Doggone: Muddling My Way Through

Eight shoes abandoned by the door. Eight soles crusted with fresh mud—surprising, considering it’s nearly January. This is what grief looks like at my house today, my dog Hobbes freshly buried in the garden.

I woke in the middle of the night last night to the sound of steady breathing, listening intently for the slight wheeze of a tired dog’s lungs. This morning, the sun still snoring miles to the east, I slipped out of bed into the crisp darkness, my feet moving gingerly, so I wouldn’t wake Hobbes, who sleeps in our room.

Past-tense verbs are slow to roll off my tongue this morning. I cannot seem to shake “slept” out of “sleep,” without my throat tightening up.

So I let the grief pour out of me. And, like the pull of plunger to clogged drain, I am surprised by all of the things it brings up with it. Faces of people I have loved and lost, missed opportunities now dusty with time, the strange longing for a past fuzzied and skewed by softening memories.

I remember when a former student, Mindy Papenfus, finally succumbed to leukemia midway through her sophomore year of college. It was over 15 years ago, but I can still access even the tiniest details of that funeral. I was sitting to the right of the altar, three rows back. Wearing a green-and-black flannel dress, accented by the bulky silver bracelet my grandmother had forged. I remember being struck by the outpouring of love for Mindy, who’d dug her roots deep into the St. Olaf women’s soccer team, most of whom made it back to Lincoln for her.

And I remember being unable to hold back the flood of tears that swam over me. Tears for Mindy, to be sure—a life cut short but so well lived. But tears also for my dad, who had died two years before.

That’s the surprise of love and loss—the way both can creep up on you, like a hyacinth suddenly awash in tiny flowers, where seemingly nothing had been just a day before.

Maybe the hyacinth is what I need to focus on today, the surprising beauty that nudges its way through cold earth. Through the soles of muddied shoes that lay abandoned by the back door. Through the silence, where clicking paws once punctuated the air.

The flower, deep in the earth, remembers what it is. And it is patient, trusting in the future.

Pork and (Human) Beans: Simple Pleasures

"Simple pleasures are the best
All the little things that make you
smile and glow
all the things you know
Life's simple pleasures are the best."
--Andy Williams, singing in a Van Camp Pork & Beans commercial from the 70s

Damn, I love that song. Got goosebumps every time that ad was on. Every time.

My love of that song comes from a combination of things--Williams' silky-smooth voice, the catchy tune and those lyrics.

Ah, those lyrics. . . .

Really, what's not to love about simple pleasures? Especially this time of year, when life can be anything but simple?

As I think about yesterday--Christmas day--I keep coming back to its essence--spending time with people I love. Ask me about it and I'll skip right over the new pajamas, the breakfast casserole, the apropos tabletop decor and put my focus--and love--on the people.

Yes, I have been known to spin my lazy ways in such a way that--from a distance, with a pair of squinting, mediocre eyes--they might actually be mistaken for something almost admirable. But I believe my appreciation for simple living doesn't require a lot of spin to maintain its essential goodness.

Why simple living hasn't caught on more is one of those bewildering things to me.

It's as though we can't quite convince ourselves of the importance or beauty of something if all it requires of us is to show up and enjoy it.

And yet, what is there that could possibly add to the beauty of a day with family or a feeder full of chickadees or a sky smeared with sunset?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

So, who really cares if we run out of stuffing? Who cares if our kids get last year's hit DVD or if our ornaments don't really match the lights on our tree?

Frankly, I don't care. And, to be honest, I hardly ever notice these things when I'm in someone else's house, either.

That's the joy of a simple mind. With the bar set low, my eyes and mind are free to enjoy the most basic of things--the joy of spending time with others, the pleasure of a nice meal, the love of a friend who doesn't expect much in return.

ENJOY VAN CAMP'S COMMERCIAL YOURSELF! Here's the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjzinJ4QeHo

Bandaids for Beheadings

We all have our "off" days, our less-than-stellar performances. These moments frame us in our matte finish, rather than the glossy one we'd prefer. So be it. Best to just embrace the embarrassment and move on.

And so, below is a list of some of my better worst moments. I list them so that I can pretend they will just disappear now that I've owned them in print.

A girl can dream. . . .

Spinach Balls
Writing about these won't make them go away, I know. Even though Mark wishes they'd never surfaced in the first place. I totally own this one. But, in my lame defense, my children now eat a LOT of spinach, even though it's rolled up and jammed in their cheeks like a wad of chew. And they don't need any dressing, either. Which is really, really bad for you.

Chic Jeans
It's possible that, for a short time in his young life (maybe a year, tops), my son wore my Chic jeans to school. Hey, they fit and they were really slimming on him.

Dog "Food"
The last year or so of our dog Rasta's life included a steady downward spiral of her weight. Her vet asked me a series of questions about the weight loss, finally asking what it was I fed her. When I mentioned that I'd found an off brand that only cost $4 for a 20-pound bag, I was told that the reason she was losing weight was because I was feeding her "packing peanuts in a light gravy." That day, I became a name-brand pet-food shopper.

The Dog-Poop Potato-Scrubber Incident
I'd rather not go into the details here, except to say that I only had to learn this lesson once.

Homemade Maxi Pads
After becoming a full-fledged woman at 11 (my mom's words, not mine), I was so horrified by the transformation and too embarrassed to ask for replacement packs that I made my own pads for about a year. Pretty sure Kleenex stocks rose about the same time. . . .

Mannheim Steamroller
Yeah, I was a fan. A BIG fan. For kind of a long, long time. And I still like hearing their version of "Silent Night." Just deal with it.

I think you get the point. Besides, I've got other things I want to do today, beyond just making myself feel stupid. Like go to Walgreens, where floating pens and wrinkle cream are buy-one-get-one.

A Lesson (or two or three) from History

Earlier this week, while previewing a civil-rights series for the school district, one detail got stuck in my craw. In 1971, Congress proposed the 26th Amendment, which would give 18-year-old citizens the right to vote. Knee deep in Vietnam, it made sense that all of the soldiers should have a say at the voting booth. A hundred days later, all 50 states had ratified the amendment, and constitutional law was changed.

A new law, a hundred days. That got me thinking. How long had other sea changes taken in this country?

December 15, 1791. The Bill of Rights--the first 10 Amendments to the U.S. Constitution--became law in 811 days. No quick shakes, by some standards, but considering the unimaginable freedoms these amendments gave to ordinary citizens--free press, free speech, freedom of religion (and those are just in the 1st Amendment)--what's a few years among friends?

December 6, 1865. It took the states 309 days to ratify the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery. Less than a year to outlaw an issue that had so recently caused citizens to take up arms against one another. Granted, it took Mississippi until 1995 to back the amendment, but that's another story.

February 3, 1870. Five years after outlawing slavery, the states ratified the 15th Amendment, which gave black men the right to vote. It took 342 days to ratify the amendment, but considering that just a few years before this, blacks weren't even considered human, it is both a breathtaking admission of wrongdoing and a righteous step towards addressing that error.

As I scanned the list of amendments and the days it took to ratify them, I noticed that most took less than a year to enact. Ironically, the ones that seemed to take the most time often had to do with money. For instance, it took three and a half years to ratify the 16th Amendment in 1913, which instituted income tax.

But none comes close to the 27th Amendment, which limits pay raises in Congress. Proposed on September 25, 1789, it wasn't until May 7, 1992--74,003 days later--that the country would back this one. Nearly 200 years for us to agree to a pay-raise cap for our legislators.

Had that amendment been proposed this year, my guess is that it would have taken the states about eight minutes to ratify it.

My point? If we needed any additional proof that this, our 111th Congress, has been a less-than-stellar performer, I find no greater proof than the history of the institution itself. Fresh off of a civil war, men once considered enemies managed to reach across the aisle and end slavery once and for all. And they did it in less than a year's time.

I shall always associate our current Congress with the bitter taste of bile across my tongue, so absent has it been of courageous acts and compassionate compromise.

Old-Dog Blues

She says I love him more
Truth is,
I love him more anxiously
. . . because I can see his future from here

And it is bound by seasons,
not years

I go easy, then,
when his “clink clink clink”
draws me from my sleep again.
And again we wend our clumsy ways downstairs,
his muzzle nudging the back door
for relief
or escape
or whatever it is he thinks he may need

I melt the window’s frost with a fist,
trying to spy him in the black night
to make sure that he returns

I love him anxiously these days,
wrapping myself around his worn warm body
half on the lumpy bed he calls his own
I love him with milk
and words
and touches
and walks

I love him with time, the one thing I feel
slipping through my fingers

These woolly, condensed lives
are hard on us all

. . . which is why I love him anxiously these days.

The Unexpected Wisdom of Kenny Rogers

"You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em." --Kenny Rogers

People take their music very seriously. We also take it very personally. That's why we are slow to cross the lines of otherwise loathed genres, as though doing so makes a personal statement about ourselves. Alas, I must take a gamble and stand in Kenny Rogers' corner on this one.

I don't know if the guy sang those lyrics because they felt right or they were right, but, for me, they ring mightily true. Especially this week, after we gave our daughter Allison permission to walk away from cheerleading.

Despite our genetic propensities, when Allison first said she'd like to try out for cheerleading, Mark and I supported her. We also told her that, if she made the team, she would have to support her new endeavor financially. No small potatoes, considering the hefty price tag that comes with such short skirts.

Things really revved up last Spring, when practices and purchases piled up like clothes on a teenager's bedroom floor. Summer camp, followed by more practices, followed by Fall sports, followed by . . . a surprising lack of joy, despite all those hardwood-floor smiles and snappy moves.

It's not that cheerleading isn't a good fit period. Ultimately, though, it wasn't a good fit for Allison. And that is why we gave her the option of an exit ticket.

It was no free ride, though, since we also told her that, if she decided to quit, she'd need to have some tough, honest, face-to-face conversations with the adults in charge of cheerleading. Not easy for a people pleaser like Allison. But she did it. With aplomb, I might add.

"Winners never quit and quitters never win." --Vince Lombardi

I'm sure Vince Lombardi was a terrific coach. But I don't think his words should be etched in stone. Well, maybe soapstone. . . .

So, what do parents teach kids when they preach Lombardi's all-or-nothing sermon? In most situations, they teach resilience and strength, commitment and integrity. But I believe that it would be a mistake to make this our daily--and only--mantra.

I suppose going down with one's ship is a noble act. But it also puts quite a damper on one's future plans.

Watching Allison's moods darken, knowing her unhappiness, Mark and I figured this was one of those instances in which seeing it through to the bitter end would only make her more bitter. And so, we offered her a release valve of sorts, a way out, if not a get-out-of-jail-free card.

And what happened? She became lighter. Found her old self. Received unexpected hugs and support from her coaches and teammates, and realized that there is value in knowing when to call the game.

Call her a quitter, if you must. But we will continue to call her our daughter, a person of integrity and courage, with some really snappy skirts for sale.

Can't Jibe with Java Just Yet

Mark and I are an agreeable sort. Our parenting styles, politics, palates and musical preferences are more similar than they are different. But we don't agree upon everything.

Like coffee, which Mark ranks as one of his top ten things IN THE WORLD. I kid you not--in the world! I know this because he reminded me of that ranking just this morning, when I curled my lips at his steaming cup of joe.

"How can you NOT love coffee?!" he sputtered, his breath already fouled by the venerable bean.

Even back in high school--at a time in human history when high schoolers had never pondered drinking coffee and Starbucks was just some sugar-and-cream-laden dream in an infant entrepreneur's mind--I compared the taste of the hot beverage to licking an ashtray.

Granted, I had never had a sip of coffee or run my tongue across an ashtray, but that descriptor still resonates with me even today.

And, really, where would humanity be if we agreed with each other all the time? What would happen to all those kooky variants and skin colors and music styles if everyone's taste was in sync with each others?

I'll tell you what would happen--we'd find outselve in H-E-double-hockey-sticks, that's what!

Because we are free to disagree (wasn't that a Marlo Thomas song?), we also are free to grow, something that would be hard to come by if everyone liked the very same things. For instance, because some people I like very much happen to like rap--a genre I'm not naturally drawn to--I have come to find a place in my heart--and in my iTunes collection--for a little Jay Z, tucked between the Talking Heads and Michelle Shocked.

Shocked, indeed!

All this variety--which both pop and corporate cultures try so hard to flatten out and deny--keeps things interesting. And human. And, I could argue, humane.

My senses are heightened--not dulled--by exposure to new things and different people. The first time I had a student with foot-long, perfectly-formed spikes atop his head (the perfect venue, he discovered, for straws), I was confronted with my prejudice and presumptions. Turns out, he was a great kid, with really, really stiff hair.

Whoopee. All that former fuss for nothing.

Huh. So, maybe I should try coffee. Maybe I'm missing out on yet another way to connect with people. Maybe, three cups into my brave-new-beverage foray, I'd finally overcome my deep-seated java prejudices.

Maybe the best part of waking up really is Folgers in the cup.

A Holiday, A Holy Day

Last night, I dreamed of undulating vees of geese, wending their way through the inky night sky. It was a listening and looking kind of dream, one in which my eyes were drawn to the eerie honks and glowing underbellies of these night fliers as they poked holes through the constellations of an Autumn night.

When I awoke, I was sure I had been there, witnessing their long overnight trek to warmer climes.

It was a vivid and peaceful dream, centered wholly on the here and now. Which is why I, too, have decided to center myself wholly on the here and now this Thanksgiving day.

Unlike most Thanksgivings, in which I reflect and imagine, I will spend today looking and listening. This Thanksgiving, I leave history to the historians and the future to the fortune tellers, focusing, instead, on the rustling of the Pin Oak leaves, clinging stubbornly to their stems. On the Blue Jays harassing the Sharp-Shinned Hawk who, in turn, is harassing the nervous Chickadees at the feeder.

Today, I give thanks for two slumbering children--young adults, really--whose soft, steady breathing somehow makes its way down the dusty wood stairs and lands gently upon me.

I give thanks for the bracing breeze that greets us in the fields of Woods Park, where other bundled-up couples have let loose their bounding dogs, free at last, free at last.

Today, I take in great mouthfuls of musty, crisp air, marveling at its restorative powers, growing ever more alert with each intake. And I gladly let Hobbes dawdle along, discovering the new smells of a different path than the one we took yesterday.

I think that maybe this is the best way to spend Thanksgiving, in the moment, and I wonder why it has taken me nearly a half century to realize that. But I don't wonder long, because wondering is about the past and the future, more than it is about right now.

And today, this Thanksgiving, I plan to relish only the "right now."

Move Over, Meth...Here Comes Snatch It!

"Snatch It."

Sounds innocent enough, but inside that sleek tube of lettered tiles festers something dark and dangerous. If you don't believe me, just ask my friend Jill, or any member of my family.

None of them will play the game with me. Ever. Again. In fact, the only person on the face of the earth who will sit down and play Snatch It with me is Kristie, my other Scrabble partner.

...who, some days, I love a lot more than Jill, the way a meth addict loves an unopened box of Sudafed.

The first time my Scrabble partners and I sat down to play Snatch It, I felt my blood pressure rise and could taste adrenalin on the roof of my mouth.

A deceptively simple game, Snatch It's rules are straightforward--spill the lettered tiles on a table, turn them over and then, one at a time, reveal the letters. You can form words from the pile of tiles or by adding letters to the words your former friends already have formed. And stealing them from their pile. Bwah ha ha ha!

...did I mention that I could actually taste adrenalin in my mouth?

Jill knew immediately that this was not a game for her. Her face tightened, she sighed a lot and, under her hooded eyes, I could tell she was falling out of love with Kristie and me, with each convulsive cry we screamed.

These days, Kristie and I play it in private. Preferably when my house is empty. We have tried to reign in our compulsions, those desires to scream out a string of unintelligible "words" as we search for the one that actually exists...

"madTI! TIDma! itDAM! ADMIT! ADMIT! ADMIT, DAMMIT!!"

...but, mostly, we've failed to change our ways.

And god help us if daughter Allison roams through the room when we're playing. Inevitably, our shoulders fall a bit and we try to avoid eye contact with our 15-year-old witness.

"OMG! You are playing it AGAIN?! You disgust me."

We feel ashamed of ourselves--for about 30 seconds. But then, when we're alone again, and the adrenalin tickles the roofs of our mouths, our fingers inevitably find their way to that awful, addictive, most glorious pile of mystery tiles, where we know--we just KNOW!--that a really good word awaits us, ready to be snatched and horded.

3:17 a.m on Woods Avenue

Most days, an elderly dog with a history of seizures requires very little of a person. Mostly, a few square feet of unused space, where he can lay on his lumpy, discount dog bed with a threadbare blanket tossed across his bony shoulders.

3:17 on a Thursday morning is not most days, though.

The uneven tinkling of elder dog paws always requires attention at 3:17 a.m.

Unsure of what roused him--dreams of fresh cat turds, a broken synapse in the brain or the rumbling insistence of his own innards--Hobbes becomes a force to be reckoned with, when day has yet to nudge out night.

And so, early this morning (or late last night, depending on your perspective), I shook off my own dreams (not of cat turds, mind you) to address the real or imagined needs of my dog. Ultimately, it seems, I cannot abide the idea of a confused dog tumbling to his death down darkened wood stairs in the middle of the night.

Haunted by that imagined downward tumble, I blindly scoured the floor next to my bed, hoping to find a pair of slippers and some pajama bottoms. I found neither.

We both half stumbled down the stairs and I let Hobbes out back to address whatever needs required addressing. Clad only in my "i > u" nerd shirt and pink undies (I know, I know--shocking!), I huddled in the first-floor bathroom, waiting for Hobbes to do his own business.

Apparently, I waited a tad too long, for he was nowhere to be seen, when I cracked open the back door. Half cursing under my putrid morning breath, I wended my way to the front door, guided only by the light cast off of my shockingly pink undies. I stuck my head out the door, having spied Hobbes sniffing at the garbage can by the curb.

"psssssst! pssssst! hoooooobbbbbbbbes!" I half whispered.

It was as though he had never heard that name "Hobbes." And I was dead to him, replaced, instead, with the scent of some unnamed animal's musky urine, which had his full attention.

There is no way to silently glide up wood stairs in a house that was constructed in another century. But I did my best. Just as I did my best to locate a @*#! pair of pants and some slippers for what would be my early, early morning outing to kill my dog.

Back downstairs, I fumbled with the shorts I'd found, putting them on inside out, long pockets hanging bizarrely from my motherly hips. Managed to put my slippers on the wrong feet, too, but I didn't really care at this point, so intent was I to retrieve my lucky-to-be-alive dog. I opened the front door and began to step out.

"Your dog just went up your drive, ma'am."

It is stunning that vocal chords can vibrate at 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning (yes, some time had passed).

"Oh, uh, yeah. Thank you," I uttered to the bundled-up black man who was walking down the middle of my street. At 3:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

While I was pretty sure that he was not there to ravage my shabby-chic clad, half-century old body, I was slightly weirded out by the exchange.

As I'm sure was he. God knows how he eventually shook the image of me, bra-less, in t-shirt and inside-out shorts, with men's fluffy slippers on my feet.

I found Hobbes out back, still alive. At least for now. I let him in but most certainly did NOT reward him with a kibble of any kind. Instead, I left him downstairs, where he could stew in his clinky old dog claws.

Somehow, my bed had managed to hang onto a bit of my body heat, tucked away under the covers. Not that I would be sleeping again.

For the next ten minutes, I went through all the stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression, . . . finally settling on acceptance, which led me here. To the computer's keyboard. To try to make sense out of why I am wide awake at what is now 4:48 a.m., while Hobbes blissfully snores upstairs, no recollection of what it was that woke him long ago.

Of Mannerly Midwesterners and One Shiba Inu

Midwesterners are an impeccably polite bunch. I think that's why the national news is so befuddling to us. Especially these days. How on earth, we think, could people talk that way to each other? How is it possible that they can find no common threads between them? And how in Sam Hill could a person remain silent when another so clearly was in need?

Our coastal cousins laugh at our quaintness, as though treating each other well is so, like, yesterday. On occasion, we cave to their edgy jabs, trying on acts of snarkiness the way a teetotaler samples bourbon, our sips of sassiness so small as to register almost nothing, so great is our fear of infection.

But then, we slip back into the rightness of respect, preferring to acknowledge both strangers and neighbors, without exactly requiring long conversations of either of them.

I remember reading a piece a few years ago about a group of Hasidic Jews who left New York for the upper plains of Minnesota. When asked how the transition was going, every one of them talked about how hard it was to get used to strangers saying "hi" to them.

I just heard about a student new to East, and to the Midwest, who can relate to this discomfort. Having, at one point, lived on the streets of L.A., he made his way to our school, via stops in other states and institutions. I haven't met him yet, but his 6'5 frame and good looks have caught the eyes of the student body. Especially the female student body. Apparently, he's struggling a bit at school. Not because he doesn't feel welcomed. Rather, because he's not used to being welcomed. Or greeted by strangers.

This morning, as I walked around Holmes Lake, I was taken aback only once, by a group of serious runners who, stretched across the width of the trail, neither altered their paths nor acknowledged me as they ran by. Otherwise, the walk was pleasant and peaceful, broken up by polite "hellos" and one longer conversation with a stranger, whose dog, Foxy, I recognized from a photo in this morning's paper.

Foxy's owner, an older woman whose name I did not get, was as friendly as the day is long. And the dog--a good-looking Shiba Inu with alert eyes and soft, soft fur--lured me to stop and have myself a chat. Here's what I learned from our two-minute conversation:

•Foxy is a rescue dog who, in his first few months of life, already had had two owners

•Foxy's current (and, I'm sure, last) owners are a retired couple who have the time to spend with him each day

•Foxy's friendliness and calm nature are unusual for a Shiba Inu

•Foxy can catch a kibble, mid air. And roll over. And lay patiently in wait, despite that kibble just sitting there, inches from his nose.

As the conversation wrapped up, another couple, walking by us, stopped and asked questions about Foxy. And then, Foxy's owner and I reached out and squeezed each other's arms. This woman, a stranger five minutes earlier, was now imprinted on my impeccably polite Midwestern brain. And I was glad to have her there.

O, Solo Mio!

Some days--heck, some lives--can be transformed in a matter of minutes. And so it was that my own Friday--if not my life--was blessedly scrubbed clean yesterday during the low-hum mayhem that is library lunch duty.

Absent of the 1 p.m. dance fests that used to frame a Friday in the library (my friend and dance partner Genny now stationed in another room in the school), perhaps we were all in need of a little musical interlude.

Enter Paul, my secret crush who, simply by wending his smiling way through the throngs of lunching, munching, ever-bunching students, can put a kick in my step. By the way, if you have never seen a librarian with a kick in her step, then you are missing something big.

Then again, if you have never met Paul, whom I've written about before, then you are missing something even bigger.

Paul's five-minute lunchtime visit with me included pieces of our usual routine: he immediately picked up the due-date stamper and inked up his hand with the designation "Dec. 03, 2011" and we joked about his upcoming due date. Then, he helped me check out a few books to other students, including Natalie, a student new to East whom, if a teacher were apt to have her favorites, would make my own top-ten list. I mean, if a teacher did that sort of thing. . . .

Then Paul, listening to Natalie and me discuss the opera she attended earlier in the week, threw me for a musical loop. Threw everyone within earshot for a musical loop.

He broke into song. Not just a top-forty, heard-it-on-the-radio song, though. No, Paul broke out into an operatic piece.

In Italian.

Did I mention that Paul receives Special Education services at East High? Perhaps we need to remind ourselves of what that word "special" really means. . . .

Eyes closed, head pointed upward, Paul released an oddly affecting tremolo from his lips, the words framed in Sicilian roots and sung with ease.

It was like one of those experiences that I hear supreme athletes have from time to time, in which the moments stretch out far beyond the tick of the second hand, each unraveling in slo-mo, our attention riveted to the unfolding.

Natalie, who, in her former school, had a bit of a reputation for being an impatient rabble-rouser, let a slow, appreciative smile stretch across her ebony face, mesmerized by this impromptu performance.

Such is the transformative power of Josh Grobin, I guess, whom Paul acknowledged for teaching him the song.

(My God! Paul even cited his sources! What's not for this librarian to love about him?!)

And then, the bell rang. Kids logged off of their computers, put away their chess games, pushed in their chairs and began heading for their next class, some stopping to pat Paul on the back.

And me?

Well, I just stood there, dumbfounded and utterly happy. Basking in the afterglow of Paul's aria, transformed.

A Fine Recipe: 1/4 Cup of Yearning

Thanks to author Kathleen Dean Moore, I now have a name for it, that mournful musical note that is, itself, the very essence of yearning.

The augmented fourth.

How can it be that a name--even a drab, rigid one like "augmented fourth"--can somehow replicate the magic of what it represents?

And yet. . . .

"Augmented" takes its time rolling off my tongue. It is not an easy word to say. Even a bit sad, somehow, almost ending in defeat. "Awg'-ment-ed." Like the single note in all those minor-chord songs that I play over and over again, each time washing over me with surprising emotional vigor.

Should I be surprised to learn that no songs in the early Christian church had augmented fourths in them, so alluring are their effects? But to call them diobolus in musica--the devil's chord? I think the early church fathers got it wrong.

In my yearning, I am connected to everything, both seen and unseen. It is that yearning that compels me to "forget" something at the store, just so I can catch a glimpse of my son--my tall, gentle, loving son--in one of his natural environments. It is that yearning that leads me to clang a few pans midmorning on a Saturday, in hopes that I'll rouse Allison and be invited to slip under her covers, curling up next to her warm body while she sloughs the sleep from her body.

It is the bittersweet power of the augmented fourth that makes me fall in love with the natural world every time I step outside.

In a way, I suppose, yearning is always about stepping outside--either physically or symbolically.

In fact, I think that yearning may be the thread that connects all things. It makes us kinder, softer, more aware of our surroundings. It makes me ache at the recent nakedness of our tall Locust tree, yet also stand in awe as I watch it transformed into something magical, with all the stars of the sky stapled to it, in the inky blackness of an early winter morning. It is the mournful song of a wolf or loon, looking for a mate.

Yearning pops our arrogant human balloons, reminding us that, as much as anything else, we are here to look out for each other--for the plants and the animals, as much as for the bumbling humans that fill our days.

Such is the power of augmented fourths.

My thanks to author/naturalist/philosopher Kathleen Dean Moore for naming those strummed vibrations that run up and down my spine. Her books "Wild Comforts" and "The Pine Island Paradox" are well worth your time.

You be you

"Act your age."

In the long history of humankind, I don't think those words have ever been uttered as anything other than a soul-sucking threat. In fact, that phrase may very well be the ultimate party pooper, more effective, even, than lime jello with carrots.

Young or old, no one wants to be told to "act your age."

And, really, what does that mean anyway?

Act stereotypically? Live less large? Ignore your joy?

And no one should want to be the bearer of such dreaded expectations. It's one reason I occasionally remind my own children that it is never their job to take away someone else's joy. Usually, those reminders come when one of the kids is sharpening his or her tongue at someone else's expense.

And yes, I've whittled myself that very same tongue from time to time, caving to the low-bar desire to point out someone else's clumsy humanity.

. . . as though my Chic jeans are all that and then some. . . .

I have no idea what it means to act 49 and eleven months. I do, however, have a pretty good idea of what it means to act 'Jane Louise Raglin Holt." And, given the alternative--to behave in some sort of standard, predetermined, stiffly mature "50-ish" kind of way, I think I'll always prefer to act like me. warts and all.

. . . or maybe I should say "skin tags and all."

I'm as clumsy and complicated as they come. One minute, I'm farting like an 8-year-old boy. Another, I am staunchly defending the rightness of meeting deadlines. Some nights, I sleep like a 97-year-old woman. And, on crisp, Fall mornings, I tend to see God in the blanket of dew that sparkles in the sunlight. I love popping bubble wrap and busting a move to a funky song. And I still don't own a purse but I'll drop a pretty penny on a fine pair of shoes.

There are also those occasional times when I seem to absolutely stink at being me. Times when my skin feels all wrong and the colors of the world are a bit askance. These times never last, though. And, I suppose, they just bring out a different part of me--a sad, uncertain part that I just don't know very well.

Like I said, I am as clumsy and complicated as anyone.

As I hover at the half-century mark, I think it's time this old world and all the people in it--those quirky, complicated people who can't seem to rise to the standards we've set for them--would be better served if we just banned those three words "Act your age" and replaced them with something a little more honest and practical.

Something like "Be you." Because we're pretty much the only people who can act out that role with any kind of authenticity.

Hair! Hair!

To say that Hobbes the Hobo dog just got a haircut is like saying Moammar Gadhafi has had better weeks. One grooming Groupon and--voila!--Hobbes went from half blind and haggard to high and tight.

In fact, he now looks like a deer, which concerns me, considering the city recently took down a bull elk in The Knolls neighborhood.

Hobbes has had his share of close shaves--such is the burden of a hirsute beast in the Holt household, where the moneymakers aren't anxious to part with said money. Twice a year, in fact, he goes from cute to "ew!" For some reason, though, this time, he's still kind of cute. Shivery and nervous, but cute, too.

What is it about a haircut that can be so transforming? Why is it we tie up so much of our beings in what kind of hair days we're having? Or what products we're using?

As I ponder the hairstyle history of my own lifetime, a few moments stand on end as being particularly memorable. Not that that's a good thing, though. Who, after all, wants to see another guy perm or girls with hair so big it won't fit in their yearbook photos?

What's so awful about a bad haircut, though, is that there's really nowhere to hide.

I remember the first perm I got, shortly after high school. Driving home, still smelling like a chemical fart, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view and almost flipped my car. The person who looked back at me wasn't a teenager, but rather some perky, middle-aged mom tooling around in the family wagon between births. I was appalled.

But it wasn't the last perm I ever got.

The last perm I ever got was in 1989. I was in my second year at Pius High School, and engaged to be married. In return for watching my hairstylist's house while she was away, she gave me an after-hours perm. Downtown. In front of a big, big window.

After pulling handfuls of my hair through some sort of skull cap and applying great swaths of chemicals to it, she pardoned herself, saying she had to pick up her son.

And so I sat there, looking like Phyllis Diller on acid. In full view of anyone who happened to walk past her downtown shop that evening. I was utterly alone and a wee bit scary to look at. And she took a very, very long time to return.

By the time she returned to the shop, two thirds of my hair was officially dead, looking more like a bleached hay bale than anything that could grow out of a skull. For half a year, I lived as an albino scarecrow, with strange, white strands stapled to the sides of my head.

Mark married me anyway.

But only because he'd had his fair share of really bad cuts, too.

Like that time he got three cuts in one day from the hair college downtown. . . .

Now THAT'S a Good Sport!

Last night, I was reminded that the word "fan" is short for "fanatic." Six points from the Husker volleyball team toppling unbeaten Illinois, I was screaming like a Banshee, having just made myself a vow to hock up my lungs right out of my mouth. Even if it took the rest of my life.

Fortunately, it only took about 10 minutes. But I was quite willing to keep at it until the last blonde hair on my head had squeaked "uncle" and given it up to the gray.

I could not have been higher, either physically or emotionally, wedged into seat 11, row 12, section N, my back against the brick, my head just inches below the seam where wall meets roof line. Two hours earlier, I had a short, polite conversation with the person to my right, a 60-ish woman who seemed nice enough. By 9 p.m., I was hugging her like a long-lost relative, squeezing her shoulders a bit too hard. Beaming like an utter idiot.

There is something irresistible in watching twelve strong, supremely talented athletes battle it out in close quarters. Something almost mystical in the way they communicate in the flash of an eye, somehow knowing where the ball--and the opponent--will be next.

Fuzz your eyes a bit, and suddenly the Husker Volleyball team isn't six individuals, but rather a vacillating, interconnected amoeba, each piece seamlessly bound to the next. It is truly astounding to watch them play. Especially when everyone's in sync.

Yeah, I watched their football counterparts humiliate Minnesota earlier in the day. But I also was able to keep reading my book and catch a nap while I did so. Such side activities are not options when the game is volleyball. Put the two sports on a split screen and I dare you to ignore those six women, operating like some magical Spirograph--fluid, fast, strangely circular.

Next to a volleyball match, football seems embarrassingly clunky and slow. Ah, but I wander. . . .

This is about last night, the toppling of a king (or queen). The transfer of the throne to the women in red. My friend Allison and I were two of the four thousand, lucky enough to witness the transfer. Feverish and in love. Simply beaming.

Downright fanatical, one might say.

A Transformative Nod to My Pops, Jim Raglin

When I was a kid, the only way I'd drink iced tea was with a heaping teaspoon of sugar mixed in. I still have a sweet tooth--sweet teeth might be a better descriptor--but, somewhere in my late teens, I quit adding sugar to my tea. By my 20s, I'd forgotten what all that sugary fuss was about, instead preferring my tea "neat."

It's odd when a part of our world slips away, worn down by new life and distractions until we can barely recall what its original edges looked like.

Eighteen years ago this week--I'm not even sure which day this week--my dad died. Eighteen years of this world without that man. That funny, sharp, bridge-building man.

Shortly after he died, I remember figuring there would be some sort of cosmic disruption in the order of things, now that Jim Raglin's fire had been snuffed.

Somewhere in my forties, though, my dad slipped away from me, his edges softened until it was possible for me to slide my feet over his spirit and feel nothing but the smoothness of the day.

That smoothness, though, is not disloyalty. Hardly. It is, instead, a kind of soft comfort, proof that my dad has been taken into this earth and turned into something else. Something lighter, less defined.

I am no longer bound by his angular lines and lanky body. No longer bound by his cackling laugh or unfortunate comb-over caught in a crosswind. Instead, his has been a circular journey, transformative and quiet. Hardly noticeable at times.

Mark is the gardener in my family now, but I think that, in honor of my dad, I will spend time on my knees and bury my hands in the wet, dank earth out back. There, I will smell life and death, trading places, transforming each other, wearing down the edges until they form something new.

There, in the garden, I will meet my dad again, and tell him about my day.

Little Mouse on the Prairie

Yesterday, I got a lesson in kayaking. Like most students, when the subject interests me, I'm capable of paying attention for great swaths of time. Fifteen, twenty minutes, if required.

Yesterday's lesson unfolded over the span of an hour, beginning with loading the kayaks and equipment in my friend's car and securing them with various cinches and bungee cords. Winding around Holmes Lake, where the sun was pondering a late-afternoon nap while the wind was just waking up, I was surprised at how many other kayaks dotted the landscape.

Mary Ann and I headed to the backside of the lake, where a family of fishermen stood near the reedy banks that abutted the golf course. Ours would be the only kayaks on this portion of the lake, alee of the wind's full force.

I needed a few hundred yards of water to figure out how to maneuver the thing, but Mary Ann was a patient teacher, and a good role model, to boot. Soon, I was sluicing through the water, still a bit clumsy but infinitely quieter in my motions.

If a person can lollygag in a kayak, that's what we did, hugging the grassy banks, lazily chasing an overworked muskrat, holding our collective breath as we moved in on a family of blue-winged teals. A lone blue heron (are there any other kinds?) gracefully landed in a pine on the near bank, where he watched us for the better part of an hour, until we shooed him from his perch, if only to see his massive wings in action.

It's pretty obvious to me that I'm a better student out of doors than behind the walls of some building. I can't recall once in my 49 years when my head has bounced with fatigue when fresh air and sunlight are my classroom. Take my women's retreat at the monastery last weekend.

Ambling through the slow hills towards Schuyler, it was obvious I was in for a treat. When we finally turned into the monastery's lane, I was not disappointed by what I saw--a beautiful building tucked into grassy hills and accented by a calm lake.

The weekend was terrific, especially the time we spent outdoors or getting to know each other. Inside, where the hard work of learning took place, I fell back into my role of middling student, not bright enough to quite "get" the material, fidgety as I wondered what natural wonders were revealing themselves just outside those walls.

Perhaps it would have been better for me if they'd just opened the doors, pointed to the prairie and said: "See you in two hours. Let me know what you learn."

Such are the lessons I find outdoors, infinite in their creativity, clever and beautiful in their delivery.

Wanted: "Accordian--older model. I'll pay cash!"

That "lost" clarinet got me thinking. Of all the sections in a newspaper, is there one that can top the hope which continually spills from the Want Ads?

No. Seriously.

So, I put my emerging theory to the test this morning, scanning the Want Ads for even one example of something that did not represent hope. Couldn't find it. Even the Cemetery Lots section framed things through the lens of hope. Who wouldn't want to save a few bucks and get a nice, shady place to hang one's eternal hat? I'd be lying if I said Mark and I haven't occasionally looked for that one last plot of land.

Certainly, the most emotion-soaked section of the Want Ads is the Lost & Found. Often, they read more like slivers of a personal diary than dry reporting, exposing the writer to the world's cynical eye. Here, in the Lost and Founds, we find out what really matters to people. And, often, it can be heartbreaking. Especially when it comes to someone's pets.

Today's Lost and Found section is surprisingly absent of pets, aside from those who have found their way to the Capital Humane Society. But it is not absent of untold stories. Consider this, which was found not far from my house: photographs and wedding ring receipt. Tell me there isn't hope or heartbreak in that one.

But don't think all the hope of the Want Ads is rooted in the Lost & Found. Consider 6701 Wildflower Court. It's been on the market for well over a year and, each day, its owners stand steadfast in their belief that, somewhere, there is someone who'd like to live in that house. Each day, you find its expensive, photo-laden promise of a life of luxury. How hopeful are these people? Let's just say that, in the long year my daughter has checked on it, the price has not drop. One cent. And it's yours for just $849,000.

Sometimes, hope and foolishness cross paths.

I used to think that the Letters to the Editor represented what is best about our Democracy. After all, there, you find the everyday man--or perennial local presence Edgar Pearlstein--taking a stand. But now I'm thinking that it's in the Want Ads where we find the best and most joyful part of humanity. Where else would someone spend money advertising things they are giving away for FREE (Today? Black walnuts, a blue-and-tan easy chair, a garage, a mattress--no thanks!--and a color tv)?

With all the hard news of the world knocking on my door, maybe I'd be better off dosing myself with some good, old-fashioned Want Ads.

On the Clock...Again

Every clock in my life is goofy these days. At home, not a one is in sync with the others, meaning that great expanses of time might elapse before I even cross the room. Or, if I'm crossing in the other direction, I may suddenly find myself with "do over" possibilities, time seemingly having reversed itself.

Even my internal clock seems off a bit, so I've felt more ebb than flow of late, and I'm definitely a "flow" person.

It's not that I'm obsessed with knowing the time. After all, I don't even wear a watch--although I did don the Baconator Friday, but strictly as wrist bling, considering it has no functioning battery.

For me, it's a matter of steadiness. Knowing my time and this place helps to anchor me. In the past week, those qualities have eased back into my life, and I'm mighty grateful to see them again.

Who knows why I awoke with lightness the other morning? Perhaps this incredible string of gorgeous days finally seeped in and righted me. Maybe it was the earthy smell of fall--that strange mix of dust and death and dirt--that awoke my senses.

At this point, I'm not really asking why my steadiness has returned. I'm just enjoying it. In all of its forms. In the weather. My friends and family. In my students. My home. In my renewed enthusiasm for life and God and nature, right down to the fuzzy caterpillars that trust they'll make it across the trail unscathed.

I come from a very on-time family. We're great with deadlines and hate being late to things. I think that's why this past month or so has been such an internal struggle for me...my zest for life was a overdue and I didn't know where to look for it.

I should have known it was right here all along, hiding under a tangle of old necklaces, next to that watch battery I've never gotten around to using.

Beep Beep Toot Toot Yeah!

So, what is it about a car? Clearly, it is a window-filled world through which anyone can peak. And yet, people inside act like there is a brick wall between their boogar-probing finger and the viewing public.

I have seen people behind the wheel who treat their rear view like a bathroom mirror, applying mascara and lipstick, picking food from their teeth, checking to see if the bleeding has ebbed on their chin. I have seen people treat their car like a kitchen table, spreading out the paper on the steering wheel, propping their feet through an opened window while they chat on the phone.

I am absolutely certain that I have done appalling things in my car, confident that I have not been seen. Or heard. Or smelled.

Take tonight, for example. Allison had just finished cheering at a volleyball game and needed a ride home. I hopped in and headed her way. Earlier today, I'd had half a runza and some chicken tikka madres and, so, I was taking advantage of the cushy injection chamber that is a car's seat, farting furiously all the way down Randolph.

By the time I'd reached the last light before Lincoln High, it dawned on me that one of Allison's friends just might need a ride home. In the gas chamber.

Had I been able to flap the doors and still stay on the road, I'm pretty sure I would have. Instead, I activated every electronic window device at my disposal, all the while, encouraging Hobbes the Hobo dog to breathe extra heavily, that I might shift some of the blame.

As I pulled up to the dark lot, spotted with lively teens sharing laughs, I eased up on the pedal, taking a bit longer than usual to pull up to the school. Just in case. Sure enough, Allison leaned her head into the window and asked if her friend Rachel could have a ride. When she didn't renig, I figured the coast--I mean the air--was clear.

I was still a little gassy on the ride home, but I pinched, like a good parent should do. Like my own parents did for the 19 years I lived with them, God love 'em.

Jam Don't Shake Like Jelly

My Grandpa Shepard took me to two movies as a kid—“1776” and “Oliver.” I’ve already written about the “1776” fiasco—when he showed up without his wallet and proceeded to beg strangers for enough money to take his granddaughter to the movies. “Oliver” was a quieter affair, thank goodness, and a more enjoyable film to watch. Yes, people still broke out in song, but at least not over a preamble or gunshot wound.

One line from “Oliver” still sticks with me today. It’s from the scene in which the boy asks the headmaster for seconds.

“More soup, please.” And then, all hell breaks loose.

These days, I’m begging the headmaster for less soup, not more. And still, it feels like all hell is about to break loose.

My response? Start pumping iron. No, really.

Apparently, when one part of my life starts to careen a bit, my reaction is to take control of another part of it. This time, it’s the abs. Or the “flabs,” as I call them.

So, twice a week, I’m putting on what I’m pretty sure are pajama bottoms, swapping sandals for Vans, and heading to the school’s weight room to pump up my jam, pump it up!

I am not delusional. I do not expect my abs to be mistaken for steel any more than I expect lifting weights in a gym will help me lift the professional weights that are heaped on my shoulders.

I still have too much soup in my bowl these days. And a bit of a muffin top, too. But there is something to be said for taking control of things—even things that may not matter much. Turns out, a few reps on the Nautilus helps steady me outside the gym, as well. And for that, I am grateful.

In fact, I could almost burst out in song. . .

Naming Names

I woke up feeling a tad guilty about yesterday's post. Specifically, the part about my job. Like most people, my first reaction to change is to resist it. Like many teachers, I can grow weary of the latest transformations and standardizations in our field. All this testing makes all of us a little testy.

But I would be lying if I said that nothing good has come from these changes. Asking me to be thoughtful about what I do before I even do it--and expecting it to fit into a grander scheme--is hardly an outrageous request. And, to be honest, these added expectations have led me to be a better planner at school.

I've always enjoyed finding the "hook" in something. I like the challenge of creating a sturdy, compelling framework on which to hang my teachings. And, without the added layers that have been placed upon me at work this year, it's possible I never would have found a compelling framework on which to hang the dreaded task of creating citations.

There are certain, unavoidable lessons that teachers must teach. For a school librarian, nothing is more dreaded than teaching students how to create accurate, MLA-style citations for their research papers.

Want to watch all the air leave a room? Mention citations. Want to see how quickly glaze can move from one end of an eyeball to another? Talk about MLA style. Want to perpetuate every rotten "Marian the Librarian" stereotype that has ever been uttered about those of us in the school library? Ask me to teach citations.

On Friday, my friend Shelly, who is teaching the Literature of the Holocaust class at East, asked if I would work with her students next week so that they'd know how to correctly cite their sources. In the past--before all this reform came a'knocking at my professional door--a little part of me would die when teaching citations. It was one of those dreaded lessons that made me hate me.

Now, though, because the expectation is that my lessons will tie into their lives, and that my intent and connections are clear, I find myself looking at even the most dreaded of lessons differently.

And so, tomorrow, when I meet with the Holocaust class, for the first time ever, I will be excited to teach students about creating citations. For the first time since I've been a school librarian, I've got a hook for this one.

See, creating MLA-style citations is more than a mind-numbing requirement of research. It's actually (here's the hook) the important work of naming names.

What did Hitler do to convince so many people that it was okay to kill so many of their neighbors? He took away their names and tattooed them with numbers instead.

Closer to home, just south of the Lincoln Regional Center, tucked away between a grove of trees, stands an odd, sad little cemetery. There, not so long ago, they buried Regional Center patients, marking their graves not with names but with numbers.

Sure, a hobbled works-cited page isn't as devastating as numbering people, but it's just possible that caring about our sources and crediting them with accuracy is one way to name names.

And that is important work, indeed.

Evaluating My Half-Century 21 Real Estate

"50-and-up group."

That's the crossword clue from yesterday that nearly made me drive my car off the road.

Is it really possible that, in a mere three months, I'll start getting mail from AARP? How can it be that the youngest child of Jim and Sally Raglin's happy union will be (gulp) half a century old?!

I don't think I can bring myself to tell my mom the news. . .

I've never fretted the age thing much in my life, but that cursed crossword got me thinking. And then, for some weird reason, the term "owner occupied" entered my brain. Maybe it's because we're refinancing. Or maybe there's really no explanation for the bizarre connection I made between turning 50 and occupying myself.

You would think that someone who is on the brink of 50 should live an owner-occupied life. For the most part, I think I do. I think I have a pretty good idea of who I am and what my abilities and shortcomings are. I look at my house and my family and I feel owner-occupied, knowing that each is a source of stability and comfort for me.

In my 24th year as a teacher, I probably should feel owner-occupied in my profession, as well. But this year, I'm not so sure.

It's not that I've changed my approach to teaching so much as the profession has changed its approach to teachers.

More and more, I feel the omnipresence of some unidentified "other," who keeps insisting on more data, more results, more automation. Not surprisingly, it leaves a less-than-owner-occupied taste in my mouth. Maybe, if I were younger, I would be more open to these new procedures. Maybe, if I had more energy, I would see the silver lining in all these changes in the teaching field.

Or maybe, because I'm on the brink of 50, I just want experience to trump external influences, both in my personal and my professional lives.

Maybe 50 will be the year that I stand up and politely grow some professional cajones. Heaven knows I'm already working on the beard. Perhaps this will be the year when I set out to own and occupy not just my classroom but my profession, as well.

Sing a Song

I suppose it's possible that Kiki Dee really did have the music in her, but that was almost 40 years ago, people, and I'm pretty sure the music has moved on.

And by "on" I mean "into Allison Shepard Holt." Take the other morning, when all of the Holts were up far too early. It was a few minutes after 6, and I suspect our next door neighbors were awakened by Allison's piano rendition of Coldplay's "Clocks."

This morning? The piano took a back seat to Allison's crisp voice, which was belting out some vaguely religious sounding song, while she was soaking her tootsies in the tub. For someone who seems so shy in public, Allison is a musical ham of epic proportions.

I've always been a morning person, but Allison makes me want to be a morning person 24 hours a day. For whatever reason, she simply can't quit singing before she heads off to school. Her repertoire runs from the operatic to disco-infested. One minute, she's kicking a leg like Michael, while telling me to "Beat It!" and the next, she's established a holier-than-thou stance, looking skyward for her musical incantation.

As much as I'd like to stay home and enjoy it all, on school days I am usually out the door by a few minutes before 7. Even then, though, I know I'll be treated to Allison's musical pipes, as the notes squeeze themselves out of the the bathroom window, landing happily at my feet.

It's like a joy shower and it leaves me singing, even in the rain.

One Anniversary I'd Rather Forget

Maybe I'm in denial. Maybe I don't have the stomach for it.

Or maybe it's because Mark is on a plane as I type this.

Whatever the reason, I have all but avoided the hubbub surrounding the 10th anniversary of 9/11.

The other day, for the first time in weeks, I caught the national evening news, and I was overwhelmed by its focus on what had been and what looked almost certain to be once again. At one point in the newscast, a former national-security expert was warning people to be on the lookout for strangers on the roofs of malls.

Strangers on the roofs of malls.

There is a definite downside to never hitting the "off" button. For the news business, it means that everything--from conjecture to fluff to outright lies--becomes news, sometimes for no better reason than the fear that some other journalist might tell the story first.

Even this morning, the anniversary of that most awful day, I have tuned out my faithful Sunday companion, NPR, which is focusing exclusively on today's events and remembrances.

Outside, the birds and squirrels do battle over the handful of seeds in the feeder, oblivious to the day's significance. I can hear the honking of a lone goose, as it skirts the neighborhood trees in search of its friends. Upstairs, Allison draws a bath.

For some reason, these are the sounds I crave today, absent of commentary or clips or conjecture. These will be my companions through an anniversary I can't quite muster the courage for.

No Place Like Home

Mark left for Massachusetts this morning, where he, his mother and siblings will deliver his grandmother's ashes to their final resting place next to her husband Harry. He has not been simply "son and brother" since we got married 22 years ago.

His trip marks the final leg of the Holt's "Four Solo Vacations" Summer Tour, a lonely tour, to be sure.

Still, I'm glad Mark gets to focus on those old roles for a few days, even if it makes me feel a bit discombobulated. I may pretend to be an adventurer, but what I really like to do is be home with my family. And the rest of the Holts generally follow suit.

Time will tell if this "steady-Eddy, close-to-home" approach will serve our children well. But two things happened tonight that made me think that, at the very least, we probably haven't done permanent harm to them.

First, Allison told me about a middle-school friend who switched schools this year, coming to Lincoln High from a cross-town rival. Her friend is happy at the High, Allison said. "Doesn't that make you feel good about where you go to school?" I asked her.

"If I made a list of the best decisions I've ever made in my life, going to Lincoln High would be on that list," she said. I almost drove off the road.

An hour later, Eric called, in need of a phone number. We chatted a bit, me trying hard not to ask too many questions or sound too excited that we were talking. It was a nice conversation. A short one, too. And, as it wrapped up, Eric uttered something he's said to Mark and me more and more these days.

"Love you."

Neither of these, I know, is a scientific measuring stick of current or future success, yet each left me feeling grateful for the steadiness that is my children. It's good to know that, even after the Summer of Four Solo Vacations, we still are like salmon, patiently swimming our way back upstream, to this place we call "home."

My Groupon: Deep-Tissue Issues

Did you know a masseuse is always a woman?

I found that out this afternoon when I asked the guy, a 250-pound side of beef, how long he'd been one.

"Massuer. I'm a masseur. A masseuse is a woman."

Oh, god, please don't hurt me, I thought to myself, realizing I was in his hands--literally--for the next 75 minutes.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I didn't expect my masseur (see, I can learn) to look like a retired All-Star wrestler.

Hey, when you live by the Groupon, I suppose you occasionally die by the Groupon, too. And, heck, beyond first impressions, I had 75 minutes of what I hoped was pure muscle-melting glory waiting for me...and all for a lousy $30!

And melt they did.

Apparently, this guy takes his deep-tissue massages seriously.

At times, he was Cato to my Clousseau, beating the ever-loving heck out of my tissue which, apparently, had been very VERY bad! Yet, I remained stoically silent. It wasn't that I didn't want him to hear me whimper. I just wanted to take it all in as a mostly silent observer.

I have to admit that I found it a bit fascinating.

Halfway through, he had worked out every knot my shoulders had ever recalled having, plus a few extras, just for good measure. By then, despite the methodical drubbing I'd taken, I was growing a bit fond of him.

Perhaps I'd developed a massage-induced case of Stockholm Syndrome.

The guy eased up for the rest of the massage, and he proved himself a bit of a gentleman as well, barely batting an eye as his big hands passed over my rough-hewn heels and half-shaved legs.

When it was all over, he told me a bit about himself, while I tried to sit up without vomiting. He turned out to be a rather decent guy, having fallen in love with his new career, following a lifetime of cement work. I am always glad to give my money to someone who does his work with such passion.

And, by golly, the guy really knows his muscles.

My Prairie Eden

Mark and I spent the morning on the prairie outside of the Nature Center at Pioneers Park. It is an old land, ever changing and always enchanting.

It also is one of my favorite places in the world, hands down. Even if I were to travel to the far corners of the earth, this would remain my sacred place.

You cannot walk its trails without feeling the history of this place. It undulates, this virgin prairie, having never known plow or foundation. It knows only the constant cycles of nature--wind, rain, snow, drought.

We are shushed by an orange-and-black cicada, impossibly big, looking more like a B2 bomber than an insect that can fly. He reminds us that we are in his place, traveling through only because he allows it.

Mark flushes a young snake from its grassy hiding place as we make our way to the water's edge. Everywhere, crickets and birds chirp and chortle, sending secret messages or lovelorn songs into the wind. Along a tree line, we startle a deer from its grazing spot, and we watch its shadowy outline move through the trees, listening to the dried limbs crunch under its hooves.

This is the place I want to be when I am no more. Scatter my ashes to the winds and let me fall among the goldenrod, hitching a ride upon their swaying greens. Let me cling to the wing of a bluebird as it sits atop its wooden home. I would be eternally content to sit upon the gentle slopes, watching snapping turtles and raccoons vie for a sunny spot on the bank of the creek.

I can still feel the warmth of that place against my skin. I take a handful and put it in my pocket for another day.

Routine Procedures

The other morning, a few minutes after the first cardinal had found its voice, I was dialing (yes, I still dial, even though I'm pushing buttons) the Journal-Star's circulation desk to ask where our newspaper was.

See, we have the world's greatest paper carrier, which is a thing of beauty for a household that wakes up much too early each day. In fact, as I type this--at 5:20 a.m. on a Saturday--I hear the familiar grumble of our carrier's car ambling slowly down our street. Soon, it will be followed by the lovely "thunk" of another novella delivered tidily to my front door.

After entering my mild complaint with the circulation operator, I decided, at first light, to look again for our paper, which I found this time, tucked into the corner of our front steps, rather than atop the "welcome" mat, where it usually is.

Is it possible that everyone is a bit obsessive compulsive, hungry for the routines that we've established for ourselves?

At least to some degree, the benefit of our routines depends upon how we take apart that word "routine." For some, it comes from the word "route," indicating the road map we use to move through our days and lives. At other times, though, the word seems more akin to "rut" than "route."

And we've all been stuck there before.

Most days, my routines are like well-worn blankets to me, offering me both comfort and familiarity. Yes, they can get a little threadbare, especially in the middle of a long, gray winter, which is usually when I pull out my proverbial sewing kit and reinforce the edges a bit. But it is worth the extra effort, given what a dependable routine offers me in return.

My propensity towards routine has always made me a little googly-eyed in the presence of a true adventurer. I can get a bit uncomfortable around these people, who seemingly move through the world on the wings of a hang glider or dangling precariously from a nylon cord threaded through a much-too-small carabiner. They make me feel small and boring.

What is it about glitz and glamour and gorgeous sunsets that can pop the air right out of routine's "o" and make the rest of us feel like we're in a rut?

I wonder, though, how I make those people feel. Is it possible that the splashy daredevil secretly hankers for the steadiness of my own life? Is it possible that, mid-air, they're simply looking for the perspective that I've already found on the ground, three thousand feet below them?

I suspect that, like the rest of us, the daredevil utters his or her own confessions and doubts in a hushed, vulnerable tone, behind the comfort of a velvet screen, looking not so much for answers as for a bit of acceptance.

Calling "Do Overs"

It seemed like a typical start to the school year. I came back armed with a handful of new pens and a couple of nearly-fashionable tops I'd picked up at Shopko. Every other adult, though, seemed to have come back transformed.

It's certainly not the first time that I've been out of the loop, but it was the first time in a long time that I wondered if the bus had left without me. And that's not such a bad thing for me to wonder.

Tough? Maybe. But definitely not bad.

More friends than I can count arrived at school this year in shiny, new bodies, made even lighter by their sure-footed self confidence. These lithe beings each came to this state from varying points of origin, some spurred by dire news from their doctors, others by the barks of a personal trainer.

Me? I have arrived at this point in my life mostly through vigilant inertia.

I've had the same haircut for about 40 years. I can stretch a container of blush through most pages of a desk calendar. And most of my new clothes are green or tan, so that they may slip virtually unnoticed into their new roles in my closet.

I think my particular form of vanity comes wrapped in the strange packaging of acting like I don't care. "Acting" is the key word here.

But I have sensed a quiet stirring within me in these last few days, and I am trying hard to pay attention. Whether or not I succeed depends, in large part, upon my willingness to quit acting and start doing, one day at a time.

Today, then, I will take an extra minute or two to do up my face extra fancy, the nearly-noticeable swaths of blush announcing to the rest of the world that I do, indeed, care. And I'm not afraid to show it.

Making Peace with the "S" Word

The Slut Walk.

It's a shocking name, especially for us plain-spoken Midwesterners. We don't much like to read words like this, especially in our local newspapers, much less ponder what such an event might do to our young people.

Yet, beyond its shocking title, the event's purpose is both practical and admirable. Surely, its founders proposed, we could ask better of men rather than simply demand that women change their clothes so that men may not attack them. As though men are not capable of controlling themselves.

Yes, I loathe--with every fiber of my cotton-briefed being--the tight tops and skimpy shorts that most retailers make available to girls today. And I was secretly delighted to find out last year that, on her first day of high school, my very own daughter was pulled aside and ordered to change into shorts that weren't so, well, short. It is good to have a backup band, especially when the lead singer's message is so easily discounted.

But there is another side to that coin. Our society should expect better of our young males, as well. As much as the bra-less mothers of the revolution preach about the evils of objectification, we also need someone representing the other bookend, passionately preaching to our young sons the wisdom of bodily control and respect for all.

So it was with a bit of pride that I read Eric's Facebook post yesterday, in which he listed participating in the Slut Walk as a part of his busy day. (Yes, he also went to a movie and pretended to be a Zombie, but those are not the things I'm focusing on right now, thank you).

I certainly did nothing in my parenting to raise this young man who can walk among women who are asking for better. He has always had this way of looking at the world, a way that is much more expansive and enlightened than my own bifocaled approach. I credit his teachers, his mind, his generation for fostering Eric's mindset in life.

As for the rest of us, for whom "slut" is either a bad memory or just an ugly, uncomfortable word? Maybe yesterday's Slut Walk is a wakeup call to us, a chance for us to find our rusty voices and put them to use for something that is larger than ourselves.

I, for one, could really use a focus that extends beyond the "me" of my world.

Making Lunch for My Daughter

This morning, just when I was threatening to make it all about me, Allison asked if I'd make her lunch. At first, I resisted, the tough-love mama just about to utter "no." And then, I decided what the heck.

What the heck, indeed.

To make something for someone else--even something as simple and dull as a school lunch--is a great way to start the day. The ignorant, occasional Buddhist in me emerged as I got lost in touching the bread, laying the slices side by side. I found myself surprisingly present as I slathered on the peanut butter and jelly, topping it with the second slice of honey wheat, cutting it carefully at an angle, to fancy it up a bit.

I felt real love as I tucked an oatmeal raisin cookie into its plastic sleeve, tucking bag into bag.

I hadn't anticipated getting so swept up in yet another sack lunch. Even as I type this, I still feel the buzz of joy that this simple act brought me this morning.

I'm so glad Allison asked, and that I gave the right answer.

Get Lost

When Eric's plane landed in Stockholm a month ago, he spent the next few hours utterly lost, truly a stranger in a strange land. His first Facebook post from Sweden, though, didn't stop with the "lost" part. It ended with him eventually finding his hostel.

It was that last sentence of his--the one in which he eventually figured things out--that kept me from fretting too much for him. Like my fretting would have done him any good any way.

I keep coming back to the idea of Eric working his way through being lost, and I've decided that getting lost may be the best way to start a vacation. Or a life. Or a day.

That's why I chose "Get Lost" as my motto for the school year. When I rolled it out to the students, I told them about Eric's experience in Sweden, but I also added that there are all kinds of ways to get lost.

I got lost in a half dozen books this summer, never once leaving my comfortable den. Knee deep in my Nordic noir, while I may have put the book aside for the afternoon, I often felt fuzzied and confused as I negotiated the chilly, murderous world of what I'd read with the steamy, sub-tropical climes of my backyard.

I got lost on the bike path, riding the same route at different times of day, taken aback by the different lighting, the different crowds, the different smells on that otherwise familiar path.

This summer, I got lost making new foods, observing new plants in the garden, discovering a family of screech owls, and moving my son into a dorm.

The beauty of getting lost is that a person sees the world differently and more deeply. Really, we should all get lost on a regular basis. Then, we could replace fear with wonder, learning to appreciate the fresh perspectives, the body come alive.

Sure, I may very well tell a student or two to "GET LOST!" this year and mean it in the most literal, hot-headed way. Mostly, though, I'm hoping my "get lost" nudges them into new territories, bumps them up against new people and perspectives, puts a new shine on their sometimes tired young lives.

I know that getting lost in Sweden already has served Eric well as he begins his new life in college. What's the worst that can happen, after all, when you've been a stranger in a strange land and have seen it through to a satisfying end?

School Days, School Daze

I used to be a bit of a wanderer. Take my big debut to May Morley Elementary School one fine May day in the mid '60s. Having just mastered whistling on my commutes to Merry Manor Preschool, I figured I was a shoo-in for the next big thing--elementary school.

Mrs. Marsh, however, thought that--like a fine wine--I could use another year to mellow. Apparently, she was bothered by my propensity to stand up and move around during her rousing explanation of how bathroom breaks worked at the elementary level.

Not much more than a wispy, pinched woman, Mrs. Marsh nonetheless held the cards to my future. And my card was not would not be pulled. At least that year.

By 1973, I would find myself hovering on the brink of junior high, haunted by undocumented rumors of hallway stabbings and sexual trysts too boggling even for my youngest-of-five mind.

Alas, despite those tawdry tales, I managed to make it through East Junior-Senior High Educational Complex without so much as a single sighting of some punk's blade, much less an R-rated close encounter of the sexual kind. Such rumors often end in this way--with a sigh and a tinge of disappointment.

Talk about a complex. . . .

Standing at the brink of my 21st year as a paid employee at East High ("junior" and "complex" having long been pried off the building's face), I think it's important that I recall both Mrs. Marsh and hallway stabbings. Both are reminders of the heightened state of concern that accompanies most kids to their new schools.

Tomorrow, about 300 kids will enter East's doors for the first time, most of them hoping not to see something that reads like a storyline from "CSI: Miami" or "Jersey Shore." They are scared to death by the prospect of getting lost. Most have been awakened in the middle of the night (much like myself, though for different reasons) by nightmares of unreliable locker combinations and towering, cranky senior athletes with a penchant for pranks.

If I forget the sweaty-lipped realities of these new students, I could slip into a hum-drum mentality that does little to soothe the savage freshman beast or light the upperclass fires.

No, it's important for me to push aside these ho-hum tendencies and, instead, view the beginning of the school year for what it really is--a beginning, not just another bleary-edged day in a long continuum that, eventually, leads towards a well-earned retirement.

To My Son

I woke up missing you this morning, even though I could hear your lean body shuffle atop the sheets of your bed.

I woke up missing you, even though I could hear your steady breathing, even though I could recall our late-night, mumbled conversation about the poetry slam at a local coffee shop.

I will miss you even more now, because, despite the last-place finish, you found such satisfaction and joy from it all.

. . .who would not love a person who enjoys the road more than the endpoint?

You are equal parts of integrity, honesty, curiosity. Some days, I fear you will see my ruse and turn your back on me.

Yes, I woke missing you today. But I will swallow that longing, hide it away so that you can be free to go and live your life, without lugging along my luggage, too.

I think that I will look for a portable piece of you to carry around in my pocket today, something to ease the ache a bit.

Tyra's Got Nothing on Me!

Truth be told, I'm a fashion hypocrite, a complicated combination of caring and not caring.

Consider the tragic "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972". . . .

I'd just arrived at school, wearing my tan pants that pretty much went with everything. I'd just walked into Mrs. Sorensen's classroom and bent down to tie my shoe.

An audible "rip" told me that more than just my shoe required my immediate attention.

The tear was impressive, running a good half foot in length, and revealing both my unshaved upper leg and my comfortable cotton briefs. Not exactly a 4th-grade boy's dream come true, but noteworthy nonetheless.

It never dawned on me to call my mom for backup (see "not caring") although I did think it was important to tuck in a yellow piece of construction paper that, while not a perfect match with the tan pants, might buy me some time as curious eyes tried to interpret what exactly they were seeing (see "caring").

I spent the day repositioning that construction paper (see "caring"), eventually settling on some well-placed staples to help keep down the seismic shifts of my temporary patch (see "[possibly] not caring").

And, things have not really improved since then.

My seventh-grade Class Officer photo in the yearbook shows that, while I embraced the natural, snappy look of a jean vest and Birkenstocks (see "caring"), my chlorine-stripped hair looked more like a Swedish ski jump than human locks (see "not caring").

I have spent most of my life, in fact, with that same haircut, a 'do that can be achieved with a single sweep of a Flow Bee (see "not caring"), and requires, at most, one passing of the hairbrush each day (again, see "not caring").

I am, however, more than willing to buy expensive shoes (see "caring"), especially now that my dogs have started barking. And, considering that I grew up in trendy clothes from Hovland-Swanson (my mom's insistence, though still a version of "caring,"), I am not averse to dropping a pretty dime on a good-looking shirt or pair of pants (yet again, people, more "caring!").

That said, as I type this, I'm wearing flip flops, comfortable cotton briefs (see "Torn Tan Pants Incident of 1972"), a man's button-up shirt and a pair of shorts held together with a really big safety pin (see, "not caring," perhaps ad infinitum).

While most of my friends assume that I swing only for the "not caring" team, though, I thought it was important to show that I am, in fact, a complicated fashion beast, one not entirely appeased by a season-end bargain and a handful of staples.

Won't You Be My Neighbor? ...Yeah, Even You!

In his book "Mere Christianity," C.S. Lewis talks about the wisdom of the Catholic Church in using geography to determine which church a person attends. It may not be comfortable to pray next to the person whose dog is eating your roses or whose muffler wakes you each morning, but it is good to.

I've been thinking a lot about geography lately, because I just returned from Boston, where six friends gathered, mostly to be silly. Three of us became friends over 40 years ago simply because we happened to live near each other. That geographic bond is a powerful one, and I feel especially lucky that so many of the people I grew up with still remain important in my life today.

Drive through it today and my childhood neighborhood may not even register a blip on your brain. The houses are of mixed style, ranging from ranch to split level, with a two-story colonial thrown in here and there. Sure, there's the Pink Lady's house, still mired in mauve, right down to its outdoor furniture. And, nearby, there's the strange, boxy house that is rumored to have a pool inside.

But, mostly, it was the people who set us apart--or, rather, who brought us together. Some days, I think there must have been something in the water that created so many excellent people in such a small area. Sure, by the time I was in high school, there often was something in the water, but that's another story.

This is a story of lifelong friendship. This is a story of the super-glue bond of geography, holding people together despite politics and religion, despite buck teeth and B.O.

In light of the fiasco that is Washington politics, where silly little boys and girls are more apt to pick up fistfuls of gravel rather than handfuls of hammers and nails, I'm wondering if everyone wouldn't benefit from a little C.S. Lewis wisdom.

What if we really couldn't choose our friends or our churches, our problems or our solutions? What if the only way through this world was together, neighbor and neighbor, held to one another by nothing more than gravity and the desire to live?

My Road to Driver's Education

Our driveway will be the death of me. Or, at the very least, of my car. Especially now that Allison is licensed and eager to get some time behind the wheel.

The more time she gets behind the wheel, it seems, the further away I get from my goal of snagging the "Most Excellent Parent of the Millennium" trophy.

. . . as though such a downward-spiraling thing is even possible.

This morning, for instance, long before the first cardinal had yet to even try out his first yawn, there I was, frantically explaining to Allison the difference between "hard right" and "hard left," all the while eyeballing our disastrous trajectory in the rearview.

Allison's actually a very good driver, aside from that pesky 30-foot stretch of driveway cement, where she tends to hug the edges the way a 15-year-old boy hugs his date on the dance floor. She generally is a careful, aware and confident driver. But between that skinny-jeans, rearview-sucking garage of ours and its cursedly narrow driveway, we are perpetually bereft of visions of a future, simply by the act of leaving our home.

Frankly, it's enough to make a mom feel a bit verklempt, even at 5:15 a.m., when a ridiculously-early cheerleading practice at Lincoln High School propels us into the larger universe.

And, this morning, that sting of my impatience was somehow heightened, knowing that I'd be returning to work a few hours later.

This is the bane of being a teacher by trade--that continual reminder of just how inadequate you are at it, especially when the walls happen to be your own rather than those of some handsomely-subsidized government building with the name "High" stamped on it.

Apparently, I save my "best" for other people's children, settling, instead, on "just shy of a Social Services intervention" when I'm amongst my own.

The Serious Side of Silliness

Leukemia
Stroke
Death of a parent (x3)
Sick child (x2)
Job loss
Job hardship
Anuerysms
Parental decline (x infinity)
Sexual-identity issues
Mental illness
Alzheimer's
Broken families
Broken relationships
. . .and those are just the ones I can remember.

--Is it any surprise that I chose to go to Boston to be a baked being?!

Like a headful of newly dyed hair, this is a strange season of life, accentuated by both high- and low lights. And, as with all heads of hair--and lives--there are times I struggle with what to do with my roots.

I try to be a good ear to people, but, in the weakness that is mine, when crisis piles upon crisis, my arms can flail in these deep waters, as I crave something simpler, something much closer to the shore.

I dare not imagine how many meals I have failed to make, how many questions I have failed to ask, how many folks I have seemingly let down as they wander through their own deserts.

Truly, it is not a lack of concern that causes me to crack a joke or play a game of Scrabble in the midst of all this hardship. For me, it is something much more serious than that. It is the absolute necessity to find the good when that good seems most elusive.

I can only hope that my own roots, this tendency towards laughter and joy, act as a salve to others in the same way that they have salvaged me time and again.

There's a Reason It's Called a "Vacation"

Last night, Eric returned home from two weeks in Sweden, where he was traveling alone. He was hairy, tired, happy, and, I am sure, somehow changed. On the drive home from the Omaha airport, he told us about nearly being robbed, about staying in a deserted hostel at the end of an empty block, about wandering a nude beach and about visiting great art galleries.

He also said that he'd probably never travel alone again, because it was strange to have no one to share his experiences with. This from a self-proclaimed introvert.

When Mark was a senior in high school, he and his friends planned a hiking trip in the Colorado mountains. On paper, I suppose, it sounded like a great idea. The carrying out of that idea, though, proved more difficult. For starters, one of the guys packed little more than cigarettes and he lugged them in his Samsonite. . . which he dragged up the mountain.

In a few days, I leave for Boston, my second-ever "girl" trip. The first was to visit my friend, Kristie, in Cincinnati, where she was teaching. While it was exhilarating to abandon family and home for a few days in exotic Cincinnati, it's possible that the highlight for me was buying cigarettes at a local Walgreens.

None of us smoke, but that didn't stop us from buying a pack. Well, actually, we pretty much bullied our friend "Meredith" into buying them, while the rest of us stood behind her, like a bunch of giggling adolescents who'd just lined our pockets with loot. I could not quit laughing as "Meredith" drew closer to the cash register, quietly repeating the words "Marlboro Lites," so that she wouldn't forget them when it was time to talk with the cashier.

Tears pouring down our faces, we somehow managed to make it outside the store, only to discover that, of course, none of us had matches. Like it mattered.

It was the best $4 I'd ever spent on a trip.

I think it's no coincidence that the word "vacation" has "vacate" at its roots. Clearly, we vacate our home spaces when we leave for a few days. But we also vacate our tired selves, too, suddenly and giddily free to reinvent ourselves, if only for a handful of days.

When Mark and I went to Italy two years ago, celebrating our anniversary with friends Barry and Jeanne, I did more than vacate a space. I rewired my brain. My motto for that trip? Just Say Yes. Which is why I ate the eyeball from Jeanne's fish. And the pickled octopus tentacle. And drank the espresso. And choked down the limoncello.

It was the perfect motto for that trip.

As I prepare to head to Boston, where I know that it's more than likely I'll pee myself with laughter, I've chosen the antithesis of my Italian motto. For Boston, my attitude will be: Whatever. I have vowed to read nothing, research nothing, practically pack nothing, leaving myself open, instead, to the whims of my very funny and capable friends.

I'm pretty sure it's the perfect motto for this trip, but I'll have to get back to you on that.

Safe Travels

Safe travels, my son
Wending your way through new lands
Lost in time and in place
in thought and, I hope,
in joy, as well
This space is strange without you
I ponder buying a watch, so that I can count the hours until
you return

Safe travels, my friend
You who has a great chasm to span
life bloods to swap
cancer to beat
a life to keep living
Live it well in that cell of yours
Unimpeded by the bars and whirring machines
Knowing that light pulses within you

Safe travels, my girl
who wakes before cardinal or crow
donning the wear of your work
legs both scratched and tanned
shoes still muddy from yesterday's field
You who are finding your way in this life
and changing its texture
simply by showing up and living it

Safe travels, new spirits
set free from the bonds of this life
scrub us clean as you pass through us
Build us up in love and hope
memory and faith
For we falter in your absence
Uncertain of what to do next

Safe travels to all
who wake each day
putting foot to floor
and moving through life,
despite what you know
and don't know

What courage, to live!

When Is an Elephant Not an Elephant?

It was spring, 1984, and my wardrobe had never been snappier. My mom, who isn't much of a haranguer but is a darned good dresser, made me one of her projects that spring, and part of that project involved my wardrobe.

To think that I'd been talked into plaid skirts, blazers with shoulder pads and even (egad!) a top that had a frou-frou bow on it. . . well, let's just say we both were a little out of our heads at the time.

The other part of my mom's project involved me getting a real job.

Both parts proved to be somewhat painful. Looking back, though, I'd say the clothes were more painful than the interviews. Aside from one.

Mutual of Omaha was looking for a writer. God knows what kind of writing takes place in an insurance agency, but my mom convinced me that it was a job with my name on it. I filled out an application and managed to get myself an interview.

(An aside: while I consider myself to be an independent person, there are portions of my life in which I have so little interest that I am willing to literally stand in the middle of the room, raise my hands over my head and let someone else dress me. Otherwise, I think I'm rather nicely balanced. This is not a story of balance, however.)

Yeah, so my mom dressed me. Yeah, so she loaned me her car which, unlike my Fiat, actually had air conditioning. And, yeah, she even talked me into wearing a dumpy pair of shoes while I drove up to Omaha, so that I wouldn't scuff my fancy heels. What's it to ya?!

I was fifteen minutes outside of Omaha when I had myself a private little giggle. My eyes first scanned the professional pleated skirt, then made their way down my freshly shaved legs, so nicely caressed by full-length hose. Finally, looking down at my feet, the dumpy old leatherback turtle shoes covering them, I thought how funny it would be if I had forgotten my other shoes.

About three seconds later, I realized that it really wasn't funny at all. Never before had I so longed for a freshly-polished pair of high heels. Heck, I was even kind of longing for a purse and a compact, and I'm not even sure why.

Ten minutes to Mutual. I'm panicking so I pull over and call my brother Steve, who lives in Omaha, frantically asking him what I should do. He chuckles a bit and suggests saying nothing unless someone happens to notice the shoes, and then making light of the situation.

Unless someone "happens to notice the shoes?" That would be like walking into a circus tent and happening to notice the elephant in the ring. Let me give you a visual. Remember that Carol Burnett skit in which she's a homely cleaning lady?

Yeah, that was me.

Only I was going for my first "real job" interview and it was at a big company that even had its own TV show.

The next hour was painful, in the way a colonoscopy without anesthesia is painful. I must have joked and cajoled, cleared my throat and "heh heh heh'd" about 20 times during the interview.

I didn't get the job.

No, really, I didn't. But I did learn an important lesson.

Sometimes it's better not to name the elephant.