Wednesday with Glenda

I had lunch the other day with my friend Glenda, whom I haven't seen in at least five years.  That's too bad, because I like hanging out with her. She laughs in such a way that you get a clear-as-a-bell view of her tonsils, and I appreciate being able to tell if a person has strep every time she laughs.

Near the end of lunch, she asked me about my writing. "Did you ever finish that book you were working on?" she asked.  The book she's referring to, of course, was the memoir I never figured out how to write--and may never figure out how to write. It was that same non-book that taught me the most valuable lesson I've learned to date about what my relationship with writing is, and it's also the book that almost ended it.  I guess really good books teach lessons like that; even the books that don't exist.  I told her that after a years-long night of the soul, complete with childbirth, a broken thyroid, and moving three times, that I gave up and returned to writing essays, which was the only thing I've ever been good at anyway.  I sell one to a literary magazine once in a while and have won a few small contests, but mostly I let them be.

Because nobody really buys essay collections written by people who aren't already famous, I can just write them because I love them. It's like knitting or cooking or cock fighting--it's a meditative hobby that helps me make sense of the world inside my head.  If there was ever a show about people who only love doing the things that don't generate income, I'd like to host. (TLC, call me!)

"Do you still blog?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," I lied, "yes, of course I blog," knowing that it had been months since I'd posted anything--longer since I'd posted anything that didn't make people wonder if I had decided to turn on my oven and then give it a really good scrubbing.  If you've been wondering about that, I'm still here, not-blogging. And for the record, I would never give myself the Sylvia Plath treatment--our stove is electric.  So here I am. A post--a miracle! That's how Glenda makes an honest woman out of you.

First!

Today is Sophie's first day of first grade.  We've come a long way, baby! Last year at this time, I was rounding up our friends from across the street to see Sophie off on her first school bus ride. I video taped her with my Flip Mino (that has since been stolen during our basement remodeling), made a little movie for the relatives, put her on the bus and spent the rest of the day trying not to throw up. When she got off the bus, I heaved the huge sigh I had held in all day while I fretted and wept and gagged.

This year, we barely made it to the bus on time, and I did a half-assed job taking a few shots of her with my phone while she boarded the big yellow bus. No nausea, just some asthma, and I just now noticed that it's about time for her to step off the bus. Next year, I'll probably had her a soggy waffle on her way out the door, and watch her walk down the middle of the street. I'll say to her in the evening, "When did you get home?" 

Progress.

When I went back to work last December, very unexpectedly and after working at home for what seemed like a millennium, Sophie and I were forced to do the thing we hate the most: Change.  I have to give the both of us considerable credit for molding ourselves into the people we need to be to maintain our dynamic duo-style relationship during these strange times. During periods of feeling like someone left our cake out in the rain, it's true that we do fall apart every now and then.  You might notice the conspicuous absence of Alex in all this. It's only because he's a complete nutjob no matter the weather.

So if you know us--or if you don't--and you find us acting weird and rough around the edges, it's only because we're all trying to figure out how we will continue to make these kinds of steady strides toward remodeling ourselves without feeling like we've been robbed.  And if you know us--or if you don't--say a prayer for us.  I recommend sending up a few to RuPaul, patron saint of radical transformation.

First Name, Second Chance

When Alex and I learned we were expecting Sophie, we had decided to surprise ourselves with the baby's gender. This of course was an invitation to anyone with a  penchant for predicting to guess what we were having.  "You have a fifty-fifty chance of being right," I told one stranger at a party. She looked at me very carefully from all angles and distances, and then said with bits of food flying from her mouth, "I definitely think boy."  This began a period of my life that seemed infinite, in which strangers felt comfortable sizing me up and then blurting out their answers based on scientific principles such as how "high" or "low" my belly was riding, or what kinds of foods I was craving.  "Really, you only have two choices, people," I told a group of German tourists outside of a Moe's Bagels in Denver.  By the end of my pregnancy, I had decided to bundle up in bulky clothing and claim that I was big-boned.

And then there was the "what are you naming it?" question.  At first, it was a question I enjoyed answering. Who wouldn't want to share such a thing, I wondered, until I figured out that there are people in the world intent on making sure that you don't screw everything up by naming your kid something stupid, like Rose.  "Rose?" Guffawed one woman, screwing up her face. "You can't name your baby Rose."

"It was my grandmother's name, and she was born during the late 1800s. If my great-grandmother was free to name a baby Rose before women could vote, I think I can probably do it now." 

Rose was the name I had picked if we were having a girl. At least that's what I thought Alex and I had agreed to. As I found out two weeks before my due date, Alex thought I had been joking.  "You can't name a baby Rose," he said.

"Actually," I said, searching the kitchen for something poisonous to put in his dinner, "I'm just big boned."

By the time I left work on maternity leave, I had stopped sharing names with people. It was too much; it was like asking for their permission, or advice, and I try never to do either of those.  But mostly I had stopped sharing names after one of my co-workers asked me, "What are you going to name the baby if it's a hermaphrodite?" 

Two weeks overdue, and overdone, we had a girl.  Alex and I both agreed--amicably--on Sophie.  We never spoke about the Rose debacle again.

Two weeks ago, Sophie and I were having one of our legendary talks about life.  She was wondering if she and I could ever take a trip together, just the two of us. "Of course," I said. "We could be in Vegas in three hours from now."  But she said she would rather go to New York City. Stay in a penthouse and take in a play. "It's too bad Winter Garden cut Cats," she said.

"Who are you?" I said, "And what have  you done with my five-year-old?"

"And also, Mom?" she paused.  "I want to change my name."

"OK," I said, "to what?"

"To Rose," she said. (I'll bet you saw that coming.)

"I love it," I said, feeling a little dizzy. We raised our cups of juice and made a toast to Roses everywhere.  We didn't ask permission, we didn't ask forgiveness. We just took our Sharpies to the labels of her clothing and made it so.

Taking Hopelessness to the Airport

Recently I heard the author/artist SARK talk about how it's a good idea to acknowledge the weaker parts of ourselves, and maybe even (gasp!) let them show more often than we do. She said she had gone so far as to  take the part of her that felt hopeless out for a walk. "We didn't make it very far," she said, "because she was very tired. So we sat down in a field of flowers."

I wanted to take SARK's advice, but instead of taking the part of myself that feels hopeless for a walk, I think I'd like to take her to the airport, and put her ass on a plane that's taking off for someplace where they need that kind of thing. Like Disneyland, or maybe the Church of Scientology headquarters. They definitely have too much hope over there.

Not that I have anything against hopelessness, but I think we've already spent plenty of time together.  I'd like to drive her down Pena Boulevard, laugh together about the gigantic, blue, satanic horse, and take the "departures" exit. "Well, take it easy," I'd like to say, popping the trunk. "Thanks for coming, but you're needed over at Apple, then I'm sending you to Canada for a while." They could use a little despair just to even things out a little, balance stuff up out there in the great white north. (Take off! It's a beauty way to go...)

I like to imagine that, while we hug, my hopelessness asks me, "Whatever will you do while I'm gone?"
"I guess the same thing I did while we were together all the time. Whatever I want."

I will want to worry about her when she starts a tour of the California state university system, but then she'll send me a postcard of herself standing in front of the Sigma Chi house at Berkeley, and I'll know I've done the right thing.

Like Pulling Teeth

Last weekend, Sophie lost her second tooth.  I pulled it for her, after she had worked on it for maybe a few hours, tops. She jiggled and wiggled it through half of Where the Wild Things Are. 

"This movie is boring," she said. "Will you pull my tooth out for me?"

"Of course," I said, "I'd be happy to." 

I grabbed a paper towel and  a cup of salt water, and a few seconds later, I held what looked like a tiny kernel of corn between my thumb and forefinger. "What are you going to do with it?" I asked.

Sophie put her hands on her hips, cocked her head and said, "What do you think?"

The outsider wouldn't know it, but this is big progress for everyone. Sophie's first loose tooth was the source of some complicated feelings. Afraid of how much it would hurt to pull it all the way out, she left it dangling for so long that it started to turn black. "What if I don't want to grow up?" she asked me.

Afraid to pain anyone further that night, I delegated the dirty work to Alex, who took a paper towel, and after much cajoling, put it over her tiny incisor. He gave it a tug upward and outward. One giant leap for maturity. "Go look in the mirror!" we said. Knowing that children in these situations take their cues about how to feel from the adults around them, we tried our best to look deliriously happy. I felt like fainting.

Sophie ran, crying all the way, to the bathroom, holding her tooth in the paper towel.  She bared her bleeding gums, and exhibited every human emotion there is all at the same time. She was, to use the modern parlance that refers to the physical manifestation of psychic multitasking, "a hot mess." She smiled and laughed and looked like she had just won the Olympics. "Oh my God," she said, glowing with pride.

"Congratulations," I said. We hugged in the bathroom, she bled on my shirt. "You did it," I said, wiping her lip. My girl.

Hours of deep conversation followed after that. What did it all mean? Why does everything always have to change? Why does it have to hurt? Why is it so scary? And should she surrender her tooth to the Tooth Fairy, or hold on to it? "I'd like to think about it for a while," she decided just before bed, and said she planned to seek the counsel of her peers at camp the next day.  I imagined her holding something between a Quaker consensus meeting and focus group at the arts and crafts table the next day.  "The nexth order of buthineth is my mithing tooth.  All in favor of trading it in for a dollar thay aye."

And so on the eve of losing her second tooth, which I didn't even know was loose in the first place, I did the honors in Alex's absence.  Afterward, we two old pros went to the park to give Sohpie's gums some air.

Already today a glimpse of enamel is peeking through the space.  Progress. And so the clock returns to ticking down to the next thing that makes us all cry for a bit, while we wonder--in futility--when the world will hold still long enough for us to stop growing up.

Resignation

I haven’t written anything, anything at all, in at least six months. In fact, I’m thinking about quitting writing altogether, but I have no idea who accepts these types of resignations. Perhaps this is the thing that keeps some writers going: There’s no one to quit to. When I retrace my steps to what brought me here, it doesn’t look so terrible on paper, and yet, I consider this last year an exercise in finding out what I’m made of. So far, whatever it is doesn’t smell anything like teen spirit.

Last September my daughter Sophie went to Kindergarten. The only thing I remember about her first day of school is trying not to hurl while watching her get on the bus. In December, I accepted an offer for a full-time job I didn’t know I was being considered for. I was happy to take the work, as I was eager to start meeting people who don’t have pink eye or strep. I did, however, make sure to get pneumonia just before starting. In March, I quit working out. I decided it would be easier to buy bigger clothes than make it to the gym. In April, I turned 41. In February, my dad became seriously ill, and in May he died after a 60-year battle with a disease he didn’t even know he had. June was a blur, and here we are in July. Pretty soon I’m going to need more new clothes.

This is how it happens, isn’t it? I had big dreams, big aspirations that have shrunk and decayed over time, and now even the smallest of those little goodies seems unattainable. Grad school, authorship, a real career, some kind of entrepreneurial pursuit: I’m losing sight of how any of these things are possible. So I’ll keep doing what I’m doing: the laundry, the dishes. I will keep coming to work in the morning, and leaving sometime later. I will take care of Sophie. I will wear a rubber mouthpiece to bed that keeps me from clenching my jaw hard enough to break my own teeth. Learning to knit has been fun. I’m due for a mammogram! And maybe I’ll just start writing something—something smaller than an essay but bigger than a tweet—every single day. Maybe it’ll be fun, and if it isn’t, I can always quit. I think.

Sincerely,
Jody A. Reale

Wine Saves Lives

Today I sent Sophie on her first day of kindergarten. The whole way there, I felt like hurling. "Are you OK, Soaf?" I kept asking her. "Are you OK, honey?" She was. When it came time for her to go, she got in line and left without even saying goodbye. She looked like she'd been going to elementary school her whole life. The pride! The relief! The exclamation points! Looking back on her short life and my slightly longer one, I felt the same way watching her roll over for the first time, or sing all the verses to "Clementine" for my dad. Thank goodness she's made it to the next milestone. She must be a genius! And all inflation, all pontification aside, we have so much to be grateful for, it's ridiculous.

This is Tessa Paprocki, her husband Adam, and their son Landon. I didn't know them, but my friend Andre worked with Tessa at Synergy Fine Wines, an independent wine distributor in Denver. It was probably right around the time this picture was taken, sometime in January, 2009, that Tessa learned she had stage four breast cancer that had spread to her lungs, spine, and liver. Tessa died, following a series of treatments, in July. Landon is now eight months old.

Tessa didn't see Landon walk or talk. His first day of school is a handful of his lifetimes away. Adam is a new, first-time parent who's probably scared to death, like I was, only he's got to figure out how to raise a baby as a single dad and the keeper of Mama's memory.

Breast cancer.

Yesterday Andre emailed her friends to let them know that Synergy Fine Wines is donating to Landon's trust 100% of the wholesale price of one of their wines: The 2008 Lucia Lucy Rosé from Pisoni Vineyards. No strangers to championing the cause of fighting breast cancer, the Pisoni family donates a portion of Lucy Rosé sales to the Susan B. Komen Foundation and local individuals fighting breast cancer--and they've done so since Lucy's inception. So it's fitting that you'll find a pink ribbon 'round every bottle of Lucy.

When the Pisonis heard about Landon, they offered to donate an additional 40 cases for the cause. The Synergy sales reps, warehouse and delivery teams offered their support at no charge, along with the freight company, Advantage Transportation. Now you can play along too. If you're in Boulder, you can support the Paprockis by buying Lucy Rosé in Boulder at three local retailers. I bought three bottles today to celebrate this startling transition to a new trend in our family's history--going to school without bitterly complaining the whole way.

Face it: You're going to buy wine this weekend anyway. And if you're like me, you walk into Boulder Liquor Mart with its six acres of shelves, choke, and end up with a bottle you picked because there was a hedgehog on the label. But now you know better. Wherever you are, buy Lucy, support women, and say "yes!" to life. And when you buy it at one of these local retailers, you help Landon. When you drink it, don't forget to thank your lucky stars and make a toast to someone you love. Spread the word.

Find Lucy at:
Liquor Mart 1750 15th St, Boulder (303) 449-3374
Boulder Wine Merchant 2690 Broadway St, Boulder (303) 443-6761
Superior Liquor 100 Superior Plaza Way # 100, Superior (303) 499-6600

Forty Five Minutes

A month after Sophie was born, I made arrangements for her to stay home with Alex for an hour so that I could go someplace and write. I'll never forget how he looked holding her tiny, sleeping body as I closed the door: Scared to death. And because Sophie and I hadn't been away from each other longer than the length of time it took me to use the bathroom, I made skid marks in the driveway taking off.

By the time I got to the coffee shop, ordered my drink, sat down, and booted up my computer, I only had 45 minutes left to get back into a habit I had effectively abandoned for several months. So when the guy near me pointed to my laptop and asked, "Is that Windows or Linux you're running?" I said, "I have 45 minutes."

This is what happens with the anxiety and the sleep deprivation and the fear that you will mess everything up: You become a better steward of the things that are most important to you. Because in between the diapers, and the baths, and the feedings and the feedings and the feedings, all I could ask myself was: Will all the good stuff I used to love be there, waiting for me, when I'm me again?

Of course, now I know the good news. Yes, the best stuff--the stuff that fills me up and puts me in touch with who I really am--is still around. And the "bad news." I'll never be "me" again. As someone who has spent too much time trying to go back home, that so-called bad news has dogged me. I'm working on it; peeling back the layers of my identity, bemoaning each one, hoping it's the last I'll have to surrender. (Of course it never is.) Lately, I've been grieving the fact that I may never have an actual social life ever again. I know, it sounds silly, but as I watched youngsters gather for bloodies last Sunday, I wept like a pageant queen stripped of her title. I feared I may never drink my breakfast in this town again.

There is one bit of comfort in all of this, which is this: The things I've been forced to abandon during the course of motherhood were never that good for me in the first place. I may actually be a better, more deliberate person today, and wouldn't that be something? The things I still insist on doing are the really important things, because it's too exhausting, too much of a fight clinging to the things that don't. There's no glamour, no sex appeal in that philosophy, I know, but I'm counting on it. Because someday, Sophie's going to renege on her insistence that she and I to to college together, and here I'll be, with my laptop. With so much longer than 45 minutes on the clock.

Overheard at My House: Father's Day

Her: With Father's Day coming up, I want to get Jim a really great gift, but he always finds his gifts before I have a chance to surprise him.

Me: That's what you get for buying in advance.

Her: I just need a really good hiding place.

Me: If he's anything like Alex, you could put it next to the vacuum cleaner, or the laundry detergent.

Her: (thinking) I guess I'll keep it next to my clitoris then.

Me: Even my LOLcat is speechless.

Reverse Makeover

Dear TLC, please call me, I have a new show idea. It's called Reverse Makeover. The premise is this: you take a nice, normal enough gal or guy, and over the course of time, strip away any and all qualities that may have made him or her attractive in any way. It's the home version of the game show called life. You may have heard of it.

The "before" and "after" reveals at the end are startling, to say the least. Just as an example, here's one:


Anyway, TLC, whether you decide to option the show or not, I'm going ahead with my own personal pilot, which is actually already in full swing. It started several years ago, with a knee injury that left me with a limp for 18 months. Then there was my personal favorite, a goiter--yes, they still exist--that caused my eyes to bulge and my hair to fall out. In more recent months, I've stepped up my game quite a bit, so that the interesting changes in my appearance are happening faster than I can correct them. As the Queen of Hearts said in Alice in Wonderland, "Here, it takes all the running you can do to stay in the same place."

Earlier this year, I noticed my hair turning quite gray, which I "fixed" with an at-home dye job that turned orange after I went swimming. After the chlorine had its way with the color, the springtime sun began turning my hair a nice lemony yellow. It's cheery, sure, but technically, I'm a winter. Why, just this morning, I chipped my front tooth while biting my nails (seriously), as if my teeth weren't goofy enough. My dentist can't see me for another week, so I was thinking between now and then I would take the opportunity to get impetigo on, say, my chin, and start some sort of action figure collection. I hope it's not too late to start growing ear hair. (I'll have to ask my dad how he does it.)

Anyway, I hope to hear from you soon, since there's no telling whether I'll be available by the time you reply. This toenail fungus looks like it may be spreading.

Sincerely,
Jody Reale
P.S. If you're not interested in this show, perhaps you may be interested in another show I have in mind based on the common phenomenon of running to the store in your flannel reindeer pajamas for cookie dough and tampons, and running into your high school boyfriend for the first time in twenty years. Think about it.

Six More Weeks of Winter

Behold, Sophie's first YouTube-published film. I think she's a minimalist, and really good at capturing the angst of what it's been like dealing with the cold, wet Colorado weather all month. Here she is (or at least a glimpse of her shoes), doing what we always do while we wait for Old Man Winter to take a hint and head for Australia. (Specifically, we hang out indoors, listening to Jeff Kagan.)

Caveat Dramamine: You folks prone to sea sickness might want to hold out for the videos in which Sophie holds still while shooting the scene. Look for that one to hit YouTube never.

Three Wishes

Two of my kitchen drawers are completely empty; I purge the closets every season. We've only got one dog right now. And also I'm a hoarder.

Peek at the picture: (unless you're with PETA). It's my wishbone collection, started back before the equally gruesome days of Alex's new vegan diet. I keep it on the windowsill over the sink so that, while I'm doing dishes, I can see how many wishes I've got coming to me, how many good things I have left.

My wishes aren't the only things saved and coddled in the safe harbor of my kitchen. I have two generous spa certificates in my possession, gifts I received from the person who knows how much I hate spending money on anything "luxe," as the kids say. I plan to spend one on my annual summer pedicure, an event so auspicious that it's like celebrating the new year. I once explained to a friend that the timing of the expenditure is carefully planned. Deliberate. "When the outside half my big toe is red, and the inside half is plain old natural nail, I know it's January."

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You use your toenails as a calendar?"
"It's not a bug, it's a feature," I told her.

The other spa certificate isn't so easily spent. Chances are good that I will agonize over its redemption, and when Alex encouarges me to cash it in for a massage or a facial, I will likely look at him like he's suggested I sell one of my kidneys on the black market. "Use it?" I'll ask with my arms crossed. "If I use it, I won't have it anymore."

I commit this same kind of flawed logic to other things too, specifically shampoos and bath products, including the fancy little soaps and lotions I've taken from fancy resorts. "What? They're travel-sized," I say, stuffing them into the Ziplock bag that's bulging with last year's stash. I now have sufficient materials to coat the Burning Man playa with enough lotion to create the world's biggest slip 'n slide. (I can't wait for the email that tells me it's already been done.)

But when I consider that the Dead Sea is dead primarily because there's no outlet for the incoming water other than evaporation, I look down at my toes and wonder if I'm doing myself any favors. When I consider that Ernest Holmes was onto something with his writings on the Law of Circulation, I think I feel a resolution of sorts coming on, not that I'm into resolutions or anything.

Maybe I can just say, "No more hoarding," in 2009, or any other year. I will use my things up, knowing that it's an act of gratitude, maybe even a kind of prayer, when doing so. I will faithfully use myself up, too, knowing that being too careful, too tight-fisted with one's self is the battle cry of the fearful. Whether the law of conservation of matter holds up in a laboratory or not, I will work my own experiment and let go of all my wishes, knowing that the only shortage--and the only source--of real wishes exists only in my imagination. Not on my windowsill.

I will resist the urge to engage in any more emotional constipation and let the cosmic equivalent to gravity do its work. I will exercise my gratitude and my own potential by letting loose the hounds. For my own good, I will sacrifice in order to receive. Personal growth hurts; it's going to be difficult, but I'm up to it.

I'll be at the spa.

Introducing My Daughter, The Philosopher

On the drive to school this morning, Sophie mentioned the late Mona, our wonderful, nutjobby black Lab who died in July. Sophie's been thinking a lot about her lately, which has included a fair amount of crying, and I guess which is expected when you're figuring out what death is for the first time. And now that it seems most of the grief has passed for young Sophie, she's been contemplating the concept of loss.

"We used to have a different car, right?" Sophie asked, after confirming that Mona was never coming home from the vet. "The black one." It's true. At about the same time we lost Mona to some sort of brain injury or disease, we bought a new car and sold our old car, a black Subaru.

"Right," I said. "And now we have this car."
She was quiet for a few blocks and then said, "We have two things missing. One from our family and one from the garage."
I asked her, "Are you sure you're four?"

How to Torture Yourself: The Modern Parent’s Guide to Life (Based on true events)

Today's post is a re-print from my post over at the Zwaggle blog. And if you don't know Zwaggle, run on over there and get familiar. Yes, both of you. Thanks, now on to today's post.

Wake up to the words, “My bed is wet, Mama.” For some reason, you feel compelled to check for yourself instead of just stripping the bed, as if your child would lie about such a thing just for kicks. Notice that the bed is not just damp, but that it rivals the swampy conditions found in the Everglades.

On the way to school, categorize and prioritize your day’s tasks thusly: Should-do, Need-to, Said-I-would, Have-to, Dying-to. (Rearrange these several times during the day, until you have ignored them all.) Drop off your child at school. When the teacher tells you that there is now a confirmed case of pink eye circulating the school in addition to foot and mouth disease, rotovirus, and head lice, heave an audible sigh. Go to work at your desk, for example, and clear your schedule for the next five to seven days, knowing that your child is certain to catch all four ailments that day. Repeat, until June.

During the day, give yourself a headache asking yourself why you’re not doing more with your life. If you have a full bottle of pain reliever around (Motrin, if you’re not swayed by advertising controversy), draw harsh comparisons between yourself and those you consider to be “successful.” Forgo drinking water and eating healthy foods that day in favor of consuming only those things consisting of caffeine and/or salt.

When the economy tanks, pretend to understand why you should be freaking out, then secretly congratulate yourself for not having any money to lose in the financial black hole of 2008. When you notice the fallout directly affecting you in the form of a sharply reduced income—say a reduction along the lines of one hundred percent—genuinely freak out. To avoid worrying others, do your freaking out between the hours of 3 and 5 AM. Repeat, until June.

At the end of one of your daily freak out sessions, realize, very abruptly, that you’re 39 years old. (How did that happen?) Decide to become a librarian, based on someone once telling you that the average age of Library Science students is 39. Or is it the mean age? Try and remember what the difference is between averages and means. Forget it; write down, “become a librarian” on a slip of paper and leave it on the nightstand so that you can look into it later. Find it the next day while you’re straightening up, and misread your own handwriting as, “become a libertarian.” Scratch your head, and try to remember why it seemed like a good idea to drastically change your political affiliation.

Start a magazine, a radio show, or secret society by reserving the domain name. Then, run completely out of juice writing the mission statement. Seconds into transforming yourself into a member of the libertarian party, stop short and gasp. What if the note you wrote said “lesbian,” not “libertarian?” Imagine the changes you’ll have to make.

In an attempt to entertain and distract you from yourself, see David Sedaris in concert. Instead of enjoying the show, spend the time asking yourself, “Why can’t I do that?” Go home, write down, “Become an author who writes funny little stories about life and reads them aloud to audiences around the world. Rake in the dough.” The next morning, decide that it would be enough simply to spend a few minutes writing a funny little story. Feel a little better, a little happier, a little lighter. Make the bed. Congratulate yourself while you go to the sink to wash your face.

Try not to curse aloud upon discovering that you have pink eye.

Now You're Voting With Gas

What a relief: Election day. Today we not only get a new president; we get a break from the phone calls and door knockings asking us if we've voted. For someone who is already asked to repeat herself five thousand times a day because she lives with a four year old and a grown man with ADHD, OCD, and a few other initials, the civic commitment of some people and organizations came as particularly bad news.

Because I work at home, I'm forced to answer calls from unfamiliar numbers in case they pertain to something lucrative. Instead, it was often a recording of a plumber in Denver named Joe, who doesn't care for a certain candidate stereotyping his identity for the benefit of ideals he doesn't support. Or it was a woman in Duluth who told me I was a "good girl" after I gave her what she considered the good news.

Weeks ago, I'd voted by mail, an act that I thought would save me from all the hoopla, like the long lines and archaic practices of punching pieces of paper with a stylus that I would secretly sterilize with a Lysol wipe before touching.

So last night, much too late to make any kind of material gain from it (my timing is always this spot-on), I made a little sticker, as much to amuse myself as to keep others from asking me if I've voted. I've passed it, much like the dutchie, to the left hand side. Feel free to use it at your blog, and wherever else you like. Personally, I think Benjamin Franklin would be proud.

Four

I.
You were born on September 23^rd, 2004 at 9:50 PM mountain time. “Hey, it’s Bruce Springsteen’s birthday too,” we said, laughing and singing "Born to Run" in the delivery room. You are four today, and I’m already doing that thing that parents do when they realize that in the blink of an eye, you’re going to pack up your 2017 vegetable oil-powered Subaru and speed away into your future because you’re THAT excited about what’s next. I’m a little misty, I’m a little verklempt. I realized on your 2^nd birthday, the only one in which you would double your age in one year, that you weren’t going to stay little for very long. At the time, this was really good news. Today you’re twice the person you were last year, even if you’re only one year older, and I find myself trying to slam on the breaks. (See also: Good luck with all that.)

II.
I couldn’t be prouder of you. You’re already the kindest person I know, with a self-awareness that I didn’t possess…ever, maybe. My friend Carol calls you “the future president of the United States” and says you’re the oldest soul she’s ever known. This is what friends are for, to tell you that you’ve managed to produce the finest person since Thomas Jefferson (who was born on my birthday, by the by.) But these are the things that stick with me: You can make friends anywhere, even if it’s a dog, or a bug, or a kid who doesn’t speak English. And you are able to give an unapologetic voice to your needs. As a woman who is guilty too often of torturing herself for needing anything at all, I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you’ve always been able to tell me what you need, and ask for what you want. I’m trying not to mess that up.

III.
That day I was trying to hurry you into your car seat, and you looked at me, tearful, and said, “I’m fragile today” made me grateful beyond measure for your way with words. What a relief that you can at least tell me what’s wrong, or what’s right, even if I fail to listen right away. The night I was trying to get dinner made, despite your whiny requests for milk, for a snack, for some paper and markers, you finally said, “I need attention.” Dinner waited that night, our schedule got all messed up, and nobody died; in fact, we were all better off for it.

IV.
You’ve decided lately that your old man is OK. In fact, you’re pretty sure he’s cooler and funner than the rest of us. I knew this day would come; it doesn’t make it any easier, though. After four years of your unabashed worship, it’s downright painful to pass on the baton, even if it does make bathtime, bedtime, and life in general a little easier. I have my own plans, that’s true, but the day you decided to join “Boy Team” as you call it, I considered setting them on fire. You are joining the legions of all the other creatures I’ve brought home who have adopted the habit of ignoring me until sick or hurt, at which point you all come limping back to me. That’s OK. Let the record show that, no matter what, I will be your Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. I will be the president of your fan club. I will be your teacher, your student, your sidekick. And I will continue to uphold the doctrine your father and I carved into stone the day we learned of your existence: We will love you, whoever you are.

Praising Jesus: How the Blogosphere Might Just Resurrect My Tee Shirt Slogan Career

Now I've seen everything. Just minutes after pretty much bagging any plans I may have entertained involving my greeting card and tee shirt career, I find Jesus--and a black hockey one, at that--wearing one of my tee shirts. (Allegedly for church attendance purposes.)



Yes. The Team Vagina baseball jersey. One of my favorite designs, not to be outdone, mind you, by the "Ask Me About My Vagina!" series, and the "Vaginas Are for Lovers" line of merchandise that has been for sale at my CafePress stores since sometime around 1865. I admit that offering to send Black Hockey Jesus a tee shirt was a no-brainer, considering that his daddy blog is called The Wind in Your Vagina. It is ironic, though, since I never would have predicted I'd be sending some of my favorite home-grown pieces of merchandise to a man, much less a man I'd never met. But these times, they are a-changin'.

"What gives, anyway," you ask, "with the vaginal slant to your work?" (No pun intended, I'm sure). That's a long story; put on a pot of cough medicine and hunker down, dears. I'm about to tell you what happened long before Jesus there got dressed up for church, and what's happening now. Side note: None of it has anything to do with the DNC, the RNC or the next presidential election, so if you've come seeking a political respite, or a way to cleanse your political palate, you've come to the right place.

In 1997, I was a fine young woman going about the business of figuring out who she was, and in my love of literature, happened upon a book called The Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. I admit, its brilliant simplicity hit me hard, and I immediately declared it one of the most important works of literature I'd ever read. Most of all, I wondered, "Hey, why hadn't I thought of that?"

Also at the time, I was busy launching my lifelong career as an Internet dilettante, and was enjoying the free time that being self-unemployed afforded me. I had launched a little 'zine called Saucy Chicks, which was receiving a modicum of recognition, and was fun. This, as I learned, was a recipe for hatching crackpot schemes that were sure to make me millions overnight. In other news, I'm still waiting for morning. And also, I became the author of slogans that I thought were funny, cool, and destined to further countless women's hard-fought battles for vagina liberty. Represent.

In keeping with all my networking, reaching out ways, I had become vaguely friendly with the folks over at VDay, Ensler's anti-violence philanthropy event, and was asked to contribute some of my merchandise for their first annual benefit in New York City. (They celebrated thier 10th anniversary not long ago.) I was so excited by it all, that not only did I send boxes of "Vagina" tee shirts to be auctioned off in support of Eve Ensler's flagship foundation, but I went to the event and met Ensler herself. She and her staff were friendly and enthusiastic, and the women I met were nothing but supportive. When I asked where the shirts and mugs I'd sent were located among the other auction items, they told me that everything sold within seconds. I admit: tee shirts at an Eve Ensler benefit is not a tough sell, but I was sure all that was a sure sign that I was going to be featured in The New Yorker at any moment. All told, I'd say it was a net gain. I still consider that year one of the coolest times in my life and remember it like it was yesterday.

And then shift happened, as it will. I became a different kind of writer, a wife, a mountain-dweller, a work-a-day gal, and a mom. I've had ups and downs in my career, a goiter in my neck, a false start on a memoir, a problem with discipline and time management pretty much everywhere. I passed off Saucy Chicks to its co-founder, and now we'll say it's just napping instead of defunct. A literary agent told me quite a few years ago that she considered the vagina thing kind of over with. Moreover, I stopped caring about funny little creative projects that were going to make me--the underdog, the dark horse-- into the heroine as the credits rolled. I think the word is "disillusioned," but I refuse to say it out loud. I admit that I kind of gave up for a good, long while.

And then some dude under the moniker Black Hockey Jesus starts a daddy blog of all things, and really embraces it with the same kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for gambling, or eating hot wings. It made me nostalgic. Inspired, even. Maybe even kind of fired up in the same ways I was fired up over Saucy Chicks, meeting Eve Ensler, my early writing career, technology, and my own creative potential. My tee-shirts and mugs and stupid little shit no one is supposed to care about. I think the word is "hopeful," but I'm not ready to say it out loud. Yet.

While I was at BlogHer '08 this summer, I happened to meet the nice people at Cafe Press. They gave me a free upgrade to a premium shop for a year, which I thought was right neighborly of them. I'm designing shirts again. They make me happy, which I think is important, no matter how many or few I sell. Some of them are more kid-friendly than others. Some are more philosophical, like my forthcoming signature line of What Would Charo Do? tees. And then there's a little special something for the bloggers out there. It's coming. Will you wait for it?

Marriage: The Great Equalizer

The second amendment is alive and well in our house, and that’s because my dutiful husband has started working out again. That means that he exercises his right to walk around the house, bearing his arms, flexing his biceps, asking me if I knew that the gun show was in town.

“BOOM!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, flexing both arms and holding a one-man pose-down in the kitchen. I’ve learned not to react, not to encourage him. I can’t even say something like, “Put the safety on and come to dinner, please.” Doing so only leads to statements like:

“Do you have any duct tape? Because I’m ripped!”
Or
“Do you have any dirty laundry? Just put it here on my washboard.”

Give me strength. (No pun intended.)

There was a lot of this going on during our recent vacation together, which is another blog post entirely, as the painful emotional and mental machinations we go through to get through a flight or a road trip without my trying to leap from whatever vehicle we’re in will no doubt make for some good reading. In short, by the time it’s all over, one of us decides we’re not speaking to the other ever again. Don’t we sound like a lot of fun?

So we were sitting on a tarmac, delayed (as usual) from Chicago to New York, which is always a long, boring story. Alex had already regaled me with talk of his muscles to the point that even he was bored with the whole schtik. And we had already perused the SkyMall magazine, making fun of it throughout, and asking the same question we always ask: “Who actually buys this stuff?” (If it’s you, please write in and tell me how you’re enjoying your Deluxe Jewelry Chest in acrylic, your Embossed Jean Jacket, or your Wonder Woman Cuff Bracelet.)

Switching to the in-flight magazine, I saw Alex flip to the Sudoku puzzle, a first for him. Twenty minutes later, I looked over at the same, blank puzzle. Twisting his pen, scratching his face, he was obviously pained about the whole thing. I took a look over his shoulder and casually entered some numbers—in pen, an event that irked him so that that veins in his forehead were blocking the exit rows.

“Wait!” he cried, snatching the magazine away from my reach. “How do you know that’s even right?”
“You don’t, it’s just an educated guess based on the rest of the numbers.”
“But it could be wrong.”
“So?”

I left him to his self-torture for another twenty minutes, at which point I had to look again. Still no numbers. “If they had seen you doing these puzzles, they would have called them Slowdoku,” I said, tickled at my own joke. There it was: the point he stopped talking to me for the rest of the trip.

And this is basically what sums up our relationship, ourselves. Alex is afraid to make guesses, fearing they may be wrong, thus rendering the whole thing a failure. And I insist on just going ahead with the guessing, damn the consequences, because at least then you can go on to figure out if you’re right and fix what isn’t. I ask you, which is worse: A blank puzzle, or a messed up puzzle?

Am I oversimplifying everything? Probably. Is it kind of accurate? Absolutely.

It’s just anecdotal proof of what I already knew: That between the two of us, we’re almost a sane person. Without me, nothing would ever actually happen, and without him, all hell would be breaking loose. The silver lining is that we met, and that we both equally hate the Albany airport. It’s a start.

The Late, Great, Really Needy Mona Reale

One more post from the Grieving Mona files, and then I'm going to put posting about her passing to rest for a while. I'll stick to just the facts, ma'am, to avoid some of the blubbering I'm prone to doing when I'm terribly sad about things having to do with the creatures in this house. (Confession alert: I still get a little misty over the demise of Charles, the beta fish I rescued from my workplace four years ago. So.)

Last week, at the age of nine, we put our dog Mona down. She was suffering; we were all ready. It was hard. I've received many heartfelt condolences from friends and family, but this one is my favorite, for its mix of using just the right amounts of sympathy, understanding, realness, and irreverence. It's from my good friend and writing coach, David Hicks, and is also reprinted here without any permission whatsoever.

We were really, really sad to hear about Mona. She was a truly great dog. You must have been so sad, and Sophie must have been confused. Anyway, long live Mona, the neediest dog on earth.

I think that pretty much says it all. And also this: Thanks, Mona, for being our dog.

When? or, Tuesdays With Mona

If most of my duties as The Lady of the House are unglamorous and menial, there's one that's undeniably important, if difficult: the task of keeping the living things in our home alive and well. And as the prime caregiver to family members of the canine kind, I'm also sometimes burdened with the say-so over the dying part.

Our nine-year-old Lab/husky mutt, Mona, is the victim of something that has taken away the use of the right side of her head. It's moving fast, whatever it is; this morning her right eye is rolling around, her lip is dangling from her jaw, and her head is perpetually tilted. She can still walk, but the right side of her body is visibly atrophied. Plainly, it's all in her head. It's probably a tumor.

Knowing that there are people who put their dogs on life support, I know that veterinary care for one's animals is one of life's deeply personal decisions. We've decided against an MRI, because we've decided that we're not going to opt for brain surgery or chemotherapy. She's sedated, medicated, and for now, comfortable. We call her Sister Morphine. I'm sad to the point of paralysis. I didn't think I'd be this sad. I never do; I'm a procrastinator that way.

I knew something was up when Mona began acting funny a few months ago, slobbering and eating funny. I thought her teeth were bothering her. At least we can say that, when she gets to Dog Heaven, she will have nice, clean teeth.

I'm doing the best I can with this, the strangest of all familial duties, and I know the drill. After what's done is done, I will say something stupid like, "No more dogs. It's too hard when they leave." My friend Dawn, who has had dogs and horses and all kinds of animals for a million years, will tell me what a shame that kind of thinking is, reminding me that the price of being a Dog Person is outliving most of your friends. "But at least we can give them a good life," she would say.

I may have to decide when to say when, which is one of my job's cruelest or merciful decisions. It's a hard one, even if Mona could tell me whether or not she is suffering under pain's harsh rule. I may have to make some distinctions about quality of life, both mine and Mona's. She will forgive me.

Whatever happens, I can enjoy her company now, and remind myself of our time together later. I'm grateful to our Mona: for being our friend, our companion, the gentle and infinitely tolerant introduction she gave our daughter to big, loud dogs. She is proof that I like a big, dopey, old dog more than anything in the world. She has something to do with the feeling of safety I enjoy in our home. I like that she has replaced me as the resident nutjob for the past five years. And I like that she still perks up at the invitation of a walk, and barks with what's left of all her might at whomever dares cross her lop-sided path. She's still eating with the gusto of a pup; I'm happy to feed her steak while she can still eat it. We're sympatico that way.

And when she's unable to act crazy, or look interested in knocking over the trash; when she can't walk, or eat, I'll know that we're there yet.