April 2010

April 2, 2010


“A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days.” --Goethe

I understand what Goethe’s getting at, but sometimes I think we are too quick to label something “ordinary,” when, in fact, there is much evidence to the contrary. Certainly, most of us who work would take a hectic, fast-paced, jam-packed workday over one that dwindles, even if that package comes with a little stress. But I also think that when we label something “ordinary,” it speaks more of our own lacking than it does of the lacking of our days.

And so, I ponder some of the unexpected events of recent days.

The last day of March brought with it a birthday for one of my Newspaper students, Kelsey. She did the right thing and brought cookies to celebrate the occasion. We, for our part, ate her cookies and sang to her, mostly in tune. We also tossed her the flea-bitten birthday cap, which she wore on her head just long enough to count but not so long as to give the lice a new place to call “home.” While we were eating cookies and eating in the back room, several of the girls were laughing about their jobs as hostesses at local restaurants. The laughter turned into fake telephone rings, each of which was “answered” by one of the hostesses aping the schpiel she knew so well.

“HithisisKaitlynthanksforcallingValentino’sgrandbuffetat70thandvandornwheremothers eatfreeonmothersdayhowmayihelpyou?”

We laughed and laughed and then topped it off with a speaker-phone call to Cheapest Damn Cigarettes, holding our collective breath that they, too, might have a standard schpiel when answering their phone. Sure enough, our patience paid off.

“This is Tom. . . Cheapest Damn Cigarettes.” Music to our ears!

Two other, unrelated unexpected events marked this last day of March. Twice that day, someone blew me a kiss, a gesture I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. First, it was a funny fellow named Eric, who’d been frequenting the school library lately. When I pointed out how clearly important we’d become in his life, he smiled, turned his head towards us and blew us a kiss. Very fun and refreshing!

Later that day, on the neighborhood circuit with Mark and Hobbes the Hobo Dog, I noticed a woman, arms out like lowered wings, weaving slowly up the sidewalk a block ahead of us. We easily caught up to her, when she turned to tell us that she’d lost her way. She was looking for an address on the street just south of us. We pointed her to the correct intersection and repeated the directions to this address. Neither of us expected she’d be able to get there on her own, certain she had Alzheimer’s. We ended up walking with her, grabbing her bony elbow at the curb, steadying her gait to help her make the step up to the sidewalk. By the time we were at “L” Street, we asked her what her name was.

Francis Reiner, she replied.

And our minds flashed to a half dozen memories, all rooted in or connected to this woman, now let down by a faulty mind. Frances Reiner, author of “Bloody Mary,” a well-known account of a local woman of lore. Francis Reiner, teacher extraordinaire who touched hundreds of young lives as a vital, much loved teacher at Randolph Elementary School. Francis Reiner, second wife to my former professor Paul Olson. Francis Reiner, mother of Danny Reiner, comedic actor who’d delighted us through his gift of theatre. She brightened when we made the connection to her son. “He’s a great person, isn’t he?” We agreed enthusiastically. And then we walked her to her driveway.

“I’m so glad I got the chance to spend some time with you,” I said.

“I’m glad, too,” she answered. And then she put her hand to her lips and blew us a kiss of gratitude as she turned to go into the house she’d lost just a few minutes before.

Finally, yesterday, April Fools’ Day, a day of all days when the unexpected should be expected. Not a joke made its way past me, though. Only one, rather lame at that, passed my own lips, when I apologized to Allison for waking her up an hour late. Not. And so the day passed without any sign of the unusual. Sure, my friends Joan and Loy broke it up with a wonderful, candy-filled visit to the school they’d served so well in the past. Yes, it’s true I broke up the routine of sack lunches with a little Greek food. I suppose I could have opened the school email with the subject line “Phones down,” but I didn’t.

The unexpectedness of yesterday, then, didn’t fall upon me until this morning, when I learned that my mom was home, weak and confused, and my sister and stepdad Dick were trying to figure out how to reach people, how to help her feel better. How to get an ambulance to their house. Certainly, they tried to reach me. But I was unreachable, as was much of Lincoln. And I hadn’t opened that email, the one that would have explained a silence I hadn’t been concerned about to begin with.

It is odd to find out your mom has been suffering, is in the hospital, had trouble making a call that, even as youngsters, we knew how to make. It is a bit disconcerting to wake up, exercise, read the paper, make a piece of toast and then read an email that explains the unexpected day these beloved family members had while I sailed through one painted in the ordinary.

Despite the scare, I am confident, knowing my mom is where she needs to be, knowing that I can reach her. That she will answer.

I don’t know what today will bring. I do know, though, that it will not be an ordinary day.


April 3, 2010


There are love songs that elicit tears of joy, and there are love songs that elicit tears of pain. I am a champion of the latter. Or should I say that my buns are the champions of the latter?

I cannot count the number of early mornings when, roused by a good dream or just a bit of extra gas, I have called out to Mark with the mournful wail of a really good fart. I cannot count those times because I am not a mathematician by trade.

What can I say? I grew up in a family that was weaned on Mad Libs, each of us anxious to one up the other with a fresher, more startling synonym for “poop” or “toilet.” That, and I seem to eat a lot of foods that keep on giving.

Just last night, as Mark was giving it up for the dream world, I sent him on his way with a new orchestral piece I’d prepared throughout the day. It included the “boom” of the timpani, a touching, quiet piccolo solo, and several movements that I will not recount here, for fear of losing my Facebook status. Like any good conductor, I lifted my wand, which had been resting under the sheets, so that the music might make its wafty way to my intended audience.

While I consider last night’s performance an opus, I was disappointed by Mark’s reaction, which was silence, broken by the occasional sniff of slumber. I felt like Beethoven, snubbed by a roomful of students at the local deaf-mute academy, utterly ignored aside from the shift of bodies in uncomfortable folding chairs.

Alas, I will not let this disappointment stop me from trying again. In fact, I feel another song bubbling up from within. This, more of a heavy metal piece than last night’s symphonic hat’s off to a spicy dinner. I can only hope that my audience might be a bit more appreciative. . . .



April 5, 2010



I smelled rain on my walk today. It was like I’d stumbled upon the Odorific machine rolled out in “Harold and Maude,” inhaling this scent that is hard wired in my brain. How do you describe the smell of rain to someone without using the word “rain” in the description? It’s this weird commingling of science and nature, rolled up in ions and dirt, and delivered on the breeze. And it’s absolutely intoxicating. Like a scented fireworks display, the smell isn’t pervading but rather reveals itself at its own liking. “THERE! Do you smell it? Turn your head and you’ll get it.” “Oh, THAT’s it! Breathe in, breathe in!”

No surprise here, but I’ve never been a perfumed person. At least not the kind that buys my smells. I may generate a scent, but I generally don’t pay for it. Ah, but how artificially beautiful I smelled on my fourth day of backpacking the Grand Canyon, thanks to my mom. I was a college senior and had decided to do something I’d never done before—sign up for a trip to somewhere I’d never been, traveling with people I didn’t know. It turned out to be a wonderful experience, hard and beautiful, trying and smelly. Except for that tiny bottle of perfumed lotion my mother had sent along.

I’d overlooked the bottle when packing, no doubt to my mother’s delight and relief. This classy, good smelling woman had been trying to soften and sparkle me for 20 years, albeit nominally successfully. Perhaps she thought that backpacking would elicit a kind of desperation and body odor I’d never known before, pushing me to find something—anything!—that could mask the musky scent of hard work and neglect. My mom is nothing if not patient and forward-thinking. Indeed, I did stumble upon the tiny, white bottle that read Chanel No. 19. I fingered it with my filthy hands, tuckered from a day of hiking, wondering how on earth my lone remaining pair of clean underwear would see me through the final three days of hiking.

On a whim, I twisted open the cap and stuck my nose within striking distance of the lotion. What struck me first was the realization that I was a stubborn, tom-boy fool. Could it be possible that I’d spent 20 years consciously avoiding such a treasure? Like an idiot walking past a chocolate factory with its doors wedged open, somehow, I’d spent the first 20 years of my life ignoring this, Chanel’s finest (took 18 prior tries to get it just right), despite its siren song of scintillating scents. Honestly, I’d never felt more beautiful than I did that moment when I daubed a bit on my wrists (hey, I knew enough to know where to put the stuff!), there among the scrubby pines and cottonwoods.

The other day, Allison was cleaning out her room and had left something on my dresser. It was a 15-year-old bottle of Chanel No. 19 that I’d requested for a post Grand-Canyon birthday. Its constitution a bit wobbly now, I almost hesitated to twist the cap and take a whiff, knowing it might disappoint. Like the scent of rain, though, it aimed to please even without meaning to, and I was transported to the Bright Angel Trail, my calves stiff with memory, my head full of beautiful images. My skin once again beautiful to take in.



April 9, 2010


I love trees, those solid symbols of hope that just stand there and take it, no matter what “it” is. Where men would crumble, trees persist. Against torrents of rain and howling winds, through brutal winters that show no sign of ending, trees endure. And I appreciate them for that.

Beyond just enduring, though, trees whisper “hope” this time of year, uttering promises of great things to come. Each day, I’m amazed at the changes my woody friends have gone through since I passed them just an afternoon before. Today, a river birch called me over, waving at me with its slowly greening fingers, pointing out two cardinals at play in the shade between houses.

Across the street, a forsythia shook its yellow swag at me, daring me to be appalled by its showy garb. Instead, I just felt a little sorry for it. Like a teenaged boy with no sense of self control, this poor bush had blown its floral wad at the first sign of spring. By the time the crab apples are in their full glory, this forsythia will be depressed and naked, holding nothing but a vague memory of one very good week.

I love to watch a tree start to leaf out. It’s like one very long, most excellent stretch. . . I literally can feel it in my muscles when I measure the progress of the Golden Chain tree out front. This exotic showpiece almost got the axe when we bought the house. With the grabby tendrils of a lilac, dying off one long limb at a time, it seemed rather weedy in late August when we first moved in. Thank goodness we gave the tree a year to show us why it was there. Come May, this now naked tree with only a hint of buds and leaves, will burst forth like one long fireworks display, spewing heavenly-scented chains of yellow flowers, like waterfalls. Cars will pass slowly, fingers pointing from half-opened windows, the occupants yabbering amongst themselves, trying to give a name to something they’d never seen before.

My life is seldom on display, but for a few weeks each year, this quiet, certain, surprising tree puts the spotlight on us and makes us feel just a little big magical, sitting near enough to breathe in its most fine, yellow-scented breath.

April 10, 2010


I have grown tired of men behaving badly. Yes, there’s Sara Palin, that feisty filly who teeters on the brink of full-fledged membership into this festering fraternity, but she is another topic entirely.

Now is the perfect time to turn to the lessons learned from the field of science. We need look no further than man’s best friend—specifically the golden retriever—when digging for reasons that we might not want to surround ourselves solely with slightly altered versions of those same selves.

Given the history of the oft-inbred golden retriever, I’d expect to start seeing an outbreak of hip dysplasia or eruptions of certain kinds cancer among some of our highest-profile radio announcers and politicians (both right- and left-leaning). Given that few of them seem to be limping, and fewer still have shown signs of rapid balding, though, perhaps those lessons are better learned from a good dose of common sense.

When we surround ourselves only with comparable cohorts, we risk hubris. We also tend to shut off ourselves from the opportunity to evolve into better, more adaptable versions of “us". Quite simply, while our puppies may be desirable and sell well in the puppy-mill circuit, our own futures become fuzzied with a flurry of far-flung, narrowly-focused feelings. On this path, it is likely that we will wake one day and consider it absolutely natural to circle the wagons rather than open up our hearts to conflicting, confounding, compelling ideas that challenge our own status quo.

If the truths on which I base my life indeed are capital-t Truths, then they can endure the scrutiny of others. Perhaps even thrive from it. Really, we should have more faith in the tenets that coarse through our veins, confident in their ability to hold steady and shine forth, regardless of the company we keep or the eyes that fall upon them.


April 12, 2010


I have lived in a cave world too long this year. That is why I was going to grill my dinner tonight, even if I’d planned on having spaghetti and meatballs. There is something quite satisfying about standing around a metal box of flames, burning the very life out of something that already is dead, nudging the flesh with a long-tined fork, testing the give, peeking at the color of the discharge.

While I was grilling the chicken tonight, Hobbes the Hobo Dog and I watched a sharp shinned hawk preen itself on the limb of the neighbor’s tree. Like us, he seemed unconcerned about what time it was or who might be watching him, oblivious to the chitterings of the nervous grackles next door. I got out the binoculars while the chicken lost the last of its moisture to the coals below, hoping to catch a glimpse of, well, frankly I don’t know what. Maybe an aerial death scene, like some martial-arts flick in which the characters seem frozen in midair. Instead, I watched as a blue jay finally got up the balls to swoop in and cuss out the hawk, who haphazardly loped along to another tree down the block, bored by it all.

I never grow tired of spotting a circling hawk in the sky. And I always feel a bit sorry for them, as well, despite what must be a really good view. Like the herons I also love so much, I think a hawk must live a pretty lonely life. Often alone and seldom unpestered, their days seem to me to be a mix of chasing and being chased. That’s why it’s so wonderful to see them, like pinpricks, high above the earth, unfettered and free, if only for a bit.

My neighborhood was brimming with at least temporarily unfettered and free people as well, today. Like a person awakened in the middle of the night, they looked a bit confused and out of place, but otherwise well rested. A loping bike ride through Woods Parks brought with it all kinds of pockets of people, each trying to remember how to work a swing or fly a kite or throw a Frisbee, battling only their memories and the waning light of the day. It was mighty nice to see so much life in so many forms, taking such pleasure at shaking off the cave days that most certainly must be behind us for good now.


April 16 2010


I’m reading Bill Bryson’s terrific “The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid,” a memoir of his young years in Des Moines, so my mind is on the past these days. And , mostly, happily so. This morning, I had trouble finishing my biking exercise, so titillated was I by his horrified description of his grandmother’s use of the “N” word. Certainly seems like a generation blip on the politically-incorrect screen, and one that I suppose many of us can recall.

None of my grandparents used that despicable word, though each had his or her own way of causing me some degree of embarrassment, to be sure. I remember going to the Cooper Theatre with my Grandpa Shepard when I was an 8th grader. Really, we could have done just about anything together that year and I would have either been shamed or disgusted, simply because I was a 14-year-old girl at the time. (That makes it sound like I had some sort of gender-bending operation shortly thereafter, which, indeedy, I did not). Regardless, I found myself with my Grandpa one afternoon at the Cooper for a matinee showing of “1776,” a musical set in, well, 1776. And what 8th-grade girl WOULDN’T want to see this film?! Music! History! Funny costumes! Old man sitting next to me! It really was some kind of alignment of the planets that day when we pulled up to the lot on 55th and “O” streets.

As we waited in line for the tickets, I perused the other customers, as any normal 8th-grader would do. I saw some kids from my school—none of whom looked too pleased to be there—as well as a couple of teachers from my school, including two who had been at the top of the rumor-mill heap as a potential, secretive couple, now outed in the orange-coated surrounds of the Cooper Theatre! Egads! Already we’d enjoyed some controversy! And we didn’t even have our tickets yet, more or less a tub of popcorn, which I suspected never would materialize. Perhaps this day wouldn’t be a bust after all. . .

Finally, we wended our way to the front of the ticket line (I wonder now, as I type this, who the heck wanted to see this film that there would be a line at all!). That’s when my grandpa reached into his back pocket only to discover that –GASP!—he’d left his wallet at home. That’s when this whole afternoon became one long, painful payback for something that apparently was so awful that my penance would be suspended between the hours on the clock, rather than their stubby cousins the minutes. After realizing he had no money to get us into the movie—HEY! Don’t’ look at me! I blew all my detassling money on that stereo from J. C. Penney!--, my grandpa did what any decent man would do. He began begging absolute strangers for enough money to take his darling granddaughter to a film she would later wish had never been made.

He pointed to me, like some sort of tawdry prop, as he went into his fevered “money” pitch. “That’s my granddaughter, there, and I was hoping to take her to a movie today but I have no money. Would you be willing to. . . ?” Can you imagine a worse scenario for a self-conscious, pimply-faced, flabbergasted teenaged girl than to be pointed at in a public place, as some sort of token award for the highest bidder?! Potential bidder after potential bidder shook their heads and avoided eye contact with my grandpa, as we watched the line wend down to the last few patrons.

Finally, one guy, utterly fed up and disgusted with this whole display, reached into his wallet and literally threw a ten-dollar bill towards my grandpa. He cut my grandpa’s speech short, nipping it in the bud the same way a person might toss aside an undercooked burger from the local drive thru. At this point, I felt a bit like an occupant of the island of misfits, wondering if I’d ever again be able to look my classmates in the face, more or less the sexually-charged teachers who’d eyed me with pity as they grabbed an extra large tub of buttered popcorn for god-knows-what as they entered the dark theatre.

And so, my grandpa and I finally sat down in the dank, cool, dark bowels of Cooper Theatre, just moments before the film began. While I thought that I might find some solace and psychological boost in that dark, quiet room, I learned too quickly that my punishment was hardly over. For the next two hours—have you ever heard of a 90-minute musical?!—my grandfather, who was a bit on the hard-of-hearing side of things, bellowed side comments the way a carnival barker utters insults at passersby, with ear-bleeding volume and brassiness, and not a worry in the world. Oh, how I wished that it really was 1776, a time without electricity or movie theatres, though I suppose grandfathers still had some kind of daily role. . .


April 17, 2010


In the past week, several people have asked me what I think about the decision to allow proper nouns in a British version of Scrabble. The fact that several people asked me this question tells you something rather sad about me. Before I depricate myself, though, I’d like to take a minute to express my amazement that such an announcement—from the manufacturer of a board game, for Pete’s sake!—should make international news at all. I found the media coverage at once refreshing and bizarre. Forget volcanoes and earthquakes, tea parties and space exploration. . . let’s talk Scrabble!

As someone who has spent much of her life writing in all capital letters, I was a bit flummoxed by all of the attention a few proper nouns were getting. After all, based solely on my handwriting, I’ve nary given a sideward glance to the proper noun in over 30 years! Why, then, would I care if a board game opened up itself to the taller, more regal cousins of common objects?

But then I started to think about my students. More specifically, about my classroom rosters and all the nutty names that are sprinkled throughout them. If proper nouns were to be allowed on the Scrabble board, then what’s to keep Sedarias or LaKeisha , Kaytlin, Huong or Mary-Kate from sullying my weekend board-game getaways? I mean, do I really want the poor spelling and unfortunate choices of first-time parents to determine what words I can and cannot form from the seven wooden tiles sitting in front of me?

As much as I love Hobbes the Hobo Dog, I don’t think it should be right—more or less encouraged!—to use his name while playing Scrabble, unless, of course, I’m in need of administering a good belly rub between turns. Now that I think about it, though, I realize that two of the four humans living in my household have names that are at once both common and proper. More than once, I have placed the tiles J-A-N and E on the board. I don’t even know what “jane” means but it’s in the 4th edition Scrabble dictionary, so I’m using it, by God! And heaven only knows how many times the squares M-A-R-K have found a place amongst their tiled brethren.

Looks like I’m a hypocrite. . . now that would be a really nice word to play!


April 18, 2010


Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to bring together 7th- and 8th-grade girls from throughout the city to play some volleyball? And this “genius,” (whose initials are Y.M.C.A.) who came up with the idea then lets parents sit along the edges of the gym in squeaky folding chairs and watch the debacle. I cannot imagine a more self-conscious, awkward group of earthlings than 8th-grade girls. The fact that they snarl and paint their eyes only makes the ordeal more surreal.

Heaven help me that my sister Ann joined us at Allison’s first volleyball match a week ago. God knows I tried to be good. And then the nicknames started pouring from my sister’s beautiful, profane mouth and, well, it’s just never a good idea to let the Raglin sisters sit together. I tried to ignore Crouching Tiger as long as I could. After all, her mom was coaching the opposing team. But the girl did make a spectacle of herself and my sister’s name for her was spot on. I can only be grateful that my sister’s husband Wayne was sitting on the other side of Ann and poked her ribs at the appropriate times.

We really were mostly good, but, the thing is, once the nicknaming, nitpicking, nincompooping side remarks begin, it is very, very hard to clear my head again.

I thought a week off would do me good. I also thought it was rather clever and perhaps even a bit adult of me not to inform my sister of the time or location of this week’s match. Granted, a peanut could’ve figured out these details, but I wanted to at least create the illusion of “lessons learned.” Secretly, I had all my fingers and toes crossed that Ann once again would cross onto that maple-floored arena of a thousand laughs. She is always good company.

In Ann’s place, though, was our equally dangerous, sometimes snarky friend Big Al, who is pretty much family, too, now that I think about it. She’s the kids’ number-one fan, even though her side remarks more often than not teeter on number two. Though these remarks are never aimed at our children. Only other people’s. . . This is why we love her so much, though. She makes us feel good, occasionally at the expense of others.

It didn’t help that Mark worked a little long on Saturday so that he, too, could return to the scene of the crimes. And so, three bad adults sat shoulder to shoulder to watch—and make fun of—a dozen or so perpetually peeved teenaged girls who were waivering somewhere between absolute disgust for one another and utter embarrassment that they were even there. "Look at ME! DON'T look at ME! Why AREN'T you looking at ME?!"

What did I learn from today’s match? That the oddly shaped girl on Allison’s team is a textbook example of the power of genetics. Indeed, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree in that family. Though, in her defense, she has a nice serve and dove for quite a few balls, which is more than most of the girls on the court did. I also learned that the tallest girl on Allison’s team establishes a pose just before the opponent’s serve that looks surprisingly like a praying mantis just before it eats its mate. And yet, despite my side comments, I love going to the games. I love the sport. I love that these girls sort of kind of show up to play.

That’s quite enough learning for one day, don’t you think?


April 21, 2010


We fool ourselves everyday. I know that. For the ten or so years that I was taking my kids to school each morning, I would utter the same thing each day as they opened the car door: “Have a great day!” And then I’d peel off, hoping my words would act as Teflon, deflecting the really bad stuff for some later date when they were more able to handle it.

As a parent, I swallow great heaps of lies and concern and continue to push my kids into the world “out there.” Because, if I don’t, if I start to think too much, I’d have to quit my job and home school them, fearful of all the bad that floats around just outside our doorway.

Most days, though, are great days. Most days end in happiness, with relatively few glitches and those of mostly minor consequence. When I rush home and put away the car for good each afternoon, I holler “hello” with a mix of fatigue and confidence, certain that some young person will holler back in a silly voice and a dog will come running to greet me.

There is a price to pay for all this false living, though. It comes in the form of occasional bouts with a harsher reality. And by then, I’ve grown so accustom to fooling myself—and my children—that I fear our skin is not tough enough to tough it out.

Monday afternoon proved to be one of those days. “Those” days often don’t even need all 24 hours. They can compact the tough stuff into little microbursts of hardness that, like a time-release capsule, stretch their wearying effects over long periods of time. First, my friend Scott mentioned at lunch a meeting he would have with our principal. A bit of a hush came over our normally talkative group as we wondered if it would prove to be “the” talk, the one in which our school district’s ever shrinking pool of funds would fall on the doorstep of someone who is both very talented and very human. And to think such possible news would have to be delivered by another very talented and very human entity, it made my heart heavy. Seriously, sometimes I think this district, which has not fully funded our school in well over 10 years, should change its current mantra of “What’s best for kids” to “What’s easiest for taxpayers.” But that is another, more dangerous piece of writing. . . .

A few other strange things came to light that afternoon, but the weight of all of them accumulated in an email I received from my daughter’s school. One of her classmates, a girl I had never heard of, had been in a car accident and she and her two siblings had been hospitalized. Their mother died in the accident. Reading that email made the tiny veil of lies simply vanish into the air. Those words proved too much for the thin veneer I’d spread over myself, the one that’d made everything seem a little shinier and a tad bit happier. Thinking of that young girl and her siblings waking to find out that they were alive—that they survived this, damn it!—only to discover that they’d have to go it alone, well, it was more than this stranger could bear. I ached for my own children, knowing that hard things awaited them, things that lurk in the corners of life, only to pop out when we least expect them.

Despite the harshness of that recent afternoon, when I pulled up into the garage that day, more defeated than grateful, I realized that I still wouldn’t live in any other way. I have always valued the positive perspective, the belief that, while tough things are out there, good will indeed be able to bubble up once again and put a little shine on everything. And so, I will continue to utter “have a great day!” even though I know that the hard stuff lurks out there. To leave my nest each morning, already defeated, more convinced of the bad than the good, well, that’s more than I can bear. And so, I stick with my lies, I slather on that shiny veneer and I walk into this world looking for the good, confident not in the bad that is out there but in the stars and the light that can still manage to weave their way through that badness and make me feel new again.


April 21, 2010


My college Econ professor Jerry Petr taught from the TANSTAFL playbook—There Aint’s No Such Thing as a Free Lunch. Turned out, those were wise and accurate words. Especially if I found myself in a church basement, where deviled eggs and Wonder bread both seemed to find the true meanings of their names.

Nonetheless, I still seek out the occasional bargain, certain that I’ll dodge the downsides of a lesser product or service. One of the most expensive cheap ventures I ever made was moving into a house on 13th Street with my friend Jill. The rent was dirt cheap, even for a single occupant, and became almost nominal when additional bodies were thrown into the equation. I threw my own body into it for a few months one year, drawn to the locale by friendship and really great ice cream within walking distance.

This was an incredibly cheap time in my life, shortly after college, when I lived on Top Ramen noodles and cans of refried beans slathered onto tortillas. Jill’s sense of frugality was no different. In fact, at one point, we had two T.V. sets, mistaken for luxury only from afar and when turned off. The reason we had two was because each was free and one only provided sound while the other was good only for a picture. Stacked atop each other, they provided us the latest—if not the greatest—in local news and entertainment. This was the time in my life when I knew every local bar that offered free food on Fridays, and I was acutely aware of virtually every sample fest in all of the local grocery stores.

No surprise, then, that we chose an ambling, cadaver-grey rental to call “home.” The landlord was an icon of “cheap.” In fact, if you looked up the word in the dictionary, you’d see a photo of him. His penny-pinching tendencies made their way into virtually every unsquared corner of our apartment, mostly in the form of what was absent rather than what was present there. Apparently, our place was lovingly referred to as the Minnegasco special, because of its complete lack of storm windows. And I now know why the kitchen floor had such a shine—it was the extra layers of polyurathane that his lackeys had painted onto the laminate. Granted, no one had ever put polyurethane on laminate before, but no one was quite as forward thinking as this landlord and his lackeys. How do I know these things? Because my husband Mark was one of those lackeys.

Shortly after I moved out, I think I finally realized that you really do get what you pay for and there really isn’t such a thing as a free lunch. I really don't want to relive my days in that crap heap on 13th Street. If I want something nice, I should be willing to pay for it. Frankly, I want a nice city to live in, one with well-maintained parks and libraries, a city that is both safe and accessible. I want opportunities to enjoy live music and great bike trails. What I want is a town worth paying for. Like they say in the L’Oreal hair products ads: It costs a little more, but I’m worth it.


April 24, 2010


So, a stranger will be in my bedroom today while Mark is at work. And I must say that, while I am concerned about dust bunnies and the general odiferous malaise that has settled upon my digs, I could not be happier about this prospect.

It is a weird thing to sell a mattress. It is far stranger, though, I suppose, to buy a used one. What will this woman and her husband do when they knock on our door this afternoon? Will they be in their pajamas? With reading materials? Or scented oils? And how will it feel to all of us as I lead them up the stairs (which will, come hell or high water, be cleared of all of Allison’s detritus…void of lone shoes and crumpled notes to self, stripped bare of library books and boxes of nail polish), preparing them for the big moment?

It seems only right—and yet, a bit wrong, too—that I leave them to themselves in our bedroom. If I were them, I’d want to simply lay on this prospective newest family addition for a good 10 or 15 minutes, seeing how we’d do together. Perhaps they’ll prop up their heads with our extra pillows, reach down to the floor and grab “The Year of Wonders,” reading a chapter or two just to get comfortable.

I hope they won’t rifle through our drawers, though, those private places filled with commingling his-and-hers underwear, nothing “brief” about a single pair in the bunch. I shudder to think of them poking through my knotted collection of necklaces, like a bejeweled snake ball, one no longer distinguishable from the other. And God knows what I’ll do if they open my bedside stand drawer, its contents covered in a half inch of dust formerly known as heel. I suspect I’ll know when they do, though, by the shocked and unintended “eep” that will escape from their lips.

And yet, I could not have been more thrilled this morning to have heard from a stranger, via that mysterious Craig and his never-ending list. I’ve already dusted the living-room furniture, have kicked the piles of papers underneath the couch. I’ve scrubbed last night’s meal off of the dining room table and even put on an extra swath of deodorant. Next up? Tackling the mattress itself. Preening and primping its corners, so that they might conjure up images of military preciseness. I will build up the sagging crater on which my buns have rested these past 9 months, and scrub clean the spot of blood that soaked through one night when I’d nicked myself shaving.

Perhaps this experience of selling a used mattress is preparation for next year, when Eric will begin to look for a college to call “home.” Perhaps we will gain insight into how to present an imperfect but still perfectly good product (this child of mine), with newly-shaven locks and a tie that’s mostly on right, holding him up to the highest bidder, the one most able to look beyond the wrinkled shirt and worn shoes and see, instead, a bright and shining future.

Then again, maybe that's a little too much to ask of a used mattress.


April 26, 2010


For something so small, incremental change is a powerful thing. When delivered on a slippery, nearly imperceptible slope, we tend to ignore it until it reaches a tipping point. While incremental change isn’t always a bad habit in the making, for me it often is the result of my compromising “Why not?” nature.

By the time I left my cave this winter, I’d found myself thicker around the waist. While I suppose I could justify my new poundage by pointing to the body’s ancient hard wiring for survival, its desire to puff up in response to the elements, that argument quickly falls on deaf ears (or perhaps I should say it spills over tightened waistbands) when factors such as adequate housing and digitally-programmed heating schedules come into the equation. The truth is probably closer to this—“Oh look. It’s snowing again! Let’s make cocoa and have some cinnamon toast!” Like the instructions on a shampoo bottle, I’d gotten good at “rinse and repeat.”

Truth is, I’m not a very disciplined person. Oh, I can go through the motions and create the illusion of daily good habits—downing my glass of tomato juice before leaving each morning, walking Hobbes the Hobo Dog each afternoon, and doing a number of things in between that feign maturity and good practice—but, really, I’m pretty content to let things be. In some circles, under the right conditions, such an approach may even be enviable. It comes off as “easy going” or even “balanced,” when, selfishly, there is something more couch-bound there, too—the complete lack of desire and discipline to actually commit to something else.

Most mornings, I wake up, go to the chilled basement and do a little writing and stationary-bike riding long before my neighbors have reached for the switch of their bedside lamps. While that may sound impressive at first, what follows isn’t really worth a hoot, because it means I’m pretty much done with my day’s disciplined routine by, oh, 5:20 a.m. each morning. For someone who put on a few this winter, there’s only so much room in me for conscientious and healthful incremental change. The rest? The rest is reserved for the haphazard results of just winging it.


April 27, 2010


I am all atwitter as I stare at my new squirrel underpants and gin-and-titonic ice-cube tray. These gifts that Andrea and Julie gave me are cradled in the brightly colored gift bag sitting under my desk, peeking out from the blue tissue paper, saying “Who died and made you queen for a day?!” Indeed, I am a lucky person, and these silly gifts stand as proof of that.

Seems to me that this is the real job of a gift—to shine a light on the recipient so that all may see their good fortune to be alive in this place, right now. This is not to say that the squirrel undies will be viewed as good fortune by everyone . . . .

I delight in all things silly and irrelevant. I admit that there are days when the only reason I hope for life after death is that it might afford me the chance to work at a 24/7 Avant Card outlet on a nice tropical island. I can spend hours in that store, running my hands across things that serve no purpose beyond evoking laughter. It is there where I found Andrea’s blow-up hairdo and Molly’s extra offensive birthday card, hiding amongst an entire wall of fart-themed holiday cards. It is in the aisles of Avant Card where I discovered the Hail Mary Holy Toast Maker and the burning cigarette pen, the rebel-librarian temporary tattoos (Read or DIE!), and the Hello Vinnie Tampon Case. My life is more complete because of these things.

Of all the great gifts I’ve received, no one can hold a match to those chosen by my brother Mike. Few served any purpose beyond lighting up our faces. And he never once disappointed. I still have the leather bag with his wisdom teeth—far longer, far wiser than most. The knock-off luxury watch he bought on the streets of New York long ago died (it’s possible it didn’t make it through its first day, in fact), but not the memory of it. That Christmas, each Raglin made a prediction as the next “Mike” watch was being unwrapped. Would it be a Gucci? A Cartier? We felt like we were on Monty Hall’s Let’s Make a Deal, longing to see what was behind Door #3.

It was Mike who gave me ribbon candy and a 3-foot-long box of chocolates. He’s the one who gave me perhaps the world’s only example of Formica sculpture, complete with his Kitty’s whiskers in one of the drawers.

It is a relief to come from a family that revels in the silly gifts, rather than ones in which the price tag determine the reactions. My pocketbook certainly is grateful. . . oh, alright, I don’t own a pocketbook, but, if I did, it would be happy. And I, too, feel a deep contentment knowing that, on my birthday, there will be a tube of Pringles with my name on it. Maybe some peppermint Eclipse gum, if I’m lucky. And it’ll be wrapped in the Sunday comics or a recycled gift bag that some fancy person gave to us at one time. The joy should be inherent, not dependent. I’d say our family has got that lesson down pat.

April 29, 2010


Like most jewels, I happened upon the most beautiful of songs this week with nary an idea of what I’d found. “Forgiveness” by American composer Joseph Curiale is like an aural definition of its title. I don’t think I have ever heard a more beautiful, more apropos rendition of what it means to forgive and to be forgiven. The crisp, heartbreaking notes, held in tow only to break loose in the end, reminiscent of the spirit-cleansing effects of an “I’m sorry,” speak with the accuracy of well-written nonfiction.

I’m not sure if I’m superstitious or just naturally inclined to believe that things line up and work out with amazing consistency, but this song found its way into my life at just the right time. The end of the school year is like the frayed end of an electrical cord—raw and a bit dangerous if you get too close. . The potential for fireworks and injury seems always to be held at arm’s length by the most frail of structures. For some, failure has heaped itself upon failure, poor choice amassed upon poor choice, heartache upon heartache, fear upon fear. No time of the school year is more naked than this, its final curtain. No other time of the school year is more in need of great helpings of forgiveness than its last month.

This song reminds me that we all are incredibly vulnerable, so in need of the kindness not only of strangers but perhaps especially of those who know us best. Just as important as giving forgiveness is knowing how to receive it well, with both generosity and openheartedness. Whatever role I play in the occasion, if done freely, I am set free.

This week, I have seen dark words spill from the mouth of someone I love very much, words cloaked in the poison of mistaking humanity for something less than it. I thought of the complicated power of words to either build up or tear down. I thought about the words that I could produce in response, scrambling for ones cloaked in love rather than indictment, encouragement rather than shame.

Sometimes, a love letter is a very difficult thing to write. That doesn’t mean you don’t write it, though. It just means that you write it with kid gloves, hoping that forgiveness and fresh beginnings may bubble up from it. Like the notes in this most beautiful song, I hold up the words in my letter, asking them to transform us all, to steady the ground beneath us and let the wind refresh our tired, imperfect souls.