The Martini Diaries

Apolitically Correct

noreply@blogger.com (Anne Court) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 04:41:00 +0000

You'd think, given the fact that one of us is a progressive, one a moderate, and the other a conservative, that we'd have something going on in this space.

Just sayin'.

Bobby, My Mother, My Best Friend and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Calhoun) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 18:27:00 +0000

I was 11 years old when Bobby Kennedy was shot at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. That morning, my mother came upstairs to wake us up for the second-to-last day of school, and I could see that she had been crying. When I asked her what was wrong, she whispered, "Bobby's been shot. Bobby Kennedy." I began to ask some questions, and she just shook her head as if to say, "Not now." It was almost like it was our little secret. She then quickly pulled herself together so as not to upset my five younger brothers and sisters -- who seemed oblivious to her state of distress, by the way -- and continued getting everyone dressed and ready for school.

Making my way down the stairs, I could hear a man talking. I knew that my father had already left for work, so I wondered who it could be. Then I realized the television was on in the family room -- something that had never been permitted on the mornings we had school. A reporter was clutching a microphone and speaking to the camera. My mother turned down the volume, hurried us into the kitchen where the weekday ritual of who wanted what for breakfast was supposed to begin. This morning was different, though. No one got a choice. She pulled four cereal bowls and four juice glasses from one cabinet, one box of Fruit Loops from another, and started pouring. After that, she grabbed my baby brother from his high chair and bolted back to the family room -- and later hugged us a little longer than usual as, one by one, we kissed her on the cheek before heading out the door for the walk to school.

My best friend, Nancy, was waiting for me at the main doors of our elementary school - just like every other day of that school year. Only today she was crying. I remember seeing her and feeling a little guilty about my lack of emotion about what my mother had told me that morning -- after all, I was only 11 and didn't understand the magnitude of what had happened -- all I knew was that I had to get my little sister to her classroom door before the bell rang. But Nancy was 12 -- almost a whole year older than me and wise beyond her years -- and she did understand. I was in awe of her. She grabbed my hand and didn't let go.

The rest of that day and the next were a blurry montage of my teachers in tears (even mean and nasty old Miss Kaczmirek), my best friend in tears and of course, my mother. I think my mother must have cried for four or five days straight. It wasn't until I became a mother myself that I understood why.

The world can be a horrible place at times and as much as you want to shield and protect your children from it all, you can't. You feel hopeless. I felt that way after the Oklahoma City bombing, the Columbine shootings, and of course, on Sept. 11, 2001. My boys watched in bewilderment as I sobbed for days at the horror of it all. They didn't get it. As their mother, I hope they never do.

Where the Wild Things Are

noreply@blogger.com (Anne Court) — Sun, 25 May 2008 17:44:00 +0000

So I'm sitting on my patio on one of the rare sunny days we've had in Chicago this spring when a chipmunk darts past my foot and runs under my garage door. He moves with bold assurance, as if he's been here before. Kinda like he owns the place.

The first time I saw a chipmunk in my yard a few years ago, I thought, "Awwwww, look! How cute is this?" I mean, they sort of look like gerbils, don't they? But gerbils live in cages and run around on wheels. And gerbils don't dig tunnels all over the place to enter the foundation of your house, which they've chewed through to make a cozy nest so that they can breed more of the same, who, once they get the urge to procreate, dig more tunnels, chew more foundation and breed more of the same.

After awhile, I noticed that I was seeing chipmunks everywhere -- on my porch, in my downspouts and... well, pretty much everywhere. And none of them was wearing a cute shirt or singing about wanting a hula-hoop for Christmas.

Now, I like nature just fine, really I do. I'm just not all that jazzed about the coexisting part. I've been here for 25 years and my house has been here for a hundred more than that; I have squatter's rights. And even if I had some kind of Snow-White-in-the-woods thing going on, the animals -- at least the animals on MY property -- don't seem to understand the concept; they seem to be intent on claiming the place for themselves and forcing me out.

So I called the Critter Detectives (that's really their name) to find out where the chipmunks were (burrowed under the house) and I asked what i should do (relocate them before they could do more damage to the structure).

The result? Traps everywhere. A signed contract for $25 per chipmunk caught and relocated. I was told that they'd return daily to check the traps and that, if I saw a chipmunk in one of them I was to move it out of the sun and call them immediately. Seems that they die quickly (chipmunks, not Critter Detectives) if left out in the sun.

Don't think I wasn't tempted to pretend I didn't see them sweltering in those traps -- in fact, it seemed good and just to allow them to suffer for the crime of breaking into my home. But I dutifully moved the traps and called the Critter Detectives. Had them install a "rat wall" once the babies were old enough to leave. When it was all over, they'd hauled away more than 30 live chipmunks, along with assorted other wildlife that had gotten into the traps, including birds.

Yeah, the sparrows. Or wrens. Or whatever those winged creatures are that have filled my gutters and pulled the fascia off my house to build their own condos underneath. Aren't these things supposed to live in trees or bushes somewhere? I've provided plenty of those for them, but they apparently prefer MY house and cover every square inch of it with birdshit. From what did they construct their domiciles before the advent of aluminum and vinyl?

Then there's the owl who wouldn't let us into the gazebo. He spread his wings, flew at us and generally menaced us in various ways for an entire summer. Psssst... Mr. Owl... I have 40-odd trees here -- pick one. And invite the damned sparrows over.

There were bats too, who'd taken up residence in the chimney the year we moved in. Filled the walls with blood-curdling screeching during our moving-in party. The folks who came out that time informed me that I had about "500 babies, still pink" living in there with their parents. And that no, I shouldn't turn on the furnace because they were a protected species. In the end, we had to wait till they left their guano-encrusted haven of their own accord so that we could cap the chimney with a screen.

I do kind of miss the cougar, though, but only because I have my camera ready and could use a little photographic vindication. I'd see his prints in the snow during winter for a few years and during warmer months, he'd sit in my gazebo or prowl my garden in broad daylight. He was tall enough to stand on his hind legs to open my garbage cans and peer down into them and weighed about 80 pounds -- too small to be a full-grown cougar but too big to be a housecat. Once, he growled at me from behind a bush and a couple of times he turned his head on his muscular neck to just stare at me, but in general, he was easily scared away by my presence. And before you suggest it, I know what a coyote looks like. Because coyotes live here too (sigh).

Last year, the local wildlife society responded to my inquiry about whether a large buff-colored cat with black markings around his mouth had been spotted in the area, informing me that there hasn't been a cougar for miles around in many a year. That they avoid human populations like the plague, so it was unlikely that I had one prowling my estate in search of chipmunks and birds and coyotes and whatever-the-hell else I have breeding here. That they didn't want to waste their time investigating unless I took photos and provided them with a sample of the animal's scat... ewwwwww. To their credit, their email didn't begin with "Dear Ms. Wackjob", but still.

Of course, that was before the Chicago police shot and killed a 150 pound cougar last month in a heavily populated neighborhood on the north side.

So the chipmunks apparently have moved to the garage and I'm struggling between trying to figure out how to get rid of them without paying $25 apiece and just giving up. I don't want my fauna dead or anything; I just like them in their place, not mine. But if one of them decides to start kicking in for rent and utilities, I may reconsider.

Paradise Found

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Calhoun) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 21:45:00 +0000

So, my husband and I are spending the winter in Florida. It's wonderful. I admit I was apprehensive about the whole idea and thought, "What if I hate it? I'm stuck there for three whole months." But now I find myself dreading the trip back home. Funny how things work out, eh?

Speaking of funny, our first weekend here we went to 3:30PM Mass (yes, that's right - 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon and it was PACKED) and I swear we were the youngest couple there by at least 20 years. When it came time for the priest to ask for prayers for the recently departed, there were a lot of audible gasps and murmurs in the congregation. (The list of names was so long, it had to have been a month's worth, right?)

Immediately after Mass, I had an uncontrollable urge for a soft dinner and, of course, a nap.

Where Did The Time... or This Blog... Go?

noreply@blogger.com (Meredith Laird) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 17:40:00 +0000

We had the best of intentions when we started this blog. Each of us would use this place to post entries about news topics, personal experiences or observations about the world, worthy of the time and energy it would take.

There was not a lack of those things to write about. There was, my guess is, a lack of time and energy.

It's almost a new year... I'm willing to try again. I'll resolve to write one entry a week. I know I have enough time and energy for that.

Tiny Bubbles...

noreply@blogger.com (Marie Calhoun) — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 21:22:00 +0000

My parents (ages 76 and 70) are leaving for Hawaii on Saturday. Well, Hawaii by way of San Francisco before flying to Maui on the following Wednesday. Two of my six brothers live in the San Francisco area -- and it's the older of those two who suggested Mother and Dad accompany him and his family to Hawaii for the week. Mother and Dad will stay at the younger brother's place in the city for the first couple of days (where they can get to know their latest grandson, born in January of this year) before going to my other brother's the night before they fly out. They are excited beyond belief.

Some of my siblings don't share our parents' enthusiasm. "What are they thinking? They'll never be able to handle this. It's so far away! What if something happens to one or both of them?"

True - they've both had health issues in the past few years. My mother's most recent hospitalization resulted in surgery to implant a pacemaker. But, they both have their doctors' blessings, have plenty of meds, ZIP Lock bags, sunscreen, beach cover-ups and bucket hats. My father even has a pair of wild floral shorts he can't wait to wear to a luau. Tourists, beware -- I've seen these on him and they are not meant to be viewed by small children or easily-spooked animals (...guess the pig will be safe).

So, I thought I'd try to calm some fears by answering their questions:

"What are they thinking?"
They're thinking that after 51 years of marriage, after raising nine children, remembering my father traveling all over the globe before he retired as a industrial trade magazine editor while my mother stayed home with all of us, both of them having serious health issues that could (and should) have had a much different outcome... they're thinking they've never seen Hawaii and it's high time they did. And it is. A line from one of my favorite movies, "The Shawshank Redemption," says it all: Get busy living, or get busy dying.

"They'll never be able to handle this."
Oh please. They handled all nine of us. This will be a walk in the park (or in this case - on the beach) compared to all of that.

"It's so far away!"
Yeah, so? Living less than an arm's distance away from them -- which would mean in the same house -- could be considered too far. Any one of you ready to move back home?

"What if something happens to one or both of them?"
Well, it could happen here, there or anywhere. If it does, we'll handle it. What if the 'something' that happens is that they have a wonderful time? That's the kind of something I'm hoping for.

It occurred to me that our parents were probably asking themselves variations on these same questions when -- one by one -- each of us left home to go to kindergarten, to college, to start a new job, to get married, to move to the West Coast or even just the next town -- and especially while taking the family station wagon out for a solo spin hours after passing our drivers' tests. Can you imagine all of the nailbiting that went on over the years? And yet, we all turned out just fine and their nails grew back in time for the next go around.

So, rest easy, my worrisome siblings. It really is their turn and I'm proud of them for taking it. Now it's our turn to let them go.

Ka Huaka`i Maika`i, Mother and Dad!

Treatable Though Not Cureable

noreply@blogger.com (Meredith Laird) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 19:15:00 +0000

The return of Elizabeth Edward's breast cancer, so soon after a short remission, knocked the wind out of my family. We have not moved on to any opinions as to whether or not John Edwards should stay in the 2008 race for President. We're still wrestling with how and why this news affects us as it does.

We lost our mother to breast cancer nearly a year ago. Her almost annual biopsies (in the early days they were benign as she had fibrocystic breast disease) became routine to us until, after 15 years, she found a new lump. My father talked about it the other night.

"We were in bed and her hand dropped to her left breast. She touched it and said to me, "I have cancer. Feel this." They acted quickly and the lump was so small the radiologist said he didn't know how she found it. That early detection gave her 19 more years with us. When it returned it was aggressive and savage. She died within six months.

As a family, we have not come to terms with my mother's death. In fact, I'm not sure any one of us has come to terms individually. But, I know this. I won't judge the Edwards' decisions about whether he should run or how she has chosen to deal with her illness. I do know that each of the members of my family looks back on the last months -- and years -- of my mother's life and wish we'd done some things differently. I also know that what she'd say is that we shouldn't. That we should have no regrets. That we were human and did the best we could.

I think that's what it's like for the Edwards family. They are -- God bless them -- doing the best they can. I wish them well.