Flipped Flops

While I'm not proud, I'm probably not sufficiently ashamed to say that much of my life the past ten years has been lived wearing flip flops. Somewhere along the way, real shoe purchasing became too fraught and taxing (I do have insanely small feet). And flip flops, hundreds of thousands of cheap, easy to fit, easy to find flip flops appeared to eliminate the hassle. So pretty, so versatile--you can get them in every color and every material. There are fancy flip flops, rugged ones, simple and even silly ones. You can get a new pair to match your every mood. And I did, it seems. And for a very long time, it was good.

In the winter, I'd scrounge up a couple of pairs of closed shoes and a pair of boots to wear outside but my heart was never in it. I liked them about as much as I liked the winter itself. Once home, I'd slip back into my flip flops. I waited out the winter and celebrated spring with a few fresh pairs. My feet hurt all the time, but I never attributed it to the lack of proper shoes. After all, I wasn't wearing heels anymore!

Then, one day in April, my feet broke. There is no other way to describe it. One minute they were supporting me and the next minute they stopped. There was ugly bruising and months of recovery. I was forced to take stock of what I was doing to my feet by offering them so little support. I paid real money for some real shoes and found that my feet feel a lot better all the time. I found FitFlops as a fall back--extremely expensive but remarkably comfortable flip flop substitutes (I can't recommend them enough). The whole shoe shopping thing is growing on me (much to the Mayor's dismay) and I've amassed a nice little collection of shoes I can wear all day without pain and hobbling. I've become downright obsessed with winter boots.

But now, what to do with all these beautifully uncomfortable, painfully pretty, classic yet cruel, stylishly sadistic little decorations for the foot? I still kind of love them. It seems a shame to toss them, but they take up space and nobody wants anybody's old flip flops. I can't wear them now. Within an hour or two, the pain comes back and it's just not worth it. So, to the trash heap they go. Of course, I'll keep a few for pedicures and the sake of sentimentality. We've had a lot of fun together and it pains me to throw them away but, alas, not nearly as much as it pains me to wear them!

October Gave a Party . . .

Today is the epitome of a gorgeous fall day. Walk out the door and the world feels alive and electric. I've gotten more done effortlessly today that I do in a week of gloomy, rainy weather dragging myself from chore to chore. Days like this remind me of a poem I learned when I was a little girl. It started, 'October gave a party . . .' hence my title. And October always felt like a party month to me as I reveled in the weather and planned for Halloween, my high holiday, as I've always called it. It's usually a whirlwind of costume making, decorating, parties and some amazing weekends in Salem, Massachusetts.

But this year with the boy being too old to dress up, the main event party I usually attend canceled due to home renovations, and no Salem trip planned, I've got nothing! No agonizing over what to be, no fabric and make-up to buy, no sewing and gluing and swapping personas for a day! Nothing. I will have to content myself this year by looking back at pictures of some of my favorite costumes and handing out treats to the little princesses, ghosts and other creatures that come my way. A lot less work, but also a lot less fun!

Look at a few of my pictures with me and enjoy the rest of the poem:

October's Party
By: George Cooper

October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came—
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow,
The Oaks in crimson dressed;
The lovely Misses Maple
In scarlet looked their best;
All balanced to their partners,
And gaily fluttered by;
The sight was like a rainbow
New fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow,
At hide-and-seek they played,
The party closed at sundown,
And everybody stayed.
Professor Wind played louder;
They flew along the ground;
And then the party ended
In jolly "hands around."

Happy Halloween!

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

Since Ireland, I've been on some kind of personal journey back in time. I've been thinking about and trying to recover old music from iTunes. I've cleaned out and reorganized my desk and bookshelves and searched through hundreds of photos from childhood and on through the years. Ordinarily, I don't make time for looking back. I have no idea what's gotten into me, but I've decided to go with it because the net result has been reclaiming usable house space and, unexpectedly, lots of reminiscence both good and bittersweet.

The best rediscovery by far has been a box of letters and keepsakes that I had not opened in 20 years.  My own private time capsule. I'd saved report cards and papers from elementary school through college. Greeting cards, of course! Mementos from my high school days as a House Page in the U.S. House of Representatives. A Congressional Record signed by Speaker Thomas P. (Tip) O'Neill. An autograph from Dudley Moore that he surrendered in FAO Schwartz where a crazy friend from Arkansas, my Irish twin and I accosted him one day.

Mom

But better than all these goodies were the letters. Hundreds of them. Despite the fact that I spent five hours straight going through them all one day, I've only read a smattering so far. My sister, herself, now a US Ambassador unwittingly created a snap-shot of history by chronicling her first tour of duty in Johannesburg, South Africa during apartheid in monthly letters to me. My Irish twin sister regaled me while I was away in Washington with hilarious anecdotes from home, highlighting the activities of my parents', our friends, herself and even the dog. Rereading the letters from my mother now, who we lost before I got married or became a parent, opens up a new understanding of the fervency of her love for me and the worries I caused her. In one note, she thanks me for not just loving her, but telling her so. Nineteen years gone and she's still making me feel good about myself.

Family you expect to be constant, but I am particularly lucky in that some of my very best friends in the world then remain as near and dear today. I think I will invite each one over individually to share these old treasures and see if we can recall the circumstances, the characters referred to, the love interests and the shared jokes even now with our minds addled by age. Other correspondents I've lost touch with, but may look up on facebook to see what they're doing. In an interesting twist, the least riveting letters now were the ones I'd have looked forward to the most back in the day--the all-important love letters!

One thing that struck me about so many of the letters was how well-written and genuinely entertaining they were. Writing letters and striving to make them interesting or funny was something we all did. A cliche like, "don't forget to write," wasn't just a joke. That IS how we kept in touch--male and female. Unfortunately, it is an art form that we have all but lost with the advent of email and cell phones. Few 20-somethings today will have a treasure trove like mine to open during their mid-life reckonings. In a way, it seems like life is a far more superficial enterprise altogether now. In writing letters, we shared a part of ourselves. We opened up and committed to paper our thoughts, observations and our feeling in a way that isn't imaginable today. In being apart from someone then, we might actually have become closer than ever through letters. Now, we just lose touch.

If you've got one of these boxes lurking around your attic, I encourage you to take a chilly winter's day and devote it to reacquainting yourself with your youth. You may find references to things you'd quite forgotten about yourself (I must have sent homemade cookies to people on a weekly basis, though I don't remember ever doing so!). If you're young now and the only correspondence you get comes via email, I suggest you print them out and put them into a box for safekeeping. Years from now and 10 PCs later, you won't have anything to look back on if you don't. 

Ireland . . . Forever

I've just spent the last week driving around the west of Ireland with herself, my sister, listening to Irish music and photographing landscapes, livestock and monastic ruins. The roads were hair-raisingly narrow, bendy and enigmatically marked. It rained much of the time and the temperature seldom crested 70  degrees except in the humid confines of our rather small rental car. Our flip-flops were inadequate, sunscreen unnecessary and swim suits completely irrelevant. Each night we were tired from a long day's slog, but each morning we soldiered on in the quest to drink in as much of the countryside as possible in the short time we had. Of an evening we enjoyed a bit of music, a bit of craic and I'll admit, a bit of whiskey. I realize this isn't the conventional picture of a great vacation, but I'd turn around and go back in a heartbeat to spend several weeks more doing the exact same thing. So, I know, would anyone who has been there and done the same already.

The plane carrying my corporeal self arrived back on Sunday, and it's Wednesday now. But, my thoughts and my dreams are still running to the wilds of Connemara marveling at the beauty of the low-hanging clouds on the hilltops, the flowing mountain streams and lush wildflowers. Either that or I'm on a clifftop in Clare gazing out at the ocean and feeling the uncompromising wind that trains the branches of the trees to point forever inland. It is an amazing phenomenon to become more accustomed than not to finding a soul-moving vista around nearly every bend. And it's an unwelcome adjustment when it all ends.

In Ireland, the west in particular, the terrain is so uncluttered that the map relates directly to what you are looking at out the car window. When you meander through the remains of a 12th-century monastery, it isn't so very difficult to imagine what it was like when it was up and running because essentially what you see from the now ruined windows is what was always here. You can travel a secondary road for 15 minutes without encountering another vehicle and in the more remote reaches, you might never see another one. Of course, we avoided the obvious tourist sites we've already seen--you can't avoid crowds everywhere. But it's easy to get off the beaten path and well worth it.

I'm excited about spending the upcoming week at the beach. The ease and sultry warmth of our American summer will be a welcome contrast to the rain and cool of Ireland. I ought to get packing, but I've frittered away my time the last few days fine tuning my pictures, captioning them and uploading them to share. I've looked up and read about the ruins we visited. I've dug out photos from previous trips, comparing, remembering and reliving. I've found my old cassette tapes and looked for my celtic favorites on iTunes. I have yet to reset my watch to the correct time. In short, I'm doing everything I can to resist getting back to normal. I prefer to wonder whether or not the cows in Ireland ever get to go inside than to think about what to make for dinner. Sorting out old photos really beats sorting laundry. Transporting myself through time to envision a bustling medieval community of friars beats transporting the boy to his various amusements.

But I am back and I must grab hold of myself. There are things to do, places to go and people to meet. For now, I will leave Ireland latent in my mind . . . until next time. I hope it's soon.

Boy Meets World

At a get-together last week, the day the heart-breaking truth of what had become of the little Brooklyn boy Leibby Kletzky came out, a discussion cropped up about a family--relatives, I think of my host and hostess--allowing their 12-year-old son to travel by train into Jersey City unaccompanied by an adult for a daily program at the same high school the boy will coincidentally be attending in September. There was strong condemnation all around for any mode of getting around by kids of any age and at any time of day other than riding in a car driven by their parents. For me, it was one of those, "hello, I'm sitting right here and can HEAR YOU moments," as everyone who was there knows the boy takes the train every day, too. Whether or not they were intending to send me a message of either concern or disapproval notwithstanding, I got to thinking about why I am willing to let the boy board a train in the 'burbs, transfer in Newark and land ultimately in Jersey City when others think it unimaginable.

My father tells me stories all the time about the various sights he'd see and adventures he'd have when at the age of 6 or 7, he would board a trolley in Jersey City all alone to visit his grandmother in Hoboken. By age 9 or 10 he was leading other kids on expeditions to Coney Island via Ferry and the NYC subway. To these stories, I react as my friends did--with disapproval of my grandmother's judgement. He'll say, but times were different. I'll think, but weirdos still existed. Then I remembered that I was riding buses in Jersey City with a same-age friend at age 10 and it didn't seem so outlandish anymore (OK, 6 or 7 still does).

Are there weirdos out there? Absolutely. By and large are they going to capture kids and dismember them? No. Will the boy encounter the occasional deviant, a menacing-looking stranger, an aggressive pan-handler, a would-be pickpocket, a dealer offering drugs? I think so. He has already. But I rode the train everyday as a young woman--aka a magnet for weirdos--and these encounters were scant and manageable. By and large, riders of public transportation are just people getting to where they are going. I think in the rarefied world of the suburbs, people tend to forget this. Kids are so insulated from the real world that a train full of strangers becomes a train full of predators. If the parents think so, the kids will certainly think so.

Both the girl and the boy will drone on about my overprotectiveness over the years. And yes, I've pointed out every scary edge they could fall off, every germ potential they might encounter and the uselessness of every lightweight coat they've ever worn. I can't think about the girl driving too much and feel like I should medicate myself when either of them are flying. The mayor and I were a wreck when the boy started riding the train last year. The mayor would call me when he spotted him heading toward the train, spying on him from his office window in Jersey City, and I'd call him back when "the package" alighted again in town. But, the boy never knew it. He felt the confidence we had in his ability to negotiate his expanding world, even if we didn't fully at first. And I think that is a part of our job as parents, to guide our children incrementally toward independence and self-confidence. In that regard (and in many other regards) we cannot help but revel in our success with the girl. She breaks boundaries and succeeds beyond our wildest expectations every day. We expect nothing less of the boy and are preparing him accordingly.

While I fervently hope I don't live to regret the chances I allow the boy to take, I prefer that risk to having him live to regret chances he was too timid to take because I made him that way.

Sounding Off

Last month I promised (threatened) to write about all the things that annoy me about living in the suburbs. But I have decided to reduce it to one overriding complaint--NOISE. I have a low tolerance for noise. As a result of the pressures in my head from coughing throughout my babyhood, I lost an eardrum in my right ear. Hearing in my left ear will not win a prize, either, but I do not seem or feel impaired. I put it down to the concept that you can't miss what you never had. Doctors have offered me hearing aids promising great results, but I am loathe to follow through. I have always lived in a quiet world and I really like it here.

Enter the suburbs. I have never been more bothered by noise than I am living here. Perhaps it is the constantly shattered expectation of quiet that makes this worse by far than the city, but it is undeniably worse. Right now for example, I'm am sitting in a lovely spot of my own creation. My little backyard has a pretty redwood deck festooned with flowers and plants--all my favorite varieties, comfy outdoor furniture and my bird feeders. My freshly bathed dogs are by my side and I can look beyond my computer screen to a lovely little, newly mulched garden beyond. The only sound is the faint tinkling of a delicate glass wind chime, bird chatter and a dog barking in the distance. It's all the paradise I need. And yet, it is frequently off limits to me on account of NOISE. Any minute, and I can never know when, a landscaper's truck might pull up and in the blink of an eye it's paradise lost. There seem to be no limits as to when someone can make noise, how loud it can get and how long it can last. Landscapers arrive across the street as early as 7:30 AM ready to assault nature and my quietude with full mowers, blowers, whackers and trimmers ablaze. Sit out on a Sunday morning and there's no stopping a neighbor from marching out to the garage and firing up every noisy device therein. Today as I filled my coffee cup intending to drink it al fresco, an enormous truck parked outside the house and idled for about 40 minutes as it made a delivery of God knows what using a forklift. I am sure whatever was deposited in my neighbor's driveway is going to result in even more noise as it is built, installed or applied. Yesterday it was a different neighbor with a power-washer that drove me indoors. It never ends.

And it's not just me being overly sensitive. It's become a running joke among the Mayor, the boy and me. No sooner do we get comfortable outside than boom, we encounter some form of decibel challenge. I would have thought that my reduced hearing would make this all the more bearable for me, but it doesn't. All the hearing loss has done is make me appreciate a quiet world that increasingly does not exist. Shopping at the mall the other day for the boy amid the insistent, obnoxious music at Hollister and Aeropostale had me running  home for the xanax. We recently spend a beautiful day at Great Adventure where my only problem all day was that there was no place to come in from the loud voices and piped music.

In my mind, the greatest hero of the present day is going to be the person who invents the silent motor that powers all the lawn taming, hedge trimming, debris clearing devices we use to beat our environments into submission. In fact, I think that same individual ought to be considered for the Nobel PEACE prize.



Divine Rituals of the Suburbs

Over the years I've made no secret of the fact that I feel living in the suburbs is a disappointing letdown from city life. In fact, it's a dead horse I've beaten to such a tedious degree that I'm surprised the Mayor hasn't already relegated me to an efficiency apartment somewhere in downtown Jersey City just to shut me up. I'll have to keep beating.

Some day, I'll blog about everything I dislike about suburbia, but today I am singing its praises. For we are in the midst of suburbia's high holy days--truly spiritual days of searching the dark recesses, purging and purifying and hopefully by the end of it feeling deeply cleansed and reborn. On Saturday we paid homage as a town to Our Lady of the Immaculate Garage. We asked ourselves the hard questions, "Will Nana hate me from heaven for getting rid of her old toaster oven? Surely there's no chance of me being 'blessed' with another baby, is there?  And isn't it some kind of sin for a family of four that's down to three in the house to own and store eight bicycles?" Days we spent in preparation--sorting, cleaning, carting and pricing our meager, dust-covered offerings and laying them on the sacrificial tables of the Borough-wide Garage Sale. Pilgrims from all over town and the towns nearby filed solemnly by street by street, yard by yard, offering alms for the once sacred symbols and now sad relics of our devoted consumerism. It was an exhausting, yet gloriously gratifying event. Nary a soul came away from the day without feeling a great weight lifted from them. And yet, it was just the beginning, a mere precursor to the main holiday that will occur on Thursday.

I refer, of course, to The Feast of St. Bulk--the bulk trash pick-up extravaganza we look forward to every year at least as much as, if not more than Thanksgiving. In fact, and excuse me for being somewhat irreverent, but we probably ought to subtitle it, ThanksTaking. With the powers that be smiling down upon us, we can divest ourselves of everything we do not want any longer. Big things, small things, ugly raunchy things that we cannot believe still exist in the temples of our daily life can be placed on the side of the road and will miraculously ascend into the belly of a giant beast that takes them away forever. Friends and relatives from other towns must beat back the dual temptations of envy and the desire to lay their junk at our curb. One must keep them strong in their resistance, for it is wrong for them to covet their neighbor's Bulk Day and illegal for them to participate. The Feast of St. Bulk attracts its own pilgrims, too, but it's a leaner, meaner crowd. They come on a mission with their trucks and vans, leaving their loved ones at home, to forage for the holy grail of garbage.

All in all, it's an exhausting week of service and sacrifice. In the end, one always asks oneself, "Could I have done more, contributed more, worked harder or turned away from more earthly possessions?" Occasionally, there are regrets and recriminations--"how could you have thrown away that fish tank I've owned since I was ten? What kind of heartless daughter of Satan tosses a box of well worn, once loved stuffed animals?" But within a few days, a feeling of calm and contentment takes over as we forget not only that we gave things up, but that we ever owned them in the first place. We walk into our attics and garages without tripping and begin thinking of all kinds of new crap we can buy to fill up all that space. Ah, Suburbia!

Going Veg--It Ain't Easy

Try as I might, I cannot get the hang of this vegetarian thing. I know people do this everyday with ease and, in fact, just had a conversation about this with a college friend who said multiple times, "being a vegetarian is pretty easy, really." And that is possibly true if the factors that make my conversion so confounding are not present--namely, still having meat eaters to feed every night, disliking in the extreme most of the meat substitutes I have found and maintaining an attempt to limit carbohydrates, too, so that I don't become the world's fattest vegetarian. There is also the little problem of still liking the taste of meat--the only reason I'm eliminating it is because if you do any research at all, you find that factory farming is plain and simple just another phrase for animal torture.

I looked into humanely raised and slaughtered meat and it's a great option for anyone who is able to pay 2-3 times as much for their meat as they would for factory farmed meat. That's not an option for me. So back to square one: dealing with vegetables. I am not a great cook and I am not a foodie. I did start out liking to cook. But, for me, the fun went out the exhaust fan when it became my job to feed people other than myself on a daily basis. The restrictions of catering to everybody's likes and dislikes are incredibly tedious. It leaves very little room for creativity when regardless of what you decide to make, you are faced with somebody's disappointment. Except occasionally when entertaining, I seldom delight in cooking anymore. Out of necessity, I became a competent and fairly healthy cook. I can consistently put a tasty, decent and balanced meal on the table in an hour or less. But, all of my repertoire is either meat-based or involves pasta. Take those staples away and I got nothing.

At the heart of my problem is the mindset that it should be quick and easy. As a result of not enjoying making dinner, I've compartmentalized it to the point where I can't readily conceive of it taking more than an hour. Anything beyond that is too much trouble and an expansion of a chore I already dislike. In my mind, I liken it to rediscovering how to do laundry by hand--uh, no thanks! Whether it is or it isn't, I regard it as a lot of trouble to take a bunch of fresh beets and trim, peel, cook and prepare them. Draining an eggplant for however long it takes is a recipe deal-killer. This is what I have to change. I have to find some way to rediscover what is fun about cooking. Time is sometimes a consideration in my life, but not always. It doesn't necessarily need to be quick. Right now, I look at any time spent cooking as time away from things I like to do. Can I learn to like it again? I don't know. But I've got to try. I can't go back to meat; I can't eat veggie burgers all the time (I hate them). At least for now, I have to cook meat for the boy (the mayor's game for anything, but likes his meat, too). But I also have to find vegetarian recipes that are healthy and delicious and tack them on to my regular cooking. I have to learn to feed myself again after all these years of eating whatever is easiest and receives the fewest complaints. Let me go get that eggplant out of the vegetable bin. I'll drain it and see what happens.

Voice Male

Lately, I've found myself getting irritated with the boy when he speaks to me. But somehow, I've known it isn't him, it's me. He isn't doing anything unusual or saying anything unusual. But something about him is definitely rubbing me the wrong way. Am I overtired? Is it hormones? I just don't know. Then suddenly, yesterday, it occurred to me exactly why I'm perturbed. His voice has changed and the new voice is not familiar to me yet. I neither know it nor love it yet. And it's silencing his "real" voice.

We recognized that his voice was cracking and changing over the past few months. But now, I think, the changeover is complete. My child's voice is gone for good and I miss it. I don't just miss it in that nostalgic, "oh he's growing up" way. I miss it in more like a little part of my heart is broken kind of way. I loved his voice. I cherish every secret he told me in that voice, every joke he made, every cute, crazy little thing he ever said. I find myself wondering what I have recorded, if anything, that I can play back so I never forget it. If I think about this too long, I can bring myself to tears. I'll never forget him singing "Where is Love" from Oliver for an audition. He carries a tune well and I've never heard it sung better and now I'll never hear it again. Generally, I've been all for his getting bigger, faster, stronger and smarter. But this little change has tripped me up.

I love male voices, but I've never been a fan of male teen voices. They tend to sound monotone and tinny to me. The association is there with goofy, awkward teenage boys I have known and that is not how I see my boy or want to see him. Now that I realize what I've been reacting to, though, I can get back to taking the boy at his word rather than unconsciously reacting to his voice!

Foot Fail

Tangle Toes

I know I've been forbidden by the boy to latch on to the "fail" lingo, but seriously if the shoe fits . . . Or, more appropriately in this case, when the shoe does not fit and will not fit for six weeks, I am hard put to think of an expression that better sums up the situation. Take a look at the picture and try to imagine what happened to this sorry looking appendage. Did you say, "Stamped on by an elephant?" "Beaten with a sledge hammer?" "Run over by a bus?" To result in something this incredibly ugly, it must have been huge right? Not so much. It's a stress fracture from dancing to motown barefoot on a friend's living room rug. Bet you had no idea how dangerous that could be.

This was two weeks ago yesterday and I have to say, it's been quite a set-back. As always, denial was my first resort. I hobbled to bed thinking I'd feel better the next morning. Sunday morning--10 times worse so off to the ER. Xrays negative. I'm thinking feet up a few days, all better. Wrong again. This thing is NOT going down easy!To compound the situation, my laptop chose that weekend to cease functioning. It takes the guy a week to repair it which is exactly what happens when you get a computer to repair on Monday and do not look at it until Friday. Grrr.

So, bad two weeks and now I've been booted. The stress fracture diagnosis has resulted in my having to wear a giant hideous black boot on my foot FOR SIX WEEKS! But at least I can get around. The pain is ridiculous and unpredictable. I'm not a big baby about pain, but this smarts. Out of the woodwork come everyone and their brothers' stress fracture stories and the upshot is, this will really go on and on. No amount of denial will help me out of this mess. After four years of zero infirmity, I have to dig out my inner invalid and cope. I must say, I was better at this years ago. Attitude adjustment in progress, please stand by!

A Little Schmaltz Never Hurt Anyone

Now that it's become all the rage to dismiss greeting cards as passe and declare certain holidays like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day "Hallmark Holidays," I think it's time someone stand up in defense of the greeting card tradition, if not the overreaching greeting card industry. Ok, ok, I'll do it.



Two favorites from my birthday this year.



With a smidgen of shame, I will confess that I can spend an absurd amount of time in a card store. Always could. I read, I laugh, I cry, I finger the pretty paper or marvel at the pop-ups. The addition of sound was a delight. I like the idea of finding "just the right card" and imagining the kick the lucky recipient will get out of it. In the same vein, I love receiving "just the right card" and have held onto many over the years that have touched a chord with me. I think part of the fun comes from being a word oriented person and part from having a thing about anything that smacks of stationary (it's hard to tear myself away from a decent office supply store, too). My Irish twin sister has the same propensities and because of this, we can quote past cards to each other and will often buy more than one card for each other for the same occasion because we just can't choose. I have "card friends" for whom the right card is essential and non-card friends who couldn't care less.

A doctored up card--sad.

Funny cards, cards that are snarky, ones with first-rate cartooning, funny photos from the past--those are often the best. Animal shots can be good, too, but are often ruined by the words. And sometimes the sentimental ones are so on target it's uncanny. That being said, I will admit that in recent years, it has been more difficult to find truly funny or dead on sentimental cards. If I find a particularly good one, I might get several to send to different people. Yesterday, I searched in vain for the perfect card for the boy's 14th birthday (TODAY). It was grim. I wanted a joint one from the Mayor and me. There were three choices--two were religious, one was stilted and artificial. So I had to resort to pluralizing a mediocre card intended for one parent to give. Very disappointing. A friend's mother was turning 80 a few months ago and the pickings were also slim (although there were two 90 year old cards on hand and even a 100).

The very worst thing about cards today is the price. It jars me to turn over a small piece of what is essentially thick paper with a few words printed on it and see that it costs $3, $4 or even $5. It's not right. I'll pay it, if it is perfect for the occasion or the person for whom I am intending it. But if I nose around for a half-hour and still have to settle, I will go to the cheapos that say essentially nothing, but don't break the bank. And that is a sorry state of affairs.

It is fair to say that grandparent's day, boss's day, secretary's day and various other johnny-come-latelies to the holiday scene are occasions invented and ginned up by the card and gift industry. But Valentine's Day has been celebrated for centuries in some form or another and who can argue with the sense and appropriateness of Mother's and Father's Days. Nothing against grandparents, bosses or secretaries, but their "days" are not the same. People are right to view them with a somewhat cynical eye, but maligning greeting cards as a whole because of the manipulativeness of the industry is a bit of the tossing of the baby with the bathwater.

Homemade cards--I treasure them all.

More recent favorites.

Look! Up in the Sky!

The noble house finch

One of the more life-affirming interests I have taken up in my quest to actually get a life, is birding--the pastime previously known as birdwatching. When I long ago closed the mental books on birds, sometime around 1974, I could positively identify sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, sea gulls, ducks and pigeons with no more specificity than that. My father taught us what we knew when we were kids, but I seldom gave wild birds a thought as an adult, except to note their occasional contributions to my windshield. And for most of my life that was enough. Then one day as the boy and I were walking at a local park, an enormous bird whizzed by us (not on us, thanks goodness) at eye level.  Its round, golden eye seemed to look directly into mine as its wings, spanning about 6 feet, flapped and fluttered my hair as it passed. 'What the hell was that,' I thought. And moreover, I wondered how I can live so close to such a magnificent animal and not even know what it is. It was a bird awakening.

Turns out that spectacular bird was a Great Blue Heron. And because of Mr. Great Blue, I signed up for an introductory birding class. I demanded a decent pair of binoculars for Mother's Day. I bought books, started a journal and set up a birdie smorgasbord in my backyard so that I didn't have to trek out to a local park alone at dawn after my class ended. (Sometimes I still go, but it is scary to be the only person in the park, so I only go when I have a birding buddy, ie. almost never.)



My photo of an oriole on my deck.



Now amazing birds that I have managed never to notice before appear to be responding to my new interest in their lives. Could it possibly be that the nuthatches, goldfinches, chickadees, woodpeckers and orioles always stopped by my yard in the spring? If so, how could I have overlooked them. It is like that weird phenomenon where you learn a new word and suddenly you read and hear it everywhere. It seems it is just a matter of tuning in to their existance and the whole aviary world opens up to you. Now if I walk outside and hear a lot of squawking jays and screaming squirrels, I know to look around for that hawk that occasionally circles the neighborhood. When I feed the birds, I have to remember to spread some seeds on the ground for the mourning doves that can't use the feeders. In the winter, I keep an eye peeled for the dark-eyed juncos that seem to magically appear with the first snow. It came as a surprise to me that the brown-headed cowbird is notorious for laying its eggs in the nests of other birds so that others can go to the trouble of raising their young. Knowing these things delights me and makes me feel more connected to the natural world.

With birds, there is quite a bit to learn. For example I was only vaguely aware that many birds will look different in the spring from the way they look in the fall. Juvenile birds might not really resemble the adults of their species for a long time. So with any species of bird, you have the male, the female, the seasonal plumages and the age to take into consideration before making a determination of what bird has stopped by. The American Birding Association's list of North American birds includes 930 species. What with the various looks, behaviors and calls to take in, birding is a hobby that can keep you going for a long time.

The undesirable brown-headed cowbird stares at me from my fence.



Personally, I do not plan to become an expert. I don't want to get neurotic about this. It is enough for me to keep my journal, photograph the birds that come to the feeders and look for unusual birds when I'm out and when I'm on vacation. I can't wait to go on my next trip to the Caribbean or somewhere closer to the equator. I've already alerted the Mayor and the boy to the fact that my camera is no longer sufficient for taking photos of birds and have suggested that an upgrade would make an ideal Mother's Day gift this year.

I don't know if you can experience a bird awakening second hand, but I hope it is possible. It would make me happy to share this particular delight with others. To get you in the mood and see if it might possily take hold, I've included a link to the Eagle Cam at Duke Farm in Hillsborough, NJ. Click every day to observe a pair of eagles incubate, hatch and raise their eaglets in real time from now until they fledge in June. Happy Birding!

http://www.dukefarms.org/Education/Eagle-Cam/

Sweat Sisters

When we were little savages roaming the streets and yards of our Jersey City neighborhood, one of our number suggested we become "blood brothers." Where he got this concept, I have no clue. Probably TV. Anyway, we all thought this was a great idea. The brave among us proceeded to prick their fingers on thorns and whatnot. I was allowed to use an existing cut on my shin. Nobody cared that most of the "brothers" were actually girls and no one suggested that we change the title to include blood sisters. If for no other reason, there was no catchy alliteration going on with the phrase "blood sisters." For a time, I'd guess approximately four days, we all formed a club and it was good.

Fast forward thirty-eight years and I find myself a reluctant member of another alliteratively pleasing, yet far less satisfying club. I am a member of the Sweat Sisters. Nothing drove this point home to me more than an encounter I had the other night at a party. I was talking with two women who I like, but do not know well. They are both friends of a friend. I never see either of them, except at the home of our mutual friend every once in awhile. Somehow, possibly because we were all drinking wine and feeling flush and uncomfortable, we got on the subject of peri-menopausal temperature changes. Up until then, my conversations with either of these women were limited to polite inquiries about their children and small talk. But suddenly, this unexpected three-way exchange blasted off like a rocket to the moon! Stories of the kind of sweat never before experienced in our lives washed over us and we became animated. We ventured beyond simple perspiration, into weight gain and then on to mood swings. We were rolling. I never realized either one of them could be so funny, so candid and so right on target. Inevitably, this run-away train of validation tore right on into the bedroom. Our nightly battles with sheets and blankets were laid bare. Our need for having skin exposed no matter how cold the room revealed. An abiding love of ceiling fans in the dead of winter was acknowledged. And, of course, the complete cluelessness of our partners when it comes to understanding the inconvenience of their mere presence in bed was lamented. It was heady and fabulous to be understood. The experience could only have been surpassed if it had culminated in a group hot flash--a personal summer gone viral.

Alas, the conversation eventually died off. We moved on to mingle with other people. But even if we never discuss it again, I'll never forget that meeting of minds, bodies and souls. I friended them on Facebook, but we're still basically strangers to each other. The only difference now is that we are Sweat Sisters. If only it lasted for a mere four days.

Just Sayin'

The minute I allow a bit of current lingo to enter my vocabulary, written or spoken, the boy hastens to inform me that no one says that anymore. This is nearly always false information designed to prevent me from embarrassing him. Example. The other day, after a random LOL on Facebook he raised the issue. So I quick texted our daughter--10 years older than the boy, but still young and in the know about these things. Surprised and miffed that he'd attack an expression she still uses, she dismissed him as "crazy," and  gave me the green light on LOL. Perhaps what the boy fears is that I'll become a loltard, which urbandictionary.com defines as "a lamer who over uses LOL and its derivatives after almost every comment, which are almost exclusively non-humorous." This is not the case. I tend to be stinting with my LOLs, never use the derivatives and often opt for the more traditional hahaha.

The girl calling the boy crazy provides the perfect segue to the now popular expression insane or would if insane still retained its original meaning. Instead, insane has morphed into something along the lines of what was once groovy and has since been awesome, excellent, rad, righteous, cool, sick, badass, fresh and fly. One of my favorite recent compliments came indirectly from the boy's drum teacher (a young and undeniably cool individual). He described my iPod collection as insane. The boy came home and said, "Mom, John said your iPod is insane." Though he said it with a sort of grudging admiration, I was immediately insecure. "Is that good or bad?" I asked. The eye roll. "It's good, Mom, it's good." Whew.

Cool, which I have used to describe John, appears to be one slangy word that spans generations. You hear it uttered all the time, comfortably and correctly by nearly everyone in any age group. Anyone can use it and it sounds ok. And it always means the same thing, as wikipedia puts it, possessing a certain favorable aesthetic. Of course, you will have your lamers who can't leave well enough alone and insist upon expanding cool to cool beans, rendering themselves instantly uncool or totally lame. Saying cool beans is what's known these days as a fail. The Mayor and I, however, are not permitted to utter the word fail in this context.We've been read the riot act. The boy won't even say it himself. Apparently its use is reserved for the lamest of the lame. Who knew?

Hot, which, as the traditional opposite of cool should logically be a bad thing is actually, in many ways, better than cool. It is perfectly possible to be so cool that you are also hot. I have no personal experience with this phenomenon, but can readily see how it might happen. Unfortunately, I never wore enough black to be cool until I became middle-aged and overweight, factors which, in and of themselves, seem to have eliminated my potential as either cool or hot. Hey, at least I'm not a loltard.

Yesterday's man, as in "hey man, what's up?" has been usurped by dude, bro and now brah. Dude is more nuanced than man ever was and is often used as a form of address, an expression of shock or even disapproval. Instinctively, I know that I'm not a person who should be saying dude, so I don't say it. Similarly, but more because I just hate it, I don't use the expression stoked --an alternative to my generation's excited, psyched, or pumped. People who use the word stoked, always seem to pronounce it with that 80s valley girl accent. Thus, to my ear, those who say it tend to sound like idiots.

On the other hand, one has to respect both the brevity and versatility of today's seriously. All by itself, it replaces a number of multi-word expressions like you've got to be kidding, are you for real, no way, and oh, come on. The trick with seriously is to first say it interrogatively and then follow up by saying it declaratively. Exaggerated facial expressions are important in the delivery of seriously--you need a look that gets across one of the aforementioned multi-word expressions or if you prefer a simple WTF. Sometimes I use seriously myself. That, or it's closely related and identically delivered really. What does the boy think of this? IDK. And what's more, IDC.

It's Here!!

Voila! The moment has arrived. My $2000 free portrait for your viewing pleasure. We don't look exactly like ourselves, which for me is a blessing. The boy looks eerily older and a little off. By and large, I am happy. If you're wondering what I'm talking about, see Prize of Shame, below.

Just Brilliant

Two TV interviews over the weekend have brought mind a theme that I have mulled, off and on, for years now. First was Friday night's ABC interview with self-described "brilliant" actor Charlie Sheen. Second was last night's 60 Minutes interview with "brilliant" author Christopher Hitchins. As the quotation marks indicate, I take issue with the wanton throwing about of the term brilliant. Charlie Sheen's freak show and ravings have dwarfed any contributions he ever made to the field of acting (using the term loosely when you are being paid a fortune to play a milder version of yourself on a sitcom). Christopher Hitchins, who is clearly a lot better educated and probably IQ smarter than most of us, is apparently not smart enough to avoid falling into the trap of overestimating the value of his intelligence. He is not smart enough to avoid being arrogant. Plus, he supported the Iraq war.

People describe others as brilliant all the time--even people that are clearly bad actors (not in the performing sense). When I taught elementary school, I had a student whose parents insisted he was rude, disruptive and under-achieving mainly because he was so much more intelligent than all the other kids. He was just so bored that all he could do was act out. And, he was bright. IQ-wise, he was equally as bright as another kid in the same class who did all his work, got on well with others and for whom I devised advanced work that he could do just for fun. Now, THAT was pretty smart. As young as he was, I could tell he was going places. The other one was headed for failure and juvenile detention.  In the same vein, I've known more than a few women who praise of the intelligence of men who treat them badly. For the life of me, I cannot see anti-social as smart or a by-product of smart. To me, behaving like an ass is reflective of stupidity and using intelligence as an excuse for that is providing them a cop out. I recognize that what is happening here is divergent definitions of intelligence: raw IQ smarts verses social intelligence. Many people separate the two. I do not.

I contend that you cannot validly be described as brilliant if you cannot navigate your way our of a paper bag when it comes to functioning reasonably, responsibly, fairly and ethically with other people. Of course, valuing social intelligence over intellectual intelligence has been proved to have its downsides, too--reference the appeal to many (never me) of George W. Bush. But to be called truly brilliant in my books you need both. Behaving in ways that defeat your own goals, no matter the reasons, is simply not smart. And if you can't see your way clear to self-correction, you are not that smart. You might be exceptionally good at some things, but I won't give you the gold star.

Functioning intelligently in the world requires seeing the big picture, getting out of your own way, getting over yourself, recognizing the value of others, improving yourself, continually learning and living life with purpose. I think this is why I have trouble with the cults of acclaimed actors, artists, thinkers and writers--those perceived as elite. People think the statement, "oh, but he's brilliant," can override a multitude of flaws. I do not. Doesn't mean I don't appreciate their contributions, their moments of innovate thinking, acting, writing--brilliance, even. But truly bright people are thoughtful, measured, self-aware and ready for improvement every day, not just in flashes. They are the people around you who have it together--either having avoided pitfalls in life altogether or having learned from mistakes. They are the ones you like to be with because they know how to be in company. In short, I think how well you conduct your life, how much real value you bring to the table, the kind of company you keep and the kind of company you are, are the strongest indicators of your intelligence.

Dogs Gone Wild

As I sit and try to concentrate on my morning computer rituals, all I hear is the constant, insistent click of paws on the kitchen floor. I avoid looking down. It isn't pretty--in fact, it's kind of disturbing. They are insane today. Karma, who is scheduled to be spayed on March 16 (a month too late, it turns out) is now in heat. Little Major, fixed though he is, is a dog on a mission. He is the humpomatic that cannot be stopped and what's more, Karma doesn't want him stopped.

In an effort to protect what's left of her virtue, I put Major in the crate. He was, after all, the driving force I thought. It's Karma's crate where she resides when I go out. I closed Major in fully expecting whining objections from him. Instead, Karma began pawing wildly at the latch in an attempt to free him! They are two dogs of but one mind.

The coupling elicits screams of horror from the boy. I am getting used to it, but I will admit that it engendered a bit of horror in me at first, too. I see these dogs, especially Major, as so removed from their natural tendencies that when instinct takes over it's a bit of a shock. Who knew he had it in him? He's had the odd love affair over the years with stuffed toys and pillows, but nothing sustained like this. The song, "Who Let the Dogs Out," takes on vivid new meaning for me.

The only plus I see in all this is that by day's end they will be worn to a frazzle. They must be exhausting themselves because it exhausts me just thinking about it, hearing it, yelling at them for it and when it absolutely can't be helped--seeing it. How long does this heat last? Maybe I could move the vet appointment up to, say, tomorrow!

Simply Flabulous!

The one major advantage to lung disease was that I was able to keep my girlish figure. For most of my life, I have eaten whatever I want and whenever I want. I could out eat teenage boys. I paid no attention to exercise. My metabolism was always in high gear and I breathed off most of what I ate. My sisters hated me for it, though I would try to point out that there WERE downsides to chronic respiratory distress. I retained some weight after bearing the boy, but nothing too crazy. At the point of what I call the downturn in 2005 when my poor overwrought lungs decided to seriously malfunction and began to give out, I was about 118 pounds and probably at my perfect middle-age weight. The aftermath got ugly and I was too thin--scary looking, but before that, girth-wise at least, all was well.

When I walked out of Presbyterian Hospital after my lung transplant in 2007, I weighed 98 pounds. It was a beautiful start to a new life. An ability to breathe and a NEED to gain weight--does it get any better than that? But every party has a pooper and that's why we invited prednisone.

The doctors do warn you that prednisone makes you hungry. And I had some experience of prednisone tapers through the years, so I foolishly thought I knew what to expect. I had no idea. Hungry isn't the word for it. I was consumed by the need to throw food down my throat. A half-hour after a big meal, I'd be peckish again. You can stave off peckish and sometimes (rarely) I would, but it bloomed into starving lightning fast and my life lessons all told me to go ahead and feed it. Had I possessed ANY foresight whatsoever, I might have recognized a bad pattern and looked for better foods, but that wasn't my mindset. Entenmanns, Dunkin' Donuts, Dairy Queen, in short, sugar--became my addiction. An addiction, admittedly I probably always had, but one that had never been pharmaceutically encouraged before.

Of course, I realized the error of my ways far too late. Now I weigh more than I did when I was carrying the boy and look and feel pretty bad. I actually wondered and embarrassingly asked to doctors to check if I had a large tumor or something that could account for my belly. My whole identity as a thin (albeit never particularly fit) person is trashed. I am physically uncomfortable. I buy the wrong clothes and look bad in them. Things I used to love--clothes shopping, eating out, chocolate, even taking a nice bath--are now disturbing events that I avoid. I have to accept the fact that the only way I am ever going to turn heads again is if I wear horizontal stripes or forget my spanx.

Before you get down on me, like everybody does when I express any of this, let me state that I DO have a perspective. I am immeasurably thankful to be alive. The prednisone dose is low now, so I have achieved a stable if yet unacceptable level of heft. I am attempting exercise, though it forces me to enter the arena of labored breathing which, as you might imagine, is somewhat fraught for me. And as they cheerfully inform me at the lung transplant center, my BMI indicates that I am not yet considered obese. How fab.

Now I've entered the world many people have always inhabited. I bargain with myself over everything I eat. I've joined a gym and actually go sometimes. I've declared war on my old friend sugar and am making peace with my new chins. I'm attempting to embrace vegetables. I think I'm on the right track now, but there isn't a lot of hope for results. That is not being negative, but realistic. The doctor at Presbyterian who administers the yearly pulmonary stress test told me last year that if you wanted to sabotage another country's Olympic team, the best way is to give them the drugs I take every day. In other words, I'd have to become obsessed with exercise to overcome the chemicals I put into my body just to stay alive. The mayor thought it was wrong of him to tell me that, but I was grateful. It made the fact that I don't get very far with body modification less of a personal failure and more of an inevitability. And I think I have a good read on where inevitability becomes an excuse and personal failure takes over. That's where the hope comes in!

The Prize of Shame

I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, the number of things I've actually won over the years. I've never had a winning lottery ticket. I've spent a fair share of Lincolns on triple arms lengths of 50/50 tickets that never yield a profit, football and basketball pools that pay off nicely--for someone else and various tricky tray (nee Chinese) auctions that, I hope, benefit a good cause because they surely did not benefit me. Publishers' Clearinghouse has steadfastly ignored my existence--even when I used to slavishly send in my entries. And my forays into casinos invariably end with the phrase, "well, at least we had a good time." Sure, I've made off with a few centerpieces and the occasional door prize over the years, but never the "grand" prize, so to speak. So imagine my surprise when I hear my name announced as the lucky winner of a family portrait at a fundraising event for a local non-profit organization. Not exactly a new car, but definitely a cut above the centerpiece!

Excited, I promptly register with the photography company for my portrait--faxing them my contact information. Almost immediately, Lindy from Bourgeois Photography (an assumed name) calls me and ask me what kind of fundraiser I entered to win their donated prize. She seems put out that I won in a tricky tray rather than a silent auction. Is it me, or am I sensing disapproval? I can't decide, so I forge on. Lindy says, with an air of indulging me despite the fact that their donation was clearly undersold,  that she is sending me my gift certificate and we arrange a date for our sitting.

Included with the certificate are glossy brochures of their portraits. These portraits, the literature points out, are not your run of the mill portraits. They are printed on canvas and  "artist enhanced." Depicting mostly formally dressed families in staid settings with dark backgrounds and gilt frames, I am a little disappointed in the overall mood of the finished products, but what the heck--it's free, right? I open the fancy little box containing my gift and note with foreboding that it is in the amount of $2000.00. In my world, this would purchase family portraits enough to cover every wall of my house. I feel I'm being led a merry dance, but I decide to see it through.

Sitting day comes. The Mayor is off mayoring, so the boy and I go to have our mother/son portrait. I get my hair done, we dress in the recommended dark colors and we pose for a variety of shots. The photographer is charming and the boy and I have a good time with it. There's no sign of Lindy, but Emily--the lady at the front desk arranges a time for me to come back, review and select our portrait. Meanwhile, I get a closer look at their work. Portraits are arranged throughout the studio. They strive for an heirloom quality portrait that is more painting than photo. But to me they look kind of ghostly and surreal. Whatever, I think, see how it goes.

Finally the day of reckoning. I get the sense that I'm being set up for the hard sell. A few days before my appointment, Jessica calls to "strongly encourage" me to bring the Mayor along because "all decisionmakers" should be present. I assure them, in politer terms of course, that the Mayor couldn't care less what image I choose and that I am decisionmaker enough for this event. I know and of course they know we are not talking about the image anymore, we are talking about the price, but in the wonderfully euphemistic world of things that cost a ridiculous amount of money, we're all happy to pretend.

When I arrive, Jessica escorts me to a viewing room where I sit on a lovely sofa. She offers me tea. I decline because I know my goal is not to "spend" more than my $2000.00 gift certificate and I don't want to take advantage. The photos of me and the boy are fantastic. One better than the other, so of course, I want them all. We pick the best images in each position. Then Jessica puts it on the table. Portraits range from $8000.00 on down to $2000.00. Net net, the $2000.00 I have gets me an unframed 11 X 14, which she explains, will not have much "artist" work on it because it is "so small." I'm secretly good with that since I feel it is the artist additions that have rendered the portraits all around me somewhat scary, but I look downcast as a poor person out of her league should look. I decide to recognize the possibility that perhaps they should make money on the "gift" they "donated" to charity and ask, what it would cost to have my measly portrait framed. There is no framing possibility less than $300. Not doing it. She offers mounted versions of the other shots that can be set on little mini-easels, not "enhanced" of course and I'd have to find my own mini-easels. I think ok, maybe I'll get one or two of these. Wrong. An 8 X 10 is $300. It's $250 for a 5 X7. Now I know I can't do business here.

With the mysterious unknown cost of the "artist's touch" removed, I can estimate how much these mounted photos would cost them. Hell, I can probably go on Snapfish and get one for next to nothing. I would have paid a reasonable sum, in order to keep it polite. I recognize the value of professional photography and that people need to earn a living. I was prepared to spend up to about $100 for my "prize." But they offered me no options. The disapproval and anger I felt off off Jessica when she realized I was not taking the bait was palpable. She couldn't get rid of me fast enough and, in fact, couldn't even look at me again. I guess I was supposed to feel shame. That was my big prize. Too late, I realized that I'd have been happier if she'd just handed me an 8X10 print of each of the poses and charged me for them. That would have been a real win. My portrait has not arrived yet. I have no idea how it will look. But every time I look at it, I'll remember how lucky I am to be unlucky most of the time.

Overheard at the Supermarket

Last week, as I stood in the dairy aisle pondering the merits of soy yogurt verses ordinary yogurt, a woman in a parka (hood up) violated unspoken supermarket etiquette by pushing her cart that slight bit too close to mine, then walking away from it to look at the bread. I didn't think much of it, but my weirdness sensors were up.

Seconds later, she passed by her cart with something in her hands and asked an older man further down the dairy aisle in a loud, fever-pitched way, "CAN I GET IT? CAN I GET IT? Okay, there was something going on there. But I was more surprised still by his response. In a gruff, gravelly voice, he replied, unnecessarily meanly, "NO! She tried to make her case. But he still thundered, NO, in response.

I found this jarring.  Why can't a grown woman in her late 20s or early 30s, whatever her circumstances, choose her own food. Destitute didn't seem to be an issue here--they were well dressed and had lots of other things in their cart. It bothered me to hear her beseech him like a plaintive child and it irked me to hear him shut her down like a nasty tyrant. But you know how it is, you pick up your yogurt (soy and not soy) and carry on.

A few aisles later, we meet again. This time she's carrying soda. She starts out normally, "Mom likes this." But suddenly, she raises her voice like before and in the exact same insistent, almost frantic way, implores him, "CAN I GET IT? CAN I GET IT? Predictably now, he responds, "NO!" Throughout the entire exchange, neither of them has actually looked at the other. And, although they are practically yelling, their faces register no emotion. Of the three of us, I am the only one who is upset!

This, I concluded, must be normal communication for them. I realize that they probably perform this act at least once in every aisle, every time they shop. He is inured to her pleas and she to his refusals. Tones that I would find alarming and hurtful do not seem to have the same effect on either of them. From the number of items in the cart, I surmise that he must sometimes say yes. I wish I had heard that at least once to know for sure.

Sit! -- If You Feel Like It, That Is . . .

My dogs are crazy about me. They hang on my every word. At least that's the impression they put out. All ears up and tails wagging every time I open my mouth. And it doesn't matter if I'm talking to them, the boy, the Mayor or myself. They are always listening and watching my every move. Problem is, despite all that rapt attention, they seldom respond to anything I say in a way that you might interpret as obedience.

Sure, they've got the basic commands down. SIT generally gets the desired response--and quickly, when I'm offering bribes. But it isn't a sure thing and even when they sit, it isn't for long. OUT is often successful, but 7-year-old Major, a Miniature Pinscher who dislikes most weather, frequently drags his feet. Dog favorites like BISCUIT and DINNER are foolproof, I'll give them that.

But my potential favorites--COME, STAY, DOWN and NO--fail unless the  dogs are of a mind to take or cease said action of their own free will. They want to please you. Isn't that what everyone says about dogs? Well mine seem to want, first and foremost, to please themselves. If they happen to please me in the process of pleasing themselves, all the better in their minds--after all, dogs are affable animals.

The long and short of the matter is that I am a terrible dog trainer. I want well-trained dogs, but I'm not consistent. They sense this off of me right away and that's why they have a maybe/maybe not attitude when it comes to doing what I say. It was sort of OK with Major because he weighs about 9 pounds and bad behavior in a dog that barely reaches your knee is annoying, but manageable. Karma, the rescue puppy we recently adopted, presents more of a challenge. At six-months, she is already bigger than Major. She is healthy, funny and full of energy. And she is desperately in need of training.

It's not easy for dogs. As a species forced to live by the rules of a different species, they are predestined to have to fight their every instinct their entire lives. Why they remain as good natured as they do in the face of this, is a mystery to me. At this stage of life, nearly anything that strikes Karma as a great idea--chewing socks, biting Major, gnawing on chair legs, dissecting toys, eating poop--strikes me as a bad one. And redirecting her energies is time consuming and tedious. Snow makes the dog park impossible and has for the past month.

We tried clicker training and still have two lessons that are paid for, but I don't think I'll go back. Training without verbal commands might work for others, but I am not getting it and neither is Karma. In this class, they frown on physically manipulating your dog to let her know what behavior you want, ie . . . pushing her bottom down when you are teaching sit, etc. This is considered rude to the dog. I love my dog, but I really don't think she gets a nuanced concept like rudeness. And if I'm not hurting her, I don't really understand how it is rude myself. You might say it's not clicking with me.

Yet, I need to find a method and find it fast. The traditional training classes I took Major to seven years ago have doubled in price and with the vet visits and spaying to pay for, combined with the training classes that didn't work, my dog budget is pretty well blown. My cousin sent her dogs to a training camp, but I'm sure I won't be able to swing that. Books on training are my next option and I have a few. But where do I get a book on training myself to be a trainer of dogs. I'm the real problem here, not them. They know it and I know it!

Whistling in the Dark

When the trains pass through our town day or night, the engineer sounds the whistle. When I was new to town, I noticed it a lot. But quickly it became a homey, familiar sound--barely discernible, not because it isn't loud but because it's regular and expected. Under normal circumstances, people here would probably only notice the train if it didn't come through--like we sensed the deafening silence of the skies after 9/11.

But things are not normal right now in our little town. One of our beautiful young people, for reasons known only to himself, employed the train that he must have heard passing through town his entire life as a tool to take his own life. Instead of taking minor comfort in its predictability, its familiarity, he envisioned it as a source of ultimate relief to some inner pain he was not able to manage and did not know enough to share.

What happened? Did he pass out? Would he have changed his mind at the last minute if he had been able to hear the insistent, nearly hysterical blare of the train's horns on that freezing cold night? Questions abound. Theories are postulated. An investigation will commence. Perhaps some answers will present themselves in time. Maybe the devastated family and friends will take some solace in those answers. Time will tell.

In the meantime, for many of us, caught up in that train whistle that used to just mark the passing of time is the desperation of an engineer feverishly trying to save a life that cruel circumstances have thrown in his path, the devastation of a family embarking on a journey of incredible pain, the helplessness of a town left only to ask why and the cries of a young boy who was lost in the night.

Wrestling With Wrestling

O.K., so yesterday I find myself at the Middle School wrestling match cheering and carrying on as if I actually like wrestling. We live in a wrestling town, the Mayor's hometown. But I do not come from a wrestling town. I come from a big city where, in my day at least, guys wouldn't think of grappling intimately on a mat with other guys fully clothed, let alone wearing anything as undeniably ludicrous looking as a wrestling singlet. Seeing my first wrestling match left me in an odd state that was equal parts incredulity, bemusement and horror. Maybe, since I had to watch my son in hand to hand combat with another little kid, there was a bit more horror than anything else. But the Mayor and his brothers were big wrestlers here in high school and the boy is now a seasoned wrestler, too. I've had to adjust.

For years I attended matches with the sole purpose of being on-hand when, in my mind inevitably, the boy would need to be rushed to the hospital with a concussion or neck injury. Thus far, and I am pounding wood here, this has not occurred. It's been about 7 years now. I still view the sport as dangerous to some degree, but it is less so when they have years of training behind them and face opponents with years of training. That, I think, is the difference that allows me to enjoy the sport now. When both wrestlers know their moves and are methodically looking to gain the advantage through recognized wrestling techniques, the match has a certain grace about it. It is logic and knowledge of anatomy applied. And, much to my surprise, it can be a lot of fun to watch.

I've learned a lot of pertinent things to yell during the match. Cries of drive, circle, off your knees, and get heavy have all escaped my mouth. Yet, I still tend toward the more motherly, "you can do it (insert kid's name here)!" I love watching the boys cheer for each other. They are told to get up and applaud after each match and they do. But you can tell the ones they really have their hearts in--when a teammate is winning his first match or has been unnecessarily roughed up, but pulls it out in the end--the cheers fill the auditorium and the excitement is palpable. It's a dynamic that makes me wish I'd been part of a team at some point in my life. Though I've never been a sports participant or much of a fan, wrestling has helped me see it's value and experience it's joy.

These matches can still get a bit dicey, though. Kids who join up later are big and strong, but don't have the moves down. They are dangerous to other wrestlers. If your kid is pitted against a kid who doesn't know what he is doing, it is ugly to watch and actually very risky. If you're lucky, the inexperienced kid is a "fish" and gets pinned easily. Otherwise, he's a strapping kid who is frustrated into fight mode. Technique is out the window and there is a lot of throwing and slamming. This is not fun to watch and the fact that this can happen is the reason that, although I do enjoy a match here and there, I will not miss this sport too much when the boy outgrows it.