Myriad

2008-01-31T13:29:00.001-08:00

Dear son:

You have my solemn word, my promise, my blood oath, that you and I will get through this. This turbulent time will end...maybe only to be traded for a new turmoil, but it will end. You and I will come through this. Your extreme emotional vulnerability will become a strength and you will learn to harness it, if I have anything to do with it. And I do. I have everything to do with it. I am not giving up and I will not let you down. You are the locus of my heart and the linchpin of my existence and we -- you and I -- will kick this thing's ass and send it cowering back into the darkness. My son I swear this. Hang on to me, because I am going in there swinging.

2007-10-17T20:42:00.000-07:00

A New Project

I've got a new project and it is tied to a possible book that might end up seeing the light of day. I have a minor obsession with British Literature from the 19th century and the myriad (!!) BBC adaptations that have sprouted from these beloved books. My new blog explores this on a few different, scattered, unconstructed, freeform, totally undisciplined and chaotic levels. While I am certainly keeping this blog, I invite you to visit me at my second residence:

www.whatwouldlizziebennetdo.com

I'm really loving having two different places to spread out. Come over. It'll be fun.

2007-10-17T20:33:00.000-07:00

Halloweenie

I have always been a little nuts about Halloween. Making a costume and dressing up and running around at night seemed like the ultimate fun thing as a kid, and I really got into it even when I was little. And when I grew up and added beer and vandalism to the mix, well, I was just a pig in shit. I keed. About the vandalism, I mean. Unless you count toilet paper. IN which case I was a pro. And fire extinguishers. Sometimes it threatened to rain on Halloween night. My dad knew it was THE BFD of my life so he would go to mass and pray for it not to rain. What a cool daddy-o he was. As a teenager, there was always the Oingo Boingo Halloween concert to crash. Danny Elfman (for President!) gets Halloween. He's special. I have a forever crush on him, the delicious little freak.

As a grown-up(ish), I still really really really love Halloween. I made my nephew pee his pants one year because I was so completely committed to my MacBeth Witch costume/character. Then when I had kids, well I just went off the hook with the costumes and the haunted house stuff.

While I appreciate Martha Stewart and her Yankee Can-Do attitude, I think she has sort of prettified Halloween. Here is (the point of my ramble) a website of a guy who gets Halloween and what fun it is for grownups and kids, too. He even ended up turning his Web site into a book. Good for him! I have a crush on this guy.

www.extremepumpkins.com

It's great.

Ever try dressing your beer in a Halloween costume?

2007-09-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

A Quick, Heartbreaking Thought

In the car on the way to school, I was playing Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" at high volume. My two kids gazing out the window. Halfway through the song, my 8-year-old son's face in the rearview...tearstained and angst-ridden.

"Mom, can you please play another song? This one is so beautiful and so sad. Please."

What the fuck just happened there?

Sometimes I feel like I am free-falling through my life and only my children are there to catch me.

2007-09-11T12:32:00.000-07:00

Rat Bastard

The house I grew up in was built in the 1930s. It was on a wide, palm-lined avenue in the sprawling community at the base of the Hollywood Hills. The Hollywood sign was completely visible from the middle of my street, and we used the letters as focus points when giving directions. Many movie and TV studios were within walking distance, and it was an everyday occurrence to see movie crews set up on someone’s sweeping lawn or at a sleepy intersection, filming a movie or TV show.

The houses were old and beautiful. Most of them were old and beautiful and had rats. Big rats the size of cats. Rats that could probably drag a small cat. The Western Exterminator truck, with its 4-foot-tall icon of a top-hatted man with a huge hammer on the back was frequently parked on our block. He visited our house many times during my childhood. You see, you could set traps for these rats, but they always came back. They predated us. Their ratty ancestors had lived there since my parents were children. Maybe before. Rat royalty. The Divine Right of King Rats.

We could hear them in the attic. Once, late at night while sitting on the back porch sneaking a joint, my sister and I saw a huge brown one slinking along a power line between our attic and the MacLatchey’s attic. Another night, babysitting the Millers in their immense house, I was harassed by rats. Sitting on the four-poster bed in the master bedroom in front of the television, I watched in growing horror and incredulity as one, then three, then more rats scurried past me, under the bed, out the door toward the staircase. Rats racing back and forth in the bedroom, down the halls, on the landing. Mr. And Mrs. Miller came home to find me shipwrecked in the center of the bed, with my mouth open, and a huge case of The Creeps.

“Oh, the rats,” Mrs. Miller said, with a dismissive wave of her manicured hand. “Isn’t it awful? We’ll have to have the exterminator back again.”

I am sure there is some entirely Freudian reason why I have had rats as pets since I was 13 years old, I just don’t really care to explore it. So would you just lay off the analysis and let me tell my story. We had two rats until very recently. Brisbane was gray and white and had some sort of a stroke. She became less and less able to walk or move. I did not realize how bad she had gotten until I realized that I was literally carrying her from room to room, and feeding her by hand. My husband finally called my sister the vet and had Brisbane taken away to be put to sleep.

So it’s time to get a new rat. Last week, I brought home a tiny little rat with a cream-colored hood and strip over a white body. Perfectly darling. We named her Lizzie and put her in the high-rise, three-story cage with the lonely and bereft Beatrice. Shhh, kids. Let’s leave them alone to get to know each other.

Fucking little Houdini rat spawn from hell.

Lizzie stayed in the cage for exactly 6 minutes before she found some space in the bars and exploited it to make her escape. So now a tiny rat is loose in the house. This was a maddening week. Lizzie would make an appearance and we’d all caper around trying to catch her and put her back. At night, Lizzie would make a mockery of our sleep. She’d claw her way up the quilt and have a little rat disco party on the bed. Racing back and forth across my face, sniffing my ear. More than once I hears my daughter crying out in the night, “Lizzie, NO!” as she tried to sleep while the rat played NASCAR all over her bed. She eluded us for a week. We would find “evidence” under the couch, in the corners of the living room. I reached the very end of my frazzled nerves when I saw that she had somehow gotten into the pantry and had nibbled her way into a box of mostaccioli. OK, now I am foot-stompingly, hands-on-hips, stridently pissed. I hate that little rat. Hate her.

Yesterday, I was simmering. Lizzie had kept us all up through the night. Chacha set traps for her. This consisted of taking a single bite out of each of 9 apples and positioning the bitten apples at various points throughout the house. The bites, according to Chacha, were supposed to convince the renegade rodent that the apples were delicious and worth breaking cover for. Yes, I just ended that sentence with a preposition. I am going to have to live with that for the rest of my life. Like I care. Honey, I have rat problems.

Operation Apple worked. I put that demon rat in a box and took her back to the store. “She’s a biter,” I pronounced officiously to the clerk. “I want a new one.”

See how I said that? Like I am a badass rat owner. I demand recompense for my suffering, and I want it now.

So I lied about a rat. I am not sorry. I don’t even care that my daughter heard me lie. I hate that little rat. As if I am going to tolerate a little beast that never interacts with me except to eat food and leave its mess all over the place. I’ll have a teenager soon enough. Until then, the rat goes back.

2007-08-25T14:17:00.000-07:00

Solitude Part II: She's The One That I Want

I’ve had Cha-cha (daughter Jane) to myself for a couple of days now, while the boys are off backpacking. One child, as opposed to the usual two, in my care is a poignant illustration of "The whole being greater than the sum of the parts." Having her alone is relaxing and exhausting.

Relaxing in that I am not constantly trailing after her, picking up, wiping up, breaking up high-pitched fisticuffs. She is relatively tidy, and strives for self-sufficiency, so I am not endlessly preparing and cleaning up after snacks, meals, special orders,

Exhausting in that she is talkative, engaging, curious, flirtatious, and adoring. Questions, what-ifs, infinite observations, running commentaries, frequent importunate requests to play “pretend” games that are all minor variations of the “One day you found an orphan girl (homeless kitty, stray hungry puppy, starving baby ratty) on your front doorstep…” theme. She never stops talking, petting my arm, cuddling up into the circle of my lap.

Cha-cha Alone has the same effect on me as a very dry martini: The straight shot of icy cold vodka undiluted by even the barest mist of vermouth. Jane Alone gets me high and renders me legless and incapable.

But I found a way to get some down time. Thank you, John Travolta. Thank you, iPod. I can slither back between the pages of a book and Cha-cha is blissfully occupied, thanks to the Grease soundtrack, downloaded the day before, and currently plugged into her head. My book and I -- alone at last.

She stands in front of the mirror in my bedroom, in a black velveteen catsuit leftover from Halloween and a pair of beat up black cowboy boots prancing through “You’re the One That I Want,” warbling at top volume with absolutely no regard to pitch or key. Pick a note, Cha-cha. After watching this movie about 6 times in one week, she decided she was Sandy – no wait, she’s Rizzo, no! She’s Kenicky! (Like her mother, she does not restrict her heroes based on gender. In her imagination she can be anyone or anything she wants to be.)

I want to read, but I am enchanted, watching her. Immersed in her tableau, she has forgotten I am even there. My vain little daughter, slithering and prancing in front of the mirror. She knows all the words, all the steps.

If someone asked me what the best thing we did all summer was, I’d have to answer, Family Movie Night Under The Stars. Jane had been in the middle of her Grease bender when we noticed a poster at the public library advertising Grease played on an outdoor screen at a nearby park. The event was sponsored by the parks and rec department and looked endearingly low budget and homegrown. So on the appointed night, we packed a picnic and some folding chairs and set out for the park.

Jane had done her homework. The event included a Sandy and Danny Lookalike Contest. She dragged out the catsuit and foraged for the pair of castoff boots. I curled and ratted her hair and applied lipstick sparingly. In front of the mirror, Jane regarded her reflection with satisfaction. Cocked her hip, threw her shoulders back and smiled flirtatiously, teetering to the car, trying to strut on the unfamiliar heels. Call me Sandy, Mama.

The park was decked out for the event with carnival games, crafts, a lemonade stand and a pizza stand. A DJ was setting up at one end of the park. A huge movie screen stretched the width of the park at the other end. The parking lot was crowded with vintage cars from the ‘50s. T Birds, Corvairs, Corvettes, and Chevy Bel-Airs. In the lingering light of the early-evening, families were trailing into the park, spreading blankets, setting up picnics. Zorro set up in a prime spot right in front of the movie screen and the evening unfolded.

Within 13 seconds of opening my first cold beer, the DJ fired into high volume, doing a frenzied 50s-radio shtick . He never broke character all night. Games! He announced a hula-hoop contest, narrating round after round. A hopscotch contest, which I won. Obstacle courses! Hand-jive contests! Trivia contest! Kids and their parents participated enthusiastically and – after a few hours and rounds of beer – maniacally and loudly.

Finally came the Danny and Sandy Lookalike contests. Jane had been strutting and dancing front and center of the DJ booth all evening. She was the only Sandy contestant not dressed in a poodle skirt and a sweater set. Round after round, Jane won by thunderous applause. She stood there, smiling like Sandy, hand on skinny little hip, perpetually in character. For the last round, some simpering parent hoisted her still-in-diapers daughter, dressed in a bunched up, broke-ass poodle skirt, and set her down in the lineup. Cheap shot. The baby Sandy won.

The judges gave my Cha-cha a prize anyway. Jane was totally cool with it, but I was a bitter stage mother. Jane was robbed. We’ll sure as shit be back next year. Trust.

Where was I? Yes. Alone with Jane. Watching as she warbles, off-key, to her reflection.

“Summer lovin’
Had me a blast
Summer loving
Happened so fast”

Screw my book. I may not get this kind of special performance again. I’m hopelessly devoted to Jane.

2007-08-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

Solitude, Part I

All my life all I ever wanted was a family: husband, children, brothers and sisters all around me. I got that. I adore them. I would cease to exist if something happened to them. Dust.

However.

I adore being alone almost as much. Alone, alone alone with my thoughts, independent pursuits, my own agenda, a book. Every birthday and Mothers' Day I ask only for the luxury of the whole day to myself.

Every now and again a fluke happens in my life such as the one I am currently enjoying: My family is gone for the weekend. Zorro and T-Rex backpacking. The Cha-Cha spending some time with Scary Mary.

I poked a cold beer into each pocket of my jacket and walked to the movies and saw:

Becoming Jane

No secret that I love Austen. I know a fair amount about her, and I re-read her books in an endless loop all the year round. Snippets of chapters here and there. Sometimes I wish I could superimpose my constant rumination of her characters over my real life, making my own version of a book-club analysis of my family and friends. Drawing parallels...Scary Mary as a hybrid Lady Catherine DeBourgh and Colonel Brandon. My daughter as Marianne Dashwood. My sister as Elinor Dashwood crossed with Charlotte Collins. Myself as an unflattering but realistic mishmash of Mary Musgrove, Henry Crawford, Emma Woodhouse and Mr. Palmer.

I had no strong feeling about a fictionalized movie being made of her life. I had no expectations. No innate scorn to overcome. Honest.

I am so glad I was alone in the theater because I was gorked out and embarrassed by everything in this movie. I still am. It was Cringe-Fest '07. I think it was the ham-handed writing. The un-finesse-y way pieces of her books were wedged into the plot. The awkward overt verbal ripostes. The lovely girl who played Jane was a real beauty, and I have liked her in some other movies I have seen with my little daughter, but in this she was unsubtle, twitchy, and overdone. I am all squinched up thinking about some of the forced tete-a-tete in this movie.

The sets and costumes were beautiful and detailed. The actor who played the Tom LeFroy character was good....so much better than the Jane character. I remember him being the very best thing about The Last King of Scotland, too.

I looked at my watch a few times. Bummer.

On the upside, I spent the rest of the day cleaning the house. Can't wait for my family to get back and mess it up.

I sort of miss my bookclub sometimes. I have belonged to two. The first was a bookclub that I was invited to join by a friend. The other members all knew each other from their (Episcopal) church. Everything was cool. We read some good ones and some not-so. Kate Chopin's The Awakening failed to keep me awakened. There was one member who was bossy and dominated every discussion, convinced of her superiority because she was a lit professor at the local junior college. The night we gathered to discuss the book I chose (Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver), she showed up and declared that she did not finish the book.

"I just couldn't get through it," she declared. "It was almost as bad as a Harlequin romance."

OK, well, to each her own, but I was a little wounded, especially because everyone else seemed to like it. But, OK, right? When it was her turn to recommend a book she chose The Brothers Karamazov. Please. Spare me. This thing is 1000 pages and one of the most complex books ever written (I exaggerate...you get the idea). But the nail in the coffin was when someone chose Angela's Ashes (which I could take or leave). In the discussion this same member commented about one of the many arduous challenges recounted in the Irish family's life -- "Well what do you expect? I mean these people were Catholics, and we all know that does not exactly mean they are Christian."

So yeah, I stopped coming to the book club meetings after that. Three Strike rule.

2007-07-31T17:59:00.000-07:00

Chili Cookoff Report (Now with photos!)

The brother in the codpiece
I seen him on the TV
I think he likes his ladies
all sweet and sugary
now I'm partial to a pudding
but that's for second course.
the main meal and the hors d'oeuvres
must be smothered in hot sauce.

It’s kind of like a race report, but with food, and no running at all.

My house is a complete wreck. The CPG Family Annual Patrick’s Birthday Chili Cookoff is over for another year. My head hurts and my eyes feel like sandpaper. Total success.

Five years ago I was a simple home cook with a simple dream. A dream of a family party in the middle of summer that would command the attention and the effort of all my family members, celebrate our massive collective ego, and give one of us a chance to be even more smug than usual. My brother Patrick’s birthday is in July. It’s hot as hell here anyway, so why not put the summer into high gear and get the kitchen nice and hot? The idea of a cookoff appealed to everyone, and even the less-enthusiastic cooks in the family could get behind a pot of chili.

The ground rules were simple. It must have meat and it must have beans. No real reason, except we knew that the playing field had to be level. Patrick is the sole judge. It’s his birthday and he does not feel like cooking on his birthday. So. There you have it.

The first two years, I won the cookoff. Of course I did. Smug me. Swaggering around with the championship crown with my Mona Lisa smile, looking with faint pity on the also-rans. Offering condescending, middling and insincere praise as I tasted these “others.” The prizes those first few years were bookstore gift certificates, and I remember my sister took a Brussels sprouts stalk and made it into a Miss America-style bouquet for the winner. Wave, CPG. Wave like the Queen. Thenk you. Thenk you. Oh, thenk you.

The entries that first year were all over the map: Scary Mary with her recipe gleaned from the Samuel Adams website. Desdemona and her surprising black-bean-and-chorizo version (KILLER). Ophelia’s misguided, corn-kernal-heavy edition. Ophelia’s husband, my brother-in-law Galahad's version, which uses cubed sirloin and a LOT of tomatoes, Lucrezia’s Bonfire of Humanity (it’s 9th Ring of Hell hot) version. Others of funk extraction. We were all over the place.

Last year, my brother Mick won. Just…inexplicably. Out of the blue. Mick. Single dad, in whose pantry is a lone box of Minute Rice. He absolutely freaked. This year, he knew he had to defend his title. So he’s calling me at 6 am telling me about the mincing, the chopping, the little dance steps he is doing all over the kitchen. He calls me again at 10 am telling me he is practicing his victory dance. I am getting calls all morning from contenders, comparing notes, trying to worm secrets out of me, attempting to intimidate me. My own version is pretty standard. I gave it my best shot and after an hour of simmering, I had to admit it lacked that certain something, and was destined to be an also-ran. I was tempted to mess around with it, but that just screws it up even further. Usually. So I just mentally walked away.

As the day wore on and I awaited the competitors and guests (I was the host this year), I worked myself up to a fever pitch of anticipation. Why (I wonder in retrospect) do we clean our houses to surgical-theater cleanliness when a herd of hungry, snorting, snarfing, shrieking, tipsy water buffalos are going to trample through that evening? Why? I should just get that frontal lobotomy and be done with it.

So in they trample. Crock pots all over the counter. Kids streaming in. Speakers blaring. Grocery bags. Salad greens. Corn bread. In about 3 minutes there are at least 8 empty beer bottles littering the counter, stove, etc. I lost control of the situation in about 10 minutes and I just gave up and joined my own party.

Time for The Main Event. Patrick was out back, chasing the kids and the chickens around the yards in a few warm-up laps. He was looking in good chili-tasting form…doing a few neck rolls, cracking his jaw, choosing exactly the right spoon, opening a cold beer and a stack of saltines as palate cleansers. As a judge, Patrick is fairly eccentric. He insists on drinking (wait for it) a Coors out of a can…and he brings his own supply for the occasion. He must have saltines. He refuses a blindfold, as he asserts that it messes with his sense of smell.

Have you noticed that recently when there is a BFD boxing match on pay-per-view, they spend 6 weeks working up to the event and then the fight is over in 13 seconds? Last year’s competition had been a veritable Lennox Lewis-Mike Tyson slog-fest. Patrick went back in that tasting ring for round after grueling round of qualifying tastes before he had to award the title to Mick. What a gladiator. His taste buds took a beating in that one, let me tell you. But this time, it was more like Tyson-Spinks. Bang. Mick emerged the victor in one round.

The rest of us stood there -- agape --as Mick paraded around the house, arms in the air, singing the Notre Dame fight song. Over and over and over. Bastard was so smug. Makes my lip curl.

I had to admit…all of us had to admit…his was the best. He claims no secret ingredients. He claims only that he has a superior intuition about seasoning. He is delusional in the extreme and if I don’t see him again for a few weeks that can only be a good thing. I kid. He’s a peach.

Some notes: We have had other cook offs in my family, but this is the favorite and the most enduring. Next year we are opening it up to aunts, uncles, cousins, too. We plan on issuing T shirts to competitors and a medal for the winner. We also plan on having sports drink at each mile marker and a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover band doing "Freebird."

As for me, I clearly need to do more specific training for this event, as my laurels -- lovely as they are --are insufficient.

2007-07-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

Vast, Brainless, Fog of Idiocy

Having been in public relations and media in this city for nearly 20 years, I have had more than a passing interest in -- and experience with -- morning radio. Radio is certainly my medium of choice. Our newspapers here have had their struggles with credibility, labor issues, and quality. Television is (searches for adjective...pandering, uncreative, insulting, boring, hellish...) inauthentic. Radio asks one to bring brains and imagination to the table but does not demand too much more than that.

For years, part of my job was to listen up and down the dial to everything in an effort to find opportunities to place interviews with my clients, etc. I listened to some pretty rank shows -- bereft of innovation, honesty, laughs, or creative thought. I also listened to some shining examples of wit, smarts, chemistry, timeliness, thoughtfulness, and true identification.

On my own time I gravitated to Howard, to Public Radio and to a FUNK local jazz station. I am not a big jazz fan (I'm not deep enough, I admit) but the team on the radio in the morning had this subversive, quirky humor that captured me.

Then, Howard left me. I told myself I would be fine...really! -- I'm fine! Hey, he was not that great. At least 1/3 of the time I would have to change the channel to avoid the fawning interviews with strippers and Jenna Jameson. I am completely squeamish around f@#$ jokes and scatalogical humor (Look! She cannot even spell the word "f@&%"!!!).What kind of relationship is it when you need to turn him off 1/3 of the time, right? So I convinced myself I was better off without Howard.

Sans Howard, I was left only with the sadly diminished pool of morning radio here in my city. But it was part of my job, so I straightened my spine, squared my shoulders, dried my tears, and moved on down the dial.

Then came Adam Carolla. Adam, Sweet Adam. Dear, whiny, obsessive, fussy, snarky Adam. Adam with his humble roots, his superiority complex kept only in check by his own brutally funny perspective. Adam and his insecure-but-smart sidekick Theresa. She of the scary dating stories. The Lean Cuisine obsession. Then Adam invited the boorish Danny Bonaduce into the mix. Danny who makes Howard Stern's level of self absorption look like preschool hour compared to his own polished, well-rehearsed, artistic and diabolical way of turning every damned story around to himself. My Adam. He was Howard minus the strippers. Every morning spent with Adam. Really, what more could I ask for in a radio relationship? My heart beats for Adam!

Thank you, good folks at Free FM 103.7 in my city. Thanks for lobotomizing morning radio in this town yet again. Thank you very much for leaving me high and dry with nearly nothing. Bankrupt of wit, originality, laughter, knowledgability, well formed opinion. Thanks for nothing. The station changed owners and Adam is gone. Gone.

I just can't get over losing you
And so if I seem broken and blue
Walk on by, walk on by

I need to pick up the shattered remnants of my battered psyche. Somehow pick up the leftover threads of the rest of my life.

Foolish pride
Is all that I have left
So let me hide
The tears and the sadness you gave me
When you said goodbye
Walk on by (don't stop)
and walk on by (don't stop)
and walk by (don't stop)

Me and Dionne Warwick. We know pain, baby. We know.

It's lonely out there. Corny, phoned-in performances, canned banter, arid, humorless monologues, smug superiority bereft of any self-effacing characteristics. Self-congratulatory personalities. Fussy women in men's clothing. Hit-me-over-the-head moralistic lectures.

Adam exists in my car only in static-y snatches from a nearby city's wavelength. My Adam. Left me here all alone. How could you, Adam?

Unbreak my heart, Adam. Come back to me. I promise I'll stop sending you stalker-esque emails filled with smutty, vitriolic purges about my empty black heart... Just come back to me, baby.

2007-07-25T12:30:00.000-07:00

Sneaking Around on My Church

I am in the middle of an ongoing church-related conundrum and it is so front-of-mind that I feel as if I need to spill it so maybe I can just get past it.

I sort of want to ditch my church for another one altogether but I can’t and really I know I never will…but I think about it all the time.

My two good friends belong to a non-denominational church. When the three of us discuss the sermons at their church’s services, I get completely amped. It’s marvelous to be able to discuss scripture and faith in such an earth-bound, unstructured way. I attend some of the women’s workshops at their church and afterward – days afterward – I feel revitalized in my faith, motivated, and really happy. Connected.

But I can never, ever leave my Catholic faith or my church. It would be like changing my ethnicity, my ancestry, my culture, my identity. It is so much a part of my upbringing, my woof and warp. I could no more change it than I could change my name.

Starting tomorrow, your name is Elaine. OK, fine. But deep inside I know I will always be me. I can’t change that.

I love what Father Brian gives my children: A sense of authority, structure, importance, gravity, warmth. He is at their school every morning, greeting them as they walk through the gates, visiting their classrooms. Catholicism is a huge part of their education. I want it to feed them as it fed me at one time. The grandeur, the structure, the reverence, the feeling of being part of something huge – I want that for them, and I still do want that for me.

But.

I love attending mass. I love the buttons it pushes for me. But there is a huge place in me that craves that personal relationship with God that has sometimes eluded me. I think maybe I might need to just try harder with my church. Put myself out there more. Work for the connection that seems to come so easily with the other church. I really do know I have to, for my children’s sake.

Going back over this post I am annoyed at myself for using “I” so much. Maybe that is the problem overall. Too much “Me and I” in my faith-related thoughts. Maybe there should be more “We, they and us.”

There is a line in the movie "Milo and Otis" --

Milo: You're a strange-looking cat.
Otis: Oh, I'm not a cat; I'm a dog.
Milo: All right, a dog, I understand, but... deep down inside, we're all cats, right?

I think I am trying to say that I will always be a cat, deep down.

2007-07-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

Some Words That Apply

I realize that the Internet has invaded our privacy in an entirely new way. I also realize that I am guilty of furthering this particular evil. There have been those punchy late nights when sleep eludes and I end up slack-jawed in front of the computer. Why aren't I reading? Anything but this. Half-asleep. Ass glued to a chair. Self-loathing kicked into serious high revved-up gear. Grotesque.

Schadenfreude: Pretty much the basest of human emotions. The pleasure one takes in another's misfortune. I wonder why there is not a better word for the loathing for self that one feels post-shadenfreude.

I googled my former boss -- The Only Person On The Planet I Hate. But see, that is not exactly true anymore. I like to say I hate her, but I don't. I cannot muster up the flint to even feel anything for her. So when I found out (through the Internet) that some hardships had happened to her, I guess I skipped right over shadenfreude and dove directly into guilt. Guilt for ...I guess having ever hated her.

Is there a word for being an adult who should know better but still making the same juvenile mistakes over and over? I think it's "stupid."

Here's one I love: Jejune. Also: Puerile

I also found out that a friend I had known very well had recently divorced. Self-loathing again, when I realized how far out of touch she and I are that I don't already know about this. Also, weighted sadness when I recall that we got married three months apart, and in the same church, as members of the same parish.

The Internet makes me sick. This was what I was doing instead of sleeping? Instead of reading? Instead of sticking myself with pins?

So I did something useful and searched out some 10Ks to plot for my future. The marathon has not treated me kindly lately, so I may as well take on the distance I find the toughest. Can't go balls-out like the 5K. Can't pace yourself nice and slow and enjoy the scenery like the marathon. The 10K stumps me.

No more late-night Internet for me. Just in case, I have Elvis and Ann-Margaret, courtesy of my favorite enabler, Netflix, in abeyance. That's another good one: Abeyance.

2007-07-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

"Mom -- He's shaking his butt at me!"

My God. I'm a parent.

The above remark (the butt remark) comes at top volume from the side of the house where my husband has cleverly installed an outdoor shower. An outdoor shower which is my favorite room in the house. Perfect in a misty, pearly morning, with a cup of hot black coffee, dew-laden spiderwebs and the citrus-y smell of honeysuckle. Sublime after a run, with a cold beer on the shelf built into the fence, with the hot sun beating down on the slate. Peaceful late at night with votives flickering all around and the night sounds of crickets and the mysterious rustle of hedge-creatures.

It is also one of my children's favorite places -- after the beach or on any mild evening after dinner in preparation for pajamas and bed. In this instance the warm water and twilight surroundings do nothing to quell their snarky argument, which ends, apparently, with my son shaking his butt at my daughter. Outrageous. They can argue about anything. I don't recall arguing very much with my little brother. Patrick and I were and are reassuringly compatible. My two...not so. Mercury personified: They are drippy-smoochy in love or raging, tear-streaked and accusatory.

I am a parent. Which is odd because I am still about 18 and annoyingly adolescent. Such a lie. It is only every now and then that I feel that I was not born a mother to these two chameleon-like creatures. Nefarious creatures. Angels. Gifts.

I'm tired.

PS: I joined a Sanskrit Chant choir. I have no idea what is in store for me. It fell into my lap and I have been aching to sing lately. So I joined. The women chat with a vernacular I don't really get (auras, internal centers, spiritual focus) but they are lovely and the music makes me happy. Can anyone who does not sing understand the actual physical joy that comes from making a beautiful noise?

2007-05-22T09:29:00.000-07:00

The Missing Nuns

As I sat in mass last Wednesday morning at my children's school (They have all-school mass every Wednesday morning), I was peaceful and satisfied to see my children and their schoolfellows going through the same motions I did as a child, but I cannot ignore the gaping hole. The huge absence of nuns. The sight of nuns silently sweeping down the aisles, leading their classes into pews, veils fluttering...how did they walk so silently? I missed the sound as well. Sister Mary Bernadette never said a word. She controlled our in concert movements with a cricket --- one of those hand-held dime-store clicky things that made a sharp noise just audible enough to be commanding, yet not so obnoxious that it was out of place in church.

Click! -- We stand
Click! -- We kneel

I miss the nuns. Sister Bernadette asked all the 8th-grade girls if any of us felt we had "a calling" to God. I used to pray that if I did have a calling, that I could ignore it without making God too mad at me. My parents entertained priests in our home enough for me to see that as far as religious callings went, nuns got the short end of the stick. The priests were jovial, charming, witty, frequent dinner guests, drinking good scotch, engaging in spirited religious and political debates with my parents and their many friends. The only nuns I ever saw in our house were the ones imported from Our Lady of Grace to come after school and give my brothers and sisters and me extra catechism lessons. They brought fudge made by the cloistered nuns (Cloistered! Like an oyster!)and swept quietly out the door well before dinner time. Nuns never got good scotch and scintillating conversation.

We did have a nun-as-nanny briefly. Barbara Cook was a 19-year-old girl from England. She lived with us and took care of us after school and helped my mom in the kitchen. My mom claims she was worthless in the kitchen. But she started going to mass with us, and slowly converted to Catholicism, and very soon after that began private tutoring to enter the convent at St. Brendan's. At night we would crowd into her room and sit in our pajamas on the floor for an hour of yet more catechism lessons. I ate this stuff up. I still do, and I am grateful at least that my kids are getting the instruction and the structure, if not the fun-with-nuns.

The closest thing I have to a nun in my life right now is my friend Robbie the Valkyrie. Robbie is not Catholic, but she is a 6-foot-tall embodiment of fervent, energetic faith, an endless font of religious debate, and one of the few people who can work Christ into her everyday speech without missing a beat, compromising her own dignity or making anyone uncomfortable. If I am puzzled or in trouble or sad or even just not being very kind, she can take my face in her hands and tell me that God is loving me right this very minute and I totally believe it. She walks the walk. To my other running pal, Kathleen, she is a tower of strength with backbone to spare in the face of tiny Kathleen's doubts. And she drinks beer and swears.

Come to think of it, Robbie is better than a nun. If a nun took my face in her hands, I would get all gorked out and uncomfortable. Plus, nuns don't drink beer. Do they?

2007-03-10T08:42:00.000-08:00

Visiting The Hot Gates

It started with my brother Mick bringing over about 11 books one day a few months back. He had a sheet of hand-written footnotes, and many of the books had marked chapters. For about 45 minutes he summarized thus: “Now this is the actual history of Thermopylae, written at the time by then-contemporary historian Herodotus…” He continued through various volumes, ending with one book that was on both our “favorites” list: “Gates of Fire” by Pressfield. He patted it fondly. "This. Now this would make an excellent movie."

We both had read “Gates” many years before when it had first come out. Mick is a passionate, amateur ancient historian. I am a big fan of ancient history as well, but my historical interests lean farther toward the British Empire. Mick defends the Roman Empire as the pillars of modern societies. I am fond of flinging Britain’s geographic supremacy in his face. When I am on one of my historical chapter benders, I can not really persuade him to follow along with me. Conversely, when he is on a bender, I eagerly trot along beside him, reading every book he recommends, trading frequent phone calls during which he quizzes me, and acts as tutor.

When I am on one of these benders, I take my husband part of the way with me. He does not have the time or inclination to immerse himself as Mick and I do, but he always asks, what are you reading, and please tell me about why THIS particular book about Random Battle #769 is different from THAT book about the exact same battle. Occasionally, I will read aloud to him, and he’ll ask me questions and I will attempt to tutor him as Mick tutors me.

Last summer, it was Julius Caesar. For the past two months it has been The Battle of Thermopylae. I have visited Thermopylae before, back when I first read Pressfield’s book. But Sparta is always worth revisiting.

The Spartan way of life, the Spartan philosophy…all of their culture and society has been romanticized, lionized and embroidered in poems, novels, movies, etc. But the true Sparta is a society that cannot be examined without conflicting feelings. They alone among the Greek city-states maintained a standing army. That is to say, their army was composed entirely of career soldiers, and the army was at the ready 24/7. Greece, in 485 was by no means a united country. On the contrary they city-states were each unto itself, and in a constant state of friction with each other. Thus Sparta kept an army, because if Greeks could be characterized as valuing their freedom above all, the Spartans were willing to kill and die for this freedom.

Ironically, they were willing to enslave an entire class of people to maintain this army. Spartan society and culture could not have existed without the “helots,” the enslaved people who literally ran the city and tended to every daily, mundane task which allowed Spartan men to pursue (from very early childhood) careers as , well, Spartans. Soldiers, Warriors at the ready. They existed to defend themselves. Their helots, slaves for many generations, were widely reported to be devoted to their free masters, and were treated almost as equals on a few levels. They could not own property and they must serve their household, of course, but they were not brutalized (as reported by Herodotus), and there was a certain level of respect that came from their Spartan masters, who seemed to recognize that they were vital to Spartan existence. Symbiosis. They also outnumbered their masters vastly. So this was a good reason for the Spartan army never to venture too far from Sparta. The army existed to DEFEND Sparta. (Well,for the most part. We'll talk about Messina another time.)

Until the legendary Persian army came rumbling across the mountains. Until their way of life was absolutely guaranteed to be decimated. Sparta, along with every other city-state, along with Greece as a whole, would be enslaved by the unstoppable and vast Persian Empire, lead by Xerxes, son of Darius, who was defeated at Marathon a generation ago, and who really wanted to see Greece fold.

If Greece can be viewed as the very foundation of Western civilization and democracy (and it can), then the Battle of Thermopylae can be seen as the pivotal moment in Western society, politics and culture.

But Greece was not united – far from it. The Spartan army did not venture so far from home. These problems came to bear as Greece pondered its fate. Would Greece unite? Would Sparta lead, both my example and as the commanding force? The short answer is that they did. Against the Oracle, against the general consensus, King Leonides took his persona force opf 300 and attempted to hold off the Persians at the gates of fire, the hot gates – a narrow mountain pass called Thermopylae. They held them off for three days, leading a mongrel assortment of Athenians, Phoecians, Thespians, etc. But they were slaughtered in the end. But not before they had bought valuable time…time in which Athens assembled her naval forces, and the rest of Greece, seeing the example of what Sparta could do, united her forces. Ultimately, Persia was turned back.

Ironically, it was Sparta’s military philosophy that became a cultural example. Their military rule: That a soldier is only as strong as the man to his left, became the rule for Greece as a whole. A once-divided country began to see that the only way it could survive is if the man (country) to its left was strong and free as well.

I am sitting here plowing through this history, and I realize I am taking a tortuous journey butchering and simplifying a beautiful, brutal and labrynthine piece of history just to lay the groundwork for a review of a mediocre movie.

So after all this history book-learning, I get a night off. My brothers, Patrick and Mick, are taking me to see 300, the most recent attempt to put Thermopylae into a movie form.

Short review: It’s enjoyable for the duration…but not much beyond. It’s visually arresting. It’s kind of like a video game. It’s shallow. It butchers history. It’s not the story of Sparta or Thermopylae. It plays radically fast and loose with facts. It’s C-plus…but for the two hours I was in that seat, I was entertained. I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that.

I did not like Sin City. I did not even finish it, actually. This movie has that same comic-book-graphic thing going for it. Each scene in this could be a painting. I was reminded of Maxfield Parrish many many times (I love Maxfield Parrish).

Mick and I gave up pointing out the historical hiccups after maybe 10 minutes. Straight out of the bag, the Spartans did not fight naked, OK? Their flashing copper (or brass) breastplates are well documented by many historians. Most importantly, this movie tries to give the impression that the Spartans alone (with a few wimpy Athenians) battled the Persian masses. Not so.

I could spend more than 2 hours pointing out the way this movie rides roughshod over the facts. But if you do not take it as a history lesson, or – God forbid – a philosophy lesson – then it is OK. Bloody, but in an over-the-top-almost cartoonish way.

One day, maybe Gates of Fire will be made into a movie. That will be a great thing. But as Mick and I agreed after this movie was over, anything that makes someone aware of the Battle of Thermopylae and Sparta and its legacy is a good thing. If someone picks up a book, or even Googles Thermoplylae after seeing this, that’s a good thing.

If you want to pick up a book, try:

Thermopylae: The Battle That Changed the World by Paul Cartledge
The Spartans by Paul Cartledge
The Defence of Greece by J.F. Lazenby
Thermopylae: The Battle for the West by Ernle Bradford

And of course Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield

As a footnote, if you are interested in finding out more about the role of women in Sparta, (300 implies that Spartan women were nearly equal. NOT so, but they were MUCH more important to their society than any other ancient women. The love story between King Leonides and Queen Gorgo – actually his niece – is amazing.) then pick up A Biographical Dictionary of Ancient Greek and Roman Women by Marjorie and Benjamin Lighthouse.

2007-02-22T10:39:00.000-08:00

It’s Heavy, So You Might Want to Skip It.

A few years back at Lent, I made a deal with God. I made what I consider to be a serious set of sacrifices for Lent, thinking (like a 3rd Grader) that if I pulled it off then God would come through for me on an issue that needed some serious divine intervention. I made very good on my promise. And I suppose I could say that God did not. Several years later I am still dealing daily with the aftermath of that issue. I could have used a little divine intervention. I really could have.

In my head, I knew that this was an immature, ill-conceived bargain. But when we really need help, The Inner Third-Grader sometimes wails more plaintively than The Voice of Reason. Paul Simon sang “Here I am Lord, knocking at Your place of business. I know I ain’t got no business here.”

It’s true. I have no business making deals with God. None of us does. I am always arguing with some of my friends, sisters, running pals – who all say that God does not give us anything we cannot handle. That phrase elicits in me the most angry response. It is used as a rationale for everything from teenaged pregnancy to an alcoholic spouse. I argue that God provided each of us with a set of efficient tools. You either learn how and when to use them or you don’t.

Well, this Lenten season, I am facing the fact that I have some wicked sharp tools and I have been lazy about using them. And I still need some help with that years-ago issue. So instead of making a bargain with God, I am demonstrating good faith in my tools that He gave me. He does not need to come through on any bargains for me. I know this. I am the one with karmic debt. The very best first step in solving my own problem is to demonstrate faith in my tools – in the gifts given me. I need to show that I remember how to use these gifts, and that I am thankful for them.

Not so oddly, running is part of the M.O by which I can demonstrate this faith. It always has been. The stolen hour or two in which my thoughts spill out to the drumbeat cadence of my feet, my heart, my breathing are precious in that they distill the chaotic list of infractions, moral debts and problems, and provide me some insight as to their antidote.

My husband says: If it is to be then it is up to me. Saint Paul extolled sola fides. But I embrace Faith AND works. I hope to demonstrate both this season.

2007-01-02T21:53:00.000-08:00

I Really Hate That Song

I could not care less if Bon Jovi lived or died. The band, I mean. Or the man, I guess. I'm quite neutral on the subject of Bon Jovi (Except as it pertains to Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. We'll talk another time about that). But for nearly 36 hours I had what turned out to be a Bon Jovi song wedged in my brain and I thought I would have to submit to a frontal lobotomy to get it out. It's still kind of there, way in back. Pisses me off.

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you
When you breathe,
I'll be the air for you
I'll be there for you

Strange, inexplicable (and in this case, nearly unendurable) mental gremlins basically have their way with you when you are in the throes of a fever. They are part of what makes the flu so terrible. Lying in my sister's bed for an entire night and day, my joints packed with hot, ground glass, teeth chattering, far too weak to speak or do anything except lurch to the bathroom, bent over double, I was the victim of these mental torture-trolls as much as I was a victim of a genuinely diabolical bug.

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you

Spare me.

The night before this...this thing took hold of me, I had been watching a favorite DVD. The movie itself is wonderful. But it has previews before the main feature, and sadly (for me) one of the previews is for what appears to be a staggeringly banal and embarassing movie featuring Ashton Kucher. Ashton Kucher playing the guitar and singing very very badly.

I'll be there for you
These five words I swear to you
When you breathe..

This is the stuff of an acid trip taken down the wrong street in Mexico using a bad map in a car with a cracked head and distributor cap issues. I don't know at this point that this is a Bon Jovi song. I am just blindly groping around for the remote to get past the previews and get to the real movie.

But it must have stuck with me, because as I lay there, on the icy bathroom floor, the damned thing kept playing in a wobbly loop in my head. And since I had never heard the original, it was Ashton Kucher's version that I heard. Over and over and over.

Ashton Kucher
Ashton Kucher
Ashton Kucher

Just drag me out the back door and shoot me, now, now, now.

I'm grateful to my sister. She drove me to her house following an impromptu dinner with a mutual friend. I was very suddenly not feeling well, and she drove like a homicidal maniac to get me to her house before I imploded. I flopped, moaning, on her couch through that night and kept her family awake, I am certain. Her dog was such a pathetic little pal, tucking his cold nose into my slumped form on the bathmat.

The worst thing...no, ONE of the worst things... was that all the next day (She had shuttled me into her own bedroom at that point, while we waited for Zorro to come home and fetch me), she was cooking something that on any other day would have made me swoon to think about being invited to share. Something Mexican and spicy and tantalizing. But for me, on this day, in the throes of the clock-cleaning illness, was evil, nauseating, and horribly retch-worthy.

Days later, the song still caroming around my head, I called my brother and sang the lines over the phone.

"Bon Jovi. I think. Sounds like Bon Jovi to me," he says.

Bon Jovi. Curse you, Bon Jovi. Curse you, Ashton Kucher. Curse you, all interchangeable members of the Mediocre Rom-Com genre, AND metal bands in general.

Next year, I am getting a flu shot, because I'll be damned if I am going to be listening to Ashton Kucher and Bon Jovi for three days after Christmas ever again. Not gonna happen. I'm getting that flu shot.

These five words I swear to you

2006-12-19T20:41:00.000-08:00

Life on Ganymede

The incidents of self-awareness -- moments in which one is privvy to how others see her, and may either be either mortified, satisfied, or galvanized to change that image -- are thick and fast in life. But only at a certain level of maturity or readiness are we in a position to make such an incident meaningful or pivotal to change.

I had such a moment recently. The surrounding circumstances are intricate and funny (to me). But I think it goes back to another incident that happened about 8 years ago, when my sisters and aunts were assembling for an outing to the symphony. Someone asked, "Who's driving?" and one of my sisters answered, "Colleen." In less than a heartbeat, several of my sisters and aunts started laughing and one said, "Colleen? No way."

It turns out that it was my Aunt Colleen who was driving. But the laughter and scoffing answer stayed with me for hours -- days -- afterward. It wasn't that I am a horrible driver. Well, I am a nervous driver and I don't particularly like it. But the scoffing was directed toward the fact that I never drive, I never pull my weight and take my turn at the task of driving. And by their laughter, everyone clearly knew this about me. I did not carry my weight and shoulder my responsibilities.

I did not want that legacy. So since that night, I definitely drive -- probably more than my fair share (making up for lost time) -- when we all go out. For me, this means absolutely no drinking or any other funny business. Do you know what a drunk driving arrest costs -- and not just in terms of dollars? It falls under the heading of Unacceptable Losses. No. Just...no.

So for the past several years, there have been quite a few rock concerts, parties, birthdays, etc. that I have taken straight, just so I can sit behind the wheel and convey my loved ones home safely. As I said, I am making up for lost time.

So on the occasion of my oldest sister's birthday party, I was driving and not drinking. I was driving my other sister Ophelia, my brother's longtime girlfriend Susan, and myself to a Girl's Night at one of Desdemona's friends' homes in the hills east of my town. Two lane highway. Gnarly, precarious parking. Insanely huge house lit up like a national monument with Christmas lights, flaming tiki torches, etc. The entire setting announced "EVENT!" I think Ophelia's, Susan's and my mouths were hanging open as we tripped up the path to the enormous front door.

The door swung open to a beautiful and very very sooper-dooper decorated foyer... pine boughs, holly swags, lights, a beautiful Christmas tree...and the loud, shrieky laughter of nearly 50 women at the back of the house. Mhaaadness.

Ladies, ladies everywhere! Clack clack of heels on travertine. Glasses in hands, arms raised in whooping greeting! Music! Music from some room toward the back of the sprawling house! Girls' Night! Giiiirls!! Niiiihhht!!

Girls' Night is something I have only a nodding aquaintance with. I just don't know that many "girls." I have neither inclination nor knack to make scores of friends. I am sure the narrow scope of friends I do have says something about a parsimony of spirit on my part. It makes me feel marginally better when Susan, a VP at a Fortune 500 national software corporation, grabs my arm and says "Where did she get ALL THESE FRIENDS?"

God Susan, I really don't know. Desdemona is the "Mom" of my sisters. The super square. The one who buckled down and financed her own way through veterinary school, with a preceptorship in New Zealand. She has known what she wants to do with her life since she was about 10. She looked down her little midget nose at all of us as we used the F word, dated and drank our way through high school and college and got really really good at rolling joints. The one who buys Anne Colter's books in hardback, who votes party line, who raises her eyebrows at each of us as we act out and up and over the edge at any and all family gatherings. Gesus Krahst, Desdemona, loosen up. Oh!! I almost forgot!! She has a daughter. While none of us was allowed to have a Barbie growing up, Desdemona allows her daughter to have Barbies, but Barbie must always be clothed. No naked Barbies allowed in the house at any time. UN REAL. My house is a Barbie-free-zone. But seriously...how uptight do you need to be to have the Naked Barbie Rule?

God. There is so much more I could say about Desdemona. She is just...the most uptight person I know. But I love her. I feel protective of her. She's wound up so tightly.

Back to the party. OK. So there are more extremely excited dressy women here than at a Louis Viutton warehouse sale. Dressy!!! High heels!! Sparkly tops!! Woo! Wooooo!!! We are underdressed. I see a vaguely familiar woman. Karen!! Desdemona's pal from Vet School! She is clutching my arm, hissing in my ear, desperately glad to see us. "O My God I am so happy to see you." Karen says in an elevated whisper. She, like us, knows no one. We explore the huge house together.

There is a margarita machine in the back yard, poolside, and a wet bar set up in the wine cellar. Ladies doing California Shooters. Killer food, cute waiters with trays. So many of the women are harassing the hapless waiters. Ophelia and I are pinching each other's arms in abject embarrassment.

Music!! Dancing!! Screamy, tipsy women, waving their arms in the air to Sister Sledge. Dear God... "We! Are! Fa-mi-ly!! I Got All Mah Sistahs With Me!" No no no!! Desdemona is yelling for her sisters to join her on the dance floor. Ophelia and Susan shrink behind me. Refusing. Nonono.

You need to understand: She gets like this. I have seen the tippy tip tip of the iceberg before. Refusing does nothing but make it worse. You need to give in, dance around a little with her, whoop and shriek for a few minutes, then she will leave you alone. If you keep refusing and dig in your heels, it just causes a big scene and it's hell. Susan does not understand this and pays the price the whole night.

There is a big loud hairy deal when it comes time to open the gifts. Dear God some of the gifts are so embarassing they make my ears bleed. I just have my fist shoved in my teeth. Ophelia's mouth drops open and she retreats to the margarita machine. Susan grabs my elbow, noticing that I am drinking Coke and nothing more: "Man, You are taking this bullet without any anesthetic." she notes.

There is a roast. Slurred speeches that refer to and center around some events Desdemona has obviously been involved in...gnarly, alcohol-soaked, shady events I can scarcely believe she is party to. Kinda dorky.

Susan, Karen, Ophelia and I are on our own little outbound satellite moon to this huge Jupiter planet of shrieky pals. We are the tiny moon Ganymede. We, on Ganymede, keep elbowing each other as each scatalogical, freaky, off-color gift is opened and shreiked over.

Let me pause here and just mention that it is not that I feel above Desdemona or am looking down on her for having this "other side." If I could just express to you how completely out of character is all is. She is so thoroughly wholesome. So square. She has made a career out of pointing out how Ophelia, my little brother Patrick and I are the black sheep, the Bad Kids, the ones who ruined her wedding reception by being drunk and loud (we weren't). When she asks me to help her to find an outfit for some party or event, she asks me to wait OUTSIDE THE DRESSING ROOM, until she is dressed. God help me if I glimpsed her underoos.

OK. So the party continues. The Screamy Dressy Ladies are forcing Des to drink from some kind of bedpan (seriously). I think. There is a quiz. "Facts" about Desdemona. Most of them are innocuous, but seriously cringe-worthy. Some are borderline mean, actually. We on Ganymede start to get a little protective and offended that the roast has taken an edgy turn. Des is weird, yes, but let's not get mean, ladies. Karen, Susan and I have our arms crossed, with stony looks on our faces. Ophelia has excused herself to tour the back yard, embarassed by the last round of racy "gifts."

At some point, Desdemona corners me and (she must be pretending to shoot the tequila, because she is reassuringly sober-ish)makes me promise that what happens here stays here. (Obviously she does not know I write everything down.)

Self-aware moment: She has trusted me in inviting me to this event. And she trusts me not to spread this madness around. I can see in her sober-ish face that she is embarassed and chagrined by the evening, but still grateful that she can trust me not to throw it all back in her face.

What a master she is. By demonstrating her trust in me, she knows I am pitifully eager to rise to the occasion and not disappoint her faith in me. I will not be making sport of her over this odd night.

Even later, after I drive my charges home, and we gather around my kitchen counter to Readers' Digest the whole thing for Zorro (mouth open and shocked, even though we are very very much soft-pedaling the whole thing for him), I see in Susan's face that this is all going to be just an edited chapter. I will be surtprised if I ever hear her refer to this weird night again outside of an "entre nous" with Ophelia.

But next time I use the F word and Desdemona looks disapprovingly at me and gives me a cold shoulder, I will understand that the real act is her Holier-Than-Thou attitude. Because after this night, it just ain't going to wash with me any more.

2006-11-26T11:16:00.000-08:00

Patrick

My heart
Your skin
This love
I'm in

I have a little brother -- Patrick. I have had a crush on Patrick since I was about 10. He is a national treasure of funny, an immediate slam-dunk in witty, and I am fairly certain that if I were ever to write a book, I would lift him exactly as he is from my technicolor life and install him in the story. He is a modern-day Dickens character: eccentric, pithy, and well defined in his assorted likes and dislikes. He is that rare breed of opinionated gentleman, in that he has strong ideas about most issues, but tempers them with an attentive ear and a thoughtful silence. Patrick is a wicked mimic and a gifted storyteller. Usually, his anecdotal version of an event is better than the original. Every holiday, seeing him is the highlight amidst an already delightful celebration.

He travels with a copy of Fear of a Black Hat and Office Space in his car. Just in case. He also has copies of whatever is the most recent South Park episode. Also, he has poker chips in his car. A full set. Just in case. He started smoking (Marlborough reds) at 14 and has not ever stopped...or looked back, as far as I can tell. My daughter (she has a serious crush on him, too) begs him, as only a wickedly charming 5-year-old can, to stop smoking. He listens, nods, thanks her. Then lights up as soon as she leaves. After a few hours of visiting with Patrick, I am usually a) up way past my bedtime; b)chagrined at what I do remember from the night before.

This Thanksgiving (absolutley magnificent, by the way), my sister (Let's call her Lucrezia)and I went over to another sister's house (Let's call her Ophelia) to help clean and cook in preparation for the evening's celebration. Ophelia has a large home on several acres, keeps horses, pigs, chickens...it's a very ecclectic lifestyle. Lucrezia and I, having been pretty much estranged for the last few years, are carefully piecing together a friendship. This Thanksgiving was significant in that immense strides were made. Maybe it took a little too much alcohol. OK, yeah -- that is what it means. But the headache was certainly worth it.

That's enough of that.

Checking in With The Hamstring

I sat in a pub with Zorro the other night and he plyed me with a huge, headless glass of the most delicious, cold Honey Amber Ale and charmingly (he's a pro at charming) tried to convince me to see a specialist and get an MRI for my leg, which, incidentally, still wakes me up singing in the night. I listened respectfully. Nodded agreeably. And refused. Here is my logic. Every other time I have been to see a doctor about this leg problem, I have taken the doctor's well intended advice and abided by his recommendations...for about 3 weeks. Then, because I am (stupid, stubborn, an egomaniac...pick one), I felt a little better and immediately went back to doing exactly what I wanted to do. Even if that meant run a 10K balls-out with a week of "training." Just to prove I could do it.

This time, I soothingly told my sincere and concerned husband, I am humble and chastened. I am actually giving the doctor's advice more than a lick and a promise. I run no more than 3 days a week. I run it slower than backwards. I stretch with a religious fervor. I take maddening yoga classes (a blog entry all its own...please...the people-watching alone is worth all the frustrating poses), I lift weights, I do all kinds of things I used to laugh at others for doing. If, after 6-8 months of this I am still in pain, I will see a specialist. It took a little bit of eyelash-batting on top of this logic, but I think his concern is quelled for now.

For now, though, NOT TRAINING for some race is a little frustrating and a lot intoxicating. The first thing I notice is that I never dread running. I used to dread the mid-range long runs. The 15 miles for its own sake.

Now I feel a little like I have found some sort of running Valhalla. The slower I run, the longer I can run, the less it hurts. I KNOW! Seems so simple! The upside is that I run more with my other other (yet another, let's call her Desdemona) sister, who is a slow-and-steady runner for many years. I feel like I can turn 7 into 14 no problem at Desdemona's pace. Forever! Inky-blue ocean on my right, sun on the back of my neck, shadow out front. Run forever, or at least until the conversation runs dry. The downside is that as I run along, I let my willful, heedless, headstrong mind roam free, and -- high on the ebullient run I am experiencing, I cast myself into improbability ..."I feel great! If I start to rack up the miles here, then in a month I can start to key up the speed again...Maybe that ultra this summer is not that far-fetched! Sure! I can do it. I am, after all, me."

As Neil Young says: In the field of opportunity, it's plowing time again.

2006-11-11T15:45:00.000-08:00

I went looking for a cause
Or a strong cat without claws
Or any reason to resume
And I found myself a seat
In this crowded waiting room

I hold off on writing about the truly unpleasant things. I hold tightly to the idea that if you act calm, happy and accepting, then you will be that. It works to a certain degree, but the original issue never seems to be touched by my fierce, crazed attempts at positive thinking.

I have two children. Everyone says that a parent cannot help but love each child equally -- no more and no less that the others. It's just not true. Maybe the volume of love is the same, and the total commitment to literally step in front of oncoming traffic to save them -- all that is the same. It cannot help but be that way. But the WAY...the MANNER in which a parent loves each child is different. It is vastly different for me.

My son was my first. With him I really do understand the adage that Love Hurts. Because with him, it really does hurt. Bluntly put he sometimes seems like he is in pain, emotionally turbulent, complicated, deeper. I am beguiled and fierce and guilty. His teachers tell the same tale each year: "We love him. He's hard to understand. He wants so much love. It's hard to be with him. He marches to his own beat. We need to work on figuring him out."

I am so desperate for someone to tell me he will grow out of this, that every boy is like this, that he's just immature. I ask to hear this and I never do. If I articulated my fears for my child out loud, I am afraid I would be labled an hysteric or that I was expecting the worst. Is it wrong to just want your child to have an easy life? Or at the very least, a less-difficult one?

This is probably the most painful subject I can possibly explore, and lately this issue is more consuming of my time, energy, emotional currency than anything. Every mother will be able to relate to my most overwhelming feeling: Somehow I am responsible for his unhappiness.

That's about all I can do right now. I wish I knew more but my ignorance is part of the reason why this subject is so fraught.

You know it's really hard
To talk sense to you
Trouble child
Breaking like the waves at Malibu

2006-10-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

I can tell by your eyes that you've probably been crying forever.
And the stars in the sky don't mean nothing to you -- they're a mirror.
I don't wanna talk about it: How you broke my heart.
But if I stay here just a little bit longer....If I stay here won't you listen
To my heart?

Funerals, Part I

There were seven Fitzgerald kids, and there were six of us. Our parents were -- literally -- lifelong best friends. They owned vacation homes together. Our families combined seamlessly for summer vacations in the desert, snowball wars in Arrowhead, lizard safaris, cherry bomb detonations, trips to the emergency ward, Marco Polo tournaments, ice skating, birthdays, camping, beach treks, and always, always, Catholic ceremonies that defy description to outsiders (Corpus Christi mass in the blazing sun at Monastary of the Angeles in Hollywood, Holy Thursday vigils till midnight. Just tip of the archaic iceberg.). But here, at the huge wake in honor of their father, I count only six Fitzgeralds.

I have not seen many of them in years. I have spoken with Theresa on the phone as her father's heath faltered, but most of them have been relegated to a vivid, happy place in my past. Until today. It's weird, and that, my friends, is a loaded phrase. Paul, whose name I see occasionally in movie credits as a producer of some kind, is hard to approach: He's understandably very torn up. Tim is genuinely happy to see us all, here at the corner table littered with beer bottles and empty glasses, where we have staked out a family territory, holding court at this festival of melancholy. Thomas looks insanely the very same as he did when he was 11, despite the fact that his youngest son is now 11.

Theresa, with the bawdy laugh and mile-wide mischievious streak, winks at her smiling husband across our table and grabs my hand to drag me out to the patio for a smoke (still, she smokes). She looks, sounds, smiles, talks and gestures, exactly the same as she did when we were teenagers. She says the same of me. Making our way across the huge room to the patio, she lays a hand on her brother Dennis' arm and says, "You holding up?" Dennis, who has been lurking alone at the margins of the room, barely nods in her direction and says, "Holding up, yes."

Dennis was the middle kid. The scary one -- the cute one -- who moved to Santa Cruz. The one you always ended up smoking pot with behind the church, the reception hall, the service entrance at the hotel ballroom, the cul de sac. The one who always knew a great bar to hit after the wedding, the party, Christmas dinner, whatever.

Now he can't even look up. I ask Theresa if he still lives in Santa Cruz, and she stops in her tracks, and says, "You just witnessed history. I haven't seen or heard from him in 8 years."

How do you not hear from your brother in 8 years? I get no answers. Theresa just shrugs and sighs as she drags on her smoke and shakes out the match. And why, while we are on the subject of dysfunction, is your sister Patricia very noticeably not here? Why have 2 members of your family been MIA for years and why can they not come together for this occasion?

The day, which to this point has been a happy-sad, melancholy, sentimental trip down memory lane through my ridiculouly, happily cliche'd childhood, has become crowded with bitter hypothetical questions. And resolutions.

Resolutions that I will not let the same thing happen to my family. Resolution that I will not lose Theresa again. Resolution that I'll thank more readily, more effusively, more sincerely (Thank you, my dear brother Rick, for driving us all here safely across the misbegotten freeways of Los Angeles). Resolution that there will be no festering wounds that keep me from my family for years at a time.

Death continually teaches me lessons in how to live my life. "The grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul." So said Nathaniel Hawthorne.

The Hamstring Chronicles

I read in GQ (just lay off, OK?) a list of 50 Things No Man Really Needs to Do Before He Dies. I love lists. One of the items is Run a Marathon. Very timely piece of advice for me. My hamstring is back in rehab after a very painful incident reminiscent of my Boston Marathon Agony. The short version has me sitting in the doctor's exam room, as he talks waaaay down to me in a voice so sarcastic I could easily be offended. But he's cool, and we're kind of like friends, and we pass each other running on Sunday mornings, so I know he knows the score.

"I tell you what," he says to me. "Why don't you get a bike. Why don't you run mebbee three days a week. Ride your bike a little. Take a yoga class. Lift weights. Stretch. And see if that strategy gets you farther without injury and chronic pain."

He's telling me I am an idiot, and I am listening. I have been hitting it so hard and I am in so much pain -- all day and all through the night. It's just crazy. I am crazy. Fine.

Movie Review: Dear Frankie

This movie has to be about a year, maybe 2 years old. A woman is raising her 10 year old son alone. But she writes to her son regularly, pretending the letters come from the boy's father, who is a sailor in the far corners of the world. The boy and his "father" write back and forth for years. But one day, the ship that the mother has invented for the father is due to pull into port, and the boy is expecting to see his father. So the mother has to "find" someone to play at being Frankie's father, just for a day.

It has a lot to do with what are you willing to do for your child, how far would you go, what sacrifices would you make. As pieces of the puzzle fell into place, my husband kept saying, This is so messed up! This is so messed up! The story ends elliptically, but hopefully, with the final message for me really being that parents need their kids in order to become whole at least as much as children need parents. I had to use the subtitles, as the Scottish accents zipped past me far too quickly.

My sister said that despite the PG-13 rating she watched it with her two daughters (10 and 8). I think that's way too much to put on a child...it's a weighty story.

Current Family Argument

Who will host Christmas Dinner this year? I think I definitely need to be skiing. Better get on the cabin rental soon or I could get roped into dinner for 26.

2006-10-09T10:20:00.000-07:00

Avoidance Tactics

Write...edit...erase. Create...destroy. Any writing that comes out of me lately is trashed almost immediately. Not the most mature idea, especially for a blog in which I profess to be trying to "figure it all out."

There are a few profoundly sad subplots running through my story lately, and writing about them makes me feel carnivorous and parasitic. My sister observed pithily the other day that for many years it seemed like our families and friends saw each other at weddings, baby showers and baptisms. Lately, funerals seem to be the points on the map that connect our paths.

I'll talk more about funerals some other time. Because while they do fascinate me, I just cannot find the correct words to define and describe. Lazy. And sad.

This meandering and wallowing could easily turn this into another blog entry deleted before it see lighht of day.

Halloween For My Kids: Part I

For some appallingly flimsy reasons, my children's school has decided to turn its back on Halloween. The school carnival is now a western-themed, spineless little pageant of hoedown mediocrity. It used to be a traditional neighborhood Halloween carnival with gypsy fortune tellers, apple bobbing, costume contests, cake walks and the most endearing Haunted House I had ever seen.

One year I took my niece inside. She was about 7, and straddling the fence between "too big to be scared by such things" and "scared out of her wits." I held her hand through the dark hallways festooned with cobwebs, dust, flickering candelabra...ghostly moanings and chains rattling, whistling wind sound effects...A group of 8th graders dressed as zombies sat at a long dining room table enacting a ghastly family dinner scene. She was barely holding it together when a Lurch-like butler crept up behind her and dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder.

She freaked. Completely.

In an instant the lights came on and all the zombie 8th graders began singing "It's a Small World After All" to make her unscared. It was so cool.

No more. The school caved to some pressure from some extreme corner of the church and decided not to embrace Halloween any longer. Total copout.

But here at home Halloween is second only to Christmas in anticipation, preparation and decoration. I scare pathetically easily, but I dearly love Halloween. Happily, my kids do too.

Gleaned from a conversation with my Halloween-loving sister, our favorite Halloween movies, in no particular order:

The Hunger (Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie)
Dracula (1979 version directed by John Badham)
American Werewolf in London (More for nosatalgia than anything else)
Near Dark (Underrated, overlooked, Lance Henrikson and Bill Paxton are very effective present-day vampires)
Rosemary's Baby (Gold standard for tension and subtlety)
Fright Night (Totally cheesey but so fun)
Shadow of the Vampire (John Malkovich fans need to see this)
Nosferatu (Atmosphere!!)

To be continued.

2006-10-01T20:48:00.000-07:00

Hall Pass

So I looked through the window
And out on the road
They're bringing me presents
And waving Hello

--Neil Young

I got me a Hall Pass.

"What's a Hall Pass?" you ask?

You, my friend, do not have children. Or if you do, they are grown.

A Hall Pass -- sometimes called a Kitchen Pass -- A term that must somehow have its roots the Military. A Hall Pass is like "Shore Leave."

A Hall Pass is when you say to your spouse/co-parent, "Hey! Listen, it's my birthday and really, you know I don't want anything. Birthday...Who cares, right? But what I do want is a Hall Pass." And than you decide on a time at which Hall Pass commences. And when your Hall Pass kicks in, you're Free.

Free as in free to spend the afternoon, evening, day, whatever in any manner you choose, and you choose to spend it that way you spent so many afternoons/evenings when you were single, childless, at loose ends, between boyfriends. The way you contentedly spent so many hours, and now spend almost none. Alone. Hanging.

A Hall Pass is when you take yourself and a book into a friendly neighborhood bar or pub. Not a hot spot or a crowded restaurant. No no no. It's early afternoon. It's uncrowded, except for that group of men in the corner animatedly arguing about...something. Empty except for the two women sharing a sandwich with a shopping bag on the table between them. A Hall Pass means you are at your leisure to park it at the completely empty bar, order a beer and open your book, tilt back in your barstool and read, looking up only to sip occasionally, and take in your surroundings in tiny, half-conscious draughts. Read, read, read. Sip, sip. Read. Read. Readreadread.

Order another beer, yes, thanks, that would be great. Can you make sure this one is headless, please. Yes. No head. Thanks.

A Hall Pass is when the cell phone does not ring because you have made a deal with Spouse that unless someone has been stepped on by an elephant, there will be no calls. No calls asking "Did you buy soy sauce and if so where are you hiding it?" No calls asking to pick up fabric softener or light bulbs on the way home. Because when you are on a Hall Pass, you are permitted to take your mental phone off the hook. To unclip your harness and yell down into the canyon, "I'm off belaaaaaay!!!"

It's when your brain is free to roll along with the pleasant buzz from 2 oh maybe 3 beers enjoyed in quite solitude, with a book that is best savored over long uninterrupted spells. And there is peace in letting your brain have its free reign, to think more than an inch deep on whatever rolls into your head.

For example, when you are on a Hall Pass you have world enough and time to ponder -- for more than just a second or two -- that really, if for some reason there were no men in the world (except on TV playing football), there would most likely be no women who enjoyed or professed to enjoy football. Sure, many women say they enjoy football, and maybe they really truly do. But without men around to originally foster this affection, I doubt many women would come to football of their own volition.

How many times (you can ponder this...take your time, you have a Hall Pass, brother) have you heard a woman say, "No way, man. I'll have to take a raincheck on that. I'm stayin home to watch The Game."? or "Did you catch That Game yesterday!! My God what a game!"?

It just doesn't happen. No judgment on this particular little point. It's just the kind of thing you can mull over in your head when you have a Hall Pass.

See, because when you have a Hall Pass, you can linger over your book, your beers, your thoughts, your observations. You can notice, looking up from your book, that the cocktail waitress and the bartender are barely tolerating the manager on duty. They roll their eyes. They snark when she walks away. When you have a Hall Pass you can become semi-invisible. You can pick up the resentful vibe. And who can blame them, these impotent underlings? The manager is an overly officious woman who is probably new here, and quite possibly new to management. She moves nervously and tightly. She talks at eleven...just a bit too loud and stridently. She is probably capable, but is not quite confident yet, either of her underlings or her own authority, and so she overcompensates by repeating herself and manically folding napkins and she hands out directions. When you have a Hall Pass you have time to see this stuff.

Or not.

When you have a Hall Pass you could end up calling your sister, K, and asking her, "Hey, can you get a Hall Pass and meet me for a beer?" even though she drinks chardonnay and hates beer. You could ask her to bring a newspaper so you can decide on a movie. And when she shows up, you suddenly remember, after hours of blessed and precious silence, how easy it is to laugh and laugh and laugh and talk on top of each other. So you do. And the bartender remarks on your resemblance to one another, and dips into his cache of Irish Jokes when he hears your first names.

And since this is a Birthday Hall Pass, and not just a garden variety Hall Pass, you get to trump her ace when you disagree on what movie to see, because, see, K does not like indie, quirky, or funky. But as I've mentioned...Birthday Hall Pass. It's like four-of-a-kind. You take the hand.

And since it's a Birthday Hall Pass, there is a dinosaur tea party waiting for you when you come home, courtesy of your kids. And a coconut cake so saturated with coconut cream that it's sitting in a puddle of itself. And best o best of all, there is a huge bowl of pasta carbonara and two forks to enjoy after Spouse has paraded the children to bed and turned the house into a quiet place.

Movie Review(s)

The Science of Sleep

I rarely see movies in the theater anymore. I am so glad I was able to see this. It is written and directed by the co-writer of The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which recommended it to me immediately. I loved ESOTSM. How can you not? The Science of Sleep is messier and more undone and disheveled, yet more colorful and has a more low-budget look to it. Which I found endearing, and complementary to its odd, messy, confounding protagonist. From the very beginning it is hard to tell what is Stephane's real life and what is his dream life. Some of it is cartoonishly obvious, but other segments are unclear. The movie is spoken in Spanish, French and English, and somewhere along the line, you really forget that the movie is multi-language, so seamlessly do the conversations flow.

Stephane has problems with his dream life and his real life. He gets confused...and so do we. But in a good way. Stephane probably has something "wrong" with him. He's either immensely immature, or has an attention problem. Most of the time, he is embarrassingly honest and sincere, but he is also vulgar and discomfitingly forthcoming. He makes friends with his neighbor, the whimsical and independent Stephanie. At times their miscommunications and confusions are so hilarious, I had my hands over my eyes or mouth, and I was completely twisted up in knots in the theater seat in sheer empathetic embarrassment. Perplexing. Disconcerting. I'll see it again and I will almost certainly buy it. It's a cross between Amelie and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

The Illusionist

This is killer. Sepia-toned, beautiful photography. Absorbing mystery/drama plot. And a really swoon-worthy romance. A grand cast from top to bottom. Love this movie.

2006-09-21T10:31:00.000-07:00

Saving Face

"My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem."

This is John Willoughby, a character in Austen's Sense & Sensibility. In the letter from which this text is lifted, JW is wiggling out of his very public love affair with one of the protagonists, the innocent and passionate Marianne Dashwood. He is being superficially gallant in blaming himself for her misunderstanding of his words and deeds.

Of all the authors I love and admire, I think Austen's rules for living life are the most practical, if not the most true. Her attention to the civilities is what keeps the wheels of social interaction turning. She puts the civil in civilization.

I have three sisters. I am very close with each of them. Their friends are my friends. They have included me in their plans, schemes and lives as far back as I can remember. My sister T has been my best friend all my life. We would joke that we did not need to make friends because we had each other. At my wedding she read a passage from the Book of Ruth that I particularly chose. As she recited "Wither thou goest, I will go," I knew we were referring to my husband and myself, but also to T and myself. We had referred to this passage always.

But up until about 6 months ago, she and I had not really even spoken for nearly 3 years. It is a trip to even type that phrase. We live less than 3 miles apart. Our children go to the same school. But we fell completely apart somewhere around 3 or 4 years ago. There was an erosion, and a few awful watershed incidents, and then silence. Judgemental, angry, hurt, egotistical silence. For years.

There never was any acknowledgement of the falling out, nor will there ever be. Somewhere around a few months ago, we began to reinvent our relationship.

It's distant and careful. I can live with this, because I am more guarded with her now than I have ever been with any person because I was so completely bereft when she and I crumbled. Pride goeth before the fall, I know. Yes, I am sure that of the Seven Deadly Sins, Pride is my weakness, and could easily lead to my downfall.

Here is where Austen creeps in: That there has never been an open discussion about what happened and why. No blame will ever be assigned. No purge. No Come to Jesus. None and never. She and I are each the most prideful people I have ever known, and in order to become friends again, it is by tacit agreement that we allow each other to save face entirely by just picking it up and moving on.

Austen would approve. Her characters are allowed to save face. Their pride is intact. They are never brought low by the truth being broadcast, regardless of their sin, because the truth usually hurts innocent parties as well. It is for the greater good that it be allowed to remain in the past.

But what happens to Austen's sinners? She leaves that to fate or karma or the Justice of God. It comes around.

Willoughby throws over Marianne, his true love, in order to engage himself to a cold but very rich woman. He needs the money, you see. As Marianne's sister later states:

"But does it thence follow that, had he married you, he would have been happy? The inconveniencies would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous -- always poor; and probably would soon have learnt to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife."

Karma bit Willoughby in the shorts. He has money but a wife he does not love. He broke faith with Marianne, but was allowed to get away with it without censure because to bring him to task would hurt Marianne, her family, her social standing, etc.

I am all for being allowed to save face. Pretending it did not happen is fine with me, if one is prepared to pay the price.

Regarding my sister, we communicate regularly now, but strangely enough, we communicate through music or movies or books. ALL we talk about are cbooks we have read, character analysis, motivations, music we are listening to recently, movies we have seen and our reactiosn to them. We communicate (sad but true) through the Netflix interface more than in person.

For now, it is almost fine with me. I feel like I'm learning to walk again after having casts on both legs for years. I'm really glad I'm walking, but I hate myself for being clumsy enough to allow the break to happen. Pride goeth before the fall.

2006-09-18T18:44:00.000-07:00

Places I Did Not Know Existed

Sore, that is. Something about that boot camp class yesterday did me a bad turn. C was sore almost immediately, but I was fine. I was even fine as I set out on a 7-mile run today. But about halfway through I realized that my quads felt wooden and my shoulders hurt with every footfall. This evening I am in genuine pain, and I am not sure why. I can only attribute it to the explosive movements they had me performing, when I am used to more sustained, fluid movement. Either way, it adds another dimension of humiliation to the whole experience. But I am determined to repeat it.

I registered for a January marathon and also for a local 10K in November. The 10K is very very hilly, but historically I have done well in this particular event. The best thing about the 10K is the kids events on the high school track. Last year, Mr. T fell halfway through and was miserable with a nasty scraped elbow-knee combo. Angry, red and swollen. Still, we hiked three miles that afternoon.

My Cha-Cha broke her arm tonight. She slogged through the doctor visit, the X-ray and orthopedist, exhausted and tearful. Now tucked into a comforter on the couch with a book and some music on the stereo. She'll end up sleeping with me, I am sure, which is fine with me. I love it. Poor little thing with a big white cast on that tiny arm. I can't put my finger on why I am so sad tonight.

2006-09-16T08:30:00.000-07:00

Stepping Back/Stepping Forward

Since June I have stepped back from running in order to let my husband surf. This sounds ridiculous, but think about it: If I am running long on Sunday mornings -- as I have been doing regularly since, well, for a few years now at least -- then he cannot take that time to hit the surf early. That block of time is prime real estate, and if I have staked my claim there, he does not have much of a chance to get his share. Saturday mornings are non-negotiable, as that is time spent together with the children. I would not interrupt that for anything.

I've had a lot of freedom this summer -- I've gone on a few running-related trips, done some great races locally and farther afield. I have missed some beautiful opportunities to be with my little spuds. So I offered to stop training for my October marathon and hand those Sundays over to C for surfing. Which means I am out for October's race. But there is no sacrifice without a reward. The mornings alone with my children are languid, relaxed, creative times. We've made more time for reading together, for church, for cooking together. There are also the rewards that come to my marriage. C surfs with J, the husband of one of my dearest friends. C and J have become very solid friends, and I love seeing how happy this makes my husband. J is also a very spiritual man, and for some reason I cannot fathom, he is able to discuss his faith with C, where usually this subject would be off-limits. I am quietly so grateful for this. Not running on a Sunday morning is a paltry sacrifice for such a bounty.

But I need to make a decision for a January marathon. My local event is held on the exact routes I use to train. I've done it before. It's hilly. Half of it is run along the ocean -- and very beautiful. Half is run through bland industrial parks. Not ugly, just...uninspiring. It's a slog. I gave up the pursuit of PRs and the like a couple of years back, so it would be just to keep me honest through the holidays. It would help me stay aerobically fit in preparaton for an ultra I have my eye on for Spring 07.

O God, I am remembering the local marathon here. It stands out in my memory as having some of the worst on-route musical "inspiration" ever ever ever. If Barry Manilow himself were to perform at Mile 22, it could not be any worse. I have to think about this.

For now, husband is surfing, and I'm cool with that.

Watched a Movie:

Dot The I

This came toward the end of a Gael Garcia Bernal bender. My husband really loves to watch movies in his native Spanish, and there are so many good ones out now due to some kind of Mexican film boom. We had seen Amores Perros (good), Y Tu Mama, Tambien (dismal), Bad Education (good!! FUNK!), and this one (Dot the I) was the only on actually in English. My husband, who knows I love language, colloquialisms and vernacular, likes to point out the differences among Mexican Spanish, South American dialects, and classical Castilian. Nice side benefit.

OK. Dot the I. It makes unfortunate comparisons to itself and Memento, which is insulting and preposterous. Just because this movie tells its story with out-of-order snippets, and hints at unseen motives and identities, does not make it Memento. It doen't even make it particularly good. I love James D'Arcy and I will see almost anything with Bernal in it, but this was no better than OK. You really want to watch the payoff of the mystery (one character is actually "acting" in what he calls the ultimate reality show...he is making an emotional snuff film), but when it comes, it's a shoulder-shrugger. Eh. It tries really hard, and it shows.

JA Factor: Zero
F Factor: 8 out of 10
Rated: R
What it should be rated: R. I would not let my 15-year old nephew watch it. Not with me, anyway.

2006-09-15T12:44:00.000-07:00

Curve Balls From My Children

My children's favorite bed time song from me is a Madrigal I sang in high school. I was shocked that I remembered it when first I sang it to my infant son about 7 years ago. But it has become a standard, and the most requested one. Molly Malone, Home Again Kathleen, A Little Bit of Heaven and all the other Irish songs are nice, but this ineffably sad piece is the one they want most. We've dissected the lyrics, and extracted it's lachrymose meaning. They still love it:

The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approach'd, unlock'd her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sang no more.
Farewell, all joys; O Death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.

---Orlando Gibbons, 1612

It is in keeping with many questions they are asking me lately about dying and death: specifically their own deaths, and my death. I answer then as honestly as I can, telling them what I believe. I struggle to respect my husband's beliefs as well, while trying not to frighten or insult them. I tell then I don't know for certain, but that I believe we will all be together again in His divine presence, in the arms of Our Lord.

I know their questions are similar to my own questions at their age. But my parents presented to me a united front -- an unshakeable belief and a solid answer. Consequently, I cannot recall fearing death as a child. Even now, the only death I truly fear is, ironically, that of my children.

Last week they stayed overnight with my mother. She is not the Warm, Cuddly grandma. She is more like a 90-lb version of John Wayne and George S Patton, dressed in immaculate Levis and a snow-white T shirt. But she brings a lot of history and opinion to the table. I know how they spent their sleepover: She probably showed them paintings of Civil War generals and old photographs of her father as a Southern California business pioneer in WWII.

I also know she showed them photographs of my father, who died when I was 17. We have pictures of him here...many pictures. But she showed them pictures of him as a child, as a young man, with his infant children. They ask about him constantly. Probably because we still talk and laugh about him constantly, as if he just left the room, as if he left just last week. Something else telling: They remark how I look exactly like my high school and college photos, except for all the lines on my face. They ask if the lines mean I will die soon.

I am laughing as I write this, yet I am a little sad for them, that they are already so anxious about this. Here's hoping it is a phase, because I have been able to field all the curve balls they have thrown me so far, but I am almost afraid to swing the bat on these.