Category: humor

Finding “Home” in the Heart

doormat

 

Mike and I began house-hunting, as a couple, nearly a year before we married. He had been planning to buy a home of his own for him and his daughter well before we met. Before my divorce I’d owned a home too, with my then-husband, until our divorce brought about its sale. After it was clear we were a permanent thing, Mike and I needed a dwelling large enough to accommodate a blended family of five. Mike’s daughter was only with us on the weekends, so she had little concern about where we lived, as long as she had her own space. It was a reasonable expectation. My daughters found the prospect of moving to a new school district, and leaving their friends, to be a source of hysterics and great drama. Anyone that has lived through having teen and pre-teen daughters understands that it doesn’t take much for them to feel like the entire world is ending. So, we acquiesced. We made certain our house hunting focused on places within their school district. We found an adorable four-bedroom, two story traditional, on three-fourths of an acre, in a tract that had once been an orchard. It was in a “country-like” setting, around the corner from a family farm with horses and a donkey, in a quiet little neighborhood, and removed from the hustle and bustle of town. It had a huge backyard that butted up to a wooded area. The lot even had some original fruit trees, one apple and one pear. Each girl had her own bedroom. There was a family room with a wood burning fireplace, a redone kitchen, and a semi-finished basement (well, circa 1975 “finished”). It was idyllic. I have a very clear memory of seeing it for the first time. It was bright and spacious. I mouthed the words “I want this house!” to Mike as the realtor took us from room to room explaining the house’s features.

As we settled into life on Gleneagle Drive, we noticed that the neighborhood was mostly populated by senior citizens and retirees. There were almost no families or children. My kids didn’t mind, though. They had their friends at school, so we drove them to see those kids. What our neighbors noticed about us was not so innocuous. We were loud. My kids played their music loudly. Opening the windows during warm weather meant everybody within 100 yards of our house could hear the girls bickering. They could hear me or my husband yelling at them to stop or any one of us calling to one another between floors or rooms. We also had a huge yellow Labrador that was prone to “jail breaks.” He roamed the neighborhood getting other dogs riled up or nosing through stuff on people’s property. Retrieving him was a spectacle. It was me driving the junky family mini-van around the neighborhood whilst the kids dangled from the open sliding door, calling to him and waving slices of bacon as bait.

Our home saw quite the menagerie of pets over the years. Besides the aforementioned Labrador, we had two cats, two fish, a rat, three guinea pigs, and two more dogs. One of the cats and at least two of the guinea pigs are buried in the woods behind the house. We honored one fish, a red beta named Tony Beets, with a Viking funeral in the fireplace. He passed after a particularly long stretch without power one winter. The entire neighborhood lost power an average of two to three times every year. And that is something I do not miss.

The kids grew up and moved out and our crazy dog got too old to run around like a terrorist. Time mended our reputation in the neighborhood. Somehow our neighbors forgot who we once were. I know this because one year my husband and I took up running. We began by walking. We mixed in some running intervals until, over time, we worked our way up to running a three-mile series of laps through the neighborhood. One day some of the folks on our route started giving us smiles, waves, and happy thumbs up. A few of them even motioned us over to congratulate us on our progress and to tell us “how proud” they were of us. We were surprised, because we had always kept to ourselves. We weren’t aware that they had been observing us. They remained our little white and gray-haired cheerleaders as we trained for our first 5K. Sadly, our foray into running ran its course (please excuse the pun), but I will never forget the caring and support those lovely people showed us.

Our immediate neighbors to the South were Roy and Gloria. Like nearly all our other neighbors, they were older and had grown children. They were both still working when we moved in, but a few years later Gloria retired from her job at a nursing home. Shortly after that, Roy retired from his job as a materials manager for a local construction company. IEventually, the reality of being at home with Gloria all day every day set in for Roy. He ended up going back to work part-time in Mike’s store. I am certain his decision to return to the work was Roy’s way of escaping, if only for a few hours a few days a week. Once he got over the “shock to the system” of retirement, Roy quit working altogether and seemed to “up” his landscaping maintenance game. One summer morning I awoke at about 8:00 a.m. to the sound of Roy using his leaf blower to blow stray leaves…in the SUMMER…from his lawn and into the road. Good on ya, Roy. You’re the Beyonce of neighbors. Fuck the sleeping neighbors! You go on with your bad self! You go and do what you wanna do! Here, lemme get up and put on a bra, so I can pass you a mic to drop!

The thought of Roy and Gloria brings many things to mind. First, Roy was the consummate handyman. Whenever my “all thumbs” husband would attempt any project – like building a picnic table or fixing the mower or starting the snowblower – Roy would appear out of nowhere for an assist. I once watched him “help” Mike assemble a picnic table meant to be a memorial to our late oldest daughter. With Mike being a huge Star Wars fan, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “Wow. That looks like a Jedi Master (Roy) with his padowan (Mike).” I also remember feeling awestruck by Roy’s skill. It seemed like there was nothing he couldn’t do. He rebuilt our deck, and insisted on adding a badass elevated octagon-shaped platform. He and his son reroofed our garage. He fixed the sump pump on the drain for our washing machine. He even diagnosed the source of a leak we discovered upon arriving home from Mass one Christmas Eve that had sprung from the kitchen ceiling. When he wasn’t “helping” his negligent homeowning neighbors, he was “just checking in” with us. We affectionately referred to this as “getting Royed.” What it meant to my husband was a fifteen to thirty-minute conversation about a variety of topics. Sometimes simply going to get the mail would take ten minutes. “What happened to you?” I would ask Mike. “I got Royed,” he would reply. He never had to explain what that meant.

I was somehow able to avoid getting “Royed” much of the time…except in the summer. In my former profession as a teacher, I had summers off. I typically used that time to do home projects like painting, replacing electrical fixtures, or landscaping. In fact, by the time we moved, I had replaced every light fixture and painted every room with my own two hands. One summer I decided to plant flowers and bushes around the backyard. I put in a patch of my favorite lilies and, against the back of the house, a lavender hedge. I wanted its lovely fragrance to waft through the ground floor windows and to deter mosquitoes in the backyard. I also decided to plant azalea bushes around the awesome deck Roy had built. During the project, I thought I would be smart. To avoid getting “Royed,” I made sure I wore earbuds and listened to music while I worked. I also wore sunglasses, so I could remain on the lookout…on the downlow. The strategy was minimally effective. I’ll reluctantly admit it. There were times I peed my pants, just a little, when Roy snuck up on me while I was rockin’ out to my 90’s alt jams and vibin’ with my landscaping vision. Aaaaah! Having to put on cool dry underpants on a hot summer day after having wet yourself as a grown-ass woman (HEY! JUST a little). Yes. Thanks, Roy. Good times. Great memories.

There are so many memories that live at 7971 Gleneagle. Weeknight dinners around the family dining table featuring stories from our respective days. Meals that devolved into quarrels and ended with one or more children leaving the table in tears and stomping off to her room. Opening gifts Christmas morning in the room we spent the least amount of time in most of the year because it lacked a television. The sweet smiling faces of extended family gathered ’round the table for a Thanksgiving dinner I lovingly prepared. The way light poured in from the big picture window and changed, ever so subtly, with each season. Moments of calm, watching all three daughters getting along for a change. Seeing them laying on the trampoline, gazing up at the wide blue sky and talking about nothing in particular. How quiet the house became after the loss of our oldest daughter. How even quieter it got when our remaining two graduated and went on to make their own lives. Parting with that place was sweet sorrow.

Two years before we moved, my husband bought a fire pit. He’d insisted on getting one ever since he began working at the outdoor sports store he now manages. I didn’t see the point of such a purchase, but I finally relented. It proved to be one of the best he ever made from that store. It created some truly lovely memories of us as empty-nesters in our last days in the house. I had camped a few times in my life. Those experiences never led me to appreciate the relaxation that comes from sitting in front of a good ole fashioned fire. We spent two consecutive summers and well into the following autumn seasons relaxing by that damn fire pit. We enjoyed many campfire dinners – hot dogs, pan fried fresh lake caught blue gills, s’mores, and pie iron sandwiches. We even found the perfect campfire adult beverage – a red wine that recreates the taste of s’mores with chocolate and marshmallow flavors. Those summer nights by the fire pit were sublime. We often spotted deer near the woods at the edge of the yard. They always found their way to the apple tree to nibble fallen apples. Fireflies dotted the air and little bats would wing in and out of the trees. At twilight, the hydrangeas, lavender, and lilies made the yard look like a water color dream.

Selling our house was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. For both my husband and me, it was the place in which we’d lived the longest of our lives. We decided to move for several reasons. One was the upkeep of such a big house and large yard. We knew it would become too much for the two of us as we age. When we had three able bodied teenagers in need of spending money, having the lawn mowed or the bathrooms cleaned was a non-issue. Once our kids were gone, we grew weary of the housekeeping obligations. We also watched my parents age. We watched as it became clear their home, which was like ours, no longer met the needs of aging bodies with limited mobility. We knew we needed a dwelling that could accommodate the changes to come. We needed a home where we could “age in place.” My leaving teaching necessitated the move, as well. We needed to eliminate the sizeable debt we’d incurred over the years. We needed a way to reduce our monthly mortgage payment to offset the reduction in my wages, too. The facts converged. We resigned ourselves to the fact that selling our big, beautiful, beloved, and memory filled home was the only way to achieve our goals.

I’d spent years making improvements to the house – room by room, summer by summer. I decluttered and purged and staged and invested every spare penny. We were excited when we finally listed. I bought a little St. Joseph (patron saint of home and family) statue and, per Catholic lore to expedite the sale, buried it upside down in the front yard. I chose a spot near our lovely birch tree. I prayed the prayer every morning before I went to work. We immediately had people interested in seeing it, and, happily, we had an offer within the first week. We were thrilled, but that meant the pressure was on to find a condo. There was little available within our budget. We somehow managed to find a place we liked. It wasn’t ideal. It was a third-floor unit, defeating one of the main purposes for moving. It also posed a headache when it came to taking the dog potty. Still, it was the best option, and we made an offer. Then, as if on cue, our universe seemed to enter some sort of karmic retrograde. My father died suddenly. His affairs, including guardianship of my incapacitated nursing home resident mother, were left for me to sort out. I had just begun a new job and had little time off to devote to the sale of a home, the purchase of a condo and taking care of my parents’ stuff. The inspection of our home revealed a myriad of issues, including some very pricey ones. The appraisal of the condo came back under asking price and the seller was unwilling to come down. Ultimately, the sale of the house and the purchase of the condo both ended up falling through. Our heads were spinning. We had to start over.

It wasn’t long before we had another offer on our house. Though the inspection once again revealed issues, the buyers were less demanding than the previous one and we were weary. We agreed to their requests and the sale went through. Once again, we found ourselves in a position where we had to find a place to live…quickly. The condo we settled on was adequate – a two-bedroom, one bathroom 880 square foot former rental property five minutes from Mike’s store. The seller lived in another city. For some reason, he’d had the electricity shut off when the tenant moved out. So the first time we saw the place was by lantern. Another oddity was that the owner’s realtor had little involvement. His dad, who lived nearby, did the showing. Still, I found the quiet wooded setting appealing. It was a second story unit, but the ground floor was below grade, so it was up just seven steps. Once again, it was not ideal. Once again, it was the best option…and a hell of a deal. We offered the asking price and were delighted when the seller accepted. Then karma again had her say. The buyers for our house had a to coordinate closing on the purchase of our house with the sale of theirs. Foster parents with three young children, they needed to be able to move in within the month. Closing on the condo could not possibly be completed within that time frame time, and we were heading into the holiday season. We would close on the sale of our house and have to be out before we had a place to go. But, as fate would have it, we did have a place to go – my parents’ house, now empty following my father’s passing. My father had lived there alone for several years. It looked like an episode of Hoarders come to life – a filthy, smelly, pack-rat disaster. We pitched, donated, and cleaned as much as we could to make it habitable. Having to spend Christmas in the dilapidated shell of my family home was salt rubbed into months of wounds. We washed and dressed them. We took some Tylenol, gritted our teeth, and rented a U-Haul.

Even though I felt like I had spent weeks packing, the week leading up to our last weekend in the house was chaotic. It was the holiday shopping season and Mike, a retail manager, could take a limited amount of time off. My daughter and her girlfriend ended up helping me with the lion’s share of packing and loading the moving truck. They could only help for one of the three days we’d carved out for the physical move. Sunday, the third day, was our final day in the house. Mike and I were left to finish on our own. Mike made runs to my parents’ house. He packed our Toyota Rav4 to the gills with the remaining miscellany of our shit. I cleaned and touched up nail and screw holes with spackling and paint. The vacuum broke, at one point, and it was more than I could take. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted. Mike returned from a run to find me sitting on the floor, in the empty living room of the now almost completely empty house. I was ugly crying with swollen red eyes and gasping for breath. He was drained and exhausted, too. He had little patience for my meltdown. There were still odds and ends that needed to be moved…or left. We battled over what to keep and what to leave. In reality, we were both grieving. His grief manifested as wanting to “Just leave it! Leave it! We won’t have room for it!” Mine was the opposite. “I can’t leave it. I just can’t. I might need it. We might need it.”

In the end, we took more with us than Mike wanted to…and I left more than my heart could comfortably part with. We both simply had to reconcile. The clock was ticking, and we needed to leave. Exhaustion was catching up with both of us. As Mike took the final load of stuff, I mopped the kitchen floor. It was the last task left. When I was done, I walked from room to room. Twenty years of good and bad and wonderful and horrible memories played like a video in my mind’s eye. When Mike returned, it was time to say goodbye…for good. It was cold and raining. Mike had backed into the driveway, so sight of the house appropriately filled the rearview mirrors. It wasn’t until that moment that I remembered St. Joseph. “Wait!” I said glancing toward the birch tree. Mike knew what I was thinking. “Nope! No! You’re not digging that thing up now. It’s raining. I’m exhausted, and we need to leave now!” I felt a twinge of panic. What if leaving it would bring us more bad luck? What if leaving it was like taking for granted the blessing it had bestowed? I searched my mind for a rationale. “Okay, okay, okay! I’ll leave it here to watch over the family, the new owners,” I said. Yes! That was it! It would be a talisman for the new occupants and their family. Mike’s expression was that of relief.

The thought did not keep me from going back, though. One December evening just before Christmas I persuaded Mike to be my partner in crime. We returned under the cover of darkness and when it appeared no one was home. He aimed the headlights at the spot by the tree. I had nothing but my bare hands with which to dig. It was cold. The soil was beginning to freeze and dead leaves carpeted the ground. I couldn’t find the stone I’d placed to mark the spot. I retraced the paces from the tree I’d measure out that warm September day all those weeks before. I bent down and started to dig, paw over paw like a dog. Nope! Not there. I moved a few feet to the left and repeated. Still no luck. I was beginning to get nervous that we’d be discovered. I made one more unsuccessful attempt before giving up and returning to the warmth of the running car, dirt caked beneath my fingernails. Mike’s expression this time said “I can’t believe you just did that.” It’s an expression I’ve gotten use to after all these years.

What Mike and I have learned from our recent experiences, and over the years, can best be expressed by an Oliver Wendall Holmes’ quote. “Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Our house on Gleneagle was a dwelling for us and our girls for many years. The experiences from our time there made it home and, because of that, it will always be our home. Still, memories are made by people and attached to places. We’ve made a few good memories in our condo so far. We have new, equally amusing and fascinatingly strange neighbors (but that is a story of for another time). We’ve celebrated some holidays. I found spots for almost all my Christmas decorations. We added to our family in the condo – a tortoise shell calico cat named Roni. Unfortunately, we’ve subtracted, too. My mother passed away and my daughter ended her long-term relationship. I’ve learned to adapt. I’ve learned to enjoy having a smaller space to clean. I’ve learned to enjoyed a nice cup of coffee while relishing the tranquility of the woods, up-close, from a rocking chair on my balcony. I’ve savored a nice cup of Earl Grey on my couch while watching the gently falling snow on a Saturday morning in January. I’ve awoken on a spring Sunday morning by a cacophony of birds in a tree just outside my bedroom window. After my first trip abroad, I couldn’t wait to come “home” to my comfy bed in this condo. The photo attached to this post is a picture of the actual doormat that sits in front of my door. I got it a few months ago. It took a while for me to feel the sentiment. I guess this new place is becoming home now too.

 

My Love-Hate Relationship with Modern Appliances and Major Life Changes

stove on fire

We’ve lived in our condo for a year and a half now. We moved from a house that we’d lived in for about twenty years. Our house had a big yard, lots of room, plenty of natural light, and appliances I’d picked out myself – including an amazing stainless-steel gas range I got a killer deal on. The family that bought our house insisted we leave all the appliances, including my beloved range. I was heart-broken at having to say goodbye to it. Getting use to my new electric range in the condo was one of the hardest things about moving. Though I’d used an electric range before, I’d been cooking on a gas one for a long time. So, I had a very steep re-learning curve. Of course, it didn’t help that, for some reason, electric ranges seem to have two temperatures – “raging fires of hell” and “barely lukewarm armpit.” One of the first things I tried to cook was pasta. It wasn’t some kind of fancy Italian pasta either. It was basic Kraft Dinner Macaroni and Cheese. Yeah. Simple, right? Easy, right? No! It came out chewy and sticky. The frustration was more than I could take. Through streaming tears, I told my husband, “I don’t know how to work this damn thing! I can’t cook on it! I’m not going to cook anymore!” Granted, my overreaction was due more to the stress of moving and a variety of other difficult life events I was going through at the time, but the struggle was real.
 
I had better success with the oven and often resorted to bake-able meals in those early days. Even that, though, seemed like cooking with some strange “European” appliance. Everything…and I mean everything…seemed to take exponentially longer to cook. I persevered, though, and baking got a little better, a little easier. Apparently, all I needed to do was lower my expectations and double the baking time for any lovin that came outta this stupid oven.
 
The range continued to be a challenge. The peak of the aforementioned learning curve culminated in what will forever be known to my family as “the Easter ham glaze debacle.” Easter dinner was the first holiday meal I tried to cook on this devil device. Holiday meal preparation has always felt like a “spinning plates” performance set to The Sabre Dance, and my inability to master the use of the new range amped the panic factor tenfold. I was somehow able to complete every part of the meal without great incident…until it came time to make the glaze for the ham. I was trying out a new recipe. It was one I’d seen on a cooking show – a sweet and glossy orange maple delight. It would be the crowning jewel of the main dish, our holiday ham. I put the saucepan on a smaller back burner to simmer and let the glaze reduce while I finished up the other dishes. I had only turned my back for a moment when I heard hissing and fizzing from behind. I turned back to see waves of brown cascading over the sides of the saucepan like (in the words of Austin Powers’ Dr. Evil) “hot liquid magma,” coating the entire screaming hot cooktop and instantly hardening into a thick black crust.
 
I panicked and started trying to wipe the mess from the still piping hot cooktop with the scrubby side of a soapy sponge. Steam wafted around me as the wet sponge’s nubby plastic side began to burn and singe. “Shit, shit, shit!” I exclaimed as I felt my self-restraint dissolve into tears. How the fuck can cooking on a modern appliance bring a grown woman to tears? I ask you. How can such a thing occur in today’s world? In the end, I decided to leave the mess and finish preparing the meal. Miraculously, the food turned out well and everyone enjoyed it. Still, a year later, this cooking fail has left me scarred.
 
It’s been a year since my ham-glaze-hell-on-earth incident, and I’ve become accustomed to my sub-par range. I’ve boiled ears of summer corn on the cooktop without incident and heated taco shells for Taco Tuesday weekly. I’ve prepared baked birthday macaroni and cheese for my hubby in August. I’ve even prepared a full holiday meal for Thanksgiving – roast turkey, dressing, and all the trimmings. I’ve made my signature dishes (that same mac-n-cheese as well as my corn casserole) to pass at the Christmas Day celebration hosted by my daughter in her new home. I even made Easter dinner numero dos, albeit only for two thanks to the Covid-19 quarantine. Yes, I did, indeed, make another ham with glaze. The recipe de jour this year was a sweet tea brown sugar glaze, and, no, there was no “debacle” this time around.
 
It’s taken over a year to get use to cooking on my electric range. I still miss my old gas one. I miss a lot of things. I’ve been through a great deal of change in the past few years and little of it has been comfortable. I left a profession that I worked in for almost twenty years. I’ve lost friendships. I lost both my parents. I left a house that I lived in longer than any other place in my life. It was the place where I raised my children. My life has felt strange and unfamiliar for long time.
 
There is comfort in the familiar. The job you’ve been going to since you graduated from college. Your family. The friends you’ve known forever. The house you’ve lived in for years. The range you’ve cooked dozens of holiday dinners on. Familiar feels good. It’s warm and easy. Some people find change exciting and interesting. I do not. It’s hard, for me, and stressful and I often fight it. Not having my parents around will never feel quite right, but I’m adapting to it. Working in a job that pays half of what I made in my former profession hasn’t been easy, but I’m getting used to it. Living in a two-bedroom, one bathroom 880 square foot condo has been an adjustment. Cooking for two on the electric range in our condo will never be the same as preparing meals for a family of five on a bad-ass gas range in a two-story family home on an acre lot in a quiet neighborhood. Change is hard, but if you grit your teeth and can endure it, I’m convinced you emerge further evolved than you once were…and that’s a good thing. This thought reminds me of a portion of the song Everything Will Change by Gavin DeGraw.

Back when it used to hurt
Took you a little while just to find the words
Losing, well, it sometimes burns, but you keep moving on
You’ve got to grow strong like you’re leading the nation
Got to make the best out of this situation
Get your hands up like it’s a celebration
And you keep moving on

Singing hey, before it gets too late
Before the night is over, before the world’s awake
Everything will change
Hey, I feel it coming on
Starting like a fire, tonight you lit the flame
Now everything will change

 
Yes, adapting to cooking on an electric range after cooking on a gas one is a purely first world problem and not at all a true traumatic, life altering change. Still, for me, it’s a symbol. It’s a symbol of resilience. It’s a symbol of my will to “fight” when I’m feeling defeated, overwhelmed, and beaten down. Yes, it “took me a while to find the words,” but they’re found now and Change has been embraced. So, do me a solid, Change, okay? Return the fucking favor.

Girl Stuff

girlstuff4

Okay. Here’s the scenario: It’s a commercial for Victoria’s Secret lingerie. It features Kate Upton’s ample bosoms spilling over the top of a lacy black bra – the kind the sales girl calls a “balconette.” Whatever. Right? It’s the kind of bra some gals have no business wearing. There’s a soft-filter on the camera, accentuating her “come hither” look. She gazes intently into the camera and softly whispers, “I want you. I REALLY want you…but…but…I’m on my period.” Wicka-wicka wuuuut? Got you didn’t I, boys? Yeah, I hooked you. Well, you can console yourself with the notion that Justin Verlander, World Series-winning future Hall of Fame pitcher, has had to hear those very words uttered from the luscious lips of that woman. Now you fellas can do me the favor of a continued courtesy read. Ladies, I think you will find what I have to say amusing and all too relatable.

Ever since the day Aunt Flo first rang my doorbell, some forty years ago, that bitch has had it out for me. Yeah, she’s always had my launch code…my address, my zip code, and my social security number, too. And I’m not sure why, but she really doesn’t seem to like me. I realize that many of the experiences of “womanhood” are rarely positive for anyone, but DAMN! Could the Creator be any more spiteful? For instance, I remember my mother’s initial reaction when I got my first period. Most moms are like, “Oh! My baby is all grown up!” They get sentimental. They’re caring and sympathetic. They think about their own experiences with “the curse.” Not my mom. Nope, that wasn’t Bonnie.

It was Thanksgiving, and Mom was busy trying to concoct a show-stopping dish-to-pass that would rival my grandmother’s culinary expertise. She was way too busy to deal with anybody’s bullshit. Even though I had friends with older sisters and knew what to expect, all of a sudden finding my drawers soaked with red stain freaked me out. I felt stunned, and, like any girl would, I went to my mother. “Jesus H. Christ, Christine! Already? And now? God, I thought I had a few more years.” She ushered me into the bathroom, showed me the pad stash, and said, “HERE!” Then she turned and went back to the daughter-in-law versus mother-in-law Turkey Day throw down. I was left to my own devices. Luckily, there were instructions on the back of the package.

It isn’t just menstruation, though. I have had a contentious relationship with the workings of my female body all my life. I wasn’t much of a “girlie girl,” when I was growing up. I wasn’t a “tomboy” either, though. I just really liked running around, climbing trees, riding my bike, and spending summer days barefooted and getting as filthy as I possibly could. It felt like important work at the time. Then, one-day, genetics dealt me the cruelest blow. I “developed” early…and I’m talking, like, age nine. This necessitated an uncomfortable conversation, initiated by my tactless mother, about my need for a bra. The talk “segued” into a tangential lecture about the importance of wearing deodorant. The worst part is that the entirety of this conversation occurred in public…IN THE SUPERMARKET! Needless to say, it was not helpful. The only thing that “talk” did was to make me feel even more self-conscious about my body than I already was.

In spite of her less than supportive initial reaction to my premature burgeoning womanhood and since I was such a good student, Ma was totes cool about letting me skip out on school for “girl stuff” any time I wanted. So, that was cool. If on my way to the bus stop, my cramps made me feel like I might literally die, Bonnie had no problem calling-in to school for me. When my crazy-ass hormones made my face look like a zit-studded pizza, she was A-Okay with letting me stay home for a couple days until it got better. I’m not sure I would’ve made it through adolescence were it not for her leniency.

In adulthood, my body continued to wage a battle of wills against me, especially when I was trying to get pregnant for the second time. I badly wanted a sibling for my daughter, but my body was like, “Hey, dude, we did you a solid by letting you have ANY babies, and you want another?” It was during these attempts to conceive that I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. After my primary care guy, the hippie doc that delivered my first child made the initial diagnosis, I went for a second opinion from a doctor that was recommended by a friend. The experience was yet another negative interaction with a healthcare provider to pile onto the heap I’d previously experienced. I can best describe this guy and his bedside manner as a combination of Hannibal Lector and Dr. Cox from the television show Scrubs. He confirmed hippie doc’s diagnosis and said, “You know, if you REALLY want to have another baby, all you need to do is lose some weight.” He might as well have added, “Fatty” to the end of that proclamation, as insulting as it was. Weeeeell, I proved THAT MOTHERFUCKER wrong within the next couple of months! I found myself pregnant post-haste. This perceived victory over my body’s contrarian will was short-lived, though, because it quickly began to look like I might lose the pregnancy. I started to spot, and my ob-gyn told me to prepare myself, just in case. I was put on bed-rest. During this time, in addition to eavesdropping on my neighbors’ cordless telephone conversations via my then husband’s police scanner, I constantly talked to my unborn child. “Come on,” I would say, “You are so, so wanted, little baby. I can’t wait to meet you. Please, please, please come meet me and your big sister.” Happily, my pregnancy made it full-term, but my child’s final symbolic protest against entering the world was a forty-eight-hour labor that had to be aggressively nudged along with Pitocin and Olympic level pushing. Luckily, she was a cherubic dreamboat of an infant once she got here and is now the truest love of my life. My body, on the other hand, continued to be a spiteful bitch.

All I can say is that I thank the sweet baby Jesus for mankind’s greatest invention – the contraceptive pill. It was this miraculous pharmaceutical invention that finally allowed me to conquer the wild and erratic hormone rollercoaster with which my body or genetics chose to supplement the storied consequence of original sin. Still, years later and after being lulled into a false sense of normalcy, I decided to stop taking the pill. The “hell on earth” that is having three teenage daughters in our house convinced my second husband and me that we were done with our need to breed, so I convinced him to have a vasectomy. Compared to most men, I guess his procedure was relatively traumatic. I felt bad and pretty guilty.

Maybe it was the universe’s revenge for my insisting that the hubs have such a “barbaric” procedure. Maybe it was my body’s treasonous desire to avenge the years my hormones languished in containment at the hands of synthetic control. I’m not sure. But I will tell you that hell hath no fury like female hormonal imbalance. A couple years after going off the pill, my crazy-ass symptoms returned – acne like that of a thirteen-year-old boy, menstrual cramps that sometimes rivaled labor pain, and mood swings you’d swear were the basis of a script for Dexter. I’d dealt with it all before, so I just endured. Medically speaking, eventually, you reach an age at which synthetic hormones present more of a risk than a benefit. So, I was advised by my doc not to resume use of them.

A few years later, however, that same physician began overreacting to every tiny “symptom” of something being wrong with my lady parts. Knowing she had had problems of that nature, I suspected she might be projecting. I trusted her, though, so I complied with every test and procedure. Then one year during my annual exam, she was convinced I might have some sort of serious problem. She wrote me a referral to an ob-gyn colleague of hers. Almost as soon as I sat down on the exam table this guy started throwing the “c” word around. Believe me when I say that nothing makes you willing to let a doctor run every test in the book like the idea that you might have cancer. He hadn’t even examined me when he told me he was going to do a biopsy.

I was nervous, but I desperately wanted to know if there was something really wrong. The nurse got me prepped and soon the hellacious invasive procedure began. Once he started, he said, “Yeah, I think I’m going to have to dilate your cervix a bit, so things might get a little uncomfortable.” “What?” I said, “You mean MORE uncomfortable, cuz this is already pretty fucking uncomfortable!” He laughed, “It really won’t be that bad. I’ll numb you up,” said the person who doesn’t even HAVE a cervix. Many women are familiar with the feeling of your cervix dilating…naturally…as it does in childbirth. And it’s FUCKING painful! Now imagine your cervix not having the motivation of a human being coming through it to make it cooperate. Yeah, it’s like that. For you fellas, I can describe it to you like this:  someone takes a tiny tightly wound spring, shoves it into your dickhole, and then, “POP!” springs your shit wide open. Uh-huh. I was out of my mind in pain and on the verge of passing out from hyperventilating when the whole nightmare was finally over. Doctor Marquis De Sade and his RN minion looked worried. Perhaps the vision of a malpractice suit was dancing their heads. I dunno. But they acted concerned enough that they offered to crack the exam room door to, “let in some fresh air while we let you have a moment to rest here a sec.” Afterward, I couldn’t get to my car fast enough.

Once inside the safety of my vehicle, I began bawling. I phoned my husband and told him about the ordeal. He said he’d make sure to bring me a bottle of Pinot when he got done with work. You are probably thinking, “Okay, surely this trauma caught some horrible problem in the nick of time.” It did not. The results were negative. The procedure was completely unnecessary. What’s more is that I got billed nearly a grand out of pocket for that shit show.

The following year my doc did the same damn thing again. “Uuuuhm. I think I see a polyp or a mass or something,” she said, “I think I need you to see the gynecologist.” She gave me another referral to Dr. Immacrook. This time I politely declined. I let the office know I’d be in touch with them about to whom I wished to be referred. After asking around, I found a wonderful doctor at a highly recommended practice. Still, I avoided going for the “annual exam” thing. I hated it. It made me psycho. I couldn’t sleep the night before my appointment. God forbid an appointment would be scheduled on a workday. Then I’d have to take the entire day off…no matter what time the appointment was. I avoided going. I didn’t go. I wouldn’t go…until there was a problem. Then there was a problem.

As I mentioned, my lady business has always seemed to be out to get me, and it recently put me through a pretty big scare. I missed a period, which at first, I thought was the sign of a perfectly natural change – menopause. Then, like some kind of sick macabre surprise party, I started. And when I say I “started,” I mean I began to bleed like a stuck pig. I hadn’t been expecting it and, I certainly hadn’t been expecting anything of that magnitude. I wasn’t prepared, and, what’s more, is that it happened at work. Such a situation is really unfortunate for someone that works in a profession where they are unable to use the restroom when they need to. I’m a teacher. So there are times that I have to wait five to six hours to use the toilet. On this day, I was certain my five and six-year-old students would go home to tell their parents about how they watched a pool of blood form around their teacher’s ankles as she sat in her “teacher chair” while reading the day’s Big Book story. Seriously, I thought I’d have to call my husband and have him bring me a change of clothing! Luckily, it didn’t come to that. What did follow, however, was a straight month of bleeding. And that’s something freak-out worthy for any woman of any age.

Okay. For most women, once you get to a “certain age” you begin to anticipate the big “change.” Though it’s talked about even less than menstruation, most women know enough about it to recognize a few hallmark signs – hot flashes, mood swings, weight gain, inconsistent periods, etc. Still, by and large, it’s a process shrouded in mystery. No one wants to talk about it, because it’s depressing…it’s a fucking drag…and it’s nature’s way of saying your days of being biologically useful to the human race are done. Consequently, I didn’t know if what was happening to me was normal…or if it meant I was dying or something. So, I called my gyno’s office. It took me nearly a month to get in to see someone, and, by the time I finally did, the bleeding had stopped. I saw a midwife named Patti. I really liked her. She was a little older than me and had a very relaxed, accepting bedside manner. She examined me but found nothing of immediate concern. She did, however, recommend an ultrasound. She thought they’d be able to do it there in the office that day, so I’d leave with at least some information. Unfortunately, there were no technicians available that day so the procedure would have to be performed at one of the area hospitals…nearly another month later. Afterward, I was told I’d get a call within the week to tell me the results, but after a week of handwringing and no word, I phoned. Midwife Patti was on vacation. It would be another week before I would know anything. When Patti finally called, she told me they’d “found something,” They wanted to schedule a sonohyterogram, a procedure that would give more precise results. Color me officially freaked out at this point. I called to schedule the appointment only to find it would be another month of high anxiety before I’d get any answers. Facing another semi-invasive medical procedure, I spent the month ruminating about every worst-case scenario.

When I called to make the appointment, I had questions. The receptionist/scheduler did her best to answer them, but it was clear her knowledge was limited. “Are they gonna need to dilate me for this?” I asked. “Uuuuh, lemme see (click, click, click – keyboard sounds). Yeah, it says that they will,” she answered. “Well, I’ve had that done before and it hurts like hell. Will they sedate me for it?” I continued. “Oh no, no. Most women say it’s just like really bad menstrual cramps. You just need to take some ibuprofen beforehand,” she laughed. “Well, I’m allergic to ibuprofen,” I replied. She was silent for a moment and then said, “Gosh, I guess you’ll just have to do Tylenol then.” Acetaminophen has never done more than take the edge off any pain for me. “Ooookay,” I said, “Should I have someone drive me?” “Well, you know your body, so I’d say it’s up to you,” was her answer. Yes, I DO know my body…and my history of sexual abuse…and how even the most routine gynecological exam sends my anxiety into the stratosphere, so I made sure my husband took the day off work to take me.

The first time I forced my husband to go with me to my gynecologist’s office, we both remarked at how we seemed to be surrounded by screaming reminders of our particular stage in the human condition – post procreation but pretty far from post-mortem. I didn’t ask him to come into the little room with me that time. I remember sitting alone, bare-assed, on the crunchy paper of the examination table, gazing out the window. I wondered if the architects had tried to create a perfect frame of the woodlands in the window, in an effort to ease the anxiety of women that would soon find themselves recumbent and in the most vulnerable of postures – feet in stirrups, privacy torn asunder amidst the glare of a spotlight and under the gaze of a stranger. Patti the Midwife was compassionate and sensitive. I trusted her. I trusted my new doc, too. None of my appointments at this practice had been as bad as the ones I had elsewhere, so I was hopeful that this procedure, in the hands of gentler kinder folk, might not be as bad as I feared.

My girlfriends all rallied around me prior to the second procedure. I had their steadfast support. That helped. At my request, they shared a couple Xanax to help me through it. Like before, even though the appointment wasn’t until the afternoon, I took the whole day off work. Doing so allowed me to prepare the way I prefer to and the way most women get ready for a date that presents the possibility of “getting lucky.” You know what I mean – shaving like you’re about to have surgery and being particularly thorough about what gets well lathered in the shower. I sifted through my underwear drawer to find a pair without holes and free of period stains, ones that were regular knickers and not “sexy lingerie.” Cuz, of course, wearing the really good stuff would be weird and just plain inappropriate. I know, I know, I know. They never even see your drawers, but I’m convinced that they just know. Part of why I go to all this effort is that I’m a lunatic, and the other part is that I absolutely adore my doc. It took me forever to find this kind Southern gentleman. So I always try to get things extra tidy…out of respect for him and a profession that revolves around having to stare at all manner of cooches every day all day. To me, gynecologists are like the Georgia O’Keefes of the medical profession – completely accepting and understanding of the uniqueness of every vag. Something I’m not sure I, myself, could do.

I had some leftover Hydrocodone from a previous dental procedure, so just before the appointment, I took it with the Xanax in anticipation of the worst. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling a care in the world once we got to the office. I planned to ask if my husband could come into the exam room with me. I expected to be told he couldn’t, so I had a response planned. I would say, “Okay. Now it’s not like he hasn’t seen my lady junk all up-close-and-personal-like…of course, without the benefit of that glamorous lighting.” Sadly, I was denied the opportunity to slay with that bit of wit. Without objection or questions, they allowed him to accompany me. Once in the little room, he nervously scrolled through his phone while the technician completed yet another regular ultrasound. I’ll admit, it was probably the teensiest bit awkward for him – sitting just a couple feet away from his wife lying with feet in stirrups while a lady stranger shoved a big bagged-up dildo shaped camera into her business. The tech finished the procedure, and we waited for the doc to arrive for the “main event.” He was running late. I was worried the Xanax/Hydrocodone cocktail might wear off. All I could think about was the itty-bitty-spring-thingy blowing up my shit.

Dr. Southern Comfort knocked before he came in. He apologized for his “taaahdineeess,” and he introduced himself to my husband. He explained what he’d be doing, showed me the instruments he’d be using, and told me how the procedure would help him make a determination about whether or not something was wrong. He immediately said there’d be no need at all to dilate me. Hallelujah! Then he got down to the business at vag, alternating between telling me what he was seeing/doing and discussing baseball with my husband. “Boy, he’s good,” I thought to myself, “What a masterful multitasking motherfucker!” It seemed like he’d only just begun when he pronounced that there’d be no need for a biopsy either. There was nothing…absolutely nothing…wrong with me. He de-gloved, shook my husband’s hand, and bid us a lovely remainder of our day. I was stunned but relieved. I’d been certain I’d be setting up a surgical consult for my hysterectomy at the checkout desk. Instead, I paid my copay, and we went for a late lunch. My narcotics hadn’t even worn off yet. It was the best lunch date ever.

I have the utmost reverence for what the female reproductive system is capable of, and as someone who has passed two human beings through her cooch medication-free, I am humbled by the miraculousness of it all. With that being said, I still find myself mired in the love-hate dichotomy that is my relationship with my body – specifically my reproductive system. I hate my period. I hate the pain. I literally feel physically ill for about a week before until a few days after. I hate the mess. I hate how self-conscious it makes me feel, just like I felt that very first day of my very first period. I hate the way it affects my entire life for days. Still, the thought of not having a period is almost as bad. Looming menopause pushes all my insecurity buttons. It makes me feel old, dried up, and “less than.” Reproductively viable or post-menopausal – both states suck in their own way, and both are intimately tied to the way a woman is perceived by society.

Still, I feel like our culture is slowly shifting…for the better. Reproductive viability is no longer the be-all-end-all of a woman’s value. Though the value of a woman’s appearance still seems to be dying way too hard, in my opinion, the trend toward gender role nonconformity and gender fluidity have made a positive, albeit small, impact on how women see themselves. It’s my hope that, if I ever have a granddaughter, she can shrug off all the myths, negative connotations, and stereotypes about “girl stuff” that my mother, my daughters, and I grew up with. I hope she can see herself, first and foremost, as a human being…one that just happens to have two X chromosomes, a uterus, and all the other things – good and a little less than good – that go along with being born genetically female. That’s my hope…my wish. Well that, and maybe legal-in-every-state cannabis-infused tampons. That’d be pretty bitchin, too.

 

 

 

 

Soul Food

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I will never be a proponent of the “food is just fuel” philosophy. Where I come from meals are more than mere nourishment. To me, food is the most complex necessity. Human history has shown as much. In Food and Eating: An Anthropological Perspective, Robyn Fox describes food’s unique role in the lives of humankind.

We have to eat; we like to eat; eating makes us feel good; it is more important than sex. To ensure genetic survival the sex urge need only be satisfied a few times in a lifetime; the hunger urge must be satisfied every day.

It is also a profoundly social urge. Food is almost always shared; people eat together; mealtimes are events when the whole family or settlement or village comes together. Food is also an occasion for sharing, for distributing and giving, for the expression of altruism, whether from parents to children, children to in-laws, or anyone to visitors and strangers. Food is the most important thing a mother gives a child; it is the substance of her own body, and in most parts of the world mother’s milk is still the only safe food for infants. Thus food becomes not just a symbol of, but also the reality of, love and security.

All animals eat, but we are the only animal that cooks. So cooking becomes more than a necessity, it is the symbol of our humanity, what marks us off from the rest of nature. And because eating is almost always a group event (as opposed to sex), food becomes a focus of symbolic activity about sociality and our place in our society

Some of my happiest childhood memories revolve around food and cooking. I fondly remember standing, perched on a stepstool at the counter in my Grandmother Vesta May’s kitchen, helping her roll out the dumpling dough for her chicken and dumplings. During summertime, I often accompanied my grandparents on their trips back home to South Pittsburgh, Tennessee. I remember sitting in rocking chairs on the porches of individuals whom I barely knew that were supposedly my “relatives.” The unfamiliar company never kept me from wolfing down the delicious pimento cheese sandwiches, deviled eggs, and sweet tea that were served to us so graciously on a tray with the good “company” dishware by those people. Even at that young age I recognized what a lovely thing Southern hospitality is. Another tradition I was always eager to help with was picking wild blackberries from the thorny bushes in my grandparents’ backyard. My enthusiasm was largely due to the fact that I knew Grandma would magically transform those dark jewels into sweet, rich jam that I’d get to spread thickly onto warm homemade biscuits. I’d spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house in the summer, too. Since the house wasn’t air conditioned, on particularly warm nights I’d sometimes awaken feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. Seeing a light down the hall, I’d stumble bleary-eyed toward it to find Grandpa in the kitchen having a “midnight snack.” Sometimes it would be peanut butter spread upon Ritz crackers. At other times Grandpa would be slurping, from a tall glass, a mixture of buttermilk with cornbread leftover from supper crumbled into it. He’d motion for me to sit in the chair opposite his, and he’d push the plate of peanut butter crackers toward me. On nights when he was enjoying the buttermilk-cornbread concoction, he’d make a glass of it for me using regular milk. He knew I didn’t care for buttermilk. Elaborate Sunday suppers with an extensive menu, another Southern tradition, were my grandmother’s favorite ways to show off her mad cooking skills. They were a showcase for her culinary talent and also made my mother acutely aware of her shortcomings in the kitchen.

My mom’s mom wasn’t much of a cook, so my mother never had the benefit of learning much from her. At my father’s behest, Mom reluctantly submitted herself to her mother-in-law’s tutelage and came away with a few decent meals in her recipe collection. Beef Stroganoff was my favorite dish and what I always asked for as my birthday dinner. Mom also had an opportunity to expand her horizons by learning a few “ethnic” recipes. My father grew up in a relatively diverse blue-collar neighborhood. He forged lifelong friendships with the sons of a few Polish and Italian immigrants. After everyone was married and had families, my mother learned from their wives. She added Italian and Polish dishes like indulgent cheesy lasagna, spaghetti with huge meatballs and authentic Italian “gravy,” tender homemade pierogis, and crispy-on-the-outside-fluffy-on-the-inside mashed potato pancakes to her repertoire. Once Mom went back to work, after all her children were in school, these kinds of meals were reserved for holidays, special occasions, and the occasional Sunday supper to which my grandparents were invited.

 My mother’s return to work and the subsequent infrequency of those labor- intensive meals inspired my father to pursue cooking “as a hobby.” He got interested in the cooking shows that were broadcast late Saturday afternoons when he got home from work. He studied the cooking techniques and recipes detailed on The Frugal Gourmet and America’s Test Kitchen as well as those on reruns of The Galloping Gourmet and Julia Child. It was always a surprise to see what Dad would try his hand at from week to week. To provide the freshest ingredients for his cooking, one year he even planted a garden…the vegetables of which his spoiled, entitled children resoundingly rejected once they found tiny (harmless) green inchworms in the broccoli. And that was the end of that. Even though he lives alone now, Dad still enjoys cooking and talking about food. His newest obsession is the Insta-Pot craze. Yeah, don’t get him started on that one. “Know what I made last week?” he’ll ask. “No, Dad. I don’t. What did you make?” I’ll respond, taking the bait. “I made a pot roast, a good old fashion pot roast! Wanna know how long it took?” he’ll continue. I’ll humor him and say, “Okay. How long did it take, Dad?” His eyes will light up at the chance to share the miraculous feat of technology with which he believes I’m unfamiliar. “Fifteen minutes! I’m not shitting you, kid. It only took fifteen fucking minutes! Isn’t that incredible?”

 Barbecues were the summer family tradition on my mother’s side of the family. Unlike my father, Mom had a slew of siblings who, in turn, had spouses and kids. Less refined than my Dad’s Southern relations, Mom’s family was all about the PAR-TAAAAY! Booze flowed freely at these events. Music played, loudly, and many hijinks ensued. During one particularly raucous gathering, my mother chased her brother into the house (HER house) with the garden hose and proceeded to spray him with it, full blast, in the face! One of my favorite memories of those barbecues is when, one Independence Day, the family gathered ‘round the boom box and sang Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody together at the top of their lungs. My Aussie boyfriend at the time found himself speechless at the spectacle.  Apparently he was under the mistaken impression that Aussies had the market on boisterousness cornered. And yet, here were fifteen “Aaaamurakins,” ranging in age from about four to eighty and all of whom being the furthest thing from professional vocalists, making a decidedly less than joyful noise unto The Lord. My youngest daughter still mentions this wonderfully amusing memory from time to time. That says a lot about its impact. She was only six at the time. At these events, my dad loved to man the barbecue grill, and my mother loved to pass off her mother-in-law’s wildly popular potato salad recipe as her own. It was a centerpiece of every summer gathering. My aunts loved to compete for the “runner up” spot with their own potluck dishes. Summer barbecues culminated with a big Labor Day bash. My mother, her mother, and her sisters put their own spin on the traditional Southern dish of “fried green tomatoes.” Something only blasphemous Yankee women would do, in place of the green they used the red ripe tomatoes that are always in abundance during summer months in these parts. May the dear soul of my Vesta May forgive me, but, truth be told, I like ‘em better that way. Sweet red ripe tomatoes coated in crushed Corn Flake crumbs and fried in bacon grease are truly a crunchy, sweet, smoky, succulent slice of heaven! Once everyone had eaten their fill of the tasty bastardized delicacy, any leftover tomatoes were stewed, canned, and put up for winter dishes like meaty goulash and spicy chili.

 The loving experiences I’d had cooking with my grandmother, my fond memories of her delicious food, and the positive associations I had between food and family made me eager to take home economics in junior high. It allowed me to build upon the skills I’d learned from Vesta May. I often put my newfound knowledge to use when I had to cook for my father and siblings on the nights when my mother worked a closing shift or when I gave baked goods and other foods as gifts to family and friends. Later in life, as a young wife and mother, I loved to find new recipes to make for my family or to take as my “dish-to-pass” at potlucks. When my mother got older, I took on the mantle of preparing the big holiday meals – Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. I prided myself in creating elaborate meals – the kind my grandmother prepared. I found great satisfaction in the enjoyment of my family. In recent years, inspired by cooking shows on Food Network and The Cooking Channel, I’ve found a similar satisfaction in cooking for friends on the rare occasion that I entertain. Like my grandma, I just love making people happy by cooking delicious food for them. I’ve sometimes dreamt of having a restaurant of my own where I could do that on a greater scale.

 Now that my children are grown and gone, I don’t have much occasion to cook on a grand scale. My husband enjoys a very limited number of foods and dishes. Though the byproduct is a ton of leftovers, there are still times when I cook things that I love just for myself. Sometimes I freeze the leftovers to have for meals in the future. Sometimes I take them to my dad. As he’s gotten on in age and after never having done so for most of my life, he now tells me he loves me. He uses the actual words. He never did that before. Unfortunately, it can’t erase the effects of a lifetime of not hearing them. So I just can’t bring myself to say the words back. I bring him leftovers instead because as is the case in many families, food is code. It’s saying, “I made this, see. I took great care. I invested time, and I’m giving it to you because I want it to make you feel happy. I want you to feel happy.”

Loving people means wanting happiness for them. It means wanting big things for them. It means you wish them things like falling in love with their soul mate or finding the job that’s their purpose in life or having a life filled with health & wellness. But it can also mean you want the little things for them, too. It can mean you wish them a sunny blue-sky day or a day free of stress. It can mean you want them to have a day when they can do something fun or have an adventure or maybe just sleep to their heart’s content. Sometimes it means, “Taste this! I made it for you! It’s so good, and I want eating it to make you feel good!” Tonight I’m making my husband’s favorite pasta, Cavatappi, with homemade Alfredo sauce and pan-seared scallops. It’s a love letter to him…and to myself. It’s me saying, “Before we go back to the daily grind, let’s take the opportunity to enjoy one small pleasure of life – a lovely meal.” No, it’s not like this is the last time we will enjoy such a meal, but it is a symbol…a celebration…of the good things and pleasures in life – things like vacations and sunshine and sleeping in.

 So, sorry Jillian Michaels…and Harvey Pasternak…and Gwyneth Paltrow…and all the rest of you amongst the subconsciously masochistic haters of the human experience, I think you’re wrong. Food is not simply fuel. It’s a complex necessity. It’s a pleasure of being human, and I’m claiming it! There is simply far too much misery in the world, so why create more by denying this simple fact? I’m pretty sure that people who languish in starvation on a daily basis would agree with me. Yes, food is a necessity for physical survival, but it can also bring happiness. Think of a starving man in Sudan as he greets a box of food dropped from the heavens with happy tears streaming down his face. I’m pretty sure that food is going to taste amazing to him and fill him with joy. Food can be love. Giving food can be a gesture of love to a co-worker or a beloved family member or a stranger that you’ve never met in a faraway land or the disheveled guy that parks his shopping cart at the exit ramp of the highway and talks to himself all the time. It can be altruism.

 We are the only animals for whom food is such an incredibly complex, emotionally charged, and multi-faceted thing. We produce it, we share it, we withhold it from others, and we sometimes deny it to ourselves. We cook it, create it, and consume it. Food nourishes the body of any organism, but, truly, it can only feed the souls of humans. Can I get an amen?

Santa, Clark Griswold, and Me

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Like so many things in my life, I have a love-hate relationship with Christmas. When I was a child I got so excited about it that I found myself unable to sleep not just on Christmas Eve but for a full week prior. I’m not sure why I experienced such anticipation. I waited, with baited breath, for the JC Penney Christmas catalog to show up in the mailbox every November. I spent days pouring over each page and laboring, tirelessly, to craft the most comprehensive Christmas list – complete with prices and page numbers. In hindsight and now having lived through being a parent at Christmas myself, I imagine this unswerving focus probably intimidated the fuck out of my parents. That was probably why they were particularly cranky in the days leading up to Christmas. The financial burdens of a traditional American Christmas (gifts, tree, food, etc.) combined with the expanded, winter-break presence of their children sent them into full-blown-stressed-out-holiday-hell. Yeah. So they were even less warm & fuzzy than normal. When my siblings and I became teenagers, Christmastime was even more volatile. Raging hormones and self-centeredness are hard enough for parents to deal with without the added pressures of the crown jewel of commercialism. Screaming, yelling, slamming doors, tear-stained faces, and stuffy noses red enough to compete with Rudolph appeared each year, every year, along with the evergreen tree and cheerful décor. I hated Christmas as a teen. I longed for the happy family gatherings I saw on each “special Christmas episode” of my favorite T.V. shows.

Once I got married and had a family of my own, I was committed to making Christmas a magical time for my children. The excitement and anticipation for Christmas that I’d felt as a child returned. I eagerly fueled the Yuletide fantasies of my daughters by insisting that we create the kind of Christmas memories I’d grown up watching on television and in movies. I helped them write and mail a letter to Santa each year. We made the annual pilgrimage to the mall to “visit Santa.” We baked Christmas cookies. We drove around town “ooooing” and “aaahing” over neighborhood Christmas light displays. We bundled up and braved the harsh West Michigan winter elements to see the mother-of-all holiday light displays that the area zoo puts up each year. We sipped hot chocolate and strolled down Candy Cane Lane in our downtown park through gently falling snow. We went to a Christmas tree farm and took a hayride out to cut down a fresh tree each year. One year I even used fireplace ashes to make Santa’s boot-shaped footprints on the carpet. I saved money all year long in a “Christmas Club” account to give my girls the Christmas of their dreams each year. As you can see, I took “Santa Clausing” very seriously. The year I got divorced and moved in with my parents, I still tried to make Christmas special. And since my parents enjoyed being grandparents way more than they ever liked being parents, happily, they were willing to help me. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure they loved seeing the joy in the eyes of their grandkids on Christmas morning even more than I did.

I remarried when the girls were still school-aged. My current husband has always worked in retail and had become a bit desensitized to the holidays when we met. He had also been married to a woman that didn’t celebrate holidays and he shared a daughter with her. Those factors, combined with a contentious relationship with his family, made celebrating Christmas less than enjoyable for him. I was undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm and pressed him to forge Christmas traditions for our newly blended family. After a few years, we found our identity as a family, and our Christmas celebrations gradually took shape. Many happy memories were made. Over the years our family has weathered losses that have altered some of our traditions. The death of my oldest daughter had a monumental effect on every aspect of our lives and had a lasting impact on many of those traditions – the greatest being a deepened appreciation for them. The year after my daughter’s death, my stepdaughter decided that, because of her faith, she didn’t want to celebrate holidays anymore. My husband cut ties with his family the year after that. A couple years later, my younger daughter went off to college nine hours away. She was always home for Christmas, but the schedule demands of the job she was working meant her time with us was limited. Our holiday celebrations got smaller and smaller. Still, I soldiered on in my role as Santa just like the real St. Nick would.

Two years ago, my stepdaughter had a change of heart and came back to the holiday-celebrating fold. And though they couldn’t make it for Christmas Eve, my daughter and her partner planned to be home for Christmas Day. My dad made transportation arrangements so my mother could come from the nursing home and have Christmas dinner at my house. I was as giddy for Christmas as my girlhood self. No, it wasn’t everything I wanted. That would’ve been Christmas Eve dinner with everyone – both daughters, my daughter’s partner, my sister, my nephew, my mother, my father, and my husband; Midnight Mass with my husband, my daughter, and her partner; Christmas morning with the girls and stockings and presents and overnight French toast; and Christmas Day dinner with everyone all over again! Still, this Santa would take what she could get. And it was wonderful.

Since then, there seems to have been a slow downward-winding spiral. Last year, my stepdaughter was in a treatment facility at Christmastime. Well, actually, she hadn’t planned to celebrate the holiday again anyway. My daughter, who’d moved to Florida, planned to come home on a flight that arrived Christmas eve. Her partner had just lost her father, needed to drive to Arizona, and, obviously, could not come to Michigan for Christmas. My brother in-law had had an aneurism in the weeks leading up to Christmas and could not travel. Yes, it was a shit-show only the most resilient of Santas could salvage. Still, we had a nice Christmas Eve dinner with Mom and Dad at the nursing home. On Christmas morning my daughter, my husband, and I all opened gifts before enjoying some nice overnight French toast. My dad was delighted with the ipad my sister and I got him, and we had a nice dinner with him and my daughter. All in all, it was a pleasant time.

Santa’s patience this year was truly tested. My daughter could not get time-off to come home. My sister, who’s going through a messy divorce, was (understandably) unable to commit to any kind of event. Though she did plan on celebrating, my stepdaughter had to work on Christmas day, so we needed to move our “main event” to Christmas Eve. Oh, and by the way, this is probably the last Christmas she’ll be celebrating because she’s going back to her religion in the new-year. My dad wanted to reserve Christmas Eve for my sister “just in case.” Again, I remained committed to making happy family Christmas memories. It was particularly important to me because my stepdaughter’s fiancé would be spending the holiday away from his family in Peru. I wanted him, in particular, to have a nice Christmas. And it was nice. I guess this Santa shouldn’t complain since I have had much worse. Still, I missed my child terribly. It was the first time since she was born that we have been apart on Christmas.

Yes, I know that there are many parents who regularly spend the holidays…and birthdays…and anniversaries apart from their child/children for a variety of reasons, but, up to point in my life, I have not. I have particular sympathy for parents with a child in harm’s way, serving in our armed forces. Still, this Santa has never had to be without her only living child at Christmas before, and it was rough. In spite of my stepdaughter’s declaration that this was her last Christmas, a small part of me still hopes that next Christmas will be THE ONE – the Christmas I have always dreamed of – with everyone, altogether, under my roof celebrating. I am reminded of the movie “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.” My husband has always likened my lofty holiday ambitions to those of main character Clark Griswold.

Clark Griswold: All my life I’ve just wanted to have a big family Christmas.

Ellen Griswold: (hesitantly looks at Clark and grasps his hand) It’s just how you         build things up in your mind, Sparky. You set standards that no family event can ever live up to.

Clark: Now when have I ever done that?

Ellen: (gestures ‘thusly’) Parties, weddings, anniversaries, funerals, holidays,graduations…(trails off)

As I was cleaning the house on Christmas Eve, the two little neighbor girls came up the walk. They’d just come from Sunday Mass and were still clad in tights, church dresses, and patent leather Mary-Janes. I watched them walk gingerly up the snow-glazed drive, in those slippery soled shoes and bundled in Sunday dress coats, surrounded by swirling snowflakes. “You’ll go take those next door,” I heard the older one direct the younger as she motioned toward the home of my elderly neighbors. “My mom made you some cookies,” she said to me as she approached my door with a foil covered paper plate. “Thank you, honey. Merry Christmas!” I replied. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a pensive smile. My husband and I haven’t exactly been “good neighbors.” The polite term for people like us is “anti-social.” In actuality, the fact is…we’re assholes. We never went over to introduce ourselves when this sweet little family moved in. In fact, the only welcoming overtures we ever made were polite nods and waves while getting the mail or walking the dog. I first met the neighbor woman months after they moved in. She came with her daughters to sell Girl Scout cookies last spring. She introduced herself, but I’m such a dick that I don’t even remember her name. It’s Rachel – maybe. I asked the older girl if she went to the elementary school near our neighborhood. The mother replied that both girls went to one of the area Catholic schools. The girl told me she was in first grade. “Oh, I teach first grade,” I replied. “My husband is a teacher, too. He teaches at their school,” the woman said. I bought two boxes of Girl Scout cookies that day, to assuage my guilt for being such a shitty neighbor. I’m probably gonna send a thank-you card for the Christmas cookies and apologize for my failings as a neighbor.

The sight of those little girls coming up the driveway in the snow set off a cascade of emotions for me that day. They reminded me of my own daughters. It made me ache for a magical time that has long since passed. I sat at the dining room table, between bouts of cleaning, and cried. I couldn’t stop it from coming. “Clark Griswold wouldn’t be crying,” I laughed to myself as I tried to get it together. I somehow managed to finish all the things I needed to do – clean, cook, wrap. By the time my stepdaughter and her fiancé arrived, the melancholy had subsided, been folded up, and neatly tucked beneath my heaped pile of emotional baggage. We had a lovely evening. A long, long way from home and far from his own family, my stepdaughter’s fiancé seemed to appreciate our wish to make him feel at home and loved. An avid Star Wars fan, he was particularly delighted by the “talking” Chewbacca mask my husband chose as one of his gifts. My mother straight-up “threw down” on the beef tenderloin I prepared for Christmas Day dinner. I just wanted her to have some good, home cooked food for Christmas – the kind she can’t get at the nursing home. The fact that any Christmas might be her last is always at the front of my mind. So I want each one we get to spend with her to be special. That’s what it’s all about to me. See? Me. Santa. Clark Griswold. We all just want to see smiles, hear laughter, and make magic! We just want to be able to say, when all is said and done, in the words of Clark Griswold, “I did it!”

 

I Heart Television

hearttv

In the Foo Fighter’s song The Best of You, Dave Grohl sings, “I’ve got another confession to make; I’m no fool….” Well, I’ve got a confession to make, too. It’s one that, to some of you, might make me seem like a fool. Here’s the thing, though, the beauty of getting older is that you rarely give much of a shit about anything anyone thinks of you. It’s pretty cool. So what is this deep, dark secret that could alter your opinion of me? I love television! No, I REALLY love television…and I watch A LOT of it. And I won’t apologize. So, why in the world would I consider this a “secret” that’s “confession worthy?” Well, it’s not something I am quick to mention because I simply cannot abide trying to defend a choice that is so clearly mine and mine alone to those “holier than thou” folks who “don’t even own a television” when they start running their sanctimonious mouths. “Blah, blah, blah. Television is mental junk-food.” “Television is a pastime that only the vapidest would engage in for more than a few moments on any given day.” “It’s such a waste of time.” Well, frankly, I don’t care if you think my television consumption makes me a “fool” or shallow or stupid. I don’t care if you think that my television viewing habits are part of the reason I’m fat. I don’t care if you think it makes me a “basic bitch.” I love it, and if loving television is wrong, I just don’t wanna be right.

I’ve watched tons of television all my life. Many of my earliest memories revolve around T.V. shows. Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on network television always signaled the beginning of the holiday season to me. I have nothing but fond recollections of a four-year-old me dancing around the Christmas tree and singing along to Jingle Bell Rock with Wayne Newton on his Christmas special. I have warm memories of watching post-holiday episodes of Family Affair in my fuzzy new Christmas jammies. I recall enjoying the “new” cereal Peanut Butter Captain Crunch as a bedtime snack on a T.V. tray in front of Hawaii Five-O. Watching Happy Days, Welcome Back Kotter, The Carol Burnett Show, and The Brady Bunch was a weekly family ritual. I watched Sesame Street, Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, and The Price Is Right on days I stayed home sick from school. Saturday morning cartoons were a given for most people of my generation. When I got a little older, summer vacation meant sunbathing slathered in baby oil for three hours in the morning and then watching my favorite soap operas Young and the Restless and The Guiding Light in the afternoon. Incidentally, I still watch Y&R…every single day. I just DVR it now. And I named my youngest daughter after a character on The Guiding Light. My teen years saw a convergence of my two most beloved media – television and music. When MTV launched in 1981, my life was complete. MTV and PBS stoked my passionate love of “all things British,” and I discovered Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, and Dr. Who on PBS. I was a lonely child and adolescent, for the most part. So, the characters in my favorite television shows and music videos were my steadfast friends.

You might think that getting married and having children would’ve put a damper on my relationship with the tube. It did not. If anything, it intensified. It provided a much-needed escape from the pressures of raising two kids on a working-class poor income. I was an avid fan of Friends, The X-Files, Seinfeld, and Star Trek The New Generation. I’d hurriedly plunk the kiddos into bed with a quick peck and a fast-forward speed lullaby in order to catch every moment of my shows. With that being said, here’s yet another confession. Looking back, that was the period of time for which I am regretful of my devotion to television. In hindsight, I wish I’d have lingered just a little longer at bedtime, all those many years ago, with my babies. Fuck television. They were what I should’ve cherished most. Now they are gone and one of them is grown. So, T.V. is where it’s at for me, once again.

Along with our love of music, a love of television was something my current husband and I immediately bonded over. “Oh man, you love Saturday Night Live, too? No way! Who’s your favorite cast member? Mike Myers? Me, too!!!” Though I did not share his love of any and all televised sports, by and large, our viewing habits were the same. In the few areas where we diverged, we embraced those new genres and found that we grew even closer. In exchange for him being able to watch unlimited sports, he agreed to watch Young and the Restless with me. Now he rarely misses an episode. I turned him on to Dr. Who. He loved it. He discovered The Gilmore Girls, and it became a beloved show to our entire family. I nagged him into watching Downton Abbey, and we binged watched an entire season on DVD one summer. I reluctantly came to enjoy the “adolescent boy” humor of South Park and Tosh.O. Together we inadvertently discovered the “Alaska shows” on The Discovery Channel and The National Geographic channel. I never would’ve believed I’d become obsessed with television shows about gold mining in the Yukon and subsistence living in the most remote corners of Alaska, but I am. As we’ve gotten into our 40’s/50’s, “date night” has now become cocktails from a well-stocked home bar, take-out pizza, and those Alaska shows. We also have our weekly schedule of sitcoms. The Middle, Modern Family, and American Housewife all seem like they are written based on our lives.

Yes, I love television, and, no, I am not ashamed of it. I look forward, with great anticipation, to my Saturday mornings, cuddled up on the sofa with my dog, watching The Kitchen and Valerie’s Kitchen. And yes, I can sit for hours on end watching episode after episode of House Hunters on HGTV. “Wait. What? Didn’t I see this one a few hours ago?” Yes, I am the middle-aged woman that was as giddy as a schoolgirl when she met Property Brothers Jonathan and Drew Scott a few years ago at the annual home show. And, yes, I would thoroughly LOSE MY SHIT if, somehow, I had the opportunity to meet Chip and Joanna Gaines of Fixer Upper or ran into Josh Temple at Lowe’s and got picked for a home makeover on House Crashers.

 Okay. So, maybe you think I’m just a loser – living the endeavors of others, real and imagined, vicariously through television. I, on the other hand, prefer to think of myself as someone who finds, in those endeavors, an inspiration for reflection on the human experience. I’m an introvert, so I’m cool with living small. I’m a writer. I don’t feel the compelled to go out and have big adventures or heavy drama or intense conflict because I can create those kinds of things inside my head and make them stories. I love television, and I’m not ashamed of it. Maybe I’ll just have to put that on a tee-shirt or something.

If Eve Had Been A Drinker

adam&eve

It’s Friday night. I’m sitting here with a big glass of Pinot. My dog is cuddled up next to me, and I’m waiting for the hubs to bring home dinner – pizza pie! THIS is my favorite time of day – wine o’clock. Last year, at my physical, I decided to be honest. On the line of the health history form that asks you to describe your alcohol consumption, I wrote, “one glass of wine daily.” In the past, I’d always just marked “Social Drinker.” The doctor read it and said, “So a glass of wine daily, right?’ with no tone of judgment. My reaction was a bit of a knee-jerk. “That’s right,” I replied defensively, “I’m a public school teacher and THAT is how I keep from losing my shit!” “Ooookay,” she said. In truth, I was only partially honest. Sometimes I have two big glasses. Sometimes I have one and some tequila drinks. It all depends on how many times I had a kindergartener throw himself on the floor in a tantrum or had two 5 year-olds have an octagon style throw-down over crayons or how many time I had my boob/butt patted to get my attention. In other words, it’s kinda like a teacher drinking game that I play when I get home.

I come from a looong line of people who like…and I mean really like…their drink. My paternal great-grandmother kept a cask of moonshine on her porch. She defiantly sold it by the cup…during prohibition. Of course, it helped that her son was the chief of police and most of the town was related to her. Some of my earliest memories of my mother’s family gatherings feature the most popular adult beverages of the time. I knew them all. What’s Uncle Howard got there? Oh, that’s a Harvey Wallbanger. What’s grandma drinking? Well, she made a big Tupperware container of Screwdriver and froze into a slushie! Grandma could never babysit on New Year’s Eve. She and her boyfriend always went bar hopping that night. My Aunt Char had her wedding reception in the fire hall next to my grandma’s house. “Oh, we can’t have alcohol in here? No problem! We’ll just set up the bar over in Mom’s garage.” One Christmas, Aunt Elaine gave everyone homemade Kahlua. Family reunions were always B.Y.O.B. (bring your own booze). That usually led to various family members getting into arguments, fist fights, engaging in expectedly inaccurate target shooting, and of course, the occasional random rifle shot into the night sky. I remember being surprised when my childhood friends didn’t know what a Whiskey Sour was or when their parents didn’t have a bar or liquor cabinet in their house. I thought everybody’s family was like mine.

Surprisingly, my first experience with drinking didn’t happen until the eve of my sixteenth birthday. What can I say? I was just an anxiety-riddled “good girl” who was too much of an emotional wreck to risk what little regard her parents had for her by engaging in underage drinking. The night before my sixteenth birthday, my “worldly” friend Kristen, who attended a fancy prep school on the East Coast, came to pick me. Maintaining an illusion of innocence, I bid my folks adieu and slipped into her junky brown Toyota Corolla hatchback. Away we drove. “Where are we going?” I asked her. “Not far,” she replied, smiling. We drove just a few streets over, to an area of my neighborhood that was under development. It was filled with partially constructed houses and was, largely, unoccupied. She parked the car in a remote corner of the area, reached into the back seat, and produced a bottle of Asti Spumanti and a bottle of Boones Farm. I know, right? You’d think a girl of her breeding would’ve made some classier selections, huh? The inexperienced drinker that I was didn’t know any better though, and it didn’t really matter anyway. These would serve the purpose and would’ve been enough for even the most seasoned drinker to have a pretty good time. Having been away at prep school, of course, Kristen had more experience drinking than I did. Actually, she had more experience with just about everything – booze, drugs, sex – everything. My world was tiny compared to hers. The only alcohol I had ever consumed prior to that night was a teensy bit of Kahlua during a slumber party I’d hosted one night when my parents went out and my siblings went to stay with my grandparents. This ridiculous adolescent “girls night” also included a viewing of “American Gigolo.” We’d heard that there was a scene showing male “full frontal,” and we were determined to find out what all the fuss was about. Since my family had HBO, fate made me hostess. None of us had much more than a nip of my aunt’s homemade coffee concoction that night, and the much-anticipated “full frontal” was disappointing. On my sweet sixteenth birthday, I was ready to take it up a few notches and do some big girl drinking.

Kris handed me the Asti. “This is for you since you’re the birthday girl,” she laughed. I might’ve been an inexperienced drinker, but, even at the tender age of sixteen, I was a bit of a baby badass. I’m Ancestry DNA certified Irish, see, so, I have a legit genetic claim to my ability to hold my liquor well – and hence the aforementioned familial propensity for it. And though I had never even laid a finger on a bottle of it before, that champagne cork wasn’t even a challenge. Kris looked impressed by my prowess. “Damn!” she exclaimed. Over the next few hours, we talked and drank and talked. She said she’d learned not to drink on a completely empty stomach, so she’d brought a couple snacks – a single bag of peanut M&M’s and some Corn Nuts. Trusting her wisdom, I picked the Corn Nuts for my entrée. We continued to drink and laugh and sing along to the radio. Somehow, the racket we were making didn’t disturb the occupants of the nearest house. If it had, we surely would’ve wound up with a police escort home. Once I’d polished off my bottle, she started the car. “Let’s get you home, “ she said. Okay. In hindsight, all of this was a series of truly terrible decisions on so many, many levels. While I’m fairly certain that Kris wasn’t nearly as drunk as I was, she wasn’t sober either, and yet she drove. Yes, she only had to drive a couple of streets over, but it was just dumb luck that nothing happened on that short drive back to my house. I dunno. Perhaps there was a guardian angel looking out for me that night, but it would not be the last time I did something so dangerously stupid and remain unharmed by it.

My dad was still up when we got home. Somehow we managed to get to my room without Dad detecting our intoxication…or so I thought. Before we both passed out on the bed, I distinctly remember thinking, “Man, this is the best feeling EVER!” Kris woke up at some point in the middle of the night, shook my shoulder, and said, “I gotta get back home before my mom gets up.” I nodded, groggily. I awoke a couple hours later, decidedly not feeling “the best feeling ever” anymore. And, just so you know, puking Corn Nuts made me unable to eat them again for, like, thirty years. In retrospect, my folks probably knew what I’d done. For one, I’m pretty sure they heard me in the bathroom being sick at 5 a.m. Second, it was super weird that my mom insisted on taking me to the mall to get my birthday present the next day. My mom worked at the mall and, normally, it was the last place she wanted to be on her day off. I think she thought the idea of going to the mall, feeling as sick as I did, might lead me to confess, beg to not go, and plead for forgiveness…you know, to “teach me a lesson.” I didn’t do too much drinking for a while after that.

Once I became an adult and a legal drinker, I only ever drank socially – out after work with the girls, at parties, on New Year’s Eve. I was pretty poor back then, so I really couldn’t afford to buy my own booze, and I mainly mooched off other people in those circumstances. Once I had kids, I almost never drank. I know right? It seems like that would’ve been the time I had the most reason to drink! Oh, I sometimes had a wine cooler or Zima on the rare occasions when we went to a restaurant or on New Year’s Eve. But most of the time I was just too busy being a mom. When I got divorced and my children and I moved in with my parents, I discovered that, once my younger brother and sister had finally moved out, my mom had begun a very particular Friday night routine after work. It was heralded by Todd Rundgren’s “Bang on My Drum” played precisely at 5:01 p.m. on her favorite radio station and consisted of feasting on an array of snacks, watching her favorite Friday night sitcoms, and drinking a big blender full of strawberry daiquiris. It was absolutely adorable. Here was this tiny little old lady rocking out to Todd Rundgren and blowin’ off steam after a hard week in the customer service department at JC Penney by getting her “drank” on! It looked liked fun. So, as a stressed out divorced, unemployed 33-year-old teacher intern raising two school-age children on her own, I was happy to join her in this weekly ritual when she invited me. Also around this time, my mother took an interest in wine and had found a local winery that she adored. She had a case of her favorite varietal shipped to the house monthly. It would’ve been rude to turn down her offer to share a bottle. And thus began my own relationship with the blessed fruit-of-the-vine, my beloved vino.

When we first met, my husband was not a drinker…at all. In fact, as unbelievable as it sounds, he made it well past 40 without ever having consumed alcohol. The reason stems from the traumatic interactions he’d had with his substance-abusing father while growing up. The smell of both alcohol and marijuana once induced extreme feelings of stress and anxiety for him. In the early days of our relationship, I had no idea about the depth of his reaction, and on one of our first dates, I asked if he minded if I had a glass of wine with my dinner. He told me that he didn’t, yet, after my first sip, his entire demeanor changed. It was then that I decided I loved this man more than I loved my wine. I went for years without drinking. Weeeell, I would occasionally hide a bottle of my favorite varietal in a cooler in the garage and enjoy it…on the down low…while watching my Britcoms when he had to work late. My husband’s feelings about alcohol intensified when a drunk driver killed my oldest daughter. So, it was amazing to me, a few years later, when he showed an interest in drinking wine “for the health benefits.” As you can imagine, I was only too happy to help him satisfy his curiosity. Yes, dear readers, I unfolded my arm, apple in hand, and extended an invitation as the serpent whispered in my ear, “Yeeesss! Go on! Do it!” And thus began my husband’s relationship with “demon” alcohol. I admit it. I corrupted him and officially earned my “Eve” card in doing so. Sadly, it was my only option since I never had the opportunity to take a man’s virginity. Well. Okay. I did have an opportunity. I just couldn’t close the deal. Sigh!

I could see it in my mind – St. Peter shaking his head and making a “tsk, tsk, tsk” sound as he crossed my name off the list. I’m not gonna lie. There are days when I feel guilty as fuck for corrupting my husband. Buuuut, man, do we have a goooood time now on Friday nights when we eat pizza and watch our Alaska shows on Discovery channel and DRANK! My little old mama had it right, y’all, and so did all those people in my drinkin’-fightin’-law breakin’ lineage. Life is short. Grasp those moments. Watch shitty TV for the sheer mindless pleasure of it. Eat the things you love, even if they aren’t “healthy”…sometimes. And don’t be ashamed to pop those bottles and DRANK! Just don’t drive when you do. Okay, playah?

Hot Mess: My Life As a Fabulously Un-Photogenic Woman

 

hotmesskinder

The first photo of me, as a newborn, hid it. The focus of the shot was my dad – the young, handsome, and thin version of him. The newborn me, balanced on his lap, looked like a cute little pink piglet swaddled in a brand-new receiving blanket as white as a first snowfall. It was downhill from there, though. Photos from my first birthday featured me with bright red decorative icing smeared all over my face, looking like a baby vampire. Mom and Dad were pretty poor, back in the day, so Mom used to cut my hair herself. Needless to say, ages two and three featured the asymmetrical bangs that accidentally made me look like a 60’s mod trend-setting toddler. When I was four, Mom became obsessed with the television show “Family Affair.” One of the characters was an adorable moppet named Buffy, whose golden hair was always pulled into two perfectly pipe-curled ponytails. My mother so adored this character that she had me spend the spring/summer chilling in the sun, in my little rocking lawn chair, with my baby-fine baby hair saturated in the then-popular hair lightening product Sun-In. What’s the downside to that? Yeah. Well, the only thing that could make a preschooler look like a white trash, hot mess is having brown roots and flowing bleach blond locks. That’s how I started kindergarten.

Kindergarten was my first school photo. It featured those roots and a shirt whose collar spanned the entire width of my shoulders. The kicker? The color – goldenrod! Sorry. I just threw up a little bit in my mouth thinking about it. By first grade, I’d lost my first tooth – a front one. Yup! First grade’s school photo was a snaggle-tooth nightmare. The dental situation was only the beginning, though. Scottish plaid was all the rage that year (thank you, Bay City Rollers!), and my favorite outfit was a “maxi-dress” with a smocked bodice in burgundy/gold/green plaid. This was not a good look against my anemic looking, milk-white complexion. I guess I should just be thankful that my roots had grown out by then. By second grade, I’d begun to put on weight (a LOT of weight), but the real tragedy is that I’d begun to experiment with boxed home perms. I know, I know, I know. In retrospect, I can’t believe it either. I mean, a boney gal like Gilda Radner could get away with hair that looked like Joan Crawford’s in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. But a butterball like me? No, not so much. Happily, my perm fascination was short-lived. So, apart from my hair always looking messy/greasy/dirty – whether I’d just washed it or not – school pictures in third, fourth, and fifth grade were awful mostly due to the horrendous fashion of the times – a navy-blue polyester dress with a white peter pan collar and a bonus tiny rose applique on the neckline that looked oh-so-flattering against my fat girl double chin, a polyester pinafore dress in hunter green with a gold floral blouse, a floral kelly-green blouse with a white cardigan. Have you thrown up yet?

Then, as I got older, I began “experimenting” with grooming techniques. The photographic evidence of this is featured in my seventh-grade school photo. I had THE coolest dolman sleeve sweatshirt… and that was a BIG get for me with my skinflint of a mother. It came from the Juniors department at JC Penney! Super cool! Unfortunately, the other “accomplishment” from that year was my failed attempt to remedy what I considered to be a “uni-brow.” In actuality, it was just a few stray hairs. In my thirteen-year-old mind, however, I was straight-up Frida Kahlo. Consequently, in my seventh-grade school photo, I am missing approximately a third of my left eyebrow, thanks to a failed attempt at shaving between the two. My eighth-grade photo featured yet another “fashion” trend – tinted glasses. Why, yes, I DO look like a stoner, but NO, I was not one. Hey, thanks for noticing, though! I looked pretty normal in my ninth, tenth, and eleventh-grade pictures…well, except for being fat. With that being said, after we got the proofs of my senior pictures, the pose I chose for the final one was based solely on how thin I thought I looked in it. Never mind that I appear to be looking off, wistfully, toward a future that was n’er to be as the thin, gorgeous, and photogenic lead singer of the next Go-Gos! Sigh! Some things never change. How thin I look is still the standard with which I choose any Facebook profile pic.

For many years, I put school pictures behind me. Then, at age thirty-five, I became a public school teacher. Of course, that meant the annual “picture day” was back in my life. Once again, evidence of the “hot mess” that I am has been thrust upon me year after year thanks to LifeTouch school photos. The good thing is that teachers don’t have to pay good money for these ghastly things. LifeTouch gives a few prints to them for free. I usually toss them in the closet, though, after giving one wallet-size pic to my dad. He gets a big kick out of showing it to people and saying, “This is my daughter. She’s in kindergarten” and then laughing like Pee-Wee Herman. “Haha!” The bad thing is that this photo also takes the form of the id badge I wear. It’s a daily reminder of just how un-photogenic I am. There it is…every day…hanging, literally, like an albatross around my neck. And, believe me, at this point in my career I have quite the collection of gag-inducing photos.

I think the only photographs of me I feel are truly “good” might be the ones from my second wedding. My dress, the most expensive garment I’ve ever worn, seemed to fit just right, and somehow this important day miraculously seemed to coincide with a “good hair day.” My complexion was clear that day, too. The home tooth-whitening system I’d been using for the previous six months seemed to have been effective. Although I did my makeup myself, exactly the way I always do, on that day it made feel like I was glowing. I felt beautiful, and, somehow, the photos translated it into the most flattering images of me that have ever been made…which, given my history, is no great feat. Still, I can’t help but wonder if the joy of that day somehow radiated into the molecules that compose the human shell I lug around, enhancing them temporarily, in the way photogenic people experience every day. It was nice.

Look. I’m okay with the fact that I don’t look like Gigi Hadid. At my age, really, I truly am. I’ve got other things going for me, I think. I’m just curious, though. I’d REALLY like to know what the secret is. How do you people do it, those of you that don’t have to take forty selfies before you find the one that’s the least disgusting to post as your profile pic? How do you do it, those of you that are always the best-looking family member in those holiday family snaps? And how the hell do you manage to look SO good in a fucking driver’s license photo? Really! HOW? Us ugly folks wanna know!