Of Boone's Farm and Buffoons

I hate New Year's Eve. Even as a high schooler, one who was capable of seemingly infinite poor choices, each strung lazily onto the next, I hated the holiday. I have always avoided the night like the plague, or like a bottle of Blue Nun. Whichever comes first...though I suspect one is always the predecessor to the other.

If I were prone to conspiracy theories, I would claim an underground liaison between network television and local beer distributors, for even the paltry t.v. offerings on New Year's Eve seem to utter "GO! DRINK! LOTS!"

Yet, each New Year's Eve evening, I dig in my heels and put up with more Lawrence Welk and J-Lo than is healthy for one person's heart.

After watching a 10/11 interview with local lawyer Herb Friedman last night, in which he was offering free taxi rides to any and all revelers, I became more convinced than ever that this is an evil holiday. Name one other holiday in which lawyers offer their advice and services for free. Heck, name one other moment in all of history in which such an offering is made. "Dead man walking." It's all I could hear as I watched Herb's lips moving.

Despite my distaste for the night, I have had some enjoyable ones in my 49 years. Family friends, the Carters, used to offer a Greenwich-Mean-Time New Year's Eve party...one in which the changing of the years was celebrated at 9 p.m., local time. Of course, I would have attended any party at the Carter's house, such was their reputation for good food and fun. But that they'd even figured out a way to make New Year's Eve fun? And end it all by 9 p.m.? Genius, pure genius!

And the whole Holt clan had a memorable New Year's Eve at the Rippe's house, as one millennium melted into another. I think we even managed to stay up until midnight, if for no other reason than to make sure that the world was not coming to an end. By the time we'd gotten home from the Rippes, I snuck into the basement and drained the tub, certain that we would not need 38 gallons of life-saving water, come morning.

For a few years, downtown Lincoln hosted First Night, an alcohol-free event in which dozens of venues offered all kinds of free entertainment. THAT was a good idea, although I suppose it had to end, given that downtown Lincoln also is home to 3,456 bars, all of which were doing a fine, liquid business, as well.

Ironically, after one of our First Night outings, our group of friends suddenly developed a wicked thirst for something bubbly, driving far too fast to the Russ's on 17th and Washington--that year-round circus where no good ever occurs--snagging the last bottle of booze they'd sell that night.

One blurry hour later, we broke the glass cover off our stereo cabinet, after thrusting our hips too vigorously to "I Want to Live in American," which was blasting from the speakers. One of our friends spent the night between Mark and me, secure in our king-sized, though ever-spinning bed. It was my only New Year's Eve that would be followed by a big bowl of Tylenol for breakfast.

No night holds more potential for utter disaster and disappointment than New Year's Eve. I'm no party pooper, though. I would never get in the way of someone else's fun. In fact, if I can help it, I never get on a road on New Year's Eve, for fear of getting in the way of someone else's fun.

Speaking of fun, I must remember to get some new AA batteries today. My Scrabble Scramble is starting to blink out. And I'm going to need that puppy, come tomorrow night.

"Efficient" Would Be My Middle Name if It Weren't Such a Long Word

On the rare occasions when I'm asked to describe myself, I will usually utter the word "efficient," among other things. "Efficient" is the shinier, less abrasive word for "impatient." It also makes me feel better about my hurried self. And anyway, if someone's going to give me the chance to find my own words, then I'm going for a little spit and shine, thank you.

In my quieter, slightly-more-honest moments, though, I know what "efficient" really means.

It means a 35-year-old hairstyle that requires neither styling nor, I suppose, much hair.

It means inky mistakes in the daily crossword, cloaked under great heaps of vocalized confidence.

Drive-thru tacos in wobbly, grease-soaked shells.

Clipped conversations with half-deaf grandparents.

It means occasional bouts with hemorrhoids.

"Efficient" is used dental floss stretched out across the porcelain shoulder of our still-damp bathtub.

It is angular, imperfect smears of blush, usually applied in the dark while I'm on the toilet.

In our living room, "efficient" is cool, green paint spattered along the edges of our ceiling, inches away from its wall-bound kin.

It is two Thanksgiving meals and a few rounds of Yahtzee followed by an early-morning c-section and the Oklahoma game, new daughter in tow.

"Efficient" is single-sentence paragraphs, nearly free of pesky punctuation. (Thus the reason some hives are beginning to emerge as I type this particular paragraph.)

"Efficient" is a 60-second encounter with the daily Word Jumble, a 31-minute church service, an absence of family Christmas letters. It is a fuzzy memory of a long-ago love affair with all things Faulkner.

But "efficient" is nothing without languorous interruptions, without the detailed steps of planning a trip abroad. It is nothing without the practice of real, palpable, unbearable patience as life takes its pretty time to reveal the next storyline. It is hollow without hospice or holiday meals or heaps of free time each summer.

Like most things of value, "efficiency" requires paradox to make it pop. And when it does pop? Best be looking or you might miss it.

I Miss Miss Manners. . .

Several years ago, a friend with a fine palate told me about M&N Sandwich Shop. At the time, it was a hole in the wall just above a head shop near 27th and Randolph. My friend told me the guy who owns the place is a native New Yorker who whips up a mean sandwich.

That was enough for me to stop by.

And the cigarette dangling from the proprietor's face, its half-bent ashes hovering above the prosciutto and Swiss, was reason enough for me to act like I'd left my money in the car. Needless to say, I didn't return.

Until today, that is, lured there by a Groupon coupon from my sis and the appealing notion of eating something other than ham. (We'd gotten one of those snazzy spiral-cut honey hams for Christmas which, four days and fourteen meals ago, really was pretty terrific but had now lost a bit of its shine and was starting to clog me up a bit.)

A fire moved M&N catty corner from its original digs, into a building even more precarious than the first, where it shares the space with a pawn shop, a head shop and a vacuum business. We pulled into the tight back lot, and weaved our way around two crack heads and a half dozen Mormons, all of whom were exiting the unmarked back door.

This could either be a good sign or a bad one, I thought to myself.

Turned out to be the latter.

Underneath a simple sign listing our menu options was a disturbing series of jaundiced, laminated photos of sandwiches, each looking like they'd been made sometime in the 50s, and left to air dry ever since. A few customers sat at two of the tables. Mark and I settled (and I use the word correctly) on a couple of Philly steaks, wondering what had happened to the cold meats and cheeses of the restaurant's former self.

Already, the vibe was less than appealing. And then we set out to pay the tab. Mark presented the Groupon, which the guy grabbed with a mixture of disgust and dismay. Owing a few more bucks on the bill, Mark then presented our debit card.

Apparently, the sign that read "We take cash, checks and credit cards" was a misprint.

Whatever spittle wasn't stuck in his scraggly beard now made its way in our direction as the owner lambasted us for even showing up in his restaurant, taunting us that we must enjoy the idea of him not making a penny.

By the time he'd finished chewing our asses and moved on to busily microwaving our thin-sliced Italian meats, the remaining Mormons sitting at the table across from us looked downright flummoxed, uncertain which of us was in greater need of their prophetic pamphlets.

When we got home, and removed our sandwiches from their styrafoam containers, I half wondered what I'd find between the two slabs of bread. Eyes closed and molars gnashing crazily, I crammed a half of my sandwich into my gullet as quickly as I could.

Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe we were insensitive, gouging him with the deadly Groupon-and-debit-card combo. Maybe the sandwich was delicious. I'll never know, though, because the encounter had left too bad a taste in my mouth to enjoy it.

Love Me, Tender. . .

We must be going for bonus points, because Mark and I went to church this morning, just 24 short hours after Christmas. And I'm glad we did. Not that there's anything wrong with Christmas Eve services. They are beautiful and lively and, because they are stacked one atop the other, they never run long.

But, between you and me, the biggie services (read, Christmas and Easter) also lack the intimacy of a post Christmas-Day service, where people either are especially devout, too cold to complete their morning walk, or, as was our case, hankering for something more basic than the frou-frou glam and glitter of a Christmas-Eve service.

After skimming the service's schedule, I knew we'd done the right thing when I saw the title of today's sermon--"After the Ecstacy, The Laundry." It's the title of a book written by a Buddhist Zen master who interviewed a hundred people, all of whom had experienced some significant spiritual event. He wondered what they did after that big moment. What he discovered was oddly comforting. They drank and quibbled, divorced and spoke poorly to their teenaged children. Essentially, they lived their very human, utterly imperfect lives.

I don't think it's schadenfreude to feel the quiet joy I felt upon hearing that a Zen master isn't always the nicest person. Mostly, I just like to know that I've got some company down here in the muddy recesses.

And, while I can't quite wrap my mind around a God sent to earth as a baby--and have no interest whatsoever in imagining the birth itself, thank you!--I am intrigued and comforted by the concept of leaving the limo at home. God could have come in a great rush of wings and fire, with 110 cornets close at hand. But, if the stories are to be believed, he came in the form of the most needy, helpless thing there is--a baby.

Apparently, God needs some tending to and that rather appeals to me. The need to be tended--and the willingness to tend to others--are no small potatoes. It takes confidence to hand over the reins, just as it takes confidence to grab them and start stearing.

If a tendency is what we lean towards, then my goal for 2011 is to lean towards the good, and to lean on others so that they might tend to me. I believe that, the more I am tended to, the more apt I will be to tend in return.

A Midwestern Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, in a cute, little Midwestern town, a girl named, um, Jan Waglin lived a simple and happy life.

Jan was a bit of a tomboy, much to her fancy mother's chagrin. And yet, her mother--some say she looked just like Doris Day--mostly put up with her daughter's foray into all things boyish. This was probably especially hard to do, for you see, Jan's mother was a fashion artist for a fancy local clothing store, where she got 40 percent off all the clothing! Do you know how many fancy-pants girls would kill for that kind of discount?!

Alas, the best her mom could do was to yank Jan by the ear once a year--usually just before school started--and buy her one snappy, new, color-coordinated outfit for the year. These outfits mostly sat undisturbed in Jan's closet, carefully guarded by the myriad Wacky Pack stickers that peppered the sliding doors of that same closet.

About once a year, Jan would get down with her "girl" self and wear something nice to school. Usually a dress. Until 8th grade, when Jan's annual dress choice--a snazzy, retina-burning yellow number with short sleeves and a slender belt--proved to be a lousy outfit to bowl in. Especially at Madsen's, where the balls leech their long-held dyes and the grease of a thousand strangers onto the closest cloth available. Jan spent the rest of that day trying to hide the black smears of her ten-pound ball, and threatening anyone who started to snicker with a dutch rub like no other.

Jan liked life very much, thank you. And she liked walking that silly gender fence, regularly dipping her feet into activities and attitudes usually reserved for boys. She liked running footraces against her fastest classmates. She loved all the hoops surrounding the coveted Presidential Physical Fitness Award, except for the chin-ups, which were especially hard for a girl of her stature. She liked building forts with her friends and farting, just for the heck of it.

As she got older, Jan started to realize that one of the reasons life was so nice was that she was surrounded by nice people. Patient and forgiving people who seemed to endure her constant testing and pushing and joking with an attitude usually reserved for saints and astronauts.

In return, Jan did her best to entertain people. She would say stupid things just to get a laugh out of someone. She liked whoopie cushions and wasn't afraid to use them. And she really loved getting stupid gifts. People seemed to know that, because, after awhile, she had quite a collection of stupid and worthless things. These things made her very happy. And those gifts seemed to make the other people happy, too.

One night, as Jan was figuring out how to spend her 16th birthday, she realized that maybe life was good, in part, because she was a willing recipient of good things. It was a pretty serious thought for a goofball to have, but she was not averse to trying new things. Even if they were serious.

And so, that night, Jan decided that joy was hers to take just as it was hers to give to others. No lightning bolts accompanied this thought. No booming voice of a father-figure God drenched her ears. No, this was a quiet epiphany. But she paid attention anyway.

For her 16th birthday, Jan's dad dressed up as a waiter, while her mom put on a fancy apron--probably one she bought at that store Jan visited annually--and they transformed Jan's bedroom into a restaurant, complete with candles and music. She had a few friends over before the school basketball game and they ate dinner in Jan's room, her father periodically checking in on them, a tray in hand with bubbly apple juice in fluted glasses sitting atop it.

It was, Jan supposes, a silly way to spend a birthday. And yet, everyone had a very hard time wiping the smiles off their faces. She figures they were glad to be there.

Just like she was.

Starkweather's 12-Bar Blues

I usually like a little soundtrack music as I make my way to school each morning. Often, I choose the soundtrack, but, one day last week, I let the college-aged DJ at KRNU choose my theme song.

When I tuned in, the song was halfway through. It was a raw, acoustic, bluesy number, the singer's rough-hewn voice telling his story with a mix of bemusement and conviction. The topic? Charlie Starkweather's bloody rampage. This, I know, is not a new topic. Bruce Springsteen dedicated an entire album to it. But, for some reason, it was as though I was hearing about it for the first time.

My reaction to hearing this story put to music was a pretty visceral one. Basically, I felt...invaded.

Midwesterners are a funny bunch. We get that we aren't flashy or on top of things, like our coastal cousins, and, in a way, we rather like that reputation. Known more for our produce than our personalities, we generally are content to exist just under the radar. But, when Hollywood takes rare notice of us, even if that notice is rooted in tragedy or stereotypes, we sit a little taller in our movie-house seats, turning our heads and smiling as we share a moment with strangers.

I didn't much care for this radio moment, though, and was glad I wasn't among strangers. Instead, I started to think about our culture's love affair with our country's wild, violent characters--and "characters" are what we turn them into. I thought that this singer, who most likely had never been to Lincoln or had never driven by a house that Starkweather had rampaged, could afford to make light of something he knew nothing about, precisely because he wasn't there to live it.

I wasn't there to live it, either. But the detritus and third-person memories make it a part of my community, regardless. And so, by the third verse, I started to resent the singer, angry that he would retell a story that wasn't his to tell in the first place. Baffled by the spit and shine he applied to two, young, violent teens who had a taste for blood.

As someone who teaches journalism, listening to this song reminded me that, when we retell stories, we must do so with kid gloves. We need to pursue with both vigor and honesty the truest line of that story. And we need to leave the spit and shine at home on the shelf if we are to honor the people who have lived this story, firsthand.

It was a heady lesson, packaged in 12-bar blues.

A Love Letter to Those Who Put Up With Me

It's good to pay attention. And, sometimes, it's nice to be awakened.

A line from a quirky little film stuck with me last night. In "Martian Boy," John Cusack, playing a sci-fi writer, marvels about our ability to find each other and make a connection--with absolutely no expectations in return--as a way of anchoring ourselves in this incomprehensibly massive universe.

And so, I think of all my anchors today, those glorious, human, imperfect, forgiving people who keep me solid. And filled up. And very much alive, even when my toes go numb beneath sheets not yet warmed.

I really am pretty much the luckiest person I know. What I lack in fashion I make up for in friends. Where I lack in abilities, I am held up by family. Good people, everywhere I look.

And maybe--finally--in a season too often filled with cheesy songs and discounted merchandise, I'm feeling just the slightest bit blessed. Aware of my surroundings again. And this flood of love pours over me, pooling my eyes as I type this.

Who am I to be so lucky? And yet, who am I to turn my back on such things?

Seems my own advent season has begun this morning. In my chilly basement, surrounded by worn carpet and fake wood paneling. No more taking for granted for me. At least not today. No, today I will take with eyes--and heart--wide open, filling myself up against a future I have not seen. Confident, as always, in the good people who surround me.

Take note. I am paying attention again.

I Really AM Stuck on Bandaids

For three very dark minutes this morning, I thought that life, as I know it, had come to an end. Foraging the bathroom closet for Bandaids, I found only empty box heaped upon empty box, each taunting me like a bent syringe taunts a heroin addict. Or so I imagine.

Some people drink when they’re under pressure. Okay, so I have been known to drink simply because there’s a cold one in the fridge and it would be a shame not to extend to it the warm hand of my fellowship. But anyway. . . Other people’s faces are where their stress can be seen, new, taut lines etching their way between frequently furrowed brows. Still others scream and yell and stomp their feet. Oh wait, I’m confusing stress with “Dancing with the Stars.”

Me? I wear Bandaids.

If you want to know how close I am to a Newspaper or Yearbook deadline, all you need to do is look at my thumbs. Wearing a Bandaid? Must be a deadline around the corner. Wearing two? Looks like the printing-press stars have aligned for both publications.

I’ve been wearing two Bandaids for about the last three weeks. This does not bode well for the Christmas Spirit. Or my students’ well being.

As a kid, I was a nail chewer. Not because I was stressed so much as because my mouth enjoyed a little activity between conversations. At one point, in fact, I could nary imagine a world without a mouthful of homemade half-moon shaped keratin kibbles inhabiting it. Eventually, though, my exquisitely developed palate moved beyond my taste for keratin.

And so, I became a cheek chewer. Of all my oral fascinations, this proved to be the most troublesome of habits. No one likes to talk with someone whose fist is jammed in the side of her face, incisors feverishly working the soft flesh inside. And, frankly, I can’t imagine it did much for my breath, either.

Now, though, I’ve settled into a dependable pattern of chewing my thumbs. Not sucking them, mind you. No, I’ve never been that weak of spirit. Nay, I just fiddle with the dangling participles of skin that embrace my thumbnails.

I tried other fingers but found their flavor to be a little too oaky with an unpleasant tannic finish. And so, the thumbs have it—as in my utmost attention, come deadline time.

As I type this, my decimated digits are snug in their newest garb, the dependable if a bit too noticeable Bandaid classic—the ½” sheer. True, I’ve grown partial to the ½’ Clear, but, alas, they are nowhere to be found this morning.

Sometimes, one’s will is put to the test. Looks like this is one of those times.

Middle-aged Woman Seeks Old Man Winter for Possible Relationship

I think I might have Seasonal Affective Disorder, only in reverse. Shocking, I know, but, come winter, I want winter to come.

This time of year, when I scan the 10-day forecast, it's not a succession of lone, yellow orbs I'm looking for. No. I want mottled skies that spew things at me. I want clouds that add some contrast to the infernal brightness of a December sun. And some precip. Give me something that requires a shovel or, at the very least, a thick pair of gloves and the slow, steady gait of a very old turtle.

I want to know that, when I head outside, it's entirely possible that I may lose my way to the garage. And when I finally make it to the car, I want to fret, if only temporarily, that I forgot to pack a blanket and some saltines.

Come winter, I am not a shirtsleeves-and-jacket kind of gal.

That's why Saturday, in all its breath-sucking, parallel-snow-falling, bone-chilling glory was like a gift from God. Yeah, I could still go out in it, but not without a little forethought and luck. And my new, kick-ass winter coat.

Unlike those dull, pupil-piercing, cloudless December days when you wonder if there's anything to live for, a day like Saturday brings out the best in people. Stranger talks to stranger in line at the drug store, sharing tales of how they ventured out from their warm nests, all because they'd run out of toilet paper or baby aspirin. As though baby aspirin would save us now.

A day like Saturday harkens us back to our primal roots, those times when we all had hairy backs, not just that creepy guy at the swimming pool. It reminds us that, even beyond bowels and balanced checkbooks, we really do have little control of things. Rotten weather is a balloon-popping, skin-thickening, eye-opening opportunity to right ourselves in this world.

And I, for one, am in need of some righting.

An Unlikely Friendship

Got myself a new library peep recently and, I must say, I feel pretty good about it. Not because we have a lot in common, either, which is usually the reason people like to snag themselves a new peep. No, Liz is a rough, on-the-edge teenager--I'm guessing 15 or 16--who wandered into the library during lunch one day and pretty much demanded that I find her a good book.

Not just any good book, mind you. It had to be a hardcover one. And not too tall or thick, either. For Liz, then, the contents seemed to be less important than the container itself.

Apparently, she'd had some bad luck with the softbound variety and didn't want The Man (or The Woman, as the case may be) to pin blame upon her for dog-eared pages and tattered covers.

Now, I've got a list of books I've read, dating back about 16 years, in which I write down the titles, authors and genres. But, somehow, my personal database overlooks cover materials. I created this list when I found myself calling son Eric "Rasta" more than "Eric." Rasta was our most excellent family canine at the time, but "most excellent canine" does not equate "borne of thy womb" anymore than "Bo Pelini" equates "Miami football coach." And so, I decided I'd better start recording some basic information not only about my child but also about the books I'd been reading, lest I forget them.

I still forget the titles and characters' names of most of the books I read--usually within hours of closing the books once and for all,--all too often resorting to such vague descriptions as "It's a big, colorful cover and inside are all these, like, really interesting people who are doing amazing things. I think. Or maybe the cover is kind of dark and depressing. . . " But I've got my backup band, nonetheless.

It wasn't a whole lot of help with Liz, though, since I couldn't recall if they were softbound or hardbound. And so, we roamed the shelves a bit, my list in hand, in case a title came up that sounded vaguely familiar to me. Within a few minutes, I found a book I thought she'd love. It was about an African-American teenaged couple in New York who found out they were going to be parents. And how the dad eventually became the sole parent in his child's life. Gritty, raw, and starring a compassionate male character, I figured I'd found a winner for Liz. Oh, and it was hardbound, too.

"Oh, yeah. That's a great book. It's the last book I've read," she said, "when I was in jail last year," she added.

On so many levels, I am a lacking librarian. I'm a slow reader, I can't seem to remember book titles, I have never had a sexual dream about John Dewey, . . . In short, Liz may very well have been a victim of time and circumstance. Had she only wandered into the library a half hour later, after Roxi was back from lunch, she would have been swimming in wonderful options, each a literary haute couture, designed and written exclusively for her. And in hardback!

But she muddled her way through with me, giving me patient, if not encouraging feedback, until we finally settled on a title.

Imagine my surprise and delight when she wandered back into the library just a few days later, book in hand, and a hungry look in her eyes.

"I need another."

Oh, Lord. I'd failed her.

"I loved it. Give me another."

And so, our precarious literary friendship blossomed. Every few days, she returns to the library, each time, slightly more emboldened to ween herself from my recommendations and wander the shelves herself. I miss making suggestions, but I'm thrilled she's found herself a set of operational--and apparently, pretty successful--book-finding skills. She even told me that her mom was reading the books she was bringing home.

And so, I wrote her mom a little letter. Told her about Liz's new-found appetite for books, her new-found ability to eat them up like a thirsty animal laps up water. Mentioned that Liz has even been able to check out a few hardcover books, returning them in admirable shape.

Liz appreciated the note, one not written by a probation officer or school administrator, but rather by a mediocre librarian who just happened to be lucky enough to be at the desk when her daughter wandered in, hungry for a good read.

My Name is Mud

My name's mud.

But don't take my word for it (and, really, why would you, after what I've just revealed?). No, just ask the nice folks at Netflix.

After the month I've had with them, they're now filing me under "Digital Morons," right there next to George W. Bush, who still can't get over how those scanners work at the grocery-store checkout line.

Yeah, you could say I've had a bad month with my Netflix membership. And, while some may argue that breaking one DVD and misplacing two others isn't, like, cancer or anything, well, you just might think differently after learning just what DVDs I ruined. Or lost. Or, like, whatever it is that I did to them.

Because I'm a Holt (and because I have a husband whose favorite shirt says "Out of the Loop and Loving It!"), we've just discovered "The Sopranos." Yeah, THAT "Sopranos," the hit TV series that wrapped up nine seasons of success . . . in 2007.

Thanks to the most excellent Lincoln City Libraries (the same that recently was featured in the Journal-Star), we began nursing ourselves on the first season, disc by demented disc, in three-week increments, as the circulation desk would allow. Not surprisingly, though, just as we found ourselves hooked on Tony, we also discovered the seedier side to loving a mafia series.

Turns out an awful lot of the libraries' "Sopranos" discs have gone missing. What? You lookin' at ME?!

So we turned to Netflix to feed our need to keep up with the Sopranos. Things went well through the second half of Season One--I even learned some of the characters' names and memorized the opening song--but then, they went wildly downhill after that.

Season Two's first disc arrived without fanfare. Or a horse's head. Getting it to play in our DVD player proved to be another thing, though. Especially when I jammed it in there, just above our copy of The Simpsons, Season 196. Seems DVDs, unlike rabbits, don't appreciate being stacked one upon the other.

By the time I wrenched the Sopranos from the mighty grip of the machine, a small, uh, crack seemed to have magically appeared in the DVD. Of course, I tried to snap it back together, but to no avail. (SPOILER ALERT!) Seems I'd knocked off Tony before the opening credits of the second season could even roll.

Netflix was surprisingly okay with my admission, sending me another copy of the Season Two disc before I could say "FUGGEDABOUTIT!"

We watched all three episodes, Tony magically brought back to life, and then...well, frankly, I don't know what happened next. But our next Netflix DVD just never seemed to arrive.

A few weeks later, I finally checked my Netflix account, only to see that they thought we still had the replacement disc. Which we didn't. Heh, heh, heh.

I managed to swallow my pride and register for a concealed-weapons permit all in the same afternoon, contacting Netflix once again to say "Dadgum you people! I sent that DVD WEEKS ago!"

Again, they took it well. Even sent our next one. (We took a break from "The Sopranos" at this point, for reasons which should be obvious). Anyway, they actually sent us the next DVD in our cue. Which I've heard is really, really good.

Only I don't know what I did with it. I figure, it's either at the dump or in the sorting room at our local recycling plant.

And me? Well, I'm going back to the library. Sticking with books for awhile.

Girl, Interrupted

I'm knee deep in my busy season right now. And I'm not talking tinsel and toys. These days, I'm plowing through piles of papers, diving into daunting deadlines, and spewing sound research statistics, all at a mind-numbing speed.

It's like that 80's Hollywood memoir, "I'm Dancing As Fast As I Can," only minus the valium.

And yet, for all the icky intensity of my recent work days, I actually get a bit cranky when someone comes along and threatens my unpleasant routine. Go figure!

Take Friday, for instance, when a group of journalists from India had the nerve to disrupt my flow. Right there, in the midst of a short, furious Newspaper deadline, they galavanted into my classroom, expecting to talk with my students and me. Right there, in the midst of our well-planned mayhem, they had the nerve to interact with these teenagers from another country, asking them why they like journalism. As if we had time to stop what we were doing to answer them!

Well, I hope they're happy! I mean, it was downright annoying to have to sing "Happy Birthday" to Jackson (17 years!) while these dark-skinned strangers in funny clothes watched us. And to think we'd have to share Jackson's cookies with these people! Really!

Really?

I walked into my Newspaper class bathed in the inky chemicals of stress, silently wondering how we could meet our deadline AND our guests...Fifty minutes later, I left feeling connected to my world again, swapping concern for contentment.

I mean, who gives a rip when our paltry rag wends its way through the printing press? This is not cancer, after all. This is not life-and-death. This is an assignment worth 100 points. An expensive and time-consuming 100-point assignment, to be sure. But it is not strangers in a strange land, reaching across languages and lands to make a connection with someone they just met.

And so, a wonderful bunch of mostly pasty-white U.S. teens sparkled for and spewed to, sought out and surprised these five Indian journalists who came across oceans and continents to find out how other people tell stories.

To tell a new story, together.

I've got my fingers crossed for all kinds of disruptions in the jam-packed week ahead. I can only hope that they'll be as magical, as life-giving and grounding as these fine folks who had the gall to disrupt my sputtering flow.

Windy City

Wind unsettles me. Especially late at night.

And so, I spent an unsettled night last night, the winds pushing odd dreams into my head, mixing things up into unnatural storylines.

As a self-professed weather nut, I draw the line at strong winds. Especially at 2 a.m., when I suck in my breath, hoping the house keeps its feet firmly planted, cheering on the wood shingles to find one good nail to cling to.

Wind makes me feel vulnerable, reminds me that I have little control over my life, regardless of the lies I tell myself each morning. Not the wind of a tornado, so much, with its hyper commitment to focus. Tornados fill me with a mix of awe and fear. Easy to say, since I have never actually been in one.

No. The winds that really get me are those relentless, bullying, wide-sweeping winds that care not a whit about having a single game plan. These are the winds that can turn a neighborhood walk into an episode of "Fear Factor," as we wince under each swaying, giant Locust that lines our street, sure that we'll be killed by a wayward limb crying out "Uncle."

These are the winds that, after the stubborn Pin Oaks finally let loose their giant leaves, cause neighbors to sneer at each other, as they soak their blistered hands, their rakes giggling in the corners of garages, knowing they've got job security.

It is good to fear nature, though, to be reminded of our place, despite our belief that 24/7 high-speed Internet access means anything at all. There's a reason we describe such winds as "bracing."

And so, I hunker down, my collar pushed up against my ears, and make my way through it, feeling both awe and fear, longing for shelter, even in the brick walls of my workplace.

I'll Take Little Green Men Over Big, Fat Idiots Any Day!

Got some great news this week. As I was scanning the latest "Time" magazine, I read a Q&A piece featuring futurist Ray Kurzweil, who seems like a really smart guy that kind of looks like a muppet. Anyway, as I was reading the piece, my eyes dawdled over his answer to the question "Do you think we'll find intelligent life anywhere else in the universe?"

Kurzweil said the current thinking is that there already are between a thousand and a million technologically-advanced civilizations in our galaxy alone. DANG! That got my blood going! And then he topped that amazing claim with this mind-boggling afterthought: "...within a few centuries at most, these civilizations would be doing galaxy-wide engineering. It's impossible we wouldn't be noticing that."

I LOVE that we aren't the be-all end-all of this universe. Frankly, it makes me think a little better of God, who was going to disappoint me if we were his opus, his Really Big Moment.

About 20 years ago, I first starting hearing the incessant, blubber-backed yabbering of Rush Limbaugh or maybe it was the pinch-faced blather of Dr. Laura Schlesinger, arguing that this world was ours to use as we please. In fact, as I recall, they had the nerve to say that God himself pretty much insisted on it. Yeah, I could see God doing that...

"Go ahead and make a mess of things. That was my first try anyway..."

Turns out, maybe we really WERE God's Beta test!

Now, as excited as I am to hear we aren't the only ones out there, I wonder if I might be a little astro-agoraphobic, because a million other civilizations sounds, well, a little crowded to me. And a teensy bit creepy, too.

But I'm willing to be creeped out a little if it means that, some night, when I'm soaking in the hot tub, watching the stars hold their inky-black ground against time itself, and something whizzes by, I may be watching some intergalactic taxi cab ferrying a VIP who's late to his next appointment.

THAT would be a story worth telling!

Note: here's a link to Time's Kurzweil piece:
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,2033076,00.html#ixzz16d730xEd

A Mother's Growing Pains

Note: In honor of Allison's birthday and in recognition that I really am a lazy person with nary a new thought in my head, today's blog is a reprint of something I wrote for the Journal-Star eleven years ago.

They really do let anyone have children. I'm living proof of that.

After all, prior to giving birth, I'd babysat exactly four times in my life. The first was for my neighbors, the Asbjornsons. They gave me a 50-cent piece to play "Mother May I" on the front porch with their son David for an hour.

I felt pretty good about that, considering I'd have done it anyway--for free. The second time I babysat was for my fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Sorensen.

Because she was one of my favorite teachers in the whole wide world, I wasn't going to let a little thing like inexperience or a lack of interest in small children get in the way of doing something for her.

Her daughter and I got through the evening OK, although I must admit (after 25 years of harboring this secret) that she wet the bed...and I did absolutely nothing about it. I'm not proud of that fact, although I am drier.

My third sitting gig had its roots in despair. My friends the Flowerdays had an appointment with their tax man and were in need of someone to watch their young twin sons.

When they phoned, they prefaced their request by telling me they'd made 112 calls before dialing my number. To make up for the Mrs. Sorensen fiasco, I agreed to babysit and decided not to charge them.

My fourth babysitting venture was arranged more out of a pity than anything else. My sister Ann decided that, since I was six months pregnant, I'd better spend a little one-on-one time with a baby.

Her young son Sam was freshly diapered when I showed up and was still dry 23 minutes later when my sister returned from her "outing." Personally, I think she was sitting in her garage reading magazines the whole time.

Three months later, I became a full-time babysitter myself. Not that all my previous experience was much help, though. It still took me four days of soaking, wet cloth diapers and dozens of loads of laundry to discover plastic pants. Things really started to improve after that, though.

And that's the way it's been for the past 7 years. I learn as I go. Fortunately, my kids Eric and Allison are patient teachers. I don't think Eric has ever complained about his breakfast, which has not wavered once in content or quality since the day I finally figured out he was ready for solids.

He only recently asked for underwear that was Barney-free and big enough for his buns. His snuggy-free happiness was immediate when I brought home a slew of solid white, size 8 Hanes. I felt very good that day about my role as a competent, responsive mother.

Allison, on the other hand, is a slightly more demanding customer. Although she's only 4, she actually had the nerve recently to ask us to start brushing her hair each morning before she leaves for preschool.

Allison also likes her clothes to match, which is why we've decided to let her dress herself. I'd like to think that my lack of maternal qualities has led my children to become independent at a very young age. The thing is, they are great people in spite of me--funny, creative, giving, sharp and fairly normal.

It's true that it wasn't until Eric was 5 that he knew what a football looked like; and Allison is more apt to sing the words of some disco song rather than a quaint lullaby as she falls asleep each night.

But they seem to get through their days with a good deal of joy and curiosity.

And isn't that the point--that little kids can play in the dirt without getting in trouble? That they can sing nonsense songs and jump off a chair for the big finish? When I think back to my babysitting misadventures, I realize that, while I may not have improved those kids' lives, I probably didn't damage anyone's life, either.

Now, as a mother, I'm even more grateful that people are resilient, patient and evolutionary in nature. It's also nice to realize that kids have an innate ability to organize and entertain themselves without us giving them a daily schedule of things to do and places to go.

Frankly, I like the idea of kids being kids. Even if that means they'll occasionally have a babysitter like me.

Dead Man Talking

I love a well-written obituary, one that leaves me with a vivid image of the person, a sense of that person's life. A well-written obituary seldom requires an accompanying photo, so descriptive are the words that follow. Obituaries are odd beasts, though. Marking both a life lived and a life no longer, they often are inadequate bookends to a tale far too long to be told in five column inches.

Sometimes, what is left out is as revealing as the stories that occupy the space. And those omissions can feel like sins to people who knew that person well. It makes sense, I suppose, that, if given only so much space, those in charge of telling the tale hit the highlights, the shiny moments, and overlook the shadows.

Those shadows, though, often hold the deeper meaning, the back stories that tell a more complete tale. Given their warts-and-all nature, though, I guess it's understandable that family members would prefer to iron them over or erase them entirely from the inky trails of last stories told.

Their omission from newsprint, though, does not remove them from life.

And so, today, I think about survivors, both familial and otherwise. I think about stories not told, about hurt crammed deep beneath the surface, yet barely held at bay. I think about accolades and spotlight moments, about mute audience members who know a seedier side, one most certainly not deserving of praise. About secrets kept. Power wrongly expressed. About trust that is lost and lives that are left broken in that wake.

What do these people do, as they scan the glowing recollections? How do they deal with old hurts, bubbling up again in the privacy of their own thoughts? Is it wrong to speak ill of the dead? Is there a secret sense of relief at the passing of that person, or just old wounds left to fester again?

Dying, it seems, is as complicated as living. And obituaries? Just incomplete recollections of a human life lived in some combination of glory and shame.

Read My Lips, Oprah--You Chose a Stinker!

Any more, one REM-inspired snort from Hobbes the Hobo Dog and I'm up for the day. Even when that day is hours away. Come 3 a.m., then, as Hobbes spastically and vocally was imagining fresh cat turds and frisky squirrels, I peeked through my lashes to try to interpret my clock's digital readout, Mark rumbling a bit himself across the tundra of our king-sized bed.

By 3:30, our fates were sealed. That's when our wayward son Eric wended his chilly way homeward on his bike, refusing the comfortable digs of a friend's basement floor in favor of his own bed. I can hardly blame him, even though I suppose it makes us bad parents to make a 3:30 a.m. arrival even an option to an 18-year-old son, but we pretty much get the lure of one's own beds, so we allow it to happen--occasionally.

We even managed to enjoy a brief conversation with Eric, followed by stupid giggles and a whispered exchange between Mark and me...all before 4 a.m.!

So what does a person do when 3:30 beckons the start of a new day? If your name is Mark Holt and you work the weekend shift, you decide to go in an hour early--leaving at 4:35 a.m.--so that Sunday dinner might start a bit earlier than usual. If your name is Jane Holt and you happen to have the best newspaper carrier west of the Mississippi, you hold out hope that, somehow, the sports writers managed to crank out their depressing Husker ink before 10 last night and the paper miraculously awaits you on your front step, its chilly, plastic condom promising nothing if not safe reading.

But even I knew I was asking a lot. So, instead, I reached down to the pile of books at my bedside, turned on my lamp, puffed up a few extra pillows, and figured I'd dig into my new read, Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom," described in the press as a classic, post-modern mystery of sorts.

Apparently, I'm no "Thoroughly Post-Modern Millie", because, by page 50, I was pretty much disgusted by every character in the book. Ironically, Franzen's latest had been chosen as an Oprah book, despite his snubbing of the media mogul when his "Corrections" came out a few years ago.

While Midas apparently had the golden touch, I find that, generally speaking, anything that's been deemed as an Oprah pick leaves me wanting. As in wanting something--anything--that even resembles redemption and a character I can care about.

Prior Oprah-pick books seemed to leave a bad taste in my mouth, and a kind of nasty film on my skin. Invariably, I had to follow each Oprah read with a white-hot, disinfecting bath, hoping to rid myself of all that ickiness and hopelessness. However, whereas many of the characters of her previous picks often seemed to languish in impoverished lives and general soullessness, this current pick features well-connected and fully-funded soulless characters.

And, I gotta tell you, I think I prefer bad-behaving poor people over bad-behaving rich folks any day. In the absence of three squares and a steady income, at least you can point to circumstances when trying to explain all that bad behavior and all those bad decisions. How, pray tell, am I supposed to care a whit, though, about imbeciles who've always had enough food, a good school, and a cozy, well-furnished house within which to reside?

And so, I toss aside Jonathan Franzen's latest, not willing to stomach its snarky self centeredness for another 500 pages, all in hopes of finding some reason to care. That's the power of pleasure reading. If there's no pleasure, I don't have to read it.

Happy Birthday, Give or Take 30 Days!

Got a funny, foul birthday card yesterday from my old pal, Marilea. Granted, my birthday isn't for a month, but I'm not about to tell her that.

I like getting personal mail. Even if its timing is off. And, really, how great is it to celebrate a birthday twice in one year?

A few years ago, a similar thing happened when my library peeps surprised me with a birthday luncheon...two weeks early. In addition to snagging a free meal, what I liked best was that they argued with me about the details of my birth, certain that I was wrong and they were right. As though they were there during that whole messy occasion. Ended up getting another celebratory luncheon from them two weeks later, on the actual date. BONUS!

I doubt that kind of luck will continue, though. One can only confuse librarians so many times until the jig is up.

Sometimes, I think the element of surprise has seeped out of people's lives, a victim of our instant-access, always-in-the-know, 21st-century lifestyles. And what a shame that is.

Maybe it's that element of surprise that leads me to remain out of the loop on so many levels. No cable, no Kindle, no texting...I'm like a 21st-century Maryann on Gilligan's Island. Like Robinson Crusoe, as primitive as can be.

And, frankly, I like it that way.

I relish my ignorance, that glorious absence that makes way for surprise heaped upon surprise. That's why I love it that my friend Laura intentionally didn't tell me about the wickless-candle representative who would be at her FAC last night.

Laura knew I'd probably pass on the party if I realized that I'd have to sniff a dozen candles in order to earn a gin and tonic. And so, she failed to tell me that small fact.

When I opened her front door yesterday and was greeted by the sharply-dressed vendor, pamphlet in hand, I took it all in befuddled, bemused stride, hardly able to keep in the giggles as I nodded in false complicity with this waxy, wickless blonde.

I rather enjoyed that surprise, too.

And it's always nice to be on the other end of surprises. Take Thursday after school, when I wended my way to Ye Olde Shopko, where nothing has ever sold for retail rate. In need of a few more long-sleeved shirts, I made the trek with both speed and plaid on my mind. When I rounded the corner, surrounded by sale-priced shirts on one side and snappy leather purses on the other, I heard someone call out my name.

School friends Cindy and Roxy were there, lustily pawing purses with potential. They called me over to ask me a question I'd never been asked before.

"Which purses should we buy?"

I quickly scanned the area for Alan Fundt, although I knew he was long dead, certain I was being set up for a gag. Alas, they really did want my opinion on purses.

Now, asking me about purses is like asking Sara Palin about constitutional law. I simply never have developed that portion of my brain. I'm a "stuffer." My money's in one pocket, my license in another and my keys in yet a third. When I was in full bloom as a teenager, you'd find me with tampons tucked cleverly in my knee-high socks.

What can I say? I travel light, especially when compared to my more fashionable, better accessorized female friends. Heck, even my male friends have been known to haul around a man bag or two, so I guess I'm just plain out of the fashion loop, regardless of gender.

That ignorance, though, has been a great source of joy and surprise in my life. I love knowing that Cindy buys three or four purses a year. I am fascinated to see how a Blackberry works, although I have no real desire to touch one, unless atop a bowl of Wheaties and coated in a light sprinkling of sugar. I get a kick out of telling people that I don't have a shower--their faces registering both horror and surprise.

In short, my life is a better, more surprising life because I am out of the loop and loving it. Thank God there are people like Marilea, who also--unbeknownst to themselves--are equally out of the loop. I'm loving that, too!

KC and Our Sunshine Band of Travelers

This weekend, on the 19th floor of the Kansas City Crowne Plaza Downtown, I was reminded that there's nothing like sharing a hotel room with friends to remind you of just how freaking weird you are.

Pack for a vacation with the family and you never have to remind yourself of this fact. But pack for an overnight with friends and you can't ignore the beast, the one that utters "BUT HOW CAN I GET THROUGH THE NIGHT IF I HAVE TO WEAR PAJAMA BOTTOMS?!" Pack for a night with friends and you find yourself suddenly a bit embarrassed that, instead of a nice little zip-up bag with flowers on it, your deodorant and toothbrush will be housed in a fogged up, old Ziploc bag that went to Grand Island last summer.

I look at everything differently when I know that other people with whom I do not share DNA more or less major holidays will be spending the night with me. Suddenly, I have no underwear that's good enough. Well, okay. I really don't have any underwear that's good enough, but you know what I mean. Suddenly, it matters that the rubber handle on my hairbrush is missing and I snort when I drift off to sleep.

Spending the night with friends can be a real test of friendship. But it's also a good reminder that we all require a bit of patience and good humor.

And so, we mostly laughed our way through the weekend. I even found myself giggling quietly at 4:45 a.m., after being serenaded by a semi truck rhythmically running over a bagpipe. At least that's what "Colette's" snoring sounded like to me. And I found it charming that "Emily" liked to hug a pillow as she nodded off for the night. Or at least for whatever portion of the night a middle-aged woman actually gets to nod off.

I was delighted that we all were awake by 5:30 a.m., unlike all the overnights of my youth, when I would stare at the ceiling for, oh, say, 3 or 4 hours while I waited for my friend to wake up for the day. I even enjoyed the one-sided snippets of conversation as my friends checked in with family members.

"Snow? Really?"
"Think he'll come to Lincoln for the game?"
"Let the dog out."
"Love you, too."

I love that I now know that Colette's dog enjoys having her teeth brushed each night. I was glad to hear stories of Emily's mom, who died recently, to find out how Judy fell in love with the people in the Alzheimer's unit. I was intrigued and impressed by the five miles a day that Colette walks.

Before last weekend, I hadn't known that Judy was a Lincoln High grad, or that Dianne and her high-school classmates had to bus their own tables and clean their own dishes at last summer's reunion.

It was a journalism convention worth attending. Unfettered by students, we were like Marlo Thomas, free to be you and me. And we rather liked it, warts and all.

NOTE: It's possible that "Colette" never knew she made those sounds while sleeping, which is why I've changed her name. I couldn't live with myself if the 2 people who read this blog somehow figured out who I was talking about!

Beep Beep Toot Toot, Yeah!

November 9, 2010

I've noticed that, the closer I get to fifty, the more "iffy" my bodily functions become. Or maybe I mean "sniffy..."

I'm almost one year shy of the half-century mark, and I'm pretty sure I've now mastered the art of farting. This is no great accomplishment in itself, I know. I mean, I've had five decades to get it right. I've always been a fan of farting--I grew up on Mad Libs and underneath the odious weight of gas-filled older brothers, after all.

In fact, I've always been a big fan of any outtake of air from bodily escape hatches.

As a high schooler, I learned how to take in great gulps of air, the result usually being a stunning, word-studded burp that would make a linebacker blush.

What's troubling now, though, is that I seem to have handed over the keys in all things expulsive. Where I once would choose to let rip a gentle symphony I now am powerless as my body scat-sings its way through the aftermath of a bean-based meal.

Drop something on the floor? No more casually bending over to pick it up, for fear I might mark the occasion with a toot of my trumpet.

The other day, I sneezed as I walked into the school, and thought I'd blown up the Hoover Dam.

What's most disconcerting, though, is the thought that now, when some silent-but-deadly hissssss goes wafting through the classroom, it may very well be my own. Granted, teachers are always silently blamed for students' farts. These odiferous elephants in the room seldom get pinned on their true beginnings. For years, I knew I was being blamed, even when the snorting boy in the back row clearly fogged up the place. Only now, I probably am the source of that proverbial leak.

I've become my own Deep Throat, only I'm just tattling on myself. And I sure don't see a best-selling book or movie deal in this scenario.

Senses and Sensibility

November 8, 2010

By 5:30 this afternoon, I was knee deep in a love affair with my senses. And the whole, torrid time, Mark was by my side, rooting me on, as he himself whispered love notes to his own eyes and ears and tongue and nose.

This is what happens when you pop in an excellent mix CD while preparing a really beautiful dinner.

Beth Orton sang us love songs while we tongued slightly bitter slivers of Manchego cheese between swallows of a pretty fine glass of white wine. Granted, I know nothing about wine, and judge my gulps by a gag-reflex measuring stick, but, still, it seemed pretty smooth going down. And the whole bottle cost more than $5, so who am I to question its heritage?

My nose came to life as I crushed bulbs of fresh garlic, setting it free in a shallow pool of balsalmic vinegar and olive oil. I let it take a lap or two around the bowl before rubbing the rich, dark mixture onto our room-temperature t-bones. This was getting good. And we hadn't even started in on the pickled asparagus or beer bread.

All of this after a leisurely walk outside, where blood-red maples and dusty, warm air tickled my eyes and nose until I could barely contain my joy.

What is life like without music or crushed garlic or crunchy leaves beneath your feet? What is life without the scent of the earth turning? Without the umami earthiness of steak, seared over hot coals?

I'd rather not find out, thank you.

Made in God's Image? Really?

November 7, 2010

Today, a transgendered person in a snappy dress suit, and with the voice of Charles Bronson, handed me my church bulletin. I tried to sneak a peek as he/she did the same for the elderly lady behind me, but I couldn't read that lady's face well enough to gauge her reaction.

We can say what we want to about God, but I think most people don't like it when God misbehaves. I think people secretly find God a bit disconcerting when His actions speak louder than our words.

Me? I rather like the idea of a misbehaving God. Unless, of course, He misbehaves in a way that challenges my image of Him. Assuming, though, that there is truth in the biblical adage that we were made in the image of Him, then we are talking about one motley God. Hardly simple, sometimes unrecognizable, immensely complex and ever evolving.

This whole "made in my image" thing can be baffling, especially when you think about how many people out there are really annoying or downright awful. Are they made in God's image, too?

For a while now, I've tried to boil God down to what I imagine is His essence. I've created a measuring stick, of sorts, that I carry around with me to determine what is at the heart of someone's words or actions. I tell myself "If it isn't love, it isn't God." But maybe I've lost some of God's flavor in all that boiling down. Maybe God is just as much darkness as He is light.

It's probably silly to assume that all the hardness, the complexities, the pains of this world are absent of God. Certainly, there are plenty of hard, complex, pained people making some very ugly statements in the name of God. I imagine many of them would have rejected the church bulletin this morning, would have sneered at the greeter and walked out instead.

That would have been a shame, because they would have missed hearing him/her say something pretty wonderful after the sermon. His/hers was the first hand to go up when Jim asked if anyone had any thoughts to share. This person said that he/she can face the changes in life now, in part because he/she's got a little God, a little church, in that life.

And who am I to deny this person that God?

I wonder what would happen if we started living like we really believed that we were made in the image of God. I suspect some of that darkness and hatred that confounds us would give way to something lighter, something truer. I suspect that, after we got used to how we looked, we'd rather start liking each other again.

Noises off, please!

November 5, 2010

I come from a loud family. Just ask my husband Mark. Or anyone else who does not share my DNA makeup. When all the Raglins were alive and thriving, if you had walked into one of our family gatherings, you'd have thought you'd walked into a seven-layer dip. Only noisier and less tasty.

So I'm used to noise and interaction. And, in the right place, I will celebrate those qualities. Like the time I got to play Pictionary with my friend Cheryl, who, by day, is a quiet, unassuming, sharp cookie who does not require the limelight.

Play Pictionary with her, though, and Cheryl's Jekyll gets the best of her. I discovered this side of Cheryl long ago, while hoping she'd recognize the doodle I'd just etched. Sand slipping from the timer's grip, she never did figure out what it was I had drawn for her, but that didn't stop her from screaming out her answer, "boy george! boy GEORGE! BOY GEORGE!" over and over and over again, as though the shouting eventually would transform that doodle into Boy George.

And I'm so glad that I was there that night when Cheryl got down with her noisy, bad self!

Cheryl's ineffective but hilarious "Pictionary" outbursts, though, share nothing with the amped-up outbursts of too many U.S. pundits and politicians these days.

Somewhere along the line, adults decided that the "indoor voice" rule only applied to their children. Why we would ever think it logical to expect more from a 5-year-old than we would of our own adult selves is a noodle scratcher to me...

Yet there he is--big, fat, brash Rush Limbaugh, on the cover of my "Newsweek" magazine this week, with bold "Power 50" type stamped across his immense, bile-filled barrel chest. Why "Newsweek" decided to grace its cover with this Oxycontin-loving hypocrite who can't stay married any more than he can keep his trap shut is beyond me. And when I opened the mailbox this afternoon, only to be greeted by that creepy, Buster-Browned face of John Boehner, well, I started to wonder if I should have passed on that extra serving of mushrooms last night.

Seems I have fallen down the rabbit hole, and it's a surprisingly noisy place, considering its size.

I'm no fan of Rush Limbaugh (why is it okay for adults to be bullies, but we consider legislating against the young bullies who hang out on our playgrounds?), but I don't care who is doing the shouting these days--Republican or Democrat, or the one or two Independents who've managed to find a job. It just plain offends me. I don't need the volume.

I need thoughtful answers, and thoughtful answers seldom come from blowhards with bulging veins on their foreheads.

Halloween's Real Bag of Tricks

November 1, 2010

You can learn a lot about a person on Halloween.

According to Allison, for instance, I didn't need a costume last night, because, in just 24 short hours, I had become Mean Old Mrs. Holt, the neighbor lady every kid on the block avoids.

It's true, I'd had some uncomfortable conversations with some kids this weekend. As a teacher, I like to call these conversations "learning opportunities." As kids, these learning opportunities are viewed more as traumas or "old-person interruptions to our fun."

After a weekend filled with telling kids to stop digging in our window panes and informing football players that it would be good manners to ask Mean Old Mrs. Holt if they could play in our yard, I put the icing on my sour-cream cake by shooing away the hands of the double dippers and lecturing the second-round trick-or-treaters.

But enough about my own devastating, downward spiral into witchdom. . .

With each ring of our bell last night, it was like administering another Rorschach test to the costumed kiddies. Below, are some of my spooky observations.

Multiple Bell Ringers--these kids have the patience of a tornado, unable to contain even their bell-ringing fingers. And they cannot be bothered with people whose achy legs take moments--MOMENTS!--to cross the room and open the door. Invariably, their outfits are sloppily-assembled, last-minute creations.

Bowl Grabbers--Not much to say here, except that they will have long and successful careers as lobbyists for industries we'd rather not know about.

Pumpkin Trippers--These are distant relatives to the Multiple Bell Ringers, a little too anxious to get to the sugar-coated booty, but not deft enough on their feet to avoid the attractive pumpkin display we've set on our steps.

Concrete Feeters--This is an interesting bunch. Not as overtly nervy as the Bell Ringers or as clumsy as the Pumpkin Trippers, these master manipulators simply stand there, unmoved and bag still open, after you've generously tossed in that bite-sized Hershey Bar. They know that, like a puppy, the longer they stare, the more candy they may seize.

Adorable Infants--These, quite simply, are pawns for their parents, who miss trick or treating (rightly so!) and need a reason to beg for free candy. Despite knowing this--and guessing that these infants haven't even choked down a Cheerio yet, more or less an O Henry--I still give them good selections, because they are so cute.

Lone Wolves--These creep me out a bit, trolling the neighborhood on their own, often wearing nothing more than a mismatched pair of gloves and a bandana around their mouths. I do what it takes to get them off my porch quickly, even if it means giving them the last Reese's.

Norman Rockwellers--These are probably my favorites, the ones who remind me of my own youth, when outfits were clever and cheap and almost never based upon a cartoon or Pokemon character. They can do no wrong in my book and I make sure never to give them a lemon sucker or box of raisins.

There are others, of course--the travelers (whose parents overfill their vans and cart them around to Snickers-rich neighborhoods), the mute mermaids (who utter not a thing because it's simply too wonderful a night for words), the Axe crowd (teenagers who swallow humiliation now in hopes of swallowing something sugary later),... and much could be written about what kids DO with all that candy when they've finally dragged home their once-white pillowcases, now stuffed with future diabetes and pock-marked thighs.

Alas, those are stories for another time. As for me, considering that neither of my own children hit the streets last night, and that we have nary a leftover--not even a lousy, cavity-ripping Mary Jane--suffice it to say that I've got my own problems.

The Color Bind--What We See and Don't See

October 31, 2010

I'm reading Kathryn Stockett's "The Help," a compelling story of black maids in the '60s South, and, not surprisingly, I can't seem to shake race from my mind.

In my most private moments, I recall what I can only assume is an actual memory, fuzzied around its edges by shame as much as by the passage of time. I assume it's an actual memory because I can't imagine that I'd make up something that would put me in such a bad light.

I was 9 or 10, and found myself in the bouncy backseat of an old Buick. I don't know what I was doing with my sister and her friend, Jane, but I do recall settling a dispute with the traditional "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. Catch a tiger by its toe..." Only I didn't say "tiger." Did I mention that Jane's black cleaning lady was in the car with us?

My ears still burn with shame when I recall that moment, that word that I'd never uttered before, the ensuing silence and its unconscious yet blatant us-and-them reminder.

It would be hard to imagine such an incident occurring these days. That doesn't mean that I believe we live in a post-racial world, though. I'm not sure why, but we don't seem to be able to figure out what to do with all this human skin in so many colors.

Just last week, I watched with interest as Alex Trebek put on his kid gloves as he responded to the stately black contestant, an older woman wearing her Sunday hat. Right or wrong, her answers were treated differently than those of her competitors. It was hard to ignore her race, in part because of how few blacks ever compete on "Jeopardy." And I even kind of understood Trebek's interactions with her, as though he wanted to move beyond the ugly past and build bridges. Still, he's a game-show host, not a civil-rights leader, and his demeanor was difficult to watch.

I recall a fascinating story I heard from a former KFOR coworker, who grew up in pasty-white Minnesota. He said that it wasn't until he was an adult when he found out that his third-grade teacher was a black woman. I couldn't believe it. And I wondered what it said about Brad and his family and his third-grade teacher. How did an 8-year-old white kid get so post-racial?

One of the reasons I loved Allison's volleyball season so much was because of the variety of colors on her team. Hers was, by far, the most racially-diverse team I saw on the court all season, and none of those teammates seemed to give a hoot about that fact. This, I think, is a good sign.

I attended a high school with precisely two blacks, but Eric and Allison--and lots of other kids who go to schools other than Lincoln High--regularly find themselves walking down hallways filled with more languages than they have fingers on their hands. I don't think today's teens have that keen awareness of color, that strange mix of fear and embarrassment towards skin tone, that so many of us adults still have. Maybe today's teens have more in common with Brad's third-grade self than they do with their own parents, who are supposed to guide and advise them through these tricky times.

As much as the topic of race incites and inflames people, though, I don't really wish we lived in a post-racial world. I don't think we'd benefit from ignoring each other's skin. Without these colorful reminders, we might forget how different our back stories are. And back stories are important. They are the threads that connect us with past and future, the chance we have to enlarge our own worlds and let more people in.

Bless Me, Altima...and forgive me, Rudolfo Anaya

October 29, 2010

There's a part of me that wishes I'd never bought that fancy, black car. It was too new, too classy, too put together for me, what with all its hubcaps and visors and such. Like all new things, my 2006 Nissan Altima has lost a bit of its shine of late, and I find myself suffering more than I'd care to admit.

As Allison and I walked to my car the other afternoon--an especially sparkly October day--I was dumbstruck by the sight of five perfectly-aligned craters that marred the Altima's otherwise perfect passenger side. Suddenly, I felt like my former neighbor, the one who publicly massaged and shampooed his beloved Honda Civic to the point of others' discomfort. I let out a gasp and ran my quavering fingers over its fine, warm skin, letting them linger at each heartbreaking indentation.

In the past month, my poor, shiny Altima has endured numerous dents and scratches, each one reminding me that, while black may be slimming in a dress, it is utterly unforgiving on a car. These days, I find myself hurrying to it, eyes averted, fumbling with my keys so that I may quickly enter its near-virgin interior. Inside, it is once again that symbol of near perfection, nary a stain on the floor mats, only one--maybe two--wadded up Kleenexes crammed into the back ashtray.

I know I'm fooling myself. I knew, when I bought the Altima last January, that the honeymoon would end, that we'd wake up one morning and look over at each other not with lust so much as with tempered tolerance. We have become a warts-and-all pair, no longer able to uphold the fantasy, our bumpers scratched and rusty, our shine dulled by wear and tear.

Like a healthy marriage, the Altima and I have entered that stage during which we love each other in spite of, rather than because of. I should feel good about this, I suppose. After all, even creepers find it easy to love because of....it takes real strength of character and a good dose of humility to love something in spite of itself.

WARNING: Do NOT read further if you are allergic to really bad puns. I can't help myself, but I do feel compelled to warn you...

And if, down the road, the Altima and I run into barricaded avenues, places where we just can't seem to navigate on our own, I am comforted to know that we can sign up for a Carriage Encounter Weekend, through our local dealership. This is, after all, a relationship worth saving.

Back Off! Charlie Sheen's a Victim of Allergies! I Swear!

October 28, 2010

Man, I feel so bad for Charlie Sheen. I can't imagine how scary his allergic reaction must have been, considering that it caused him to toss about furniture--bulky chairs and probably a few Gideon Bibles, too!--in his Plaza Hotel suite. Never mind the nude porn star who was scared out of her wit during his medical event. Allergies are nothing to wag your nose at!

Like Charlie, I have ended up in the hospital emergency room more than once, thanks to allergic reactions. And then, there was the time that the family's optometrist said he'd meet us in a closet just off the emergency room, his kindness saving us hundreds of dollars in emergency-room fees, though it was kind of cramped, sharing the room with brooms and such. And the lighting wasn't so hot, either.

In my own, storied, food-sensitive life, I've gone to the emergency room over a lousy hazelnut and a slice of watermelon. Hardly the stuff of legend, but you should have seen the way my face puffed up! I looked like a woman who'd just returned from a date with, well, Charlie Sheen.

No doubt, the cynics out there are labeling Sheen's event as something other than an allergic event. Had these been Old-Testament times, these "people" would have been the first to pick up a fist-sized stone to throw at the man. For shame, I say!

Alas, I will stand up for this man who works really, really hard. He is an honest man rightfully earning millions "acting" in a sex-soaked, one-joke sitcom. After all, how can we expect him to stand up for himself? Peruse news stories about him, and it's clear that he's got a long history of allergic reactions that affect his balance and mood. Only 45, galactically speaking, Charlie Sheen is a mere pup, especially if you consider that astronomers just discovered a galaxy formed five billions years after the creation of the universe.

Who really knows what happened the other night? Maybe he left his Claritin home. Maybe his $200 pasta dish had trace elements of shellfish--a real concern for allergy sufferers--and he reacted the only way his body knew how. Whatever it was that set off Charlie Sheen, clearly, jail is the wrong solution. A better solution, by far, would be a saline solution shot through his nostrils. I have yet to meet a problem that a bracing sinus rinse couldn't solve.

Everybody Feng Shui Tonight!

October 27, 2010

Walking into Village Inn this morning, I broke out in a sanitizing-solution sweat, suddenly creeped out by the feel--and smell--of the place. Yeah, I know. The corporate office has spent millions revamping the look of Village Inn, trying to hip it up a bit with wacky "handwritten" signs and mod colors, but, really, when you get right down to it, all they've done, as Mark so poignantly said, is "papered over the filth."

It's a strange thing when a building sets off a bad vibe. It becomes even more problematic when that same building is the source of your breakfast. Maybe there's a reason that old people make up the majority of Village Inn's customers. After all, old people, who themselves often have a distinctive scent, often lack the sharpened senses of sight and smell that otherwise might warn them "RUN AWAY, SIMBA! RUN AWAY!"

Alas, the Holts stayed, tucked into a booth next to two old women with surprisingly loud voices, both of whom were lamenting their new hairstylists and their need for two take-home boxes.

When we were looking for houses a few years back, we walked through almost 90 homes, and more than a few had that same, bad feng-shui feel of Village Inn. For some, all I had to do was pull up in the drive and I'd get a bad vibe. Walking through the front door only confirmed my suspicions.

Invariably, these homes lacked flow. Some had staircases whose locales seemed to be determined by monkeys. One had a faux-wood supporting pole standing smack in the middle of a room, conjuring images of Night Before trainees, swinging desperately around it, their hopes of steady income slipping like the shoulder strap of a worn negligee. One house smelled as though a herd of cats, each plagued by a nasty urinary-tract infection, had let loose their territorial stench in one Old Glorious outburst.

When I leave a building built upon a foundation of bad vibes, all I want to do is run home, change my clothes and take a really, really hot bath. Preferably with Lava Soap.

I wonder what kind of person designs a building that is so utterly lacking in warmth and charm. What compels that person to put pen to graph paper, sketching rooms that seem to have nothing to do with each other? Was there really an architect who, when that hideous Perkins on 48th and "O", the one that crams a turret in the middle of ten different architectural styles, was completed said: "Now THAT'S what I'm talking 'bout!"

I hope not. I hope he just had a heap of hospital bills on his dining room table and decided those were reason enough to prostitute his professional self, to look the other way as he directed the builders of that awful, awful place.

I can almost feel compassion for someone who does that to a building, if polyps and positive test results were what propelled him to design it in the first place.

Eric Holt: Teetering on Adulthood

October 23, 2010

In the past week, Eric applied for college, went to the DMV to renew his license and registered to vote. I intentionally chose (not) to help him with any of these activities by staying out of his way. After all, if he hopes to successfully navigate the rest of his life, the time is right to make sure he's in his own driver's seat. Besides, my real fear in helping someone who is on the verge of leaving teendom is that he may never want to leave my house. And I definitely want him to leave my house. . .eventually.

Despite wanting him to pack his bags down the road, it's hard not to love Eric. And, even in the midst of a senior year laden with hefty responsibilities and the added stress of an impending future that just may matter to him, I find that it's also hard not to like him. This is a pretty astounding statement to make, if you ask me (and, by the way, Eric isn't asking me).

This week, Eric also bumped into some disappointing aspects of life as a U.S. adult. He learned, for instance, that, in order to vote this year, he'd have to register for a political party he didn't exactly support. For the time being, then, he's an ass, I mean a donkey, I mean a Democrat. Not that he is a Republican, mind you. It's just that he'd have preferred options along the lines of "Socialist" or "Democratic Socialist." Alas, when the party you most want to attend isn't issuing official invitations, you must compromise.

As an unapologetically compromising person myself, I'm okay with this life lesson dished out to him. After all, when I first registered to vote in 1979, I, too, had to choose a party I didn't necessarily agree with--Republicans--in order to be able to vote for Independent presidential candidate John Anderson. Hey, we've all been to bummer parties before. . .

And yet, since then, I've crossed party lines more times than I've crossed my "t's" or dotted my "i's." (It's possible this says more about my handwriting than it does about my political leanings, but I don't think so).

If all goes as he plans, Eric will be in Sweden sometime this summer, traveling alone to a country whose language he's been learning this past year, even if no one in Sweden actually speaks it anymore. If all goes as he plans, he'll also spend a year studying in that frigid country of endless nights and gothic music (a lethal combo platter for me, but--hey!--I'm not ordering!).

If all goes according to the tiny, selfish voice in my own head, he'll still be living in his bedroom with its outdated "cloud" painting and overstuffed underwear drawer well into his 20s. I'm rooting for the higher-minded, longer-visioned me, though, the one that wants to step out of the way so that my most excellent 18-year-old son, Eric Carlson Holt, may truly find his way in this beautiful, complex and compromising world.

It's Time for a Rinse Cycle

October 21, 2010

The last time I revved up the Big Chief scooter, its BP-laced belches filled the neighborhood with the stink of sluggish motor oil. That was several weeks ago, despite this string of near-perfect fall days that should have been beckoning me to don my helmet and leathers.

What once was my scooter's sin of emission has devolved into my own sin of omission.

I much prefer the old-fashioned sins of my youth, the ones for which I was fully present, committing them with both elan and awareness. While I certainly continue to do knuckleheaded things in my middle ages, it is the things that I've left on the roadside that really bring out the ache.

It's the things that sit in my proverbial shed, the ones now gathering dust, that haunt me the most. Like a ghost, these things barely register on my radar anymore, making me doubt that they ever really existed in my life at all.

Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly two months since I fired all 49 ccs and I should miss them very much, thank you.

I suppose "sins of omission" is really code for "regret" or "nostalgia." It's the reason we get so excited when we here the opening wails of "Emergency" on the Retro TV channel, or fawn over a copy of "Goodnight Moon" at someone's garage sale. We're reminded of what we once held onto so tightly. And we're faced with what we seem to have let go.

I need this Fall Break that wags itself in front of me. I need it for its reconnecting powers, for the way I imagine it will open up the doors of my shed and let loose all the things I have overlooked for so long. I need it for the breeze that longs to jar loose my tears as I rumble up J Street on my mighty Big Chief.

I've Got Game!

October 20, 2010

A funny thing happened on my way through Allison's volleyball season--I fell in love with a team and found myself wishing the season were longer. I never would have anticipated that reaction, but Mark and I both felt it deep in our bones.

Did I ever mention how nice it is to be wrong sometimes?

In mid August, when Allison was going to two practices a day, I found myself obsessing about the hours I figured I'd spend hauling children, sitting in stands, delaying dinners...In short--and in selfishness--I didn't like where this was going. I felt a small wave of panic as I realized that, while we are still van-free in the Holt household, we would no longer be truly free. At least on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and possibly Saturdays.

What happened instead, though, is that Mark and I lost ourselves as we watched a group of girls--strangers just weeks before--figure out how to play well together. We found ourselves transformed with each transformation the team went through. Once unfamiliar names now rolled off our tongues as we hooted and hollered--always appropriately, thank you!--in response to the things that unfolded on those maple floors.

For the first time in 30 years, I have found myself seeped in a school's traditions, shiny from pride through association. Sure, I work in a high school. The same one I graduated from. And I love being at East High. But this love does not equate with the feelings I've had during Allison's volleyball season. I feel "Link" entering my blood system and it makes me happy.

Last night, Allison and her team wrapped up their season, clocking in 6 official wins, but earning far more moral victories than those that are recorded in the books. They took my own alma mater to three games last night in Beatrice. Wish I would have made the drive to cheer on this team of funny, shining, diverse girls who found a reason to play together.

Hats off to you, Allison, Zoe, Alexis, Nyachar, Briana, Kamaya, Amy, Sabrina, Keteyana (who is related to Rosa Parks!), Rian, Shaundi, Christy and Coach Pendi.

You've done far more than just play volleyball together. And I'm mighty grateful for that.

From Russia with Love

October 17, 2010

I got a fine case of the giggles the other night. Around 7:30 Friday evening, as I was being serenaded on my patio by a robust Russian woman singing folk songs in her native tongue, I happily wondered how I had gotten to this point.

Parties are strange beasts formed by cheese balls, both edible and human. From scanning the Sunday papers, I know that not all parties end up on a happy note. But it seems that the ones I go to--not that my list is long or enviable--always end in fits of laughter and earnest hugs.

How is it that we can manage to have fun together, how can we come up with something new to say when we spend so much of our time together each day? Surely, we already know each others' back stories, recalled and revealed over lunchtime leftovers, sometimes, repeatedly. Just as certain, though, is the element of surprise that teeters in the background when people gather to unwind.

Who'da thunk that I'd walk into my own living room, hardly recognizing the furniture in its new, if not temporary, spaces? I suppose I could have been appalled by the newly uncovered dust bunnies that surfaced, the candy-wrappered secrets now revealed by a couch that no longer harbored them. But, mostly, I spent my time trying not to pee my pants in delight. In my circles, a well-timed prank is like a love song. And I felt very loved by my furniture-moving peeps.

I didn't even mind that Parabi, the teacher from Bangladesh, wooed Hobbes the Hobo Dog with frightening amounts of brownies and barbecue chips, the threat of doggy diarrhea still pinched in a not-so-distant future. She seemed so happy and content to do this one thing in a land that otherwise was so foreign to her, that I could hardly begrudge her these acts of disaster-laced canine kindness.

When a party is in the works, few things can be planned for, beyond parts of the menu and a fresh supply of toilet paper. True, as the host, I get to set the time and date and invitation list. Yet, I could not have known that I would meet two Russians and an Egyptian, when the annual East High Fall Staff Bash began at my house Friday afternoon. I could not have anticipated the glorious overabundance of brownies, each uttering its own siren song, luring me to the table time and time again. I could not have known that John, with his impeccable party radar, would once again sense when to head to my house, unannounced yet warmly received.

And I could not help but be amazed that, even though I have known some of these people for most of my adult life, the conversations would be fresh and new, the moments together both anticipated and surprising. That they left willingly before my 9 p.m. bedtime was just the icing on an already excellent cake.

Mama, May I?

October 10, 2010
I had the pleasure of getting in on the ugly end of a mother's rant Thursday after school. She'd come to school, all huffy and a tad bit puffy, book in hand, to right what she thought was a ridiculous wrong.

"You'd keep a kid from Homecoming because of an overdue book?!" she sputtered.

See, East High has the radical notion that even teenagers can handle natural consequences, taking responsibility for both their actions and their inactions.

Thus the overdue book and Homecoming.

"I mean, I'm all for holding kids accountable, but blahblahblahblahblabh...."

Is that why you're here, and not your son?" I thought to myself.

"I can't tell you how sick I am of coming to school to take care of these things for him...."

At this point, foam began forming in the corners of her mouth, while my ear drums were beginning their self-protective retreat. My eyes began to fog over, too, as I dreamed of a world where people still were expected to lay in the beds that they had made. Or hadn't made.

I dreamed of a world where parents and their kids seldom interacted, unless it was to clarify that the dishwasher needed unloading. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tap into my own recollections of a youth spent mostly away from and uninvolved with my own parents.

I can't recall even once telephoning my mom to rescue me, aside from that day in my short-lived shoplifting phase that ended in the back room of Wards. And, even then, I only called home because the policeman made me.

And look how I turned out. Okay, okay, but I really did have a happy, well-balanced, generally fine childhood followed by a nice time at college and beyond. And I always loved my parents through it all, which is why I left them out of it.

If this mom truly hates her role as rescuer-in-chief, then I'd recommend she quit rescuing her son. That overdue book held great powers that she snuffed out by returning it to the library herself. Had she just let the power of the written word do its thing, her son would have spent last Friday night home alone, grinding with his G.I. Joe doll in his bedroom, while his sweaty peers were being expelled--one by hip-thrusting one--from the dance at school.

He had the chance to learn some important lessons that night. G.I. Joes are lousy kissers, and overdue library books are powerful things that should not be ignored. Even at a lousy nickel a day.

Timing Is Everything

October 9, 2010

Come Wednesday morning, I was starting to get a little paranoid. Especially after the garage door let out a long and languorous moan as it made its way up my car's bumper, leaving marks not only on the bumper, but also on my very soul.

After all, it was the second time in twelve hours that my car had been in an accident. And both had occurred in my driveway.

The night before, after a most excellent dinner out with friends (proving that it is possible to have an excellent time--if not an excellent dinner-- at Spaghetti Works, where, apparently, there's no real pressure to clean off the salad bar), I'd shooed everyone out of the car halfway up the drive, knowing we'd struggle to unload in our cramped garage. My act of kindness, though, quickly turned against me, when I could not resist gunning the engine and chasing down said friends. Alas, one of the car's back doors swung open, just as I was passing the porch railing at an impressive 18-mph-clip.

I don't think I'll file that one with my insurance company.

Generally, I swagger through life with the confidence of a booty-rich pirate, never doubting that things will be good and bounteous. In my defense, most of my confidence is rooted in others, who possess both the skills and the good will to clear the path for the rest of us so that we seldom encounter the proverbial fallen limbs of life along our own trails.

Sometimes, though, I encounter a series of glitches that force me to start looking over my shoulder. Repeatedly.

Midweek proved to be one of those times.

My dual car "accidents" (after all, how can I really call them "accidents," sans quotation marks, when both were the direct result of my stupidity, something that is no accident?) were followed, in quick succession, by a string of other unfortunately-timed incidents.

First was the email from our school newspaper publisher, who should have been congratulating us on the timely delivery of our first issue, one we'd spent copious amounts of time preparing. Instead, though, theirs was a doom-and-gloom message, cloaked in an "OMG--DIDN'T WE TELL YOU THAT WE CHANGED THE SIZE OF OUR NEWSPAPERS?!" tone. My initial reaction was to rifle through the fridge and medicine cabinet, for anything marked "18 percent alcohol" in the ingredients' list. My second, more-reasoned-less-seasoned response was to tell the publisher that I looked forward to hearing about their no-additional-charge solution, the one that did not involve me.

The email was followed by "A Series of Unfortunate Events," including but not limited to: the white-tinged and very visible proof to my students and peers that I do, in fact, apply deodorant (most) every day; the mysterious disappearance of six oh-my-god-do-you-know-how-much-these-cost,woman!? senior-class portraits, the realization that our yearbook pages included neither column guides nor page numbers, and the discovery of chin hairs so taut and full of potential as to qualify them for quill-pen consideration.

I was starting to feel like lady luck had packed her bags for another destination.

And then I walked by our school's official sign-in guard, a man who takes our themed Spirit Week days to a new level. On this, Respect Our Elders Day, he had managed to cram his 250-pound frame into a sprightly, flower-spattered dress, complete with accompanying hose, wig and blush (or maybe it was house paint, I'm not sure).

Seeing him stationed at the front desk, the official "First Face of East High," warmed my heart. That the people who lined up in front of his check-in desk happened to be visiting teachers from such far-away lands as India, Burma and Bangladesh, each of whom spoke a different language but all of whom were thinking "What the...?!" in their native tongues, . . . well, it made me realize that I was going to be okay after all.

Thank you, Mark Siske, for proving to be the turning point in my bad luck. I'm glad it found your strong, capable, smartly-dressed shoulders to fall upon!

Til Death--Or Faulty Memory--Do Us Part

October 6, 2010

This weekend, a perfectly fine time on the porch with neighbor Jody was nearly ruined by talk of wedding photos. Normally, a topic like this wouldn't upset me, but the fact that I had absolutely no idea in the world where my wedding photos were...well, that left a funny taste in my mouth. Not "funny hah hah," either.

What does it mean when a person who otherwise assumes she's enjoying her 21st year of marriage can't find evidence the event actually took place? And, when said photos weren't surfacing, I realized I couldn't even locate the words to describe the event.

What did your dress look like?

It was white and kind of longish.

Did you wear a veil?

Yeah. It was white and kind of shortish.

What did your bridesmaids wear?

Dresses with flowers on them. They were black and kind of middling. The dresses, not the bridesmaids.

Sometimes, I wonder what it is I value anyway. I mean, I really enjoyed my wedding, even though I showed little interest in the details of the event. I pretty much let my mom dress me for the big day, a decision which, through the years, has proven to be a more successful approach than dressing myself. The one detail I remember caring a lot about was the menu. And then, when the night finally rolled around, I was lucky to get a handful of aged celery sticks and a lukewarm wedding weanie on my plate.

Fortunately, Allison knew where the wedding "album" was. I say "album" but it was more like a 45 rpm, small with just a couple of hits on it. Bob the Picture Man took our photos, mostly because he was cheap. He charged nothing to make us pose all night, asking only that we order at least $100 in photos. As I recall, my family managed to order $101.13 in photos, thus the reason Jody only needed about 45 seconds to scan through one of the most significant days of my life.

There's something to be said for a tightwad.

Show Your Work, People!

October 2, 2010

These days, long vision is about as popular as long division. Unless your name is Descartes or Leona Penner, you probably haven’t hankered for either in a long, long time. That’s because, these days, we like easy solutions, snappy sound bites and quick resolution. Long vision and long division both prize patience and process, though. Both can be ugly to endure, but both also reward how we got there as much as they celebrate where it is we ultimately have arrived.

As much as I suffered through high-school math (I use the word “suffered” because it is both accurate and acute), I have to give credit to those math teachers who gave credit for showing our work. They knew that, when we take the time to show our work, to diligently track our move from one stage to the next, we also get the chance to track our growth or our mistakes. We get to move from long division to long vision. And that is a gift worth enduring Algebra for.

Worst are the politicians these days who will do just about anything for a positive headline and a nod in the voting booth. Collectively, they seem to lack both the thinking cap for math and the courage to plan for a future that is further away than, say, tomorrow. Or November 6th. Whichever happens first. In their pursuit for the short-term victory, they are dooming our futures. Who can be bothered with global warming, crippling debt or poverty when none of these possesses the shine and “ah factor” of tax cuts and mama-bear posturing?

I hunger for a politician who possesses the cojones to repeal tax cuts and asks us to start paying for a future that is worth living. And I will be the first to raise my hand in support of just such a policy, setting my sights and betting my hard-earned money on the long vision that sees a future that is bright for everyone, not just the politicians.