RELIGION AND POLITICS

I have a confession to make; the Olympics bore me. While the rest of the nation was glued to the TV set a few weeks ago I only glanced at it on occasion. The gymnasts were pretty, the volleyball girls in the sand were silly, and yes, Michael Phelps can sure swim but none of it really holds my interest. (By the way, was anyone else repelled by Michael Phelps when he does that frat-boy victory yell and screams like Tom Cruise in "Top Gun"?)

But give me a good old fashioned political convention and I am in my glory. I watched nearly all the coverage of the Democratic convention and not just that CNN crap where the announcers keep talking over the speeches but the boring as dust, unfiltered coverage that PBS brought us. I was rapt from the first to the last speech every night. This week I'll be watching too. Not as raptly but I'll be there to see Sarah Pallin try to explain why we should vote for a woman who can barely keep her trailer in order.

It's all good fun, entertaining, and more importantly--important.

I'm a bit of a political junkie I guess. I majored in poli sci in college and I like to follow the political scene especially in an election year. Jeff says he doesn't know why I don't get involved in politics but I know why; while it is great fun to watch and study I would not want to be inside of it all and see the ugliness. You know, I'm a sausage lover and all but....I'm not sure why people make this leap anyway--does anyone tell the lover of Broadway musicals they should audition? Do I suggest that because he loves college football he should go volunteer to schlepp water to the players? No. Let me watch and talk and keep my distance.

I also like to talk politics but it isn't easy to find people to do that with around here. For some reason, they take the old adage "It isn't polite to discuss politics and religion" quite seriously. This is a mystery to me. It's not that way where I grew up in Michigan. There we are regularly impolite and discussed politics fairly openly and frequently.

I don't know why things would be so different here. I'm quite sure in this town just 15 miles from Chicago (also known as "the machine" as in political machine and "the windy city" not because of the gusts that come off of Lake Michigan but because of the hot air our politicians blow) that most of the people here are a phone call away from the mayor or a legislator. But they are NOT interested in talking about it.

Even on the Fourth of July I could not stir up one single comment when I deliberately tried to be provocative by wearing my Barack Obama t-shirt to a barbecue. Not ONE!

I can't even figure out why we're told it's not polite.

Is it because we might disagree? That's silly; it's like telling Cubs and Sox fans it's not polite to discuss baseball or stay-at-home moms and full-time working moms not to discuss child rearing.

Is it because people don't care? I find that hard to believe. Only a very naive or ignorant person believes that who's in the White House doesn't directly affect his or her life (federal income taxes, Roe v. Wade, declaring war, you get the idea) and the people I hang with are not naive or ignorant.

At any rate, I say, the heck with that old adage about not discussing politics. If I'm in the room, bring it. I don't care if you're an Obama mama or a McCain fan or even a nutty Ralph Nader supporter, just come informed and come talk to me.

Now more than ever, with us poised to elect either our first African-American president or our first female vice-president, this is an election to get excited about, to find out more about, and yes you polite North Shore ladies, to talk about.

To paraphrase Dorothy Parker, if you don't have anything political to say, don't sit by me.

FEATURED ELSEWHERE

If you're at all interested, you can check out the interview some nice folks over at storyofmylife.com did of me at http://www.storyofmylife.com/User/user_suzy_story_view.aspx?storyId=2311&CategoryId=1470&UserId=4020

This is a website that offers a free template for writing and archiving the story of your life. Their goal is modest--they hope to one day have the story of every man, woman, and child on their website. Check it out. Maybe you'd like to add your life story.

Thanks!

Judy

SCHOOL DAYS

It's back to school this week in Glenview and as I drive Grace to Junior High I wait behind a school bus that has stopped to pick up a young child. The mother and father are both there as it is the first day of school and I guess the first day of kindergarten judging by how wistful mom looks and anxious dad is. Dad places his hands on the child's shoulders as if he could hold him back from getting on that bus and maybe keep him a moment longer in the preschool world. I know what the parents are thinking. How quickly it went! Wasn't it just yesterday they were in the hospital with that newborn wondering how on earth they were going to take care of this new wondrous creature? Finally, the parents kiss him goodbye and reluctantly let go as he boards the bus with confidence. The bus pulls away and I'm not sure there's a more forlorn sight than that of the parents left behind.

I glance at Grace sitting next to me. Goodness, she's nearly a full-grown woman. She wears her new skinny jeans and has a new hairstyle with bangs that hang in her eyes and make me offer to trim them nearly daily. How did this happen? Wasn't it just a few days ago that she was in her new denim skirt, the one she picked out with Jeff on that special shopping trip in the city as they prepared for her first day of school?

Back at home Lilly is ready to head out to her elementary school. She has a backpack shaped like an alligator and wears her bike helmet without being reminded. She waves and pulls away from me, happy to meet her friend and ride to school. How could this have happened? Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that I told Atticus and Grace that they were going to have a new baby brother or sister?

As I turn to go back in the house I see my neighbor, Ralph, come out of his house. He's an attorney who works in the city and takes the train every morning. He and his wife Gundy are now the senior members of our block at the age of 70. He sees Lilly riding down the street and he stops and watches her for a moment longer than I expect him to. His face grows dark with something that looks like grief and I know what he is thinking. How could Lillly be riding her bike to school already? Wasn't it just a while ago that Kurt, his 50-year-old son used to ride his bike down this same street to that same elementary school?

I wave at Ralph but he is lost in reverie and does not see me. I turn to go inside and get my coffee before the gravity of the moment can move me to tears.

And so it goes and so it goes.

I CAN FEEL YOUR HEARTBEAT

I drove to my class reunion with my best friend Lisa and her husband, Steve, who did not go to our high school. Steve asked casually if John M. would be at the reunion. John M. would be the boy from Lisa's past who still has the ability to make Lisa blush. You know the guy--we all have one or two. He's most often not a former boyfriend but much more intriguing--the biggest crush you ever had that was never reciprocated.

As we drove, Steve reminded me that they had run into John about ten years ago. Here, is the story, more or less as he told me:

"When Lisa was pregnant with Brendan her doctor told her she could keep up with most of her fitness activities as long as she wore a heart monitor. It seemed like no matter what she did, the monitor did not go off since she's in such good shape. We were living in Northville (our home town) then and one morning we went for a long, fast walk. Her heart monitor didn't go off of course, in fact she wasn't even out of breath.

Then we went around the corner and I could see two people walking towards us. All of a sudden I heard this beeping and I didn't know what it was. I finally realized it was Lisa's heart monitor. I was worried--nothing had set it off before. I looked over at her and saw she was frantically trying to rip the monitor off. 'Oh my God, are you okay?' I asked. She just kept trying to pull that monitor off."

Here Lisa takes up the story: "I knew it was John and his wife from way off. I had a crush on him all through high school. As soon as I saw him my heart monitor started beeping like a code blue. I also knew both he and his wife are phys ed teachers so they would totally know what was making the beeping sound. That's why I was trying to rip the monitor off, before they walked up and heard it going like mad."

So there it is, proof positive that those crushes in high school, even 20 years out, can make your heart race. We all laughed at the story and wondered just how awful high school (and the bar scene and yes, a class reunion) could be if we all wore heart monitors to let the world further know how much we liked someone. As if the blushing, sweating, and stammering weren't enough.

I loved hearing that story again and I loved knowing that in this life we are lucky enough to feel so passionately about someone that our heart monitor will beep. I'm happy to report that I am married to the one who set my (figurative) heart monitor off most frequently and loudly in my early 20's. In fact he still does.

I wish the same good fortune for you all.

CLASS REUNION

Mikey Luckett at the 30th reunion. Is he snoozing?



Once upon a time I was a high-school student. Now, you may find this hard to believe since I am the glib, world-traveling, clever, and witty woman that I am today, but I was not the most popular girl in my high-school. I was not even friends with the most popular girl in my high-school. I don't even know who the most popular girl in our high-school was.

I was not exactly the biggest loser either, target of bullies or anything like that, but let's just say, I was in the band.

Which is why, my junior year, I had not really had many (did I say many? make that any) dates yet. When the fall Sadie Hawkins dance (girls ask boys) began to approach, I decided it was time to take the bull by the horns and change my sad fate. I would be brave and ask a boy to the dance myself.

I chose as my target, Mikey Luckett. Mikey was a good-looking guy I had known since first grade and since he was in the band and a friend of my brother's as well as a friend of mine I figured I had a decent shot at it.

I waited for the perfect opportunity which presented itself to me a week or two before the dance. We were all in the gym for a 24-hour volleyball marathon raising funds for--you guessed it--band camp. At about 3 in the morning, a group of us sat in a remote corner of the gym, our backs to the folded up bleachers chatting. Slowly, the group began to break up and eventually it was just Mikey and me. Perfect. We continued to talk, our backs to the bleachers, not making eye contact. I popped the question, "So, Mikey, would you like to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance with me?" I asked tentatively. My question was met by silence. I waited a full minute and still nothing. Finally, I turned to see if he had heard me. He sat with his eyes closed, snoring softly. At first I thought he was actually asleep but slowly it dawned on me (I was not popular but I wasn't stupid)--even a narcoleptic doesn't fall asleep that fast--he was pretending to be asleep so he didn't have to answer me.

Now the funny thing is Mikey went on to be my brother's roommate in college and they keep in touch which means I run into Mikey every five or ten years which means I get to remind him of that story every five or ten years. He has the decency to look embarassed (though he never denies the story) and I think he may be regretful; not regretful that he never went out with me regretful that he had the misfortune to entangle his life with mine enough to have to run into me every few years.

We both attended the 30th class reunion last weekend and I looked forward to giving him shit about all of this yet again. I saw him as soon as I got near the bar. There weren't many people there yet and I was ready for a drink. No one offered to fetch me one so I decided to give Mikey the chance to make it up to me after all these years for feigning sleep. "Hey Mikey, would you like to get me a drink?" I asked, not so tentatively. Without looking up from the yearbook he was looking at he said in a perfect Beaver Cleaver Girls are Icky voice, "Now why would I want to do that?"

It is said that the definition of insanity is to keep trying the same thing and expecting a different outcome. I am a lot of things but I am not insane, which is why, in ten years, when I ask Mikey Luckett to dance with me at the 40th class reunion and he pretends he is paralyzed from the waist down I will be embarrassed yet again but at least I won't be surprised.

INFORMATION TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE

This picture is not really what I'm talking about, but you could bring your own, I suppose.



Okay, this won't really change your life, but it may improve your life if you spend much time in a bar. Lean in, sistah. Listen carefully.

Many, many bars have hooks underneath to hang your purse.

There it is. I was saying to Jeff one night, "If only they had a hook here," and I looked and there it was. The bartender told me that most bars have them. Who knew? Not me. Men put their suit coats there, the bartender said and often leave them.

I do not know the history of the hooks. They are usually in good-old-fashioned bars so they were probably not invented for our purses. Maybe they were once there for men's hats. That was my friend Martha's thought. She also did not know they were there until I told her and when I mentioned it to my friend Christie Mellor, author of "Three Martini Playdate", she too admitted she'd just discovered them quite recently.

I suppose if you've ever ended up under a bar you may have seen them but surprisingly, I have not ever done that.

I managed to live some 47 years without knowing about them. So brilliant. So much better than leaving your purse on the back of your chair to be stolen or on the floor linked around your foot for safety reasons. If you've never done that you must live in a very, very nice place with no theft.

A word of advice though: Never ever grope around blindly to find a hook under the bar. Always LOOK underneath. I think that requires no explanation.

Hang your purse. Forget about it. Order a martini. Enjoy. Remember me when you do.

Cheers,

Judy

REUNION SEASON

Our friend Max, his mother, daughter, and Lilly in Oak Park. Max will not tell you if you order a chicken accidentally.

This summer seems to be the season of reunions for me. So far I have returned to Spain to have a reunion with my carefree youth; I had a reunion with Max, a Dutch friend Jeff and I made when I had an internship in The Netherlands; I've been to Jeff's 30th class reunion; and my 30th class reunion is next week.

The reunion in Spain didn't go so well. I showed up but my carefree youth was nowhere to be found. You really cannot go back. You will not be able to recapture the heady, halcyon days of backpacking through Europe and making out with complete strangers when you are with your husband and your children. Well, you could try, but it would look so bad. And all those young men who used to "echar piropos" (shout poetic compliments at you) are only doing that to young ladies who could be your daughters. It's not that you aren't attractive to them, it's worse. You are invisible. As Coffee Friend 2 put it so succinctly, "You can go back to places from your youth but in the end you will just feel old as shit."

Our reunion with Max went much better. He came with his 87 year old mother and 12 year old daughter and we had fun visiting and touring around Chicago. We also had fun reminiscing about travel mishaps we shared in our twenties like the time in Berlin when I thought I ordered a coffee cake to go with my coffee at 10:00 am and instead got an entire chicken with potatoes. Why, I asked him as I did all those years ago, did you allow me to order a chicken with my coffee? Well, he responded, you seemed so very sure about it. It's true, I was always reluctant to ask for help when ordering in a foreign language. We also remembered the time Jeff ordered a Gin and Tonic with lemon in a Dutch bar and was served a glass of gin, a glass of tonic, and a glass of lemonade.

Jeff's class reunion was fun. I have a working knowledge of the key players in his class and it was fun to see that none of the cast of characters disappointed me: the queen of the hop is still the queen of Jackson, Michigan, the king is now a successful attorney in Arizona. Everyone else looked pretty good but I suppose almost without exception the only people showing up at a 30 year reunion are those who have aged well.

For those of you who still have big class reunions ahead of you, I offer some preview of what you can expect:

10 year reunion: You realize that high school and the pecking order really was bullshit. Some of the "cool people" got knocked up and married losers. Some of the losers are doing extremely well on Wall Street. For the most part though, everyone is faring as you'd expect. No one looks much older. You will talk to some people you would never have dared talk to in high school but it's not exactly as if you are suddenly buddies with the "cool kids". This is the first time in your life you realize that what is a very clear, unforgettable memory to you is most likely an event that is completely forgotten by the other people involved--this leads to a lot of conversations that start with , "Don't you remember that time....?" and a person looking at you as if you are crazy. Don't worry, the same thing will happen to you.

20 year reunion: Some people are starting to age badly but for the most part you all look pretty young. You stop asking people what they do and ask them how they are. You actually listen when they talk about their kids because you have some now too. There are very few surprises: if the queen of the prom is now fat, ugly, and divorced she is not going to make an appearance. Unfortunately for her, her mere absence leads to much speculation that she is probably fat, ugly, and divorced. You are having real trouble remembering who the cool kids were. This surprises you. You will remember someone very well--you knew her since kindergarten, remember where she lived, her parents, siblings, and pets but you cannot remember one single conversation or event you shared with her. However, you will remember very clearly how she made you feel and the kind of person she was.

30 year reunion: When you first walk in the room you will be SHOCKED by how old everyone in the room is. Then it will dawn on you that they are just normal looking 48 year olds. Some look better than others but you all look OLD for the first time. Careers and status are totally unimportant. Most of the conversation centers on where you live now, what your kids are up to, and remembering various teachers in your mutual past. You realize that by the time we all meet up in heaven we really won't care who was who in high school. At the end of the evening as you leave, no one looks very old to you anymore. They just look like a grown-up version of their high school selves.

If you have a reunion of any kind this summer, remember, to paraphrase Maya Angelou, no one remembers what you did or what you said but they will remember how you made them feel. So make someone feel good--you will not be forgotten

J.

MOMMY'S COCKTAIL HOUR

As I am entertaining out of town--actually, out of country, guests this week, please enjoy this previously viewed piece. Judy

“Mommy, you need to sign this sheet on our ‘Drug and Alcohol’ unit,” Grace says, shoving a piece of paper in front of me and nearly knocking my martini over.“Hey, hey, watch my cocktail there!” I say. Grace giggles and I’m grateful she isn’t one of those self-righteous kids who protests if you have a drink.

It’s common knowledge around the ‘hood that once they hit the “Drug and Alcohol” unit in fourth grade science you may have to go underground with your cocktail. I have one friend who started hiding her vodka tonic in a coffee mug. Can you believe she does that? It’s barbaric; the only thing one should drink from a coffee mug is coffee. A good cocktail deserves the proper glass. Are they teaching that in the drug and alcohol unit?

I look at the worksheet Grace has dutifully filled out for today’s assignment. It covers the dangers of using someone else’s prescription drugs. Well, I’ll drink to that. I peer at the paper,looking confused.“I don’t get it, Grace. This isn’t teaching you a thing about drugs and alcohol. Like how much Vermouth is in a dry martini? Where to go to score some smack? Now how are you supposed to learn that stuff?” I ask her.

“Mommy,” she sighs then peers over her cat glasses at me and shakes her head in exasperation. She’s an old soul and deserves a better mother than the one she got.I sigh too. I long for the days before someone told us to just say no. I prefer to just say, “Sure why not,” and “You can just freshen this up”. The sad truth is that I was born several decades too late. I want to go back to the days when mommies were encouraged to have cocktails while playing bridge and daddies had three martini lunches. When doctors handed out Valium like mints to harried housewives. Nowadays you have to see a specialist just to get Prozac. Hell, my doctor wouldn’t give me antibiotics without a full physical.

Instead of all that, I'm left with a paltry five o'clock cocktail. It does the trick, I suppose, but even that some people frown upon. I should explain; I didn’t always have a cocktail at five o’clock, but then again I didn’t always have kids.

As any mom knows the five o’clock hour is known as “the witching hour”. Like the perfect storm there are many forces at work that converge at once to form the witching hour. They are as follows:

1. Playdates, formal or informal come to an end as most mommies start to gather their brood for the evening.

2. The kids start to melt down: regardless of age, from infancy to teen-hood this is the time of day the child realizes he has not had enough of something. Not enough sleep, food, social interaction, time to get homework done…whatever; he hasn’t had enough and it’s time the universe paid for this injustice. He decides to take his frustrations out on the universe by (depending on the age of the child) wailing inconsolably, whining until his mother’s ears bleed, or sulking conspicuously (which isn’t noisy but does have the effect of sucking out all positive life-force in the room).

3. Market forces begin to take effect: the value of the TV sharply declines as PBS Kids winds down causing the value of the Play Station II to incline sharply. The result is that all the children in the household will begin to fight over the PS2.

4. The mommy realizes that, yes, once again, she has neglected to figure out what dinner might be. This is because after months or years of trying to feed her children properly she has lost a wee bit of her enthusiasm for this task. In fact, despite the fact that she is resourceful enough to come up with a Halloween costume that doubles as a winter snowsuit she can no longer think of a single meal that simultaneously meets her criteria and the children’s criteria for a proper dinner. Her criteria are that the foods must be healthy, contain no refined sugar or flour, no trans-fatty acids, be pesticide-free, and ideally be served with three vegetables. The kids’ criteria are simpler: no vegetables and all food must be white. Now if you draw a ven diagram of these two subsets you will see there is no overlap whatsoever. Oh, and I forgot, it should be something her husband likes to eat too, on the off-chance that he may get home in time for dinner. Which leads me nicely into item number 5.

5. The daddy calls from work to say that he will be late. By late he means later than his usual 7:00 p.m. time. He means well after the wild and chaotic time of day that the family euphemistically calls “bedtime”. He also does not mean he will be toiling at his desk through dinner, snacking on a banana and a glass of skim milk. He means he is headed somewhere for cocktails, adult conversation, and a meal prepared, served, and cleared away by someone else. This makes the mommy a bit resentful.

These five things almost always happen at just around 5:00. Together the fine balance of order that has been established since the children returned from school collapses like the house of cards it always was. Children begin screaming, mommies begin slamming cupboards and pots and pans, pets howl, and potted plants wither as an evil wind blows through the household. It was at just such a moment as this on a Tuesday in February (is there anything drearier than February?) that I had an epiphany. I was dumping the Kraft Mac-n-cheese into the pot (the creamy kind not that powdery stuff, what kind of mom do you think I am?) when I thought to myself, “If only it were Friday, I’d have a beer.” Then I thought, “Wait a minute! I’m not pregnant. I’m not nursing. I’m over 21. I could have a beer on a TUESDAY!” and I popped open a Sam Adams and began a new tradition.

Now when the witching hour starts winding up I simply walk over to the fridge and say hello to my good friend Sam. He takes the edge off. I’m able to concentrate on whipping up a healthy meal (like homemade macaroni and cheese) and calmly and quietly referee the melee around me.

I have shared this revelation with many friends. Most are already aware of the medicinal effects of the nightly cocktail. Some are a little concerned that it is a slippery slope that could lead to substance abuse. It is my job to reassure them that there is nothing wrong with a single cocktail. Look at the French! They have wine with lunch and dinner and have you ever seen a more relaxed country? They can’t even muster the energy necessary to fight back when invaded that’s how relaxed they are. I’ve become sort of the Dali-lama of the drinking mom set. They come to me with their concerns.

Isn’t it wrong to drink alone? Hey, you’re not alone, your kids are home (remember they’re the ones who drove you to this to begin with).

But I look so forward to having my cocktail, isn’t that wrong? You look forward to a cup of coffee and a good dump too, does that mean you need to cut them out of your life? Christ, we live in a puritanical world when you go hunting for reasons to give up the things you love.

Besides, after having given up booze for the last decade when you were trying to get pregnant, you were pregnant, and then you were nursing, you’ve got some catching up to do. Remember that wedding you went to with your office mates when you were eight months pregnant and the only sober one at the wedding (besides the flower girl) was you? Didn’t you have to watch as your friends, co-workers, and husband did the conga line through the kitchen, leaving you to waddle to the bathroom, sober as a judge. What you’ve seen sober no one should have seen. You’ve earned that drink.

My husband has no problem with this habit of mine. In fact he encourages it. On the nights when he does come home early enough, he and I have a cocktail together in the living room, threatening the children with the following: “You may not disturb us unless there is blood, vomit, or broken bones involved,” (which is exactly what we tell them when we take our Saturday afternoon “naps” too).

Even with this threat, our youngest has managed to inveigle her way into our ritual. She found my collection of tiny martini glasses; the ones I stuffed in my purse after I sampled a half-dozen Apple-tinis that those cute little girls from Absolut were serving at a fundraiser. She likes to fill them with apple juice and join us in the living room. She never interrupts us so we let her stay.

Recently, we had friends over for drinks and Lilly went and fetched her mock-tini and sat down. Our friends, parents of a newborn, looked at her slightly amused and partly horrified.

"What is that?" asked the mother.

"It's from her 'Barbie Cocktail' collection," I said smoothly. They didn't know if they should laugh or call DCFS. I ignored their faces and called Grace into the room.

“Grace,” I said, “Look at your sister. Now she’s going to do well in the fourth grade when she gets to the ‘Drug and Alcohol Unit’.” Grace shakes her head and walks away but Lilly, who is in first grade, raises her mock-tini in salute.

“Cheers, Mama,” she says.I raise my glass in return.

“Cheers indeed.” It’s nice to know a mother can pass on her wisdom to at least one of her children.

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