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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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....
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!
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.
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.
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