More than Squash and Corn

For our family the Fall and Winter take on a life of their own and at a speed diametrically opposed to the pace we live at in the Spring and Summer. Often at this time of year I feel a bit schizophrenic and it’s a good thing that Thanksgiving exists, because I need the opportunity to reflect, and conveniently the Pilgrims built it in for me.

It isn’t so much that we are busy 24/7, it’s just that I am a 4/2 kind of gal. If I believed in reincarnation I would have to say that I was from a culture where life was slow and laid back… maybe Hawaii… because oddly enough there is nowhere on this earth that I would rather be than on a warm sunny beach listening to the pounding of the surf and palm fronds clacking in the breeze. We live in the rain infested world of the Pacific Northwest, so I’ve made MacGyver swear that if there are any indications that my last breath is going to be drawn within twenty four hours he is to get me on a plane headed for somewhere tropical. I am thankful for the fact that he will do this for me!

An odd lead-in to a blog, but there you go, another insight into me. This leads my mind to wander to a very important thank you. Many kind and loving people reached out to me after reading the blog I wrote, “When it’s not your story to tell.” I cannot thank you enough for offering me love, open-mindedness, and strength. For those of you who shared your personal experiences, I thank you for your trust. Every time I send a blog into the universe I am terrified and vulnerable. Wanting to develop my writing skills requires practice and exposure, and to share something that pokes at my most primal emotions was challenging. Nothing but good came from the experience.

Sometimes it is very challenging to figure out segues, and that is when I walk away from the keyboard and stew. Hence the reason it can take a while to write one blog. I’m pacing, racking my brain for segues. This segue’d my thoughts to a wise neighbor. This past winter her granddaughter was born. We had a gift to offer, but due to exceeding the 4/2 rule, there was little time to get the package wrapped. When I admitted this to her in the late spring my wise neighbor told me not to worry about it, that it was only paper and the gift would still be appreciated. Ironically this coincided with a wise fourth grade teacher letting me know that it would be alright for me to return her book without a thank you card. So, I gave an unwrapped gift, and returned a book without a thank you card, and have proceeded likewise the rest of the year. (Remembering last year’s Christmas blog, I am endeavoring to hold this philosophy with me when it comes time to wrap gifts). I am thankful to people for giving me advice that is useful.

Leaping down other paths… (a commonly used segue) On a miserably cold and rainy night in October there came the tapping of knuckles on our front door. Now this is odd because we have a red “Do Not Solicit” sign right next to our doorbell AND we rarely have uninvited guests. I was home alone with the kids, so I carefully opened the door. A very kind looking man of about fifty was standing there in the rain, his truck parked in my driveway. “Hello Mam. Would you like to buy some beef or chicken? One of your neighbors was going to buy it but her purse is in her boyfriend’s truck and he’s gone off with it. I’ll give it to you for a good price.”

I stepped out a big further to take a look at the truck and only saw that it was bright yellow, quite large, and the engine was running. Methinks this is really odd. So I ask him, “What kind of beef, and for how much?” Well the next thing you know I have boxes of vacuum sealed meat displayed on my front porch and I’m squatting over it trying to figure out what’s what and if it is a good price. He has handed me a flyer from the company he represents and it’s all feeling a little more legit. In the end I bought half the beef, none of the chicken and put it in the freezer. I paced back and forth a bit wondering what in the heck I was thinking, still trying to do the math to figure out if I’ve paid even a reasonable amount of money, and wondering why I did such a thing. (I figured it out: I would love (would beg and plead) for you to look up Bill Porter, Door to Door, starring William H. Macy.)

A few hours later my husband came home from a night out with the guys and he sits down beside me to watch a favorite show of ours. As the closing credits begin to roll, I lead in with, “Well, I did something kind of odd tonight.” After saying “What?” a few times, we traipse out to the freezer, unpack the boxed up meat, Mac does the complicated math, and decides that the price was good, the packaging looks professional and we wrap up the whole experience with a “Well, we’ll find out if it’s any good when we eat some.” It’s still in the freezer. I’m thankful that my husband rolled with this random act of meat purchasing and I’ll be a whole lot more thankful when I finally cook some and we’re delighted. I’ll let you know the results.

Around this same time, perhaps the same night, my husband agrees to shave his head if “the guys” agree to donate money to a charity of his choice. He announces this to me as if this is no big deal. I’m looking at his head and before I know it my thoughts blurt out of my mouth, “It’s gonna be big, white, and I love your hair!” We jokingly say that Mac has “God-like hair.” It really is a marvel to behold. Freakishly thick, soft, and an elegant salt and pepper mixture. Well, the guys came through and many dollars later, my husband came home with a bald-ish head. It was big and white fortunately there weren’t any strange lumps and scars. After stroking it several minutes the kids and I decided we could come to terms with it. This somehow implied that I would be okay with him going down to stubble a few more times. Momentarily I’m thankful that we live somewhere rainy and cold, because my husband has decided he likes having a lush full head of hair which helps keep him warm.

Not long after, our little pink fluff ball had a birthday. She is on the cusp of being a teenager in age, but with regards to the subject of shoes, make-up, independence, and just a touch of ‘tude, she exceeds her actual age by a few years. This year’s birthday party theme was “Spa-tastic.”(Her brother much preferred “Spastic.”) With the help of four wonderful girls, we made and used spa products, ate an amazing amount of chocolate fondue, and our daughter was ushered into the next year of her life with a lot of giggles and affection. Someone asked me afterwards how I managed to survive the party. I didn’t even need to reflect on this; my daughter, her friends, and the much beloved Auntie Pammemelis deserve all the credit.

Little Mac has spent the Fall developing his sense of humor and soccer skills. One of the things I love the most about him is he is who he is and he knows who he is. His brain and his heart are massive and the only person he really needs to prove anything to is himself. When he was four he was at a soccer camp, the ball literally rolled over his shoes, the herd of kids were heading straight towards him, and he calmly looked at me and said, “I want to play golf. There’s no running in golf.” He then sauntered after the ball and watched admiringly as a team mate made the goal.  I laughed until I cried.

The very much abbreviated story of Little Mac is that he almost wasn’t. We had a very eventful pregnancy with him and for a brief moment in time scary words like Cerebral Palsy, blindness, and learning disabilities, were being used. Every day I look at him and remember the miracle that he is, because while he may not always run after the ball, he can run.

Moving all the time as a child proved challenging, and I developed what I call “chameleon skills.” The need to fit in superseded the need to be me. I spend quite a bit of time these days learning who I am and helping people rethink me. When I have the chance to observe my kids interacting with other children I am in awe of their acceptance of themselves and each other.  I could write endlessly about why I am thankful for my children, but how does a parent ever express this in a way that gives true understanding and meaning to the reader/listener?  There isn’t a way. I’m thankful that some force far beyond my ability to comprehend or augment whispered relentlessly to me that I have children. That force exceeds all that I’ve ever experienced and I’m eternally and daily grateful.

Upon reflection I must admit that my life has been remarkably fabulous this year. I am among those who have all that I need, most of what I want, and the strength to figure out life's challenges. My Thanksgiving prayer is that all of you who are searching for what you need do not give up, it is a hard job, but who better to do it than you?

Happiest of Thanksgivings! Thanks for reading.

Our Song - Roll To Me by Del Amitri

Not long ago MacGyver was telling some friends at work “our story.” Apparently they found it compelling enough that MacGyver came home and suggested that I write a blog about it. In thinking about sharing our story many thoughts came to mind. For some reason it feels comparable to New Mom groups and women sharing their birthing stories… so here goes, I will birth the story of our relationship.

Long ago, I had been living with my boyfriend for a little over a year, when his parents decided to come for a visit. It was the first time they had come to see us since I had moved into his house. His house had been full of student furniture, odds and ends from previous house-mates, and there wasn’t a speck of hominess to it. Over the course of two weeks I decided to pull the house together. I’m not talking throw cushions, curtains, and hand towels. No! I’m talking stripping wallpaper, painting, new flooring, and furniture. (Okay, there were throw cushions, curtains, hand towels and some new art thrown in just for fun).

At the time, where our current Sleep Country USA exists, stood a lonely DIY store. After getting all the other projects completed I took on the last one! The kitchen floor. I purchased the needed supplies for the flooring project which included, a trowel, adhesive, sheet linoleum (still cool then), and a roller of sorts. On a bright and sunny Thursday morning I took the trowel in one hand, the adhesive in the other and followed the employees’ instructions and proceeded to “butter the floor.” I then wrestled the linoleum into the kitchen, not having pre-fitted it, and proceeded to lay it out and get to cutting.

To make an extraordinarily long story short I was down to my knickers (having lost clothing to adhesive and the countertop) when I gave up all hope, called my boyfriend and told him I needed his help. He hoofed it home, took one look at me, obeyed my instructions to strip down, and we got to the business at hand. He read the directions on the adhesive can. It turns out that you are supposed to only leave trace amounts of adhesive behind. So we spent a whole lot of time removing the extra adhesive and my listening to him lecturing me on the finer points of reading directions. Many hours later the floor was done, I had thrown my work clothes away, the boyfriend had been washed down with paint thinner (it turns out adhesive sticks really well to body hair), and we were exhausted.

The next day the parents were due to arrive late in the evening. So, I spent the whole day cleaning, fluffing, and airing out our very stinky house. At some point my boyfriend called to find out if I was ready to have the fridge moved back into the kitchen. Since the fridge was huge and the floor had yet to dry, this was going to be tricky, as the fridge couldn’t be rolled, it had to be lifted.

Smelly from not having showered for a few days, adhesive still splotched all over me, my long greasy hair tucked up inside a baseball cap, I answered the door when the bell rang. I opened it, and came face to face with MacGyver.

Now, I have freely admitted to having read a Romance Novel or two, so what I’m about to relate may seem a little over the top, but I swear every last word is true.

I looked at MacGyver and thought, “Oh Shit! Here’s my future.” I was completely and immediately smitten and I was living with someone else whose parents were about to come for a visit. Fortunately I wasn’t anything to look at and a whole bunch of my boyfriend’s other friends showed up at that moment to help lift the fridge. Phew, I dodged that bullet.

A week or so later my boyfriend wanted to invite a new guy home for dinner, to say thanks for helping move the fridge. I knew who it was; shamelessly I fluffed, spritzed, polished, and groomed every inch of me, knowing that my commitment to what’s-his-name was at an end. I was flustered, giddy, and euphoric and then I was crushed. MacGyver announced he’d just married a few months before.One minute I was sitting at the table trying to figure out how to break up with what’s-his-name and the next I was watching my Cinderella story blow up inside my head. I spent the rest of the night feeling sad, resigned, and jealous.

MacGyver’s wife was finishing her degree in another city, so when she was in town my jealousy reared its ugly head when MacGyver would open her car door, or invite us over just to try her banana bread, or show me photos she’d sent. He was in love and I was in hell. When she was gone I used to do the laundry at his place (we didn’t have a washer/dryer) and we spent hours chatting. It was a bit masochistic. The more I came to know him the more I liked him. When “she” finally moved to town on a permanent basis, I made myself scarce.

Perhaps I’m not painting a very good picture of myself, so I need to interject here. I was committed to making my relationship work. I did in fact love my boyfriend. I constantly reminded myself that I had been convinced he was the one before Mac came on the scene. We had a house, travelled, and stayed together for seven years. In none of that time did anything other than my eye stray. I convinced myself that what I felt for Mac was just a passing crush, a physical attraction, and that it would go away with time. So for almost one year I deliberately avoided seeing MacGyver.

Alas, I ran into them at Safeway. I had seen them from a distance and had deliberately pushed my cart in the other direction. Unfortunately we both needed cheese. So there I was, alone with my groceries, when I came face to face with the happy couple. They matched so well, in looks, intelligence, temperament, and they were together. AND they had just purchased a house AND he was willing to grocery shop just to be with her. A lot of salt on very big wound is how it felt.

Another year or so passed, during which time I became loosely engaged to my boyfriend. I use the word loosely because it was more of a “either you ask me or I’m leaving” type of situation. No grand gestures of love, or any desire to share the information with family and friends, and we were in couples therapy. Does that sound like “happily ever after?”

Moments after the sham proposal occurred came the most amazing news, Mac was getting divorced. I kid you not. Another Romance Novel moment, but true; I had become someone’s Ball and Chain just as Mac lost his. What did I do? Well, by then I was so committed to making my relationship work that I stayed put and watched MacGyver date all kinds of women.

It was a painful and torturous year or two, but I supported his endeavors to find love. (In the blog, “My Girlfriend loves… (11/30/10) I mention my helping Mac date a mutual friend). At this point my boyfriend/fiancé and I began what would later become known as “the longest break-up of all time.” It needed to be done, but was messy, complicated, and no one wanted to be the bad guy/girl. I don’t even remember telling more than a handful of people. I certainly didn’t tell MacGyver because that would have just complicated things even more.

Fortunately I had long since left Microsoft and was buried in my studies at the UW. Fleeing MacGyver’s love life and to drive the final nail into the death of my relationship I decided to participate in a Study Abroad program. A few days before leaving the country I invited a bunch of friends to have dinner. Mac was one of the invitees. I fluffed, spruced, shaved, and used my last few dollars to buy something girly and fun. After everyone was settled in at the tables at the restaurant I asked a friend where Mac was. He said, “Oh, he isn’t coming. He’s busy falling in love with someone.” Well, I was crushed, what more can I say. Again, just like a Romance Novel our timing was impeccably off, but only I knew it.

The next night (the night before I left) mutual friends of Mac and I invited us to dinner. I re-fluffed, shaved again, and steeled myself to hear all about his new love. Then the inconceivable happened. He showed up alone. Then another inconceivable thing happened… he offered to come to Europe and travel with me.

So off I fled to Europe more confused than ever. I decided to do what any sane thirty year old who is participating in a student exchange program would do. I immersed myself in the experience; travelled, studied, pub crawled, and had a fling with a twenty two year old. Now don’t judge me. The twenty two year old didn’t want a relationship and was a happy boy. In all that time I suppressed all urges to e-mail or call Mac. I just couldn’t leave my euphoric world to be grounded in the agony of his love story.

Upon returning I lasted all of two days before calling his office. He had quit! What did that mean? Where was he? Had he moved? I called the friends who had had us over for dinner the night before I left and subtly asked how they were, how life was, and where was Mac. Okay, maybe I wasn’t so subtle because they offered to have Mac and I over for dinner the next night. Yippee!! I set about trying to find something to wear when the phone rang announcing that Mac was out of town. I was both disappointed and relieved because I wanted to see him, but was terrified to find out the state of his love life.

A few days later Mac called me. “Did you want to have dinner?”

“I thought you were out of town.”

“I was, but am driving home from the airport.”

“When do you want to have dinner?”

“Now?”

 My brain overloaded… I wasn’t fluffed, spritzed, shaved, or mentally prepared.” Yes!”

To my delight I found out that Mac and what’s her name had split up just after I left for England. So after a few dinners strictly as friends I worked up the nerve to kiss him quickly. He didn’t respond, didn’t say anything, just smiled and waved good-bye. My brain was all over the place and I berated myself for crossing that line! I had revealed myself and he wasn’t interested. Where are twenty two year old boys when you need them??

So, we have a few more dinners (where he didn’t try to kiss me and I sure wasn’t going to kiss him again), while I tried to regain some dignity by saying things like, “I’m not interested in having a relationship after having just finished with what’s his name.” My other brilliant idea was to tell him about my fling with the twenty two year old (if you don’t want me, someone else does). All a bit confusing and juvenile, but critical to my self-esteem!

One night Mac came over to hang out while I studied for a mid-term and fell asleep while I pondered the mysteries of soil science or some such thing. I couldn’t focus and kept peeking at him. Finally I woke him up so he could sleep at home and I could study. He was standing outside the front door, and I was inside the house with the door open. In what had to be a moment of pure nerve, I grabbed his hand, pulled him in and kissed him. I deliberately left my eyes open to see what he would do. He left his open! Yikes. Pulling away from me he said, “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.” Then he left. I walked around berating myself and wondering what that was supposed to mean.

Brace yourself, it gets goofier. The next time I see him I declare again that I am still not ready to be in a relationship. Self-preservation I’m sure. Not long after we are sitting in a very nice Italian restaurant having dinner discussing how you know whether you are ready to move on and fall in love again. Has anyone besides me realized that he and I were spending a whole lot of time together? Pretty much every free moment I had.

I pushed back my empty plate while he and I discussed sharing a dessert. Just after the waiter took our order I looked him square in the eye and said, “I know whether or not I am ready. I love you.” It got really goofy. He didn’t tell me he loved me, he just looked at me as if he didn’t hear me. I wanted to die. I don’t know what happened at the restaurant, I’m assuming he paid the bill; I died the death of total embarrassment and berated myself for once again putting myself out there and getting no results. I was certain I had just lost a very important friendship.

Much to my surprise we ended up at his house. Knowing his seduction scene well from our many conversations during his dating frenzy, soon a fire was blazing, music was playing in the background and the knots in my stomach unfurled just a touch. I came to find out that he had broken up with what’s-her-name when he found out my boyfriend and I had broken up. He had waited for me to come home. He was disappointed I hadn't called him so that we could travel together. He hadn’t reacted to my overtures because he hadn't wanted to rush through any stage of the relationship because he had waited a very long time to be with me. It turns out that while he wasn’t prepared to divorce his wife for me, he too had struggled with his feelings for me. Then the most wonderful thing happened, he told me he loved me!

Within a month we were engaged (I waited for him to ask me this time) and got married very shortly thereafter (at my insistence). Our story, unlike a Romance Novel, doesn’t end with the declaration of love and proposal. From the day I met him until the day I married him (almost six years) I saw aspects of him that still prove to me over and over that he is what I want and need. We had seen how each other handled relationships, watched each other struggle through the end of a love, talked through what we needed and how to make changes, we talked politics and religion, we had shared our dreams and hopes for the future, all without the misty cloud of a new romance enveloping us. We had been friends for a long, long time.

One of my favorite memories of our relationship is one day I was shopping in Costco, and had a full cart, and was waiting in line to pay. I looked up and saw Mac walking towards me with a big smile on his face and in my giddiness I thought, “Wow! Mac's here.” We had been married for about a year at that point.

When It Isn't Your Story

Seven years ago my life was unalterably changed. I didn’t find out I had an incurable disease, that my husband no longer loved me or lose a loved one to death. My challenge is two-fold, my loss is massive and it isn’t my story to tell. Even if the person whose story it is would tell me that I can share what happened, I cannot. The world doesn’t want to hear certain stories. I have learned this the hard way.

The truth of the matter is that I did suffer a loss so significant that to this day I can barely think of it without breaking down, but I have so profoundly developed the skill of burying my head in the sand that there are days I am able to pretend that all is well in my world. Except that at the jittery quaking core of me I know that I am fractured, loved ones are divided and avoidance is on the verge of lying.

The day I received this news I was sitting amongst loved ones at dinner, with nothing more on my mind than how I was going to get my toddlers to eat their spaghetti without making a massive mess; a typical mothers concern when eating tomato sauce at a friend’s house. Minutes later the world began to reel out of control and truly what I remember of those next few days is very limited. Then the real nightmare began.

Amidst this massive loss and pain I struggled to go through life as if everything was fine. I took my kids to preschool, swimming lessons, gymnastics, play groups and smiled as if all was normal. I began to envy others calm lives and divest myself of relationships that I couldn't superficially manage. I did this for over a year.

In the fall of the following year, my children were in the play area of the local IKEA when my cell phone rang. I answered it, sweating, because I knew I was going to be receiving more bad news. I had purposely taken myself somewhere I couldn’t fall apart. I was wrong. I found myself sitting on the floor in the kitchen utensils section crying, sobbing, oozing snot, and shaking with pain. Once I had been picked up by employees and taken to a private room, where I inwardly raged and prayed, I finally pulled myself together, declined the very kind staffs help, and took my children home.

I was raw. When my doorbell rang a few hours later I was in a vulnerable state and functioning on autopilot. I answered the door, and to this day I am at a loss as to understand why, other than I simply wasn't thinking at all. As it turns out a close friend stopped by with her kids to say hello. We sat and chatted for a while before she asked me what was wrong. We were close enough that I told her my story. When I finished, I expected to feel better, to feel the healing begin, because isn’t talking supposed to help? What I learned in the next ten minutes went on to shape my life all these years.

Already a wizard at compartmentalizing my life, this person’s reaction was so unexpected, so insensitive, that I learned to seal off this pain and to push it so deep that I could forget the truth from time to time. Life’s event; birthdays, graduations, baptisms, births, or weddings all continue to happen, and that face isn’t there, and while you try to smile and move on, the overwhelming weight of the loss lingers on the hearts and minds of those involved.

In trying to put some purpose to my loss I realized quickly that I needed to teach myself to look beyond the surface and recognize that I wasn’t the only person who was suffering. That neighbors, friends, and strangers may have had these pivotal and painful experiences that they were pushing down deep or being swallowed up in. When the rare few come forward to share their story I listen and try to learn. To some it might be odd, but I consider myself blessed when someone shares their pain with me. I want to offer them a judgment free set of ears and heart so that they can move through their pain and with any luck find some relief, even if temporary.

I try to understand what it is that makes me hold my story so close to myself. I’ve only recently started to delve into this and the part that I feel certain of is that I don’t want to feel that vulnerable ever again. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t understand my friend for not seeing past her own opinion to try to help me make sense of my loss and grief. I tried to convince myself that she and I weren’t truly friends, because a friend wouldn’t do this. But she was, she was a friend, she was just a friend who had arrived at that moment in her life without the skills I needed.

My early life taught me to look for the path through chaos and to find out whom to be wary of.  I generally consider myself to be very good at this and this is the part that kills me. I missed this one, but not in the way some might expect me to acknowledge the loss. I see it as having missed the chance to help the person, to prevent the crisis, to change the path and redirect the situation. I didn’t, I couldn’t, and it breaks me all over again. I have spent the last six years trying to perfect this skill. It is a hollow skill even if achievable. I feel no relief, no freedom from my loss, I’m not invincible.

So, why am I sharing something so painful and personal? I’ve been writing around this particular experience ever since I started blogging and I have avoided true exposure. The reason is my birthday. It was last week. And this person whom I love so much, who is gone from me, shares my birthday. For the many of you who sent your birthday wishes, you cannot know how much I needed it. I needed the reminder that the day can be happy. Because on this day, I am the most broken I can be.

It was unexpectedly warm on my birthday so when a friend stopped by and suggested we sit in the sun and chat, I was delighted. We chatted about all kinds of things, most of them sad, and I found myself telling her my story; not unexpected given my state of mind, completely unexpected given how long I’ve held my emotions inside. She listened to me and tried to help me find some peace in my confusion. When she had to leave she said she was sorry that the conversation hadn’t been about happy and cheerful things, but I thanked her. For in the true sharing of pain I finally began to believe that I will heal.

Thank you.

She's Back

If anyone has been wondering if I have quit writing the blog, the answer is No. I have made several attempts over the last few months, but there were a few reasons that my train of thought was uncontrollable and so now with a quiet morning ahead of me I thought I would give it a whirl.

Reason number one for having thoughts derailed: I am absolutely terrible at maintaining any sense of routine when my kids are on summer vacation. I tell myself I will write, work out, meet friends for coffee, clean my house, grocery shop, shower!! Yet when they are around it is so easy to slip into the vegetative state. The kids are also avid readers. So a typical summer morning has us wandering around the house in our pj’s with a book in hand, eating something absent mindedly, and finally ready to move onto something else at lunch time. So, having read half the day away and with questionable substances in my stomach I am disinclined to work out because then it will be even later before we get going and my body is all jittery from whatever I’ve consumed.

During the school year I do a reasonable job of working out three or four times a week, cooking with regularity, and keeping us all on track. By June it’s all too much and I need a break too. To be honest, by the end of summer I am pulling out the draw string shorts. I gotta, for reasons easily figured out.

Reason number two for derailment: “The Summer of Decorating!” Four years ago we bought the worst house in the neighborhood and have gradually fixed it up ourselves. We have now survived “The Summer of Demolition,” “The Summer of the Deck” and “The Summer of Flooring.” At long last we undertook having our kitchen remodeled, painting walls, and general fluffing up. For those of you who don’t know me, I’ll explain one or two apects of myself, but very quickly. I don’t like clutter, tolerate change, and love to daydream.

The daydream is that the house will reflect who we are, and be both cozy and comfy without looking full. The reality is that for three weeks we had furniture from all the bedrooms all over the house while we painted, and then we began the kitchen. At some point we restored the bedrooms to order, somewhat decluttered the family room, and I declared that we needed one public room in our house that didn’t have kitchen stuff in it.

I can be a bit like Gollum. Walking around the house whispering under my breath, pacing back and forth wondering where all clutter comes from, focused on the ring, the ring being uncluttered beauty. Here’s the problem, it’s all a day dream. For every project anyone takes on it begets two or three more. If you clean a closet you end up at making a donation to the local second hand store, buying organizing devices at another stop, throwing stuff away, and then the culminating project which is trying to get what’s left back in the way you want it. (This often necessitates another trip to a hardware or general purpose store.)

My husband is Samwise Gamgee. Steadfast, patient, willing to bear the burden of wearing my ring… hmm, that could be taken literally. I really mean the ring of uncluttered beauty. Last winter we finally finished remodeling the downstairs, and bought new furnishings for it. For three weeks it was as I had wanted. Then Kinect came into our lives. The furniture started being pushed this way and that to create the optimal playing space, and after five minutes (which was interminably long to me) my husband saw the terror in my eyes and put it all back where it had started out. We laughingly joke that I have OCD, but sometimes I think I’m one laugh away from going over the edge.

Always, always, always, keep your eye on the prize. It is now September, and I have worked out a handful of times, I am writing a blog, our bedrooms are ship shape, the kitchen is mostly finished, and all that I had hoped it to be. All is perfect… well, mostly.

Oddly enough Tori Spelling comes into the story. I was reading an interview of her in Parent Magazine. She was laughing at herself because she thought that once she got her children past the toddler phase life would get so much easier. Her children are three and four. In my world that is still toddlerish. I have always said that having children are the great equalizer in life. Whether you are rich or poor, you will have to deal with a cranky, stinky, over tired child. You will find out who you are and what you are made of.

So our daughter has dipped her toe ever so lightly into the pool of Middle School. With it has brought, through her eyes, tremendous change. She has a new school, new teachers, and mostly new classmates. No recess, gym every day, and all that goes with a little girl transforming into a young lady. We now get up an hour and a half earlier so that the preparations can begin. In truth she walks out the door looking very much like she did in elementary school, but it takes longer.

I will confess to the fact that no matter what time you make me wake up, I will always hate it. Even if I get eight hours of sleep, I hate getting up. I have to talk myself through it every day. But I digress…

There was choice in our daughter entering Middle School; she lotteried into a “choice” school, so there is the option of her returning to her elementary school and resuming life as she knew it. Just like her Mama, she tolerates change. She doesn’t long for it, she doesn’t hate it. I see my beauty struggle and every part of me wants to help her, and I know that accepting change is a necessary part of life. She keeps looking at me with these big brown eyes, wanting answers, suggestions and I think permission to quit.

As a person who moved often, I feel like I have a good understanding of what she is going through. So, we have been chatting about my life and how I coped, we’ve had family pep talks, and asked her to look at the pros and cons of her decision. Just last night she looked at me with tears and asked for help and I gave her my most honest answer, I told her that I had given her all the information I had, that I didn’t have anything new to share, and that I hadn’t purposefully held back the really useful pieces of help that I could give her for the most critical moment. I was tapped out. She just laughed.

I asked her when she thought she might feel like she had adjusted, her answer was, “At the end of the school year.” I’ve often sought a word to replace dazzle. But dazzle me she does.

I think back on the days when she was a toddler and how challenging some moments were, but in fact, they were only moments. Eleven summers ago I remember sitting in a rocking chair in front of wall of large glass windows with my daughter snuggled up in my lap. We were looking out at the garden and the several bird feeders outside. Quietly rocking. She and I watched the birds bob and weave their way to food and dart away from unfriendly feeders. She loved sitting there observing the world whoosh around her. Today when she climbed in the car to go to school she gave me a smile I remember first glimpsing eleven summers ago. There was something in her eyes that spoke of her soul, her mettle, her character. What exactly lies behind that smile I don’t entirely know, and never will, because it is only in the unfolding of her life that we get to know her.

What I have learned since January 3rd 2011

So I’m certain many of you are wondering what is significant about January 3, 2011. Yes, it was the day our children returned to school after the winter holidays, but it isn’t that. I did do a little jig as they walked out the door for the day. We all love our children, but who doesn’t enjoy a little time to oneself?

My dance was halted mid-jig, foot and arm in the air, when I caught an e-mail out of the corner of my eye. If I was a smarter woman, I would have learned to not dance and open my e-mail at the same time. Rarely are there any e-mails that require or inspire “The Dance of Joy.” In my in-box was a warm and welcoming letter from the company the school PTA had contracted to assist our elementary aged thespians to put on a play. Some time ago, way back when, I had put my hand in the air and said, “Sure, I’ll help.” Help in this case came in the form of “Producer.” If you’re asking yourself what do I know about producing a play, you’re a step ahead of the game. Nothing. So with reality striking me between the eyes, I put arm and foot firmly down on terra firma and immediately went in search of the cardboard box the previous producer gave me last April.

Upon opening the box I saw a notebook with a checklist in it. I read for about thirty seconds when my stomach clenched and I realized I was a tad bit behind schedule. I quickly compiled a list, responded to the e-mail, and the journey began.

Don’t laugh, but when I was a child I dreamt of becoming two things; an opera singer or a writer. Perhaps at one of the many schools I attended there was some kind of drama program, but none that made its presence known to me. Here’s another thing to not laugh at, I’m shy. People don’t believe me when I tell them. I learned to cope with being the new girl at school by being out-going (pretty tough on my natural predisposition to hide behind a book) and as an adult I have learned that all the years of making small talk at church socials comes in handy. At this very minute many people think I’m busy. I’m just hiding.

So when you put these two topics together you get a shy girl who wanted to sing opera. As you can tell by the fact that I’m writing this and not performing on the stage, the writer in me won out after stumbling down many a precarious path (okay Microsoft isn’t dark and dangerous, but it isn’t for the faint of heart). This all leads to how I raised my hand to be the Producer of the school play.

After much pounding of my head on my desk, I pulled it together long enough to make a million phone calls and got the ball rolling. In early February we began with auditions. Keep in mind every child was going to be in the play, the auditions were so the Directors could see and hear the different skills each child had. I knew from my daughter’s first school play last year what would be required. Each child would recite a one minute monolog and sing a solo.

Watching the auditions I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Some kids squirmed, others forgot their monologs, some were so quiet you could barely hear them, and others were Diva in training. Regardless, every last one of them had the courage to go on, to push themselves and prevail. Not one dropped out. I have since sat through many a rehearsal and I have to say they dazzle me. I often watch them and feel profound gratitude for the example they set and it is my fervent prayer that the confidence that they have now stays with them forever.

Every time my children try something new I think to myself, “As an adult, if someone threw me out on a field, on a stage, in a competition of any sort, would I rise to the occasion or just quietly excuse myself and go find a book?” As with most people the answer relies on whether I stand alone or with my village.

I’ve been exploring the idea of the Chicken versus the Egg lately. What begets me?

There are experiences in my adult life that bring me to tears, to weep, to feel so intensely that I believe that there is something way way back there on the memory shelf needing to be heard and felt. Twenty-ish years ago I was at the wedding of the friends who now live in Moscow, Idaho (see the blog regarding country music). A woman stood up and sang a solo; I believe it was Ave Maria. I was so enthralled with her voice that I found myself thinking, “It isn’t too late, I could go to voice school. It could be me; I could feel this intense fulfillment every day.” Unfortunately the path I was travelling on was extremely complex, full of twists and turns that I was far too immature and frightened to detour from. In this case the Chicken or the Egg is still undecided. Did I not pursue this path because I was frightened to fail?

In my early twenties I ended up at Microsoft through a very circuitous and un-thought-through process. My boyfriend’s brother in law worked there and knew the International Department was looking for software testers and I kind of spoke Spanish. The stuff dreams are made of! I arrived at my interview late on a very dark and rainy January evening (yes, my interviews began at 6:30 at night). While I was waiting for the woman to interview me there was much hub-bub across the hall. Some guy ran into the office I was sitting in and said, “I heard you spoke Spanish.” The next thing I knew I was up to my eyeballs translating an error message with all kinds of software developers and testers standing around me. My interview was finished at 6:44 and I had the job. I left my job of six years (I had worked at the Shipyard in Bremerton since I turned 16) and moved out on my own. Based upon what? The word, Microsoft.

On my first day I dumped my cup of hot chocolate into my boss’s keyboard, deleted my operating system file, and sat in a cubicle not having a single idea of what I was supposed to do. Later that morning I found out I would test one international version of a spreadsheet per week and travel my way around the world by the seat of my pants.

A few years later I sat at my desk at (in my own office) and watched the landscapers planting pansies one rainy spring afternoon and realized how far out of my element I was. Chicken versus Egg moment: Was I good at solving problems due to a chaotic childhood or was I naturally predisposed to it? Was I choosing a safe path versus following a dream? At that point I hadn’t dreamt in so long I didn’t know what my dreams were.

Fortunately I bungled my way through a very unhealthy relationship back into school. I took classes for two years in just about everything before I found my passion, my dream, my harbor; art. Whether it be art history, painting classes, design studios, or even the most hated urban planning classes, I found that I could ride the roller coaster because it was all leading me, for the first time ever, to a place where I felt successful, confident, and talented; Landscape Architecture. Chicken versus Egg moment: Was I good at this because my “good problem solving skills” had evolved into “great problem solving skills” or would I have been good at this if at some point along the way I had sat down and given my path thought? I didn’t even know I liked art before returning to school.

Life is what it is. I am the youngest of five children who had very busy parents and we moved every two to three years. I spent the better part of my childhood in coping mode. Move to a new place: (problem solving skills kicked in) who to hang out with? Who was cool? Who wasn’t? Who was safe? Who would accept me? Were my clothes right? How quickly could I figure out slang/vernacular/points of reference? The second year (if there was one) was spent in some state of moving out of original group of friends into new group of friends (those who fit better) and trying to figure out what I was supposed to have learned the previous year and get up to speed. The third year: spent get ready to say good-bye to friends, let myself believe I didn’t care we were moving, finding reasons to believe moving would be good, packing, saying good bye to my space.

I’ve learned that “my space” means everything to me. Establishing a space means a return to some normality. If the picture is on the wall and bed is neatly made, this must be home. My space has become to me what most people call friends.

As an adult I rarely say no to an event that means helping children. I walk into a place and my eyes immediately search for the children who need help being drawn into the group. I walk into a space and my heart feels for the children who need someone to believe in them. As an adult I choose to invest in children versus having a job because I must. Everything that lives inside of me, tells me, informs me, that what I get back is so much more than I give. I don’t know what the Chicken versus the Egg moment here is. It is all very convoluted, but what I do know is that no child was ever harmed by having adults in their life who believed in them.

So, on January 3rd, 2011 I began the journey with forty eight kids and their families towards a school play. This experience has had its highs and lows, but every step of the way I have watched a lost child gain confidence, a shy child say their line proudly, and a very popular child befriend someone who needed a friend. The play is being performed this weekend and I have to say I’m torn. I feel absolute relief that the intensity of the experience is coming to an end, while the bigger part of me will miss watching this self-discovery in motion. These kids who may not even know that I am in the room have taught me so much and I will be forever grateful to them.

If you are ever in doubt as to what you should or could be doing, find an organization that helps children. Even if you learn it isn’t your thing, I promise you that during that time if you call a child by their name, chat with them briefly about something that is important to them, or help them solve a problem no matter how big or small, you will have changed a life.

I remember when I was twenty one I asked my mother how old she thought of herself as being. She didn’t hesitate, “28 or 29,” was her answer. She told me that it startled her when she looked in the mirror to see someone so different than how she pictured herself. I myself am now just a handful of years younger than she was when I asked her that question, and how I can identify with her.

I wouldn’t say that I am having a mid-life crisis. I don’t think women have mid-life crises. Thanks to the twisted sense of humor of Mother Nature we get to celebrate our physical evolution on a regular basis. I will risk the wrath of the men who read this and say that I think that it is this continual physical self-awareness that prevents us from having the cliché mid-life crises men do. Women have to rethink themselves when they begin to develop curves, ovulate, give themselves over to the physical process of creating life, live with the emotional and anatomical changes that giving birth and raising children incurs, and then accept that lifts and tucks may be the only way they’ll ever cough again without peeing their pants.

Perhaps you could equate a breast lift or tummy tuck to a sports car… but if you are a man, I wouldn’t recommend it. Keep thoughts such as those firmly inside your head. As my husband always remembers, men can never trump the “giving birth” card (one of the many reasons why I love him.) The reason you can’t equate them is because no one worth a grain of salt would put loss of bladder control due to childbirth on par with thinning hair or “this is as good as it going to get.” You know why… cause women feel the same thing AND they pee their pants.

Back to me not having a mid-life crisis! I attempted to grow my hair long in my early thirty’s. I had lovely thick hair when I was younger. Back then I spent more time in the stylists chair having it thinned than cut. I would have people ask me if my hair was naturally that shiny, or did I put something on it (truly). The hair I grew in my thirty’s was an imposter. It was thinner, lacked shine, and turned odd shades of caramel-orange. To be fair, it served its purpose when my kids were really young. No time for a shower, great I can pull it back. Needed to entertain my daughter? I gave over my freshly washed and styled hair to hair clips, scrunchies, and red gel.

I remember Christmas of 2009, standing with my sisters-in-law and discussing dyeing our hair. We all swore we’d never quit, we weren’t interested in seeing how much grey had snuck its way in! Two things took place just six months later, I decided to cut my hair and quit dyeing it. Now to the men in the group, this may not be earth shattering or even interesting, but every woman who dyes her hair is now sitting before their computers wondering, “Why? Why would she do that? Think of all the quality salon time she is missing out on. Think of all those horrible grey hairs springing forth from her head. Think how different (code word for ‘old’) she must look.” I made such drastic decisions because I decided that my hair was never going to start growing thicker (I think 12 years of trying thickening and strengthening products, changing my eating habits, and giving it stern looks qualifies as giving it a chance). I also decided that the hair dye might just be adding to the weird caramel-orange hair color.

A friend who always has great hair sent me off to her stylist. I pleaded to not be given the proverbial “mom do” a.k.a. The Bob! I left the salon with a great asymmetrical chin length cut. I think the technical term used was “stacked.” I walked in the front door, showed off my new do and announced to my husband that I was finally stacked, no push up bra required.

I have to admit that the jury is still out on the hair color. While I am fortunate to have silvery grey hair, and that it is fairly evenly distributed, I get that jolt my mom mentioned every time I look in the mirror. On the one hand I give myself a pat on the back for being who I am, but then I realize almost immediately that I cannot quite believe how quickly time passed and that it cannot be too much longer before there is more silvery grey than caramel-orange (turns out that is my hair color, not a reaction from chemical treatments). Is it wrong to long for the days when my hair was thick, shiny and deep auburn?

To take my mind off of that I switched to my eyelids! Oh yes, you can see where this is all headed! Minutes here and there standing in front of mirrors spent pulling eyelids and forehead up, to the left, to the right. To be completely fair, I’ve always had these eyelids, but as I said, I am looking for distraction from the grey hair issue. It didn’t take long from me to start in on my jowls and neck.

By now you must have quite the image of me created in your mind.

Well, fear not! I am an improved version of who I was ten years ago, and I’ve decided that I would rather have my kitchen and bathrooms remodeled than avert the eyelid/jowl/neck issues. Just last night I was fortunate enough to attend a fashion show at the University of Washington with my tweenie daughter and our fabulous friends. The event wasn’t to showcase designers, it was to celebrate the wide variety of body types there are in the world, and some of the models spoke of their self-acceptance and the journey they’ve been on to embrace who they are.

They were college students, so sagging skin and grey hair are distant thoughts for them. However, sitting there I did give thought to the fact that every generation wonders what has “become of today’s youth.” Well, the people I saw applauded their friends for courageously being who they were in front of 700 people. The people I sat amongst clapped when an openly gay rather dramatic looking guy modeled skinny jeans in platform shoes. The people in the auditorium were silent and held to attention when a young woman read a poem about a girl struggling with Anorexia.

Needless to say that part of what was on my mind was how my tweenie was taking this all in. In my eyes she is all things beautiful. She is at that phase so eloquently described by Ray Bradbury, “all elbows and knees, and legs that are long like a colts.” I worry about words like Anorexia even making their way into her vocabulary, let alone her thoughts. As always she dazzles me, because she swatted away my gentle attempts at talking to her about her self-image with her excitement about a bridge building project at school. “I’m fine mom!” and off she went.

So, am I having a mid-life crises? Well, of a sort, yes. It is hard to articulate, but it has to do with how quickly time passes. When I was a child I had the absolute belief that at some point I would know I was grown up because I wouldn’t want to eat candy anymore. Well, that hasn’t happened. I like things neatly organized, paths to follow, hoops to jump through, boxes that I can check off. But life just isn’t like that. I have these moments when I absolutely forget that when my kids are grown up, I won’t be thirty.

I remember reading “The Places You’ll Go” by Dr. Suess and I dreamt right alongside my children. “Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you. And when things start to happen, don’t worry. Don’t stew. Just go right along, you’ll start happening too.”

There are so many choices. Me, who rarely cries, is a puddle watching American Idol, because I worry that those who don’t make it onto the show feel like life is over. How can you tell them that at 45 they would [probably] rather have a lifetime of memories of singing in a hotel bar than working all day in a job where they barely recognize themselves? That is what age gives you. Perspective. The knowledge that you may not know what you do want to do, but you do know what you don’t want to do.

So, I am learning, deep down emotionally, that most of life does not unfold neatly with one clear path to follow. No, it is messy. There are parallel paths and it is in the intertwining of these paths where the truly beautiful moments of life exist. It is here where we can fulfill ourselves, listen to others with both ears, and reach for dreams versus just dream.

If you're of a mind, listen to Alan Jacksons "Remember When."

Thanks for reading!

You Put Your Right Foot in You take Your Right Foot Out

Instead of putting off various blog ideas for another day, I have decided to write down all the things running through my mind.

Thought number one: I finished wrapping my Christmas presents three days ahead of time! Yea for me. I was able to have my longed for Christmas Eve. I will confess that I bought one present on the 24th and instead of wrapping it, I put it under the tree as was. I am here to officially report the gift was still gratefully received and there were no comments resembling, “What the heck, I don’t want this. It wasn’t wrapped.” So next year, I’m going to get even braver!

Thought number two: New Year’s Resolutions! We had a lovely New Year’s Eve dinner at home with our children. At the end of dinner, where much of the conversation revolved around the idea of “dining” versus “eating,” our daughter asked what our resolutions were going to be. Well, I just get the heebie-jeebies at the thought. I have made them, never kept them, learned not to make them, and so the world has continued to happily revolve year after year since said lesson learned. Deflecting back to her for a while, I thought of one I could add when the topic returned to me. “I am going to try and not worry about the things I cannot change,” I said with conviction.

So here we are on January 14th and the question is, “Have I been successful?” The answer is, “Of course not.” I have learned to look at life a little more gently, a little more kindly, and I give myself permission for “do-overs” all the time. Honestly, I am rather impressed with how little the number of “do-overs” is. I was the Queen of hashing, rehashing, debating, berating (myself), and angst. Most people who know me well know that faster than Superman can fly, I can take myself to the worst case scenario in any situation and work my way backwards. I jokingly say that “this way I am always pleasantly surprised when the worst doesn’t happen.” Over the last six months I have really focused on living in the moment and many other issues, so the reality is, I had a pretty good head start on this resolution and it may be the first I have a good chance at achieving.

More on resolutions! A biggest loser scenario came up at the house. Mac and I would both like to shed a few pounds. So, what better way than to have a little healthy competition? I’d just like to report that by the time you read this I will have yet to weigh in… this directly ties into the other resolution, “I am going to try and not worry about the things I cannot change.” I go with the “How do my clothes feel” method. Since that fluctuates I’m assuming I will do better on some days than others.

Yes! I have complete control and can and will lose weight. I just keep giving myself do-overs on the actual weigh-in. I have worked out regularly, cut out a lot of unnecessary snacking, and have increased my water intake. I just have no idea how much I weighed when I started, so therefore I have the luxury of deciding how much weight I’ve lost. When I nail the number down, I’ll let you know.

Ironically one of my son’s first writing assignments on his return to school after the holidays was on Resolutions. He wrote a well-crafted essay on what his resolutions were and what needed to be done to achieve them. The last question he was to address in the essay was whether or not he thought he would keep his resolution. Boldly, the answer he wrote was “No.” He explained that he’d likely forget and that it was a lot of work, and so, he couldn’t see it happening. I tell you, I laughed so hard. He was candid, honest and human!!

Thought number three: Maybe this should have been thought number two, but since the conversation has been on-going since the Holidays, it is getting last billing. Tying into the whole dislike of wrapping, I have now learned from several parents that the secret of Santa has been revealed or that the parents would like to reveal the secret of Santa.

We had a similar conversation at our house. Since “Supreme Ruler” is what appears on my husband’s caller ID when I call him at work, I invoked my powers and kiboshed this notion. Everyone must make their own decisions, but I’m not ready to leave that part of our life behind, and I think that counts. In my most authoritative voice, somewhere around midnight on December 23rd, I asked why we went down the path in the first place if we weren’t going to see it through (yes, another insight into my personality). Well, needless to say, you don’t want to be dragged through that entire conversation. All I know is we were really tired, and someone compromised (it wasn’t me), and we’ll rehash this at some later date.

Maybe I’m the only one fooling myself at our abode, but I need the magic to continue, and we don’t live in Disneyland. It isn’t because I’m not ready for the kids to grow up. I think it has more to do with the fact that I found out through my siblings, not self-discovery and I wasn’t ready. I wanted to believe, but I was still wobbling on the path with one toe in the pool of childhood, and one toe in an ocean of puberty. When our kids arrive at that moment, the one where they verbally acknowledge beliefs and suspicions, I will pony up. I just need them to do it.

Thought number four: A Happy New Year to you all. (Just so you know, I began writing this on 1/14, finished it up on 1/24 and still haven’t weighed myself.)

Thought number five: I have no idea where the green underline symbols came from, so please ignore. I will attempt to solve this. (No hidden messages.)

Thanks for reading!

Back to the Other Writer...

Well, it’s a funny old world. I’m back to wearing the hat that wants to know how and why things came to be… this week’s (over) focus is wrapping paper. Now, in addition to knowing that I dislike the word hate and I hate epilogues, you will now know that I strongly dislike wrapping paper!

I cannot remember a birthday, anniversary, holiday, or a just “cause I feel like it” gift that I’ve given where I’ve rushed home and thought, “Yeah! Now I get to wrap it and fluff it up with all kinds of goo-gaws!” I tried to convince myself one year that it was all about the bow. At the time I had a lovely friend who knew how to tie beautiful bows. She’d taken a class and could produce works of art. Her bows looked like Chihuly Sculptures (www.chihuly.com). She spent the better part of a weekend trying to show me how. This was about sixteen years ago and I use the bows she tied for me out of beautiful red velvet ribbon every winter holiday in some fashion. They are beautiful, but really I place them about as a connection to my past and my friendship with her.

It has nothing to do with ineptness! My wrapping technique was taught to me by my father, who at the time was in the Army and applied ‘spit and polish’ to all things. It has nothing to do with frugality. I love wrapping paper and buy it by the mile. It has nothing to do with it being destroyed within moments of being handed to someone. I actually enjoy watching people open gifts. Is it with caution and care, gently easing tape up and carefully unfurling the item; or is it just a wild abandoned ravaging?

Of course there is nothing like the holidays to really make me want to go running wild and screaming through the woods.

Here is my fantasy. After weeks of calmly walking the aisles and shuttling to and from the shops, I separate the gifts into stacks of his, hers, his, theirs, and ours. I then prepare the present wrapping table with tape, scissors, festive paper and bags, bows, holly sprigs, candy canes, and other assorted accoutrement. I turn on the Christmas music, and spend the day wrapping. By the time the children come home from school I’m finished, everything is carefully hidden and all is well. As a result of my incredibly organized shopping and wrapping days, my husband and I have a lovely Christmas Eve after we’ve chased the kids to bed. We cozy up on the couch, in front of the fire, sipping a favorite beverage while Bing croons in the background. After an hour or two, we put our gifts under the tree, and go to bed so that Santa can make his deliveries. Christmas morning everyone is dazzled with the bejeweled gifts, thrilled with the package contents.

Here is what really happens. My children make their requests and I commence to shopping two weeks before Christmas (with little kids this is a must since opinions and wants change over nights). I rush from this store to that, trying to find what I need. It gets shuttled into the house and hidden wherever there is an empty space high off the floor. This means my husband’s clothes in our closet get covered in bags and boxes. Then I do the rest of life. This means that on Christmas Eve, after chasing the kids to bed, I am locked in the study with piles of presents, miles of wrapping paper, searching for the tape and scissors that have been lost in the bin with the self-adhesive bows and gift bags. I wrap, wrap, wrap, until my fingers bleed, all the while checking the clock hoping to finish in time for the previously mentioned fantasy. Eventually, I come staggering out of the study, with an aching back and knees (because I have of course wrapped all the presents on the floor). It is too late for fires, cocktails, and romance. It is all about checking to see if the kids are asleep and can the gifts get delivered and did we remember to put out the milk and cookies. (Just to be clear, he has always been elsewhere assembling the gifts that need to be ready Christmas morning. He doesn’t bail on me and leave me all alone. He is in his own Christmas Eve nightmare!) Christmas morning is still a great time!

My husband finally sat me down two days before Christmas last year and helped me get the gifts wrapped. We had the lovely Christmas Eve that I’ve always dreamed of. (We made a promise to each other two years ago that any gifts requiring assembly would have to wait until the kids were absolutely desperate!)

Last year, in a moment of zealousness, I purchased Christmas fabric so that over the course of the year I could sew Christmas bags that would be reusable. I still have the fabric. I love to sew, but when it comes to wrapping, I have a block/barrier/hurdle/thing, that I just cannot overcome. Truly, I have to say I just don’t see the point. I say we throw caution to the wind and hand someone a gift and leave the guessing out of it.

Why do we do this? I dreamt up stories… someone needed to discreetly gift a married lover with a bauble? Someone had a utilitarian offering and wanted to fancy it up? Someone loved a piece of fabric and wrapped up their favorite rock? Who knows? So, I went looking.

Here’s what I found out on www.mymerrychristmas.com.

The tradition of gift giving became associated with Christmas because of the offerings of the Three Wise Men, though early on the Church discouraged the practice of gift giving because of its pagan associations. But by the Middle Ages the tradition had become so popular that it became a mainstay of the holiday season.

Early on gifts were wrapped in simple tissue paper or more sturdy brown paper. In the nineteenth century, gifts were sometimes presented in decorated cornucopias or paper baskets. The technology did not exist to mass produce a decorated, foldable, paper until the 1890's, when developments in printing presses allowed colored ink to be printed fluidly on stiffer papers. A rotary system developed that allowed the printed paper to be rolled onto cardboard rolls or cut into smaller sheets. The printed gift wrap industry took off at the turn of the century. Hy-Sill Manufacturing Inc., founded by Eli Hyman and Morris Silverman, became the first American gift wrap company in 1903. Wrapping paper's biggest name, Hallmark, stumbled upon the gift wrap market by accident. In 1917, the Hall Brothers's typical offering of green, red, and white tissue paper had sold out in their Kansas City, Missouri store a few days before Christmas. The resourceful owner, Rollie Hall, had sheets of decorative envelope liners shipped over from a manufacturing plant. He placed these large patterned sheets on top of a showcase and sold them for 10 cents each. The decorative paper quickly sold out. The next year, the sheets sold for three for 25 cents, and again they quickly disappeared. The brothers began printing their own Christmas wrapping paper, and soon gift wrap sales rivaled their greeting card department.

Early gift wrappers had to be especially dexterous; scotch tape wasn't invented until 1930! And it wasn't until 1932 that the rolls of adhesive tape were sold in dispensers with cutter blades. Before then packages were tied up with string and sealing wax. In the 20's and 30's small sticky circles were sold in packets along with folded papers that allowed the wrapper to attach the paper. During this time also, small gift tags and a type of sticky decorative ribbon were developed, often included in packets of matching wrapping paper.

Over the years the look of wrapping paper changed as well. The first wrapping paper was decorated in the ornate style of the Victorian era, similar to the Christmas greeting cards that had become all the rage. Gilded flourishes of cherubs, birds, and flowers draped across sheets of popular wrapping papers. In the 30's and 40's, patterns became more stylized due to the popularity of Art Deco. Decorations moved away from nature to symbols we commonly associate with Christmas today. Popular patterns included ice skaters, snowflakes, Christmas trees, and candles. While the symbols remained the same, the artwork became more realistic again in the 50's and 60's. By the 70's and 80's, Madison Avenue had realized the potential of wrapping paper and hence, wrapping paper often had movie or TV show tie-ins, with designs incorporating popular movie or cartoon characters.

Gift wrap was saved from the rationing that many other products were subject to during World War II. The War Office believed that gift wrap and other Christmas traditions contributed to raising morale amongst citizens, and also believed that it encouraged people to send packages to soldiers far from home. Some gift wrap manufacturers turned to weapon and other wartime production, but the ones that remained making paper saw business boom. Sales actually increased by more than twenty percent during the war!

Innovations with gift wrap have continued. The 1980's introduced decorative plastic and paper gift bags, though these "new" bags weren't as new as some people thought. The Victorians had often given their gifts in decorated bags. The introduction of stick-on bows and cascade ribbons in the 80's and 90's further helped less than perfect gift wrappers. Nowadays one can wrap a gift without even using paper, by going on-line and sending an e-card wrapped in "virtual paper."

The two most interesting points that I learned were, there were envelope liners and that gift wrap wasn’t rationed during WWII. I have complete and utter respect for Eli, Morris and the Brothers Hall for their innovative spirit and desire to earn a few dollars. But, did they ever stop to think of the pressure they were putting on the rest of us?

I know many other countries have other traditions; some place gifts in shoes, some in pillow cases, or baskets. I like these ideas. The problem is, as adults we didn’t all get together and say, “This is what we are going to do!” Do gifts appear on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day? Do you give one gift from yourselves and rely upon Santa for the rest? Does Santa only bring one gift and rely upon you for the rest? Stockings… well, there is another subject. A little continuity might be a good idea. I say we get together, collaborate and come up with a list of suggestions for the next generation and make things a little more standard.

If you haven’t seen it, the epitome of gift wrapping ridiculousness can be seen in the movie, Love Actually. The store clerk places the gift in a box, inside a cellophane bag, adds potpourri, then places it inside a box, then places sprigs of holly, cinnamon sticks, and evergreen boughs inside, before sealing it all shut. All done with great flourish and enthusiasm on the clerks part (played by Rowan Atkins (Mr. Bean)) and painfully tolerated by the customer (Alan Rickman).

My husband’s mother is a creative genius when it comes to gift giving. She would switch it up. One year nothing was wrapped. The next year one person got a certain paper, the next year she wrapped presents without tags and then the opener had to guess whose present it was! I think this is fabulous, it would certainly keep people engaged and entertained. This I can appreciate and get involved in.

For those of you who love to wrap (and I know a few of you do), I commend you! Your gifts are festive and fun. I have reconstructed some of these boxes and use them as props under my tree at Christmas. Just after the kids got used to the idea that they were empty, we used them a few years ago to put presents in and the children were delighted. So, thank you.

So, will I have learned my lesson and get my wrapping done before Christmas Eve? I certainly hope so! I still haven’t looked to see if I have any paper. I am pleased to say that I am 90% done with gift shopping. I have ten days to finish shopping and get it all wrapped. My motivation is my beau! I do love snuggling up in front of a crackling fire with nothing but the sound of carols ringing throughout the house.

Thanks for reading and Happiest of Holidays!

My Girlfriend loves…

As the holidays were approaching my thoughts began to flip through memories. My parents did an exceptional job creating traditions and experiences that not only gave the five of us a great time, but also taught us the significance of the day. I think ultimately the most important piece that I took from their efforts was that we were a unit and that as long as we had each other, everything else was gravy.

As time passed and siblings married and had families of their own, traditions changed, as did the experience of the day. Being the youngest, and last to marry, what I really loved was watching the newest member of the family get deluged with love and attention; not to mention gifts, even if it wasn’t Christmas or their birthday. It was unbelievably wonderful for me when our children were born and became a part of the holiday frenzy.

Years ago, before they moved away to Moscow, Idaho, friends used to host an annual Christmas Party. Everyone showed up wearing their best, hors d’œuvres were served, people mingled, music played quietly in the background. Pretty upscale and controlled of us, considering most of us were in our twenties and quite a few of the attendees were what I would consider to be the ultimate Microsoft geeks.

My boyfriend and I fancied ourselves up and headed to the much looked forward to event. I offered to drive, so after I turned on the ignition music came screeching out of the radio at a fairly high volume. If I could type the look on his face I’d have bazillions of dollars. He first looked irritated (he hated loud noise), then he looked confused (he only listened to classic rock), and then he looked horrified (he had listened long enough to know it wasn’t classic rock or NPR).

We had lived together for six years at this point and in all that time I had carefully kept the secret that I loved country music. Too many people associate country music with “My Achey Breaky Heart.” (To this day I think all country music fans owe a debt of gratitude to Shania Twain. She made it cool to listen to.) So, I let out a deep breath and answered the question, “What was that?” bravely. I held my chin up, looked him square in the eye and said, “I Try To Think About Elvis, by Patty Loveless.” I put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway wishing the song had been Independence Day by Martina McBride.

I swear he walked around the party telling everyone we knew, “My girlfriend loves Country Music.” Having been outted, I proudly admitted to anyone who said, “Really?” with “Yes, I do.” To make a long story short we were more than halfway to the end of our relationship and that single confession convinced me that I would never deceive anyone ever again about my love of country. (I quit Trick or Treating so that I could go Square Dancing; while others got candy, I do-si-do’ed.)

Other than confessing my secret all night, I spent the better part of my time trying to convince my now husband that he really ought to give a mutual friend a chance. She clearly had a crush on him and was doing her best to catch his eye. MacGyver and I had been friends for several years at this point, and I fear I had too much influence. He did in fact date her for several months. Considering my own relationship was meeting its demise, I was a bit irritated with myself for having encouraged him.

Life has a way of turning out as it should; one year later my man MacGyver proposed and we announced our engagement at the same friends Christmas party. We now we go to parties together and he never asks me, “What was that?”

Leaping a little forward down the timeline, our daughter was in First Grade and I was patiently waiting with her for the door to her classroom to open early one Fall morning. Her lovely teacher greeted each child and after my pink and purple fluff ball said good morning, the teacher said to me, “Your pink and purple fluff ball told me yesterday that you celebrate Rosh Hashanah and I was wondering if you would like to come to class next week and explain the holiday and its traditions.” Stunned, I said, “Sure.”

I was stunned because we aren’t Jewish and I didn’t know anything about Rosh Hashanah, but I had my daughters back and decided to go with it until I could discover what had happened. I immediately called my husband and told him the story. After sharing confusion and laughter, I immediately set about researching Rosh Hashanah and found out “what to do.” I then called a Jewish friend to make sure I was on the right track.

At the end of the day, tucked snuggly in her bed, I asked my fluff ball why she told her teacher we celebrated Rosh Hashanah. It was all logical. The previous two summers the kids and I had attended a week long Jewish Summer School that my parents were involved in and our daughter had made the leap that we were Jewish. The next morning at drop off I confessed our lack of Jewishness to the teacher and told her the story. I offered to pull a Rosh Hashanah experience together, but suggested that someone who was actually Jewish might do a better job. The teacher quickly agreed. That Christmas and several following we celebrated Passover by lighting the menorah.

That very same year MacGyver and I woke up Christmas morning, not to the alarm clock or excited shrieks of our children, but due to sufficient sleep. We went out to the kitchen, made coffee, turned on the Christmas music and plugged in the lights. We stared at the tree and sipped coffee while quietly wondering when the children would wake up. Somewhere around 9:30 we heard the sounds of their stirring.

With giggles and feet pounding, the two made their way down the hallway and gasped at the sight of the spread under the tree. Christmas morning mayhem ensued followed by our family tradition of a massive breakfast. After all the excitement of presents and food we were scattered around the living room playing with toys and examining other items with more care when a little voice made a hesitant confession.

It turns out that our sneaky Kindergartner woke up during the night and convinced his older sister, with very little encouragement, that they should see if Santa had come. Once they saw the gifts it was more than they could resist, so they had apparently rooted under the tree and found their gifts, and proceeded to unwrap several just enough to see what they were receiving. The more dexterous of the two replaced the tape and their night time caper went off without a hitch… until the guilt set in.

Looking at me with enormous brown eyes, I could only do what any parent would do (I think). I chuckled. I could only imagine their excitement and sense of accomplishment and it was impossible to feel anything other than happy. To me it was the ultimate childhood caper. To the best of my knowledge they’ve never done it again… but I allow for stories to unfold in the future.

I began this blog just before Halloween and have mulled over why these three stories stand out in my mind. The invisible link is honesty. When I began writing the blog, the intent was to practice writing styles, to give myself short story writing prompts, to gain confidence in sharing my writing. While I still achieve all these goals, I also know that the stories are more personal and my feelings are much more involved. The other writer is me too, the person who pursues the history of mascara and hair plucking. However, life happens to us and we cannot shelve who we are and what we are feeling, and so other stories are written.

In an earlier blog I mentioned that I was taking this year to learn to live in the present and not be so busy. The results are that I am exploring all kinds of thoughts, feelings and experiences that have been on the back burner for a very long time. I think that in living life this way, one has to be more honest. There is nothing to hide behind. No looming PTA decisions, no major conflicts or crisis, no busy, busy, busy.

So, what have I learned? Well, I’m a bit bored! I feel a bit Eeyore’ish at times. I feel adrift when I think about the future. I’m definitely hermity. But, I also know that I laugh more, have a deeper understanding of my family and myself and am firming up the blurry edges of myself. I love living in the moment. I have to be honest and say that I haven’t perfected this and I tend to fritter time away. But, I will find balance, eventually.

Not long ago a friend told me about a yoga website. As I was contemplating taking up meditating, I read a blog that had to do with a method called “Catch and Release.” While I cannot say that I meditate, I have included this method into my life and I think it is powerful and useful. The idea is that thoughts and feelings forge their way to the front of our minds and want our attention. It can be at inopportune times, such as when we are trying to sleep, concentrate on our children, or have some one on one time with our significant other. So the concept is to acknowledge the thought and then let it go once you’ve scheduled a better time to think about it. You say to yourself, “Okay, I need to think about why this is bothering me, I have time tomorrow morning, so I’ll get to it then.” It takes practice to remember to think about it when you’ve scheduled time to do so, but it eventually works. I can think of no better time than the holidays to give this idea a try.

So, back to Country Music! I will share part of the lyrics to a song that has great meaning to me and makes me laugh and cry:

Mary Chapin Carpenter, The Bug:

Well it's a strange old game you learn it slow
One step forward and it's back you go
You're standing on the throttle
You're standing on the brake
In the groove 'til you make a mistake

Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're just a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

You gotta know happy - you gotta know glad
Because you're gonna know lonely
And you're gonna know sad
When you're rippin' and you're ridin'
And you're coming on strong
You start slippin' and slidin'
And it all goes wrong because

Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're just a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

One day you got the glory and then you got none
One day you're a diamond and then you're a stone
Everything can change in the blink of an eye
So let the good times roll before we say goodbye because

Sometimes you're the windshield
Sometimes you're the bug
Sometimes it all comes together baby
Sometimes you're just a fool in love
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

(For Linda, with much love.)

Paranormal is the new Normal

I have a million and one things that I want to write about and generally I take several runs at a topic before I figure out what it is that I really want to express. It is at this point I generally tear what I’ve written completely apart, delete quite a bit, and then hopefully, arrive at the heart of the matter. I began writing this particular blog two months ago and though it’s been rearranged, edited, slimmed down, beefed up, I still find myself wondering, “What am I trying to understand?”

A few days ago I stumbled upon a blog written by a former literary agent, who is now a children’s author. One of the blog entries is entitled Ten Commandments for a Happy Writer. (http://blog.nathanbransford.com/2009/03/ten-commandments-for-happy-writer.html) I’m fairly certain that these commandments apply to all people, regardless of your profession. In the first paragraph he states, “Writers aren't generally known as the happiest lot. As a recent Guardian survey of some top writers shows, even the best ones don't particularly enjoy it all that much. And in case you think this is a new development, an 1842 letter from Edgar Allen Poe to his publisher recently surfaced in which he was found apologizing for drinking so much and begging for money.” So much for the happiness quotient!

What I believe is that writers are inventors who quietly tinker in solitude. I think it is ironic that these inventors endeavor to create whole worlds filled with people, events and emotions that represent to many an escape from reality – so they can be quiet and solitary.

The first time I was utterly consumed by a book and had the happy circumstance of spending an entire day living in another time and place was when I was ten years old; the book was Little House on the Prairie. When I finished the book I remember wandering to the kitchen to find out what we were having for dinner. Some part of me wanted rabbit stew and hardtack by a fire. I’m sure by evenings end I was grateful for a bathroom and not some scrubby shrub off in the distance. I still remember the power of escape that the book provided and I couldn’t wait to get to the school library to check out the next book in the series. My passion for reading had been ignited.

A few years ago I was at the public library trolling the shelves for locations unknown and not finding anywhere to go. Deciding this was ridiculous I applied my strategy skills and now have a handy set of rules to follow: I check out at least one biography, one staff recommendation, one fiction, one non-fiction, and two artsy books. For the last two years I have added books by authors who I think might belong to the same genre as the one I am trying to get published, so I end up with an additional four or five book to read. At this point I would guesstimate that I read approximately four to five books per week (and skim two).

So, I feel completely free to blame some poor, innocent employee of the library system for my recent encounter with a Paranormal Romance Novel. As far as inventions go I haven’t found a need for werewolves, empaths, vampires, and shape shifters. I couldn’t care in the slightest how popular The Twilight Saga is/was! Before writing this blog I had no idea who wrote it, where it was filmed or that it was a saga. I thought it was one book.

At the behest of the employee I read about four pages of some horrific book about a woman who had a piece of dragon in her body, was consumed by a wild and lustful crush on some “thing” who was mostly dragon (it was conveniently tied to DNA and blood issues, he didn’t actually look like a dragon), but was the consort of some other “thing” that resembled the Devil. Now, one must commend an author who can give that much information in four pages, but none-the-less, I decided I couldn’t read the remaining 350’ish pages.

As I was ranting about the ridiculousness of the storyline to a friend she sadly shook her head and asked who the author was. When I told her the authors name she said, “She isn’t any good. You have to read…” Now I knew she was a huge paranormal romance fan and the person to go to for information, because as with all genres there are tried and true conventions and formulas successful authors use. Basic continuity rules must be observed. After getting the low with regards to all things paranormal my lovely friend gave me half a dozen novels to read, which I have now made my way through.

By no stretch of the imagination am I converted or an expert, but I feel like there are a few insights that I can share. My favorite generalization is this: once a paranormal critter finds its mate it cannot be unfaithful! It is repugnant. Fidelity is the result of sharing either blood, mating pheromones, or empathic abilities, or all of them, which forges a connection both so emotionally and physically binding that they are truly “one.” I have decided that the author who invented this paranormal truism was jilted at some point and is looking for their “happily ever after” fictionally.

My second favorite generalization is that these creatures are either immortal or cease to age at a normal rate. There are many smoking hot guys who are over 600 years old. (I truly burst out laughing when one hero explained his tan was the result of being turned into a vampire during the summer and so his tan was permanent.) When you combine the previous generalization with this one, well… you have invented the unbeatable combination; people who will always look their best, have super strength, unusually developed senses, and pheromones that will rage between them for forever!! These people won’t grow old and bored. These creatures know that once they have met their mate this is their eternity, so they are happy to wait around a few hundred years for the right person to come along. Who wouldn’t? Most of us would take a bite to the neck or become genetically altered by a scientist if we could be in our prime forever. I’m equally as certain that I will become more willing to be vampire fodder as I age. This getting old(er) business is for the birds. AND I’m still going with the idea that a jilted lover invented this concept as well. Because let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to see an old flame fifty years after splitting up and look like a twenty five year old?

From a Science Fiction perspective, my favorite book had to do with creatures that live in parallel universes and can travel to the past or future; returning to present time to bring technology with them or prevent some disaster. Somehow they are the guardians of humanity and live amongst us for generations. Other books deal with the retelling or foreshadowing of stories that can be quite interesting; a vampire might have lost his wife and children to the plague, his mistress and children to the crusades, another mistress or two to various wars. But voila! All is forgotten once he meets his true love. I’m telling you, their patience is enviable!

My favorite paranormal creatures so far are similar to those in X-Men movies. Some creature is the result of human DNA crossed with animal DNA and the result is that “it” has incredible sense of smell, sight, and/or hearing along with phenomenal strength and speed. These creatures are feral! There are all kinds of alpha dominance issues going on! I’m telling you, no mortal male can compete with these guys! So next time someone appears to be appreciating your perfume, take a deep long look in his eyes and see if they remind you of a lion or coyote!

As you can see, I have endeavored to make my way through all permutations of creatures, but have yet to find a normal human romancing a paranormal creature. I don’t think it can happen; there are too many differences of lifestyles; what to buy for dinner (bottled blood or steak), who sleeps where (coffin or bed), whose blood is this (a feeder or victim), do we plant a moonlight garden (we can both enjoy it for a few hours every night). In all honesty, if you’ve read a successful combo of this sort, let me know.

If at this point you are wondering how Paranormal Romance ties into the question I am asking myself, the answer is, I admire the forerunners of Science Fiction for taking us into worlds created purely from their imagination, borrowing only minutely from reality. I admire the inventors of genre standards. In every way that I can measure, these people are creative and financial geniuses. Last year over 1.3 billion dollars was spent on romance novels and a hefty chunk of this money was on paranormal romances. It has to be because these books are an interesting combination of action hero and titillating romance. If you are a fledgling author, I’d recommend going down this path. If you’re suddenly wondering whether I will or not, I have to be honest and say it’s tempting, but I think the bases are covered.

What spurred this sudden emergence I can only venture an educated guess. As farfetched as it may be, I think it has to do with the Harry Potter series. JK Rowling introduced children to supernatural creatures who are cuddly and kind as well as menacing and cruel. When we were kids supernatural creatures definitely lived in the realm of the terrifying (unless of course you were watching Scooby Doo.) I watched Vincent Price’s Wax Museum when I was in the sixth grade and all I can say is, “Egads!” I avoided all things spooky for years after that. Readers now fully accept and want to integrate science fiction themes with everyday events.

I believe that it is virtually impossible to measure the success of artistic pursuits. By the public – everyone knows the artists name and loves their work? By the artist – satisfaction in the completion of the piece or public acclaim and financial solvency? There are many authors that I’ve read, who have invented a formula that is incredibly successful and they have published many (predictable) books and there are authors who’ve written one brilliant book and they are considered to be successful.

My new friend, Nathan Bransford, writes for Commandment number three: Recognize the forces that are outside of your control. While it's tempting to think that it's all your fault if your book doesn't sell, or your agent's fault or the industry's fault or the fault of a public that just doesn't recognize your genius, a lot of times it's just luck not going your way. Chance is BIG in this business. Huge. Gambling has nothing on the incredibly delicate and complex calculus that results in a book taking off. Bow before the whims of fate, because chance is more powerful than you and your agent combined.

Author Ann Lamott poses the question in her book, Bird by Bird, “Do you want to write or be a published author?” People have kindly asked me whether I’ve made any progress in getting my book published. Alas, the answer is no. In all honesty I can say that I am thrilled to get responses to my submissions. The knowledge that someone in the field of publishing has taken a peek at my book makes the experience all the more real. At this point in my life, what I want is “real.” I want to take things from the “Wouldn’t-it-be-great-world” to the “I-gave-it-my-best-effort-world.”

Right now, I have great balance. To date I have had over a thousand visits to my blog from people in nine different countries. The feedback has been fabulous and I believe my tinkering has improved significantly. This feeds my confidence and helps me move forward with another submission.

So, finally, at the end of this blog, I know that the question I’ve been trying to explore for months is, have I the talent to invent interesting escapes? Can I create people and experiences that supplant living in the here and now and take readers to the end of a day, wondering whether to return to the real world or to stay adrift on a cloud of my imagination? I believe the answer is yes.

Thanks for reading!