I Need Your Help!

My birthday is next week. And since I don't plan to live until I'm 110 I'm pretty sure I've lived more than half my time on this earth. That isn't uncomfortable news. I don't necessarily want to live to 100. But I do, often, grow concerned that I'm not living my days as fully as I could.

It has been a lifelong issue for me. I remember turning 13 and feeling that life was just getting away from me. Because, you know, that's an issue for most 13-year olds.

Anyway, in response to my lifelong quest to live life as fully as possible I've come across an idea. But I need help.

The idea is this. I'm calling upon all my friend and family to help me come up with 55 ways that I might stretch my boundaries and grow in the coming year.This notion comes from an article I read about a woman who, on her 31st birthday saw a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop and decided to ask her friends and family for 31 ways that she could sample the flavors of life.

I fell in love with the idea.

The reason for asking others to help with the project rather than come up with my own 55 ideas is that I might only choose things I'm good at or comfortable with. By asking others for their ideas I can compile a list of things I might not think of. Plus 55 things is a lot! Most importantly, I am attracted to the idea that by accomplishing the goals others set for me, I am taking on a little piece of who they are and understanding what is important to them.

To get your creative juices flowing here are a few examples from the inspirational article:

• Write down all your blessings.
• Perform at an open mic night.
• Participate in Walk for the Cure.
• Go to a city meeting on a political issue.
• Write a children's story.
• Take a helicopter ride.
• Learn German and visit Germany.
• Start one day at 4 am on purpose.
• Use only one hand for an entire day.

So here is what I'm asking. Please join me in compiling my list of 55 flavors by offering your ideas for goals I can work toward in the coming year. The ideas can be simple or complex, expensive or cheap, silly or profound. Be creative! After I get the list together I will post it on my blog and write about my progress and experiences. 

I will consider any and all suggestions but keep in mind, you can't suggest I take a pole dancing class. I've already done that. And you can't suggest I start a PhD program. I've already done that. And you can't suggest I turn my hair pink. I've already done that.  And you can't suggest I wear the cutest flowered combat boots on the planet. Steve already gave me those for my birthday.

Aren't these the best boots in the world??

But you can suggest a myriad of other things. And if you offer a suggestion we can do together...all the better!

I'll take suggestions in whatever way you want to offer them. If you have my phone number, text or call  me with your idea. If you are my Facebook friend or Twitter follower, post it there. If you have my email, send it that way. Or leave your idea in the comments of this blog. (If you leave a comment, please make sure to tell me who you are.)

Thanks for joining me on this fun little journey of growth and experience.  I am so excited to see what happens!

Ready....go!

Making Assumptions

What's that saying about making assumptions?

Last week I decided to put a pink streak in my hair. Well, it was supposed to be a pink streak. It ended up being a pink splotch. But still, I thought it would be fun so I did it. In retrospect I realize I probably should have found out how long pink dye in blond hair would last before I committed to the splotch. I didn't think about that at the time.

I haven't done anything crazy to my hair for a while now. Having admitted my addiction to color changing chemicals I've been very rational and grown up about my hair recently. I have resisted the desire to make drastic color changes. Until Saturday. When I had a relapse. There I was, home with a free hour and a tube of fuchsia dye in the linen closet. Temptation overtook me. This happened.

It was supposed to be a subtle hot pink strip that just sort of peeked through the blond. Instead it ended up looking a little like I had suffered a head injury.  But, I was late for a party so I didn't have time to worry about it.

I found it interesting that hardly anyone at the party mentioned the bright pink clump of hair on the side of my head. Granted many who were in attendance know me well enough they probably weren't surprised. I'm sure some people couldn't say they liked it so they just chose not to say anything. And it was a pretty polite and conservative group so I wouldn't have expected any of them to say, "What the (insert expletive here)?" 

One relatively young man did say he thought a lot of people would assume a woman my age had dyed her hair pink in an effort to cling to youthfulness. But he added that he knew me and figured I had done it, 'just because.' He is right. I did it just because. Just because I could. Because it was Saturday and I had a free hour and a tube of fuchsia hair dye in the linen closet. And because I'm an addict.

I thought a lot about what he said though. He is right. A lot of people who don't know me would think I had done it in a desperate attempt to look young and hip. Let's face it. If I were going for young and hip I would have changed my hair and clothing style to something a lot more edgy.

Nevertheless, his comments made me think about how often we make assumptions about people.  As if, by mere observation we can actually know something about someone. I'm pretty sure we can't know something about someone unless we actually know the someone. But that doesn't seem to stop us from assuming.

I wanted pink hair because I could. Just that simple.

We all do it. We all make assumptions about people based on what we see. We assume things about people who are fat and skinny and young and old. We make assumptions based on skin color, accent, mannerism, style of dress and a myriad of other arbitrary criteria. Unless we know a person, though, we've no place making assumptions about them.

I'm ashamed to admit that I've made bad initial assumptions about some of the best people I know. Neither size, shape, nor color make the person. It's what can't be seen that truly matters.

I didn't end up loving my fuchsia clump but it was a fun experiment. I'm now conducting a fun experiment trying to get rid of it. I'm always hopeful that I will continue to have hair in that spot even as I try a variety of things to bleach it out. Instead of the bright shock of fuchsia, I currently look like I got a wad of pink cotton candy stuck in my hair.

I can't say I've learned to be more rational about hair color from this experience. I haven't. But I can say it has made me think about how often I make wrong assumptions about people. And about how making those assumptions keeps me from offering grace and kindness and compassion. Without grace and kindness and compassion we can't make this world a better place.

Assume grace.

Crying in Wal-Mart

I'm really not that crazy. I mean, yes, I'm a little bit crazy. But who isn't?

In fact, I'm not even sure crazy is the real issue. So I burst into tears in the middle of a store. What's the big deal?

(Source: Google Images)

For starters I had to go to Wal-Mart. That alone is enough to make a person cry. I typically don't go to Wal-Mart for a number of reasons, including concern for social justice issues and their general business values. Not to mention the overall weirdness of the place. But the other day I needed to go to Wal-Mart for an item I couldn't seem to find anywhere else. I was determined to get in and out as quickly as possible and headed toward my goal item with great intentionality, zipping past dawdling shoppers and short cutting through clothing racks. I got where I needed to be and started to scan the shelves. In a matter of moments a mother and a little girl, somewhere around 3-years old, came into the isle. They interacted sweetly for a bit and then the girl spied something she wanted. She asked for it. Mom said no. She asked again. Mom said no again. They did this for a while before the little girl lost composure and started crying and begging for whatever it was she wanted.  The mother never lost her patience but kept saying no.

That is when my crazy kicked in. I had to leave. Immediately. I had to walk away from their interaction because without warning I started to cry along with the little girl. Fortunately I wasn't wailing the way she was but I had to ground myself emotionally to keep from saying to the young mother, "Buy her what she wants. You don't understand how little time you have left with her. Soon she'll be gone to college and you'll be doing this alone. It goes by so fast." 

Obviously I didn't say that to the woman. For one thing it probably would have frightened her to have a tear-streaked-middle-aged woman she's never seen before telling her what to do with her child. Not to mention she was doing the right thing by not giving in. But my instantaneous reaction to their exchange made one thing clear.

It is time for Anna to come home for a little while.

Nevertheless, I made my way to the checkout trying not to look too off-balance as I attempted to regain my composure. I wanted in line for a near eternity as the cashier examined the fine print of every single coupon provided by the customer in front of me. Every. Single. Coupon. Every word. Every date. Because God forbid Wal-Mart might lose thirty-five cents by honoring an expired coupon. But that's beside the point.

I eventually made my purchase and left the store. By that time I was nearly back to normal but it made me think about why I felt the need to rush out of view because I had been blindsided by my emotions. Does crying because I miss my daughter really make me crazy?

I've always been one who cries easily. My mother made me stop watching Lassie when I was little because she got tired of me crying at the end of every episode. Although, in retrospect, I'm not sure making me watch Alfred Hitchcock was such a great idea.

Anyway, my Wal-Mart experience made me wonder why we, as a culture, are so afraid of tears. Why do we apologize for crying publicly? Assume it is a sign of weakness? And experience embarrassment and discomfort when someone sees us cry?

I think we've got it wrong. I don't think the intensity of missing my daughter when I saw that young mother and her little girl makes me weak or crazy. I don't think my tears indicate some emotional imbalance.

I think it makes me human.

Rather than hide my tears from view, maybe I should have just celebrated what they mean. That I miss the young woman with whom I spent years building a close and intimate relationship. That I recognize the speed with which time goes by and the importance of living intentionally and joyfully. That life is precious and fragile and fleeting.

I'm not saying I'm just going to walk around crying all the time. And I don't feel any compelling need to watch old Lassie TV shows. But if you should see me crying in Wal-Mart, don't assume I'm crazy or imbalanced or just hate Wal-Mart so much it brings me to tears. Just understand.

I'm human.

Just Call Me Kip

Sometimes I hear people of my generation express their concern that technology is contributing to the demise of relationships by removing face-to-face contact. I disagree. In some ways technology has enhanced my relationships. I have no desire to return to the 'good old days' before the advent of cell phones and the Internet. In fact, I'm sort of the opposite.

I love technology.

(Source: Google Images)

 

Just call me Kip*.

 

This is not to suggest that I'm particularly savvy about the tech world. I'm not. But technology does afford me the opportunity to have a very short commute across the hall to my home office where I teach and connect with students almost entirely online. And through the magic of Facebook and Twitter I'm able to keep up with people I might otherwise lose contact with. Not to mention those people who just make me laugh on a regular basis. Some days Skype lets me see my sweet girl's face even though she's 400 miles away.

 

But what I love the most is the way silly group text messages keep my little family connected.

 

We've always been a pretty close family.When the kids were growing up we spent a lot of time together. And now some of our most favorite occasions are those when we are all together having deep conversation or laughing until our stomachs hurt. Sometimes both at the same time. Until recently, everyone lived at home, but lately they all decided to grow up and leave. This makes regular interaction a lot more challenging.

 

Our children are, of course, the generation who grew up with technology. They are able to keep up with rapid advances just fine. Steve and I grew up in a time when people thought the move from rotary dial phones to push buttons was a pretty big deal. We're a little slower to catch on. But we manage to hang in there.

 

After her recent fall break Anna and a friend drove back to college. By sending a group text to the rest of the family she was able to keep the other four of us informed on her whereabouts and the number of cows she could see. I'm not sure how, exactly, but somehow those updates sparked a lighthearted texting competition about who was 'Mom's favorite.' Criteria included who could make me laugh the most and who could make me cry the most.

 

For the record, there was no clear winner.

 

And another day Anna sent us a photo of some food from the college dining hall with a 'guess what this is,' prompt. Nobody got the right answer but the conversation that resulted from the question was pretty funny. Steve can be counted on to spell things incorrectly, insert non sequiturs, and throw in an obscene comment or two so the conversation never gets boring. We couldn't figure out what the food was. 

 

The guesses included broccoli and apple pie but it turns out the photo was of refried beans.

 

One of the more entertaining conversations came from a photo Parker sent of a sign that said, "Life is about using the whole box of crayons." At an earlier point when we had all actually, physically, been in the same place, Steve shared this quote with the family. He was being all deep and meaningful but Parker misunderstood and thought he said, "Life is about using the whole box of condoms." That alone was pretty funny. But then Parker saw the sign with the quote one day and sent a photo of it to the rest of the family and somehow things shifted to a revised version of the quote saying, "Life is about using the whole box of colored condoms." This created an immediate flurry of text messages to one another offering very colorful names for colored condoms.

 

Nothing like naming a condom 'Orgasmic Orange,' to keep a family connected.

 

Laughter is good for the soul.  And when our family connects, there is always a lot of laughter. Our children are, in the words of Kip, "like a flock of doves," scattering away from home a bit. But I feel blessed to live in a time when we can stay connected despite distance.

 

Charles turns 25 on Sunday. We can't all be in the same room to sing our traditional off-key "Happy Birthday" song. But, through the magic of cell phones we will still all be together.

 

I love technology.

 

Always and forever.

 

*In case you need a refresher on Kip's Wedding song:

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERCzN91JicA





Git Along Lil Kitties

I've always thought the term 'herding cats' was funny.

(Source: Google Images)

 

I think I find it amusing because as person who has had a lot of cats over the years I know how silly that idea is. I love this commercial for that reason.

Someone should tell our dog, Sadie, she'll never be successful at herding cats.

As part Australian Cattle Dog, Sadie's instincts are to herd just about everything. She's giving it a real effort with the cats but I'm afraid it isn't working. Sadly, it's a little like watching our country's leadership (a term I am using very loosely!) at the moment.

Actually, that isn't true. My animals are doing a better job of negotiating than our elected officials.

Although none of the cats seem to appreciate Sadie's attempts to herd them in a certain direction, most are willing to find a way to coexist peacefully, if not in full agreement. The only one not on board is elderly, grey, grumpy, and largely impotent. Which makes him sound a lot like a Republican Senator, come to think of it.

Regardless, the negotiations are ongoing. Every day brings a new opportunity to figure out how to give and take a little bit. Sadie doesn't really want the cats to eat from her food dish. But, she's willing to share some with them if it makes things better overall. And the cats don't absolutely love it when she tries to sniff their backsides, but if she goes about it calmly they seem to understand it as a gesture of diplomatic understanding.

So far nobody has gotten mean or aggressive or ugly. Nobody has put a stop to our household in demand of their own way. In all, I've watched my pets behave in a civil and respectful way. Which is more than I can say for our federal government.

Granted, out national issues are more significant than species cohabitation. But really now. You'd think if a houseful of animals can do it, our elected officials could too.

Remembering My Father

This week marked the 40th anniversary of my father's death. Forty years. That's such a long time.

The anniversary of his death doesn't hold any real sadness for me anymore. His death story is just another part of my life story. He's been gone for much more than half my life now. Still, I choose to remember and mark the day he died. For many years I did feel sad. And angry. And abandoned. But time has passed and I've come to terms with his decision to end his own life.

For so many years it seemed that my father's suicide was the only thing any of us really remembered about him. But with time and healing I've realized that his death didn't define him. Nor did his addictions. At his core, he was a good person. He suffered from mental illness and addiction at a time when our culture knew even less about how to deal with those issues than we do now.

I don't claim to understand what he did. I only know I've come to terms with it. He missed so much by opting out early. Most of my significant life events have occurred without him. My husband and children never got to know him. He wasn't present for any of my graduation ceremonies. He never got to see the woman I've become. I like to think he'd be proud.

These days memories of my father come in snippets. Moments in time sparked by one thing or another. The man I see in photographs reminds me of the man he was, although my own memory banks are fairly sparse. Because of the circumstances of his death, for many years I looked for him in a crowd. Although I knew he was dead, my soul longed to see him one more time; to say goodbye. It was unfair of him to say goodbye to me without giving me the chance to do the same. But then there are a lot of things about suicide that are unfair.

The day my father died, he dropped me off at school and before I got out of the car he said he loved me. He didn't say that often so I thought it was odd, but in retrospect I realize he was saying goodbye. He had carefully planned what he was going to do once he got home. I've grown to appreciate his last words to me. And I've grown to believe them. I didn't always.

A few years ago I was given a precious gift in saying goodbye to a friend's father the day before he died. Although he was drifting in and out of lucidity, at the moment of our goodbye he held my hand strongly, spoke clearly, and was immensely present. His words were soothing. He wasn't my father but he allowed me to exchange the words my father and I might have said had things been different. My soul calmed after that experience. I never looked for my father in a crowd again. I'd said goodbye.

Forgiveness came in stages. Through reoccurring dreams, my own maturity, and greater understanding of my father's addled mental state, I've come to forgive his actions. I wish he'd gotten help. I wish he'd made different choices. But I forgive the pain he caused. I don't believe he meant to hurt us.

My father is so much more than his death, though. I look at photographs of him as a baby, a teenager, and a young man and realize that he had a full and happy life before the agony of mental illness and addiction overtook him. He was a talented musician. He loved to celebrate everything. He was charming and engaging and in early photos there is a sparkle of joy. I see glimpses of him in myself and my children, and in my siblings, niece and nephews. His DNA is a part of us. Who he was before his tragic demise influences each of us in some small way.

Jimmy Charles Martin

Something went wrong in my father's life. When and how, I don't know. But something took his life long before he did.

I wish things had been different for him. I wish he'd been able to get help. I wish he'd known that his life was worth living. I wish he had lived a long, full life. I wish he'd known that he mattered.

Because, in this world, everyone matters.

Sadie and the Flood

In the middle of a massive flood, the likes of which this part of the country hasn't seen for at least 100 years, we, the card carrying cat people, adopted a dog.

Prior to a few days ago we never considered owning a dog. We've had all manner of cats but never has adopting a dog entered the picture. Not even once. But then Colorado started flooding and the world seemed insane and we did what any deeply committed cat people would do. We adopted a poor little homeless dog.

Meet Sadie

 

Sadie is young, just a puppy really, but her short life has been pretty challenging. She's already had a litter of her own puppies, learned a new language, been abused, and spent most of her life in a shelter. Sadie was on death row in New Mexico but granted a stay of execution by a benevolent woman who runs a no-kill rescue in Colorado.

Logic would say she is a flood refugee. Why else would non-dog people adopt her? But, logic doesn't have anything to do with this story. Nothing about the flood threatened Sadie's well-being. Yet everything about the flood prompted us to take her in.

The day the flooding started, I awoke to an alert on my phone. It said: Flood Alert only I didn't have my glasses on so I thought is said: Food Alert and hoped there wasn't a salmonella outbreak involving the strawberries I had just eaten the day before. It took a while before I realized that there was an increasingly serious situation brewing in Boulder and Parker was trapped in the middle of it.

I was able to keep in touch with Parker by cell phone through the days of flooding. I knew that he and his roommates were doing everything they could to keep water from filling the house they are renting. They had stored provisions on the roof in the event they were forced to escape and await rescue but none of this prevented me from worrying. Parker kept things light and funny. He didn't tell me some of the more harrowing tales like the fact he was driving down the street when the flash flooding started and was literally seconds away from having his car swept away in the river of rushing water. Even though I didn't know that until later, I couldn't help but feel concern for his safety.

For three days I watched the news and cried. Worried for my son and seeing the massive destruction, loss of property, and death, I felt sad and, like everyone, helpless to do anything but watch as the bewildering scenes worsened.  Entire towns were underwater. Parking lots turned into lakes.  Local roads became raging rivers. A young man caught a carp in a street typically reserved for cars.

It was much too surreal.

Nothing about the situation made me think, "we should get a dog!" But in the midst of all the mayhem we met Sadie, heard her sad story, and impulsively decided to let her come and live with us. I don't claim the two events connect clearly but I do have a theory.

When the flooding started we had no idea how bad things would get. Our home sits high enough up that we felt relatively safe but as we watched the news we saw familiar places ravaged by rising and rushing water. We could do the usual and immensely valuable things such as pray, make financial donations, and give blood. But there was little more we could offer.

I think when we met Sadie and heard her story, it felt like we could make her poor sad dog life better. It was something we could do.  Granted, it wouldn't help the people who had lost their homes and family members. It wouldn't make any difference in the clean up process or any aspect of the recovery.

It was simply giving a dog a second chance.

Yet it felt right. It felt like we were making a difference, in whatever small way, toward goodness in the midst of so much that was bad.

I know it sounds a little crazy. It is.

Had we consulted our cats they would certainly have thought we were losing it. And I'm pretty sure they would have advised against adopting a dog. She's here though. They are getting used to the idea. They may not love having Sadie around but they are adjusting.

As for Miss Sadie, she knows nothing of the flood. She's oblivious to the sorrow and destruction around us and she is learning to tolerate a house full of cats. At this point all Sadie knows is that she's loved and fed and walked.

And for the first time in her life, she's home.

.

Miley Dearest

True confession: I got a little drawn into all the hysteria about Miley Cyrus's VMA performance. I couldn't resist clicking on the 'Watch it Here' link embedded in a voyeuristically detailed Internet article and saw, with my own eyes, all the wriggling and writhing and foam finger action.

It disturbed me.

But maybe not for the reasons it bothered many people. I found myself feeling a little distressed by Miley's performance because I kept thinking that's probably how my mother behaves in her retirement community. Hannah Montana gone bad.

Minus the teddy bear onesie.

 

(Source: Google Images)

 

Mommie Dearest's early dementia seems to be taking her further and further down the path of silly party girl. Not that I think this is unfamiliar territory for her, but she is slightly obsessed with drinking and boys. Well, no. She's completely obsessed. Granted, the boys are hauling around portable oxygen tanks, but if they fall into the category of male, my mother is plotting a way to go in for the kill.

Without her walker, Mommie Dearest is barely mobile. But with her walker, that girl can move. And if the right man comes along, she's all about catching him. Right basically means alive. The ability to hear is apparently optional.

Every week the residents in my mother's retirement community have 'Happy Hour.' Some of the residents don't seem so happy about it but for my mother this is a highlight event. Not only do they serve the finest quality boxed wine, but she has found a way to beat the two-Styrofoam-cup limit, thereby consuming as much wine as she can finagle in an hour. She does this by shamelessly flirting with the male residents; cooing, and smiling, and doing some weird coy thing until she talks them into delivering a cup of wine. They comply, although it isn't exactly on a silver platter. Usually the delivery is rolled to her on the seat of a walker.

You'd think two brimming Styrofoam cups of wine in one hour would be plenty. I'd think that too. Mommie Dearest does not. It is all about the conquer. All about not letting someone tell her what to do. The more cups of wine she has brought to her the more she feels she's won. She does not, however, talk any of the female residents into her deceptive little game. Unimpressed by her girlish act, the women tell her to get her own wine. But she manages to talk the men into it. Every time.

In addition to drinking the most wine, my mother boasts of having the most 'boyfriends.' No single man with teeth is safe from her womanly wiles. At 'Happy Hour' last week, I met her latest victim, Ralph. It went like this:

MD:  Ralph, I want you to meet my daughter, Karen.

Ralph: (Shaking my hand) Nice to meet you, Karen.

Me: (Shaking back) Actually, my name is Sue.

Ralph: (Still shaking) Nice to meet you, June.

MD: Oh! You're Susan! Ralph, I want you to meet my daughter, Susan.

Ralph: (Still shaking) Nice to meet you, Susan.

Ralph: (Looking at my mother with a confused expression)

At that point it just wasn't worth clarifying that nobody in our family is named June, my sister is named Karen, and I actually am Susan, although nobody really calls me that unless I'm in trouble. Which, apparently I was. Probably for impersonating other people.

Ralph wouldn't have heard me anyway.

I didn't attend 'Happy Hour' with her this week. I can only take so much of her wild child act before I need a break. It doesn't matter. She's doing her thing regardless of whether I'm there.

But really, I guess all of this is fairly harmless. I mean, she's 85-years old. If it makes her happy, why not? At least I haven't seen her twerking.

Yet.

My Two Brains

My favorite color is fuchsia. Except sometimes it is red. And I love the independent spirit of cats. Only, I enjoy the eager friendliness of dogs too. I truly value the benefits of a healthy diet. But my favorite food is cookies made with real butter, white flour, and sugar.

F. Scott Fitzgerald is credited with saying, "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function." Presumably he said this during a bout of sobriety, but it is a powerful and meaningful quote regardless of his state of mind when he wrote it.

I'm not entirely sure it is a test of first-rate intelligence. Maybe it is just a test of being human. Regardless, I've been holding two very opposed ideas in my mind a lot lately. Each with a great deal of intensity. We will be leaving Anna at college for the first time tomorrow. This makes me feel both happy and sad.

On the one hand, I've looked forward to this day for years. She's always been highly motivated and smart and talented. I knew one day she'd leave for college because it was the only natural outcome of who she has been up until now. She has worked hard for this opportunity and I'm immensely proud of her.

 

On the other hand, I've dreaded this day for years. She's my baby girl and we've had an unusually close relationship throughout her whole life. I can't imagine what life will be like not seeing and hugging her everyday. It leaves me feeling a little desperate.

Part of me is so excited for what she will learn and experience, the way she will grow, and the opportunities in front of her, that I can hardly contain myself. The other part wants to curl into a fetal position and cry for knowing I'll miss her company so much it will hurt. At least she could have chosen a college in the same state.

I've been Googling strategies for containing tears so I'm not that mother while we are moving her in to her residence hall and saying goodbye. One suggestion was to pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger hard to keep myself from crying. The assumption being that physical pain will be a distraction from emotional pain. I might try it. I also might leave with a bruised hand and still have a tear streaked face. Something tells me I'm not going to be the be the only mother who cries anyway. I'll try to be strong. I'll do my best not to grab her by the ankles and sob. I make no guarantees though. 

I remind myself, daily, that we will really only be a phone call away. I've marked the calendar with her breaks and scheduled trips home. I also remind myself that I've known this day was coming since the moment she was born. In fact I've worked with her and for her so this day could come.

Nevertheless, it would have been nice if someone would have mentioned how this would feel before I started having babies. That full disclosure thing seems to be missing from the parenting contract. In a lot of ways.

Anyway, it is here now. The day my baby girl starts learning to live her life apart from me. She's ready. Even if I'm not sure I am.

Tomorrow I'll have moments when I'll feel I couldn't be happier.

And moments when I'll feel I couldn't be sadder.

But through it all I will still retain my ability to function.

I think.









 

Blue Lips and Pink Gloss

I love hiking 14ers.

Okay, that isn't really true. I love having hiked 14ers. Hiking and having hiked are two different experiences. I can think of a number of things in life that feel that way; a heck of a lot of work to finish but once accomplished, well worth the effort.

Last week Anna and I hiked to the top of Mt. Evans with our hiking buddies, Tambra, Kristine, Jackie, and their ever cheerful dog, Ginger. As I took a rest (somewhere in the middle of a gigantic pile of large rocks) and looked up toward a 14,265 foot peak I couldn't even see, I didn't love it so much. In fact, I uttered some choice expletives and asked myself what I had been thinking.

Before every hike I wonder if this is the time I'll be too old, too fat, and too out of shape to reach the top. But then, eventually I do reach the top and the feeling is very different from the feelings I have looking up at a boulder hill with no discernible path except for the placement of a few cairns stacked creatively by helpful souls who sort of forged the way before us. At the top of the 14er the views are amazing and beautiful and majestic. At the top it feels like I can see forever. At the top it feels like I've done something special.

Of course a lot of people hike 14ers. At least a lot of people hike the 'easy' ones like I do. The ones that require walking and climbing but not dangling from ropes or scaling rock walls a'la Spiderman. Those dangling ones are better left to more athletic types. The non-technical hikes are plenty for me. And, seemingly, for many others I meet along the way.

I've noticed hiking people are a friendly bunch. They encourage and support one another in ways I like to hope they display when they aren't hiking up the side of a mountain. 

Once we met one group of hikers who carried a bottle of champagne and some Dixie cups to the top of an over 14,000 foot peak so they could celebrate a woman in their party who had conquered cancer. They offered to include us and the other hikers at the summit in their toast. I chose not to imbibe since considerable exertion and little oxygen were already making me a bit loopy. I cheered for her though. Their party started the hike long before we did and although we are slow hikers, they finished long after we did. It was a powerful and poignant ceremony as they raised their paper cups, cried, and hugged their victorious friend. Nobody watching that could have felt anything but joy for that woman and her companions. Nobody with a heart, anyway. Hikers all around admired her spirit.

Often hikers who are headed down the mountain stop and high-five hikers who are headed up the mountain, offering words of encouragement and estimates about the distance to the summit. I've seen total strangers offer food to others who hadn't brought enough. I've witnessed slower hikers graciously move aside to make room for faster hikers. In all, everyone wants to see everyone else succeed.

There are lessons about life in there somewhere.

Last week as Tambra and I made our slow but steady progress up the mountain we met up with a couple of other women who were hiking together. One was more experienced. The other was hiking her first 14er and struggling quite a bit. Periodically the struggler would stop to take a hit off her partner's oxygen canister while her partner applied pink lip gloss. I've never seen a hiker use an oxygen canister. But then I've never seen a hiker apply lip gloss in the middle of a boulder field either. Perhaps she just wanted to look pretty when she reached the summit. I'm not sure. I considered suggesting that she offer her lip gloss to her friend who was sucking oxygen from a can because at one point when I stopped to breathe and take in the view behind me I noticed the oxygen sucker's lips were blue. For a split second I was about to exclaim, "Oh my...your lips are blue!" but decided better of it. She seemed to be having a hard enough time without being told she looked a little dead. So instead, I pointed out the beautiful view from where we were standing, tried to take her mind off the nausea she said she was feeling, and offered her a Vitamin B capsule.

Lady Blue Lips eventually made it to the summit alongside Lady Pink Lips and I was happy to see that she had succeeded. There is something significant about completing an endeavor that seems insurmountable at points along the way. The first time I hiked at 14,000 peak  I was in the midst of completing my doctoral program. I wrote a blog post about how the hike felt analogous to the daunting work of writing a dissertation.

It is good to succeed and make it to the top. But it is good to see others do the same thing,too.

To say I love hiking 14ers isn't really true. I don't. It is strenuous and painful and at times a little scary. But along the way I've met people who were kind, gracious, caring, giving, encouraging...and now I've met one who even had glossy lips. At the top of a 14er the air is fresh, the views are spectacular, the sky is gorgeous, and the people are good. There are important lessons to learn along the way.

I don't love hiking a 14er. I do, however, love having hiked one.

Shopping and Smooching

Mommie Dearest turned 85 years-old last week. It was an accomplishment worth celebrating. I mean, for a woman who has had cancer, a bunch of joints replaced, almost every non-vital organ removed, and an entire summer of near death experiences, getting to 85 is a pretty big deal.

Her circle of friends just sort of shrugged though. Eight-five, schmaety-five. She's relatively young compared to the people she lives with.  But to her it felt like a milestone. 

Every month her retirement community throws a fancy birthday dinner which she invited me to attend. I could have gone, but the idea was challenging to say the least. I understand that if I've inherited her genes of longevity I may live and eat among older people one day. For right now, though, I have a bit of trouble eating mushy, tasteless food in a setting that, while decorated in lovely, homey fashion, largely consists of smells and sights that do little to provoke a hearty appetite. 

Not entirely altruistically, I suggested taking her out to lunch instead. She happily accepted my invitation since she enjoys getting away from her retirement home and out in the 'real world.' Anna and I took her to Red Robin, not because of the elegant, fine dining, but because I knew she'd get a free ice-cream sundae, the staff would sing to her, and Parker would be her waiter. All those things would make her happy.

Mommie Dearest isn't a big eater but she found a cup of French onion soup on the menu and that struck her fancy. She ordered an obligatory side salad also. She was able to finish the soup but after a bite or two of salad declared herself far too full to finish. Of course this meant she had to have a 'to-go' box as she couldn't just leave it. What this really means is that the next time I'm at her apartment I'll toss the salad in the trash after it has become fuzzy and colorful.

Not surprisingly though, when her ice cream sundae arrived she smiled coyly through the birthday song and then dug in. Without offering to share a single bite, she finished the entire dish and never missed a beat.

"Never eat more than you can lift." Miss Piggy

Parker suggested that for her 86th birthday, they do keg stands together. She has no idea what a keg stand is (I admit I'm not entirely sure either) even after he explained it to her. She said she wasn't sure how well she could do one...but she was pretty good at smooching. 

Because somehow those two things must relate.

Mommie Dearest may be 85 but I'm pretty sure she still thinks of herself like this.

 

Which can't be all bad, I guess.

Her two favorite things these days seem to be smooching and shopping. I don't really want to be around for either but the least painful seemed to be shopping. I offered to take her to Target after lunch. 

Her excitement was palpable as she boarded the ride-on cart and threatened the very lives of  shoppers throughout the entire store. A small boy and his father walked by and as she whizzed past them I very seriously told the boy to run for his life. Somehow the fact that I was joking escaped them and they both looked at me as though I was the crazy one. We never saw them again. I suspect dad whisked the child off to safer establishments.

Mommie Dearest immediately made a beeline for the clothing department where she scoured the sale racks. At one point she said, "Look, jeans are 50% off!"  I reminded her she doesn't wear jeans.

Details.

By the time we finished the shopping trip, Anna had started to look like a jonesing drug addict and I was thinking of deliberately walking in front of the moving electric cart. 

My mother, however, was nothing short of ecstatic. True, I hadn't found her a smooching partner but I had provided her with the joy of finding sale items to enhance her appearance while she man hunts. 

In fact, Mommie Dearest was so happy she forgot to mention how bad my hair looked or how much weight she thinks I've gained. 

I guess if it brings her that much joy I can take her again. 

For her next 85th birthday. 

How I Ruined My Sister's Life

I've been writing about cake a lot lately.  I've also gained five pounds recently. But, I'm sure there is no correlation between the two. 

Last autumn my siblings and I looked at some old family slides we had found stashed away and forgotten in our mother's Michigan basement. I mention the Michigan part because I'm pretty sure keeping slides in a damp, musty, underground room isn't considered ideal and both age and environment were conspiring to destroy the precious photos that document the history of our fragile and fractured family.

Along with the box of slides, we found an antiquated slide projector that pretty much consisted of a metal box, a small light bulb, and a fan. My brother took the rescued slides and projector home and eventually located an outrageously expensive little light bulb on Amazon.com that would fit the rickety old projector. It is amazing and wonderful that you can find almost anything you want on the Internet if you are tenacious.

Anyway, when we all got together in the West Virginia mountains last fall we arranged furniture to accommodate viewing the photos on a blank wall, settled in with popcorn, and prepared to see what stories were contained in the disintegrating film. We found some photos that made us laugh, some that gave us pause when we considered that everyone in the photo (a mere generation ahead of ours) had died, some that contained mysterious stories, and some that wordlessly captured the mood and emotion of a moment.

This is my sister, Karen, on her fourth birthday.

Clearly she is delighted to be announcing she made it to this big day. She's surrounded by friends at a party solely devoted to celebrating her, and our mother had obviously made quite an effort to decorate a fancy birthday cake. In all, she seems a very happy four year old.

This is my sister, Karen, on her fifth birthday.

No friends. No special party. The cake is prettier (a clear sign our mother had nothing to do with making it), but she obviously had no intention of sharing it. With anyone. This is not a happy five-year old. She may have made it to this momentous day but nothing in her expression says she's celebrating it.

What happened in the span of a year to cause such a change in demeanour?

Me.

The story of my arrival and my sister's response is one of the better known and laughed about stories in our family.  Karen, our brother, Darrell, and I all have December birthdays. Which makes us wonder what was going on with our parents in March. But then we try not to over think that part of the story. Regardless, when my sister turned four she was happily the darling youngest child in the family. Mommie Dearest had her ideal 1950s family; an adorable boy and girl. Life was good. Or at least it could be made to look like it was.

And then came March.

I was born five days before my sister turned five. Her gift that year was an adorable bundle brought home from the hospital on her very birthday. 

She was not amused.

In fact, nobody besides my brother seems very happy about the blessed event.

Damn March.

Karen says she remembers the day quite vividly and the photos tell the truth. She was miserable. She didn't particularly want a baby sister and she wasn't in the least bit interested in sharing the affection of our brother who had always been her buddy and protector. In photo after photo after photo, prior to my arrival, they can be seen together, giggling. In every shot, Darrell has his arm lovingly draped around her. No doubt Mommie Dearest staged this but his genuine affection for her is obvious. But now, she wasn't his only sister.

Today my siblings and I share a sweet bond. Having survived a childhood our mother wanted others to think looked like Leave it to Beaver but actually resembled something more along the lines of Loony Tunes, we share the same funny stories, sad revelations, and bittersweet memories.

My arrival may have rocked the boat and ruined my sister's fifth birthday. She might not have had my brother all to herself anymore. But it turned out okay.

After all, he had two arms.

Vive la Difference

What kind of person do you want to be? The ones in the first seat, the second seat, or the third seat?

The other day I got an email, with this photo attached, asking which kind of person I want to be. The sender included the comment: "I believe I know the answer but had to ask."

I admit, I love being known. But really now.  Anyone who knows me could answer that question. Heck, anyone who's ever met me in line at Starbucks could probably answer that question. My first row way of living is a little hard to temper.

I've tried.

But it doesn't work. And it never will. Because I'm not a third seat person. Or even a second seat person. I've spent my whole life with my skirt blowing up and laughing about it. I don't foresee any significant changes as I get older.

At first glance you might look at those women in the third row and assume they aren't having any fun. Or, you might assume they are intensely thanking their divine Deity of choice because they aren't sitting next to those obnoxious women in the front seat. Either of those might be true.

Or, it could just be they have fun in a quieter, more subdued way. I don't actually have any experience with that, personally, but I'm sure it is possible. Some people do enjoy life quietly. I have a few friends like that. Not many, admittedly, because these are not the people who tend to seek me out as a friend. I don't think they are entirely comfortable in my company. I tend to make quiet people anxious. But just because they aren't like me doesn't mean they aren't enjoying life. There isn't anything wrong with them. They are more inward. Those women in the third row could be unhappy. Or they could just be quiet.

The women in the second row seem to be having fun although I sense something else going on inside them. Like maybe they feel a little self-conscious. Or maybe they are feeling embarrassed for the women in the front seat. It is a sure bet the women in the front seat aren't feeling embarrassed for themselves. Trust me. I know. If embarrassment is necessary, somebody else is going to have to do it.

Overall, those second row ladies seem to be enjoying themselves. Perhaps less outwardly, but that doesn't mean they aren't having fun. I know a lot of second row types. Some of my favorite people are second rowers. They approach life with joy, but a bit more reservation. It's just how they are wired. They can go to bed at night relieved that they didn't make fools of themselves but still feeling fully satistifed that they had fun.

I appreciate the second and third row ladies. I really do. Because life is richer when it is made up of all kinds of people. Difference is good. Everyone can't live life in the first row. If so, the world would be wild and noisy and forever teetering on the brink of outrageousness.

But, thankfully I do have some first row people in my life. I love them dearly. They get me. I know I don't embarrass them and they don't mind that I live life out loud. They live out loud with me. Where two or more first rowers are gathered....you won't find a third rower...but that's okay because everyone doesn't have to be the same or like the same things or want to be doing the same things.

Please don't ask me to sit in the third row. I simply can't.  And please don't expect those women in the third row to be in the first row. They can't either. It would only serve to make them miserable.

If you know a third row person, tell them you love them today. Don't be so bold as to hug them or anything and for God sakes don't make a big deal of it. But tell them you love them just as they are. All quiet and everything.

If you know a second row person, tell them you love them today too.  Go ahead and give them a hug, laugh a little, and let them know they are wonderful in what they bring to life.

And if you know a first row person, tell them you love them today as well. If you can get them to be quiet long enough. You might have to jump up and down. Clap. Yell a little. Spill something; they will be able to relate to that. Let them know they are wonderful, even in all their annoying exuberance.

Because we aren't all the same. And we aren't supposed to be. Life is made up of quiet and noisy and all that lies in between. Our lives are richer and fuller and simply better when we embrace people of all colors, orientations, personalities, and volumes. If we were all the same it would be a very boring world.

Respect difference.




 

A Brave Mystery

I love a good mystery.

I don't mean in the Agatha Christie sense. Not that I dislike Agatha's famous writings, but the mysteries I love are those which are part of daily living; those inexplicable happenings that change our lives in ways we never thought possible. Obviously I'm referring to the positive mysteries of life. The negative mysteries are a whole different blog post.

Anyway, lot of people like to try and explain the inexplicable which, if you think about it makes absolutely no sense. But that doesn't stop them from trying. And I certainly can't say I'm not guilty of making attempts to make sense of things. By and large, though, I like to bask in the mystery of the unexpected.

Several years ago, when we first moved to Colorado, Steve, Charles (who was an infant), and I went to a quaint, little art gallery in Central City. It is located across the street from the Opera House, above what used to serve as the county jail.

The uneven floors and exposed brick walls offered a certain charm that highlighted the art displayed throughout. We took our time admiring the works of various artists and Steve, somewhat offhandedly, said, "Someday I hope my paintings will be hanging in a gallery like this." 

We left the gallery that day and eventually forgot about his statement. During the following years we had two more children and Steve focused on raising our family and building his career. His painting largely fell by the wayside as trying to paint with small children could be somewhat chaotic and painting alone meant time away from them.

Things took a turn, however, when the owner of a start-up company Steve was working for decided to turn it into a shut-down company. One day he had a job and the next day he didn't. It was a tough time. Finances were tight but our young family's needs were many. Steve dropped into a funk which turned into a full-blown depression. Some days were very dark. I took a job working at the public library and Steve started doing projects on contract. Friends were generous and caring and eventually our situation turned around.

As a part of coping with his depression, Steve started painting again. The contract work provided for the needs of our family but painting is what fed his soul and brought him out of his depression. Some days his paintings were dark and dreary, but more and more they became beautiful, evocative, and inspiring.

The library where I worked was a brand new, beautifully decorated building with space for a small art gallery. A call went out for local artists to begin displaying their work and Steve decided to submit his paintings for consideration. It was a bold move as he'd never shown his paintings to many people. But, he took a chance and put it out there and was invited to hang his paintings in the gallery.
That one step encouraged him to start entering juried art shows.

Not long afterward, he was notified that his painting had been chosen to hang in a gallery alongside the submissions of other Colorado artists. We were excited as we prepared to attend his first opening celebration. That evening, as we climbed the stairs to the gallery I realized that this was the place where he had expressed his hope that one day his artwork would hang in a gallery.

THIS was the quaint gallery with the uneven floors and exposed brick walls. His spoken desire, expressed years before but largely forgotten by us, had come full circle into reality. He wasn't showing his art in just any gallery. He was showing his art in the very gallery where he spoke his hope.

I can't explain why his spoken wish came true. I believe in the power of prayer. I believe in the power of speaking things into the universe. I believe in positive thinking. But I can't say I know exactly why things happened the way they did.

It is a mystery.

What I do know is the desire of Steve's heart was to have his artwork shown in a gallery and he bravely started putting his work out for others to see and judge. Literally. It takes courage to submit his paintings before an established artist who  will determine if they were worthy of entering into a show. Steve paints from his soul, not his head. It is his very being he submits for judgment.

It is frightening.

No amount of prayer or positive thinking would have mattered if he had kept his work hidden at home. He is a humble artist and faced his first (and every future) submission with fear that the core of who he is would be rejected.

Since that first show, he has had paintings in several state and regional competitions. Why that spoken desire in a little gallery years ago came to reality is a mystery. How it came to be is an act of courage.

For the past several years Steve has dreamed of securing a spot in the Rocky Mountain National watermedia show. The competition is open to artists across the United States and hundreds of amazing artists submit paintings. Only a few are chosen. Last week he opened a letter saying, "Congratulations!"

In September a painting signed with his name will be hanging in his first National Show. A pretty big deal in the art world. So many years ago he stated his wish but if he had let fear rule and hadn't entered that first show in Gilpin County he'd still be dreaming of making it into a national show.

So yeah, I love a good mystery. But I admire courage. 

Because if we let fear hold us back we undermine the magic of mystery.

Fact or Fiction?

Some stories, like the ones about my elderly and slightly crazy mother, can't be made up. No matter how hard I try, I can't invent anything more wacky and outrageous than the stuff she comes up with. Nevertheless, I've recently been toying with the idea of writing fiction just for the fun of it. I keep track of story ideas based on funny incidents or quirky people, with the thought that someday they will fit into a novel.

It is entirely possible that I've invested a bit too much time in concocting off-beat and absurd stories. And I might have just the slightest problem keeping my imagination and reality in check.

For lack of anything better to do, Parker joined me on a trip to the grocery store the other day. Steve was out of town and as often happens when he is gone, I was channeling my inner Mother Hubbard. That day, however, when I looked in the refrigerator and found only ketchup, an egg, and a bottle of Aloe Vera juice, I decided to break down and buy some food. We were at the store when Parker mentioned he was craving chocolate cupcakes. I, being a cheapskate frugal, suggested we look on the bakery mark-down shelves.

Sadly, we didn't find chocolate cupcakes on sale but I did notice Parker grimacing while he peered at a small sheet cake on the top rack. When I asked why, he said it was a sad cake. Sad as in mangled or sad as in it had something sad written on it? He told me the cake had, God Bless You, Westin, written on it. I grimaced too.

"Do you think Westin died?" I asked.

Parker said, "I think so." 

We stood near the bakery rack feeling a little sad and a lot concerned.  I mean, if you're going to have a cake made for a dead person, shouldn't you pick it up rather than letting it get put on the bargain rack? How would that make a dead guy feel?

Parker and I spent the next few minutes theorizing reasons why Westin's family wouldn't have picked up his death cake. Just as our imagined scenarios were venturing into the much too macabre, it occurred to us that maybe Westin wasn't dead at all. Maybe Westin's family got mad at him and decided not to pick up the God Bless You cake. Maybe there was a whole different story.

And the next thing we knew, the non-dead Westin story was off and running.

As we gathered our groceries, Parker and I made up a whole drama about how the God Bless You cake had been ordered in anticipation of Westin's catechism, which was happening much later than the traditional age for a religious instruction ceremony because Westin had dragged his feet and found excuses for not following through. Westin's father, being an overbearing and manipulative type (which might be somewhat loosely based on a certain little 85-year old woman we know) had made such a fuss about it that Westin obliged, just to get him to be quiet. The reason Westin hadn't wanted to follow through, however, was because he was secretly gay and he knew neither the tenants of his religious tradition nor his father would approve. So, he chose that day to come out to his family, and upon hearing that his son was gay, Westin's father, being a God-fearing patriarch and all, insisted that Westin's Biblically obedient mother not pick up the God Bless You cake. Instead he demanded that she order one that said, Goddamnit, Westin!*

The sad little God Bless You cake was relegated to the bakery mark-down shelf.

I admit we were rather zealous in making up the story and then discussing how delightful it would be for Parker and his friend, Taylor, to make a short movie about it because, together, they are ridiculously funny and creative. We talked about it until we got home and Parker said we should have bought the cake. By this time I was so enthralled with the whole story that we got right back in the car and drove to the grocery store to buy it.

We were excited when we got there and made a beeline right to the back of the store where the marked-down bakery items live. We knew it would still be there. It had only been about 20 minutes since we first encountered the cake and who was crazy enough to buy an abandoned cake that said, God Bless You, Westin on it? Besides us, I mean.

But, when we got there, the cake was gone. Gone.

After a quick jog through the first four stages of grief, I said there had to be some mistake and set out to consult with our friend, Grumpy Cake Lady. True to form, she treated me with disdain and explained that if the cake wasn't on the bargain shelf anymore, someone else had bought it. 

I was crushed. And then I saw Parker, not yet ready to accept the truth, trying to nonchalantly gaze sidelong into the carts of other shoppers. After reminding one another that stealing the cake from another shopper's cart (should we find it) was not an appropriate response, we eventually had to accept the truth and leave the store without the cake.

The next day, however, Anna and Parker were planning a trip to see an outdoor movie with friends and she asked if I'd go to the store with her to get snacks. When we entered the store I impulsively decided to get a cake and have, Goddamnit, Westin! written on it for her to give to Parker.

This, of course, meant I, once again, had to encounter Grumpy Cake Lady.

She was busy airbrushing a sheet cake a rather unpleasant shade of green when she stopped and asked what I wanted. I cheerfully told her to go ahead and finish, giving her a flippy little wave of the hand. She pressed the trigger and finished spraying the cake ugly green while I contemplated what that color must do to one's digestive system. Again she humorlessly asked what I wanted. I offered her my very cutest, most adorable self and asked, "How's your sense of humor today?" Without a smile she glared at me and asked, for the third time, what I wanted.  I asked if she would write a naughty word on my cake.

No.

No, she wouldn't write, Goddamnit, Westin! on my cake.

And that was that.

I was relegated to buying ready made frosting in a tube and attempting to write my inappropriate message on the cake myself. It lacked the professional flair of a really mean and grouchy cake decorator.

But Westin's father liked it.

*In the spirit of happy endings, I'm happy to report that Westin's father (after the cake incident) came to terms with who Westin is and their relationship was restored to its former condition.

Making Lemonade...with Salt...and Tequila

I've always liked the trite little saying about what to do if life gives you lemons. Although, I admit, I like the one about adding salt and tequila better.

We had the opportunity to put all this lemon business to good use when we were planning Anna's graduation party recently. We've known Anna was going to graduate from high school for some time. Eighteen years to be exact. But we didn't start thinking much about having a party to celebrate her graduation until spring. When she asked if she and her friend, Anna, could have an Anna x 2 party I was, of course, more than happy to throw it. It was a party, after all.

 

We assumed most of the party would be held outdoors in the backyard, but you can't always count on the weather so we knew it might also end up being held indoors. Either way, the party was good motivation to do something about the dreadful, old, carpet that remained in our hallway and stairs. This was very old carpet. Very old carpet that needed to go away a long time ago. It hadn't, because we couldn't decide what we wanted to replace it with. But, the party was coming up so we finally decided to just replace it with new carpet.

 

The plan was to have the new carpet installed in time for the party. As the party date drew closer, however, the plan started to unravel, a little like the nasty old carpet in the hallway. It wasn't going to happen. At all. The carpet delivery had been delayed and the installation couldn't happen until the week after the party.

 

Well. Dang.

 

We considered what to do. We could cancel the party. (Cancel? A party? Are you kidding?) We could postpone the party. But the invitations for June 1 had already been sent. We decided to weave the lack of carpet into the party.

 

Recently I wrote a blog post about writing our family story on the floors of each room as we replace the carpet. You can read it here.  Anna suggested we modify our tradition and use the ill-timed carpet mishap as a way to include the party guests in our family story. 

 

What a great idea!

 

I immediately went to work removing the carpet and pulling out the tacking strips. I put a fresh coat of white paint on the floor and stairs, bought a package of 12 colored Sharpie pens, and wrote a little explanation in case party guests wondered why they were invited to write on the floor in permanent marker:

 

"Ours is a house in transition. At any given time there is a renovation project in process. The plan was to have new carpet for the graduation party. But, plans don't always happen the way they are supposed to. Our new carpet it somewhere in the United States. Just not in our house.

Plan B.

As we have replaced flooring in our home I have written a bit of our family history on the sub floor in each room, which has later been covered up but creates the story of our lives within these walls.

It is our belief that a house is a dwelling, but the soul of a home is created in the lives and relationships of those who both live here and come in as our guests.

So...about the carpet...

...since there isn't any, we are inviting our graduation party guests to take liberty on our stairs and hallway floor. If you would like to, we would love to have you write your name, a message, a thought, or whatever on the floor. Next week, when the carpet is installed, your message will be hidden but will become a part of the soul of our home.

Thank you for sharing our joy at the Anna x 2 Graduation Party.

And thank you for adding to the story of our family...and the soul of our home."

 

Our friend Spencer got things started by declaring the date of the party. Debbie added that it was also her birthday.

 

 

And people kept adding things. Some messages were simple.

 

 

Some more wordy.

 

 

Some drew pictures.

 

 

Some were random.

 

 

Some strategically placed.

 

 

Some wrote for others who were halfway around the world.

 

 

And after a while some started responding to what others had written.

 

 

When the party was over, we had a sweet masterpiece that, even covered with carpet, we'll always know is there. Expressions of love and friendship grace every step.

 

 

And exist outside every bedroom door.

 

 

It turned out that not having carpet was a blessing. The guests had fun and I'm pretty sure ours was the only party this graduation season that included floor writing. I think that might make me cool. Finally. I've always wanted to be cool.

 

Or, maybe it doesn't. I'm not sure.

 

Regardless, we loved reading every message over and over. We spent the next couple of days savoring the words friends had written because we knew it would be just a few days before it was all covered up; like a secret hidden message only our family would know was there. Well, plus the 50 or so other people who wrote things. But anyway, the point is we loved it.

 

Although it was a fun and creative way to have a party, I am ready for the carpet to be installed. We are expecting guests for a long weekend and it will be nice to have new, plush, carpet when they arrive at the end of June.

 

Except it has now been two weeks since the party and we still don't have carpet. It seems it got lost. And then found. While our new carpet was off having some sort of religious experience the days kept ticking by. Today the installation company told me it won't be installed until July.

 

So much for having things nice for our guests. I guess they'll have to sign the floor too. 

 

Pass the Sharpies.

 

And the tequilla.

How Not to Decorate a Cake

We have a philosophy in our family: Celebrate Everything. From the truly special to the truly mundane. When the kids were little we had birthday parties for stuffed animals, made May baskets for neighbor friends, and to this day everyone in the family gets a gift on the first day of snow. It might be a little overly precious, but we like to celebrate. And we like cake. So, it only made sense we would celebrate, with cake, after Anna's International Baccalaureate Recognition ceremony this week.

The ceremony was nice. Sort of like a mini-graduation. It reminded me a lot of the Hooding Ceremony I participated in as a doctoral graduate. Students were given their IB sashes to wear at graduation and there was an air of pride and jubilation. The students conducted themselves politely although as one young man crossed the stage wearing a fedora and carrying a cane I wondered why he was dressed as a young Mahatma Gandhi, the way I remembered him portrayed in the 1982 film. I found out later he was impersonating Snoop Dog. I was clueless, which made me feel a little old and uncool but hey, I guess I am old and uncool. So be it.

We left the ceremony and decided to have a little impromptu celebration at home, which is sort of how a lot of these things go. We make a spontaneous decision to create a celebration and then quickly pull it together. Steve, Parker, and I stopped at the grocery store to find a little pre-made cake. We intended to have "Congratulations, Nerd!" written on it.

We are immensely proud of Anna's accomplishments and we lovingly refer to her as our little nerd. She has managed to go through the rigorous IB program almost like it was nothing. I've noticed that the program evokes a good bit of whining and complaining from a lot of IB students but Anna hardly ever mentioned how challenging it was. We are all a little in awe of her. Not only did she breeze through IB, she also took a job and worked at least 20-hours per week through her junior and senior years. Now granted, Steve, Charles, Parker, and I all held jobs in high school, but none of us came anywhere near the academic achievements Anna has.  Although she didn't have to, she paid for all of her own IB exam fees and maintained a GPA that far surpassed anything the rest of us earned. While we have a pretty smart family, none of us got our act together as early as Anna did. I think my goals in high school were just passing my classes and flirting with boys. I probably didn't get a cake for that.

Anyway, she's pretty much our hero. So she deserved a cake and a celebration.

We found our little cake covered in chocolate frosting with white edging and sugar daisies and took it to the decorating station with its array of partially squeezed, colorful frosting bags. I asked the cake decorator if she would please write on it for me. She took the cake from my hands without a word, as if I was inconveniencing her terribly. I cheerfully asked if she would write, "Congratulations, Nerd!" on it.  At this point she seemed a little angry at me as she glared and said, "Congrats." Meanly. "Um...sure...congrats!"  She grabbed a tube of blue frosting and I started to say, "Oh, how about you use a different color," since blue didn't really coordinate with any of the colors on the cake. I wanted to request yellow but her hostility was palpable so I let it go. I mean, it was cake, not a cure for cancer. I couldn't see provoking her any further. Clearly, asking her to perform her job had created enough conflict. She hastily wrote, 'Congrats, Nerd' and wordlessly, but angrily, handed the cake back to me.

Alrightythen.

We walked away from the bakery department and once we were out of her earshot Steve said quietly, "Well, she was a happy cake lady," which made Parker and me laugh but it did make me wonder why she is working as a cake decorator if she is that miserable. Cake is often involved in happy celebrations. Not always, but most of the time. Her attitude, it seemed, was almost as incongruent as the blue frosting she used to write our sentiment.

I can't begin to know the circumstances of the Grumpy Cake Lady's life. I can't know what made her so angry. If decorating cakes makes her that mad, she might want to find another line of work but I suspect it goes deeper than that. We all have issues and troubles. Some more difficult than others. Some of our own making. Some out of our control. But, I wonder how treating a stranger with disdain could possibly help.

Maybe if Grumpy Cake Lady, you, and I all started treating people even nicer on the days when we feel like being mean, it might make everybody involved just a little happier. I know everyone isn't outgoing and vivacious. I'm not asking for perky. Just polite. Please don't impose your bad day on me and I won't impose my bad day on you. That's all.

It isn't that hard to be nice. Nice people make the world a better place.

And a better world is definitely worth celebrating.

With cake.