Fung-Shwa

I will admit that I am not a big fan of  mystical/New Age/Woo-woo stuff. I have, at various times in my life, suspended my disbelief long enough to check out aromatherapy, I Ching, herbal medicine, Tarot cards, flower remedies and Deepak Chopra’s ideas about eating according to ones body type.  I did like yoga, and will probably stick with that one (and I have a holistic vet), but otherwise I remain a staunch and resolute believer in Deal With It, Take an Aspirin, and If Your Body Type is “Bigger Than You Want,” Eat Less and Walk More. I would love to believe that sniffing a sprig of lavender and putting a big mirror next to the front door would make me relaxed and wealthy, but sadly I see no evidence that this is true. These are projects best supported by Xanax and windfall inheritances.

Last night as I sat transfixed by the many widget choices available on iGoogle (an activity known to my family as “working”) my dear husband took down the Christmas tree and put the furniture back in it’s customary arrangement. (This was an incredibly selfless and kind act undertaken with no upfront promise of sexual favors, and you may think that I shirked my duty; it might make you feel better to know that I am also in charge of deploying and tearing down my parents’ Christmas tree and decorations, so I am still on that particular hook).  Since I was toiling away in another room, deciding whether to install daily quotes from The Simpson’s or Jack Handy, Rob (the husband) made the daring decision to leave the sofa and chairs in their new “With Tree” locations. Admittedly, there aren’t that many ways to arrange furniture in a room that only has two whole walls, and necessarily focuses on the Ark of the Covenant television set located in the only logical spot.

When I surfaced, he asked how I liked “the Fung Shwa.” Since I believed that Fung Shwa was a French casserole made with truffles and duck confit, it took me a minute. “Oh,” I said with a figurative smack to my forehead, “you mean Feng Shui!” After thanking me graciously, as he often does, for taking the time to correct him, he allowed as how that was what he had meant.

“Well,” I responded, playing for time, “what do you think?” He shrugged.

“I can still see the TV from my chair, and I don’t have to move the couch back where it was.”

That, my friends, is a kind of Feng Shui I can believe in.

A Book Meme

I am honored to be tagged for a meme by junemoon of “like water on a rock or off a duck’s butt.” Here are the rules
1.Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2.Open the book to page 123.
3.Find the fifth sentence.
4.Post the next three sentences.
5.Tag five people.

Since I am virtually incapable of doing anything like normal people, I immediately found that every single book that was actually, physically “near” me was either a cook book or a poetry book, neither of which would involve proper sentences with any reliable frequency. So the dilemma: if I walk to the bookcase, eyes open, am I wrecking this whole thing by choosing a book, even if I try not to? (For those of you thinking I need more to worry about in my life, I can assure you that this is not the case).  So I walked to the bookcase, closed my eyes, stuck my hand out and found…Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger (which I love).

The relevant sentences are:

“Her mouth was closed, but only just. Her right hand, however, on the coverlet, was not merely closed but shut tight; the fingers were clenched, the thumb tucked in- it was as though, at twenty, she had checked back into the mute, fisty defenses of the nursery. And here at the couch, it should be mentioned, the sun, for all its ungraciousness to the rest of the room, was behaving beautifully.”

My take: Franny has come home for solace, and sleeps in the comfortable couch-bed her mother has made for her, with the sun shining on her as she returns to the safe harbor of childhood. I could use that right now, and I think there is maybe a cosmic, secret instruction in those words about what I need to do Right Now. I have a perfectly good mother who would happily make me cozy, but she’s in Florida at the moment, so I’ll take good care of myself, and retreat a bit from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

I tag:

Greentuna

Barbara 

jayedee 

katiekind

jolynna 

What I Wore

Last night I watched two different things on TV that made me think about my clothes, past and present. (Before I tell you what I was watching I must say, in my defense, that since I have actually read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in Middle English, I am allowed to watch whatever garbage I want to watch on TV, particularly when I am not in a very splendid mood). There comes a time when, if one consumes any more cchocolate, peanut butter and milk one will have problems to contend with beyond the psychological, and that, dear reader, is where trash TV and mysteries come into the picture. Playing about 500 consecutive games of computer solitaire is also helpful.

First I watched the pilot episode of “Gossip Girls,” which is the perfect kind of mindless, visually appealing, meaningless dreck with excellent music that I love. (Have I mentioned that I am a big fan of “The O.C.?”) During this turgid drama, a mother remarked to her daughter that she should wear a certain dress to a fund raiser because “it was the thinnest and prettiest she would ever be.” Later, I watched “The Devil Wears Prada” which. as you may know, is all about fashion and clothes and the relationship between who we are and who we appear to be based on our fashion choices.

So I was thinking about the clothes and shoes and bags that, over the years, have been significant in my life. I tend, these days, to be “Sporty Spice” in sweats or jeans, “Posh Spice” in skirts, sweaters and heels or “Scary Spice” in pajama bottoms, a ponytail and a T-shirt. I am trying to avoid “Resigned Mom Spice” which seems to involve those khaki pants that magnify everyone’s hindquarters, along with sensible shoes and some kind of boxy shirt with three-quarter length sleeves.

But I’m digressing. Here are the things I remember, and why.

1. The brown corduroy jumper with a purple satin heart patch pocket which I wore over a purple turtleneck and purple tights for my fourth grade picture. I was quite pleased with all of the colors, and it was comfortable.
2. The forest green ensemble with which I started the 6th grade. This collection included a cabled turtleneck, stretchy Levi bell-bottoms (not corduroys), a green tweedy skirt and tan Earth Shoes. Oh, and a necklace with a white enamel seagull like Jonathan Livingston. Everything came from the Jacobson’s “Miss J Shoppe” and I was dying to wear it all right away. It was too hot for wool, and I spent my first weeks of middle school sweating, red-faced and itching. I will say, though, that forest green is always a good color for me. When my hair is its natural color, that is.
3. The Famolare shoes that had thick, rubber soles with waves on the bottoms. I wanted them desperately (mine were like Mary Janes on top) and I loved them with a passion all through middle school.
4. The leather jacket from high school. It was very 70s chic; tan, belted, mid-thigh. My hair wouldn’t feather and I didn’t look good in jeans with Hiney-Binders, but my leather coat smelled like a million bucks (especially mixed with a little Jovan Musk) and I looked like, maybe, one of Charlie’s dumpier Angels.
5. The Gunne Sax dresses. I had two; one was a long dress which I wore to play my senior recital, and the other was shorter, but still long-ish and full. Both involved the button-down-the-front bodice, the scooped neckline trimmed with lace, and the lace up bodice in the back. The shorter dress had a vest to match. I felt curvy, and pretty and always on top of my game in those dresses. I got my first kiss in the short one and my worst kiss in the long one.
6. The terrible dress which nevertheless (I think) looked lovely on me, which I used to wear at my first college, in Boston. It came from Lord & Taylor, and involved a burgundy slip and a floaty, patterned over-dress. I wore it with burgundy T-straps (Van Eli, I think, from Pappagallo) to concerts at Symphony Hall, and for holiday gatherings.
7. The black Katherine Conover dress, from my second, more Bohemian college experience. It was a perfect shape for me: tight (and a bit bosom reducing) through the bodice, and full from the waist down. It was ankle-length, and black cotton. For three springs I wore that dress with black flats and (usually) a vintage black beaded cardigan from a thrift store in Oberlin. If I could replicate the outfit right now, I’d do it.
8. Dead Uncle Dave’s overcoat, which I also wore during my Bohemian years. Dead Uncle Dave had given it to my father at some point, and since my father was about a foot taller than Uncle Dave, it was not, shall we say, a “pearl of great price” around my house. co-opted the big, salt and pepper tweed thing, rolled up the sleeves and wore it for years with my uber-80s (more CBGB than Valley Girl) jeans and flat, black ankle boots.
9. The Banana Republic Skirt. When Banana Republic was still novel (before they came fundamentally indistinguishable from J. Crew), and they had those nifty, narrative catalogues (kind of like the old Peterman catalogues) they offered a long, full, tobacco-colored skirt that promised adventure, romance and a little Isak Dinesen action if you were lucky. I bit, I bought, and for years I wore that skirt with cropped tops and boots, feeling all the while as if something wonderful might happen. Sometimes, it did.
10. The Suit of My Dreams. In law school, it was often necessary to wear a suit – for moot court, for interviews, and for legal clinics which involved working in the court system. In my second year of law school, I purchased from Filene’s a beautiful suit that was flattering, unusual enough to make me feel un-cloned yet formal enough to be ladylike and appropriate. It was a tiny dark forest green and black check with a cropped jacket and a skirt with pleats that were stitched down through the hips and then opened gracefully. With a black scoop-neck blouse and heels, I was Susan Dey on L.A. Law. Well, she would have worn a shorter skirt; perhaps I was Susan Dey on L.A. Law crossed with my grandmother? Regardless, I felt smart and pretty and jurisprudential.
11. The Sexy Retail Clothes. For two years after law school, since there were no law jobs in Boston and I didn’t want to leave, I ran a very high-end store in Copley Place, in Boston. During those years, I was the thinnest I have ever been in my life, and my mother came for a conference and took me on the best shopping expedition of my life, featuring Ann Taylor (also cooler back then), Neiman Marcus and Talbot’s. Of the many wonderful things we bought (or, more accurately, she bought) my favorite was an extraordinarily expensive knee-length black linen sheath from Neiman Marcus, marked down 50%, which I wore constantly with different long, shaped jackets – a bright yellow, a bright orange, a cream, and very high black heels. It was tight enough that it made me look a little flatter and a little thinner, and it always looked good no matter what. I love my mom.
12. The Beautiful Clothes of the Professional Years. After returning to Michigan, single, 30 and a little desperate, I opened a law office and did LOTS of dating, including men who worked in the same building. I had to look good (in my opinion) from the second I left the house until I actually crawled into bed. I had two “best outfits,” one of which consisted of a long, A-line floral skirt and a cropped, very fitted black jacket worn buttoned up with nothing underneath and a pair of black Stuart Weitzman heels called “The Tipper Gore.”(Tragically, the Tippers were subsequently eaten by a beagle). This outfit was heavily influenced by Julia Louis Dreyfuss’ clothes on “Seinfeld;” I even wore a brooch sometimes. My other favorite, apparently influenced by Robert Plant’s backup singers involved a tight-ish, black knee-length skirt, black tights, black suede heels, a neutral shell and a hip-length jacket.
13. The Terrible Sweater. After I became a mother and gave up my law practice, I fell under the spell of the casual and sloppy clothes often worn my similarly situated persons. I liked the elastic waistbands, I liked the fact that I could sleep in whatever I was wearing, wash it if it had Spit-Up Shoulder, etc.. Towards the end of the Years of Dressing Badly, I made a friend who gave me a giant blue chenille sweater she no longer wanted because she had lost weight. (I must add here, that she subsequently gained it back, and I subsequently did the same thing about 5 times). It was cozy and huge and hid everything, and I imagined that I looked thinner and sort of “fun.” On mature reflection, I am aware that I probably looked as if every exploited Asian child responsible for the manufacture of the sweater was in there with me.
14. The Magic Skirt. I am currently in possession of a recreation of my long, black, pleated skirt. I think it came from J. Jill. Its a knit so it doesn’t wrinkle, its lightweight so it moves beautifully, and it is absolutely life-transforming with a red sweater or a black cashmere cardigan, and a pair of high heeled black boots.

What do you remember?

Anger

In my family of origin there were four people. Two “had tempers” and two were “martyr lip biters.” I fell into the latter category, and have spent much of my life genuinely astonished by displays of anger. I could not, did not understand, for example, how people could say terrible, painful, accusatory and (frequently) inaccurate things and later say that they had not meant those things because they had “said them in anger.” As far as I was concerned, if you said a thing it was said and could not be un-said, unless one was actually clinically incapacitated at the time of speaking. It was also true when I was growing up that we had a fairly genteel household. There was no rough and tumble pummeling or screaming at siblings; it just wasn’t permitted. My brother could ignore this ban if he was angry enough, but I couldn’t cross the line. I became a sulker, a stewer, a planner of elaborate plots I which I would die, and then everyone would be sorry that I wasn’t allowed to smack my little brother when he cheated at Battleship and then lied about it.

The flip side of being a lip-biting martyr is that, of course, you do get angry, you just don’t express it. I have long been a physical catalouge of unexpressed anger – tooth grinding, tension headaches, stress-related rashes, hair that falls out in clumps, and the odd panic attack. Ironically, if you asked five people who know me well (excluding my husband, who really does know me well) they would tell you that I am very calm, that I “take things in stride” and that I “handle things well.” The truth of the matter is, that until recently, I was “handling”things by suppressing and internalizing them to the point where I was literally falling apart.

I can get angry now, I’ve been working on it. I can almost express it, although I tend to get stuck in the realm of the passive-aggressive. Its tricky to go from St. Annie of Perpetual Calmness to a person who sometimes raises her voice, swears, or snipes. No one likes it much, it causes disruption, and its easier all around if I remain calm and smoothe things over. (Its really not terribly attractive behavior to yell and swear, but sometimes it is natural and human). I am now able to understand that I can argue back with someone who loves me, and that they still love me even if I disagree with them. I can talk politics with my husband, who is a member of the Other Party, and we will still be married and agree on most other things most of the time. I can spar with my mother (a member of the Tribe of Temper) and go out to lunch with her and adore cute babies as if nothing happened. It is a freeing thing, this ability to express anger when I feel it, and I am confident that my natural reserve and compassion will prevent me from becoming abusive or excessive in that expression. It still takes a great deal to make me angry, and I really can’t imagine devolving into a person who could commit acts of Road Rage, or hurl invectives at my child.

At this moment, I am angry at a friend, and working to sort it out in my head so that I can express my feelings without doing harm. It is one thing to raise my voice in the heat of an argument or to rise when I am baited, and quite another to be the sole angry party when one is feeling wronged and the other person is intentionally or negligently oblivious. If a tree falls in a forest and only I know that it was carelessly cut by someone and that it fell on my foot and broke it in two places, does it make a case for legitimate anger on my part when the guy with the axe walks around as if there was no problem?

I have to drive this train, if I want it to go anywhere, and I am not on ground as firm as that I travel with my family. I can feel my heart pound at the injustice I perceive, I can predict the itchy skin, the headache or the extraordinary fatigue that will result from tamping this down as if my feelings and reactions were ridiculous. But what if I’m wrong? What if I’m crazy, what if I’m over-dramatizing? What if this is a circumstance that nine out of ten other people would accept as “business as usual?” How does one ever know that she is justified in anger, short of a blatant injury like theft, dishonesty or unfaithfulness? When am I allowed to be angry? Who gives me permission?

I do not want to be one of those women who burns with righteous indignation because my child doesn’t get the lead in the school play, or writes to advice columnists when family members refuse to pay their share for an anniversary dinner. There is a line between projecting one’s own standards onto the world and being angry when those standards are not met, and being legitimately unhappy about being treated with disrespect or unkindness. I am so accustomed to believing that I am wrong all the time that I automatically question my anger and challenge myself to make a case, to prove that its acceptable for me to feel what I feel. I give myself tests: would Mary feel the same in this situation? Would Beth? If so, then its okay to be mad. If not, then I need to suck it up.

I guess I had always imagined that by the time I was somebody’s mother, I’d have all of this stuff down. Apparently there are growing pains into middle age, or wherever I am, and they are just as painful and confusing as they were when I was twelve and outgrowing my elementary school friends, or twenty two and pining for unavailable men. I’ll think, I’ll write, I’ll pray, and I’ll talk to people who provide sound counsel. (Well, honestly, I’ll also eat chocolate and watch “The O.C.” DVDs and fantasize the horrific humiliation of my tormentor). Then I’ll either find a way to express the anger that is threatening my equilibrium and peace, or I’ll acknowledge that I just don’t have it in me to stand up for myself and the kind of treatment I deserve as a human being. I think maybe I’ll just go buy the chocolate now.

Musical Horoscope: A Meme

I found this meme on my friend greentuna’s blog, and because I am juggling a number of tedious and distasteful activities today, I decided to stop saving the world for a bit, be totally irresponsible, and Just Play. Its done me worlds of good; I hope you’ll play, too.

Musical Horoscope

WITH NO CHEATING AND NO SKIPPING

Here’s how it works:
1. Put your iTunes on Shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write that song name down no matter what.

Q. What would best describe your personality?
A. “I Won’t Grow Up” by Rickie Lee Jone. (Hmmm. I hope, in the best sense of this, that it is true).

Q. If some one says it’s okay you say…
A. “My Old Man” by Joni Mitchell. (Is that kind of like saying “My Aunt Fanny” in a dismissive (like, “Okay? My Aunt Fanny!”). Or does it mean, looking deeply into the lyrics, that everything really is “okay” because of My Old Man?

Q. What do you like in a guy/girl?
A. “California” by Phantom Planet. (It is true that at least three men I have loved in my life have spent years living in California).

Q.How do you feel today?
A. “Feels Like Home” by Bonnie Raitt. (Yup).

Q.What is your life’s purpose?
A. “Rock the Casbah” by The Clash. (That is, in a nutshell, my life’s purpose. How am I doing?)

Q. What is your motto?
A. “Barbie Girl” by Aqua. (Well, if you saw my bathroom or my closet, you would probably agree).

Q. What do your friends think of you?
A. “You Send Me” by Sam Cooke. (Well, only very close friends).

Q. What do you think of your friends?
A. “The Way I Am” by Ingrid Michaelson. (Nifty. I like them as they are, and I have reason to believe they like me as I am).

Q. What do you think of your parents?
A. “Pump It” by the Black Eyed Peas. (I don’t even have words for this one).

Q.What do your parents think of you?
A. “These Foolish Things” by Bryan Ferry/Roxy Music. (Now this one is entirely possible).

Q. What do you think about very often?
A. “Life is a Highway” By Tom Petty. (Well, it kind of is. That’s why I have the song on my iPod).

Q. What do you think of your best friend?
A. “The Long and Winding Road” By The Beatles. (The meaning of this answer depends a lot on who I define as a “best friend.” It also seems to related closely to the previous answer. Lots of roads and highways going on, here).

Q. What do you think of the person you love?
A. “Make Your Own Kind of Music” by Mama Cass Elliott. (That is certainly what I hope for ALL the people I love).

Q.What is your life story?
A. “Nightswimming” by R.E.M.. (Dark, quiet, melancholy with a bit of humor…okay…).

Q. What do you want to be when you grow up?
A. “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley. (Well if you just go with the title, this would indicate potential religious leadership, but if you go with the actual song, it has to do with being a femme fatale, heartbreaking Delilah. I’ll take choice two for now).

Q. What do you think when you see the person you love?
A. “Everything Old is New Again” by Peter Allen. (Yes, in many different ways. Wouldn’t you like to know?).

Q. What is your hobby/interest?
A. “I’ll Stand by You” by The Pretenders. (Appropriate. My hobby is doing stuff other people don’t want to do).

Q. What will they play at your funeral?
A. “Because the Night” by Patti Smith. (Kind of erotic for a funeral, but what the hell; who better to sing me out than Patti?)

Q. What is your biggest secret?
A. “Down on the Corner” by Creedence Clearwater. (Okay, this would really only be interesting if I were a dealer/purchaser of drugs which I am not. I do have secrets, but none of them, insofar as I can tell, relate in any way to the title or contents of this song).

Morals and Basketball

The children of attentive parents receive moral instruction early and often. Whether the context is religious or secular, conservative or liberal, a firm grounding in right and wrong is the first step in growing humans who give to charity and return lost wallets. We started Sam with simple lessons: it is wrong to take other peoples’ toys, wrong to hit Tyler with the See N’ Say, and necessary to “share” whether you want to or not. As he grew into wider social circles and spent more time away from us, it was necessary to teach general good citizenship, such as the inclusion of “yucky” people in groups. After ten years, though, I still worried that once he was out of my sight, he forgot everything he had learned. Little boys are not known for their gentility, and are easily persuaded to participate in anything that looks like fun, from throwing crayon missiles to stomping ants.

Arriving early for volunteer work in Sam’s classroom, I saw a group of fifth graders playing basketball. They were on a blacktop court with two serious looking hoops. Each team had four members, and there were seven boys and one girl in all. Sam didn’t see me, and I enjoyed the opportunity to watch him when he was absorbed in his “work,” running complicated passing drills, high-fiving his teammates when they made a basket, and pounding up and down the black tar until his face was red with exertion. I was impressed that he knew enough to suggest a “pick and roll,” and admired the fastidiousness with which free throws followed fouls. These ten year olds had made rules, and followed them with no referee beyond their mutually agreed-upon sense of right and wrong.

As I walked towards the fence surrounding the court, I heard my son speaking to a smallish boy in a red ski jacket. “Max, we have to have even teams, and we already have four and four, so you can’t be on a team, you have to be a coach.” Max, apparently preferring to be in on the action, planted himself firmly at the base of a basket and began to yell. “That’s not fair!” he spat.
“Its Sam’s ball and he makes the rules” said Andrew.
“Yeah,” added Marcy. “Plus it wouldn’t be fair if one team had five and one team had four.” Max showed no signs that he was persuaded by this logic.

I looked around nervously for a teacher, or a playground monitor to mediate. There was no one, and Max continued stand beneath the basket and fume while the game whirred back into life. I wondered whether I should intervene, and considered what approach would be fairest. First, there was the issue of disciplining other peoples’ children. Did I have to confine my remarks to Sam’s behavior? Should I tell Sam that they should rotate in and out so Max could have a turn? Could I tell Max that he had to accept the rules because he had joined the game late?

As I considered my options, a second girl ran up to Sam from another part of the playground. I saw him nod, and heard him yell to Max that he could play now; the teams would be even. Max stepped away from the basket, swiped at his eyes and nose with his sleeve, and walked over to join his designated team. With no help from me, the drama had ended. As if nothing had happened, Max went to work guarding the unnaturally tall Kevin, and his team cheered him as he blocked a jump shot. I did not need to impose rules or to act as a referee on that blacktop, because the fifth grade morning recess basketball league had created a solid, fair and enviable moral universe. Perhaps we could learn a few things from them.

My Old Hair

For women of a certain age, hair becomes an issue. When I was a child, my hair was cut into a blunt bob until I was old enough to beg for long hair. Despite my ineffectual use of a brush, it was a look that worked for me in elementary school. In high school, I affected the same Farrah Fawcett wings of hair worn by every other girl in my school, and during my years as a young professional woman I had a “Rachel.” In between, I flirted with layers, grew out layers, straightened, permed, highlighted, and bleached.

To my surprise, my hair is now getting old. It is turning not gray, but actually white, and this alien old lady hair is growing in at both temples and along my part. A Hair Care Professional has informed me that I have a number of options, including highlights to blend the gray, or all-over permanent color to cover the gray. (White hair, for some mysterious reason, is always referred to as “gray” in this context). Both of these choices involve large sums of money, standing appointments for maintenance, special color-preserving shampoos, and large-denomination Pottery Barn gift certificates at Christmas. They also involve the cycle of colored hair characterized by three days of too much color, two weeks of great color, and four weeks during which the color fades daily until it looks wrung out and drab. This last stage is, of course, followed by the shock of newly applied color, which makes one’s hair appear to be seven shades darker or two shades blonder than it was only hours earlier.

I liked the idea of hair color when it was fun, but I bitterly resent the notion that I “should” color it to obscure signs of advancing age. I admire women with beautiful gray or white hair, like Heloise or the model in the J.Jill catalogs whose beautiful, young faces contrast stunningly with their, long silver hair. The problem is that my hair isn’t silver, it is reddish brown with white bits at the temples and near the part. It looks very much like a bathtub with hideous rust stains. Currently, I color it with temporary color that washes out in twenty four shampoos, and leaves big dark stains on my pink bath towels. Every twenty four shampoos I reevaluate whether I should let it go white, have it professionally colored, or go another twenty four shampoos and see if I have a hair-related epiphany. So far, I have gotten as far as making and canceling two appointments at the salon, and buying one more box of temporary color.

Coupled with the issue of color, is one of length and style. My mother, a former Wellesley girl, has a number of rules regarding a woman’s appearance. Prohibitions include tattoos and piercings of any kind, “vulgar” amounts of gold jewelry, and long hair on women “of a certain age.” I believe myself to have passed that age about two years ago, but I cannot bring myself to get either the short, wash-and-wear “old lady” cut or, the longer and slightly fluffier variation, the “fat lady” cut. I am also avoiding the “suburban mommy cut,” which generally involves long layers that can be tucked behind the ears. I have had this cut in the past, and it actually looks pretty good, but makes me feel vaguely Stepford. Add beige highlights and a pair of khaki Capri pants and I’m interchangeable with every mom at the grocery store.
At the moment, my hair is growing past my shoulders, an awkward amalgam of ancient layers, split ends and seasonal frizz and curl. It is pretty much reddish brown. One day, I may see a magazine picture, or have a conversation, or see someone on the street, and be seized by the sudden, desperate need for a haircut and highlights. In the alternative, I may wake up one morning at peace with the decision to be permanently finished with coloring and “styling.” For now, I am looking a little suburban, a little Lady Godiva (although always fully dressed in public), and mostly confused.

The End of the “Ons:” Some Music, Maestro, Please!

 

Although I place a high value on feelings like compassion and gratitude, I think its gotten far too serious over here. I’ve had two days of not writing about food on my cooking blog, and a protracted period of not writing about anything vaguely amusing on my “fun” blog. Believe you me; I have enough serious thoughts, worries, neuroses and borderline psychoses to fill many pages, but today I want something light. Capricious. How often does a 45-year-old woman who doesn’t work in Vegas, on Broadway or in a kindergarten classroom get to be “capricious?”

I’ve been thinking about music lately, mostly in terms of its power to evoke memories and emotions. I was a musician for many years, so there are numerous classical works that bring specific times and situations to the surface of my consciousness. Because I have lived my entire life surrounded by popular music on radios, vinyl, CDs, MP3s and television, there is also a vast quantity of “popular” music that can instantly transport me to a 7th grade dance (”My Eyes Adored You”), riding the subway with my Walkman (They Might be Giants and REM), or my years of working retail (Mariah Carey singing Christmas carols).

I like many, many songs that are probably considered vacuous by others, including “My Sharona,” and “Black Betty,” but there are also songs that I. just. hate.. There are actually entire bands whose entire output could disappear with no effect on my life: The Eagles come to mind. Here, in no particular order, is a list of songs I hate. I notice that many of them are from the 70s, and many involve animals. If you love them, remember that there is no accounting for taste. If you hate them, give me the cyberspace knuckle bump and consider us soul mates.

1. “Muskrat Love” by The Captain and Tenille. They were so damned cute, and I love “Love Will Keep Us Together,” but this song is creepy and it just doesn’t make any sense. Why not moles or possums?
2. “A Horse with No Name” by America. I know lots of people like this, but I find it dull and pretentious. Symbolism should be subtle.
3. “Afternoon Delight” by The Starland Vocal Band. Okay, so we were in 8th grade, singing along to this song about people having sex in the afternoon? Eeeeeew.
4. “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond. So leave, already.
5. “Angel of the Morning” by Juice Newton. I don’t get it.
6. “Let ‘Em In” by Paul McCartney & Wings. This man wrote and sang some of my favorite songs in the history of music; I guess anyone can have a bad day.
7. “Baby I’m a Want You” by Bread. Perhaps he needs her to give him some instruction in grammar.
8. “Precious and Few” by Climax. Why?! Is she far away? Married? In quarantine?
   
9. “Delta Dawn” by Helen Reddy. Another case of “great artist, unfortunate song.” (I do kind of like the Tanya Tucker version, for some reason). This kind of maudlin, Miss Havesham theme seems to have been very popular around this time. (”Drusilla Penny,” “Eleanor Rigby,” et al).
   
10. “Touch Me in the Morning” by Diana Ross. Amazing, amazing voice, but again, who are we kidding. “Touch me in the morning/then just walk away” and its fine with her? See #5,above.
11. “Wildfire” by Michael Murphy. See #2, above.
    
12. “Reunited” by Peaches & Herb.
    
13. “You Light Up My Life” by Debby Boone.I will readily admit that this is a song that appeals to the weepy, crush-prone soul of an adolescent girl. Apparently, though, the song was about God not Robbie Benson. I personally think God prefers it sung by Patti Smith (seriously). I know I do.
14. “Sometimes When We Touch” by Dan Hill. This has a kind of creepy, intense, unhealthy relationship vibe. Is he saying that he loves her, or that he doesn’t? Don’t they ever just read the paper and eat bagels?
15. “Midnight at the Oasis” by Maria Muldaur. I don’t get it. Its basically “Afternoon Delight” in the desert.
16. “Loving You” by Minnie Ripperton. Beautiful voice, but then she, well, she screams and keeps on singing like nothing happened. Wierd.

I will admit that I originally had “Brand New Key” by Melanie on my list because I remember thinking it was dumb and annoying, but when I listened to it again, I found it kind of charming and funky.

On Gratitude

This is the time of year when Americans focus on all the things for which they are grateful, as part of Thanksgiving. I am always grateful for my family, the roof over my head, the good food I eat, my access to good medical care, the availability of meaningful work, free speech, and a whole set of less important (things like my stand mixer and my iPod).

I also have one big surge of gratititude every year for the young man who died and gave my mother years of life. About a week before Thanksgiving in 2002, my mother was on dialysis, and had been approved for a kidney transplant. Her kidney had failed several years earlier, as the result of poorly controlled hypertension, and she then began years of dyalisis which involved the insertion of a shunt, and thrice weekly sessions hooked up to the giant machine that cleaned her blood. She could no longer travel, she was often exhausted, and after a long life as a dynamic and involved person she felt useless and hobbled. She was on “the list,” but could not receive a transplant unless a donor was found who was a good match. My brother and I couldn’t donate because of our family history of hypertension and diabetes, which made it inadvisable for us to give up our own kidneys.

About a week before Thanksgiving that year, the “transplant beeper” went off, letting us know that a donor kidney had been found. In the middle of the night my father, mother and I drove the 60 miles to the hospital where the surgery would be prepared. We were greeted by the surgeon, my mother was wheeled off to be prepped, and my father and I settled in on hard plastic chairs for the night. Off and on during the night, I went to the the hospital’s chapel to pray for my mother, the surgeons and attendants, my father’s spirits, and the family of the donor, who we knew had been killed in an accident. The next morning we were allowed to see my mother, already more pink and less yellow than the day before. The surgeon was cautiously optimistic, and although she would miss Thanksgiving dinner at home, we would all have much to be grateful for.

We subsequently discovered that the donor had been a young man attending a local high school who had died in a motorcycle accident. As a mother, I cannot imagine the pain that the boy’s family endured then, or that they feel to this day. I imagine that this week is as sad and difficult for them as it is joyous for my family. I  hope that they know that by choosing to donate organs they gave many people the gift of years of loving their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, parents and children. There is nothing “right” about losing a child on the brink of his adult life, but if there is anything good, it is that so many lives were saved by the loving choice that his family made during a time of tremendous pain and grief.

Have you signed an organ donor card?

On Compassion

 ”Compassion is the basis of morality.”
- Arthur Schopenhauer

About a week ago, our local paper ran a story about a 33-year-old woman who had just given birth to premature triplets, and was jobless, in debt, and living in a shelter. She was trained as a medical transcriptionist, and had worked, but  lost her job and her home before going into the hospital for a period of bed rest followed by the birth of her babies. Medicaid had paid for the hospital stay and the early care of the triplets, but there was clearly no family support (her own mother lives in the shelter with her and her children), and no support from the father of the triplets. It was the policy of the shelter to limit occupants to relatively brief stays, other area shelters were full, and it was unclear where the woman and her babies would go when their time at the shelter ran out.

My heart went out to this woman for a number of reasons. Aside from the fact that we are both woman, mothers, and human beings, her situation created a painful “there, but for the grace of God go I” moment for me.  At 34, I was also pregnant and unmarried, and ordered into the hospital for 7 weeks of bed rest.  This resulted in the loss of all of my ongoing legal cases because I was a solo practitioner and could not meet with clients or attend hearings from my hospital bed. The difference was that I was supported with great love by my parents, by the rest of my family, by my (now) husband, and by a network of friends and colleagues. I lost some time, I lost a job, I lost a lot of income, but I felt completely safe. I knew I had a place to go after my son was born, I knew I was going to be married as soon as I was allowed to stand up and get dressed, and I was constantly aware of a huge safety net that kept me from falling too far even though I had made a mistake. I felt compassion, rather than judgment, from everyone around me. I was well-educated, I had money in the bank, I had a “nice” family, and the father of my child was in and out of the hospital at least twice a day.

This woman had no safety net, and was on the edge of living on the streets because she made a decision, as I did, to bring an unplanned pregnancy to term because it felt like the right choice. Making that choice brought me a beautiful child, a hastening of the marriage that had already been planned, and the beginning of the best part of my life. It brought this woman, my doppleganger, poverty, anxiety, judgment and a complete lack of security at a time when all new mothers are overwhelmed and exhausted even if they have only one infant.

As one would expect, because of the story in the newspaper there was an outpouring of support. Money, baby clothes, and rent-free living situations are flowing freely at the moment, and it is my prayer that this will be enough to see the woman through a difficult time, and to get back on her feet.

There is also the response that I knew would be forthcoming; a response that is compassion-less, judgmental, vindictive and based on fear and stereotypes. To whit (from the newspaper): “[t]hose poor kids should be put up for adoption. Mommy has had sex with a stranger, is homeless. She has no clue how to raise kids let alone take care of herself.”

I am going to take a (metaphorical) deep breath, and thank God for my own great good fortune. Then I am going to remind myself, and anyone reading this, that we are all in this “life” thing together. I admit that it is hard to feel great sympathy for child predators, axe murderers, and certain other (arguably) evil types. In this instance, however, we are talking about a woman who made a mistake that many (including me) have made before her. She has been amply punished for that mistake, and as humans we have an obligation not to judge but to feel and express compassion towards her and her three babies and to help them move forward into a life with more security and greater potential.

Maybe this woman will make other mistakes. Maybe she won’t be Mother of the Year. Maybe she’ll do something(s) that you or I would find immoral, unpleasant or sinful. On the other hand, maybe she’ll love her children, raise them as well as she can, and try to do a little better every day.

We can’t know her future any more than we know our own, and we should not judge her dispassionately based on her past. We should wish her well, feel joy that her children are alive and healthy, extend a helping hand and treat her with compassion because she is one of us. Regardless of our own religious, political or ethical beliefs, we can’t be anything but human and flawed; we would all do well to remember that rather than trying to set ourselves apart as superior beings. There is only one of those, and I’m pretty sure He would expect us to treat her with compassion, too.