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.