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.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
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?
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?
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
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 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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, July 16, 2011
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.
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.
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