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.

WHAT WILL YOU DO ALL DAY?

As we head back to school, please enjoy this column from the archives. And to all the mothers saying good bye to your first-grader, you have my sympathy. JZSeptember 2004

My youngest started first grade today and all week long everyone I run into says, “What will you do with your free time now?” A lot of people ask this in jest, knowing full well there isn’t much you can do with the few hours when all the kids are out of the house at once. Others ask in earnest knowing that a world of possibilities has just opened up. I have some ideas. I’m going to start exercising again. I’m going to write more. I’m going to finish my novel. Some of my friends will go back to work with the help of sitters and nannies. Others will fill up the time doing more around the house, taking part-time jobs, or volunteering even more of their time to the schools.

It is strange but as a stay-at-home mom if you do your job really well you are rewarded by having your job taken away from you little by little. Today I was demoted to part-time. It’s not a huge chunk of time; 9:00 to 2:30 due to staggered start times among my three children, but nevertheless it’s a much bigger chunk of time than I’ve had in eleven years.

It’s not a total shock of course. The free-time comes quite gradually really, from the crazed frenzied days of breast-feeding and diaper-changing to the slightly less frantic days of potty-training and pre-school schedules to the relative calm of kindergarten and early elementary days. But some parts of it are not so gradual. Like today, the first day of school. It’s a wrenching change in my life.

My youngest is the best of my three children at expressing herself. This makes parenting her sometimes easier and sometimes much more challenging. Last night, she sat in my lap as I read “The Kissing Hand” and as I struggled to get through that tear-jerker she interrupted me to say, “Mama, I am not ready for first grade.”

“What do you mean?” I asked prepared to give her a pep-talk, to remind her that her best friend is in her class, she has the same bus route as last year, and she can already read chapter books.

“I’m not ready to be away from you for so many hours,” she said simply. This stopped me dead in my tracks because the truth is I’m not really ready to be away from her for so many hours either. I mean maybe more than the 2 ½ hours of a kindergarten day but I really don’t need her to be gone from me more than seven hours which is what it turns out to be with the bus ride to and from school. Can’t they have a four hour day in first grade while we all adjust?

My eyes filled with tears but I turned my head so she could not see. I forced a cheerful answer, “But honey, you were gone that many hours just yesterday with Margaret when you went to her house and then to the movies and you didn’t mind that.”

“But I can’t be away from you that many hours every day,” she countered.

Now I began to cry in earnest, thankful that children seldom look their moms in the eye and as I sat with her in my lap trying to compose myself and most unhelpfully I remembered a Dave Barry column in which he drives his son Rob to Kindergarten for the first time and as they sit in the car outside the school, saying goodbye, Rob asks, “Daddy, how long do I have to do this?” and he can’t bring himself to answer, but he thinks, “Forever and ever.” I remember crying when I read that column and I didn’t even have children then. I shook my head trying to get the image of Rob and Dave Barry out of my head and to distract myself I tried to figure out how old Rob must be now. He’s probably in college or older, and not nearly as close to his father as he was when he was five. That was no help so I lifted Lilly off my lap and told her I’d be right back.

I went into the bathroom and closed the door and sobbed into a bathroom towel. I was thinking of all the other mothers in my town, in my state, and probably in the world doing the same thing; crying into a bathroom towel because who else can you cry to? If only we had some acceptable way to share our collective grief maybe it would help but parenthood demands we act cheerful and even relieved when our little ones begin to leave the nest.

For the most part we are relieved. But we are grieving too. So please remember that when you see us looking a little dazed at the bus stop in the morning or a little anxious for the bus in the afternoon. Do not be deceived by our breezy answers to your question, “What will you do with your day now that the kids are all in school?” Because we’re not really sure ourselves. Oh we have lots of ideas; but we are afraid that any them will pale in comparison to the wondrous job we are leaving behind, the privilege of caring for a little one 24/7.

CAR WASH

Jenny, Judy, John, and Jack--masters of doing nothing circa 1972

As I am on summer vacation, please enjoy this re-run essay:

I am a big proponent of giving kids downtime. The experts, whoever they are, tell us that all kids need a lot of time to just be kids. We should not be rushing them from class to class or event to event. They should learn to use their imaginations and learn to play quietly in the corner with simple toys like a potato or a piece of paper. The experts assure us that children do not acquire these self-entertaining skills unless we give them plenty of time to lie around and come up with fun creative things to do with their time.

Never mind that as children we had plenty of downtime and the most creative thing we ever came up with was tying Jack Stabenau to a tree and hurling chestnuts at him. What’s important is that we had the chance to come up with this kind of creative play by ourselves and so should our children.

So I give my kids a lot of down time. That’s another way of saying I’m too cheap and too lazy to sign them up for and pay for and drive them to class after class after class. Because of all this down time my children are very good at entertaining themselves on their own. Oh sure, if there were a blackout we’d be in trouble because the way my children entertain themselves is to turn on the nearest electronic, mind-numbing device with a screen. Their idea of special downtime is for one to be on PlayStation 2, one to be on the P.C., and the youngest to be parked in front of PBS Kids.

Last summer I decided this needed to change. When we went to stay with my parents for a few weeks I concluded that it was time my kids learned to enjoy downtime without the aid of electronic devices. I was also motivated by the fact that I was embarrassed that my parents might figure out that most of my parenting skills depend on the help of “Zoo Tycoon” and “Arthur.”So on my way to my parents I declared that our days at Grandma and Grandpa’s house would be “screen-free” from 9:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m.

Now I do not know about your kids but my kids always like the idea of these schemes. They embraced the whole notion.
“Sure Mom, we can go down to the beach,” said the oldest.
“And make sand castles!” said the middle.
“And play in the woods,” said the youngest.

This enthusiasm lasted at least ten minutes into our stay.“Please Mom, just a little T.V.” they begged. But I would not relent. I would not relent because my parents were watching me, waiting to see if I would cave and I realized you’re never too old to stop trying to please your parents.“No,” I said in my best June Cleaver voice, “You kids go on up to the playroom and figure out something that all of you can do that does not involve a screen.”They complained but they went up to the playroom. I sipped coffee and read the paper. I chatted with my parents. From time to time I heard yelling up there but I knew the experts would tell me to ignore it and let them work it out so I did not interfere.

At lunchtime they all trooped down, big smiles on their faces.“So, what did you come up with?” I asked.
“We made up a new game called ‘Car Wash’,” said the oldest.
“We found an old Matchbox set with a car wash and we drive our cars in it,” said the middle.
“It’s really fun,” said the youngest.

The experts were right! If you just give them enough time alone they will come up with something new. I smiled at my parents as if to say, “Aren’t I good at this?”All week long I would pass the door to the stairs leading up to the playroom and hear soft laughter or even silence.“What are you doing up there?” I’d call.

“Just playing ‘Car Wash’,” said the oldest.
“It’s so fun,” said the middle.
“It’s our favorite,” said the youngest.

I’d pause, smile smugly and think, “I wish everyone could give their kids such a great opportunity.”

The days passed quickly and the children seemed more content than usual. I was astonishingly full of parental self-righteousness. I patted myself on the back again and again for my ability to employ superior parenting skills.On the last day, as I was getting ready to pack I headed up to the playroom to find my son’s suitcase. I went up the stairs quickly and I guess quietly, for when I reached the top of the stairs I found my three, creative, resourceful offspring huddled around the T.V. that had been so recently turned off it nearly smoked. Spread out in front of the T.V. was the Matchbox car wash, which they all suddenly pretended to play with.

“You little demons,” I said. “You’ve been saying ‘play Car Wash’ to mean ‘watch T.V. secretly’.”

“No, no Mom, not us,” said the oldest.
“Well we played car wash too,” said the middle.
“Mostly we watched T.V.” said the youngest.

This is really the story of how I parent. Just when I think I’m doing the best I’m really, well, not. Still, it wasn’t a complete waste of time. They were resourceful enough to invent the ruse and getting along well enough to pull it off for two weeks. And nobody got tied to a tree.

By Judy Zimmerman

CONSUMERISM

These are the things I have purchased since I took a vow not to buy anything.

In the space of one month last fall I read three separate articles about a group of friends in San Francisco who decided not to purchase anything new for one year. I was struck by the novelty of this idea and though I was not willing to follow the stringent rules they had set for themselves (they were not allowed to buy a new computer if theirs crashed, for example) I was inspired enough to vow to not buy any new clothes for myself or anything new for the house for one year.

There were some allowable exceptions. I can buy cleaning supplies for the house and I can buy new undies for myself (but not fancy lingerie).

So here's how I've done so far, six plus months into it. In a nutshell--not bad--but certainly-- as the picture shows--I've cheated more than a few times. For each purchase I had a justification (lame excuse). The yoga clothes I bought because I forgot to pack them on a vacation. The dress and red shoes are my birthday present. The silver shoes and jewelry were to accessorize a hand-me-down dress from my Grandmother (see, by promoting the use of a used dress I was advancing my cause..no I'm not buying that one either) and the sandals were because I was getting an awful backache from walking around in my flip-flops. In hindsight, the only purchase really necessary was the sandals. On the household side I've done much better. The only thing I have purchased are a few new dischcloths.

It's been a very interesting experiment. Here's what I've learned about my own buying.

1.I shop more than I thought: Although I do not shop for entertainment, I do shop for myself as I go about my day. I found myself lingering over new tops at Target or considering a new dress as I passed the window of Ann Taylor Loft. This surprised me. I always thought I was just a non-shopper.

2.I'm a special-event shopper: If there is a wedding coming up I want a new dress. If I'm going to a Cubs game I want a new Cubs shirt. If I'm on vacation, I want a souvenir. This was a little harder to deprive myself of then I expected.

3.I like sprucing up my seasonal wardrobe with just a few new items: This has also been a challenge. With absolutely nothing new in my summer wardrobe, I'm sick to death of it by mid-July--a full month and a half sooner than I usually start yearning for cooler weather so I can switch to my fall clothes.

4.Knowing that I cannot buy anything is often liberating: I can throw the ads in the Sunday paper out without a glance, I can keep walking past the women's section in Target without pausing, I can flip past the fashion pages in the newspaper. Why look when you know you won't buy? I like this part a lot.

5.People talk about stuff they buy or want to buy a lot: I never noticed this until now. I mean, there are some people who always talk about larger purchases in a braggy way, and that we all notice. But I never realized how much almost everyone talks about stuff--from the acquisition of a little item on a coffee table or a new pair of earrings to a new car, there's a lot of talk about buying stuff.

So those are my observations so far. For the most part I like not having to give it any thought at all. Takes the pressure off when you're at one of those home shopping parties.

I've got five and a half months to go including another fashion season. I'll have trouble saying no to a new outfit for our annual Christmas party but for the most part, I feel pretty good taking a pass on the newest look in fall fashions.

Peace.

CAN THE NEW FIFTY JUST BE FIFTY?

Would you love Aunt Bea more if she had waxed her brows and had her jowls lifted?

Paul McCartney has a new CD out and it's featured prominently at your local Starbucks. Perhaps you've seen this as you've waited for your double decaf whip cinammon extra shot latte. In this photo he wears both his signature pout and his signature mop hair. Both look ridiculous on a grown man. That haircut hasn't looked good on anyone since Scout in "To Kill a Mockingbird." No, that's not fair, it used to look great on Paul--but that was four decades ago. He needs a grown-man haircut. This one only accentuates the fact that he is most decidedly in his sixties.

The juxtaposition of a young haircut on an old face is jarring and sometimes even horrifying. Like the woman I saw the other day leaving the gym--she was wearing tennis togs, had long tan legs and long bleach blonde hair. Only upon getting closer to her did I see that she was well into her 70's. The discordant images made me literally gasp in dismay.

Sir Paul and Old Tennis Lady certainly aren't alone. Look at Nora Ephron (if you can without cringing) who in the twilight of her years when she could be directing a thougtful, insightful, move about the wit, and wisdom of older women chooses to write a pathetic book about her aging, crepey neck. And the cosmetic surgery she's had done--what the hell? Her face looks like a Picasso painting. Yikes.

Paul, Old Tennis Lady, Nora, it doesn't have to be this way. You can choose to go a little more gracefully--get an adult haircut, dress like a grown-up, stop talking about your neck and puhleeze, keep the surgery to a minimum. You do have role models. Meryl Streep, Paul Newman, Sean Connery, Sophia Loren, Golda Meir, Margaret Thatcher. You get the idea.

I know--it's a struggle. Fifty is the new forty and with all the cosmetic procedures that are now somewhat affordable and socially acceptable --and some that are almost expected for god's sake (do I really have to bleach my teeth?)--most of us will consider fighting back mightily like Nora. I mean who among us hasn't stood in the mirror and pulled something back or up or out of the way?

I've been thinking about it lately as I stand in the mirror and lift my parts. It is tempting--a quick procedure and a new look. But I keep thinking about Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith show. Did you know she was 58 when that show started? Younger than Sir Paul and Nora and four years younger than Goldie Hawn who really, really must get new hair and stop giggling like a 14-year-old. Did Aunt Bea ever stand in the mirror and wish she could still play the part of the young hottie dating Andy? What if she had played that role? Would you remember her now? Why are we so afraid of looking like Aunt Bea when we reach the Aunt Bea years?

Remember this the next time you stand in the mirror and wonder if you should have something nipped or tucked. Would you have loved your favorite aunt one tiny bit more if she'd had a tummy-tuck before you sat on her lap? Would you admire Abraham Lincoln just a smidge more if only he'd had that wart removed and his brows waxed while he was freeing the slaves?

So is fifty the new forty? I don't know about that but when I'm Paul's age (he is now past the much sung-about 64) I hope I will be comfortable wearing a grown-up haircut and an Aunt Bea tummy.

THEY'RE HEE-ER

This morning they were so loud they woke me up. I dreamed someone was using a power drill but when I awoke I realized it was the cicadas, already starting their daily drone.

The seventeen-year plague of cicadas is in full swing here in the Chicago suburbs. For those of you not enjoying this phenomenon of nature let me enlighten you. Most of us have heard cicadas--they're the bugs high in the trees who buzz on a hot, August afternoon--those are the annual cicadas and you seldom see them. These are relatives--but they only appear every 17 years in droves and cause a mass infestation that lasts about six weeks.

They are incredibly large bugs--about two inches long with goofy red, beady eyes. They crawl out of the ground at night as nymphs, climb up a tree, shed their shell, let their new wings dry out, and go find a mate.

After feasting underground on tree sap for 17 years they have no need to eat. Like crazed bachelors on a Vegas bender they have one thing in mind and they don't bother to stop to eat or sleep. Once they've mated, the male has a cigarette and dies with a smile on his face. The female finds another tree, burrows her tail into the bark, lays 600 eggs and then, exhausted and cranky, dies. Her eggs will hatch into ant-sized nymphs that will fall from the trees like rain to burrow underground where they will wait for another 17 years to repeat the process.

The paper says there are about a million per acre out there. I think that number is low. Four and five cling to every leaf of our maple tree. For some reason they love my car tires and I find a dozen on each wheel every time I get into the car. They sun themselves on my back fence and as I type I see them whirring through the air of my back yard.

They started to come out exactly when the scientists told us they would on May22 which by sheer coincidence, is the day we went to the shelter and got our new puppy, Molly. She finds them very tasty. The first time she gobbled one up I was appalled. They're still quite active when she eats them and sometimes if she opens her mouth up too soon they fly away. The paper says they are good protein and we should let the dogs eat them. As if I could stop her.

They came somewhat gradually. The first weekend, as we came out of church I said, "Do you hear that?" It was a roar in the distance, not unlike the sound you hear when you leave the undergrad library at University of Michigan on a game-day Saturday afternoon. But by now, two and a half weeks into it, the sound is more like we live in the stadium. When we are outside we have to shout to be heard. They are more active now too as time is running out--flying in a frenzy from shrub to tree to car in search of each other like patrons in a bar just before closing time.

I'm deathly afraid of bugs but I have become de-sensitized. The key is to not look too closesly at anything. If you do you will see them in Hitchock-ian numbers crawling in the grass, littering the sidewalk, covering a plant. Driving down the street we see pedestrians doing "The Cicada Dance" as we've dubbed it--the crazed herky-jerky movements we do to shake one off when it lands on you. They don't bite or anything but they are so big they give anyone the willies if they land on you.

Yesterday, two of them were copulating on my windshield as I drove along. I kind of felt sorry for them as I flicked them off--(they were distracting the driver). Imagine being underground for 17 years, finally hooking up, and being tossed aside by a windshield wiper in mid-act.

It's been fun watching them and learning about them. The kids are experts on them and collect them and tell me the blue-eyed ones are rare and "valuable" (to whom I don't know). They are indeed an awesome display of nature. Coming up from out of the ground on cue. Like my neighbor says, how do they know to come out at 17 years? Not 16, not 18 but 17? And what kind of life cycle is that? To only be above ground 6 weeks after being underground 878 weeks? Do they communicate while they're under there? Talk about what they're going to do when they finally see the light of day? I doubt that any of them plan to take their maiden flight and get eaten by a pup who has only been on earth 9 weeks. What the hell kind of ending is that?

I think we're all growing rather fond of them and take pity on them for having such a desperately short life above ground. As Coffee Friend 1 says, "I even flip them over on their feet if they get stuck on their backs. Imagine waiting all this time and then getting stuck on your back before you find someone."

They are also a reassuring reminder that despite alarming news of global warming and inane news of Paris Hilton some things are constant and the cicadas will return in 17 years.

When they come back our new pup will be an old 17-year-old dog (if she is still with us). Perhaps she'll gobble up a cicada and the sweet tickling sensation on her tongue will remind her of the summer she was a pup and first came to live with us and just for a moment she will be young again.

I THOUGHT YOU DIDN'T WANT A PUPPY

So, part two in the dog story. Let's see, I was telling you that I really wanted a mature dog so I didn't have to train it and because puppies are such a hassle and blah, blah, blah. We went to the shelter the day I wrote that blog and we took a mature dog out for a test walk. he was great. He was calm, well-behaved, and very sweet--his name was appropriately--Placid. Lilly could walk him (which is the real test because she's not very big). She was sure she could handle a dog like that.

I was a little skeptical, just because she looked to be almost as big as Lilly. No, she assured me, she could walk Placid no problem. Well, I countered, what if he saw a squirrel or something and took off. Again she assured me she could handle that. So we tested it. I had Grace throw a tennis ball. Placid (ignoring his moniker) took off like a shot, dragging Lilly around the shelter yard on her stomach, just like in the movies. While I screamed, "Oh, oh, oh," Grace had the presence of mind to shout, "Let go of the leash!" which she did. Fortunately, only her pride was truly wounded (and her knees and elbows a little).

We tried to walk two more mature dogs. But they were both very strong, muscular, and not well-behaved. I didn't even try to walk one of them which was jumping up on me. "See what you did," the trainer admonished as she led him back to his prison, which made me feel bad.

Frustrated, I reluctantly took Grace's suggestion to at least check out the puppies. They led us to a small room with three crates. In one crate, three, tiny, tan puppies stood barking sweetly at us. I don't even know who was in the other two crates because Grace made a beeline for that crate of three and that was the end of that. Grace took one puppy out who immediately snuggled in her arms like a kitten with her head on her shoulder. Then I held her and said, "Okay, which one of these three is going home with us?" Grace pointed to the shy one, now trying to hide in the corner. She had to reach in to get her.

The whole time I filled out the paperwork (what the hell, there's less paperwork when you have a baby) and heard about our new dog's short life (she'd been picked up by Animal Control in Chicago with her four littermates at the age of 7 weeks), the puppy sat on Grace's lap. She did not wiggle, or bark or move except to snuggle closer to Grace.

In the car on the way home, Grace declared her name was to be "Molly". That night, despite advice to keep her in her crate I let her sleep with the girls. Everyone said puppies have to get up and go out at least twice a night so the girls had flashlights and elaborate plans about who would get up and take her out first. But when they woke up in the morning, Molly was right where they'd left her, between them on the bed, waiting for her new girls to wake up and play with her.