Friday, November 23, 2012
Women's Weekend With Men
While the wind is still fresh on my face and my abdomen is still aching from laughter, I have to take a moment to recollect what was.
A rock hop on the beach, with the waves lapping slow on the shore, Marta and Dan on either side of me as we shared a collective experience and collected a shared memory.
A reunion of many, introduction of some, as eight willing and eager souls gathered together to embark on an emerging tradition.
Many hands make light work. Lazy sods make impressions in the sofa.
What is the sound of seven goofballs squished into one Odyssey, with only a concentrated pilot making any sense?
Did I mention the vapors?
Here a pair, there a trio, solo screeners, group creators in the kitchen, whispered remembrances, revelatory revelations.
Two syllables short of a haiku.
The beauty of reconstituting leftovers to a culinary excellence not previously thought possible makes old age seem exciting.
The abundance of sharing; humor, recipes, loved ones, wishes, dreams, talents, wisdom, money, energy, admiration, compliments, elbows (billandchris), and belly laughs.
If this was all there was, it would be enough. But there was so much more.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. And I don’t even like turkey. What I love is the gathering. I love that we have family to celebrate. I love that every year my uncle (my father’s brother) would place the family on the living room fireplace hearth, set the camera timer and snap our portrait. There were ten of us when we started; my Mom, my Dad, my two older sisters, my aunt, my uncle and three boy cousins.
The reason we gathered at my house, and it was always at my house, was that it was my parents’ anniversary. They were married on the Saturday night of Thanksgiving in 1948.
Over the years, as we grew, we added to the family portrait. Boyfriends came and went, my aunt and uncle (GASP) got divorced (although both always came to Thanksgiving), and in 1986, we welcomed the third generation. My middle sister’s son was the first addition, and seven years later, my daughter joined in. After that, it seemed the kids just kept on coming until by this past year, we had eleven grandchildren. A lot more bodies to squeeze on the hearth, but my uncle persisted.
Oddly enough, in 1995, my oldest sister met and fell in love with her husband. It seems his parents had the exact same anniversary as our parents, same date, same year. It seemed fitting then that they too would marry on the Saturday night of Thanksgiving. It was the only year we had Thanksgiving anywhere but at my parents’ table.
In subsequent years, we added new in-laws, second husbands (mine thank goodness) and a few assorted dogs as well. And the portraits continued unabated, documenting the changes year after year. I don’t know how many cynical jokes we made at my poor Uncle’s expense, complaining about being herded into the living room and forced to sit in our usual places, but we have those annual portraits to document our family’s progress. The outtakes were sometimes better than the final winning picture.
Over dinner, we celebrated our various successes, shared our triumphs and misfortunes and when one family had to miss, we speaker phoned them in for dessert.
This coming year will be a very different experience for all of us. It’s been a hard and sad year for my family. We’re missing our elders. My aunt, my uncle and my father have all passed in this past year. For the first time, we will raise a glass to toast my mother, but we won’t have my Dad, her partner of 64 years. We will toast all their memories, honor their legacy, and give thanks that our families are still able to gather together and share a meal. If only we could speaker phone the absent loved ones in. We know they are with us in spirit.
Uncle Larry
My DAd
Aunt Ellen
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Eulogy for My Father
Nothing, but nothing, was more important to Dad than his girls. And we knew it. He made sure we knew it. He and Mom made us their number ones. Not even one two and three. We were all his number ones.
There's no quantifying his love for our Mother. You might think 62 years of marriage says it all, but it really doesn't. You can't put words to the depth of his devotion,( their mutual admiration and the example of love everlasting.) That they got married on Thanksgiving is apt.
And though we were each supposed to be named Jonathan, he thrilled to have three girls. He instilled in us his thirst for learning and education, an insatiable curiosity, passion for travel, culture, and books, and fierce devotion to and love of family. He may not have produced the physician he was hoping for, but he got two PhDs and an MBA.
Having Art for a Dad meant we lived in an environment of warmth, humor, conversation and community. We had temple friends and neighborhood friends. The more the merrier. And Dad’s colleagues and their families mingled in. I remember one time coming into the living room where Dad and a bunch of his friends were watching the latest 8mm Open Heart Surgery. I think Mom served banana bread and Sanka to go along.
There were road trips every school vacation, everywhere you could go by car or train. We even ventured as far as Mexico City by train. Train travel used to be glamorous. Ever the law abiding citizen, Dad wanted us to play blackjack in our little compartment, but whenever the porter knocked on the door we had to pack up our pennies. No gambling for 12, 10 and 7 year olds. Eventually Dad overcame his fear of flying because his flock had scattered cross country, and he wasn’t about to lose contact. He wanted to see where we lived, what we were doing. He wanted to talk to us about our careers, our plans.
He embraced all our husbands, Rob, Barry and Dan and mined them for all the conversation he could. Finally, some men around the house. Not only did he entice them to converse about subjects interesting to him, but he always appreciated the new topics that they brought with them. He was never done learning or exploring.
Nothing was more wonderful for Arthur than the era of Grandchildren. Sam, Alice, Ruby, Milly, and AnnaLeah. Grandpop loved to hear about their studies, their friends, their interests, their art, their everything. Joan and I never thought we were imposing when we left our kids with the Grandparents. We knew we were doing them a favor. And each of the children’s lives was so enriched in knowing that kind of fiercesome love and appreciation. And, lest we forget, (and we didn’t), his current crop of 4 legged grands, Jacob, Stella, Ari, Nugget, Buffy, Yoyo and Juneau. Never much of an animal lover before, he was an attentive and devoted petter. I never thought I’d see Dad holding his hand out to let a 1000 pound furry friend take a carrot, but we have the picture.
A loss like this is unlike any other. We have the unrelenting mourning of never laughing with him again, no more puzzling something with him, no more questioning something and looking it up in the OED, or that internet thing. There was no piece of technology that didn’t flummox him. But he persevered.
We will miss him more than words can say. We will carry his memory with us daily, and know the bond is never broken. The love will never die.
Arthur D. Silk
11/12/1924 - 8/12/2012
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Bliss
Leap out my children
Put your dreams in your hands
and open them out into the world.
Pour forth
Take that idea you have and put it into your shoes
Let it inform your steps and squish up and out your toes
Feel the strength of your beliefs in every fiber of muscle
As you flex your convictions you will get stronger
Close your eyes and jump
Don't fear for your safety
The vision you possess is clear
if you allow it.
Those of us who have always loved you will be the current
of air for you as you soar
Let your courage stretch out as your hair flies free in all directions
Singularity will come
Be free now
Leap out my children
Jump
Sunday, October 9, 2011
That's the thing about being Specific
My favorite movie of all time is Out of Africa. One of my favorite lines (and I have many, including "Sh, shoo, shooooooot her!")is "When the Gods want to punish us, they answer our prayers." I should have paid attention, as that same kind of prediction has come along to bite me on several occasions.
First one. My friend Caren and I were out at a Motown Dance club - the Crush Bar in our early 20's. We sat at a table with our glasses of wine, or maybe a Tequila Sunrise talking about our singledom and how we planned to overcome it. We fantasized about our weddings, our careers, our futures in general. I remember sighing and saying, "I just want to meet somebody funny and nice." We finished our drinks, got asked to dance, danced, sat down, danced more. I was dancing by myself when a guy appeared before me and started dancing with me. He was nice and he seemed interested in me. We talked as much as you can in a loud bar environment. He asked for my phone number. I'll be darned if he wasn't a comedian. Caren asked him when he'd be performing next and said we'd go see him. The very next day, he called me. I called Caren right away and we giggled and reviewed our evening. She asked me if I planned to go the Comedy Store to see him perform, and I said, "I don't know. Maybe." She said she'd go with me and we should definitely go.
Well, we did, and long story short, Steve and I started dating. He was very nice, very funny, and very attentive. I was used to being the pursuer, not the pursued, so it all seemed very nice. Everything was good, except maybe one thing. I maybe should have thought to specify a few more characteristics besides funny and nice. While those are splendid qualities, I realized it might be nice to have a few others to go along with them. I don't know, smart, energetic, ambitious, grown up? Because as nice and funny as Steve was, it was pretty much all he was.
We eventually broke up. I'll always think of him with fondness, but long term potential we didn't have.
Come to years and years later, I'm now in my 50's, and embarking on a new passion of writing, thinking of turning it into a career. I love doing it, and have had some positive feedback from friends and family and even a few people I don't even know. I've had a couple pieces printed in our local paper, "The Palisadian Post" and just recently, achieved my goal of having a piece published on the Huffington Post. I am thrilled about both of those.
So, you might ask, how could you have been more specific? Well, that takes me back to graduate school. Usually when one is in graduate school, it's to hydroplane you into a well paying career. I got it half right in that regard. I got my MBA from UCLA! Whoot Whoot. But here's where I went wrong. I specialized in Non Profit Arts within the general MBA program. And it seems that's what I'm now earning from my art. NON PROFIT. Maybe that time I shouldn't have been so specific.
First one. My friend Caren and I were out at a Motown Dance club - the Crush Bar in our early 20's. We sat at a table with our glasses of wine, or maybe a Tequila Sunrise talking about our singledom and how we planned to overcome it. We fantasized about our weddings, our careers, our futures in general. I remember sighing and saying, "I just want to meet somebody funny and nice." We finished our drinks, got asked to dance, danced, sat down, danced more. I was dancing by myself when a guy appeared before me and started dancing with me. He was nice and he seemed interested in me. We talked as much as you can in a loud bar environment. He asked for my phone number. I'll be darned if he wasn't a comedian. Caren asked him when he'd be performing next and said we'd go see him. The very next day, he called me. I called Caren right away and we giggled and reviewed our evening. She asked me if I planned to go the Comedy Store to see him perform, and I said, "I don't know. Maybe." She said she'd go with me and we should definitely go.
Well, we did, and long story short, Steve and I started dating. He was very nice, very funny, and very attentive. I was used to being the pursuer, not the pursued, so it all seemed very nice. Everything was good, except maybe one thing. I maybe should have thought to specify a few more characteristics besides funny and nice. While those are splendid qualities, I realized it might be nice to have a few others to go along with them. I don't know, smart, energetic, ambitious, grown up? Because as nice and funny as Steve was, it was pretty much all he was.
We eventually broke up. I'll always think of him with fondness, but long term potential we didn't have.
Come to years and years later, I'm now in my 50's, and embarking on a new passion of writing, thinking of turning it into a career. I love doing it, and have had some positive feedback from friends and family and even a few people I don't even know. I've had a couple pieces printed in our local paper, "The Palisadian Post" and just recently, achieved my goal of having a piece published on the Huffington Post. I am thrilled about both of those.
So, you might ask, how could you have been more specific? Well, that takes me back to graduate school. Usually when one is in graduate school, it's to hydroplane you into a well paying career. I got it half right in that regard. I got my MBA from UCLA! Whoot Whoot. But here's where I went wrong. I specialized in Non Profit Arts within the general MBA program. And it seems that's what I'm now earning from my art. NON PROFIT. Maybe that time I shouldn't have been so specific.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
86. Foiled Again
86. Foiled Again
How lucky are we, my kids and I, that we have my parents in our lives? From the time both my kids were born, they’ve been there. Actually, I had to kick them out of the delivery room when I started to push Alice out 18 years ago. They’d stuck with me through labor, all 12 hours of it. But when I started the active pushing phase, and I could see their feet under the curtain blocking the door, I said, between agonizing breaths, “go home now.” Then I saw all four feet scurrying away. Now it seems funny. It’s an image locked in my memory jail.
They’ve celebrated every milestone with us: birthdays, divorces (well, luckily only one), marriages, anniversaries, Hanukkahs, school plays, graduations, Bat Mitzvahs. You get the idea. They drive up, or we go to their house. Their house has always been pleasure central for my kids. It’s just five minutes from Disneyland, features a pool (albeit, more like a 300 square foot bathtub) and steady supply of frozen waffles and miniature Dove bars. For some reason, my Mother’s standards have slackened for this generation. If they go outside and it’s cold, she doesn’t make them wear a sweater. If it’s raining outside, she doesn’t make them wear hideous rubber boots. Catch my drift there? And so far, she hasn’t slathered heavy white zinc oxide on their noses and cheeks.
I think the only time they’ve expressed any, any, any sort of imposition of a parenting opinion was when I was deciding to let my 15 year old pierce her nose. I remember my Mom saying, a little sharply, “do you have to let her do that?” But then, my older, multiply pierced, psychologist sister intervened, and she backed off.
I can’t count the number of times they’ve helped me out in jams, pickles and indulgences, like the time one summer when my husband and I were fighting over a trip to Aspen. He wanted me to go with him, and I wanted the kids to come. I eventually came around to his way of thinking, but by then he was so upset, he rescinded his invitation. I reacted by booking a trip for my oldest daughter and me to Hawaii. Mom gamely offered to keep my rambunctious, non-sleeping two and a half year old toddler for five days. Alice and I had a wonderful time. Of course I missed Milly, but I knew she would be well cared for and doted on. A few years later, my sister (yes, the older, multiply pierced, psychologist one,) chided me for leaving my rambunctious, non-sleeping two and half year old toddler with my 75 year old Mother, as she claimed Mom got absolutely no sleep the whole week. (I felt kind of bad about that.)
My Dad, who has come to both rely on, and tread lightly around issues of technology, likes to talk tech with all his sons in law. When they’d come up to my house to baby-sit, we’d try and guide him through the heavy machinery of how to get onto the Internet, how to manage the TV and VCR. At the house I shared with my first husband, he couldn’t even turn the lights on or off because we had a fancy dancy remote control X10 system on the lights. Sure it was convenient for Jeff to be able to turn all the lights on or off from one master control panel, but none of the rest of us could really seem to manage the individual switches. We’d sometimes come home to find Mom and Dad huddled around a desk lamp. One of the very first things I did when we divorced was to hire an electrician to change the switches back to plain old fashioned on and off. I still get a luddite thrill from the click of a wall switch turning the lights off.
So, last night, they came up to stay with, (not baby-sit,) (Milly the twelve year old hates when I say it that way) my one remaining offspring. Her older sister, who had filled that “staying with” role, has wandered off to college by now. Before we left, we explained how to turn on the TV, how to change the channels, how to find Jeopardy and the news on the TIVO like mechanism, and explained that Milly knew how they all operated and to just ask her if they got confused. Dan and I went to a play near by and had a lovely, lovely, much needed night out together.
When we got home, there was no sign of television in the living room. I found them sitting around the dining room table reading. I knew instantly what had happened. It’s not that reading is a foreign art to them. My whole life and childhood was about reading. I just knew that he’d been foiled by the TV controls. And he didn’t want to disturb Milly from her preteen Skyping or supposed homework doing. So, they found some old New Yorkers and sat and read for the ninety minutes we were gone. How frustrating it must be for my poor 86 year old Dad to just want to watch Jeopardy in peace and have no way of figuring out how.
Well, when all is said and done, the evening wasn’t a total loss. We’d all had dinner together, we all got updated on the goings on in our lives, they’d had a chance to see their grandchild and a break from their not so busy, newly retired lifestyle. I’ll always be grateful for their continued presence in our lives, and maybe next time, when they come to baby-sit, I’ll hire a TV tech to help out.
How lucky are we, my kids and I, that we have my parents in our lives? From the time both my kids were born, they’ve been there. Actually, I had to kick them out of the delivery room when I started to push Alice out 18 years ago. They’d stuck with me through labor, all 12 hours of it. But when I started the active pushing phase, and I could see their feet under the curtain blocking the door, I said, between agonizing breaths, “go home now.” Then I saw all four feet scurrying away. Now it seems funny. It’s an image locked in my memory jail.
They’ve celebrated every milestone with us: birthdays, divorces (well, luckily only one), marriages, anniversaries, Hanukkahs, school plays, graduations, Bat Mitzvahs. You get the idea. They drive up, or we go to their house. Their house has always been pleasure central for my kids. It’s just five minutes from Disneyland, features a pool (albeit, more like a 300 square foot bathtub) and steady supply of frozen waffles and miniature Dove bars. For some reason, my Mother’s standards have slackened for this generation. If they go outside and it’s cold, she doesn’t make them wear a sweater. If it’s raining outside, she doesn’t make them wear hideous rubber boots. Catch my drift there? And so far, she hasn’t slathered heavy white zinc oxide on their noses and cheeks.
I think the only time they’ve expressed any, any, any sort of imposition of a parenting opinion was when I was deciding to let my 15 year old pierce her nose. I remember my Mom saying, a little sharply, “do you have to let her do that?” But then, my older, multiply pierced, psychologist sister intervened, and she backed off.
I can’t count the number of times they’ve helped me out in jams, pickles and indulgences, like the time one summer when my husband and I were fighting over a trip to Aspen. He wanted me to go with him, and I wanted the kids to come. I eventually came around to his way of thinking, but by then he was so upset, he rescinded his invitation. I reacted by booking a trip for my oldest daughter and me to Hawaii. Mom gamely offered to keep my rambunctious, non-sleeping two and a half year old toddler for five days. Alice and I had a wonderful time. Of course I missed Milly, but I knew she would be well cared for and doted on. A few years later, my sister (yes, the older, multiply pierced, psychologist one,) chided me for leaving my rambunctious, non-sleeping two and half year old toddler with my 75 year old Mother, as she claimed Mom got absolutely no sleep the whole week. (I felt kind of bad about that.)
My Dad, who has come to both rely on, and tread lightly around issues of technology, likes to talk tech with all his sons in law. When they’d come up to my house to baby-sit, we’d try and guide him through the heavy machinery of how to get onto the Internet, how to manage the TV and VCR. At the house I shared with my first husband, he couldn’t even turn the lights on or off because we had a fancy dancy remote control X10 system on the lights. Sure it was convenient for Jeff to be able to turn all the lights on or off from one master control panel, but none of the rest of us could really seem to manage the individual switches. We’d sometimes come home to find Mom and Dad huddled around a desk lamp. One of the very first things I did when we divorced was to hire an electrician to change the switches back to plain old fashioned on and off. I still get a luddite thrill from the click of a wall switch turning the lights off.
So, last night, they came up to stay with, (not baby-sit,) (Milly the twelve year old hates when I say it that way) my one remaining offspring. Her older sister, who had filled that “staying with” role, has wandered off to college by now. Before we left, we explained how to turn on the TV, how to change the channels, how to find Jeopardy and the news on the TIVO like mechanism, and explained that Milly knew how they all operated and to just ask her if they got confused. Dan and I went to a play near by and had a lovely, lovely, much needed night out together.
When we got home, there was no sign of television in the living room. I found them sitting around the dining room table reading. I knew instantly what had happened. It’s not that reading is a foreign art to them. My whole life and childhood was about reading. I just knew that he’d been foiled by the TV controls. And he didn’t want to disturb Milly from her preteen Skyping or supposed homework doing. So, they found some old New Yorkers and sat and read for the ninety minutes we were gone. How frustrating it must be for my poor 86 year old Dad to just want to watch Jeopardy in peace and have no way of figuring out how.
Well, when all is said and done, the evening wasn’t a total loss. We’d all had dinner together, we all got updated on the goings on in our lives, they’d had a chance to see their grandchild and a break from their not so busy, newly retired lifestyle. I’ll always be grateful for their continued presence in our lives, and maybe next time, when they come to baby-sit, I’ll hire a TV tech to help out.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or does it?
First I have to say, Happy Anniversary to Me and Dan. 3 years. We’re going out to dinner tonight. (Beats our last two celebrations; colonoscopy prep and spending the day in an airplane.) Being Saturday, we each have our own little things to do that bring us joy in the morning hours. He typically wakes early and takes the dogs for a hike up the mountain behind our house. High peak. I sleep in and sometimes stay in bed, reading, writing and resting. But today, I had a ticket to a women’s competitive dive event. So, I roused myself and made it over to UCLA to check it out.
Going on my own, I managed to snag a good seat. What a show. Such gorgeous bodies in complete command, flying off the platform, bending, twisting, rolling into the water. Watching was a mix of euphoria and stress. To see a successful dive is to breath a sigh of wonder. The stress comes as they waver at the top and edge of the platform. Either facing backwards, or upside down, they have to spring up and away from the concrete edge, and I worry they won’t clear it. But they always do.
To my title, I was trying to take a picture just as a souvenir of such a satisfying event. The first one I took captured a guy perfectly horizontal, even with the platform. The perfect picture, from my cell phone, which almost never takes perfect pictures when you want it to. But, I couldn’t save it because I didn’t have enough memory. (oh Iphone, I’m comin to get ya). And I knew that I’d never be serendipidously lucky enough to get another pic just as good.
I spent the first few rounds trying. Sometimes the divers weren’t even in the frame by the time the shutter clicked. Other times I just got feet, or arms, or blur. I realized, I was trying so hard to capture the perfect image, that i was about to miss the whole show. So I put my phone in my bag and watched.
Take a picture. It lasts longer. Not always.
Going on my own, I managed to snag a good seat. What a show. Such gorgeous bodies in complete command, flying off the platform, bending, twisting, rolling into the water. Watching was a mix of euphoria and stress. To see a successful dive is to breath a sigh of wonder. The stress comes as they waver at the top and edge of the platform. Either facing backwards, or upside down, they have to spring up and away from the concrete edge, and I worry they won’t clear it. But they always do.
To my title, I was trying to take a picture just as a souvenir of such a satisfying event. The first one I took captured a guy perfectly horizontal, even with the platform. The perfect picture, from my cell phone, which almost never takes perfect pictures when you want it to. But, I couldn’t save it because I didn’t have enough memory. (oh Iphone, I’m comin to get ya). And I knew that I’d never be serendipidously lucky enough to get another pic just as good.
I spent the first few rounds trying. Sometimes the divers weren’t even in the frame by the time the shutter clicked. Other times I just got feet, or arms, or blur. I realized, I was trying so hard to capture the perfect image, that i was about to miss the whole show. So I put my phone in my bag and watched.
Take a picture. It lasts longer. Not always.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Off to College
Off to College
My oldest daughter is about to head off for college. I get asked a lot, “are you just devastated?” or “oh, I’ll bet you’ll cry won’t you?” Up until a year ago, I’d have laughed both of those off with a rallying cry of “no way. I’m so excited for her. I’ll be happy for both of us.”
But sometime last year I ran into a friend at Starbucks, who I would have gauged to be as sensible a parent as myself. She was stirring her coffee, gazing into space. I said “Hi Robyn. What’s up?” She sighed, and said she’d just seen her son off to college after his winter break. I assumed my usual cheerfulness and inquired after where he was going, and how it was going. She slowly turned her gaze back to me, and said “it’s so hard to see him go.” We talked a bit and I learned that she had been as excited to have him have his college adventures as I am for my daughter, but the reality of his leaving home, and the reality of those emotions threw her for a loop. She was happy for him, but deeply touched by his absence. I thought a lot about that over the coming months.
As my own daughter’s senior year approached, i found myself in a delicate balance of joyful anticipation and respectful consideration. I knew that I couldn’t know how I’d feel when she actually had moved away, but I could pay close attention to this, her senior year and treasure it and be conscious of it. And that’s what I did.
This year has been great. We’ve done things together, just she and I, and she and her sister and I. I don’t beg her to stay home ever, as her achieving independence is exactly what she should be doing, but I make myself available to her whenever she wants to hang out. I am making a conscious effort to treasure this particular chapter of the book. After all, this is still part one; the part where she lives at home.
I am thrilled that she found a college that she’s excited about. I love that she’s ready to move on. Will I be sad? Of course. Will I cry. Most likely. Will I gaze into space while stirring my coffee at Starbucks after winter break is through? Who knows. But I do know that I am ready to read the next series of chapters in this book. And now, she’s writing it on her own. What fun.
My oldest daughter is about to head off for college. I get asked a lot, “are you just devastated?” or “oh, I’ll bet you’ll cry won’t you?” Up until a year ago, I’d have laughed both of those off with a rallying cry of “no way. I’m so excited for her. I’ll be happy for both of us.”
But sometime last year I ran into a friend at Starbucks, who I would have gauged to be as sensible a parent as myself. She was stirring her coffee, gazing into space. I said “Hi Robyn. What’s up?” She sighed, and said she’d just seen her son off to college after his winter break. I assumed my usual cheerfulness and inquired after where he was going, and how it was going. She slowly turned her gaze back to me, and said “it’s so hard to see him go.” We talked a bit and I learned that she had been as excited to have him have his college adventures as I am for my daughter, but the reality of his leaving home, and the reality of those emotions threw her for a loop. She was happy for him, but deeply touched by his absence. I thought a lot about that over the coming months.
As my own daughter’s senior year approached, i found myself in a delicate balance of joyful anticipation and respectful consideration. I knew that I couldn’t know how I’d feel when she actually had moved away, but I could pay close attention to this, her senior year and treasure it and be conscious of it. And that’s what I did.
This year has been great. We’ve done things together, just she and I, and she and her sister and I. I don’t beg her to stay home ever, as her achieving independence is exactly what she should be doing, but I make myself available to her whenever she wants to hang out. I am making a conscious effort to treasure this particular chapter of the book. After all, this is still part one; the part where she lives at home.
I am thrilled that she found a college that she’s excited about. I love that she’s ready to move on. Will I be sad? Of course. Will I cry. Most likely. Will I gaze into space while stirring my coffee at Starbucks after winter break is through? Who knows. But I do know that I am ready to read the next series of chapters in this book. And now, she’s writing it on her own. What fun.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
My 1st 4th of July, PacPal
Believe it or not, what sold me on Pacific Palisades, 15 years ago, wasn’t driving at sunset, seeing the Pacific on a pristine view day. It was driving down Sunset on the days preceding the 4th of July and seeing all the chairs set out on the curbs. We were looking for a home, and I’d thought I wanted to live in Westwood. It seemed more central, if a bit vehicularly dense. But our realtor told us what a village-like feeling “the Palisades” had, and that was appealing. The simple act of residents leaving their beach chairs on the curb for the local parade suggested a small town feeling unequalled in what I knew of Los Angeles. Equally small townish was reading the Palisadian Post “2 cents column” later and finding out what a controversy those chairs were. But it was what zinged me at first sight.
Our first year as residents, we did it all. Starting at about 8 a.m. we strolled down to the park with our 3-year old daughter Alice to catch the exciting race finishes. I could hear the announcer from the time we left our house up in the Alphabets. Festive bunting was strung across the finish line while sweaty, proud men, women and children in their race T-shirts crossed it to cheers and photoflashes. Quite the excitement.
After a patriotic brunch at home, (featuring my ubiquitous flag design cheese cake), our family and friends meandered down the car-and-carefree streets towards Sunset to watch the parade. I pictured the musical “The Music Man” where one by one, two by two, neighbors join the procession walking down the street. We found our chairs just where I’d parked them the day before. I’m a pretty strategic advanced thinker, so by the time the parade started at 2, our chairs were nicely positioned in the shade, to the relief and admiration of my guests. The kids were on the curb. They seemed to get a little thrill from darting out onto the big empty boulevard to drool over the street vendors’ wares. I later learned not to buy trumpets and silly string. Rookie mistake. Being rookies, we’d missed the parachute crew, but we figured, there’s always next year. And the year after that, and another year after that.
I was delighted to see our honorary mayor Anthony Hopkins riding in his convertible. Just as impressive were the tykes on bikes. Seeing those kids motivated me to teach Alice to ride. Years later, when we were part of the biking group ourselves, I heard her say, “Mom you’re embarrassing me” for the very first time. She was 9. She didn’t like my being loud and waving. Of course, that was only the first of many such declarations of embarrassment to come. I’ll always associate it with our 4th of July parade. But, It’s all good.
We returned home, waving our four-inch American flags, to recharge the batteries. Then around six, we headed out to the bluffs for a backyard BBQ at our new friends’ house. Eating is good on the 4th of July. (Maybe I should think about running in the race one year?)
I then parted company with hubby and child to bicycle to the high school and meet some other friends on the field for the fireworks. Alice, at the time, was frightened by the sound of fireworks, so Jeff offered to stay home with her. I naively thought I could find my friends easily. By the time I got there, all I could see was a blanket of people from the goal post to the far 30-yard line. That’s a lot of people. By some miracle, and not a cell phone, I spotted my group. We were enjoying the anticipation of being right under the fireworks display. I love fireworks. Growing up, as I did, five minutes from Disneyland, I was accustomed to seeing nightly summer fireworks from my bedroom window. I consider fireworks to be my own little personal connection with the fantastic.
Just as the lights were starting to dim, who showed up but Jeff and Alice! She had decided to try the fireworks after all. But after one boom, she slammed her little trembling body into my arms and begged to go home. Jeff gamely rode her home, on his bike no less, singing her favorite songs loudly and distractingly. He told me later that she was laughing as they neared home. (Of course, I was down on the field worrying that she’d be traumatized for life).
At the end of the fireworks show, I stood there, amongst the disassembling crowd, savoring the Mayberry feeling. These were all my new neighbors. And we’d just spent the whole day together. This was going to be good.
Our first year as residents, we did it all. Starting at about 8 a.m. we strolled down to the park with our 3-year old daughter Alice to catch the exciting race finishes. I could hear the announcer from the time we left our house up in the Alphabets. Festive bunting was strung across the finish line while sweaty, proud men, women and children in their race T-shirts crossed it to cheers and photoflashes. Quite the excitement.
After a patriotic brunch at home, (featuring my ubiquitous flag design cheese cake), our family and friends meandered down the car-and-carefree streets towards Sunset to watch the parade. I pictured the musical “The Music Man” where one by one, two by two, neighbors join the procession walking down the street. We found our chairs just where I’d parked them the day before. I’m a pretty strategic advanced thinker, so by the time the parade started at 2, our chairs were nicely positioned in the shade, to the relief and admiration of my guests. The kids were on the curb. They seemed to get a little thrill from darting out onto the big empty boulevard to drool over the street vendors’ wares. I later learned not to buy trumpets and silly string. Rookie mistake. Being rookies, we’d missed the parachute crew, but we figured, there’s always next year. And the year after that, and another year after that.
I was delighted to see our honorary mayor Anthony Hopkins riding in his convertible. Just as impressive were the tykes on bikes. Seeing those kids motivated me to teach Alice to ride. Years later, when we were part of the biking group ourselves, I heard her say, “Mom you’re embarrassing me” for the very first time. She was 9. She didn’t like my being loud and waving. Of course, that was only the first of many such declarations of embarrassment to come. I’ll always associate it with our 4th of July parade. But, It’s all good.
We returned home, waving our four-inch American flags, to recharge the batteries. Then around six, we headed out to the bluffs for a backyard BBQ at our new friends’ house. Eating is good on the 4th of July. (Maybe I should think about running in the race one year?)
I then parted company with hubby and child to bicycle to the high school and meet some other friends on the field for the fireworks. Alice, at the time, was frightened by the sound of fireworks, so Jeff offered to stay home with her. I naively thought I could find my friends easily. By the time I got there, all I could see was a blanket of people from the goal post to the far 30-yard line. That’s a lot of people. By some miracle, and not a cell phone, I spotted my group. We were enjoying the anticipation of being right under the fireworks display. I love fireworks. Growing up, as I did, five minutes from Disneyland, I was accustomed to seeing nightly summer fireworks from my bedroom window. I consider fireworks to be my own little personal connection with the fantastic.
Just as the lights were starting to dim, who showed up but Jeff and Alice! She had decided to try the fireworks after all. But after one boom, she slammed her little trembling body into my arms and begged to go home. Jeff gamely rode her home, on his bike no less, singing her favorite songs loudly and distractingly. He told me later that she was laughing as they neared home. (Of course, I was down on the field worrying that she’d be traumatized for life).
At the end of the fireworks show, I stood there, amongst the disassembling crowd, savoring the Mayberry feeling. These were all my new neighbors. And we’d just spent the whole day together. This was going to be good.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Hanukah By The Book
as printed by the Palisadian Post in December 2010
Hanukah by the Book
We had a tradition when I was growing up that we would get a present each night of Hanukah. My Mother would ask us if we wanted a big, small or medium present. Nothing was extravagant, just enough giving to last 8 nights, like the oil that spawned the holiday.
So, one night, (I think I was seven), after we’d lit the candles, I asked for a medium sized gift. I remember unwrapping my flattish package and turning it over to see that it was a book. I quickly announced with childish agony, “THIS ISN’T A PRESENT. IT’S A BOOK!”. Oh, what had I done? After I was informed that my response was both ungracious and rude, I was sent to my room for the remainder of the evening. I think there might have been some yelling involved.
What thoughts must have gone through my parents’ minds that night! “Oy vey Naomi, we’re raising an illiterate,” my Father must have said to my Mother. “We take her to bookstores everywhere, we have over 7,000 volumes of every genre on our bookshelves. We read every night after dinner. We had her read “Eloise” and “Winnie the Pooh” to us. She CAN read. What does this mean?” I don’t think my mother could have consoled him. It was a tragedy in the making!
In my room, I ruminated. What had I done? Was it really so wrong? I didn’t like reading. I liked playing and swimming and Barbies and,,,,, TV. I didn’t even like that all my family ever wanted to do was sit around and read. It made me crazy that my older sister would sit in the chair right in front of the TV and read and not watch. I couldn’t talk to her about what Dr. Kildare had just done to his patient. She wasn’t paying attention.
As Mom always did, after sending me to my room, she eventually came in to talk to me. I wasn’t too open to conversation. She calmly explained that even if I hadn’t liked the present, I should have thanked them anyway. To reject it so instantly was the zenith of impoliteness. “Why don’t we read it together” she suggested, “and then you can decide if you like it or not.” I recall not agreeing, but obviously, I heard her.
Well, here we are some 40+ years later and I’ve come to terms with it all. I finally read “Mr. Poppers Penguins.” (I realize many of you will gasp to think I wouldn’t want to read that particular classic) when my oldest daughter was in a production of it at Pali Elementary. It was cute; the play and the book.
And, what do I find now in my youngest daughter? Lean in and I’m going to whisper this, she doesn’t like to read. You know what? That’s ok. It kills a little bit, but what can you do? You can’t force someone to like what they don’t like when they don’t like it.
Eventually, I learned to love reading. It started with a love of biographies. (Probably because I’m so nosy). That evolved into historical fiction, drama and the rest. I think the only kind of book I still don’t like is science fiction. And so it might be with my daughter. I still buy her books, for Hanukah. And I expect her to be polite, even if she has no plans to read them. I don’t have 7000 volumes in my house, but I have a lot. And one of them is the 47 year old copy of “Mr. Poppers Penguins”.
Hanukah by the Book
We had a tradition when I was growing up that we would get a present each night of Hanukah. My Mother would ask us if we wanted a big, small or medium present. Nothing was extravagant, just enough giving to last 8 nights, like the oil that spawned the holiday.
So, one night, (I think I was seven), after we’d lit the candles, I asked for a medium sized gift. I remember unwrapping my flattish package and turning it over to see that it was a book. I quickly announced with childish agony, “THIS ISN’T A PRESENT. IT’S A BOOK!”. Oh, what had I done? After I was informed that my response was both ungracious and rude, I was sent to my room for the remainder of the evening. I think there might have been some yelling involved.
What thoughts must have gone through my parents’ minds that night! “Oy vey Naomi, we’re raising an illiterate,” my Father must have said to my Mother. “We take her to bookstores everywhere, we have over 7,000 volumes of every genre on our bookshelves. We read every night after dinner. We had her read “Eloise” and “Winnie the Pooh” to us. She CAN read. What does this mean?” I don’t think my mother could have consoled him. It was a tragedy in the making!
In my room, I ruminated. What had I done? Was it really so wrong? I didn’t like reading. I liked playing and swimming and Barbies and,,,,, TV. I didn’t even like that all my family ever wanted to do was sit around and read. It made me crazy that my older sister would sit in the chair right in front of the TV and read and not watch. I couldn’t talk to her about what Dr. Kildare had just done to his patient. She wasn’t paying attention.
As Mom always did, after sending me to my room, she eventually came in to talk to me. I wasn’t too open to conversation. She calmly explained that even if I hadn’t liked the present, I should have thanked them anyway. To reject it so instantly was the zenith of impoliteness. “Why don’t we read it together” she suggested, “and then you can decide if you like it or not.” I recall not agreeing, but obviously, I heard her.
Well, here we are some 40+ years later and I’ve come to terms with it all. I finally read “Mr. Poppers Penguins.” (I realize many of you will gasp to think I wouldn’t want to read that particular classic) when my oldest daughter was in a production of it at Pali Elementary. It was cute; the play and the book.
And, what do I find now in my youngest daughter? Lean in and I’m going to whisper this, she doesn’t like to read. You know what? That’s ok. It kills a little bit, but what can you do? You can’t force someone to like what they don’t like when they don’t like it.
Eventually, I learned to love reading. It started with a love of biographies. (Probably because I’m so nosy). That evolved into historical fiction, drama and the rest. I think the only kind of book I still don’t like is science fiction. And so it might be with my daughter. I still buy her books, for Hanukah. And I expect her to be polite, even if she has no plans to read them. I don’t have 7000 volumes in my house, but I have a lot. And one of them is the 47 year old copy of “Mr. Poppers Penguins”.
How the heck can you get into college?
As printed in the Palisadian Post in March 2011
College Today
If I was going to college today, I don’t know if I could get into college today. In the freshman profile of several top tier schools, over 90% admitted seem to come from the top 10% of their graduating classes. Where do the other 90% go I wonder?
When I was going to school, the goal was to get good grades (B or above) in college prep classes. The standards for the University of California system placed you in relatively good stead for just about any university in the country. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not so old that there were no additional criteria needed. We certainly did things that would “look good” on our college applications. I think I walked a 20K for the United Way. I also joined some clubs, ran for a few offices unopposed (thankfully I didn’t have to disclose that I never actually beat anyone else in the election), and played Yente in “Fiddler on the Roof”.
I never really thought about any of this until the first of my friends had her kids. Once they were of high school age, I started hearing about what it would take for this generation to get into college. She spouted a list of criteria. You can’t just play sports, you have to play varsity, can’t just be in the orchestra, you have to be first chair, can’t just be president of a club, you have to be president of the student body, can’t just have a 4.0, you have to have a 5.9 by way of advanced placement and honors classes. And it helps if you have a part time job, and volunteer to build houses while in a foreign language immersion program in either Central America or Africa.
Some years later, while standing in line to have blood drawn at my OB’s office, I heard two women discussing “the” school you just ‘had to” get into if you wanted to get into a decent high school or college. And they were talking about PRESCHOOL. Apparently their unborn 4 year olds were college prep before they were even in utero.
I don’t begrudge those high school kids who are either naturally Type A students, or severely ambitious achievers. It’s great to swim competitively, play tuba and get an altruistic thrill from reading to blind geriatrics. I just hope that those who are more moderately motivated can go to college too. There’s so much to be said for the slow, sure process of getting to know who you are, which has always been the hallmark of the high school experience. Frequently a class that isn’t an honors or AP class is still challenging. To honor that challenge, for that individual is worthy. Spending a Saturday afternoon reading a book that isn’t on the required reading list can be as bracing and eye opening as a more ambitious community service project. Practicing the art of photophraphing a friend and capturing that spontaneous instant is just as valid as having a piece in a juried show. And what teenager doesn’t grow from writing their own angst-ridden soliloquy even if they don’t perform it at the high school spring follies. If a teen grows in Brooklyn but the College Board doesn’t see it, did they still grow? Depth and introspection don’t always translate into “achievement”, but are valuable nonetheless.
Kids have their whole lives in front of them. Is it really necessary for them to know it all now? Isn’t that what college is about? For further discovery, advanced learning and preparation for a life of independence and accomplishment?
Meanwhile, I sit by the mailbox anxiously awaiting the old fashioned yea or nay letters. I know it’s futile. The responses will either be emailed directly to my applicant (and not her mother), or else the envelope will be too thick to read through. All the patience I thought I’d been perfecting these last 17 years is suddenly gone. Check back around April and we’ll see.
College Today
If I was going to college today, I don’t know if I could get into college today. In the freshman profile of several top tier schools, over 90% admitted seem to come from the top 10% of their graduating classes. Where do the other 90% go I wonder?
When I was going to school, the goal was to get good grades (B or above) in college prep classes. The standards for the University of California system placed you in relatively good stead for just about any university in the country. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not so old that there were no additional criteria needed. We certainly did things that would “look good” on our college applications. I think I walked a 20K for the United Way. I also joined some clubs, ran for a few offices unopposed (thankfully I didn’t have to disclose that I never actually beat anyone else in the election), and played Yente in “Fiddler on the Roof”.
I never really thought about any of this until the first of my friends had her kids. Once they were of high school age, I started hearing about what it would take for this generation to get into college. She spouted a list of criteria. You can’t just play sports, you have to play varsity, can’t just be in the orchestra, you have to be first chair, can’t just be president of a club, you have to be president of the student body, can’t just have a 4.0, you have to have a 5.9 by way of advanced placement and honors classes. And it helps if you have a part time job, and volunteer to build houses while in a foreign language immersion program in either Central America or Africa.
Some years later, while standing in line to have blood drawn at my OB’s office, I heard two women discussing “the” school you just ‘had to” get into if you wanted to get into a decent high school or college. And they were talking about PRESCHOOL. Apparently their unborn 4 year olds were college prep before they were even in utero.
I don’t begrudge those high school kids who are either naturally Type A students, or severely ambitious achievers. It’s great to swim competitively, play tuba and get an altruistic thrill from reading to blind geriatrics. I just hope that those who are more moderately motivated can go to college too. There’s so much to be said for the slow, sure process of getting to know who you are, which has always been the hallmark of the high school experience. Frequently a class that isn’t an honors or AP class is still challenging. To honor that challenge, for that individual is worthy. Spending a Saturday afternoon reading a book that isn’t on the required reading list can be as bracing and eye opening as a more ambitious community service project. Practicing the art of photophraphing a friend and capturing that spontaneous instant is just as valid as having a piece in a juried show. And what teenager doesn’t grow from writing their own angst-ridden soliloquy even if they don’t perform it at the high school spring follies. If a teen grows in Brooklyn but the College Board doesn’t see it, did they still grow? Depth and introspection don’t always translate into “achievement”, but are valuable nonetheless.
Kids have their whole lives in front of them. Is it really necessary for them to know it all now? Isn’t that what college is about? For further discovery, advanced learning and preparation for a life of independence and accomplishment?
Meanwhile, I sit by the mailbox anxiously awaiting the old fashioned yea or nay letters. I know it’s futile. The responses will either be emailed directly to my applicant (and not her mother), or else the envelope will be too thick to read through. All the patience I thought I’d been perfecting these last 17 years is suddenly gone. Check back around April and we’ll see.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Crush
CRUSH
When I was 14, I fell in love. Oh, it was slow to build, but it was steadfast and true. I met him at camp. He was 20. He was an adonis. Tan, tall, and charismatic. Our senses of humor meshed like strawberries and whipped cream. Tart and frothy. He said he liked how open I was to the experiences of friendship and novelty. I couldn’t articulate my likes, I just knew. We teamed up in sports, on beach days, and the mock Olympics. At the Saturday dances, he stood back in amazement as I displayed what I’d learned from the dancers on the Lloyd Thaxton Show. I think I felt admired for the very first time. We agreed to marry when I was 20, and he was 26.
When camp was over, we wrote letters. In those days it involved pen, paper, storytelling and a stamp. I was the envy of my camp buddies to be his regular correspondent. Even my older sister, who did everything better than I, was a little jealous. He told me that all the guys at his Harvard dorm lined up at his door whenever he got one of my letters. They were all dying to know the further adventures of me. He assumed I had dozens of suitors to choose from, but downplayed his own romantic life. But he told me when he had a cold, when his mustached froze after skiing, his decision to become a teacher. We were confidants.
I lamented as I maneuvered into high school that while of course I didn’t really think I’d marry David, I was sure I’d never find anyone else as perfect and amazing as him. Who could top him? I had plenty of crushes in high school, but I sort of watched the romantic scene from a distance. While outgoing on most fronts, I was shy on that one.
College came, a little more success on the boy front. But a piece of my heart was still heavily invested in David. His letters filled me with an invaluable sense of worth. He took the time to listen, to comment, to admire, to pinpoint my strengths and to pay attention. To an uncertain kid, that meant everything.
The letters dwindled down in the latter years, as I was in college and he was settling into life on the east coast as a high school teacher. I felt certain the kids in his class would be in for some awesome years, as he would encourage them to find their strengths, and discover great new things about their inner lives.
Finally, I got a card which sort of drew my crush to a close. The card announced that on August 1, 1976 (just 21 days shy of my 20th birthday) David would marry his beloved Christine on a cliff in Laguna Beach. Feeling my crush crushed, I slowly released the hold he’d held over me these wonderful 6 years. I sent a card to wish them well, and set my standards accordingly.
When I was 14, I fell in love. Oh, it was slow to build, but it was steadfast and true. I met him at camp. He was 20. He was an adonis. Tan, tall, and charismatic. Our senses of humor meshed like strawberries and whipped cream. Tart and frothy. He said he liked how open I was to the experiences of friendship and novelty. I couldn’t articulate my likes, I just knew. We teamed up in sports, on beach days, and the mock Olympics. At the Saturday dances, he stood back in amazement as I displayed what I’d learned from the dancers on the Lloyd Thaxton Show. I think I felt admired for the very first time. We agreed to marry when I was 20, and he was 26.
When camp was over, we wrote letters. In those days it involved pen, paper, storytelling and a stamp. I was the envy of my camp buddies to be his regular correspondent. Even my older sister, who did everything better than I, was a little jealous. He told me that all the guys at his Harvard dorm lined up at his door whenever he got one of my letters. They were all dying to know the further adventures of me. He assumed I had dozens of suitors to choose from, but downplayed his own romantic life. But he told me when he had a cold, when his mustached froze after skiing, his decision to become a teacher. We were confidants.
I lamented as I maneuvered into high school that while of course I didn’t really think I’d marry David, I was sure I’d never find anyone else as perfect and amazing as him. Who could top him? I had plenty of crushes in high school, but I sort of watched the romantic scene from a distance. While outgoing on most fronts, I was shy on that one.
College came, a little more success on the boy front. But a piece of my heart was still heavily invested in David. His letters filled me with an invaluable sense of worth. He took the time to listen, to comment, to admire, to pinpoint my strengths and to pay attention. To an uncertain kid, that meant everything.
The letters dwindled down in the latter years, as I was in college and he was settling into life on the east coast as a high school teacher. I felt certain the kids in his class would be in for some awesome years, as he would encourage them to find their strengths, and discover great new things about their inner lives.
Finally, I got a card which sort of drew my crush to a close. The card announced that on August 1, 1976 (just 21 days shy of my 20th birthday) David would marry his beloved Christine on a cliff in Laguna Beach. Feeling my crush crushed, I slowly released the hold he’d held over me these wonderful 6 years. I sent a card to wish them well, and set my standards accordingly.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
My version of THE CHRISTMAS SONG
Who roasts chestnuts on an open pit
Jack Daniels nipping at your throats
Annoying carols being sung by the kids
Why are they dressed like eskimos?
Everybody knows the turkey and the pumpkin pie
Help to make your stomach burn
Tiny tots with their fists full of junk
Will find it hard to stop their yearn
We all know regret is on it’s way
For all the drunk talk we’ve displayed
And every mother’s child is going to cry
To find out reindeer really don’t know how to fly
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To each and every one of you
You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again
Freaking Christmas, F you.
Jack Daniels nipping at your throats
Annoying carols being sung by the kids
Why are they dressed like eskimos?
Everybody knows the turkey and the pumpkin pie
Help to make your stomach burn
Tiny tots with their fists full of junk
Will find it hard to stop their yearn
We all know regret is on it’s way
For all the drunk talk we’ve displayed
And every mother’s child is going to cry
To find out reindeer really don’t know how to fly
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To each and every one of you
You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again
Freaking Christmas, F you.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Our New Dog
Our New Dog
Turns out we have a new dog. Hasn’t been 24 hours yet, but already it seems like the act of getting a new dog and bringing him into the house is symbolic for the state of things.
Let me explain.
Facebook Obsessive: I pretty much start my day with it. I love being connected to a greater world. Just as I wouldn’t like living in a house isolated from neighbors, I don’t like being disconnected from most of the wonderful souls I’ve met over my many years. So, having a sentence here, a quip there is deeply satisfying to me. Toward that end, I saw a posting from an old camp buddy (Leadership 71) about a dog who needed adopting. Dan has hinted that he might want another dog, and I have some notion that even Buffy the wonder dog might like a friend. So, I clicked on Shelley’s dog picture, saw the video and something just called out to me that this should be the one.
Spontaneity: Despite the fact that we had Taper tickets for 6:30 that evening, and the fact that the shelter housing the dog (just before executing it) was in Baldwin Park instead of Baldwin Hills (the difference of about 90 minutes driving time), and that it’s raining cats AND dogs, and that we’re going out of town this weekend, I had to go immediately to the shelter to see if this “Rocky” was still there. He could have been adopted already, but if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have much time left on his life clock. So, Milly and I bundled up, (she may learn to wear an appropriate rain coat someday), sloshed our way across the county and got to the shelter in time to save “Rocky”.
Determination: I wanted this dog. When we got to the shelter and walked down the row of cages, it sort of broke my heart to see all the unwanted dogs. For the shelter, I can at least say that the concrete floor was warm and toasty. At first, “Rocky” was too shy to come out of his cage to see us. But, he did. We went outside to the outdoor greeting pen, and while he still seemed shy and hesitant, he did let us pet him and talk to him, and he won our hearts.
Gut over Mind Chatter: I was going on impulse here. I was a little nervous. My head chatter went a little nuts: what will Buffy feel, is this too big a dog for me, can we really manage two, will it be ok if we go away for a couple days over Christmas, buffy is a perfect dog, what if this one isn’t, what if he seems nice now, but goes nuts on us, dan is great with dogs, but he’s gone during the day, will I really be able to handle what comes up, will Buffy be mad, or will she accept having a friend, other people manage two dogs just fine.
Positive over Doubt: On the ride home, Milly sat in the back with “Rocky”. She toweled him off, talked with him, held the leash as he stuck his nose out the window. The above mentioned chatter was still yakking away, but I was still determined to find out if this would work. Excitement prevailed over doom.
Reality: All evidence points to this will work. Despite the fact that much more of the rain is now in the house than out, and despite the fact that Buffy shows more protective possessiveness over her food than ever, despite the fact that this is a BIG dog, despite the fact that we can’t all agree over a name and have to tell Milly that she doesn’t get the final vote on that, and despite the fact that all the answers aren’t answered yet, I think it’s going to work out well.
The final feather in the cap, this dog seems to have imprinted on me like a lost baby goose who has laid eyes on me after his mother died. He follows me around everywhere. He seems smart enough to know how to put me at ease. He’s affectionate, respectful, mellow, and loving.
We’ll see what happens when the mailman shows up.
I’m leaning towards “Juneau.”
Ah, the saving of a dog.
Turns out we have a new dog. Hasn’t been 24 hours yet, but already it seems like the act of getting a new dog and bringing him into the house is symbolic for the state of things.
Let me explain.
Facebook Obsessive: I pretty much start my day with it. I love being connected to a greater world. Just as I wouldn’t like living in a house isolated from neighbors, I don’t like being disconnected from most of the wonderful souls I’ve met over my many years. So, having a sentence here, a quip there is deeply satisfying to me. Toward that end, I saw a posting from an old camp buddy (Leadership 71) about a dog who needed adopting. Dan has hinted that he might want another dog, and I have some notion that even Buffy the wonder dog might like a friend. So, I clicked on Shelley’s dog picture, saw the video and something just called out to me that this should be the one.
Spontaneity: Despite the fact that we had Taper tickets for 6:30 that evening, and the fact that the shelter housing the dog (just before executing it) was in Baldwin Park instead of Baldwin Hills (the difference of about 90 minutes driving time), and that it’s raining cats AND dogs, and that we’re going out of town this weekend, I had to go immediately to the shelter to see if this “Rocky” was still there. He could have been adopted already, but if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have much time left on his life clock. So, Milly and I bundled up, (she may learn to wear an appropriate rain coat someday), sloshed our way across the county and got to the shelter in time to save “Rocky”.
Determination: I wanted this dog. When we got to the shelter and walked down the row of cages, it sort of broke my heart to see all the unwanted dogs. For the shelter, I can at least say that the concrete floor was warm and toasty. At first, “Rocky” was too shy to come out of his cage to see us. But, he did. We went outside to the outdoor greeting pen, and while he still seemed shy and hesitant, he did let us pet him and talk to him, and he won our hearts.
Gut over Mind Chatter: I was going on impulse here. I was a little nervous. My head chatter went a little nuts: what will Buffy feel, is this too big a dog for me, can we really manage two, will it be ok if we go away for a couple days over Christmas, buffy is a perfect dog, what if this one isn’t, what if he seems nice now, but goes nuts on us, dan is great with dogs, but he’s gone during the day, will I really be able to handle what comes up, will Buffy be mad, or will she accept having a friend, other people manage two dogs just fine.
Positive over Doubt: On the ride home, Milly sat in the back with “Rocky”. She toweled him off, talked with him, held the leash as he stuck his nose out the window. The above mentioned chatter was still yakking away, but I was still determined to find out if this would work. Excitement prevailed over doom.
Reality: All evidence points to this will work. Despite the fact that much more of the rain is now in the house than out, and despite the fact that Buffy shows more protective possessiveness over her food than ever, despite the fact that this is a BIG dog, despite the fact that we can’t all agree over a name and have to tell Milly that she doesn’t get the final vote on that, and despite the fact that all the answers aren’t answered yet, I think it’s going to work out well.
The final feather in the cap, this dog seems to have imprinted on me like a lost baby goose who has laid eyes on me after his mother died. He follows me around everywhere. He seems smart enough to know how to put me at ease. He’s affectionate, respectful, mellow, and loving.
We’ll see what happens when the mailman shows up.
I’m leaning towards “Juneau.”
Ah, the saving of a dog.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
procrastination and avoidance
My head was spinning just now, so I decided to do a real time brain slice of what it's like to be me while I avoid something.
It's 10:23. I've checked my email, Facebook, Google News, Amazon deal of the day. I've gotten Milly off to school (2 hours ago) and taken Alice to Spencers, back home to get the flash cards she forgot for her critical philosophy test and back to New Roads by 10. Upon returing home the thought process goes something like this:
I should get some exercise. Milly doesn't get home til 1:15, and all I have to do is make an Asian salad for the teacher luncheon at her school for tomorrow. I have all the ingredients, I don't even have to go to the market.
I want to color my hair. It's short, it should be easy. 40 minutes tops. But maybe I should try and do a weave type color so that I can let it grow out longer before I have to color it again. That would take considerably longer.
Ok, so I can do the hair, either way, after I get some exercise. Should I take a one hour hike up Temescal to the Waterfall? That sort of gets me into better shape so that I can start taking hikes with Dan up to the peak. But the waterfall hike is an hour.
Maybe I should just go up the hill loop which only takes 1/2 hour. That way I could take Buffy and kill two birds with one stone.
What if I didn't do anything exercise wise? I'm still in my pajamas after all. (yes I have succumbed to the temptation to taking Alice to school in my pajamas. I put on real shoes though). After all, I walked and lifted weights yesterday. My muscles have that good worked out, almost sore, but not feeling.
But if I don't walk now, or hike, I won't be on my way to the goal of 30 minutes a day 5 times a week. Is that my goal? Yes. Not very good at getting there.
So, if I do the shorter walk, come home and do my hair, make the salad, read a little, have lunch, I'll be all done by the time Milly gets home from her shortened day at 1:15.
Do I dare post this and reveal what a true slough I am?
Maybe it will make you feel better about yourself.
Regardless, it's now 10:31 and I'm getting dressed to take Buffy up the hill.
It's 10:23. I've checked my email, Facebook, Google News, Amazon deal of the day. I've gotten Milly off to school (2 hours ago) and taken Alice to Spencers, back home to get the flash cards she forgot for her critical philosophy test and back to New Roads by 10. Upon returing home the thought process goes something like this:
I should get some exercise. Milly doesn't get home til 1:15, and all I have to do is make an Asian salad for the teacher luncheon at her school for tomorrow. I have all the ingredients, I don't even have to go to the market.
I want to color my hair. It's short, it should be easy. 40 minutes tops. But maybe I should try and do a weave type color so that I can let it grow out longer before I have to color it again. That would take considerably longer.
Ok, so I can do the hair, either way, after I get some exercise. Should I take a one hour hike up Temescal to the Waterfall? That sort of gets me into better shape so that I can start taking hikes with Dan up to the peak. But the waterfall hike is an hour.
Maybe I should just go up the hill loop which only takes 1/2 hour. That way I could take Buffy and kill two birds with one stone.
What if I didn't do anything exercise wise? I'm still in my pajamas after all. (yes I have succumbed to the temptation to taking Alice to school in my pajamas. I put on real shoes though). After all, I walked and lifted weights yesterday. My muscles have that good worked out, almost sore, but not feeling.
But if I don't walk now, or hike, I won't be on my way to the goal of 30 minutes a day 5 times a week. Is that my goal? Yes. Not very good at getting there.
So, if I do the shorter walk, come home and do my hair, make the salad, read a little, have lunch, I'll be all done by the time Milly gets home from her shortened day at 1:15.
Do I dare post this and reveal what a true slough I am?
Maybe it will make you feel better about yourself.
Regardless, it's now 10:31 and I'm getting dressed to take Buffy up the hill.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Day I Met Sam Wanamaker
Performing was my second language. I’d been acting (unofficially) since I was 4. I took it upon myself to entertain my family, my cousins, guests who came to visit, and to the chagrin of my teachers, my classmates as well. I made it official in college and graduate school, earning a BA in theater and an MBA in Non Profit Arts Management.
When it came time to finish my MBA, we all scrambled to interview and achieve “placement.” I got a call one day from the head of my program that the famous actor Sam Wanamaker was in Los Angeles interviewing candidates to head a Los Angeles fund raising office for the rebuilding of the original Globe Theater in London. I was thrilled. I can’t seem to remember why I held Sam Wanamaker in such high esteem, but I did. He was as holy to me as Gregory Peck, just not as universally known. And while I didn’t consider myself a Shakespeare aficionado, the idea of replicating the Globe Theater on its original London site was intoxicating. I made an appointment.
The day of the interview arrived, and I was spot on time. The temporary office they’d acquired was in the mostly unoccupied Dart Drugstore building opposite the livelier Beverly Center. A security guard led me through the empty corridors to Mr. Wanamaker’s suite. He greeted me and showed me the small, sparse office. His handshake was warm, his smile infectious. He suggested we head over to a small cafe across the street to start our interview over coffee. Eloquently describing his dream to rebuild the Globe and how he came to his deep passion for Shakespeare, I was mesmerized. Sometimes my admiration for celebrities renders me mute, but I was alive with enthusiasm for this project. I was energized and was able to contribute easily to the conversation. I think I conveyed a sense of my capabilities, my general enthusiasm and verve.
While we were talking, I was aware of not wanting to have too much coffee. I didn’t want to seem jittery or nervous. (More than I already was.) So I cut the caffeine, and drank cup after cup of water to keep pace with his endless thirst for tea. Two pots I think. I was in heaven. There was nowhere else in this world I wanted to be.
But then, we headed back over to the office building. Again the security guard met us at the door, and walked us back to the office. It seems Mr. Wanamker didn’t have keys to anything. He needed an office manager, a keeper of the keys so to speak. I so wanted to be it. We’d been talking for about an hour by now and hadn’t run out of things to say. But, the coffee and water were catching up to me. I had to pee. I thought about the fact that I’d have to go find the security guard, to open the facilities. Or worse yet, ask the famous, fabulous Mr. W to find the security guard and have him open the bathroom for me. For some reason, I couldn’t do that. I was too shy. The idea of having the elegant, debonair Sam Wanamaker take me to the bathroom was, well, it was unthinkable. So I kept quiet and continued my conversation. As the minutes ticked by, my abdomen was starting to ache. My eyes were watering. My thoughts were drifting off the project, leaving London and badgering me with how uncomfortable I was becoming. Instead of singing my own praises, I was weighing the cost benefit of staying and talking and possibly impressing, with the definite likelihood that I would eventually pee in my pants. Not so impressive.
So, I conjured up a reason to leave and lied about having a subsequent appointment. (It was Sunday.) While I would have liked to have lingered in saying goodbye, and let him know how excited I was by the prospect of working with him, and helping to make this dream a reality, I shook hands and said farewell. I walked as quickly as I could to the exit, thankful that I could open the door myself without summoning the guard. I got into my car, screeched out of the parking lot and raced to the closest gas station.
Even now, 20 years later, I cannot pass that particular gas station (La Cienega and Olympic) without thinking of the job that got away. When the Globe finally opened 10 years later, 4 years after Mr. Wanamaker had passed away, I thought of what might have been. When I was in London last year I toured the Globe. I stood on the historic site, in the open air round theater, imagining a scene played in Shakespeare’s time. The tears in my eyes this time were a mixture of happiness to see it, sadness that Sam Wanamaker hadn’t lived to realize it, and yikes, I had to pee again.
When it came time to finish my MBA, we all scrambled to interview and achieve “placement.” I got a call one day from the head of my program that the famous actor Sam Wanamaker was in Los Angeles interviewing candidates to head a Los Angeles fund raising office for the rebuilding of the original Globe Theater in London. I was thrilled. I can’t seem to remember why I held Sam Wanamaker in such high esteem, but I did. He was as holy to me as Gregory Peck, just not as universally known. And while I didn’t consider myself a Shakespeare aficionado, the idea of replicating the Globe Theater on its original London site was intoxicating. I made an appointment.
The day of the interview arrived, and I was spot on time. The temporary office they’d acquired was in the mostly unoccupied Dart Drugstore building opposite the livelier Beverly Center. A security guard led me through the empty corridors to Mr. Wanamaker’s suite. He greeted me and showed me the small, sparse office. His handshake was warm, his smile infectious. He suggested we head over to a small cafe across the street to start our interview over coffee. Eloquently describing his dream to rebuild the Globe and how he came to his deep passion for Shakespeare, I was mesmerized. Sometimes my admiration for celebrities renders me mute, but I was alive with enthusiasm for this project. I was energized and was able to contribute easily to the conversation. I think I conveyed a sense of my capabilities, my general enthusiasm and verve.
While we were talking, I was aware of not wanting to have too much coffee. I didn’t want to seem jittery or nervous. (More than I already was.) So I cut the caffeine, and drank cup after cup of water to keep pace with his endless thirst for tea. Two pots I think. I was in heaven. There was nowhere else in this world I wanted to be.
But then, we headed back over to the office building. Again the security guard met us at the door, and walked us back to the office. It seems Mr. Wanamker didn’t have keys to anything. He needed an office manager, a keeper of the keys so to speak. I so wanted to be it. We’d been talking for about an hour by now and hadn’t run out of things to say. But, the coffee and water were catching up to me. I had to pee. I thought about the fact that I’d have to go find the security guard, to open the facilities. Or worse yet, ask the famous, fabulous Mr. W to find the security guard and have him open the bathroom for me. For some reason, I couldn’t do that. I was too shy. The idea of having the elegant, debonair Sam Wanamaker take me to the bathroom was, well, it was unthinkable. So I kept quiet and continued my conversation. As the minutes ticked by, my abdomen was starting to ache. My eyes were watering. My thoughts were drifting off the project, leaving London and badgering me with how uncomfortable I was becoming. Instead of singing my own praises, I was weighing the cost benefit of staying and talking and possibly impressing, with the definite likelihood that I would eventually pee in my pants. Not so impressive.
So, I conjured up a reason to leave and lied about having a subsequent appointment. (It was Sunday.) While I would have liked to have lingered in saying goodbye, and let him know how excited I was by the prospect of working with him, and helping to make this dream a reality, I shook hands and said farewell. I walked as quickly as I could to the exit, thankful that I could open the door myself without summoning the guard. I got into my car, screeched out of the parking lot and raced to the closest gas station.
Even now, 20 years later, I cannot pass that particular gas station (La Cienega and Olympic) without thinking of the job that got away. When the Globe finally opened 10 years later, 4 years after Mr. Wanamaker had passed away, I thought of what might have been. When I was in London last year I toured the Globe. I stood on the historic site, in the open air round theater, imagining a scene played in Shakespeare’s time. The tears in my eyes this time were a mixture of happiness to see it, sadness that Sam Wanamaker hadn’t lived to realize it, and yikes, I had to pee again.
Writing Assignment - Describe someone you love without using adjectives
Exhausted from the ordeal, she lay on the bed in the recovery room. She called out for her husband, but her voice didn’t carry. No one answered. She opened and closed her eyes several times, not able to make sense of the time of day. She wanted water. She wanted to know where her baby was.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, heard a door open and turned her head to see. Standing at the doorway was her husband with a bundle of blankets in his arms. He looked at her and walked toward her. His gaze never strayed. The mask still covered his face, but she could see him smiling.
When he reached her side, he lowered the load onto her chest. He raised the head of the bed so she could see. As he transferred the weight, their hands embraced. But her eyes were locked onto the eyes before her. Her arms wrapped and pulled, and her breath stilled. She thought of the name they’d decided upon. Isak. In Hebrew it means one who laughs. She smiled, imagining the years to come. Isak’s eyes were trained on her, gazing in.
In the background she heard her husband calling the grandparents, making the announcement they’d been anticipating. She felt her heart surge, then settle back. She turned on her side, tucked the baby into the space between her arm and her chest, her head cresting at the bend of her elbow. Now the baby’s breath puffed onto her skin. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Life would be different from now on. From now on, this life would come before all others. This child would dominate her attention, her emotions and time. She shut her own eyes and drifted off.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, heard a door open and turned her head to see. Standing at the doorway was her husband with a bundle of blankets in his arms. He looked at her and walked toward her. His gaze never strayed. The mask still covered his face, but she could see him smiling.
When he reached her side, he lowered the load onto her chest. He raised the head of the bed so she could see. As he transferred the weight, their hands embraced. But her eyes were locked onto the eyes before her. Her arms wrapped and pulled, and her breath stilled. She thought of the name they’d decided upon. Isak. In Hebrew it means one who laughs. She smiled, imagining the years to come. Isak’s eyes were trained on her, gazing in.
In the background she heard her husband calling the grandparents, making the announcement they’d been anticipating. She felt her heart surge, then settle back. She turned on her side, tucked the baby into the space between her arm and her chest, her head cresting at the bend of her elbow. Now the baby’s breath puffed onto her skin. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Life would be different from now on. From now on, this life would come before all others. This child would dominate her attention, her emotions and time. She shut her own eyes and drifted off.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
THE FUCKET LIST
The Fucket List
We are all influenced by pop culture. Who didn’t want to go out and adopt a homeless football player after seeing “The Blind Side”? And how many of you got your golden labs after seeing “Marley and Me”?
It was no different with the wonderful film, “The Bucket List”, starring those icons of inspiration, Jack Nicholas and Morgan Freeman as two old guys facing terminal illnesses who goad each other into accomplishing some long held fantasies as they stared down that long tunnel with the white light at the end. It inspired lots of people to do the same, but to not wait till staring down the barrel of termination. There are now scores of books you can read in case you can’t figure out how to make your own Bucket List; 1001 places to visit before you die, books to read, foods to eat, movies to see, horror movies to see, etc.
Mass trends inspire me,sometimes. But just as easily, I can get contrarily inspired by what I see as the mindlessness of trend following. I was therefore inspired during one of my frequent visits to insomnialand to create my own list. Introducing THE FUCKET LIST. 10 incredible things I’ll be just as happy to never do before I die.
1. GO TO PHUCKET (THAILAND)
Once a typhoon destination, always a risk of being a typhoon destination again. I get that it’s exotic, and gorgeous, and the culture is amazing. But whoever says that lightning doesn’t strike twice is being naively optimistic. Just ask the Boy Scouts at Jamboree Camp in 1975. There were unfortunately several fatalities due to lightning over the course of just a few months. So, I’ll have to get my beach on in Hawaii. I know a typhoon could hit there too, but somehow it feels safer.
2. TREK TO NEPAL
I get altitude sickness. Enough said.
3. SKI DOWN THE MATTERHORN
Or Big Bear for that matter. I don’t like going down hill fast. I don’t like knowing that 5 year olds can snow plough, but I can’t. If stopping weren’t an issue, I imagine the whooshing and the gliding part would be enjoyable. But stopping IS an issue, so the whooshing and the gliding part are more than a little terrifying. When people try and push me on this, I ask, why would I want to develop an expensive habit that I don’t really care for? Besides that, there’s the schlepping, and the loading on of layers, and the sweating, and the shedding of those layers, and the nose running, and the crowds. I find the Matterhorn at Disneyland thrilling enough. That snow isn’t even cold.
4. BACKPACK ACROSS ASIA
For one thing, Asia is a large continent. For another, I’m not a big fan of camping altogether. Truth be told, I’m not even so fond of sunshine or with being all out in nature. Carrying your food, your housing, your bathroom, your water, and your creature comforts in a pack has a cumulative negative effect on my mood, not to mention my shoulders. I think there’s a reason we evolved into houses with walls. Separating from the elements is civilizational progress. I would hike between huts if they came with beds, flush toilets and food, but where’s that going to happen?
5. TRAVEL ANYWHERE WITHOUT FLUSH TOILETS
I thought about giving an example of why this is so, but it grosses me out so much, I just couldn’t. Obviously peeing is not so bad. Heck, I’ve peed into a cup in the front seat of my car before (not that that went so well), but, well, you know.
6. WALK UP THE EIFFEL TOWER
What happened, did the elevators break down?
7. SKYDIVE OR BUNGEE JUMP
As much as I like speed, and the wind rushing through my hair and all that, here’s what I know. The instant both feet left the platform, I would have a heart attack, and feel myself dying in the slow, long 5 seconds of the plunge. I would, however, watch others jumping. I thought once that just watching would give me a heart attack, but that turned out to be untrue. My Mother, on the other hand, couldn’t even watch. It's genetic apparently.
8. HAVE A DRINK WITH THE PRESIDENT
There’s just no way that would turn out well. I would always know that I was nervous, and he was just being polite, and it would be awkward, and I would probably have huge regrets after for all the things I could have said or asked but didn’t.
9. SWIM WITH SHARKS
I’ve probably already done this. I think that by doing it without knowing it is all I can hope for. If I’d been AWARE of it at the time, I think they would have smelled my fear and consumed me immediately. And even though I’ve read “The Worst Case Scenario Handbook”, I’m still confused as to whether you are supposed to defend yourself by hitting them in the snout or the eye. So, better I should focus on a dolphin or sea turtle instead.
10. FINISH THIS LIST
I think you get the idea. Making lists of this kind is someone else's concept. I'm just making a point.
In closing, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m against goal setting, or planning challenging adventures. It’s just that I know what my parameters are, and will feel just as comfortable if I honor those while I live my life before I die. After all, a life lived well is personal, isn’t it?
We are all influenced by pop culture. Who didn’t want to go out and adopt a homeless football player after seeing “The Blind Side”? And how many of you got your golden labs after seeing “Marley and Me”?
It was no different with the wonderful film, “The Bucket List”, starring those icons of inspiration, Jack Nicholas and Morgan Freeman as two old guys facing terminal illnesses who goad each other into accomplishing some long held fantasies as they stared down that long tunnel with the white light at the end. It inspired lots of people to do the same, but to not wait till staring down the barrel of termination. There are now scores of books you can read in case you can’t figure out how to make your own Bucket List; 1001 places to visit before you die, books to read, foods to eat, movies to see, horror movies to see, etc.
Mass trends inspire me,sometimes. But just as easily, I can get contrarily inspired by what I see as the mindlessness of trend following. I was therefore inspired during one of my frequent visits to insomnialand to create my own list. Introducing THE FUCKET LIST. 10 incredible things I’ll be just as happy to never do before I die.
1. GO TO PHUCKET (THAILAND)
Once a typhoon destination, always a risk of being a typhoon destination again. I get that it’s exotic, and gorgeous, and the culture is amazing. But whoever says that lightning doesn’t strike twice is being naively optimistic. Just ask the Boy Scouts at Jamboree Camp in 1975. There were unfortunately several fatalities due to lightning over the course of just a few months. So, I’ll have to get my beach on in Hawaii. I know a typhoon could hit there too, but somehow it feels safer.
2. TREK TO NEPAL
I get altitude sickness. Enough said.
3. SKI DOWN THE MATTERHORN
Or Big Bear for that matter. I don’t like going down hill fast. I don’t like knowing that 5 year olds can snow plough, but I can’t. If stopping weren’t an issue, I imagine the whooshing and the gliding part would be enjoyable. But stopping IS an issue, so the whooshing and the gliding part are more than a little terrifying. When people try and push me on this, I ask, why would I want to develop an expensive habit that I don’t really care for? Besides that, there’s the schlepping, and the loading on of layers, and the sweating, and the shedding of those layers, and the nose running, and the crowds. I find the Matterhorn at Disneyland thrilling enough. That snow isn’t even cold.
4. BACKPACK ACROSS ASIA
For one thing, Asia is a large continent. For another, I’m not a big fan of camping altogether. Truth be told, I’m not even so fond of sunshine or with being all out in nature. Carrying your food, your housing, your bathroom, your water, and your creature comforts in a pack has a cumulative negative effect on my mood, not to mention my shoulders. I think there’s a reason we evolved into houses with walls. Separating from the elements is civilizational progress. I would hike between huts if they came with beds, flush toilets and food, but where’s that going to happen?
5. TRAVEL ANYWHERE WITHOUT FLUSH TOILETS
I thought about giving an example of why this is so, but it grosses me out so much, I just couldn’t. Obviously peeing is not so bad. Heck, I’ve peed into a cup in the front seat of my car before (not that that went so well), but, well, you know.
6. WALK UP THE EIFFEL TOWER
What happened, did the elevators break down?
7. SKYDIVE OR BUNGEE JUMP
As much as I like speed, and the wind rushing through my hair and all that, here’s what I know. The instant both feet left the platform, I would have a heart attack, and feel myself dying in the slow, long 5 seconds of the plunge. I would, however, watch others jumping. I thought once that just watching would give me a heart attack, but that turned out to be untrue. My Mother, on the other hand, couldn’t even watch. It's genetic apparently.
8. HAVE A DRINK WITH THE PRESIDENT
There’s just no way that would turn out well. I would always know that I was nervous, and he was just being polite, and it would be awkward, and I would probably have huge regrets after for all the things I could have said or asked but didn’t.
9. SWIM WITH SHARKS
I’ve probably already done this. I think that by doing it without knowing it is all I can hope for. If I’d been AWARE of it at the time, I think they would have smelled my fear and consumed me immediately. And even though I’ve read “The Worst Case Scenario Handbook”, I’m still confused as to whether you are supposed to defend yourself by hitting them in the snout or the eye. So, better I should focus on a dolphin or sea turtle instead.
10. FINISH THIS LIST
I think you get the idea. Making lists of this kind is someone else's concept. I'm just making a point.
In closing, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m against goal setting, or planning challenging adventures. It’s just that I know what my parameters are, and will feel just as comfortable if I honor those while I live my life before I die. After all, a life lived well is personal, isn’t it?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Did I ask for your Advice?
ADVICE:
Love It, Hate It, Didn’t Ask for It, Not Gonna Follow it.
I have a definite love/hate relationship with advice. Sometimes I crave it. I have so much doubt in my head, I seek advice from many sources. That comes with both risk and reward. There may be a gem coming my way which makes a lot of sense, and I want to follow it. There may also be some not so palatable pearls of wisdom strung up for me which I do not want to wear. However, by shelving the pearl wisdom necklace, I now have to worry that I’ve deeply offended the pearl offerer. Can't I ask for advice without agreeing to agree with what you say before you say it? (if you followed that, I salute you. I know what I mean, but..)
Then there’s the category of unwanted advice altogether. Sometimes I just want to vent, or explain a situation. I may just want to describe what’s going on. But before I’ve gotten true satisfaction with venting and being heard, I’m slammed, WHAM with advice for how to change my behavior or coping strategies. Excuse me? Can’t I at least finish complaining before I get told how to do things? It’s not likely I’m going to follow your advice (since I distinctly DID NOT ask for it). More likely, I won’t vent in your direction in the future. What a great loss THAT would be for you. Sheesh.
My favorite is the category of “if you ask me what I think, and I tell you, and you do just as I’d advised, I’ll know you love me. Conversely, if you ask me what I think, and I tell you what I think and then you don’t do as I’ve advised, I’ll know that you can’t really love me at all. And then I will be sullen and mad at you for days.” The problem that may or may not seem obvious is that when the advice giver was then sullen and mad for days, I had a hard time attributing it to something as trivial as my wearing the purple dress instead of the black one which I had been advised would look better. Such was the stuff of my first marriage. It was pointed out to me that it was a character flaw to ask for advise, not take it and carry on. But, maybe that’s why it was a first marriage.
While those are the risks in the advice game, there’s definitely a reward side to it as well. Just as likely I will be forever indebted to my listeners for their kind, sensitive, caring, encouraging, reinforcing, been there, done that kind of response. And many a problem has been solved with more wisdom than I could ever have arrived at, with more sense than I could ever have come to, and more assurance of success than I would have believed possible. Thanks for that.
In the end, I’m willing to take the risk, and maybe get that reward. But if I don’t ask for your advice,,,,,,,,,
Love It, Hate It, Didn’t Ask for It, Not Gonna Follow it.
I have a definite love/hate relationship with advice. Sometimes I crave it. I have so much doubt in my head, I seek advice from many sources. That comes with both risk and reward. There may be a gem coming my way which makes a lot of sense, and I want to follow it. There may also be some not so palatable pearls of wisdom strung up for me which I do not want to wear. However, by shelving the pearl wisdom necklace, I now have to worry that I’ve deeply offended the pearl offerer. Can't I ask for advice without agreeing to agree with what you say before you say it? (if you followed that, I salute you. I know what I mean, but..)
Then there’s the category of unwanted advice altogether. Sometimes I just want to vent, or explain a situation. I may just want to describe what’s going on. But before I’ve gotten true satisfaction with venting and being heard, I’m slammed, WHAM with advice for how to change my behavior or coping strategies. Excuse me? Can’t I at least finish complaining before I get told how to do things? It’s not likely I’m going to follow your advice (since I distinctly DID NOT ask for it). More likely, I won’t vent in your direction in the future. What a great loss THAT would be for you. Sheesh.
My favorite is the category of “if you ask me what I think, and I tell you, and you do just as I’d advised, I’ll know you love me. Conversely, if you ask me what I think, and I tell you what I think and then you don’t do as I’ve advised, I’ll know that you can’t really love me at all. And then I will be sullen and mad at you for days.” The problem that may or may not seem obvious is that when the advice giver was then sullen and mad for days, I had a hard time attributing it to something as trivial as my wearing the purple dress instead of the black one which I had been advised would look better. Such was the stuff of my first marriage. It was pointed out to me that it was a character flaw to ask for advise, not take it and carry on. But, maybe that’s why it was a first marriage.
While those are the risks in the advice game, there’s definitely a reward side to it as well. Just as likely I will be forever indebted to my listeners for their kind, sensitive, caring, encouraging, reinforcing, been there, done that kind of response. And many a problem has been solved with more wisdom than I could ever have arrived at, with more sense than I could ever have come to, and more assurance of success than I would have believed possible. Thanks for that.
In the end, I’m willing to take the risk, and maybe get that reward. But if I don’t ask for your advice,,,,,,,,,
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Good Mother
I have a lot riding on being a good mother. It's what I DO. Having quit the outside, paycheck giving, grind over 16 years ago, I have concentrated on the old fashioned, much maligned, yet still happens occasionally, honorable profession of stay at home motherhood. It's a blessing to have this luxury.
My last blog was a sort of defense of that choice. Surprising what it stirred up. Some thought I was being too apologetic. Or defensive. I suppose I was. Even if I was self-critical, I thought the questions were worth asking, and subsequently answering. Is defensiveness always bad? Isn’t it valuable sometimes to question what you do, why you do it? And isn’t it equally valuable to consider various parameters and come to a conclusion which is self affirming? I know other people feel free to be critical of me, but when I do it to myself, do we think I’m overly harsh? Someone else was actually angry with me for being too judgmental. Of myself!
I find it strikes a chord with other stay at home mothers. Not so much the choice to have taken that path, but the evaluative, self critical inner voices that ask whether having made the choice, it was the right one. And if it was indeed the right one, are we doing it well?
My favorite story to go to when I feel like an utterly frazzeled, unable to cope, help me I’m going insane and losing control, bad mother who yells too much goes like this.
When Milly was about 4, she was having a play date with one of her little friends from preschool. I’ll call him Howard. It was a weekday, and the youngsters were happily playing outside, inside, running circles around the inner hallways of the house. They were content. I was trying to motivate Alice (then 11) to get her homework done. She wasn’t concentrating. She was objecting to doing the rest of her assignment. I was very frustrated. Blah, blah, blah. I yelled very loudly at her to just get it done. Then I heard the younger kids get quiet, and I held my breath. I thought to myself, 'oh no, Howard is going to be freaked out that I just yelled like that and want to go home. Oh, why oh why did I lose my temper like that?' I saw the door open slowly, and Milly and Howard peeked their heads out. Howard looked around and asked, “Is my Mother here?”
It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t asking this because he was scared of me and wanted to get away from this crazy screamer. He recognized it as something that he hears at his house. He thought it was his Mother who was screaming. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so ok with my simple flaws. To paraphrase R.E.M, “everybody screams,,,, sometimes.”
And to quote Jodi Picould in “House Rules”, “Rest easy good mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” I mostly agree.
My last blog was a sort of defense of that choice. Surprising what it stirred up. Some thought I was being too apologetic. Or defensive. I suppose I was. Even if I was self-critical, I thought the questions were worth asking, and subsequently answering. Is defensiveness always bad? Isn’t it valuable sometimes to question what you do, why you do it? And isn’t it equally valuable to consider various parameters and come to a conclusion which is self affirming? I know other people feel free to be critical of me, but when I do it to myself, do we think I’m overly harsh? Someone else was actually angry with me for being too judgmental. Of myself!
I find it strikes a chord with other stay at home mothers. Not so much the choice to have taken that path, but the evaluative, self critical inner voices that ask whether having made the choice, it was the right one. And if it was indeed the right one, are we doing it well?
My favorite story to go to when I feel like an utterly frazzeled, unable to cope, help me I’m going insane and losing control, bad mother who yells too much goes like this.
When Milly was about 4, she was having a play date with one of her little friends from preschool. I’ll call him Howard. It was a weekday, and the youngsters were happily playing outside, inside, running circles around the inner hallways of the house. They were content. I was trying to motivate Alice (then 11) to get her homework done. She wasn’t concentrating. She was objecting to doing the rest of her assignment. I was very frustrated. Blah, blah, blah. I yelled very loudly at her to just get it done. Then I heard the younger kids get quiet, and I held my breath. I thought to myself, 'oh no, Howard is going to be freaked out that I just yelled like that and want to go home. Oh, why oh why did I lose my temper like that?' I saw the door open slowly, and Milly and Howard peeked their heads out. Howard looked around and asked, “Is my Mother here?”
It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t asking this because he was scared of me and wanted to get away from this crazy screamer. He recognized it as something that he hears at his house. He thought it was his Mother who was screaming. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so ok with my simple flaws. To paraphrase R.E.M, “everybody screams,,,, sometimes.”
And to quote Jodi Picould in “House Rules”, “Rest easy good mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” I mostly agree.
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