When Life Gives You Melons: Diary of a Dyslexic

It's 4 a.m. Do You Know Where You Stand?

2017-09-10T10:48:00.001-07:00

It's funny the things that awaken you at 4 am and take hold in your brain with a sudden need for expression- to be rapidly typed in the eerie glow of your cell phone's notepad, lest you forget. Mine was a nightmare with a gruesome Hitler-esque atrocity and a sudden disturbing thought: it wasn't Hitler's fault.

Before I go further, let me say this: Hitler was a very bad guy. I'm not trying to say he wasn't. But he was one very bad guy. One very bad guy who found support from a lot of other average, nameless, faceless bad people.

Hitler rose to power on a wave of hatred, entitlement and nationalist pride. Angry, bitter people who believed they were better than others, deserved more than others, blamed their personal and national misfortunes on another group of human beings. People who were quietly as sick and depraved as Hitler, without the public speaking skills.

Hitler's rhetoric didn't instill those beliefs, it merely reflected and satisfied those beliefs in an already existing population. It found a warm safe space in the hearts of those who wanted to believe it, wanted to hear it shouted from a high place. Not because it was truth, but because it was power.

We speak about Hitler as though Germany was a victim. The truth is he was just one man. One insane man with an effective gift, but he had a willing audience. Not a fringe audience either. A large active body willing to participate in, even create their very own sick depraved acts of cruelty and violence against other human beings because they believed it was their right to do so.

When we share lines from the poem "First They Came" we participate in the "when good men do nothing" myth, as though all that was needed for Hitler's rise was apathy. There were no good men who did nothing. Good men took action, at great person risk, to sabotaged the regime and it's efforts on many levels. Everyone else chose evil.

Germany wasn't an innocent bystander. They were supporters, enablers and actors too. Hitler wasn't responsible for the atrocities of WWII. He's the willing scapegoat. He's the name we gave the boogeyman so we wouldn't have to think about all the others who weren't simply complicit, but actively, gleefully, righteously sought to bring his insanity to fruition.

There have been many brutal tyrannical leaders throughout history. Hitler wasn't the first megalomaniac to seize control and cause sweeping devastation. The reason Hitler is still the scary specter that haunts us is because we know he's not the last. We recognize the dangerous ease with which it will happen again.

Hitler didn't seize power. It wasn't wrested from the apathetic hands of an innocent nation. It was given to him by evil, selfish, ugly people who looked and behaved and thought just like you and I.

Hatred and bigotry and nationalist entitlement are a blight on society. They have no rights. They should be deprived shelter, confronted and driven out of our culture. There is no excuse for excusing or avoiding it. It is the responsibility of all world citizens to stand up and say "Never again." To blot out the roots of this singular human evil in every corner of the earth, from jungle & tundra huts to opulent white houses and tower spires.

No matter your faith, spiritual belief or personal philosophy, a day of accounting will come. Everyone leaves their mark, large or small, on the world. No one will get a free pass. There will only be two places to stand: with hatred and bigotry or against it.
Choose wisely.

The Worthless Ballad of Julianna Fryrear

2012-01-02T15:59:00.000-08:00

I know it’s hard to imagine, but in my youth I was “socially awkward.” Back in elementary school, long before I emerged from my cocoon as this anti-social butterfly, worshipped by throngs of admirers, I was sort of clueless—invisible really. I wasn’t smart enough to be a geek, clumsy enough to be a spaz, dumb enough to be a loser, or cute enough to be a dork with potential. I was just a dork and like all dorks I had my share of character building challenges-- in third grade her name was Julianna.

Everyone has a nemesis like Julianna in their grammar school history—a sadistic little monster who, at nine years old, was swiftly whittling away at your lifetime supply of self esteem. In this case my last name alone was provocation for hours of delighted teasing. It wasn’t until third grade that I knew my last name, Ellsworth, could be so joyfully twisted into “Worthless.” Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I can still hear that taunt being repeated relentlessly; in a whisper, across a yard full of other children, in my dreams. (Don’t laugh. I was a sensitive child.)

I recall sitting at our kitchen table one evening, watching my mother cook, and somewhat dramatically expounding on my day of torture. Sobbing, I described the gleeful way she sing-songed my new nickname over and over, “Worth-less. Worth-less. Worth-less.” My mother’s advice was practical. Tease her back. The thought had never really occurred to me on my own. I apparently lacked a certain gene which endowed a malicious quality inherent in most grade school girls.

I racked my brain, as I continued to snivel and whine about perfect Julianna, trying to think of something nasty to say about her and failing miserably. Her face was pretty. Her hair was cute. She was smart. The teacher liked her. I was stumped.

“Well, what’s her name?” my mother asked.

“Juuulieeeeannaaaa Fryyyyyrear” I wailed as a new burst of defeated tears streamed forth.

To this day I can still see the look on my mother’s face as she turned toward me with disgust, spoon paused mid -stir, “And you can’t do anything with THAT? Fryrear? Really?” She said incredulously.

I told you I wasn’t very smart back then. Of course, the nickname had caught on at that point, but I assure you Julianna never used it again, once I pointed out that street went both ways.

Now I could leave you there, with this as a cute little antidote about my childhood, but what good would that do? Why would you care about my dumb little story? Where, you ask, is the life lesson? What can be learned from "The Worthless Ballad of Julianna Fryrear?" (Why do I keep reading this blog?)

Well, I suppose what I gained most, upon reflection so many years later, is the knowledge that sometimes, when we are in the midst of our deepest woes, we are so focused on the complexities of our emotions that we miss the possible, and often obvious, resolutions. In times of trouble, it behooves us to step out of our hearts and get into our heads- detach and get analytical. No problem is without a solution, even the painful ones. We may have to let go of the bad feelings, ask someone else for help, or get creative-- but the answers are there, and finding them can go a long way toward healing the pain we feel in the moment.

Finally, on a side note, I’d like to say-- Julianna, should you ever come across this, you’re forgiven. No hard feelings. I’ve moved on (mostly) and in the end you taught me a valuable lesson I carried through into my adult life—It is better to be a bitch, than to be someone else’s bitch.

(No names were changed to protect the innocent due to lack of innocence and ensuing hilarity.)

Let Them Eat Cake!

2011-12-02T20:26:00.000-08:00

I spend a ridiculous amount of my time in the act of feeding my family. When the kids were little I just shopped willy-nilly; no really strategy, no menu, no list, no plan. But I learned that can not only be expensive, but it causes multiple return trips for forgotten items. So now, each week I sit down with a calendar, a notebook and a pile of cookbooks and I begin the first of four lists. Using the calendar I determine which days already have events planned that will conflict with meals for that day. Monday nights we have Scouts, better cook something quick and easy; not too much prep or clean up so Dad and the boy can get out on time. Tuesday night I have school, better choose something simple to prepare, like chicken pot pies or pasta, so hubby doesn't have to put in too much effort, (also a good night for foods I don't enjoy, like hot dogs.) Friday night everyone goes out…why bother cooking at all, instead get something each person can just grab and prepare on their own-- grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Once I have finished this first list I begin paging through the cookbooks accruing my second list-- What can I prepare that will meet each person's tastes and dislikes? My cookbooks have ratings next to each recipe we tried, using a complex mathematical system of averages and a general scoring poll of those who participated in the meal, (with an automatic zero from my younger son who hates all things beyond the sophisticated pallet of a six year old, despite his near adult status,) as well as notes for future preparations. (I bet you didn’t know I was THIS crazy!) High ratings get put in rotation more than the lower ones. (Accidental Banana Mushroom Shrimp with Bacon has never been repeated due to massively low scores and a general gag reflex when considering it.)

I also use this time to pursue the store ads and determine what's on sale that week. Then I organize the week’s meals for "variety" and other considerations. Can't have chicken two nights in a row. Pasta is not a healthy meal three times a week. We had that casserole last week, too soon to have it again. This child doesn't like anything with flavor, better plan a bland night so he doesn't feel left out. Saturday is supposed to be 100 degrees, plan something that doesn't require turning on the oven, etc. The point is everyone is taken into consideration in compiling these two lists.

Next, I comb back through the list and compile the third-- ingredients. I list all the ingredients needed for each recipe. During this time I check to see what we already have, and what we will need. Do I have 3 teaspoons of olive oil? Is that onion still good or do I need another? Do we have enough milk to get through the week? Did someone leave an empty butter container in the fridge (or a full one on the counter?) Do I even own Cumin? What the hell is "chard?" (Don't get me started on recipes without pictures!)

Once this list is completed I create my final list by rearranging this third list into an easy-to-shop-from master list: Meats, produce, canned goods, dairy, household supplies and etceteras. This list is subcategorized in order of appearance for the market I will be visiting. Now, after about an hour or two of careful planning, demographic review, extensive research, and a quick review of my coupons, I am ready to embark on the execution stage-- shopping.

For me marketing takes a few hours and a trip to a minimum of two stores. I used to shop just the local market, but I am enamored by our new Farmer's Market and do the bulk of my "food" shopping there, picking up a few remaining household or sale items from the grocery store (along with 15 items I had no intention of buying, except now I'm tired and hungry and have no willpower to resist suggestion.) I line-up my items on the conveyor belt in the order I want them bagged, for ease of unloading at home. Yes, I realize this is pretty anal and OCD, but don't worry, other than my anal and OCD daughter, I have never met a bagger who understands the concept of grouping. I have also never met a bagger who doesn't believe my cloth bags are made of titanium and can be loaded down with as many items as can be stuffed into them. (Two gallons of milk in the same bag? Come on!)

Once I arrive home I frequently get a five minute break to pee while people who have NOT spent the day carefully meeting the needs of others bitch about how many bags their sibling did not have to carry because they took too long to find shoes, or who should have to make the final trip outside to close the trunk. Now I begin the thoughtful two part process of putting things away. First I pull a chair and a trashcan up to my fridge. Here I spend some time emptying out containers of leftovers and other expired items. Next I use my efficiency skills to divide my bags into things for the fridge/ freezer, and things for the cabinets (and on occasion things that need to be transported to other rooms.) Here I will reference my weekly menu to decide what gets frozen for later in the week and what gets defrosted first. Finally I cram the remaining goods into my limited cabinet space, pausing to close up half open boxes of cereal, and throw out empty bags of chips etc. I have now devoted my entire day to the acquiring of sustenance to feed my family.
Still, only ten minutes after I have dropped my exhausted butt onto a comfy couch, I will see a disappointed child emerge from the kitchen whining, "There's nothing to eat!" The real irony however occurs when I actually prepare these carefully selected meals. I am not one who slaves over a hot stove. I stopped trying to be creative when they started making fun of my meals and giving them clever nicknames like "green eggs and ham" and “Swedish Meat Soup.” (Side note: It's NEVER a good idea to mock the woman who cooks your food!) What I'm saying is, I'm not trying to be Julia Child. My standards are pretty low-- if it's edible, I'm good. So I'm not trying to dazzle anyone with my culinary talents. I'm just trying to feed my family. Yet it seems that no matter what we are serving in "Chet Knell" someone is unhappy with the selection, someone is not hungry because they had a big snack after school, someone has made spontaneous plans and won't be eating at home tonight, and someone "isn't feeling well." In other words, no one is eating dinner tonight. (Return me to the day when all a woman had to do was skin and cook a Woolly Mammoth and I'll show you the last happy woman.)

Were I a lesser woman I would take to the internet to complain about this…. Ok, I’m a lesser woman, what can I say? But it is only through this loathsome practice of calling my family out on Facebook that I discovered two important things: One, I’m not the only mom with this problem, and Two, I’m a freakin’ Genius!

As several other moms commented with their similar experiences I happened on the most brilliant idea to hit Momkind since the Papoose! I call it "The Fellowship of the Leftovers." (One meal to serve them all. One meal to cook them. One meal to feed them and in their hunger, save some time and make some extra cash.) Here’s how it works. Find six friends who are equally tired of being unappreciated. At the beginning of the week you each shop for and prepare ONE meal. Serve it to your family, who will refuse to eat it. Pack up your leftovers and pass them along to the next friend on your list (like a chain letter of food!) Serve the next meal, and repeat. At the end of the week you have saved hours of time, tons of cash, and you only end up throwing out ONE meal. Genius, right?

Princesses, Puppies and Paying Attention

2011-10-29T17:08:00.000-07:00

Right after my youngest turned three I took her shopping for the first Halloween costume she would choose for herself. It was also the first year none of them were wearing home-made costumes. As we browsed the isles at Party City looking at all the pictured costumes she was certain of one thing: she didn't like the scary stuff. Finally she settled happily at the end of one row and stared at a costume bag for a long time.

"I want to be that," she said pointing at the costume.

I bent down to see the picture. It was a dog costume; pictured on the front was a yellow cocker spaniel dressed in a pink princess dress with a pointy hat. Ok. A Princess. We can do that. I lead her back to the people costumes and started looking for an affordable princess. The best ones cost too much for a one night event but I found a pink one with a tiara and pulled it off the rack.

"Here's one." She frowned and shook her head. "Let's see what else we can find. They have Belle. Do you want a yellow one?" She examined the picture on the front of the bag and shook her head. I showed her three or four others and she started to look sad. The corners of her little mouth turned down and her big brown eyes looked at me like I was crazy. She walked back to the dog costume and said again,

"I want to be that."

"Ok. But that one is for a doggy. You need a little girl costume." She sighed heavily and looked like she was going to cry.

Ok. Time to try something different. "What do you like about that one? Is it the pointy hat? I can make you a pointy hat." She shook her head.

"I want to be her."

Suddenly the whole thing was clear.

"You want to be a puppy?" She nodded her head and started to smile. "You want to be a puppy princess?" Her whole face lit up and she nodded with a dreamy look in her eyes. She could see herself as that Cocker Spaniel princess.

I explained to her that the puppy costume was FOR a puppy, and not a costume OF a puppy, that she could be a puppy, or a princess, or some combination of them both, but that it would not look like the picture. She would still be a little girl dressed as a puppy/princess.

She was slightly disappointed and abandoned the idea of being a princess if she wasn't going to look like the dog in the picture. She eventually settled on a little Pocahontas costume. When Halloween came she happily carried her bucket around and gathered her candy and never thought twice about her disappointment, but I have always recalled how sad I was that I couldn't make her into a puppy princess.

We've had a lot of rough times over the years and the kids have often had to deal with the disappointment of not getting the things they want most. But they have always recovered quickly. Quicker than I have. As some sort of compensation I have always tried to make them whatever they wanted to be for Halloween. This year, she came to me and asked me to make her and a friend Native American Indian costumes. I ended up making hers and three others-- they're a whole tribe now.

So you might think the lesson of this little tale is about dealing with life's disappointments, but it's not. What I learned most that day was that even though you think you know exactly what is going on inside your child's mind, you never really have a clue. I learned it's important to slow down, take the time, listen, and not assume I know what's going on, just because it seems obvious. How many times has a teenager told me "You don't understand!" And they are right. I probably think I do, but really I haven't got a clue.

Two weeks ago an acquaintance of the kids tragically committed suicide. Another friend ran away from home (and thankfully returned after several days.) I have been reminded to remain vigilant-- to pay attention and listen better, because sometimes the princess is really a puppy and I don't want to make that mistake again.

Who Do You Think You Are?

2011-09-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a Massachusetts library lifted a ban which has existed since 1906 on a Mark Twain book, making two copies available for check out. Yes, book banning is still alive and well in America-- land of the superficially free. Each year the ALA lists the top 10 challenged books for that year. This year's books include the "normal" reactionary nonsense involving explicit language, realistically depicted sexuality, religious objections (like vampires), drug usage and one nonfiction book for "being inaccurate." Number one on 2011's list is And Tango Makes Three, a beautiful picture book inspired by the true events at New York's Central Park Zoo, where two male penguins shared the incubation of an egg together. That's right, the objectionable factor here is that it represents homosexuality and is offensive to religious values. No word yet as to whether anyone has told the actual penguins they're gay.

As a former children's librarian I choose Banned Book Week each year to climb on my soapbox, but I am offended by all types of censorship, on the grounds of, "who do you think you are?" I live in a country which was founded by people seeking freedom from oppression; people who wanted to make personal choices for themselves and their families, so much so that they risked their lives in search of a place they could have that freedom. So important was this freedom, that it was number ONE on the list of things to protect when the constitution was written.

The freedom of an individual to say something, despite the objection of another, is protected because it's important. No one has the right to silence the speech of another, because they don't approve of what is said, or disagree with the point of view. If I want to say the sky is purple, you can disagree with me, vehemently, but you cannot prohibit me from saying it, and more importantly, you cannot prohibit others from hearing it. My biggest objection to censorship is that those who advocate it don't just want to stop the speaker. They want to stop the listener. They want to prohibit my ability to hear an idea and make my own decision regarding its validity. If I don't want to hear something I can walk away, but to censor it means you want to control what *I* have access to hearing. And I have a problem with that. "Who do you think you are?"

As a young reader, heck as an old reader, I have found myself in books. I have identified with a character or a feeling. This cathartic experience is why we read books, go to movies, and listen to music. But everyday someone is trying to stand between you and those experiences. Someone is saying that reading about a fourteen year old boy who masturbates will somehow damage other fourteen year old boys, (who by the way, are masturbating like fiends already!) Frankly, the real damage comes from not having these experiences, from feeling a disconnect with society in general. Fourteen year old boys who can't identify with their peers, who can't find themselves as a part of the world around them, who can't empathizes with others, are dangerous ugly creatures. "Who do you think you are?"

One of the biggest tragedies that arises from censorship is that the creators of art, film, books, music, begin to censor themselves in order to avoid being a target of censorship. Everyday an author or a musician hits the backspace and erases an idea because they fear the backlash, the controversy. It's just easier to make everyone happy, right? It's just better to use this word instead of that one, or to give a character this quality instead of that one. But are we succeeding in erasing these words from the individual's mouth and mind; these characteristics from the lives of real people? No. We are just getting better at pretending we live in a Utopia where things we disagree with don't exist, remain hidden and feared. Of course the most ironic thing about this year's banned book list is the inclusion of Brave New World, an 80 year old book about a future world where human beings are manufactured into lives that are predetermined and painless-- Complete conformity. "Who do you think you are?"

Censorship is turning off the lights and pretending what we know exists in the darkness, isn't really there. Censorship is about fear and hate. Censorship is about negativity, close-mindedness, and immaturity. Censorship is not just sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming "LALALA." It's about muting the voices of others, obscuring the ability of others to hear as well.

I know who you think you are!

According to the ALA " Intellectual freedom—the freedom to access information and express ideas, even if the information and ideas might be considered unorthodox or unpopular—provides the foundation for Banned Books Week. BBW stresses the importance of ensuring the availability of unorthodox or unpopular viewpoints for all who wish to read and access them." This year the number of books challenged more than doubled from 1990.

So, with that in mind I encourage you to read a banned book this week, and make an informed decision on its content for yourself (and yourself only.) Take a look at the 100 most banned classics, or the top 100 challenged books from 1990-2000. You'll probably be shocked at what someone tried to prevent you from reading. You may even find one of your favorites.

Classics:http://www.ala.org/ala/issuesadvocacy/banned/frequentlychallenged/challengedclassics/index.cfm

1990-2000: http://www.ala.org/Template.cfm?Section=bbwlinks&Template=/ContentManagement/ContentDisplay.cfm&ContentID=85714

( In addition to the books listed above, which received official challenges, imagine all the books that were just quietly removed from the shelves by someone with your best interest at heart, without any fanfare at all.)

How many have you already read?

Which one will you read this week?

It’s Not Stalking. It’s Relationship Reconnaissance.

2011-09-16T21:29:00.000-07:00

Remember when you were young (I’ll give you a minute…. Got it? Ok.) So, anyway, remember when you were young and you first discovered you were becoming attracted to someone? Not actually dating them yet, just discovering that you were getting the makings of a wicked good crush. Remember that stealthy way you started getting to know them better, without actually making contact? Watching them from afar, until they glanced in your direction, then quickly looking away; pretending you were actually deep in thought studying that tree/ bathroom door/ flyer for the math club/ bare wall etc. Remember changing the way you walked to class so your paths’ would “accidently” cross, even though you didn’t have class in that building? (That school.) The casual way you would “wander” by them at nutrition, lunch, the bus stop (…their house at 1am in a headlight free car with your best friend? No? Just me then?) If you were really brave, and had the right kind of friends, you could find yourself bumping into your new obsession in the mall, the movies or the local hang out afterschool or on the weekends.

However you chose to do it, you probably spent some time in your youth aim-fully wandering around somewhere, hoping for a chance encounter where you would do absolutely nothing, except pretend that the encounter was chance, if you even acknowledged it in the first place. Casually appearing on the radar. Notice ME! Remember me! Think about me just before you fall asleep at night! PLEASE!

Until recently I was unaware how much having adult children is like being back in the pubescent world of stealthy pursuit. My two oldest moved out a month or so ago. My excitement for their adventure has not waned. I'm not pining for them. I'm not wandering my empty halls at night, holding discarded pillowcases or items of clothing, in order to reconnect with their particular smell. I know that description sounds a little too on target for someone not actually performing these actions, but I swear I haven't gotten there yet. (Yet.)
Mostly I don’t do this because I have two other wonderful children still at home, so the emptiness echoes less. Also, because in their desperate escape they left no stone unturned. (At least no stone I’d like to wander around sniffing.) Still, I've been able to avoid intruding on their new found freedom, mostly. I've managed to limit the Skype sessions, (one apiece in a month) and the phone calls, to “necessities.” I sent a few cute post cards, to keep in touch but not annoy. I’ve been doing great. I don’t know what everyone was so worried about. This is not that hard. I hardly even notice they're gone. On the other hand I feel I have a great advantage over my predecessor generation. The internet.

Thanks to this wonderful modern invention I find myself on Facebook a little more frequently (if you can imagine that possibility.) Each time I go online, I nonchalantly glance at the list which indicates “who’s online now” just to see if they’re there, you know, in case of a chance encounter. I wouldn’t say I check it frequently, so much as more frequently than before. I casually look over the status updates to see if they posted anything about their day, their classes, their job hunts--scanning for new photos, added friends, their high score in Bejeweled; pretty much any crumb which creates a connection to them.

I've had to be stealthy though. I don’t want to smother them or be accused of cyber stalking my child (the new ultimate sin of invasion visited upon youth.) So there I was last week, in the middle of a response to one of my son’s Facebook statuses, when I suddenly realized it was the fourth or fifth I had made that day… ok, that hour. I was about to blow my cover and get caught. (Quick…look at a wall, duck into the first open doorway, RUN!) I went back over his page deleting my comments; carefully editing myself back out of his day, leaving a couple of noncommittal comments and smiley faces. Just enough to remind him I’m here. Still here. Just, you know, hangin' out and stuff. (Psst. Notice me.) God! I so thought this part of life was long over!
For now I’ll have to settle for reminding myself, that it’s enough just to see them from afar. Love them secretly from here-- hiding out in the Facebook bushes, where I am carefully planning my next coincidental collision in the cyber corridor. It’s not stalking. It’s relationship reconnaissance. Totally different!

Tight Rope: Life's Ups and Downs

2011-08-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

Watching your children head off on their own into the world of adulthood is a lot like watching a high wire act. You are filled with excitement and anticipation as well as the underlying feelings of fear and doubt. Consumed by this mixture of horror and awe, holding your breath, you gaze up at them, eyes wide, as they take those first pensive steps-- establishing their grip on the tight rope, wobbling slightly, focused and intent. Part of you is confident that they have been properly trained to work without a net; that no one in their right mind would just let them out there, so high and alone, if they didn't have the skills to complete the performance. The other part of you maintains its full grasp of reality-- shit happens.

This was of course my exact feeling as I hugged my child goodbye and drove the 400 plus miles home. You spend a lifetime preparing for that moment, and there is so much you want to impart to them in those last seconds. You wish it was like the movies, where you are able to give them some profound piece of advice which will guide and protect them on their new adventure-- words of wisdom. Father's give practical advice: Keep your doors locked, Turn down the air conditioner at night, Park close to your apartment. Fatherisms, meant to subtly convey love and concern. Moms are faced with a particular dilemma at this point-- how to give last words of advice without sounding like a mother.

As mothers we are plagued with the awareness that everything we say at this time in our children's lives is discounted as overprotective evidence of our inability to "let go" and often met with an eye roll and an impatient sigh-- the universally renowned, wordless communication of "Let me go." One day these words of wisdom may be sought out by frustrated adults who find themselves in one of a dozen situations, and their cry for help will always begin with one simple word, "Mom." But in the meantime, there I was, standing there as each family member hugs goodbye, my turn coming closer and closer, pressure growing, knowing this is it-- my parting words. As everyone stands by impatiently waiting to get going I hug tightly and say, "I love you." Hoping it says it all, and knowing it will never be enough. Disappointed I couldn't come up with something better.

A few nights later I came across some old letters I thought were long gone. A decade or so ago, when they were all still young, I was going to have major surgery and I was very nervous. I was concerned that if something happened to me my children would be without a mother. They would miss out on all the important motherly advice beyond "wear clean underwear" and "brush your teeth." I would never have the chance to teach them the really important stuff they would need to know about themselves and life. So I wrote them each a letter, trying to tell them everything they needed to know about growing up, and being a good person. I remember I felt the same writing the letters as I did saying goodbye-- like it was too much to cram into one moment.

Curiosity caused me to open the letters and read what great wisdom I had left for my children in the case of my untimely demise. I don't know why, but I was surprised to find it was all the same things I had wanted to say a few days ago. Although, I was happy to see that while I had missed the opportunity to say them out loud, I felt confident I had managed to impart them in other ways. Things like: don't doubt yourself, value family, laugh as often as possible, don't waste time with anger, make informed decisions that represent you well, be open minded, treat people well, always do your best and help others do the same, don't worry-- accept change as a gift, always look for the silver lining, never let others define you, don't grow up too fast, it's ok to be vulnerable, you can always come home, unconditional love is limitless- pass it on, follow your beliefs, if it's worth feeling- feel it passionately, speak up- you have a voice be heard, and remember I am always with you. All the meaningful advice had already been given.

A tight rope walker has to count on a lot of people and factors before they ever set first toe on the rope. Not only do they rely on a lifetime of training, but they have to be able to count on the guys who set up the rigging, the guy operating the lights, the rosin they used on their shoes, even the participation of the audience is key. Everything has to come together in perfect harmony for the show to end successfully, for the performer to avoid plummeting to the ground. That's a lot of pressure, a lot of "ifs." As I reflected on my feelings saying goodbye, and those involved in writing the letters, I am faced with a new revelation: I am the tightrope walker.
(and I made it!)

Allies, Rivals, Partners in Crime (otherwise known as Sisters)

2011-07-25T21:14:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Sister's Week circulated on Facebook. I obliged by reposting the status, something I rarely participate in, and posting a picture of my sister and I on my profile. But I knew immediately that I wanted to do more. I wanted to blog about her. When I look back over my life my sister is a player in all the major events, and she left an indelible mark on me. She is the person I have most admired and respected in my life, my role model and at one time my best friend. I doubt she knows this. I doubt she knows about all the memories and memorabilia I still cherish, or how often I regret the space which has grown between us over the years.

My first memories of my sister come from the family photo albums. While there are a couple of years between us, you would think we were twins-- a combination of her diminutive stature and my mother's wacky need to dress us identically-- but our personalities have always been very different. She was more reserved and introspective, more thoughtful and responsible. I was a little more obnoxious…. Ok, a lot more, but that isn't the point.

I know we did things together when we were younger, but the real memories come around the time she became a teenager. I remember envying milestones she reached first, like shaving her legs, getting her period, wearing make-up, and having boobs. I realize now that I probably resented her moving on without me too. We went a few rounds, like I imagine most sisters do. As the bratty adolescent, I recall several fights that ended in something getting broken in the ensuing chase and the resulting fights about whose fault it was. I can't recall what caused the fights but I know that I laugh about the mayhem now.

It was really when I became a teenager that she became my best friend. I was a Freshman in high school her Senior year. It was a small school with fewer lockers than students. Siblings were expected to share lockers. So there we were two teenage girls forced to share a one by twenty metal box in Senior Hall-- a privilege she had waited four years to achieve. I have no recollection of her ever complaining about it. She took me under her wing from the first day and made me feel safe and wanted. She showed me where to eat at lunch and kept me from getting hazed on Frosh scrub day.

I joined her in the drama club and delighted in sharing the two leading roles, Maggie and Casa, in the school play. She totally stole the show! It was at that time I had my first date. My costar in the play, a boy I had to kiss onstage for the first time in my life, asked me out to a dance. My sister helped me get ready and then presented me with a list of talking points. Two hand written pages torn from a spiral notebook. One being her "Guide to Easy Conversation" listing recommended topics like Boy George's new haircut, the sexual orientation of President Reagan, cannibalism, triangles, Aristotle's Poetics, and TV commercials (but not radio because they're boring.) The second sheet was titled "Things Not to Discuss" and listed topics such as: your hobbies (nobody cares), dead animals (one of grandma's favorites), mooses, squares, Edwin Moses, and your tongue (just think about it and you'll see why.) You can probably see my sense of humor runs in the DNA. I'm sure she has no idea that now, twenty two years later, I still have those two lists close enough at hand that I could quote them. She probably also doesn't know how much those two lists helped to relax me and relieve the anxiety of my first date.

The last week of school one of the clubs sold balloons for a dollar and delivered them to your classroom with a telegram from the sender. I was surprised when I received a bouquet of a dozen balloons from my sister with a note (yes I still have it) reading, "Congrats on making it thru your frosh year! Remember familiarity breeds. Love 'Casa.'" I was also envied by every other one-balloon carrying kid!

We shared a million other amazing memories in that one year of high school together, but instead of growing apart when she went to college, we grew closer. Most of my friends were hers. Together we went to movies, the beach, Disneyland, and pretended to be The Monkees (Don't even ask!) When I was learning to drive and wrecked my car in our driveway my sister was the first out of the house, camera in hand, to document for posterity and make me laugh rather than cry. When I took my first plane trip anywhere, she was my seat mate. We skated in Rockefeller Center and rang in the New Year in New York City. She helped me get ready for a blind date to a stranger's prom (don't ever be a blind date to a stranger's prom. Awkward!) She organized summer picnics on the college campus where we splashed in the fountains together. She threw me the best Sweet 16 party with all our friends where we played poker all night.

When I graduated high school she went with me to Europe, where we shared rooms so small you could wash your hands from the bed, flirted with swarthy men, played drinking games with our tour group, and almost missed our bus to the next country on more than one occasion. In Venice she helped me try to buy a stick of deodorant (impossible) and later, she helped me scour drug stores trying to mime signs for feminine hygiene products (go ahead…try it. I'll wait.) and never complained that I was disorganized or wasting her tourist time.

After high school we worked together at a preschool. We took field trips to the pumpkin patch and gossiped while standing yard duty together. After I found out I was pregnant she coerced me to walk with her every day at lunch, claiming it would help ease my labor, and unknowingly eased my burden by being a good listener and motivator. I still have my first Mother's Day card, sent in-utero from my baby, via her auntie. She took a horrendous 4000 hour train trip with me when I was too pregnant to drive, and drove the long road trip to visit my mom after I had the baby. When my newborn got sick and needed surgery it was my sister who showed up at the hospital and brought me clean underwear and other necessities.

When I fell in love after only a few months of dating and decided to get married she never told me I was being rash, or rushing into it. She wore the bridesmaid dress she hated and never mentioned how much she disliked it. Instead she made all the bridesmaid's matching tennis shoes for our outdoor reception. She caught my contagious giggles during the ceremony and stood next to me while I gave my vows.

When I had to rush off to the emergency room at 3am with sick babies she came to my house to sit with the other children. She paid for my daughter to go to preschool, having her husband pick her up every morning and drive her to school and home again. She took my daughter every Wednesday night for dinner and tutoring. We took our children swimming together at Great Grandma's in the summers, took them sledding one winter and vacationed together in Yosemite last year. She is Godmother to my daughter and a wonderful aunt to all my children. When I was cooped up and isolated as an at home mom she invited me to join her friends in a Bunco group where we played together for 12 years.

I have innumerable memories of her making me laugh, consoling me when I cried, protecting me when I was scared, supporting me when I was weak and dispensing sisterly advice. I have long admired her; her intelligence, motivation, cleanliness, and keen sense of fashion. So why, with such rich material did it take me three or four weeks to finally write this blog? Because, despite her excellent example, as a sister I am an epic failure. I was never any of these things for my sister.

I was never a good listener for her. I never made her laugh to relieve her stress or just hugged her when she needed support. I never sent her balloons or brought her clean underwear. I wasn't a very attentive aunt for her children. More than anything else I have always regretted not standing up with my sister when she married. I was five days from delivery of my second child on her wedding date. I couldn't afford the dress and alterations for my giant belly and due to preterm labor issues I had to back out. To this day I bear an enormous amount of guilt for abandoning her like that, but I never told her. I knew she was hurt and angry with me and I felt it was best to just let it be, rather than bring it up, even to apologize, and I have let that guilt interfere with our relationship. I don't know if she ever thinks about it, but I have never had a conversation with her where I haven't longed to tell her I was sorry. I have allowed it create a distance between us for almost 20 years.

I didn't want to write this blog, until I had some sort of resolution; until I had told her I was sorry. I have spent the last weeks trying to summon the courage to tell my sister how I felt and that I love her. I have spoken to her on the phone and sat in her home across her table trying to make the words come out, but I couldn't. In my whole life hers is the only opinion that I has ever mattered to me and I am afraid to bring up the topic. If she has forgotten I don't want to remind her, and if she hasn't I don't want to drive her further away. That is what I have said for almost 20 years and I just can't move past it.

While writing this blog, as I tumbled through the box of old memories-- Mother's Day cards, dating advice, photos and telegrams-- I came across a letter my sister wrote to me when I was 17. In it my sister confesses having a hard time telling people how she feels and that my ability to be open and vulnerable with people is something she admires and hopes I never lose. Ah! The irony!

With those words of encouragement I sucked it up and sent the original draft of this blog to her via email explaining I have only one real regret in my life and it is not being a good sister, not being there for her when she needed me. I was preoccupied by my own life, my own problems and my fear of hurting her more. I thought a lot about her, but I never acted. I said all the things I have waited too long to say.

I wasn't sure when I started this, what I would end up with; how I would tie this up in a neat little bow with some sort of meaningful lesson. I am happy to report that she responded back and, in addition to letting me off the hook for my failure, she made me laugh (because that's how she is.) and corrected me-- she was Godmother to my daughter and not my son, (God I suck!) I guess if there's any lesson in all this it's not to let things unsaid come between you and those you love. I wasted a lot of years dreading the worst. If I had just had a little faith in the sister who had so clearly loved me so much for so long I could have been a better sister myself.

I'm sorry it took me a month to finally write this blog. I'm sorry it took me 20 years to tell her how I felt. My sister doesn't have a Facebook, but now she knows: "Your sister is your first friend in life. No one will ever understand your crazy family like your sister. Even if you don't get together or talk as much as you could, she'll always remain your best friend. Your sister will hold your hand for a little while, but will hold your heart for a lifetime."

Come Over to the Dark Side.

2011-07-01T12:26:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last few years trying to lure my sister into joining the social networking community. (Come on. All your friends are doing it.) Her response is always, “I don’t have time.” Which is a legitimate excuse, considering how much of my time is sucked up by the internet. Although, upon reflection, I have found this reason lacks accuracy and understanding of the social networking phenomena.

I began my foray into social networking with a MySpace account. I joined so I could keep track of my teen and preteens as they hitchhiked along technology’s superhighway. After all, you wouldn’t just drop your kid off on the side of the freeway and hope they get home safely (although admittedly that has crossed my mind on several raucous family outings.)

This was back when you just had a plain profile page, no cool backgrounds, creative fonts, or colorful texts—simply a picture of your face and just enough personal information to get you into trouble. Then my daughter, techy that she is, redesigned her space. Well, that looked kind of cool. I’d like to give MYspace a fresh new look, just for fun. I could do that…couldn’t I?

No. I couldn’t. What I knew about computers at the time was that they were glorified typewriters/encyclopedias. I learned binary in high-school. Oh so useful in real life, (especially to a dyslexic.) Technically speaking I think I should actually say I was SHOWN binary in high school. I learned nothing. So I went to the source, asking my 14 year old question after question. How did you do that? Where do you find that? Why is it doing that? Did I just enter the atomic launch codes that will begin World War III? (Yes, I had an inane fear that I could somehow affect some serious damage by mistakenly entering the wrong data. Don’t laugh. You weren’t there. It could happen!)

It was not long (about 10 minutes) before my daughter discovered two important details. One, I was an idiot. And two, without her help I had less of a chance to stalk her every teenaged move. It was at this point she adopted the “teach a man to fish” philosophy. Except her version was more “give a guy a pole and throw him in the river, then laugh while he struggles to survive.” Needless to say, I was on my own.

I spent countless hours poking and prodding my Myspace. I had never seen HTML, the new language of computers. I still have only a loose grasp of its form and function. But slowly I discovered how to change a font, add a background, place glitter graphics as section heads. And I felt wonderful. I felt young and accomplished and a little bit smart. I had conquered the internet, and along the way I had “friended” a few fellow moms trying to keep track of their own kids. I had wished Happy Birthday to a few people I probably wouldn’t have conveyed the sentiment to otherwise. I had shared a few laughs at a Youtube video or two and checked out photos of my friends’ families doing a myriad of activities.

And so I was rolling along, enjoying my new found creative outlet and feeling accomplished; spending more time catching up with my own friends and refurbishing my home page than monitoring my kids, when I realized, someone was missing. Where was my teenager? Why were her posts fewer and fewer? Why were her friends commenting less and less? Why was my newsfeed getting shorter and shorter?

Facebook. Yes, as soon as I mastered (and I use the term in the loosest sense) the world of MySpace the children disappeared down the rabbit hole into the land of Facebook. Dutifully and begrudgingly I followed. This new land was sort of plain and I didn’t “get it.” It wasn’t personalized or creative. Other than the fact that your parents weren’t there yet, what was the big draw? Statuses? Really? That’s it? Just random status updates about what your friends were eating for lunch, or what weird thing happened on the way to school? But this is where my kids had gone, and so I followed.

Soon I started getting friend requests from the other parents transitioning over from MySpace. My high school reunion started taking shape and requests came from people I had not thought of in years. Most I didn’t care to become reacquainted with, but some were just lost in the shuffle of growing up; misplaced with the other youthful playthings I had cherished but set aside as memory while life unfolded. My Facebook exploded, albeit slowly over time, with the faces and voices of my past and present; merging into one hub of collective ruminations.

Being a stay at home mom can be isolating. It’s not your fault. It just happens. And in my case, because I started my family so far ahead of all my friends, I had lost contact with most of the adult world, unless it pertained to one of my “mom” activities: school, scouts, little league etc. Everything I knew, everyone I knew, revolved around the lives of my children, and to a lesser degree my spouse. Now, suddenly, through the wonders of modern technology I was connecting and reconnecting. I was existing as an individual.

I have read some articles about how social networking is stunting our ability to interact in reality. In my case my life has been enhanced by social networking in a way I can not imagine living without. I am more connected than I ever could have been without it. I converse almost daily with two sisters I had barely known in their childhood. I have followed my niece’s pregnancy updates with excited anticipation, despite only having seen her twice since she turned 16. I met up a few weeks ago with my cousins and a family friend who I have not seen since my wedding 20 years ago.

True, with great effort these things all could have taken place in the real world, but I live in the real world and sometimes, I’m only available at 4am. How nice to know I can leave a thought for you without waking you up. And in the real world, I couldn’t have shared in the joy of that new birth, or dance recital, because in the real world you are 12 states away and neither one of us can afford to travel. Social networking is just more convenient. It is the pen-pal of our generation.

Sure, I have spent countless hours posting photos or silly updates or quoting a particularly funny thing I heard that day. I have lost an entire day connecting little colored jewels, and rolling virtual dice, although I have never tended a crop or traded mafia equipment with anyone. I have spent entirely too much time reading YOUR updates, commenting on your photos, and laughing at the memes you shared. (I even learned what a meme is!) But I have also discovered a support network. When my day sucks, you’re there to give me a boost. When I am excited I have someone to share it with. When my husband had his heart attack, you knew about it right away, and I didn’t have to call 100 people to give them updates on his condition, I could do it in one 30 second post. And you could respond, send well wishes and prayers, offer assistance, in a way you could never have done before.

This year I received almost a hundred birthday wishes. I probably sent at least as many. I was a part of your life. I watched your kids grow up a little. I saw your cool vacation photos and little Suzie’s first ballet recital. I heard about the demise of your Great Aunt Tilly and the family turtle. I have seen your new haircut, your new pet, your new house, your new car, your new husband. I invited you to a show and then actually got to hang out with you in person after a 20 year hiatus. I reconnected with old relatives (and yes, I meant “old” both ways.) I have taken and given advice with you. I have laughed with you and cried for you, and generally wondered what the hell you were thinking. What I have not done, was waste my time.

I know you better now. I have invested in our friendship. I may have left a few real world chores undone while I did it, but I consider it time well spent. So I will continue to extol the virtues of social networking to my sister, and anyone else I’m dying to spend more time with, in hopes that we can share a little more, be a little closer, drift a little less. Resistance is futile. Come over to the dark-side. It’s a hell of a lot of fun.

One of us. One of us. One of us…..

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The Family Table

2011-03-18T22:12:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, back in the land of "When I Was a Little Girl," we had an enormous dining room table. It had once belonged to my father's Nana, my great-grandmother, and had come to us after a Great Aunt's passing. It was dark mahogany wood, almost black in color, thick and heavy. Without any of the six leafs inserted, the table comfortably seats six to eight fully grown adults with elbow room. Once it was fully extended, it stretched from our dining room out into the living room and could seat about 20 kissing cousins, (and often did.) The kids had to all sit on one side of the table because the only access to that side was by crawling across the floor underneath.

Which brings us to my favorite part of this particular monster, the underside. I spend an inordinate amount of time under our dining room table. It's massive center leg resembled the trunk of a redwood, thick with massive ornate feet curling out in several directions. When you were under that table, especially when a tablecloth hung around the edges, it was easily the kind of tree in which you imagined millions of fairies living. The rails which were meant to support the extensions closed up to create a convenient cubby hole, perfect for storing secret messages, stuffed animals, or something you swiped from your sister. Hot Wheels tracks could be balanced from that nook, at precarious angles, down across the feet, creating an Evel Knievel-worthy death-plunge. Barbie and her friends frolicked there in a fantasy forest, and I'll admit, it's where she first lost her virginity. It was a magical place to spend a rainy day.

Above the tablecloth there were some equally wonderful memories. As a family unit we ate our daily meals at the kitchen table, but special occasions meant "company." Extended family, grandparents, cousins, neighbors, gathered around and sharing laughter and love at birthdays, holidays, and religious events. I know there are hours of eight millimeter film somewhere in Dad's garage--70's version of us all, faces blocked to deflect the spotlight, tongues protruding, arms waving, and bunny-ear making. Formal occasions and casual get-togethers all celebrated with multigenerational fervor. Some family lived in other cities or states and were on a rare visit, some lived only a block away and we saw them on a regular basis, but there was always something significantly more exciting about those special events involving the table.

I remember the anticipation that came with watching the table grow and the folding chairs set up next to the mahogany and crimson-velvet thrones that accompanied the table; the linen and lace tablecloths and napkins and the special box of silver, clearly an honor to use; the big knife my dad would use to carve a turkey, and the box of accessories to sharpen it. I can still hear the singing of metal against metal. I had no idea what he was doing, but it was all part of the show.

Then there were the stories-- both the stories shared around the table, and the stories created there. Meals didn't end when dessert was served. They ended when the stories had all been shared-- dirty plates, drained wine glasses, wadded up napkins and half empty coffee cups-- right before restless children began scurrying to and from my brother's room, accessible only by tunneling under the table. We were regaled with the tales of our parent's and grandparent's youthful adventures and follies. I recall a great uproar of hilarity (and the oft retelling afterward) when my grandmother, rather than requesting the cranberry sauce, asked someone to "pass the poison apples." The meticulously prepared meal all the more enjoyable for the way it was shared.

I remember the first big family gathering after my oldest was born. My mother, step-father and older brother had traveled together from up north, my sister, father, best friend and I, all together around that table to celebrate the beginning of the newest generation. As always I recall the laughter and comfort…well discomfort for me on my doughnut shaped pillow, but that's a private story. There were more ordinary days, special occasions and new additions celebrated around the table in the years that followed; holidays, family get-togethers, and the first meal my husband cooked for me. The chairs have been refurbished and the table relocated to Reno, where it has continued to host family and friends of all ages.

My own family table is an ordinary pine-top, used for all occasions, special or otherwise. It is marked by years of daily living, with spilled paint, remnants of markers that slipped off paper, divots and scratches, and something sticky that can never be scrubbed off. A card table has been butted-up to it, to accommodate overflow, and it has been shoved against the wall to serve as a buffet. It has had linen tablecloths and paper ones and seen at least four sets of dishes, and 60 birthdays come and go. It has seen joy and laughter, sadness, fighting and tears. Armies have been conquered, monopolies acquired, and Mrs. White killed a man with a candlestick there, as board games have been won, lost and thrown across the room in a fit of anger. It has heard more than its fair share of movie dialogue recited verbatim (as have I!) It is the place where we come together to celebrate our special occasions, and our ordinary moments, and where we share our stories, old and new.

My childhood memories revolve around the special occasions, but my memories of my own family are filled with nightly meals and homework duty. One day I hope to surrounded our table with new additions-- spouses and grandchildren. Everyone has a memory of their family table. Whether you had Nana's epic six extensions or a card table for the kids in the kitchen, some of our greatest moments of bonding have taken place around the family table .

A Geek Among Goddesses

2011-03-11T21:33:00.000-08:00

I'm an LA girl, born and bred. I've lived here my whole life. Only, my LA is not the LA you see on TV. I live on the outskirts of LA in "The Valley." The Valley is the suburban terrain occupied by the near-normal residents of the LA area, meaning-- no one I know accessorizes their giant designer purse with a miniature dog. We still have giant knock-off purses …and tiny dogs, but not usually as matched sets. We are the part of LA which spawned the dreaded Valley Girl of the 80's-- and yes, they were real. If you look close enough, you can still find a few. In other words, we breed a unique idiot of our own here, separate from those nuts over the hill.

Basically my life has been typically suburban, with a few star sightings tossed in along the way for flavor. I was never one of those "Lifestyle" women; with their business-casual day and their cocktail-party night-life with the girls. I went to PTA meetings, and Scout meetings, and council meetings. That's where my ladies hung out. I had some pretty wicked Friday nights with the girls…all 17 of them in their little uniforms, selling cookies door to door. We were a force to be reckoned with, I tell you.

Then one day, into this mundane little universe, an idea was introduced, and I was just restless enough to try it. I had this new friend, who was not from The Valley originally. She was one of those elusive, bohemian "California Beach Girls." And typical of her kind, she made friends with all sorts. She knew a group of LA Ladies, and one of them was having a party, and she invited me to go with her. I was a little intimidated. It was "A Goddess Party." (Did I say a little intimidated? I meant a lot. )

My first instinct was to decline the offer because I didn't really need any sex toys or lingerie. However, as it was then explained to me, these lovely LA Ladies just got together for a fun evening of relaxing music and wine and conversation-- just a "girls night-in." No purchase necessary. They celebrated their womanhood by taking time out to appreciate themselves and woman-kind, in a way only a woman could. It sounded kind of interesting, (albeit a little like a tampon ad.) A night with a group of adult women, that didn't involve kids and husbands in any way. It could be fun. And I was ready to embrace my womanhood…figuratively speaking that is. So, I agreed to go.

I was a tad overwhelmed. I was a small fish headed for a big ocean. I knew I was going to be out of my league. I am not a Goddess. I'm barely a minion. I fussed about what to wear, and how to dress, and how to do my hair. I didn't have a hairstylist, unless Super-Cuts counts (which it doesn't.) I didn't think Wal-Mart sold anything that anyone else would qualify as "designer." I rarely wore make-up, and what I did wear came from the corner drug store-- on a classy day, otherwise that little compact that came with Barbie would do in a pinch. I didn't travel, or have an interesting job. I couldn't imagine what I would say to these women, and despite determining that I would go, I wasn't at all certain there would be anything relaxing or refreshing about the evening.

My girlfriend picked me up and we drove along the hillside finally arriving in an upper-class neighborhood. She found a place to park and we leisurely walked down the hill to a little house nestled in the dark. A sophisticated woman answered the door and greeted us appropriately. She had big earrings, beautiful skin and a giant glass of wine. I followed my friend around like a lost puppy while she hugged women she knew and was introduced to women she had never met, and as we were given a guided tour of the little guest house we were all gathered in. It was decorated with love and care. Plush furniture, coordinated colors, splashes of uniqueness in every corner that said, "The woman who lives here knows herself….and she doesn't have any kids."

I relegated myself in typical fashion to a stationary location-- the one chair I was, to some extent, confident could support my weight. The last thing I needed was to shove my fat ass through her designer wicker. Eventually a few other women would make their way into the area, and I would join their conversations, mostly listening, occasionally asking what I hoped weren't stupid questions. One or two asked about me, most just moved on to other locations with company they knew better, but I am comfortable as an observer and it really didn't bother me, much.

I grazed a little on the exotic snacks, but I have a steadfast rule about eating food I don't recognize. I was pretty hungry by the time the pizza arrived. I waited my turn with my cute designer plastic plate in one hand and my "I'm not drinking alcohol" red-plastic cup in the other, anxious to finally eat. Huh, designer pizza. Who knew? I mean, I just always thought pizza was pizza no matter where you went. I ate pizza in Italy, it was a little different than American pizza, but well within the range of normal. I had never eaten an artichoke alone, much less on a pizza. Over-sized mushrooms and a host of other items, some I didn't even recognize, on a sauce-less dough disk. My most daring pizza experience to date had included pineapple! I was FAR less adventurous then than I am now.

After dinner everyone lounged about enjoying their goblets of wine. Mind you, I own one wine glass. It was a free gift with purchase of a romance novel. It is the size of a "normal" glass of wine. I had never seen wine glasses like these. They were big enough to wash my hands in-- both, at the same time! This of course is when the real fun began. The hostess broke out a set of Tarot cards, and some Runes. There was a book about reading palms, and one about the mystic healing power of rocks. Some sage was burning, auras were being read and cleansed, and some new age music played soft in the background. A few hours of amateur fortune-telling, and a tureen of wine later, I was having a pretty good time. I was actually relaxed. I didn't feel fat and frumpy. I felt enlightened and rejuvenated; as though I had received a spiritual facial.

As the night was winding down, before it was time to say adieu, the group gathered together for a Goddess Walk. Wine tankard in hand I joined the haphazard procession of women as we strolled into the cool night air and began the short journey to the end of the paved road and into the canyon, guided by the bright light of the full moon and the soft voices of my fellow Goddesses. There was an easy, slumber-like quality to the meandering, at least until it became a hike, then the soft conversation gave way to heavy breathing and snide comments about the practicalities of combining wine consumption and mountain climbing. But most of the Goddesses just ignored me and continued onward and upward.

At last we reached a clearing and our death march ended. The women gathered in a circle together, absorbing the ethereal beams of the moonlight. "Now," our fearless leader announced, "we howl at the moon." En masse the woman began to howl. I was doing my part, by not howling with laughter, out of respect to these fine ladies who had welcomed me into their coven. When they were done howling at the moon. The hostess then encouraged everyone to close their eyes. At this point I was pretty well sure if I closed my eyes I would open them to find everyone naked…and I am never drunk enough for that game. Luckily for me they just did a little swaying and chanting. With my one eye open I peaked up at the hillside above us, at the lone house with the canyon view and imagined Mrs Kravitz from Bewitched peering out her curtains and calling "Abner, Abner! Look, they're down there howling at the moon again. ABNER!"

The night ended there. We all wandered off back to our homes, as though everybody spent their Friday nights in the knee-high weeds howling at the moon with a bunch of Goddesses. It's one of those "only in LA" kind of things. Still, I consider myself better for having taken the ride. I could have spent that night sitting in my dark living room with my husband watching an episode of The X-Files, instead of participating in an episode of my own. And that would have been fine, but what would I have gained. No one would want to read about that. You have to embrace the unexpected adventures life offers. Most of your life will be ordinary. Some nights you just need to howl at the moon.

Look Ma! No Hands!

2011-03-04T21:56:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago I was out running some errands. In an effort to kill two birds with one stone I was acting as passenger, while my oldest son practiced his driving. We were parked in front of the Girl Scout leader’s house while my youngest ran up to drop off some papers, and chatting-- which is one of my favorite parts about teaching the kids to drive, all that one-on-one time they are required by law to spend with me. I happened to glance over at his hands as they rested on the steering wheel and I was surprised by how big they seemed. When taken on a whole, as they grow, you don’t notice the changes too much. Sure, over time you recognize they are now a foot taller than you, or that the round baby cheeks are gone forever, but day-to-day it is much less significant.

I said something to the effect of, “My God! When did your hands get so big?” He laughed and took my hand holding it up against his to measure the difference. Broad palm, long fingers, this was the hand of a man, not my little boy. But more than that, the feeling of his hand placed in mine brought to mind a memory, from my mind’s recesses, not so much forgotten (never forgotten) but tucked sadly away: The first time he let go.

This particular child has always been an affectionate boy. Always ready with a hug and a smile that melts your heart. Whenever we walked his hand just naturally found it’s way into mine. I didn’t really think much about it. It was mostly habit, left over from the toddler days. I’m not even sure who held who’s hand, they just always seemed to find their way together. His skin was always warm even in winter and it just seemed to belong in mine. So there I was one day, like any other, walking hand in hand with my son, when tragedy struck.

He was probably about 8 years old, maybe seven, maybe nine, but in that range. He had been to a doctor’s appointment or some other event which had caused him to miss the early part of the school day and I was walking him to class and chatting about whatever eight year olds like to tell their mothers. Then, almost imperceptibly, I felt his little warm hand slip from mine. Simultaneously, I noticed two young boys had rounded the corner and were walking toward us. My son never broke stride. He continued as though nothing significant had happened, just kept talking about whatever eight year olds talk about with their mothers-- their deeply devastated mothers.

I recall lifting my hand to my face as we walked and staring at the spot his hand used to be, as though there was an answer there, at least an answer I liked better than the one I already knew in my heart. My son was “too big” to hold mommy’s hand. Somehow, without my knowing, he had instinctively come by this information. I could still feel the fading warmth of his hand, but now it felt like a burning that proceeded up my arm and into my heart. As the two boys passed us we exchanged polite ‘Hellos’ and then continued on our way, as though nothing major had occurred, but inside I was being consumed by a deep sadness. My children would out grow me. I had always known it. It was, of course, “The Plan” but somehow I had never actually been expecting it. I was blindsided.

Not one to be daunted I decided to gently probe the situation. I wanted to throw myself on the playground before us and beg him to hang-on for just a few more years. I wasn’t ready to let go yet, but one of us had to be a grown up, and it would be wrong for me to let it be the eight year old.

So,” I asked, “No more holding hands?” (It’s like that huh?)

He shook his head. “No.” he answered gently. “Not at school.”

“Ok. I get that. What about other places. Can I still hold your hand at home?”

“Sure. “

“How about kisses? Can I still kiss you goodbye?”

“ In the car.” (Well, that seemed reasonable.)

“What about hugs? Can I still hug you?”

“Yep.” (He’s still a man of few words.)

“Just in the car?”

“ No. Hugs are ok… sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.”

We reached his classroom and, following the new rules, I extended my hand to shake his. “I guess I’ll see you afterschool.”

“Ok.” He said, and disappeared into his room.

On my way back I had to resist the urge to punch his punk-ass little friends. I tried really hard not to cry. I made it all the way to my car. I felt incredibly stupid for being so hurt by something so natural. Of course he didn’t want to hold my hand anymore; he was a big boy-- getting bigger. It was completely appropriate. But my heart was no less broken.

Still I had to respect the kid’s choice. I couldn’t be one of those mothers. For awhile I was careful about where and how I showed my affection, letting him lead the way. Eventually, thank God, he outgrew the dumb idea that boys can’t be affectionate. He started to snuggle while we watched TV and hold my hand, or let me play with his hair. Now, a decade later, he stops and hugs me, for no particular reason when we pass each other in the hallway, or leans against me while we watch TV. And I’m grateful every time, because I can still feel the exact spot where the emptiness began, like a stigmata, and it saddens me to remember the loss. So, sitting there in the car while he measured our hands against each other, I intertwined my fingers in his and squeezed, knowing that you never really know when it will be your last chance.

“I love you.” I said.

He smiled and squeezed back, “I love you too.”

The Greatest Gift

2010-12-04T00:46:00.001-08:00

When I was a little girl my dad would read books to each of us kids. I recall listening as he read the Wizard of Oz series to my sister, and not listening when he read whatever books my brother selected. When it was my turn it was usually one of two books I remember him reading: "The Wind in the Willows," and "Mrs. Frisby and the rats of N.I.M.B." (I was fascinated by anthropomorphism.) I loved curling up next to him and looking at the black and white sketches on a random page while the cadence of his voice rose and fell rhythmically. Every Christmas we gathered around his lap and shoulders as he read the book his mother had read to him, The Littlest Angel. So strong are the memories of this book that I can hear his voice echoing in my mind as I read it to my own children each year. He was a good storyteller.

The first book I remember reading on my own was "B is for Betsy" a book given to me by my mother. I was only about six, but I have some recollection of being on vacation somewhere with snow while I read that book. I know I was little but I can still vaguely recall the book, sort of an orange color with a little girl in cameo on the cover. I didn't recall much about the book except that it was about a spunky little girl. Later I read classics like the Ramona series, the All-of-a-kind Family series, Arabella's Ravin, A Windmill Summer, (more spunky little girls.) In my later adolescence I became obsessed with the supernatural. I read books about girl's with ESP, séances, and haunting specters.

Reading has always had a major role in my life. I can remember my mother teaching me to read. She had made her own flash cards of letters, and there was a homemade game where I used a toy fishing pole to catch felt fish with magnetic strips out of a box and then combine the letter sounds to make words. There were others, things so far on the fringes of my memory that I know they are there, but I can't quite make them out. We would sit on the living room carpet and play as though these were "real" games and not educational-- she was tricky like that! I remember Little Golden Books and their endearing animation that drew me to look at pages even if I couldn't quiet read them. My favorite was about a little girl and her first day in Kindergarten. And I remember a set of encyclopedias with a world full of fascinating adventure and knowledge.

I remember the tiny library at my elementary school. I think it was at one time a janitor's closet it was so small. It smelled like warm, old, paper and dust. I was obsessed with one book there and I would sit in the shadowy room leaned against the bookshelf and read it during my class' library time, even though I knew I was checking it out-- "Annie E. Lee and the Wooden Skates." It was the story of the youngest daughter of Robert E. Lee and at least a portion of the story revolved around a pair of wooden ice skates. Again, there are pictures in my head of a sketched little girl in her big Southern dress and furry hat and muff skating across the ice in the special gift from her father at the end of the book.

When my Mom had to go back to work we became what was called latch-key kids, except instead of returning to an empty house afterschool my siblings and I would walk three blocks from school to the public library where we would work on homework with all the other kids until our parents came to claim us. At least in theory. I made friends with the two college aged library aides. They were a girl and a boy who spent a lot of time sarcastically bickering in what I now realize was probably a flirtation. They would allow me to ride the book cart up and down the aisles in the Children's section as they shelved books and whispered snide comments to each other. Now that I think about it…she may really have disliked him.

It was here that I mastered the Dewey decimal system and the card catalog and decided when I grew up, I wanted to be a librarian. It was in the Children's section I also found my new obsession, The Lonely Doll books. The stories were told with beautiful, vivid photos of the characters-- Father and Baby bear, two stuffed Teddy bears, and Edith (yes I had to look her up)the lonely little porcelain doll who they take into their loving family. When I got older I moved to the adult side of the library where I began reading the young adult literature. Books by Lois Duncan, Joan Lowery Nixon, and Torey Hayden. I didn't go for the books other preteen girls like my sister had started reading like those famous Judy Blume books. To this day I don't know why Margaret wanted to have a word with God or what was so Super about Fudge.

In the fourth grade I read one of the most significant books of my youth, "I Trissy." Yes, she was a spunky girl, but more importantly she had divorced parents. I had divorced parents. I only had one other friend with divorced parents and she had moved away, (Hey Becky, you made it into one of my blogs!) I went to a Catholic school. No one's parents were divorced (or if they were none of us knew.) But Trissy's parents were divorced and I cried when I discovered what catharsis was--to see my feelings and thoughts splashed across the pages. I knew reading could be about adventure, and escape, but I didn't know it could be about identity and solidarity. I knew I could imagine myself in a characters adventure, I didn't know I could imagine a character in mine!

I always read books but sometime around fifth grade it got harder. I didn't know it at the time but it turns out I was dyslexic. (Yes, my blog title makes sense now!) Because I was gifted it wasn't diagnosed until I was in college. Until then, I just thought I was stupid. All those years of hearing "doesn't work to her ability" were not explained until much later and I spend the next few years struggling. Reading was my addiction the way kids today play video games or watch TV. But teachers sucked my love of reading away. Making us read terrible, boring books. In Sixth grade, Scott O'Dell's "The Black Pearl" almost killed me. (Does Scott O'Dell give a kick back to schools for forcing kids to read his books?)

Textbooks, which were my downfall, were an illegible jumble of meaningless splotches. Later it was explained to me that my particular type of dyslexia made mechanical language hard to decipher. I could read a novel because my brain could make a movie out of the words, but a textbook was useless. I could photographically recall what each page looked like, where there was a picture, what information was written about, but only because I attached it to the auditory lesson that was taught in conjunction with that page. I could even see the shapes of the paragraphs in my head, like puzzle pieces, but the words, undecipherable, meaningless. The problem being, You THINK you can read. You think you know the words when you look at them. Your brain doesn't actually register that they have no significance. When you finish the paragraph, you can't quite recall anything you read, no matter how many times you read it.

So, by the time I reached high school I was sort of burnt out on reading. I could have fallen by the wayside at that time, lost my passion for reading completely, if not for a dumb Christmas present. The Christmas I turned 14 my dad gave me a giant book for a present. It was bigger than the Bible! It was probably the first hard cover book I had owned. It sucked! Who buys a 14 year old girl a book for Christmas? The book was "It" by Stephen King and it not only renewed my passion for reading, and hooked me on Stephen King for life, it completely ruined my Winter break. At first I wasn't going to read it, but at the urging of my father to "just give it a try" I cracked open the cover. I was mesmerized. I had NEVER read anything like this. Horror. Graphic and frightening horror. A terrifying clown who eats children. Good God! I spent every waking moment with that book. I huddled in my bed night and day (with my closet doors closed tightly.) I made a sandwich with the book open on the counter. I dressed with the book laid open on my bed. I never attacked a book so veraciously as I did that book. And a whole new world was opened to me. Until that time books were pretty much about spunky little girls, and they all ended happily. I didn't realize there were other stories out there. After that I started reading again. Which was very lucky for me, because after that I read the second most important book of my life.

When I was about 15 I read "The Outsiders." I'll admit, I was inspired by a movie full of hot boys, (perhaps my first memory of thinking…"hmmmm. Boys are kinda hot.") But that book touched me in a way the movie hadn't. The writing was perfect. The characters were the most authentic I had ever read. They talked like real teenagers. They thought like I did. They felt like I did. There was a ragged honesty in their story that fascinated me. They were genuine. They were not so much characters, they were friends. They were like people I might actually know. This was when I learned about Voice. These characters had voices. Real voices that spoke to me. Inspired me. That's when I discovered the most amazing thing, it was written by a sixteen year old girl. A girl like me had not only breathed life into these characters, she had published a novel (four in fact.) I was in awe.

Later that year, my tenth grade English teacher Ms. Main asked us to write a character description. I described a boy who might have been found in this book because I was obsessed with it. When it was done I suddenly realized, I wanted to know this character's story. He had appeared in my head and he had started speaking to me. His voice, his story was in my head. I opened a spiral notebook and started writing what I was hearing-- what he was seeing and feeling. He quickly evolved into a secondary character when a spunky girl turned up in my story. I filled the first spiral notebook and I started another. I wrote and wrote.

Eventually a friend (There you are again Becky!) asked me if she could read it. I handed over the first notebook and kept writing. She read and made editor's notes. She offered observations and questions (but never direction.) She became my first audience quickly followed by my poor father. I would sit near him while he repaired the car or made dinner and read from my "novel." Let me be honest, it was horrible. I still have it and it was tragically awful. But Becky kept reading it and Dad kept listening, or at least pretending to listen (I do not think I'm a good enough mother to have listened to that crap for that long.) As our group of friends saw Becky and I swapping the notebooks they started asking to read it too. Multiple spiral notebooks circulated our group. Like a living soap opera my story grew, changed, rambled, and they read and discussed and encouraged me to write more. I had fans!

I knew then that I wanted to be a writer. My whole life had been grooming me for it. Like all young people I believed I could do it. I believed there was an audience for my voice. But like all young people life happens and derails our best laid plans, for better and for worse. I took another path and after I quit school my first year at college I abandoned my writing the way I had abandoned reading so many years before. I became busy living my own story and I didn't have the time to write someone else's. Except, I didn't stop hearing the voices. Characters tromped through my brain constantly, telling me their stories, introducing me to their friends and begging me to solve their problems.

While I stopped putting pen to paper, I never really stopped creating. I would have dialogs with them while I did laundry, and washed dishes, and drove my car. When we finally got a home computer I sat down and tried to write one of these stories but I was discouraged by my incessant need to edit and re-edit sections rather than move forward, seeking perfection rather than doing what I had as a teenager, and just letting it pour out, to be fixed later. By the time our computer finally gave up to the Blue Screen of death, and all my work was lost, I was so disheartened I couldn't start over.

Still, I couldn't make my brain stop making up stories. Stories I never shared with anyone. Every once in a while I would jot down a sentence that popped into my head. All over my house are small memo pads with strange scribbling that mean nothing to anyone but me. An observation, a line of dialog, a description. Some I cannot even recall what they meant, or who's story they were a part of, but I kept them. I kept them for some reason I didn't understand. I almost forgot about being a writer. I may have completely forgotten, except for these scraps of paper.

Then one day my children's school librarian quit and they couldn't find anyone to replace her. The PTA meeting I was at was discussing the option of possibly having a library run by parent volunteers. We were informed we couldn't do that, but if a parent wanted to go take the district test they could be hired by the school to be the librarian. Hmm. I could make a good librarian. Didn't I want to be a librarian when I was a kid? And I loved to read, even if all I ever had time for now were cheesy, "bodice ripper" romance novels. I volunteered to take the test which was only offered twice a year and signed up.

By the time the test came around our school had hired a librarian, but I figured, what the hell, and scored so well I was placed in the top position on the hiring list. I was placed almost immediately in a school library near my home and had a wonderful ten years there. Many of the books I loved as a child found their way to my library in those years. So did comic books, and books about skateboarding and guitars and paintball. I took a library full of unopened "classics" and filled it with things kids wanted to read. I wanted to inspire at least one child to the love of reading I enjoyed. I wanted one child to find their escape, or their identity, or their passion in a book I had helped them discover. I loved being an accidental librarian. All those years I had allowed my life to take a detour, and yet, here I was in the first job I ever wanted, (other than being a mom.)

Somewhere in those years I decided to write again. I had become a part of an online community, a message board of friends around the world. And some of these random strangers had made random remarks about my ability to share a vivid story in text. They encouraged me to start writing with more of a purpose. So I started over. Sometimes I struggled over writing something bigger on my computer, many stories with many beginnings on paper, but endings in my head. Unfinished. I decided I should write something smaller, shorter, just so I could actually finish something. Something like I wrote on the message boards. I seemed to be able to write short non-fiction essays about my experiences. I wrote about a pie. Not just any pie, but the pie an overwhelmed woman desired to save her sanity in an uncontrolled life. My life. A true, but humorously embellished account inspired by a line I had written on one of those scrapes of paper stuffed in a drawer. I edited and refined it and shared it with my community. The first intentional writing I had shared since my days in high school. It was received so well that I offered it to the community of people I knew in real life. I shopped it around to some online magazines, but having little understanding of the world of publishing, especially online, I gave up pretty early. But I challenged myself to write something else and about six months later I slow-churned a little piece about marriage and cars. Again, I gave up on doing anything with it, outside of sharing it with a few folks online.

Then I got sick, and sicker. When I was at my lowest possible place: sick, weak and discouraged, the universe decided to throw me another curve ball. The day before Thanksgiving two years ago I received a letter from the school district laying me off, taking my job and my benefits. I was pissed. And then I was ready to move forward. One of the reasons I had stopped writing, the thing I used most to discourage myself, was that I couldn't possibly really become a writer, because I wasn't educated enough. Whenever I read a book I liked I would read the "about the author" blurb in the back. I always hoped that one, just one, would say "under-educated housewife" but they never did. They were always people with Master's degrees. Sure Lana Turner could be discovered at a soda fountain, but writers seemed less lucky, and more educated. Apparently talent wasn't everything in the publishing world. They wanted credentials too.

When I found myself suddenly without a job and on the mend I had an epiphany of sorts. I HAD read a book where those credentials didn't apply. I had fallen in love with a book written by a 16 year old girl. A book so well written that it was commonly assigned reading in schools today. A book that had been turned into a movie which launched the careers of some of Hollywood's biggest names today. I started reading books about writing books, and I realized I knew a lot of these things already. I decided to take a college class. I started with that first online class and then continued to more risky face to face classes. Where I once felt incompetent as a young adult I suddenly felt exceedingly capable. Sure, I still struggle with the cursed semicolon. I don't know that I will ever figure that sucker out; and I have a tendency to overuse commas in run-on sentences, but I suddenly found something that had been missing from my life-- A Voice.

Something clicked and I realized that I was meant to be writing. It didn't really matter what, as long as I kept writing. I had a talent. I can't carry a tune in a bucket. Music is chicken scratch to my dyslexic eyes. (someone remind me to tell the story of my first music recital one day. It’s a riot!) I can't paint or sculpt or draw a stick figure with proper proportions, but I finally discovered my talent. I don't know why it took me so long. It was there all along. Maybe I just wasn't ready to accept it until now, but all those experiences, when laid out in sequence seem to tell the story of a writer waiting to become.

And here I am. A writer. Writing and being read. During this holiday season I decided to write a reflection on the greatest gift I ever received. My greatest gift wasn't just a book, it was all of them. It was the gift of reading; from the first home-made games to the massive novel I got for Christmas. It was every book where I saw myself as a character. Every book where I shivered with fear, cried with heartbreak, laughed with empathy or soared with passion. It was every book that added strength to my character and voice to my soul. So this Holiday season, when you are standing in a long line at Toys R Us or Target, make sure that somewhere in your cart is the greatest gift of all-- the gift of inspiration.

My American Voting Experience

2010-10-31T12:02:00.001-07:00

My son turned 18 this year, and is about to vote for the first time, so naturally I started thinking about my own voting experience. I didn’t grow up in a home where I recall politics being discussed openly like it is in my children’s home. Maybe it was because my parents were divorced when I was very young, and so these conversations never happened. I’m prone to think it is because my parents came from an age where your politics were considered private, and you just didn’t discuss it. If I had to venture a guess, I would have said my Dad was a Republican and my mom was a Democrat. Although, if you asked me now, I’d tell you exactly the opposite. Technically I think my dad may be a Libertarian now, but that’s a whole other ballgame. I have heard others speak about their own experiences and how they “switched teams” as they grew older. I’ve often wondered about the process that takes place, in order for that to happen. My own positions have never changed, but my political thinking has evolved significantly over the years. In some ways I miss the optimism of my young voter self, and in others I despise the naiveté of her ideology.

The year I became a member of the voting world was a Presidential election year. I recall primaries where a young Al Gore caught my attention. I laugh now, because this “young” man was around the age I am now. His age was of particular significance to me though, because in my lifetime it seemed only old decrypted men were Presidents, and I idealistically believed that youth would make a man a better choice. I don’t recall knowing too much else about him at the time. I was disappointed when he didn’t win the primaries (which I couldn’t vote in). Beyond this, I don’t have any recollection of how I actually voted, But I DO have a recollection of why I didn’t get to vote in the primaries, and it is probably the first lesson I learned.

Eighteen. Young, inexperienced, hopeful, on my own. Ah! Sweet adulthood. I was approached, somewhere, and given the opportunity to register. Because I was so full of idealistic hope, when it came time to select a party affiliation I wanted to be sure that I didn’t get pigeon-holed into a specific party, like the “old folks” did. *I* was an open-minded young voter of the future. I selected American Independent, because I was, after all, an American, and I wanted to be Independent. To be fair and in my defense, there weren’t as many third party choices back then, my government teacher never even covered what a third party was. I had no idea they existed. Also, there weren’t those little notes next to the party affiliations like there are now. Obviously I must not have been the only idiot to make this mistake, since now the paperwork is much clearer…right? So, needless to say, when it came time to vote in the primaries, I wasn’t allowed to vote for that young man, because he was not my party’s choice. It’s embarrassing to say that this had to be explained to me by some blue haired woman at our voting location. But she kindly explained what had happened, and gave me the paperwork to change it, explaining that I needed to instead state “undeclared” or some such, which I believe you had to write in at the time. Ok. Crisis somewhat averted. First lesson learned.

Now we entered the election, and in addition to electing my representatives and a President, there are a number of Propositional issues to grapple with, something else I don’t recall learning anything about in High School. I’m not actually sure I learned anything useful in that class come to think of it. A barrage of “vote yes on”/ “vote no on” commercials hit the airwaves. In most cases I felt like I had a pretty clear understanding of how I wanted to vote. But in one particular area I was having some trouble understanding the measure. So, I did what I think most young people do, I turned to my father and asked him. My father's response surprised me, still surprises me, and was so profound it has influenced my voting choices from that point forward more than any political or personal experience. His response was,

"I voted 'No' on that one."

"Ok. Why?"

"I didn't know what it was."

I was truly dumbfounded. The idea that a 'no' vote was the same as an abstaining vote was ludicrous. Why would he make a conscious vote against something, when what he really meant was, " I don't know." Or "I don't care?" Clearly someone cared enough to jump through all the hoops to put it up for a vote. It mattered to someone, even if it didn't matter to him personally. And a "no" vote counted. It counted against it. It counted as though an opinion had been formed, not as though he didn't care or didn't understand. My second lesson was learned.

From that point on I decided I would never vote without being informed at least minimally on as many issues as possible. And Oh Boy!-- is there a lot of information out there. Every day for months political flyers have been crammed into my mailbox. My TV and radio have been caught in an onslaught of political smear ads as well as programs aimed at "meeting the candidate" or "discussing the issues." Of course the real trick is sorting out the truth from the self-serving propaganda. And that's where most Americans get stuck.

As a young voter I was an idealist. My vote counted. It mattered to the free world which hole I punched; what choice I made. As an adult voter I am less enthusiastic. My choices seem limited and buried in lies. I have become frustrated with the whole process and everyone involved. I'm ready, like so many other Americans, to just throw in the towel and call it quits. My vote is just one in millions, meaningless, negated by someone else's-- by someone who didn't take all the time and energy to become informed; by someone who just voted the way their spouse or parent did; by someone who voted the way the guy on the radio told them to; or someone who voted 'no' because they didn't know what the measure was really all about. It just seems like such a frustrating waste of time. Why not just skip it? It's not like my vote matters.

And here lies the true flaw in the American voting experience. Voting is a not a privilege. Voting is not a right. I hear it all the time and while at heart these things are true, they are not the entire truth. Voting is my obligation. Voting is the responsibility of every American citizen. Voting is not a candy dish. We cannot just say "no thank you" because it's not the kind we like, or because we are on a diet, or because hard candy makes our teeth hurt. As an American it is my duty to stand up and make a declaration on my freedoms. Whatever that statement may be I am required to make it. I may be unhappy with the results of an election, but I may never just pass on the opportunity to participate.

Abstaining from a vote is a grave choice, not to be done because one is too lazy, or too busy, or too frustrated with the system. Abstaining from a vote is an actual conscious choice to not be heard-- to say nothing and accept the consequences. It is not a form of protest. It is the complete antithesis of a protest. It is whispering in an empty, soundproof room. The one true guarantee that your vote won't count, is if you can't be bothered to show up and cast it. No one will care that you are angry with the direction our country is moving or the limited choices of liars and fools, because no one will hear you.

Like all obligations, voting is hard and the rewards are not always clearly evident. It's hard at the end of a day to come home from work and prepare a healthy sit-down meal for my family. There is a lot of work involved. I have to pre-plan what we will have. I have to go to the grocery store and purchase what I need. I have to remember to defrost something in the morning before I leave. I have to be sure there are clean dishes to serve it on, assemble and cook it, and I have the responsibility of cleaning the mess up afterward. In the end I may feel there wasn't a lot to show for all my efforts. In the end, the people at my table may not thank me. They may not have liked my choice of what we had for dinner. They may have preferred McDonalds in front of the TV. And what the hell, McDonalds is fast and cheap and lacks all the effort of pre-planning and preparation. But my family can't survive off McDonalds every day. They won't be healthy. We won't have that opportunity to come together at our table and discuss our individual lives. And eventually we may become dangerously ill, with irreversible, detrimental damage to our body systems.

Being a voter means being an informed voter. It means finding as much unadulterated fact as possible and making as unbiased a choice as possible. It means doing the prep work ahead of time. And that's not always easy . It will require more than accepting what is served to me on TV or through my mailbox. I have to invest in the decisions I am making, by knowing what is being asked of me. I have to *gasp* read the nifty voter's pamphlet that is so kindly assembled for me with basic, factual, explanations of the measures being presented. I may even have to read the text of the measure as it is given to me in that booklet and decide for myself what it means. I may have to research the candidates. I may have to use my computer for something other than Facebook and email and I may have to go find information about a candidate--view his website, read about her history in both the political and non-political world. I may have to sort out the fact from the propaganda for myself. My vote doesn't just count. My vote is consequential and essential, because as an American voter, I am making a commitment to the decision I make. When I step into that little curtained booth I am not alone. I make my voice heard as a part of a chorus of voices. When I vote I am not just exercising my rights and privileges. I am accepting the responsibility of freedom.

A long time ago people waged a war and died in their own backyard so that I could have a say what happens in my country. I'm not sure I could do that today. And I am grateful I don't have to. All I have to do is show up and cast a vote. Whatever your opinions; whatever your party affiliation; whether you are conservative, moderate, liberal, or a complete anarchist; whether you have identified yourself that way, or been pigeon-holed by someone else-- be factually informed and make your voice heard. Step up and take your turn holding the flag of freedom. It is our duty as free Americans.

Oh Scarecrow, I Think I'll Miss My Mind Most of All!

2010-10-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

I've always had an amazing memory: photographic memory of pages from text books, verbatim recall of lectures, addresses and phone numbers I never had to write down, snippets of events dating back to my days as a toddler. I memorized my lines for the lead in a play in two days. I could look at the clothes I was wearing in a photo and tell you where we were, who was with us, what month it had been taken and most of the events that accompanied the picture. I knew an entire soliloquy from King Lear. I quoted lines from movies, and knew all the words to the most popular and obscure tunes. My mind had a seemingly infinite capacity for useless and temporary information. (Let's face it, how often was I going to be whipping that soliloquy out?) But apparently the human mind has limitations, and the brain does have a fill line, and I've reached it. New information need not apply.

Last night I went to the grocery store with a mental list of three items. I came home with eight items and only one from the original list. The worst part is I knew I was forgetting something before I left the market. I am actually always in a state of vague forgetfulness now. I never go anywhere or arrive home without that familiar, "Did I forget something?" feeling hanging at the fringe of my thoughts. I can't sing along to my favorite songs anymore, because I forget the words…even the chorus, between verses! Not only can I not retell a joke, I can't recall any significant portion of the joke so someone else can retell it. I just stand there saying,

"Come on, you know, the one with the guy…and the other guy. The one that guy told the other night."

"You mean your Dad?"

"Yeah! That one!"

The worst part of this condition is that I still have all the useless memory intact. Want to know the address and phone number of the house I grew up in, the one I haven't lived in for 23 years? Want to know the full name of the girl dating the guy I had a crush on 20 years ago? I can give you those things, but don't ask me why I'm standing in the kitchen with that lost look again, because that I can't answer. Half the time I can't even tell you what day of the week it is.

My own condition has gotten so bad that these days I can't recall the answer to a question I just asked. As a matter of fact I can't even recall if I actually asked the question, or just thought it in my head and then forgot to ask it. So I ask again, much to the displeasure of the exasperated family member who has now answered on three separate occasions. I use the wrong names for the members of my household. Yes I know which kid I'm talking to, but my brain spits the wrong one out anyway. I put things in a "safe place" so they won't get lost and then promptly forget where the "safe place" was, although oddly I do have a vague sense of putting it somewhere safe. Then there are those times I pull into my driveway and suddenly realize I don't actually remember driving home. I mean, I was sort of aware. It's not like I blacked out or something. It's just I don't really recall my brain being an active participant in the effort.

That's it. My brain is closed. There is no room for new information. No way to get rid of the old useless files. I'm like an outdated computer. I now understand why old people keep telling the same stories over and over. They are either the only stories they still remember, or they must be the newest story and, afraid of losing it, they continue to tell it over and over again, hoping it will become memory.

So if you greet me in the mall and I smile at you with that panicked "I have no idea who this woman is!" look, don't take offense. You just didn't make the cut. The expiration date has come and gone on my memory and you fell into the overflow. It's not you. It's me. Even if we have been sisters for the last 40 years.

Anyway...What was I saying?

Too Close To The Freeway?

2010-10-12T19:47:00.000-07:00

When I was around 15 or 16 years old my sister and I were good friends with another set of sisters the same ages. We would spend a lot of our time out running around together at the movies or eating out, like teenagers do. I don't know about the other girls but my sister and I had a fairly liberal curfew, although at the time I know it seemed extremely limiting. I think it was 11 it may even have been midnight, I can't recall. But within those hours we had some wonderful and ridiculous times. We hung out at the Café 50's or Bob's Big Boy. We hung out in large crowds and small groups and sometimes just the four of us. But one night has always stuck out in my mind, and it eventually became one of the best tools I have in my parenting arsenal.

The four of us were sitting around in my sister's room which she had recently converted to her own "living room"--complete with sofa bed, end tables and spinning chair-- when we decided we wanted to go out and get some dessert. It was about 9 or 9:30 on a weekend night. No problem. Somehow I ended up chosen as the delegate sent to inform my mother of our plans. I recall finding her in the kitchen doing some never-ending mom task. I told her that we wanted to go over to Baker's Square and get some pie. She said No. Never one to really accept a "No" as anything other than a request for more information, I pressed further. Why not? I don't recall the discussion lasting long because my Mom's answer stumped me so profoundly. Her response, "It's too close to the freeway."

To this day I have no idea what that meant. I'm pretty sure I argued a bit, trying to establish what the freeway had to do with our inability to obtain dessert. I know I made the point that we had been to this Baker's Square a million times, and it had always been located next to the freeway, but in the end it was one of those things I just had to walk away from without any satisfaction. I remember walking back into my sister's room and announcing that we couldn't go. When asked why, I told them "It's too close to the freeway." We all sat around for the rest of the evening hypothesizing what correlation there could be between our safety, which had to be the X-factor, and the location of a freeway to a Baker's Square. We did the math. Was a car going to fall off into the building and kill us all? Was some freeway bum going to jump us in the parking lot? Was she afraid we'd pull a Thelma and Louise squared and take off spontaneously for parts unknown, after robbing the Baker's Square? In the end the other girls left early, and probably went to get dessert, and my sister and I were left to wonder. I don't know if it has ever even crossed her mind, but for years it was one of my favorite "My mom is crazy" stories. Until that strange twist-of-fate day about 18 years later, when it all made sense.

It was a hot summer day. The kids were all out of school. Hot. Bored. Cruising the cul-de-sac looking for something to do, when my oldest daughter, about 13 at the time, hit upon the solution. She and the neighbor girl decided they wanted to walk around the corner to the 7-11 for some snacks and air conditioning. For a lot of reasons this didn't sound like a good idea to me. It meant these two small girls would be out on the major street by themselves without any means of contact or protection (these were the pre-cell phone years.) They had walked it before, in larger groups or with the older brother of the friend, but never alone. It was the middle of a week day. Not a lot of people out there paying attention, everyone in a hurry. Additionally, there was a tattoo shop in the same mini-mall as the 7-11. Outside the 7-11 there was a pretty steady string of vagrants and outcasts just hanging around with their brown paper bags. There were a million and one alarms that went off in my head. Not all, if any, were even reasonable, but there was that core instinct that it was just a bad idea.

Of course the teenage girls did not share my core instinct. They thought I was over-protective. Paranoid. Controlling. Unreasonable. Crazy. Yep it sounded pretty familiar. I suggested they walk the other direction to the doughnut shop. This did not help my reputation. The doughnut shop, as they quickly pointed out, was further away. Albeit on quieter streets and with less disreputable ambiance. It only made me appear crazier to them. Every objection I had was met with a more than reasonable response. I really couldn't even argue my point successfully. It was just a feeling, how do you justify that? In the end I watched them walk away in the same confusion and frustration I had felt and there was nothing I could do about it except to call on the oft over-used "You'll understand when you have kids of your own."

I've always tried to have good communication with my children. I've never been a parent fond of the "Because I said so," rationale-- accept in the case of my younger son who just exhausts one's ability to reason-- a parent's greatest revenge. I wasn't comfortable with this empty space left between my daughter and I, where she thought I was being arbitrary and unfair (a space I have become much more comfortable with over the years.) Later that evening I sat down to try to explain the inexplicable.

I started out telling her my "Too Close To The Freeway" story. I explained to her that to this day I have no idea what was bothering my mother that night, but that somewhere inside her she had to have been feeling something she couldn't voice in a way I could understand. When you are young you are invincible. Nothing bad will ever happen to you. The bad things all happen far away. You are insulated-- protected from their impact. Hear no evil, see no evil…evil doesn't exist in your world. When you are a parent you know different. One mistake, one single moment in time can change the course of a life. Can end a life. Can devastate a child, a family, a community. And it all hinges on you. That's a pretty damn big burden. And as parents, the only thing we really have to rely on is instinct. How much does that suck?

We talked about instinct. We talked about how humans are the only animal conditioned to ignore their best instincts, often to disastrous results. We talked about those moments of intuition, those moments you hesitate and hear that little internal alarm and just know something without any rational reason. We hypothesized about why a person would suppress those feelings, what did they hope to gain or achieve? It turns out, she understood these experiences already, which was wonderful to know. We made a connection. She understood the feeling, if not my specific concerns.

From there it was cake. I was able to explain to her that some days in her young life I would have these feelings. I wouldn't be able to rationalize them to her because they may not even be rational. I promised I would make an effort to weigh which ones really we're over-protective paranoia and which were really legitimate instincts. I promised her I would always be honest with her about what I was feeling, and I would allow her to try and reason with me, but that sometimes I would just need to say no to something because it was Too Close to the Freeway.

Over the years it became our code for the feelings we could not explain. She generously accepted it as a response on several occasions after that, without much fuss. I generously caved on the things she could reason successfully on several occasions, with much fuss. And on one or two occasions, as she became older and wasn't ready to share a feeling, she would simply say "Mom. It's just Too Close to the Freeway." The other kids don't appreciate it as much as she did. Like always, they didn't get the full experience. But it still works. They all understand my craziness, and I can put up with their teasing, most of the time. Eventually, they all got to walk to the 7-11 alone with friends, thanks to her perseverance and "Never say never" attitude. In the end, what may have been one of the most confounding and confusing moments in my younger life, became one of my most valuable and inspirational moments as a parent.

Conquering The Throne: Why Men Can Never Truly Understand Women

2010-10-01T23:53:00.000-07:00

A few years ago my husband and I went out for a lovely night of dinner and a movie to celebrate our Anniversary. Being a special occasion, I dressed up pretty in a skirt and low heels, and enjoyed a little drink with dinner. Apparently I was not the designated driver this night. I'm not much of a drinker, so I didn't indulge in more than a second glass. Although, not being a drinker, one is really all it takes to loosen me up and two is comfortably tipsy, while still being completely coherent-- which is what makes this story so much fun.

After our nice meal we headed straight off to the movie theater. We weren't running late, but we wanted to be sure we got there in time to get parked, buy tickets, get good seats and unscramble the Coca-Cola movie word . Since we had left the restaurant immediately, I had not had the opportunity to visit their fine facilities. I was feeling pretty good at this point but I really had to go. Once in the theater I asked my hubby to wait while I made a quick pit-stop before the film. Unlike most places where large groups assemble, there were plenty of available stalls in the impressively clean Ladies Room. I selected mine, entered, and prepared to conduct my business.

I began by checking the toilet paper roll to be sure it was abundant-- not that I needed that much, but one never wants to get stuck without some to spare and some to share. Next I withdrew a tissue paper seat cover, following the cleverly provided directions of "Pull up, then pull down," for those unsure of how to access these items. As if there was some alternate way you could do it. Now, if you tried to wrap a present with this frail stuff it would fall apart just from being breathed on to heavily, but here in the stall it becomes an obstacle of great fortitude. When you attempt to detach that one little un-perforated piece on the toilet seat cover you end up ripping the whole thing to shreds (except the little hook part which remains intact.) I am always amazed that despite the bowl shaped cut out, that one little attached piece seems to be held on with some super cosmic force, which if harnessed could be utilized to build a lightweight space shuttle. (I'd like to note here that there are actually entire online discussions as to whether it should be placed Waxie side-up or down, but I'm not sure I've ever been lucky enough to reach the point where this decision was a factor.)

I finished wrestling with my shreds of toilet seat cover just in time-- as I was beginning the infamous pee-pee dance. Why it helps to dance around on your tippy toes, hopping from foot to foot while humming softly, is a scientific mystery baffling experts to this day. But, it works. I neatly arranged my strips of tissue paper out on the seat and turned to wiggle out of my panty hose. As I tossed up the back of my skirt I allowed the "Big Brother" automatic toilet flusher to catch a glimpse of light. WHOOSH! Instinctively I made a desperate grab for the coveted seat cover uttering a slow-motion, action-movie "Nooooo," as it was sucked down the drain with hurricane force. I could actually feel the breeze left in its wake. I couldn't help but giggle at my own reaction. As though I could have used the soaking wet thing had I managed to rescue it from its demise. So there I was, giggling and humming softly as I danced around the stall and attacked another seat cover.

At this point I would like to make a public service announcement by taking a moment to address those ladies among you who avoid this part of the experience. Instead taking this opportunity to combine two functions into one--conducting your daily exercise routine with a power squat, hovering over the toilet. You're not going to catch anything by sitting on the seat, especially if you use a cover. YOU are the one creating the possible contamination by peeing all over the damn thing and then just walking away. Sit your ass down. I do not want to wipe urine off the toilet in my own home. I sure as hell don't want to clean up after a stranger! *We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog*

So, I finally had my seat covered in a collage of tissue a second time and attempted to turn around again but the toilet gods had other plans and immediately my seat cover was snatched away in a whirlwind before my eyes. WHOOSH! Apparently this was a sensitive little red eye, keen on keeping my stall clean. But rather than just change stalls I decided to accept the challenge. The gauntlet had been thrown, so to speak, and I was picking it up in fits of laughter. The alcohol may or may not have played a part in this decision. You may judge for yourself.

The next time I made my attempt I thought I had outsmarted my worthy adversary. This time after laying out my tattered rag-lets I continued to face my opponent. I pulled my skirt up behind me, slowly, readying my sneak attack. I wrapped my skirt around my waist, as is necessary if you don't want the ends to take a dip with you, and held it close to my body with my elbows. Next I placed a few fingers on the cover near the front of the toilet. Cautiously I began my rotation keeping my fingers on the seat. I stepped carefully over my own arm so I was straddling it, bent over with my arm between my legs like a lonely Twister player-- right hand yellow. Now here is where I *know* the alcohol played a part. Never a pro at working the heels I wobbled ever so slightly, overcompensated in my attempt to regain balance, fell forward and slammed my face into the stall door. WHOOOSH!

How I managed not to just pee myself while I struggled up the wall in hysterical laughter I have no idea. I was aware that there had to be other women in this place, but none having quite as good a time as I was, and all probably leaving the restroom looking over their shoulders in bewilderment. I am certain my husband had to know I was the culprit. How could he not?

Determined, I faced my foe again, dancing and prepping in an increasingly smaller space, hunched over, honing my skills, skirt pulled up over my shoulders. I quickly placed the hastily ripped pieces of tissue on the plastic seat giggling manically. (I admit to having considered the lick and stick method.) This time I held the tissue to the seat but did not reattempt the failed Twister maneuver. I rotated in a crouch, my seat level with the toilet's, with my hand to my side and then behind me. I slowly slid over the tissue, barely feeling it brush my flesh until I was in place right above it. I released my hold and plopped down on my throne just as the toilet flushed, WHOOOSH, spitting and snarling all over me as I found my relief and victory simultaneously. The monster roared one more time while I adjusted, twice while I redressed and one final time as I opened the stall door. I kept my composure as I exited, resisting my urge to stick my tongue out at the defeated, looking around like everyone else for that raving lunatic. I would have made my escape clean too if not for the sink.

After waving my hands furiously under the faucet trying to illicit a spray of water, I turned to use another sink. As soon as I removed my hands water spewed out of the faucet but stopped as I dove back toward it. Clearly this was some ally of the toilet, out for revenge. I threw my hands up and laughed aloud for all to see. I walked down the line waving and poking at sinks. Eventually I was able to find a renegade sympathizer and after much coaxing was allowed to wash my hands. I avoided the mechanized hand dryer completely, leaving that mission for a return adventure. I was pretty sure at this point it could take me. Smiling broadly I exited the Ladies Room and walked toward my husband who had prudently found a bench to wait on. He rose and innocently asked the question I know I would have asked.
"What took so long?"
I tried to explain, but how could I possibly make clear in detail the quest and triumph-- and not sound like a complete idiot? A man could never truly understand. I had fought the porcelain god and won-- for now. It's not just professional inequality, social pressure to meet an unattainable norm, monthly cycles, child birth, and restrictive undergarments. Sometimes, as women, we have to battle challenges men could never begin to imagine.

I Thought He Was In The Living Room!

2010-09-25T00:05:00.000-07:00

I'm not a particularly religious person-- meaning I don't follow any traditional organized religion specifically and I'm disinclined toward the idea of a supreme leader running this crazy show. I am certainly spiritual, but I have culled my beliefs from a variety of sources, Eastern and Western. I have even stood in a field with a group of women and howled at the moon (I have GOT to tell that story one day!) I was raised in the Judeo-Christian world which left me with Santa and the Easter Bunny, but not much else (12 years of Catholic school wasted.) From Eastern religions I incorporated the concepts of Zen, meditation, and the belief in some sort of non-specific rebirth or reincarnation. I don't think this is my first time here, and I'm pretty sure it won't be my last-- but I don't spend too much time focused on what that means or why. I just accept the challenges of this journey. The moon howling thing didn't give me much other than a really good laugh, but I can certainly appreciate the value in that! Although I'll admit to being a bit concerned that with enough wine it would turn into someone's "Dear Penthouse," letter. Long and short, my own "spiritual" beliefs are an eclectic hodge-podge of varied accumulated ideas that meet my needs nicely.

One of these "ideas" is Kharma. I recall learning a smidgeon about Kharma in my High School World Religions class, but it wasn't until my adult life that I really embraced the idea that my unhappiness was connected to my own negative energy output. Not simply moral consequences of my "bad deeds" but a complex balancing of the universe. Once I started looking for it, I could see the chain reactions of random unrelated events. I began to make small efforts to improve situations around me. In the "take a penny, leave a penny" world I started trying to leave more than I took- and I decided to look for positive possibilities anywhere I felt negativity. Not a bad way to go no matter what your religious preference.

Originally I believed, vainly, that Kharma was punishing me for something a former self did, it certainly couldn't have been related to the current version of me. However, I have learned I suffer from (or benefit from, depending on your view) Instant Kharma-- a very immediate experience. Which brings us to Labor Day weekend, or more accurately the days leading up to Labor Day. Life has a tendency to build up. I'm sure everyone has felt it-- all your unresolved emotional shit has piled up around your soul, crushing you internally with its weight and blocking out the light. Despite what you may read here, which tends to be the extremes of my existence, life is not always love and roses. As a matter of fact, it is rarely love and roses. It's mostly just-- get from today to tomorrow-- especially in those times when I forget to appreciate today, for today's sake.

My marriage was at one of those moments. When you are in a new relationship you make an effort to meet an ideal; iron out all your little messes. When you have been in one for awhile, and all the messes are the same repetitive ones, you make less of an effort and mostly just maneuver around them. When maneuvering you tend to suppress and ignore a bunch of bits and pieces against your better judgment. You stuff it away down deep in an effort to make life easier. If you don't confront it you can survive another day. At least that's the theory at the time, but we all know different.

When I was a little girl I described it as a trash can inside me. Every day I stuff some more garbage, some bad feeling or slight, deep inside it. I continue to do this until the trash can is so full it just explodes, leaving an apocalyptic, littered, war-zone in its wake, but in some cathartic way empting the trash can. As a young adult I made an effort to just not fill the trash can. I tried to deal with each issue and feeling as I encountered them. And I was much more stable and happy. But, life got busy; it got easier to ignore, and harder to find a place or time to share those experiences; and my trash can, much bigger now, began to fill.

It ends with the first few pieces of trash, precariously balanced on the edge, pushing at the lid and overflowing one piece at a time. Stressed, tired, frustrated, unappreciated, invisible and unloved tumbled out slowly in snide comments and deliberate selfishness. Soon followed by button-pushing, impatience and bitterness, my specialties. Finally followed by pre-explosion, high alert--Bitch Extremis. (The lesser known, but much feared, Transformer.) This played out over a matter of weeks. Months? Years? I don't know, but it came to a head right before Labor Day.

At the beginning of the week, exhausted from holding it all in, I started to freely allow pieces of rubbish to escape. By the middle of the week I opted for tirade. Boom! I said all the things I needed to say. I said all the things I wanted to say. I said all the things I should have said sooner. I said all the things I never should have said at all. At my most extreme I was vicious and ugly. Most of it was true, at least in the moment. Some I wanted to be true. Some was intended to provoke a reaction, any reaction. Some I can't ever take back, but I wish I could.

The hardest part of arguing with my husband is that it's fairly one-sided (completely one-sided.) I can yell, scream, rant, rave, tantrum, sob, curse, threaten; it doesn't really matter, his reaction is always to revert inside, or in laymen's terms "ignore" me--or at least he pretends to. Sometimes a "good" fight can be cathartic, so it's rather frustrating and leaves you feeling desperately unheard and dissatisfied when this happens, which may be the point-- what a dirty trick!

At the end of the week we had just stopped talking, except for the occasional under the breath nasty remark from me (although I'm not sure he noticed.) Sometimes it's hard to find a place and a time to confront these things in a busy family life. Two people are never alone together long enough to say what needs to be said and so I had not only lost it, but I had said these ugly things in front of my children, something I have always tried to avoid. They were the collateral damage of my explosion. (Forgive me.)

Finally Thursday night, while driving our silent car home from school where my husband had come to claim my ungrateful ass (yes I see the irony now,) I pulled to the side of the road and parked the car outside some stranger's home. I took the time to express myself more appropriately, and to hear the same responses I always hear, which left me with a hopeless void. If you can't live with the way things are, and nothing ever changes, what do you do, where do you go, how do you survive without destroying the other person, do you have a right to? Friday just passed, like another lost day. Unable to sleep, yet again, I stayed up until six am, just…done.

I was awakened Saturday morning-ish by my younger son telling me my brother-in-law was at the door and needed me. My nephew's birthday was that afternoon and I mentally tried to remember if some arrangements had been made to pick up tables and chairs or ice-chests. He probably talked to my husband and I never got the message. Typical.

"Where's Daddy?" I mumbled sleepily.

"I don't know. He's not here. I just woke up when I heard the door."

"Ok. Tell him I'll be there in a minute."

I sighed that heavy, annoyed huff you do when you feel put upon and made my few angry remarks in my own head about not being told anyone was going to be needing anything and how I'm the only one around here who ever does anything, as I got "dressed." I could hear them talking in the living room from the hallway.

I poked my head out and inquired "What's up?"

"Your husband got arrested. You have to come with me to pick up your car." My brother-in-law doesn't really mince words and seemed slightly amused to be delivering this news.

"What?"

"Your husband got arrested. You have to come with me to pick up your car." Much more helpful. Thanks.

"I thought he was in the living room." Clearly I was wrong!

My brother-in-law laughed, "That should be the title of the blog you write about this." (You're welcome man, consider this your dedication.)

On the surreal ride to my car he explained that apparently everyone was asleep at my house when my husband tried to call, so he had finally called my sister's house. He had been pulled over while out on an errand because our registration was expired. The cops found a failure to appear warrant for him and kindly did not impound our only car, instead allowing him to call someone and hand off the keys. They were not even sure the warrant was serviceable. We had not paid the registration in May because…well, we were too poor, like most other people today, and when it came down to food and shelter over registration, we picked food and shelter. My husband had gotten the FTA for an old traffic ticket. He had originally appeared and made arrangements for community service, but had another heart attack and was hospitalized right around his return court date and had never followed up. (In all fairness he still hadn't done the service so he probably would not have fared better had he been able to show up in court.)

Suddenly everything came into sharp focus. He is not a well man. His heart function is only 20%. He had been sick this week. The Doctor up-ed his medication on Friday and told him he may need to go back into the hospital this weekend if he couldn't breathe better. I knew he would be upset, maybe panicked. That would not be good for his heart, for his blood sugars. The fact that the car was in a Carl's Jr. parking lot led me to believe he may not have had the healthiest breakfast, if he had eaten at all. I just wanted to hear his voice, to know he was ok. To make him feel better. To make me feel better. To take back the ugly things I had said to him. He gets a phone call, right?

I went home and waited for a few hours before I started making phone calls. I tracked him down just after he had been booked and left one local station for another. At least I knew a few things, I knew where he was, sort of, and that he was alive. I also knew his bail was $35,000. YIKES! If I had that kind of money I would have paid the registration AND the ticket. Even if I had enough to scrape up the 10% for a bail bond it wouldn't have mattered. At that particular moment he was holding all our money. Whatever cash we had was on him, as was the ATM card. Ah Kharma.

Eventually I got a call. He was calm, but I could hear the edges of nervousness in his voice, the way you do with family; when you know "I'm fine" really means "I'm not." I could tell he was sad, worried, unhappy and unwell. He informed me they were moving him to the Downtown LA Twin Towers building because it had the medical facility to administer treatment should he need it. This is a double edged sword, because while medical care is important, Twin Towers is not a good place. This is where they keep the gang-bangers, druggies, and all the crazies with something to prove. He knew we couldn't afford the bail. He asked me to call his cousin, who is a DA and find out what happens now. I suggested he "have heart pains" hoping they would take him to the hospital instead. He either didn't understand what I was suggesting or just wasn't sure what to do. We left it there. He was gone that quickly, and I had just as many unanswered questions and concerns. Neither one of us felt better.

I called his cousin. She is a wonderful woman who has probably dispensed more legal advice to us that anyone else. She told me she would call the prison and talk to him, and see how he was and tell him what to do now. Yes they would "treat" him if he had a problem, but it would be in the prison hospital, not a regular one, that was why they took him downtown. No, if he had a heart attack or some other emergency, no one would contact me. Omg! No one would even contact me. I wouldn't even know if something happened to him. She informed me I would not hear from him until Tuesday, when he was arraigned because Monday was…of course, a holiday. After 5, I went ahead and took the kids to my sister's house for my nephew's birthday. When I got home I had missed his unexpected phone call. I was kicking myself. I had no idea why he had called because Time Warner won't accept collect calls from the LA jail. Who knew? So there was just a recording telling me he had tried to call and that if I wanted to talk to him I could call (888)23……ARGH! My machine cut off the rest of the recording. Finally Sunday morning I got a repeat call and placed money in a phone account for him, of course there was no way to let him know this.

I didn't leave my house for the rest of the weekend. I sat with my phone in my lap. I showered with my phone. I fruitlessly attempted to sleep with my phone. I waited for it to ring, and I dreaded the possibility. I imagined horrible scenarios like you do when your kids are late for curfew, where you know it's unrealistic, but since you are no longer living in the land of reality as you know it, everything is possible. By Sunday I had stopped bothering to get dressed. By Monday I don't think I even brushed my hair, I may have eaten. All I could think about was how those things I said were in his head. Put there by me. Those may be the last significant words we shared. How awful. How regrettable. How useless.

Life went on around me. The kids came and went, doing their thing, being their normal selves. They have learned to function at all levels of crisis with ease. They know I'm honest with them. They'll know if there is something they need to know or worry about, until then, I'll do the worrying for all of us. My youngest son (the older one was away for the weekend ) helped me find some light. He watched movies with me, he made jokes, and he made up funny prison nicknames for us to call him when he got home. The phone call never came. I don't think I have ever gone four days without talking to my husband. I missed him. I loved him, and I missed him and I wanted him home safe with me. We have had other scary events, the heart attacks, the strokes, but this time I had those unbearable words hanging between us.

Tuesday finally came. Tuesday morning passed into Tuesday afternoon. My mother-in-law called late in the afternoon. He had called her, thinking maybe he could get a call accepted there. He had been "released" with time served as his cousin had said. His debt and infraction were taken care of, he just had to "stay out of trouble for a year." Not a problem. Of course, "release" was a vague thing. He had to be transported back to the prison, and processed to be released. They would dump him out on the street at that point, after returning his wallet, clothes and shoelaces (because apparently there was a risk they would support his weight should he try to hang himself over his traffic ticket despair.) As we passed into Wednesday I tired of being complacent. I took to the internet and started looking for a way to find out where he was, or how long it would take. I discovered a real-time tracking system for inmates so for hours I played Bubble Town and watched the minutes tick by, waiting for "No Release Information" to change. Finally I called the jail around 2 am to inquire. The friendly officer told me he had been transferred to the release facility and it should only be a few (up to 12) more hours before I heard from him. Hmmm.

But I couldn't let go of the hope I would hear from him soon. Instinct told me it would be soon, so I continued to wait, popping bubbles and refreshing the prisoner status screen. About an hour later the status magically changed. Released 2:58 am. Now what? I called his mom and filled her in, knowing she was waiting up too. About ten minutes later I heard his voice. Tired, but upbeat, positive and reassuring. We worked out a plan to get him home which did not require me driving alone through Prisonland at 3am. And two hours later my husband was in the car with me on the way home, chatting about his adventure and all the friends he had made (yes, they exchanged phone numbers, don't ask!) We had apparently had very different weekends, but we had both arrived at the same place. Together again and certain that this was the way we preferred to be.

If you can't live with the way things are, and nothing ever changes, what do you do, where do you go, how do you survive without destroying the other person, do you have a right to? For us, the answer was Kharma. Having taken the journey to the strange world of "what if?"-- having stepped through the looking glass, traveled on the tornado, been trapped on the Death Star-- we both knew what we would be missing if we lived there permanently. And neither of us was ready for that. It's never going to be perfect. We're going to forget again for sure. But we're going to try not to. For now, he is taking his medication and trying to do better at taking care of "us." I am trying to be better at being grateful for the time we have, and I will be careful about the things I say in anger, because I know second chances are rare, and we have had more than our fair share, and one day, I may not get the chance to take them back.

Message received, Kharma.

Queen of the Banned

2010-09-14T21:20:00.000-07:00

          As a (former) Children's Librarian I always try to draw attention to Banned Books Week (September 25- October 2, 2010.) I am 100% against all types of censorship-- books, film, music et al. I often find most people are unaware that book banning and challenging still goes on today. I also find most people are shocked by the materials being challenged. At the end of this blog is the ALA's list of Top 100 Challenged Books for this Decade and a link to the 100 Most Challenged Classics. How many have you read? In the past I have always made an effort to select a book from the list and do my part to fight censorship by reading it. I encourage you to at very least, share the list.

          Finally, this week I find it necessary to share the words of someone else; someone who can say it better, and from experience. Please read this wonderful introduction to "Places I Never Meant To Be"-- a book with short stories written by oft banned authors-- written by Judy Blume, Queen of the Banned.

Excerpt from
Places I Never Meant To Be
Original Stories By Censored Writers
Edited by Judy Blume
(Published by Simon and Shuster, 1999)

Introduction
by Judy Blume

          When I was growing up I'd heard that if a movie or book was "Banned in Boston" everybody wanted to see it or read it right away. My older brother, for example, went to see such a movie -- The Outlaw, starring Jane Russell -- and I wasn't supposed to tell my mother. I begged him to share what he saw, but he wouldn't. I was intensely curious about the adult world and hated the secrets my parents, and now my brother, kept from me.

          A few years later, when I was in fifth grade, my mother was reading a novel called A Rage to Live, by John O'Hara, and for the first time (and, as it turned out, the only time) in my life, she told me I was never to look at that book, at least not until I was much older. Once I knew my mother didn't want me to read it, I figured it must be really interesting!

          So, you can imagine how surprised and delighted I was when, as a junior in high school, I found John O'Hara's name on my reading list. Not a specific title by John O'Hara, but any title. I didn't waste a minute. I went down to the public library in Elizabeth, New Jersey, that afternoon -- a place where I'd spent so many happy hours as a young child, I'd pasted a card pocket on the inside back cover of each book I owned -- and looked for A Rage to Live. But I couldn't find it. When I asked, the librarian told me that book was restricted. It was kept in a locked closet, and I couldn't take it out without written permission from my parents.

          Aside from my mother's one moment of fear, neither of my parents had ever told me what I could or could not read. They encouraged me to read widely. There were no "Young Adult" novels then. Serious books about teenagers were published as adult novels. It was my mother who handed me To Kill a Mockingbird and Anne Frank's Diary of a Young Girl when they were first published.

         By the time I was twelve I was browsing in the bookshelves flanking the fireplace in our living room where, in my quest to make sense of the world, I discovered J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, fell in love with the romantic tragedies of Thomas Hardy and the Brontë sisters, and overidentified with "Marjorie Morningstar."

          But at the Elizabeth Public Library the librarian didn't care. "Get permission in writing," she told me. When I realized she was not going to let me check out A Rage to Live, I was angry. I felt betrayed and held her responsible. It never occurred to me that it might not have been her choice.

         At home I complained to my family, and that evening my aunt, the principal of an elementary school, brought me her copy of A Rage to Live. I stayed up half the night reading the forbidden book. Yes, it was sexy, but the characters and their story were what kept me turning the pages. Finally, my curiosity (about that book, anyway) was satisfied. Instead of leading me astray, as my mother must have feared, it led me to read everything else I could find by the author.

          All of which brings me to the question What is censorship? If you ask a dozen people you'll get twelve different answers. When I actually looked up the word in The Concise Columbia Encyclopedia I found this definition: "[The] official restriction of any expression believed to threaten the political, social, or moral order." My thesaurus lists the following words that can be used in place of ban (as in book banning): Forbid. Prohibit. Restrict. But what do these words mean to writers and the stories they choose to tell? And what do they mean to readers and the books they choose to read?

          I began to write when I was in my mid-twenties. By then I was married with two small children and desperately in need of creative work. I wrote Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret right out of my own experiences and feelings when I was in sixth grade. Controversy wasn't on my mind. I wanted only to write what I knew to be true. I wanted to write the best, the most honest books I could, the kinds of books I would have liked to read when I was younger. If someone had told me then I would become one of the most banned writers in America, I'd have laughed.

          When Margaret was published in 1970 I gave three copies to my children's elementary school but the books never reached the shelves. The male principal decided on his own that they were inappropriate for elementary school readers because of the discussion of menstruation (never mind how many fifth- and sixth-grade girls already had their periods). Then one night the phone rang and a woman asked if I was the one who had written that book. When I replied that I was, she called me a communist and hung up. I never did figure out if she equated communism with menstruation or religion.

          In that decade I wrote thirteen other books: eleven for young readers, one for teenagers, and one for adults. My publishers were protective of me during those years and didn't necessarily share negative comments about my work. They believed if I didn't know some individuals were upset by my books, I wouldn't be intimidated.

          Of course, they couldn't keep the occasional anecdote from reaching me: the mother who admitted she'd cut two pages out of Then Again, Maybe I Won't rather than allow her almost thirteen-year-old son to read about wet dreams. Or the young librarian who'd been instructed by her male principal to keep Deenie off the shelf because in the book, Deenie masturbates. "It would be different if it were about a boy," he'd told her. "That would be normal."

          The stories go on and on but really, I wasn't that concerned. There was no organized effort to ban my books or any other books, none that I knew of, anyway. The seventies were a good decade for writers and readers. Many of us came of age during those years, writing from our hearts and guts, finding editors and publishers who believed in us, who willingly took risks to help us find our audience. We were free to write about real kids in the real world. Kids with feelings and emotions, kids with real families, kids like we once were. And young readers gobbled up our books, hungry for characters with whom they could identify, including my own daughter and son, who had become avid readers. No mother could have been more proud to see the tradition of family reading passed on to the next generation.

          Then, almost overnight, following the presidential election of 1980, the censors crawled out of the woodwork, organized and determined. Not only would they decide what their children could read but what all children could read. It was the beginning of the decade that wouldn't go away, that still won't go away almost twenty years later. Suddenly books were seen as dangerous to young minds. Thinking was seen as dangerous, unless those thoughts were approved by groups like the Moral Majority, who believed with certainty they knew what was best for everyone.

          So now we had individual parents running into schools, waving books, demanding their removal -- books they hadn't read except for certain passages. Most often their objections had to do with language, sexuality, and something called "lack of moral tone."

          Those who were most active in trying to ban books came from the "religious right" but the impulse to censor spread like a contagious disease. Other parents, confused and uncertain, were happy to jump on the bandwagon. Book banning satisfied their need to feel in control of their children's lives. Those who censored were easily frightened. They were afraid of exposing their children to ideas different from their own. Afraid to answer children's questions or talk with them about sensitive subjects. And they were suspicious. They believed if kids liked a book, it must be dangerous.

          Too few schools had policies in place enabling them to deal with challenged materials. So what happened? The domino effect. School administrators sent down the word: Anything that could be seen as controversial had to go. Often books were quietly removed from school libraries and classrooms or, if seen as potential troublemakers, were never purchased in the first place. These decisions were based not on what was best for the students, but what would not offend the censors.

          I found myself at the center of the storm. My books were being challenged daily, often placed on restricted shelves (shades of Elizabeth, New Jersey, in 1955) and sometimes removed. A friend was handed a pamphlet outside a supermarket urging parents to rid their schools and libraries of Judy Blume books. Never once did the pamphlet suggest the books actually be read. Of course I wasn't the only target. Across the country, the Sex Police and the Language Police were thumbing through books at record speed, looking for illustrations, words or phrases that, taken out of context, could be used as evidence against them.

          Puberty became a dirty word, as if children who didn't read about it wouldn't know about it, and if they didn't know about it, it would never happen.

          The Moral Tone Brigade attacked Blubber (a story of victimization in the classroom) with a vengeance because, as they saw it, in this book evil goes unpunished. As if kids need to be hit over the head, as if they don't get it without having the message spelled out for them.

          I had letters from angry parents accusing me of ruining Christmas because of a chapter Superfudge called "Santa Who?" Some sent lists showing me how easily I could have substituted one word for another: meanie for bitch; darn for damn; nasty for ass. More words taken out of context. A teacher wrote to say she blacked out offending words and passages with a felt-tip marker. Perhaps most shocking of all was a letter from a nine-year-old addressed to Jewdy Blume telling me I had no right to write about Jewish angels in Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself.

          My worst moment came when I was working with my editor on the manuscript of Tiger Eyes (the story of a fifteen-year-old girl, Davey, whose beloved father dies suddenly and violently). When we came to the scene in which Davey allows herself to feel again after months of numbness following her father's death, I saw that a few lines alluding to masturbation had been circled. My editor put down his pencil and faced me. "We want this book to reach as many readers as possible, don't we?" he asked.

          I felt my face grow hot, my stomach clench. This was the same editor who had worked with me on Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret; Then Again, Maybe I Won't; Deenie; Blubber; Forever -- always encouraging, always supportive. The scene was psychologically sound, he assured me, and delicately handled. But it also spelled trouble. I got the message. If you leave in those lines, the censors will come after this book. Librarians and teachers won't buy it. Book clubs won't take it. Everyone is too scared. The political climate has changed.

          I tried to make a case for why that brief moment in Davey's life was important. He asked me how important? Important enough to keep the book from reaching its audience? I willed myself not to give in to the tears of frustration and disappointment I felt coming. I thought about the ways a writer brings a character to life on the page, the same way an artist brings a face to life on canvas -- through a series of brush strokes, each detail adding to the others, until we see the essence of the person. I floundered, uncertain. Ultimately, not strong enough or brave enough to defy the editor I trusted and respected, I caved in and took out those lines. I still remember how alone I felt at that moment.

          What effect does this climate have on a writer? Chilling. It's easy to become discouraged, to second-guess everything you write. There seemed to be no one to stand up to the censors. No group as organized as they were; none I knew of, anyway. I've never forgiven myself for caving in to editorial pressure based on fear, for playing into the hands of the censors. I knew then it was all over for me unless I took a stand. So I began to speak out about my experiences. And once I did, I found that I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.

          My life changed when I learned about the National Coalition Against Censorship (NCAC) and met Leanne Katz, the tiny dynamo who was its first and longtime director. Leanne's intelligence, her wit, her strong commitment to the First Amendment and helping those who were out on a limb trying to defend it, made her my hero. Every day she worked with the teachers, librarians, parents and students caught in the cross fire. Many put themselves and their jobs on the line fighting for what they believed in.

          In Panama City, Florida, junior high school teacher Gloria Pipkin's award-winning English program was targeted by the censors for using Young Adult literature that was depressing, vulgar and immoral, specifically I Am the Cheese, by Robert Cormier, and About David, by Susan Beth Pfeffer.

          A year later, when a new book selection policy was introduced forbidding vulgar, obscene and sexually related materials, the school superintendent zealously applied it to remove more than sixty-five books, many of them classics, from the curriculum and classroom libraries. They included To Kill a Mockingbird, The Red Badge of Courage, The Great Gatsby, Wuthering Heights, and Of Mice and Men. Also banned were Shakespeare's Hamlet, King Lear, The Merchant of Venice and Twelfth Night.

          Gloria Pipkin fought a five-year battle, jeopardizing her job and personal safety (she and the reporter covering the story received death threats) to help reinstate the books. Eventually, the professional isolation as well as the watered-down curriculum led her to resign. She remains without a teaching position.

          Claudia Johnson, Florida State University professor and parent, also defended classic books by Aristophanes and Chaucer against a censor who condemned them for promoting "women's lib and pornography." She went on to fight other battles -- in defense of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, and a student performance of Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the Sun.

          English teacher Cecilia Lacks was fired by a high school in St. Louis for permitting her creative writing students to express themselves in the language they heard and used outside of school everyday. In the court case that followed, many of her students testified on their teacher's behalf. Though she won her case, the decision was eventually reversed and at this time Lacks is still without a job.

          Colorado English teacher Alfred Wilder was fired for teaching a classic film about fascism, Bernardo Bertolucci's 1900.

          And in Rib Lake, Wisconsin, guidance counselor Mike Dishnow was fired for writing critically of the Board of Education's decision to ban my book Forever from the junior high school library. Ultimately he won a court settlement, but by then his life had been turned upside down.

And these are just a few examples.

          This obsession with banning books continues as we approach the year 2000. Today it is not only Sex, Swear Words and Lack of Moral Tone -- it is Evil, which, according to the censors, can be found lurking everywhere. Stories about Halloween, witches, and devils are an suspect for promoting Satanism. Romeo and Juliet is under fire for promoting suicide; Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time, for promoting New Age-ism. If the censors had their way it would be good-bye to Shakespeare as well as science fiction. There's not an ism you can think of that's not bringing some book to the battlefield.

          What I worry about most is the loss to young people. If no one speaks out for them, if they don't speak out for themselves, all they'll get for required reading will be the most bland books available. And instead of finding the information they need at the library, instead of finding the novels that illuminate life, they wll find only those materials to which nobody could possibly object.

          Some people would like to rate books in schools and libraries the way they rate movies: G, PG, R, X, or even more explicitly. But according to whose standards would the books be rated? I don't know about you but I don't want anyone rating my books or the books my children or grandchildren choose to read. We can make our own decisions, thank you. Be wary of the censors' code words -- family friendly; family values; excellence in education. As if the rest of us don't want excellence in education, as if we don't have our own family values, as if libraries haven't always been family-friendly places!

          And the demands are not all coming from the religious right. No...the urge to decide not only what's right for their kids but for all kids has caught on with others across the political spectrum. Each year Huckleberry Finn is challenged and sometimes removed from the classroom because, to some, its language, which includes racial epithets, is offensive. Better to acknowledge the language, bring it out in the open, and discuss why the book remains important than to ban it. Teachers and parents can talk with their students and children about any book considered controversial.

          I gave a friend's child one of my favorite picture books, James Marshall's The Stupids Step Out, and was amazed when she said, "I'm sorry, but we can't accept that book. My children are not permitted to use that word. Ever. It should be changed to 'The Sillies Step Out.'" I may not agree, but I have to respect this woman's right to keep that book from her child as long as she isn't trying to keep it from other people's children. Still, I can't help lamenting the lack of humor in her decision. The Stupids Step Out is a very funny book. Instead of banning it from her home, I wish she could have used it as an opportunity to talk with her child about why she felt the way she did, about why she never wanted to hear her child call anyone stupid. Even very young children can understand. So many adults are exhausting themselves worrying about other people corrupting their children with books, they're turning kids off to reading instead of turning them on.

          In this age of censorship I mourn the loss of books that will never be written, I mourn the voices that will be silenced -- writers' voices, teachers' voices, students' voices -- and all because of fear. How many have resorted to self-censorship? How many are saying to themselves, "Nope...can't write about that. Can't teach that book. Can't have that book in our collection. Can't let my student write that editorial in the school paper."

          This book is dedicated to Leanne Katz to commemorate a life spent trying to prevent voices from being silenced. (Leanne died in 1997.) It is our way of thanking her and NCAC for their hard and valuable work, which continues today under the able direction of Joan Bertin and her small staff of dedicated coworkers. All the royalties from the sale of this book win go directly to NCAC to benefit their work.

          Many censored writers are missing from this collection: Maya Angelou, Stephen King, Lois Lowry, Margaret Atwood, Alice Walker, Richard Peck, Bruce Coville, Ken Follett, Kurt Vonnegut, J.D. Salinger, Shel Silverstein, the anonymous author of Go Ask Alice, to name just a few. Some, like my friend, Robert Cormier, whose I Am the Cheese started the fracas in Panama City, say they just can't write short stories. I know what they mean. I've never been a short-story writer either. Others were trying to meet deadlines and weren't able to fit this project into their busy schedules. But almost all have joined us in spirit.

          I'm grateful to the outstanding writers who have contributed to this anthology. They've come up with a fascinating group of characters. In a wry story of teenage love, you'll meet a couple who have been best friends for years, deciding the time is right to lose their virginity. In another story, the unforgettable Sarabeth takes off one night when the going gets tough at home, only to find herself in the most threatening situation of her life. There is John, a college student torn between the opportunities his education affords and his responsibilities to his family. And a group of teenage boys spending their summer vacation at baseball camp, where they meet up with an unspeakably cruel coach. You'll be transported from a story of romantic infatuation in Japan to the wacky world of Tuesday Racinski, who has no choice but to use her supernatural powers to zap Miss Popularity. Whether the situation is dead serious or wildly funny, all of these characters find themselves in places they never meant to be.

          Aside from being good storytellers, what these writers have in common is that somewhere along the way their work has been challenged by an individual or group wanting to forbid, prohibit or restrict the books they have written. In some cases the censors have been successful; in others, sanity has prevailed. Following each story the writer shares his/her personal experiences and feelings about censorship. Remember, if you ask a dozen people what censorship means, you'll get twelve different answers.

          The bottom line is, censorship happens, often when you least expect it. It's not just about the book you may want to read but about the book your classmate might want to read. It's not just about teachers and librarians at other schools who might find themselves in job-threatening situations -- it could happen at your school. Your favorite teacher, the one who made literature come alive for you, the one who helped you find exactly the book you needed when you were curious, or hurting, the one who was there to listen to you when you felt alone, could become the next target.

And what can you do if censorship hits close to home?

The first step is awareness. Become informed. Take a stand. Work with the adults in your community. Don't try to do it on your own. Contact one or more of the following support groups immediately.

National Coalition Against Censorship 275 Seventh Avenue New York, New York 10001 Tel.: 212-807-6222 Fax: 212-807-6245 E-mail: ncac@netcom.com Web site: www.ncac.org

Office for Intellectual Freedom American Library Association Judith Krug, Director 50 East Huron Street Chicago, Illinois 60611 Tel.: 800-545-2433, ext.: 4222 Fax: 312-280-4227 E-mail: jkrug@ala.org Web site: www.ala.org/oif.html

People for the American Way Attn: Pia Sumler 2000 M Street NW, Suite 400 Washington, D.C. 20036 Tel.: 202-467-4999 Fax: 202-293-2672 Web site: www.pfaw.org

          They will help you help yourself. Get the local newspaper involved. Censors hate publicity. So do school boards. If you don't take a stand, others will eagerly make decisions that affect your First Amendment rights. Make sure you know what those rights are.

          A word of warning to anyone who writes or wants to write: There is no predicting the censor. No telling what will be seen as controversial tomorrow. I've talked with writers who have told me, "Oh...I don't write the kinds of stories you do. I write for younger children. My work will never be attacked," only to find themselves under fire the next day.

         So write honestly. Write from deep inside. Leanne used to say, "It's your job to write as well as you can, Judy. It's my job to defend what you've written."

But Leanne couldn't do it on her own. No one can. It's up to all of us.

Copyright © 1999 by Judy Blume

I am proud to have housed many of these books in my library and in my own home.

Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books: 2000-2009

1 Harry Potter (series), by J.K. Rowling
2 Alice series, by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
3 The Chocolate War, by Robert Cormier
4 And Tango Makes Three, by Justin Richardson/Peter Parnell
5 Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
6 I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou
7 Scary Stories (series), by Alvin Schwartz
8 His Dark Materials (series), by Philip Pullman
9 TTYL; TTFN; L8R, G8R (series), by Myracle, Lauren
10 The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky
11 Fallen Angels, by Walter Dean Myers
12 It’s Perfectly Normal, by Robie Harris
13 Captain Underpants (series), by Dav Pilkey
14 The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
15 The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison
16 Forever, by Judy Blume
17 The Color Purple, by Alice Walker
18 Go Ask Alice, by Anonymous
19 Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger
20 King and King, by Linda de Haan
21 To Kill A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
22 Gossip Girl (series), by Cecily von Ziegesar
23 The Giver, by Lois Lowry
24 In the Night Kitchen, by Maurice Sendak
25 Killing Mr. Griffen, by Lois Duncan
26 Beloved, by Toni Morrison
27 My Brother Sam Is Dead, by James Lincoln Collier
28 Bridge To Terabithia, by Katherine Paterson
29 The Face on the Milk Carton, by Caroline B. Cooney
30 We All Fall Down, by Robert Cormier
31 What My Mother Doesn’t Know, by Sonya Sones
32 Bless Me, Ultima, by Rudolfo Anaya
33 Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson
34 The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things, by Carolyn Mackler
35 Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging, by Louise Rennison
36 Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
37 It’s So Amazing, by Robie Harris
38 Arming America, by Michael Bellasiles
39 Kaffir Boy, by Mark Mathabane
40 Life is Funny, by E.R. Frank
41 Whale Talk, by Chris Crutcher
42 The Fighting Ground, by Avi
43 Blubber, by Judy Blume
44 Athletic Shorts, by Chris Crutcher
45 Crazy Lady, by Jane Leslie Conly
46 Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
47 The Adventures of Super Diaper Baby, by George Beard
48 Rainbow Boys, by Alex Sanchez
49 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, by Ken Kesey
50 The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini
51 Daughters of Eve, by Lois Duncan
52 The Great Gilly Hopkins, by Katherine Paterson
53 You Hear Me?, by Betsy Franco
54 The Facts Speak for Themselves, by Brock Cole
55 Summer of My German Soldier, by Bette Green
56 When Dad Killed Mom, by Julius Lester
57 Blood and Chocolate, by Annette Curtis Klause
58 Fat Kid Rules the World, by K.L. Going
59 Olive’s Ocean, by Kevin Henkes
60 Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson
61 Draw Me A Star, by Eric Carle
62 The Stupids (series), by Harry Allard
63 The Terrorist, by Caroline B. Cooney
64 Mick Harte Was Here, by Barbara Park
65 The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien
66 Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, by Mildred Taylor
67 A Time to Kill, by John Grisham
68 Always Running, by Luis Rodriguez
69 Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
70 Harris and Me, by Gary Paulsen
71 Junie B. Jones (series), by Barbara Park
72 Song of Solomon, by Toni Morrison
73 What’s Happening to My Body Book, by Lynda Madaras
74 The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold
75 Anastasia (series), by Lois Lowry
76 A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving
77 Crazy: A Novel, by Benjamin Lebert
78 The Joy of Gay Sex, by Dr. Charles Silverstein
79 The Upstairs Room, by Johanna Reiss
80 A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck
81 Black Boy, by Richard Wright
82 Deal With It!, by Esther Drill
83 Detour for Emmy, by Marilyn Reynolds
84 So Far From the Bamboo Grove, by Yoko Watkins
85 Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes, by Chris Crutcher
86 Cut, by Patricia McCormick
87 Tiger Eyes, by Judy Blume
88 The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood
89 Friday Night Lights, by H.G. Bissenger
90 A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L’Engle
91 Julie of the Wolves, by Jean Graighead George
92 The Boy Who Lost His Face, by Louis Sachar
93 Bumps in the Night, by Harry Allard
94 Goosebumps (series), by R.L. Stine
95 Shade’s Children, by Garth Nix
96 Grendel, by John Gardner
97 The House of the Spirits, by Isabel Allende
98 I Saw Esau, by Iona Opte
99 Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, by Judy Blume
100 America: A Novel, by Frank, E.R.

Link to ALA's 100 Most Challenged Classics

Make a commitment to make your own choices. Fight censorship.

She Changed Everything.

2010-09-10T02:40:00.000-07:00

I know it the moment I wake up. I lift the covers and peek underneath. My breasts are huge-- full, round, and sore. What were average B-cups yesterday are full-on knockers this morning. It can't have been more than a couple of weeks, but I know. I pee on the stick anyway. It turns blue immediately. I knew it would, but it's still surreal.

"Do it again," my best friend urges, but I know it's a waste of money. Instead I go to the student health center on campus. I've never even been to a gynecologist before and now I'm here for the "official" test. I pee in a cup and then wait, alone, in a chair in the hallway. The nurse practitioner calls me in to confirm what I know.

"What do you want to do?" (I want to find a time machine.)

I sit with my two best friends in a secluded booth at Baker's Square. They buy me lunch. They make me breathe. They make me laugh. They hold my hand and they hug me reassuringly.

"What are you going to do?"

I know they think this is a question which needs to be answered. I know they think I have options. I don't. It isn't just religion or how I was raised-- somewhere deep inside me I simply know I have no choice. This is what I am meant to do. I am only 19-years-old, but I know.

I have to tell my parents. I have to tell my grandparents and siblings. I have to tell Him. I don't know what to do first. My mother will hate me. Will my father? Will I have somewhere to live? I tell my dad first. He is surprised. I'm surprised that he's surprised. I can't understand how he didn't see this coming. He hugs me. He loves me. He will help me. I call my mother next.

"I have something I need to tell you."

"You're pregnant." She always thinks the worst of me, but it is easier because she took the words away.

"Yes."

She is uncharacteristically comforting. I guess she just always expected I would end up this way. She is disappointed, but at the same time she is the most humane she has ever been to me. She makes me feel better. She loves me, in her own way.

Finally, I call Him.

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

"What will you do?"

"I'm keeping it."

"You'll change your mind."

" No. I won't."

I know he believes I will, but I won't. We are not in love. We are not together. We never were. We never will be. I will do this alone. No, not alone. I will do this without Him, but I will not be alone.

I have to go to church on Sunday. I have to face them; all the people who know, all the people who have known me since I was a baby. I know how they are. I know they will whisper behind my back and judge me. I know they are secretly delighted for the gossip--and because I am not their little girl. I hold my head up against them. My two girlfriends flank me, one on each side. I love them.

She smiles at me when we offer peace. I hardly know her, this mother whose sons I only recently met. She holds my hand and leans close.
"Congratulations!" she beams at me.

I want to cry. Yes! I think to myself. Yes. This a wonderful thing. I'm allowed to celebrate this. I'm allowed to be happy. For the first time I let myself feel the joy I have been hiding. I love this little woman whose name I barely know.

"Thank you."

Everything changes. My skin, my hair, my body, they become someone else's. I am merely the shell for the egg. My body takes from me what the baby wants. It takes my nutrition, my energy and my figure. Everything I am becomes about the baby. Strangers want to touch me in line at the grocery store. They ask me personal questions. Every morning I vomit before breakfast. I vomit before lunch. It becomes my routine, like it is something normal. I eat the same three foods everyday: microwave French toast for breakfast, microwave macaroni and cheese for dinner, a loaded baked potato everyday on the way home from work. I can't resist it. It's what the baby wants.

I can't even make it upstairs after work at night I am so exhausted. I fall asleep on the sofa as soon as I get home. Sometimes I feel my dad sitting there next to me, eating his dinner and watching TV. My friends don't understand. They want to "do stuff." They want to hang out. They invite me for dinner or to the movies. They think I'm blowing them off. They can't understand what it's like. Even if I could gather the energy to go, it's weird. They are young. They are having fun and being wild like they should be. I am pregnant. I can't be one of them anymore. I am not 19. I am an adult. I am the reality of youthful indiscretion. I am someone's mother.

I haven't bought anything to prepare for the baby yet. I am afraid to. I am afraid that if I buy something, if I look forward to this, God will take it away, to punish me. One day my father comes home from work with a baby seat. He wants to take me to pick out a crib. He is very excited. I am grateful and I enjoy seeing him this way. I go shopping with my mother too. She wants help picking out fabric to make a quilt for the baby. While I am there, I see the prettiest bolt of material. It is plaid in lavender, yellow, and green. It is soft and I want it. I buy it. It's the first thing I buy for my baby. I wait, but God doesn't punish me. I spend months on a ladder hand-painting carousel horses around the baby's room. My ankles swell up while I am on the ladder. My friends come and help so I will be finished on time. I turn 20. They throw me a surprise party. I am embarrassed by the attention. At least I am no longer a teenager.

My sister makes me take a walk with her every day on our lunch break. She could be doing a million other things, but she has read that walking makes labor and delivery easier. She is my best friend now, even when she tells me I look "frumpy" and the hormones make me cry. We walk and talk every day. I love this time together. One day at work when I am all alone and it is very quiet, I feel it move for the first time; unmistakable twitching in my belly. It is amazing! It is just the two of us, the baby and I who share this moment.

My work throws me a shower. My aunt throws me a shower. My friends throw me a shower. My dad's work throws him a shower. I have enough baby stuff to open a store. I am due. Everyone is waiting. We watch a movie. I watch a movie, everyone else watches me. Then they all go home disappointed. My best friend is my labor coach. She stays with me. Midnight. My water breaks. It's painless. I am sleepy and it takes me a few minutes to realize what is happening. Everything is changing. Here in the dark, alone for this moment, I reconcile what is happening, what is about to happen.

I wake my coach and my dad, so he can drive me to the hospital. He is calm, but I can feel his excited energy barely contained beneath the surface. Grandpa. There is no pain yet, but I have to change my clothes several times because of the water. No one warned me about this. I ride to the hospital in my dad's midlife crisis--his red Corvette. He loves this car. He loves me more. When we get there I have to roll out onto my hands and knees because the car is so low to the ground I can't get out. A boy I went to high school with is working at the hospital. Awkward. I hope he doesn't recognize me, but I know he recognizes my coach.

I call Him from the hospital. He doesn't say so, but I can tell he isn't alone. He will come later, after the birth. That's ok. I just thought he should know. I am in my backless gown. I am in my dim labor room. I am breathing like they taught me in Lamaze. It's bullshit. It's a Catholic hospital. I'm a single teenage pregnancy. My nurse is a bitch. She thinks I should suffer the consequences of my choices. She keeps making nasty remarks to me. I want to punch her in her gum-popping mouth. We go for a walk instead. It's supposed to progress my labor. We walk out to the waiting room where my dad is playing cards with the man who has become one of my best friends. They look concerned to see me this way. Florescent hospital lighting is not flattering to begin with, but I am green and in pain. They didn't used to let women walk around in labor. This is especially startling for my father, who based on my mother's labor, expected this to go much faster and easier.

I don't want to walk anymore. I'm tired and it is getting harder to concentrate on taking the steps-- right foot, then left-- it's getting too complicated. There has been a shift change. My nurses are younger and friendlier. They give me encouragement and pain medication. I like my new nurses. My labor is hard now. I want to bite down on something like they do in the old western movies. My mouth becomes so dry it is a distraction. I honestly fear I will choke to death on my own swollen tongue before I deliver. I beg my coach to spit in my mouth for moisture. She doesn't think I'm serious, but I am. The nurse finally allows me to suck on a damp paper towel.

I can't breathe. I can't remember how to breathe or why. I can't remember to focus, or what the hell my "happy peaceful place" is. My mind is wild. My body is in revolution. I want to go home. I just want to quit and come back another time. I don't want to do this anymore tonight. I am not panicking, I am just done. I want to go home!

They tell me it's time to push. My nurses sense my desperation and fatigue. They gather around me like a cheer squad. They hold my legs and my head and encourage in unison,

"PUSH PUSH PUSH," they yell together. We become a well-oiled machine. Everyone is focused on one goal. I am part of the team although I am also watching from a place all by myself. Far away. The head won't crown. They tell me I can't go to delivery until the head crowns. I think I have been pushing for hours. Hours of "almost, but not quite." Finally they tell me it's time. I have done my job. I can go to delivery. I am exhausted. They push a gurney up to my bedside and tell me to "slide" over. They have to be kidding. I have a head between my legs and they want me to "scootch over."

Somehow I manage to barely wiggle onto the gurney. They wheel me into delivery. It is a cold and bright place. Everything is stark white tile. I have seen this room in a horror film--covered in blood. The lights are intensely bright, reflecting off the tile and it is very cold. This is a harsh place. I am oddly transfixed by the sterile feeling and smell. My doctor is here. This doctor, who delivered me, will deliver my baby. I wonder if this makes him feel old.

He makes a cut. There is searing pain. He tells me when to push and when to wait. It all happens so fast. My coach is holding my hand. Overhead on the sound system I realize "our song" is playing. We are both aware of it. She is crying. She is not the only one. There is a baby. She is crying too. She is whisked away by nurses to be "scored." I can see from between my knees, over the doctor's head, parts of her purple flesh turning pink as she screams. My body is instantly freezing as though I have been thrown in a tub of ice. I am shaking and watching from somewhere outside my body. My coach is sobbing--mostly from joy but also because at some point in my feral state I bit her. I feel pressure to feel something too, but I can't. I want to cry tears of joy or pain, but I can't. I am insulated from my emotions. I thought it would be like the movies. It isn't. My body continues to labor. No one told me this would happen. Someone wraps me in oven-warmed blankets. In my entire life I have never felt this good.

"She is beautiful," she keeps saying. "Oh my god. Did you see her? She is beautiful."

I want to hear if she is complete; all fingers and toes accounted for, but I am also removed. I am disconnected from any feelings or thought. I am just in a moment. I'm watching it and I'm all alone. For just this moment I am all alone. I feel nothing. I feel everything.

I am in my room in time for breakfast. My coach has gone home to sleep. My other friend comes to the hospital and makes me presentable for visitors. She helps me brush my hair and put it in a ponytail. Soon my room is packed, wall-to-wall. The two visitor limit is ridiculously ignored as 16 of my nearest and dearest friends stand shoulder to shoulder and whisper and giggle. There is a mini-party in my maternity room. They make me laugh which hurts a lot but I am so happy they all came. These are the numerous others who love me and now love my baby. They will be her extended family for years to come.

Finally we are alone. Together. She is perfect. She is amazing. She is the only baby to ever exist on the planet and she is here with me in her clear plastic bassinet on wheels. I just watch her. Like an angel, I am afraid if I disturb her she will vanish. I memorize her. I make her promises I know I will keep. The sins of my mother I will not repeat. She is my entire life in that moment. She is my entire being and purpose. I know I would die for her. I will give her all my pieces. I will love her unconditionally. We belong to each other. I have no doubt. I have no fear. I know. Everything has changed. Everything good in my life starts in this one moment.

It all happened so fast! On Sunday, this baby is turning 20-- the age I was when I had her. The man playing cards in the waiting room is now my husband. His mother is the incredible woman from my church. The baby was joined, quickly, by three others. One moment changed the entire course of my life. She changed everything, and I am eternally grateful.

Becoming B!

Why Rule the Roost When the Nest is Empty?

2010-09-01T13:57:00.000-07:00

I can't wait for my children to move out. Is that wrong? I have always reared my children with the intent that they would one day, sooner rather than later, spread their wings and take flight into a world of their own. On a more selfish note, I think I've earned the break. I love them all very much but having never lived on my own I look forward to the days when laundry will not suddenly appear ten minutes after I have finished it; cheese wrappers find their own way to the trash can; snacks don't get devoured before I have a chance to smell them; people don't walk into rooms as though I was waiting in limbo to be graced with their presence; and quiet isn't conceptual. I am aware that once they are all gone I will still have a husband to contend with, but at least the odds will be even-- and I think in his weakened state I could take him.

I've never quite understood the whole empty nest phenomena. I have been led to believe the natural state of a mother when this time comes is to mourn the loss of the child-like adult; to wander aimlessly through shrine-like bedrooms and lovingly fondle their cast-offs, while telephoning incessantly to inquire, "Why don't you ever call me?" I know that's what my children expect. They seem to labor, erroneously, under the belief that I desire to hold them back; keep them children forever and impede their progress at every turn-- as though all logical advice comes with that objective. As though every time someone has hastily announced, "As soon as I'm 18 I'm outta here." wasn't always met with an enthusiastic "I'll help you pack."

I never thought it would be overly difficult to have them head-off on their own. I'm not a particularly clingy mother. None of mine ever looked back on their first day of school. They never hung on my leg and cried to go home, or hesitated on any new, mom-free adventure. I've taken a fair amount of pride in that over the years, recognizing it symbolized their security in the world and in me as a constant. And though I may have indulged in a moment of, "Why don't my kids miss Mommy like those other kids?" I have always managed to remind myself that it's a good sign. So I am confident in their ability to navigate the world of adult independence effortlessly.

As they grow-up they spend less and less time here at home. My oldest, with her exciting new job, school, friendships, and the life of a modern young woman rarely makes an appearance. At first, a few years ago, her consistent absence was notable, but I feel I've adjusted to our 'I only see you when I need you' lifestyle pretty well. She believes my desire to know where she is and when she intends to return home is a need to exercise some type of control over her life. Honestly, I just want to know when I can lock-up and go to bed, worry-free. My son, who shockingly turns 18 next month, would choose to spend his every waking moment in the company of his girlfriend rather than anywhere else. The youngest two have lavish social agendas and activities which ensure that the most time I will spend with them is in route to some other location. None of them will have any trouble adjusting to life without Mother.

It's my own ability I've begun to doubt. Despite my resolve to finally reign over my own tiny, empty, kingdom I have begun to note cracks in the castle keep. What I had not realized until recently, is how much I miss them already. When you dedicate your life to rearing children, you put all your other activities on the proverbial back- burner. For 20 years, while they have been growing into confident independent adults, I have been immersed in their lives. All my 'best of the best moments' have revolved around them and their accomplishments. My biggest achievements have been theirs. The events of my day were the events of theirs. My important questions or pressing problems have been theirs. My stories were all about them. My social circle diminished. My skills were honed in a strictly motherly direction, PTA, Scouts, Taxi driver, advocate, shoulder to lean on and person to unload your frustrations on. The one to cry on, count on, yell at, blame, and the one to fix it. Everything in me has been about providing for them, preparing them, pushing them, dragging them, lifting them and letting them fail.

While I thought I had maintained a friendly parental relationship with my kids, I never realized what good friends they had become. They are the people who make me laugh, and sometimes cry. They are the ones I talk with about life, politics, tv shows, romance and which shoes match this outfit best. They are the heads I have bleached and dyed; the ones I have pointed out and cheered for with pride; the first ones with whom I have wanted to share my own exciting news or accomplishments. They are the voices I look forward to hearing every day, and the faces I want most to see. They are my best friends. I have accepted their absence, but I have not enjoyed it.

I am jealous of the whole world because I have to share them. I am jealous that they get their advice from others now. I resent that other people are the ones they lean on, count on, spend time with and love. I am sad when they don't have time for me, or are not interested in my story or news. My feelings are hurt when I feel like I am intruding on their lives. I still feel the pain from where they used to hold my hand, but let go. I feel lost and abandoned when they are all off living their lives. I cried at Toy Story 3 because I empathized with the toys! I am crazy and pathetic!

I know the silence of an empty nest will be deafening. I know I will call them and ask what they are doing and when they are going to visit me. I know I will cry when I unwrap cheese. I know I will fondle the discarded things they leave behind in the garage (because I draw the line at shrines.) I know the most important and exciting moments in my life will always be theirs. I know, like all the pain of becoming a mother I'll survive this too, because it's best for them. The thing about being a mother is, while the job may one day be considered, at least legally, officially complete, the space you made in your heart will never be filled by anything else.

Now You See Her. Now You Don't.

2010-08-27T01:12:00.000-07:00

There are less than a handful of photos of me as an adult. There's a distinct lack of evidence of my existence after, say, 20 years old. When you browse through our family albums, and the 10 years of photos which await album placement, you'll find me conspicuously absent. It's probably my biggest regret and yet I've done little to change it since I discovered the lack of evidence.

It's not a complete lack of existence. I'm there. Mostly I'm taking the photos, so I was present, but not pictured. In some cases I am escaping off the edges, or facing the wrong direction, unaware a photo was being snapped. But the majority of time an exerted effort has been made to avoid being in the photos at all. I am the Bigfoot of my family photos. (In more ways than one, sad to say.)

Bigfoot???

As my family grew, so grew my clothing size. I'm not accustomed to being overweight, even after spending half my life that way. I never had a weight issue growing up, and since I got pregnant at 19, I have no real concept of what my "adult" body was meant to look like, but my theory is I was supposed to be hot. While I was never going to be a model-- the family hips were my inheritance at an early age and until I had babies the boobs were somewhere between lacking and average-- I think I had some potential hotness waiting there in that post-teen future.

In fact, it was in a photo that I realized I had gotten fat. After I had my first I weighed five pounds less than when I started, and I had tremendous knockers-- for about ten months. I remember looking through a batch of photos my mother-in-law had taken and wondering what was wrong with her camera, that I looked so terrible. I'm slow in the head so it took a bit for me to realize it wasn't the camera's fault. Somewhere I had picked up an extra 75 pounds. I carried it well, it looked like 40 but when I weighed myself I had acquired the extra weight of a small child, and it wasn't the infant I was lugging around.

Because I never had a weight "problem" I had never really paid that much attention to my weight, or the details of maintaining it. In that ten months I had found my beloved, become engaged, and moved out to live on my own for the first time (if you can call a baby and a fiancé "on your own.") We ate a lot of fast food, pizza, and spaghetti. I may or may not have eaten that way before, but my body was completely different after having a baby. Another one of those little secrets the world doesn't share with you until it's too late. And no one told me chasing a baby didn't count as aerobic activity (I have A LOT more to say about that!)

Before I had a chance to get any kind of a handle on it, I was pregnant again, which worked well because pregnancy doesn't agree with my appetite and I typically lose weight in the beginning. However, this baby was a boy and he brought the joys of arm and ass fat in the remaining trimesters. I have no idea what I weighed after he was born, nor following the third or fourth. I didn't even own a scale. In the five stages of grieving this stage is called denial.

My husband's clothes

Where's Waldo??? (hint: flag-head)

But this is where I began my disappearing act. I moved behind the camera, creating tons of family memories without me. I told myself that it was just because I was always the one taking the pictures, but the truth was I didn't want to be photographed. I made efforts to stand behind things or deliberately turn away in photos I was forced into. I hated the way I looked. Not only was I over-weight, I was haggard and exhausted. This was about the time I started wearing my husband's clothes (pants and shirts.) I wanted to hide how fat and ugly I was by disguising myself as a badly-dressed refrigerator box. There was no point in trying to dress it up, it was just sad and ugly, and I hated the way I looked. This stage is called anger.

Finally, working in the real world, I at least started making an effort to look like a human again. I dressed a little better and wore make-up. I consoled myself with thoughts like: I eat healthy, it's just my metabolism; At least I'm active; It's baby weight, it will go away; and, As long as my body is healthy, it's ok to be overweight. I even recall saying, "There's nothing wrong with being heavy. I'm comfortable and happy, I don't need to be thin. I have nothing to prove." Because I was young I was able to rationalize the weight. I made excuses and exchanged what I knew for what I wanted to believe. This stage is called bargaining.

Lost 60 pounds

Eventually I couldn't ignore it anymore. My health declined and age started catching up with me. I did pretty well on my Weight Watchers, but once I got sick-- couldn't walk anymore, I gained back everything I had lost. More importantly, I didn't appreciate what I had lost, until it was back. I had managed to lose 60 pounds, but since that was only a portion of what I needed to lose I considered myself a failure. Now I realize that missing-60 looked pretty good, but at the time it just wasn't anything. I felt lost and hopeless. I was stuck being this way forever. The older I get the harder it will be to lose, the less "hot" will matter. At this point, who cares. I started cutting me, or portions of me, out of photographs-- if I was in them at all. There are all these special moments in our lives and I can't find me in them anymore. I just wanted to erase the image of me. This stage is called depression.

I've decided on multiple occasions to get back on the ball and start doing something about it. I've told myself it's because I want to be healthy, because I can do more if I'm healthy. But the honest truth is, some part of me still wants to be hot, or at least pretty, and I think some part of me has decided that's not possible anymore, so I might as well just reach the final stage, acceptance. Only, I don't want to accept it. I want to believe that its possible for me to pull myself together. I know it's hard, and I would really rather avoid the hard part altogether, but I don't want to be this way anymore. It makes me sad, knowing there is a person trapped inside me, who would be evident if she could just get out. I know I choose to sit-out (literally) of a lot of things I'd like to do, because I can't see both of me doing them.

I hate being fat. It sucks. I hate dieting. It sucks. I hate exercise. It sucks. I hate surgery. It sucks (although I could recover!) Apparently these are my limited options. It sucks! However, when my kids get married I don't want to be hiding in the photos. When I have grandchildren (a long, long, long, time from now) I want to be in the photos with them. Not just in the photos, but in their lives, active and happy. So I suppose I will continue down the path of most-resistance and keep trying to become the thinner, hotter, me. And in the meantime I'm just going to show up on film more often. If I discovered I was fat that way, maybe one day I'll discover I'm not.

Chasing Firefly: Confessions of a Rabid Fan-Girl

2010-08-18T19:38:00.000-07:00

Growing up in Los Angeles takes some of the novelty out of being a "fan." Maybe it's because you can't trip over your shoelace without falling into six people who work in the industry. Maybe it's because "star" sightings aren't that rare. Maybe it's because I know what Hollywood really looks like. Whatever the reason, some of the sheen is off the stars for me. This is not to say that I don't enjoy TV, movies, music, etc. I love all those things, but with a sense of reality (real reality not that TV stuff.) I was just never a fanatic-- fascinated by something so much that I stalked it with rabid inappropriate interest. All that changed nearly over-night when I spent a year as a crazy rabid fan-girl.

In the early part of the 2000's I was an avid enjoyer of the works of Joss Whedon. The highlights of my "must view" week were "Buffy" and "Angel." Most other TV just happened, but those were my "can't miss" programs. It was announced that a third program, Firefly, would be part of the new Fall season in 2002 and while I wasn't sure what it was about, I was willing to watch based on the creator's reputation. However, life had other plans and my ineptitude at programming a VCR timer, and my spouses unreliable memory caused me to see the first few episodes sporadically. (Thank goodness for the invention of the DVR!) This did not stop me from being hooked by the amazing writing. The show was smart, funny, scary and interesting.

One night a few weeks into regular viewing, after a particularly awesome episode, I announced, "This show is so good you know they're going to cancel it." I'm not bitter, it just seems that's always the fate of smart, interesting television. Out of curiosity I was compelled toward the internet to see what the buzz was for my new all-time favorite TV show. At this time I had enough tech savvy to clean the spam out of my unused email account every couple weeks, and to help my kids research stuff for school on the internet. Otherwise I was not computer friendly and I had not typed in over ten years. A cursory search led me to the "Official" Firefly website at Fox where I discovered my intuition was once again correct and the show was in danger of being chucked. I also discovered the official message boards, where a mass movement was being conducted to Save Firefly.

I'd like to take a moment here to point out I have never been a Sci-Fi person. My friends had parents who were Trekkies, I think I recall costumes being worn. I had seen Star Wars at seven, and while duly impressed, I wasn't overwhelmed with passion for it. My brother forced me to watch one too many Dr. Who episodes instead of Saturday morning Bugs Bunny as a kid and I was fairly dispassionate toward the Science Fiction genre ever since. I always objected to the fact that merely because Firefly took place in the future, and on a space ship, it qualified as a Sci-Fi show. For me this pigeon-holed its audience and was a less than all-encompassing definition. On the other hand, Science Fiction fans are the most motivated and inter-connected group around. Were they ever to agree on the issues and form a third political party, I believe we would have a Klingon speaking President with little opposition. This particular fan group was overwhelmingly organized and motivated. And I was swept up into the fervor.

More than just a passion for a TV show I loved, I discovered a community I loved. As an elementary school librarian my work was fairly isolating. While I was the mother of four kids between the ages of eight and thirteen, most of my friends were just starting their families. They were in "Mommy and Me" classes, I was driving the family taxi. My "me" time was spend in the grocery store. My social life primarily revolved around my family's activities. Suddenly I was around people with a similar interest. After the kids were in bed, my nights were spent online. I learned to type much faster. I made some amazing friendships. I was actively involved on a daily basis in their lives and they were in mine. We joked, talked politics and life, toasted the good times in a virtual saloon, supported each other in tough times, all the while mailing postcards (and the unfortunately misguided box of blue gloves) to the executives at Fox. A beautiful full page ad was purchased in Variety, entirely designed and funded by Browncoats, (fans of Firefly) promoting our wonderful show and it's cast and crew. This was an organized and inspired group. Money that was raised for the cause, in excess of the need, was donated to charity, and as such we became an unofficial charitable organization, raising funds, or other items during times of crisis for completely unrelated concerns. Unfortunately the decision was made and the show was officially canceled, to the heartbreaking disappointment of everyone involved.

But the Browncoats remained. The fandom continued. We still met there at the official site and discussed the show, campaigned for a DVD set, (which we got!) organized the donation of those DVDs to the libraries of US soldiers off at war, and to our local libraries, inducting new fans to a show which would never get another episode. Everyday new people showed up online, having discovered the show and looking for solace when they realized it was already gone. Most wanted to know what could be done; had there been an effort mounted to rescue it. Sometimes their enthusiasm was appreciated and sometimes it was painful, but the group continued to be proactive and vocal and eventually it helped lead to our one big concession--a feature film. And this is where my rabid fan-girl craze really took flight.

Members of the cast including Adam Baldwin and Nathan Fillion, Chris Buchanan of Mutant Enemy Productions, and even Whedon himself (with a lot of help) were active on that message board. News of the film was leaked to us almost a year before it was green-lit. It was an exciting time, knowing that we would finally get more of our little show. It quickly became known as "The Big Damn Movie" (based on a line of dialogue from the show) although it was eventually given an official title "Serenity." The fans at the website joked about crashing the set and being extras in the movie. Then the most amazing thing happened-- we were given the green-light to be extras! In May 2004, Chris Buchanan leaked the information of the casting company involved in selecting the extras and gave permission for us to submit, although no guarantees. We subsequently learned he had actually contacted the casting director and requested she accommodate as many of the fans as possible. Seriously how cool is that!?

Costume Department (Saxon)

Not knowing that the word had gone out to "hire" us, and lacking much in the way of confidence, I waited an entire week before finally submitting myself. After the first two fans were actually accepted I over-nighted a letter expressing my interest and a photo of my oldest daughter, my husband, and myself. Almost a month later I received the phone call that I was in The Big Damn Movie! Not only that, I was expected to be at a costume fitting the following day. I was so excited. I asked about my daughter and husband and was told my daughter, a minor, was too young, but that hubby could come along. I was as giddy as a school-girl at the costume fitting. While trying to act like a "normal" adult I made stealthy efforts to touch clothing that was to be worn by my favorite characters. I eavesdropped on conversations to see if I could pick up any super-secret plot points (I actually did glean one.) And I checked out the super-secret wall of cast photos, trying to figure out the plot of the movie based on these little tidbits. By the time I was done being fitted I was sure I would be escorted off the set of the movie for being such an idiot.

The Nine

Acid Dorothy and Post-Apocalyptic Ewok

A total of eleven fans lived locally enough (although two came all the way from Utah!) and were able to be available for extra work. It was a month later when my day of filming arrived. I had to be on-set for hair and make-up by 5:30am which ended any thoughts I had of pursuing a future career in entertainment. I am not a morning person. We arrived on the lot and wandered aimlessly trying to find where we belonged. I was grateful to have my hubby with me because not only do I not like new things and places, but he was experienced in the industry and had the confidence to wander instead of stand there and cry (which was my instinct.) Eventually we found where we belonged and got checked in. After getting made-up and into full costume and wig I looked like Dorothy gone wrong. Rather than heading off to OZ she has moved to China, dropped acid, swallowed the Fat Elvis, and was wearing the "cone of silence" on her head. I couldn't hear a thing between my echo-chamber of a hat and density of the wig. I had to lift my hair up when people talked to me. Still better than my poor hubby who looked like a post-apocalyptic Ewok in a heavy black jumpsuit, black boots, gloves and a furry hoodie. Together we joined the rest of the extras in the "corral" and began looking for our fellow Firefly fans. There were nine of us set to participate in that day's shoot. The other two had already filmed their scenes previously. This was my first time meeting any of these people in person. We eventually found each other and made a nice little group of weirdos. We definitely didn't fit in with the people who did this for a living.

The Corral

The Trailers (Saxon)

While cameras were technically forbidden we were able to discretely snap some pics of each other before security asked us to stop. My hubby was able to translate all the stuff the assistant director was telling us in movie lingo, so I knew I had a couple minutes to make a run to the bathroom (I don't know why peeing figures so often into my blogs) Of course the quarters were tight and my "cone of silence" got wedged between the stall door and the wall, trapping me. So embarrassing! I finally managed to wrestle my way free. Upon returning to the corral I walked passed Adam Baldwin, who I spoke with frequently online, but couldn't quite say "Hi" to in person. This was my first celebrity shell-shock.

I've had more than my fair share of literal run-ins with celebrities (and one almost run-over,) but the last autograph I sought was when I was seven (suffice to say Tennille without The Captain was still a class act.) For the most part I'm not in awe of them. They are just people. They do a job, some better than others. Some may be prettier or more talented than the Average Joe but I recognize the uselessness of their signature on paper and would rather just let them do whatever they were doing, unbothered by me. But in this case it was nothing so simple or noble. I was just completely intimidated. I didn't want to be intrusive, and I didn't want to get booted off the set before I even got to see it. However, once I tracked down my friend "Saxon" (another fan/mom,) we attempted to approach him together and tell him who we were. Unfortunately we were caught trying to escape and sent back to the corral where they issued us props and took us to the set.

Nathan & Jewel at lunch

Futuristic Flea Market

Saxon and I managed to get separated from the group (because that's how I roll) and wandered around the set until we finally found the rest of the extras. We spend the rest of the morning filming. I unfortunately chose a location where my back was to all the action, so I didn't get to see much for those hours. I also couldn't hear the director through my headgear so I was often confused as to what we are doing and when we were actually filming as opposed to just standing around. My "job" was to look like a shopper in a futuristic flea-market. My hubby was a vendor in a booth near me. I shopped my heart out, picking at mechanical equipment, pomegranates, and something we eventually surmised was smelly eel. The future was a strange place to shop. When we broke for lunch the cast came and ate in the same place with us. I respectfully and excitedly snapped a blurry pic from under the table of Nathan Fillion and Jewel Staite eating their lunch. I was now officially a rabid fan-girl.

Summer Glau: The Wonderful

Future Money

Emboldened by our first failure to make contact, I finally gather my courage and approach one of the cast, Summer Glau. I think I picked her because she was the youngest and newest to Hollywood and …well, basically the weakest member of the herd. I politely introduced myself and the group as fans and briefly explained our presence and how we got there. She was so kind and came over to the table to say Hi and take some pictures before we all had to go back to work. I spent a total of 12 hours in my pointy, gold, granny shoes and my feet were killing me but it was worth it. The finished piece totals less than a second of screen time. At least I didn't end up on the editing room floor. I can point us out if you pause the DVD! The highlight of the day came when it was all over though. We had become a little known by the staff and they gave us a private tour of Serenity, the famed space-ship the movie was named after. More than a tour though, they left us alone to wander and unofficially take photos. Naturally my camera battery died, but Saxon mailed me copies of her pics. Gina Torres drove by in her car as we were leaving. I was on cloud nine. I also "accidentally" acquired a little souvenir-- a futuristic piece of currency that was inside my prop purse.

Me on Serenity

Me in Serenity's Kitchen

Arts & Crafts in Hollyweird

One would think being an extra in the movie would be the end of my tale, but in fact, it's more the early-middle. Once I had become a rabid fan-girl there was no stopping me. And there were plenty of opportunities because I had the distinct pleasure of being one of the locals. In December of 2004 an industry piece announced that expected among the celebs at the red-carpet premiere of a different film were the cast members of Serenity. My friend Saxon, who lived out of town but was a bit more rabid than I, joined me on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, across the street from Grauman's Chinese Theater, along with our rabid-fan kids. The kids made posters to promote Serenity and we screamed and cheered and sang as our lesser known cast walked the carpet and did interviews. We also handed out fliers promoting the movie. Guerilla marketing had begun. We created quite a commotion. After the film began we took the kids into Hooters to grab a bite. Then we tried to sneak closer to the theater, once the red-carpet was rolled away, in hopes of catching our celebs on the way out. While security was good, we were better! And I got some great shots of the kids with the cast.

Nathan and my son

Alan and the girls.

About a week later, on my way out of a movie, I was handed a flier to see a screening of a new movie for marketing purposes. While they don't give the title, from the description it was obvious what movie it was. I would get the chance to go see a secret-screening, early-preview of Serenity. I called and got on the list, then I started calling the locals. We were super careful not to leak this information publicly, because we wanted to ensure our attendance, but early on the morning of the screening the news leaked on another website and the screening company was flooded with calls. Our "first come first serve" status was in grave jeopardy. I arrived at the theater around 3pm for a 7pm screening. We were about third in line. I spent the evening, the first of many, camped out on the sidewalk, like a rabid fan-girl. I met some more people from the internet. Made some more friends, even had a discussion with a teenager behind me who had just finished a part in a yet released movie. (I saw the movie a few years later and racked my brain trying to recall how I knew the kid.) In the end, the first ever super-secret screening of the unfinished cut of Serenity was packed with fans, some even sharing seats, all pretending to be uninformed random movie goers.

"Random" audience member

The experience was incredible-- exhilarating and over too soon. Afterward I sat in stunned shock and awe as a paper was passed around asking us to formulate conscious thought about what we saw. For the first, and possibly last time, I was speechless. My daughter and a couple of her friends got to be a part of the question answer time that followed. The hardest part was knowing what happened in the movie (and a lot happened) and not being able to tell a soul what we knew. Tough but we knew it was important to the fans to let everyone have a chance to experience it the way we did. If you're not sure the grassy knoll could have been a conspiracy with so many people staying silent about what they knew, I tell you it's possible!

Rabid Fan & Alan

A few months later a Browncoat Happy Hour get together was arranged. Adam Baldwin and Alan Tudyk were the special guests. I went to be with my friends, but the celebs didn't hurt and I got what I think is my only pic with any of them. We spilled some drinks, licked some shirts, (don't ask) made a hysterical scene, and had a good time together.

That summer word leaked of another pre-screening of the film. The studio was simultaneously showing the film in about 15 cities nationwide and a member of the cast was set to show up at many of them. This one was not local, it was almost 100 miles away, but at this point I didn't care. I was crazy now. We packed the whole family in the car because the younger kids were pissed that they had been left out of the early adventures. We drove for what seemed like forever (four hours) in 100 degree weather. After arriving at the theater and sending my family to stand in the growing line (300 plus people) I went to the box office to claim my pre-purchased tickets, only to discover, my credit card, required for ticket pick up, was gone. I was less concerned about what had happened to my card than I was about not getting in to see the movie. I hysterically searched my purse. Three total strangers, also fans, searched my purse. I called Fandango and my bank in an attempt to get the numbers. No luck. Finally the theater manager decided to escort my family into the theater anyway, if I would promise to call her in the morning with my credit card number. What a great lady. I'm sure the brimming tears had nothing to do with her decision.

A few press people showed up and the kids were interviewed on camera in their homemade fan-shirts and hyped up on snacks shared by all the Firefly fans. Our celebrity host for the evening was Joss Whedon himself. And it happened to be his birthday, so a giant poster was signed by everyone and a rousing round of Happy Birthday was sung upon his arrival. My oldest managed to get a hug. After the screening (still not finished but with some effects and credits now) those of us who were extras were interviewed by a film crew for a documentary.

Autographed Movie Poster

That August we were invited to come to Universal and participate in the filming of a promotional video. My two oldest and I along with some friends went to be interviewed. We had a great time and I somehow indicated, on film, that I was willing to give birth to Joss Whedon's children. (Yes I have a copy of it.) It was something I had joked about saying, but once it was out of my mouth I felt like such an idiot! I was a rabid fan-girl but maybe THAT was the line. Still it's uncomfortable to talk directly into a camera lens with all those hot, bright lights on you and a mic-pack stuffed down your already too-tight pants. Again, I rethought my career in entertainment. While we were waiting for the shuttle bus driver to take us back to the waiting area we saw a giant movie poster for Serenity. My oldest hopped off the shuttle, after much coaxing, and asked if she could have it. The guy told her no, but that she'd be top on the list if they decided to let it go. Yeah right. But at least she tried. We waited around the corral and eventually we're released. Once again, I needed to pee, so my group was held up waiting for me. I had actually hoped that if we were last to leave she could ask for the poster again, but it was gone when we got back to the shuttle. However, on our trip down the hill the shuttle had to stop for the staff members crossing the street-- one of them was the guy carrying the poster. While we waited my daughter told the shuttle driver the story about trying to get the poster. The driver threw open the door and told her to go ask again. The whole bus cheered as she leapt off and chased the guy across the parking lot and cheered more as she ran back with the poster. This is the same girl who talked a Universal Executive into sending her an Official Limited Edition Fruity Oaty Bar T-shirt!

Fruit Oaty Bar Girl

Red Carpet Premiere

I attended a total of 13 screenings of the film, including the press screening, all before it was officially released, but the most important was the red-carpet premiere which all the extras were invited to in September of 2005. Even more importantly we attended the After-party! As an outsider to the Hollywood world, let me just say, Wow. Let's skip right by what an amazing event this was, and go straight to how cool the cast, crew and creators were for making all this stuff available to us nobodies! Seriously cool guys. Class acts every one. Adam Baldwin had seen the kids on his way in and invited them to find him for autographs after the screening. My oldest had brought the movie poster with her and discreetly managed to get it signed by all but one cast member (Gina Torres, if you ever read this she would love to complete the set!) My oldest son, 13 at the time, waiting patiently to say hello to Jewel Staite found himself happily sandwiched between her and Christina Hendricks. He was happy when I left him. Being phobic of crowds I just sat on the sidelines and watched it all, I never even made it to the chocolate fountain! I did manage to find Chris Buchanan and thank him for involving us in so many events. And my friend Rosie, making sure I met someone from the cast, drug me over to meet Morena Baccarin, who was incredibly tiny compared to her size on big screen. I thought I could break her if I shook her hand too hard. My kids got teased by Nathan Fillion and one got a hug. I was jealous.

My Baby & Adam

My Big Girl & Adam

That same weekend we attended a "Fanfest" at Universal with a Q & A, autograph line and some displays of film props etc. A few more photo ops happened there. I only have one child who never got a pic with any of the cast. Maybe one day. I wrapped the whole weekend up by attending my first ever midnight release of a film. Ron Glass was there seeing something else, unaware there was a midnight screening of Serenity and Quentin Tarantino was there, but I don't know what he saw.

Chris B, Adam, & Summer @ FanFest

Inara Costume

Walk the line

Once the film was released life went back to normal. I never made it beyond rabid fan-girl, because I could never afford to go to Comic-con, however I do own my first, and only, action figures and a complete mint condition set of the original printing of the Serenity comic book series (all covers.) I have made Firefly related Costumes for Halloween. I even walked the picket line during the Hollywood Writer's Strike on Mutant Enemy Day. But outside those items I have some incredibly fun memories with my family. I was able to share my bizarre rabid fan-girl period with them, and they got some really neat photos, videos and souvenirs to prove it. I still visit the website occasionally, mostly to discuss politics. Most of the Browncoats have moved on. But what I realized when I was reviewing the events to write this blog is that I started writing again because of Firefly. I had lost myself before Firefly happened. I had faded into the background of my own life. My Firefly years brought new people into my life. It brought me a forum where I freely expressed my opinions and ideas and talked about something other than my family. And each time I went to one of these events I wrote an elaborate report of the experience for those who could not be there. I essentially was blogging before I even knew what a blog was. I was writing, for others to read and I didn't even realize it.

Since I found Serenity

I will always have fond memories of the friends I made, the support they gave me through some tough times, and kind words of encouragement they offered me about my writing. It was suggested frequently that I should write more, and more publicly. It took awhile, but I have done that, and Firefly, it's amazing community of fans and professionals, is where it all began. Thanks for giving me something to say at a point in my life where I felt like I was disappearing. I will always be a rabid fan-girl with you. Keep Flyin'

The Downside of Optimism

2010-08-11T01:34:00.000-07:00

In life, I am mostly an optimist. I am usually the person looking for the silver lining and trying to find the way to make the impossible happen. There are a few times I've crawled under the blankets, buried my head, and willed the world to end, but for the most part I get bored of that pretty quickly and start looking for a Plan B. Plan B always includes making the best of what I've got (like my car with parts of the engine duct taped together.) However, experience has taught me, well and often, there is always a downside to this euphoric optimism. Quite often, its overwhelming failure.

I had yet another chance to experience this last week on my family vacation to Yosemite. My extended family: father, siblings, nephews et al, were gathered for a fun filled few days in the most beautiful place in California. My 13-year-old nephew had decided in advance he wanted to climb to the top of Half Dome. This is a particularly strenuous and lengthy hike totaling about 10-12 hours of uphill commitment including a final portion which requires pulling yourself up the dome on cables. I was NOT hiking Half Dome, but a couple of my older ones were going to go along with my sister and brother-in-law.

The nice thing about the Half Dome hike is that there are several other points of interest along the way. (Points of interest means-- significantly accomplished smaller hikes where one doesn't have to feel like a loser for quitting at that location.) Below Half Dome there is Nevada Falls (top and bottom). Nevada Falls feeds into another lower waterfall-- Vernal Falls. Along the route to Vernal are several scenic "chicken-outs" like the base of the fall, the bridge view of the fall, the bridge view of the river created by the fall, and the shuttle stop at the bottom, for those weak of heart.

My original intent before we started the trip was to climb to the top of Vernal Falls. I've done it before (it's where I met my bear-friend.) I did it when I was three, I'm told. I did it again at 14 and 16. Now, twenty-four years later, I'm not in the same kind of shape I was in then. My shape is mostly "out-of" and rounded. I don't get a lot of exercise and I have not recovered back up to my full capacity since getting sick a couple years ago, but I wanted to at least try. I figured I'd do my best, see what I could manage, and feel good about the effort.

The entire group of twelve set off together bright and early our first morning in camp. If the Half Dome hikers wanted to reach the top and get back before it was completely dark, we needed to give them as much time as possible. Each member of our group had a plan as to how far they intended to travel. My youngest son, kept awake the night before by the first of several bear attacks, quit before he got out of his pajamas; opting instead to stay in camp and guard our valuables…like his cot and the inside of his sleeping bag. My hubby made it as far as the shuttle stop. He stood on the bridge and waved goodbye as the rest of us marched off into the depths of hell. My brother, who claims bad knees, was going to go as far as the bridge at the lower part of the falls. By this time I had decide that was all that was appropriate for me as well. I was having some difficulty with my joints and didn't feel confident with my ability to master the incredibly difficult climb to the top of the falls. My sister was fairly certain that was as far as her youngest would make it, and my youngest, who has difficulty with her legs was considering the same decision. So, the second brigade was planning a shame-free drop-out at the bottom of the falls.

I fell behind on the flat road headed to the trail. Yep. I was completely out of shape for this adventure. Even my diabetic, weak-kneed, older brother was out-pacing me by 30 yards. By the time we hit the deeply inclined, paved-path to the bridge I was holding everyone up. They continually had to wait for me to catch up. I felt bad. Not just for holding them up but physically bad. The altitude was high, the air was thin and I was being deprived my fair share. I decided at that point I would just go my own pace, take a bunch of photos, and quit when I decided I couldn't go any further. The next time I caught up with the stragglers from the front-assault team I informed them of my plan. I was out.

I collapsed on a small boulder and pretended not to be disappointed at my lack of progress. A few minutes later my youngest appeared, headed back toward me with a bag. She informed me that she too was dropping out earlier than planned and that she had been issued her lunch and my bottle of water before her departure. My cell-phone, for emergencies, was still up ahead in the backpack. (It's important that this information be included here, for later.) Together we decided to make our way at our own speed up the path. We figured we would turn back when we ran into the next set of failures on their way back down.

We walked a little. We rested a little. We took pictures of squirrels and glimpses of majestic scenery we were not able to fully realize. Every step of the way we promised each other we would just continue a little further, around the next bend, or over the next impossibly steep section of trail, before turning back. Each time we reached the proposed landmark we looked at each other, made an assessment about our condition and continued a little further. This is where the optimism took hold. At the slower pace I was feeling much better; much more like I could go further than expected. After all, I had already made it this far. This was the point where I made the decision to go for it. Not the whole "it." Just the bottom of the falls. I wanted my youngest to see the waterfall. It is an amazing site and should not be missed. Also, a small part of me wanted the victory for myself.

When we reached the bottom of Vernal Falls it was a dazzling, sunny morning. The air was cool, the water was beautiful, the birds were chirping. My body was high on those exercise endorphins you always hear about, but never experience. My brain was momentarily on a vacation of its own. My brother, having reached his stopping point, descended from the opposite side of the bridge as we refilled our water bottles at the last refill station. (It's important that this information be included here, for later.) He explained that the stairs up the mountainside began just a few yards up the path. For those of you unfamiliar, the remainder of the "hike" is a continuous rock staircase cut into the side of the mountain. The "stairs" are anywhere from six or seven inches tall to about two feet tall. They are about the width of a body and a half, and are used in both directions, which can be hairy, but since it is still early most people were only going up at this point. Because my brain, high on endorphins and swelling pride in my accomplishment, had taken a vacation, my daughter and I decide to venture around the other side of the bridge and up the first few stairs; just so she could see them and experience it. (Yeah right!) My brother offered to wait there for us.

The first few stairs were babies. My grandmother could do this. So…we continued on. Why not? The going was pretty easy, we made it this far, and we were feeling like Olympians. It was awhile before the stairs started to become deep, but when we looked behind us, saw how far we'd come, we felt pretty good about the choice to continue up the hill. We fantasized about catching up with the rest of the group at the top of the falls while they were having lunch. Speaking of lunch…. Did MY lunch come back in that bag? No. No it didn't, but my daughter decided this was a good time to try and grab a bite, so we climbed on some rocks and she chowed-down on her sandwich while I drank some more of my water. I was still feeling ok. I'd had a big carb-filled breakfast. Since we had come this far and we were feeling pretty good, we figured we could go a little further.

At this point the stairs were all about two feet tall but up ahead was the "Mist Trail" and I didn't want my daughter to miss out. The Mist Trail is the portion of the climb where you are so close to the waterfall that the mist showers over you. It also produces beautiful rainbows across the waterfall. It was here that I finally, seriously considered my need to turn back. It was crushing, because we had come so far, so close to the top, but the climb was nearing impossible, my knees were exhausted and my hip was locking up. The problem was, as exhausted as I was, there was no way I could possibly manage to climb safely down the slippery stairs. I could barely continue to proceed upward. Down was looking like it was out of the question and I was starting to worry. As we wound up the wet staircase there was a small alcove where the mud pooled, but you could pause, surrounded by the dark damp rocks and catch your breath. This was where I had decided I must stop and turn around before it was too late. I felt defeated. We came so close to success.

Here we encountered my oldest, on her way back down the stairs. We gathered in the alcove surrounded by the mist and the roar of the nearby waterfall. She informed us that the next group was begging-off the hike at the top of the falls. My dad, my sister, and her youngest were all dropping out, while my oldest son and her oldest son continued up toward Half Dome with my brother-in-law. My daughter had decided to take the short cut back down the stairs (because she is young and immortal.) The wiser old folks and the cranky little boy had opted for the longer, but "easier" Mule Trail down the backside of the mountain. There's an easier trail down? Hold on a minute. If I continue to ascend up the rest of the way to the top of the waterfall, I can take the inclined path back down? No stairs? Well that sounded like a plan. I get to make it all the way to the top, my original desire, AND I get to take the easy way back down. This was a win- win situation. We bid adieu to my oldest and asked her to give our regards to my brother, who we assumed was still waiting for us at the bottom of the falls, and to tell him not to wait anymore. Then we continued to the top of the waterfall.

Before deciding to continue on this trek, I did ask my daughter how much further we had to go. She estimated she had been hiking down for about 10 minutes. I estimated it would take us about 30 minutes to complete the climb to the top. It was about 11:30 am when we crossed paths with my oldest. We had been hiking for about two straight hours. I was afraid to drink too much of my water because I didn't want to be overwhelmed by my tiny bladder and the sounds of rushing water. The rocks were so steep now that I had to use my hands and knees to crawl up each step. I had to stop about every third step to rest. My knee was popping every time I struggled to step up. At one point, when we stopped to rest I accidentally left the bag with the rest of my daughter's lunch and my water bottle. She went back as soon as we realized it was gone, but couldn't find it. We had to share what was left in her bottle.

The final stretch, practically vertical, took us well over an hour. All I could do was dream of the "easy" trail back down. I didn't even care about the top of the falls. I hadn't looked at the waterfall since my camera battery died forty minutes ago, and I think I saw a mountain goat. I was praying for a bear to come and eat me when we reached the peak of our climb and I stepped out onto a long stretch of shale-like rock which descended to the edge of the waterfall. I had to carefully ease myself down holding the safety railing because the rocks were so smooth and my tennis shoes did not have the required traction. We stood on the edge of the fall and had our picture taken together. I felt a rush of pride and joy. I had successfully completed my once abandoned goal. This was an amazing feat for a fat woman. I literally carried an entire extra body up that mountain-- 1.6 miles, all uphill. I was excited to share the moment with my daughter. We conquered our own bodies. Our optimism, our slow and steady, won the race. We were victorious.

We found a spot to rest atop the waterfall. She took off her shoes and submerged her feet in the icy river water. I balanced on a pointy rock and looked for signs of the Mule Trail, and the bathroom. We decided not to linger here too long. It was already afternoon. We were both tired, hungry, and thirsty. We asked other people about the Mule Trail. Most people were unfamiliar with it. The only person to answer with any confidence said we had to continue the next mile and a half up to the top of the upper falls to get to it. She described more stairs and I decided to find someone with an answer I liked better. I finally found that person at the potty-shack. She and her daughter came down from the upper falls using the trail I wanted to get to. So we determined there was a connection somewhere between Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls where we could jump onto the Mule Trail.

Finally we found a "map" posted among some brush and trees. It pointed to the side of a mountain and showed the beginning of a nonexistent trail. My daughter wandered around the rocks until she caught sight of the trail further overhead. We had no idea where it began, but we could get to it from where we were. It involved more climbing up. From here, it appeared we would need to climb a bit further up the hillside, crest the top, and join up with the "John Muir Mule Trail" on the downside. The sun was high and hot, beating down on us as the afternoon burned on. No matter how long we hiked the road was never ending. The steps were much smaller (so much so that some were smaller than my shoes.) and the rocks were slippery and jagged. The "trail" was quite steep. We continued to zigzag on endless switchbacks up the mountainside for over an hour. We could not seem to reach the top. Mosquitoes were feasting on my sweating arms. We were sharing what water we had left. I was just wetting my mouth because I had come to accept we were going to die up there and I didn't want to have to pee in the bushes before I expired.
At this point my need for food had became a problem. I had used so much energy and replenished it with nothing and now I was feeling nauseous. I thought I was going to faint. I had to put my head between my knees (which I can't do because I'm too fat.) I wanted to quit altogether but that was not an option. This was not the sort of place Search and Rescue would find easily. Luckily my daughter still had her cell phone with her. We tried to call out, but couldn't reach anyone. Eventually she got a call back from her sister, who had made it back to camp. She explained to us that my sister and the rest of the group took the path up to Nevada Falls in search of the Mule Trail. Upon reaching the top of Nevada Falls, the Half Dome hikers realized they did not have enough water to continue the next four or five hours up the final leg of the journey. They had all turned back at that point and headed back down the trail we were trying to join. No one had heard from them since.

We kept walking up for another hour. My daughter was doing very well. She hiked up a span of rock and scouted a shady place. I left one resting point and followed. After a few minutes she headed up a bit further to scout the next stop. My hips were done for. I could barely lift my legs. I used her phone to try and call my husband. I was through. I was actually calling for help, completely embarrassed, but there was no answer. I didn't know what else to do but keep climbing. We had to be close. We were even with the top of Nevada Falls at this point. A few minutes later my daughter called out. She had reached the top and there she had encountered the rest of our group on their way down. They would have been much further passed us except my sister had worn an old pair of shoes and the sole was ripped half way off (it was taped on with electrical tape before we started out that morning.) This had slowed the frustrated progress of their group. Before I even reached the top my daughter and the rest of the downward group had taken off, leaving my lame sister and I in their dust, taking with them the remaining water and all the phones. At least they left her the bag of trash and she was able to share the corner crust of her discarded sandwich with me. Together we two cast-offs slowly descend the "easier" Mule Trail, which took another three hours! I fell at least once scraping the backs of my legs and my wrist. We were passed, on our way down by just about everyone who passed us on our way up the trail. By the time we reached the bottom the trip had taken over 8 hours. And we had walked approximately 6-7 miles total. My one-shoed sister probably could have done it in half the time, but she waited kindly for me. It took us another hour to ride the shuttle back to our camp and by the time I got there my oldest, and the son who stayed in bed, had taken water and a first-aid kit back to the trail head to search for us. (Have I mentioned how much I love my kids!) My husband got me a drink and a banana before I passed out on our bed and my dear sister actually prepared dinner for everyone. In the end, my success had turned to failure in the blink of an eye.

Upon reflection (which I had plenty of time for up there) I realized that my optimistic choices were what led me to my most difficult positions, not just on this hike, but in life. So often in life we know our limitations or the road we should travel, but our optimism, pride, or delusions of grandeur cause us to reach beyond these limitations. Sometimes we are successful and sometimes we fail. More often than not it’s a draw, a little bit of both, and we get pretty torn up along the way. I have made a lot of decisions in my life where I knew I was making a bad choice, doing what I wanted instead of what I should, and hoping for the best. Throughout my life I have made mistakes. A lot of them. And they have often been foolish choices I knew better than to make. In many ways they have made my journey harder. The rocks have been jagged and the climb has been steep. And even the short lived victories achieved this way have been followed by more pain and stress and failure.

But the truth is I believe this is a good thing. I could never say I made the mistake of climbing to the top of Vernal Falls at 40, with arthritis, hypopituitarism, an extra hundred pounds of body fat, and no water, if I had not optimistically overestimated my strengths and abilities. I could have stopped safely in any number of places and not known what I was missing, even if the only thing I was missing was the disaster which occurred. But why? Life is nothing if not a series of risks and challenges. If you are not risking something, if you are not challenging your boundaries what is the point of living? If you are living successfully you are living a series of mistakes, consequences and failures. It's what you do with them, how you let them shape you, what you learn, and how you laugh at them, that determines your success. It's knowing you can't quit, can't undo and can't call for help. You just have to find the strength within, no matter how tired you are, to drag yourself up one more hill, around one more corner, up one more step. The success isn't occasionally finding your way to the top, it's surviving the trip back down to the bottom; and surrounding yourself with the people who will be there, with their water bottles, one-soled shoes, first-aid kits, and bananas to share your journey with you. Because if you discover these things, these people, you're never a failure in life.

Photos taken on our trip. So you know it's true! :)

How I Perfected My Ventriloquism Skills

2010-08-03T14:08:00.000-07:00

The last time I was in Yosemite National Park I was around 16 years old. I had been quite a few times before that, but an event on this final trip left such a lasting impression, I have not returned to this majestic place in 25 years. Now that we are wrapping up our adventurous summer with a big family gathering there, I am forced to revisit this event, and confront the fear it left within me.

I have spent most of my life camping-out in a tent for my "vacations". I have never been too thrilled with the idea that a piece of nylon was all that stood between me and Mother Nature, especially if she was big and growly with claws and an appetite. I'm not even really sure I feel protected from a squirrel that way. (Those who know my history with squirrels may understand this better than others.) On many occasions I have woken up to bear tracks in my campsite, or heard the clanging of utensils on frying pans in the not-distant-enough background. For those of you who are novice campers, this is a way to not only frighten away a bear (or a man on his way to the bathroom mistaken for a bear,) but also to frighten everyone within a 35 mile radius of said bear (or man.)

I have never had occasion to bang on a frying pan before, but have in many circumstances come in contact with people claiming to have "seen" a bear. I once opted to turn back from a trip to the restroom when a group of college-aged young men returning from the same adventure warned of a bear in the vicinity. Normally I would have been inclined to think they were just messing around and trying to scare my pretty sister and me, but for the one young man in their group walking backward with his flashlight pointed back behind the group, shining it nervously from side to side.

The last year I visited Yosemite was a banner year for bear. The rangers warned that there was a bumper crop that year, and they were highly inquisitive and learned. There was a slide show presentation upon arrival, of cars which had been opened like tin cans because someone had left a stray peanut inside. I did not feel good about my thin nylon barrier. Many pans tolled constantly through the night, but, being 16 I had the optimism of immortality bestowed on all young people. So I did what all youth does when confronted by mortality…. I ignored it and tried to go back to sleep.

Somewhere near the end of our stay our family took a hike up Vernal Falls. A very beautiful but steep and physically challenging feat. About half way up we stopped at a large expanse of rock just off the side of the waterfall to have a snack. Lots of other hikers were stopped there, further out on the rocks with blankets or towels, sitting close to the water. There were seven of us, my mother and step-father, my two older siblings and two close family friends (our age) like cousins. We selected a somewhat shady places closer to the bushes where there was a fallen log for seating. Unfortunately, there was not enough seating to accommodate the youngest. Isn't that always the way. So I sat on the ground a few feet in front of everyone else, probably pouting, and watching the water shoot passed us in this long flat part of the falls.

I had a candy bar and an orange for my snack. I had eaten the candy bar first (of course)and the wrapper was in my lap covered by the peels from the orange, waiting to be packed up with our trash and hiked back out. I watched my "cousin" Dan stroll casually passed me, further down the rock a few paces. He then turned, calm in his safety, and uttered a phrase I can still hear, "Hey look. A bear." Simultaneous to this I felt the brush of a squirrel tail against my bare back (Yes, I was wearing a fashionable crop-top, and No, I did not yet have my reputation with squirrels.) The two things didn't quite connect in my head at first-- fuzzy thing brushing up against me…hey look a bear. Hmmm. Fuzzy thing brushing up against me… …Hey look… a….BEAR!

Of course the connection clicked audibly as a pale cinnamon colored bear nosed around my shoulder and began sniffing at the orange poised before me like Snow White's poisoned apple. Oh My God! A BEAR! Live. In my face. Nosing around my lap. OH MY GOD A BEAR! I was completely frozen. Every muscle taut. I can still feel the pulling of the muscles at the backs of my calves, the way they were bent and flexed, ready to run but nowhere to go. A morbid smile pasted on my face that put The Joker to shame. My eyes moistened with tears that would not fall (apparently they were too terrified to move too.) My bear proceeded to lie on my lap, all comfy, and start pawing at the peels there. I think he was mostly interested in the candy wrapper. I can still recall his over-sized paws-- the weight of them, the claws. He didn't seem "aggressive" so much as "interested" but like all bad dates I just wanted to get rid of him and go home.

I don't know where she came from, or for that matter what she was thinking, but my mother crept quietly up on the other side of me. I know she was saying calming things, and in a calm voice, (which is awe inspiring) although I can't remember what any of them were. As near as I can recall the plan was to "distract" the bear and quickly "extract" the girl out from under him. I remember thinking I didn't like the plan, but since it was the only one, I was willing to do my part. So far, I was distracting the bear. That was no good. My mother gently plucked an orange peel from my lap, waved it in front of the bear's nose and chucked it a few feet away. The bear noted this with disinterest and returned to digging at my bare legs.

My mom continued to "tempt" him with little scraps as the bear took note of the orange in my hand and began to sniff at it. Then lick it. Then TASTE it! I was suddenly keenly aware that when he reached the bottom of the orange he could just continue on down my arm. Panic began to settle in. It was a calm panic. I still believed escape was a possibility(because I was young and immortal,) it was just starting to seem like I may have to leave a limb behind, and I was not wholeheartedly committed to that arrangement yet. I had always wanted to learn to play the piano. It was going to be a lot more difficult without my arm!
My mom waved another peel calmly, closer to his nose this time, a little more desperately. Now she was talking in soothing tones to the bear-- enticing it to "fetch." I think someone had put their arms under mine, ready to pull me away. I can't recall. I just studied the orange still frozen in my hand, in the air above my lap. Lips, slightly parted I distinctly began to utter the same phrase over and over, with increasing intensity. "Give…him…the…orange!" No muscles in my face moved, not a twitch. The same gruesome half-smile stuck there, eyes bulging from their sockets, "GIVE…HIM…THE…ORANGE!" We were running out of peels. "GIVE HIM THE ORANGE GIVE HIM THE ORANGE GIVE HIM THE..."

Suddenly, further down the rock someone popped the top on a can of soda. It echoed off the rocks. My bear looked up with curiosity and perhaps a sense of knowing. Someone, further down the rock had something far more attention worthy than my lousy orange. My bear stood up and started to wander in the direction of the "phftht" sound. I was whisked up and drug across the rock. A few people down the hill noticed the bear. Someone said it aloud. "Bear!" Commotion. People started to move too quickly and my bear realized it was play time and started to trot quickly down to his new found toys. I remember the sight of him galloping away. That's really all I recall. I can't remember if we continued up the falls or went back to our site. I can't recall how many more days we stayed and if I left our camp site again. What I do recall is that from that day forward I have been, legitimately, afraid of bears, and really good at ventriloquism. I am especially good at saying, "Give him the orange!" Ask me (you know you're going to) I can demonstrate, but only with the bugged eyes.

This is, approximately, my bear!

Now, whenever I tell this story people always ask the same question, "Was it a baby bear?" In all honesty, I don't give a damn. It was not full grown, but it was also not a "baby". It was a teenaged bear. However, YOU let a four-foot-tall, wild bear lay in your lap and eat out of your hand and THEN you tell me whether "size matters." I'll tell you that close up a teenaged bear is still really big, and really scary. I'll also remind you that where goes the child, so goes the really pissed-off mother bear. But, like the mother bear, my mom was there, right by my side, and voluntarily I might add, trying to attract the bear's attention onto herself and away from me. Inviting the wild beast to take an interest in her. Crazy!

I'd like to think that under similar circumstances my own motherly instincts would take over and that, without thought for myself, I would step between my child and a bear. I'd like to think that. But I just want it to be perfectly clear before we leave on this trip-- If I see a bear, if I hear the hammer of a wooden spoon on a frying pan, I will gone in a puff of smoke like the Road Runner, leaving nothing but a cloud of spinning dust in my wake. Have a nice day. Best of luck to you all. I'm outta here! If my kids think I react hysterically when a the cat brings a bird into the house, just wait until they see this! So, for the sake of my children, and my honor as a mother and a human being, I would like to repeat in written form my plea to my adolescent nephew-- Please! Please abandon your plan to try and "trap" a bear in our camp site this week. Spare Auntie Erin the embarrassment and the heart attack!