CSquaredPlus3

On Turning 45

Sunday, June 5, 2011, was a beautiful day in our microcosm.  Blue skies, 70 degrees, no wind, smells of summer, and sounds of my sons and husband having an afternoon water fight in our backyard.  I was born on a Sunday in 1966.  For some reason when my birthday falls on the actual day of the week that my mother delivered me, it feels more... birth-day-like.

Still midlifing, I pinballed in my 45th year, bouncing off of spring-loaded emotions and experiences.  Some good, some bad, but all intense.  I don't know who's working the flippers, but I remain in play.  I'm ready for a break.  Let me go, move on, another ball is ready to feel the thrill of the plunger.  Launch it while I catch my breath, oh great pinball wizard.

There are too many thoughts and personal stories to share from the past 12 months, but a few words are boldfaced in my mind's memory cyclone. They define areas of growth and struggle.

RELATIONSHIPS continue to fascinate and challenge me.  Expectations can leave me feeling both hurt, when mine are higher for the relationship, and annoyed, when I can't meet someone else's.  I read somewhere that the average person can realistically maintain 150 relationships.  That sounds about right.  I wish I could maintain more, because I enjoy connecting with and knowing people.  Maybe I'm just nosy...

INTIMACY in new or rekindled relationships has been an issue.  I'm doing it wrong.  I either assume a level of familiarity that is inappropriate or out of someone's comfort zone, Hey, friend from 1975 who's bed I once wet on a sleepover!  Great to see you on Facebook!  Want to go on vacation together with our families?  Surely we've grown in the exact same direction and have identical memories of our time together 35 years ago! Or I appear aloof because I'm trying to throttle my enthusiasm.  Maybe it's called social anxiety...

NOSTALGIA is my crack.  I can't get enough. I torment myself by watching old television shows, sifting through boxes of photos, reading journals from my youth, reminiscing with my husband and friends in an attempt to pinpoint details from that time when.  Sometimes the reliving feels cathartic and other times it hurts.  Maybe it's time to be more present in this moment...

PEOPLE I love and have loved grow in importance to me every year.  I wish time wasn't linear so I could experience multiple people during a variety of calendar years... and all at once.  Sounds like having your cake and eating it too.  Maybe it's nostalgia again...

RELIGION shouldn't dictate our friendships, but I've lost friends due to belief systems.  The more I experience, read, observe, pray, meditate, the simpler my views become.  I believe God is in the beautiful, often messy, details of life.  I don't believe He's in the details of dogma.  Maybe they weren't really friends...

HEALTH in the fullest sense of the word as it applies literally to my mind, body and spirit, as well as my relationships, garden, finances, etc., is something I hope to never take for granted.  Maybe great blessings come from the most heartbreaking experiences...

**********

My mother has taken to making cards with old photographs... which fuels nostalgia.  My birthday card this year from my parents had a picture of Dad holding me when I was a baby.

 The inside of the card included one of Mom's clever poems...

I had a wonderful birthday and even though I feel like I'm still in that stupid pinball machine, I am in play.  Maybe I'll beat my high score before I turn 46.

V-Day BK [before kids]

Valentine's Day circa 1996...

Chris would check tires, chains, brakes and ensure we had extra tubes and the proper allen wrenches for our bikes.  I made sure we had snacks.

We'd head to the desert, ride for a while and stop for lunch.  Pop-Tarts and water under a tree.

I frequently crashed -- usually pedaling uphill -- and Chris always sacrificed his water to clean my scratches.  Sometimes I cried... pain, frustration, fatigue or nothing more than a bruised ego.  Chris was never sharp with me.  You almost had it.  Take as long as you need -- we have plenty of time.

We don't have those bikes, that truck, or live near the tree.  And my leg sports a wrinkled knee, a few scars and evidence of Pop-Tart consumption [as all of our legs should].

But we still have each other this Valentine's Day.  Plus three handsome reminders of what intoxication on Pop-Tarts and water -- plus playing a little doctor -- can produce.

Happy V-Day.

Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Inspiration

When both of my grandmothers died, nearly twenty years apart, the importance of moments and not mementos was never more profound.  Especially with the people I feel connected to in life.

Although, I admit my desire to occasionally visit each woman's last apartment as it was when they died.  Furniture they'd each had for years, arranged just so; clothes pressed and hanging in closets; and kitchens organized similarly -- one grandmother preferred vodka in her liquor cabinet, the other bourbon.

A Graceland-like shrine in memory of Georgie and Jane would be nice some days.

But it's just stuff.  The older my grandmothers became, the more they shrugged their shoulders at their own belongings and boxes of sentiment.

When Georgie died, my mother's mother, all Mom wanted was one of her rose bushes.  Mom dug up a pink rose bush, placed it in a plastic bag, sat with it on the flight home after my grandmother's service, and planted it in her yard.

I have a few things from each of my grandmothers.  There are no family heirlooms or valuable antiques, but some old books and a photograph or two bring me great comfort and joy.

And a desk.  When Mamaw died last summer [Dad's mom, Jane], I had the space for a few pieces of her furniture.  A dresser and two night stands have been sanded, painted and repurposed in our home.  But it's the old, mahogany desk with drawers that stick and darkened brass hardware, that speaks to me every day.  "Come over here and sit.  You're not too busy.  Talk to me.  Think.  Write."

After some refurbishing, we placed the desk in a small area in our bedroom that has become my writing space.

I don't always sit at the desk.  Sometimes I sit on the small couch, or the rocking chair with the computer on my lap.  But I feel supported, encouraged, and inspired.  Not to mention reminded of the difficulties women endured in prior generations with fewer opportunities.

I don't have a piece of furniture from Grandmother Georgie, but the roses from my own garden are reminders of her fortitude and love.

The tequila bottle the flowers are displayed in?  A gift from my mother, who is very much alive, and collects them.  Mom does not drink the tequila [anymore], but asks bartenders at nice restaurants to save the expensive, unique looking bottles for her.

Mamaw would love the tequila bottle vase.  Grandmother [Mom's mother] would say, "Oh, for god's sake, Kaye Anna.  I think we can do a little better than that."

I love it all.  The desk, the roses, the tequila bottle, but mostly I love the reminder of the interesting, smart, strong women that are mine.

Tough Negotiator

December 1989
Chris and I had been married just over a month and were excited to purchase our first Christmas tree together.  Our budget was $20.  Not much, even twenty years ago.

We visited two Christmas tree lots and both times I immediately told the lot owner, "We want the biggest tree you can give us for $20!"  Neither lot had a tree taller than three feet available for that price.

As we got in the car without a tree the second time, Chris said, "Please don't say anything at the next lot.  Let me do the negotiating."

I tried.  Chris patiently followed the lot owner from tree to tree, nodding his head, whittling the price down.  I dutifully stood beside Chris and tried to look young and sweet... and poor.  Things weren't moving fast enough.  I felt an opening, sensed a softness growing in the lot owner.  "This tree is perfect for our apartment, but we only have $20," I said.

We left the lot without a tree again.

**********

Purchasing cars, houses, negotiating in general, is not my strength.  I show my hand too quickly... Would you like to see our bank accounts?  I pay more than is necessary because I trust the seller... He TOLD me this was a good deal.  Why would he lie?  Or I kill the transaction because I spastically blurt the wrong thing at the wrong time... Are you trying to screw me?

We bought a car recently and Chris reminded me several times to please just shhh.  He's kinder than most partners would be with my track record, "I know you're only trying to help, but you've got to let me handle this.  Don't say anything about money.  Try not to say anything at all... in front of anyone.  You and I need to talk privately."

It was hard, but I did it.

**********

Yesterday, we had a new guy do some yard work for us.  He gave me a bid for the work a couple of weeks ago.  It sounded... fine.  [What do I know?]  The man worked hard in the hot sun all day, the bushes and beds looked groomed and tidy and he was a pleasant person.

I gave the guy a check, came in the house and told Chris how pleased I was with the work that had been done.  I said, "He tried to charge us less than his original bid.  But, I reminded him... it was such a hot day... plus he's got to haul all that stuff away and unload it."

"So, you paid him more?"

"... ... ...  I don't want him to feel like we're taking advantage of him," I said.

"So, you negotiated up?"

Chris was calm, but he added, "Don't do that."

**********

I have a little money.  Anyone want some?

[Image courtesy of Google Images]

On Turning 44

It's my birthday today.  I had a nice trail run this morning, the house was festively decorated when I returned, Chris offered to chaperon the four-year-old at a birthday party for me this afternoon [the best gift EVER], while the older boys and I shopped at REI and a running store.  It's been a good day.

[Mom, Dad and me on my 1st birthday. 1967]

 

In my 44th year, I lost my grandmother, completed the Triple Trail Challenge, attended my 25th high school reunion, celebrated my 20th wedding anniversary, tweaked some relationships, felt what it's like to be bullied as an adult, had pneumonia for the first time in my life, and am reminded of the importance of living in the moment, thanks to my friend Em.

[Mom and me on my 1st birthday. 1967]

In the past 12 months I've learned...

... to trust my instincts [more than I already did] and not ignore multiple red flags that flutter and shake right in front of my face.

... closure and peace is best achieved privately.

... bullying feels like someone is squeezing the back of your neck with sharp, bony fingers and forcing you to walk down a path, not of your choosing, while you whimper.

... if someone's not well-liked, there's usually a good reason for it.  Life's not a popularity contest, but there's a difference between having a funny walk, and walking around while swinging a stick.

... relationships, both old and new, family members and non-family members, continue to intrigue me.  The cream consistently rises to the top.

... that my handsome husband is okay being the lust of my life versus the love of my life.  How frickin awesome is that?  I think that makes him the love of my life, for sure.

... I have no real problems and am one hell of a lucky woman.

[My second birthday. 1968]

**********

My friend, Em, is the mother to a sweet, seven-year-old boy.  He was diagnosed with brain cancer in early February.  This treasured family is battling the disease with strength, courage, determination, and the knowledge that they will WIN the fight.  Please join Chris, the boys and me in sending healing thoughts, prayers, and an abundance of good juju to Em, her husband and their son, Super T.  She's been telling me to live in the moment, enjoy the simple gifts each day offers, and smile and laugh as much as possible.  She's preachin' good, people.  Let's listen to her!

Be Cool

Early January 1987

"Be cool."  That's all I requested of my brother and his two friends after we got into the bar.  Joe and his buddies were 17 and I was 20.  We all had fake IDs, but Joe & Company didn't look old enough to drive.

I was living in a condo at the Continental Country Club in Flagstaff, Arizona, pretending to attend college that year.  Joe and his friends came up from Phoenix to ski for a weekend and partay with the big kids.  Classes hadn't resumed after first semester break, so the town was relatively dead.  Getting three young-looking boys into a bar with obvious fake IDs, and using my own ridiculous alias of Lupita Gonzalez wasn't difficult when I knew the bouncer at Senior Frog's.

My boyfriend at the time was a nice SAE who lived in a neighboring condo with about 457 other guys.  He was amused by my brother and his friends, also knew the bouncer and thought I might need some help.  SAE-Boy and a couple of his roommates joined us that night.

I wore my cutest Belinda Carlilse "Mad About You" outfit [black leggings and black hip-covering turtleneck] with a 3/4-length red wool coat.  Joe and his friends looked very preppy.  Sweaters tied around their necks, spiffy loafers, coiffed hair and they smelled niiice.

The bar wasn't crowded but there were enough people to make it interesting.  I mingled with strangers, found a few familiar faces and lost track of SAE-Boy, my brother and his friends.  I tossed my coat over a seat at the bar next to an old guy [he was probably 30].  The old guy told me he'd keep an eye on it for me.

Throughout the evening I noticed the bartender making big fruity drinks.  Very unusual in a small, college town bar in the middle of winter.  I also noticed the bartender and the bouncer exchanging glances, shaking their heads and appearing generally irritated.

SAE-Boy approached me and said, "That old guy threw-up on your coat."

The old guy had leaned over [aiming for the floor], emptied his stomach, and some of his yack had gotten on my red coat.  Time to go home.

I went to find my brother.  Joe and his friends were sitting in a corner booth, at a table that was a little too high for them, emphasizing their youth/still small-ish stature, sipping giant blue drinks decorated with umbrellas, swords, fruit and bendy straws.  They were laughing and flirting with a couple of obliging college girls.

Mortified, I walked over to Joe and said, "What are you doing?  I told you to be cool."

He gave me a sincerely confused look.

"What are you drinking?"

"Blue Hawaiians.  Wanna sip?"  As he offered me his glass, I thought how much he and his friends looked like various versions of Anthony Michael Hall.  They were a scene from a John Hughes movie.

I took a sip.  "We need to go.  Some old guy threw-up on my coat and you guys should be drinking beer.  Nobody orders Blue Hawaiians."

Joe and his friends conspicuously and happily finished their drinks, sucking all the alcohol out of the pineapple pieces.  They grabbed the paper cocktail parasols along with their coats, and we left Senior Frog's.

**********

My brother turns 41 today.  Our birthdays are less than two weeks apart so as adults, before life separated us by a state or two, we usually celebrated together at Mom and Dad's house.  I have at least a dozen pictures of the two of us holding our shared cake while Mom takes our picture.

Happy Birthday, Joe.  When I see you this July, let's go out for Blue Hawaiians.

I Like Her

Admittedly she wasn't the type of mother who volunteered to host puppet shows in the basement on a rainy day, but she taught me that a Bloody Mary and a Coke would ease my motion sickness on bumpy plane flights.  The carbonation in the Coke relieved excess air/gas in the gastrointestinal tract, the sugary soda and the vegetable juice provided some "umph" to coat my stomach, and the vodka [just a little] calmed my nerves.

There have been occasions over the years that I have been very hard on my mom.  There were parts of her that weren't conventional.  When we lived in the Midwest in the 70s, she looked different than the other moms.  She didn't wear her hair permed and cut short, or carry Wyler's out to the backyard on a tray with a big smile.  She macramed hanging plant holders and matter-of-factly told us to drink out of the hose if we were thirsty.  Her long pony-tails, and Doris Day-like features caught people off-guard when she politely but firmly told a few folks in Indiana that she did not want them to say the "N" word in front of her or her children.

[Mom and me - Christmas 1967]

As each year passes, I appreciate my mother more and more.  Trite, but true.  I now recognize that she mothered conventionally in many ways -- the important ways -- by encouraging us to be kind, to laugh in general... and at ourselves, to read, to try new things, and ultimately to be independent.

Mom doesn't share my love of running, triathlons, skiing or hiking, and there are many aspects of our personalities that are different.  But we are "one" when we shop, and I can't think of a single person that in spite of everything and anything I could have ever said or done to hurt them, remains in my life, other than Mom.  She also makes me laugh.  Contort my face in ugly ways laugh.  I make her laugh too.

[We were trying to get a picture of her dog, Judy, in the tree. (Mom's idea, for the record.)  Every time Mom got close to the tree, Judy stepped on her head.]

We've been cooking together for years...

She's held the bowl not only when I've had to vomit, but has wedged herself between two car seats to help a sick boy on the way to the doctor's office. [It was serendipity at it's finest.  She happened to be at our house for a visit.]

 

Mom was just here for a few days for Mother's Day weekend.  We had a wonderful time.  We become better friends as each year passes.  We understand one another.  I love that she's smart, funny, interesting... and pretty.  She has good taste and a solid sense of self.  She's always been a strong person [probably why we've had our challenges over the years], and that remains, but there's an increasing softness.  A sensible softness, not an ooey-gooey saccharin softness.  Difficult to describe.

[Getting ready to go to brunch on Sunday.  The four-year-old boy refused to have his picture taken with us.]

[A full belly (and a sucker from Kay-Kay) helped him change his mind at the restaurant.]

As a teenager many years ago, I had been particularly sassy and disrespectful to Mom.  Through gritted teeth she said, "You may be my daughter, Christina Hautem, so I have to love you.  But I don't have to like you.  Right now, I don't like you very much."

I understood what she was saying then, but I understand the difference between "love" and "like" when it comes to family members more and more.

I suppose all I'm trying to say is... Mom's fun.  I like her.

**********

[The video shows Mom's picnic attempt with the four-year-old on a cold, windy day.  She was also kind enough to bring a set of her old golf clubs for me.  A friend invited me to play in a fund raising tournament.  I don't golf... but Mother did her best to teach me.]

Mother's Day 2010 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Coupons

I've always known I wanted to be a mother and a wife.  There was never a doubt in my mind.  As a young girl I embraced all things domestic.  I remember convincing my brother it would be fun to clean and organize the laundry room for Mom one afternoon.  I was eight.  My brother was five.  It would be a few more years before my brother wasn't such an easy sale, and I had to play "house-dork" alone.

I assumed I'd have two children, probably because that's what my family looked like.  My childhood friend, Samantha Kelly, and I concluded that all little girls had a tiny baby in their stomachs, and when we grew-up, the baby would be ready to crawl out our belly buttons and join us in life.  I don't recall which one of us initiated that theory or how we explained the arrival of subsequent children.

When I learned the truth, like many young girls, I was mortified.  I decided I would get married, do what needed to be done to have two children, but only if I was completely sedated both times I had to do it.  [Funny.  I have three children so I actually did it THREE times.]

Whether it was a college dorm room or an apartment, I liked my environment to be fresh, homey and organized.  My roommate, Em, allowed me to grocery shop for us and knew I didn't mind cleaning and cooking.  Some of it was my need to be in control and do things "right", but I also enjoyed it.

When Chris and I were first married, going to the grocery store was one of my favorite weekly chores.  The Sunday paper was worth it's weight in gold because of all the coupons.  I'm an ROI kind of gal, so the money I saved with coupons more than paid for our newspaper subscription.

I cut coupons, organized them by category and date, and used them faithfully.  Basha's, a grocery story near our first apartment that I knew so well I was able to make my shopping list in the order of the aisles [some call it OCD, I call it efficiency], had a Bargain Booster program similar to the S&H Green Stamp program I grew up watching my mother participate in.  When I noticed someone manhandling their stamps, I politely asked if I could have them.  Some days, with a combination of coupons and filled Bargain Booster cards, I was practically paid to purchase an item.

Because money was tight, I often shopped on Thursday nights after work.  Friday was payday, and twenty years ago, floating checks really worked.  No instant electronic transfer, thankfully. 

Once or twice a month I treated myself to a magazine like Glamour or Allure, justifying the purchase with all the money I'd saved using coupons.  I read every word of every article and advertisement.  Several times.  It was decadent to me.

The simple things in life truly made me happy.

**************

Sunday afternoon, as I schlepped around parking lots with dirty slush from melting snow and carts not placed in the cart returns, trying to find more room in the back of my car to unload yet another stop's purchases... I felt tired and burdened.  Costco, the grocery store, PetSmart... then home to cook dinner.  All after sledding with Chris and the boys earlier in the day.  Chris had been out of town the week prior.  We were all tired.

I don't cut coupons anymore.  The payoff hasn't been worth the time it takes to sift through them... at least for grocery items.  Occasionally I'll find coupons for the children's museum, a haircut, or other service.  I like those.

I'm not as organized as I used to be.  Or clean. 

In spite of the busy days, complicated schedules and routines, heavier housework, fatigue, and the words "wash me" on the back window of my car in one of my son's unmistakable handwriting, I have to remind myself to remember...  this is what I've always wanted.

It's good, sincerely, but I'm not going to be sedated for a fourth time... unless Chris has a coupon.

Barbie Dream House And The Chocolate Room

The little girl I used to strip with in Winchester, Indiana, -- Debbie -- recently found me on Facebook.  It was a glorious day!  We fell out of touch nearly 35 years ago, but the memories are crisp, warm and happy.  I LOVE when it's a mutual Facebook connection.

I forwarded Debbie the post I wrote about our stripping. [Read here.]  Thankfully, she liked it.

Debbie was more than a childhood stripping friend...  I loved playing with Debbie because she was smart, fun and imaginative.  She also had the nicest mother who was permissive but not in a reckless way.  As a single parent, Debbie's mother did a wonderful job providing structure, surrounding Debbie with love, encouraging her... and giving her the coolest room and stuff.

Debbie had a canopy bed in her girly-girl room and all the best girly toys.  She received a Baby Alive doll one year for Christmas along with a pack of real disposable baby diapers.  We fed and changed that doll again and again and again.  I think we may have clogged her plumbing because we didn't always provide the doll with the recommended bottle of water between spoon feedings to wash out the red and green Cream of Wheat-like food.  Debbie's mother gently warned us, always with a smile, "Girls, Baby Alive might not work properly... and she might start to smell... if you don't follow the directions."  But she allowed us the choice to gorge Baby Alive.  And gorge her, we did.

The item I coveted most of Debbie's was her Barbie Dream House.  I think it was technically the Barbie Townhouse, but it was MY dream house.  It had three stories, an elevator, and cool girly decor.  If I could have twitched my nose like Samantha on Bewitched or blinked like Jeanie on I Dream of Jeanie and made myself Barbie size, I would have been prancing around that dream house in my tiny, tight, high-heel Barbie shoes, and my mini-skirt with figure flattering blouse, dusting furniture while sipping a cup of tea from a teeny-tiny cup and saucer.  Trust me, I tried.  I twitched and blinked so often as a kid, I'm sure I appeared to have a tick.

I would have twitched or blinked Debbie into the scene... as Skipper.  Sorry, Debbie.

Today my dream house would look much different than the Liberace-style house I desired in the 70s. [Although a part of me still enjoys sequins, feathers and over the top opulence.  Like a part of me would also like to live in Willy Wonka's factory, or the land of Oz.  Fantasy.]  I've learned that bigger isn't better.  It's more to maintain.

I never had my own Barbie Dream House, but I'm thankful to Debbie for graciously sharing hers.  I'm also thankful for Debbie's willingness and shared desire to explore our fantasies, stretch our imaginations and her mother's appropriate and loving support.

I was saddened to learn that Debbie's mother passed away in 1999.  I would have liked her to know that a day with her and Debbie, was like entering the Chocolate Room.

The Reunion

I graduated from a small high school in Justin, Texas, 25 years ago.  My parents moved from Arizona to Texas the summer between my sophomore and junior year.  I was once again, the new girl.  It really wasn't a bad thing, the moving. 

The move prior to junior year was my third school change -- not excessive in my opinion -- and I'm thankful for the exposure to different states [Indiana, Arizona, Texas], the resulting close friendship I have with my brother, and the special friends and memories I've gained along the way.  I feel the same about the moves I've made with Chris during the past 20 years.  I've been enriched, not robbed, by the occasional move.

As a person who loves to write, I have a pile of experiences and observations to tap into and build upon.  I feel grateful for the abundant material.

Because I didn't attend my high school for all four years, and I linked arms with a steady boyfriend shortly after arriving to Texas [a very good person who is happily married today], I don't have too many shared experiences outside of classroom time with my graduating class.  As I made my way around my 25th high school reunion, happily hugging and greeting old friends and classmates, I wasn't surprised when a few of the kids didn't remember me.  One guy, who I thought I knew fairly well because I was a lifeguard at our neighborhood pool, I knew his high school girlfriend, and my mother was friends with his mother, actually said, NICE TO MEET YOU! as he left the party Saturday night.  I just smiled and said, "It was nice to see you again."

Another guy who dated one of my best friends, Vicki, didn't remember me at all.  He was very nice to me at the reunion.  We were talking about my braces and I commented, "...it was either boobs or braces...".  He said with a grin, "I think you made a mistake.  Next time you have a choice like that, call me.  You should have gone for the boobs."  I liked him, even though he doesn't have a clue who I am.

It was good.  The reunion.  There are a few people I didn't get to talk with enough.  I assume others feel the same.  It was impossible to touch everyone in one or two short evenings and feel satiated.  We need a reunion week.  Then again... maybe we don't.

I drove past my family's old house and places that held powerful memories.  I was stirred, but not shaken.

I was able to spend time with a friend I used to lifeguard with -- Lynn P. Carlson [the P. stands for pretty].  The day I arrived in Texas it rained.  We were at a bar on that warm, muggy evening and Lynn was trying to remember the last name of a guy we both knew.  She said, "Remember?  He had frizzy hair."  Then she looked at me and said, "No offense, Chrisy."  I love Lynn P. Carlson.  And again, not enough time.

[LPC is one of the few people who make me forget I have braces.  She makes me THAT happy.  Frizzy hair and all.]

It was great simply being with my girlfriends.  Looking at clothes, giving each other honest feedback about appearances, thoughts, feelings, and life's problems.  I talk on the phone frequently with these girls, but to feel them physically and share laughs was long overdue.

I sobbed as I sat in the airport waiting for my plane.  I called Chris and told him how I felt.  He was so compassionate.

I arrived home after the kids were in bed Sunday evening.  I went in their rooms and kissed them, even waking up my 4-year-old after Chris rolled his eyes and asked me not to -- he'd been ornery earlier in the evening.  Imagine that?

There's no place like home, and it's true that you can't go back... but I will return to the next reunion.  Maybe with boobs... not braces.

Fleeting

It's been cloudy and raining for a week.  This time of year I usually have the air conditioner running, but I'm closing windows because fresh air is making it a little too cool in the house.  It's great sleeping weather though.

This morning while blow-drying my hair, I slipped the blow-dryer under my t-shirt at my waist.  A move I typically do on winter mornings.  I moved it from front to back several times and warmed my torso.  It's important to maintain a perfect pace so the skin stays warm but doesn't burn -- something that happens when the dryer gets too close to my skin and stays in the same place for a second too long.  The warmth never lasts.  When I remove the dryer, I'm chilled again -- even more so.  Always.  But I can't resist the easy warmth, even if it's fleeting.

When I was a little girl I wore long, flannel nightgowns during winter months.  Floor registers delivered our heat and when the heat kicked on, I stood over the nearest register so my nightgown filled with warm air.  It was wonderful.  My parents allowed me a few moments of uninterrupted warming, but then reminded me that the heat wasn't getting to the rest of the room.  My brother begged for a turn, but I convinced him it was wasted on his body because his pajamas didn't billow with proof of contained and appreciated heat.

When I stepped off the floor register, the heat seemed to instantly dissipate, taking with it any of my own body's warmth.  I was always worse off -- colder -- than before I stepped on the floor register.  Always.  But I could never resist the easy warmth, even though it was fleeting.

On Turning 43

My birthday was yesterday, June 5th.  I'm 43.  I asked all three boys how old they thought I looked.  Middle Boy [9] said 42, Toddler Child [3 1/2] said 23, and Oldest Boy [11] nervously looked to his father for assistance.  Chris told him to say 29.  I honestly don't care how old I look.  When I feel healthy and rested, I usually look better than when I'm sickly and tired.  My 91-year-old grandmother is beautiful to me, and she looks every day of her 91 years.

THOUGHTS:

Grey Hair - The last 12 months have brought a plethora of grey hair.  I now use an all-over hair color prior to adding any highlights or lowlights.  This bothers me more than I thought it would.  My maternal grandmother, referred to as Grandmother, had a head of white hair by the time she was 50.  It looked great on her, but I'm not feeling it.  Funny how that works.  She died 19 years ago and is deeply missed.

Toddler Child - I adore this little boy.  He'll be four in September.  His personality remains fiery, although he's behaving more civilized on occasion.  I feel 43, sometimes older, parenting a toddler.  Naturally, I have no regrets about the choice to add another child to our tribe.  I simply underestimated the level of physical and mental fatigue I would experience.

Changing Perspective - Fewer issues are black-and-white to me like they once were, and a handful have earned a definitive spot in my mind.  I find myself accepting, understanding and respecting intelligent arguments on both sides of an issue.  Sometimes I think it's empathy to a fault.  In a 20 year period I can recall being neutral on an issue, then leaning right, then a little left, then a lot left, then finding neutral again.  If my perspective isn't challenged, I'm either on too safe of a road, or I'm asleep at the wheel.

Core Character - I don't think I'm radically different than who I was as a child, a teenager, or young adult.  I don't think many of us change radically.  We may soften or sharpen, become more educated, or not, endure unique life experiences that might eliminate or create judgments, but I think most of us remain fundamentally the same at our innermost part.

Facebook - Hated it.  Now I love it.  Reconnecting with people I probably never would have otherwise as well as connecting with new friends, has had it's head-bobbing-so-now-what-do-we-talk-about? moments.  As time goes on, those moments bother me less because the pieces of gold that surface as I pan are worth all of the who-the-hell-are-you? moments.  For me, it's been a gift.

This past year, via my Facebook experience and even writing this silly blog, I've learned that I am who I was, and I am who I will always be.  Life experiences have thankfully altered my perspective, but not my core character.  Old friends can see through life's sediment to the enduring parts.  New friends will learn what old friends have known.  It's humbling, refreshing, and comforting to see that under the layers of strata we all develop, is the same spirit that arrived at inception and will likely remain until the end.

You say, "You're OCD," like it's a bad thing.

I'm going to cut to the chase.  The flat sheet on almost all of the beds in our house have a sheet cowlick.  They come out of the dryer with a crease in the most visible part -- the section I fold back over the blanket.  No matter what I do, it's there.  I iron the flat sheet for the master bedroom bed, and the guest rooms [only the top 18-24 inches] but the crease is still there.  It's making me nuts.

It's difficult to see because I pressed this sheet five days ago and it now has usage wrinkles, but the sheet cowlick is there.  It's within the lower one inch portion of the folded over white sheet.

Please tell me you see it.  And if you don't, fake it.

I like a tightly made, clean bed.  Nothing's better than a cold, soft, good smelling pillowcase on your face.  I've always been freakish about my bed.  My mom never needed to remake my bed after I skipped out the door to kindergarten due to my childish manual dexterity -- I remade the bed after Mother because the mitred military corners weren't tight enough or at a proper 45 degree angle.

Ask any of my college roommates, I went apeshit if someone sat on my bed.  I didn't like it messy after I made it [which I did first thing every morning] and I didn't want dirty purses, backpacks, pants, and god forbid shoes touching any part of my bed.  If I returned from class and noticed a new spot or indentation on my bed, I was wrecked and on a witch hunt.

I'm better now.  Maybe.

Mom and Dad visited me one weekend my sophomore year in college and wanted to take pictures in my dorm room.  Mom's always over-engineered photos -- she still does.  She insisted we sit on my bed for the pictures.  I was panic-stricken but tried not to reveal it as I made suggestions about where and how we should sit.

Here I am, uncomfortably sitting on the corner of my own bed.

Here are Mother and Dad almost slipping off the few inches of bed space I relinquished.  It bothered me that Dad's butt was too close to my pillow, but I was proud of my genius idea to have Mom sit on his lap.  Had I been thinking and not hyperventilating, I would have had them sit on the blanket at the end of my bed so I could have laundered it easier.

There was a perfectly good desk chair in my room.  I don't know what the big deal was.  Freaks.

If anyone knows how to remove a sheet cowlick, I'd be forever grateful if you'd share your trick.

**********

For those who are interested... and me.  Well, me.

Stubbed Toe

[Click on all photos to enlarge.]

My brother turned 40 on Sunday, May 24th.  My "little" brother.  The one who I still think of as 5, or 12, or 17, or 20-ish [emphasis on the "ish"].  The one who I was able to convince to do just about anything as a young kid, including spin me around on his shoulders because I told him we could easily be on Dance Fever or get a job as Solid Gold dancers.  We had the skill!  We had the desire!  It didn't matter that I outweighed him by nearly 20 pounds... if he just caught me, held me, threw me -- he'd get stronger!  His current back problems are likely a result of our rigorous dance training, under my zealot-like direction.

I can't believe he's 40.

**********

Toddler Child stubbed his toe this weekend.  A good old-fashioned, big-toe, stub.  As Toddler Child and I inspected his big toe again this morning, vivid memories of the day my brother was brought home from the hospital flooded my mind.  My parents don't believe me that I remember.  But I do.

**********

May 1969

My third birthday was days away.  The baby was so cute.  I wasn't jealous of the attention he was getting, but I wanted him to be my baby.  I remember sitting on the green couch, my legs straight while I was allowed to "hold" the baby.  It was more tiring than I thought it would be.

I remember being on the front porch, I think Mom had opened the door to greet my grandparents as they arrived.  In all of the excitement, I stubbed my big toe.  No one noticed.  It was bleeding so I cried.  Mamaw finally realized I was upset.  She pulled a tissue from her purse that already had blood-red stains on it.  Her signature lipstick.  She sat beside me on the front porch and dabbed at my toe.  I remember thinking how pretty her tissue looked, with her lipstick and my blood.

That's all I remember.

More than anything, I remember how much I loved my brother.  He's my only sibling and we're fortunate to like one another and be friends.  True friends.

I can't believe he's 40.  It's like... he's an adult.

Happy Birthday, Joe.  I'm proud of the man you are and fortunate to call you brother, and friend.

I still can't believe he's 40.

Mother said, "No."

Growing up, my mother was politically liberal, opposing my father's conservative bent, but raised us in a home with routine, structure and emphasized the importance of being considerate and kind to others. In hindsight, my borderline-hippie mother was very old fashioned in her parenting style.  I'm thankful.

I'm a day late with my tribute-to-Mom post.  There are many fabulous "Mother" stories to share, but I thought the following captures her well...

******************************

I was home from college for a visit when I was 19 or 20.  Even though I had no curfew while I was at school, Mother imposed one when I was home.  She said she worried and that I would understand some day.  Sometimes my curfew was midnight, sometimes it was 1:00 AM, but there was always a time I was to be home.  I also had to give her an itinerary.  She never checked, and we both knew I often fabricated where I would be, because going out with friends was just that... going out.  We didn't always know where the soiree would be happening, until we got there.

One night I drank too much at a party.  I spent the last two hours prior to curfew hugging a toilet in someone's apartment while strange guys peed in the bathtub behind me.  A good friend held my hair and assured me, no one "noticed" I was so sick.  The same good friend called my mother at midnight and politely told her I wasn't feeling well and we'd better spend the night at the apartment.  Mother said, "No."  She told my friend, I need to speak to Chrisy.  Now.

"Moh-hom, I'm sick.  I can't get in a car.  I'll die."

"You won't die.  Either [your friend] brings you home, or I'm coming to get you."

My friend drove me home because she was afraid of Mom.  Mother was waiting in the driveway in her bathrobe.  She gave my friend a dirty look, like it was her fault somehow that I was an idiot, and helped me into the house.

It was a long night.  I threw-up in my bathroom and in the bowl Mom left by my bed.  I moaned and groaned and made promises to God I swore I'd never break... but did.  Early the next morning, Mother came in my room.

"Does Dad know?"  I asked.

"No.  But I don't know how we can hide this.  Was it worth it?  Was. it. worth. it. CHRISTINA?!"

I cried and said no, and told her how terrible I felt.  She toggled between trying to help me feel better by being a good nurse, and scolding me.  One moment she was placing her hand on my forehead, offering me water and ice chips, asking if I was ready for a little toast and aspirin, all in a soft, compassionate voice.  Then, she'd furrow her brow and speak sternly, What were you thinking?  Does this feel gooood?  Does it?  Do you realize what could happen to you?  Anybody could take advantage of you.  Anybody.  Jesus.

Back and forth... compassionate, nursey Mom... then angry, disappointed, what the hell were you girls thinking? Mom.

She was like Shirley MacLaine as she stomped around my room in her bathrobe, shaking her head at me, giving me the business, opening my window because, "We need to get some fresh air in here... honestly, Chrisy."  Then on a dime, "Honey, I'm sorry you feel so sick... can I get you ANYthing?"  On.  Off.  Black.  White.  Anger.  Softness.  It was classic.  It was Mother.

She may have understood my situation more than I realized at the time.  I found these pictures of her when she was 19 and in her college dorm room.  I'm thinking Grease, a little more Rizzo than Sandy...

 

Mother met Dad one summer while on college break.  They married and three years later Mom gave birth to her first child.  Me.  Marriage and motherhood summoned Mom's inner Sandy... but Rizzo's still there.

 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Like a Training Bra

I was in the orthodontist's waiting room, thinking... Eighteen months?  Do I really want these on for eighteen months?  The Today show was on the television and I half listened to President Obama talk about the swine flu.  yeah, yeah, yeah... the CDC and the WHO don't know what the hell is going on yet...

The women behind the front desk were coiffed and smelled good.  Their voices dripped with the sweetness of saccharin as they spoke to one another.  Look. At. You!  I don't think I've EVER seen you in pink before... Gosh, you look pretty today!  When one woman would turn her focus back to a computer screen or files on a desk, the others would take in every detail of her appearance.  They all took turns participating in the covert operation of sizing each other up.  I stared at their teeth.

I got braces on my teeth last week.  Not Invisalign, but the old fashioned, silver, train track braces.  They're only on my top teeth with plans to add them to my bottom teeth in a month or two.  I've never had braces, nor have my kids, so this is a new experience for me.

I told Mother I had made the decision to get braces a few weeks ago...

Mom:  What's wrong with your teeth?!

I explained.

Mom:  Well... so much for saving money.  I thought you kids were trying to save money.

Me:  We have extra money this year in our tax-free medical spending account, Mom.  If we don't use it, we lose it, so I've figured out a moderate and responsible plan to contribute to the braces without draining the account in case we have an emergency.

Mom:  I still don't see what's wrong with your teeth...

Several of my friends have had braces and a few are wearing permanent retainers.  I've had plenty of people to call upon for encouragement, support and to answer my questions.  I'm comfortable with my decision and after nearly one week, I have no regrets.  Only 77 more weeks to go!

A friend asked me how my mouth was feeling.  The braces had only been on a couple of days.  I told her it was like my first training bra...

***********************************

When I was in the fifth grade I wanted a bra so badly.  I didn't need a bra.  At all.  Many of the popular girls were wearing them, so I believed I needed one too.  Mom took me shopping and we bought a training bra.  I loved how when I bent over to reach for something, the back straps were very visible.  I felt like a 35-year-old.  It was awesome!

I didn't wear the bra all the time, just when I wanted to look 35, like when I went to the skating rink on Saturday afternoons to skate.  Boys were there.  Lip gloss?  Check.  Pom-poms for skates?  Check.  Training bra?  Check.  Tight, satiny shirt so bra strap would be visible when I flexed my back?  Check.

Mom and I were going shopping one afternoon.  It was a big deal for the two of us to have a shopping day.  We had to drive from our small town, Winchester, to Muncie [Indiana] so we could shop at a real mall.  We usually dressed up and ate lunch in a restaurant.  I decided to wear the training bra.

Mom:  Chrisy, if you're going to wear the training bra, you need to wear it... all day.

Me:  I will, Mom.

As much as I liked having visible bra straps under my shirt, the training bra irritated me after about an hour.  If I was with Mother, she found a bathroom so I could remove the bra and she would carry it in her purse.

After an hour of shopping on this particular day, I couldn't take it anymore.

Me:  Mom, will you carry my training bra?  It's hurting me.

Mom:  Chrisy!  C'mon, you're fine.

Me:  I can't, Mom.  It's tight and rubs my skin funny.

Mom:  Take it off, but carry it in your own purse.

Me:  My purse is too small...

Mom:  Maybe from now on you shouldn't wear it when we leave the house. [Crushing, because that was the whole point, for THE WORLD to see that I was old enough for and possibly needed a bra.]

She took the bra and I don't think I wore it again for at least a year, maybe two.

***********************************

The braces?  Not uncomfortable at all for the first day.  Now?  My mouth is irritated, my teeth hurt, and I'd like my mother to carry them in her purse... for just a few hours.

Image of Darla from "Finding Nemo" courtesy of Google Images.

Em - the Cancer who had cancer.

Phone conversation a few weeks ago...

Em:  Just read your blog post about Supermodel.  Very nice. [sarcastic tone] I like how you acknowledged you've had friends for much longer.

Me:  I tried to be sensitive to that.

Em:  When are you going to write about me?  We have lots of good stories.

Me:  I did write about you.

Em:  I know, but something funny.

Me:  I will.  Sometimes what we think is funny doesn't translate well to a blog post.  But, I will.  Maybe I'll write about the time we got our under-age consumption tickets in college.

Em:  Just don't make me sound stupid.  You always make me the dumb one.

Me:  Naive.  There's a difference between stupid and naive.  Like the time I thought I had an enlarged prostate.  I'm an intelligent person, I was just naive about anatomy.

Em:  I don't know... I know how you are...

Me:  You were always a little more naive in college, it's endearing.  We have to have a shtick.  Trust me.  I won't make you look stupid.

Northern Arizona University - Flagstaff, Arizona - January 1986

Em and I met.  She was a freshman, I was a sophomore - a classification I carried longer than most students.  We lived in Cowden Hall, a cruel name for a dormitory that unfortunately for years had a reputation of housing the heavy and socially inept. Girls like Em and me helped change all of that; I think we made the "den" proud.

 

 

We loved The Boogie Boys - Fly Girl.  We changed the lyrics to "Fun Girl", and sang it loudly whenever it played.  We were fun, not too fun [if you know what I mean], just the right amount of fun.

The Halloween Party

We were invited to a large Halloween party at a popular co-ed dorm.  Because, even though we lived in Cowden, we were fun girls.  I talked Em into renting costumes.  We waited too long to go to the rental shop so there weren't many choices within our price range.  I spotted two bumblebee costumes. She wasn't wild about the bees.  It was a hard sell, but I told Em we'd look cute and a little more feminine with red lipstick and red bows on our antenna.  She agreed.

 

 

I drove a yellow VW Super Beetle that was almost too small for Em, me, and the bee costumes.  I could hardly drive and shift, and Em bitched the whole way to the party about how ridiculous we looked and how she hoped no one we knew saw us crammed in my car.

We got to the party and were mortified to see all the sexy costumes.  Sexy, sexy, sexy.  Sexy devils, sexy cave-girls, sexy princesses, sexy mimes, sexy rabbits... SEXY.  We were not sexy.  Em glared and said, "I told you." 

It was hard to dance.  Our costumes made crinkle noises, like a diaper, and when a guy asked one of us to slow dance, he couldn't get his body close enough.  All of our cool dance moves for fast songs were lost in the costumes.  We didn't look cool or sexy.

Em and I had words a few times that night.  I remember walking to the bathroom, I overheard a group chatting,  Did you see those bees?  I think they were fighting...  Yeah, but I saw them hugging like they were making-up.  It was kinda cute.  Not sexy.

The Bug

My car was essentially Em's car too.  One weekend she wanted to drive home to Scottsdale to see her parents.  I chose to stay in Flagstaff, so she took the car.  When she left Friday morning she mentioned she wasn't feeling well.

I got a call from Em on Saturday night...

Em:  I threw up in your car.

Me:  OH NO!  How did you do that?  Who throws up in a car while they're driving?  God, Em.

Em:  I'm sorry.  I pulled into my parents' driveway and I couldn't get the door open fast enough.  My mom's been cleaning it.

Me:  You threw up on the door?  There's all those nooks and crannies.  This is awful.  PLEASE make sure she gets the smell out.  I can't believe it.

Em:  Sorry...

 

She returned to Flagstaff on Sunday, her virus was gone, and the car was clean and didn't smell like vomit.  I love Em's mom. 

Trouble

We had a little trouble every now and then.  A little academic, a little financial, a little mild-lawbreaking... but we were having fun!

Here we are waiting for an "appointment" about a little trouble.  The sign on the wall says something about shoplifting.  For the record, this appointment had NOTHING to do with shoplifting or breaking a law.  Our dorkiness charm got us out of the bind.

REAL Trouble

Em and I got arrested for underage consumption of alcohol.  I was 20 and Em was 19.  We had been at a bar where a fraternity was hosting a party.  We both got in with the same fake ID -- a Hispanic girl named Lupe.  It was easy...  because we both looked so Hispanic.

At midnight we decided to go to a different bar for after-hours dancing.  No ID required.  I drove us across town and flew into the parking lot of our new hotspot, almost hitting a police officer.  I parked and pretended nothing happened.  Em said, Oh shit, as the officer approached.

I passed several sobriety tests -- I don't know how -- and was given a ticket for underage consumption.  Em got out of the car and confessed to having had "one drink".  Riiight.  She was given the same ticket.  When she answered all the questions for the officer, she lied about her weight and I corrected her.  We had an argument about our heights and weights in front of the disbelieving cop.  "That's enough, girls," he said.

We chose not to tell our parents and deal with the trouble on our own.  Our court date was set and we were hopeful and confident that things would work out in our favor.  We'd learned a VERY valuable lesson and planned to tell the judge just that.  I even wore my glasses so I would look smarter and dorkier. [That's my Bug behind us.]

 

I was called before the judge first.  I looked at Em, gave her the nod, and whispered, "Don't worry, just follow my lead."

Things did not go well, the judge was tough.  I cried, I explained, I apologized... and I was fined $480.  The judge dismissed me and I looked over at Em as I exited the courtroom and as her name was being called.  She looked at me like, Thanks, idiot.

Em received the same fine.  Now we'd both have to tell our parents.

Here we are after court.

20 Years Later...

Em lives in Arizona with her husband and son.  We don't get to see each other as often as we'd like, but we talk on the phone frequently.  We afford each other full "range of motion" and provide a much needed soft landing for one another in this world of prickly surfaces.

In a prior post I shared that Em was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in July 2007.  She remains cancer-free and I remain indescribably thankful and relieved.

I better call Em to make sure she doesn't think I made her look stupid...
 

 

Hazel

Mom and Dad selected our first family pet from what they thought was a litter of Basset Hounds.  It was 1969, my brother Mallory Joe was a baby and I was three.  They named the puppy Hazel and as she grew, it was obvious she wasn't a Basset. 

 

Hazel had the short legs, long torso, keen sense of smell and a-ti-tude of a Basset, but her other parts weren't right.  Her snout was long and pointy like a Dachshund, and her ears and markings were Beagle-like.  Her head looked disproportionately small compared to her fat torso. [Fat is a bad word in our house, but she was... fat.]  She was an odd looking mutt and people often asked, "What kind of dog is that?" 

What I remember the most about Hazel:

Danger Was Her Middle Name...  Hazel chased cars.  It was terrifying to watch.  Her short legs moved shockingly fast as she tried to bite a car's tires.  We lived in a residential area so the occasional car moved at a much slower speed than we see today.  I'm sure this fact saved her life many times.  I vividly remember seeing Hazel hit by a motorcycle when she and I were both very young.  It rolled right over her, then she rolled several times like a Little Smokie to the curb.  Hazel walked away from the accident, but Mother swears she was never the same.  She became quieter and moved too slowly for her young age, Mom says, because she was in chronic pain.

No Touchy - When new kids played at our house, they naturally wanted to pet Hazel.  My whole family could see a child approaching Hazel with enhanced peripheral vision.  We would simultaneously yell, "DON'T PET THE DOG!"  Then we'd laugh nervously, "Uh... she might bite."  Hazel was great with our immediate family, but snapped at anyone else who approached her.  She was fine with others in the house if they simply left her alone.  Eventually, only our closest friends were comfortable playing at our house.  We had the "mean dog".  But she wasn't.  She was a dog in pain.

Hold Your Cookie Up! - Hazel could smell a cookie from anywhere in the city.  She didn't move quickly though, more like Eeyore, probably because of her car chasing accidents.  But if a careless child held a cookie anywhere other than over their head, Hazel got it.  She sometimes got a finger too.  Mom would give us and our friends cookies, instruct us to, "Hold your cookie up.  I mean it.  Over your head.  HIGHER!  Go outside with it.  Quick.  I'll block Hazel."  And she did.

One-Trick Pony - Hazel didn't sit, stay, come, fetch, or anything else Hazel didn't feel like doing.  Hazel could "sit-up" and she did it well.  She sat square on her fat butt, posture-perfect [like a chubby ballerina] and begged for food.  She looked like a fire hydrant and could hold the position for several minutes.

Hazel was about 11-years-old when Mom determined it was time to put her down.  Hazel was suffering from cancer.  It was time.  We all cried, but knew it was the right thing to do.

 

Yesterday, Chris and I were in the park with friends and our conversation turned to dogs.  As we shared various dog stories, I thought of Hazel for the first time in years.  I joked that I grew up with a "DON'T PET THE DOG!" dog.

Awkward Segue:  This morning, I watched a YouTube video my mother emailed me.  It's about an 88-year-old woman who's the mayor of a Canadian city.  Her name is Hazel.

My Money's on Miss Piggy

Per Wikipedia - "In colloquial speech, bullying often describes a form of harassment perpetrated by an abuser who possesses more physical and/or social power and dominance than the victim. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to as a target. The harassment can be verbal, physical and/or emotional.

... Targets of bullying in school are often pupils who are considered strange or different by their peers to begin with, making the situation harder for them to deal with."

One of our sons has been bullied recently.  He seems to grasp what has happened and although hurt and fatigued, he has a surprisingly logical perspective about the situation.  The bully-er is not a bad or mean child and is fortunate to have a mother who received the information graciously and will redirect his behavior appropriately.  I'm confident of this.

My brother Mallory Joe was severely bullied when he was in the sixth grade.  We were raised to be lovers, not fighters.  No toy guns in our house, no hitting, no unkindness tolerated... Mother wouldn't even allow us to say the word "weird" because it was derogatory.  People aren't weird, she would say, they're... different.  

Mallory Joe didn't know how to handle the bullying.  I don't think Mom knew how bad it was.  She listened to my brother and encouraged him to take the high road, remember sticks and stones may break my bones... all the quasi-hippie, make love, not war encouraging words.  Mallory Joe did what Mom said... and continued to get. his. ass. kicked.

One day Mallory Joe came home from school, disheveled, clothing torn and clearly shaken.  Mother asked him what had happened.  I watched her make-love-not-war-philosophy fly out the window as she listened to the humiliation my brother had endured after school.

She sent Mallory Joe and one of his friends out to find the bully that afternoon.  She was calm and firm as she gave the boys specific instructions on how and what to say to the bully.

I'll never forget seeing Mallory Joe and his friend confidently ride away on their bicycles, empowered with the knowledge that amnesty for acts not yet committed awaited them when they returned home.  Mother channeled her best pissed-off Miss Piggy voice and yelled after them, "OH... AND MAKE HIM BLEED, HONEY!"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Miss Piggy

Daughters

Mothering our boys comes naturally to me.  They're fun, sweet, energetic and so far they think Chris and I are pretty neat.  I always knew I'd be a parent.  I assumed I'd have at least one boy and one girl, with a bonus kid or two.

Growing up, I projected my own feelings on a future daughter.  I had a difficult time understanding that my parents and grandparents didn't think about me while they were young... before I existed.  One of the reason's I kept journals was so that my daughter could someday read them and know I understood exactly how she was feeling.  I kept special dresses from my childhood and teenage years.  I saw pictures of my mom and grandmothers in their pretty dresses as young girls and was saddened that they didn't save them for me.  How could they get rid of such gorgeous gowns that I would have LOVED to wear while playing "dress-up"?  I saved dresses for the daughter I assumed I'd have.  So she would feel understood, and know she was thought of prior to her arrival.  I saved dolls and stuffed animals too.  I still have everything. The journals, the dresses, and the dolls.

I wrote in one of my journals, "When I grow up, I'm going to let my daughter watch Battle of the Network Stars, even if it's a school night, because I know she'll really want to, and she'll still be able to get up in the morning for school.  Mom and Dad are so mean."

It was important for me to prepare for... her.

As I've connected with friends on Facebook, one of the best parts is seeing photographs of everyone's families.  We all put our best, most attractive, smiling faces on display - Look at me!  Look at my wonderful marriage!  Look at my cool single life!  Look at my beautiful kids! - recognizing the reality is that we all have ups and downs, bumps in the road, and a few unattractive days.  There's not usually a camera documenting those times.  So, we see the happy and the fun.  And... the BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRLS that EVERYONE has!

I adore our sons.  Our family is complete and I love the novelty of being the only female in our house.  Makes me feel special.  I won't have a daughter.  It's okay.  I'm able to talk with girlfriends about their relationships with their daughters, and befriend many, many young girls.

Yesterday a package arrived while I was reflecting on the photos of friends' beautiful daughters on Facebook, and the lack of estrogen in our home.  The package was from Cheri at Blog This Mom.  She had already shipped me a Snuggie after reading about my fascination with them.  Cheri's daughter, Laura, shares the same fascination and received one for her 9th birthday.

I couldn't imagine what was in the new package.  It was an American Girl DVD!  [Thank you Cheri!  For everything.]  After reading my "February 1978" post, Cheri sent me Chrissa Stands Strong. 

"Meet Chrissa Maxwell.  She and her family have just moved, and Chrissa has to start at a new school mid-year.  Will she fit in?  Can she find new friends?..."

I haven't watched it yet, but I intend to.  With the boys.  Cheri said so.  Which means, our family will be watching An American Girl: Chrissa Stands Strong one evening this week.

In the meantime, I thought Mary would enjoy reading one of my childhood journals.  Here she is, comfortably wrapped in the Snuggie, moved by the fact that I documented feelings 35 years ago on her behalf, and excited to watch our new chick flick.

My girl...

February 1978

My family moved from the small town of Winchester, Indiana to Fort Wayne, Indiana the middle of my sixth grade year.  I said good-bye to kids I'd gone to school with since kindergarten and known for even longer.  Kids who had joined me in playing house, office, doctor, hide-and-seek, Monopoly and 45 rpm records.  Kids I fought with, had crushes on, dared to do things and who's dares I often accepted.  It's where my dreams of becoming a stripper took root.  I walked the same path to and from school for nearly seven years in that little town.  It was all I knew.

Dad had received a job promotion that resulted in a transfer.  He and Mom both acknowledged the fear and uncertainty involved in a move while giving my brother and me positive things to hold.  The new school is great!  We'll have a larger home!  The neighborhood is nice and there are lots of kids your age!  We'll visit Winchester, and you can be pen-pals with your old friends...

We made the move during our school's two-week Christmas break.  I returned to a new sixth grade classroom in a new town after the holidays.

My teacher was wonderful.  He was a man.  I'd only had one man teacher prior. [Except for a man music teacher, but that one didn't really count.]  My new man teacher had been raised by deaf parents so he made it a point to teach all of his students sign language.  I still remember quite a bit of it.  My maiden name is Hautem [sounds like scrotum, not autumn], and he called me Hauty [ho-dee].  I melted.  Thought it was the coolest thing to have a nickname from a smart, funny man teacher.

Valentine's Eve 1978
I covered my shoebox in foil, carefully glued cut-out pink and red hearts to paper doilies and taped them to my Valentine box, which had my name in large, purple letters above the slot in the lid.  As the new girl, kids were still calling me ChrisTy instead of Chrisy.  I always politely corrected them.  "No, there's no "t".  My name's Chris-ee, not Chris-T."  In my mind they were two very different names, and the kids might as well have called me Sue, if they called me Christy.

The Valentines I'd selected and addressed for my new classmates were ready to go.  I'd chosen each one purposefully for the recipient.  Studying the graphic and little saying to make sure I didn't convey the wrong message to anyone.  I decided the over-sized, special Valentine [there used to be one in every commercial box] would go to a taller than average, blond-haired boy named Ryan. One day he looked at my face for a long time, then he said, "Your eyes sparkle," and walked away.  [More like skipped away.  He turned out to be gay and wear lip gloss and flowing scarves around his neck every day in high school.]

Valentines Day 1978
It was time for the party.  Cupcakes, cookies, punch, conversation hearts, atypical noise in the classroom.  There was nothing like the feeling of a party at school.  Teachers were happy, and sometimes I could overhear them talk about real things with each other, and laugh.  "We were playing Bridge last Saturday with the Jamison's, and you wouldn't believe Richard's opening bid..."

I distributed my Valentines, timing the delivery of Ryan's when he was very far from his desk.  I had two close friends in class, so the three of us giggled and chatted while eating treats.  The end of the school day was approaching, and the buzz of the party was calming.  I returned to my desk.

A few kids were still delivering their Valentines.  I didn't want to appear too anxious, so I discreetly lifted the lid of my foil-covered box and quickly peeked inside.  There were only two Valentines.  My heart started to pound.

I understood exactly why it happened.  I was old enough to follow the logic.  My name wasn't on the new class list.  It was an innocent oversight by 11-year-old kids, maybe even teachers and parents.  I was still mortified and didn't want anyone to know and feel sorry for me.  It was a giant feat to not cry, or sweat, or have my voice waiver.  I worked hard to manipulate every conversation and social interaction away from my Valentine box.

Ten minutes prior to dismissal backpacks were ready, coats and hats were on, and most of the class had dumped their Valentines on their desks and were rifling through them.  My man teacher walked around and told everyone to put their "love notes" back in their boxes and get ready for the bell to ring.  He saw me sitting there with my tidy desk and nervous smile... waiting.

"You didn't open your box, Hauty?"

"I'm going to wait 'till I get home."

He knew.

I walked home, had a good cry in my room that afternoon, with a solid understanding that it wasn't personal, yet unable to deny the pitiful scene I'd just played the leading role in.

February 15, 1978
I returned to school, grateful to have Valentine's Day behind me.  Ryan skipped around the classroom and I tried to make eye contact with him so he could see my "sparkly" eyes.  My beloved man teacher called upon me for every task that required a lovely assistant.  I wrote things on the chalkboard.  I erased things.  I distributed worksheets, and collected them when students were finished.  I walked important papers to the Principal's office, and was selected to help the girl who broke her pelvis sledding, get her hot lunch from the cafeteria. [I didn't know her very well, and the body cast intimidated all of us.  She only came to school three days a week.]

He knew.  And I felt better.

Have a Happy Valentine's Day.

Conversations with Mamaw

She didn't see me walk in the kitchen or notice that I was standing behind her.  She looked smaller but still pretty and had a pleasant look on her face as she raised her glass of apple juice to the table of five other elderly people and said, "Cheers!"

I touched her shoulder, she turned and smiled big, "Oh!  It's you!"

I last saw Mamaw in September and she was still living in a two-bedroom apartment at an assisted living facility.  She was in the moment, but aware her short-term memory was poor and her physical strength was deteriorating.  Several weeks later, she had an abrupt decline in her cognitive and physical health.  Dad had to make the difficult decision to move her to a residential group home.  Mamaw, although tired and confused, agreed and didn't debate the decision.  She's been living in a house with seven other elderly people, all requiring significant care.

I said, "Look who I brought.  It's Toddler Child."  She was happy and thought for a moment, "Now, am I his great-aunt?"  I told her no, that she was his great-grandmother.  "Oh, hells bells.  Of course I am.  Damn, Chrisy.  Getting old is for the birds.  I mean to tell you."

We went to her room.  It's a generous bedroom that accommodates her desk, a queen-size bed, and an easy chair with a footstool.  She asked for a pillow and tossed it on the floor when I handed it to her.  I wasn't sure what she was going to do.  She began to lower herself in an effort to sit on the floor.  I asked her what she was doing.  She said she wanted to play cars with Toddler Child.

 

Toddler Child asked for a stick of gum.  Mamaw said, "I haven't had bubble gum in years.  Could I have a piece?"  I said, "Sure.  But I'm gonna tell you what I tell Toddler Child, chew, chew, chew.  Don't swallow it."  She laughed, took the gum and chewed it for the remainder of our visit.  When I returned the following day, her chewed gum was stuck to the lamp on her nightstand.  She was saving it.

We thought it would be nice to get some fresh air and walk around the backyard.  I asked Mamaw if I could help her up from her spot on the floor.  She declined and said she's more comfortable figuring it out for herself.  I said, "If you get hurt, Dad's gonna kill me."  "Don't you worry," she said.

We stopped in the bathroom across the hall before heading outside.  Mamaw wanted to grab a tissue.  We tried to take an artsy-fartsy picture.  I can never do this right, but Mamaw seemed to enjoy it.

 

While we were outside I asked Mamaw if she was happy.  She said, "Oh, in a perfect world, I'd have my own little house, and my own yard, but an older person needs help with the details of life.  I can't manage the details anymore."  She also said, "Being older is one of the most difficult times of my life.  It's terrible when you can't remember things.  All I really hope for now is that I die without a struggle, and in my sleep."  I told her I hoped that for her too.

Mamaw and I have talked about death openly since I was a little girl.  I vividly remember asking her questions about death, heaven, fear, pain, if anyone she'd buried had ever contacted her.  She always took me seriously and answered honestly, even when she didn't really know the answer.  When I was about 10 years old, I respectfully requested that upon her death, she please contact me to tell me what the real story was, but only if she could do it without frightening me.  She agreed.

The first day I visited Mamaw she wasn't wearing her signature red lipstick.  We arrived while she was eating lunch, and the excitement of our visit threw off her routine.  She'd had her hair done earlier that morning so she looked pretty and coiffed.  She prefers her naturally curly hair a little less "done" but was happy to have the shampoo and cut.

When I returned the following day, without Toddler Child, we were able to lounge on her bed together and talk.  Like girls at a slumber party.  She had run a comb through the coiffed hairdo and tried to get her natural curls to do their thing, and she had on her red lipstick.

 

We chatted, she touched me a lot, and I her.  We looked at our nails and fluffed our hair, sifted through old cards and letters in her desk, and talked about death, again.

I said, "Mamaw, I'll be back in a few months, and Chris and all three boys will be with me."  "Good!" she said.  I said, "Now please don't forget, if and when you die, I really want you to contact me, but ONLY if you don't scare me."

"God I'm glad you reminded me of that, Honey.  That's always been important to you.  I'll do it.  But only if I can't scare you?  What if I have to startle you a little?"

I said, "Use your best judgment, but err on the side of caution."

She laughed and gave me a little smack.

My brother, my friend.

My brother Mallory Joe has always been one of my closest friends.  He's my only sibling and I'm older by three years. 

NOTE:  I only refer to him as Mallory in a loving way.  Our personalities were parallel to Alex and Mallory Keaton on the 1980s show Family Ties.  I was like Alex and Joe was like Mallory.  We've always been able to laugh at ourselves... and each other.

Growing up, friends teased us.  They said it was weird that we got along so well.  "Chrisy and Joey never fight.  So weird."  It was true - mostly.  We generally got along and played well together as young kids, and as teenagers we were tight.

I attribute this NOT to any inherent kindness or gentleness within my brother Mallory Joe or me, but to Mother.  On the occasion we had a kid fight, she would say and do the following:

1. If we hit one another then tattled, Mom would say, "Chrisy, if you really need to hit your brother, go ahead.  I'll just watch.  Go on now.  Hit him.  What?  You don't want to.  Joey, maybe you'd like to hit your sister?  Come on... let her have it."  My brother Mallory Joe and I would look at each other like she was sooo stupid, and try not to laugh.  It worked though.

2. She dramatically lectured us after each argument about how there's NO ONE in the ENTIRE world as close as siblings.  The BLOOD that ran through our veins was sibling blood.  Not even she and Dad were that close.  NOTHING was more important than the relationship between siblings.  The lecture was powerful every time I heard it.

3. Mother always made us apologize, hug and say I love you.  Always.

Except... for the times she wasn't there to lead us in a rousing rendition of Kumbaya.  We relied on our training to find Shangri-La, and it usually went something like this...

[My brother Mallory Joe 17, me 19 (home from college for a weekend), ending an argument about something important like, what kind of drink he should (beer) or should NOT (a Blue Hawaiian - duh) order when I get he and his friends into a bar when they visit me at school and ALL sleep in my dorm room.]

Joe:  You're just an uptight bitch!
Me:  YOU'RE an uptight bitch!
Joe:  Ha ha.  Bitch.
Me:  Bitch.
Joe:  You're an idiot.
Me:  You're a bitch.

[...]

Joe:  Wanna go sit on the swing set and have a cigarette?
Me:  I don't have any.
Joe:  I do.
Me:  Okay...  I'm sorry.
Joe.  I'm sorry too.

We hug.  My brother Mallory Joe gets the cigarettes and a lighter.  We climb to the top of an old swing set in the backyard.  It's dark.  We sit quietly, and share one cigarette between the two of us.

Me:  Are you sure the neighbors can't see us?
Joe:  No.  Just hide the cherry.

[...]

Joe:  Hurry.  Here they come.
Me:  How can you tell?
Joe:  I know their lights.  Give me the smoke!  Go!

I hand my brother Mallory Joe the cigarette, run inside the house, grab his Polo Cologne and spray it all over myself and him as he comes in the back door.  We hear the garage door open.  We frantically wash our hands, run to the couch, assume relaxed positions and turn on the Weird Science video we'd rented for the 10th time that year.

Mom and Dad walk in, smile at each other and say, "Isn't it nice to see the kids enjoying each other?"

Kumbaya.  Puff-puff.

When I was 15, I was deep.

Deb at San Diego Momma's has a PROMPTuesday exercise today that interests me.  Because... it's easy.  She requests we describe in detail, a memory from our 15th year.  I began journaling when I was 11, so I pulled two journals spanning 1981 and 1982 [when I was 15] to aid in this assignment.

Connie at The Young and The Relentless has periodically posted excerpts from her teen diaries titled "The Connie Diaries".  It's both fun and uncomfortable reading her words.  We've all been there.

Instead of describing one memory, I'm borrowing from Connie's idea.  I'd like to share pieces of my world when I was 15...

 

I had a special English teacher my freshman and sophomore years in high school.  He encouraged us to journal in ways I'd never thought of prior.  The journals [above left] were like an accessory.  The exterior appearance was important. 

The first page in each journal [above right] had my favorite quotes at the time.  If you're interested, click on the photograph - you should be able to read them.  Simple quotes, but to me they were deep and profound.  I didn't even smoke weed.

I wrote in my journals creatively, but more often than not, they simply served as a diary.  I sketched, and taped pictures and articles that I thought were deep onto the pages.  I REALLY wanted to be deep.

  

I don't know if Erma Bombeck was deep, but I was already thinking about how to be a good parent.  My parents were good and loved me very much, but like many kids, I never felt understood and I developed empathy early.  An empathy I projected onto my future children.

I was a runner then.  Still am - well, a trotter anyway.  It was a way for me to connect with Dad, also a runner at the time, and I really enjoyed the endorphins.  Runner's high?  It's real.

 

I even tried to make running deep. [See photo above left.]

Like the "Connie Diaries", I thought I would share something I wrote when I was 15.  I found a few decent poems and short stories, some funny, well-documented antics with friends, and plenty of teen angst [seems to be the theme these days with that vampire stuff].  But I'd like to share what I wrote on January 5, 1981... so technically, I was only 14 1/2-years old. 

The words aren't exceptional, but I want to contribute to the "Teachers Are Important And Make A Difference" campaign bucket.  This is what I had to say about the memorable English teacher my freshman year.

January 5, 1981

... Mr. H. is such a neat teacher.  Of all the teachers I've ever had, he makes the greatest impression on me.  He influences me so easily.  I look up to him and hope to be as sweet and gentle a person as he is. I can't picture him being unkind towards anyone, or giving them an unfair chance.  He told us when he meets someone he always gives them the benefit of the doubt.  He automatically likes them, or he assumes they are a good person, then he leaves it up to the person if they want to prove him wrong.  He's a neat guy.  You won't come across too many people like him.  I'm glad I've had a chance to be taught by him.

Then, because I wanted to be deep, I included two quotes..

"Do not seek yourself outside yourself."  Ralph Waldo Emerson

"To be great is to be misunderstood."  Ralph Waldo Emerson

Followed by my OWN deep thought.

¹I wonder what it would be like to be a nun?  

THE END.

¹ I'm not sure what THAT was about.  I'm not even Catholic.