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Sunday, January 30, 2011

Lessons My Dog Has Taught Me

Smile, even if your teeth are broken and blotched.

Kiss, even if your breath is not minty fresh.

Love, because you know no other way to live.

Rest, even in the midst of commotion.

Eat joyfully, even if the menu never wavers.

Breathe noisily, so that others may know you are there.

Poop twice a day, and take a little victory lap after each one.

Explore your back yard, and see it anew each time.

Rush to the door when a cat is near, because they always bring adventure.

Let others brush your hair, because it makes everyone feel good.

Stick your nose in a snowdrift, because the earth smells delicious.

Be silent, and let others tell their stories.

Do one thing at a time, for that is all we can do anyway.

Dance, because a walk is on the horizon.

Run in your dreams, where none runs faster than you.

Love without memory, so that others may shine anew.

Let yourself be loved, for there is no more important job in life.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

The Day The Earth Tilted Too Far--a folk tale, of sorts...

Once upon a time, a godless big-city journalist was wandering the countryside, having already covered his fair share of county fairs. He was taking his own sweet time getting back to the big city, where he would file yet another report about prize-winning pigs and peach pies. There was no hurry in telling these things to strangers, after all.

He crested a particularly fine hill, chasing the sun as it began its slow yawn to the west. In the distance, he noticed a large tent poking its head out from a field of rusty milo seemingly moments from harvest. A line of people wended their way to the tent, some chatting with their neighbors, most somber and silent, all holding a book in their hands.

And since things must begin somewhere, it is here, in this field, under the astute eyes and compromised hearing of a big-city journalist, where the world shifted on its axis. Isn't that how it always is? An earache or a pulled muscle or just too much time between meals and up bubbles a misunderstanding that festers until it becomes the truth. Or some version of it.

The journalist walked towards the tent, for no better reason than because he was tired and his earache had grown worse and, who knows, perhaps there would be an extra chair or a glass of iced tea when he arrived. He reached inside his jacket, feeling for his notebook and pen, just in case there was a story to tell and he was the one to tell it.

As he neared the tent, pieces of words--both sharp and emotional--punctured the air around him. They fell hard on his eardrums, which had grown gummy and taut with infection. He stopped a man and his son, asking them what all the hubbub was about.

"blahblahblah tent reVILE!"

He jotted down the words, although they didn't make much sense to him. When he reached the tent, the journalist grabbed the corner of the flap and slipped in, taking his post in the back. For the next hour, he wrote furiously, scratching as best he could the words that flew at him.

"Cheeses saves!"

"Loathe yourself as your neighbor!"

"Do gun down others as they would gun down you!"

"Hell will DO ya!"

Every so often, the crowd rose up, intent upon laying claim to their shouted words. At one point, a group of women were beating their breasts, apparently laying blame on a familiar target.

"a MAN! a MAN!" they shouted, waving their arms above them, as though they were swatting a horde of flies.

When it finally ended, people shuffled by the journalist, ignoring him, which was fine because he felt a little sick and woozy. Though he would have appreciated the chance to verify a few things before calling in his story.

Who can say why one story gets all the attention while others--much better written and probably truer--are passed over, impatient eyes lured by the promise of three new panels of Little Orphan Annie? But that is how it happened the following Saturday, when the presses slowed their whirr and spat out the last of the printed pages, the ink still damp to the touch.

And these big-city folks, who, now that I think about it, really don't have much to hold over their country cousins, ate up the journalist's story, right alongside their eggs and toast. They rolled the strange words over on their tongues, like a foreign flavor, odd and exciting and maybe just a bit worrisome. They talked about them at work, over dinner, in bed with their lovers before turning out the lights for the night.

And those words, those muddied, misunderstood, strange words settled down and planted deep roots in the people's minds, their dark tendrils snuffing out the brighter, lighter thoughts that had spent far too long there.

Nothing much happened right away, of course. But, slowly, people started to change. Almost imperceptibly, they began to view themselves no longer as just-fine,-thank-you but more along the lines of not-quite-right-don't-you-know.

Eventually, it got to the point where the manager of the local five-and-dime had to make room for another aisle of goods, things he'd never before imagined carrying. Hair dyes and facial creams and magic elixirs stared each other down, each intent upon wooing the next passerby. Each offering a new you.

The journalist retired a few years later, without fanfare, marking the day with a burger and a pedi, something he'd heard other men raving about, of late. As he passed through the business district, his feet feeling particularly attended to, he noticed his image in a storefront window and was shocked by how gray he'd become.

And so, he popped into the corner store and picked up a box of Rogaine, along with a pack of gum and a magazine. Yes, now he had a plan. Now people would notice him.

NOTE: Who can say why this weird little tale came into my mind this morning? And, no, I did not have a tequila sunrise at breakfast. But I did find myself thinking about our culture's obsession with self improvement and started to imagine what it was that moved us from approving ourselves to improving ourselves. It's a huge switch and we seem to have made it with nary a second thought. This, then, is my second thought, in the form of a folk tale.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Suzie Chapstick Meets Wolfman Jack

Apparently, my daughter's quite a fan of Chapstick.

Amazing what a person can learn creeping on Facebook.

I have no idea what it means to be a fan of Chapstick and I'm more than a little curious about the pivotal moment in her life when she realized she wanted to get behind the stick. Whatever the reason, though, there it is, on her Facebook page, that "thumbs up" that says "I really LIKE this!"

All of us surround ourselves with flags and words and symbols. In this instant-access age, though, I'm guessing we often staple these things onto our chests with nary a forethought as to what they say about us.

Some days, I wish I were a forensic linguist, someone who could pick away at the layers of detritus and get to the real meaning of things.

Take this week's State of the Union address. Between the radical seating chart, the uncomfortably stilted outbursts of clapping--like an SNL skit, only real,--John Boehner's leatherback-turtle face and the heaping helpings of political rhetoric, I had a very difficult time discerning what was real and what was simply posturing.

Few things are more disturbing than a roomful of red-and-blue accented roosters.

Speaking of animals, I found out this week that there's a student at my school who thinks she's a wolf. Seriously. Apparently, in one class she had to be told to quit licking herself, while, in the library, she had to be coerced to sit in a chair while she typed on the computer, her haunches planted on the ground.

I had no idea wolves could type!

I don't begrudge the girl her canine moment anymore than I worry about my daughter's recently professed love of all things Chapstick.

I just wonder if we shouldn't give a little more thought to the flags we wave.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

There's No Business Like Snow Business

Underneath my "party girl" veneer is a Snuggie just waiting to bust out. I don't know if it is age or a house I love to be in or a family that does not yet bother me much, but I have grown somewhat resistant to a life outside of my home.

Not yet a hermit, I still must dig deep some nights to leave the house and have me some fun. Thank goodness I dug deep last night.

I suppose it was the late-afternoon bath that saved that last shred of my social life. Had I not cleaned up my act a bit, I certainly would have turned my back on Kari's J.U.G.S. (just us girls) invitation. Herein lies the true magic of the SafeGuard-and-Suave dynamic duo. Why waste clean pits and shiny strands on a family who usually sees me at my worst?

So I went downtown with the girls. Just as the sky finally let loose with all of its promised snows.

And, while I certainly enjoyed the laughs, the beers and the quality quesadillas, it was when we left Marz that I fully realized what a grand idea it had been. There is something indescribably wonderful about facing the elements with friends. Bundling up, layer upon layer, at the behest of snow-covered strangers who meet you at the doorway.

I have not been downtown in a full-blown snowstorm in a long, long time. And, as much of a nature junkie as I am, I can't imagine a better place to take it all in than under the circular glow of a hundred incandescent street lights. Looking up was like floating in deep space, a thousand galaxies rushing toward me, each more stunning than the last. I felt giddy and very, very glad to be alive.

I loved that Jennifer's and my footprints were the only ones to be seen as we happily trudged our way to her car. I let out a "whoop!" of appreciation as we dug out the car, glad to be in the thick of it. The muted silence of a snowstorm is a great backdrop to just about anything, even a night out with the girls.

I had trouble falling asleep last night, making up excuses to pee just a little bit more, each time pulling apart the slats of the bathroom blinds to take in the snowy scene. I woke often, wondering how our landscape had been transformed, imagining new drifts climbing the French doors of our library.

I was not disappointed when I awoke this morning, my world transformed by several inches of snow and a stiff, artistic wind that had left behind dozens of sleek, intricately carved sculptures along the house. I am always conflicted on these mornings, my eyes continually drawn to the untouched snow while my mind worries about the cardinals and chickadees as they peck away at the snow-covered feeder.

The birds always win out and, by 8 a.m., when I figure even the Unitarians have awakened, I don snowboots and coat, good gloves and a headband and begin making paths through the snow. First stop? A path to the birdfeeder, where I scrape off last night's efforts and refill the now empty box with golden heaps of safflower. The birds titter in the wisteria, just inches away, glad to have a cross-species friend like me.

And me? I take it slow shovelful by slow shovelful, our long, narrow driveway an undulating sculpture of snow. I will make paths through this day, but I also will sit back and enjoy those places I have not yet been.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

My Lunch-Time Crush...A Confession

Pretty sure Paul has taken a shine to me, and I'm not about to rebuff him for that. Hey, I'm teetering on a half century of living and have grown accustomed to words like "ma'am," "lady," and, when I space off at a stop sign, "idiot." So I'll take a few minutes of adoration when it comes my way.

Besides, Paul is as cute as a button and his eyes sparkle when he breaks into a smile. Which is, like, every five or ten seconds.

Ours is a second-semester-lunch-schedule-change relationship, although we've known each other for a year and a half. I first met Paul last school year when he joined the Special Ed Book Club I lead monthly. He and I shared plenty of laughs last year as the book-club members scoured the school, interviewing people and taking their photos for a special project we'd created.

While Paul is a bit more comfortable snapping photos than interviewing strangers--and who could blame him, really?--he managed to get to the bottom of more than a few human mysteries, nudging folks to reveal the best way to survive high school or school lunches, for example.

But enough about Book Club. This story is about Paul and me right now, and our 15-minute meetings in the library each school day.

These days, I make sure to freshen up a bit after lunch, knowing that the remains of a garlicky pasta leftover could get in the way of Paul and me. I pop in some fresh peppermint gum before heading to my lunch-time duty in the library. And I give myself a quick glance in the ladies' room, mostly to make sure that my buttons are lined up correctly and that I don't have any food in my teeth.

And then, I wait. Come 1 p.m., I look up from the checkout desk and see Paul wending his way through the lunchtime crowds, a smile plastered on his face. We high five each other, and begin reviewing our lunch-time selections.

"So, what'd you have today?"

"...uh, a chicken patty."

"Aren't they brown? How do you know it's chicken?"

"They're round!" Paul is not picky. I figure he must be a favorite among the lunch ladies.

And then, we talk about our day so far, highlights and low points. There is an ease to our relationship that is comfy, like an old, leather glove.

Yesterday, though, I put him to work. I had had enough of this fluffy banter! (Hey, all relationships have complications, even ours!) He walked behind the desk and pulled up the stool next to me, ready to learn from the check-out master. (My story, my terms.) One girl sidled up to the desk, a stack of books in her hands. I looked up her name and Paul did the rest.

"Click it and stick in a ticket."

"These are due February 11, lady!"

We repeated this easy routine for the rest of the lunch hour, Paul pretty much mastering it in a matter of moments.

As the bell rang, ending our lunch-time date, Paul and I high-fived each other again, while I shouted my daily reminder to the roomful of kids:

"MESS UP, CLEAN UP! I'M NOT YOUR MOMMA, THANKYOUGOD!"

And that's when Paul--my dear, dear Paul--put the candied cherry on my sundae.

"YOU HEARD THE LADY!"

Yeah, it's possible I've taken a shine to Paul....

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Chore Wars No More!

Eric wiped out three times on his snowy bike ride home from Swedish lessons today. I say "Husker Du! and Lutefisk, Too" to that! Of course, I don't want my kids to get hurt in this world. Not wanting something, though, is a lousy reason for keeping them locked up in the house.

And, believe me, I do NOT want to lock my kids inside the house...Outside? Maybe. But not inside!

I grew up in a household in which we all had chores. All five Raglin kids were expected to help out, even though our mom spent some of her Hovland-Swanson paychecks on a twice-monthly cleaning lady. (Hey, she had seven stinky people living in the place. I will not begrudge her that expenditure). Looking back, I'm grateful that my parents thought enough of us to expect us to help out.

And, really, that's what chores are all about. When a parent assigns a chore, she is telling the child "This household could not function well without your contributions." Okay, what we're really saying is "I am sick and tired of busting my butt for other people, so YOU are going to pick up my slack. It is why I agreed to birthing children in the first place!!"

You can see why I usually opt for the shiny lie when I explain chores to my kids.

Anyway, back to my point. . .

Giving chores to young children offers an adult the perfect explanation for why their house looks like a crack den. "Oh, you know little kids! They can't be expected to mop up ALL the messes! Heh, heh, heh..." "The missing roof tiles? Yeah, little Eric just couldn't reach that high!"

Beyond saving my face and providing me additional couch time, though, assigning my children ever more chores really does help them in their goal of becoming independent adults. Yes, both Eric and Allison rode their bikes home in the ice and snow today. Yes, both had to get off their bikes and walk at one point or another along the route home. But neither one complained much when they finally rolled in, pants wet, eyelashes frozen.

Read that last sentence again and I'm guessing you'll feel just the slightest bit jealous that Eric and Allison are MY kids. Both got over the inconvenience of making their way home on their own today. To me, that's pretty huge. And satisfying.

And, even though, in some circles, such stories make people want to speed dial Social Services, I'm generally convinced that the more I let my kids live their own lives and occasionally fester in the piles of their own decisions, they will be better adults for that.

And me? Well, I already have benefited. I picked up no one after school, my dishwasher has been unloaded and will magically load itself after dinner, our garbage will find its way to the curb and I will remain unmoved, on the couch, new bedsores festering under the success of my supreme parenting skills!

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Here She Comes. . . Miss NEBRASKA?!

I have two very fond childhood memories that center on the family television set. One was getting to eat in the den every Sunday night so that we could watch "60 Minutes." Food in the den...in front of mom and dad?! Egads! At no other time did we dare do this. Apparently, Morley Safer and Dan Rather tempered our parents' spirits, making such miracles possible.

I loved carrying my dinner into the den on a big, brown tray and balancing it on my knees. With any luck, I got into the den early and found myself a coveted spot on the couch. And I swear that those glorious, magical trays somehow made the food taste better, too. Now, my mom's not much of a cook, so the trays really may have improved the taste of those meals, leeching their special "tray-ness" into the night's Shepard's pie or meatloaf.

My other televised highlight was the annual Miss America Pageant. The sheer anticipation of the show created a palpable buzz in the Raglin household. If it was possible for a houseful of smart alecks to be all atwitter about something, The Miss America contest was just that thing. Come 7 p.m. the night of the show, our den was chock full of audience members, paper and pencils in hand as we prepared to crown the next Miss America.

What other show could bring together a family like that? What other show offered the boys and men one buxom eyeful after another, while also drawing the approval of the females in the room? Where else but on Miss America could a person watch a violin concerto followed by a ventriloquist act or a tumbling routine?

While we never held out much hope that Miss Nebraska would end the night with an armful of flowers or a sparkling tiara, we at least hoped that she would not shame us, that, somehow, her hayseed tendencies would go unsown on national television. And, if Miss Kansas or Miss Iowa proved to be a talented looker, we could at least draw some satisfaction in the fact that our states touched.

So, it was with more than a little curiosity that I turned on the television set last night, running through the channels until I found the contest. We had already had dinner, so already my childhood memories lost a bit of their magic. And neither Eric nor Allison was with us, Mark and I falling on this glamorous grenade without them. We hemmed and hawed and tried to justify settling on the Miss America Pageant, blaming Netflix for sending us a season of "Sopranos" that we'd already seen. Even though we were the ones who'd ordered it. Again.

And so, Tony Soprano made room for 53 girls in sparkling cocktail dresses, their minds abuzz with dreams of a better world, with them at the center of it. I know, I know. Fifty THREE? Apparently, D.C., the Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico wanted their chance to shine, too.

What I noticed first was that the songs they danced to were the same songs that Allison listens to. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or bad, or if I needed to have a talk with my daughter. Instead, I held my tongue, and encouraged Mark to put his back in his mouth.

Most shocking to me were the snarky introductions each contestant gave for herself. Bad puns, statehood slights and too many references to athletic teams punctuated these introductions. And the fact that each contestant yelled hers made it all a bit much for me.

Within the first ten minutes of the show, the judges had already whittled down the crowd of contestants (what do they call a group of beauty queens? A bevy of beauts? A murder of mamas? A bunch of bulimics?). A mere dozen remained, including--pinch me now!--Miss Nebraska.

We hung in through the bathing suit contest. Miss Nebraska, after all, had made the first cut, so we at least owed her another ten minutes to make sure she didn't slip in her heels.

We lost our oomph shortly after that, secretly disappointed that nothing popped out and no one slipped up during this portion of the pageant. Part of me wanted to stick around for the entertainment, but the pull of the Sealy Posturpedic proved too powerful to resist.

Would I sooner eat off my arm than allow my daughter to be in a beauty pageant? Damn straight! Do I know just how empty it is to judge people by their looks? Of course. Was I more than a little creeped out by the interviews with former beauty queens, each more elastic than the other? One hundred percent "yes."

But I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't just a little proud this morning to see Miss Nebraska's glowing smile greet me on the front page of the Sunday paper. In these lean times, we need to celebrate all of our victories. Even the lean, vacuous ones.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Why I Teach, Sort Of...

Holy cow! Despite my recent days with migraines, I have still managed to have a synapse. Today, it dawned on me that this is my 23rd year of teaching. I really never anticipated keeping a job for more than 4 or 5 years, especially considering that I only kept my first post-college job for three weeks. Then again, it was in Crete. . .

And yet, here I am. Twenty years at East High, alone. Not counting the six years I did there as a student. Some of it hard time.

Either I'm really stupid or rather content.

I've learned a lot in these 23 years and I'm sure there are plenty of lessons still teetering on my horizon. But, the truth--the most glorious truth--is that I am more than three-fourths of the way through this gig. And that sounds both fantastic and a little frightening.

What, then, have I learned in my time with so many teens?

I've learned that slips with worn elastic should not be worn.

I've learned that I am seldom the smartest person in the room and I had better get used to that.

I've learned that, ironically, the less I meddle, the more they blossom.

I've learned that there are only two safe cafeteria meals I will eat--glorious, glorious creamed turkey and the rare-as-a-whooping-crane Nebraska buns (aka, runzas, but for the litigious nature of local businesses).

I've learned that a "walking taco" is shorthand for "open a bag of Fritos and dump in some old, seasoned meat."

I've learned that kids are really funny and much of their music sort of sucks. But some of it is good.

I've learned that, even when you have great students each day, teaching is an exhausting profession, which is why we have so many days off.

I've learned that there is no shame in asking the students to teach me a thing or two.

In my 23 years of teaching, I have learned that, sometimes, it is our own system that gets in the way of our success. This is a lesson I would have preferred to skip.

I've learned that students are overtested and underutilized, and that teachers are overworked and under the impression that they do not matter much.

I have no idea how I happened upon such an important job. What was I thinking, to choose to spend my days with zitty, unpredictable, surprising teenagers who did not form in my womb, thankyoujesus?! What was it that convinced me that I had something to offer them, when the truth, more often than not, is that they are the ones teaching me?

Some days, I think I'm a genius, having chosen a job in which the clients do most of the work while I sit back and direct the chaos with my magic wand. Other days, I wonder if I can do it for another nine years. Or nine days. Seriously, is it possible that I'll have to endure nine more cheesy yearbook themes, invariably based upon rotten songs from the 70s?! There should be combat pay for this job.

And yet? And yet, most days, I would gladly fight for these teens with the same vigor that I would defend my own children. I suppose that's why I still love what I do...because I still love who it is I get to do it with.

Friday, January 14, 2011

L'Chaim! To Life!

Fifteen years ago this week, my oldest brother Mike died. He had AIDS and, back then, if a person had AIDS, that person also died of AIDS. While it would have been nice if AIDS were something he simply had to get through, such was not the case back in this disease's early, scary days. Still, I know without doubt that Mike managed to live a fine, full and fun life, all 46 years of it.

Perhaps surprisingly, his funeral was fine, full and fun, as well. I suppose you cannot be 6'5 with a laugh like an Ethel Merman song and expect to go quietly into the night. And, besides, Mike pretty much knew all the cool people in his adoptive city of New York.

DJs and artists and journalists and performers showed up for his wake. And his partner, Ben, was there, of course. Ben, who was the right hand man of Andy Warhol. While their presence gave Mike's funeral an "event" feel for his dusty, out-of-the-loop family from Nebraska, I suppose it was business as usual for his New York pals, who'd gone to far too many funerals in those days. Still, I couldn't help but stretch my neck, straining to get a glimpse of Kate Pierson from the B-52s, one of my favorite bands at the time.

Following the funeral, one of his friends, who owned a Spanish Tapas bar across the street from the church, closed up the place for a party. They served great finger food and plenty of Mike's favorite wine. I'm no wine person, but I do remember that it was French and white and the label had a space ship on it. People were getting loopy by the time I'd found my throwaway camera and located Kate Pierson again. Nervous, I gave the camera to my sister who was--let's admit it-- pretty shnockered and asked her to take a photo of Kate and me. I returned the favor for my sister, even though she could not utter two lines of "Rock Lobster" if her life depended on it.


The photo of Ann and Kate had nice balance, honoring the rule of thirds as all good photos do. Mine? Well, my teeth look straight and Kate does have a pretty nice smile, but there's really no way I can prove that I'm the one with her.

I like a good funeral. And I don't think that makes me morbid or bad. I like a funeral with good stories, some laughter, decent food and music. My dad's was a fun funeral and it felt like a real celebration of a rascal and great man. It made me glad I knew him.

I went to an exceptionally fantastic funeral a year or two ago, although very few people there realized just how great it was. That's because it was great in a bad way. I think the priest may have had a stroke during the funeral, or perhaps a few minutes beforehand, and it sure seemed like he was reading from a grocery list rather than any kind of prepared notes, given the ambling nature of his talk. It was amazing how many marriages and marriage partners he mixed up--like the ship's captain on a swingers' cruise. By the end of his sermon, I could not look anyone in the face, for fear of busting a gut. Oh, I still managed to see the quavering shoulders of my very, very bad friends who were sitting in front of me. It took kung-fu powers to keep it together. And I was not quite up to the task.

When I thought the hysterical urge had finally left me, an outside door just to the right of the altar slowly started to open. It was an exceptionally windy day, so whoever wanted in really had to work at it. I became fascinated by this slowly revealed mystery guest. By the time the door had opened enough for entrance, in walked an exotic-looking, dark-skinned woman, wrapped head to toe in an elaborate, ethnic robe. She bent at the waist repeatedly, crossing herself as she made her way across the front of the church, making her way to a pew up front.

I felt like I was in a Monty Python skit. And, by then, whatever shred of maturity and decency that had remained in my group of very, very bad friends...well, it left our bodies in a collective, gasping, release, each of us covering our snickers and snorts under the clever veil of tears.

I can only hope for such a memorable sendoff. I can only hope that people will leave with new stories, with good songs in their heads and decent food in their stomachs. A funeral, after all, really is for the living. And I say the more living, the better.

A Pain in the Head

In 1991, writer Gretel Ehrlich was struck by lightning. And I'm not talking metaphorically. She wrote about the experience in her book "A Match to the Heart." Suffice it to say that life after lightning is not for the feeble hearted.

I have never been struck by lightning, but there are days--and this is one of them--in which I know a thing or two about a life out of balance. Koyaanisqatsi, as the Hopi call it.

A migraine is tornadic in nature, both in its focus and in its path of potential devastation. And, like those heavy Spring days in the Midwest, when bulbous storm clouds bubble ever upwards while something sinister emerges on the horizon, my body sends out warning signs hours before the internal meteorologist issues the first warning.

I went to bed last night cloaked in the scent of cloves and other, more exotic spices, my head anointed with Tiger Balm, my first defense against an impending migraine. By 3 a.m., though, I had lost the fight and gave up sleep to embrace a humdinger.

Migraines first wended their way into my life in 1979. I was a senior in high school, cocky, a bit bored, my body riddled with a pesky combination of mononucleosis and sinusitis. This during my final swim season. Truthfully, I never was much of a swimmer. Even less so during that particular season. It was then, in the midst of sore throats and copious snot, that I lost my vascular virginity.

It has been thirty two years since that first, wicked headache left me breathless and nauseous. Thirty two years of wincing at lights and sound, of tiptoeing in the darkness toward the temporary solace of a dark, locked bathroom. Thirty two years of clenching my teeth as the rippling effects of migraine stretch out to stomach and bowels and frayed ends of nerves grown tired.

I am not one to complain, I hope. But there is something to be said for the promise of impending menopause. More than a few seasoned women have told me of the miraculous absence of migraines, come hot flashes and molasses metabolism. I now welcome bulbous belly fat and flush cheeks if it means that I will no longer know the sizzle of a migraine.

Frankly, though, I lack the imagination to picture that new life, so accustomed have I grown to the throb.

Then again, I can't imagine being struck by lightning either.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Boy, This Pen is Really, Really Heavy!

So, I think my writing muscle is starting to flag from underuse. I first noticed it this morning when I bumped the knob on my car radio and KLIN accidentally came on. All these neurons starting firing and I knew what I should do. I knew I should change the channel but I could not will my writing arm to slither on over and fiddle with the buttons. So I just left it there. On Rush Limbaugh's station.

Now, who's the big fat idiot?

And so, I vow to stretch my writing muscles again, flabby as they may be. I will myself to write something--anything--knowing that admitting I have no stories to tell is the first step to finding a story worth telling.

My mind wanders over the details of my morning, finding neither a hook nor a good line along the way. Instead, all I can think about are all the boogars and germs and teen ickiness that passed from the students' greasy hands into mine today, as I took their rolled up dollar bills and sticky quarters, absolving them of their library sins.

"Go and sin no more...or at least remember to renew in three weeks."

I recall cursing Mr. Dewey this morning as I read nonfiction shelves (the 800s, to be exact). Reading shelves is the penultimate "librarian" duty that, to this day, has done nothing but brought shame, misunderstanding and really well organized rows of books to my profession. I crouched close to the matted carpet as my eyes scanned the spines of books that had not seen the light of day since shortly after they'd rolled off Gutenberg's press. For several, my touch was the first human contact they'd had in a very long time. One practically quivered as my fingers lingered over its pleather cover.


And then there was my midmorning visit to the lady's room, the visit in which I nearly baptized myself in...well, myself. As I eased out of my Gloria Vanderbilt stretch denims, I could feel my beloved Pilot Precise V5 pen make its way to the lip of my pocket. Just as it threatened to tumble into the pissy abyss, I swung around to capture it, my official school ID dangling precariously within the bowl's recesses. That was some scary sh...anyway, trust me when I say it was a close call.

In so many ways, today was an ordinary day, one hardly worth mentioning. I spent much of it against a backdrop of tinny teen music, punctuated with a couple of memorable student projects, one good tongue lashing, a few tears, some laughs and a vigorous round of midafternoon yawns.

I write about today not because it is worth mentioning, but because my muscles need a good stretch and you have to start somewhere, after all.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Pulp Friction: Girl Meets Book

A bedroom is a sacred place, especially for a teenager. That's why I knocked last night, warning Allison that I'd like to enter.

I heard some shuffling as she hid away the evidence. She knew I knew, but I played dumb anyway. It's a part I excel at.

"Soooooooo....whatcha doin'?"

"Uh, nothing. Just....taking a little rest."

"Ummmm hmmmmmm. Say, what's the first number that comes to your mind?"

She falls silent for a moment, giving me one of those textbook looks that only a 15-year-old girl can give. She hopes I don't see the slight curl that emerges on her lips.

I play dumb. Again.

"Anyway, about that number..."

She shifts, smiles, glances at the bump beneath her blankets.

"Eighty five."

Eighty five. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I turn and walk out her door, pulling it shut as I leave.

Now it's my lips that curl upward. I go to bed, satisfied that people really can change, especially with the help of a really good book.

When I came home from the grocery store this morning, there was no sign of life downstairs, even though Hobbes the Hobo Dog was "up." I put away the groceries and then heard the familiar two-note whistle, like that of a chickadee. It's our family's musical GPS, its ability to locate people both uncanny and enjoyable to the ears.

I plod upstairs to Allison's room again, this time invited by the whistle. Again, the shuffling, but, this time, the evidence manages to peek out a bit from the blankets.

"Hey, you! So, think of a number, any number..."

I am not one to dilly dally around when the topic is reading. Especially when I'm talking to someone who professes to be a nonreader, who wears that claim like a merit badge. Well, she'd met her match this week, and I was collecting evidence.

I sat on her bed and waited for the answer, which eventually came, cleverly shrouded among her smart-aleck responses.

"Fifteen." Wait, wait, wait.

"Fifty two." Breathe, breathe, breathe. And then she caves.

"Two hundred and forty eight." I shake my head, stunned that this professed nonreader has voluntarily quarantined herself in her room, hugged by a half dozen fleece blankets and four pillows, unable to shake an irresistible plot line.

"Hunger Games," indeed. And Allison is ravenous for more.

Already, it has been a perfect weekend.

Friday, January 7, 2011

This Just In! T.V. Reporters Want Scoop, Not Truth

As a high-school senior, I knew I would major in Journalism in college. Earlier on, I also wanted to be a P.E. teacher, but that had more to do with my crush on Mr. Falos, my elementary P.E. teacher, than it did with any actual aptitude or interest in the subject.

Crushes are powerful things, spreading their influence far beyond the act of kissing pillows and stuffed animals while the mind wanders to other, more animate objects. Ah, but I wander. . . .

My dad was a journalist and, while I probably did lack imagination when the subject wasn't Mr. Falos, I don't think my dad alone was the reason I chose journalism. In fact, it was my dad who encouraged me to consider broadcast journalism over its print-based cousin who, up to that point, had looked much more alluring to me. My dad said that broadcasting was the future of journalism. He didn't want me to be stuck in a dead-end medium. The year? 1980.

Ultimately, I listened to him.

While I enjoyed several of my Broadcasting classes and found that I loved the editing process, where I could spend hours alone in a room with just me and my celluloid memories, I also always had a sense that I was missing out on "real" journalism.

This Wednesday, after watching 20 minutes of live coverage following the Millard South shooting, I realized that, even as a 19 year old, I was smarter than I'd realized. For me, the "live" aspect of T.V. journalism almost always leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.

Invariably, when tragedy strikes, T.V. journalists flock to the scene, hungry not so much for news as they are for scoop. I do not consider it a coincidence that, when we wish to remove poop, we often use a scoop.

Watching the Millard South story unfold, I witnessed a television reporter stop parents to ask them what they knew or were thinking. This is a longstanding "trick" of lesser-developed television journalists. Because they can't seem to come up with a good question or decent source on their own, they seek out the people who ought to be left alone.

What on earth could any panicking parent offer television viewers that they themselves could not have concluded? Yet, the reporter asks it anyway, and, too often, the stunned interviewees comply and respond accordingly.

After an Omaha police officer briefed the crowd, this particular reporter then proceeded to muck up virtually every fact the officer had shared. Apparently, "live" does not equate "accurate."

Tonight, I winced my way through the 5 o'clock newscast on 10/11, wondering how many words could be misspelled in a half-hour show. These folks have the capacity to tell good stories and I don't begrudge them their jobs. God only knows how many minutes I would last if my clothes had to match and I had to read the news off of a teleprompter, the stories typed up by a monkey in the break room.

I am, after all, the same radio announcer who botched the pronunciation of the Crete mayor's name more than once in the span of 10 seconds. And then, there was the whole west/east/weast fiasco of my short-lived weather reportage on KTAP. Still, I didn't have to dress nice while slaughtering these things. Besides, no one could identify me on the street anyway.

Still, I would like to think that, even in television reporting, more value would be placed upon accuracy than on speed of delivery or matching clothing.

Then again, I'm a bit of a dreamer.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

My Faves of 2010

Sometimes, it is important to compile a list. Grocery shopping and weekday dinners always do better with a list behind them. And, as I teeter on half a century of living, I find that my mind benefits from a reflective list every so often, if for no better reason than to remind myself of what I wore yesterday. Not that I'd ever make a list of outfits. Below, then, is a list from 2010, categorized by the things that are most important to me: books, events, music, food and people.

JANE'S HIT-AND-MISS HIGHLIGHTS of 2010

BOOKS
"Bruno: Chief of Police" (by Martin Walker)--Just finished this one, so it's fresh in my mind. Like Alexander McCall Smith's gentle "Lady Detective" series set in Botswana, Walker rolls out a mystery in which the characters and setting are king. I liked everyone in this book--except for the people I was supposed to hate--and felt like I got a bonus trip to offroad France, to boot.

"Plan B" (by Anne Lamott)--Okay, so this was a re-read for me, but one worth mentioning. I'm a big fan of Lamott, who somehow manages to mix the spiritual and the profane in such a way that she may just avoid eternal damnation. She's a great, funny, moving writer and the opening essay itself is worth the price of the book.

"Local Wonders" (by Ted Kooser)--This is how I kicked off my 2010 readings, and am I ever glad I did. Kooser writes about his beloved Bohemian Alps, just west of Lincoln, with kid gloves and deep appreciation. Organized by seasons, it is a stunning and beautiful book. One of my all-time faves, in fact.

"The Last Days of Summer" (by Steve Kluger)--Recommended by my most-excellent friend Pat Leach (who threatened me with an abrupt end of friendship if I disliked it), this one is a gem. Set in 1940s Brooklyn, this book is about everything that I'm not--Jewish, New York, baseball--and yet, by the time I finished, I was bawling like a baby, just outside of Economy and Performance, where I was to pick up my newly-repaired Sentra. Told in a scrapbook setting of postcards, matchbook covers and letters, the reader is pulled into the awkward, oddball friendship of young Joey Margolis and his baseball hero Charlie Banks.

"City of Thieves" (by David Benioff)--Recommended to me by another most-excellent friend, Jodene Glaesemann, who, by the way, did not threaten me, this was a stunning portrait of WWII Russia, told through the eyes of another mismatched twosome, young Lev and cocky Kolya, whose lives depend upon them locating a dozen eggs for a Russian Colonel. It is a personal, brutal, and often loving look at life during wartime, as seen through the eyes of these two men.

"The Help" (by Kathryn Stockett)--In high school, I fell in love with Southern vernacular, thanks to a heaping helping of William Faulkner, with a dash of Zora Neale Hurston and Eudora Welty thrown in, for good measure. It's been years since I've ventured that way, and "The Help" was a perfect re-introduction to that mysterious world. Yet another odd-duo mix of people are at the center of this moving story (I'm seeing a theme, here). White and college-educated Eugenia has a hankering to write stories for a living. When she starts paying attention to the division between whites and blacks in hometown Jackson, Mississippi, she slowly earns the trust of local black maids, spearheaded by maid Abileen, to share their stories of life in a white household. A great read.

MUSIC

"U Smile" by Justin Bieber...corny and yet symbolic of my slow transformation into a mediocre mom.
"The High Road" by Broken Bells...The Shins and Danger Mouse meet up for a moving rock ballad.
"Beautiful" by the Glee Cast...Hey, I (mostly) love this show and this song requires full participation from listeners, especially female ones.
"Theme From Hollywood" by Megapuss...another odd conglomeration of musicians, as well as a comedian thrown in for good measure, this group makes cats sound fun!
"Twice" by Little Dragon...a recent find, this song, coupled with its odd, haunting video, sticks in my craw. Sometimes a series of minor notes is just what the doctor ordered.
"Forgiviness" from "Awakenings" by the Royal Philharmonic...A beautiful musical rendition of what it sounds like to be forgiven. Beautiful song.
"Buckets of Rain" by Beth Orton...always looking for a funeral song, (hey, preplanning matters!), this was a temporary nominee. Orton isn't the greatest singer, which is one reason I love her. This is a raw, unplugged song.
"Felicia" by The Constellations...speaking of raw, this song grooves, but it's also really foul, if you happen to hear the words. Best to mumble it and enjoy!
"Action/Reaction" by the Choir of Young Believers...Son Eric takes my car each Monday to his guitar lesson. Needing a soundtrack for the five-minute drive, he left a mix in my car one day and I happened upon this song. Here, I found a musical bridge between the two of us.
"It's a Nice Day" (by Persephone's Bees) Happened upon this happy little number while tuned in to the early-Friday KZUM show and had to pull over to write down the lyrics. Glad I did. And I'm very glad I've got an iTunes account, too!

FOOD/RECIPES
Avocado-Lime Salsa...can't believe I spent 48 years avoiding avocados, because of texture issues!
Curried Chicken...a nice recipe the Journal-Star folks ran, and one I can eat over and over again.
Moroccan Tomato Soup...discovered a good version that just keeps getting better.
Beef Rendang...a nice Thai-inspired dish that has many yummy ingredients in it.
Spicy Cilantro Peanut Slaw...became a go-to dish for me to bring to dinners, on the outside chance we were invited to dinner!



EVENTS
--"Rent" with the Kreikemeiers at the Red-Barn Theatre in Omaha. I love "Rent" and this rendition was a jewel. Always good to think about my brother, Mike, too, who would've loved this musical.

--Andrea's Post-Cancer Party...what's not to love about a night of good food and folks, celebrating the end of a long year for my good friend?

--New cross unveiling at Grace Lutheran Church in Walton...The only "church" gig Mark's dad Dale ever had, Grace was my church for four or five good years. Mark helped make this beautiful new cross that they unveiled at a special service in honor of his dad. Nice to be back there.

--Nephew Sam's high-school graduation...Sam is easy to love and an immensely talented guitarist, to boot. Graduation capped a very good year for him and I was glad to be there to celebrate.

--KZUM interview with Sheila Stratton...Sheila's weekly "The Joy Factor" features folks who love what they're doing. I was lucky enough to be that person, one week, talking about my happy path to librarian-dom.

--Justin Bieber Concert...I've already written about this. It was surprisingly fun, if not a little creepy, to be in a room with 15,000 teenaged girls.

--Biking breakfast with Shannon Anderson. This is both an actual and a symbolic choice. I'd known this quick wit in college but our radars had moved in different directions since then. Thanks to Facebook, though, Shannon and I have reconnected. Did it help that bacon and cinnamon rice pancakes were on the menu? Yes. But, really, the main course was Shannon, whose mind runs a 4-minute mile. Facebook has reconnected me with lots-o-folks, something else that I'm grateful for in 2010.

--LHS Volleyball...LOVED meeting a handful of fun, funky athletes who came together to have a good time on the volleyball court, Allison among them. This was a wonderful surprise for both Mark and me.

--National Journalism Convention in KC...my first-ever national convention, and well worth the time. Had fun, reconnected with my friend Jeff Browne, and learned a bunch as well. Next stop? Nat'l Library conference in Minneapolis.

--30th Reunion...who would think a group of nearly-old farts could have so much fun together? And yet, that's exactly what we had. REALLY enjoyed this weekend!

--Fall East High Party...the Russian invasion made this an over-the-top event for me!

--Thai lunch with elementary/high-school friends Julie, Barb and Kim. Post-reunion, we found each other again and, like good friends always seem to do, we picked up right where we left off--with the Drunken Noodles. Well, that's what we ate, anyway! A trip to Boston, with Chris in tow, is now scheduled as our next get together. Mighty lucky to have such "old" friends who'll put up with me!

--Eric's Regents Scholarship...I've always liked my son very much, and, as most parents, think he is a smart, hard-working kid. That UNL recognized this was just the icing on the cake. Allison has already asked for the $32,000 we're saving on this investment.

--Final Scrabble game of 2010...Amazingly, coming into the final game of 2010, Jill and Kristie were tied for wins. In the last four years, we've kept score, of sorts, with the year-end winner taking the other two out for dinner. It was a very fun final game. WINNER? JILL! ...and ME!...and KRISTIE! Jill will be treating us at Fireworks next Saturday.