinking. I was afraid to think. Or feel or move. I was afraid.

Which is where Mark and Donna Summer came into play.

It wasn’t the last time he found me that way. The first time wasn’t the last time I danced. And I still make deals. But I make them more fully aware of what I’m doing. There’s less idealism involved but there’s also less fear. I traded the need to have everything in its place for learning to live in the moment and be thankful for it. I traded wanting everyone to like me for liking myself. I traded religion for faith and I traded feeling like a victim to living like a badass.

I know what you’re thinking. Doesn’t she sell sunglasses? Yes. I do. But what one “does” isn’t what makes one a badass.

I dated a guy in college who was, in every sense of the word, unavailable to me. It’s okay. It was my pattern as a commitment-phobe to choose those whom I could not have – which is a story for another time. With the advent of social media, this person and I crossed paths again five or six years ago. It was hey, how are you? Tell me about yourself…… We caught up a little and that was it. Except for one thing. He said to me, I’m happy to know you’ve lived a joyful life.

I hadn’t told him that. I mean, we’re basically strangers and I certainly didn’t reveal anything deep. I had a moment of what does he mean by that? Was I not joyful back then? Is he judging me? Which sounds like pure egocentric paranoia.

You’ve met me, right?

But once I dismissed Blanche – which is what I call my egocentric personality in honor of the character immortalized by Vivien Leigh in the movie Streetcar Named Desire – I was able to take the compliment for what it was. An impression given. My aura. It’s basically who I am. Really am. When I look at the things I’ve been through in my life – the good, the not so good, the horrifying – and know that who I am now, at the heart of it is the same happy, loud, curious, open, joyful being I was as a child and that all of my personalities get out of bed every single morning – THAT makes me a badass.

I’ll bet you just figured out you’re one as well.

It’s been lovely catching up!  I’ll try not to wait so long before sitting down to write next time because I have been known to go on and on………..

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It’s a Process

In the wake of the 30th anniversary of my marriage I thought I’d write about what makes a good marriage, but more than a month has passed since the momentous occasion and as I put hands on the keyboard in the hundredth attempt at doing so, I find I know very little. And I know everything.

Conundrum anyone?

People who’ve been married or together for decades will tell you though. The truth as they know (or don’t know) it.

Why stay together?

Love?  Yes, of course it’s love, but, really, what does love mean?

I don’t know.

But I do.

Therefore I have no advice to give and I could go on all day, giving you thousands of tips on how to formulate a lasting relationship that will bring you happiness and fulfillment. Or not.

I read once that spending a lifetime with one person goes against the natural tendencies of human nature. Taking into account some of the humans I spent time with when I was in the dating world, I totally get that, but even given the propensity of people to pick the wrong human, I disagree.

Look. We are basically alone on this carnival ride known as Life.  I, personally, have been confused about almost everything from inception. That I met someone when I was 11 years old and have loved him from the start seems like the way to go if at all possible. I mean two heads are better than one, right?

Not that there haven’t been hiccups.

There was that time when I was 13 and standing on stage with my cousin and brother, in the gym, prepping for a talent show performance. Mark came strutting in(and those who knew him back then will be able to visualize this as well as I), his arm around his girlfriend and greeted me across the room with a, “Hello beautiful.” My father, who’d been sitting facing us, heard this, stood up and turned around slowly with a murderous look on his face. (Those who knew my father will be able to visualize this as well). I thought it was all over right then.

Thanks Dad, for not killing my future husband.

There was the time when I was 15 and expressed my love for Mark via a letter and he said, “yeah, thanks but no thanks, jail bait.”

Fine. He was sweet and kind but the result was the same. My ego and my heart were shattered.

There were the weddings. Ours. To other people. Ironically, in the same year. The marriages lasted about the same amount of time as well – which is to say not long.

The hiccups our first few years together came rapid-fire and left us both wondering why, when we had loved each other for so long at that point, it was so difficult to meld our lives. I mean it’s not like Mark thought he knew everything and I was stubborn to a degree most commonly documented in mules. What attracted us to each other sometimes repelled us and many times in those early days the thing that held us together was the thought that if one left, the other would be alone and at the mercy of the short people we were so good at creating.

I can’t say that the hiccups ever stopped. I mean, it’s life. Somewhere in there, however, we found a groove and I can sum it up in one word. Communication. We talk and it depends on the day, month, year, millennium, moon cycle – whatever – who talks the most. I mean, you’d think it would be me simply by virtue of the fact that it’s me and, obviously, I talk a lot. Granted, some of those conversations are between me and, well, me, and the diatribe is pretty much never ending, let me tell you, but no. It’s not always me. Mark has a lot to say as well. That means one of us has to listen, which is harder. When Mark and I were first married I’d pour my heart out about a frustration, hurt, anger – basically I just needed to talk. He’d listen for a while, sum things up for me and offer a solution. Then we’d fight. I’d tell him he wasn’t listening and he’d tell me I was out of my mind because that’s all he’d done for however long we’d been sitting there. It took years of practice for him to understand the difference between problem solving and listening. It took years of me listening to him for me to understand that his intentions were good. He wasn’t trying to shut me up.

It was a classic Mars/Venus thing.

Now we set aside time for just talking and just listening. Sometimes we spend days that way. Sometimes we cobble together a few moments because our schedules keep us apart.

And that’s hard because we like being together. We’re buddies.

I remember when it dawned on me how much I love Mark. I mean, I always knew I loved him. But that all-encompassing never want to be without him ever again and can’t remember a time when it wasn’t that way thing. That you’re stuck with me now dude, so don’t even think about trying to get away, realization that had nothing to do with the five children, mortgage and car payments we’d racked up.

It was around our 15th anniversary and it came to me that almost all the memories I had were of Mark. Or if they weren’t of him, they were made within the time I knew him.

And it didn’t scare me.

I had been the one afraid of commitment in the beginning. I had been the one to run away. I had been the one who could not believe that another human being would love me just for me and that all I was required to bring to the party was – me.

I was enough and he was enough and around year 15 the realization dawned that I believed it. I guess what I saw was the difference between the beginning and the present. I slowed down long enough to pay homage to the process that was us and to acknowledge the beauty of life and this extraordinary gift of love I’d been given and was still allowed to participate in…..

…..And then a kid threw up or threw something at another kid and as quickly as the first 15 years passed, another 15 went by.

We are now entering a new phase with freedom involved that we have never experienced as a couple. It’s so new, in fact, that we’re not quite sure what to do with ourselves, though we’re determined to figure it out, one adventure at a time. Nude beaches have been mentioned but the reality verses (my) fantasy has us sticking with hiking in Montana – fully clothed – and sitting on beaches where everyone is at least strategically covered.

I, personally, am so jazzed by this phase, it’s almost hard to process. I feel like a grown up – like someone who is ready to explore a part of life I didn’t think I’d ever experience.

I feel open.

Believe me, I was not even close to the neighborhood where open lives when Mark and I started out, let alone knocking on doors that might actually do just that. It’s another gift choosing to build our relationship has given me. Given us – because Mark was fairly walled of as well. We learned and earned trust that has, more than anything else, released our hearts, minds and souls and enabled us to progress together and as individuals.

It’s a process has become our watch-phrase and it is a process we cherish. It is a relationship we nurture and never, ever take for granted. We have been married for 30 years, together officially for 32, in love for 40 and friends for 44. As much as I’ve learned and as little as I know, I realize fully how special that is and how blessed Mark and I are.

So, to answer your question. Wait. There was no question. It was my proclamation of how to stay married and do it well.

I have no idea.

Or, at least I have no road map.

Honestly, it’s a process, is the best I’ve got. Let it be a process and stay in the moment thereof. It’s kept Mark and me sane. Or at least together. And if we’re together and happy, how effing important is the sanity?

I’ll let my kids write that chapter in another 30.

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Big Sister/Little Sister

I’m watching (sort of) The Parent Trap on TV. How many years and times have I seen this movie? Between the original, which I adore, and the remake I want to say dozens. I just saw the scene (from the remake) where the first twin is flying to London to meet her mother and she whispers a prayer that her mother will like her. It makes me think about my sister, Michelle and the first time she came to visit us. I was 16 and she was 18, I believe. What must it have been like to meet a totally new family? I was ridiculously excited. From the time I was small, my mother told me I asked for a big sister. Not a little sister, though I think I’d have dug that as well, but I requested, very specifically, an older sister. I remember, clearly, the longing for this person I knew belonged in my life. So when Dad told Mike and me about Michelle when I was eight, I was thrilled, though I did advise him not to tell Mom because it would hurt her feelings if she knew. Dad smiled and assured me that Mom was well aware, which was all it took for me to be on board with getting to know this sibling I really knew I already knew (know what I mean?), but I had to wait.

Dad had agreed to let Michelle’s step-father adopt her when she was small and we were not allowed access to her. Ever. Which my Grama Reenie told me was bullshit. Okay, I added shit, but she was right. It was. And it didn’t matter what Grama and I thought. We were out. Until Michelle was 18. Which is when I sent the first letter to her, introducing myself and the fam.

When she decided to come and visit us I was excited to a degree that pretty much defies description. I wanted to go to the airport to meet her but Dad reserved that for just him. I understood to the extent possible for me as a teenager. Really, though, all I wanted to do was bring this girl for whom I’d been waiting all my life home so we could get on with the business of being sisters.

And we were sisters! And we did get on with the business thereof! Oh my God, we were – and are – so much alike. Our voices, our personalities, our likes and dislikes, mannerisms, resting bitch faces – SO much alike. Our faces don’t look the same, but we share expressions and features from our father that leave no one in doubt of the blood connection. That first visit we talked and talked every, single day and night until we were exhausted, trying to catch each other up on our lives because we both knew we should have been living those lives together. Each ensuing visit brought on the same kind of glee. We reveled in being together and our joy was palpable.

We were sisters for 38 years until I had to let go of her.

She didn’t die.

She just didn’t mean it when she said she wanted to be my sister. Or something.

Long story.

Sad story, really. God I miss her. Every day I miss her and I still long for my big sister the way I did when I was small and longed for the person I didn’t even know existed. Michelle just never needed or wanted me in the same way.

I guess.

I don’t know, honestly, why she couldn’t commit to a relationship with me. She’s worse than most guys I dated. There were full years I would go with no communication from her. I wrote, called, and with the advent of the internet and cell phones, emailed, texted, tagged on Facebook and private messaged. And Michelle responded. Sometimes. A little. But that thing. That thing that sisters do where they just talk – just pick up the phone and call for no reason, or a reason that means something only to them, that thing that means you have an inexplicable connection that means the world and more to you and you protect it and nurture it because having the other in your life is extremely important? Yeah, that was apparently just me.

It’s not as if she was unfriendly. She just – treated me like the second cousin you hear from every now and then and are happy to hear from but could do without. I stood it for, literally, decades, hoping she’d come around. I begged, cried, pleaded, yelled and begged some more for her to tell me what was wrong, what I’d done.  Dad said something? What could we do to make it better? Her answer was always, always the same.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

Huh.

I just don’t understand, I’d tell her. When we’re together there is nothing we can’t say to each other. It’s almost like we can read each other’s minds. I love you for so many reasons but one of them is because you instinctively know me in ways nobody else ever has! I know you the same way! You know this. Why, why do you shut me out when we’re not physically together?
“I don’t know,” she’d answer. “Don’t be hurt. I don’t mean anything by it.”
Is it too much? I will understand if it is. Am I asking too much?
“No, you’re not. I’ll do better.”
You don’t owe me anything! If we are to go forward with our relationship, let’s just actually have a relationship. You don’t have to “do better.” Just tell me what, if anything, you want.
“I just want us to be sisters.”

And then we’d go six months or a year and I wouldn’t hear from her. I’d back off, thinking if I did she’d eventually call or write, but no. Nothing.

A couple of years ago I hit a wall. Not a mad wall. I wasn’t bitter. I was just done and I let her go. I wrote her an email saying as much and telling her I loved her and that I’d always be here with an open heart if she wanted to be in touch. She got really pissed and started saying mean stuff.

Ironic. I beg her for decades to talk to me. She refuses. I try, over the same decades, to form a relationship. She refuses. I walk. She tells me what an asshole I am.

I’ve always suspected that the truth of the matter was that she never got over my father “giving her up.” Then, when they met again, I have a feeling their relationship never lived up to what she wanted it to be. That first day, when Dad picked Michelle up at the airport, it might have put closure on the sadness that still lingered for him.

Pretty sure it didn’t for Michelle.

Her adoptive father, Tom, never stopped reminding her, as she was growing up, that she was not really his daughter. That shit has a tendency to sting, then linger like a scorpion bite. It’s all a long and complicated story, though I do believe Michelle and Tom made some peace before he died. I don’t know for sure as I had already taken myself out of the picture. Not that I’d have been privy to their business. Michelle was pretty much ignoring my existence the last couple of years we were in any sort of contact, hence my somewhat belated exit. I’m only guessing from the pictures I still have access to through my mom’s Facebook account because she and my sister are still “friends,” which affords me the ability to stalk – I mean check on her.

Maybe, if Dad had been able to make a deeper connection with his oldest daughter, things would have been different. I don’t blame him. Not for giving Michelle up for adoption or for the inability to reconnect. He allowed Tom to adopt her to give her a better chance at a stable life with two parents who were around all the time.

As for reconnecting, Dad hated people.

But not her.

Not Michelle. He loved her as much as he could and he did his best for her. I would bet a lot that it wasn’t enough. And that’s not a negative toward her. It’s simply a wound that never healed. I suppose it was hard for her to feel like she was really my “sister,” if Dad wasn’t really her “Dad,” and that hurt. All of us.

It was easier to relegate me to distant cousin status.

I still love her. I still, every now and then, imagine what it would have been like for us to connect on that level I more than likely idealize. I see my sisters-in-law, though, and they adore each other even when one wants to kick the other’s ass. My daughters share sister codes and secrets I will never get to understand. My friends on Facebook post photos of outings and trips with their sisters and I tear up, wondering why that couldn’t have been Michelle and me.

Do I still hold out hope? Maybe. No. Not really. My sister is a very stubborn woman and I pissed her off pretty good.

My intention was never – and I mean never – to hurt her. I only wanted to stop my own bleeding. I loved this woman on a soul level and for whatever reason, she couldn’t return that love and indeed, at times seemed to go out of her way to, if not wound me, then damage any potential we had as family.

And I just couldn’t watch her life unfold from the sidelines any longer. It wasn’t that I finally realized I deserved to be treated better. I’d been saying that for years. My epiphany came in the form of knowing I had a choice in the matter. I could say, enough.

I am sure Michelle has her side to this story, but here’s the thing. I asked her, for 38 years to share that side. It wasn’t until I stood up for love of myself that she started to tell me and then it was in the form of insults and accusations.

Brilliant in a way. It was the last play of her game. She pushed me away for almost four decades – trying to fuck up our relationship to the point where I’d have to walk away. Like Dad did in her little girl mind. The differences are obvious if one can reconcile the child with the adult and to my knowledge, Michelle never has. It took me 40 years from the outside looking in. Would that I could see my own shit so clearly.

I miss her.

I miss her laugh and her sharp as hell wit – oh the sarcasm! I’m sure we were twins in another life. I miss the reflection of myself in her and being her mirror back. I miss the discovery of how we differed as well. We have different mothers, after all.

Well.

Enough of that, I guess.

It’s more letting go.

As I write about Michelle, I feel again the connection we had – will always have – and the pain of separation is fresh.

For me.

At least.

The little sister.

 

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Poof! Anxiety is Gone… or something… And I do not have ADHD… Yet

I have spent the last week with an old acquaintance named anxiety.

What a jerk.

He comes over uninvited, makes himself at home, doesn’t explain the reason for the visit and commences to wreak havoc. I did what I could on my own then threw up my hands and called my good buddy, tequila. We sipped a shot together and my stomach untwisted enough for me to get my shit together and show anxiety the door. The problem is, anxiety has his own key.

And we all know tequila can’t stay forever or he turns from the solution into the problem.

Like I always, eventually do, I started the backtracking inventory, researching and figuring out why my head seems to be so far up my – uh – why I’m anxious. Is it psychological, physiological, work-related, stress-related? Am I not getting to the gym? Am I not saying no enough?

For me, anxiety is almost always self-induced by the mythological I-can-do-it-all syndrome that affects women from 9 to 90. I work full time and have a lot of obligations, just like millions of my sisters around the globe. Is it menopause related? I don’t know. I can’t tell you what point of menopause I’m in because there’s no map supplied by life – thanks God – and we will be discussing this later….. I have a mental picture of me saying these things to God and God sitting at his laptop reading them, eyes going wide, clapping his (we’re going with ‘him’ as no woman would ever do to herself or another female what menopause does) hand over his mouth to smother naughty giggles…….

Yes, I personify The Almighty as a 13-year-old nerd, pranking womankind.

Sometimes.

In this case.

It’s a testament to how close to the edge I can get when desperate for answers. I mean, come on. I can’t walk around with my heart in my throat all the time. It makes me grouchy as hell. Neither do I want to be zonked on Benadryl constantly. That stuff makes me cantankerous after a while too.

<sigh>

……….I went to have my hair colored yesterday.

Not cut. Just colored.

I’ve never split my appointments up before, but because I waited until the last minute (read three inches of roots) to schedule them, my colorist and stylist couldn’t be booked on the same day for a month out. I took what I could get, which was a color appointment right before Mr. Smooshy Kissy Cheek’s Kindergarten Moo-sical. I was sure I’d have at least 45 minutes between completion of the appointment and the start of the barn show. Plenty of time.

And I don’t know what my colorist was doing with her time but I felt neglected. She put the foils in my hair, had someone else wash the color out (which is normal). She put toner in, plopped me in a chair and I never saw her again.

I sat, waiting, for long enough that I wondered what the hell was happening. There was a brief moment of fear in which I remembered the girl who does my color was a classmate of one of my daughters and said daughter told me they did not get along – in fact the words “can’t stand,” “mean as hell” and “such a b!#ch” might have been thrown around. However, as that was 10 years past and the “mean as hell” girl is nice to me, does fabulous color, and it’s my hair, #1 agreed sucking it up was in order. But – had my colorist suddenly remembered the animosity between them and decided to take it out on my hair?

I tried not to panic. It wasn’t as if I could just leave. There were mysterious chemicals on my head, of which I was (and am) completely ignorant.

I took deep breaths and watched a girl sweep the hair from three different stations, empty it into the garbage and take the garbage outside. She then came back, introduced herself as Maddy and said she’d been sent to wash and blow dry my hair.

Okay.

Everything was good. Normal.

The speed at which Maddy moved was neither. It took her five actual minutes to comb out my hair and 32 actual minutes to attempt a blow dry. I knew she was a student and learning and was fine with that – unlike the student in the teaching hospital where Kimberly was born…… I made it clear, at that time, to my doctor that I wanted no residents anywhere near me. Brandon’s birth had been a horrible ordeal, during which we both could have died and I wanted nothing but seasoned professionals around for the birth of my second child. So, when the unfamiliar doctor came in to check my progress during labor I asked if he was a resident. He said yes. I said how happy I was to meet him and that he should take the goddamned glove off because that hand was going nowhere near my cervix…….. But this was just hair.

“Just hair.”

Seriously. 32 minutes.

At minute 20 I told Maddy how much I appreciated her efforts but was in quite a time crunch.

“Oh, of course,” she said. “I understand schedules.”

At minute 30 I released a sigh that sounded more like a growl. Maddy just continued on with the little, tiny section of hair she was drying.

“May I ask a favor,” I said at minute 32. “Give me the dryer. Just hand me the dryer.”

I grabbed it, flipped my head over and had the top of my head, which was literally still wet, dry in about 30 seconds. I mean, Jesus, it’s the desert and I have fine hair. Unless I’m standing out in the 100 degree sun and am in the middle of a frigging hot flash, it takes me, at the very most, 10 minutes to dry and style my locks.

Finally all was well.

Then I saw it.

In the middle of my head there was basically a big blonde mass. A forelock so brightly colored it looked like a bald spot.

“Is everything okay,” Maddy asked nervously. She reached toward my hair.
“Don’t touch me,” I said. “I’m going to use the restroom, then pay and I have to go. I’m late.”

I walked away and reached the bathroom right before I burst into tears because damn it, now I’d have to think about my hair and that’s my one rule. I don’t want to have to think about it. I get it cut and colored three or four times a year and I don’t have to think about it otherwise. But now I would because there’s a big blonde bald-looking spot right in the middle of my face…………

………And it’s a couple of days later…….. I’ve calmed down and had my hair washed and cut and the “spot” is blended and makes sense with the style……. Sort of……..

Maybe I’m just too picky. Maybe it’s wrong of me to insist that my hair look more like my natural color from 25 years ago and less like a photo of Bonnie Raitt.

Does anyone get that reference?

If you want to feel old, make jokes around people in their twenties. One of the guys at work started complaining about his hair the other day. Because it resembled Greg Brady’s from The Brady Bunch I said, “Oh calm down Greg. You’re getting it cut this afternoon, right?” His face was completely blank.

“What? Why’d you call me Greg?”

I had to explain the joke and show him a clip from The Brady Bunch. He’d never heard of it.

And just in case anyone wonders, google photos of Bonnie Raitt.

Later I was on break and scrolling my Facebook feed. Sean Hayes had posted one of his lip sync videos and I was watching it and laughing. Another of the babies who works for me asked what was so funny and I said I was watching a Sean Hayes lip sync video.

He gave me a blank stare.

“Sean Hayes,” I repeated. “You know, Jack, from Will and Grace.”

Same stare.

From somewhere in my brain I heard the words, fire him.  Instead I threw him a nasty look and told him to go back to work.

Almost everyone with whom I work is younger than I.

And it’s okay. I don’t mind. Most of the time.

It’s just…… Well, if there’s any levity it almost has to be on their level because it’s one thing for me to stay current but if we have to go back in time, I have to give history lessons and we all know I have no patience for that crap. I mean, I know Will and Grace has been off the air for a while but….

Oh God. I am a dinosaur.

Seriously. I just looked up when Will and Grace was on the air and I can’t believe it’s been OFF longer than it was on.

What about Friends? BRB

12 years off the air!

<sigh>

So my humor, my newest humor, is at least ten years old because, seriously, I don’t think much of what’s on now is funny. I like The Big Bang Theory and Amy Schumer, but Vine and Snapchat? Ugh. Olivia will, every now and then, find me in a weak moment – I’ve just gotten out of bed or the shower and can’t move quickly enough to avoid what I know is coming – and force-feed me six and a half second videos that she swears will simply tear me up with laughter.

They don’t.

I’m sure some are funny. I just haven’t seen those. Yet. Because my daughter insists we keep on trying. And because it puts me in close proximity with my youngest, I agree.

But they’re not funny.

Karen Walker is funny. Lucy and Ethel are still funny. Barney Fife is still funny. That big, dorky guy who does the Chrysler Pacifica commercials – Jim Gaffigan – is hilarious. So I guess, if you count him and Amy Schumer, I like current stuff.

Over 30 stuff.

To each generation their own.

I remember when Mark showed a clip of Robin Williams Live On Broadway to his father and Pops very calmly told us exactly how unfunny Mr. Williams and his crass, profane brand of humor was. Pops hates swear words. Robin Williams used them liberally. Mark and I use them liberally – unless Pops is around. I tone it down then. Mark, not so much.

I’m a lady.

See. That, right there, is funny. If you know me.

And the kids at work are getting there.

They laugh. At me. When I dance. And trip. And am myself. And I laugh back because – because it’s just the best thing and –

Then.

Poof……….

……..Anxiety is gone.

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Filed under Daily Life, Lady stuff......, Parenting

#iamhappy

I didn’t know the little boy, only of him, through his grandma and pictures on Facebook. He was the most photogenic child I swear I’d ever seen and that’s going some, coming from a mother as captivated by the beauty of her own children as I’ve always been, though I know I’m quiet about it……..

Sam Lee’s grandmother was my mother’s first cousin. Mom’s favorite on her mother’s side. Marlys, Sam’s great-grandma, actually, was one of the happiest, kindest women I ever knew. One of the strong women who’ve touched my life. She was unfailingly glad to see us when she visited, as if we were something special, and to her, we were simply a very blessed, happy fact of life. I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that her great-grandson would inherit her amazing outlook and carry it further.

Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma or DIPG is an aggressive, terminal form of brain cancer and before we go any further I’m going to tell you that Sam Lee died from it.

Yeah.

I thought I might lose a few of you right there.

But those of you who stayed must know I have a moral of the story, so thanks.

It’s brave of you.

Honestly, in my own life I’ve had way too many of those, “I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to me,” scenarios actually happen to me or someone in my immediate family. Therefore, reading about the heartbreak of letting go of and losing a small child would be hard to bear. I wasn’t going to. I “liked” one post about him on Facebook and offered up prayers and love for his family and intended to move on.

But – there was Marlys. She just kept smiling and going on with her life in faith and in love – with her daughter, her granddaughter and her Sam.

I was kind of captivated.

So I stayed connected a little by liking the page We Love Sam Lee. On the page I learned about Sam’s mom, Erin, his dad, Michael and his twin sisters, Mae and Ada. About their journey.

Erin writes their story beautifully so I won’t paraphrase. I’m going to copy and paste:

“The reality

On July 26, 2013, our two-year old son, Sam was diagnosed with an aggressive, terminal brain cancer called Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma (DIPG). It didn’t take long for us to learn that funding for the research and treatment of childhood cancers is bad. Really bad. For every dollar raised by the American Cancer Society, only a penny goes toward battling childhood cancer. Pharmaceutical companies fund about 60% of new drugs to treat adult cancers, but they rarely fund drugs for childhood cancers because they are not profitable. The lack of funding means there are few drugs being developed or approved for children. In the last 20 years, only one drug has been approved by the FDA to treat childhood cancer.

The best medical treatment doctors could offer would only give us a short amount of time with Sam: typically 9-12 months. We decided to spend it making memories with him and his twin sisters, Ada and Mae.

The turning point

Soon after the diagnosis, a friend started an online fundraising campaign to help our family take some special trips with Sam. The average gift was about $25, but these small acts of kindness added up in a big way. Through the generosity of family, friends, acquaintances and perfect strangers we were able to take 16 priceless trips with Sam and our girls, traveling more than 30,000 miles together.

We were so grateful and inspired to see this outpouring of support. And we were even more surprised to see the big impact even small donations could make. So we decided to use this discovery to make our mark in the fight against childhood cancer by creating With Purpose.”
Just to be clear, I am not stumping for funding for childhood cancer or anything else at this time. I simply wanted to give you a snapshot of a family who decided to say yes to Life and truly live and enjoy and be happy in the moment. This little boy, from the age of two, travelled with his parents and his baby sisters, on trips of a lifetime.

His lifetime.

They went on 16 trips and inspired countless people to give not just of their time and money but their hearts and souls as well. Their strength and joy was always – and still is – evident in the photos and stories posted on Facebook. Their pain and sorrow I didn’t know because I was a spectator and allowed to keep a distance.

Sam died earlier this year. He was five.

I did cry then because I am a mom and a grandmother and weeping and praying were all I could do to begin my own healing process and send love to Sam’s parents and sisters.

Erin shared a moment – one of the last she had with her little boy – in which she asked him what she could do, right then and there, to make him happy. He looked at her, “surprised (she) had asked and said, ‘I am happy, Mom.’”

Which is, of course, that Moral Of The Story I was talking about.

It’s what I aspire to. What I wish for all of us.

To live in the moment, loving ourselves and those around us. This is how Sam (and Erin and Michael and Marlys and Ada and Mae) inspired me.

So, yes. I say yes. I am.

Happy.

#I am happy. Sam Lee

I am happy.

If you are so inspired, I invite you to check out the With Purpose Facebook page.

 

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Filed under Daily Life, Parenting