standing behind her man.

I just saw a news story that made me cringe. I guess the Kansas City Chiefs are getting a new head coach. Heh. I’m being facetious there. Of course they are. If you lived here, you would know that because apparently there is no other news this week. So, this morning I watched a story about the new dude’s wife. Now, most of you know I could care less about football, but I was waiting for the forecast, so what was I to do but watch the piece? The fact that the anchor introduced the story by saying, “we all know that behind a good man is a woman” really, really bothered me. Is it bad that as a woman, that offends me? It’s totally ridiculous, first of all, and it’s offensive to both women and men.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m married. I get the cliché, or the saying, or whatever it is, but it’s really, really stupid. I mean, first of all, why can’t the woman be in front leading the way? Are men really that stupid (as this cliché supposes) that they need a woman to tell them what to do? And more to the point, if any of you seriously believe that Andy Reid really chose this job in KC because his wife told him it was a good idea, I have a beach house to sell you in the arctic. I’m certain that they discussed this decision, but I imagine that she is going to go wherever the money is. Why wouldn’t she want to come to KC after being wined and dined at the Capital Grille and on the Country Club Plaza? I mean, her life will already afford her these things, why would she say no to more of that in a new city? Andy Reid wanted a job. He needed a job. Do you think the “woman behind him” is going to say no? On what grounds? The life she might live here wouldn’t be up to par? I doubt it.

Maybe that is why this story struck a nerve. When I think of women who “stand behind” their men. I think of Coretta Scott King. I think of Hilary Clinton, I think of Eleanor Roosevelt…women who, in their own right, are strong, smart and successful. Why should a woman’s place be behind a man? I take no responsibility for my husband’s success. I think that would be selfish and ridiculous, really. We talk, we share things and we create a life together, but we are separately successful and I would be offended if anyone referred to me as the woman behind her husband’s success. I hope he would be offended, too.  Just as I assume he wouldn’t take credit for my successes. That is not to say that we aren’t a team, but behind each other’s successes? No way.

I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to hear that Reid’s wife Tammy was going to practice law in KC. That she was a doctor or a teacher or would relocate her profession here, too. Instead, I heard a news story that included nothing personal about her: though it seemed as if it would go that way.  I had to do that research on my own.  (A “bling” jewelry business raising money for high school football, in case you wanted to know.) Because, as it turns out, of course no one cares what the hell Tammy Reid thinks as long as her husband is here. She’s in her rightful place, don’t you know? Behind her man.

oh, hi.

I don’t have any time anymore for ANYTHING. No time to write, no time to spend on anything but family, school, work, laundry, cooking, cleaning (this one is debatable) and stressing over the overwhelmingly full calendar. So…I thought I would give you an update on the past month or so. Here’s roughly what’s happened:

·      I listened to my children fight. A LOT. I heard things like, “you’re not my sister anymore! Get out of this house!” and, “you treat Zoe like she’s 10 and I’m the baby!” Also, the ass-kissing has begun. When one child is in trouble, the other has learned the trick of being sappy sweet to get on our good side. Today, Lucy even asked me if I could get her a snack – but ONLY when I had the time.  HA! 

·      We got a fish. The fish died. This story is only good because the fish was teetering on the edge of death for about a week before he croaked. The week before we went out of town, of course. And so, I left instructions for the girl who was dog-sitting to give me a call if the fish died so I could prepare the girls. We were headed to Colorado (another story) and got to about Lawrence, KS before Courtney called to say the fish was belly up. He’d waited just long enough for her to arrive before he bit it. Thankfully, Courtney is technically a Universal Life minister – thanks to the interwebs – and she was able to give Bubbles Chippie Blue a fitting tribute before flushing him. 

·      Colorado. Where do I begin? Long story short – we were to drive to the mountains outside of Denver to celebrate my nephew’s first birthday with my sister and brother in law and her family. We got to Colorado on Saturday and smooched on each other long enough to pass around a stomach bug. We spent most of the trip in the hotel bathroom in a town with no grocery store or WalMart. Plus, Steve and I were both knocked for a loop (to put it nicely) because of the altitude. Man, I didn’t think it would affect me but it did. Between the barfs and the shits and trying to catch our breath, it pretty much stunk. Literally. Vacation re-do to come…

·       I had an x-ray of my back. Turns out, my discs are just as bad as they were 9 years ago (not sure what that means) but I also have bone spurs on my spine. I was scheduled for an MRI and told to not exercise. Wait. Were you wondering why I’ve gained so much weight? Not anymore! MRI on Monday the 9^th.  

·      Lucy has a loose tooth. It looks like an old kernel of corn hanging right in the center of her mouth. It’s awesome. We have bribed ear piercing, doll clothes, books. You name it. Her sister has taken to randomly punching at Lucy’s mouth to try to knock it out. I realize that eventually the tooth will come out on it’s own and that if she’s ok with it I need to let it go. But I can’t. 

·      I’ve decided that I actually DO like white wine. I know, this is news that can’t be exciting to anyone but me. I just figure, if I’m good at anything, it’s drinking, and that I should be an equal opportunity wino. 

·      My hair is still growing. Can you believe it? ELEVEN weeks without a haircut. I’m in that phase where I simultaneously want to rip it out and I’m proud of myself for coming this far…so it stays.

I’m not certain what else I can update on. I just mostly feel overwhelmed about 99% of the time and when I do sit down to write, I find that I’d better spend my time writing for school.  School. Which is done in just three weeks…at least until June. Hooray! I’ll leave you with this – last night a lovely older woman called our house to ask if I would be able to volunteer for the Obama campaign. I told her that while I supported the campaign I wouldn’t even be able to begin to help. I told her I worked full time, was in grad school and had two young children. She asked me, “do you sleep?” and my answer, quite honestly, was no. Nope. I don’t sleep. I lay down around midnight which is about how late I stay up to finish all of the work I can’t get done with kids underfoot, then I spend a chunk of time trying to wind down from the 8 bazillion things that happened that day, sleep about 3 hours and then wake up around 4am to worry about all the things that are to happen the NEXT day. Sleep is for pussies. And, there you have it! The last month of my life in 830 words or less. Ca-ching!

oh, Whitney.

I feel like everyone is dancing around this topic and so I’m going to just come out and say it. Whitney Houston’s passing is sad, to be sure. She was an icon and had a wonderful voice, of course. But she was a drug addict with opportunities that most people would NEVER have to clean herself up, and she couldn’t succeed.  Social media has kept us informed of the situation and has given everyone and his brother a platform to mourn Whitney…which is, I suppose, what social media is for.  But I can’t help to wonder what people would be saying if Whitney had been arrested, again. Or if she had hurt someone else as a result of her addiction?  How would people be responding if this situation was different?

I can think of three good friends who have gotten sober this year. Three. And these are people who decided finally that life would be better without drugs and alcohol. These are all people who don’t have the celebrity and the access to help like Whitney did.  These are people who don’t have the kind of money that Whitney did. People who didn't have Oprah Winfrey as a friend – people who were simply tired of having the proverbial monkey on their backs.  The public needs to hear stories like this – not another celebrity death story again. It’s sad, it truly is – I’m a human being and would never wish harm to people, but I can’t believe that this story is shocking to ANYONE. Whitney Houston has been a parody of herself for a long, long while. Her death is tragic – to the daughter she leaves behind. Not to the people mourning her in their Facebook status.  Tomorrow, they will move on and forget all about Whitney. Next weekend at the bars they’ll sing her hits karaoke style.

It’s just sad to me that the media won't focus on the people who are trying – and succeeding – at getting themselves sober.

back up.

I’ve been pretty vocal the past few days about throwing my back out, and I’ve had a lot of advice – from a lot of people.  I completely appreciate it.  Really.  But lots of people were asking the root of my back issues, and so, very briefly, I wanted to explain.  I danced for years, and years, and years…on cement floor.  Oh, it was covered in tile, but all that did was make my tap shoes sound better.  Years of leaping and jete-ing landing on shitty floors did a number on my spine.  Then, about 8 years ago, Steve and I were on our way to meet my now sister-in-law and her then husband for dinner (this is only noteworthy because I like to think about how long ago this was and how much has changed for Kelley and me since this day!).  At the intersection of Oak Street and 55^th Street in Kansas City, a VERY young teen-aged driver on a cell phone ran the red light and crashed directly into the driver’s side door of our brand new Nissan Altima.  I was driving.  I was wearing a seatbelt, but the impact of that wreck sent me sideways into the passenger seat – and knocked my spine into some state of, well… I don’t know any better way to say that the wreck completely jacked up my spine. 

The MRI I had following the wreck showed two severely goofy discs in my spine – the L5 and the S1 – or the lowest two discs near the tailbone.  One of those discs was bulging, and the other was degenerative.  Probably the degenerative disc was a result of the concrete floors from my tappin’ days, and the bulging was a result of that dumb ass teenager on her cell phone.  Regardless, those results were enough to warrant physical therapy and several facet injections – which numbed the nerve endings around the two discs so that it wasn’t as painful when they rubbed up against my muscles and whatever else was hanging out back there around my discs.  Aaaaand…those didn’t work.  I found that yoga helped – really anything that kept my core strong helped my back.  I also found that regular visits to my chiropractor (whom I adore and would recommend to anyone – just ask) helped my spine.  Other than that, I really had no control over it, other than watching how (and who) I lift, and how I bend – which has proven very interesting in my profession.

Fast forward to this past Friday afternoon.  I was getting ready to get on the road to St. Louis to visit Steve’s parents when I went to put on my pants and wham – out when the back.  Which might not have been that big of a deal, but riding in a car for four hours there and back, as well as sleeping on a bed that wasn’t mine, as well as having a coughing and nose blowing fit, and I was a steaming hot mess by Sunday afternoon.  This is where everyone has an opinion: get surgery, get and MRI, get to bed! All of these are valid (and thank you for your concern) but long story short, here is the plan. I saw my chiropractor yesterday – he adjusted me, because part of my issue is that one of my legs is also a bit longer than the other.  I’m a mutant.  He believes that when I bent to put on my pants the other day (why couldn’t this have been a better story, like I was lifting a couch or something?) I tore some of the scar tissue around those discs leaving my nerves and muscles in some sort of battle.  Then, he did some deep tissue massage, which felt terrible and left me with what feels like a bruised ass, but has definitely worked because I can feel my right leg today.  Finally, he used some really fantastic gel on my lower back, which numbed the area for a while.

Tomorrow I go to my general practice doctor (whom I also adore – but, no, this isn’t an advertisement for my medical preferences) and I’m to request a prescription for a cortisone and steroid mix that should take the swelling down in my back.  After a week, I get to see my chiropractor again, and if that hasn’t helped I get to have another MRI and then look into more injections. Whew! Aren’t you glad you asked about my back?

signs, signs, everywhere signs...

I have written before about my weird cardinal sightings.  As in, they are everywhere I go.  After my grandparents Bloom passed away, I began to think that the cardinals were sent as a sign from them – you know, just reminding me that they still had an eye on me.  I know, you might think I’m nuts. It’s fine.  I know the cardinal’s song so well that when I hear it, my eyes start searching for where the bird is perched.  A few weeks ago, during a particularly bad day with Lucy, I thought to myself, “I wish I had some sign that I’m not alone or that things will be ok,” and I didn’t even get that thought fully out before the most beautiful male cardinal flew over and sat right in front of my car.  A few seconds later, the female joined him.  I love moments like that, even if it was pure coincidence, it reminds me that there is more out there – more beyond the human eye – and I fully believe that people who have passed on have a role in those moments. 

Like, the time in Boston when my cousin Karleton’s widow and his son were at a park on a day not long after Karleton’s death (if memory serves it was Karleton’s birthday or an anniversary?) and his son Jackson found a UNC hat at the park that day.  Karleton graduated from UNC and then lived in Boston. What are the odds of that happening randomly? 

The day of my Grandpa Bloom’s funeral, my sister and I went to Loose Park in Kansas City to spend some time together.  We had plans to fly to New York the week after that, and as my grandfather died very suddenly, we decided to keep our original plan and to spend time with my Gram after everyone else had gone home.  So, that day at the park, instead of attending his funeral, we fed the geese.  My grandpa was an artist and loved to draw geese and ducks – and he had a song about being kind to ducks that we loved to sing with him.  While we were feeding the geese, a white duck came barreling across the pond at us and shot up out of the water to stand literally about three feet from the two of us.  He raised his wings up over his head and did a little dance for us and then went right back into the water.  Lisen and I stood there completely silent.  There were no other ducks around – just this one, and it was pure white.  A few days later, I went back to the park to try to find the white duck and it was nowhere to be found.   I still keep one of his feathers that dropped during his dance in a little box in my bedside table.

The other night, my Aunt Karen called with a story about a lost earring.  She told me she had to call me because she knew I would understand.  Apparently, she took a shirt off a few weeks ago and with it came off an earring that she loved.  She had searched high and low with no luck, until her eldest daughter put on a sweatshirt and out fell the earring.  My aunt had never worn that sweatshirt.  That happened right after a particularly difficult weekend for my aunt and her family.  She and I both laughed about how my grandfather had made it happen so she’d know he was watching out for her.

I know people might think I’m reaching a little bit.  That’s fine.  I guess I just think if more of us really watched what happens around us – really paid attention to the things we just can’t seem to explain – more people would believe in something beyond ourselves.  I don’t mean spiritually beyond ourselves, I just mean that I see things all the time that I can’t quite explain – and I like to think that someone out there, or up there, has sent me a little sign.  And, coincidentally or not, they often come when I most need them.

*PS: It’s been a long time since I’ve given myself time to write.  There is no better time than getting some sort of mystery flu/cold to lie around and write, right?  I would like to say thank you. Thank you to all of you who commented about Lucy – people I’ve never even met wrote some of the sweetest words to me, and my sweet Pa had some great words of advice and reminders about my own childhood.   I really, truly thank you.  Lucy has had a really, really good past week or two – she’s still not eating at school, but she’s not so terribly sad and anxious anymore, and honestly, we are so glad to have our funny kid back that we are willing to believe the rest will work out eventually.

this is not butcher holler.

I’m completely claustrophobic.  That, and I don’t like to know about other people’s bodily functions.  So, pretty much what I’m saying here is that I would be in the first group of people to leave the Chilean mine this week.  Well, maybe not the first group, but I’d definitely be in the “crazy” group.  Seriously, I’ve taken a sort of sick interest in this story. I mean, it’s terrible to begin with, but there are all of the unknowns that no one seems to be talking about. Like, where do those guys poop? (what? Like you didn’t wonder?) or, what could you possibly talk about or do for TWO months that could be entertaining? Or, has anyone gone completely batshit crazy? Because, really, that is the action that I would love to be in on.  I mean, it sounds really terrible, but really I just want to know what it’s like to be down there. 

I would like to state for the record that I don’t care how much it pays or how much Mountain Dew you can drink, mining is perhaps the most insane profession on the planet.  I’m not going to lie, I honestly think that something must be wrong with a person who decides to go into that kind of work.  What, exactly is it that keeps you going down there every day? I know. I really do – I watch PBS and I know that it’s a great salary for those people who aren’t willing or able to finish school or work in different jobs.  It has to be a huge temptation for those kids.  Wanna know why it pays that well?  Here. Let me tell you.  One day, you will go to work and the way you get to work will crumble down behind you, and you will rely on a device similar to a bank tube to get you out of that mess.  And that’s if you survive.  I’m just saying – mining is just a little crazy.  I feel like maybe, had I lived in the rural south or maybe even in Chile, I might have dated one of those miner dudes in my past life – I do like the crazy, you know.

I know that I’m not saying anything rational or even very nice about this terrible situation – I mean, really? Is there anything rational to say? I’m just saying it’s been amazing to watch.  Sort of like Baby Jessica in that well all those years ago – remember that?  I wish only the best for these poor men.  I hope that this ends up to be a story of hope and of salvation – because it’s been too painful to watch over the past two months for any other outcome.   

look up.

Late tonight I sat out on my front stoop and looked up. For a loooong time. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Perseid meteor shower. I figured, hey! I’m up, and it’s nearly midnight, why not get a giant kink in my neck and try to see something cool? I’m so glad I did. I didn’t see a meteor shower. I didn’t have the patience to stick around long enough, I assume, to see whatever the night would bring. Instead, I got a stern reminder of my size. I can’t tell you the last time I sat and looked at the stars. I’m up late - a lot. But I'm not sure when was the last time I sat and looked up and really felt my place in this world. Even as I type this, my neck is a little stiff. What I saw was reminder of how tiny we are on this planet. All those concerns I have about myself, about my children, about my marriage…they seem relatively, well…insignificant, I guess, when you consider the width and breadth of the universe.

As I craned my neck to witness whatever was going to happen above my house, at 11:30-ish pm, with the front porch light off, I saw a shooting star. Not a meteor shower, but a single, fantastic shooting star. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one before. But I do know this: weird things happen to me. A lot. Weird things in my own mind, probably. Things the rest of you would merely scoff at, or make fun of. I know…it’s okay. My husband takes every opportunity to remind me that I might be crazy. Just a little bit. After my grandpa died, I started seeing cardinals. Red birds. Everywhere. Seriously, I am the cardinal whisperer. There is a giant one at my work that lives in the tree above the parking lot. One in my backyard who frequently flies onto my porch when I’m leaning over my kitchen counter looking out the window. I’m a firm believer in signs. Signs of what? I’m never quite sure.

Tonight? I saw a shooting star. It quite literally took my breath away. I sat with my right hand over my heart just breathing in and out for a while. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know that it means anything at all. But it was amazing, and it made me feel tiny. Tiny and safe. Because if there is someone looking out for me up there – or out there – that was pretty freaking cool. Thanks.

an ode to dance...

So, my 35-year-old, post-baby body doesn’t probably show it, but I used to be a dancer.  Not that kind of dancer, silly.  I started dance classes when I was 3 and I took classes several times a week until I was at least 18.  I took tap, ballet, jazz and what apparently is now known as contemporary.  I danced until my feet hurt and I had back problems and my hips began to snap, crackle and pop all on their own.  After I quit classes, I taught dance (mostly tap) for about 10 years.  Dance.  It was part of me. I loved it. I still do, although years of wear and tear on my body have resulted in my not being able to take classes or even try to do the things I used to do. 

I feel like I have to live vicariously through other dancers.  Which is why I’ve grown to love So You Think You Can Dance.  I have to be honest. I refused to watch the show for the first few seasons it was on TV.  Really, I was just so frustrated with my aging, creaky old body that I didn’t want to see young, vibrant dancers at the beginning of their careers heat up the stage and make me feel like shit.  I’m serious, and yes, I’m that jealous of people I don’t even know.  But through the years, I’ve grown to really love and respect what that show is doing for the dance world.  I love the amazing choreography, and how the program is willing to give choreography to former dancers on the show – what a way to channel amazing talent!

When I was probably 11 years old, I saw the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater perform Revelations.  I will never forget the way the silk tapestry moved across the stage during “Wade in the Water” and I remember watching the late Gary DeLoatch perform “I Wanna be Ready.”  During the intermission, my sister and I snuck up to the side orchestra box at the Folly Theater to get an up close look at Mr. Alvin Ailey himself.  This was the defining moment of dance for me. I knew at that very moment that I wanted to dance, and that it wasn’t something that just interested me – it was in the very fibers of my being.  Later, as a dancer, I participated in some fantastically terrible competitions, traveled throughout the US and to Seville, Spain in 1992 to dance at the World’s Fair, and fought tooth and nail with my former boss to prove that gymnasts must also have a dance background – a fight I would not win in the end.

Years later, I now live with constant pain from deteriorating discs in my lower back.  I exercise irregularly, in tiny spurts, a process that both aggravates and annoys me to no end.  I do yoga when I can because it’s the only way to gain balance and to center myself without excruciating pain.  I try to explain this to people who knew me as a dancer and they just don’t get it. I don’t understand it myself, it’s like my spine has failed me.  And it sounds ridiculous, but I absolutely adore watching those kids dance each week on TV.  It makes me remember why I loved choreography.  I remember why I loved being on stage.  But mostly I remember why I was touched by dance in the first place – how the graceful, wonderful movements of the human body can inspire even those of us who can no longer move like that. 

Tom

Pushing against these four walls.

Pushingggggg.

Screaming. Screaming. screaming.

In my head.

And then. Then. Why not?

Laughter outside the windows…

Music permeating the walls -

Boys night. 3am.

Boys morning?

Beer bottles. High fives. Chuck Taylors and red t-shirts.

Boys night with no boys. Only men.

Men. Boys. Boys. Men. Men with thinning hair. Big ears. Fat thumbs.

Shattered dreams and wandering eyes.

I watch, squinting, between closed blinds. Dark room. Sleeping family.

Hooray for boys! Men. Boys.

I wonder about the conversation. What they are laughing about?

What? Who?

Oh yes...voyeurism.

Laughter.

Laughter…

Men.

High fives. Red t-shirts.

His son, dead…

Not in on the joke.

dancing to a fascinatin' rhythm of their own

What do sequins, French braids and lipstick have in common? No, not Vegas and Little House on the Prairie, silly…dance recitals!  When I was three, or somewhere near there, my parents bribed me into potty training with dance lessons.  I started dancing: tap, ballet…and with each successive June came the thrill of the dance recital.  Lights! Costumes! Stage makeup that would turn a seven year old into a street-walker! I danced for 16 years, and then taught dance for another decade after that.  Year after year, June after June, came the promise of more sequins, more hairspray and bobby pins, and more face time on the stages all over Kansas City for me.

Last night I attended my niece’s dance recital.  It was also the 60^th (yes, SIXTIETH) recital for my former dance teacher. Sixty years. Imagine that. How many hundreds, if not thousands of little girls and boys that woman has made an impression on in six decades?  I digress.  I sat watching the show and it occurred to me that I should first apologize to my friends and family who had to endure the HOURS long performances of my yearly dance recitals.  There comes a point as a teacher where you should maybe consider not including every single dance you ever choreographed. I’m just saying, it could probably shorten the length of the recital by maybe three hours. 

Watching those girls on stage reminded me that there’s always a bossy one in every group. And it starts early. You know which one I mean: the one who looks at the little girl next to her who isn’t paying attention and pushes her or shakes her finger at her.  Oh, you just wait – she’s going to be the prom queen, the captain of the Cheerios. I don’t know why, but recitals bring social hierarchies to mind for me.  Also? If you are on stage in a sparkling get-up complete with a feathery headdress? You might want to consider your motivation. Really. I am totally all about adults dancing. It’s a great workout and I miss it so much that I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered going back. But dancing on stage next to teenagers in a gaudy costume? I just think it’s weird.

My niece Olivia was the bright shining star of the show. I know I’m biased, but that child has natural talent and it was honestly a joy to watch her.  She made all the other stuff tolerable and that is saying a lot.  A friend of mine suggested earlier today that the Pentagon ought to look into considering dance recitals as a form of torture, and I’m thinking she has a good point.  I’m off to write my congressman.

I'm with stupid...

I’ve always prided myself a bit on pointing out the stupidity of others.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m better. Well. Okay, maybe I do.  But mostly I just feel like God gave me a knack for spotting ridiculousness.  Tonight I was telling Steve and Kelley about some things that happened to me today and I suggested that some people are naturally talented at things like, maybe singing, dancing, or coming up with a haiku on a whim.  Personally, while I might be really bad at sports and say, not spending all my money in one place (sorry, Dad), I am really good at a few select things: laughing, writing, drinking and…pointing out ignorance. Today gave me plenty of opportunity to do the latter.

What I’m saying is this: if the X-Men suddenly appeared in Kansas City needing help, the situation would go as follows: “Hey! Hero UP! What is your super power?” And the answers from others will vary: “I have sharp claws, I can teleport myself, I have a radioactive dog who can sniff out bad guys…” (Is it clear that I’ve fallen victim to the Super Hero Squad?) My answer? “Um...well. I am good at matching my clothes, I can name that tune in three notes or less, AND...I am fantastic at pointing out stupidity”.  And really? Isn’t that more helpful than sharp claws? Really. I’m not sure it will help me save the world, but I can certainly weed out the idiots who are collectively bringing us down on our way there.

Last night we were watching “Glorious Funniest Videos” – or what the layperson might call “America’s Funniest Home Videos” (we dance to a different tune at this house) and finally I looked over at Steve and told him I felt badly because really, the only thing funny about the show was that we were laughing at other people’s misfortunes.  They should call that show “America’s Biggest Dumbasses Who Didn’t See That Crotch Shot Coming” or “Seriously, What Is Wrong With You People???” The more people falling off of bikes and getting slapped in the face the better, I say.  It’s like Darwinism with a whiffle ball bat to the groin. My children love this show, and I am secretly thrilled that they like it so much because I feel like I might be passing down to them my need to laugh at morons.  I mean, really? Is there anything better?

if I were a boy...or a girl with some junk

I might or might not have had a little wine tonight, but I was on my way home and in my CD player was something Steve made for the girls. On the CD was a Beyonce song called “If I Were a Boy.”  Twice today I’ve listened to this song and on the way home tonight I was a bit more attentive and I got all up in arms about it.  I’m a girl and am the mother of two girls and I do NOT want my girls to listen to songs like this and get any crazy ideas.  First of all, how come you have to be a boy to roll out of bed and throw on whatever you want to wear? I’m pretty sure I do that every day.  I know I might not be the typical lady, but for the love of God, teaching girls that they need to be all dolled up to leave the house is absurd.  Maybe I embrace my sweats a bit too much, but give me a break.  Then, Beyonce sings that if she were a boy, she’d put herself first because the girl would be faithful. What the WHAT? Come the hell on, people. I know I’m an old lady and I’ve had my share of dumb boy experiences, but this song is officially off limits – no matter how catchy and fun it is to belt out at the top of my lungs after a little tiny bit of wine. 

Seriously, though. I have two sweet baby girls and I will say this – no one did me the favor of telling me it was okay to be strong and cute at the same time. It took me a lot of years to figure that out on my own. Oh, but I did. I was told to be smart and…well. I’m pretty sure I was told to save my money and to not flash anyone.  It’s probably sad that Beyonce Knowles has given me a little push to teach my children how NOT to be. Oh, Mrs Jay Z, your song makes me want to siiiiiing…but not about being a ridiculous pushover.

COUSINS!!!!!

My cousin Amanda gave birth today to her third child – her first girl!  Our family happily welcomed baby Harper with open arms…even these arms that won’t get to hold her for several months!  My cousin and I are very close, we talk in some way (email, phone, Facebook) at least weekly if not daily, and I feel like we are very much a part of each other’s lives even though she lives in Chicago and I am in Kansas City.  Today, while I waited with bated breath for news of Harper’s arrival, I thought a lot about cousins. 

Recently, I’ve gotten to “know” two first cousins of mine via Facebook.  It’s a strange way to get to know someone, particularly a blood relative.  But when the opportunity arose, I took it, thinking mostly that if my grandparents were still alive they would agree it’s pretty great that someone or something has finally connected us.  I don’t feel like the details matter so much to the back-story, but some family drama (what else?) led to my sister and me to not ever meet some of our relatives.  I never thought that much about it until I started learning more about them. I have to say, getting to know someone through Facebook status updates is pretty unusual…and fairly difficult.  But these people are my first cousins – and I just can’t get my mind around not knowing anything about their entire lives until now. 

It is unfathomable to me that in the same day I can have one cousin who gives birth and I nearly cry because I can’t be there, and I have other cousins whom I barely know anything about.  Suffice it to say that it’s a weird feeling.  I’m sure most people would just figure that it is what it is and they’d move on, but I feel like this connection was made for a reason and I feel like it’s important for us to know each other in some way.  Even if we have to muddle through the fart jokes to get there. 

...like the corners of my mind

Memory is such a strange thing.  If you ask three different people to describe a certain event, there is no doubt that you will have three different answers.  It happened today over lunch: my dad, my sister and I were recalling the morning of September 11, 2001.  I don’t want to detail any of those events here, suffice it to say if there was one day I would like to never revisit, it would be that one. What I found interesting in the conversation we had is that each of us remembered different things about that morning: phone calls, emails, meeting as a family at my sister’s house – but we all agreed that the details have become more and more blurry as the years pass.  I often see bumper stickers that say something to the affect of “9/11 – we will never forget” but the irony in those stickers is that forgetting is inevitable – we just do. 

It got me thinking about things that happened in my past and how those memories that struck me at the time as so very important have faded over time.  Like the memory of my second grade teacher, Mrs. Levin, and how she instilled in me a love of reading; but mostly it started with a game she played where we got prizes for the number of books we read. I really just wanted the prizes, never realizing until much later that my love of books would be the true prize.  There’s the memory of being 16 and having my heart broken for the first time. Really and truly broken.  Oh, the angst…I can almost reach out and touch it if I think about it too much – but dragging out those memories has become harder over time for me. 

I wish I could remember the sound of my grandmother Bloom’s voice – she lost her voice box to throat cancer and the last seven years of her life were spent speaking through a stoma in her throat. But I can still hear my grandfather saying, “Katerino!” (he would draw out the last O for what seemed like minutes) whenever I arrived to visit – I can hear that voice like he’s in the next room even though he’s been gone almost 10 years. I wish I could remember exactly what happened the night I met my husband…bits of it are as clear as day, but not everything.  And the one that has always baffled me are the memories of childbirth. I always say that if women remembered everything, we’d all only have one child – but there are moments from both of my girls’ births that are fuzzy at best.

Among other issues, my mother has some sort of dementia.  Her memory is different from day to day and while now she is very lucid, it’s unclear how that will progress.  I can’t think about memory without thinking about how she must feel and how scary it must be to actually lose memories.  Because, even though I struggle with the details of them, I can still remember important things.  The brain doesn’t seem to be very picky about what we remember or what we don’t. I have as much trouble fetching the fantastic memories as I do the ones I’d rather leave forgotten.  I suppose after so many years of life the brain is so full of memories it squeezes out the old to make room for the new. 

free willy

Ok, people. I’m going to just say this – they are called KILLER whales for a reason. Seriously. Why does a story like this surprise people so much? I don’t consider myself a champion of animal rights, but, maybe I should. I would just like to say that when you keep a wild animal (a huge whale who belongs in the ocean, perhaps) in captivity – problems WILL ensue.  I have been to Sea World, it’s really expensive interesting and I’m sure it’s a great experience for children who aren’t witness to a whale trainer getting eaten by her muse.  I’ve never understood people who can get all chummy with animals – whales, dolphins, elephants…tigers (can you say Sigfried and Roy?) and then are shocked when something tragic happens like this. Also? This is the THIRD time this particular whale has killed a human…when do people think enough is enough? Maybe I should just consider myself a champion of Darwinism instead.

"you can't have your cake and eat it, too in life..."

I’ve spent the past few nights with the lovely Beale ladies from Grey Gardens. Holy wow, you guys.  These two put a whole new spin on crazy, at least that was my first impression.  Initially, I became interested because of Drew Barrymore winning a Golden Globe for her portrayal of “Little Edie” Beale in the HBO remake of Grey Gardens.  I’m not a huge fan of Barrymore, but after watching both the HBO version and the original 1975 documentary, I will say she truly captured young Edie.  Both movies made me want to cry out, it was so disturbing, and yet, like a train wreck, I couldn’t seem to turn away or get enough of these two.  I hope that you take some time to watch one or both of these fascinating pieces.  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about these two women and their story and I wanted to explain why.

Edith Bouvier Beale (“Big Edie”) was considered a bohemian and was very much a part of the 1930s social scene in both East Hampton and New York City.  Her daughter “Little Edie” was at one time a New York City debutante who was eccentric and full of life. Eccentric is the key word, I guess, as in the end eccentricity was all that survived of their once lavish lifestyle.  After Big Edie’s husband (Phelan Beale) left her, she and Little Edie moved full time to the “country” home they kept in the Hamptons.  Grey Gardens is the name of the Beale’s home on East Hampton, and it was the only remaining piece of Big Edie’s Bouvier fortune, which is the reason she refused to sell it – even though it’s sale would have allowed her to live quite comfortably in her old age.  Instead, the two Edies took refuge in the mansion as it crumbled around them. It was not winterized, and at one point had no running water.  The women were also host to more than 75 cats, raccoons and other animals who lived with them and in the attic space.  To put it mildly, Grey Gardens had gone from a beautiful, sprawling 28-room mansion to a gigantic flea infested shack in just a matter of years.  In 1972, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis (the niece of the Big and cousin of the Little Edies’) put up the money to save Grey Gardens from being condemned and torn down.  The two women continued to live there until Big Edie died in 1977 and Little Edie finally sold it in 1979.

Having watched both movies and gotten a glimpse of the Beale’s lifestyle, I had to know more about these two women.  I know that people live in this kind of filth, I know that there are people out there like these two, but seeing it, witnessing it on screen was at once so disturbing and fascinating, I had to know more.  Possibly also as disturbing to me was the “riches to rags” story, the story of aristocracy gone awry, it was as if the two Edies had no idea that they were no longer socialites.  Perhaps also unnerving for me was that neither of the Edies seemed to be suffering any sort of mental illness in their younger years. Yes, they were perhaps extravagant and eccentric, but not crazy.  Did living alone, with little contact with the outside world bring each of them to the brink of insanity?

I was driving down Ward Parkway Blvd. the other day, which is a stretch of beautiful homes in Kansas City, and I began to wonder as I looked at these homes, what exactly do we really know about anyone? I have driven down that road hundreds, maybe thousands of times during my life and many times I’ve thought about what it would be like to live in one of those sprawling mansions.  I never stopped to consider that those people might be just as ludicrous or absurd as the Beales’, or that all the money in the world won’t pay for sanity.  After watching what happened to those two, I started questioning my beliefs about the affluent families who lived in those homes I have so often coveted. It seems silly to most people, I’m sure, but I think the reason these films struck such a nerve with me is that I think we so often inexplicably tie money and happiness together, and both of the films so quickly struck down that idea in my head.  Those women, in the end, had nothing but each other – even the cats seemed to shake their heads at the Edies’ in disbelief – and while at least they had company, watching their relationship certainly made me wonder what weaves the human mind and spirit so intricately together.  

george romero was on to something

I lived up to my end of a deal today and took Lucy to…the mall. Yes, the mo-frackin’, dirty ass mall, y’all. I hate the mall. I LOATHE the mall. But my baby girl has been holding in her poops again (she did this during potty training and I will spare you any more talk of it, I promise NOT to be that mom) so I had to bribe her bowels into motion with a trip to the Disney Store. Why can’t the Disney Store be located on its own, in a strip mall or in its own building???? Did I mention I hate the mall?

First, let me just say to the dirty bitch from Texas who totally jacked my parking space, you should be happy my children were in the car because I should have come after you and slapped you in your big hair poof.  So, we park in north Texas and dodged speeding cars on our way into the mall. Why are people constantly in such a mad rush? The Gap has plenty of jeans.  When we get inside, we decide that the recession is either completely over or never happened at all.  How can the economy be that bad when there are 8 million people at the mall on a Saturday afternoon?

I would just like to share a few of the things I witnessed today. First, there was a pair of maybe 15 year-old girls walking toward me with neon skin-tight shirts on that said, “LOOK AT ME!”  As if there was some sort of alternative. One was about 34 pounds soaking wet and the other had clearly been eating all of her friend’s food for the past six years.  Mothers.  Please do your daughters a favor and teach your girls what is appropriate and what is disgusting.  Your daughter can be both heavy and appropriate, this is not a comment on weight. Rather, it is a comment on people who think it’s cute to look like they are hiding a life preserver under their neon shirts.  It’s gross.  I saw a cowboy dressed entirely in KU regalia. No kidding, even a bright blue leather Jayhawk vest.  I witnessed more young children misbehaving than I care to recount – and as many parents ignoring that terrible behavior.   Also? I’m thinking that the US military has it all wrong. Osama Bin Laden is totally hiding in a shopping mall. He HAS to be – where else would he be so safe and blend in so well?

People will buy just about anything. For real. Package up a turd with a bow and you can sell it to some sucker.  Pillows that look like stuffed Zebras, leopard print EVERYTHING, swimwear in JANUARY, some sort of learn a second language CD program, a ride on some sort of bungy jumping swing (would you really trust the mall with your life???). If we spent as much time doing useful, meaningful work as we do spending a shit load of money on crap, the world would be a much better place. This, from the mother who bribed her daughter to take a dump by buying her a stuffed cat. Wait. Nevermind.

two all beef patties

People. Again, I feel it is my place to point out some jive turkey ridiculousness. Someone out there needs to tell me what the hell McDonald's is putting in their nuggets to make people act like THIS when they run out of them. This time in happened right here in KC and the local news is all, "hey! if you see this woman, call the TIPS hotline." Uhhhh. If I were to run into this lady I would run the hell away from her with lightening speed. Are you kidding me?? This chic is not messing around. Does it make you wonder what happened to her that morning? Does it make you wonder what happened to her in her entire LIFE to make her think this was a good decision? This is the reason I'm so torn about watching local news - on one hand, it's so, so, so, depressing and frustrating. On the other hand? Miss it, and you miss some pretty impressive stuff - see? You're welcome!

a-hole ink

Oh, people. Where do I even begin with this story?? Yesterday, I caught the tail end of a news story that shocked me. I was upstairs putting laundry away when I walked in and saw it, and because I was upstairs, I couldn’t rewind what I saw, so I spent the better part of a day trying to figure out if this story was for real. You guys. These people tattooed their five kids. Children – ages seven to seventeen – and they did it with a guitar string Magyvered into a little motor deal. Wait. What? If I’m doing the math right, these two booger eaters were smart enough to figure out how to connect a guitar string through a motor and use it to physically alter their children’s skin, but they never stopped to think that they might be doing something wrong? Seriously. What is wrong with people?

And this, THIS is why I completely believe in Darwinism. It’s called thinning the herd, y’all. When asked about the tattoos, the mother (who, if I did the math right on this, is only about 12 years older than her eldest child) says, “I don't understand why this got blowed up so big. I love my children. We'd never do anything to harm our kids.” I would like to go on about this, but I am struck nearly speechless by the absurdity of this story. And so, you should just watch for yourself. I will also remind you that I’m a girl who has five tattoos. Five. I’m certainly not opposed to them, I’m only opposed to morons who think it’s fine to make these types of decisions for their children.