Remember that amazing cola commercial with that adorable jingle?
Moving, motivating, inspiring.
In this house it's more like - Grab A Cake And A Smile...
We bake and it miraculously makes us feel good.
We laugh. We mix and talk and make messes and mistakes which we fix as we mix.
Its good.
We bake for occasions and most occasions are rewarding period, but a cake requiring occasion is just the best thing.
Tonight we bake for teachers; boy, girl and I do.
Tonight we also bake for their Pop. Yup.
We do, boy, girl and I.
It's a weird thing...
Divorce is.
It's weird how the people you are divorced from keep moving on in their life, having birthdays and whatnot.
Time doesn't stand still over anything or anyone.
Grateful as I am for the passage of time and all it brings and all it reveals and all it leaves behind for us to look back on, I sometimes wish I could split sideways, move out of time's way, escape notice, contemplate before another second speeds by. I'd like to stop along side time and just BE.
Maybe I should take a cake with me, because I might just BE a while.
Maybe it's because my friend Robert pointed out that I can't take a compliment.
Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that I recently swung a golf club and was reminded of how much fun it is to drive that itty, bitty, pitted complexioned ball
He's on my mind.
Can't say his name (shouldn't), but I can give you a hint...
Golf Father, whom I worked for quite a long time ago, who gave odd compliments to me and who's sadly no longer with us, son is a "wildcat" who may in fact be the best golfer of
all time.
Got it?
My best worst job ever.
If you've read my blog over the years you may recall that I was a housekeeper.
Yep I was.
I was because I wanted to be and I wanted to be for about 900 weird reasons;
some of which were....
I liked to clean, still do. (yes, I'm nuts)
I liked to wear Levis to work.
I liked to be alone.
I liked to work hard and fast.
I liked to see immediate results and let me tell you there is nothing better then Windex for producing immediate resulation (pretend thats a word).
I was a housekeeper because it was strangely fun.
I don't know how come, but it was fun to clean houses, at least it was for me.
And I didn't just use my hands and my often aching muscles.
I used my mind. I daydreamed and I listened to over 1,000 audio books, all borrowed from the local library.
Everything from Shakespeare to James Michner to Anne Rice.
I felt productive, made myself good and tired. It allowed me to attend college full time, provided flexibility, fueled me with cold, hard cash, funded my addiction to fashion and afforded me the more then occasional trip to Cancun and other exotic locations.
I remember when I worked for him, lets call him Earl;
It was his hay-day.
Books coming out, people clambering for his attention, interviews in the paper, appearances on Oprah and then there was good old me, folding his underwear.
He lived alone, but thats a secret, don't tell anyone.
He was quite clever, so much so that he could get away with stupidity.
He hated cucumber and once threw one at my head to illustrate his point. Cucumbers bounce, FYI.
He was temperamental at times.
Had a wicked sense of humor.
His laugh was infectious.
I found him unpredictable.
He liked jam on his fried eggs.
He loved frozen Snickers.
He put me in the middle of his quarrels.
I hate being in the middle.
Once he gave me a thousand dollars and told me to go buy him some plates.
I found that task daunting.
I came back with an entire kitchen; forks, knives, bowls, pans, plates and even a refrigerator's worth of food, including plenty of fresh vegetables and one flying cucumber.
I'm afraid he seemed lonely.
He loved to talk to me.
Sometimes I listened, sometimes I hid from him.
Sometimes he offended me.
He called me Whitey and Cinderella and BabyGirl and _itch.
He often asked me to live there with him and told me I was his best friend.
I think maybe at times I was.
Sometimes I got bored in the house because he rarely left his reclining chair and made little to no mess.
Once, while hiding at the back of the house, I made myself extra useful and alphabetized his _orn collection, (rhymes with "horn collection")
Yep I did.
Alphabetization produced one of those infectious laughs of his, once discovered and yet we never spoke of it. We wouldn't need to, you see?
Thats how we were.
It was long ago.
It was a hard job in so many ways for me.
I loved/hated it and him,
but most days, I loved the whole disastrous position I found myself in.
I wanted that job to last forever.
The pay was good.
I had a comfort zone,
though the company most definitely had its ups and downs.
There was always something for me to giggle about when I drove home after work.
His celebrity made him inexplicably intriguing for me.
His sexism toward me made my skin crawl, but I could handle that, some of the time.
I remember the day I quit.
Had something to do with him needing to keep the heat in the house very high, even in the hotness of summer. I never complained, sweat pouring down my back, dripping off the tip of my nose... and then one day this suggestion, "if it's too hot for you in here, why don't you take your top off?"
The least smart statement I repeatedly make is, "I can't wait"... For example, recently I'd said to myself, over and over, "I can't wait for Spring Break" and I couldn't, because it was when I'd travel with my kids and when I'd get to see my rarely seen sister. Though I couldn't wait, I did of course and the moment it came, the moment I saw her, wouldn't you know, immediately I began wishing that the very thing I'd waited for was still weeks away and not just happening. That realization lead promptly to a great big stomach ache on account of the missing I'd be doing once I left her, which inevitably occurred... and my belly still hates me, because I love her so... I wait a lot for the things I can't wait for, it seems. When I worked as a nurse I had an abundance of patience, but only with my patients (insert laughter here) When I was a child, I couldn't wait to grow up get married have babies move away go home see the world be whatever the heck I was meant to be And still I can't wait for most of those things, though some have happened in a different order then I'd waited for them to come and some have unhappened, or may never happen, but most likely will, just not sure when, but I can't wait to see... I can't wait for the swimwear I just ordered to arrive via two day express mail for an extra $17.99 (shhh), but the bill for those tiny bits of fabric can crawl here, far as I'm concerned I can't wait for summer, except the ceiling fans haven't been installed in the house I couldn't wait to find, buy, close on and move into and so Summer, don't jump here just yet, despite my out loud wishing for you. Come soon, but not just yet, wait for me to call the electrician. I can't wait for someone to call me and ask me out for a date or??? Or get lost, leave me alone or someone just notice me while someone else changes or grows or... or I don't know. I often ask for advice on what I should or shouldn't wait on and then in turn I dole out more tips on sitting tight or taking leaps ... etc, etc, etc. I think that maybe I ought to say things like "I don't know" more often then my well worn "I can't wait". Your thoughts? Never mind, I simply can't wait for you to answer me. I roll back and forth between patience and action I am patient, really I am, much more so then I could have ever imagined and it's good, but it's not always right. Sometimes you have to move and knowing the difference between patience and resistance can be tricky. In May I'll go gluten free, but why wait? Next week I'll talk to the financial planner. Tomorrow is coincidentally next week; when did that happen? Soon I'll return the tight shoes, book summer vacation, make time for my gym, leave the house past dark with a man maybe even but maybe I'll wait. I don't know. Soon I'll move forward Forgive someone Forget someone Buckle down Remember things better Treat myself to a... Soon I won't be waiting for what I waited for and then I don't know... Yesterday, my son picked lemons for me from my father's little tree, except they were oranges, which looked a lot like the nearby lemons that hung waiting to be picked on the lemon tree just a few feet further away. He apparently couldn't wait to begin picking and grabbed what was closer. We laughed about the sack full of yellowy oranges. He called them Loranges and then I named them O-mens... Tonight I said, "lets make lemonade out of L'Omens" and we did, with the Loranges and it was incredible...and I don't know what comes next. If patience is a virtue then what is action? Action is also a virtue and I have the Lorange-ade to prove it.
Do what you will, when you will, but you know, do it when I want you to, whenever that may be
s u p e r f l u o u s
Seventh grade Spelling Bee. It was my winning word.
MEANING; excessive, being more then is required.
Today in preparation for my daughter's upcoming Birthday party, I made a Bingo card with 25 different, carefully selected photos from her life. These photos, each of them defining moments, I realize as I look with love and appreciation at every, unique and precious image. The task took hours and I wept like a fool at least three different times as I worked on this project. The pictures, that girl, her life, who she is, what she's meant to me, Oh Boy, or should I say... Oh Girl. My love for her is superfluous to say the least and you know that saying "least" is not possible for me, because I am - well you know, (see above)
I loved seventh grade English and I loved my seventh grade English teacher even more. When I wrote about him, in my rather bold, short story that year; the very clean shaven, small framed, impeccably dressed, tidy, eloquent, middle aged and never married fellow - who, in my essay, conveniently and totally impossibly falls in love with his eager student - a student which resembled me in every conceivable way... I got an "A" and a comment, "You can do better". I took it to mean that I could do better then the A. Superfluous
Is anyone aware of defining moments as they happen or do we only understand/click into them as defining when we look back years later?
Two things come to mind - #1) everything I do is superfluous my love for those I love, my cooking, the gifts I give, the way I shop, the effort I make, the way I live, even the time I waste and mistakes I make are more then is required.
AND #2) Dear 7th Grade Teacher, Let me just inform you that, I did not and likely could not do better (yet).
someone teach me how to just give a little bit anyone? anyone?
S u p e r f l (heres the tricky part) u o u s...
Thank goodness for rarely used table clothes in rarely opened, weird, trunk-like things built into kitchens by previous owners, where one might store table clothes that come in handy when they decide they want a drink of water after already going to bed too early for ordinary grown ups.
I have a girl who's a Girl Scout.
A girl too shy to impose on others to try and sell her own cookies for herself, so I buy them all...
I have a son who's a mild yet confident self starter with time on his hands this week, who took it upon himself to sell those cookies in our relatively new neighborhood.
He's a little brother who wants to aid his sister, so he knocked on one door and sold cookies on good-faith.
I have a neighbor who comes to the door with four dollars she owes my son, who sold his sister's cookies. A neighbor who is clear that 8:53 p.m. on a Friday night is an acceptable hour to approach a closed door with a brightly lit kitchen visible through the window. A neighbor who thinks nothing of a mother wearing something that looks like a toga when she answers the door.
"Your son is very sweet", she says.
"You have no idea", I think to myself.
We are the naked family.
I probably need a life.
I must be doing one thing right if I have a son who sells his shy sister's cookies for her.
Next time I want to see an example; proof of an honest to goodness, working, loving, male/female relationship, I'll look inside my own house.
I think about the music my parents used to play. How I loved it. How I knew and still know the words to every song from my very early childhood on...even the most obscure, even the golden oldies so old their gold is now patina, tinted green with age.
Theres a constant soundtrack for every event throughout my entire life. As far back as I can recall, musics playing.
There were Lay Ladies Laying on Big Brass Beds Special Angels Tomatoes-Tomatos Little Surfer Girls Tiny Dancers Guys With a Pin to Burst Your Bubble Witchy Women Wise Men Saying Only Fools Rush In Brown Eyed Girls and Sweet Caroline
I'd like to take this opportunity to say a very heartfelt F YOU to Andy Williams, Neil Diamond, The Lettermen, Johnny Mathis, those Beach Boys, and even Elvis. The list goes on and on and on. The Beatles get an exemption on account of Back in the USSR, Happiness is a Warm Gun and Rocky Raccoon, but everyone else is quite likely in large part to blame for my heightened sense of romantisim, my unrealistic expectations and my over emphasis on LOVE and the act of being IN LOVE, which I sometimes think is truly just an act - but, ah, not really. I look back on the love I've known and felt, not the Love Love, not the less complicated kind like I have with my precious kids, my sibs, my pals, my folks, my pups. Love I have for chocolate, dry chardonnay, white roses, sunset - those loves, well they're simple, they're a given, they fill me up. What I puzzle over is the other love, the kind those mushy songs taught me about, lead me to obsess over, encouraged me to wait on, believe in, hold my breath till it came, to die for...
I look back at ALL the loves in my life. I think about my first love and how easy that was, till I decided to complicate it, probably because it seemed too easy and as the songs say - easy love can't be real. I think about the loves that followed, flirtations, distractions, devotions and the heart ache as well as the bliss of every relationship I've had. I think about where I've put my energy in more recent years and on whom I pinned my hopes and why. How I'd convince myself that I was over someone only to find that no matter what and no matter who else came along, I'd always return to just that one; that more then likely unrealistic, over emphasized, highly romanticized and as many of those old and plenty of new love songs imply, that potentially hazardous love. Do people make Valentine Resolutions? If not, then how about I start the ball, or in this case, how about I start the heart rolling?
How about I resolve to never again hold out, hang on and pine for anyone who does and says anything other then....
Anything You Need - You Got it
And by the way - Have I told you lately that I love you? I do. Happy Valentine's Day.
I love life and how it knows just when to throw a curve ball.
I admit that there are times, many times where absolutely I could be found gloating to other parents about what some might consider an adversity.
I believe I've said, "All girls should have Asperges Syndrome", dozens of times over the past couple of years and I meant it, but not really. Sometimes I just want to make it seem like an utter blessing...
For the most part, my daughter does lack a certain drama that seems to hitch itself to the star of many tween females as they mature - and I do relish that. I'm often grateful for the differences.
I love that I pick her clothes and that she easily agrees with my choices. Though it was hard to drag her away from those white, plastic, 9 dollar, velcro closing tennis shoes she wore tirelessly, year after year. The ones I could only find replacement for at certain Walmarts, worn solely by my child and a handful of third world, pseudo nurses parked outside of inner city drugstores asking for loose change on behalf of a charity I never heard of but supported just based on their sneakers alone.
I love her self imposed discipline with sweets. I love that she must do her homework before watching TV. I love that she brushes her teeth exactly as instructed. I love that she seems to care little for boys and shopping, doesn't want an Iphone, won't succumb to fast food and has never tasted soda and that soda is loathsome to her simply because I allowed her to watch "Fast Food Nation" multiple times when she was four years old. I love the uniqueness of my daughter and her gift of Asperges and I love it's affect on my life through her, my incredible child.
I admire her. I cherish her. I wouldn't trade her for the world and I wouldn't change a thing about her if my life depended on it...but sometimes I want to run away from her, even now that she's wearing better shoes.
It's a trick, I think to myself.
The calmness, the flat demeanor, the lack of drama, it's a trick.
Or maybe she's a volcano, sleeping mostly and dormant, beautiful to look at, inviting and majestic, but then it blows and all hell breaks loose and those of us who worship and live beside the sleeping volcano get pelted with heaps of deadly, boiling hot, molten lava and we are ill prepared for the rare and unexpected fallout to say the least.
Last night my volcanic daughter erupted and last night I reeled with worry over what to do and how to do it and I felt her feelings like I feel my own and man how I missed the cool, calm and collected version of her.
I slept like a stone all night, safe in the depth of slumber from what daylight hands us.
Words like "bullied" and names like "hairy arms" are waiting for her at school, the very school she wins academic awards at and seems to love most days. The one I say challenges her perfectly, the place I've thanked God for. How can a good mother allow her great child to walk into school when there in lies the ugliest hardship of life? I need to protect her and I can't, but I can't accept that, because I never have to deal with it! I only have to persuade her to wear cooler shoes. She's easy peasy, until she's not and again, I'm ill prepared.
So today, as school let out, I met her in my usual parking space, with an unusual amount of anxiety in my heart, a smile plastered across my face, two dogs on leashes and a perfect, red Honeycrisp apple sliced into 8 equal sections, just the way she likes it (THANK YOU again Fast Food Nation, who knew?). And together we went down to the edge of the world. There beside the wild ocean, we talked about how hard life can be. There we let go of our collective worries. There we discussed subtleties and techniques of how exactly one might let things roll off your back. There I suggested witty comebacks but sometimes I'm very wrong and so we let go of that idea too.
And as I watched her walk away from me; my precious girl and her big, terrible, awful, lovable monster of a dog beside her, I realized I was not just letting her go, I was in fact letting go of her - a little bit. I let her separate from me, put some distance between us. I let her grow up a little and venture from the soft, safe sand to the jagged edged jetty and I trusted that the waves wouldn't come sweeping up to wash her away from me and out of my life. I let go and believed that someone besides just me would keep looking out for her, understanding that she was really very similar to other girls her age, just like the rest of em, a tween...
Tween God and me, Tween heaven and earth.
Between,
Beneath
Before and after
Everything, my love for my daughter.
