BMOC: Big Mama Off Campus

When I'm Not Listening In Church

2010-07-22T06:27:00.000-07:00

In heaven
I will wear Jimmy Choo
and the wings of Victoria Secret.

Words that cement me to this era, this moment.

But someday.

Someday
history's concrete will be jack-hammered away
and the earth beneath it
revealed,
redeemed
and restored to the garden it first was.

It will be there I will rest,
when my wings tire of soaring,
admiring my shoes.

My Own Private Wilson

2010-05-06T19:24:00.001-07:00

I originally started this blog post about a year and a half ago. It's about time to finish it, don't ya think?

In early November 2008, I went to one of my favorite stores in my city. It's a party supply store that has the feel of an old-fashioned general store. Many items are stocked in big bins and sold in bulk. They have a large room entirely devoted to balloons that's like the United Nations of Balloons, all shapes and colors displayed together in utopian harmony. Even though it was a week past Halloween, still floating about the store were a few helium-filled mylar balloons with spooky themes. As I paid for my purchases, the store clerk gestured toward a round mylar balloon that was almost the size of one of my car's tires and featured the face of a smiling jack o'lantern. He asked if I would like to have it--for free. I hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Sure. I'll find some kid who'd like it."

It turned out I was the kid who liked the balloon. I remember watching it in the review mirror as I drove away from the store. It bobbed and weaved in the backseat, where I had finally been able to get it to "sit, stay." At stop lights, I had to turn around, grab the ribbon, and pull the balloon down behind the front seats so I could see out the rear window.

Despite the challenges of traveling with a large helium-filled balloon in the backseat, I soon found I enjoyed its company. It was something I could talk to--it had a face after all--something I could bounce my ideas off of--and the balloon thought all my ideas were great ones. That November was a lonely one. The Kid was in his senior year of college and living on campus. The Old Man was busy with a Christmas play and away from home most evenings. So I decided to make the balloon my companion for a season.

After a week of traveling together, I decided the balloon needed a name. As we drove here and there through the city, I thought of how isolated the balloon and I seemed to be, the car an island, the balloon and I castaways.... Castaway with Tom Hanks ... a volleyball named Wilson ... So, that's how we rolled: me and Wilson, Wilson and me, until ...

About three weeks into my relationship with Wilson, the Old Man borrowed my car and I woke to find Wilson had left the car island and was now bobbing and weaving in the living room. Wilson spent the remainder of his days there. I was still alone, still a castaway, but I was comforted to know that whenever I passed through the living room, Wilson would be there. "Hi, Wilson," I'd say as I walked past him to the kitchen. "See you when I get back from work," I'd say in passing him to go to my office. Some days, I would sit with Wilson in companionable silence as I read. Sometimes I read aloud to him so that we would have the comfort of an audible voice. There was at least one time, possibly more, that I remember sitting and having a good cry with Wilson as my only comfort.

Wilson died of natural causes. December 2008 brought snow of a depth that our city seldom sees. As the days grew colder and the snow fell, Wilson's energy sagged and his helium lost its lift. Every day he drooped a little more, his ribbon had a little more slack, and gravity pulled on him relentlessly. Then came the day that Wilson touched the floor and laid there. My grinning, gap-toothed friend was breathing his last.

I took Wilson and held him, looked at him for a long time, and then untied his ribbon, loosened his knot, and squeezed him gently to expel the remaining helium. With a quiet whoosh, Wilson breathed his last. I sat with him for a few minutes more, running my hands over his mylar that was already beginning to crinkle, trying to smooth it out. I considered taking him back to the party store and asking the sales clerk to revive him with another shot of helium. Maybe I should have. Instead, I gave his mylar body a final stroke, folded him neatly, and laid him in the trash.

I haven't forgotten Wilson, and people who knew him sometimes say, "Remember your balloon friend? What was his name? Oh, yeah, Wilson." This last November, with The Kid busy with his post-college life and The Old Man busy with another Christmas play, I again was the castaway but without my Wilson.

Howdy Neighbor!

2010-04-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

Long time, no blog. I know you're all asking, "Why now?"

I've been meeting with someone (we'll call her "H") every few weeks for support as I try to become a healthier person. I would say we have a helper-helpee relationship. One specific way H supports me is by helping me formulate goals. One of the goals I set today was to write for at least 10 minutes a week. After I left the appointment, I considered how I could work writing into back into my life and decided it was time to revive the blog, because I did (and do) love my blog. So my first post back will be in honor of H.

I first met H when she was trying to help The Kid become a healthier person. I immediately liked her. Great eyes, cool glasses, funky clothes, and a laugh I loved; bright, articulate, interesting, compassionate, the very definition of supportive. And she liked The Kid!

Because H is a professional person, there are boundaries, which are good and necessary in these kinds of helper-helpee relationships, but I still wish we could be friends. Really, I feel like we are in this gray area where H is more than just a professional helper person to me yet could not appropriately be defined as a friend.

This is what I think: H is my neighbor.

And this is why I think that: When Jesus was challenged with the question "Who is my neighbor?" he responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan and then turned the initial challenge on its head by asking "Who in the story behaved as a neighbor should?"

H behaves in response to me the way a neighbor should. And, like Jesus, H turns things upside down for me so that my world can be right-side up.

So, if I greet you with a "Howdy Neighbor!" I'm not going all cowgirl on you. I'm letting you know what you are to me.

The Beauty Of Air One

2007-11-21T15:35:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe it has been virtually one year and one month since my last blog. "Where does the time go?" she asked tritely.

I was out running errands today (which included a trip to Captain Henry's Pirate Store--a whole other story) and flipped on the car radio. I usually listen to Dr. Laura in the afternoons, but today is her yearly joke show and I wasn't in the mood. After cruising past Sean Hannity, Terry Gross and the (K)Blessed Virgin Mary, I settled on Air One, a contemporary Christian music station that the Fruit of My Womb (FOMW) had introduced to me a few years ago. In our new car (another whole other story), the station comes in quite clear to the great delight of the FOMW.

I like Air One okay, but sometimes it gets on my nerves. And it's me, not them. Well, it's a little bit them. The reasons Air One gets on my nerves are a) I think they play too many songs that sound alike (something Air One can control) and b) the songs they play that we sing in our worship services sound way better on Air One (something Air One can't control) and that irritates me, just because.

Today, Air One was getting on my nerves because of reason a). However, in one of those sound-alike songs, I heard something that I thought was profound. Because of Google (I love Google--I wish I could marry it), I was able to find the artist, the name of the song, and all the lyrics. This is what I heard:

"But the beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair."

The group is Reliant K. The song is Be My Escape.

It's just one of those lines that you can roll around in your mind like a jawbreaker in your mouth.

Women's Retreat

2006-10-22T16:03:00.000-07:00

Born under a cloud of never-meant-to-be,
Surrounded by elephants and leeches,
It doesn't take me long to reject
The God of the Plan.

Some are warmed by this God.
To me, that God is cold comfort,
Like worshipping an unlit yule log.

Searching for order in the Mystery,
I embrace the God of the Choice.
I flirt with Pelagius,
and throw my lot in with Arminius.

I embrace the God of the Process,
This messy, dynamic, frightening Being,
Who is willing to wrestle with me,
Down in the dust like two small boys,
Like he wrestled with my forefather Jacob.

This is what warms me: this Opponent-Friend of mine.
I taste the salt of his sweat.
I feel his hot breath on my neck.
I hear his calls for my surrender.
We are locked forever in each others' grasp,
and there is no letting go.

It is the struggler who reaches Peniel.

Guinness

2006-10-12T19:16:00.000-07:00

Regular readers of my blog may have guessed (and they would be right) that I have a rich inner life. I was just pondering that today. I don't know if I think more than other people, or think harder than other people, or what. I do know that it seems like I'm thinking all the time, that I seem to be aware that I'm thinking all the time, and that I often find my own thoughts quite entertaining, going so far as to laugh out loud at something I have thought to myself. How embarrassing. But, back to Guinness.

Guinness is my new alter ego. When people find out about Guinness, their first question to me (after they quit looking at me funny) is "Why?"

This summer, I was feeling a little blue. I decided that what I needed to do to snap out of it was inject a little playfulness in my life. And I needed something non-fattening and cheap. So, eating caviar out of the old man's navel was out.

Instead, I played a game called "If I could change my name, what would I change it to?" If you're being honest, you will admit that you've played it, too.

I have to say that thinking on this question entertained me for quite a while and did distract me from what was bothering me. After considering and discarding a number of possible new names, I finally hit upon one that I thought I could live with: Guinness.

I called my sisters immediately and announced that they should begin calling me Guinness forthwith. I taught my little nephews to call me "Aunt Guinness." I began signing off my e-mails with my new name. Most of my birthday presents this year were addressed to "Guinness." Even a co-worker calls me Guinness. I have a baseball cap (courtesy of my sister Monte) that says Guinness. Call me Guinness and I will answer.

People often ask me why I chose the name Guinness. I like it because it's a strong name and a fun name. It sounds old-fashioned and new-fashioned at the same time. It's associated with sin (well, beer anyway) and sainthood (Os Guinness, theologian). It's an Everyman (or Everywoman) kind of name.

The only person who refuses to call me Guinness is the old man. He is adamant about this. No amount of cajoling on my part can get him to budge, although he did acquiese on my birthday and on my birthday only. Even pointing out that my computer's new desktop sports a graphic that reads "Now Enjoy Guinness Anywhere" has not convinced him that he should address me by my new moniker. His loss.

How I Helped An Old Man Run Away

2006-08-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

This is a true story.

It was not my typical Monday morning as my car was filled with tubs of the high school's benefit auction invitations that were headed to the bulk mail unit of the downtown post office. My goal was to be there at 7 a.m. sharp.

I hate the bulk mail unit. My experiences with that place deserve a blog entry of their own. Perhaps another time. Suffice it to say that I never leave there feeling the 5'6" I was when I entered. Those bulk mail guys (and they are all guys) usually whittle away about five feet of it. That Monday I hoped to deal with them before I was fully awake.

I made it to the bulk mail unit by 7:20 a.m., dropped off the invitations, and left relatively unscathed with only one joke made at my expense, five incredulous "how could you not know that?" looks, and three condescending remarks. On that basis, this particular trip to the parallel universe of the bulk mail unit I considered to be a mild success.

Having once again negotiated the world of bulk mailing, I decided I deserved a congratulatory edible. But what, exactly? As I drove toward work, I pondered where I should purchase my reward. MacDonald's? Winchell's? Burger King? Where, oh where? I passed a number of viable alternatives, finally settling on a small, Vietnamese-run grocery store that, although I passed it almost daily, I had never frequented before.

It’s a corner grocery store just like any corner store in any big city run by any Vietnamese family. As I went in, I noticed an elderly, white gentleman, a day's growth of beard on his face, wearing rumpled blue slacks (the kind that appliance repairmen often wear) and tennis shoes. He was seated on a stool drinking coffee from a cardboard cup. The store’s owners had created a kind of three-sided corral for their pastry selections, and this old man was seated on a stool in the midst of it. How dare he sit there and separate me from the comfort I craved?! Not wanting to ask him to move, I maneuvered to the beverage cold case to get some juice, hoping that in the interim the old man would move. Sure enough, he did!

As he slowly made his way to the cashier, I crashed the space he had formerly occupied, choosing a couple of items sure to boost my blood sugar quickly and ease the pain of my bulk mail unit experience. Despite the difference in our ages and weights, the old man and I arrived at the counter at the same time.

"Where's the nearest Washington Mutual?" he asked the young Vietnamese woman at the register.

She looked puzzled.

"The nearest Washington Mutual?" he asked again, louder.

"Um ... I think ... I think ..." She looked out the front window of the store, cars flying by. "Um ..."

I had to get out of there with those snacks!

"It’s that way!" I practically shouted, pointing east. Both the old man and the cashier turned to me. "The closest one is that way," I said more quietly. The cashier nodded and murmured, "Yes, yes."

"How far?" asked the old man.

"Probably about 15 blocks," I said.

The old man thanked me and then thanked the young Vietnamese woman for letting him sit and rest while he had his coffee, and then left the store, dropping his cup and napkin in the trash as he went out. Finally! I quickly made my purchases and left, knowing that in a very few minutes I would be alone with my well-deserved treats.

As I was getting ready to put my key in the lock of the car door, I noticed the old man standing just around the corner of the store. Just standing. I did a quick assessment of him and seeing that I was slightly shorter but three times heavier and about 30 years younger, I thought, "What the heck? If he gets out of line, I believe I can take him."

"Sir," I called. "I’m going right by that Washington Mutual. Would you like a ride?"

"It’s not out of your way?" he asked.

"Not at all. I’m going right by there."

"That would be nice," he said as he moved toward my car.

I unlocked my car door and climbed in, reaching across the seat to unlock the passenger side. The old man pulled on the door, and it creaked and protested as it always does because it’s old and sticks. He slowly sat down in the passenger seat, pulling in first his left leg, then his right. I waited to start the car until he got settled and put on his seatbelt. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill and extended it toward me.

"Here. For gas."

I waved it away. "No, you keep it. The Washington Mutual is right on my way to work. I’m going right by there."

He hesitated, then returned the money to his pocket. "Okay," he said. "I just didn’t want you to think I was a bum."

"I can tell you’re not a bum," I said. And I could. Despite that fact that he was slightly disheveled, there was a dignity about the old man. He struck me as someone who had worked hard and lived simply, not needing or wanting much more than a comfortable home and a good supper at the end of each day.

We rode in silence as we pulled from the store’s parking lot onto the street that would take us to the Washington Mutual. The old man looked out the passenger window, watching the homes and businesses slide by. He sighed.

"You see, my wife died last Thursday."

"I’m so sorry," I exclaimed.

"The funeral was yesterday. I didn’t know it would be so hard. I cried like a baby. She was a good woman."

I looked over at him. Although his voice was strong, I could see his eyes were beginning to water.

"After she died, people told me, ‘You should go live with your son in Portland.’ So I thought about it and decided maybe I should. But, I heard my son and his wife talking last night. She was telling my son that I was going to mess up their ‘lifestyle.’ I guess I get up too early in the morning or somethin’." His voice trailed off and he was quiet again for a moment. "So this morning, I decided to go back home. To Albany. My son and her were asleep when I left. They don’t even know that I’m gone." He paused, then continued, resolute. "I’m going to the Washington Mutual to get some money out of my account. Then I’m going to the bus station and going home."

We rode a few more blocks in silence as I took in all that he had shared. "How long were you married?" I asked.

"We were married 58 years," he said, proudly. "She was 78 when she died. I’m 80. She was a good woman"

"That’s a long time to be together," I said.

"Yup. I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe how much I cried at her funeral."

"Well, this is a big loss. You were together for so long. She was a big part of your life for lots of years."

"She was a good woman," he said again.

I spotted the Washington Mutual sign. "We’re almost there," I said. "Just a block and a half."

"I sure do appreciate this," he said. "I was going to try to walk down here, but I don’t know if I would have made it. The last two years, my wife was sick and I had to take care of her. I took real good care of her. But she was so sick. So I didn’t get out much to exercise like I used to do." He drew a breath. "She was so sick."

"Well, like I said, this was right on my way," I replied.

As we pulled into the Washington Mutual lot, I realized that it would be another half-hour until the bank opened. Slowing to a stop, I said, "Listen, this bank doesn’t open for another half-hour. But there’s another Washington Mutual on down the street. It’s in a Fred Meyer store. How ’bout I take you down to that one? Then you can get another cup of coffee or do some shopping while you wait for it to open or whatever. What do you think?"

He paused. "You know, that would be real nice."

I pulled through the lot and merged back into the eastbound traffic.

"Do you have any other children," I asked, "besides your son here in Portland?"

"Yup. Two girls, but they’re back in Florida. And I have a son in Lincoln City. He came over right after my wife died. But all he wanted was her stuff. I said ‘Take whatever you want.’ They were her things and they were things that made her happy. I didn’t really care about them so much. And without her there to enjoy them, it don’t seem like they matter at all anymore." He sighed. "She was a good woman."

"I know that she was," I said.

"I can’t believe how much I miss her."

"You were together a long time."

"She was so sick. Finally the doctors said there was no more that they could do. But I took real good care of her."

"I know that you did."

"She was a good woman."

"I can tell that you loved her very much."

We rode in silence the last few blocks to the Fred Meyer store and pulled in. I took him to the entrance closest to the bank.

"Well, here you go," I said.

"I sure do appreciate this," he replied.

Again, I waved it off. "No problem. Like I said, I was going this way."

"So, I’m going home," he said as he unbuckled his seat belt.

"I hope you have a safe trip."

He nodded and reached to unlock his door, pushed it open, and got out. He turned to push it close. As it often does, it made its awful creaking sound and didn’t want to budge. The old man looked worried.

"No problem," I smiled, "Just push it hard. It’s fine."

"Okay," he said. And then, "God bless you."

The old man gave the door one, two and then three progressively more forceful pushes until, with one final protest, it gave way and closed. The old man gave a wave, then turned and walked into the store.

Cramping My Style

2006-06-04T09:15:00.000-07:00

As hard as it was to see my son take off for the university, you'd think I'd be thrilled to have him back home. You'd think.

It is amazing how quickly the old man and I converted to a new way of living. And how resistant we are to reverting to accommodate the son we have renamed "The Interloper."

Our battles are the classic ones between the generations.

Clothes: The Interloper seems to think I should wear them.

Music: Gone are Amy Grant and Barbara Streisand. Gone are Manhattan Transfer and the Irish Tenors. Instead there is noise everywhere, and it doesn't just come from the stereo. It comes from the computer, the television, the radio, and The Interloper's mouth. Sometimes noise comes from all these places at one time and it can appear that no one but me is noticing. Then there are the musical discussions with The Interloper that I have missed so much (insert eye roll here). Discussions of genres and lyrics and genres and performers and genres this and genres that.

Food: The old man and I have become used to eating when we want and what we want without even considering each other, much less The Interloper. Now, each day, I get a question that includes the words "dinner plan." As in, "What's the dinner plan?" or "Do we have a dinner plan?" It seems distressing to The Interloper that we seldom have a "dinner plan," whatever that is.

Cars: The Interloper says, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Okay." The Interloper says again, "I think I'll go to Fred Meyer." I say, "Have a good time, honey." The Interloper says, "I thought you might like to drive me." I say, "You think funny."

The Interloper is useful on occasion. He knows how to fix me a glass of ice water the way I like it. In about six weeks, I'm going to be awfully thirsty again.

Life Is A Curious Thing

2006-03-30T19:46:00.000-08:00

Thanks, P'Jammers, for calling me back to my blogging roots.

It's been an interesting four months. The old man and I have been caught up in a dilemma that many people would like to have--too many job options and good ones to boot. He was offered an interview for a job and I was just plain offered a job on the same day back in February. We've been arm wrestling for who's going to get which opportunity ever since. Life has been a rollercoaster with all these amazing--and scary--twists and turns. We have yet to reach the end of this particular ride--we don't even see the end in sight yet.

Let me just leave you, kind reader, with these few words from an Amy Grant song:

Life, ooh life is a curious thing
Well, I know that it can be demanding
I know that it can be unkind
I don't really understand it
But Lord sure knows I try
Life is a curious thing
Life, ooh life is a curious thing

Just goes to show that you never know
Just what tomorrow may bring
But I'll tell you this that what it is
Is seldom what it seems
'Cause life is a curious thing
Life, ooh life is a curious thing . . .

My Unfortunate Incarceration

2005-12-09T11:50:00.001-08:00

Back in the late 80's/early 90's, there was a television show called Designing Women. One of the characters, Anthony, occasionally referred to his "unfortunate incarceration" when speaking of the time he had spent in jail.

I was recently hospitalized for four days. I will heretofore refer to that as my "unfortunate incarceration." I may blog more about it in the future after I get over the initial posttraumatic stress induced by the experience. In the interim, I will report this:

Believe it or not, during the "unfortunate incarceration," the thing that was most soothing was having the old man read to me. Having him read was better than television--no commercial breaks and no missing important dialogue when a nurse or doctor came by. If I closed my eyes, I didn't miss anything. I could have him back up. I could have him jump ahead. I could ask him to speed up or slow down. I may start calling him TIVO.

We actually read (or he actually read and I listened to) a whole book. It is one I would recommend, a very quick read with lots of food for thought. It is called The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls.

How We Met

2005-11-10T20:27:00.000-08:00

The old man and I had a Saturday full of social functions that took us almost from the cradle to the grave, beginning with a brunch, followed by a funeral, then a drinks-and-hors d'ouevres-type function, and finishing with dinner and music appreciation at a local pub. At the drinks-and-hors d'ouevres-type function, the old man got to tell the story called "How We Met."

It's a very boring story, so I think we need a new one to tell people. One that will make their eyes widen with surprise and laugh out loud in delight. One that will make them say, "I think I heard that about you guys somewhere," when we're totally making it up.

I worked on our new story last night. Now all I have to do is get the old man to a) agree to use it the next time he's asked how we met and b) memorize the story.

Here's how it goes:

It was back in 1981. He was 23, and I was 21. We were both living in LA at that time. The old man had moved there to try to jump start a singing career. I was a California girl looking to get into the movies. We both happened to be taking dance lessons from Kenny Ortega, one of the guys who choreographed the movie Xanadu starring Olivia Newton-John and Gene Kelly. Kenny wanted to put together a couple to compete for fame and prizes on Deney Terrio's Dance Fever. He thought the old man and I would work well together. Kenny was wrong.

It was not love at first sight. Kenny had us working on his version of the Hustle for Dance Fever. The old man kept insisting that I was leading (when I most certainly was not!) I just thought he was an idiot from top to bottom and found nothing even remotely appealing about him. After weeks of struggle, we finally got the routine down to where Kenny was more than satisfied with our performance. We thought we were awful, and we both thought it was the other person's fault.

The night of our Dance Fever performance arrived. The old man had a powder blue suit fashioned after the white one that John Travolta wore in Saturday Night Fever, open nearly to his navel. I wore a sequined canary wrap-around top with a white tearaway skirt. We both had big hair a la 1981. We danced the Hustle and you'd think I'd remember the song we danced to, but I don't (and I don't dare ask the old man because then I'll have to relive that whole nightmare of a night and hear his version once again). Well, long story short, we did a passable job on the Hustle, although the old man flubbed the part with the tearaway skirt and his shoes were too slick. (Remember, this is my version.)

We ended up coming in second, and when our names were called, we smiled, and jumped and down, and hugged for the camera, and then immediately went our separate ways, happy that we'd never have to ever see each other again.

For the next six months, the old man kept singing, getting backup gigs here and there. (If you listen really closely to The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas soundtrack, you can hear him singing with Dolly Parton.) I kept looking for work in the movies, landing extra roles and bit parts here and there (most notably 1982's Slumber Party Massacre). Then, one night, we were both out with friends and ended up at the same dance club. It was like one of those moments right out of the movies where the guy and girl lock eyes across a crowded dance floor. Everything and everyone seemed to melt away and we began to move toward each other in slow motion. By the time we reached the middle of the dance floor, we were the only two people in the world and the spotlight was on us. We danced to How Deep Is Your Love by the BeeGees. We didn't seem to have any problem knowing who was leading and who was following, and we've been together ever since. And, for you boys and girls who might be reading this, the tearaway skirt stayed on until after we were married.

So, from now on, if someone asks how we met, this is the story I'm telling. Now, if I can just get the old man to agree.

My Husband Francois

2005-10-12T19:28:00.000-07:00

The old man has a quirk that bothers me. It's not anything criminal. It's just, well, quirky.

He wrote me an e-mail today, asking me to remind him to write some "cheques." His preferred spelling of "cheques" irritates me for no good reason. I know I shouldn't let it get to me.

But please. Where does he think we are? In the middle of Provence?

He might.

On occasion, he does develop a pronounced French accent. "Ah, mon cheri," he'll whisper between kisses up and down my arm, "come with me to zee boudoir."

Somehow he's convinced himself that this accent helps get me "in the mood."

Despite my protestations, he will persist. "I zee the lovelight in your eyes, mon cheri. Now come with me."

I usually end up going with him, hoping that this will be the time that I get to watch reruns of "The Addams Family."

Scoring

2005-10-02T23:27:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I tossed a pair of socks from the side of the bed into the laundry hamper.

"Say," I asked the old man, "if I shoot a pair of socks into the hamper and they both go in, but it's with a single shot, does that count as two points or four points?"

"Four points, I think," he said. "It's minus four if you miss," he added as he picked up a t-shirt that caught the edge of the hamper and slid to the floor.

I think I should get points just for picking up the piles of clothes Adventure Girl leaves all over the house.

Why I Will Always Be Able To See

2005-09-30T08:59:00.000-07:00

The old man was running his fingers through my hair last night. He thought he was being affectionate. I thought he was being annoying.

Not only did he run his fingers through my hair, he "fluffed" it. Finally, he gave my hair a gentle pat. "There," he said, "It looks perfect."

I could tell by the feeling of hair standing upright that it wasn't perfect, and waves of panic washed over me as I thought, "What if someday I go blind and the old man is left in charge of my hair and clothing?"

Of all the big, scary things in the world to be afraid of, you wouldn't think that being coifed and dressed by the old man would be in the top 10.

On my list, it even beats out public speaking.

Life's Simple Pleasures

2005-09-24T15:05:00.000-07:00

Adventure Girl has rediscovered one of life's simple pleasures--making out. Big car, radio tuned to favorite FM station, dark parking lot, and being with the old man equals lots of fun.

Speaking of the old man, he told me wants the song "Leather and Lace" at our 50th wedding anniversary party. I want "Son Of A Preacher Man." Another of life's simple pleasures--planning to be together at least 27 more years.

Queen For A (Number Of) Day(s)

2005-09-13T17:26:00.000-07:00

I marked the passing of another year during the last week. First, I made myself Queen for the day of my birth. Then, as the birthday was on a Friday, I decided to make myself Queen for the weekend. However, as my age now ends with a "9," I decided it might be best to be Queen for the rest of the year to mark the last year in my current decade. Realizing that the next birthday would be the beginning of a new decade in my life, I decided that perhaps I should be Queen for the next two years.

Being Queen means that I tell the old man that he has to do everything I say for the next two years and then telling him what to do. For some reason, he doesn't think I should be Queen.

I think I'm going to have to call on Adventure Girl. She will have ways of convincing the old man of the wisdom of living under my rule.

Till The Calf Comes Home

2005-09-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to wonder how long it takes before I stop listening for the front door to open and my son to come bounding in. It still feels like he is just away for a very long weekend.

Sunday evenings especially feel weird. There is no one to pester about whether they have clean clothes or homework finished. There's an inner alarm clock that rings, saying "It's Sunday evening. Do you have your child's schedule for the week so you can plan your life around it?" Apparently, when it goes off, I still hit "snooze" instead of "off."

I will probably start getting the hang of my new life about the time his winter break starts.

How I Discovered The Old Man Has A Thing For Cindy Crawford

2005-08-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

Just a few weeks ago, I made a healthy food choice. Feeling a craving for something sweet a couple of hours after dinner, I chose to have a banana, full of potassium and natural sweetness, rather than something that was processed and refined and full of empty calories.

As I peeled, bit and chewed, I felt quite virtuous. This raised my endorphin level to the point of playfulness. Spying the Dole sticker, I peeled it from the banana and placed it on the right side of my upper lip. I turned to the old man, who was sitting nearby watching tennis (naturally), and said coyly, "Hey, don't I look like Cindy Crawford?"

In a nanosecond and with barely a glance in my direction (there was tennis on TV, after all), he replied, "The mole's on the wrong side."

"Busted!" I thought to myself. Aloud, I sing-songed, "You like Cindy Crawford, you like Cindy Crawford."

The old man tried to blame his quick thinking on the cat, as she also has a mole on the same side of her upper lip as Cindy Crawford. I didn't buy it.

The moral of the story is: Always have cake and ice cream for dessert.

Big Mama On Campus

2005-08-27T13:40:00.000-07:00

We moved our son into his dorm room on Wednesday. It was two days earlier than most of the new students as he was participating in the "Service Plunge," a two-day opportunity to participate in "learning through service."

Looking around as I drove through the campus Wednesday to the spot where I was to deposit my child, I noticed that, in addition to the many people who looked to be of college age, there were many, many old people. They were everywhere.

And I was one of them!

How can that be? I still feel as gawky and goofy as a high school freshman.

I didn't do much friendly chit-chatting with the old people (I didn't want their old people cooties) and to the college students I am invisible.

I feel like I'm living in "Freaky Friday" land.

The Return Of Adventure Girl

2005-08-15T22:25:00.000-07:00

This weekend was my twenty-third wedding anniversary, and the old man and I had an opportunity to spend some time alone. During that time, he made a proposition to me which I politely--and blushingly--declined.

"There was a time when you were Adventure Girl," the old man noted.

"Yes," I agreed, "But that was before I became a mother."

"You're not a mother anymore," he countered.

"I'll always be a mom!" I cried.

"Sure," the old man said, "But you're not a mother in the same way anymore."

While I continued to decline the old man's proposition (due to the fact that I didn't care to spend my anniversary in jail), I did decide that it is time for the return of Adventure Girl.

Stay tuned for the next episode.

The Real Question

2005-08-11T22:34:00.000-07:00

On NPR this morning, I heard the tail end of a story on the Galapagos Islands that featured the ongoing conflict between evolutionists and creationists. I'm so tired of that debate.

Maybe there's something I'm missing, but it doesn't seem to me that the question we should be asking is "How did we get here?" Forget that.

This is what I say: "I'm here. Now what? How should I conduct my life?"

So, evolutionists and creationists, start behaving yourselves and get a life.

And if you don't like it, you can carbon date me.

The Devil Made Me Do It

2005-08-08T07:59:00.000-07:00

If you are a regular reader of my son's blog, you know that he has had a number of things to say about the ESRB and GTA, which are the Entertainment Software Ratings Board and Grand Theft Auto, respectively. In fact, he has written more on the subject than I thought was humanly possible.

Recently, said son shared with me that he had read an article describing the use of GTA play as a criminal defense. This led to a discussion of the influence of the media and personal responsibility.

I told him it was not that unusual for otherwise normal people to be influenced by the media. In fact, I had an experience like that. I once tried to solve a crime after watching an episode of CSI.

The Two Boltons

2005-08-01T19:43:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see a headline about President Bush and "Bolton," I always think Michael Bolton for some reason.

There's a split second of "Bush Stands His Ground On Michael Bolton???? Wow! He must be quite the diehard fan." Or, "Bush Appoints Michael Bolton As US Envoy To UN???? Is he like the American Bono or something?"

And then it dawns on me, "Oh, yeah, not Michael Bolton, John Bolton."

It strikes me as odd because I could not tell you even one song that Michael Bolton made famous--or John Bolton for that matter.

Identity Theory

2005-07-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

I have heard a lot about "identity theory" this summer from my son, who is taking a philosophy course. In fact, his professor has written a whole book on the subject.

On my drive to work this morning--my new job at my son's high school, now his alma mater--I reflected back to my son's sixth grade year. Arriving one day to do some volunteer work at his middle school during the changing of classes, with the halls packed with junior high students, I suddenly realized that when the students looked at me, all they saw was somebody's mother. They did not see me as a person unto myself. I was attached to someone else who gave me my identity. It was startling.

While I will always be my son's mother and will always love him deeply and dearly and best of all after my husband, I am looking forward to these next few days and weeks and years where, after 18 years, people will not know me as somebody's mother. I will get to forge an identity apart from that, just like my son is now beginning to forge an identity apart from being somebody's child. He and I will be travelling parallel paths during this time in our lives, looking to find ourselves, him for the first time and me once again. It's an exciting time for both of us.

Road Apples

2005-07-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

Guess who I am?

A reader has asked "What are road apples?" This is an excellent question and one which I will try to answer to the best of my ability. Most people do not explore questions such as these, preferring instead to merely lump "road apples" into the category generally known as "excrement." However, by doing so, they miss out on the minutiae that makes life ever so interesting.

"Road apples" is a reference to horse manure that can be found on or at the side of a road. My understanding is that a road apple hits the ground with a soft plop and generally retains its rotund shape, hence the term "road apples."

Now, let's contrast this with a "turd blossom." I have found two definitions of this phrase. The first is that it is a Texan term for a flower that grows from a pile of cow dung. The second, much less reliable definition is that it is a reference to cow manure that hits the ground with a hard splat and thus "blossoms" to cover an extended area. While this second definition is less reliable, it does provide a nicer contrast to the term "road apples."

And, if you guessed I was being the blogger KKairos, you would be correct.

Turd Blossom

2005-07-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe people in this country sometimes. Some newspaper editors have their knickers in a knot over Gary Trudeau's use of the term "turd blossom" (in reference to Karl Rove) in an upcoming "Doonesbury" strip (click here).

For Pete's sake.

"Turd Blossom" seems pretty mild in comparison to some of the epithets that have been used for President Bush and his supporters. In addition, a fairly cursory Google quickly reveals fairly solid documentation that "Turd Blossom" is a nickname that Bush himself gave to Rove.

Given the crap that is on television at all hours of the day and night, "Turd Blossom" is a relief. It's almost poetic.

How do you like them road apples?

David Sedaris

2005-07-21T15:51:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I became aware of David Sedaris. He was a guest on David Letterman. His segment ended with a reading from his most recent (at that time) book of essays Me Talk Pretty One Day. He was hilarious.

I bought his most recent book of essays Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim and I often hear him on NPR's "This American Life." I like to listen to him read, and I like what he reads, and I like what he writes.

Last night, I heard him again. He was talking about his mother's aversion to having her picture taken and how he had so few photos of her. It reminded of the moment it dawned on me that I was robbing my family--my son and my husband--by not having a family picture taken. I remembered the moment that I realized it was important to them to have a record of us. I knew that there would be a day that my son would want to remember when it was just the three of us and that it was selfish to let my aversion to film stand in the way of that.

So, we had a family picture taken. When I look at it, I don't look at me. I already know I don't like what I see there. Instead I look at the cute little boy and the handsome man, who are my family.

Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera

2005-07-18T17:12:00.000-07:00

There is a scene in The King And I where the King learns what the term "et cetera" means and begins using it liberally whenever an opportunity arises (or he thinks an opportunity has arisen). I like that scene. I can picture Yul Brynner now and hear him pronouncing "Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

It's a good phrase. Very handy. I like that it has a nickname--etc.

If I were queen of the world (instead of Oprah), one of my rules would be:

Don't screw with the classics.

Separation Anxiety

2005-07-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

I think I'm having separation anxiety. When I check out my feelings like a reporter, "Tell us, are you having any second thoughts or anxious feelings about your son leaving for college?" then I reply, "Why no, not anything that I think is out of the ordinary. I think he's as well prepared as any 18 year old for this next step in his development."

However, I have noticed that I am having more thoughts recently about my son dying tragically. Two nights ago I worried that he and a friend, whom I know to be an excellent driver, would be involved in a car accident. It would be the other (drunk) driver's fault. By the time I had finished spinning that scenario, I had the eulogy written. It was quite lovely and poignant. Last night I was returning from dinner with friends when I began to worry that when I returned home I would find him murdered. I saw myself throwing up at what I had discovered and then police swarming the house. I thought of Walter Mitty.

Perhaps this is my way of saying to myself, "He's only going to college, for Pete's sake. It's not like he's dying or anything."

Avatars

2005-07-08T12:58:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm supposed to be working, but I've "hit the wall," so I'm clocking out early to blog.

I was looking at those fake icon-things that people sometimes use--avatars. I saw where some loony 21-year-old was using actress Lauren Graham for hers. (That is not a Lauren Graham slam; that is a loony 21-year-old slam.)

So that made me wonder, "If I could look like anybody else, who would it be?" Then I thought "Nobody cares what you look like. Pick a hot body." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the figure and not the face." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the face and not the person inside." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the person inside and not the eternal soul that resides within." Then I thought, "So, if I could look like anybody else, who would it be?"

If I was a younger me, I would choose Ashley Judd. The older me would choose Susan Sarandon.

Tragedy

2005-07-07T23:16:00.000-07:00

It says something about me (something I don't like) that, on this day of an attack by terrorists in the city of London, with dozens killed and many more wounded, all I can worry about is my facial hair.

I have a problem with facial hair. If I were a man, I would shave, but I am not a man and, as I find it humiliating enough to deal with this problem (and it is a problem because I'm a woman), I refuse to deal with it in that manner. I find it ever so much more pleasant to have it ripped from my face by its roots, which is what I had done earlier this evening.

Each time this ripping out of facial hair occurs, I get very angry. Part of the anger stems from the pain. It hurts like--well, it hurts like having your hair pulled out by the roots. Part of the anger stems from the fear I have about what facial hair says about my femininity. I already feel like I've failed at being a "girly girl," and I have the beard to prove it!

I did see a truly bearded lady on TV a few nights ago. It was cold comfort.

So on this day that will be marked as the saddest by people all over the world because of the loss of a loved one or a part of themselves, all I can cry about is facial hair. I disgust me sometimes.

Dancing With The Stars

2005-07-06T22:05:00.000-07:00

I saw "Dancing With The Stars" for the first time tonight. I often wonder what it feels like to be able to move like that, to have a body that responds in that way. Even when I wasn't fat, I wasn't graceful. I have never felt in rhythm or sync with my body. I can remember as a kid feeling very angry with my body because I could visualize what I wanted it to do and tried to send it the messages to get it to do what I visualized, but it just wouldn't cooperate.

I can walk and chew gum at the same time, however.

What A Wonderful World

2005-07-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

This is the one song I want at my funeral. Sing it, Louis. Oh, yeah.

What A Wonderful World
(George Weiss/Bob Thiele)

I see trees of green, red roses, too,
I see them bloom for me and you,
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"

I see skies of blue and clouds of white,
The bright blessed sky, the dark sacred night,
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky,
Are also on the faces of people going by.
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying, "I love you."

I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow.
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know.
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"
Yes, I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"
Oh, yeah.

Exercise

2005-07-04T19:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is only my fifth day of blogging, and it's already feeling like a "have-to." I think that's because I made the mistake of saying to my son, "I think I'll blog every day." So, periodically throughout the day, I hear, "Mom, have you blogged yet today?" Ugh. I can't lie, because he immediately goes to check to see if I've written anything about him.

Feeling the "have-to" makes blogging about as appealing to me as exercise.

Someone asked me yesterday why I was blogging. I told them that I was trying to reinvent myself now that I'm no longer a mother. The look in their eyes told me "Good luck with that."

I did indeed ask the child who led me to blogdom the questions below regarding how blogging should be performed. He was no help. He rambled about all the different approaches ad nauseum. I quit listening (but notice how I am increasing my Latin vocabulary).

Bullied and Badgered

2005-07-03T23:58:00.000-07:00

I have just been bullied and badgered into doing my blogging for the day. By the kid. Who started his own blog the day after mine. I didn't think this was going to turn into a competition. Thank God he moves out soon and won't be able to track my movements (or lack of them).

Okay. I'm old. I'm tired. Time for bed.

I stink, therefore I am.

2005-07-02T10:23:00.000-07:00

My son is taking a Philosophy course--his first college course ever. I may not survive it. My brain may explode first. He is thinking about all the questions I have been trying all my life to avoid thinking about.

I said to him yesterday, "I was thinking about what Descartes said. But tell me what you think about this: 'I stink, therefore I am.' So, if you can smell me, would that be proof that I exist?"

He told me, in his most withering way, he did not think so.

Also, in order to talk to my son now, I need to know Latin. If I ask for a translation, I get the eye roll and the sigh that says, "Mom, don't you know anything?" It is doubly humiliating if his father is involved in the discussion. Then it's two eye rolls, two sighs.

The mistake I make is, when the discussion gets above my head, instead of shutting up, I start trying to crack jokes.

Puteo ergo sum.

L-Po and HP

2005-07-01T08:14:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking I made a mistake with my name ... L-Po. I think it's too much like Alpo. Arf! This blog is a dog.

There is a series of commercials advertising Hewlett-Packard's Photosmart line, the ones where you don't know if it's real or a photo, and the guy keeps putting frames in front of his face or over his head. Totally creeps me out. Spouse and child love the commercials. Must be that Y-chromosome rearing its ugly head again.

This blogging thing ... how are you really supposed to do it? Is it supposed to be stream of consciousness? Do I run to my blog everytime I think something that remotely entertains me? Are you supposed to have something well-crafted and profound before you post? Perhaps the child who led me to blogdom will be able to enlighten me. I will let you know what he says.

Here we go ...

2005-06-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

In the next room, I hear the familiar tap, tap, tap of thumbs on a video game controller and the faint repetition of the video game music.

My son calls out. "Have you started your blog yet, Mom?"

He's the one who got me to this site. I actually found this screen myself.

He started college this past Monday. He's taking Philosophy and World Religions. Required courses.

I'm too young to have a kid in college. But the calendar says that I am, and I do.

Here I sit, Big Mama Off Campus.