The first book I read to our son was a thick paged cardboard series made up of common images: dog, cat, ball, apple. It was white against black, and he loved it. The starkness against the shiny pitch, it kept his gaze. We first shared it on the night he was born. I kept on reading him to him, and then when his two brothers came along, I read to all three of them together. Every night of their lives since I first held them.
Some of our books were finished over a month, reading a chapter a night. The Boxcar Kids were a big hit. The one that really tried our patience but I was determined to get through it, was the Wizard of Oz. You'd be surprised just how different the book is from the Judy Garland movie we've all seen.
I always read to my kids, they'd cushion themselves around me, one would wrap himself around the top of my head, and we'd read a book before they'd go to bed.
It was an easy way to get them to fall asleep without a fight.
The stories we read were what made up our nights: a snack, a warm bath, pajamas, tooth brushing, and then under the blankets, pillows piled up and around, and headed for a good night story.
Then one night my 7th grade son went to bed. He went upstairs, shouted down to us that he was going to sleep.
"Sleep good, baby," I shouted back to him, thinking he was just that tired out. The next few nights, he did the same. I wasn't sure whether to ask him about it or not, so I didn't.
I was down to two around me for a story, but then the middle guy started to feel out of place without the older guy around, so he started going up to bed without a story, too.
That left me with our youngest.
"Hey," I asked him when he was leaning in under my arm one night at bedtime. "How do you feel about keeping on reading our stories, without your brothers?"
"I like it, mom. I was kind of feeling they were too old too. But I never said anything. But I don't understand how they can give up the stories just like that. You're such a good story reader to us."
"Do you think I should ask them why, honey?" I really wanted to know.
"No. They'll feel guilty. When it's your mom, you always feel like she'll cry about it."
"Yeah, you're right." I laughed at that part, because the truth is funny. I would probably cry if I asked them.
The older ones knew when it was time to be done with that part of our life together, the youngest one knew just where he still wanted to be.
Right now, I'm ready to read my nightly book. I don't read to any of them anymore. I'm here, under a blanket with a pillow behind me. And wishing I would have known that the last time I read to all of them, that I would have known, it was the last time.
There are pictures of me with my children, an unusual thing since it's mothers who take the pictures of their children and are seldom seen in the frame. The only reason I have a record of me learning how to mother these babies of mine, is because my mother was there to photograph it.
She would push me into the picture, "Get in, get in, or you will never see yourself with them." And with her 110 instamatic, she would click away, taking no less than three in case I had my eyes closed, or was looking away, or didn't like one of them.
I never knew what she was doing, but she did. She was freezing time. She knew then how fleeting our days are with our children being small. I didn't know that yet, I was drowning in two children less than two years apart, to even catch sight of shore.
But she knew, and she knew that one day, I would look at these photos of me, beaming while holding my baby up to the camera, and I would relive that time of uncertainty mixed with joy.
I miss my mother. She passed away three years ago, and when I look at pictures of me with my babies from then, both mother and child just starting with new lives, I know that I have these photos because of her.
I don't think I can make that point enough, that any pictures I have of me with my children when they were fresh, so young, are because of my mother.
Of course, I miss her voice, it grew tougher toward the end of her hospice care, but there was a rhythm to it when she said my name, that even writing about it now is impossible without a lump in my throat.
I miss her voice, I miss the way she knew me longer than anyone, I miss how to her, my children were the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen.
I took this photo here, calling out to my son and my mother, three weeks before she passed away. "Mama," I waved to her, "get in closer to Auggie." But she kept waving back to me instead. "Mi'ja," I remember her saying, "take a picture, so we have it."
I took three, in case there was one she didn't like.
The thing is, each one turned out just as beautiful as the other.
So many square feet, and a few of them are used wisely. The house we live in is still standing ten+ years after we first inhabited it, and all that we've transported here from where we once were, there, isn't used much anymore.
Over a decade of family life within our home, and the thought of the days spent here brings me to spasmodic cries and hiccups against Father Time as he whacks away at the hourglass, reducing my days of my favorite thing to do: nothing but sit at the kitchen table with Play-Dough and magic markers all day.
But there are a few things in this house, that will always be in this house. And yes they do add to the clutter and diminish the ability to walk freely through without having to side step, but these items are going nowhere until I take them with me in my request to be buried with them.
Let's begin with my computer glasses. These are a thing, people. I learned about them at BlogHer and they reduce glare from the screen and cut down on blue light glare and have minimized my migraines from too much (Ha as if too much online time can even be) Now I don't have to get off the keyboard until I want to get off. So, get thee behind me, eyestrain!
What else will I have clutched in my hand until I'm physically removed from this house? My Jessica Simpson slippers. I don't have the budget for anything from Jessica Simpson which surprisingly is costy costly cost-y, but I have a sister who knows this, and splurges on my behalf. My Jessica Simpson fur lined slippers are on my Dress Me In This For My Funeral list (like you don't have one.)
I will cling to my childhood GoldenEncyclopedia of Knowledge books. Googling has spoiled us with its Insta-Answer, but googling has also taken away one of my favorite childhood nerdom activities: being belly down on the living room carpet while turning pages of information on anything you didn't even know that you wanted to know about. From Nefertiri to Fort Knox, it was all there on a weekend afternoon. Google can't get you that. Well, it can, but you need my computer glasses for the hours you need to achieve my childhood nerdom status.
Little Bear on VHS. My friends Owl, Emily, Hen, Lucy, kind Mother Bear and Father Bear. And my favorite, Duck. I loved this Nick series more than, Ok, as much as, my kids did. The sweetest cartoon ever made and Mother Bear was the one who gave me my agenda for the day when I had no idea had run out of ideas was desperate for ideas, on what to do with three under seven. When Mother Bear made Birthday Soup, we made birthday soup. When Father Bear decided to hang treats from trees, we hung treats from trees. I needed no brain when Little Bear's family did all my thinking for me, which was perfect because there was a stretch in my life there where I didn't sleep for eight years.
My abuela's wooden spoon set, wooden cutting board, and wooden mortar and pestle. I don't feel lonely in the kitchen when my hands are upon where her hands were.
All three of their baby books. Dates of their well baby visits along with my notes on the doctor's exam, their tiny bitty height and weight recorded with a photo of them on the scale. These books help me ignore Father Time for awhile. Open to any page, and you'll see their first words, their first steps, their first tooth. It was there once, the days I thought would be there forever.
The shoebox of my grandmother's poetry . I see her writing, shaky but still clear though she was in her 80s, and I read the intimacy of her words, I think about how much there is in us that others never know. We are complex, with depth, we share our lives and still remain so much our own. I read her poetry and each time, it means something different.
My one and only Barbie Doll. When my children were little, one of them asked me if I missed playing with Barbies because all the toys we had in our house were cars, fire trucks, Legos, trains. I said no, since I never had a Barbie. That Christmas, with three children hanging around my neck so close I could hear them breathe, I unwrapped my first Barbie.
I hope she's not afraid of the dark and crowded spaces, because she's coming along into that pine box with me.
High School: when no one could even get my name right.
In the nicest part of McDonald's, the section where they have the leather chairs and a loveseat, seven teenage girls sit. They're texting each other, instagramming, and squealing with each "like" they get on their posts.
I'm sharing a lunch with my high school son, my middle boy, and we hear everything the teens are saying. I ask him how these girls could have so many friends. He shrugs and says, "People do," and he goes back to his burger. I stop chewing so I can hear them better, because I have always wanted to know, Why do some of us have the secret to social life? Will these girls fall away from how effortless friendship feels right now? Do we lose this sense of feeling at ease with others, do only some of us? Will we all?
"Oh!," one of the girls shrieks. "She just liked my selfie!" The other one grabs her phone to look and asks, "Why do you even like her?" "I'm only stalking her to find out about her boyfriend's friend. She doesn't know I can't stand her." I ask my son if people in his school pretend to like each other a lot. "Some might," he answers again without looking over at them as they leave.
---------------
I was never a teen in the midst of giggling girls. I was never among a crowd that numbered in the sevens. I was eighty-nine percent of the time on my own, inside my head. My teen life was spent in the land of the uncool.
Back then, when I met someone new, I would cross my fingers that maybe they would turn into a friend, but instead of smiles back when I initiated conversation, it was knitted brows and pursed lips that came back in reaction to my not knowing when to stop with any topic of discussion. I couldn't help it, I had a head full of trivia and nothing that I loved to do more than share little known facts and historical surprises. Believe me, I had no shortage of things to talk about. And each one, at the ready.
Kids would spend a few minutes with me and then excuse themselves, saying, "I'm going to go talk to Jackie now," I'd smile at them and nod, "yeah, sure, Ok. I'll see you at school Monday!" And they'd give me a tight lipped smile back, no teeth showing, a quick look back but without the energetic, "Yeah! For sure!" that I hoped I'd hear.
Then, when I was 15, during our school's morning announcements, some news came out that could have changed my world. The department store downtown was going to be interviewing for a candidate to win a scholarship to their charm school. Charm School is what I needed! This was it! My big chance to learn how to do everything right. I would learn how to eat in an expensive restaurant if someone ever took me to prom or homecoming. I would learn how to waltz if someone ever asked me to dance at a wedding reception. I would learn how to walk with my shoulders back and how to keep eye contact. I would learn etiquette and how to carry conversation so it would be equal for both parties. I clicked my pen and wrote down the date, Saturday, and the time, 9:00 a.m., at Boston Store.
The Friday night before Interviewing Saturday, I set my clothes out: a pair of brand new sailor pants, a thin as an extension cord white suede belt, a red ribbed sailor top and white suede platform sandals that matched my belt. I snuck a red chiffon neck scarf from my older sister's room to tie around my neck, I planned to have the bow twisted to the side. I bought new blush, "apricot sparkle." It was a cream form, and cost almost a dollar more than powder.
I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. and tried to get the beauty sleep Seventeen magazine told me I needed so my complexion would not be sallow and my eyes would be bright. On Saturday morning, I arrived at the department store by 8:30 a.m. for the interview. It had taken me two buses to get there. I had only been up to the third floor of the store before, but the offices holding the session were on the 7th floor. I got on the elevator and pushed 7. When the doors opened, I looked out into a hallway that held every beautiful teenage girl in the city. Their tall, long bodies with hair to match, leaned against walls, sat in front of occupied chairs, and rested against window sills. There wasn't a single girl who looked anything like me there. There wasn't a single girl there wearing pants.
When I checked in with another tall woman who had a clipboard, she wrote my name down and gave me a number. She told me I probably wouldn't get seen because of the amount of girls that had answered the call. Still, I wasn't going to go back home after taking two buses to get downtown before 9:00 a.m. I would wait until they told me I had to leave and locked the doors behind me.
At a little before noon, the woman with the clipboard shouted my number. I gathered myself up from the hard floor and with wobbly legs and a pounding heart I followed her to the office where the interviews were happening. There, a woman sat behind a faded wood desk. To me, at that time, I guessed her to be about 50 years old. She had black glasses that sat at the end of her nose that she kept pushing back up to her eyes with her sharp red fingernails.
She asked me to keep standing. Then to turn. Then to walk away and then turn and walk back to her. She asked me to turn sideways, then to lean the side of my body against the cold wall, with one hip jutting out. I did all those things while I watched her write. She made some notes, had me repeat my name and phone number, and then asked me for my pictures.
"I don't have any." I panicked. No one had mentioned pictures.
"Well. Thank you. You can go now."
I stayed, I was ready for the interview part.
"You can go now."
"I'm ready for the interview. I can talk about any question you ask me."
"This was the interview. You can go now."
"Didn't you want me to talk?"
She put her pen down and peered up at me. Then she stared. She asked, "What did you think today was for?"
"An interview," I told her, "for charm school."
"This was the interview and we have other girls to see."
I looked down at my feet, flustered. I had so much information to tell her, from all the books I had read. Then I noticed that the zipper on my pants had been down the entire time. My cheeks burned, both from embarrassment as well as the excess of apricot sparkle. I thought about how I never got anything right and never fit in anywhere. I stood, ready to go, but before I left, I turned around. "When do we find out if we won?"
"We'll let your school know."
I was sure to thank her for her time.
On Monday morning, back at school, girls buzzed about the interviews. "Do you know anyone that went? Who would go? I can't believe anyone would go. You'd have to be beautiful. I heard Antoinette Omdahl went." I stood frozen against my locker. Antoinette Omdahl, the senior went? She was the girl with the most perfect legs, a ballet dancer, a cheerleader, on student council, prom queen. Her teeth looked like they had been put in place by a master. Why didn't I know the interviews were for girls like Antoinette Omdahl? Why did I think I was one to go?
The school morning announcements began, and toward the end, our principal cleared her throat. In her thick Italian accent, she began, "It is my great pleasure to announce that one of our girls was chosen for the Boston Store Charm School scholarship. Antoinette Omdahl is going to be our ambassador with Boston Store."
Antoinette Omdahl. Popular, athletic, always smiling and giggling. The senior who skipped down the hallways, her shiny hair bouncing behind her. Her hair never needed to be tied down when it was humid. Why did I think I belonged somewhere where she was? This was another event that I thought I understood. My life was missed marks and misunderstandings. How did people know not to do things, when I didn't?
------------
The girls at McDonald's begin to squeal again. "Oh.My.God. You guys, look at this-I can't believe she posted this. And that Keith even likes her. Whatever."
I've forgotten about the story of charm school, until today. And how much being cool mattered. I tell my 18-year-old son the story about the charm school interview, my zipper being down, my cheeks ablaze with apricot sparkle. How I waited for the interviewer to ask me for my favorite Louisa May Alcott book, to which I would have answered Jo's Boys. He laughs while eating his french fries and almost spits out his soda. "You're so funny, mom. I wish I could have known you back then."
The last 20 years of my life have been spent as a mother. I have been with my children who accept me as naturally as sunshine and without question. Their hearts so full of love, they listen to me prattle about facts and the books I've read and the things I've learned, and look at me as if I'm the most fascinating person they've ever known.
They make me feel like I just graduated from charm school.
It's the end of our day, but my grandmother is packing sliced sausage, a metal tin of saltines, and bottles of Hamm's
beer into a brown box. My mother calls out to my father to remember the bottle opener. We are, the entire houseful of us, readying to take
flight. I look outside the kitchen window and see near darkness.
Where can we be going, and packing food for it? I chew on my thumbnail.
We have a blanket and sweaters. We sit, little children on adult laps, seven in a car made for five. Driving
out of our neighborhood and turning into the streets we only travel on
Sunday afternoons. But it's night.
My fingers are in my mouth again and
my Abuela brushes them down with a grazing slap.
I ask my father, “A donde vamos, papa?” I have to know where we are going.
He blows cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth out of the
rolled down driver's window. “Al lago,” he says. To the lake.
In the dark? To swim in the night? I pull the collar of the red and
white striped T shirts that my mother bought for the four of us into my mouth and start sucking.
“You need to stay near us,” my
mother reaches for my father's cigarette and takes a quick puff. I
barely ever see this and every time I do, it feels like
something too private for me to witness.
“No running,” she orders.
“It will be dark.”
She turns to look at me and
my brother. We are the youngest ones. “No running.”
“Si, mama.” I answer for my brother.
We arrive at the lake, the one we go to on Sundays. It is a weeknight, but we are here. I hear
voices and lean forward to peek out the window. There are so many cars here that it looks like the used car lot we went to for my father's car.
I leap off my Abuela's lap after my sisters leave the car and my mother
catches me. “You're running," she warns. My grandmother finds my
hand and gives the food to my older sisters to carry. My father and mother walk in front of us, her arm linked into his. He says something too quiet for me to hear and my mother laughs.
Over the voices, I hear the sound of pops. They are close, but muffled.
We move with the crowd, and I bite the edge of my bottom lip because it's
getting hard to follow my father in front of us. He is turning and
dodging but my grandmother is slow and I don't want to lose him because I am
little and we are far from home with my Abuela who doesn't speak
English.
I start to run again. My mother turns
around and I stop.
“Mama!” I call out, wondering if my
voice will be as loud in the night as it is in the day. “Mama! Wait for us!”
"Daughter! M'ija!” She calls back to me, but
keeps walking. “You worry all the time.”
I do. I am always
scared. I don't understand what we do and I never know where we go.
I feel caught. Between the house that
feels safe where we all speak the same language, and being here,
outside, where our voices are the only ones in Spanish.
I am between worlds again.
“Why worry, daughter?”
I can't explain.
My father claps when we find an open space of grass, and my Abuela spreads our blanket. The seven of us sit, shoulders and knees against backs. All around, there are people next to people and no place to walk in between. The grass is wet and soaks through. I
want to stand but don't dare in the darkness. I see no one else
standing off of their blankets and I know right away that we did
things wrong again.
The blanket we brought is the wrong kind. From the corner of my eye, I see that the family
next to us has food that I know is American. Not our sausage, not the
bright red salty kind that my father likes. We always bring the wrong things.
We don't know how to live in America.
No one in my family ever worries about how we don't do things right,
except for me.
We sit, I don't know what we wait for. The crowd is murmuring, and then there is silence. A sound like a
whizzing arrow slices through the air and then a crack of thunder. I scream and my Abuela pulls me into her. "Mi chinita, my little girl," her voice is soothing. I push my head
inside her thin summer sweater and I rest there.
There is no time to breathe
before the next booms start. The pounding of sound comes one after the other and I tremble with each one.
I have never heard anything like this except in a storm.
How long before the rain makes us wet?
My legs feel the ground rumble, and the wild thunder
continues. I throw my hands over my eyes and keep them squeezed shut
inside my grandmother's sweater. I breathe in and a smell like the wooden matches my Abuela uses in the kitchen fills the air. I want to be home.
There is a round of continuous pops and
I think that surely, this time, the thunder will bring rain. I keep my eyes closed and shiver, anticipating how we'll be wet any minute.
I hold the smooth buttons on my Abuela's sweater between my fingers. Twirling each one back and forth, I count to ten. It will make the time waiting for things to end go faster if I count each one. There is a moment of silence that stretches into minutes, and then, the thunder is gone. I open my eyes and look up. I see my father standing.
“The fireworks were better in Colombia,” he says with his hands on his hips. His voice sounds thin after the booms of the night. "They were more exciting." I wonder how they could have something over there, that is from here.
My father turns and bends down over my mother. She lifts her face up to him and he offers her his two hands. She takes them both. They are happy.
* * *
*My father had only three Fourth of Julys in this country. He died three years after coming to America.
This week’s Rolling Stone has a cover story called “The Songs That Made Me” in which artists share six or eight songs that had influence in their lives. They’re not always what you’d expect, but when the answers given were honest ones versus choices made to impress, it's a beautiful peek into what someone is like.
When Nancy of midlife mixtape invited me to join in on a “The Music That Made Me” blog
hop, it took all of two seconds for me to say yes.
I mean, music? Me and music? My thought
bubbles are lyrics. All day long it's “We Got the Beat” as I run
around getting everyone out in the morning, and then if I happen to
be driving through anxiety-inducing heavy rain it's “Climb Every
Mountain!” When I try on shorts for summer, I can't stop myself
from humming “Impossible! For a plain yellow pumpkin to become a
golden carriage!”
But when I sat down to whip out what I
thought would be ten minutes of song titles, morphed into a tortured afternoon of hair-pulling crises: The question posed is “Songs
that MADE me” not “Songs I LIKE.”
That pondering right there, is worth six pages of
journal writing.
Songs that made me requires me to look
a long ways back. Like through a tunnel of time that has me running
past Merlin and George Washington and Attila the Hun.
Growing up with three older siblings means I was
around music very early, the in kind. There was a hot beat always on the car radio or on the
record player going in the basement. So, even if I'm not a fan of
certain types of music, they may still be a large part of my life, because
of their presence.
This is what forces me to say that anything by the
Beatles is part of The Music That Made Me. Especially from the Rubber Soul album.
1. “Michelle,” The Beatles
I was so young when I first heard this,
but the power of feeling moved by music was something that made me
ache. So beautiful, so classic, so easy to sing to. Self-soothing and
cured whatever addled my poor psyche. This is an important feature,
when you've always been a nervous lap dog.
2. "Ground Control to Major Tom,”
David Bowie
First released in 1969, I didn't hear
it until I began to, as my therapist said, “individuate myself from
my family of origin.” So, it was the beginning of my teen years and
while up late one night watching Don Kershner's Midnight Special,
that I saw him. David Bowie. I fell in heavy crush love with all of
him, and this song, with its storytelling fed me with the just what I love parts
of drama, story, anguish, loss, of love, of BOWIE. Then,
then, THEN, the rising of Bowie's voice after the lift off sound effects? Kill me
now. I must have played that over 100 times every dang night in my
room. David remains my forever crush.
3. "Paint it Black,” The Rolling
Stones
I had grown up in a house of teen girls
dancing to pop Top 100 Dick Clark on Saturday mornings, so in the 8th
grade, when my friend's older brother came home from college and
would let us listen to his albums with him, my head spun from what I heard. This one, this one Oh Lord Here Come The Rolling Stones. Wild
Horses, Mother's Little Helper, Under My Thumb, but Paint It Black
spoke to me. Billy the college freshman probably had no idea that his
music was the reason I stopped hating my straight hair and let it go
frizzy and curly. Perfect for shaking back and forth to Mick and the
gang.
I wanna see it painted, painted
black
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted out from
the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted,
painted, painted black
4. "Bang the Gong,” TRex
Another influence brought into my life
by older friends. My high school boyfriend's older friend. The one I
thought was so cool because he had his own room in the basement of his parents' house with
5 foot high speakers! Awesome, dude! How old are you? 21? And you
have this cool room in your parents' house? Awesooooome! And all this
cool music? Why haven't I ever heard it before? Anyway, this is one song that will always spell s-u-m-m-e-r to me. Young, free,
dancing to TRex in Jeff's backyard while his parents were Up North.
When I hear this today, it's sophomore year all over again.
5. "Radar Love,” Golden Earring
This embodies the making of mixtapes to woo. Stalkerish, not at all. I was dating someone else,
but there was this one guy.... yes there was. And I would melt with
the mixtapes he would send me. Radar Love was on one. Cue me falling
into a puddle in my room with my cassette player next to my ear. But
I couldn't break up with my steady boyfriend for a guy who knew the
art of mixtapes? Could I? Oh - I was a fool, wasn't I? The power of
music, to sway love.
6. "The Zoo,” The Scorpions
I had never heard of this German band
until at a college party, when this song came on through speakers leaning out of a 2nd story flat. I also had never
liked heavy metal, until this song came on. And then I didn't care if
jazz was all the rage with everyone at college. From that night on, it was The Scorpions
I wanted to dive into. I went against the tide, and I believe I
was the first girl in college to finally stop pretending she liked
jazz because the boys liked it. Maybe we were all pretending I don't know.
But The Scorpions came into my life and so did the zebra cut up
Tshirts, high heels, and poodle dog hair. I was in it. So if it was a
house party singalong to Al Di Meloa or Al Jarreau or any other jazz
Al, I was out of there. This puts the heavy, in heavy metal.
7. “Private Idaho,” B-52s
Learning at the hand of Cindy Wilson,
Kate Pierson, the power of a sure move. There was a string of spring
break vacations where with my trio of friends we would hit the dance
club contests and request anything by the B52s. Sure, we made it look
like we just decided to dance to the song that night but we had had
hours of Saturday night house parties filled with dance move
perfecting. With free all night drinks for best on the floor, stakes
were high to bring out the moves. But no worries, Captain and cokes
were on us every time, because we knew just when to take it to the floor with the B52s.
8.“Lose Yourself,” Eminem
As a poetry lover, this one drops the
bombs. If you love a story, here you go. If you love the magic of
being able to feel what someone of a different sex, decades younger
than you, worlds apart, is talking about, this is the one. How does
he do it? In 4 minutes, you know him- you feel the battle cry and you
walk around like you've got Wonder Woman's cape on. How? That's
Eminem. Yeah, I love him.
9.“Somewhere Down the Crazy River,”
Robbie Robertson
Ah, how this works: poetry and a sultry
beat. The combination here started a summer that I remember as saying
screw what everyone else is doing. I am not them. This song kept me
company. I was the one floating down the crazy river, no
destination, but I knew I'd get somewhere, someday. This is one of
the sexiest, most intriguing pieces of music you'll ever hear. This
is one of the best songs you'll ever hear. And that man's voice?
Makes it 100 degrees out in March, "too hot to sleep." Oh, I hear you, Robbie. No way I can ever keep my hands from swirling up over my head when I pull this one out.
10.“In Your Eyes,” Peter Gabriel
My husband is not a romantic, overtly
expressive person. What he is is stable, dependable, humble, and
sincere. But words from him are few. So when he played this song for
me on one of our first weekends together, it nearly broke my heart
with how much of him he wanted me to see. It still makes me teary
eyed, how difficult it is to tell someone we care for them. I
treasure this song. It says everything, especially when on a string
of days of living a daily life.
11. "The Flame,” Cheap Trick
I began with ballads, and I'm circling
back to them. Music will always center me and calm me, and this is
the boss ballad of them all. The end of the 80s were a particularly
introspective time for me. Love had been had, and lost, and I felt
the pressure to adult. The summer of 1988 was when I had to make a
decision about someone I had been seeing for over five years. I still
dream about him. Life, preservation, survival, happiness, at times
means we have to do what is the best for us, even when we don't want
to. Is it torture to listen to it now as I write this? Only if deep
memories kill you.
*BONUS: “Feel so Different,” Sinead
O'Connor
Because of course, those moments when
we get tired of being who we are and say 'time to grow up.' A lot of
that involves forgiveness. That's where Sinead O'Connor talked me
through. With her, I gave up the anger of the done me wrongs. And,
yes, I feel so different. Know what? Move this one up to the top.
Was this fun to do? In a bittersweet
way.
Was it more like stirring up old
ghosts? Absolutely.
It was sweet, in a twingey prickly pain
sort of way, to remember who I've been.
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For more “The Music That Made Me”
be sure to hop over to:
Autumn makes me wish I were a poet, so I could put into words how this sudden switch in my life, going from full force bursting at the seams summer to the tree baring pause of fall, fills me with the need to stop, and examine.
The space between summer and winter is more like a new year than December 31. Something gives way, something new arrives. The green of summer that slowly becomes burning blazes of autumn here in Wisconsin, is like a farewell bonfire to the days of sun, no schedules, and days that go on forever.
It's a bittersweet season, but I work through it.
I hope you join me, at Purple Clover today, as I think of the promises ahead, after all the leaves have fallen.
That's the reason the South gives for their coiffed poufs. I have three Midwestern reasons for my tallifying production here: one white can of Paul Mitchell Freeze-n-Shine, one purple Conair blow dryer with a concentrator nozzle, and one boar bristle (eeewww gross) wooden-handled Goody round styling brush.
Also, soooper important over everything else: young, strong, taut, tireless arms. Super important. You've got nothin' without tireless.
My silver lining today, which was so much appreciated considering the work I've been doing since this week-end, that of sorting through every envelope, every book, every folder, every box, of my mother's -- was finding a 1980's hair gone high photo of myself.
The hair, frozen in place by Mr. Freeze and his ray gun himself, stands so innocently youthful, strong, confident and assured, with no idea just how abnormal a look this is on this planet.
Hair just doesn't do this.
I would wake at 6:30 a.m., step into the shower at 5 foot 6 inches, step out, produce the hair monument, and 5 foot 8 inches of me would slide into the driver's seat of my maroon Toyota Corolla, scrunching down in my seat all the way to work, so to not risk messing the bump.
What boggles my mind more than the hairdo here, is that I'd check off on it. Giving myself one last once-over before heading out in the morning, I would stop and look in the mirror, with eyes in far better shape than the eyes of mine today, smile at what I saw, cock a knowing index finger at my reflection, and be on my way, head held high (and hair).
You can just feel the safety-pinned jeans around your ankles, can't you?
xo
**You have all been beyond words with your private messages, emails, cards, and texts. To say you make a difference is an understatement. THANK YOU. Sorting my mother's items has been just what I need... and as sad as her passing is, I'm wild about old books, old magazines, and finding notes, photos, inscriptions... it's like being with her every day again.
Thank you for all the caring.
Now, as promised, the Secret Steps to Hair High Heels:
1. Towel dry hair so it's semi wet. 2. Bend over and dry bangs upside down with blow dryer at highest setting, ignore the pounding heart and dizziness that begin in minute ten. 3. Stretch and pull bangs around twirling round boar bristle styling brush, moving in direction of back of the head. Burn Dry and pull until you feel yourself almost snatched bald-headed. 4. When bangs crispy as well done bacon, spray while upside down with Freeze spray ray gun. Helps to have bathroom fan on for ventilation and ease of breathing. Try not to think of future with COPD. 5. Hang head for 2 or 3 minutes more. Steady self with hand on sink. 6. With as little movement as possible, slowly bring head back up. Done to prevent hair volume loss as much as to prevent orthostatic BP changes. 7. Kiss mirror, and walk out the door, two inches taller.
**If you do this, it will work.
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Many of you know from my updates on facebook and twitter, that my days/weeks are spent in care and visits to my ailing mother. (story here)
Her life has been one far beyond anything I could ever hope to cover here, and she has remained a woman that to this day, is intriguing and unpredictable.
One constant, however, and all six of her children would agree, is the very first image we see in our minds when we think of her.
Fashion hound.
In a lace-up number on the far right.
Fashion queen.
The one looking straight at the camera.
Fashion slave?
She is on the right, and her beautiful face here kills me.
Never.
In soft grey with spring green underneath. Never would have thought of that.
She was always one dressed in what she found to be fashionable, and her taste? Seeing her from my child's eyes convinced me that you are born with style know how and if not, you can try to learn it, but it is an essence, a predisposition and a whimsical gift that you recognize instantly on someone as innate or *book-learned.*
The soft grey suit again, this time paired with a confident stare.
My mother was not *book-learned* with her sense of style. Had any of us ever had the chance to skip into her dreams at just the right timed moment, we'd find her floating in gowns and sheaths straight from the pages of Vogue magazine.
From a time when Red Revival, gold hoops, and two hair combs were all you needed.
19 years old in a classic plaid skirt and bored stance.
The brothers as handsome as their sister.
My mother is on the left in black and a strand of pearls, my father is crouched below. My aunt looks on.
My mother on the left, in three different plaid patterns, and yet... it works.
It is with this knowledge of my mother, armed with the technicolor memories of her platform sandals and silk neck scarves, that make me smile when I walk into her room where she is now, in an assisted living center, and she looks up to see me arriving in ankle cuffed jeans, a black T shirt, Converse tennis shoes, and her first words to me are "Your pants, they could be farmer's. And is that T shirt your husband's? Are you here without earrings and how pale you look with no lipstick."
I will miss this.
And more than missing these words, I will miss the voice that reminds me of the stock I come from.
Hard to not be envious, as a child, of the kids who had Easter baskets taller than they were, stuffed with 24 inch high chocolate bunnies (bet they were hollow), miniature chocolate bunny eggs wrapped in pretty yellow and purple foil (impossible to peel, anyhow), and plastic eggs rattling with coins inside (pennies, I'm sure).
Hard.
Unless you had something better during this time of year, like I did.
We Colombians do a lot of things to the moon and back, and Easter -- well, come find out why I say "No thanks, you can have your shredded plastic green grass."
Some kids are fine left alone for a few minutes. They occupy themselves and you can go do what needs to get done.
Yeah. I wasn't one of those.
I tell you about the plight that befalls the unattended, in my monthly column, Memoirs of My America, featured today atFunnynotSlutty . Posting of my childhood misadventures -- about the days of figuring out life in America as a kid from another country -- is something I look forward to each month at FunnynotSlutty.
I hope you stop over and read my tale today, of The Unattended, and maybe you have a child like this? One who should never be left unsupervised.
*I've been blessed with a mini-me: my third boy who goes by the name of Auggie.
I have one of the nicest jobs in my small town. I work catering, making some fantastic food in amounts large enough to ensure that I get a taste of the chorizo stuffed dates and skewered shrimp in mango chutney we prepare for some very appreciative clients.
I like the food sampling part of the job a lot. I also like the way I can stand behind my green cutting board with the perfect evening summer sun coming in through the picture window in front, the sound of my freshly sharpened knife chopping and dicing, while my mind wanders.
Most of my thoughts are sweet reminiscings of the day spent with my three children, but on occasion there has been the unpredictable mental wince that pops up out of nowhere, making me squint my eyes in emotional pain as my data banks cycle through like a roulette wheel and the memory dice land on a time where I wish I could have a Do Over.
Painful, humiliating, cheek burning recollections that come up and slap you in the face like some angry cuttlefish. I have had memories that come barreling in destroying the peace of an afternoon as an image of me is conjured up -- of times like when I was in the 8th grade and thought prepubescent me could somehow look good in a red tube top.
Want to know what a red tube top on a 5 foot 5 inch 94 pound thirteen year old girl looks like? It looks like this:
Subtract the men fighting for my hand and you've got a spittin' image of me at 13
I'd like a Do Over.
Of that end of school year day, when I walked into JCPenney's on Appleton Avenue and stopped at a display table in the Junior Department full of itty bitty 5 inch wide tightly cinched tube tops and said That's the look for me! I can ignore the 34B breasted mannequin filling in the prototype so nicely. This sausage encasing like fabric will look just as AWESOME on 28AA me. [a cup size that truly does exist. No matter what Victoria's Secret tells you]
And that's how it goes, one minute I'm at work, smiling as I slice ruby red Roma tomatoes and Vidalia onions into thin ringlets for tomato pie with a three cheese blend topping, and the next I'm almost slicing my finger off from the needle across a record scratch of a less than stellar moment in my life memory in my head.
I'd like a Do Over, a Do Over of so many moments when things seemed like a good idea at the time.
Like when I thought I really had what it takes to haul an 18-month-old baby along with a three-week-old newborn with me for my annual tooth cleaning. Really?
Like that July afternoon when I attempted the community pool with a six-month-old baby and two-year-old toddler with the only words in the toddler's vocabulary being "let go a hand, mama ... let go a hand!..."
A Do Over, please, of the time I thought matte red lipstick, black mascara'd eyebrows, gold hoop earrings, and a spiral perm would NEVER make me look too ethnic. Nooo .... anyone can get shouts of "Hey! Maria! Is that you?" as they walk down a street.
Could I please also have that day back when I mailed a six-page-long hand written in my salty fat tears letter to my *one and only boy I will EVER love* telling him I understood what happened between him and Margaret after the party at Ronny's house on Saturday and I was all grown up and ready to forgive. Call me. Since this is 1982 and there is no voice mail, I'll be here all weekend. Waiting.
Can we turn back time to the hair appointment in 1983 where I said yes and let that two days out of Aveda beauty school hair "designer" talk me into hacking off five inches of lush locks for the Rosanne Rosannadanna? [especially this day, could we have back? This one still makes me feel like I can't breathe. I looked like an arrow]
And why? WHY can there not be for the love of all things holy a Do Over of the hour I wasted in my graduate school advisor's office while he MADE me listen to him practice his Shakespeare-In-The-Park for his community theater rehearsal that night? Like I didn't have other things to do? Do. Over.
And, finally, a Do Over, for the time I sat my college freshmen butt down at my can-you-believe-it-I'm-dating-a-grad-student!'s grandmother's house, while she served up a platter of I swear it's cauliflower! my favorite! that I excitedly heaped onto a pile in the center of my red apple rimmed china dinner plate, announcing, "These? I LOVE these!" with the dumbest smile possible as I shoveled gobfuls of cauliflower-looking rosettes of what was hand-whipped BUTTER into my pathetic mouth. [I still see your horrified face, Gramma Lucy, at your grandson's Latino girlfriend's mad passion for the oleo, which is why I'd like a Do Over. To explain.]
A Do Over, a start over, a repeat.
Just another chance to do it oh so differently. You know, like that first weekend in the summer of my thirteenth year, a Do Over, to whisper into my 8th grade ear as I picked up and tugged at the elastic puckering of the red tube top; a Do Over, to say, Get the ruffles. It's the sleeveless flowered chiffon number with the layers of ruffles hanging on the rack to the left that you want.
-------------------------------------------- **I'm over at CoffeeLovinMom's site today, shouting to the world about the one thing I just can't seem to do without: coffee. I hope you click over and meet Amy, I met her at Bloggy Boot Camp last year, and we were instantly comfortable with each other. Must be that Midwest thing.
My grandmother has been gone for over 25 years now, but the small things she did for me I will never forget.
A treasured daily routine of ours lives forever in my heart, and it only took her 15 minutes a day. I reminisce about it on my monthly post, today at TikiTiki Blog: the perfect place for the treasured memories of my grandmother.
Let me begin by thanking you for a most enjoyable family night out this past November when your Circus Show came to our city. My husband and I took our three children and had a fabulous time.You do a fantastic job of keeping the acts in all three rings going and I love the look of your stretchy white pants against the pressed red coattails of your frock coat; formal yet whimsical. Way to go!
With all the people I saw under your direction that night, I can tell you are a busy man. Let me get right to the point of this letter and tell you that I have decided to run away and join the circus. Your circus, as a matter of fact, as it's the only circus I'm familiar with. You also keep your travels confined to the United States, that's good. While I enjoy travel abroad as much as the next guy, I prefer to begin any circus internship on this side of the pond.
If you're shaking your head already making a premature decision thinking that this is a case of wanderlust, you would be wrong. But if you bat around the idea of mid-life crisis as a reason, you might be on to something.
You see, lately, I've been having these wonderful dreams of flying, on a trapeze, where I swing from room to room and the feeling of sailing and changing across trapeze bar to trapeze bar is so real I can hear and feel the whoosh of the wind rushing past me. After my fifth night of dreaming like this, I knew I had to contact you.
I can touch my toes, and weigh in at a trim 120 pounds. I can't even think about a trapeze bar without a shiver of excitement catching in my breath. I want to sail over the huge net below. I want to leap from bar to bar, heart pounding, adrenaline surging and fly until someone calls for me to let go; and I fall through the air, landing on the strong net, bouncing twice back up into the air first.
Before you tell me that there is little demand for clumsy middle aged women, let me assure you that I am turnkey talent. I could fill many roles for you. I have worked as a fortune teller, warning others that they will fall and break their necks if they don't stop jumping off that kitchen table now. I have performed magic tricks, feeding five from two chicken breasts. (slice and dice anything and you've got yourself a stir-fry)
Though not flexible, I am reliable. I can set up and tear down with the burliest of the bunch. You should have seen me at the outdoor graduation party last June when the tornado sirens went off. I have taught my sixteen year old son how to drive on the freeway, proving that I laugh in the face of danger.
I make twenty-one hour days look like a walk in the park, and am no stranger to cleaning up poop and sweeping out cages.
Am I too old for this?
Please let me be the one to answer that.
I can understand why you'd be hesitant, Sir, but all I'm asking for is a night on a low flying trapeze. I want to hang, dangle, fly, float, glide, like the woman in the Residence Inn Commercial.
If it's a matter of salary, please don't let that play into your decision: my life already consists of non paid performances throughout my day, so anything you offer will be an improvement.
I also supply my own Spandex (well, technically, it's Spanx, but who's gonna look.)
Just 30 seconds, Sir, to feel the wind through my hair. That's all I ask for.
Thank you.
Video: Residence Inn
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It wasn't just about neon cut off sweatshirts, rolled down ribbed socks, or lace up granny boots ...don't be so shallow.
There was l.o.v.e. in the air ... and never was there more of an asymmetrical haircut couple more truly meant for each other than me, and the most handsome man in Milwaukee.
A true story, for 80's week at the fabulous FunnynotSlutty: where we make you laugh.
You know how you're driving along, and a blast from the past comes on the radio and takes you back to a good moment in your life? I get that a lot. Hearing music from certain parts of my life brings out all the ghosts of people I once knew so well, I can't believe I know nothing about them anymore.
I've had some good people come passing through my life. Though their names aren't important, the part they played to a shy, insecure girl is one I'm forever grateful for.
In no order of one being any better than the other, here is a list of The Six Seven Kinds of Men I wish every woman had the good fortune to have had run through her life, just once:
The Dancer. This week end favorite is as close to having a handsome BFF as you will ever get. This guy doesn't care who's watching, what his friends will say, he just wants to pull you out on the dance floor and see you smile. Bobby Z's face is the one I always see when Walking on Sunshine comes on.
The Holiday/Special Day Rememberer. Oh, man, this one. Not a birthday, 6 week anniversary, Sweetest Day, or Earth Day passes without a lovingly signed card slipped into your college backpack. A genuine sweetheart with a heart of gold. It's Mark R I see when the stores start announcing Time To Buy A Card!
The Sharp Dressed Man. Enjoy it for as long as you can stand sharing the mirror with someone almost as pretty as you are. How fun is it to know a guy that likes to shop as much as you do? And one who really cares about his answer when you ask, the blue or the grey shoes with this one? Fun times. Gary B, you still that sharp dressed man?
The Talker. Michael A, how you would listen and have opinions and get as upset as I was when I told you what my crap roommate was pulling. I loved it. Walking and talking and holding hands for hour long walks, when you made me feel as if you didn't want to hear any one else's stories but mine at that moment. I heard you were married, I hope you're still listening like this, to your wife. If you are, you've kept her a happy woman.
Oh, the allure of the World's Most Handsome Man. Whew. How great is that while it lasts? To walk into a place and have jaws drop at who has their arm draped around you. Bill K, I always made it seem like you were the one lucky to be seen with me, actually, that summer we were together I felt like Angelina herself, and I couldn't have walked prouder. Remember the carload of girls at the gas station that just about ran over the gas pump when they saw you get out to fill up?
The Sweetheart. Wouldn't the world be so wonderful now and then if these sweethearts were able to dole themselves out to everyone, just a few months here and there, so we'd all get some of this love and devotion? The sweetheart who calls you like he promises, rides his bike over in the rain, learns how to make homemade pizza just because you mentioned how much you think you'd like to try it. Chris H, when I ran into you and your three little kids at the toy store 15 years ago, I could tell right away, you hadn't changed a sweet hair on your head. What a lucky wife you have.
The Comedian. Once again, you are here, Gary B. No one has made me laugh harder at absolutely nothing than you. It's this gift of humor that you had that meant I could never stay mad at your shenanigans. And you know just what I mean; being an hour late and showing up as if you hadn't realized it was an hour late. You knew, and you packed some jokes you could pull out in your defense as soon as you rang the doorbell. It was my admiration and love for how you made me laugh that kept us friends from the time we were 16 until we were over 30 years old. That's a long time to be friends. And then you had to move in with that jealous girl, Tammy 15 years ago. I hope you are doing well, because I think -- of everyone here -- I am most grateful for you.
There it is, the list ofMust Have Men In Every Woman's Life. The memories are almost sweeter than the real thing.
Is this No. 1, No. 3, or No. 4? Or all of the above?
