Flu School...

I'm baaackk! After an inadvertent break, I am rejoining the world in 2013. 

I started the year in a stupor of illness and antibiotics and narcotics which left me unable to form complete sentences. I think I might have even drooled. I probably don't need to mention that being one of the zillions of people who caught the flu is not how I wanted to start my year. But I did.  And I promise the rest of this post won't be a long, whiny, sob story about how awful I felt.

Not all of it anyway.

I did feel awful. But, I mean, here it is mid-January and I've already learned a bunch of stuff from it. What is life if we aren't learning, right?

On a practical level, I learned that if you start coughing during a New Year's Eve matinee showing of Les Miserables, you should not assume that you are just having a sympathy reaction to all the people dying on-screen while belting out heartfelt songs just prior to leaving this earth. No, you should assume you are coming down with something. To all those who were sitting near me, I apologize. I thought I was relating to the characters.

Mostly I watched the whole movie in awe. I mean, yes, it was well done but really, I had a macabre fascination with the idea that these people were all dying but still able to hit a high E. Is that what dying well is all about? I decided I should think about singing on my deathbed. The timing on all this was good. Within a few days I truly thought I was dying.

I also learned that once you realize you are actually coming down with something and the world is in the midst of an influenza epidemic, you should not assume it is nothing. This would be the downside of being an optimist. You should go to a doctor. Had I done so, I could have taken Tamiflu, the miracle drug, and gotten over it much sooner. As it was, I waited until the window of Tamiflu opportunity had closed and the only thing left to do was suffer. And, having laryngitis meant I couldn't even sing on my deathbed.

While prior to seeing Les Miserables I hadn't ever considered singing and dying,  I have always envisioned myself as someone who, upon being diagnosed with a terminal illness, would live in a cloud of grace and gentleness. I'd lie in bed, serenely, dressed in a white, fluffy, gown. Glistening a little bit. I'd be someone who does all she can to make others around her feel comfortable about her impending death. Of course, recently I added singing to the scenario. I've always envisioned a charming death.

Fantasy.

If my behavior during  a bout of flu is any indication...well, let's just hope I don't have any lingering illnesses.

I complained. A lot. I whined even more. I learned that being sick does not bring out the best in me.

Nevertheless, I learned that I'm loved, even at my worst.

Despite my less than charming self, several friends faithfully checked in to see how I was doing. My mother even called several times to check on me and didn't even make it about herself! When I developed a secondary infection and my stomach was wrecked by antibiotics and my brain was addled by narcotics, my friend Debbie brought me a stack of novels to give me something to do when I wasn't sleeping. Working, writing, and thinking were out of the question.

When I couldn't pull together a celebration for Anna's 18th birthday, our whole family cheerfully cancelled original plans and pitched in to cook and clean and make her celebration at home special, after all.

And when my Christmas tree was still up long after 2013 was in full swing, Debbie came over, once again, to help me take it down.

That all may seem like ordinary stuff, but it wasn't. It was important stuff, and it let me know that I am loved no matter what.  Even while hacking, coughing, and whining I am lovable, if not pleasant.

So often we think we have to be or do something to make ourselves lovable. In much the same way singing on our deathbed is unrealistic, so is the idea we have to make ourselves lovable. We don't. We are lovable because people love us. We are lovable...just because we are.

It is good to be loved.

And healthy.

Surviving the Apocalypse...

The world is coming to an end tomorrow.

If only I'd lost ten pounds first.

Okay, I have to admit, I'm not really bracing for the end of the world. I'm not even sure how one goes about bracing for it. And, since the end of the world has been predicted on a number of dates throughout my lifetime, but so far all of those predictions have been wrong, I'm guessing the one about tomorrow will be too.

I've seen a few articles refuting the prediction, a couple even came with guarantees that the world would not end tomorrow. I thought that was interesting. I mean, you can guarantee it but, if you are wrong, who is going to hold you accountable?

Anyway, by Saturday I suspect most of us will have survived the apocalypse and lived to tell about it. And while I might like to lose ten pounds, if this were my last day on earth, my biggest regret would not be that I hadn't gotten around to losing them. Or that I hadn't gone to the gym enough. Or that I don't have Michelle Obama arms.

I'm not sure I have a biggest regret. I do have a fairly extensive collection of smallish ones, though.

I wish I hadn't gotten sent to the Principal's office in elementary school for writing a note to a boy which contained ugly sentiments about his mother. I don't remember his name and I'm pretty sure I never met his mother. I don't even remember why I wrote the nasty note, but he started crying and I got sent to the Principal's office for it. I didn't get in any trouble really. I was required to tell him I was sorry, but that was it. I was relieved my parents didn't get a call though. I can only imagine that my mother would have been disappointed in my pathetic attempt. Surely I could have been more caustic.

Anyway, it was mean and I wish I hadn't done that.

And sometimes I shudder when I think back on a conversation I had with a highly educated and articulate man. At the time I had embarked on a new life mission to be open and vulnerable with people, to compliment freely and without concern for whether they would think I was weird. Nothing about that goal is regrettable. But somewhere deep in my core I have the feeling I said something along the lines of, 'I'm so impressed by how articulate you are, for a black man.' Seriously? Was that last part necessary? I don't regret being open but I do regret being ignorant.

Anyway, it was stupid and wish I hadn't done that.

I am happy to report that I never wrote another nasty note about someone's mother (besides my own, I mean) and I never again added the caveat for a black man (or any other unnecessary qualifier) to a compliment. It would be nice if I could say these are the only two regrettable things I've ever done. But they aren't. Not by a long shot. As I said, I have a fairly large collection.

The thing is, I can't change anything about the past. Although I try to live without regret, sometimes stuff happens that, in retrospect, I wish hadn't. Sometimes I make bad choices. I can either beat myself up over my mistakes or I can learn from them and move forward. Life is messy. Mistakes are bound to happen. Focusing on the past doesn't do any good. But learning from the past does.

I figure surviving tomorrow's apocalypse will provide me with the opportunity to start fresh. The past is the past and it's over. Whatever regrets I might have about the past can be turned into anticipation for something positive in the future.

It is never too late to live a better life.

Or to lose ten pounds.

Enjoying the Party....

The older I get, the greater my conviction that life is a party.

Of course there are bad elements tossed in with the good experiences. I'm not suggesting we should make light of life's tragedies but, in general, we seem to vascilate between making a big deal of  misfortunes and being grateful for the good things that happen.

I'm convinced the best of life occurs in between, in the messy, unpredictable, quirky, wonderful, magical, plain old ordinariness that often gets lost. There in the middle, a party is happening. If we take the time to notice.

I'm blessed to have several people in my life who share my love of celebrating. We plan parties for the big things, the little things, and the ordinary things. We even celebrate the unusual, and somewhat offbeat things. Which is why it seemed perfectly normal when my friends Debbie and Laena and I decided to have a small, intimate 1960s themed Christmas party.

The idea just sort of evolved. It started with a conversation about old family photos that my siblings and I found, merged with a suggestion that a retro theme party would be fun, and before we knew what was happening, we were caught up in planning a Christmas party circa 1962.

It was very important to us that this be a pre-social revolution sixties party. We weren't interested in the countercultural movement for this event. No beads and peace signs for us. We were going Camelot all the way. It was to be a casual party. An ordinary event from an ordinary time.

The goal was to try and make everything as authentic as possible so we could take photos. Lots and lots of photos. We work very hard at not denying our self-obsessed, narcissistic tendencies so pretty much everything we do serves as an opportunity to take photos. The retro party was no exception.

Of course, in addition to us, martinis and cigarettes would get top billing in all the photographs. There seemed to be a lot of those back in the day (martinis and cigarettes, I mean), so in keeping with authenticity, we felt it only right to include them.

At the last minute we decided someone had to be pregnant. Our theme era took place before the surgeon general got all fussy about things like smoking and drinking while pregnant so our photos had to show our 'with child' guest imbibing. The challenge to our gestational addition was that Debbie and I are too old and Laena's outfit didn't accommodate a spur of the moment pregnancy. The only other option was Anna. Game for her role as the preggers party guest, we immediately started padding her with towels.

But, a pregnant Anna presented further issues of authenticity. In the early 1960s a pregnant, unmarried, 17-year old would not have been socially acceptable. She would have been whisked off to live with a maiden aunt for the duration of her pregnancy. She would then return to her community with the story that she had attended an extended cheerleading camp and all would, semingly, be returned to normal. People of that era really hated to be bothered with truth and reality. Consequently, our mommy-to-be needed to gain a couple of years. We solved all of this by giving Anna a sophisticated hairstyle...and a wedding ring...making her impending towel-birth far less shocking.

It is worth noting that neither Anna's cigarette, martini, nor pregnancy was real.

As we progressed further into the evening we added some drama by creating a little back story about Anna's husband being Laena's ex-boyfriend:

And Debbie as the hard living, cigarette smoking, martini drinking, cocktail waitress:

 

I tried to adopt the role of depressed, bored, housewife:

But this attempt was mostly unsuccessful because Debbie kept making me laugh. We ended up looking more like Lucy and Ethel:

I admit, this probably isn't a typical way to spend a Friday night in December. But it was a fun way. And later, after our party ended, I started reflecting on the fact that 1962 wasn't all that long ago. And yet, it was a lifetime ago. My lifetime ago. A lifetime of joy and pain. A lifetime of success and failure.

A lifetime of extraordinary, but more often, a lifetime of plain old ordinary.

There are times when I'm at odds with my own life, when things aren't just as I want them to be or, worse yet, when I don't even know what I want them to be.

But as time keeps pressing forward I am learning to notice the messy, unpredictable, quirky, wonderful, magical, plain old ordinariness of life. And I like it.

I learned a few things from Friday night: Life is short, make it as authentic as possible. Laugh a lot. Take tons of photos.

And enjoy the party.

Sh*t My Mom Says

A couple of years ago a guy named Justin Halpern got a book published, called Sh*t My Dad Says. It was based on series of real quotes from his father's salty witticisms posted to his Twitter feed. A whole bunch of copies of the book sold and it was even made into a short lived TV show. I know all of this because I looked it up. I'm bitter. Halpern beat me to the punch. I could probably get a book out of sh*t my mother says. But, it's already been done.

My life changed considerably when we moved my mother to Colorado 2 years, 6 months, 13 days, 5 hours, and 17 minutes ago. Not that I'm keeping track. It is just that when I was 24-years old, I moved from nearly one side of the continent to the other in the hopes that might it feel far enough away to keep her from driving me crazy. Finally able to take full breaths of air into my lungs for the first time in my life, I thought I'd never, ever have to deal with her on a day-to-day basis again. I had no idea that somewhere down the road I'd come face-to-face with once again living within five miles of her. Only this time, I'm responsible for a good bit of her care. If I'd had warning, I'm pretty sure it would have been in the form of a creepy, ominous, Dickensian specter.

Anyway, she is here. In living color.

Just prior to Thanksgiving she fell. I received a call about it, but I was assured she was just fine. At the time I thought it was weird that a frail 84-year old could fall and then bounce right back (after having non-emergency lift come to her rescue). But, then this is my mother, so who am I to question something odd. By the next morning, however, it was evident that she wasn't just fine so I loaded her in the car and took her to the emergency room where it was discovered that she had a broken pelvic bone. Since there wasn't anything to be done about her situation, she stayed in the hospital for a couple of days and was then released to go back home where she could utilize her 'electric chair,' a motorized scooter she uses to terrorize those people whom she considers more elderly and feeble than herself.  It is like she and Darwin sat down to tea one day and discussed survival of the fittest and she decided to be the last one standing. Or sitting. In the electric chair.

Her lack of mobility presented a problem when it came to Thanksgiving day at my house, however. Too many stairs. She couldn't come and spend the day with us so we opted, instead, to go en masse to visit her for a little while. My mother's conversation can be a bit bizarre and I noticed while visiting her, all three of my children had their phones out. I considered saying something but then I decided not to. A spoon full of sugar and all that.

What I didn't realize was, they were banding together and surreptitiously taking real-time quotes from my mother's soliloquy and posting them to a thread on Facebook for the enjoyment of others.

On her current boyfriend whose ex-girlfriend is jealous:  "I don't get jealous, I just get even." - grandma

On my suggestion that due to a lack of men she might turn her affections to the abundance of women: "I haven't found a woman hot enough to convince me to change my mind." - grandma

On never wanting to give up her 'party-girl' status:  "Oh Parker, we can get high on that marijuana now! It's legal after all." - grandma

On her former boyfriend, the raging alcoholic: "Oh my neighbor complained about me makin' too much noise in the bedroom." - grandma

If I thought my mother would be uncomfortable about their coping strategy I would discourage my children from making her comments public, but I'm fully confident she would embrace the notoriety.

While visiting my mother might not be considered the worst of situations, it can have its challenging moments. I find myself weirdly proud of my children for turning a rather arduous visit into something funny and sharing it for others to enjoy. 

So fine. Halpern did it first and got a book deal. Seeing my children's gleeful comradery, however, makes me feel a little less bitter.

Mock(yeah)ing(yeah) Bird(yeah)...

Apparently the high school I attended had two stories. I don't actually remember that detail but, a few years ago I discovered that if you go to the school, sit in the parking lot, and bore your children beyond comprehension with your life history, you can marvel at the fact that the building has two stories even if you only remember it having one. Not that the fact my high school had two stories actually matters to anybody. It doesn't. I was just surprised to discover it.

I don't have many memories of high school. I can recall a few details about the era, but can only remember a very small number of actual events inside the school walls. If I try very hard and concentrate very carefully, I think I can muster some recollection of the second story. But not really. And I've yet to come up with a good reason to put in that much effort. Steve thinks the math department must have been on the second floor.

Anyway, all that to say, regardless of the fact I hardly remember anything about high school, I do remember a kiva somewhere in the building where I first saw the movie version of To Kill A Mockingbird.  Until last week, I had only seen the movie that one time, although I've read the book repeatedly.

Last week I saw the movie again. At a real movie theater complete with sugary, sticky floor and popcorn remnants from the previous patrons. I'm only a little freakishly compulsive so I kept my search for leftover bedbugs on the seat to a minimum. Anyway, to mark the 50th anniversary of its release, To Kill a Mockingbird was being shown in theaters. Despite the fact that I'm not much of a movie watcher, I was awfully excited about the whole thing. And, although it isn't a cult movie, this was probably as close as I would ever get to seeing one. I considered dressing up as Boo Radley.

When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in high school I didn't appreciate its message. I think I missed the point as I sat in classrooms full of all-white students being taught by all-white teachers. Racial oppression wasn't something we thought much about. Granted we had some 'others' who didn't quite fit in; those who, by choice or by nature, were different and who were disliked by the insecure. Still, even though the prevailing message of the story was how wrong unfair judgement is, I don't think, with our shelves stocked full of white bread, most of us really caught on.

It wasn't until I read the book in adulthood that it became my favorite piece of fiction. I have long felt that if I were to run for the office of dictator and win (although I would try to be a benevolent dictator), To Kill a Mockingbird would be assigned as required reading for all humanity. While I understand it seems unlikely I'll be elected Dictator Martin Griggs, I recommend everyone go ahead and read the book now, just in case.

Realizing that my 'live to read' mentality isn't universal, as dictator, being all benevolent and everything, I'd allow those who didn't want to read, the option of watching the movie. Rarely do I think a movie does a book justice but I'd make an exception in this case.

Imagine it. What if everyone read or watched To Kill a Mockingbird and understood what Harper Lee was saying about prejudice and judgement? What if, by reading the story, people examined and understood the source of their fear regarding race and difference and acknowledged it? What if, after reading the book, people tried harder to be like Atticus Finch?

Atticus said a lot of great things. Perhaps the most significant, though was when he said to Scout, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view."
 

Racial tension is alive and well in our culture. And gender tension. And sexual orientation tension. And financial policy tension. And political  party tension. And a myriad other tensions. How would that change if we collectively modeled Atticus and simply considered things from the other person's point of view?

 

Maybe we wouldn't judge. Maybe we wouldn't condemn. Maybe we wouldn't harm.

Maybe we'd make the world a better place for everyone.

Amen, Atticus. Amen.

 

 

 

Sue's Mews

This post is about my cats. Only not really.

That I have an affinity for cats is no secret. I'm well on my way to being a crazy cat lady and really, at this point, why change? Steve and I got our first cat shortly after we were married. Her name was Katie Scarlett O'Hara. She was tiny and mean and really didn't like anyone. She was, in a word, horrible. When she died, at age 21, I don't think she'd ever had one real cat friend. Katie never let anyone get close. But, we loved her just the same.

Emma came to live with us when she was a much older cat. She was sweet, but timid. She never used her voice or had any confidence. One time I found Emma cowering in the corner while Katie picked on her so mercilessly Emma defecated on the floor. I joked that Katie had, literally, scared the shit out of her. Poor old Emma just never really found her place in life. But, we loved her just the same.

Katrina, a refugee from the hurricane of the same name, lived with us only a few months before she died. She never recovered from the trauma. We don't know what she had experienced, exactly, but she was always sickly. We assume she must have been starving at some point because she stole food at every opportunity. Most notable was the time she jumped on the table and swiftly stole a foil wrapped baked potato almost as big as she was. Thank God she didn't notice there was sour cream. Katrina didn't give much back. But, we loved her just the same.

We adopted Boe from a family who was moving to Japan. They said they couldn't take him but I think they just didn't have room. Boe was a little overweight. Okay, Boe was a lot overweight. Okay, Boe was a fatso. He weighed in at 23 pounds and really, really, really liked food. But Boe was sweet and kind and caring and welcoming. We had to put Boe down when cancer compromised his quality of life. Even up to his final goodbye, though, Boe was cheerful and loving. And hungry. But, we loved him just the same.

Thor was a punk. He didn't have a tail, was slightly lame, and had a curved spine. He acted like Mr. Tough Guy but was charming in his own way. He died of a bladder blockage at a very young age but while he was with us he made us laugh. Nothing much intimidated that scrappy little cat. Even Parker, at over six foot tall, could be seen screaming and running away when Thor started stalking him. Thor might have had 'little cat complex.' But, we loved him just the same.

Mr. Pankey died suddenly a few weeks ago. We don't exactly know what went wrong but he had some sort of neurological dysfunction. We adopted Mr. Pankey and Tyler (who is still with us) shortly after the back-to-back deaths of Boe and Thor. Mr. Pankey was quirky to say the least. He often wanted attention but just didn't quite know how to ask for it. He'd ask to be petted but then avoid our touch. He loved Tyler more than anyone and wanted to be friends with our girl cat, Princess. But she declined his invitation. Mr. Pankey was socially awkward. But, we loved him just the same.

Recently we welcomed Oliver into our home. Here he is helping me write this blog post:

He's a sweet boy. Aptly named, he's forever hungry and loves to go through drawers and steal things. He is also a little clingy and needy but we hope in time he will understand that he won't be abandoned and living on the streets again.

The interesting thing about cats is, they are all unique. They approach life and people and food and comfort and relationships and death differently. And they do best when they are understood, loved, and accepted just as they are.

Sort of like people.

*Credit for the title of this post goes to my friend Dan who loves all things silly.

Yes, I'll Be Your Neighbor....

I was having lunch with some friends the other day and our conversation turned to our mutual love and respect for Mr. Rogers. Yes, that Mr. Rogers. The one with the neighborhood.

Doubtless not everyone discusses Mr. Rogers over a veggie sandwich but, in this particular group, we were talking about him and one person asked, "Why did I never meet this man?"  I responded that I was fortunate enough to actually meet him.

Really. I got to have an honest-to-goodness, face-to-face conversation with, arguably, the most gracious man in our generation.

My children weren't allowed to watch much television. This fact is a huge source of dramatic revelation about how they were left out of a significant cultural rite of passage. Their friends discuss favorite TV shows from childhood and my own offspring are left to confess the didn't grow up with television. Those poor Griggs. They never even saw one episode of Saved by the Bell.

Freaks.

I'm sure to hear about this for many more years. The truth is, I've just never been much of a television person. It was on a lot when I was growing up because that's what everybody did...watch TV. But, aside from a few shows, television just never really captured my attention. Consequently, my own children watched very little and even then it was on an ancient set closed up in a cupboard with a picture so fuzzy it was hard to make out what was happening. Once when we were trying to watch the Winter Olympics we couldn't tell if there was a blizzard on the ski slopes or if it was just our television.

Anyway, one show my children were allowed to watch was Mr. Rogers. We all loved Mr. Rogers Neighborhood and his gentle, loving way of handling childhood issues. Naturally, when he was on a book signing tour to Denver we made the effort to go and meet him. He was, after all, Mr. Rogers! At the time I took up a huge amount of space as I was several months pregnant with Anna. And the line to see Mr. R was very long. We waited while I gestated and the boys restlessly fidgeted in place. Eventually, our turn to meet Mr. Rogers arrived. We asked him to sign his books The New Baby and You Are Special and then he started to talk with us. There we were with hundreds of other families but it was our turn and Mr. Rogers, with all his gentle spiritedness and thoughtful speech, tuned out everyone else and made our little family of four (plus one) feel as though we were the only people in the room with him. He took his time to talk with all of us and to listen as the boys expressed their feelings about having a new baby sister.

I'd never met a celebrity before or since. And I generally don't care much about what celebrities do or think. But this was Mr. Rogers. Sincere, sweet, caring, gentle Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers wasn't a loudmouth. He was soft spoken and intelligent with a powerful message of care and grace and mostly of concern for the welfare of children. Never snarky. Always loving.

After our conversation at lunch the other day, I got the book You Are Special off the bookshelf.  On the inside title page Mr. Rogers had underlined the printed word 'are' so the title looked like this: You ARE Special. Next to that he wrote, "I can tell!" and then he signed his name.

The cynical side of me thinks he probably did the same thing for every family who asked him to sign a book. But the other, less hateful side of me, knows that Mr. Rogers saw something very special in our family with two little boys eagerly awaiting the birth of their baby sister. They were, truly, excited for her arrival. When he said he could tell, I believe he could tell.

Which makes me think about how much I care for, notice, and look carefully at people in my own life. Do I stop, amid the noise and confusion of life, to take notice of who they are, what they need, or how special they are to this world?  Do I not only notice but do I also make them feel special?

How easy it is to go through life thinking of my own needs without noticing what is happening in the rest of the world. How easy to pay attention to the loud, ugly, uncivilized messages of hate and war, and lack of care for the less fortunate. How easy and how wrong. Do we really need more 'strong leadership' in this country, or do we just need more of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood?