Take One for the Team

I have a Pinterest Board entitled “Inspirations and Funnies” I collect sayings and quotes that speak to me. Some are displayed on my chalk boards around my house. They often inspire a blog topic like this one:

“Without the rain there would be no rainbow.”

Years ago Jodie Foster played a struggling mom in a movie. Her friend said, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

Foster’s character’s response: “This isn’t lemons. This is dog shit.”

This is how I feel about cancer. It killed both of my parents. It disrupted my brother’s life before he turned 50. Cancer took many other relatives and friends. In recent years, it almost jeopardized my weekend getaways with my “sisters.”

I’ve seen sayings like, “cancer sucks.”

I just saw one that read, “Do not keep calm and carry on…bitch slap cancer.”  I thought that one was funny.

Without cancer there would be no….what?

When life gives you cancer, make….what?

There is no lemonade. There is no rainbow.

When cancer happens, people  desperately need a diversion. It’s the taking control over something we have no control over. Last weekend I hosted a get together. I was going to call it “Crafting for Cancer,” but I figured I would get a much better turn out if I called it “Crafting with Cocktails.” My friend who is being treated for ovarian cancer enlisted me to assume the role of Chief Costume Designer. Team “Z” is made up of over 25 friends who registered to walk in a 5K next weekend. The event is called “Turn the Village Teal,” to raise awareness for ovarian cancer.

I created a few ideas, and with my friends’ input we settled on floral headbands for the women and bowties for the men. I made a sample of each, and last weekend a small group of us got busy assembling the costumes. My friends joked that they were happy to help but not really crafty. I promised a “skill appropriate” task for everyone. Luckily, there was much cutting to do. They all proclaimed to be proficient with scissors.  Aside from them renaming my garage “B’s Sweat Shop” they were good sports about following directions. After hours of cutting out circles of tule, lace & chiffon, I instructed them in how to assemble the flowers. One friend said, “Wait, we are MAKING those flowers?” Hours later the sarcasm started. “I hate Brenda….I hate teal…..I hate these flowers.” I promised them it would be worth it and our design would get us on television.

As usual, when this group convenes, we laugh, eat, drink and make good memories. I knew I went a little overboard on the design. It was a little ambitious for the skill level of the crafters. I thanked them and told them we were in good shape. I could finish the costumes during the week. They insisted on coming back on Sunday. I love those girls! No matter what we are doing and why we are doing it, we have fun.

I like writing because I can think about it, edit and rewrite if I need to. I have a chance to consider if my sarcastic sense of humor will offend anyone. When our team leader “Queen  Z”  humbly asked if her costume could in some way stand out a little from the rest of the team, I accused her of being an attention whore. When she suggested deleting peacock feathers from the design because of cost concerns I said,” Quit making this about you. I want the damn feathers.” When you get a group text from a cancer patient that says not only just “LOL”, but “I’m crying I’m laughing so hard,” you know you have done your job as a friend.

This project of creating matching costumes was a diversion, something to think about other than cancer. When it happens, people don’t always know what to do or say. Suggest anything and people will happily spring into action as our friends did. Queen Z is so loved that her friends are making a mountain out of a mole hill.  A little 5K walk is now a 3 day weekend. Go big or go home. We will probably have a meeting this week to discuss our restaurant choices and activity plans in the area. Ironically, a cancer walk has become another reason for a weekend getaway, laughing and making memories.  I have never attended one of these events. If we get there and the costume competition is stiff, the men in our group will be taking one for the team. I promised Queen Z that we would be making a television appearance. My last minute plan is for the guys to streak in the 5K wearing nothing but a teal colored bowtie.  So, if you are a Metro Detroiter, tune into the local news Saturday morning, just in case.

 

Lake Neighbors

Four hours north of Detroit, in an undisclosed location, is a small, private lake hidden in the woods. I never saw the movie “Deliverance,” nor do I want to, but after first time guests ask us how we found the place they can’t resist but to make a crack about hearing banjos. It is in the middle of “Michigan’s Up North Nowhere.” Many of the cottage owners are second and third generation.

We built our cottage from scratch, however, we tried hard to make it look like one of the originals. I like all things vintage and this lake neighborhood deserves to be preserved. I do second guess once in a while when, on one of the few vacant lots remaining, a new modular is plopped down in a couple of hours. We have been at this for 18 years and it won’t be perfect any time soon.

This morning I enjoyed my “thinking” walk on the gravel road that leads to and from our cottage. A lake neighbor drove by and yelled to me out of his window. In Detroit, depending upon what time of the month it was, I might have yelled, “Buzz off, perv!” Up here, he made me laugh. It was an inside joke from the 4th of July, that due to no shenanigans of my own,  won’t die anytime soon.

Most of the time my walk is on cement and very noisy. I can drown out the noise when I’m in the zone, but up north I don’t have to. Often times I take a pair of scissors and cut a wildflower bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace, chickory, & thistle. The locals probably see weeds. They probably are. I don’t care. I’d add a dandelion if I needed some yellow. To me, it is a little piece of nature and it isn’t growing through the cracks of the city sidewalk. It is an extra special treat when I see the twin fawns, still wearing their spots. I stop. I watch them, and they watch me.  It’s a stand-off to see who will move first. I usually win.

Like boats, many of the cottages have names. One is called “Casa Colibri” after the abundance of the ruby throat hummingbirds in the area.  One cottage sat empty for a few years after the older lady moved out. This year we have new neighbors. They can name their cottage whatever they want, but to me, it will always be known as “Fluff’s Hilton.” Now at Fluff’s, there is “No Vacancy.”

One neighbor bought a boat second-hand, so it already had a name on the back. It was a gold glittery speed boat that looked like it had been in a James Bond movie. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the name off the back. The outline was still visible. That neighbor will be forever nicknamed “Uncle Winky”

We have another “uncle” on the lake. He could be described by most as “tall, dark and handsome.” He never ceases to amuse us with his decorative board shorts. How can I describe them? The best way to put it would be “adult” board shorts. This holiday weekend he did not leave anything to the imagination. The graphics were large….and graphic. A few years ago he had a pair with a small grey and black print. The mothers of the younger kids preferred that pair. You had to stare at his junk for a really long time to see that the tiny print was actually naked women.

Most holiday weekends a rafting party convenes somewhere on the lake. Neighbors we’ve never met raft up too. It is not exclusively for the cool people like the table in the school cafeteria, but we do tend to make a few snide remarks about “porta potty guy” or the people who choose chores over floating in the lake. Don’t get me wrong, there is always something that needs doing when you own two houses, but schedule a day off already.

The rafting party, no matter what holiday, is named Lake Palooza. On 4^th of July a neighbor brings a plank leading to a keg floating on its own raft. Neighbors have tshirts from previous Palooza events that read “I walked the plank at the lake.” If you are unable to successfully walk the plank, you are required to wear water wings that are normally made for toddlers.

One boat is especially equipped with a generator for making frozen drinks. This year a creative neighbor made a “tip ski.” It is a water ski with 4 shot glasses attached. I would suggest finding 3 friends who are about your height. Being about 5 foot nothing I am at an extreme disadvantage. If the other 3 are taller than you, you can bet that tiny daiquiri will not get in your mouth, but will go right down your cleavage. Live and learn.

One neighbor, I’m assuming a male, brought some cocoanut bras just for fun. After a wardrobe malfunction this past 4^th, one female neighbor was awarded at the next gathering, a necklace with two “exhibitor” ribbons strategically placed. We hope the fun will just never end.

I’m always a bit depressed on going home day. This morning I went out for a walk before packing it up. I was thinking about all of our lake neighbors. We have all made sacrifices. We probably could have gone to Europe every summer with the money we’ve spent on owning and maintaining a lake house. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think we could all admit that we don’t actually know everyone’s names. I can honestly say I don’t know what everyone does for a living. It doesn’t matter. What we have in common is that we come to Lake Palooza. Yes, we get a little silly, but we get away from it all for just a few days.  I’m thankful for our lake neighbors. And just when I thought I had nothing to write about today, a lake neighbor drove by and yelled “nice cocoanuts.” Thanks, neighbor, for all the fun and memories, and for throwing a blog topic right out of your window.

Livestrong

Seven hours south of Detroit sits a little Victorian town surrounded by rich soil, miles of corn fields and family farms. It is also home to a factory that builds turbo chargers and superchargers. It is the bread and butter for many locals as well as the marketing guy from Detroit to whom I am married. It was here that 22 years ago,  I romanticized about living on a small farm, growing my own food & owning a small art gallery in town that featured the locals’ woolen knits, wood carvings, and hand stitched quilts.

School, neighborhood friends, hockey teams, dance competitions, and family ties kept us in Detroit. I am struggling to get used to this new chapter, but now that my kids are away at college I can tag along with my husband to the fun business destinations. I don’t really have any interest in flying over the Atlantic Ocean for 13 hours, but I will definitely go to Sin City for a trade show, the Miami Boat Show in February, or this little Victorian town near the Kentucky border.  

On the long car ride down, not only did I hear a lot of Bob Dylan and BB King on Classic Vinyl and Bluesville, I also got a few physics lessons. The semi in front of us had black smoke because his turbo charger’s oil to fuel ratio must have been off. The last batch of hard boiled eggs I made were too soft because I used a pot that was too small and the thermal mass was wrong (or something like that). This is the price I pay to be married to an engineer and go on a little get-a-way that is partially covered on company expenses.

We stopped at a rest area somewhere between Indy and Effingham, Ill. The only other car in the lot was a dull blue minivan with a paper temporary plate. The luggage rack was stuffed with thin, black garbage bags, barely secured with twine, and tattered from the wind. About 20 yards away a little boy sat at a picnic table eating a bag of chips. He had a tiny wirey-haired white dog that wasn’t more than four pounds on a makeshift leash from the same twine that was securing the "luggage."

A man slid open the side minivan door and hopped out. He wore black jeans and a neon yellow “Livestrong” shirt. I, myself love thrifting, so I am not being snobbish when I say that I doubt he bought the shirt at Dick’s Sporting Goods for $32. It was 90 degrees. His jeans were not appropriate for the weather, but by the looks of things, he might not have had a change of clothes nor a place to change them. The exposed van revealed another man. He was holding an infant. The van looked stuffed with blankets but no car seat in sight. I couldn’t help but wonder where two men and two kids might be traveling.

I said to the man in the parking lot, “Your dog is very cute.”

In very broken English, with a very crooked-toothed smile he said, “Her name Maya.” Later I felt bad that I didn’t also say his boy was cute. He couldn’t have known that I like dogs more than most little kids.

I went inside and saw 5 people huddled around the area’s map. They were all very dark in a very white farming community. Being the only other car in the lot, I assumed they were also traveling in the overstuffed minivan. I was glad to see women were traveling with the baby and boy. They looked as though the only meals they had that day were vending machine chips and breast milk.

God gives you what you can handle. Everything happens for a reason. Say it however you want. I’m feeling a little guilty that I am sitting on a balcony of a Victorian bed and breakfast sipping coffee and writing as my husband is working down the road at the turbo plant. Since my kids left, I have been begging to rescue a senior dog. My house is abundant in 4 legged fur babies, but it has been 2 years since our Clover died. Although I have 3 cats, without my kids, I am lonely.

Years ago I saw a documentary about migrant farm workers. They live in their cars and drive season to season wherever the work might be. This morning I was thinking about the 7 adults, 2 kids and 1 little dog parked next to our company car. What if their van broke down? What if they realized this area’s corn is harvested by heavy machinery and there is no work? What if they run out of gas? 

The documentary I watched interviewed families just like the one I saw at the rest stop. They said life was still better here than in Mexico. They were street-smart survivors. They were together. They survived on faith. When I left the rest stop I felt sick to my stomach. I felt sorry for them. But this morning, I thought about the guy in the Livestrong shirt. He had a big smile on his face when a stranger made small talk. His nest was far from empty, and best of all, he had a dog.

Still a Mom

My mom often said, “Don’t wish your life away.” She said when she was 12 she wished she was 16. When she was 16 she wished she was 18. When she was 18 she wished she was 21. You get the idea. It was good advice. Even in the 70’s she understood what being mindful meant. She got cancer when she was 40. I was 12.

This journey called life goes in directions that we don’t plan despite our best efforts. When the rug is yanked out from under you, everything on top does not stay in place like the magician who pulls the table cloth out from under the china and crystal. Your shit breaks. You are forced to start over. You treasure the pieces that were somehow spared.

This blog is not going in the direction that I had intended. I had a really funny idea that is not materializing right now. I am ok with that. I do have a point, though, and I will eventually get there. I never post a first draft anyway. I write, let it sit, read, edit, repeat. I do this more than a few times. Am I a perfectionist? No. I read a really good book called Perfect. Am I insecure? Maybe.

Starting a blog was just a distraction from tackling the project of writing a play that has been in my head for about 12 years. I know Jeff Daniels would love it and beg me to let him produce it if I could only write it. Am I arrogant? Absolutely not. Sarcastic? Yes. Really though, in my wildest dreams I would just like to finish the damn play. It was just for me anyway.

I now have all the time in the world to write. I have been fortunate since our kids were born to organize my life around them. I’ve had many part time jobs and volunteer ops. Our sacrifice of making our kids’ lives wonderful has paid off. They are as prepared for adulthood as they could ever be. My daughter and son are 8.5 hours away. (I know you are thinking, “all right already, this is like the 3^rd blog you have whined about that”)

I don’t have kids anymore. I have adults. I recently booked a vacation online. When the website instructed me to type the ages of the kids I got bumped out. My family now consists of 4 adults.  Last week, I couldn’t help but feel like I got bumped out once again. I cried most of the way home after we moved our kids into their temporary addresses for the school year.

My friends who work full time correct me, remind me that I do NOT want to get a job. I want something. I can’t say I am a stay-at-home-mom anymore.  I’d be embarrassed to tell people the ages of my babies. It is a blessing and a curse. I can do whatever I want. The last 22 years were a no-brainer for me. I did diapers, preschool, grade school, dance, soccer, hockey, gymnastics, pom and so much more. I DID learn from my mom. I lived it. I loved it. I wouldn’t change a minute of it. Breast cancer did not kill me before my kids graduated from high school as it did my mom.  I am so very thankful for that.

This week, I just can’t help but feel like I was just fired from a job that I loved. After a few days of unanswered text messages I finally got desperate. I sent my son a text message that read, “I changed your poopy diapers. Throw me a f***ing bone here. I’m dying.”

Guess what? He needed me. He was a little bored and a little worried about liking his new living arrangements. Luckily he said his sister, who is a 5^th year senior there, was being great. It was a win, win. He is okay and he is prepared. I am going to take full credit for that.

 P.S. Tomorrow I am tagging along with my husband on a business trip. Tonight I started out writing a funny post about a rumor in southern Illinois that I don’t actually exist. This post is a good example that you never know where things are headed. Apparently, I needed to get this one out. Stay tuned!

P.P.S: As I proofread once again this morning, I had to edit. I am not a breast cancer survivor. My mom died of breast cancer before we graduated from high school.

 

White Brenda

My name is Brenda Lee. If I had a buck for every time a person asked if my parents liked Brenda Lee I’d be rich. Usually when I meet a person named Brenda it is a woman about my age. She is usually black. An employee at my local post office wears a name tag that reads “Brenda.” Once when I was there I said , “Oh, my name is Brenda Lee.” She did not offer up her middle name, nor did she look like she would be amused by my observation that I am the only white Brenda in Metro Detroit. I chose to not share.

Last Christmas my family went to California. We took a treacherous boat ride on Christmas Day to Catalina Island. I thought about the crazy sleigh ride in the Grinch movie when Jim Carey’s character yelled , “I’m gonna die…I’m gonna puke first, then I’m gonna die!” I was too busy hanging onto the railing and avoiding most of the salt water splashes and thankfully all of the puke spray, to notice any of the other people on the boat. Merry Christmas.

While in town shopping for gifts probably made in China that would prove we had been to Catalina Island, a man approached me. He was a big, black sexy man with a tall beautiful wife who looked like she was from one of the Pacific Islands. They were from Atlanta and very friendly, and did I mention sexy? They probably get greased up and model for perfume ads for a living. The man asked me, “ Did I hear your husband call you Brenda?” and added, “ My mom’s name was Brenda.” I shared my research findings and told him now I can say I am the only white Brenda in the country! He laughed and said, “You are an honorary sister.”

All this got me to thinking about names. It is a big responsibility to choose an appropriate name. My daughter is named after my Grandma Anna and my Auntie Evelyn. In 1993 the name Hannah was popular. I was told on many occasions that “Anna” was so old fashioned. I thought Evelyn was a bit old fashioned but she would mostly be using the middle initial. I’ll be damned if I don’t know right now three little grade school aged girls named Evelyn. It’s made a comeback. Thanks to Seinfeld, I doubt Delores will ever make a comeback. Remember, it rhymes with a female body part.

My son’s name is Mick. While in California last year we went to the San Diego Zoo. A little sarcastic boy overheard me call to my son. He said to Mickey, “That’s not your name.” When Mick reassured him that it was in fact his name the boy said, “Ya? Then I’m the Lion King.” I did not make that up. My son’s legal name is Michael Brendan. When I met my husband he worked for an English company. The nickname for Michael in England is Mick. Duh, Mick Jaggar? I liked it. I knew if I had a son he would be Michael and we would call him Mick.

Now I’m about to get really sarcastic. We all have our opinions and preferences, but I can’t help myself. Here’s a little advice in choosing a name for your bundle of joy. Learn some basic spelling rules and spell your kid’s name correctly. If you want the vowel pronounced with the short sound, double the consonant after it. Don’t wait for your kid’s kindergarten teacher to mispronounce his name. By then it is too late! If you want to make a little change just to be different, at least spell it so a normal person can sound it out. Michaela is a recently popular name again. It is the feminine of Michael. I know a little girl who spells her name “Mikayla.” Yay for her mom! There’s no confusion.

In Tina Fey’s book Bossy Pants I remember her writing about rich people in New York naming their babies after Kings and pieces of fruit. If you haven’t read that book you should. I think it is the only book I have ever read that I had to put down every few pages because I laughed so hard I cried. Anyhoo, I wanted to touch on the rich and famous. Did you read that Germaine Jackson recently named his new baby Germagesty? I thought Blanket was stupid, but then again, I figured surrogate mom used up all her vetoes on Michael’s first two. I guess rich people can get away with it. My suggestion: If you are not rich, stick to something at least socially acceptable. If you don’t, you will end up in the category of white trash.

Here comes the really good stuff. I have several nurse friends. The cross section in the emergency room is similar to that of the Secretary of State (DMV if you are out west), however, at the Secretary of State they just call your number. In the emergency room they call your name. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Trending now in Metro Detroit are some names you will not believe. If you love the way a name sounds, do everyone a favor and also for your own kids’ sake, spell it phonetically. Ah’ Show-Lei looks really pretty and sounds sophisticated. Shah-Theed is also catchy. Hopefully these kids aspire to be rappers or professional athletes. They might be able to get away with it. If they are planning on becoming a pediatrician or lawyer they will be shit-out-of-luck. No one, and I mean NO ONE will make an appointment with a Dr. Shi’thead or Mr. Assh’ole.  The tiny little apostrophe does nothing to protect you from the fact that your mother named you Shithead or Asshole.

I couldn’t help but be jealous that in the 70’s girls with names like Crystal or Heather were instantly cool. That, or if your mom let you wear long dangly beaded pierced earrings. I was only allowed studs.  I guess all things considered, I was way too hard on my parents for naming me Brenda Lee.

Keeping it Simple

While out on my walk today I was flooded with ideas. Not only did I prewrite, I think I wrote roughly 3-4 blogs in my head. Too bad I have a terrible memory.  I was compelled to hurry home and hit the pencil to paper but my anxious mind spiraled out of control and before I knew it I pictured myself tripping, breaking my leg and unable to walk for weeks while I recovered from my injuries.  So I mustered up all the self control I had, and once again, resisted the temptation to jog. I’m getting off topic. I will address my anxiety  further in a different blog in the near future. I also have a good one on swearing in the works.

I have come to the realization that I don’t actually have to think anything up. Ideas are everywhere. It’s like George Carlin used to say that he was just reminding us of things we already knew but forgot to laugh the first time it happened. Anything can be entertaining. I like to write about everyday stuff, keeping it simple and current. Adding a bit of humor always helps.

A neighbor couple used to host a Halloween party. It wasn’t one of those lame Halloween parties where half of the guests come without a costume and whine that they couldn’t think of anything to be. There were prizes at stake.  The best costumes were simple and current. Just like the SNL writers, sit around and think about the recent news and how to make fun of it. I remember the year Monica Lewinsky spent a little too much time under Bill Clinton’s desk, a guy came to the party in a navy suit. I had to ask Fred Flintstone why the suit guy was offering the ladies a pearl necklace, so my reaction was delayed, but how funny was that?! He already owned the suit and just picked up some dollar store trinkets. The Grey Goose went to the cheapest, easiest, funniest costume.

My best family memories are of the simple things. It’s not necessary to spend thousands of dollars on vacations to create wonderful memories. Like many families, we are certainly guilty of the above. We’ve been to Disneyland, Las Vegas, Yosemite, Ft. Myers Beach, The Great Smoky Mountains,  Nashville and every inch of Pure Michigan. We traveled to the Grand Canyon and rode the mules down to have a picnic overlooking the Colorado River. I was pretty sure I was going to die on that trip, but I’ll be damned if I’m not smiling in every single picture. One time we had so much family fun and togetherness we bought a one way ticket and sent our daughter home early. Funny thing, though, I can’t even remember which vacation it was because looking at our photo albums, everyone is smiling.  Not even one evil looking smile indicating that someone was pissed.

Believe you me, when I have an opportunity to document this journey called parenting, I do it. I have plenty of pictures of my kids screaming their heads off, and not just on Santa’s lap either.  I was recently away with girlfriends when I overheard a mom say to her teen daughter, “Look, honey, isn’t this cute?” to which the teen daughter said “that’s stupid.”  I could barely contain the laughter. Been there, done that.  Every family tries to appear normal and well adjusted in public, especially in a touristy beach town. God knows we try, but sometimes, as my cousin says,  family vacation is just an oxymoron. The best recipe I have for making good memories is use plenty of love and throw in a little humor.

One of my favorite songs was written by John Corbett, the hottie who played Aiden on "Sex in the City."  I love his song “Good to Go.”   Go ahead and take a break for an itunes download. You won’t be sorry. Thankfully, one line in the song pretty much sums up how I feel about my life and family memories. He sings, “There are days when I’ve been fightin' mad but the good times more than outweigh the bad.” Fighting is normal. Occasionally being sick of each other is normal, but at the end of the day, hopefully the family memories are mostly good ones.

My good times and memories consist of simple things like my  grown daughter asking me to show her how to make pasties or my husband telling me that I’m the nicest person he knows. One memory that always makes me laugh is when my son was little we were out walking our dog, Clover. A neighbor’s garbage was nauseatingly stinky. My son quickly imitated the Grinch and said, ”What’s that stench? It’s fantastic.”  He still has a great sense of humor and makes me laugh. We like to repeat movie lines at just the right sarcastic moment. It’s the little stuff, the inside jokes that make this family all mine.

 

Traditions Aren't Trending

My cousin is visiting from California. She received an email from a relative who is getting married soon. It explained that she had instructed the DJ to not play certain traditional wedding dance songs such as the Locomotion, Electric Slide or the Macarena. A Utube video was attached with a request that all wedding guests learn the particular dance and be prepared to dance in unison at the reception.

27 years ago I did much the same thing. When the band asked what songs we want played I responded, “Let me tell you what I don’t want played.” Just like when I go to our neighborhood florist to send a funeral arrangement, I tell the shop owner what I don’t want: no gladiolas, no carnations, nothing cheap or funerally looking. This is a good rule of thumb for a wedding reception too. Nothing cheap or funerally.  

It’s always fun to play both traditional and pop music at a wedding. Just for kicks I looked up the pop tunes of 1988. I’m pretty sure I would have crossed off songs like “I Hate Myself for Loving You,”  “Love Bites,”  “(Your Love is Like) Bad Medicine,” and anything by George Michael or Rick James.  I didn’t want anyone at our wedding reception singing along to “She’s a very kinky girl, the kind you don’t take home to mother.”

Just like my cousin’s niece, I did not want some of the traditional group dance songs played. Some are classics and expected at weddings. Some are recently trending and fun to get the guests out on the dance floor. The Electric Slide is pretty much the group wedding dance for dummies. I can certainly follow simple instructions such as “clap, clap clap your hands” I requested that the Hokey Pokey and the Chicken Dance not be played at our wedding. I think they should remain in the kindergarten classroom. A funny thing happened at our wedding when the lights came on. Several guests felt cheated and performed the Hokey Pokey anyway after the band was gone. Some traditions don’t die easily.

One of the most memorable moments at a wedding reception is the bride and groom’s first dance. At least that song should be appropriate. We danced to “What a Wonderful World” I suppose every married couple loves when “their song” comes on the radio.  Another memorable, laughable moment for me is when a song is played that in my opinion, should have been crossed off the play list.  I attended a wedding when the song “Party Like a Rock Star” was popular. I can’t speak for everyone else, and I hope all the rock stars out there forgive me for stereotyping, but when I hear that song the image in my head consists of taking expensive drugs and having sex with complete strangers.  Just for kicks I looked up the song lyrics. Turns out it was much worse than I had imagined: “You know them hoes be at my show. I seen the show with Travis Barker….worried ‘bout where my chain go…white bitches want to ride me” I’m thinking “chain” is a code word. At least the lyricist showed some discretion, but the grammar is atrocious! Nevertheless, that song would not have made the cut at our reception. It’s a good thing that most of the old people at these receptions are hard of hearing. I can hear Auntie Evelyn now, “What are they riding?”

We attended a wedding where the first dance song was “I’ll Be” by Edwin McCain. Most of the lyrics are beautiful. He was invited to perform the song on a talk show  (I think it was Rosie O’Donnell, I’m not going to look it up)  but I do remember the host saying “What a beautiful song. I’m not sure I understand the lyrics, but it sounds beautiful” My sentiments exactly. McCain sings ,“The strands in your eyes that color them wonderful stop me and steal my breath” Wow. Just beautiful. But then, “I’ll be love’s suicide.”  What the hell does that mean? Am I missing something, or does that sound like he’s going to be the reason love kills herself? I love listening to interviews with artists. We can “what if” all day, but unless the artist himself explains what he was thinking and writing about, some songs will just remain a mystery.

My cousin is here for a few more days. I am going to have fun helping her prepare for the upcoming reception. Currently trending, the Whip, Nae Nae looks totally doable. Guests are starting to reply to the group email. Sounds like everyone is excited to perform together. I’m wondering how the old people who don’t use email are going to get the memo.  I’m thinking even if they did, they would probably pass on the Stanky Leg.

 

 

 

Offensive Grammar

As I started out on my walk today I didn’t have any expectations. It’s Friday, my daughter is on the way home, and I accomplished enough this week. I couldn’t help myself. I started thinking, of all things, about swearing. It sure has changed over the years. Some expressions only trend for a short period of time. I remember in high school out west the boys used to say “bitchin” It was an expression that something was cool. You would say to your friend, “Bitchin bike” or answer “bitchin” when asked how your vacation was. Years later, the word morphed from an adjective to a verb: “Quit your bitchin.”

Remember George Carlin’s 7 words you can’t say on television? Did you know that he was actually arrested in 1972 in relation to saying the words? Hard to believe that with all we see on our screens today. Many of us are desensitized. I clean up the vocabulary when I am around old people, but the expletives do tend to fly freely when chatting with friends. I do, however, have rules that I always adhere to. I would NEVER say Carlin’s word #4: the “C. U. N.ext T.uesday” one. It’s just not lady like. #5 and #6 are phrases that would never even accidentally slip out of my mouth. When you consider their literal meanings they paint a really disgusting image in your head.  I’m with Carlin, though. In 1972 and especially today, some of the words just shouldn’t even be on the list.

Every parent remembers the first time their toddler dropped something and blurted out “sit.” We weren’t a spanking family, but I can imagine some parents felt it necessary to treat the behavior with a spank on the butt. Problem with that was, I’m guessing daddy was laughing at the same time. What a mixed message! When kids got older there was the “washing the mouth out with soap.” That was a dumb punishment. How many kids really got the figurative message of cleaning out the potty mouth? I’m guessing most of the kids just thought their dad was a dick. I recall when one of my brothers crossed the approved expletive line his punishment was to write down several healthier alternatives. My son’s consequence for swearing was me saying, “watch your language.” That’s it. I don’t really care that much. Like me, he is respectful when he has to be.

My daughter’s friend worked at a day care center last summer. A cute toddler girl yanked a toy out of another cute toddler girl’s hands. Toddler #2 yelled dramatically, “You Mother F***er.”  I would have had to leave work that day for two reasons:

 A: I probably would have been fired for laughing out loud.

B: I would have peed my pants.

 But let’s dig deeper into the sad situation. How many times does a kid need to hear a word to repeat it? I’m sure it can be Googled. I’m guessing quite a few. Toddlers don’t get their language skills from a free ap on their phone. I’m thinking toddler #2’s parents had to be a real class act.

I did a little research and found that there really isn’t an actual list of no nos for television.   The Federal Communication Commission defines profane speech as “so offensive that it amounts to a nuisance.” The Parent’s Television Council has a suggested list of words that should not be used. Crap, hell, boobs and balls are part of the list. Hey, parents, how about you shut your TV off?! After playing at a classmates house years ago, I picked my son up and he said,” You know, he had a TV in his room and he watches R rated movies. “Then he added, “It’s amazing what some parents let their kids watch.” Pretty insightful for an 8 year old.

My friend has a nephew named Tucker. How convenient that his name rhymes with f***er because growing up he completely deserved the nick name Tucker the F***er. That even sounds cute. As long as he didn’t go to school and tell his teacher that was his whole name like my brother-in-law, Donnie Damnit, did. True story, I did not make that up.  I think it’s all in how we use our expletives that makes them offensive or not. What offends me more is the violence on TV. Sex is censored but violence doesn’t seem to have any boundaries. Like John Lennon said, “People are shooting each other in broad day light but we have to go hide in the dark to have sex.” It’s messed up what we consider offensive.

What offends me even MORE is poor grammar. Most people seem to be able to turn off and on the swearing switch depending on the situation. Poor grammar just puts people in a separate group. Years ago I got a handmade party invitation that said, “Your Invited.” The person had a college degree. Some of you may be thinking that you don’t see the problem. If that is you, stick to texting and type UR. Pronounce it “yer.” It covers both.  I’m sure I make plenty of errors here and there. I try to write in a style similar to conversation. I know I have some run ons and fragments. But just knowing the difference between two, to and too, your and you’re, and there, they’re and their will lift you back up into the category of appearing literate.

I have a hard time with song lyrics. Sometimes it just sounds better, and I understand that. I think musicians just didn’t pay attention in English class. Maybe they were smoking too much dope in an effort to get their creative juices flowing. Whatever the case may have been, I would have been less offended if Mick Jagger’s song lyric was “I can’t get ANY  f***ing satisfaction.

 

 

Tit for Tat

Ideas about Nothing

When I started a blog I planned on it being about my interest in decorating and collecting. It worked for a while, but then I ran out of ideas. In high school I recall that creative writing class was not fun for me. I had no idea what to write about. Maybe I had a crappy teacher. I’ve always had a bad memory. I don’t remember why I struggled, I just remember that I did.  I started to journal when my kids were little. I was afraid I would forget something cute they said or did. Good thing, the journal, cause when I dug back to reminisce I thought to myself, “I would have never remembered that.” The quick entries that I jotted down after they were finally in bed jogged my memories just enough to take me right back to that precious day.

I just read an excerpt from Steven King’s “On Writing: a Memoir of the Craft” He summarized 10 tips for writing. Tip #9 was about finding ideas. Unfortunately, he said there’s no “Idea Dump” or “Story Central.” Damn, if it were only that simple. But he offered good news. He said that Ideas come from nowhere. They fall out of the sky. Here I thought I had to think things up myself, and I wasn’t sure my imagination was wild enough for that.  He said, “It’s a writer’s job to recognize the ideas when they show up.”

I had an amazing art teacher in college. (of course I don’t remember his name).  He said, “You don’t just get better at drawing, you get better at looking. “ The first day we were instructed to draw a self portrait.  I had no formal instruction so at first I was afraid to put a single mark on the paper. Mine was terrible. Every few weeks we had to do another self portrait. He saved them all until the end of the semester. When he brought them out, we were amazed at how much everyone had improved.  Many of our portraits practically  morphed from stick figures to black and white photographs using only charcoal pencils.

Kids’ first drawings of people are usually very primitive. When Anna turned 3 years old Mick was just an infant. She drew a picture of me. It looked like a usual drawing of a person done by a toddler, except she included my glasses and an extra line between my stick legs. I asked her about the extra “leg.” She casually answered, “Oh, that’s your vagina.” She hadn’t moved on to drawing the stick figure with a separate head and body with arms and legs, but my amoeba-shaped portrait was complete with eye glasses and a vagina. We didn’t rush to the therapist over that one, I just chocked it up to having a new baby at the time and discussing at a 3 year old level how babies are made and where they come from. Apparently she was pretty good at looking for a 3 year old artist.

The hard part for me with writing is seeing, recognizing ideas when they fall out of the sky. Good thing I am not trying to make a living at this. I had run out of ideas, so I took a break from writing. I worked on getting in shape and preparing for my son’s graduation party. One day, half way through my workout, my phone went dead. I was half way around my 6 mile loop.  Dead phone. I was stranded. I couldn’t even call my son to pick me up. I had no choice but to continue on without the help of itunes. I expected complete torture, however, it turned out to be quite the opposite. I retracted into my head and started talking to myself. Amazing how we can slow down and think when we are not over stimulated. I probably looked like a mental hospital escapee to passersby, but I didn’t care. Ideas were falling out of the sky, and I was recognizing them, just like Stephen King said.  I was so excited to get home and write that I actually jogged a little bit. (Just kidding, I made that part up about jogging)

Speaking of slowing down and thinking, it’s really hard today with all the stimuli flying around. Everywhere, there are talking screens. There’s a lady advertising cleaning products at the end of the swifter isle in the Walmart. I saw an Entertainment Tonight plug on a screen recently while I was pumping gas. At first I probably looked like Dorothy when Oz started talking, wondering where the voice was coming from, but eventually I just wished that  he would shut the f*** up. At least I hope that remark stayed inside my head. I might have mouthed the words as I do when I’m out walking. The guy pumping gas next to me probably thought that I had tourettes or something. I don’t care. I decided to embrace silence and give up the ear buds. Now I prewrite while exercising. That’s about all the multi-tasking I care to juggle. Constant noise drowns the imagination.

I recently heard an interview with David Gray. I didn’t know he had a few failed records before he was recognized. He spoke about how artists start out writing about what moves them, hoping that the audience will appreciate it, love it. If you are lucky enough, a scary thing happens. You get asked to create for hire. What a curse for an artist! Your wildest dream becomes a nightmare. I don’t follow rules when I write, but if I were ever hired I would have deadlines and guidelines. I’m starting to be thankful that no one reads my blog (Not really). I happily scribble away about cheese its, broken hockey sticks or covering up a hole in my dry walled garage, much like the premise of the Seinfeld series.  I write blog posts about nothing. Somehow they end up turning out to be about something.  I’m mostly just humoring myself, and I’m A-OK with that.  No one is beating down my door to hand me a check in exchange for a deadline.  I also don’t have to look up in the sky and hope an idea falls into my journal by 5 pm next Friday. When I’m short on inspiration I set down my pencil and go for a long walk.

I'd Walk a Mile in Her Outdated Shoes

I was out on an extra long walk this morning when, just as Stephen King promised, an idea came from the sky. The maize and blue helicopter that whizzed by was a quick, stinging reminder that the few pounds I gained on vacation was small potatoes compared to a helicopter ride to U of M Hospital. I was selfishly thankful that I was not in that family’s shoes.

I just spent a long weekend in Saugatuck with three friends. We go every August and stay at the Ship-N-Shore motel/boatel. It’s a motel with boat slips. We rent a tiny room, sit dockside and watch the yachts come and go- mostly from Chicago. We like to make up stories about the people who get off the yachts. One older man with a British accent disembarked with 4 preadolescent kids and a young tiny blonde in a tiny bikini. In unison we whispered, “must be the nanny.”  Then one of the kids yelled, “mom!”…..   “Damn it! not one stretch mark.” I’d love to be in her shoes, minus the 4 preadolescent kids.

Another yacht parked for the weekend. After chatting with the couple we learned that they were the co-captains of the boat. The owner didn’t want to waste time cruising across Lake Michigan so he sent the captains ahead.  He was flying in later on his jet.  I was thinking that if Mr. Big Shot wanted a yacht but didn’t want to ride in the yacht, he was missing the boat, in more ways than one.  

The four of us sit by the pool, drink rum punch, laugh, swim, read, nap & repeat all four days in a row.  It’s delightful.  We get as far as we possibly can from our daily stresses and worries.  On  going-home day, we stopped in a small south western college town. School was starting soon so the sidewalks were filled with moms and kids, stocking up on Keen boots and Columbia jackets. What happened to the poor college student? In my day kids got by on Ramen noodles and peanut butter. But then again, I got out of college without six figures in student loan debt.

Two of us were shopped out before the others so we sat at a patio table outside Kilwin’s Ice Cream Parlor and had lemonade. Walking amongst the lily white moms and daughters was an old, thin black woman. It reminded me of Ruby Bridges, without the escort of the United States Marshals, because it was clear that no one wanted her there, nor was she a cute six year old in a crisp white dress. She was wearing a lavender wool cap that was dirty and pilled up. Her acid washed jeans must have been at least 25 years old and hung on her bony frame. She wore a thread barren green and white checked flannel shirt. As she got nearer my anxiety rose. I figured she would ask for money. What would I do?! She leaned closely into my friend and said in a raspy voice, “Just to let you know, those shoes have been out of date for some time now.”

The woman continued walking down 9^th Avenue, spat on the sidewalk and started yelling indecipherably. I worked with mentally ill clients years ago. I should have kept a journal, because they come up with some funny shit.  Once she was long gone, we laughed out loud.  Who knew the fashion police would show up that day, disguised as a homeless woman. Many times last weekend all four of us laughed ‘til we cried. It was just what the doctor ordered.  You see, my friend is currently being treated for ovarian cancer. We are trying like hell to have as many normal days as possible. Laughing is a necessary, temporary distraction. If there were any way to magically give her a break from her worries and pain, any one of us would gladly walk a mile in her shoes.