Mind Blowing

Have you ever had your mind blown? My definition of having your mind blown is that a belief you previously held is suddenly changed forever by something. That something could be anything. Mostly for me it's music or art, or something I've read, and especially by other people. Oh, and I can't forget food--I have had my mind blown by food on occasion.

Here are some examples:

When I used fresh grated nutmeg for the first time in a cheese sauce. Later, when I ate the sauce, I could taste the nutmeg and realized that the sauce tasted so much better.

The first time I saw the Grateful Dead live.

The movie Star Wars.

The first time I held my baby in my arms and knew just who he looked like.

The first time I felt like someone really "got" me.

Talking to old friends as if not a moment in time has gone by.

Those are just a few, although, honestly, it happens to me all the time.

Luckily, I still have the ability to be surprised. I still have the ability to have my mind blown. I hope I keep it forever.

Shallow Waters

I am plunging head first into shallow waters. Let's talk American Idol. I am coming out of my reality TV closet. I am going on record: I like some reality TV. I love American Idol. I watch religiously for the first few weeks. I love the audition process, Hollywood week, and the top twenty-four performances. Then my attention starts to wane. By the finale, I'm just bored. So I started to explore why.

In 1977, the musical "Annie" opened on Broadway in New York City. I was nine years old, and lived in New York City. The opening of "Annie" was big New York City news. They had held open auditions, and people I knew had tried out. It was big, big deal. Not surprisingly, most of our family friends were artists, writers, actors, and actresses, and creative people in general. A huge Broadway production with all the markers of a hit--and employing at least ten children--is bound to make a ripple. It was a news story that I followed avidly.

Then, a week before opening, the producers of "Annie" replaced the original actress cast in the role with Andrea McCardle, who had been in the chorus. Gasp! This was shocking news! So, we witnessed a star being born. Andrea McCardle appeared on TV shows and sang "Tomorrow" like an angel. I don't think anyone has performed it as well since.

I saw that musical on Broadway. I missed Andrea McCardle, but did see Sarah Jessica Parker in the role. I have a similar feeling when I watch American Idol. I guess I like watching a star being born. I think I've mentioned that I take a lot of pleasure in seeing people do things well. When one of those contestants gets out there and shuts it down, I get excited. It makes me happy.

On the other hand, the judging bores me. I hate to admit it, but I miss Paula Abdul's crazy comments. Kara and Randy annoy me. Ellen Degeneres ( I am a fan!) doesn't seem to bring anything to the table. I think I am beginning to see the end of American Idol. The format seems stale this year. Too bad, because watching a star being born is quite an experience.

Soup!!

One of the things that makes me feel cozy is making soup. It's one of my favorite things to make, especially on wintry days. This winter we've been eating a lot of soup. There has been an abundance of wintry days this season in Iowa. We have had two and a half feet of snow on the ground since Christmas. The attempt to make our home a cozy den of happiness this winter by making soup and cocoa is coming to a end. The charm has worn thin.

However, I will continue to make soup. I think soup is a near perfect food. You can put almost anything in soup and it's going to taste good. It can be healthy and your kids won't even complain. Serve with a nice crusty loaf of bread and you're in business. So I thought I would share one of my soup recipes that is yummy. It sounds weird, but I promise you it's delicious.


Cucumber Soup a la Smith

Ingredients:

1 cup diced Canadian bacon or any other ham-type stuff. Make sure it's high quality.

1 or 2 diced cucumbers (seeded and peeled)

1 quart chicken stock or broth

1/2 cup chopped green onions

1 tbsp rice wine vinegar

2 tsp toasted sesame oil


Brown the bacon in a little olive oil until crispy. Add the chicken broth and vinegar. Add the cucumbers. Cook the cucumbers until they are soft but still crisp.

Drizzle 2 tsp of sesame oil over the soup before serving. Serve with delicious crusty bread.

Easy and delicious. Enjoy!

Hey, Are You Amish? Cool.

Over the years, I have seen a lot of Amish people. A lot of Mennonite people, too. For some reason, I see these identifiable people in all kinds of weird places; they wear distinctive and unusual clothes. I almost always see them when I go to amusement parks. Sometimes at museums, too. One memorable time, a group was at the beach at the same time I was. It was fascinating to me. I took pictures--discreetly, of course. The women were dressed in black long skirts and long sleeved shirts, with kerchiefs on their heads. The men had taken off their hats, but the suspenders and long sleeved shirt and pants were in place. They were boogie boarding. They were also very sunburned on the parts where skin caught sunshine. I can tell you that I have never seen another group of adults having as much goofy fun as they were having. Middle-aged Amish women really like to boogie board.

So I wasn't surprised a week or so ago, on Valentine's Day, when I saw Mennonites sleeping on a restaurant floor. I was surprised at the blankets and pillows. We had all been stranded at a truck stop since the afternoon before because of white-out snow conditions on the highway I was driving from a visit to Kansas City to pick up a friend at the airport in Omaha and then home to Sioux City. The Mennonites numbered about twelve adults and four or five children. They were very nice to each other. I saw no cranky tantrums, or snapping, or grumpy demands. The children slept and then got up and were very pleasant. I couldn't tell whose children belonged to whom. All the adults seemed in equal standing. I liked watching this peaceful interaction. They were even smiling. Remarkable.

The rest of us weren't faring as well, except for the truckers; they'd all been through a snow delay on the road before. I didn't know what to do with myself. I spent enormous amounts of time going back and forth to my car, as if that would make the storm go away faster. The Mennonites were passing the time talking quietly and being serene.

I'm not sure what the Universe is trying to teach me with all of these Mennonite/Amish sightings. Am I supposed to be living a simpler life? Or, perhaps, am I there for them, because I always smile and nod my head? I suppose they like the little recognition on my part that they are on to something . . . something that looks pretty cool from the outside.

Work, work, work

I am attempting to write a novel. I'm sorry to say in the war between novel and blog, novel wins. I promise to remember you blog, just not as often.
I would like to thank blog for inspiring me to work on novel. Blog you will always be my first love. This week I'll be blogging about being stuck at a truck stop in Iowa for almost 24 hours, The Amish, and soup. Readers, hold me to it!

Hope everyone is enjoying their weekends. Forty year olds tend to know how to do a weekend very, very, well. Shalom, Y'all!

Ron Emory, my friend, and Rock God

If you are not familiar with Ron Emory, you should be. Don't feel bad; I didn't know the name, either. Ron is the guitar player for T.S.O.L, an original Southern California Punk band that originated in the 70's. That was when punk was punk, when it was being defined for our collective consciousness . . . the punk attitude being I don't give a fuck about your rules, your conventions, your society. I will dress how I want, love how I want, play music how I want and go fuck yourself. Sex, drugs and Rock and Roll on sex, drugs, and rock and roll. T.S.O.L was right there, and still maintains a healthy following. Ron's wife told me that Ron is just famous enough. Most people wouldn't know him walking down the street, but in the right circles he is as A-list as you can get. He is widely considered "the" guitarist of Punk Rock.

You should know Ron Emory, as we should all know the pioneers, the icons, and the truly talented in any field. I was never a punk rocker. I was a Dead Head and a hippy chick. My old neighborhood in New York was teeming with punks, since my apartment was three blocks away from CBGB's and down the street from Trash and Vaudeville. Most of my old friends from the city gravitated towards punk rock, and I've heard my fair share. I'm somewhat familiar with punk, maybe more than the average person. My husband was a punk rocker; he sported a mohawk, and liberty spikes, and went to shows, and pierced lots of things on his body. One of T.S.O.L's songs was one of my hubby's favorites when he was a teen. His collection of punky T-shirts is still impressive.

The weird part of this is that hubby and I moved from an area midway between New York and Philadelphia, both of which are rich in punk communities to Sioux City, which I have described in this blog on a number of occasions . . . and it is here where we met Ron and his family. They had noticed hubby's T-shirts, and recognized a kindred spirit here in the mid-west, not really known for its punk rock scene. Kindred in more ways than one, because we are all raising our families and living life in the best possible way for our children. That punk rock anger and angst is the furthest thing from my mind when I contemplate Ron and his wife (who has become a friend) and his children. They are truly gentle, generous, kind people; real salt of the earth types.

The other night, they let me hear some songs from Ron's solo album (no title yet). Frankly, I was blown away. I really had no idea how talented Ron is. The songs I heard were rough tracks and I still found myself humming them the next day. The guitar playing is amazing, haunting in some spots, rocking in others. The part that is truly inspiring, though, are the lyrics. They are heartfelt, real, sometimes gritty. Ron's lyrics really touched me. You can hear his journey in them, his maturity, and his pain and promise. Ron's wife was sitting with me, her eyes filled with pride and sometimes tears. It is a deeply personal album; he doesn't hold back, and that makes it remarkable.

Did you get that I really, really like Ron's album? I told them that it will be in my CD player getting worn out as soon as they can get me a copy. I wasn't just saying that. His words and music spoke to me, and that doesn't happen to me much. So what I want to say is: good for you Ron! Thank you for this gift that you are sharing with us. It is a blessing.

Muse

I have a friend visiting. I'm itching to write her into a character.

The actual, physical act of writing is brand new to me. I decided to start this blog and had it up and running the next day. That's how easy it is to get a blog. The amazing, brilliant, wonderful thing is that I haven't run out of things to write about yet.

I've been writing in my mind for years. I'd construct a short story based on some woman I was watching in the airport, or some man in the grocery store, or some kids playing on the street.

The difference is that now I have my muse. My muse is a fickle bitch; she didn't come to visit until I turned forty. What kind of friend is that? I'm not really complaining because she's here now and I don't want to offend her.

Muse, you are a most welcome new friend. Come, sit in my kitchen and have a cup of tea, or a glass of wine, or just sit and talk. You are welcome anytime.

Broken Hearts

This lyric by Alanis Morrisette has been stuck in my head for a couple of days:

I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone
I recommend walking around naked in your living room
Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)
It feels so good (swimming in your stomach)
Wait until the dust settles

Then she sings of living and learning. It's a redemption song, a phoenix rising from the ashes. So much of life, at least mine, is like this hilly road. The lessons that we learn from pain and struggle, the joy we feel when the pain and struggle turns into understanding. If we are paying attention, life has so much to teach us.

I get into trouble in two ways. The first is when I am in pain about something and try to ignore it, stuff it, or find some addiction to cover it up. The other is when I fail to see the signs that the pain is coming and coming fast. I try not to ignore my intuition, but there have been times when the red flags were waving and jumping and screaming at me and I simply waved back and turned around and continued on my merry way. I can't say which way is better: taking the risk, even knowing it's not going to turn out well, or listening first and dodging the bullet.

I have made some huge mistakes in my life. I don't think many of us get to these forty years who haven't made some whoppers. My judgment of other people these days is gentler. I know that we are all doing what we can to get through this life, living it the best we know how. I don't know how my life experiences stack up against others, and it doesn't matter. I've had heartache, heartbreak, loss; I've been victimized and abused. I've also broken hearts, and been unkind, and lied. I have become a full-grown woman and I am no longer a victim or a survivor. I'm just a human, marching along, day by day, getting through life and trying to cause as little damage as possible.

I am more than the things that have happened to me. Each time I face a struggle now, I live and I learn. I have learned a lot. When pain comes, I know it won't kill me. I know eventually it lessens and there is opportunity for growth and understanding. A friend of mine shared this quote with me, "At the end of every happy story is a sad ending." When I first read that I thought the words were so depressing. But it stayed in my mind, and I began to see that it's true. Even the most charmed life will come to an end. We're all heading there whether we like it or not. This is just the way of life; loss is inevitable. I'm not saying I like it, I'm just saying it's no use hemming and hawing over it, there's not a damn thing any of us can change about that.

I will remain open to the joy and wonder of the good times. I will accept the bad times. I will try to do both of these with as much integrity and honesty as I can. That's what I've learned so far. Doesn't it seem so simple? You have no idea how much shit I went through to learn that lesson!
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Hey, are you Amish? Cool.

Over the years, I have seen a lot of Amish people. A lot of Mennonite people, too. For some reason, I see these identifiable people in all kinds of weird places; they wear distinctive and unusual clothes. I almost always see them when I go to amusement parks. Sometimes at museums, too. One memorable time, a group was at the beach at the same time I was. It was fascinating to me. I took pictures--discreetly, of course. The women were dressed in black long skirts and long sleeved shirts, with kerchiefs on their heads. The men had taken off their hats, but the suspenders and long sleeved shirt and pants were in place. They were boogie boarding. They were also very sunburned on the parts where skin caught sunshine. I can tell you that I have never seen another group of adults having as much goofy fun as they were having. Middle aged Amish women really like to boogie board.

So I wasn't surprised when I saw the Mennonites sleeping on the restaurant floor. I was surprised at the blankets and pillows. We have all been stranded at a truck stop since yesterday afternoon because of white-out snow conditions on the highway that was supposed to take me home. That same highway was supposed to deliver me back to the airport this morning. That ain't happenin' any time soon. The Mennonites numbered about twelve adults and four or five children. They were very nice to each other. I saw no cranky tantrums, or snapping, or grumpy demands for coffee. The children slept and then got up and were very pleasant. I couldn't tell who's children belonged to whom. All the adults seemed in equal standing. I liked watching this peaceful interaction that was happening. They were even smiling. Remarkable.

The rest of us weren't faring as well. The truckers were fine. They've all been through this before. I spent enormous amounts of time going back and forth to my car. The Mennonites were passing the time talking quietly and being serene. I'm not sure what the Universe is trying to teach me about with all of these Mennonite/Amish sightings. Perhaps, I'm supposed to be living a simpler life? Perhaps, I'm there for them, because I always smile at them and nod my head. Just a little recognition on my part to them that I recognize that they are on to something, something that looks pretty cool from the outside.

Kansas City

Happy Weekend Everybody! I'm off to Kansas City to meet up with my cousin and her kids. It's a little adventure. I'm anticipating eating some really good Barbecue and drinking an ice cold beer. Hugging my family till they tell me I'm squeezing too hard. Doesn't that sound good. I hope all of you are having little adventures of your own. See you all on Monday.

Are you raunchier?

Okay, honestly . . . I have never heard more filthy, raunchy, downright nasty language than when I am with my 40-year-old friends. Especially my women friends. I don't know exactly what it is, but women over 40 change. I cannot divulge what we all talk about, but I think grown men would blush. The filthier it is, the harder we laugh. I think it might be hormonal.

Women in their forties are not afraid to talk about sex, not even a little. We've been married, we've had children, we have had many, many life experiences. I suppose we've come to the conclusion that we've all been there and done that. We can't really be shocked. Once you've had a room full of people watch you push a baby out, it takes a lot to be embarrassed. As a matter of fact, I will go on the record as saying I think we ladies are much filthier than the men.

I'm generalizing. Not all women in their forties are like this, just the ones I want to hang out with. I think we are more likely to say what's on our minds, and less likely to give a shit what people think of it. We've paid our dues. It's freeing. Viva la forty! Now, if they would only let us rule the world . . . .

Mom vs Dad

Looking back over this blog, I realized that it gives the impression that I was raised by only my father. This is not so. I have a wonderful mom, too. My memories of my dad are in the forefront now because he is gone. I like to think about these times with him; they bring me some comfort from my grief. There are days, in this process of grieving, that I can't imagine living the rest of my life on this earth without him. I just don't make as much sense of this world without his reference point. My dad was my touchstone, and I am floundering for another one.

My mom got the raw end of this deal. My dad and I were always compatible and he was always my hero. I used to ask him if he could beat guys up. I, of course, thought he was the strongest, smartest, best man on earth. It was silly, he being 5' 8" and about 150 pounds soaking wet. Also, he didn't run around beating people up. Dads and daughters have special relationships.

On the flip side, moms and daughters have exceedingly complicated relationships. My relationship with my mother is no exception. The power struggle that occurred between my mom and me in my teen years was epic. I'm surprised we survived. I am certain that my dad would not have handled my teenage rebellion with as much patience as my mother did. I talk about my dad a lot. But it was my Mom who I went to for soft hugs and tenderness. It was my mom who, after the sixth time I went wedding dress shopping, pulled my dress from the rack in five minutes--and it was perfect. When my sister died, my mom was the softest place for me to land. Mom coos and cuddles in the best way.

I am still very much engaged in a parent-child relationship with my mom. She still tells me to wear my coat, and to drive more carefully, and she still feels the need to tell me what to do. This was not so for my dad, who began treating me as an adult when I was about ten. In this way, my father took on a different role in my life. He was still very much my father, but more an advisor, mentor, and friend. My mother is still my mom. We slip into our dysfunctional patterns; we get angry sometimes; I am still her child, her baby. She worries like a mother hen. I am a responsible forty-one year old woman, raising a family of my own, and she will still remind me to wear a hat when I go out into the cold. She begins many sentences to me by saying, "You need to . . . ."

This is the mom role. Most of my friends have similar relationships with their own mothers. I explained to her, after my dad passed, that she is not allowed to go. I simply could not bear it. Both of my parents were necessary for me, both bringing different essential pieces that make up who I am. Yes, I idolize my dad; I think he was remarkable and wonderful. My mom is currently reading this and copy-editing, fixing my mistakes and making sure that whoever reads this will have the best possible impression of me. She will send me an e-mail later telling me how to improve my writing and where I went wrong. Aren't I a lucky, lucky girl?

Uh, Oh

As I was dragging my 5-year-old son down the hallway of his pre-school for the third time, I realized I had goofed. I had allowed him not to go to school when he didn't feel like it. Who could blame the little guy? It's cold in Iowa in the winter. It's dark, and icy, and quite dreary. It is so much nicer to snuggle in bed with someone who adores you and to sleep late. My little bear cub and I have been hibernating this winter, enjoying lazy mornings and even lazier afternoons.

The consequence of this is an all-out war in the mornings when my youngest boy has to go to school. Number three son has an uncanny ability to take clothes off as soon as they are put on. It's really quite magical. Yesterday morning, I put his clothes on four times. He took them off five times. It's remarkable. Wrestling a five-year-old into his clothes is a very good work out. I don't need to go to the gym. Wrestling a five year old into his coat, and into his car seat, and putting on a seat belt is . . . interesting. My son has an uncanny ability to become boneless in a moment's notice; passive resistance will come in handy for him someday. Perhaps he will teach a seminar on the subject. He is qualified.

On the drive to school, I imagined calling the Division of Youth and Family Services.

"Um, yes, I am being abused."
"Are you currently in any danger?"
"Yes, can you hear that?" I'm referencing the ear-piercing screams coming from the back seat.
"Yes, can you go some place safe?"
"I suppose the preschool is safe."
"Will your husband come to the school?"
"Oh, it's not my husband"
Confused silence on the other end of the phone.
"Can I be placed in foster care?"
"Is this some kind of joke?"
"I'm afraid not."

The whole process took more than an hour. When I arrived at school, with my whirling dervish of a son in tow, I was sweaty and out of breath. My hair had come loose from its pony tail and I only had one earring on. While dragging my son down the hallway on his back--his coat making a nice impromptu sled--I failed to see the humor in the moment. The preschool teachers were hiding grins. I didn't feel bad leaving, while my son laid on the floor and the teachers cajoled him to come into the classroom. I waved and shouted "byeeee" and skipped down the hall to the freedom of my car.

Discipline is, by far, the hardest part of parenting for me. I have a tendency towards being overly permissive. When I yell at my children, they tend to laugh at me. My boys have often told me that "you're not scary." All through my parenting career, I've had to have coaches who give me pep talks on discipline. "You can do it! Stick to your guns!" . . . talking me through a time-out or an evening in their bedrooms, or letting one of my children cry themselves to sleep. Discipline does not come naturally to me. My husband tends to do the heavy lifting on this front.

I see the benefit and necessity of discipline for children. How are they to learn otherwise? Life isn't a soft pillow; it's hard concrete. My boys will learn that life isn't fair. Life isn't easy; they need to understand that. We all have to do things that we don't want to do. For instance, they may have to drag their five-year-old son down a linoleum-covered hallway on a Tuesday morning into their pre-school class. They may have to do it all over again on Wednesday and Thursday morning, too. I don't know about my son, but I certainly learned my lesson.

Little moments

My parents had creatively figured out a way to send me to an elementary school in Manhattan that was not in my neighborhood. I did go to the local elementary school on the Lower East Side for a short time; the children there hated me on sight. First of all, I was neither Latino nor Black, and the year before I had been a rural kid living in upstate New York in a house with no indoor plumbing and parents who raised our own food and were quite the hippies. You can imagine my surprise to move to Manhattan and find myself living in an apartment with a flush toilet and enrolled in a school that wasn't ninety-five percent white. I found it easier to relate to the apartment that to the new kids. Seems like my life has provided me with many opportunities for learning new frames of reference. That is not a complaint.

My new elementary school was on 11th Street and 6th Avenue. My Dad's apartment was on St. Marks Place (8th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenue), It was about 10 blocks away, give or take. There were quite a few kids in my neighborhood who made the commute to this little school in Greenwich Village. When I got older I would take the public bus to school; but when I first started to go there, my Dad would take me on his bike.

I would sit on the cross bar, sideways, and hold the middle of the handle bars. I cannot describe how much I loved the ride to and from school on Dad's bike. It felt like flying: the wind in my hair and on my face. The absolute synchronicity of riding with my Dad in perfect harmony. Leaning when I needed to and sitting very still when I needed to and feeling as secure and sure as I ever had in my life, before and since. Every day after school, my Dad would be there waiting to ride me home.

There is a feeling of comfort for me when I think about that time in my childhood. The daily rhythm of my life; a routine that was fixed and constant. This was joy for me as a girl. As a parent, I also love those moments the most: the rhythm of my life with my children. Those times when, without a word spoken, our lives move along with our daily life waltz. The intimacy is beyond compare. When I pick up my youngest son from school and we can have lunch together and watch his favorite show, when he snuggles up to me in the position that we always lay down in, we do not need to say a word. He likes to rub my arm when we snuggle; I often place my arm in just the right position without even thinking about it. My oldest son had a blanket. I knew just when to hand that blankie to my boy, knew instinctively when it was necessary for him. I know how my kids like their sandwiches; I don't need to ask. These are parenting moments that really mean something. These little moments, the hum-drum, the banal, the minutiae, that make up the intimacy of the parent-child relationship. I wouldn't trade these moments for anything.

These are the moments we lose when we trade career for family. I know so many Dad's who leave in the morning before the kids get up and are home just in time to give them a kiss goodbye berfore bed. I know some mom's who have this lifestyle as well. Personally, I would rather be broke and share these moments with my children.

Personality Politics

What do you think of Sarah Palin? I don't think it's fair or correct to call her ignorant and stupid. Palin should not be dismissed as a fifteen-minutes-of-famer. Of course, she has made some major faux pas. I think Sarah Palin was guilty of under-preparation during her vice-presidential run. But I don't believe for a moment that all politicians have, on the tip of their tongues, the correct analysis of every political issue or policy. Politicians have people who research for them and write reports and who they teach candidates about the issues. It is important to surround yourself with smart people. People who really know their stuff and won't let you take an interview with Katie Couric without being prepared. I don't think Sarah Palin is dumb; I would say she's not very substantive. Palin is not well informed, that is clear. But she can fill an 8,000 seat arena. We are entering into personality politics.

Extreme right wing people love, love, love Sarah Palin. I see Palin as the absolute symbol of that section of the right wing that paints Hitler mustaches on Obama's photographs. That part of the GOP that says "no" first and then asks "what was the question?" To be fair, and I really don't want to, I will say that there are crazy people on the extreme left as well. Usually they are well educated though. Sarah Palin is a veritable poster child for "we are right because we are not you!" She's Fox News's pin-up girl. I cringe when she speaks, because of the amazing backwards steps she takes for women in politics. If she is really considering running for President don't you think she should be able to remember "tax cuts" without writing a cheat sheet on her hand?

Palin is adroit at making fun of herself and making the most of the publicity. When she was being considered as John McCain's running mate a reporter asked her if she would like to be Vice-President and she said "I don't know, I'll tell you after I see the job description." Anyone remember that? Um, how about run the free world at a moment's notice?

I see so many more of these knee jerk right wingers these days. The people who complain, immediately after Obama proposes tax cuts, that the Democrats are going to take all their money. People who decided long before Obama was sworn in that their lives were going to be worse no matter what. This group knows they are right and it really doesn't matter what you say or what is done. Facts are facts, but this bunch doesn't care for facts. They don't care for compromise, or tolerance, or working together.

Sometimes I think that we lefties ought to be a little less polite and just be as obnoxious as they are. However, this is not the liberal way; we are far too polite and civilized. How can you reason with irrational arguments? Shall we discuss Palin's "death panels"? A pure fabrication that, no matter how many times the President said were not real, just wouldn't go away. I have friends who are still talking about these fictitious death panels. Oh, my.

My worst fear at this point is Sarah Palin running for President with unlimited corporate funds and using her "I'm just a regular girl" act, then waltzing into the White House on her fabulous legs. While in office she will not read the news, she will appoint all of her best friends to do jobs they are not qualified to do, and quite possibly lead us into . . . God only knows what. Wait, doesn't this sound familiar?

Weekend Snow

Hi Everybody,
I hope everyone is enjoying the snow that has fallen. Snow days are always a good time to spend with family or reading a good book. So cozy up to the fire and enjoy your day. I'm taking the weekend off in an attempt to enjoy my very own snow day. I'll see you all on Monday with a new post and a refreshed and relaxed state of mind (I hope!). If all else fails we have the Super Bowl to look forward to.

Fire and Rain

Death has been a theme in my life this year. My father passed away a couple of months ago. One of my best friends from high school died recently; and yesterday I found out an old family friend passed away. That James Taylor song "Fire and Rain" keeps running through my mind, the line "I always thought that I'd see you again" seems prophetic to me now.

Of course I am grieving for my father. I haven't been able to get him off of my mind since he died. He is here with me every day. But I am not having happy memories yet. I am seeing him as he was at the end, sick and in pain. I see his body after he died. I'm not comforted yet by seeing him as he was in life, but I know this will come in time. I wake up some days and then I remember that he is gone and it's a terrible shock all over again. I am now a member of a club that I don't want to belong to: the society of kids who have lost a parent.

My high school friend's death hit me hard. It was a shock so soon after losing my father and I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. She was a good, good pal all through high school. It's not natural to lose a friend who is your own age. We never dreamed this scenario when we were sixteen. She had a hard life and hard death. Wish I had known; I would've been there for her.

I understand that death is an inevitability now. Before this year, death was abstract and far away. Now death is a companion for the time being. I'm not afraid to die. My father wasn't either and he handled his death as he handled his life, with integrity and honesty and idealism. He showed me how to do it. What I fear now is wasting the time I have left. I want to tell everyone that I love how much I love them all the time now. I want to make amends. I want to see every last friend I've ever had, more than once. I want to reconnect, because tomorrow may be too late.

I'm learning to take a deep breath and express what I truly feel. I'm not going to hold back anymore. I want the people in my life to really know what they mean to me. If I get hurt, so be it. I can't imagine it hurting any more than losing someone who you always thought that you would see again and never will.

Bedazzled and Bejeweled

I was feeling a little insecure about the post I made to this Blog on January 19, 2010: Pubic Hair in America. If you haven't read that one, it's in the archives. But it seems my insecurity was unfounded. Not only was I speaking about a hot topic, but I was way behind the curve. I just found this little tidbit on The Huffington Post. The 7 Weirdest Things That Women Do To Their Private Parts This was indeed enlightening to yours truly--especially the bedazzling piece. There are other more gruesome practices described, including--but not limited to--plastic surgery, creams, and piercings. If you don't care to read this article, just take my word for it.

As far as the more gentle aspects of current practices goes, I am going to address the bejeweling of lady parts. I would just like to say publicly to all of my sister-friends who are planning on doing this, or are now doing this to themselves . . . I would like to know up front, in case of an emergency. If Hello Kitty is currently residing on your nether regions, I do not want to be surprised at the hospital with this information. I would probably think something very, very bad happened to you.

It seems, ladies, that we no longer merely need to worry about clean underwear; now we need to put our name up in lights, so to speak. Perky little Jennifer Love Hewitt wrote about bejeweling herself in her book. Is there a best dressed Vay jay jay award? What is next? Perms? Weaves? A couture line by Marc Jacobs? Project Runway, here we come!!

What is your next arts and crafts project going to be? I know what mine is!! Not!

The Apocalypse

I'm exceedingly fond of Apocalyptic fiction and movies. It's not that I really want the world to end. Five minutes of watching what's going on in Haiti is enough to drive that point home. It's just that I like to imagine what the world would look like without all of the people. What would life be like if, suddenly, all of the complications of life became one simple goal . . . survival.

I like to think about the skills I have that would help me survive in case of Apocalypse. I can start a fire; that's good. I can crochet and sew by hand, handy skills to have if the world ends. I know how to garden . . . I'm not very good at it, but I imagine I could get by. I know a bit about woods and edible plants and tracking animals. I can cook, although I don't know how to butcher an animal or how to skin one. Maybe I should spend some time with friends who hunt and learn. I am constantly collecting knowledge that will be useful for me when the world ends. I know basic first aid. I know that you can make soap with lye, and you can get lye from wood ashes. I suppose in the apocalyptic world there would still be libraries and supermarkets. We could live on canned food for a time. We could read books to find other useful tips. Twinkies and Wonder Bread would probably survive the Apocalypse. We could eat those for a while.

I don't know anything about how to make electricity or how to fix a car or how sound waves work. I'm probably not alone in that. How prepared would we be as a people if we were pushed up against it? If we suddenly found ourselves without the comforts of home we enjoy every day without a second thought? I think about that when I contemplate the mid-west. Settlers came here on horse-drawn wagons. If their winters were anything like the one we have had this year, I cannot imagine how people survived. They had to build everything by hand and supply everything that was needed just for basic survival. How did they manage it all? I imagine there was no shortage of suffering.

Sometimes this modern life feels so complicated. All of this information at our finger tips; all of these opinions swirling around in the ethos. I suppose I long for simplicity. Wake up and chop wood and haul water. Survive. Do one thing at a time. Survive. Put things away where they belong and start all over the next day. Simplify and survive. I can handle that, in my imagination.

Butterfly

Have you heard the expression “soft addiction?” It’s used to describe addiction to anything that isn’t life threatening. For instance, shopping all the time is a soft addiction; doing heroin is not. Spending too much time on the computer is a soft addiction; drinking yourself sick every night is not.

My question is, are soft addictions still true addictions? Are they as damaging to the soul as a true full-blown addiction to drugs? This is where my id chimes in, “But life is hard! Who does it hurt? It’s harmless!” My ego nags, “It’s not harmless! It keeps you from feeling and being.” My id answers, “Feeling and being, you have to do that no matter what! Life should be enjoyed not endured!” Ego answers “Humph, you are justifying!”

Unfortunately for me, I tend to break one addiction only to find myself facing another one. My life-long addiction to food seems to be broken at long last . . . and now I’m on this computer all the time.

It may just be my personality. I tend to absorb myself in one thing at a time, much to the dismay of my hubby. If I’m into doing crossword puzzles, for instance, I will do them non-stop for a couple of weeks and then I’ll stop. For a while last summer I was into Corn Nuts. I ate Corn nuts every day for a week and then stopped. For a time last winter I crocheted little stuffed animal creatures. I did that every day for months, and then when spring came I stopped. I like to think of it not so much as an addiction, but as intense attention. I’m a restless soul; my interests flit around like a butterfly. If I don’t seize an interest when it is present, chances are I won’t be interested again for some time.

For the time being, I think I’ll indulge my id and let myself flit and flutter around. Ooh . . . today I think I’ll research how to make homemade soap. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll try writing a novel. Or perhaps I’ll finally paint the basement. Or maybe not.

Reality vs. Expectations

Hubby and I watched a good movie this weekend called “500 Days of Summer.” It is a quirky movie, an anti-love story that deconstructs a relationship. In one interesting scene, filmed from the point of view of the main character, the screen is split; one side displays expectation, and the other side displays reality. The two scenes are almost the same, and yet the differences are striking. Where our main character expects to spend the entire evening having a soul searching conversation with the woman of his dreams, in reality he spends the evening watching her mingle with other people while he quietly gets drunk. He is unable to get the expectation out of his imagination nor is he able to change the reality of the situation.

Naturally, this got me thinking about reality vs. expectations. I have always been the kind of person whose expectations were exceedingly high and so reality just didn’t have a chance. It’s a recipe for disappointment, to expect so much. As I age, I find that my expectations are lessening.

My middle son is just this way. I ache for him. He’s a dreamer and invariably his reality is just never quite good enough. He becomes disappointed so easily by reality. His ideas are so big and sweeping; his follow-through impossible. I’ve tried to explain to him about bringing it down a notch and starting small, but dreamers dream. It’s like trying to swim against the current.

I have found that as gritty as reality is, as stark and unyielding, there is beauty in unexpected places. Reality beauty can be much more than the imagined beauty of expectation: the moment they put that baby on your chest after labor and you feel their warm body for the first time; the moment you fall in love; when you watch your child do well in something that they’ve worked hard to accomplish.

Yes, life is easier if expectations are just a distant relative to reality, like a dollar-rich childless cousin who lives alone in California. Reality is your kid puking all night, and your spouse who comes home grumpy. Expectation is chicken soup and chocolate chip cookies served on a tray by Donna Reed. Reality is a basket full of soggy sandwiches and bruised apples enjoyed next to a beautiful New England stream where the water is so clear you can see the fish swimming by. Which life would you prefer?