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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 8, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, November 5, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
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.
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.
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