In Memorium

For as many issues that divide us as a nation, it is our military that often unites us. Generations of men and women dedicated to serve a country and a people that, at times, have protested against the very institution that sustains the military. Ironic I suppose and very sad. Sad when we forget how significant and crucial the armed forces and each individual that makes up these proud and strong and indispensible units are to each of us. Today, when we put out our American flags and we visit cemetaries and the graves of those who we've known and lost; when we attend ceremonies for the heroes of the past and present, when we visit the names and the biograpies of all of the soldiers who so willingly gave their lives for the very freedom that we enjoy today, we must pause and remember them and what their lives have meant.

To fight for something that you believe in, whether that be behind a computer screen or in an office building or on the battlefield of a country that doesn't want you there is a sacrifice in and of itself. But to do so voluntarily and to wake up each morning knowing that you have a job to do that serves something bigger than yourself and that millions of people are counting on you to perform, whether you want to that day or not, well, the word hero doesn't seem to cover it. They deserve our respect. They deserve our gratitude. And they deserve it every day, not just today.

I spend today thinking about all of the soldiers and even moreso, about all of the parents who have a son or daughter or children, out there, somewhere, training, defending, waiting, dying. Tonight I will say a prayer for all of those families who grieve someone who they've lost in a War or in a scenario that was unexpected, like 9/11. Tonight when I look at my own three sons, sleeping safe in their beds, I will remind myself that one day, I might be one of those parents and so I send them my love and my respect and my hope that their pain lessens just a bit each day.

No matter your dissatisfaction with our government or our president or the manner in which issues are being handled or not being handled at the moment; today is about them, each one of them, in their uniforms, wearing their dog tags, standing up for our rights. And thank God that they do. Thank God. To all the servicemen and women who've given their lives so that I can sit here and type this, thank you. To all of the parents of those soldiers, may you have some peace knowing that we are grateful and to all of the soliders out there today, standing on a line, waiting for a call, waiting to be shipped out, wanting to come home, you have my profound respect and gratitude and I pray that each of you lives and dies with the dignity that you so rightfully deserve. God Bless the military...

Body Image

What the fuck is wrong with people? I mean seriously, if at some point you can no longer look at a magazine cover and wish that you were "that thin" or "that pretty" and you are middle aged, then you need more than a shrink let me tell you; you need to crawl in a hole because, as you've failed to realize by now, how you look is never going to make your life what you want it to be. Just ask Heidi Montag.

You know, my body pisses me off. It doesn't fit into the size clothes I want and sometimes it is bloated and crazy, as in hormonally crazy. Sometimes it has the worst migraines ever and I am huddled over the toilet bowl yacking out the contents of my stomach. Sometimes it just doesn't want to do anything except lay down and watch Oprah and sometimes, it screams at me that it wants something that I refuse to give it. It's a relationship that insists on communication yet it is often a very one sided argument. I expect my body to do what I want and yet, I've rarely listened to it. That is, until now.

It's interesting the concept of loving your body for what it is and there is a lot to be said for acceptance. At some point, I had to take inventory and really assess the strengths and weaknesses of my skin and my muscles and my heart and think about what I've put my body through and how it has always been there, morning after morning, sometimes creaky but still, it keeps trying to do what I ask. And what do I do? I abuse it to the point where it sometimes hurts to get out of bed. Creaks and cracks and shooting pain in my lower back. Albeit, some of this is just a side effect of getting older, but much of it is due to misuse or neglect of some of the things that are the very best about my body. Tonight, as I swam with Nancy, who incidentally kicks my ass in swimming and she might not want me to tell her age but she is older than I am and she makes me hope that I am as awesome as she is in 20 years, I thought about my body. Putting my face in the water, pulling through and I relished the thought that I can feel myself getting stronger; it is taking time and patience, two things that I don't have much of, but I am starting to remember how good it feels to love your body.

I have asked and I continue to ask so much from my heart and my lungs and my skin and my legs and I count on a sense of physical well being to be able to function in my daily life with 3 boys and a husband and a part time job. But for a long time, well over a decade, I've neglected myself and because I have, I tailspinned into a place that I thought that I'd never be and maybe I was even depressed for awhile. I'm not sure. But what I found out was that, growing up an athlete, made certain demands on me physically that I had let go of when I started having babies. I made other things my priority and I told myself that it didn't matter as long as I could do what I needed to do. Try to eat well, sleep, exercise when I could, but soon, those important factors fell to the wayside and late night feedings, grading papers, making meals, giving baths and just trying to fit in a shower now and then took up the majority of my time. I accept that now, but I didn't then. And, of the few regrets that I have, that is one that I didn't recognize sooner. I love what my body has done for me and, you could not pay me enough to trade it for someone else's. No one. And I read Playboy so I've seen a lot of hot bodies, let me tell you, but still, scars and stretch marks and all, it's mine and I bear each spot and each line with full awesome responsibility.

I've been pregnant five times. I've had 3 children and two miscarriages... I have torn cartilege in my right knee and both of them pop and crack when I get out of bed. I have a multitude of lines and crow's feet on my face and my skin is always just a little bit red. I have spider veins and my brother Steve says that I have "tree trunks" for legs which, incidentally, I do. My hair is starting to gray and I need caffeine most afternoons just to get me through the rest of the day. I forget things, all of the time, wait, what was I saying? I don't take enough vitamins and I definitely don't get enough sleep or enough sex (we'll talk about that one later, I think my husband is holding out on me until I cook him dinner) and I have glasses now. I have really poor posture and I forget to wear my sunglasses a lot. I have really dry skin and I bite my lower lip when I'm thinking or mad and I also grind my teeth really badly when I sleep, at least that's what I'm told. And shockingly, even with all of these maladies, my body lets me do what I will to it, day after day and only now, 41 years into the journey, is it starting to ask for something in return. A tiny bit of acceptance.

Let's face it, I look more like a linebacker than a cheerleader, more like Simon Cowell than Kara DioGuardi and much more like Pink than Britney Spears (I'm especially happy with that last comparison as I cannot stand Britney Spears). But, that's what's great about me, that I look just like me and I'm good with that.

I swam 24 laps tonight in the pool. I did yoga this week and I'm running 10 miles on Saturday. I also went hiking and I danced, gardened, jumped rope, played catch and ran 2 times on my own. I did this because my body graciously allowed me to and maybe I owe it a little more respect than I'd given it these past years. Maybe I need to remind myself of the good that I see when I look in the mirror or when someone smiles warmly at me. Maybe I needed a good swift kick in the ass to remind myself that I'm good enough just the way that I am and that when I finally do that, that my body will feel that way too. Funny what we put ourselves through and how harshly we judge the most insignificant things. In a society obsessed with beauty and youth, we have to constantly tell ourselves that we are good enough, that we are beautiful and that we can compete. But it makes me sad to think of such definitive terms. So I am giving myself permission to redefine my own self image, particularly that of my body. I am going to be thankful for the strength and the endurance and the stamina that are the best qualities about my body and I am going to forgive myself for pushing too hard sometimes or not enough and I am going to enjoy bending over to tie my shoes and being able to read a book up close without glasses and still eat spicy food without getting heartburn. I am going to enjoy wearing sexy lingerie and heels and I am going to love drinking a glass of wine every night, well, maybe half a glass and when we legalize marijuana soon, I might even sit on my back deck and smoke a joint with my husband just because.

Being a woman is difficult even on the best days. The demands that we put on ourselves to look good, to feel good, to be the best are daunting. Maybe if we just sat for a minute each day and thought about how we kicked ass in the pool or how we did 10 pushups or walked that extra block or how we sat still for 45 minutes while our kid sang in the chorus, then we could go a bit easier on ourselves and our body image. Maybe if we just stopped being so fucking obsessed with being someone else's age instead of our own, then acceptance would come more easily, more readily. I embrace 41 and I will embrace every year that lets me live just a little longer and a little better and as long as I get to do it in this body, I'm good with that.

We waste too much time on what isn't when we should really be concentrating on what is: possible, probable, likely, lovely, kind, beneficial, heartwarming, selfless. So tomorrow, when you ask yourself, Should I have that extra doughnut or another vanilla latte? Really, what are you asking? And, what is your body telling you to do? Now, go look in the mirror and remind yourself that no matter what the Playmate of the Year looks like or how thin your next door neighbor is or how gorgeous that co-host of whatever show that you watch, is, that she is not you and she never will be...

Birthdays

I don't really feel like writing, but I'm going to anyway since it's my birthday and I guess, at the very least, that there will be a post with the date on it. Is that a good enough reason? Probably not, but here goes anyway. I had a great day today. Went to the Dodger game with my siblings: Rich, Steve and Christine, with my huband, Tim, my nephew, Luke, and with Jake and Nick. We didn't take Ty which turned out to be a blessing as he most certainly would have flown off of the top tier of seats where we were seated. We ate too much, yelled too much and sang along with all of the songs that were played between innings. We bought overpriced hats and beer and soda and we had the best freaking time, well, at least I did. It seemed like everyone did.

Turning 41 really doesn't mean much to me. The number that is; I guess I'm not yet at the point where the number renders me paranoid or leads me to start lying. Nope, I like to look at it simply. I have accomplished many things in my 41 years, most of which I set out to do deliberately and, of course, a few that I did not. But, that's probably the case for everyone. I'm not happy all the time, I'm not as thin as I'd like to be. I eat too much chocolate, I forget to wear my sunglasses, I don't sleep enough and, most days, I'd like to laugh more. Some days though, like today, make up for that tenfold. My brothers and my sister are always a fun crowd to spend the day with and we just don't do that enough.

I really hate it when people say, "Don't you wish you were 20 or you could be 17 again?" Honestly, Hell no. Somedays I'd like my old body back, but I really think this and I'm not bullshitting right now, I had my chance to be 17 and 20 and 28 and 32 and I was granted a year for each of those ages; a year to take advantage of and to make things happen and, I am where I am now because of the way that I lived those years. Do I regret some of those years or choices? Of course. Would I change some of the decisions? Probably. Do I feel self pity and remorse because I can't? Absolutely not. I feel better than I ever have, even on my worst day because now, coming into my forties, I feel like the physical, the emotional and the mental are starting to align. And, with a bit more time, that hopefully, I can reach a place where life becomes less about "have to" and more about "want to." I would really like that.

So, another year gone by and in a few short hours, it will be someone else's turn to blow out the candles and open a gift or read a card or be visited by friends and family. I wish you all another year filled with surprises and laughter and Dodger games with your loved ones! Happy Birthday to me! :)

Dying

I stood outside of my classroom tonight and tried to console a student who is about to make a decision that will alter her life and that of her mother's; a decision that will change the very core of who she is as a human being. I watched her try to hold it together as she sobbed and attempted to convey how important it was to her to stay in the class and to finish her homework and to pass the course; I listened and tried to think of something comforting and philosophical and enlightening to tell her. And I couldn't. In that moment, all I could do was give her a hug and reassure her that she was doing the very best that she could and that it would all come together. After she walked away, I thought about where she was headed and what she was going to have to do in the next few days and for the rest of the class and into the night, I thought about dying; not death, that final moment, but the process of getting there and how grueling and terrifying and devastating and hopeful that process can be.

Coversations about what happens after death are rampant. Beliefs in spirituality and reincarnation, redemption and damnation are just a few, but what makes me pause is the process of getting there; watching someone you love drift away slowly and how that impacts you as someone who is a part of it. We put so much emphasis on the "newness" of life. When a baby is brought into the world, there are showers and parties and registries and the sharing of advice, hand me downs, heirlooms. There are stories behind names and even birthdates sometimes. The birth of a child symbolizes everything that is promising in life, it is a beginning. But, the process of dying, leading up to that moment when that "life" exits the universe is not only as important, it is more so. If birth is entering the class and life is the term paper, then dying is the grade; looking back to see if what we set out to accomplish is in fact where we ended up. Did we win the Pulitzer and with how much dignity?

No one likes to think about death or how they are going to go. It's morbid and really, it's pointless. You can't stop it, can't prevent it, can't change the fact so why bother. Maybe the real problem with dying is that you don't know when and because you don't, you're not sure how to do it properly. I like this notion though. I like the implication of dying as an art; that there is a poetic way to leave this world equal to how you entered it. That every human being has a chance to say her goodbyes and read his last book and share all the memories that she thought were long forgotten. I like to think that at the end of someone's life, even if they don't know it's the end that there are a few moments of absolute clarity, like the picture is crystal clear and in those moments, you get a chance to feel whatever you want the way it was the first time that you experienced it. You close your eyes and there's your mom holding the birthday cake that she made for you on your fifth birthday, there's the recital that you were in when you were 8 and about to sing "We wish you a Merry Christmas," there's the time that you stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon and realized how vast the world is, bigger than you ever imagined and there's the moment when someone tells you that they love you and that they will always love you, forever. And when you open your eyes, you're ready for whatever comes and you can reach that level of dignity that everyone deserves in their last moments of life. I like to think that, but it's hard to sometimes when I remember situations or hear stories or listen to someone tell me that their mother is dying and they don't know what to do. And then the poetry becomes noise; a lot of pain and fear and guilt and sorrow and I, like my student, don't know what to do.

I've been to many funerals, to wakes, to receptions where people share anecdotes and moments about the deceased that involve laughter and tears and events that are universal to those who are sharing them. There is food and music sometimes and photos documenting the memories of the person and how they related to the others in their lives. There are videos and speeches; tributes to a life lived. And then, sometimes, there is nothing more than the burial; a quiet end to a simple life. But it is the getting there, the journey that makes me wonder when my student will make the decision to end her mother's life or not and how she will face it. I hope, for her and for her mother that the moment will be a peaceful one.

I will turn 41 tomorrow. Birthday. Deathday. Doomsday. Another year in the journey, gone. Maybe it will be my last, maybe it will be my finest or maybe it will just be another calendar of 365 days that are filled with bill paying, yelling at kids, avoiding cooking, running, going to church, having coffee with friends... Maybe it will be the year that makes the 40 before it seem irrelevant. I don't know what's around the bend and that uncertainty is the same that my student is feeling; that notion that at any moment, it can all change. We know this, we are reminded of our mortality often and yet we waste so much time and so many opportunities. In the last decade of my life, I've thought about people from my past and I find myself mentally saying, "I'd like to see him or talk to her before I die; before I die." Interesting idea, just like the bucket list. I'm going to add those names to my list and make out a map so that when I see them, I can say or at least tell myself, that I've come full circle and that each of them was a part of my journey.

"You're not that old mom" spoken by a kid and maybe truthfully, but also with a tinge of pity for someone who they love who is starting to see more crow's feet and laugh lines and bigger bat wings, whose knees crack when she gets out of bed and who has trouble sleeping, who gets heartburn from spicy potato chips and who can only have two glasses of wine before she's drunk; a woman who has to write things down to remember them but who then forgets to look at where she wrote them. Age, aging; there is no remedy and there is no cure and contrary to what most magazines preach, I like the fact that I look my age. I've earned it.

A few years ago, I took a class of eighth graders to a retirement community as part of a service project and the kids were intimidated at first. The "old" are different some of them said, they won't remember anything, they can't walk, they can't function; what do I tell them? What will I say? They had so many concerns and yet, ten minutes after they found someone with whom to sit and talk, their faces said something entirely different. I walked around and listened and interestingly, so many of the conversations were about what the retirees thought about THEM and the questions were directed at the students rather than the other way around. Of course, there were stories about when "they" were young and their memories of World War II and Vietnam and when JFK was shot and the kids loved to hear these stories. There were moments when the residents got teary eyed, talking about their grandchildren and how their own children don't come as often to see them. And, at the end of the day, there were hugs and sharing and invitations to "come back and visit." The students wrote about their experiences and then they mailed their essays to the retirement community so that their new "friends" could read them. I hoped that some of them would go back and visit, but even if they didn't; sharing a tiny piece of that journey with people of a different generation, changed them. Maybe not profoundly, but in that instance, showed them the possibility that what they thought or think about someone and their journey is not always correct and, more often than not, it's not even close.

I thought today, "I'm dying as I write this and really, I have been since the day I was born; a little more each day." It's humbling to think of one's life in those terms. Dying is like the slow or even sudden shedding of one's clothes: moments, ideas, thoughts, beliefs, fears and, it is the responsibility of those who are still here to gather them as they are shed; to share them, keep them, feel them. To experience the passing of a human being is a privilege, much like sharing in the welcoming of a life. Grief is as powerful as joy; the other side of an equation that everyone is faced with but that no one seems able to solve.

Tonight, on the eve of my birthday, I will pray for a dignified and peaceful death for my student's mother and I will pray for my student as she faces a decision that no one should have to face. And for myself, I will pray for another year to create more moments.

Jake

Happy Birthday Jake... I love you, Mom

Customer Service

I stood behind a woman today at Baskin Robbins who made the girl behind the counter scoop her out another "double" because the girl put the Rocky Road on top of the Vanilla instead of the other way around. Interestingly though, the woman never asked in the first place for specific ice cream placement. Nor, was she polite about it. The girl, Jeanine was more than gracious and as I watched the customer leave the premises without a "thank you" or even a smile of appreciation to Jeanine, I was catapulted back in time to my own life experience in customer service; just as I was reminded of instances daily where customers are not just rude to employees of various establishments, but where there is an air of superiority about them that only reinforces my thesis (if I ever write one on the subject) that the average person should, as a mandate, work in the service industry for a prolonged period of time, at least once in their lifetime. When this period is over, they will be evaluated by a panel comprised of their bosses, their peers and all of the customers (who would, fairly,)consist of every employee that they had ever treated like shit in their daily quest to purchase something or to have a meal or to obtain a service. An "eye for an eye"in service, if you will.

I lived a lifetime in restaurants; at least that's how it felt all those years that I waited on tables. There was my indoctrination; training by a superior, mastering the technique and the multi-tasking required to provide excellent service. There was my own rigorous individual test in which I was sent out on a solo mission; an evening spent balancing, pacing, running, calculating, smiling, bantering, placating, flirting, laughing, crying and several other "ings" that might not be appropriate to mention at this juncture. Lastly, came the schedule, where I was placed according to senority and sometimes by rank, skill and how short the skirt was that I was required to wear at the given establishment. By the time that I reached the pinnacle of my food-serving career, I was training new servers, baptizing them in the waters of social immortality; teaching them how to navigate and to succeed amongst the heathens. In the end, I was hopeful that someone would learn something from my experience and even more from my mistakes.

I worked with some of the most fascinating, interesting and ecletic people you would ever hope to meet: Ph.d candidates, servicemen, high school dropouts, drug addicts, nurses, mothers, fathers, friends. And, I watched and felt many things in those years from 18-23. I watched friends marry, have babies, get promoted, move away. I watched them make bad decisions, great decisions and sometimes, painfully, no decision at all. I watched some of them love and lose and unfortunately, die. I learned how to receive praise and to garner others with it and I treasured those moments when I could sit with my friends after work and share stories of how heinous the night was or how wonderful the lunch rush was. I watched people get cancer, get fat, get sober, get religion, get hired, get fired, get themselves to a place where they could stay for the rest of their lives. I made some lifelong connections by waiting on people, by serving the public, by having the great opportunity to provide a meaningful service to someone who I might never have met or ever would see again. And, even on my worst days, I valued every moment that I got to do that and I miss it, I really miss it.

Manners aside, it shames me as a human being when people are unkind to those who are trying to do a job. Albeit, some of them should not be working in customer service as they are both inept and inexcusably rude. This probably goes without saying, but the majority of employees out there are just trying to function, to do a job that, especially right now, they don't want to be doing. They might be having a shitty day too and then they have to deal with "Rocky Road placement" over there. Or maybe they have to deal with the woman who writes a check for two items, who refused to let you go ahead of her because your 3 year old is screaming, "I need to pee, I need to pee" and who then bites his brother on the leg in an effort to release some of the bladder tension. Or, possibly, they might have to deal with the woman who insists that the coffee isn't "hot enough" even though the owner brewed her a fresh pot right in front of her face. Or the customer who pulls out a hundred dollar bill before ordering his meal and who then tells his girlfriend to order up to 98.00 worth of stuff and you KNOW you're getting screwed out of a tip on that one. Let me pause here for a second and tell you, if someone does their job and that job requires you to tip them, tip them AT LEAST 20%. I don't care what the fucking law says or what the unwritten rule is. IF THEY DO THEIR JOB IN A TIMELY AND APPROPRIATE MANNER, TIP THEM AT LEAST 20 PERCENT. Let that be your new guideline for going out. Because, let me tell you, for every good tip someone gets, they get at least 4 or 5 shitty ones and that means that they have to then pay for you being a cheap bastard by claiming tips that they did not make on their W-2 form but that they SHOULD HAVE MADE but didn't because you were an asshole. I am not saying that if the Baskin Robbins girl or the drycleaner or the guy at Starbucks has a tip jar out that you should automatically throw in your change or any other singles that you might have. Hey, my kid is never going to get any money unless he asks right, even if he knows I'm going to say no, he still tries, by asking. No, I'm saying that if you are out to dinner or drinks or the theater or the valet or using any other service where the employee must claim his/her tips as part of their taxable income, then you owe it to them, to give them that courtesy. And trust me, that extra two bucks or even ten bucks isn't going to be the end of you and if it is, then you shouldn't be going out in the first place. So go to Vons and stock up on Lean Cuisines because, if you are like most of America, you're heading toward obesity anyway, but that's a topic for another day. They provide a service, you pay accordingly. And, by the way, most of the "servers" and others who provide customer service are either A)students working their way through school B)trying to support themselves and pay bills on minimum wage or C)trying to support and raise a family on minimum wage. So, by that deduction, think of what you are cheating them out of just because you think that they didn't give you "exceptional" service and, I know for a fact, even when they do, many people do not reward employees accordingly.

Working in restaurants, because that is my personal experience, has trained me to do anything in my life. I understand the fundamental nature of people by working with and working for a vast blend of human beings who one might never encounter their whole lives, even if they were looking for them. Let me show you. There's the manager who lets you sneak food when he thinks no one is looking. The busboy who clears that extra table at the end of the night because you always slip him another 5 bucks, even when you don't have it. The trainer who treats her profession as if it is just that: she's punctual, accurate, polite, exact and she never makes mistakes. The hostess who has just turned 16 and who has aptly earned the nickname "jailbait." The couple, who sneaks looks and grabass when they think no one has any clue that they are together, but who everyone knows is together. The bookkeeper who is probably the glue that holds the place together because the manager is always at meetings or doing some other trivial thing while he pretends to be working. The cashier who always has a joke for you when you bring a check by and who wishes that she had more time to chat and at the same time, a job that required a little more thought so she brings books to read in her downtime which is plenty. The bartender who everyone wants to fuck at sometime during their tenure there and that includes both men and women, maybe even at the same time; if the office Christmas party was really good that year. And the customers, oh, the customers. Those who don't tip well are traditionally those who don't go out much, for whatever reason so they are socially stunted when it comes to the nuances of dining out. Those who yell and fight in public even though they know that everyone can hear them and, by the way, that everyone is listening and laughing at what they are saying. There are those who drink too much (good tippers) and those who don't drink enough (angry parents who couldn't get a sitter). There are prom tables (the worst) and couples on first dates (hilarious sometimes, especially when they are teenagers. The physical distance between them seems to be more the younger they get). The normal diners, the regulars, the aficionados of dining who we all love to wait on. They make the nights and days worth showing up for. The list goes on and on and the experiences are priceless.

So, what prompts us to be short and impatient and even cruel with the girl at the ice cream shop or the guy at Vons or the kid at Panda Express who continues to call us "Ma'am" even though we scowl at him every time he does it because we are only 40 and in our minds, still 30 and we couldn't possibly be old enough to be a "Ma'am." What makes someone think that they have the right, just because they are the customer to get good service. I know, that sounds like a ridiculous question, but, hey, that kid behind the counter is a person too and maybe they just failed an exam, or their car wouldn't start or their mom just died. Maybe we could give them the benefit of the doubt first and call them an asshole later, if that's the case. Or maybe we could just shut the fuck up and deal with it. DEAL WITH IT! Because in the end, it's not going to matter what kind of ice cream was on top or how fast she got the drinks to your table or if you got the seat next to the window. None of it is going to matter if you don't think of that person, in the same terms that you think of yourself; just another little piece in the huge jigsaw puzzle of people out there. Without one, the puzzle is incomplete: good, bad, incompetent, exceptional. The landscape is better because it has flaws.

So in conclusion your honor, I humbly propose that everyone should have to serve a stint in customer service so that the next time that they want to shaft someone for not doing exactly what they wanted, when they wanted, how they wanted it, that they will think twice before attempting to humiliate them or be rude to them or to not give them their rightful due. Ironic you know because most of the people who complain, like Rocky Road bitch wouldn't even get hired in the first place. Would you?

What did you mean by that?

Last night in class I was talking to my students about making inferences. I am a teacher in case I failed to mention that and you needn't be afraid, I no longer teach high school or middle school so your children are safe from my infected thoughts. They'll come to me when they're 18 and maybe by then you'll have had time to prepare them for offensive juggernauts like myself who can't seem to talk about much except what frustrates them and, sometimes, that which makes them laugh so hard that liquid comes through their nose. That's very painful by the way in case it's never happened to you. So, ANYWAY, my students are practicing with inferences in reading; an author implies, they infer. This is difficult to do in real life with a person sitting across from you and when you have the benefit of intonation and gestures and body language, but it's extraordinarily difficult to do in reading when one does not have the opportunity to "see" or "hear" the implication. The best way to understand this notion is to imagine that while you read what is there, to draw a conclusion, you must also consider what is not there and sometimes, what is not there is the entire point. The entire point.

"What do you mean by that?" "What do you mean by that?" How often have we heard that question and how often have we asked that question? More importantly, why do we ask that question? Is it an inherent need to really want to know what they meant by that or, more significantly, is it that we're just too insensitive and insecure and stupid even to be able to figure it out on our own? And, if we do figure it out, what do we do with it then because maybe it was nothing more than, I meant exactly what I said. I wonder if the world would be a better more productive place if we all just said what we thought. Then again, I've seen The Invention of Lying and I may have to rethink my position on that one.

Since the kids were off from school today, I took two of them to do some fun "kid" stuff; bowling, movies, arcade, lunch. It was a great day, easy, no real problems, that is until we went to the movies. Everything was fine until three teenagers decided to sit in the row behind me. The boys had moved away and were already sitting somewhere else as they cannot be seen with me in public, well sometimes, but not so much today. And, I kid you not, these three indolent, ridiculous kids would not stop talking. Every scene, every line in the movie, a comment or a scream or fake laughter or playing on their phones. I let it go on for about ten minutes before I turned to them and said, "Shut Up!" Now, I realize that I could have asked them to be quiet, even toned down my hostility, but I didn't want to leave any room for, "And what did you mean by that?" But, stupid as they were, one turned to me and asked, "What?" I said, louder, "Shut Up, you're making too much noise." Clarification, now even the most idiotic of the three could understand that, right? "Hey Bitch, fuck off" Really I thought to myself, want to go that route? Don't wince yet, it's not that bad. "Hey badass, either shut it or I'm going to get the manager" "Oooh, okay" another ridiculous voice. I smiled, grabbed my purse and went straight out, got the manager and walked back in. Strangely, they were nowhere to be found; not at all strange of course. Challenge a moron and most often, he'll back down; challenge a teenage moron and well, most are just too stupid to know how to do anything but run or maybe set something on fire, but that is limited in its retaliatory effect. So the rest of the movie was uneventful, just a stupid movie and we proceeded to make our way home after a relatively peaceful afternoon of quality time...

"What did you mean by that?" If you ever ask me this, I won't really have anything to say because I will have told you exactly what I thought; maybe even to the point where you wish I hadn't. Some people, friends mostly, say, well, you're just an honest person; you don't lie and you just tell it like it is. I guess, but that could also be yet another reason or more that people shy away from me; they don't want that honesty or they don't know what to do with it when they get it. I mean, I don't go around calling people names or belittling them. I just try to say what I think and I try to do so in a manner that is appropriate and contextually correct. I don't have Tourette's if you're picturing me just spouting off at random people; no offense to those with the syndrome, but I kind of get the impression that maybe some of you think that's me, sitting out in front of some store, verbally assaulting people as they walk by. Maybe in a few years when I don't have anything else to do; look for me then.

I was swimming at the gym the other day and the older ladies were doing water aerobics and when I stopped in the deep end to catch my breath, I noticed that one of them, a darling woman who looked at least 80 was wearing this adorable beige brimmed hat. Now, I will digress for a moment here and this might be something that you didn't know about me but now you do, I LOVE hats, all kinds of hats, even ones that don't look good on me. I'll buy them anyway and sometimes I'll don one and Tim will give me a weird look, but I don't care. Some women love shoes, I am crazy for the head coverings. So, I look at her hat with the brim and the white flowers and I smile and say hi and I tell her, "I love that hat, it's adorable and it looks great on you!" and the smile that she gave me. I mean, it made my whole day and THEN she said to ME, "I was going to tell you when you stopped, I've been watching you swim and I love to watch your stroke, it's so even and smooth." Now, I've always thought of myself as a hack in the water and maybe she was just being nice; she didn't really have to say anything except thanks and even then I wouldn't have expected that; a smile was enough. But the fact that she said that out loud made me smile and it made me glad that I had said something in the first place. And, that's all it took. What did I mean by that? I meant that I loved her hat and she meant that she loved my swimming stroke and we made each other's days by voicing our mutual compliments. What a lovely thought, that one does not have to mean anything more than what one means.

It's like with toddlers; give them broccoli or turnips or whatever they don't like to eat and they'll tell you, "I don't like that, yuck!" They'll grab your cheeks and pinch them and say, "I love you" and you know they mean it. They'll tell you "Go way now, I don't like you" and well, cest la vie. Maybe we learn to tell less truths as we get older, maybe we learn to lie more effectively or maybe we just don't want to hear what other people Really think, we want to hear the G rated version because it makes us feel better about ourselves, even when we don't deserve it. Whatever it is, I'll take the truth and save the politically correct behavior for those who give a shit. If I'm being a bitch then tell me, but depending on the day, you might want to stand out of reach of my fist.

With age comes wisdom or so "they" say. I don't know that I believe that because I know many young people who are much smarter, more effective people than some of the people I know who are my age or older. Maybe with age comes the ability to shake things off more easily and to say to yourself, you know what? Life's too short and too full to give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks and if they "meant" that, well then, I'll just have to live with that. Just please, don't ask me what I meant because, I will tell you...

Be inspired

I had this friend once and I don't know what happened to her. I am assuming that she is still on the planet, but I have no way of knowing. Even with technology, I cannot find her. Maybe someday I will, but for now, I will continue to imagine her as I remember her, from one single picture that she sent me in a letter when we were about 10 or 11 years old. I never met Bella Sankar in person. I never even spoke to her, never knew what her voice sounded like or how she laughed or how she carried herself, but, to this day, I still consider her a friend, a rather irreplaceable one.

In the fifth grade, at Victor School, in Carol Holdsworth's (still have a Christmas card that she sent me in my scrapbook because I LOVED her)class, we were assigned a writing project in which we'd be given a "pen pal" from another country. Excited did not begin to cover how I felt about the idea of sharing ideas with someone from some exotic place outside of Torrance or even California. The geography was just too big to imagine... and, I was not disappointed. Bella wrote to me from Trinidad and Tobago. She was 11 the first time she wrote and I was 10 and for me, reading that letter was like the Christmas morning when you are hunting for gifts and shredding them and throwing paper and then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a small box tucked back behind the tree and when you grab it, it has your name on it. Well, that's how I felt as I opened it up and made a new friend. The assignment was a one time letter, introducing ourselves, our culture and a little about our way of life. Most of the kids in my class found some very interesting facts about distant places and people and these were shared with all of the class. It was a great project; one that I will treasure forever. Some time, I'd like to see Carol Holdsworth again and tell her that Bella and I kept writing, well into our late teens. The last letter that I have from her was dated 1986. I was seventeen and she, eighteen. I wrote to her about a month after receiving it and the letter came back. I tried to send it again, but to no avail and, being seventeen, I figured that she moved or something happened and I had no alternate means of getting a hold of her. I like to think that it was the process that deterred the letter and not anything that happened to her. Being seventeen and self-centered too, I kind of forgot the whole thing until about ten years later. I thought about her, I still do and I know that one day, we'll meet. One day, we'll fill in all of the blanks and there will be a renewed friendship that began long ago in a classroom of all places. One day, our children will meet and exchange ideas and hugs and one day, that chapter will resolve itself and close on its own. The idea of Bella and her friendship inspire me; the idea that an accidental meeting can change you forever.

I was thinking today about how inspiration comes in the most obvious forms: worship, art, music, friendships, love but it can surprisingly come in the smallest, sometimes most menial forms and, from where you least expect it. Those are the forms and the moments that matter and those are the ones that change you forever. The simple act of opening a door for a stranger or saying hello to someone who works at the corner store or going out of your way to smile at someone who treats you with disdain for no apparant reason. It's hard to do sometimes, when you're having a bad day, when you're out of money, when your kids are sick or driving you crazy, sometimes you don't want to smile at a stranger, you want to look down at the ground and pretend like no one else is there. But that's the moment that begs us to be inspired; that reminds us that there might not be a twenty minutes from now or a tomorrow or a next year. So, maybe just for a second, we sigh and lift our heads up and maybe even say hello to that guy who always seems to be buying coffee when we are. Is that just a coincidence? Or, is he supposed to become a part of my life in some way, just like Bella.

Inspiration leads us to act benevolently. It leads us to inspire others and it is in this way that I am drawn to people, all people albeit in a good way or in a bad way. But I allow myself to be affected by their presence: the teller at the bank giving my kid a lollipop, the fireman who I went to high school with waving at me as I drive past him working on the street, the woman in the minivan who flips me off on the 110 for cutting in front of her to get to the carpool lane. Because I let them all affect me, I let them change me in some way, let their story, however brief, become a part of my story; of how I live, of how I perceive things, of how I want the world to be. When we open ourselves up to the pain and the joy and the sorrow and the hurt of others, we allow their moments and their stories to intertwine with ours creating this huge patchwork quilt of life experience. If we don't, then we close ourselves off and we tend to stay in this little box that doesn't allow for growth and creativity and change.

Today is Tuesday; Trash truck day. From wherever he is, the maniac can hear the sound that the truck makes as it pulls down the street and he freezes, listening and then he screams "Trash Truck" and then he runs to the front door. Today he was in the bathtub and I hadn't locked the front door. Turning as he streaked by, I bolted after him, his pants in hand and I caught him on the porch, telling him that he had to put his pants on before he could, as he does EVERY Tuesday morning, chase the truck down the street. As soon as he's semi dressed, he bolts but today, the truck stops and the driver gets out and hands him a mini trash truck which prompts him to say "Thank You" and which in turn, makes the driver smile. Later, on the return trip home, I open the box and hand him the truck and he stops, staring down at the little plastic truck and his eyes get very big and he holds it as if it is the one toy that he's been searching for all his life and he looks at me and goes, "Whoa" his mouth lingering on the "O" shape for longer than one might expect and then he says "Cool" which makes me laugh. And for the rest of the walk home, he grips that truck and for the rest of the day takes it with us everywhere, rolling it, talking to it, hugging it. It's his new best friend. And all it took was a moment when that driver decided to bring that truck for him or to grab one extra one just in case that naked kid came streaking out of that house, chasing him down. And that one moment created a lasting memory for my kid, maybe not forever, but for long enough.

Forgiveness, hugs, toaster waffles, AIDS Project Los Angeles, God, saying "thank you," students, Paul Newman, Doctors, the ocean, warm baths, generosity, birthdays, cures, books, tattoos, homeruns, romance, music, trees, snow, Calvin and Hobbes, bartenders, french fries, airplanes, nurses, teachers, playdough, the color yellow, roly poly bugs, backhoes, fuzzy socks with toe heaters, travel, orgasms, cupcakes, coffee, prayers, Elmo, family trees, chocolate, Elvis Presley tunes, cures, friendships, careers, Mr. Rogers, tulips, bowling, soccer season, leather jackets, recliners, garage sales, clean sheets, being on time, education, riding the ferris wheel, petting zoos, angels, fireplaces with roaring fires, elbow grease, yoga, love letters, humility, loss, unity, grace, dignity, pride, honor, imagination, respect, equality, innovation, redemption, love...you... just a few things that inspire me.

AIDS marathon says, "Run inspired and the world will change beneath your feet." Imagine what would change if you lived that way. See you soon Bella...

Coaching

Quite a few years ago, I was standing on the sideline of a soccer field watching a Boys game. At the time, they were 8 and 9 year olds, but most of them were 8. As the game went on, it became significantly clear that the coach had very little knowledge of the game and basically, he was an asshole. Obviously, that means many things, but probably the single most important "asshole" like quality of this coach was his inability to see anything beyond winning. Now, as far as I'm concerned and because this is my blog, my concerns are the only ones that matter, winning in competition is vital to the development and motivation of any promising athlete. No one sets out to lose a game or a match or a competition. No one sets out to get a "C" in a class. They may settle for the "C" or the tie or the loss, but they really tried to win. It's inherent. The desire to win is not something that needs to be nurtured or even developed. Kids who don't care or who don't want to win will most likely stop playing organized sports at some point in their early lives. For those few who continue on, they will continue to be a source of ridicule for coaches like the aforementioned "asshole" who couldn't seem to grasp the concept that not all 8 year olds shouldn't be weeping at the end of a game which was ultimately decided by one goal. He would rather throw his clipboard and turn in disgust, making noises that resembled a horse who might have been either disgruntled or who could not seem to have a bowel movement.

Interestingly enough, coaching has become more about the coach than it has about the players. This phenomena always existed, even back when I played sports, sometime in the Stone Age, but it is only recently that it has come to my attention, that many people who coach are not really coaching at all. Instead, they are vying for attention for themselves and ultimately hoping that through their belligerant and steadfast obsession with winning that everyone will then think that they are the "best" coach in the league and therefore, this person will garner even more praise and so on... Because this is the case and because I have boys who play organized sports, I am inclined to tell these particular coaches that I would rather have a blind, deaf mute coaching my children than a person who displays an emotional IQ equivalent to that of a sea slug. No disrespect to sea slugs.

I am a coach so I know therefore of what I speak or in this case of what I write. And, I am constantly amazed that in a volunteer organization that all one has to do is produce a driver's license and a clean background check. Of course, there is a "club" that consists of those parents who coach year after year and so there is an implicit understanding that if someone nods or smiles at you while you are registering your kids to play, then you must be qualified to coach. Now, there are clinics and recently there seems to be more advocacy regarding the "fairness" factor of team sports. Things like random substitutions and making sure that all players move to different positions and so forth. These rules were not instituted for fairness; they are merely a veneer behind which coaches hide in order to allow "those" kids to play when they must and to then concentrate on the 5 or 6 or however many "good" players the coach has that season. I have witnessed this firsthand, particularly in situations where a team is only given or has only drafted 1 or 2 key players. The coaches then constantly scramble to "fill the holes" so to speak. It's painful to watch. You don't believe me? Come down to any Little League game tomorrow and see for yourself.

The problem with all of this is that there are volunteers who might be qualified because they know the game or they played the sport, but they really aren't qualified because they're pricks. And these pricks spend at least 4-8hours a week with our kids. Now, if I have a problem with a coach or with a situation, I should be able to deal with it in a timely and rational manner. The pen is mightier than the sword, right? Wrong. Email, being the new means of team communication these days does not suffice for those moments when you want to scream at the person who is not only treating your kid unfairly, but others as well because he or she cannot seem to let go of their own inadequacies and realize that the game has nothing to do with them and has everything to do with the kids. And, because it's simply and email, one can just as easily hit Delete rather than Reply. Of course, one might argue that the benefit of having a fantastic coach will in turn bring out the best in the players and subsequently will lead to more wins. I am whole heartedly in favor of this argument and I will, as you know, tell you why.

I had a fantastic coach. I had several actually, but this one in particular, coached our high school soccer team. He wanted to win. There was never any room for doubt about if we weren't good enough or if we were marching into a situation that we couldn't win; he never let us think that. He trained us and shaped us into the best that we could be so that when we walked onto the field, the combination of preparation, competition and pride kept us at our best. Of course we faltered, everyone does, but in those moments, there were no tantrums or name calling or fighting. There were tears sometimes because when you work so hard at something and you fail to reach the goal, it hurts. But amidst those tears was sportsmanship, always sportsmanship. You shake your opponents hand willingly and you hold your head up and you gracefully exit the battlefield. Andy taught us that and I've carried those lessons with me throughout my life and I hope that in some small way, I display them every time I step on the field. And if I don't, or when I don't, then tell me I'm an asshole and we can move forward. Or not.

Coaching is a privilege and because it is, we should not allow ball busting, egotistical, self centered people to do it. We should expect something more, even if that means that there are less coaches and more teams. Coaching is not just volunteering. Anyone can volunteer. A coach is the person to whom you look for guidance and support during the competition of a sport or game that you love. And, the coach helps you love it even more. A coach says hello to you when you walk up at practice and they pat you on the shoulder when you make a mistake, telling you that everyone does and that you'll do better next time. A coach recognizes that Little League and AYSO and organizations that exist for everyone should then be for everyone; all the positions, all the learning, all the competition.
Coaches should be chosen more carefully and the expectations should be higher.

I realize that we cannot choose our children's teachers or their bosses or their spouses, although it might be kind of nice if we could, then again... but, we do have a right to expect that those who claim to know what they are doing, do in fact, know what they are doing! Ask yourself this, would you choose that person for your kid or do you just acknowledge that he or she is out there for one reason only - you guessed it, more playing time for their own kid.
I'm sick of the nepotism and the egotism. I'm sick of it all and you should be too.
See you at the game. I'll be the one swearing under my breath...

Marriage

I've been married for 119 years in dog time. I know what you're thinking, the same thing that I am; that's too long. Then again, what is too long these days? Oh, judging by the Real Housewives of "I don't live in the real world so how can anyone possibly use me as an example of anything other than someone who whores myself out for fame and money" insert city name here, I'd say a long time is oh, a year; give or take a few months. Maybe longer if you tattoo his name on your ring finger. Right Tamara Barney? Way to go dumbass, like we blondes didn't look stupid enough already. That woman makes Sarah Palin look like John Nash. Anyway, marriage. Straight marriage, gay marriage, multiple marriage, polygamist marriage, civil marriage, tv marriage, annulled marriage, starter marriage... go ahead and add one of your own here. In the end though, we ask ourselves, Why get married? And most of us will answer, Well, why not?

If you've ever been in love and someone asks you to spend the rest of your life with him/her/it/them, you might have been inclined to say yes. There was that moment when the heavens aligned and you felt "IT" that indescribable "THING" that made you believe that the two or three or however many of you could be happy for the rest of your lives. I envy that about people. Despite everything, hardships, deaths, pain, illness, strife, poverty, people will still find moments of joy in pledging their love to another human being. And, in those moments, even the most cynical of us will bow our heads or shed a tear or clap happily, wishing them the best even while we lay down 3 to 1 odds that it won't last 2 years. Sad, but ultimately true.

Is monogamy the solution then? Is there one "other" out there for you, meant for you, forever? Or, is there a possibility that as we grow and change and evolve, that we must ask our partners to do the same and if they can't, then it's time to move on? Is it reasonable to think that people don't tire of each other and that if happiness is possible at all, then we need to ignore the cookie cutter molds of traditional "marriages" as they existed and instead, begin to create a new language that suits the ever changing landscape of modern day relationships? A new way of beginning to define how we relate as couples, as families, as lovers? And, ultimately, if there can be a new language, then what happens to the definition of marriage as a religious, legal or civil institution? Do we eradicate any and all definitive terms and therefore labels as well? Can we marry someone and not feel like a complete failure because one day we wake up and realize that they are not the same person or, maybe we aren't either? I just don't know. I wish I did then this commentary could write itself. But in consideration of those who value the institution of marriage, like myself and because I believe that everyone who wants to should have the opportunity to marry, I hope that as a society we can begin to have more empathy for those who make the commitment in good faith; who struggle each day to ride out the hills and to then enjoy the coasting down after the pinnacle of hardship passes behind them.

It would be difficult for me to say this if it weren't for one important fact, I'm in love with my husband. After 17 years of marriage and more shit than I'd care to share on one page, I am crazy for that man. Don't get me wrong; I also hate him and more than a few times a week, I want to kill him, literally or, at the very least, maim him. It's a good thing we don't have any weapons in the house. But, for the most part, I don't have to remind myself why we're good for each other. We just are.

Tim said to me once, not too long ago, "Your happiness means more to me than my own" and jokes aside, it carries me through those moments when my mind tells me that I've had enough. Of course, ask him and he'll deny it or he'll say well, when Yvette's happy, then everybody's happy; you know the axiom that makes that idea true (happy wife, happy life). Nevertheless, when I think of that, when I believe that, it really does put it in perspective.
And, if that doesn't, I look at the three little men running around the house and I remind myself that I'm in it for the long run.

The main problem with marriage is husbands and the main problem with husbands is that they are men. They can't help it, they just are. I'm sorry, that's not going to change. Some homosexuals might disagree, but, hey, there are exceptions to every rule so as I generalize, I hope that you'll bear with me. And, in the end, remember, every dog has its day, even if it has taken over a century to get to it, like mine has.