Ladies Night

I hosted a neighborhood ladies night at my house this past week. There were nine of us all together, and we had a Yankee Swap, and it was a blast. During the evening, every one of my buddies came up to me and said, "Thanks for doing this...I REALLY needed this."

Getting together with the girls is such a release. Yes, we complain about the repetitive schedules of our lives, schlepping kids here and there, cleaning, laundry. Yes, we also brag about our kids -- who got honors and who made what team. We crack jokes at our husband's expense, mostly about snoring and clueless Christmas shopping. We even delve into our emotional states, noting that as our teenage daughters display a wide range of emotions, we mirror those as we go through our life changes. But mostly, we just laugh.

These are the ladies I met at pre-school and kindergarten when we said those teary goodbyes as we left our children for the morning. Many of our friendships started with coffee, or a spontaneous dinner when we fed the kids chicken nuggets and french fries. We're a tight knit group. We've vacationed together, organized fundraisers, and taken each other's kids for weekends. We are each other's emergency contacts. And, we've seen each other through life's major landmarks, like the birth of children and the death of parents. These days, we're commiserating over unemployment, the economy and the stress of what we're going to do to fulfill our lives as our children grow and eventually move on into their own lives.

But this week, things were light. For my Yankee Swap gift, I got an ornament and some cashmere gloves. As I placed the ornament on my tree and looked around my house, I recognized that so many of my Christmas decorations were from our Holiday Ladies Nights of the past. Looking back, I think this was our 10th. And, I know, no matter where we end up, we will easily have 10 or 20 more! So, here's to girlfriends, one of the best gifts my life has given me! Happy Holidays!

Holiday Memories

I pulled a big box of Christmas decorations up from the basement and the kids were all over it. They wanted to hang stockings and set up the nativity scene. Seizing upon their enthusiasm, I played The Nutcracker on the stereo. Suddenly, in my mind I was transferred to my old kitchen, watching my two little ballet dancers twirl and leap over cracked linoleum with unbridled joy. At age 4, Lil’J would try to jump and spin higher and higher, and 2-year-old C would be daintily walking on tiptoes and then gracefully hopping from foot to foot. We would turn the lights off in the kitchen and dance by the filtered light from the dining room. “Spin me,” one of them would inevitably request, and I would lift my baby into the air and spin around like the Sugar Plum Fairy. We often danced through the whole CD.

They don’t remember their grand performances, but they do remember the music from the Nutcracker, and I catch them humming or whistling the tunes during the holiday season. I miss my children. I mean, I still have them and I love each phase of their childhood, but I miss the littler versions of them. I miss their openness and playful spontaneity. While still fun and enthusiastic, my teen and ‘tween are just that much more self-conscious. Gone are the days of ballet dancing in the kitchen to the Nutcracker.

Christmas brings out a montage of memories, and when we decorate the tree my favorites are the photo ornaments that feature the kids during different stages of their childhood. These used to be photos that pre-school or kindergarten teachers took, and then turned into ornaments. Now they’re school photos in frames from the Christmas Tree Shop. I got two new photo-holding ornaments this year, and I eagerly await the kid’s school photos (they both did re-takes this year…go figure.) One special ornament that probably started this whole tradition is a white heart that holds a picture of Big J and I kissing on our wedding day. What a great gift from a good friend. Our tree, I’ve decided, is even more beautiful because it tells the story of our family.

As my solace in this fast-moving motherhood blur, I remind myself constantly that we’re still making memories. C and I made cookies this past week, she made the batter all on her own. Lil’J and I will take our annual Christmas shopping trip together next week, and we’ll crack up over the stupid present ideas and imagine Big J’s response when we buy him a “soap on a rope.” Yes, I miss my little son and daughter, but they’re still little, aren’t they? Maybe, to me, they always will be.

Fantasies Disrupted

NOTE: I wrote this ten years ago and just found it on my computer. Here's the answer to the question you will ask at the end: Yes, I still do that in my car.

It’s happening more and more. Reality keeps interrupting my fantasies. It’s like that pre-recorded message from the Emergency Broadcast System that interrupts TV shows, but this show is in my mind: WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE A THIRTY-FIVE YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO CHILDREN, AND THIS COULD NEVER, EVER HAPPEN TO YOU!
I’ll never, for example, be a rock star. This is the fantasy I usually have in the car. I’ll drop the kids off at pre-school, take their “Raffi” tape out, and pop-in my own selection.
“Ahhh, my own music!”
I sing my heart-out to Paula Cole, Alanis Morissette, Madonna, Annie Lenox, or better yet, Cheryl Crow. “Jump in let’s go...lay back, enjoy the show...” The music transforms me into a leather-clad, slouchy, cool-chick baring a sleek and toned midriff. On stage, I pour my heart into the microphone. Oh, did I mention I’m really thin, too?
In the audience are old friends and some old enemies, cheering, and dancing wildly: college roommates, ex-bosses and co-workers, my old boyfriend, and the woman he dumped me for. They’re next to Mr. Bugle, the singing teacher who didn't pick me for the select choir. They’re all there, and I think, Ha! I showed you! My voice sounds great. “Everybody gets high, everybody gets low. These are the days when anything goes...” I turn around to smile at the guys in the band -- they’re so talented.
I savor this moment, but I know it’s coming...that high-pitched beeping that precedes the recorded announcement. WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY, it says, BECAUSE IT’S TOO LATE IN YOUR LIFE TO BECOME A LEAD SINGER IN A ROCK BAND. FACE IT, the announcement intones, IT AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN.
“Oh yea,” I say to myself, remembering that I just dropped the kids off and need to buy Wisk at the grocery store. Back in scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, I try to hum, at least to the end of the song, “Everyday is a winding road...”
I really don’t have a problem with aging. I’ve greeted each of my thirty-plus birthdays with enthusiasm. I’m happy to be healthy and alive. I don’t worry about wrinkles, and I’ve always colored my hair, so I don’t care about gray. But leaving my youthful dreams behind is tough. In fact, I’m getting a little obsessed.
My son announced he wants me to be a ballerina.
“Maybe I’ll be one for Halloween,” I told him.
“No,” he said, “I want you to be a real one!”
Well, why aren’t I a dancer now? I ask myself. I took dance for fifteen years of my life. Why did I stop?
Now, I realize that many adventures will just have to stay in my dreams. I’ll never: 1. live in New York City, 2. date a guy who drives a jeep and plays the guitar, 3. go skydiving, 4. hitchhike across Ireland -- just to name a few. And even if I do any of these things, it won’t be the same as in my dreams, because I won’t be doing them young.
I could say that I’m better-off. After all, I’ve done a lot so far. I’ve traveled a fair bit (never enough) and had a complete, successful career before I became a mom. I must emphatically proclaim that I am happy with the choices I’ve made, choices that have led me to a wonderful husband and incredible kids. No, I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could... But the question is, how do I let go of my fantasies?
Should I modify them to fit my responsible position in life? I guess I can still travel, although maybe not hitchhike, when the kids get older. We could move to New York City after we retire, but it wouldn’t be the same. Skydiving and the Jeep-guy are out of the question. Then there’s always Karaoke... Pathetic!
Maybe I just need new fantasies. I’ve been toying with “Great American Novel” fantasies -- a wise author at her cluttered desk. Myself on-stage, in a nice suit, receiving an award. That would be a good one, although not exactly rock-star material.
Or, there’s always the danger of becoming one of those weird parents who never achieved their personal dreams, so they try to re-live their life through their children. My daughter will become a rock star! Or the dancer! Maybe my son will drive a jeep and play guitar! How strange would that be?
Maybe some fantasies are meant to stay exactly that...fantasies. Or, as Webster’s puts it, “the free play of creative imagination.” (Rather poetic for a dictionary, don’t you think?)
I read somewhere that very depressed people have “too realistic” a view of themselves. Perhaps their lives are so based on the mundane tasks -- driving kids around, buying Wisk -- that they lose hope. Maybe the opposite is true. Maybe people who imagine themselves in grandiose terms -- a rock star or Pulitzer Prize winner -- can better survive daily drudgeries. Maybe an active fantasy life actually makes me a better and happier person. After all, standing in line at the grocery store isn’t quite so bad when you’ve just given a concert in your car.

I’ve decided I like my old fantasies. I’ve become attached to them. I know they’re just silly dreams, but don’t they still, in some way, make me who I am? Aren’t they as much a part of me as my real successes and failures? Letting go of my old fantasies would be like blanking out parts of my life, even though they are just parts of my imaginary life.
I think I’ll keep the old fantasies, and maybe make room for some new ones, too. Like a dvd collection, I’ll add new fantasies, but still watch the old ones. There’s nothing like a good classic for a really long drive.
Through thick lashes, I peer soulfully out to the audience. They are entranced. Disposable lighters flicker around the stadium. "If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad..." Then, when I hear that high-pitched beep, the start of the WE INTERRUPT message, I just tell the guys in the band, “Hey! Crank it up!”

Technically Speaking

When I was in 7th grade, I had my first boyfriend. Basically, our relationship consisted of talking on the phone. When Tommy called, first he had to get through a family member to get to me. My mom would holler across the house, "Joyce, Tommy's on the phone," and this would be followed by the giggles and snickers of my siblings. Tom would usually be chatting into the phone connected to his kitchen wall, and I would be in the family room with my mom folding laundry nearby. Needless to say, we had absolutely no privacy.

I recently wrote about my two encounters with Paul Newman, and my brother responded that with today's technology I never would have met him. The first encounter was in a record store ... remember those? The second encounter was when Mr. Newman borrowed my phone when I was the receptionist at a country club. Now, he would clearly have his cell phone.

So, as my son texts girls, and as my daughter complains that we won't allow her to receive picture texts, I have to wonder how all this technology is effecting my family and communication in general? Am I less likely to meet a movie star or talk to my son's someday girlfriend? Is technology actually making my world smaller?

Here's another scenario: It's my freshman year of college and I haven't spoken to my parents in weeks. You see, the only phone is in the hallway of my dormitory's second floor. When I call home I have to do it collect, and when my parents call it is very unlikely that I'm even around. In five years, when Lil'J heads off to college, we'll have email, cell phones and maybe even video messaging to rely upon. My assumption is that we'll be in touch.

Maybe technology does shut us off a bit from the rest of the world. After all, who stops for directions these days when we all have GPS systems? On the other hand, through Facebook and email, I'm in contact with some people from my past who I assumed I'd never hear from again. Maybe technology enhances communication with those we know, and decreases our chances of interacting in the real world. The real question is, while technology changes are people changing, too? Are Lil'J's text conversations to middle school girls any more or less innocent than my awkward phone conversations with Tommy? Are movie stars any less friendly? Are college kids any more likely to miss their parents? My guess is, probably not. Technology may increase or decrease our access, but in my estimation, human nature evolves at a much slower pace.

Pain in the Neck!

It was a morning like any other. I woke Lil’J, who headed to the shower, and I trudged back to my room to change out of my PJ’s. Somewhere along the line…crick…shooting pain from my neck down my back and into my left arm. Just one small movement did it -- pinched a nerve, poked a disc, or maybe even popped a thingamajig. Whatever it was, my head was firmly cemented facing forward, and looking neither left nor right was a possibility.

Okay, so I popped some Aleve and got a heat pack and went about my day. But, my day was tough. Backing up in the car was totally mirror dependant. I survived, and didn’t run anyone over. Laundry, walking the dog, any household chores were completely out of the question. Even talking on the phone was difficult. By 10 a.m. I was already depressed and frustrated.

So, I had a few hours (24) of pain. Slow stretching and deep breathing helped. Plus, I’ll admit it, I have a stash of some really strong muscle relaxants from a few years ago and one before bed did the trick. I slept like a rock and awoke with at least some neck mobility. But my pain in the neck left an impact. This being the Thanksgiving season and all, I couldn’t help but be really thankful that I would not have to endure another day of pain and depression.

My good health brought to mind many of my friends and family who are suffering on a daily basis. People very close to me are battling with Lupus, Fibromyalgia, neck and back pain, not to mention a close relative who just had a knee operation. If I found one day of pain exhausting, imagine what these people go through every day. So, I’m planning to check in on my friends who are having a tough time, and to remind them of their bravery. It’s a helpless feeling, being around someone in pain. But maybe talking, checking in, or just an acknowledgement that they are doing a good job dealing with their pain can help.

Passing It On (Or, trying to...)

I got a compliment a few days ago at Whole Foods. I was there to buy some sushi as a treat because Big J was working from home and we were planning to have lunch together. I guess I was in a great mood. The cashier and I were chatting about nothing in particular, and he said, “You know, you’ve really brightened my day.” He continued to tell me that people had been a bit cranky that particular rainy day, and our conversation and my smile (I swear he wasn’t hitting on me, I would have known) had cheered him up.
I left Whole Foods in an even better mood. I realized that compliments really do make a difference, so I decided to compliment the next person that seemed to be spreading “the love,” “the good vibes,” “the sunshine,” or whatever you want to call it. Basically, I was on the lookout for a happy person.
Next stop was the bank, which I guess was the wrong place to go to find a cheerful person in this economy. People were standing in line looking a bit defeated. Video store? No luck there. Just some indecisive folks trying to plan which video to bring home. Office supply store to buy envelopes? Nope. No one really in a very good mood there, either.
The next happy, smiley face I saw that day was Big J when I walked in the door with the sushi. He was just finishing a conference call, and either he was really happy to get off the phone, or he was just happy to see me! I’ll go with the latter.
So, I don’t know. Maybe I did deserve that compliment on a dark, dreary and rainy day. Or, maybe I‘m just really lucky to have had something, or someone, to be happy about. In any case, I’m now on sort of a mission. I plan to make an effort to brighten the days of those I see around me, and I’m on the lookout for anyone else doing the same so I can give them a compliment, and some encouragement to go on being upbeat and friendly. So, if you’d like to join me, just smile whenever you get a chance and be sure to chat with your cashiers! And if you get a compliment, pass it on…

A Happy Tail

On Saturday we dropped Oscar off with his “forever family.” What a happy ending for the little dog with a big spirit. At times I wondered if this doggie experiment was really going to work. I wondered if we were really fostering a dog, or if we had taken a dog who would eventually become ours by default.

The truth is, I think we all learned and grew from this experience. My family and I opened our home to a stranger, and made him feel loved and welcome. Yes, it was more work, especially for me. But I got creative, like figuring out how to tie two leashes together and actually get the pups to walk side-by-side so as not to get completely wound-up and tangled by them – sounds easier then it really was. Big J, in the end, may have learned to have a little faith in my crazy schemes. And, he had to be especially tender with Oscar, because the pup was the most afraid of him – we assume some man had been abusive in the past. The kids, in addition to spending afternoons training and playing with Oscar, learned to love and then let go. I was worried we’d all become too attached to Oscar, but as it turns out, I was the one welling up as we drove home without him. The kids had to remind me of how happy and excited we were the day Oscar came to our home, and how his new family was feeling the same. Bottom line is that we all knew Oscar was where he was meant to be.

Oscar was only in our lives for two months, but that’s two months he didn’t have to live in a crate at a kennel. And now, we definitely miss him. He was a wise little pup, with caramel colored eyes that could melt your heart. He was as cuddly as a cat, loved people of all ages and he kept our dog, Indy, entertained for hours. We were a nice transition family for Oscar, and I think we helped him learn how to trust humans again.

So do I recommend fostering a dog and would I do it again? Would I invite a strange dog to come live with us until he or she found a forever home? Without a doubt. We all do what we can to make the world a better place. At different times in our lives our gestures may be large or small. For us, we started with a little dog named Oscar. Welcome home, sweet Oscar.

If you want to foster a dog, contact Great Dog Rescue New England.

American Spirit

My husband went to vote last Friday since he knew he'd be away on Election Day. He went down to Abbot Hall, Marblehead's town hall, which was constructed in 1870. The town clerk mentioned that Big J could fill out his ballot across the hall, if he wanted privacy. Big J entered the meeting room across the hall and found himself in the presence of American history. The famous painting, Spirit of '76, by Marblehead artist Archibald MacNeal Willard, is housed in this room. In addition to this famous painting, there is an oil painting of Washington crossing the Delaware with men from Glover's Regiment of Marblehead. Big J told me that as he filled out his ballot, suddenly all the knit-picky details about the election fell away. The negative sound bytes, the political jockeying, the fear, the ulterior motives -- all of it-- faded into the background of what it means to be an American and what a privilege it is to vote. This election brought us 9 million new registered voters! So, regardless of who won the election, there were more people than ever involved in the American political process, which means more people than ever care about our country. All Americans should be proud of this year's Election Day participation.

Fire in the Driveway

I heard Lil'J digging around in a pillow case filled with candy and I hollered from the next room, "Are you taking your sister's candy?" I knew he had hardly done any trick or treating the night before; he'd been too busy getting in shaving cream fights down the street.

"No, it's not her candy," he responded. "I haven't reached that stage yet." I had to giggle and silently agree. I hadn't reached the phase of Halloween aftermath when I eat C's candy either. We all eat C's candy because she really doesn't like candy that much. I've found that darn pillow case in her room in August, filled with crusty old candy bars and lollipops.

This year was the first Halloween I wasn't home alone handing out candy, while Big J went out with the kids. This year, both C and Lil'J were out on their own (though I did keep tabs on C by making her call me from her cell phone every time she and her girlfriends went on a new street.)

Beginning when they were babies, Big J would take the kids door to door. At first he popped them in a wagon and rolled them down the sidewalk, and later he trailed behind as they raced up and down the streets. Thinking about the old days made me a little sad. This year, each time the doorbell rang, Big J and I felt like an elderly couple answering the door and "ooing and ahhing" over all the little tykes' costumes.

Then I had the idea of pulling our little chiminea out to the driveway and lighting a fire. Soon, we had lawn chairs, the tiki torches, tunes and even a little wine. The night became much more festive! And, when our kids and their friends returned to our house to sort and trade their candy bootie, a crowd of parents gathered in the driveway. Not only did we recount the evening's events, we also reminisced about the Halloween's of recent years, and those of our youth. Somehow shaving cream fights don't sound so bad when I hear stories about my friends egging cars when they were kids.

So, our children are growing and now heading into the Halloween world without us. And while the times are changing, it's possible we started a new Halloween tradition this year. Mental note...next year get more candy and a few duraflames.

WHO Are You?

Last week my siblings and I celebrated my Dad’s 86th Birthday. While he has some of the health problems that come with age, he often tells me “I don’t feel my age,” inside. His personality, sense of humor and outlook have not aged at the same rate as his body. I guess he feels young, but his body sometimes reminds him that he's getting on in years. That sentiment was echoed in a conversation with my oldest brother, who is only a bit over 50. He feels the same as he did in his 20’s. Little did I know that within the week I’d be in a huge stadium with thousands of people who clearly had a strong desire to re-experience their youth … I went the see The Who in concert.

When we were invited by some friends, I thought the concert might be fun. Until the second song, I didn’t realize just how much I was going to enjoy this show. The playlist ranged from classics to songs that I had completely forgotten about. And the thing about Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey is that they just don’t hold back. They put so much energy into their music, it’s easy to forget they’re in their sixties! A highlight for me was the song Love Reign O’er Me, in which Daltrey sang with total abandon. I don’t know how his voice, reaching such scratchy, wailing highs, has lasted so long.

The crowd at the Boston Garden was filled with middle-aged folks, at least age 40 and above, but once the lights went down it could have been a stadium of teenagers. Everyone was singing and dancing to the music as if it was their first concert ever. And while seeing The Who made me feel young, it also brought back a lot of memories from days gone by. Some were fun memories, even treasured memories. Other memories made me in wonder, "what was I thinking?" And I decided that, while I like maintaining the kernal of my personality from my youth, I so much prefer my later years. And even though I'm getting old, it doesn't mean I can't still ROCK! In the end, it was good to leave the Boston Garden as a grown-up.

In Hot Water

I was the one who always wanted the hot tub. I’m just that kind of person. I love hot water; I love taking baths. Swirling, bubbling, roiling water, with powerful jet massages was, to me, heaven on earth. What could possibly be better than a big bubbling box of hot water in the back yard? And from a therapeutic perspective, couldn’t we all use some physical relaxation to balance the stress in our busy lives?
The kids wanted one, too. They’re entering their teenage years and want to have friends over to socialize and “hang.” “All the experts say to encourage your children and their friends to spend time at your house,” I reminded my husband. A spa would give teenagers something fun to do in our back yard. Closely supervised, it would help keep the kids out of trouble.
My husband, however, is not a big fan of hot tubs. He’ll go in one at a friend’s house or a fancy hotel, but he’s never really wanted one. For years he was ambivalent, and unenthusiastic on the subject of hot tubs. But, with three of us so keen on the idea, he finally agreed that a hot tub could be a great addition to our home.
For months, everything we did was with the hot tub in mind. Our new patio was designed carefully with generous space for the tub. Our sprinkler system and spigots were placed so that the hot tub could be filled and drained effortlessly. We even chose dark wood-toned patio furniture, noting how it would match the “mahogany” exterior of the big tub. We researched spas and got thick envelopes and DVDs in the mail. We finally found a good deal and drove to New Hampshire to pick the color, size and style. We put down our deposit…and then the trouble began.
I guess we underestimated the cost of actually getting a hot tub installed. You need to hire an electrician and it’s not cheap. “Okay, but it’ll be worth it,” I said reassuringly. Then, the electrician informed us that, in addition to the hot tub installation, we would need to upgrade the electricity supply to out house. We simply didn’t have enough voltage to run a hot tub. Upgrading from 100 amps to 200 amps was a necessity. “Well,” my husband reasoned, “we should probably do that anyway.” Oh, then our old electric meter was not up to code and had to be ripped off the house, leaving a gaping hole, and moved to the front of the house. Cha-ching!
As the dollar amount grew, I started having second thoughts. With the economy in a spiral, and me in the midst of a career change, and my husband in a new job, was this really the time to buy a hot tub? “Careful what you wish for,” I reminded myself. But, at every turn, even when we thought we’d have to take the entire picket fence down to get the tub into the yard, my husband calmed me. “It’ll all work out,” he’d say.
Then, this past Friday, the glorious day arrived -- the hot tub was delivered and installed. We waited all day for the water to get to 100 degrees, and then we jumped in! All weekend we had kids and adults dropping by for a quick soak. It seemed like the grill was cooking non-stop and the music was blasting and our back yard had turned into a hot spot of neighborhood fun. That is, until Sunday, when the brown foam started to accumulate around the edges of the spa.
“Quick! Get the manual! Get the chemicals!” I cried. We may as well have donned white lab coats and protective eyewear. Suddenly, Ph balance, calcium, bromine and alkalinity were part of our ongoing vocabulary. I became obsessed with checking the water all day, and trying to fix it. Here’s a capful of this to get the foam down, and a teaspoon of that to get rid of the disgusting scum. And, before I knew it, the water turned GREEN! Bright, neon, nuclear, glow-in the dark GREEN! We had the hot tub for less than three full days, and it was green. If I were the type that cursed, I would have let the foul words rip. But, instead, I just got very quiet and depressed. My husband and I both searched the internet and came up with the same information. “It’s either too much metal in the water, or too much bromine.” Either we needed to add more chemicals or, God forbid, empty the water and start again.
Now I was feeling entirely guilty. I felt like I had tried to build Sodom and Gomorra in my back yard and I was being punished. Was it really too much to ask for? I had just wanted some pleasure, okay, maybe even some decadent pleasure, in my life. But maybe I wanted too much. The waste of water, all those chemicals, and the expense --this is not really who I am. I recycle. I bring reusable shopping bags to the grocery store. I only use Lime on my grass. I’m fiscally responsible. What had come over me?
I kept waiting for my husband to say it… “I told you so.” I kept thinking at any moment he would express his overwhelming frustration and disappointment, and finally place the blame on me which was, after all, where it belonged. And I kept waiting…but he never said it. As the dollar amount rose, as the water turned green, as my desire for a hot tub turned to disgust, he never lost his cool and turned to me to say, “I never even wanted a hot tub!” And, somehow, I don’t think he will. And, I have to wonder if he is a better person than I, because at this point I would love to blame this fiasco on anyone but myself.
So, as I sit here on Monday morning trying to figure out what to do about the green hot tub that has become my aquatic nemesis, at least I can take some solace and appreciate what’s really important. Mentally, I can soak in the warmth of my marriage, and massage my soul in the love, patience and kindness of my husband. Who needs a hot tub, anyway?

A day at the Beach

Finally, Oct. 1st rolled around and I’m able to take the dog(s) to the beach near my house. It’s a tricky beach because it basically doesn’t exist at high tide. At low tide, the beach is expansive! For three days in a row, I’ve made a quick visit to the beach a priority on my “to do” list.

Walking the beach, and letting the dogs run free, I can’t help but feel a sense of relief from my daily life. I watch the dogs chase birds, balls, other dogs, and though my pockets are heavy with symbols of reality, like car keys, leashes, plastic bags and dog treats, my spirit soars up and down the expanse of beach freely.

Most times I am alone on the beach, but dog owners are a friendly bunch. When we meet, we rarely exchange our names, just the names of the four-legged frolickers. Over the years, I’ve taken many walks with complete strangers, never to be seen again. Sometimes we’ve talked about nothing important, the weather, dogs, how lucky we are to be here, now. Other times, I’ve heard life stories, love stories, or tales of loss and betrayal. There’s something freeing in anonymity.

Today on the beach the glaring sun dazzled wet sand making each footstep (or paw step) shimmer with energy. I looked for slick wet rocks that held the promise of drying with undiminished beauty. I remembered sandcastles of my youth, and the miniature sand people that lived there and had to magically rebuild with every change of tide. I breathed ocean air that had blown over from Spain, filled with the essence of wine and Paella. I got my sneakers soaked and laughed.

“A day at the beach” is an expression people use to say something will be easy, fun, not a problem. It’s an appropriate expression.

Paul Newman

I was at my Dad's house in Westport, CT when I got the news about Paul Newman's death. Newman was a long-time Westport resident, and hearing of his passing reminded me of the two times I actually interacted with him, and how he made me feel not only at ease, but rather special.

The first time I was in 8th grade and I was buying a Foghat Album for my "boyfriend." I was at such an awkward stage of my life...not knowing how to handle having a boyfriend, and not really knowing who the band Foghat was. (That was a pretty heavy band for a girl who liked James Taylor and Carly Simon.) And the guy I was "going out with" wore a leather jacket and seemed oh-so-much cooler than I. I had the sinking sensation I was in over my head. And as I was debating which album to buy, I noticed there was a man standing near me, and I looked up and into the incredible blue eyes of Paul Newman. He noticed me and asked, "How are you?" Just three little words, to which I mentally responded, "Oh, my God! You're Paul Newman!" In reality, I just said, "I'm fine, how are you?" while turning bright red. I think he made some quick small talk about not being able to find what he was looking for, but I really wasn't paying attention because I was weak in the knees. I remember he was really nice, and talking with him for a few minutes made me forget, momentarily, that I had no idea what I was doing on the dating scene, and that I was not nearly cool enough to be with this guy. In the end, I bought the wrong album and my boyfriend returned it and soon broke up with me to go out with a much cooler girl, who is now a lesbian, by the way. But the whole relationship was worth it because I got to meet Paul Newman!

The second time I met Paul Newman was when I was in college; I was a receptionist at a country club. Mr. Newman, in his dashing tennis whites, was stood-up by his tennis date and needed a phone. I let him into my little reception area and he made his call. Yes, I stood near him in very close proximity for a few minutes. He was grateful for the phone usage and I had a nice story to go home with that day. Again, his eye contact and charming smile were incredibly disarming.

I don't know if many famous movie stars today make the people they interact with actually feel better about themselves. Who's to say? I just know that I met Paul Newman twice, and both times he made me feel special. I think he made everyone feel special, and that, in addition to his phenomenal acting and philanthropy, is a real talent! His charming amd inspiring presence on this earth will be greatly missed.

For more on Paul Newman in Westport, here's a nice article from the Boston Globe.

A Toast!

I went out do dinner with some old friends. At one point, L made a toast: "Here's to M who's getting married. Here's to K, who's boyfriend is moving in. Here's to me because they finally diagnosed my health problems, and here's to Joyce, who... ummm...who...ahhhh... who got a foster dog."

Wow! Is my life really that boring? The only thing I have to toast about is a foster dog? (See last post.) Then I realized that M is getting married, which is wonderful, but years ago she had to survive a divorce. She has had to raise and support her kids solo. Anyone deserves to find love, but M also deserves this happiness and a great celebration because she's earned it.

K is moving forward with her relationship, and her boyfriend is moving in now that his kids are off to college and the Navy. But K lost her darling husband to melanoma only a few years ago. Mourning, recovery and moving on have been a testiment to her courage and fortitude. The fact that she met a new man who is kind and loving and deserving of her love is another cause for celebration.

L has been sick and in pain for so long, I can't even remember how it began. Now she has been diagnosed with two kinds of Lyme Disease, and hopefully she is on the mend.

Yes, there is a lot to celebrate because my best buddies' lives are improving. So I will toast to them anytime. And I will also toast to my foster dog and my boring life. Sometimes, I've decided, a boring life is a blessed life!

Tyler/Oscar -- Dogs are in the House!

We are animal lovers. Since living in our house we’ve had two dogs, two cats, fish, frogs and a guinea pig – not all at once. So when I started getting emails from the Great Dog Rescue of New England, I was somewhat susceptible. Something about those sweet, pleading little doggie faces got under my skin, and I found myself returning to re-read my emails again and again.

Most of the dogs, I discovered, needed foster homes – a place to stay before a permanent adoptive home could be found. Because of a network of volunteers, these dogs were rescued from shelters across the country that are considered “High Kill.” It seems many of the mutts had missed their appointments, standing-up the Growling Grim Reaper himself.

Many of the rescued pups are given a second chance at life and happiness here in Massachusetts. The least I could do was help just one of them on his journey. What’s one more dog? We already have one very energetic Yellow Lab who would love a playmate.

I discussed this idea with my kids and my husband, and the biggest concern was that we would fall in love with a foster pup and have a hard time giving him up. “So, we’re afraid of loving someone too much?” I wondered. That didn’t seem to make sense. As long as we know the dog will go to a good, loving home, we’ll all be fine, we decided. And I responded to the email saying, “We’re in!”

After an application and a home inspection, we now have Tyler, but we call him Oscar. He’s a two-year-old Welch Corgi mix, and he’s a sweetheart. We’ve had him for almost a week and he’s very affectionate with humans and dogs alike. Yes, it’s possible that I’m falling in love with him. He rests his head on my knee when I sit down. He’s very patient and polite around food and toys. He already knows how to sit and shake hands and I’ve gotten him to stop pulling on his leash (sort of.) But, luckily, he does little things to irritate me, like dig out under the fence and run away. So, I’m happy we have him, and I’m happy to help him, but I’m a one-dog woman. Still, after we get Tyler/Oscar happily placed in a new home, I’ll consider helping another lucky puppy get a second chance on life.

Check out the Great American Dog Rescue !

After and Before

AFTER


BEFORE


I was feeling a bit down. This past week was the third week of school and being home has been a big change. I guess reality sunk in, even though it’s a reality that I chose (not going back to teach this year.)
So I decided to get my hair cut and colored. I needed a new look, a new feel, a new vibe. I made an appointment at “Radiance” an Aveda Salon that uses all natural products, etc. When I went in, I had them take a “before” picture using my camera, so I could compare my old hair with my new look.
It felt good to be pampered. It felt good to sit in a chair and have someone fawn all over me. And, best of all, at this place you get to lie down when they wash your hair. So after coloring, cutting and the blow dry, I asked for the “after” shot.
Finally, when I got home to look at the pictures side by side…I decided I look pretty much the same in both shots, but my hair is a bit different. I guess I was a little disappointed because I needed and wanted a change…a new me! Then I realized that I should know this by now: no matter what the face cream, the clothes, the hair, the perfume, the diet or the make-up, it’s still just me. We’ve all been so programmed to believe that these little items, expensive or inexpensive, will change our lives; but when it comes down to it, what we’re left with is ourselves. So, I better like myself, because it’s all I got! So take a look at the before and after photos above, they’re both just me!

Happy Anniversary to Us!

Having lunch today with my daughter I mentioned that her Dad and I are coming up on our 15th Wedding Anniversary. She became quiet for a moment and asked, “Ummm…am I supposed to get you something?”
“No.” I told her. “But maybe when you’re an adult you can send us a card or something.”
“Good,” she responded with relief, “because I don’t have anything planned.”
“Join the club,” I wanted to say. “I don’t have a plan yet either.”
This year, I’m at a complete loss over what to do for our anniversary. 15 years seems like it should be a big deal, but for the life of me, I can’t come up with a good idea.
Big J and I agreed we can’t escape on a romantic getaway because we both have travel plans (separately) for the following weekend. I’m going to a High School reunion, and Big J has his annual kayak trip with the guys. We could go out to dinner, but we do that often enough that it wouldn’t really be a big deal. Neither of us feels like we “need” anything, so even a present seems like overkill. Sure, he’ll probably get me some flowers, but what do I get him? What is the male equivalent of receiving flowers? (And don’t say candy because he doesn’t eat much sugar.)
I don’t mean to be blasé about our anniversary but I keep coming up empty handed. When I stand in front of the rack of cards at the pharmacy, none of them really capture the essence of our marriage, and the funny cards (maybe it’s just me) have a bit of a negative undertone. Yes, I will eventually pick out a card, or write a nice one. But, is that it? A card?
So, as of now, I’m leaning toward a quiet evening at home with a nice dinner and a good bottle of wine. Am I totally boring and uncreative? Is this a reflection on my marriage, or on my level of effort in this relationship?
I guess I’ll take the positive view and believe that all I really need to celebrate my 15th Wedding Anniversary is my husband. After 15 years, maybe the “gift” we give each other is just the comfort and ease of our relationship, and an acknowlegement…Happy Anniversary to Us!

A Poll: How long were you together before you were married? We were together for 4 years and I say that’s a long time. Big J says 3 years is average. What about you?

Writing for Myself

I've sent out some story ideas and essays to different magazines and newspapers, and we'll see what happens. What's that expression, "throw it out there and see if it sticks?" However, I've come to a new point in my life where I hope others will appreciate my work, yet I'm really writing for myself.

Hasn't every aspiring writer taken criticism and lived with self-doubt? Of course, the world of writing can be a pretty cruel place. My 11th grade English teacher accused me of plagiarism when I wrote a story about a boy who stopped eating because his parents got divorced. I guess I should have taken the accusation as a compliment, but I just brushed it off in my teenage way. (I've taught writing at both the 6th grade and college level, and I often wonder if my life would have been different if I had gotten encouragement at that age rather than suspicion.)

In college, I found myself among much more experienced writers who were also experienced in the art of critique, and I guess I was a little thin-skinned. That's when I stopped writing poetry.

Now I realize I love to write poetry, not to be published, but to express my thoughts in a concise manner.

When you share your writing, even in a blog, you are putting yourself out into the world for better or worse. But now I know it doesn't matter because I'm writing for me, and I hope you like it, too. So here's a poem I wrote for my mom. I hope you like it... I do.

Collecting Angels

It was always easy to find
Or make, a gift for her,
A collector of angels.

From Rome and Russia,
From the Curio Cottage
At the Women’s Club
To the streets of Buenos Aires,
She collected angels.

They’re scattered throughout the house,
Perched on the mantel,
Floating near the soap dish,
Embroidered on the hand towels.
Serenading her on the sill
Above the kitchen sink --
Her collected angels.

And then she flew away to join them,
Her parents, her brother, her friends,
Gathered together…
Our collected angels.

Reptilian Boyfriend

A true story I thought of just the other day:

My brothers and sister were long gone to college, and I, a typical sixteen-year old, disliked the resultant boring dinners with just my parents. We sat among empty chairs at the dining room table under the yellow glow of the chandelier my mother had purchased in Venice. Dinners had become unusually quiet, except for when mother and father asked too many questions or, worse, ignored me and talked about people I didn’t know -- other members of their social scene in Westport, Connecticut. I was relieved when my new boyfriend, Tyler, showed up early for our Saturday night date. My parents didn’t much like Tyler, perhaps because of his long, frizzy Peter Framptonish hair or maybe because he was a drummer in a rock band. But in walked Tyler, hair, jeans, jean jacket and all; and when my mother insisted that I finish my meal, Tyler joined us at the table.
The questions were simple: “Where are you going tonight? Who will be there?” But with their every attempt at conversation, my eyes rolled in growing annoyance and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
As I scooped up the last of my peas, preparing for my get-away, the conversation at the table halted. I followed my mother’s horrified gaze. Something was moving around in my boyfriend’s large head of hair. Up and down, peeking and pulling back, finally emerging from the mass of wiry curls was a tan and black snake. Like an alien periscope, the snake rose from the top of Tyler’s head, searching the air with its long, squiggly tongue. Curiously, it regarded my parents and the remnants of our meal. (Personally, I was unfazed, knowing that Tyler often let his pet baby boa constrictor play Garden of Eden in his hair -- I’d had to disentangle the poor snake a few times. I had even tried wearing the snake -- it’s warm, smooth movements on the back of my neck gave me a pleasant sort of queasiness. But of any of this, my parents were clueless.)
My mother shrieked, standing, knocking her chair over, pointing toward the door.
“Well this,” my father blurted, also standing, nervously passing his napkin from hand to hand. “This is, well this is unacceptable.”
Tyler reached up and grabbed the snake, painstakingly removing it from his rock-band drummer’s locks. “Oh, I forgot…” he started to say, but my mother’s frantic demands, foot-stomping, and dramatic gestures toward the door forced a quick exit..
My parents turned to me, eyes still wide from shock. I continued sitting at the dining room table, fork in hand, peas on fork. Putting the fork down, I stood to leave.
“God, Mom and Dad,” I said in my typical teenager whine, “You totally over-reacted. How embarrassing…” I grabbed my jean-jacket and huffed out of the house, taking off in the car with Tyler and his snake.
It was a short-lived romance; Tyler was my boyfriend for only four months. My parents, clearly traumatized by the encounter, to this day deny ever meeting Tyler’s snake. They do remember, however, their great dislike for him, and their tremendous relief when we soon broke-up. I wish I could say that Tyler, the snake-toting drummer, had set the boyfriend standard so low that all dates to follow were greeted with open-arms. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t whole-heartedly approve of any of my boyfriends -- that is, until I met my husband. They liked him and he was snake free!

Politics in the Home

I have to admit, I’m trying to remain emotionally uninvolved in the Presidential race this year. I know who I like, but I’d prefer not to talk politics with my friends and acquaintances because I know from past election years that we don’t always agree. Political discussions hardly ever change anyone’s mind, but they often give me unwanted insight into worldviews that I find confounding and completely at odds with my own beliefs. So, this year I’m vowing to keep my mouth shut and not to get caught up in the debate.

As a 6th grade tutor at the local elementary school, I saw the passion of politics played out at a very young age. Last year, 11 and 12-year-old students would debate in class or even on the playground about candidates in the presidential primaries. I noticed that instead of explaining why they liked a candidate, many of the kids simply delivered negative sound bytes about each other’s candidates that were most likely parroted from their parents. “Everyone hates Hillary Clinton and she’ll divide this country even more.” Or, “Barak Obama has no experience and could never be president.” Or, “McCain is so old, he’s out of touch with the country.” The tone the kids used was reminiscent of the childhood arguments, “My (Dad, Dog, toy, etc) is better than yours.” I began to wonder, is this negative candidate bashing human nature, or is this a learned behavior?

After listening to the kids, it was easier to detect the same whiney, childish tone in my own defense of candidates. I started to noticed that adults while we weren’t parroting our parents anymore (in fact some of us had grown into our own political beliefs) we were mostly parroting whatever news source we happened to be partial to – whether FOX, NPR, the Boston Globe or Herald, etc. Yes, adults do think on a more complex level than children, but the negativity and the “my candidate’s better than yours” sentiments still seep into the debates. Believe me, I’m as guilty of this as anyone.

So, I decided to try to keep my mouth shut this year. And, as for the kids, Big J and I decided to record both Obama’s and McCain’s speeches. Tonight we’re going to watch both speeches as a family, and Big J and I are going to try not to editorialize. Our job as parents is not to indoctrinate, but to help our children get primary source information and come to their own conclusions. I may even let Big J answer most of their questions this year because he is much better at keeping an emotional distance from the quagmire of political negativity than I. The question for me is, can I keep my mouth shut?

How do you talk to your kids about politics? Here are some links to good articles about talking to your kids about politics.

Elephants, Donkeys and the Media, Oh My! Talking to Kids About Politics

Carpooling with Barack Obama

How to Talk Politics with Your Kids
A Jewish Perspective

Eating Smarter and Walking Stronger

There is a chill in the air, the kids are back to school and I decided to wear an old pair of comfy jeans this morning – only, they weren’t so comfy. The waist was a bit snug. I had to smile, remembering ice cream on those balmy summer nights, or the new tasty flax seed chips I discovered and became addicted to this summer, or the trendy Sangria I ordered whenever possible. Yes, it was a good summer, full of fond epicurean memories that linger around my waistline. But now, reality sinks in and overfloweth my jeans.
The problem is, when it comes to diet and exercise, I feel like I’ve “been there, done that.” I just don’t have the desire to hit the gym anymore, and I find running to be tedious. I’ve done low-fat, I’ve done low-carb, and I’ve gotten so confused that I end up eating low-fat (pretzels) with low-carb (nuts) which translates to a high-carb/ high-fat diet.
So I decided to do some research, and while standing in Marshall’s waiting for Lil’J to come out of the dressing room, I picked up a book called Eat Smart, Walk Strong. This sounded like it was right up my alley, or aisle, so to speak. At first glance, I liked some of the concepts of Leslie Sansone’s book so much, I sprung and spent the $3.99 for the hardcover. (Marshall’s has great bargains!)
Sansone doesn’t say anything earth shattering in her book, but she presents health and fitness as a matter of improving habits. Basically, she explains that I shouldn’t spend all my time trying to break my chip-noshing habit; rather I should start a new healthy habit that will eventually squeeze the chips out of my diet. One recommendation I like is increasing water consumption -- yes, the old 8 glasses of water a day. After reading that, I remembered how much water I used to drink, and how full it made me. And, then there’s the classic 5 servings of fruits and veggies a day. If I’m eating so many fruits and veggies, I may not have room for ice cream. These are just two of the many recommendations in the book -- I’ve decided to start small and see where it takes me.
So, in addition to walking my dog every day, and trying to squeeze in some strength training at home, I plan to change my eating habits. How are you working off those extra summer pounds?

Facebook

When I first joined Facebook, my friend Dave wrote, “Welcome to another great way to waste time.” Boy, was he right! I’m addicted. I am now in touch with friends and acquaintances from my High School and College, not to mention my co-workers from jobs I left long ago.
On Facebook, the term “Friend” is used loosely, but it’s sort of exciting. People I know invite me to be their “friend,” and if I recognize a name on someone’s profile, I can invite them to be “friends.” We don’t necessarily have to email or even talk to each other, though it’s convenient if you do want to check in, or give someone a hard time about the Yankees, etc. There’s a little bit of a thrill when I ask someone to be a friend – will they say “yes,” or will they ignore me? Socially, I’ve had to put myself out there in a way I haven’t for a long time, even though it’s only a cyber request and not a real, face-to-face, awkward, “Will you be my friend?”
Facebook is at the top of my checklist when I sit down at my computer. If I click on my “friends,” many of them have listed their “status” and I can see what everyone is up to. For example, I know that Dain is golfing today, Maria went to a concert last night, and Matt is home working in his PJ’s. I can also see photos of my friend’s families, which I love! I know Facebook has been around for a while, but I think it’s the coolest thing since … umm…yogurt in a tube!
A word of warning: if you have a teenager, your Facebook worlds may collide. As I was looking for “friends” in my hometown, I came across a few of Lil’J’s friends, mostly girls. Of course they were lying about their ages because they’re too young to have a Facebook page, but some of the pictures were a bit questionable as well. No, I didn’t ask them to be my friends. (Though I have heard of parents who create false identities to spy on the kids.) Also, I almost joined a group titled “Everything you want to know about Marblehead,” until I realized it was a group of high school kids – my photo might be a bit out of place there.
So, maybe Facebook started as a place for college and high school students to network. Let me tell you, it’s pretty fun for a 45 year-old, too! Just make sure you add some extra time to your day, get up ½ hour earlier or something.
PS – If you want to join Facebook, I’ll be your friend.

Class Assignments

The texts were flying, cell phones were ring-toning and the old fashioned parents were emailing or using the telephone. 6th Grade class assignments had come in the mail and everyone wanted to know who would be where.
After each communication my daughter moped into the kitchen to tell me, “None of my friends are in my class.” To make matters worse, they were all in another class together. When I sat at my computer, a flurry of mom-mails listed and confirmed class assignments. But no good news came for C.
This is an example of one of those times when the words coming from my mouth sound shallow even as I speak them. “Honey, there are almost fifty kids on your team, you’ll definitely know someone.” Or, “This will be a great opportunity to make new friends and stay in touch with your current friends. You’ll be expanding your social circle.” I tried to say all the right things, the things I would have wanted to hear. And C kept nodding and pretending my words carried some comfort, but I knew she was going to spring a leak at some point that day and cry. She did, very briefly.
The bottom line is, sometimes we cannot fix things for our children, or even make things better. Sometimes we try to comfort, but the underlying message is “suck it up.” I tried to fill the void of anxiety with stories from my own youth. “When I was a kid we moved around a lot and I switched schools in 1st grade, in 3rd grade and then again in 6th grade. Every time I was scared and nervous, but every time I made new friends.” Does that help? Maybe a little…
Ultimately, I will not be able to walk into C’s classroom for her on the first day of school. That she must do alone. As a mom, I cannot make friends for my child, just as I cannot do her homework for her, or practice her instrument for her, or take a test for her. I can only help her along -- coach her, give her advice and the benefit of my own experience.
And, deep inside, I know … she’ll be fine. Still, on the first day of school I will be thinking of her all day. And when she finally walks in the door and drops her backpack in the front hall, I hope she’ll be smiling and bubbling over with exciting news from her first day in 6th grade.

Manners Matter

On our most recent trip to Cape Cod, it seems like we spent more time in restaurants than we did on the beach. Being face to face with each other across a small table a few times each day brought a different meal dynamic to our family. Having the kids across from me, as opposed to next to me around our little kitchen island at home, was like putting a magnifying glass on their table manners. It was a significant reminder that I’ve been slacking-off in the etiquette department.
Every parent knows how chaotic meals can be. At my house we juggle meals around sports schedules, or I feed the kids early while I wait to eat with Big J; and often, even though we dine together, I simply focus on my own plate because by the time we sit down I’m tired, famished and ready for some relaxing conversation. Yes, I noticed at the restaurant when the food arrived and both kids started eating while their napkins remained neatly folded on the table, some basic manners were lacking.
The key, I decided, was to remind C and Lil’J how to behave at the table without ruining the meal. “Napkins,” I said in a singsong voice, and immediately they were snapped open and placed appropriately. “Drinks stay at the top right of your plate,” I reminded as I gently rearranged the table. Meal after meal I spoke sweetly through grinding teeth as I a prompted the young diners: “don’t reach across the table, ask the person next to you to pass,” or, “place your knife at the top of your plate, not back on the table,” and the worst, “no double-dipping your bread into the olive oil.” I tried to be nonchalant, and nag nicely. As the week progressed, I definitely saw some improvement.
Spending seven days together highlighted even more than manners, I started to notice gaffs in the grammar department as well. And to me, grammar is really a form of verbal etiquette. For example, Lil’J has a habit of putting himself first in a sentence. “Me, Tom, Dick and Harry went down town,” he’ll say as he launches into a story. The thing is, I do want to hear his story. Any time my 13 year-old wants to share what he’s doing with his friends, it is a rare and wonderful treat! So, rather than interrupt him, I made a few mental grammar notes as the week passed.
On the drive home I decided to broach the manners subject. “You know,” I started, “manners do really matter.” My husband joined in and we explained that how a person speaks and behaves socially has great impact. I told the story of a boyfriend who had such bad grammar I was afraid to introduce him to my parents, and I eventually broke up with him (true story!) Big J talked about business dinners when adults chewed with their mouths open or talked with food in their mouths. I specifically told Lil’J that he has to put himself last in a sentence, and that he has to pay attention to using “me” or “I” at the end. The kids listened politely. I wasn’t sure if any of it stuck.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves at IHOP on a back to school shopping break. As we were receiving the check the waiter stopped and said, “You may think this is weird, but I just want to congratulate you on what a great job you’re doing raising these kids.” He continued, “I deal with a lot of children, and yours were extremely polite, and have wonderful manners.” Can you even imagine how proud I was at that moment? Okay, I know I still have to constantly remind the kids about proper etiquette, but it was nice to get some encouragement.
So here are a few manners tips from me, and a link to more information from Etiquette Expert, Kelly Solway, because manners really do matter!

Don’t nag or interrupt your kids about manners or grammar, they will stop listening. Rather, have specific conversations at a later time when no one is defensive.

Find a signal you can give your children to remind them of their manners in public. For example, I point to my chin if one of my kids is chewing with his or her mouth open.

Find ways to make it fun. Start a meal every now and then by saying, “Let’s use our best manners tonight!” And, don’t forget to ask, “Please pass the Grey Poupon,” with a snobby English accent.

Check out Kelly Solway’s web site for more etiquette info: oneetiquetteplace

Slurring Sisters

About 11 years ago, Big J (as opposed to my son Lil’J) and I were invited to our friends’ (Cathy and Tom’s*) 4th of July party. Lobsters were festively dismembered and the drinks flowed. We felt like special guests because this was really a big family event. All of Cathy’s family was in town! Eventually the 30ish crowd, all siblings and in-laws, left the grandparents behind to baby-sit the tots. We all headed out to a bar – Tom and Cathy, and her many siblings, mostly sisters.

The bar was a blast. Tom, Big J and I spent most of our time chatting with a Gene Simmons impersonator, clad in full KISS make-up and leather regalia, who had an incredibly long authentic-looking KISS tongue. At the end of the night, when we got back into the minivan, the mood had changed noticeably. Big J and I were squished in the minivan’s hatch back for the return trip, and, despite our giggling, the car was strangely quiet. Clearly, we had missed something.

After a few attempts at making conversation, Big J and I realized that the only person responding was Tom, Cathy’s husband, who was the designated driver. Finally, between the three of us, while everyone else in the mini-van knew enough to shut up, we came up with the slogan, “Friends don’t let friends drink with their sisters.” And, the tension eased…for about a minute. Unfortunately, one sister had tread upon another’s very tender emotional ground, and the healing would take a while, at least until the next morning.

Having a sister myself, I know how treacherous the wine imbued waters of conversation can be. So, here are a few tips for when you have one glass of wine too many with your sister(s):

Avoid discussing your childhood or your children. Either way, someone’s life was ruined or someone is in the process of ruining a life.

Avoid absolute terms like “always,” and “never.” As in, “You always got your way.” Or, “I never got my way.”

If a sister is reminiscing about something you don’t recall, or if you happen to recollect a completely different version of that memory, simply nod your head and smile. Don’t get into it!

If possible, designate a “sober sister” who can be the voice of reason for the evening. Every family needs a peacekeeper.

Just remember, sister emotions run high and family memories run deep. Be careful! And if you have a girlfriend who is going to visit her sister, be a good friend and pass this advice along, or just have the bumper sticker printed up. And on another note, whatever you do, don’t drink and write, especially about sisters!

Mount Laundry

In the quiet evening hours, I often find myself faced with a mountain of laundry looming on the sofa in my living room. White-sock-topped peaks flow into dark ravines of twisted pant legs and rush by smooth ledges of cotton sweat shirts. The mountain intimidates by sheer size, color and intricacy. I would prefer to turn my back on this mangled mass of fabric, to ignore its insistent call. Yet, I am an experienced laundry sherpa. Like the wise, weather-worn climbers of Mount Everest, I have seen how laundry mountains can turn ugly, even unruly. Even a small storm (in the shape of a child or a dog) can topple the clean-clothes mountain, creating an avalanche that traps a stray socks or favorite t-shirts behind a sofa cushion for months. The mountain needs to be attacked and dismantled, I decide, with the conviction of a demolition engineer. I vow to create order out of chaos.
Surveying the terrain of my family’s laundry landscape, I begin to focus on each piece of clothing, yanking it free. Socks first. I match them when I can, but really just make a mini-pile, a mere foothill to my mountain. There are eight feet in my family, including mine. My daughter has the littlest feet and the prettiest socks, I note, as I matched a white ruffled pair. I pull her favorite dress out of the pile and smooth my hands over the soft cotton flowers. It used to be down to her ankles; she now wears it above her knees, constantly tugging at the snug arm seams. “I want to have this dress forever,” she told me. And there she is, indelibly etched into my memory, wearing this dress. Sinking my face into the fabric, I inhale her little girl smell, fresh as a mountain stream.
I am not, on the other hand, tempted to bury my face into my son’s grungy jeans. Yes, they’re clean...but are they ever really clean? I take a look at the knees, the knees that hit the ground first playing football in the back yard, the knees that have sunk inches into the mud while digging post-rainstorm worms, the knees that have scraped the bark off his favorite climbing tree. I soaked these knees for two days in stain-fighting detergent, but my efforts were in vain. The stringy grass stains still expand outward, looking like miniature trail maps of unexplored denim territory.
My husband’s clothes are a mixture of work and play. Gnarly, wrinkled khakis and button down shirts wage age-old battles with layers of sweat pants and t-shirts -- volcanic rock versus sedimentary rock on my mountain. Some of his faded tie-died t-shirts are even older than our ten-year marriage. I appreciate their soft, comfortable durability.
In my mound, I have a plethora of work-out clothes -- well-worn tank-tops, frayed leggings and shorts. This is good because it means I’ve been exercising. Like my body itself, some of my clothes have lost their shape and elasticity; they are a more relaxed version, I decide, of the lively athletic clothes they used to be.
As each person’s stack of clothes reaches higher and higher, I gain perspective on my family. While my husband works on the computer in the next room, and the kids comfortably snuggle in fresh flannel sheets, I fold and sort -- mentally checking-in on each of them. I’m thankful we are all healthy, active, relatively clean and growing in our own ways.
Folding the over-sized night shirt my daughter sleeps in, I glimpse into the future to see more laundry, bigger laundry, a Mount Olympus of laundry. I visualize the laundry mountain reaching the living room ceiling and crushing the old sofa below. It’s growing too quickly, bursting sharp precipices of future laundry -- sports laundry, dating laundry, an avalanche of college laundry. Dizzy and disoriented, I gasp, trying to take in the thin air at the top of my laundry mountain.
Desperately, I grab the last piece, a twisted sheet featuring a rumpled and faded picture of Cinderella. I stand and fold the sheet with crisp snaps that return me to the reality of my living room . All around me, I suddenly see the riches of my laundry mining. I’ve created a mini-mountain chain, an organized and connected version of that intimidating, chaotic alps. Each person in the family is represented by his or her neat, clean, fresh-smelling clothes. In a small way, I’ve ensured the well-being of my family, at least for the night. My consolation is that I will always defeat the laundry mountain, making order out of chaos, taking care of my family. In my mind, at least, I will always watch them and love them from right here, folding laundry in my living room. (Note: I wrote this a few years ago and not much has changed, except the clothes have gotten bigger!)

Show Biz Kid

A few years ago, my daughter, C, caught the acting bug. She was in a few local plays and she loved the camaraderie of the cast and the excitement of the performance. Since a family friend was having lots of success in TV and movies, C decided she wanted to go professional and started researching on the Internet -- she was 9. At her insistence, I signed her up for an acting class in Boston (at Boston Casting.) C was one of the older kids in the week-long class which culminated in a recorded "practice" commercial. She nailed it and wanted more.

Since then, we've been to many auditions, and we finally spent money on professional head shots. As a parent, I've felt extremely torn about putting my child out there, exposed to disappointment over and over again. But C loves it. Before every audition, even if it's a notorious "cattle call" where over a hundred kids show up, C gets excited -- with a gleam in her eye she creates a flurry of "what if" scenarios. "What if I get this part and it's a national commercial -- I'll be able to pay for at least a year of college!" "What if they pick me. Do you think I'd get free sneakers?" I temper her enthusiasm with doses of reality, and eventually she'll respond, "I know, Mom. It's a long shot. But can't a girl dream?" I can't argue with that.

C's has had some very cool experiences because of her acting passion. She was an extra in Disney's The Game Plan, and she met The Rock (who was quite charming.) She was a fit model for Talbot's Kids and got paid to try on clothing -- her dream come true. And, most recently, C played a pilgrim girl in an upcoming Public Television mini-series called We Shall Remain (airs Fall '09) Spending time on the set with authentic looking pilgrims and real Native Americans from the New England area was a fantastic, time-travelling, learning experience that neither of us will ever forget.

On the negative side, there are a plethora of scams designed to drain the pockets of the parents of child star wannabes. One "audition" was really a sales pitch for a 5 day trip to LA where kids would perform for agents and visit local theme parks. Of course they pitched this to me with C in the room. She was disappointed for about 1 minute when I said "no." Then she came to her senses. Now, when we get an audition call, one of her first questions is, "Do you think it's a scam?"

We've both gotten a bit more street smart. It seems I've taken on some of C's enthusiasm, while she has adopted some of my wariness. I repeat to her constantly, "This is a hobby -- something we do for fun. If it gets in the way of your childhood, we are done." Still, I realize, it's a roller coaster, and kids like roller coasters much more than adults. So, for now, we're going along for the ride --white knuckles and all.

Knocking Some Sense Into Me

It had rained for a few days straight and I’m not sure who was going crazier, the kids, the dog, or me. My frustration was growing on a number of levels; the kids kept sitting zombie-like, staring at the TV; the dog had pulled up and chewed one of the newly installed sprinkler heads; and I was trying to get the house together and pack for the upcoming weekend. While my husband and daughter delivered my son to his first sleep-away camp, I would be headed to Connecticut to join my father, brothers and sister to commemorate what would have been my mother’s 79th birthday. Already, a year and four months had elapsed since Mom passed away, and we were planning to secure a final resting place for her ashes. The problem was, despite a few rounds of emails, none of us had any idea what we would actually do with her ashes. Furthermore, while we were all in town, we needed a plan on what chores the four of us could do around the too-big house Dad still maintained. I didn’t want to even imagine sitting around, depressed, staring at my siblings for two days and doing nothing.
“Ahhh…the sun is out!” I yelled to the zombies. “I’m taking the dog to the beach.” And I was out the door before I could hear a response. Finally, alone at the rocky “Dog Beach,” balancing on low-tide mussel shells and seaweed, I felt I could breath. I tossed a stick into the ankle deep water and Indy frolicked and danced, eventually returning the stick, dropping it next to my muddy, absorbent sneakers. “Go, get the stick!” I encouraged. But after a few rounds the pup lost interest, so I began to head back toward dry land; that is, until Indy noticed my departure and romped toward me with an eager face that pleaded, “Please…don’t make me go home.” I could totally relate.
So I bent down to pick up a shell, and in her eagerness, Indy went for the shell as well. But she pulled up suddenly and hit my face full-force with the back of her big, square, solid-bone Labrador Retriever head. “Ow!” I reacted; reaching for my nose that I was sure would be spouting blood momentarily. “Ow, ow, ow!” I moaned. My nose was reverberating in the back of my head. Pain shot down my neck. My jaw was throbbing. It friggin’ hurt!
Still holding my nose and still reeling from the hit, I began to whimper and tears overflowed from my watery eyes. I looked around the deserted beach and, realizing no one could hear me, I started to cry louder – though I was in pain, the crying felt, well … good. As the pain began to ease to a dull throb, I decided to really go for it. I actually started to sob, right there on the beach. No one could hear my bawling. Not a sole was around to respond to my greedy intake of air between each noisy bout of blubbering. The dog just sat and stared at me quizzically. Feeling the release, I went on, quite hysterically, for a few minutes.
As I finally began to calm down, I realized what I had been crying about, and from where this deep well of emotion had bubbled up. It was simple, really. I missed my mom. I missed telling her about the kids and dog driving me crazy. I missed having her make decisions, telling my siblings and I what would be on the agenda for the weekend. I missed her as much as I did the day she died, and I knew I would always miss her in a painful and dramatic way. I guess I just needed a knock on the head to remind me how I felt. My histrionics on the beach were very cleansing, I decided. And, as I walked toward home, I knew I was ready to move on again.
“Thanks, Indy,” I told my tail-flapping buddy as we left the beach. “I needed that.”

Talking to Teens

Lil’J barely waits ‘til he’s out of the car from our week long family vacation before running off with his friends. He’d texted them before we’d even pulled into town. I’m surprised they weren’t waiting for us in our driveway – leaning on their bikes, wearing their shorts down to their knees, below grubby, stretched out t-shirts and turned around baseball caps. What a motley welcoming committee of 13-year-old boys they would be!

Lil'J dropped his duffel bag and said, “Gotta go!” He’s a busy boy, but a good boy; he checks in. And, I always call the house he’s going to, making sure the parents are home. Even better, he’ll have his gang at our house. Still, I feel like I never see him.
Recently, I picked Lil’J up after he visited family friends for a few days. I knew I’d have at least an hour with him, alone in the car. I was looking forward to some catch-up time. I wanted to touch base with him on a deeper level than we’d reached in our recent “Hi what’s for dinner can Sam sleep over have you seen my phone charger when will you be off the computer?” conversations. I wanted to find out what was really on his mind.

So as we drove I thought carefully about what topics to bring up. I could ask him about girls…but he hates it when I do that and he’s barely seen any girls over the summer anyway. Lil’J fiddles endlessly with the radio. He listens incessantly to RAP, and he knows to change the station if the lyrics are overtly sexual. He changes the station a lot. I could ask him if he’s nervous about going away to camp. But then if he’s not nervous he might start to get nervous…nah, we’ve talked enough about camp. He nods his head to the rhythm and sings to the backup melody. I could ask him what ever happened to that kid he was friends with… Ron. I’d heard he got into some trouble and was hanging with a different crowd. No, why bring it up when I’m not trying to encourage that friendship?

“Mom?” Lil’J asked with a serious voice. I knew it, if you shut up for long enough, your teen will open up to you. He’ll tell you what’s on his mind, his hopes, fears, dreams and desires. The experts were right!

“Yes?” I responded, with a motherly smile.

“If you have a job, and the boss calls in sick, does everyone get to go home?” he asked.
I had to giggle. Well, at least he’s thinking about the future. Then I told Lil’J about the summer I painted houses and went to the beach whenever the boss was sick, explaining that most jobs weren’t like that because of “personal responsibility.” Some of his other questions during that car ride were: “Is driving hard?” “How do you get tickets for the Olympics?” And, “Can we go through the McDonald’s drive thru?”

So, these are the things on a 13-year-old boy’s mind … at least today.

After a lot of reflection and a bit of research, here are some tips for talking with your teenage son.

Music –Lil’J doesn’t get into U2 with me like he used to. But, even tho’ I’m not crazy about RAP, I let him know when I like a song or an artist. It’s a conversation starter!

Sports – I’m not a huge fan, but when I ask him what’s new in the world of sports, he’ll blab like an expert.

Kiss Goodnight – Lil’J is most talkative when I go into his room right before he falls asleep. This is a time when defenses are down, and sometimes the troubles of the day bubble up and even a teenage boy needs to talk.

Tips Galore from About.com

From Teens Today with Vanessa VanPetten: Her response to "Seven Things You Should Never Say to Your Teen"

Got any tips learned from talking with your teen?

First Blog

At the ripe old age of 45, I've taken a leap of faith. I quit my job and all of my volunteer work and decided to seriously, and I mean seriously, write.

Like most writers, I've always felt the need to write -- to re-live, re-examine and sometimes re-invent the world around me. My limited success thus far has been in the "momoir" genre with some early essays published in Parents Magazine and Welcome Home Magazine ... but that was in the 90's. A lot has changed since then. First and foremost, my children have gotten older. I've gone from warming baby bottles to hiding my stash of diet soda bottles from the kids. I've gone from cleaning up spills to yelling about text messaging bills. They've grown, and clearly I've grown, too.

Yes, I will continue to write about my family. (I have to because it's such great material.) Now my children are 13 and 11, and I can guarantee that family life will only get more interesting as I deal with their teenage years, as well as the persistent memories of my own wild child days.

I will also write about my trials and tribulations of getting this new career off the ground ... finally. In addition to blogging, I will be sending out my personal essays, looking for feature writing opportunities and, of course, working on my novel.

Any input, hints, and encouragement are certainly welcome!