DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

My daughters, last month, when I still liked them.






Usually I reach this stage in the summer vacation near the end of August but this year I am ahead of the game. I'm at that stage when I'm wondering when school starts. As I type this, my daughters are having a raging fight over who lost the black leggings which the oldest daughter HAS to wear to camp tomorrow for their "Favorite Decade Day" Christ, who invents these things? Like we don't have enough of this crap during the school year when my kids seem to constantly remember on a Sunday night that they need something for a school project the next day like poster boards, and hot glue guns, and weapons grade plutonium.

You might say my kids are kind of crowding me these days. They're in my personal space. They're all up in my grill. Last week one of them stepped on the back of my flip-flop. Again. I turned and said between clenched teeth, "Would you all PLEASE stop stepping on my flip-flops?" Do you know how close you have to be walking behind someone to step on their flip-flop?

I'm not the only one feeling this way. When I brought the subject up at coffee ( I escaped from the buggers for a whole hour last week) Coffee Friend 1 agreed that she too was feeling a little cramped by having her four kids follow her everywhere. "One of them stepped on my flip-flop and it actually broke," she said. "And I want to know which parent started the email that's going around asking for a longer summer vacation." She was starting to rant a little. Her youngest looked up from the strawberry-playdough creation she was eating, amused as her mommy got hot, "I mean who the fuh wants these little bastards around one more day than they already are!"

Exactly. Yesterday, while driving my progeny around in the shuttle bus, I mean mini-van, the youngest and the oldest started bickering like my grandparents. Pushing buttons, annoying the crap out of each other, and getting louder and louder until finally, I slammed the car into park and said under my breath, "Get. Out. Of. My. Car."

To their credit, they did not argue or protest. They simply got out of the car and started to walk the few blocks home, resuming their bickering and annoying each other all the way.

I wasn't always this way. I used to love summer vacation. I mean, I still love summer vacation, but I used to love nearly all of it, not just the first six weeks. But alas, the kids get older and nature takes over. It isn't right to want to spend as much time with your 14-year-old son as you did when he was a 3-year-old. So nature turns that delightful little boy who adored you into a snarling sarcastic beast who rolls his eyes a lot. And the mommy who used to cuddle and take him on errands now kicks his sorry ass out of the minivan. Ah, the circle of life. We're right on schedule for a touching goodbye when he goes to college that should look like this--Me: Don't let the door hit you in the ass, Him: Up yours old lady.

When we took that long trip to Italy a few years back the kids got desperately homesick in the middle of it. I explained that when you travel, you will have bad days but on balance it will all be worth it. And it was. They got over their homesickness and we had a fabulous vacation. I'm hoping the same applies to summer vacation and that this too shall pass and we can enjoy the back end of our vacation as much as we enjoyed the front end.

So, here's to the dog days of summer. It's hot as hell and the cicadas are singing. My kids are arguing and I'm looking a little frantically at the calendar.

Good times.

SUBSCRIBE

A bit of housekeeping...thanks to the suggestion of one kind fan, Cindy V, I've added the option to subscribe to my blog. If it works as I understand it to, you fill out a form and you get notified by email whenever I post a new blog.

Go ahead, the button is on the right there. Let me know how it works.

Thanks!

Judy

HOUSE BUNNY YARD BUNNY

WONDER BUNNY our house bunny.

We have a pet bunny named WonderBunny who lives with us. He is fed and watered and taken to the vet on a regular basis. I often think how silly that is when I look at the bunnies in our backyard who run free. How little separates them from him and though I worry about him and take him to the vet I don't really do that for his little yard cousins.

This all came home to roost this weekend when Lilly found an injured baby bunny in the back yard. Something had already eaten the bunny siblings (we found the remains scattered around) and the mommy appeared to have abandoned her. Lilly begged to try to nurse her back to health. I knew how this would end but how could I explain the difference between caring for OUR bunny and caring for THIS bunny. Well, I couldn't really and I could not refuse her when she said, "But Mommy, I have to at least try to help."

And so we began the timeless ritual of finding a shoebox, feathering it with grass and fur and purchasing an eyedropper with which to feed the bunny. I made my stand on the issue clear, "I will buy the eyedropper but I will not take her to the vet!" I also informed her that I would not be buying kitten milk which some website said a baby bunny needs and is available at your local vet. Who milks cats?

Drawing that line in the sand is a little odd. After all, I would buy WonderBunny kitten milk if he needed it to stay alive. Hell, I'd probably milk a cat to keep WonderBunny alive.

It made me think of the kids at McNair Elementary. They're my own backyard bunnies, I guess. McNair is a school in a very bad part of Chicago that my coffee friends and I have adopted as our sister school. After railing against the disparities of education in this world (our kids have laptops, those kids don't even have crayons) we approached our principals about adopting an underpriveliged school. They were all for it and we've been able to help out a little by sending them school supplies.

I send them crayons but I don't take them to the doctor. Another line in the sand. We do what we can and hope it's enough.

It was not good enough for the wounded bunny. She died yesterday and Lilly went into deep mourning, refusing to get out of her pajamas and bursting into tears all day long. She railed against a world that allows babies to get killed when they are just days old and I could not cheer her up much with talk of nature and the circle of life.

To make it even worse, when we looked out back at dusk we saw the mommy bunny. She'd come looking for her babies but they were all gone. The import of this moment was not lost on Lilly. She burst into tears again, "Would she would have lived if her mommy could have taken care of her? Is it my fault she died because I moved her? Should we take the body to her so she knows she's gone?"

I had no answers. Maybe the bunny would have lived if we hadn't tried to help. Maybe she wouldn't but the truth was I just didn't know.

Where to draw the line in the sand? When to help and not to help? When does our help do more harm than good? These are questions for all of us and they are not easily answered.

For now I guess I'll just have to stick with Lilly's first words, "I have to at least try to help."

COUSINS

Some girl cousins I love.

My latest essay which appears in Chicago Parent (http://www.chicagoparent.com/article.asp?aID=08720295.4539608.59020.6204594.5715862.803&aID2=4531) has spawned a flurry of emails regarding go-go boots. Well, a flurry of emails from my friends and family anyway. It seems that almost every woman of a certain age has clear memories of her go-go boots, or the go-go boots she never had.

My cousin Beth remembers that she did not have a pair but our cousin Joette did and to make it worse, she lived down the street from Beth so she was forced to see the said go-go boots on a regular basis.

Of course Joette had them. She was the most glamorous cousin of us all. She had hair so blonde it was white, large wide eyes, and a smile that beguiled men.

This got me thinking about cousins and just what a special place they have in our hearts. I never had the good fortune to live in the same town as my cousins so I'm not sure my observations apply to those who are that close. But for the rest of us, whether we see our cousins weekly, monthly, or annually, I hold these truths to be certain:

COUSIN TRUTHS:


1. Some cousins are always more glamorous and cool than you: Joette wasn't the only cousin I envied. I also envied Joyce, Jenice, and Beth. They were a family of all girls. They didn't have to put up with no stinkin' boy siblings. Jenice, the one just a year older than me, was the epitome of all that was cool. She wore short, shorts. She smoked cigarettes. Meanwhile, I was in the marching band and had braces. Though I knew that if we went to school together she would have had nothing to do with me, by virtue of our blood relationship, she not only tolerated me but took me under her tutelage. From her I learned that when you kiss a boy you should purse your lips like you're saying the word "prunes". This we practiced for some time on our arms. Never mind that it would be YEARS before I could put that information to use. I also learned that although the song "Sha Na Na Na, Hey Hey, Goodbye" sounded stupid to me, it was in fact, quite cool. Which is why I purchased the 45 and played it repeatedly one summer.

2. Some cousins always have better stuff and often better parents: My cousin Marilyn had a pink bedroom with a pink canopy bed. She had bee-yoo-tiful blond hair too which she put in pink curlers at night (curlers! how glamorous!). Her mother, my Aunt Dora, would get up every morning and go into the kitchen and put on an apron. Then, as you came into the kitchen she would smile and say, "What do you want for breakfast, honey?" Everyone was honey to her, and not that fakey grown-up honey but the real deal. She would make you ANYTHING you wanted. Even pancakes. On a Tuesday. Suffice it to say, that is not exactly how breakfast went at our house. That is why, when my sister learned that the contingency plan for us if something happened to my parents was to go live with Aunt Dora, she began to fantasize about my parents' untimely demise. Who can blame her? If you met Aunt Dora and Uncle Dick, you would too.

3. Cousins of the opposite sex are useful for learning how to flirt: This I cannot say I learned first-hand. All the boy cousins were much older: there was Rick Ross (I learned years later, not a blood relative) who was like a real-life Ricky Nelson and Mike McCoy who was like a young Elvis Presley but they were as old, and remote, and un-attainable as the celebrities they resembled. There were no boy cousins near my age to flirt with. Oh, wait, there was Tommy but he did not move me to flirtation. He moved me to beat him up whenever I could. But I have observed this flirting among my older siblings and cousins and now among the current generation of cousins. Sometimes my cousins would flirt with my brothers. This was weird. Last year, at a family wedding, I noticed that the two teen cousins of the opposite sex who live in different states kept sneaking off together. I assumed they were developing schemes to get margaritas at the bar and comparing MySpace notes, (which they were). But then I grew suspicious. "Hey, do you think they're messing around?" I asked my husband. "Of course they are. What do you think cousins are for?" Okay, ewww. He is from Wisconsin where they are a lot more open-minded about these things, I guess. He clarified, "Why do you think they call it kissin' cousins? It's not like they're getting married." Well, then, I guess that's okay.

4. Cousins are better than friends and siblings. Friends come and go and siblings are too familiar but cousins are just right. You share last names, facial features, and grandparents. They call your parents "aunt" and "uncle". How cool is that? They move away and do exotic things and take jobs you never dreamed of but they will always be in your life no matter what. And that's the best part about cousins of all.

To Joyce, Beth, Jenice, Nan, Denny, Joette, Tommy, and all the other fantastic cousins in my life. I don't see you often but you are always in my heart.

STEP AGING

Liz Taylor at 47 on Left,

at 48 on Right

Maybe it’s my birthday today or maybe it’s my 30th class reunion looming this summer but I’ve been feeling like old man time hit me hard this year. I have a theory that we age in a sort of step-like fashion—that is we go along looking more or less the same and then in the passage of a few short months we can visibly age rather rapidly. Surely you’ve noticed this with friends and family you don’t see very often. Well, apparently this past year, my 47th, was a big step year for me.

It all started last fall when I was on a yoga retreat with my sister. No, actually, it all started 48 years ago when I was born, but I didn’t really notice it that much until last fall. Thanks to good genes, fruits and vegetables, and a life of steady exercise, I’ve managed to outrun time a bit. But now I’m thinking, not so much.

I noticed this first, as I said, at the yoga retreat. I was there with my (much) older sister and one of the participants asked which of us was the older sister. Excuse me? My sister and I looked at each other. Even my sister was confused by the question. Did she just ask which one of us is older? We almost couldn’t answer her we were so dumbfounded.

Now, I should say, my sister does look damn good for 55. But she looks like she’s in her 50’s. And if A equals B and B equals C—hey wait a minute.

The next thing I noticed was that as I went around town running errands, old acquaintances of mine—women I’ve known since our kids were all in nursery school together—were not recognizing me. I’d say hi, they’d look at me confused, blink, finally recognize me and say, “Oh I didn’t know that was you!” At first I attributed it to my glasses I’ve had to start wearing. But I’m hardly Clark Kent. Then I attributed it to my (relatively)longer hair. But really, how much do those things really change our identity. I’ve dyed my hair from brunette to platinum in the past and none of these women had any problem recognizing me. The more I thought about it the more I had to admit to myself, it was not those minor changes that have been hiding my true identity lately. It is aging.

I decided I did not like this. I looked for easy ways to look a little younger. I mentioned to my husband that I thought my haircut might make me look older. He smiled and said, “That must be it. It couldn’t be the passing of time.” He’s pretty funny for an old guy.

And that whole glasses thing. I had Lasik done eight years ago and was glasses/contacts free until this year. In the past year I have gone from needing to wear my glasses at night to drive, to needing them to drive, to needing them to grocery shop, to needing them to vacuum, to okay, wearing them all day. I asked my friend who is an eye doctor if he thought there was any truth to the old wives’ tale that wearing glasses makes your eyes weaker. He smiled, “No, getting older makes your eyes weaker.” Well, it sounds bad when you put it that way.

So today I celebrate my 48th birthday. My 47th year was definitely a “step-year” for me. A big, fat, giant step, not a teeny tiny baby step either. I enter this year hoping I’ve leveled off for a while and the next aging step is many years ahead. At least until I'm 55 and look as old as my sister.
J.

SEEKING

The Taiko, used as a call to worship represents the commanding voice of Buddha.


We seem to be in a sort of seeking mood here at the Zimmerman/Ludwig home lately. Maybe spurred on by our eldest son's rejection of our faith (see blog below) or maybe by my own passion for yoga and the spiritual side of that physical practice, I'm not sure. But lately we've been trying all kinds of new eastern approaches and belief systems on for size and I have to say the results have been pretty good.

Now don't worry, I haven't gone all Tom Cruise Scientology on you but I have been taking Grace to see a Holistic doctor for her stomach aches. She has had chronic stomach aches for six years--ever since, hmm, yes ever since her baby sister was diagnosed with cancer. Gee, Dr. Fraud, do you think there's a connection?

We have tried everything...Tums, massage, herbal tea, Pepcid AC, wedge pillow, changes in diet, changes in bed-time, peppermint, meditation, and even, in desperation, a few visits to a gastroenterologist who prescribed Prevacid (a drug that keeps your stomach from producing acid which I feel, intuitively, can not be a long-term solution). None of these things have given her more than a few days' relief from the stomach-ache that strikes her every night at bed-time.

Finally, we decided to try something new. We went to see a holistic doctor. I would like to tell you about the visits but it sounds like voo-doo to those of us raised in a Western world but let me tell you, she has not had a single stomach-ache since our first visit. He works with energy, and blockages, and past traumas. Whatever. She has had four visits and not one stomach ache in two months.

At the same time that we've been seeing "Dr. Eat Pray Love" as we call him, our eldest son has been researching Buddhism. He's so interested that he got me to take him to a Buddhist temple last week.

I was jiggy wid dat. I was raised Christian (Methodist) but I'm not convinced that the religion of one's childhood is the only way to go. We went, we observed, we enjoyed. The message is a bit different. There is, of course, no talk of Jesus but talk of the Buddha (enlightened one) within us. The goal is to connect to that divine self and the divine in all other people for we are as one. There is more talk of wisdom and self-knowledge than of loving your neighbor. I was good with all of that. There's also an awesome hanging drum they bang on as a call to worship and that has a lot more drama than ringing the church bells.

When we got home, Jeff was anxious to hear about it. "So what does that mean to find the Buddha within? Is that like God within you?" he asked.

"No, Dad," Atticus said with some non-Buddhist impatience, "I think they mean there's a little gold statue of a fat man in your liver."

Ooookkkaayyyy.

Atticus has declared he has found his spiritual home. It's in a temple in Wrigleyville (about a half hour from here). I guess that's better than at an ashram in Nepal. As for myself, I'm not sure I'm ready to give up on the Methodists and their potluck suppers and welcoming handshakes.

Wish us well on our spiritual journey. I send divine love from the Buddha in me to the Buddha in you.

Peace.

CONFIRMING I'M AN IDIOT

A Buddhist, Grace, and my confirmand Amanda


Last weekend my Atticus (14) and Grace (12) were confirmed at our church. Also, I had been a mentor to another confirmand, Amanda, so I was involved as both a parent and a volunteer. The event, as big events often do, served as a microcosm of all that is good and bad about my skills in both areas. Mostly what is bad come to think of it.

I like to hang loose, not over-plan, not over-do things. I like to fly by the seat of my pants and not sweat the details. All of which make for a good surf bum but a fairly inadequate parent and church volunteer. I was actually fired from Sunday School duty a few years back. Well, not fired, but not asked back which is the same thing.

The confirmation process is designed to educate the youth of our church so that they can accept their faith freely. This is a bunch of hooey of course. What 12-year-old has the life experience to accept one religion over another? Still, we push forward with this tradition and accept that on occasion the plan backfires. As it did with my son who announced a week before confirmation that he was having serious doubts about his faith. In fact, he decided he might want to be a Buddhist.

Umm, errr, well yes, it's all well and good to seek God wherever he or she may be for you but we just don't want you to do that in the eighth grade. What the hell kind of message is that? The kind I gave him. After much talking about it he agreed to go forward with the process as a sort of family tradition and I hope was able to do this in fairly good conscience.

The night before confirmation there was a banquet for the confirmands, their parents, and the mentors. I was there as both a parent and a mentor. I vaguely remembered reading an email that said we would be called upon to speak about our confirmand. No sweat, I thought, I can say a few words about Amanda. So imagine my surprise, when upon finishing dinner a microphone was produced and all the mentors pulled out lengthy speeches they'd written about their confirmands. "Umm, did we know we were supposed to do this?" I asked Grace's mentor who was sitting next to me going over her notes, "Actually, yes we did," she said, unwilling to give me a pass.

Okay, well, I'm pretty good on my feet I thought, I can pull this off. Then the first person gave a speech. This speech was just slightly more poetic than the Gettysburg Address and nearly as inspiring as the "I Have A Dream" speech. But with more Bible verses. Holy crap. There was no way I was going to be able to pull this off. Jeff, who was enjoying my squirming leaned over, "Your only hope is to go now and throw yourself at the mercy of the crowd!" he hissed. "No," I said, "I'm sure I'm not the only one ill-prepared," and I waited it out sure there would be someone as irresponsible as me.

But no. I really was the only one without a thoughtful prepared speech. What did I think? You take your crowd of church people who are asked to be mentors and you've got a fairly responsible group (not sure how I got in there). When it was my turn I mumbled through it forgetting a few details like saying anything nice about my confirmand or the whole process, then sat down and looked around the room to see if the torture was over. No. It was not. Because now all the mentors began to produce small wrapped packages to give to their confirmands. All except me (I did have a card) and Grace's mentor who said, "I have a gift for you. I'll bring it tomorrow." Oh sure, I thought. She has to figure out what to get still, just like me.

That's how I happened to be at Target last Saturday night buying the last cross necklace in the jewelry case.

Anyhoo, on Sunday morning when I presented the necklace to Amanda I was feeling pretty smug. A lot of the confirmands got the same thing so I was pretty sure I'd pulled it all out of the tailspin. I was curious to see what Grace's mentor had scrounged up the night before. I hadn't seen her at Target. Maybe she had to get beef jerky from 7-11, ha, ha!

Grace opened her gift. There was a small silver jewelry box with a Bible verse engraved on the lid. Inside the box was a silver cross with her name engraved.

Lilly leaned over and whispered, "I don't think she got that at Target last night, Mom."

Well, I'm happy to report that the rest of the day went smoothly. We got Grace and her Buddhist brother confirmed, for better or for worse and I was able to pull off my final duties as a mentor (stand up when they confirmed Amanda) without screwing it up too badly (my shirt was half tucked into the back of my pants).

I think, however, I will not be asked to mentor again so I can add to my list of dubious distinctions having been fired as both a Sunday School teacher and a Confirmation Mentor at the Methodist church.

Maybe the Buddhists would take me.

Namaste

YOGA: THE ANSWER TO ALL THE QUESTIONS

Me doing a yoga trick on the beach in Oxnard, CA

"It's hard to get used to that yogic idea that you're supposed to only work at about 80% of your capacity," my friend Jan who always gives 110% (if one could do that mathmatically speaking) said to me. She's fairly new to yoga but she's a convert.

"Oh," I responded, "No wonder I love yoga--I operate at about 75% on a good day so getting up to 80% isn't too hard."

That's just one of the many things I love about yoga. Yes, I've waxed poetically about it in an earlier blog but it's such an important part of my life that I feel the need to talk more about it.

Today, I will address all of you who are hard-charging, excercise-aholic kind of people who think yoga is not hard enough to do any good. Like my doctor who asked what I do for exercise--when I said yoga she said I needed to do some kind of strength training for my arms, like lifting cans of peas. What the fuh? I do handstands. When she gave me the exam and saw my very fit arms (if I do say so myself) she retracted her suggestion.

Yes, yoga doesn't feel hard but trust me it's an amazing workout. I've been doing it over three years now and my friends still ask me what I'm doing to stay in shape. They just can't believe you can stay in shape in the middle years (late 40's) just by doing yoga. But it's true. I practice three days a week. That's it. I don't run, I don't do cardio machines, I just do yoga.

The other thing about it is it's so, umm, spiritual. I don't want to scare away the atheists in the crowd but the meditative contemplative side of yoga is delightful. I know long-distance runners have a similar meditative thing going but running is way too hard. Did I mention I'm a 75% kind of gal?

Because of yoga I am much more able to be in the moment. I can sit through a church service and actually listen--I no longer make a mental ToDo list during the sermon. Yoga teaches you how to be "in the moment". Like the instructor at my yoga retreat said, "The mind is a time traveler--it's almost always in the future or the past, but the body is in the present." Yoga means"yoke"--bringing the two together-mind and body-- so we are always in the moment.

Because of yoga I can stop in the middle of a frantic day, sit down, and meditate for five minutes. At my physical this year the doctor told me my resting pulse is 67. That's a damn good rate--one a lot of athletes strive for. You will not see me surfing through my cell phone trying to find something to do when I have a moment of rest. I am perfectly content to sit in stillness with myself.

Yoga provides me with "functional" physical benefits. That means I can squat to wipe something on the floor and get up without grunting because of the strength yoga gives me. I can shave my legs in the shower without having to hold on to something because of the balance I've developed. I can turn my head (neck and spine) more than 180 degrees to watch for cars when I back the car up because of my flexibility. Flexibility also gives me the ability to do other things I can't mention because my mother reads my blog but let's say my husband is pleased. And just for fun, I can do tricks like stand on my head or balance on my arms. You should know, I was NOT the kind of kid who could ever do that stuff.

And let's not forget the very un-yogic benefits of yoga--a hot body. Yes, like no other activity I know, yoga sculpts every single part of your body, making your muscles long and smooth. I'm a half inch taller than when I started.

So, that's my yoga advertisement for the day. Get out there and get started. Give it some time. I did not like the upside-down stuff for at least a few weeks until my blood pressure learned to adjust. Try it twice a week for a month and see if you notice the back muscles starting to form like I did.

In yoga we like to say about all problems, "Take it to the mat" and I've gotten through some tough times and some tough days by taking my troubles to the mat. Everyone needs that.

As my sister said, "I don't know what all the questions are but I know that all the answers are yoga." She's right.

So take it to the mat. And when your life is transformed, please let me know.

Namaste.

THE MOSQUITO: CAN YOU HEAR IT?

Nope, can't hear that either.


Atticus, my 14-year-old son, stood near the computer speakers and clapped his hands over his ears. “It sounds like pop-rocks exploding in my ears while you have a tin can over my head and are banging it with a spoon!” I strained to hear the noise he was referring to but I couldn’t hear anything. I turned the volume up causing him to flee from the room and leaned in closer to the speakers. Still nothing. Lilly and Grace could both hear it. It was a strange feeling knowing there is something my children can hear that I cannot, no matter how loud I make the sound.

What I was trying to hear is the latest weapon in teen crowd control, the mosquito, created by a British inventor. The mosquito is a sound audible only to teens and those in their 20’s. It works because apparently we all suffer from hearing loss as we age—something called presbycusis, even if we didn’t subject ourselves to loud rock concerts or work with jack-hammers. Who knew? You can check it out at http://www.freemosquitoringtones.org/
which conveniently plays sounds for different ages. I can hear the "50 and under" but not the 49 and under which means I do have a little hearing loss.

This noise is being used to clear shopping centers and other areas where teens tend to congregate and annoy adults. Isn’t that a clever invention?

But it’s not as clever as the teens this tone is targeting because they are using the mosquito as a ring-tone for their cell phones which means teachers and parents cannot hear it. This is particularly handy in the classroom as teens alert each other to new text-messages without the teacher knowing.

At first I found this knowledge terrifying for some reason. I mean, sure, there are all kinds of teen communication systems that I don't understand including MySpace and texting but in theory, I could post my profile in hopes of attracting 1,237 “friends” or I could learn to type U R my BFF with my thumbs --but this sound is different, I cannot, even in theory use it.

And how about that image of our kids wasting their precious class-time by sending each other secret text messages that adults can’t even hear? I was lamenting this new development with a friend who wisely pointed out that perhaps some of us had wasted about the same amount of time writing and passing notes that teachers, for the most part, were unable to detect. Oh yeah. That’s right. In fact, in the seventh grade, my best friend and I taught ourselves the alphabet in sign language just so we could pass valuable intel to each other across the room in algebra which is why to this day I still know how to sign "Joe Doga is a fox".

Maybe the mosquito is just proof that today’s kids have had to ratchet up the stealth factor to elude ever-increasingly interfering parents. Our parents wouldn’t have dreamed of intercepting, let alone reading, our notes passed in class, but my peers think nothing of spying electronically on their children’s emails and text messages. Boundaries, people, boundaries!

My son mentioned that his choir teacher, who is a tender 27-years-old can still hear the mosquito but only faintly and I was reminded of the magic sleigh bell in Polar Express that only children can hear. The final passage of that book reads, “"At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as the years passed, it fell silent for all of them.”

So you see, the mosquito isn’t a terrifying new weapon in the arsenal of the teen world, it’s simply a real-life manifestation of the Polar Express sleigh bell.

Still, I don't like knowing I can no longer hear either one.

THINGS YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO

You CAN Do It Yourself!


I just finished reading an advance copy of "Were You Raised By Wolves?" by Christie Mellor, friend and author of "The Three Martini Playdate". This book is for twenty-somethings and I suggest it for any young person in your life who makes you smack your forehead on a regular basis. It covers the basics they should really be conversant in now that they are adults such as how to make a bed, how to throw a cocktail party, and how to hold an intelligent conversation.

Inspired by this, I've decided to come up with my own collection of things a woman should be able to do by the time she is forty. Yes, you have "guys" (husbands, handymen, contractors) who do this stuff for you but wouldn't you feel good if you knew you didn't need "guys" to do this? And wouldn't you feel empowered to know you (and by extension your daughters) don't need a man to take care of basic household/life stuff?

Because I'm too lazy to write an entire book on the topic, I will just list them out here.

Feel free to let me know what I forgot on this list at judy.zimmerman@comcast.net

THINGS A WOMAN SHOULD KNOW HOW TO DO BY THE TIME SHE IS 40 (A man should too, but the world thinks men already know all this even if they don't)

1. Wallpaper and paint a room: Painting is easy if you put enough tape over the stuff you don't want painted. Wallpapering is trickier and best tried with an experienced friend or parent the first time. Call me, I'll come help you. You do not need to pay someone to do these things, especially in the kids' rooms. Pay the pros to paint the dining room cranberry red. You can do everything else.

2. Install a light fixture: Remember to flip the switch in the fuse box before attempting this--don't know how to do that? Well you should. After that it's as simple as attaching red to red and black to black.

3. Tie a tie: on you or your spouse/son.

4. Change the furnace filter: more than once a year, please.

5. Drive a stick-shift: otherwise you'll pay double when you rent a car in Europe.

6. Mow the lawn: geez, what kind of princess are you?

7. Use crank thingy under the garbage disposal: saves you a ton in repair bills.

8. Fix a jammed washing machine: enter the error code into google and you'll find step-by-step directions.

9. Check your oil/air in tires: so simple I'm not going into it

10. Use a drill/be able to hang pictures or shelves: If you wait for hubby to do this you would never have anything on your walls. Go ahead, it's just a hole in the wall, you can fill it later when you re-paint the room.

11. Plan an entire vacation for four in Europe: Includes rental cars and train passes. Yes your hubby likes to do this but what will you do when he's gone some day? Presumably you will still want to travel and the pool boy is no good at this stuff.

12. Do your own taxes and financial planning: see above

EXTRA CREDIT

1. Drywalling: Okay, I don't know how to do this but my neighbor Sue does. Though, as she'll say modestly, "I'm not great at taping."

2. Dig a stump out: This involves finding the taproot and goes a lot easier if Sue helps you.

3. Install a faucet/sink/vanity: I did this once and decided it's definitely worth paying the plumber to do. What would take him or her an hour or so took me a whole day. Still, I get a little thrill when I look at it.

4. Move any piece of furniture in your house by yourself with the help of a beach towel: I have found I can no longer move mattresses by myself up and down stairs. I'm slowing down I guess. But you can still move other furniture around by putting it on the towel then pulling the towel.

EYELINER

Amy Winehouse and Lassie--both wearing too much eyeliner.


Today's topic is "Is it appropriate for a 7th-grader to wear eyeliner?" This topic was thrust upon me by my own 7th-grader who insists that "all the other girls are wearing it." HA! I accept that sentence for the challenge it is. I set out to find out if this were indeed true. I emailed all my friends in the neighborhood who have 7th grade girls.

Of course, what I found out was that not all of them do. But a lot more of them do than I expected. Especially because I consider eyeliner to be a very advanced form of makeup--one I still have not mastered and is usually worn by girls who have names like Britney and Lilo and hookers. Unlike mascara or lip gloss which can enhance what's already there, eyeliner is just not natural (unless of course you are a raccoon).

I have concluded that I am just not ready to allow her to wear it but that I will probably allow it sooner than I would have been comfortable with (her wedding day?).

But in soliciting opinions on this topic one of the moms I respect the most in the neighborhood had the best response of all. So here it is--wisdom from Jennifer K., wise mom in my town and one of those voices of reason we should all listen to more often:

"I am genuinely frightened by the idea that [eyeliner could make a young girl look better]. I believe that this is the same logic that is used between young girls as they try to "help" one another "improve themselves". It scares me that any middle schooler should ever feel that there is something they should do to "look better", short of brushing their teeth on a regular basis and changing their underwear (both which seem to be almost too much to ask of my sixth grade boy).

I know I am in the minority here and to be quite honest about it the issue for me is not the eyeliner or any of the make-up, it is the message that wonderful young women are forced to process, internalize and respond to on a daily basis about their appearance. There is so much pressure to be the perfect student, the perfect daughter, the best athlete, the most wonderful performer that to have them feel that they don't measure up physically and should work on finding ways to "look better" seems to me to be just too much.

While I always want Maggie to choose clothing that is flattering, not inappropriate or completely out of the norm (sometimes this a huge challenge) but beyond that a focus on her appearance or anyone else's worries me. Again, not having much to offer in the pretty gene pool maybe I just don't understand the value of being pretty . As an overweight, often frumpy, gray haired middle aged Mom I don't ever want my kid to use pretty or making the effort to look better to determine anything about herself or others. I certainly understand not wanting to be seen in the drop off line at school in the mornings when I have my wet hair, baseball cap, sunglasses, jammies, no-bra and morning breath but if you see me I hope after a smile and cheery good morning you don't notice or care and are no longer frightened by my appearance. If I was worried about "looking better" my kids would be tardy all the time.

Yah, I know I am old and this acceptance is part of aging but I think that my Mom gave me a great gift as a kid never suggesting I needed to improve my appearance (except for those really tight Gloria Vanderbilt jeans she insisted I stop wearing) and I am trying to give that (although I have no way of knowing if I am getting there or not) to my daughters. I hope that to help my girls "look better" I get them to understand that a bright smile, warm greeting and caring demeanor go a lot further than make-up or hair color. I guess it is my naivete about things here "on the northshore" and apologize for ranting but I am genuinely scared about this and truly believe that all of these girls are lovely, I wish they knew it, believed it and could help one another believe it

I can honestly say that I probably won't notice if Grace is wearing make-up or not because all I see when I look at her is the kind empathetic person that I got to know at the plays. She is going to make a great adult that I will be proud to know, with or without eyeliner.

By the way, if Atticus decides to start wearing eyeliner........I will NOTICE!!!!!!"

Fair enough Jennifer. And thanks for telling it like it is, as always.

ALL INCLUSIVE

Inside the mini-bar!

The last sales incentive trip I got to tag along on with Jeff was in Mexico and I have two words for you--All Inclusive. This tropical paradise came with everything included food, drinks, snacks EVERYTHING!

On the first day we gathered with Jeff's co-workers to marvel at all the perks of our temporary home. Scott remarked that it was amazing that even the MINI BAR was included! This was especially attractive to us because it was not stocked with those tiny little airplane bottles of booze but with full fifths, turned upside down in one of those in-the-door dispenser dealies with a spigot. And it was INCLUDED! No extra mini-bar charges! Scott admitted he had been so giddy at the sight of it that he'd stuck his head under it and had a shot.

I have been traveling with this crowd now for about five years and I've gotten to know them pretty well. Well enough that talk often turns to past trips. So on that first night, as we convened around the palapa bar the conversation turned to THAT night on the last trip to Mexico. You know the night. The night when the most fun was had by the most number of people. Unfortunately, I had missed THAT NIGHT as I was in Chicago for a family wedding. So the crowd was eager to tell me what I had missed.

I had heard most of the stories--how they'd decided to go out after the corporate events had ended for the night; how some band members from the evening's entertainment joined them; how one spouse neglected to tell her spouse she was going out and he had to search the beach for her body at 4:00 am. Good times.

Scott picked up the story here: He was at the club having a swell time when Kimberly, his fiance said she'd like to leave. As it was only 2:00 am he was reluctant to call it a night. At 3:00 am, Jeff realized he had to catch a plane in a few hours and maybe should go back to the hotel to pack. Kimberly, seized the opportunity and asked Jeff to see her safely back to the hotel. About a half hour after this, Scott decided that maybe he should go back too.

As he got closer to the hotel he grew apprenhensive. Perhaps Kimberly would be mad that he hadn't taken her home earlier. Maybe he was in big trouble (again). As he walked down the hotel corridor he was really worried until he got close enough to the room to hear voices. Jeff was in the room with Kimberly.

Now, Scott is not naive--he knows what can happen when a man escorts a woman back to her hotel room after too many drinks. He flung the door open only to have his worst suspicions confirmed--there were his fiance and his boss on the floor rooting through the mini-bar!

Oh they tried to deny it and say they'd just opened it up but Jeff was still clutching the nearly empty bag of $18 Kettle Chips and Kimberly was popping the last of the $12 Peanut M&M's into her mouth and worst of all, there was an empty Macadamia Nut can on the table. It was true. They had eaten their way through the mini-bar like Brittney through a 7-11.

Scott finished telling the story and shook his head ruefully, "I was really hoping they were just having sex."

So let this be a cautionary tale to you all. If your fiance wants to leave Coco Bongo at 3:00 am you'd better take her home. Otherwise you might find yourself stuck with a $400 mini-bar bill.

Or you can take the easy way out--go All Inclusive where the mini-bar is included and you can order a BLT from room service 24/7.

OLD ROOM MOM

Something a roommom who takes her job seriously might make. Not me.


A couple of weeks ago I went to the local craft store in search of Valentine's Day craft crap. There was nothing there. Of course not--it was two days before Valentine's Day why would I expect to find anything for that holiday? They were already on to Fourth of July. I was there because, for some reason I cannot remember, I volunteered to be a room parent again this year and it was my turn to run the Valentine's Day party.

I stood at a sale bin of half a dozen red foam thingies with two other slacker roommoms picking through the stuff listlessly. They looked as disinterested as I did so I suspect they are old hags like me who have been at this a little too long.

It doesn't help that this year I am paired with one of those annoying uber-roommoms who wants to do everything to the nth degree. She is not familiar with the saying "less is more". In fact, she may not be familiar with the word "less". If a few snacks are good for our kids then ten snacks are better. If two games and two crafts are fun then 12 of each must be that much more fun, fun,fun!!!

I worked the holiday party with her. She was in the corner overseeing a craft project in which the kids made necklaces out of jingle bells (actually, a pretty good, low-key project). Before long I heard her voice rise sharply, "No, you need to stop now! You have TOO MANY JINGLE BELLS!" she was saying to a girl who was rather maniacally stringing a few thousand bells on her vinyl lanyard rope. A few more minutes passed and she came over to get help.

"What. Am. I. Supposed to do about this!" she hissed at me with barely contained fury.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"That girl!" she said speaking of a tiny fourth-grader as if she had just knocked over a liquor store. "She's using too many jingle bells!"

"Ask her to stop?" I suggested.

"I did and she won't!"

"Alright," I sighed, "I'll play bad-cop." I walked over and tapped the little felon on the shoulder. She looked up at me with Ritalin-laced-googley-eyes and I knew there would be no reasoning with her. "That's your last jingle bell," I said.

"I just have to finish this," she said, without malice. She was not naughty, she was crazy.

I went back to break the bad news to the roommom. "She doesn't mean to hog them, she's just fixated."

"Well!" she harumphed, "What will I tell the other children when they come to make a necklace and we're out of jingle bells!" she demanded to know. I looked around the room. There was a karaoke machine in the corner, snacks on the table, gifts from the gift exchange in a pile, Nerf football in another corner, and a rockin' game of Twister out in the hall. I looked at the clock. There was maybe 10 minutes left before clean-up time.

I shrugged. "I don't know what you'll tell them. They'll be heartbroken if they can't make a jingle bell necklace."

Later the crazed roommom sidled up to me and asked if she could help at the upcoming Valentine's Day party. No, I assured her, I had it all taken care of. She looked crestfallen and I was confused.

"You mean you actually WANT to attend?" I asked incredulously. I would rather try to wrestle a toddler into a snowsuit (the fourth level of hell) than attend a class holiday party.

"Yes, of course I want to attend!" and she looked at me strangely. "Why did you even volunteer to be a roommom?" she asked.

Well, that stung a little. But she's right. Why am I a roommom? And why am I making fun of someone who's doing her job well and taking it seriously? I'll tell you why! I have roommom burnout--big time. I've been doing this for years and frankly, I wasn't that good at it when I was ten years younger and gave a shit. I don't like coming up with crafts, I don't think kids need more treats, and actually, now that I think of it, I don't really like kids.

So I've decided to move on. Much to the relief of the roommoms and children everywhere, I bid you adieu. I'm passing the torch. Hanging up my brownie pan. Retiring my glue gun. You get the idea.

Good luck and remember, when it comes to room parties, more is probably more.

VACATION SPAN

Leaving Mexico to head back into the frigid nastiness of a Chicago February, it ocurred to me just how much a vacation is like a metaphor for life itself.

It starts when you arrive. You are walking through the terminal, pasty and happy and you notice the tan and sad faces walking toward their planes to take them back to somewhere grey and brown like Pittsburgh and you feel self-righteous with a conceit similar to that of youth. They're so stupid to have planned their vacation earlier than yours. You are superior to them because just as their journey ends your journey is beginning.

When you arrive at the hotel, everyone is glad to see you. Happy you are here, in their world to remind them of the circle of life. Out with the old, in with the new. The bell-hop, the desk-clerk, the concierge, and yes the timeshare salespeople are all so very happy to see your pasty white, newborn face.

Things go well at first, time does not go too quickly, and you are enjoying this new place so much. Delighted to find the little soaps and shampoos, the various charms of the resort (ooh, look swings instead of stools at the bar!), the pool is so big!

Midway through the vacation a small depression sets in. You realize that your time here is half over--no matter how you look at it you are getting closer to the end of your vacation and a slight shadow falls over you.

By the last evening, you are nearly gloomy. You try to make it your "best night yet" but in your heart and the hearts of your traveling companions you all know that this is indeed the last supper.

The next morning as you pack your bags and leave your final tips and wait for hospice, I mean the shuttle bus, you are much more quiet than when you arrived. You and your traveling mate will make an attepmt to recall the good times but you are already focused on the transition into the next world. Will you go peacefully or will you go painfully with airport delays and no coffee?

As you walk through the airport, you see the pasty faces of the new arrivals and you are resentful. How dare they be starting their vacation as yours ends? Your feet, after a week in flip-flops, now weighed down by mid-western, winter shoes, are dragging and you imagine that one of the new arrivals just shouted, "Dead man walking!"

But wait, never fear, all is not lost. As you board the plane and settle into your seat crammed next to the large man from Elgin who is about to tell you why he hates Hilary Clinton, you notice the in-flight magazine and pull it from your pocket. You turn to your spouse as you flip through the pages and you say, "Okay, where are we taking our next vacation."

For all of life, even vacation life, is a circle my friend.

Keep the flip-flops handy.

STRANGER ANGELS

There's a new barista at my Starbucks. Well, she's new to that Starbucks but I know her from somehwere. She's in her late 40's, has black curly hair with some gray, and a heart-shaped face. She has a lilting accent I cannot identify (a little hispanic a little Indian?)and speaks in sing-song. I know her from somewhere but I can't quite place her. She's not a mom from my kids' schools. Not the gym. Maybe she was a checker at the Dominicks.

As I'm standing there trying to remember how I know her she sees me and recognition lights up her face. "How are you?" she asks as if we are old friends. Damn. Still don't know. "How is your little one?" she asks. Ah, finally a clue. When someone says my "little one" I know they mean Lilly because as my youngest, she is the only one who ever traveled solo with me. So she must be someone I knew when I used to run errands with just Lilly which narrows the timeframe down to the two years that she was an "only child" while her brother and sister were in school but before she started school.

"Oh she's great!" I answer. "She's in fourth grade now."

She smiles happily. "Bring her in some time."

The next three times I go to Starbucks we more or less repeat this scene and yet I still cannot place her so one day, after I drop my two oldest off at school early and have some time to kill before Lilly has school I say, "Hey, come to Starbucks with me and see if you remember who this lady is. I'll buy you a hot chocolate." Reluctantly, she agrees.

As soon as we walk in and get in line I see the barrista's face and my knees almost buckle. I do not know why but for some reason I feel like crying. I shake my head and swallow a lump in my throat, still not sure why this woman has this effect on me.

When it is our turn to order she smiles at Lilly and says in her delightful accent, "So sorry, no Forty-Niners today!" and BAM! it hits me and I know who she is. She is the waitress who served us every Tuesday at Walker Brothers' Pancake House that whole terrible time when Lilly was going through and then recovering from chemo. When she was bald and pale and couldn't eat a thing she could always choke down a few bites of her favorite pancakes--Forty-Niner-Flapjacks.

This lovely lady was the waitress we had every week who would say to Lilly, "The usual?" and bring the plate out with a flourish and a smile, knowing Lilly would only take a few bites and then she would have to wrap it all up to go. She always smiled when she saw us, always watched Lilly carefully, always served us like royalty.

There were a lot of angels in our lives during that time, five years ago,--friends, neighbors, family, church members, school friends. But there were more, these stranger-angels who helped us along and I don't even know their names like this barista. Once when Lilly had just lost all her hair we went out for dinner. It was a good night, we were laughing and having fun and when Jeff went to pay the bill the waiter said, "There is no bill sir, the gentleman who just left paid it for you." We have no idea who that generous person was, this stranger-angel.

I am thinking about all these angels again as I order my latte and a hot chocolate and I smile down on Lilly's head. When I look up I catch our stranger-angel smiling broadly at Lilly, still remarking about how tall she's gotten and how long her hair is and I say a little prayer for all the angels in our lives.

Merry Christmas

BECOMING A DOG PERSON

Don't be impressed, she almost never remembers to signal.


There was a movie in the sixties called "Charly" (based on a book we had to read in high school called "Flowers for Algernon) about a mentally challenged man who, through some Hollywood scientific process, was given the oppportunity to become "normal". His intelligence grew and grew until he was a genius, learning languages and devouring books. Unfortunately, the science was faulty (go figure) and he learned (according to Wikipedia) that " the neural enhancement is only temporary, and he too is doomed to revert to his original mental state. He records his struggles to find a way to stop the decay until he realizes the futility of his situation. Charlie's writings gradually begin to reflect the recession of his intelligence. He becomes depressed when he realizes that he can no longer understand his own proof – the pinnacle of his genius phase. By the end of the story, Charlie's brain has returned to its initial state." (Hey, I just realized that story is probably a metaphor for life in which we start out dumb, gain knowledge, and the pretty much lose our memory little by little)

Anyhoo, I was thinking of this movie because I realize that sort of like Charlie, my brain is deteriorating, --not because I had a Hollywood brain operation but because I now own a dog and my my dog-hating brain is slowly morphing into the crazy putty that is a dog-lovers' brain.

So like Charlie, who journals as he loses his intelligence, quick, before I lose all my good sense, I will give you some insight into the dog world while I can still remember what it's like to be a dog-hater. I'll try to explain some of the stuff that dog-haters worry about so you can understand why people love dogs so much.

Let's address the obvious things:

HAIR: You're wondering why a normally clean person would put up with all that goddamned hair in their house, on their couch, on their clothes, and in their car, arent' you? I know, you gag a little when you see a dog hair floating around anywhere near where you are going to eat. I know, because I was like that too. Well, let me explain. These buggers are hairy. It's really that simple. I now vacuum my house every single friggin day at 5:00, have two lint rollers laying around and one more in the car and there is still hair all over the place. So, unless I'm going to shave her, there you have it.

JUMPING: Before Molly I absolutely hated going to people's houses who have dogs because they jump on you. They jump up and put dig their sharp claws into your lets and slobber on you--yuck! Well, I still hate that but now I have a dog that does it too! It turns out that it's really, really, really, really hard to train them not to do that. They are so desperately needy. They dont' jump on us all day, they save that for the new person at the door. They just want you to love them (like that girl in college who stalked Jeff). They are needy, needy, needy. Short of a taser or as my father likes to say "a good swift kick with a boot" (both methods of discipline I am loathe to employ) it is difficult to break this habit. It requires immense discipline on the part of the owner. Even more than discipline than PARENTING requires for god's sake. My kids are much, much better behaved than this silly animal and they almost never jumped up on the UPS man when he comes to the door anymore but as for Molly, well, I'm not sure we've made any progress on that front.

WET NOSE: Yes. They have one and it is always wet and they always insist on sticking it on your bare leg. Unless I cut it off, (the nose not the leg) I see no solution for this one.

SMELL: You know that "wet dog smell"? I thought that was just when they were wet or dirty. No, they pretty much smell all the time except when you bring them home from their expensive visit to the "dog groomer". Good lord.

BARKING: People talk, dogs bark. That's life. Luckily, we have a quiet dog by nature so I am VERY happy to report, if you come over you will not be subjected to endless yapping or barking. (You will however be jumped on and covered with hair, but hey, stop by any time).

In short a dog is just as much of a pain in the ass to own as it would appear to those not owning a dog.

So why do dog-lovers love their dogs so very much? Well, like all great love it isn't very rational. She is a great companion to the children and very sweet and that does make up for a lot of the hair and other crap.

Still, the benefit to nuisance ratio is not tipping in Molly's favor.

But for now we'll keep her because she's the cutest little snookems who loves da mama, now don't you, my little pookie wookiee---

Help me, my mind is turning to mush. Before you know it I will dress her in a Santa hat and let her take food out of my mouth....aaaagghhhh I can't remember why I hate dogs...I need an operation to restore my brain......

HIT IT STRAIGHT--REVISITED

Recent surveys reveal that an alarming number of college students answer "famous" to what they want to be when they grow up. Not a doctor or a teacher or even a movie star (who has some talent to offer) but just plain famous.

I find this disturbing and puzzling. Anyone truly famous will tell you that fame is often the price one pays for having achieved a high level of success in his or her given field. It should never be an actual goal, partly because it isn't a very nice thing to have (it turns out) but mostly because it is supposed to be a by-product of something worthy.

Look at Brittney--as soon as she started focusing on her fame and let her actual (though minimal) talents slide, she lost everything. Quite literally. She lost her looks, her husband, and worst of all her children.

All of this has got me to musing about how many things in life go wrong when we focus on the wrong thing. And since I am self-righteous, it got me thinking of just how messed up a lot of people can get when they focus on the wrong goal and that got me thinking about my own philosophies and anyway, it all led up to this essay which I may just turn into a best-selling self-help book but here it is in a nutshell. I'll call it the "Don't Focus on the ByProducts" philosophy.

If you focus on the right thing, other nice things will come to you as happy byproducts. But if you focus on the happy byproducts you will fail miserably or worse, get the byproduct but miss the point entirely and never find happiness.
Let's look at this point by point. Let's start with the biggies---

Money vs. Hard Work: Everyone I know who talked about making a ton of dough right out of college (versus those who talked about finding a good job) are no better off than we are right now. Actually, most are not as well off. As they scrambled to find a quick buck and spent as if they already had a bunch of money, we worked slowly along and saved and saved and saved. Turns out the proverbial ant and grasshopper story is true. Money should never be a goal unto itself as it turns people bitter and there is never enough to make that person happy.

Find a mate vs. Find yourself: If you go out looking for a mate you will scare off any potential partners. Desperation and neediness are not attractive. If you go out into the world looking for adventure, fun, or to serve those in need you will be very attractive to the opposite sex. I do not need to give examples of this, you've all seen it many times.

Good grades vs. working hard and learning: When I was in school I know that those kids who focused on good grades, only took classes they knew they could get an "A" in and worried endlessly about their GPA were not the brightest kids in my class. In fact, some of them were kind of stupid. The smartest guy I knew (he had a perfect SAT score) was not our valedictorian because he challenged himself to take things he wasn't very good at (the arts, shop, PE) and didn't whine when he didn't get good grades. He's also a hell of a lot more interesting than a lot of other "all A" people I knew. Despite peer pressure on this topic from other kids and other parents, I have stuck strongly to this philosophy for my own children and I am happy to report it seems to work. Because they focus on learning and working hard they do get good grades, but that is not what they aim for. As a result they are critical thinkers and good learners but not always all A students.

Doing things because they look good on your resume vs. doing things you like: I wonder what happened to Marty "it looks good on my resume" Schwartz. That was his nickname in the dorm. Let's just say I haven't heard his name on any who's who lists or winning any Nobel prizes. The poor boy was dictated by that one mantra. This approach of trying to please a future employer who does not even exist yet is absurd in the extreme. The acquaintance we know who took up golf to impress future bosses languishes in the third circle of hell mid-level management. I have never seen this pay off. On the other hand, my friends who followed their passions, took chances, never worried about gaps on their resumes, and did what was right have succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. When Jeff and I took a year off to live in Europe out of grad school the wags repeatedly told us "that gap on your resume will be hard to explain". That did not prove to be the case.

Eating/living to look good vs. eating/living to be healthy: Oh I could go on and on about this topic. Well,actually I already have in the essay I wrote about how to stay fit. People, this is so simple--if you want to look good you have to eat really healthy food and you have exercise. Yes. Fruits, vegetables, whole foods not processed crap. And you have to get up and move your body as God intended. Unless you are farming the fields you need to exercise. Regularly. Not just a long walk around the block. You do not need surgery, or drugs, or diets. Those are all quick fixes that will not result in long-term change. That is focusing on the wrong thing.
I have to add that this was reinforced at church yesterday (yes the self righteous housewife is a church lady too) when the minister read this passage from 1 Timothy 6:17-19

"17Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment. 18Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share. 19In this way they will lay up treasure for themselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that they may take hold of the life that is truly life."

Okay, enough preaching for today. I'll finish with one more quote, this from an earlier essay about Jeff the golf pro--"Hit the ball straight, don't try to hit it as far as you can. In the end, the ball will go much further."

WHO'S YOURS?

Jeff Ludwig and Daniel Craig. Separated at birth?



When I was little my mother had a crush on Hal Linden. This was funny to us all, not only because mothers aren't supposed to have crushes, but because Hal Linden looks a great deal like my father.

Since that time, I've noticed that most married people have a crush on a famous person and that very often that person resembles their spouse. Or rather, the spouse resembles the famous person.

I suspsect this is another measure of a good marriage. For example, if you were married to a dumpy white man and found Lenny Kravitz to be the hottest thing you've ever seen that doesn't bode well for the pasty spouse.

Now of course, in the vast majority of these crushes, the spouse is not quite as beautiful as the celebrity because, let's face it, normal people are just not as pretty as celebs. But they do indeed resemble the person.

Our neighbor when I was growing up, Mrs. Stabenau, used to say her husband reminded her of Paul Newman. Well, he did resemble a celeb, but not Paul Newman. More like Jonathan Winters.

My current spouse-crush is Daniel Craig. As you can see by the photos above, my husband does indeed resemble him. I mean, they could be twins!

So, who is your spouse-crush? Does your spouse have a spouse-crush too? This is excellent cocktail-party material. Feel free to use it but I'd like a mention if you do.

I SPEAK MIDDLE SCHOOL

Today I will helpfully translate the names of the classes our children in junior high are enrolled in.

Let's start at the very beginning a very good place to be:

Middle School means Junior High. At orientation night they will tell you that middle school is a more nurturing and transitional educational experience than junior high. Instead of moving every hour on the hour to a new class as they do in high school, the kids move from "block" to "block" every hour or hour and a half or two hours depending on the complex scheduling grid that only a Homeland Security spy or a junior high kid can even keep track of. Whatever. If it's a school full of 11 to 14 year olds with poor personal hygiene habits and an obsession with the word "popular" it's still Junior High to me.

English class is now called Language Arts: I have no idea when or why this changed but I strongly suspect it is due to the propensity of all vocations to invent jargon to make them sound more knowledgeable/inscrutable. Because it is "arty" it means a heavy emphasis on the creative-writing and not so much on the grammar and punctuation but that switch occurred way back when. Diagramming sentences and using good grammar is so 1950's.

The Library is now the Learning Center: Now this one I can embrace a little--I mean the need to rename a library. As books are replaced with computers it does seem a little silly to keep calling it a library. Still, "learning center" is a little vague --isn't the whole school a learning center?

Foreign Language is now Global Language: Who knows why? Maybe foreign sounded derogatory? But isn't any language that isn't your own foreign? Whose feelings were being hurt here?

Art is Visual Art: So as not to be confused with the other arts such as music and dance, I suppose. But isn't this derogatory to the sightless? I think it should be "visual if able art".

Good news--Math, Science, and Social Studies are still Math, Science, and Social Studies. For now.

And now, for my personal favorite. The other day my son said he'd have time to finish his homework in PCT. Please elaborate, I said. Productive Choice Time, he said, snickering. Do you mean homeroom? I asked incredulously. Yes indeed.

Now I don't know about you but I'd have to say that in Junior High, a time in which I made more unproductive choices than any other time in my life (with the possible exception of the last term of my senior year in college), I made the MOST unproductive choices of all in homeroom. Passing notes in the form of quizzes (How bored are you? Check one: bored enough to 1. Yawn noisily 2. gouge my eyes out 3. actually do my homework), discussing who likes who and who said that to whom and endlessly ranking my crushes though the list was almost always topped by bad-boy Joe Doga and boy-next-door Kenny Gratton. Sigh. Now that was productive choice time.

So, if you have kids heading into Junior High, consider yourself a little more prepared now that you've read my handy guide but remember that Junior High, like politics and sausage, is best if you don't look at how it is made.

I SPEAK MARATHON

That's a lot of crazy runners.



Last Sunday was the annual Chicago Marathon. My hubby, Jeff, ran it for the fourth consecutive year. But this Chicago Marathon, the 30th, was unlike any other Chicago Marathon. This one was run in record high heat. With temps soaring to near 90 (freakishly hot for a Midwestern October day) runners were keeling over, emergency teams were taxed, and the organizers ran out of water. They were forced to cancel the race before even half the runners were done.

Jeff, walking and running, managed to finish the race but it took him much longer than usual. While he ran the course he saw people vomit, lose control of their bowels, and fall down to be carted away by ambulance. More than 350 people were taken to area hospitals and one man died. But still, most of the runners hung in there. In fact, even when the police announced on the bullhorn that the race was over and they should stop running, they kept running. Only when the police lied to them and said the clock had been stopped did they stop running and walk the last four miles.

By now, unless you are a marathoner or married to a marathoner you are no doubt shaking your head in disbelief, wondering (not for the first time) why on earth someone would even want to run 26.2 miles (yes all marathons are 26.2 miles and by the way if you want to make a marathoner crazy, be sure to ask him, "So, how long is this marathon?") let alone run it in dangerous heat.

Well, I would have wondered that too a few years ago but by now, after living with a crazy runner for the past four years and watching how it all goes down, I get it. I mean I really get why 35,000 of the 45,000 people who signed up for the race last week showed up to run despite heat warnings. And I get why 25,000 of those who started that race managed to finish it.

So as a fairly sane, non-running, yoga-practicing person, I feel I am uniquely positioned to translate for you why Jeff ran in that blistering heat last week.

First off, you need to understand that just to CONSIDER marathon training requires a certain obsessive personality. Type B's need not apply. If you have never stayed up late cramming for an exam, pushed yourself to lift a weight you had no business lifting, or stubbornly hung on as every one else fades away in boredom so you can claim victory over a monopoly game, then you are not someone who would even think about running a marathon. This trait--obsessiveness--is the main ingredient. It is more important than all the others that seem needed such as an abundance of freetime or an incredibly healthy physique. In fact, you don't need either of those. You just need drive, will, chutzpah, obsession...whatever you want to call it.

So you start with an obsessive person who by nature is already busier than you and I are. Now you take that person who has to cram hours (yes hours) of running time into his already busy day. He will do it. He will give up sleep, bartime (though not much--most runners are big drinkers too--did I mention they have obsessive tendencies?), family time, and TV/leisure time to log the running it requires to train for a marathon. If he does this properly, he will do this for nearly six months. He will run almost every day. Not once or twice or even three times a week but almost EVERY DAY for six months.

Day after day, week after week, while you and I slumber under the warm covers he gets up, laces on his shoes and goes out into the chilly darkness of a pre-dawn morning. Night after night, as we sip a glass of wine on the couch and noodle over a crossword puzzle, he is at the gym on the elliptic machine putting in his cross-training time.

Now you take these two factors together--an already obsessive person who has given up DAYS of his time prepare for this one day event and you can see how it is that he would be a tiny bit reluctant to miss the big day. This person is unlikely to let a little heat warning get in his way.

So, that, my friends and family and strangers, is why Jeff ran the marathon despite the dangerous heat, the bodies falling, the amublances wailing. Because he is the kind of person who runs marathons.

I do not pretend to be this kind of person, but I am married to this person. And I have to say, having a marthoner in the house is both enlightening and inspirational. I have come to realize that like all great achievements: the novel written, the summit scaled, the foreign language mastered--the marathon is run by taking first one step, and then another, and then another, until one thinks he cannot take another and then take one more.

It is that simple, it is that impossible.

And I'm glad there are people that crazy. How wonderful for us mere mortals to see 25,000 people limp, hop, crawl and jump over a finish line that they have run thousands of miles to get to.

BILLY DO BE A HERO

Tom Foust of my town Glenview--a genuine hero.




"Billy, don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life
Billy, don't be a hero, come back and make me your wife
And as he started to go,
She said Billy keep your head low
Billy, don't be hero, come back to me.

The soldier blues were trapped on a hillside
The battle raging all around
The sergeant cried, 'We've got to hang on boys!
We've got to hold this piece of ground
I need a volunteer to ride up,
And bring us back some extra men',
And Billy's hand was up in a moment
Forgettin' all the words she said"

From "Billy Don't Be A Hero" by Mitch Murray and Peter Callander

If you remember that song from the (ahem) 70's you'll recall that Billy unfortunately became a casualty of war as well as a hero. I remembered Billy this week as I considered our own hometown heroes.

Perhaps you heard about our local heroes on TV a last week. Three teens, upon seeing an 83-year-old woman turn onto the railroad tracks (she thought it was the road) jumped out of their car to rescue her. She refused to get out of her '06 Lexus (she didn't want her car to get wrecked) so one of them, Tom Foust, had to open her door, unbuckle her, pull her out of the car, and finally throw his body over her as first one train, then a second coming from the other direction, plowed into her car.

This act of heroism has generated a firestorm of well-deserved national media coverage,regional award presentations, and kitchen-counter mom-to-mom coffee/cocktail talk around our town. While everyone marvels and admires the kids' courage, a few have suggested that they would kill their own kid (if he/she survived) for doing something so risky.

Hmmmm. This deserves a little thought. I am reminded of my (emotionally unstable) acquaintance who declared after 9/11 that SHE would not have been a victim of that tragedy because SHE would have run for the hills at the first sign of trouble and that she was teaching her children to do the same. Her take on it was--the hell with heroics, it's all about survival.

Well, I don't agree with either assessment. Yes, it would have been a terrible, terrible tragedy to trade three young lives to save a senile old bat who wouldn't abandon her Lexus (she has yet to thank the kids). Just as it was a tragedy that one of the victims of the Twin Towers was a man who refused to leave the side of his handicapped friend in a wheelchair and died doing so.

But ultimately, these are things I would want my children to do. To respond to someone in need, to do the right thing, to be a hero even if it means risking their own lives.

Because in the end, we don't get to choose how we die but every day, in ways big and small, we get to choose how we live.

OVERHEARD IN THE ZIMMERMAN/LUDWIG HOUSE

Here we all are. I don't know where my kids learned the sarcasm.




Me: (to my three children) You guys are pigs! Look at this place, you never pick anything up, there's stuff all over the floor. You only pick things up if I tell you to. What if I died tomorrow? Is this how the house would look all the time?

Atticus (13 year old son): Well, we'd probably pick up for the funeral.



Jeff: Hey Lilly, I forget, are you in the third or fourth grade this year?
Lilly: (rolling her eyes) I'm in the fourth grade. (Pause) Hey Dad, I forget, are you an insurance broker or a veterinarian?

SHE'S NOT FAT...BUT

Abs on the right are not air-brushed on.


Sept. 17, 2007

This is not my usual thoughtful essay. This is nothing but sheer gossip. So pull up a chair and grab some coffee....

Here's a quick observation on a pressing, weighty matter of our time (pun intended).

No, she isn't fat. If she showed up at the community pool with her two kids in that bikini we'd all admire her figure (though I did read in the supermarket line that the abs were air-brushed on--something to keep in mind for the next class reunion). So I think it is a bit unfair to say she's "fat" especially by today's supersized standards.

But--(as Pee Wee Herman says "everyone has a big but, what is yours?") --but she did not show up at the community pool. She showed up on INTERNATIONAL TV where she was paid BIG BUCKS to do a job. The job was (in no particular order) look hot, sing well, dance provocatively. She did not do any of those things. In fact, if she'd pulled off two of the three we may have overlooked the third. But she did not. She did not prepare for her job and just as your boss would judge you if you failed to file that paperwork or did not prepare for the presentation, we get to judge her for failing to prepare for a TV appearance.

And, while I'm being snarky, if she had simply pushed her children in a double-stroller (instead of paying an assistant to do that) and if she had nursed them (instead of giving them Pepsi in a baby-bottle) she would have lost all that alleged "baby-fat". (By the way, that is not "baby-fat". She's too young to hang on to baby-fat more than a few months after childbirth. What she has is "appletini-cheetos-mocha-frappacino-fat"). Or, God forbid, since her career depends on it, she could have gotten her WT ass to the gym and done a few situps. Instead, she has chosen to spend her life emulating the great women of our time Paris and LiLo.

So, that is why people get to make fun of her and that is why you should not feel sorry for her when she gets criticized. She wasn't just hanging out at the pool, she was getting paid to entertain us and not the way she inadvertently did.

ODE TO ELECTRICITY

No wonder there was no power.

Photo by Beth Ford

I'm so sorry I took you for granted. I know, I know, everyone warned me that some day you might not be there and I should remember that and have a backup plan. But you've always been so reliable I just, I just couldn't bring myself to buy a generator. I believe in your reliability so strongly, I didn't even bother to buy batteries for any of the six radios I have in the house. How could I? To do so would be to admit that you might not be there some day when I hit the switch.

But alas. Even you cannot keep up with 71 mile winds and 5 inches of rain in two hours. Trees were down, wires were knocked over. You couldn't help it. No one even blamed you as we sat on the front porch of Coffee Friend 2's house lamenting that none of us had enough batteries in the house to power a flashlight or a radio. No, we bore the blame as we should. It was our bad. Hadn't Maria Shriver warned us enough after Katrina that we needed to be prepared?

I guess I just never believed you could go away so long. Sure, you've gone away for a few hours or even once overnight. But that wasn't bad. In fact it was kind of fun as we sat in the dark, playing boardgames by candlelight. But this time you went away for days and I realized that your absence isn't a fun Amish-like adventure but a big pain in the ass.

I couldn't wash the laundry that was piling up. I couldn't vacuum the dirt that had been tracked in as mud but now dried everywhere. The food in the fridge spoiled and there was no ice to be found in town to save the frozen stuff. The kids, who at first embraced your absence and read actual books by candlelight grew cranky when they couldn't check their email or play their online games.

Just as it was getting irritating you came back! We rejoiced and gave thanks. We bought new groceries and threw clothes in the washing machine. And then you went away again. Now that was just cruel! Half-washed dishes sat in the dishwasher and half-washed clothes had to be pulled out of the washer and hung on the back deck hillbilly style.

You went away the second time with no warning. It was sunny, wind-free and we were enjoying our annual block party. Suddenly, the music stopped and the moonbounce deflated (that sucker comes down quickly) and children screamed as the sides of the giant plastic bouncy caved in on them and they realized they were again without TV.

In total you were gone four days and in all that time not once did I walk into a darkened room and remember you were gone. No, each and every time I'd hit that lightswitch instinctively. I wonder how long you would have to go away before I'd stop doing that?

You are back now. For good I think and I am going to prepare for the next time you have to go away. I'm going to buy batteries and a hand-crank radio and maybe, even a generator. Just as soon as I check my email and run a load of laundry.