The Cranky Librarian

The Saving Grace of Big Macs

2012-01-27T15:30:00.001-05:00

Like many children of the 80s, the era of optional child restraints, plentiful second-hand smoke, and grapes not cut in half, I had a few brushes with death. I flew my kite into a utility line, I got an Atomic Fire Ball stuck in my throat when I tried to talk and eat it at the same time, and I rode my bike into the side of a moving car at an intersection. I either had a guardian angel to save me from my own stupidity or I used up my entire lifetime's stock of luck by the time I turned ten.

But the time my mother talks about the most, the time of my life that to this day, post-cancer-treatment and all, she says is the closest she came to losing me, was caused by our first and only real Christmas tree.

Christmas is a bad time to realize you're severely allergic to conifers. And red shag carpet is a bad thing to have when you have a real tree you're suddenly sickened by. By the time I was allergy-tested in January, following a sinus infection that had had me sidelined for four weeks, my top allergen was so embedded in the fibers of that floor covering that needles would appear in my mother's vacuum cleaner bags for a year.

It was by far the worst I've ever felt in my life. I believe that period of time in third grade was the reason for my present-day claustrophobia; until I began a new corticosteroid nasal spray in March or April, I could not breathe through my nose. I slept little; I could never fall asleep if I had to breathe through my mouth. I was the only child I knew who didn't miss a single episode of both The Tonight Show and Late Night with David Letterman in the winter of 1982 and 1983. Years later, when we had to choose a celebrity to write to for an English project in middle school, I chose Johnny Carson instead of Alyssa Milano or Kirk Cameron. His was the last voice I heard on many a night during that long winter.

My mother was alerted to the seriousness of the problem when I wandered through the door after walking home from school one snowy afternoon, white as the proverbial sheet and shaking inside my coat. I don't know what my temperature was, but I know it made Mom call a neighbor who had been a nurse. Accompanied with it was the worst headache of my life, a pain so bad it made me throw up and begin trembling so deeply our nurse neighbor told my mom she thought I was going into shock. The weather had gotten bad, and my mother was alone, and she gave me my first-ever dose of Tylenol and prayed at my bedside that we didn't have to fight the snow and ice to go to the hospital. The Tylenol worked, God listened, and I was referred by our family doctor to a crew of specialists.

Food began to taste funny. Everything from chocolate milk to toast acquired a sickly, cloyingly strange taste that I recognized. It was the same smell I noticed when I was away from my parents' smoky house.

"This chocolate milk tastes like meat," I told my mother one day.

"Like meat?"

"Yeah, like hamburger smells sometimes when you let it go brown in the refrigerator and have to throw it out."

An x-ray of my sinuses confirmed that every cavity in my head was full of fluid. And since it wasn't coming out, it was starting to become horribly, devastatingly infected. The kind of infection that could cause long-term health problems. My mother put her head in her hands and sighed in the clean little examining room at the ENT. Repeated courses of strong antibiotics could kill the infection, but the swelling was persistent and preventing me from truly getting better. Allergy shots would take a while to work. I was put on prednisone and told if that didn't work, I might need surgery. A surgery on my sinuses not commonly done in children that may or may not work.

"Then what?"

The doctor help up his hands.

"Then we wait and see."

It was an interesting time. No matter how sick I was, I was the kind of kid who was fascinated by the wonders of my condition. It did not occur to me that I was very ill, but I did realize that breathing through both sides of your nose at the same time is a highly underrated thing that people take for granted, and I performed experiments to see what physical activities and body positions would cause my nose to open up. I became very knowledgeable about pharmaceuticals, asking the pharmacist questions about various potions' taste, side effects, and, after a particularly nasty response to erythromycin, whether or not they would make me throw up in public.

When the infection went to my lungs, I was given cough syrup containing codeine. After the first dose, the edges of my world became pleasantly fuzzy and soft. I had a revelation about human existence.

"We're all made of clouds," I told my mom that night, watching Superman: The Movie on cable.

"We're all what?"

"Made of clouds. See? My arm is see-through," I told her waving my arm in front of my nose. "But Superman on the TV? He looks real."

"Unh-huh. I think we're done with the cough syrup."

I also saw Death himself. One night, a night that sleep actually had come for me, my mother woke me to take a dose of prednisone. As she stood over my bed with spoon in hand, telling me to open my mouth, I saw a skeleton next to her. He was dressed in black and holding a scythe. I was frozen with fear and could not move, could not blink, could only stare at my mom and open my mouth. As the spoon came toward me, so did the skeleton. He fell toward me and I either passed out or went back to sleep, I was not sure which.

I hoped it was a dream.

"Did you wake me up to give me medicine last night?"

"Yes. Why?"

"No reason." I had been brought up mostly Baptist with a twist of Pentecostal; I knew the grim reaper when I saw it. I prayed nightly for my soul until the doctor asked Mom if I'd been having any hallucinations or night terrors; apparently, kids on steroids can.

I began to feel better in the spring. A new nasal spray had come on the market that allowed the air to return to my sinuses. Windows were opened, the house began to air out, and I shed my winter layers for t-shirts.

"Wait a second," Mom said, after she passed by my bedroom when I changed shirts. "Lift that shirt back up."

I lifted the shirt over my head and heard my mother gasp. I was in front of a mirror and I turned to it to see what she saw.

Ribs. Every rib in my chest and back poked out loud through the skin. My collarbones stood at attention when I lowered my arms. Hips and elbows and knees were sharp and prominent. Mom started crying and, scared, I cried too.

I know now that when you're a parent, you can go a long time looking at your kid before you really see your kid. I had spent the winter so bundled up my mother had no idea I had become so thin. Bath time had become a quick affair because she was so worried about me catching a chill. I was, yet again, scurried to the doctor.

No medicines this time. I was prescribed food instead. As much of it as I wanted, whenever I wanted it. Plus a new type of protein shake used primarily by athletes, twice a day. The problem was I still didn't have my appetite back. I went from having a terrible smell in my nose all the time to having no sense of smell at all. Oranges sprinkled with salt (yeah, I know, gross) were the only things that I ate with joy, and no one has ever gained weight from eating oranges sprinkled with salt.

And then I discovered Big Macs.

I may be the only person you've ever heard say this but: Thank God for McDonalds. I got a coupon at school for a free Big Mac for an essay I wrote, and my sister grudgingly took me through the drive-thru. Having her driver's license had stopped being cool after she found herself to be my official chauffeur. I dug into my burger on the way home, fully expecting to hate it but planning to lie that I loved it just to ick my sister out. She thought they were the most disgusting things on the planet.

I sipped my Coke. And nibbled my fries. And took that first bite. I expected it to taste like nothing, like everything else I ate. But it didn't. The pickles. The sauce. Two all-beef patties. Lettuce, cheese. It was salty, it was sweet, it was tangy. It was heaven. It was also gone before we got home.

"Can I have another one? Not today, but someday?"

My mother smiled more than any woman should smile after hearing her child profess a love for fast food.

And so it goes that I had a Big Mac almost every day in the spring of 1983. Healthy? Probably not. Though I did argue once to my skeptical father that all 4 food groups were represented. (Pickles were once cucumbers, after all.) But I did gain some weight. It took me years to get back to something resembling normalcy on my growth chart, but a daily Big Mac goes a long way toward making one's ribs no longer show.

I've mostly given up McDonalds now. I think when you hit 35, it either loses its appeal or you realize just how God-awful it is for you, and you do your general health a favor and stop loving it. However, after a cold, sinus infection, or bronchitis, I simply have to have a Mac. My body has remembered the peculiar and fabulous appeal they had for me once following the worse illness of my life, and I simply don't think I'm recovered until I hit a drive-thru and feed my body and soul with a little horrible deliciousness inside a sesame-seed bun.

They may be bad. But they tasted...gooooood.

The Simple Joys of Snow

2012-01-25T15:30:00.001-05:00

I have mentioned the infamous snow statue in another blog post, but that was a long time ago, and having had no snow so far this "winter" I am waxing nostalgic for the white stuff. So forgive me for this repeat. I just really, really need a snow day up in here.

I was a freshman in college the first time I played in the snow.

"Catching a chill" was a dreaded ailment in my house growing up and, for that reason, I was allowed only limited exposure to cold, damp winter air. When I was four, our family doctor told my mother that I had a weak immune system. Mom took this to mean that I needed to be kept warm and bundled and preferably indoors all winter. Regardless of her sheltering I spent every winter sick, anyway, perhaps because between November and February the only air I breathed was that of two chain-smoking parents partially filtered by a poorly-functioning gas furnace that more than once leaked carbon monoxide. But this was, in Mom's opinion, better for me than getting my feet wet.

Once, during a rare snow storm when I was not suffering from a sinus infection or bronchitis, I was allowed out long enough to build a really pitiful snowman. We had neither buttons nor coal nor a corn-cob pipe for my Frosty's features, so I used a pair of translucent neon-orange ponytail holders for eyes, which made my snowman look like a tribute to Satan. Despite his unconventional appearance, I was so proud of my first effort at snow sculpture that when the snow started to melt, I decapitated him and stuck his head in the freezer to keep for a while. I forgot about him until my mom shrieked as she was retrieving a Banquet chicken dinner and kindly asked me to take him outside and just let him die.
Besides that one glorious afternoon, though, I had skated through childhood without actually skating. I did not think I was missing much, for I hated the cold and did not see what there could possibly be to love about being hit with snowballs.

And then came college, where I rebelled against my parents' strict policies just as every late-teen binge drinker does: by going wild and breaking the rules that had bound me. Instead of alcohol, my vice was a snowmen in the shape of the male member.

The first big snow of our freshman year brought out the inner child in us. Study was abandoned for winter delights. It didn't take much to coax me away from my world history text and out for a walk to investigate the Wiseman fountain, which we had heard was adorned with a pornographic snow creation. It was, but we were not impressed; it was neither life-like (in the girls' limited experience) nor enough of an exaggeration to be worth our time. So a small group of us adjourned to the freshman girls' parking lot, where we planned on doing a friend a favor and clear her Ford Escort of snow so that we could later talk her into taking us to buy hot chocolate. We were nothing if not selfless.

Clearing the snow off the car was easy. Clearing the area around her car of snow was not. So we used some of the ample snow drifts to make our own version of the snow sculpture we had seen at the Wiseman fountain. On the top of her car. Because we knew she would just love it. Well, not really, but everyone else would. And again, we were selfless.

That effort went so well we expanded on it and built a stand-alone snow genital in the parking lot. And the final creation was a masterpiece that made Michelangelo sigh from the heavens with jealously. The attention to detail we paid to our tribute would have made you think we were much more careful, detail-oriented students than we actually were. It was so good that it almost wasn't funny; it was a work of art. It was life-like, grandiose, and perversely beautiful. And seeing as how my boyfriend stepped away from putting the finishing touches on it with his fly down, based on a real-life model. Or so we teased.

We did get hot chocolate, eventually. By the time I went to bed, my feet were soaked, my jeans were frozen, and I had sweated through the clothes under my coat. And then I fell asleep with wet hair. I had committed all the sins my mother told me would make me die of pneumonia, and yet I lived through that winter. I lived to build more snowmen, throw snowballs and be the victim of thrown snowballs, and even go sled-riding. The early- to mid-90s were a snowy time in central Kentucky, and I made up for the winter play my childhood lacked. In fact, I was spoiled by big snow; today a winter that doesn't produce a storm big enough for a good snowman in the front yard is an epic disappointment.

My own kid gets a bit sickly in the winter and I have found myself hollering out the front door, "Leave your hat on! Why are your gloves NOT on your hands where they belong? Are your socks wet? Come on in here before you catch your death of pneumonia!" My instinct toward over-protection wants to keep her warm indoors every time a little white precipitation falls. But then I remember the simple joys of snow angels, snow sculpture (of the non-profane kind), and sledding down big hills. I can't deny her these things, which I discovered almost too late to enjoy them.

And if she does these things now, maybe she will have had enough by the time she is away at college, and she won't feel compelled to join in her friends' creation of an army of snow phalluses throughout campus. Maybe.

Never, Ever, Ever Give Up

2012-01-18T12:15:00.001-05:00

When I was in the fifth grade, and no longer believed in Santa Claus, I had one, simple request from my parents for a Christmas gift: a set of 5-pound hand weights.

They laughed until they realized I was being quite serious. And asked me if I wanted anything else. I rattled off a few things I felt like I could use if they had the money to get them: a small FM radio; a bottle of real grown-up cologne; a new pair of Lee jeans. But the weights, I told them, was the main thing I wanted. They shrugged, exchanged a look that said, "Our youngest daughter is by far our weirdest," and searched department store circulars to figure out where they were even going to get such a thing.

It was not because I was particularly athletic in fifth grade. In fact, I was the exact opposite of athletic in fifth grade. It was not because I was vain and wanted toned arms. That day wouldn't come for many more years, when I was a sophomore in college and decided that I simply had to have Linda Hamilton's Terminator 2: Judgement Day arms. I wanted to work out with weights because I knew with certainty that until I beefed up my spaghetti arms, I had a snowball's chance in Miami of passing the Presidential Physical Fitness Test and getting an A in fifth-grade gym class.

Our teacher had announced early in the year that our grade would, in part, be based on how well we performed a test of all the guidelines for our age group set by the President's Council on Physical Fitness. To get an A grade, one had to complete a shuttle run, sit-ups, an endurance run, a chin hang (for girls) or pull-ups (for boys), and a sit-and-reach for flexibility all above a set benchmark. (I learned from a Google search that the year we did the final test, 1985, was the year that STILL serves as the benchmark for scores for this test today. Youth of America--you're welcome.) For a scrawny, out-of-shape fifth-grader who had spent the previous school year in a school without a gym teacher during a cold, snowy winter, with no sport credits to my name, I might as well have just been told I needed to climb Everest to pass my gym class.

The pre-test we had taken in the fall was dismal for many of us. Our gym teacher threw in a few other categories in addition to the main five set by the President's council. For reasons unbeknown to us, she added the standing high-jump and the standing long jump. This worked out in my favor. I aced the modified high jump in which we stood next to a huge sheet of butcher paper with sticky notes on our hands and jumped as high as we could, slapping our sticky note and later having its height measured. I was tall for my age, and had freakishly long arms, so my sticky note was among the top five in the entire class. And because my legs were also disproportionally long and I weighed about as much as a New York City rodent, I did well in the standing long jump, too. I was heartened by this.

But in every other standard I, to not put too fine a point on it, sucked. My shuttle run wasn't so much a dash as a stroll. I am pretty sure the average kindergartner could have done that challenge faster. Because it involved starting and stopping and changing direction, all things which take coordination, and not just all-out sprinting, I knew this would be my blind spot.

In sit-ups, I was pathetic. In the endurance run, which involved many laps around the school gym, I thought I was going to die. In the sit-and-reach, I couldn't get past mid-calf without thinking my hamstrings were going to snap like rubber bands.

Yet nothing could prepare me for my disappointment in the flexed-arm hang.

A classmate helped me get in position with my chin above one of the vertical bars on the playground, where we were taking this portion of the test. She let go. I was instructed to hold my weight as long as possible. I lasted 3 seconds.

There was much laughter because, as it turned out, that impressively bad time put me second-to-last in the class. The only person I beat was the class clown who started giggling before she ever got up to the bar, and consequently decided to just make a face to make everyone laugh and write the whole thing off. I had tried my best to hang and dropped out in less time than it takes to get an allergy shot. So, really, the joke was on me.

I could have just decided that physical fitness was not my thing and focused on all the things I knew I could get an A in in fifth grade: English, math, and, if I could memorize all the state capitals, social studies. Something really bothered me about my performance, though, and I found that I couldn't accept doing badly when we were retested in the spring. I had to pass that test. Or die trying.

The day after Christmas, with a pair of bright-white hand weights from Sears, I started to work out in earnest. Each evening after dinner, I followed the exercises in the brochure that came with my weights. When it was nice enough outside, I ran laps around the house. As my endurance got better, this became laps around our yard, which was much bigger. I learned that if I wedged my feet under the sofa to replicate someone holding my feet I could do more sit-ups more comfortably. I stretched every night before bed and made it my goal to be able to touch my toes without bending my knees. I still thought my hamstrings might snap, but everyday I could reach just a teeny bit further.

I couldn't very easily practice the shuttle run and just had to accept that, come spring, my time was still going to suck. So I worked out a formula in my head wherein I could still bomb that one event, but average that out with excellence in other areas. I practiced my standing long jump in the hallway so many times my mother finally told me to give it a rest before I wore holes out in the shag. I long-jumped against the side of the house with masking tape on my hand. Strangely, my dad didn't want to spend his Saturdays measuring the tape pieces and then peeling them off the brick. My sit-ups were still questionable but much improved, and I once went 20 laps around my yard without stopping. Success! I was going to do it...if only my flexed-arm chin hang wouldn't let me down.

In the weeks before the spring test, we had gym outside, doing grueling challenges on the various bars all over our playground. One day, our teacher had us try to do a thing she said military folks had to do at basic training. We were to lower ourselves with bent elbows on the parallel bars that came up to about our waists, and then without the use of our legs and using just our upper body strength, pull ourselves back up so that our arms were straight.

I watched other kids much stronger than I struggle with this. I was last in line, and I wanted to make sure everyone else had moved on to another challenge before I tried. Had all my work with the weights and the exercises paid off?

I lowered myself down. And then began to push myself back up with all my might. For a while, I didn't budge. My arms began to shake and burn. But I made a decision--I was doing this. I was going to raise myself. Failure was not an option. For too long I was the bony, uncoordinated girl chosen last for kick ball, whiffle ball, dodge ball...pretty much everything except for Red Rover, which I was always picked first for, because I was an easy catch. I knew there was more to me than that.

I began to move upwards. My eyes were clenched tight and every sinew strained to the point where I began to see stars. But I didn't stop. And when my eyes opened, my arms were straight. I let go and looked triumphantly at the gym teacher.

"You know why you were able to do that?" she asked.

"Because I got weights for Christmas?"

"You got weights for Christmas? Well, maybe that has something to do with it. But what I think happened is that you didn't give up. You were struggling, and it was hard for you, but you made up your mind that you were going to do it and you did it. Sometimes, your brain is stronger than your body and helps it do things that are really, really hard."

Huh. My brain helped my body. Who knew? I'd been told my brain was one of my better features, and a light bulb came on above it. I could use my stubbornness, my desire to do well, and my smarts to make up for what I lacked in actual physical ability. I could will myself into being, if not athletic, than at least not an embarrassment on the playground. I could try trying for a change rather than just accepting my weak-armed shortcomings.

Later we took the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. I had a lot on the line. I did well in the standing long jump and standing high jump. I finished in the middle of the pack on the endurance run, the sit-ups, and even the shuttle run. I was not good enough to get praise, but not bad enough to get jeers. I was right where I wanted to be.

The last challenge was the hang. Just like before, I was assisted into position by a classmate. The stopwatch was cleared. I was let go, nothing holding me in place but my own arms.

I held on.

And on.

And on.

Classmates started whispering, "Keep going, Toni!" They were watching me. I knew I had passed up every other girl who had gone before me. I was actually going to pass.

When I could absolutely positively hang on no longer, I collapsed in a drained heap on the dry ground. My friend Denise, the Queen of All Elementary Athletes, told me I did a good job. Of course, she went after me and totally smoked my time, but that was to be expected. When all was said and done, I had the third-highest time of all the girls in my class. Something I came home and bragged about to my weight-buying parents to no end.

And somewhere in my mother's scrapbooks, there is a Presidential Physical Fitness Award from 1985. It may say I was just a participant, but in my mind, I passed.

As I had been told, such things are mind over matter.

Big Nose

2012-01-12T07:00:00.001-05:00

When you're 10 years old, there is no scarier place in the world than the principal's office. Especially if you are a teacher-pleasing, goody-two-shoes rule-follower...who just so happened to almost get into a fight.

My stomach inched into my throat as I sat across from my principal, who was also a former classsmate of my mother's and a former teacher of my sister's. I knew he expected better from me, and I knew I had just disappointed him greatly.

I remembered his kindness to me my second day at my new school, after my mother called him to ask why I hadn't been put into the advanced 4th-grade class while my records were being sent, when she had been completely clear with the school secretary that I was a gifted student. The school secretary had listened to my mom discuss her recent separation and new single-mom status and made a judgement call that I couldn't possibly be advanced-class material.

"Are you a good student like your sister?" We were standing outside the door to the "low" 4th-grade classroom where kids were allowed to sleep, roll around on the floor when bored, and were still learning to sound out words.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you work hard, listen to your teacher, and make good grades?"

"Yes, sir."

"I know your family, and I am sure you will do well here. Let's get you moved to the other 4th-grade class."

I was terrified a few months later to be sitting across the desk from this man, who had been led to believe I was a good student, a kid who would never to do something so awful as insulting another student and coming one hair shy of knocking her block off in front of God and everybody. And yet that is exactly what I had done.

She had it coming. Since my first week of school, late in November, a student in the 4th-grade class I had been promoted from named Ellen took my departure personally and made it her life's mission to terrorize me. Whenever the fourth-graders were all together, which largely included the cafeteria line and the recess playground, she called out to all who would listen what she saw wrong with my hair, my face, my accent, my clothes.

Especially my clothes.

"Look at her!" she'd say in a high, shrill voice that I would be reminded of years later when I heard Fran Drescher speak for the first time. "She wears the same clothes every day! I bet she doesn't even wash 'em. Hey, ugly, do you ever wash your clothes?"

She never used my name. From the first of December until the ground started to thaw in March, I was addressed daily as "Hey, ugly." Sometimes she got close enough in the lunch line to pretend to smell me and make a big production about the nonexistent odor of my clothes, which were never dirty (but, like any other child of the 80s, occasionally smelled like cigarette smoke.) More often than not she just spoke loudly enough about my repulsive presence so that everyone in the 4th-grade could hear.

It shouldn't have bothered me. I knew, for one, that I was clean. My grandmother, who I spent most of my time with that year, is the genetic source for my current OCD tendencies and would not have tolerated anything less than a clean child in her very clean home. And while I did wear the same type of clothes everyday, they were not the exact same clothes. I had brought with me to my new town multiple copies of the unofficial school uniform of mid-80s Erlanger girls: a pair of Lee jeans, a button-down oxford shirt in a pastel color, and white leather Nikes with a dark blue swish. All of the girls in the 4th-grade class I had left imitated each other in this attire, which we found preppy and stylish and readily available at either VanLeunen's or McAlpin's.

Moving to Knox County was like moving to a different world, fashion-wise. Anybody who was anybody dressed like an extra in a music video or like a Nickelodeon-channel star. My conservative and boring clothes didn't get me made fun of by the girls in my own 4th-grade class, but these girls were constantly trying to make me over with neon off-the-shoulder shirts, Esprit pants, and almost-high-heeled boots. During a skit we had to perform, one of my classmates brought in a costume that made me look like one of the Go-Gos. It was her everyday attire; for me, it felt like Halloween.

Ellen's daily taunting didn't cause the kids in my own class to make fun of me, but she got plenty of laughs from the kids in the class I had originally been placed in. And while she couldn't entirely convince me that my clothes were awful, being called "ugly" every day had started to wear on me. After I started to come home every night crying to my mom about my appearance, she decided enough was enough.

"You know what to tell her the next time she says that?" Mom said. "Tell her she's not so pretty herself, with a big nose she keeps sticking in other people's business."

"You want me to call her a name? Isn't that wrong?"

"It's not calling her a name. You're not calling her 'big nose.' You're telling her she has a big nose. There's a difference."

I wasn't sure I saw the difference, and Ellen's nose was really no bigger than anyone else's nose, but I stored up my mother's advice. And when the taunting happened in the lunch line the very next day, I simply did as I was told.

"Hey, ugly! Are those the same pants and shirt you wore yesterday? Aren't you ever going to change your clothes, ugly? Or are you too poor?"

Oh. Snap.

I could handle being called ugly. I could handle accusations made about my wardrobe. Because, deep down, I knew those things weren't true. But I was, in fact, poor. At the time, I had a single mother who worked 3 jobs and we still struggled. And I happened to know for a fact that my tormentor herself did not have 2 nickels to rub together. Had one of the rich kids called me poor, I would have shrugged. Maybe even laughed. It's funny 'cause it's true! But to be called poor by a girl whose family, I was told by my mom when I named my bully to her, didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of...now that was just plain wrong. Something about throwing stones in glass houses with black pots and kettles.

I addressed my bully and said in a loud voice, "Oh, yeah? Well, you have a big ol' nose that's so big you can't keep it out of anybody else's business."

A hush fell over the fourth graders. Where were our teachers? I have no idea. Probably smoking in the lounge. The two lines of the two different 4th-grade classes parted like the Red Sea. Until it was just me and Ellen, face to face.

She was shocked. "What did you just say to me?"

I walked forward until we were toe to toe, our faces inches apart. I was mad, and for the first time in my life I wanted to smack someone. Instead of hitting, I made sure she heard me. Loud and clear.

"I SAID, WHY DON'T YOU KEEP YOUR BIG, UGLY NOSE OUT OF MY BUSINESS?"

Adults came rushing out of nowhere. I was escorted one way, she was escorted another. I heard her crying and was only somewhat pleased, because I knew she was faking for added drama. Ellen was not the crying sort. I sat in my classroom with my teacher to cool off, Ellen sat with hers. My teacher didn't say a word, and I took that to mean my time on earth was limited. Within minutes, we were called to Principal Payne's office where I knew I would meet my doom.

"Okay, girls, neither one of you has ever been in trouble before, so I want to hear from each of you, one at a time, what happened today. Tell me the truth, because I'll know if you're lying. Ellen, you go first."

Ellen spun a yarn about how I came out of nowhere and called her names. She told the principal she had never talked to me before, but all of a sudden I got in her face and started calling her "Big Nose." She sobbed the whole time, but I saw no tears.

The principal turned to me for my side of the story. I took a deep breath, mustered my courage, and looked Mr. Payne in the eye.

"She has part of the story right but she isn't telling you the whole story. She's been teasing me about my clothes and about being ugly ever since I got here. Every day in the lunch line. And sometimes at recess. And I got tired of it. I didn't call her any names. I didn't call her 'Big Nose.' I said she had a big nose." I was so hoping he would see the difference.

"Why would you say such a thing?"

My voice trembled. "I'm sorry. I don't really think she has a big nose. I told her that because she won't keep her nose out of my business." And then, for the first time, I looked away from my principal and down at my lap. "I told her to keep her big nose out of my business because my mom told me to." I hated to rat out my mom this way, but he wanted the truth. And I wanted to tell it.

I looked up, ready to face my fate. Something like a smile crossed his face and was quickly gone.

"Well, this seems pretty simple to me," he said. "Ellen didn't say anything about how she has been making fun of Toni, but Toni admits that she said Ellen has a big nose and is sorry she said it. It seems Toni is telling the truth because she admitted to doing something wrong, but Ellen, you didn't."

Ellen stopped fake-crying and, for the first time, looked contrite.

"I think maybe this whole thing started with Ellen not being very nice to someone who is new to our school. And Toni got angry over it and maybe let her anger get the best of her. I think you're both the kind of girls who will do better from now on. Is that right, girls?"

We both nodded.

"Don't let it happen again. Go on back to class, now."

I felt my eyes water with relief and from the pent-up frustration I had felt for months. I wiped the tears away with my hand and as I started to leave, Mr. Payne called me back.

"You let me know if she bothers you again, you hear? And tell your mom I said hello."

I smiled. I had been to the principal's office and lived. My class was abuzz by the time I got back. Because my escapade had caused me to miss lunch, a lunch had been brought to me. My teacher smiled and patted my shoulder as she found a place in the class where I could eat, and during our afternoon work time my classmates passed me notes telling me they were on my side. I felt just a little bit like a badass. The next day it was all forgotten and I went back to being the shy and quiet new girl who was in desperate need of a neon shirt or two. But Ellen had the sense to give me a wide berth for the rest of my time there.

My mother was initially mortified that I told my principal that I said what I said because she told me to.

"Oh, Lord," she said, putting her head into her hands when I told the tale. Then she told me she was proud of me for telling the truth and for standing up for myself in my own little misguided way.

This year when Ainsley herself fell victim to harsh words from a mean-girl bully, I found myself giving unsolicited advice and telling her what to say to her frenemy. Not all of it was nice. Thankfully, Ainsley has a different way of dealing with people who aren't nice to her: she avoids them, eventually forgives them when they warrant forgiveness, and moves on. She's not the type to get in someone's face and and yell, even when greatly angered. She is, really, a gentler and more even-tempered person than I am.

But should she ever choose to, I will support her saying someone has a big nose that they won't keep out of her business. But I won't stand for her calling someone "Big Nose." Because there is a difference.

A Not-So-Funny Thing Happened On the Way To the Photo Album

2012-01-05T14:08:00.000-05:00

So, I had this plan.

This December, I was going to get back to some funny and write cheerful posts about the holidays using as inspiration pictures from my childhood and young-adult-hood which I had recently mined from the riches of my mom's family photo album.

Then, on an otherwise beautiful Saturday afternoon, I got derailed from any and all yuletide plans by a very sick child running a very high fever.

Ainsley was diagnosed with pneumonia a few days later, went through two different antibiotics, missed a week of school, missed two weeks of swim, slept much and ate little, and in general gave me the mommy fright of my life. I thought the second concussion was as bad as it could get as far as thinking my beloved child was in mortal peril; seeing my child not quite getting enough oxygen and fighting an infection that just didn't want to leave proved worse.

So Christmas was weird. She did get better enough to go to school the last 3 days before break and attend her classroom party, but she wasn't fully mended until after Christmas. We didn't do any of the holiday things we usually do, I got hopelessly behind, and for a fortnight I was too fraught with worry to do much in the evening besides check her temperature every hour and pace circles around the kitchen. Needless to say, I've not been in much of a blogging mood.

I think I'll be back soon. If anyone is still out there (sometimes I envision tumbleweeds in the blogosphere when I write), keep checking. I'm slowly getting back to something resembling a normal life.

Oh, and the kid? She is doing well. Despite a lousy lead-up, she had a great Christmas. And has gotten her appetite back with a vengeance, hell-bent on emptying the pantry and refrigerator quicker than I can shop to refill them.

Happy 2012, readers. See you soon.

Martin

2011-12-09T12:30:00.001-05:00

When I was five, I got a direct call from the big man himself one December evening asking me what I wanted for Christmas. I could barely speak when I heard the big, booming voice Ho-Ho-Ho-ing on the other end of the line, speaking through the crackle of a long-distance phone call. But I did manage to tell him that I wanted a doll house. And when he told me to be very, very good, I blushed. Because I had not been so very, very good that fall, and I hadn't heeded my mother's warnings about Santa and lumps of coal. But to hear it from the Claus himself...well, I vowed to clean up my act.

I was the designated household phone answerer in those days. My mother was quite popular, and the phone rang a lot. I was a call screener back before caller I.D. The ritual went like this: the phone would ring, and my mother would give me a set of conditions: if it was this person, Mom would take the call. But if it were that person, I was to say Mom was in the tub and would call her back sometime that decade. And if it were Granny, my dad's mom, I was to make polite small talk for long enough for Mom to light a cigarette and gird her loins for what would likely be an unpleasant conversation filled with veiled insults.

When the phone rang that December night and Santa was on the other end, my mom listened intently and had a strange look on her face when I mouthed "It's Santa!" It turns out she had not planned this particular bit of holiday joy, and until my cousin called her a few moments later to tell her it was my uncle's idea to surprise me, she couldn't figure out whether everything she thought she knew about Christmas legend was wrong and the magic was real, or if maybe I was being stalked and the next call should be to the police.

So a few weeks later when I took another call from a mysterious man I'd never met but had heard about, my parents didn't think too much about it. They thought it was just my uncle again, following up and making sure my behavior had improved. Imagine their surprise when they found out that I had just been formally introduced to my long-lost paternal grandfather.

My father covered the distance between the family room and the kitchen in two steps when I held out the phone and said, "He says his name is Martin and that he's your dad." Mom developed an unusual need throughout the duration of the phone call to keep checking on the cleanliness of the kitchen counters.

Martin left my grandmother, and the four children he had with her, when my father was very young. My father had not seen or talked to the man since he was about the age I was when I took that call. He had heard his father had relocated to the Cincinnati area, like us, and had heard he was living with a woman decidedly not our Granny. Beyond that, we didn't even have a picture of him, and he was the "He Who Shall Not Be Named" of our family. So to get that call was like something I had seen on one of my favorite soap operas. It was Guiding Light right there in our cigarette-smoke-filled kitchen. My young head filled to bursting with daydreams of a family reunion, and meeting a grandfather I didn't know I had, and a warm, fuzzy reconciliation.

But even at Christmas, broken families don't knit back together so tidily. My father never raised his voice, but he politely declined an invitation to meet him. He did, however, agree to have occasional phone conversations with Martin. I was sad that I wouldn't get to see the person who had been so nice to me over the phone, but as small children do, I forgot about it and went on with celebrating the toy-getting season.

The next time I heard anything about Martin, it was the following October. He had passed away from cancer. We did not attend the funeral. I didn't understand it then; why wouldn't Dad want to say goodbye to his own father? But as I grew older, I understood completely. My father had said goodbye many, many years before.

Several years ago, Dad's sister-in-law passed along a photo to me. One of her sons had become interested in learning more about the family, and had unearthed the only known photo of my enigmatic grandfather. It was an old black-and-white picture of a very tall, thin man and a very short, dark-haired woman standing together on a set of railroad tracks. The man is so tall that he has to stoop a bit to be in the same frame as his wife; the woman is so short she has to stand on one of the railroad ties to come up to her husband's shoulder. They look happy, but I know by the way their story ends that their height was not the only major difference they had.

The picture allows me to put a face with the voice I heard on the phone so long ago, a kind voice that seemed, to my naive ears, to want to make things right. But for my father, anyway, it was too little, too late. If my surprise phone call from Santa that year nearly turned my mom into a believer, the surprise phone call from Martin brought us all back down to earth. Not everything can be tidied up into a Hallmark-movie ending.

I may never have met my grandfather. But I got to speak to him, and the memory looms as large as the phone call I got from Santa at the North Pole (complete with reindeer "barking" in the background.) And if you're as big as Santa in a kindergartner's imagination...well, that's saying something.

Worth a Thousand Words

2011-12-09T10:04:00.000-05:00

I have hit the jackpot.

I recently borrowed my mother's family photo albums so that I can make copies of some of the pictures of myself as a child to keep in an album for Ainsley. The reasoning behind this is morbid, but simple: in the event something happens to me, I want it to be easy for my survivors to put together photos for the ubiquitous montage. This is what happens when I go to a young person's funeral as I did earlier this school year; my mind turns with the details of the big "What if."

These albums have been a bigger treasure trove than I thought. I've found pictures that I completely forgot about from my childhood. Including a lot of pictures that must have been in my subconscious as I've been writing blog entries; the pictures sum up the childhood remembrances I've been writing about perfectly.

So over the coming months, I will be adding pictures to some posts I've already done, and using the pictures as inspiration for future writings. When I add a photo, I'll bump it to the top. This means a lot of the very grim Christmas entries will be re-posted, but with cute pictures, if that helps. I look very happy in all my family photos, and you can't tell that anything was amiss. I guess that's a big clue for when I wonder how I turned out mostly okay despite a childhood that was sometimes a horror story; I was, underneath it all, a resilient, hopeful little kid.

I'm also going to tell the tale of some mostly happier Christmases, the Christmases in the past ten years when I've been the mom to the best daughter in the world.

Happy holidays, everyone, and keep checking back. The pictures are worth a thousand words.

Over the River and Through the Woods in a Shiny, Silver Camaro

2011-11-15T12:30:00.000-05:00

There are some holiday traditions you simply don't mess with. Families take that stuff seriously. For some, it's certain foods: there absolutely will be sweet potato casserole or else. For some it's at whose house the festivities take place, or the time of day, or the ritual drawing of names for holiday gifts. Every American family has that one thing that makes or breaks a holiday and sends uptight family members into an uproar.

For the Hyden girls, it was the trip down home every Thanksgiving morning. Thanksgiving didn't happen in Erlanger, it happened in Barbourville, in the warmth and closeness of Mamaw's trailer. And this tradition was both nearly wrecked and ultimately saved by my father one year, with an assist from a rented silver Camaro.

Every year from when I was three to when I was twelve saw the following ritual Thanksgiving ritual: a long, family-wide nap after school on Wednesday; an early rising on Thursday; a few minutes of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade while Dad loaded up the car for us (I couldn't leave until I saw the Snoopy float); a stop at the Florence White Castle for provisions, mostly because they were always open Thanksgiving but also because we loved their cheeseburgers so; then the three-hour drive to Barbourville, where we could smell the roast chicken and pressure-cooked green beans from Mamaw's yard. Along the way, I always sang, "Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go..." because it was true--we indeed went over a river and through the woods, not to mention up some mountains. I loved that there was a song that described that feeling of welcome and homecoming I started to feel about the time we got to Richmond and crossed over the Clay's Ferry bridge in all its awesome scariness.

One Thanksgiving morning, a colder , wetter, grayer holiday than usual, we woke to find Dad already up, already three sheets to the wind (knowing that we'd be gone, Dad started his own holiday traditions immediately after getting home from work late the night before), and bearing bad news:

"The car won't start."

Mom only worked one day a week at that point, and we made do with only one car: an increasingly unreliable Ford Fairmont that I heard discussed as a "lemon." This confused me because it was very blue and very square and not in the least bit citrusy.

"Well, what's wrong with it? Why aren't you trying to fix it? You know we go down home today."

"I think it's the alternator. Or not. I don't really know. And in case you haven't noticed, it's Thanksgiving," Dad said. "I can't take it anywhere to get it fixed. Guess you're going to have to walk."

It would be many more years before I could recognize sarcasm. I thought of carrying my overnight bag and my favorite stuffed animal, Mousie, from Erlanger to Barbourville and knew it would be dark before we got there. And Mousie would get wet. Or the worse alternative: staying home and eating the bologna and Grippos Dad had stocked up for himself. I burst into tears. No dumplings! No Mamaw! No doting family! Not even the sight of a giant Garfield in the parade could calm me down.

Mom and Dad argued over whose fault it was (regular maintenance was never my father's strong suit), how the holidays were ruined, how we had nothing suitable to eat, how sad my grandmother would be. I didn't cry alone that morning. And just as we were all about ready to retire to our own corners and be miserable for the rest of the day, my father had a brilliant plan, inspired partially by beer but primarily by a desire to get all the crazy women out of the house:

"If one of the neighbors can drive me to the airport I will try to rent you all a car."

I was in awe. I had heard my parents say before how ridiculously expensive it was to rent a car during those times we found ourselves needing a second vehicle. It seemed such an exotic luxury that I simply had to tag along.

We found ourselves at the airport navigating the car rental area. Being a child of the 80s, I wanted Dad to pick Hertz. Because O.J. Simpson was awesome in their commercials.

Here's something to know about my dad: when sober, he was the most frugal man on the block. He only shopped for clothes for himself during off-season sales at Sears, he bought his eyeglass frames from the "Clearance" section of the optical store, and he checked receipts for any purchases made by the women in his family in his absence and criticized "designer" items like Lee jeans as being vain and unnecessary. But when under the influence, the man had no purse strings. My mom has a collection of high-end jewelry as evidence of this.

So luck was actually on our side that Dad was mildly- to moderately-inebriated this particular Thanksgiving morning. Because an hour later, we showed back up at the house in the must-have sports car for the poor white trash of the early 80s--a Chevrolet Camaro. Silver. Fully loaded. More than we probably could afford, but worth every cent.

"Quick. Before he changes his mind."

After getting over the nervousness that comes with driving a car that's not your own, we began to enjoy our trip down home even more than usual. My sister, a new driver, was even allowed a turn behind the wheel.

"I could get used to this."

We all could. And the oohs and ahhs of our family when we finally pulled into the gravel driveway made the morning's drama disappear and any residual anger we'd felt at Dad for not taking care of the car, and not seeming particularly concerned that it wouldn't start, went right out the powered windows.

And later that night, after chicken and pie, my sister and I got to participate in an old Barbourville custom we had previously only dreamed about: cruising the town square in a hot car. I believe my sister received some catcalls and honking appreciation for both her good looks and the looks of the Camaro. I could feel proud of the latter, as I had had some say in the matter of the color at the rental lot.

We eventually had to return to Erlanger and give the car back, relying on that Ford Fairmont to get us from place to place. But the silver Camaro made such an impression on my sister that several years later, as a young married woman with a good job and some disposable income, she leased a new silver Camaro for a year as one last hurrah before moving on to a mother's minivan. She dropped me off at one of my middle-school Christmas dances in it not long before the lease ended, and we laughed about how cool we thought we were cruising the square that one Thanksgiving.

I laughed, but at that age I was convinced I, too, would have a shiny, silver Camaro one day. And I would cruise the square of my hometown in it. And there would be no limit to the noise I would hear from appreciative country boys about the awesomeness of my vehicle. When Chevy discontinued the Camaro for a while, I might have shed a tear for a dream lost.

Thanksgiving is a low-key affair nowadays. The trips to Barbourville ended a couple of years after my Mamaw passed. We no longer go over the river and through the woods for the holidays, unless of course we're heading into Cincinnati to do some shopping. But that's a much bigger river and much smaller woods. And no vehicle I've driven in since has had quite the ability to make an entrance that our accidental rental had. Our current dark-gray Prius makes a much different statement.

My father had an uncanny ability to wreak havoc on holiday plans. But he had great taste in cars.

85 G

2011-11-03T12:30:00.000-04:00

It was good to be the president.

In fifth grade, I had a brief but glorious flirtation with the world of politics. My term was short-lived, and the organization I was elected to run fizzled out due to tween drama and general apathy. But I got to sit on top of the world (aka, the school playground merry-go-round) for a few glorious fall days, and though I never re-entered the world of school politics, it was heady while it lasted.

My fifth-grade school year was one of the best academic experiences of my life to date. Our elementary only went up to the fifth grade, so we were kind of the graduating class. We were the top of the heap, and we knew it, walking the halls with new found superiority and popped collars. We had a new teacher, a young man (gasp! Only ladies can teach elementary school!) from New Hampshire, which might have been the dark side of the moon for how different and fascinating his culture seemed from ours. I had spent most of the previous year feeling like a complete outcast in Barbourville, and was unbelievably happy to be back home with kids who talked like me and dressed like me. Never underestimate the value of being around people who talk and dress like you; wars have been waged by groups trying to rid their turf of people who speak strange tongues and wear peculiar costumes.

The girls in my class decided that we should form a club. Our goals were simple: to have something that was just ours that we didn't have to share with the obnoxious boys in the class, and to have a forum where we could scope out/gossip about/flirt with the obnoxious boys in the class while seeming like we despised them. Fifth-grade girls really can't decide whether to start being romantically interested in boys or whether to hate them with white-hot fury.

We immediately decided that before we could have any further business, we had to elect a president. It was decreed that the main perk of this job, besides being an awesome title to have, would be that the president could sit in the sweet spot in the middle of the merry-go-round and reign in majesty over the school yard. This appealed to me, mostly because of physics. The middle of the merry-go-round was the one spot on the contraption where I could sit and not fear for my life once the thing got spinning to mach speed or suffer the rest of the day from ringing ears and a migraine.

The position of president also appealed to me because I had just been inspired by Geraldine Ferraro. I felt similar yearnings to those I felt after Sally Ride became the first American woman in space; I've never been really comfortable being the first to do something, but I am a world-class follower. I had wanted to be the second woman in space, or maybe the third if someone beat me to it. So in the fall of 1984, I decided, despite my shyness and lack of popularity, that I would someday be the second female Vice President. That's right, not candidate, Vice President. I was too young and idealistic to realize that Ronald Reagan was an unstoppable force.

My friend Denise, who was an Alpha if I ever saw one, decided to run our elections instead of running for the position herself. Which left the door wide open for me. She announced that we would have to make a short speech from atop the merry-go-round perch at recess answering this one, simple question: Why did we want to be president of the 5th-grade girls club?

I pondered over my answer for 2 whole hours. And at recess, the speeches began.

I couldn't believe what I heard. My classmates were honest, and if I learned anything from the national debates that fall, it was that honesty in politics is fatal. One girl said she wanted to be president because she liked being in charge of things. Another girl said she thought it would be really cool to be able to sit in the middle of the merry-go-round every day. Another said she was running "just because." Amateurs.

My turn came, and I made the first prepared speech of my life. I had my audience in the palm of my hand, and I hit my constituency where they lived. I mentioned boys.

One boy, in particular: Tom, my fifth-grade crush. And I also appealed to the soft hearts and sentimentality of my friends; I kid you not, by the end of my speech, one of my classmates was in tears.

"I want to be president of our club for a couple of reasons," I began. "First of all, I wasn't here last year, and I really missed all of you. You are very special to me." I paused dramatically and made eye contact with the two weepiest girls in the class, the ones who cried at the end of the novels our librarian read aloud to us every year. "It would mean a lot to me to come back and be your president.

"Also, as you know, I have a crush on Tom. But he doesn't know I exist." (He did know I exist, because I was kind of a creeper, but they didn't need to know that. Yet.) "Maybe if I'm president, he will notice me, even though I am not the prettiest girl in the class. Because I will be a leader. And I will also be sitting right in the middle of the merry-go-round every day. Thank you for your vote."

I won by a landslide.

The first order of business was to give us a name. If I do say so myself, I more than lived up to my presidential promise with this task. I decided to name us simply, "85 G." There were 8 of us, and we were in fifth grade, and we were the elementary graduating class of 1985. And our teacher's name was Mr. Goering. That's too many 8s, 5s, and Gs to let go to waste. I exercised my mandate.

So much so that I decided to have our first business meeting at my house. Which is where it all went wrong.

Only two girls could show up, and I wasn't allowed to have anyone inside the squalor pit we lived in, so the three of us met outside on a cool, damp day. As usual, I over-prepared by having an agenda to follow when what the two attendees really wanted to do was goof off in the side yard. I also didn't account for the fact that I was at war with my former best friend who lived across the street, and she was outside taunting us and making fun of me for thinking for once that I was maybe perhaps popular.

Just when she went inside and we thought we had gotten rid of her, she came out and flipped me the bird. And I ended my political aspirations as so many do, with a spectacular show of bad judgement. I flew into an unaccustomed rage, ran across the street and grabbed her by her shirt collar. I had just backed her into the brick at the side of her house and was giving her what-for when her mom hollered out the window and stopped me. She threatened to tell my mother, and even presidents live in fear of their mothers. Everyone was shocked, and maybe a little in awe. I didn't get bullied by anyone again until after Christmas; word spread fast that I had resorted to almost-physical defense and everyone treated me with wary respect until they realized that I weighed 60 pounds soaking wet and couldn't do any real harm, anyway.

The club disbanded the next week, either because their leader had been involved in a scandal or because we were fifth-grade girls with the attention spans of cats, one or the other. And I eventually made up with my frenemy across the street a few weeks later when she showed up on a day off from school with the ingredients to make homemade peanut butter cookies. We were both home alone and she wasn't allowed to use the oven when her parents weren't there, so we whipped up a batch of cookies in my kitchen and buried that hatchet. The cookies turned out pretty good (if you didn't mind cat hair in your cookies), as did the the friendship.

My further political success, however, went the way of the Mondale campaign. I ran for secretary or treasurer of things a few times, but never won (my middle-school NHS sponsor chastised me following one election when I didn't vote for myself and lost by a very small margin. The fact that it never occurred to me to vote for myself shows I am not ambitious enough for politics.)

The middle of the merry-go-round might be a good place to be for a while, but it's not near as comfortable, or have as nice a view, as my couch.

Gypsy

2011-10-27T07:00:00.002-04:00

One year at Halloween, my mother found herself low on time and money but high in creativity. And so, 30 minutes before trick-or-treat time, she threw together a gypsy costume that made me feel less like a tramp and thief and more like a princess.

It was a great lesson in how to make something out of nothing with just a little imagination.

The plan had been, since my father was on strike from GM that year and money was more than tight, to recycle an old surgeon's costume my older sister had worn to a raucous work party the year before when she still hung out at home. But we didn't check the logistics out until late that afternoon, and I could have cried when I tried it on: the surgical coverall was way too long and dragged the ground. The little mirror that was supposed to go above my eye and look like a surgical light had a broken strap, and the stethoscope was so warped and twisted it looked more like an errant hangman's noose. 15 minutes of fussing, fidgeting, and pulling did nothing to make me look acceptable to go out in public.

I pulled the costume off, grabbed one of the "Cricket in Times Square" books I'd been devouring, and crawled into bed so I wouldn't hear all my friends knocking on the door and having fun.

"So, you're not going out? You could just go out in your normal clothes. No one would care. Put on your overalls and say you're a farmer."

"I don't want to be a farmer. I already have to wear those ugly overalls to school. I don't want to wear them as a costume. I guess I'm not trick-or-treating this year." And I sighed as only a very put-upon 3rd-grader can. I had been hit hard by the cracks in the family foundation that fall; my sister had just met the boy she was going to marry a year later, and between work and him she was never home. She had always taken me out for tricks and treats, but this year, if I was going at all, I had to go with my friend's parents and little brother, which felt like tagging along. I missed my sister, I missed having enough disposable income to have my own Halloween costume, and wished, for the millionth time in my young life, that I had a mother with a sewing machine instead of a portable hard-hat hair dryer.

"Suit yourself, then." And Mom disappeared to clean up the remains of the Campbell's chicken noodle I had slurped down for dinner. I felt very sorry for myself as I tried to focus on Chester, Tucker Mouse, and Harry Cat while trying to tune out my envy of all the kids in the neighborhood with store-bought or hand-sewn costumes about to bring home pillowcases full of fun-size Snickers bars.

Wordlessly, mom ran back into the room we shared. She began opening dresser drawers, tossing some objects she found aside and putting others into a little pile on the dresser. She was smiling, and I stopped reading.

"What are you doing?"

"I have an idea. Give me a minute."

She went through her jewelry box, pulling out old rings, earrings, necklaces. She went to her closet and produced a long red, ruffled skirt and her favorite winter leather boots, which had a rubber high heel. Heaven forbid my mother not wear a heel, even in a blizzard.

"How about you go as a gypsy? You can wear my skirt and your frilly white blouse from last Easter with my boots. We'll put 2 or 3 pairs of socks on you and stuff something in the toes so that they'll fit good enough. I've got a red scarf for your hair, and you can wear my gold hoop earrings and my big mood ring. What do you think? Hurry now, we don't have much time."

It was the ultimate 15-minute makeover. Mom wrapped the red scarf around my head and tied it in a jaunty little side knot. I slipped into her clothes and slid my feet into her shoes; it was a better fit than I thought possible. Her treasured real-gold giant hoops dangled from my ears and jingled pleasantly against my face when I shook my head. She decided that gypsies wear a lot of makeup, so I was slathered in blue eyeshadow, a generous swipe of blush, and bright red lipstick. Every finger was covered by a ring, and every toy bracelet I'd ever gotten as a prize at a birthday party or school carnival lined one arm. I suspect some of the adults I saw wondered why on earth anyone would dress their 8-year-old like a hooker. And by today's standards of political correctness, I was pretty offensive to the real gypsies of the world. But I felt gorgeous.

When I joined my adopted trick-or-treat family, they all loved my costume. At most of the houses on our street, our neighbors commented on the cute little gypsy girl (though one person thought I was a pirate, and I used this as inspiration years later when I wore many of these same items to my senior-year costume party as a pirate wench.) No one knew that it had been pulled together from bits and pieces just minutes before the witching hour.

I did not bring home a pillowcase full of candy that year (it was the Tylenol Killer Halloween, and everyone gave Frisch's coupons and pennies instead) but I did bring home a sense of pride. My mother, who didn't sew or knit or crochet or glue-gun and relied on plastic masks for Halloween disguises, a woman who usually didn't even have to put down her cigarette to get me ready for trick-or-treat, saved the holiday with a creative home-made costume. And taught me the power of makeup and accessories to boot.

Flying

2011-10-14T06:00:00.001-04:00

When I was two, my dad made my believe I could fly.

In one of my earliest memories, I am soaring above my parents and my sister. My arms and legs are outstretched, and there is nothing holding me up. I am flying, weightless, looking down on the family I spent so much time looking up to. I feel free, I feel adored, I feel special. After all, in this memory, I can fly.

I learned the truth as I got older and gained wisdom but lost magic. I wasn't really flying. My father was holding me up with one strong, invisible hand around my tiny toddler waist. One of my favorite pictures of my father shows him holding my sister up in a similar way when she was an infant. As a parent, it terrifies me a little. But there is a look of absolute joy on both their faces.

My mother caught me staring at this picture when we were sorting through the family album after my father died.

"He loved to hold you girls up that way," she said. "It scared me to death, but you both laughed and laughed when he did it."

Of course we did. It was a great illusion. We never felt like we were being held, we just felt...aloft.

"Hold me up, Daddy," I used to say. "Make me fly!"

"You're getting too big now," he'd say. There's a very brief period in our lives when our parents are able to hold us above their heads.

The years passed, and as they did, my relationship with my father changed. At best, we ignored each other. At worst, we engaged in verbal wars that included name calling and cruel accusations. Some children of alcoholics play the role of mediator and try to make peace in the family; I was not that child. I instigated arguments as much as possible, thinking some day I would get through. I didn't. By the time I left for college, I gave up. I did not respect my father, he did not respect me. He did not support me when I was in plays, musicals, or in my very brief tenure as a student athlete. He showed up to my high-school graduation and watched as I gave a speech to my classmates, but I didn't truly feel his presence. I had spent a good chunk of my life seeking his approval, but had grown convinced it would never come. I chose to go away to school in part to have as little to do with my dad for the next 4 years as possible.

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college found me working harder than I ever had in my life. Dad had just enough seniority and just enough overtime in the year prior that our family income had crept out of poverty level and into solid lower-middle-class territory. My financial aid package reflected this, and it was uncertain whether or not I could afford to stay. I had to come up with a startling amount of money that summer if I were to return to Centre College the next year. So I worked two jobs: one filling orders for The Nature Company and lifting heavy boxes over my head, one standing in a walk-in refrigerator in the Kroger produce department cutting up lettuce for the salad bar and lifting heavy boxes over my head. I worked at least 60 hours a week, often going right from a blazing hot warehouse to a freezing cold storage room. I was constantly dirty and hungry and my feet were always tired. On the other hand, my shoulders have never looked so fabulously sculpted.

I did not see my parents much that summer. What little free time I had I spent with my boyfriend. Dad was sober that summer, but I had learned that sobriety was short-lived and I tried not to get used to it. I did this by avoiding him as much as possible.

My last day of work, when I had met my summer earning quota as best I could, my father stopped me on the way out the door.

"Today your last day?"

"Yeah. One more shift at Kroger and then that's it. I'm meeting Jason after so I'll be home late."

"Listen," he said. And I stopped, thinking I was going to get one of his morality lectures about running around with boys late at night, even if said boy was probably the guy I was going to marry.

"I want you to know that I know you worked real hard this summer. To make sure you could go back to school. And I'm proud of you for that."

His voice quivered at the end, and he had tears in his eyes. He was sober, and the sentiment was genuine. My father was proud of me.

And all of a sudden, I felt like I could fly.

I've held on to that moment in the years since. After Dad died and we had said everything to each other that needed to be said, I would still revisit those words and know how wrong I had been about my father's feelings for me growing up. My father was hard to please, and knowing that I made him proud makes me proud. In dark moments where I feel like there's not much in this world I'm good at doing, I remember.

So last week when my own daughter and I had a bad day, I seized the moment. She had been forgetful and unfocused, failing to turn in a couple of homework assignments and running late for school, for guitar, for swimming. She had not made me happy, and I had let her know. Like my father, I am not so easy to please.

One morning, I took her face in my hands and looked into her eyes.

"Listen. You are smart. You are beautiful. You are talented. And you make me proud every day."

From the look on her face, I knew. She's way too big now for me to lift up.

But I just made her fly.

Katie

2011-10-10T15:00:00.000-04:00

For most of the late 80s, we had a sign in our living room that said, "Warning! An Attack Cat Lives Here." I found it in a drug store one day with other signs meant to be displayed as jokes. In our house, though, it was not a joke. It was a warning to all who entered that the green-eyed creature with the pretty white fur, who ruled over all from the back of the recliner, was not to be tampered with. Unless you happened to not enjoy having both of your eyes.

Katie, aka Snowflake, aka Bitchcat, was the meanest thing I've ever seen anybody keep as a pet. And we kept her, inexplicably, for 11 years.

"Why do we keep her?" I asked my mom once, while she was bandaging up my leg after a particularly gruesome tangle with the battle cat. "She doesn't use the litter box, she attacks us, and she won't even let me pet her."

"Well," Mom said, "She's mean, but she can't help it. I can't just turn her loose on the street."

"Would you keep me if I peed all over the family room, bit you, and puked hairballs in the hallway?"

She said she would, but there was a longer pause than there should have been.

Katie wasn't always mean. When she first showed up on our doorstep, a scrawny, bedraggled stray, she was quite the sweetheart. Her seemingly gentle personality, along with the fact that she walked right into our house when we opened the door to get a better view of her, convinced us to make her our very first indoor cat. Our last cat, a misplaced Siamese named Pood-Pood, lived his 9th life with us exclusively outside, and with Interstate 75 right over the fence, it didn't end well. Katie seemed like a poor little rich cat down on her luck. Like Scarlett O'Hara, starving on the inside but holding on to her dignity and wearing a dress made of velvet curtains. Once bathed, fed, declawed, and spayed, her dark green eyes stood out from her long, white fur and made me think she was aristocratic and so very hoity-toity. Like the cat from the Fancy Feast commercials.

The first time she stalked me, I changed my opinion. I could see her at the end of the hallway, crouched, pupils dilated and huge, her rear end wiggling to better ready her pounce.

"Don't you dare!" I ran past her in fear, which she could smell like day-old tuna salad. She leapt, and I felt clawless front paws wrap around my leg, and definitively un-declawed rear paws digging into my calf for balance. She bit, and it wasn't kitten teeth. Three of her fangs dug into my leg, and when she let go and cowered under the bed, I was left scratched, welted, bruised, and bleeding.

Hydrogen peroxide was poured into my wounds, Band-Aids applied, and Mom did not believe that I had done nothing to provoke the cat (who we called Snowflake at the time). Cats don't just attack people, she said. Was I playing with her, was I teasing her, was I being mean to her?

No, I swore. I was just, you know, walking.

It wasn't long after that when Mom got attacked while walking past the cat with a basket of laundry. A sock had been dangling over the edge of the basket, and as we learned, nothing quite got Katie going like a waving or walking sock. "Snowflake" was in a chair, and when she leaped to get Mom, she got her good, right below the hip. Mom cussed for five solid minutes. And then chased the cat around the house with a rolled up Dixie News for emphasis.

It took little time for us to realize that the newest member of the family was no Snowflake. We avoided calling her anything, lest we draw attention to ourselves and have her hunt us down like the Terminator. One night Dad, while listening to our stories about the various ways we'd been stalked, chased, bitten, clawed, clamped, and nibbled that day, looked at our tormentor and called out, "Kat--eeee! Katie ol' cat!" And so she became. We found "Katie" to roll off our tongues so much nicer in the heat of anger.

Her namer was the one person she did not bite. Ever. She and Dad had a grudging respect and love for each other that Katie did not share with the rest of us. When Mom and Dad separated for one year, Katie and Dad were the sole occupants of my house. We heard from my sister and granny, who visited during that time, that Dad would go out and get Katie food and make sure she had water when he was barely physically able to do the same for himself. He's also the one who realized that, in spite of her being declawed, Katie was meant to be an outdoor cat. She preferred the carport-turned-family-room shag over her litter box, so Dad started letting her out, dog-like, whenever she pawed the door to go do her business. We were certain she'd get eaten by something; sure, she had great teeth and a strong bite, but how could a declawed, snow-white cat possibly fend for herself in the big outdoors? Very well, actually. And over the years we had quite the collection of dead birds and vermin left on our front stoop to prove it.

My wounds from Katie attacks were numerous and epic. She favored the fleshy upper leg, but I was also bitten in my back and head. The back bite was the worst; I had come in from swimming with a bare back and a ponytail, and it was too much for Kaite to resist. While I was sitting in the floor on my towel watching TV, she came up behind me, wrapped her front paws around my neck, and took a hunk out of my upper back. I thought that was the worst, until a few years later when she decided she and only she should ever be able to sit in the recliner, and jumped up to the back of it and sicced my head. Scalp wounds bleed a lot.

I didn't realize the hold Katie had over us all until I went away from home the first time to be a Governor's Scholar. In the dorm, I found myself looking over my shoulder every time my feet hit the floor, looking for a flash of white bounding out from nowhere. It took a week to realize I could get all the way down the hallway to the communal bathroom without getting bitten by something. Ah, bliss.

By the time I got out of high-school, I had taken to calling Katie "Bitchcat" and wanted nothing to do with her. There's only so much stalking one can take.

"How's Bitchcat?" I would say when I called home from college.

"Oh, she's not a bitchcat. She's mellowing out. She hasn't bitten me in months."

But we both bore the scars from pounces past.

Christmas break of my sophomore year, I noticed that Katie looked frail. She was bony, and her beautiful fur wasn't as well-kept as it usually was. She snuggled next to me on the couch, which was unusual, and didn't bite my toes under the aghan, which was even more so. I snapped a picture of her with my camera, not sure why I wanted to get it, but nagged by the notion that it might be the last time I saw her. Sadly, I was right.

A call came in January that Katie had a cancerous tumor on her spine.

"We're trying chemo," Mom told me over the phone. "And she's on valium to help calm her down, and it's made her really sweet."

"Are you crazy?" I asked, because I was 19 and had all the answers. "Chemo? Valium? For THAT cat?"

"THAT cat," Mom said, her voice breaking, "has been all I've had since you went away. With your Dad working so much and drinking when he's not, and you gone, she's been company to me. I love that cat." And she hung up on me.

A month later, my roomate entered the common room of my dorm where we had just gathered to spend a cold, snowy Wednesday night watching the beautiful people of Melrose Place and 9021-Ho.

"Your mom's on the phone."

Weeknight phone calls from home were almost always bad news. It had been snowing terrifically all over Kentucky that February, leaving roads icy and dangerous. I feared the worst. But I didn't expect the news I received.

"Katie's dead."

Mom was upset, not so much that Katie was gone, but the way it happened. Just after the heavy snow started falling the night before, Katie suddenly became paralyzed. She was in pain, crying out, unable to move. Despite the weather, our vet agreed to meet my parents at his office to put her down. Six inches of snow covered the ground as Mom and Dad set out with our family pet. At midnight, she was put to sleep. They waited to tell me mostly because they had spent the day too exhausted to talk about it. The drive home had been long and awful; the snow mixed with ice, and their drive home from the vet had taken over an hour, Mom crying most of that time. Phone lines had also been down, leaving my parents cut off and grieving their loss alone.

"Are you okay?" Mom asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I know you loved her, but she never was really my cat."

But when my dorm mates asked me if everything was okay when I came back downstairs, I lost it.

"Our family cat died." And for no reason I could think of, I wept.

Katie made my life miserable sometimes, what with making the whole house smell like cat urine (sorry, college roommates; I know when I rolled back to Centre from a trip home that I smelled like I had been marinated in cat-sprayed tobacco fields), attacking, biting, and being generally terrifying. But she was the closest thing to a younger sibling I had, and I felt better about leaving home knowing that Mom had her there. In her last years, she slept on Mom's bed (occasionally biting her feet through the covers), took care of the house's mouse problems, and gave my mother, who has to be caring for something or someone at all times, a warm, living creature to dote on in my absence. I would barely miss her, but I knew my mother would. And my father, too. Before hanging up, Mom had whispered into the phone that she had caught Dad with red eyes amd a runny nose the morning after Katie had been put to sleep.

"Chuck, you okay?"

"Yeah. Allergies." But then he gave a weak smile that admitted the truth: he would miss his Katie more than anyone else would. They were cut from the same cloth: sometimes mean, but mellowing with age. And kind when it counted.

She was the meanest cat in the world. But she was our mean cat. And, for better or for worse, there would never be another quite like her.

Passing Notes

2011-09-30T07:00:00.000-04:00

I realized at a very young age that words have power. I clearly remember the night that I was following along with my Rapunzel book-on-record and realized that I didn't need the record to read the book aloud to me anymore. The letters on the page had transformed into words, and I recognized those words. And the words made me see, hear, taste, and smell things. When Rapunzel's mother, great with child, craved the carrots, greens, and radishes from the witch's garden, I could see and smell them on my own dinner plate and I craved them, too. When Rapunzel let down her long, golden hair, I could see the sunlight hitting the strands and see them tighten under the tension as a handsome prince used them as a rope ladder. When said handsome prince was pushed from the tower and was blinded by thorns, my own eyes wanted to water and sting. The power of words to conjure images in a person's mind amazed me, and I was only 4 years old.

Which is why, I think, I began to love "dirty" words not too many years later.

I grew up in a house where I heard these words all the time, but knew that they were off limits. My mother was fluent in cursing; my father was not as fluent but went around damning things regularly. Especially from November through March during the years Eddie Sutton was UK's coach.

Before we had even moved from Knox County I had gotten in trouble for quoting my mom and complaining in front of my paternal grandmother about Dad "pissing" all over the toilet seat.

"That's not nice."

"But you say it."

My mother smiled sweetly and apologetically at Granny, then shot me a venomous look. "I shouldn't."

I didn't practice my 4-letter vocabulary in the house much after that, though there was a time after starting kindergarten when I liked to go around the house taking familiar words and switching out the beginning consonants with other consonants in alphabetical order.

"Duck! Buck, cuck, duck, f-"

"That's enough of that. There's a very bad word you're very close to saying."

I filed that interesting bit of information away for later use.

As I've heard is typical of kids that age, my little gang of neighborhood friends and I started exploring the power of profanity on the sly in 4th grade. The "f" word and taking the Lord's name in vain were still taboo, but when out of earshot of any adults, we tried out lesser vulgarities and found them pleasing. I am my mother's daughter, though, and I cuss in a country accent that makes everything two syllables. "Shee-it" loses a little of the real word's bite and cracked everybody up, which wasn't quite the effect I was going for.

In middle school, finding shocking and new terms for those most private parts of male and female anatomy were all the rage. Each term's various strengths and weaknesses were discussed at length. When we found a term we liked, we test-drove it by calling each other that name as the ultimate put-down. I swear, we were more charming and well-behaved than we sound.

I played the role of perfectionist, Good Girl, and straight-A student well. But those closest to me knew that I harbored a secret: I really had quite the filthy mouth, and the dirtier the joke, the more off-color the put-down, the more lewd the comment, the better. And the only adult who found out about it was my 7th-grade math teacher, who also, unfortunately, was the mother of one of my good friends.

In 7th-grade, I had a tremendous crush on a tall, dark, and slightly nerdy 8th-grade boy. He was in several classes with my friend Rosi, and I got her to talk to him on my behalf. One awkward phone conversation and several passed notes later, and I had secured a promise of a slow dance at the after-school party the following Friday. I became convinced he was "the one."

The day of the dance, word came that he was no longer interested. 8th-grade boys as a general rule are not interested in 7th-grade girls, especially those in such an aggressive group of pestering friends. One of these friends went up to him at the dance and stomped on his foot in my honor, and his shock and pain should have been enough. But I held a grudge.

In anticipation of a 7th- and 8th-grade Honor Society meeting later the next week, I passed my friend Denise a note during math class that expressed, in great detail and using words that conveyed lots of vivid imagery, what I would like to do during this meeting to the Honor Society president, aka the guy who had most recently broken my heart.

I left no stone of vulgarity unturned. I used the queen mother of all curse words in both its noun and verb forms. I called my former crush every name in the proverbial book. I hurled invectives that would have made George Carlin blush. And I ended my written tirade with a wish to emasculate my enemy using all my favorite terms for the male member.

And then I went and picked the worst person in the history of the world to pass a dirty note to. My friend Denise had the exact opposite of a poker face. I saw her shoulders shudder and shake, and I knew she was going to laugh. I coughed to get her attention to try to get her to simmer down, but when she turned to me I saw tears in her eyes and knew she was going to erupt any minute.

"Girls, what's so funny?"

"Nuh...nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing. Can I see that note?"

I heard a rushing in my ears and my stomach dropped into my shoes. Our math teacher was not only our math teacher, but also my friend Annie's mom and the National Honor Society sponsor. She had no tolerance for foolishness, and I was already wary of a woman I knew I was going to have to deal with for years to come. And she had just busted me, and in a matter of seconds was going to learn what kind of girl I really was.

Denise walking to her desk was one of the longest 10 seconds of my life. We did not look at each other. I watched my math teacher's face for signs of horror, shock, and disgust. Unlike Denise, however, she had an excellent poker face.

"See me after class, girls." And she tucked the note inside her desk drawer and carried on with her lesson.

I sat wondering what was going to happen to me next. Expulsion seemed reasonable, and reform school after that if my parents let me live. Hell for certain if they didn't. I could kiss my friendship with both Annie and Denise goodbye after that, I reckoned, and possibly everyone in my entire class if word got out. And as for the guy I had so vividly written bodily harm to...well, I guessed a restraining order wouldn't be much worse than being denied publicly at a middle-school dance.

The bell to begin my doom rang. My teacher did not move from her desk or stand when we approached. She looked at us steadily and evenly and for a long time did not speak.

"You're lucky you're both friends with Annie." And with that, she got out the note and ripped it up.She led the Honor Society meeting as usual, though we avoided eye contact with each other for some time after. I would learn later that she never shared our secret, not even with Annie, though Denise and I filled our friend in on it in the interest of full disclosure. The closest we ever came to discussing it again was at my high-school graduation when the teacher came up to me to shake my hand and say, with a wry smile,

"I guess you did okay once you got past 7th grade."

I toned it back a bit after that. But I still pepper my language with words I know I shouldn't love. But I do. I love the simplicity and directness of profane words. I watch what audience I use them in, sure. Sometimes, though, they just feel right. When a land-barge driving soccer mom with a cell phone glued to her ear cuts me off in traffic, when I slam my fingers in a dresser drawer, when my plate of scrambled eggs falls off the counter and scatters buttery yolks all over my feet. A socially-inappropriate interjection lets a little steam out of the pressure cooker. Though little ears are sometimes listening and learning.

"Do as I say and not as I do...no, wait, don't do as I say...well, do as I say but don't say as I say...oh, for the love, just eat your eggs."

So every night, I pray the Swearer's Prayer.

"Please, Lord, let me never drop an errant F Bomb in front of a student, or when I drop the collection basket in Mass, or during my annual mammogram when the tech gets a little aggressive. And watch over my child while she learns the English language, and let her sponge brain not absorb every 4-letter word she hears slip out of my mouth, or the mouths of others. And finally, Lord, preserve the PG-13 rating, and keep it holy. Amen."

Over and out, motherlovers.

Piano Girl

2011-09-23T06:00:00.002-04:00

I ran home as fast as my legs could carry me. I had to be first, I just had to. My burgeoning musical career counted on it. I did the math in my head, over and over, not believing this could actually happen.

65 dollars...65 dollars...that's all I need...65 dollars...

My chorus teacher had just pulled two of us aside and presented us with an opportunity.

"Now that we have a new piano for the high school, I am moving the high-school piano over to the middle school," he said. "And that means I need to find a new home for the old piano in the middle school. Whichever one of you can put $65 in my hands first gets a piano. And I will even deliver it."

I looked at the other student, who was my some-time adversary. The two of us had been teaching ourselves how to play piano on small keyboards, which was the best our financially struggling families could do. We had worked together to accompany the choir before, but mostly we were in competition with each other for the unofficial title of "most musical" in our grade. I didn't know how quickly he could hit his parents up for money, but I had just started taking piano lessons from an actual human teacher instead of a hand-me-down instruction book. Two-and-a-half octaves on my Yamaha were not cutting it. In a rare moment of aggressiveness, I decided I was getting that piano. Even if I had to throw someone under the wheels to do it.

I got home so quickly that afternoon that my dad hadn't left for work yet. Mom was home early. I exhaled for the first time since the bell had rung. Being able to make my case to both of them would save me precious time.

Like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he finally got to tell Santa what he really wanted for Christmas, I took a deep breath and rattled off my argument in one long, unbroken stream of pleading.

"Mr. Durham said he needs to get rid of the middle-school piano because he got a new one for the high school and the old high-school one is going to the middle school and whoever gives him $65 first gets it and he will even borrow a truck and deliver it if someone can help him get it into the house and the bottom octave doesn't sound really good but I can work around it and it's really the only chance I'll get to have a piano and I really need a full-sized piano to keep practicing the songs Ms. Judd wants me to practice and if you do this for me I swear it can be my Christmas present and birthday present and everything for the whole entire year so can I?"

My parents looked at me the way a scientist studies a new bacterium under a microscope: part awe, part confusion, part concern for the future.

"Don't you have almost that much money in your savings account from the $50 prize you won in the 5th grade?"

Oh, God. I had forgotten about that. I had won an essay contest sponsored by the PTA in honor of the 100th anniversary of the dedication of the Statue of Liberty. My ability to wax poetic in regards to Lady Liberty was about to pay off in a way I hadn't even thought about when my dad forced me to use my winnings to start an interest-earning savings account instead of starting a sticker collection like I had wanted to do.

Dad fished out the bank statements he had been saving to teach me all about interest and the importance of saving money. I hadn't particularly cared, mostly because the statements involved math, which I tried to avoid as much as possible. Suddenly I cared a great deal. Nearly four years of sitting in an account and occasionally being augmented by quarters dug out from under couch cushions had gotten the account to just shy of sixty bucks.

"I think we can put ten dollars in on a piano," Dad said. And with that he left for work and left me to hitch a ride with Mom to the bank and then to the band room in the hope that it wasn't too late.

As luck would have it, my teacher was still there. As luck would not have it, so was my frenemy. The select choir was still practicing. This was a sore point; I had auditioned for and not gotten one of three alto spots while my adversary had easily gotten on the bass squad. While I had not won that battle, I was about to win the war.

My teacher saw me running into the band room and smiled mischieviously.

"Yes? Do you have something for me?"

I held out a white banking envelope with crisp bills inside.

"I have the $65. Is the piano still available?"

He looked at the other student, questioning. The bass shrugged.

"She was first with the money while I've been here practicing. It's hers."

I felt the subtle dig, but I didn't care. I had a piano. I hoped that someday my fellow musician would find it in his heart to forgive me. But if he didn't...well, I could cry about it over my new instrument.

Several days after purchase, my dad and my chorus teacher unloaded an old, worn spinet into our house. The only place it could go was in the kitchen, but it fit perfectly on the wall behind our dining table. Like it was meant to be. Dad left for work and I had the house to myself. My fingers touched the keys and I began to play. And for years, I didn't stop.

In one of life's twists, I later started dating the guy I stole the piano from. I think he forgave me long before we became husband and wife, though one can never be sure. He eventually had a piano of his own, an aesthetically beautiful instrument much nicer than the one he lost. When you're talented and your family recognizes your talent, things have a way of happening. He started taking lessons from my piano teacher, and his ability soon eclipsed mine. Once it did, I didn't much feel like playing anymore. He was truly gifted as a pianist, and I had other things to compete with and other people to compete against. I didn't touch a piano in any serious way after my junior year in high school. And eventually Mom got rid of the old piano I so eagerly raced home to get. Priorities changed.

Recently, we welcomed our first shared piano into our home. Like my old piano, it was a deal too good to pass up. Someone needed a piano gone quickly and asked a price I knew we wouldn't see again. My daughter's skill was starting to surpass the available keys on my old Yamaha keyboard. (My mother had kept that all these years; she said she knew my child would need it someday.)

When the piano movers showed up, I had a few quiet moments with the instrument all to myself. I touched the keys and began to play an old, favorite melody. Some things you just don't forget.

I thought of the incredible joy I used to get from playing. And then the pride I felt when I watched my then-boyfriend play in college. And how now I feel both whenever our daughter makes either her guitar or her keyboard her first stop after homework is complete.

And to think that the seeds were sown one afternoon long ago when I rushed into the band room with my life savings and tried to break my future husband's heart.

The Smell of Perm Solution in the Morning

2011-09-16T14:30:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it was awesome having a mom who happened to be a hair stylist. But as anyone who has seen all of my school pictures can tell you, it was mostly awful.

I got my first perm in 4th grade. I was not the only curly-haired child in my class, but I was the only one who smelled like ammonia for a week to have it. Technically, it was supposed to be a "body wave", but my hair has always been dramatic and over-reactive, much like me. Just wrapping it up in in foam curlers gave me Orphan Annie coils, so Mom shouldn't have been surprised.

"Huh. Well," she said, releasing each plastic roller from the soup of neutralizer resting on my scalp.

"What? What is it? Is it bad?"

"No, not bad, it just...took better than I expected."

She rinsed me out in the kitchen sink at my grandmother's trailer, where she had chosen to give me my first perm on a lazy Sunday in Knox County. Mom was a hair dresser by trade and by hobby, and both my sister and I fell victim to her cosmetological whims when she got bored. I excitedly looked in the big mirror over Mamaw's couch expecting the fluffy, feathered layers the lovely lady on the perm box had. What I saw instead was more like Roseanne Rosannadanna.

I swallowed hard.

"I look ridiculous."

"No you don't, you look great. Like Amy Irving."

Being 10, this was not a huge consolation. I wanted to transform the bowl haircut I had been sporting since I was in kindergarten to something more like what was my classmates were starting to wear, something layered from bangs to ears, long in the back, and curly all over. Later, we would call this a mullet and make fun of it, but if you were alive in 1984, you coveted one. Mom did not feel that she could cut my hair to make it do this magical feathery thing, but she thought a perm would do it.

It did not.

Throughout the rest of the 80s and into the early 90s, I was permed, highlighted, and layered a multitude of times in the family kitchen to varying levels of attractiveness and success. Mom definitely reached her peak of expertise with my hair in 1987, when I was in the eighth grade.

My eighth-grade class picture is my favorite picture of me ever because I am what I can best describe as a beautiful disaster of late-80s style. My hair is both very long and very permed; I outgrew my layers and let my hair grow wild down my back with a perm that finally could be called an intense body wave. My mother let me start cutting my own bangs, and she showed me how to layer them so that, with a curling iron and an abundance of Final Net, I could create a deceptively messy Kentucky Claw that looked like I had just rolled out of bed and into a briar patch. No one would have guessed it took me 15 minutes per morning just to get those bangs to look so carefree and casual. I had the rest of my hair pulled back into a banana clip, with loose tendrils curling whimsically around my face. The ponytail part of the banana clip is so long it hangs a little over my shoulder and around the popped collar of my Coca-Cola shirt. Mom also sold Mary Kay around this time and turned me loose with all the creams and powders in her pink saleswoman's suitcase, and Teen magazine had just told me that wearing one color of eye shadow all the way to the brow bone created a dramatic look, so I smeared satiny brown eye shadow from lashes to brows. It was dramatic, it was trashy, it overdone, and it was fabulous. My mother was so very proud.

Other cuts and perms created school pictures I am less proud of. The last time I let my mother lay hands on my hair was the fall of 1990 when I was trying to grow my bangs out so I could look like the most beautiful woman in the world (in my opinion): Kirstie Alley. Mom thought it would help me through that awkward stage where my they just wanted to fall into my eyes if she permed just my bangs (a body wave again, of course). The logic was that they would curl back away from my face and blend in with the rest of my hopelessly damaged and over-processed hair.

"Oh, look," my dad said, taking a stroll through the kitchen while Mom tried to figure out what to do with the wreckage her little "just perm the bangs" experiment left behind. "It's Bill the Cat."

A couple of months later, as soon as an inch of straight hair had grown out from the crimped mess covering my forehead, I cut my bangs so short I looked like a 9-year-old boy and used the excuse that I had just landed the role of the Artful Dodger in Oliver.

"I did it for the role," I told my friends. My hairdresser knew the truth.

From that day on, even if I came to her begging for a haircut or something more intense, my mother vowed to keep at least 500 feet away from my hair at all times. And I became something of a hair artist myself, cutting my own bangs and several of my dorm mates' in college using the techniques Mom taught me for lift and volume. My husband did, however, learn of my limitations the night in Lexington when I tried to give him a haircut with electric clippers right before a big job interview. The initial result was a reverse mohawk, which he chose to correct by just shaving his head down to the scalp all over and hoping that his potential employers did not brand him a skinhead. (He got the job.)

I am my mother's daughter, after all.

Before she retired from her job to be a full-time nanny to Ainsley when I went back to work, I used to go watch her work her magic. Whatever errors she had committed to me she did not do to the little old ladies at the nursing home where she worked the last decade of her career. With a bucket full of hard, plastic rollers, a rat-tailed comb, a sharp pair of scissors, and a stationary hair dryer, she could work magic. Sometimes her clients had hair so thin they barely had hair at all, and in those cases, she coaxed elegant curls out with just her fingers and some bobby pins. No matter how sick and haggard a patient looked coming into Mom's salon, she always looked like a lady on the way out.

And when she gave the occasional perm, she always got it right.

I may not have always liked the results, but I loved the process. When I was in Mom's chair, I felt like an adult. I had her full, undivided attention, and I knew she was going to do something that would, hopefully, make me feel beautiful.

Some mothers and daughter bond over baking, or shopping, or clothes. My mom and I bonded over perm solution and hard-hat hair dryers. My hair was never the same, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Up a Tree

2011-09-15T12:00:00.000-04:00

"You've never climbed a tree before? How are you 14 years old and never climbed a tree before?"

"There's a lot of things I've never done."

The new brother and sister duo in my neighborhood, who had just moved into the "old lady's house" at the very top of our street (that "old lady", as it turned out, was their grandmother), could not believe it as I stood under the big maple tree in their front yard, watching them ascend into the thick, leafy branches. I had never climbed a tree. I had used my friend Denise's plum tree as leverage to shimmy over her back fence, but Mike and Annie, the newest members of our gang, assured me that did not count.

Climbing a tree was just one of many childhood joys I had never experienced. I was a cautious child with an even more cautious mother who saw mortal peril at every turn. I had never built a snowman, for too much time in cold air could cause my fragile lungs to become pneumonia-ridden. I had never played outside in the rain, for damp air could cause a chill. I had not camped outside, set off a bottle rocket, gone fishing, ridden on a recreational vehicle. Among a neighborhood of tomboys and thrill-seekers, I was certainly an anomaly.

"It's easy," Mike said. "Stand on the lawn chair, put your foot on the big crook, and pull up by the big branches."

My hands shook, for what's easy for a fearless boy can be terrifying for a timid girl with no upper body strength. My friends' eyes peered down on me from dangerously high branches; being branded as a chicken, as it turns out, is scarier than the thought of broken limbs.

I stood on the chair Mike and Annie had dragged around to help everyone step into the massive crook in the ancient sugar maple. That tree had seemed huge to me when we first moved onto Liberty Street when I was three, and now it overtook the top half of our road. I felt reassured by its sheer mass as I looked up into its high, sprawling branches, most of which were as thick as my skinny little legs. Surely it could hold my weight.

Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down...

I pulled and stepped, each tentative step pushing me higher and higher from the safety of the shaded lawn. Finally I found myself as high up as my friends, who told me they had tested all those branches and deemed them safe.

"There," Mike said, as I settled my rear onto a branch close to his, hiding my trembling hands, "you made that look easy."

I looked out. Or tried to. I thought the whole reason for climbing a big, old tree would be the view. But all I could see were branches and leaves.

"Now what do we do?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Annie had taken a book with her up into the branches. As big a bookworm as I, she sat quietly, with her back against the trunk, reading. Mike, all boy and older than Annie but not nearly as mature, threw small sticks at us and blamed it on Annie to try to start a war. Rosi dangled her legs for a while and then inched out to try to find higher sturdy branches. I just sat, wondering what, besides the danger of the climb, made this so special.

Then the wind blew.

It felt both powerful and intimate. The wind was all around me and rattled the leaves in a gentle roar. The branch beneath me swayed but rather than scaring me, it felt reassuring and comforting. Almost like being rocked to sleep. For the rest of that fall, that tree was the only place I wanted to be.

Most days after school found me climbing the tree, seeking cool shade and tranquil breezes either with friends or solo if they had other mischief to get into in the yard. We told our best dirty jokes to each other one afternoon, cackling at each other through the limbs. When Mike and Annie went away for the weekend, their parents gave me $5 and unlimited tree-climbing in exchange for checking on their house every day and feeding and watering their cat. By then most of the leaves were gone and I needed a coat, but I didn't care. I suddenly realized why every kid wants, nay needs, a tree house in the yard.

When the weather turned too bad to climb the tree anymore, my freshman attentions turned to more pressing matters. Our class started selling soft drinks out of the concession stand every day after school and I could escape my home life there for a few semi-supervised hours. When I wasn't selling Cokes and smiles for 50 cents a pop, there were blood-thirsty volleyball games between the choir kids and the band kids; talk about your grudge matches. I got a part as Amaryllis in The Music Man in the spring and life became about afternoon rehearsals and set decoration. I outgrew such childish things as tree climbing.

Years later, I was driving down the street and saw linemen for both the power and phone companies parked at the top of the street under "my" old tree. Men in cherry pickers with power tools were clearing massive old limbs away from the lines. To do so, they practically had to remove the entire middle of the tree, including most of the branches we used to sit on and swing on. I worried that my old retreat was in danger, that it wasn't going to survive such an impressive pruning.

I felt a sudden desire to knock on Mike and Annie's door and ask them to join me in the old maple one more time. But they were both, like me, "grown up." We could drive, we had jobs, we went on dates. Who I was friends with was no longer dictated by who lived within a short walking distance. I put away childish things. I was an adult, and my tree-climbing days, short though they were, were behind me. There was no time for such foolishness.

That didn't make me want one more afternoon up in a tree any less. I had an epiphany, there on the eve of my high-school graduation: I missed childhood. Maybe more so than most, because I had really just started to enjoy it before it was gone.

I can't drive down my mom's street anymore without looking at the old tree, which is still standing and has been pruned many times. Mike and Annie's parents, like all of our parents in the old neighborhood, still live in our childhood homes. Sometimes when I drive past, and it's a beautiful afternoon, I see an old lawn chair pressed against the trunk. When I see that, I know to look up; one of my old friends' own children, who go to their grandparents' after school, is in the tree. They don't go as high as we did, but I see them there all the same.

Childhood is fleeing, sometimes lasting just one season. There are worse ways to spend it than doing absolutely nothing in the branches of an old maple tree.

40 Channels and a Remote

2011-09-01T12:00:00.001-04:00

Nothing could bring a family together in the 1980s like cable television.

The day Dad read in our hometown newspaper that cable television was coming to our city street-by-street was a happy day indeed. We were lucky to live close enough to Cincinnati to be able to clearly pick up the 3 networks. But in 1983, 3 channels were starting to not be enough. Dad had risked his life to put a big antenna on the roof that, during basketball season, would get pointed south twice a week to pick up WKYT in Lexington. Rain, snow, or shine, when Dad was home and the Cats were playing, he climbed on the roof to manually point the antenna (the in-house pointer that came with the used antenna was tragically broken) as we monitored the clarity on our old console television.

"It's good!" someone would holler out the front door once the picture was snow-free enough to make out the score. And sometimes Mom would holler out that it was good when it wasn't, just to keep Dad from breaking his neck.

(And here's why kids today should be grateful for DVRs--when Dad had to work during a UK game, it was my and my sister's job to hook a microphone up to our tape recorder and set the microphone close enough to the TV to record an audio version. Seriously.)

So the prospect of cable television in all its glory made our mouths water. I had heard they had a channel devoted exclusively to kids' programming (Nickelodeon, natch) and also this one channel with nothing but music videos (I wanted my MTV.) My mom and sister were eying the movie channels, and Dad was all about an increased number of sporting events. When I saw the installers putting up line on the street next to ours, I came running home to tell the news.

"Don't get too excited yet," Dad said. "Money's tight, and I'm not paying for anything unless they have WKYT in the lineup like the newspaper said they would."

It turned out WKYT was in the lineup--oh, joy! No more roof-antenna extreme sporting! And also, when we looked through the little glossy brochure the cable guy left on our door...Star Wars was coming to HBO.

Oh. My. GOD.

At only 8-going-on-9 years old, I was as big a fan of Star Wars as any freaky dude you'd now see going to Comic Con dressed like Chewbacca. I was obsessed. I had gone to Corbin to see the movie with my family when I was 3, but the only thing I remembered clearly was how scary-cool the Stormtroopers looked on the big screen. No matter. It was a theatrical event that I knew was awesome even when I couldn't remember what was awesome about it. Dad had gotten me the action figures after we moved to Erlanger, and I had them re-enact what little I could remember of the plot on a near-daily basis. Dad had also taken me to see The Empire Strikes Back, and even though it rocked my world with its huge, shocking revelation (that it was Leia and Han who were going to pair off, and not Leia and Luke, of course) I could not contain my utter devotion to all things related to that galaxy far, far away.

"We've got to get Home Box Office!" I pleaded. "They'll have Star Wars! I have to see Star Wars! I don't remember that much about it from the first time, and the third one's coming out this summer, and YOU HAVE TO DO THIS FOR ME!"

"I have heard good things about that new HBO kids' show Fraggle Rock," my sister chimed in, helpfully.

For the first time in my life, my parents made a semi-major family financial decision, to subscribe to a certain cable movie channel, because of me. I gloated in silence. And went to tell Luke, Leia, and C3PO the good news.

Our street got cabled just in time. The day before Star Wars premiered on HBO in February, 1983, an angel in Carhartt work pants came to hook up our house. And he left behind a "remote"--it was wired to the back of the TV, but the cord to this magical box was long enough that we could, technically, sit on the couch and browse our selections. It had an A/B switcher, and through it we could flip through over 40 channels.

40. Channels. So long, playing outside and reading books. That stuff was for the poor saps on the other side of town who hadn't been paid a visit from the cable guy yet. Hell-o, junk television.

Of course, I really only had my mind on one thing: the premiere of Star Wars at 7pm. Mom was in a bowling league, and I was scheduled to be in the kids' area of the bowling alley that night while she and her team, The Gutter Dusters, ate nachos, smoked, and tried to hold steady to their second-to-last-in-the-league standings.

But here's the awesome part of being in a family of avid TV watchers--they get it. They get that sometimes, there is nothing more important than your show coming on. My dad, who usually believed kids in the 80s had it too easy and were going to go soft from being coddled, a man who made me walk home from school on unplowed sidewalks following minor snowstorms because apparently wet shoes and frozen toes build character, a man who only wanted me to stay home from school if I had a fever of around 1000...this man arranged transportation and a paid babysitter for me so I could be picked up from the bowling alley and come home to watch the big event.

"I am serious about this," he told my older sister, who was born early and has been late for everything else since. He peeled a bill out of his wallet and handed over a competitive hourly wage. "I would stay home from work myself if I thought you were going to be late. She has had her heart set on this and you will have her back here by 7. Or else."

She agreed, even though like every other night that winter she had plans to hang out with her fiance. And she was almost true to her word--I didn't get home right at 7, but I got home early enough for Darth Vader's big entrance onto the rebel starship.

It was love. I watched Star Wars roughly 100 times that winter and spring, or until my parents threatened to cancel HBO if I didn't give it a rest. Along the way I met Mokey, Red, Wembley and the rest of the gang down in Fraggle Rock. My mom became a big fan of BET (yeah, I know, don't ask) and, later, the Home Shopping Network. Dad rarely came up for air during what my mom called "sports season", which strangely lasts all year long. He watched the Cubs play at Wrigley on WGN even though he was a Reds fan because, like Everest, it was there. I watched videos on MTV back when there were such things on MTV, and when Mom wasn't looking, whatever R-rated scary movie I could find. It would be years before we got a VCR and started renting movies, so Saturday family movie night often revolved around whatever the big release was on HBO that month. The whole extended family, which soon included a brother-in-law, sat together watching such cinematic greats as First Blood, Conan the Barbarian, The Terminator, Poltergeist, and, for our sensitive sides, Places in the Heart. My entertainment diet at a young age consisted of blood, guts, violence, and gratuitous boob shots, but there was always stuff like Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas to keep me somewhat wholesome.

My husband is amazed at my wealth of 1980s TV knowledge. He wonders, whenever I recall an obscure show or movie or talk about how I watched Porky's in all its bawdy, uncensored glory one night when I couldn't have been more than 10, if I ever did anything as a kid besides watch vaguely inappropriate television. And I did. I finished my homework each night, I rode my bike, swam, ran, played 4-square, and fell out of trees just like any non-TV-addicted child in the neighborhood.

But when the sun went down, the "remote" went to A 21 to see what was on HBO. I could hardly remember what life was like B.C.--Before Cable.

Some families camp, or hike, or volunteer in their church. Some have family game night or sit around a roaring fire pit. We were, and are, TV watchers. No, it doesn't sound terribly noble. But whether your family is bonding over toasting marshmallows or the pilot episode of The Wonder Years, what really matters is the bonding part.

Now, where's my remote? True Blood's coming on.

A Perfect Day

2011-08-26T07:00:00.001-04:00

When I was 14 years old, I had a perfect day. For years after, whenever life failed to live up to my expectations, I would think of the simple, unadulterated perfection of a certain summer day in 1988.

There was absolutely nothing special about that day. It was not my wedding, not a birthday, not the day my child was born. It is impossible, I think, for any big-ticket day to be perfect. Weddings are stressful. Childbirth is painful. Birthdays can be celebrations of life or one mile marker closer to death. Special event days might be the most joy-filled days of a person's life, but joy does not equal perfection. A perfect day is a rare, fragile thing indeed.

On my perfect day, nothing went wrong. From beginning to end, there was nothing that caused me so much as one nanosecond of anxiety, fear, pain, or sadness. The day wouldn't even stick out in my mind until many years later, when I would find myself comparing every summer day to that one. They have consistently come up lacking.

It was late summer, and school was about to start. I had spent most of the summer in the above-ground swimming pool we kept in the backyard. Some summers, when Dad was drinking, we had to clear a thick layer of algae off the top of the pool and be okay with not seeing our feet if we wanted to "swim." Most of the time, it wasn't worth the health hazard. This particular summer, Dad had a rare moment of sober clarity and decided that our house and yard and pool were all disasters and needed attention. Bushes were trimmed with regularity, the walls were freshly painted, the pool kept chlorinated, filtered, and vacuumed. Just as I was at an age when I was never home anymore, Mom and Dad went and made the place livable.

I was about to start high-school, and I decided that if I could just become tanner, blonder, and somehow grow the necessary body parts to fill out a bikini, I could magically transform into a popular girl. So most days found me and a friend floating on reflecting rafts atop crystal clear water in 2-piece swimsuits, either lemon juice or Sun-In spritzed in our hair (which we could not destroy by getting wet), causing my dad to huff and puff under his breath about why he even bothered to have a pool when no one actually ever got more than waist-high in the water.

My perfect day featured the suffocating, sauna-like heat and humidity that dogged us most of that summer. And yet it was beautiful outside, with not a single cloud to block my rays. With no one home that day in my circle of friends, I resigned myself to spending a long, hot day hanging out with my parents, who I had just discovered were not cool. I was 14 and thought I had them all figured out. I grabbed my reflective raft, donned a new bikini that my mom had bought off of a McAlpin's clearance rack (I rolled my eyes when she got it out of the bag and said it wasn't really my style, but secretly I thought it was terribly cute), and let the flow of the filter carry me on big circles under a hazy sky.

I heard my mom climb up the rickety steps of the tiny little pool deck (rumor had it a new deck was the next planned home improvement job, and it was, just a decade later) and through my Coca-Cola sunglasses saw her spread out her towel. We basked in silence.

Later I heard Dad come up. Though Dad would vacuum the pool and blow up rafts for his girls, and spend a largish portion of each paycheck on chemicals, we rarely saw him use the pool for fun. He said he did not like to get burned, which was further evidence of his uncool-ness. Everyone, I thought, should have a little color, skin cancer be darned.

It was too hot a day to just float on a raft, so I slid into the water. Mom hopped down and began doing something like water aerobics, though less strenuous. Dad did laps, as well as one can do laps in a circular pool. Icy cold Cokes appeared on the deck, and at Mom's next trip inside, so did fried bologna sandwiches with sliced tomatoes from our attempt at a garden. Dad hooked up a radio and I actually got my hair wet. For hours, we splashed, floated, ate, and laughed until we were exhausted and the sun sank behind some forbidding-looking clouds to the west, chasing us indoors.

The inside of the house was cool and dark. We were always a napping family, so with little discussion and fuss we drifted to our own parts of the house: Dad to his room, Mom to hers (a big secret to why my parents stuck with each other through 35 years of rocky marriage: separate bedrooms), me to the couch. As I drifted off, I noticed that the house had become gloomy and I could hear the rumbling of distant thunder.

A nap after a day at a pool is the best kind of nap. A nap during a summer thunderstorm is a close second. We all awoke sometime later to the end of a magnificent thunderstorm, the kind you get at the end of a long, hot summer, that clear the air and remind you that fall is just a couple of weeks away. The wind bent the wild black cherry tree and scattered mimosa flowers all over the yard. We stood and watched in awe and breathed a collective sigh of relief at the much-needed rain.

Mom began to cook as I showered, applied a generous slather of aloe to my over-exposed skin, and lounged in front of the TV with a book in the fading light. I began to smell one of the most fabulous scents on earth: chicken being fried by a southern cook who knows what she's doing. I wasn't sure what we had done to deserve such riches, but I was grateful.

I went to bed that night full, tan, and happy. No one had fought. I had barely had to lift a finger, and yet good food and a day of solid entertainment had simply materialized out of a hot, blue sky. I doubt I realized, being young and naive, that such a simple, uneventful day would shape my life for years to come.

I've been trying to recreate that day ever since. But perfect days can only be lived in the moment. No other family gathering since, either pool-side or in the dead of winter, has had such a profound lack of strife and discord. I guess I come from a long line of high-strung people. As I grew older, none of us seemed to have time to just play in the pool all day and eat ourselves senseless. There were always places to be, things to do, other people to take care of. That summer day in 1988, I was still enough of a child to take pleasure in my parents' company, even if I was beginning to realize they were hopelessly old and not cool. A summer later, I was in my first dating relationship with a boy and no longer felt I needed my parents to entertain me. And without feeling they needed to entertain me, my parents moved on and began to pursue their own interests (including, but not limited to, spending hot summer days exclusively indoors.)

Nowadays, any summer day spent at the pool has me longing for cold Cokes and fried bologna sandwiches with just-picked tomatoes. When I come home, I always want a nap and a thunderstorm. I want to wake up to the smells of fried chicken and aloe gel. But it's been tough to get those stars to align.

And yet I know now it wasn't so much those specific things that made the day perfect. Those are just my associations, and the concrete things I'll always remember. What really made that day perfect are the very things that make it the most un-repeatable: me being 14, my dad in good health and sober, my mom unworried and happy. That day is a touchstone I go back to often when I think about my childhood. There were some really, really bad days. But in the midst of it, there was this one incredible moment of simple happiness, filled with love and sunshine.

And fried chicken.

Horror Picture Show

2011-08-23T12:30:00.001-04:00

My maternal grandmother was the classiest southern lady I've ever known. Every day, even if she wasn't going anywhere, she put on heels, stockings, and a skirt and blouse. Her snow-white hair was always elegantly coiffed, her natural nails buffed to shine and a clear coat on top. She held court every day on her floral-patterned sofa in her immaculately-kept trailer, unless it was Saturday, when she went to town to trade at Nell's Dress Shop, the Rexall drug store and soda fountain, or the dime store. Whether at home or making an appearance on Court Square, she was treated with respect and reverence and she treated others with the same. She was never alone in her own home; my maiden aunt lived with her, and there were always visitors. Mamaw, as I called her, doled out advice, cooking suggestions, scripture, and hand-stitched quilts and crocheted afghans to a large number of relations, both close and distant. Her admirers were many; she never judged, never gossiped, just sat and listened and occasionally expressed dismay over her crochet hook with a quiet, "They law..."

I loved her dearly. But I felt distant from her, too. She was not a hugger and did not openly show affection to her kids and grand kids, though I never doubted her love for me. When we visited her on our one designated "down-home" weekend a month, she often wiped tears from her eyes when we left. But she was such a well-mannered, well-kept lady that I kept my distance from her. I was afraid I would get dirt on her lovely pastel suits, or muss her perfect hair, or interrupt her from her constant crocheting or sewing (she firmly believed that idle hands were dangerous things, and even if she was watching television, she felt she had to be productive.)

When I was in the 4th-grade, Mom and I moved from Erlanger to a tiny 3-room apartment a 5 minute walk from Mamaw's trailer; it was a tough time for the family. I spent every weekday afternoon and many weekend nights at the trailer, and though Mamaw never once quarreled at me, I know she wasn't always keen on having a ten-year-old constantly sharing her living room. She was, in my mind, old. She ate old-people food and watched old-people shows and made my aunt June read me books and play Connect 4 with me when I was getting antsy, which always made me feel even more in the way.

I grew accustomed to Friday and Saturday nights watching Mamaw's "stories" on TV. I didn't like to admit it, and I would make a face when the theme music started to express my displeasure, but Falcon Crest was really starting to grow on me.

"Jane Wyman was President Reagan's first wife," Mamaw would say over the opening credits.

"Yes, I know," I would reply. She was trying to make something about the show seem relevant to my life. Little did she know I kinda had a crush on Lorenzo Lamas.

One Friday night saw me at the trailer much later than usual. My mom had been working 1 full-time and 2 part-time hairdressing jobs for months; her cousins decided she needed a night out. The stories were all over for the night, and after June retired back to her room, it was just me and Mamaw. When this had happened before, Mamaw would sometimes go on to bed, leaving me to watch Friday Night Videos in peace and without having to explain why young people today dance like that and wear such ugly clothes.

"Watch whatever you want," Mamaw said. "I'm going to finish up this row and then go to bed." She was working on a ripple afghan and had taught me the stitch one rainy afternoon to keep me from being underfoot. Ripple stitches are a complete pain and require counting, which means I was able to do it for about 10 minutes at a stretch before becoming bored. How she could sit there for hours and do it was more reason for me to believe that being old meant you were completely incapable of having any fun.

"Whatever you want" became an edited-for-TV version of the horror classic Friday the 13th. Despite having HBO back in Erlanger, this particular horror movie was one I had never seen all the way through. Even by 4th grade, I had seen more than my fair share of age-inappropriate horror movies. I held my breath and hoped she didn't start paying too much attention to the T & A and gratuitous violence just beginning to unfold on the screen. I honestly did not think I could get away with watching this slasher flick in front of my grandma, but I was 10 and willing to try.

"What kind of picture show is this?" she asked. I sighed. Picture show.

"It's scary. Mom lets me watch 'em, but you wouldn't like it. You should probably go on to bed."

"I will in a little bit. Don't know why, but I'm wide-eyed tonight. June must've made her iced tea too strong today." June made a pot of sweet tea every morning in an old Mr. Coffee coffeemaker and there was never a drop left after supper.

As the body count started to rise, I kept peeking back to see if Mamaw was watching, and wondering at what point it would become so uncomfortable she would either tell me to turn such un-Christian-like garbage off or go to bed and leave me alone with the sin. But every time I looked, I would see her with her crochet needle poised in mid-air, her mouth agape, her attention focused

"Huh. Well," she said after Kevin Bacon bit the dust in a particularly shocking and gruesome fashion. I knew then. My grandma, who never swore, read the bible daily, and had never, ever put on a pair of pants, was actually enjoying this movie. Would wonders never cease?

I felt I was witnessing something rare and precious and I needed to tread lightly. I really wanted to sneak into the kitchen for a snack, perhaps some Fisher's bologna and saltines, but I chose to stay perfectly still and not break the spell.

Her ripple stitches hopelessly not counted at this point, she put down her crocheting and just watched, uttering a "Huh. Well," every time someone was murdered on screen. And when the killer was revealed to be a middle-aged lady avenging the drowning of her son, she let loose with a "They law..." The film's final moments, with the great shocker moment of Jason popping out of the water on the serene lake, made us both jump and prompted a "Well, I swear."

Mom came in just as the ending credits were rolling.

"You all are up awful late. What you been doin'?"

"Toni turned on some crazy movie and I couldn't sleep." Mamaw shook her head. "Lord, I've never seen anything like it."

Mom didn't ask what it was until we'd said our goodbyes and headed across my great-aunt's yard to our little apartment, where I knew I wouldn't sleep for fear of boogeymonsters under the bed. But I didn't care. I had just witnessed something awesome.

"So what did you watch? Whatever it was must have been good to keep your Mamaw up that late."

"Friday the 13th. You should have seen her face. I thought she was going to make me turn it off but she loved every minute of it. I had no idea she would watch something like that."

Mom started laughing. "There's a lot about your Mamaw that would surprise you."

And there was. Over the next couple of years, until she left this world well before we were ready to see her go, I would learn that my Mamaw could cock and shoot a BB gun at mangy dogs one-handed; that my Papaw was actually her second husband, and that she had the guts to divorce a first husband who treated her badly at a time when such a thing was considered a grave sin; that she left the Pentecostal church because she didn't want to be told she couldn't wear a little makeup; that as a younger woman she occasionally partook of whiskey and thought neither dancing, nor drink, nor cigarettes equaled eternal damnation. She was devoutly Christian and took the Bible as the infallible word of God, but was tolerant of everything but hypocrisy.

Everything including her youngest granddaughter's taste in picture shows.

A New Direction

2011-08-18T13:25:00.000-04:00

I'm back! Well, sorta.

I've taken a looong absence from the blog. I guess moving will do that to a person. No one really wants to hear all about painting walls, picking out curtains, and happy evenings spent browsing light fixtures at home improvement stores, so I haven't really had much to write about.

Which has made me take a step back and realize I need to take a step forward.

For years now, I've used this forum as a way to rant and rave, to console myself, to express the joys and sorrows of parenting, losing loved ones, and living as a young cancer survivor. I think I've gotten pretty much everything off my chest. (Though my current gripe, if anyone cares to hear it, is that appliance repair people only work between 8 and 4. Which means that, if an appliance breaks down, even if it's new and under warranty and totally not the consumer's fault, you have to take time off work to get the repair. Really, Samsung? REALLY?) But I've always threatened to write a book someday. And I might just be ready to start.

As I've gotten older, I've realized that it is a bloody miracle that my childhood turned out a healthy product. The odds were against me. And yet somehow I made it.

I think my life could be a good story. The world doesn't need another memoir, certainly. But I am ready to tell mine.

I had really good feeback from what I did at Christmas this year, which was to tell the story of several important Christmases in my life using different points of view and different ways of writing. For a while, if you will bear with me, I want to tell some more stories about my childhood playing around with the perspective and the point of view. When I feel I've found my voice, I may just start writing something "for real." Or I may just keep blogging. Who knows? I just want to write. And if what I write can someday help another person out, and let them know that they're not alone and that there's hope even when your home life isn't, technically speaking, good, well...that's just gravy, isn't it? A big bowl of sausage-studded homestyle cream gravy.

Some stories will be funny, some not so much. Such is life.

I hope you'll come back if you went away, or stick with me if you've been here all along. Either way, I've missed writing, and I will keep on until I have nothing else to tell.

The House and I, We Thank You

2011-05-25T17:00:00.001-04:00

On the last day we're going to be in our little house, I want to pause and thank some of you readers and friends, who I have been thinking of as I've packed up all our worldly possessions this week. I have fond memories of my little bilevel, and I have realized it's not the house itself, but the people who have shared it with us at different times and for different reasons.

So here goes.

Thank you, M.W., L.W., B.B., and C.B. for late nights at the dining room table playing Hold 'Em, and later nights down in the basement (back when it was still dark, depressing wood panelling) playing Catchphrase. And dropping red velvet cake.

Thank you, D.R. and B.R., for being our first overnight house guests and for visiting us almost annually since. I always think of the basement as "The Rs' bedroom."

To K.H., for driving all the way up from Atlanta to come to my baby shower and for trying out Ainsley's big-girl bed years before it was actually her big-girl bed. And for tolerating that bedroom for several days back when it was very, very teal. And to R.H., who joined K. to visit me while I was sick and desperately needed to feel like life on Farmwood was business as usual. Let us not forget the cigars you both also sent for my remission anniversary, which Jason and I enjoyed out on the deck on a beautiful summer night when all was truly right with the world. (This is my absolute favorite memory of our house.)

To M.W. and H.R.M., for a great night of intelligent (on your parts, anyway) political conversation over beverages. See? We can disagree without being disagreeable. Don't forget that we agreed to talk religion next time. We have to keep having these summits so we can solve the world's problems AND get rid of the surplus Bud population.

Thank you, C.B. and B.B., for Unibroue and Rock Band. Sometimes separately, sometimes in combination. But always a good Saturday night.

Thank you, J.K. and C.B., for bringing the kids every Halloween and starting the cousins-trick-or-treating thing. And thank to D.M. and A.H. for some good times watching UK basketball which I can almost remember.

And for those who aren't with us anymore and won't get to see the new house:

Thanks, Dad, for making sure the essentials were taken care of for us when we moved in: you bought us a TV for a housewarming. Ours had gotten busted in the move, and you strongly believed that a house is not a home without a working television. Preferably a big one. We plan to always follow this line of thinking.

Thanks, Kathie, for spending a weekend with us and telling people afterward, "She is a good cook...and an excellent housekeeper." Coming from you, this meant so much and made me see my house in a more positive light: I got the Kathie Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. High praise coming from a woman whose house I always coveted and whose footsteps I always felt were too big to tread in.

Thank you, Scout, for killing big spiders, providing attractive window dressing, alerting us to the presence of unseen things above our heads which may or may not have been ghosts, testing the water quality every time we turned a faucet on, hiding toy mice in obscure spots so we would be sure to think of you even after you were gone, and in general making our house feel like a home. No matter how many years you spent at my mom's, this was your house as much as it was ours.

Ainsley tonight will be saying her own goodbyes and thank-yous to her neighborhood friends, and she will have the experience of looking out the window of a loaded car and watching her home disappear in the rear view. It will be sad for her, and for us. But a new home and new memories await.

I hope to see y'all there.

Invasion

2011-05-23T12:30:00.001-04:00

"There's someone outside!"

Countless times over the last 10 years, I've woken Jason up in the middle of the night to tell him that I think someone's outside on our deck. I've been wrong every single time; usually it's just the wind shifting the patio furniture, or the neighbor's garage door opening and echoing strangely around the back of our house, or a particularly raucous party being thrown by the young couple at the end of the cul-de-sac. Our deck spans the entire length of the house, and our bedroom has a walkout. Any little noise or minute shift in the furniture or pop in the wood during rapid temperature changes makes it seem as though someone is walking around right outside our bedroom door.

Friday night, though, I was finally right when I heard noises outside. Yay?

It was 5am, and I had been sleeping like the proverbial rock. Hours spent packing and moving things out to the POD after a long day of work had me physically and mentally exhausted. Something woke me up before I even heard the noises, a sense of something being wrong in the world. I checked on Ainsley to find her sleeping peacefully; I checked for lit candles and walked out to the living room to make sure the house was sound. I decided I just needed more sleep.

No sooner had I gotten back in bed than I heard the patio furniture on our deck move suddenly and loudly.

Wow, I thought. The wind is really picking up. We must be getting a storm.

Then I remembered that there was no patio furniture on the deck. It was in the garage, ready for the movers. I heard the noises again, though louder this time. Footsteps. Shuffling. The whole deck vibrating. A squeaking noise against the bedroom wall that seemed as though someone or something was pushing against the vinyl siding.

I woke up Jason, as I have so many times. And like the townspeople who heard the little boy cry "Wolf!" one too many times, he had no reason to believe anything was amiss. Until he, too, heard the unmistakeable noises of something larger than a raccoon and much more bipedal roaming around our property.

I am not a fan of guns. I've said I never want one in my home, what with having a small and curious child. But I immediately found myself wanting to pull out a 9 and bust a cap in someone's ass.

Jason started to part the curtains over the walkout door.

"Don't!" I whisper-screamed.

I didn't want to see what was out there. It could have been a garden-variety burglar who thought the house with the "Sold" sign in the yard, and the Pod in the driveway, was vacant and a good place to hit. An amateur who would have gotten scared off had the curtains parted. Or it could have been a serial killer. Or some trigger-happy jail escapee who had already held up a liquor store and a pawn shop and had nothing to lose. I thought it might be good to make some noise but to not paint a target on ourselves.

I called 911. They asked me if I was sure it wasn't an animal; I told them that unless buffalo herds had been spotted in Spring Valley recently, I was fairly sure our intruders were in the human family. Jason got up and rattled around the bathroom. My mama grizzly instincts took over and I stationed myself at Ainsley's bedroom door, ready to grab her and run at the sound of a window smashing. Instead, I just kept hearing the noises out on the deck. From the hallway, it seemed the whole house was shaking and even the attic seemed to be creaking. I pictured ninjas invading our home, climbing the roof to swoop in through the windows on ropes. My legs began to fail me and I collapsed against my child's bedroom door, praying that whoever was outside our house would just leave already.

"I'll give you whatever you want," I wanted to say. "The more you take is the less we have to move. Just quit freaking me out."

After Jason flushed the toilet, the noises seemed to stop. It's as though it took a flushing toilet for them to get scared away. There are some jokes I could make here, but I haven't slept well in three nights and I'll just leave the potty humor to you.

Two police officers arrived after that, and they searched all over our property. Whoever it was, they were good and gone. The guy and gal in blue reinforced my first thought that whoever it was probably assumed that our house was vacant. Having heard the noises we were making inside the house, they learned they were wrong and fled. As dawn broke, I tried to settle back into restless sleep.

The next day, a conversation with our neighbors revealed that there was widespread vandalism in our neighborhood that night. Every car parked on the street adjacent to ours was egged. Jason checked all around the house looking for any damage and vandalism, and when he lifted the heavy wooden door to our storage space under the deck, we both recognized the shaking, squeaking, creaking noise we had heard so much. The noise that sounded like siding being torn off. The pieces started coming into place; the egging vandals, perhaps after being spotted, looked for a good place to hide. The deck and unlocked storage nook (we had taken everything out of it in preparation for the move) of a house sold and seemingly vacant seemed like a good idea. In there, they probably shuffled around and pushed against the siding. At one point, they probably did venture up onto our large, high deck to look out and see if the coast was clear. And at the sound of our voices (and a flushing toilet in the bathroom that looks out to the deck) they scattered.

It was a comfort the next day to be able to have a theory built around some meddling kids and not a friendly neighborhood serial killer. Until nightfall, when I slept with one eye open, waiting for the sound of a return visit.

I had been very nostalgic about leaving our house. I was full of warm, fuzzy memories. But my sense of safety and security there are now completely obliterated. Whether my teenage vandal theory is accurate or not, someone was in my yard, under my deck, on my deck. They could see in windows, they were feet from where we were sleeping. They invaded my privacy, my turf. I felt violated. It will be hard to find peace there again.

Our next house is next door to a police officer. I will feel safer knowing that. In the light of day, I go back to thinking I don't want a gun in my house. But who knows? Maybe I will at least try to learn how to use one.

For now, though, we are safe. Which is the most important thing.

And we only have two more nights in our house. Which is suddenly just as important.

Climb Every Mountain

2011-05-17T06:00:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the time I accidentally climbed a mountain.
It was an unusually warm late February afternoon my senior year in college. I was in Gatlinburg for the weekend chaperoning and judging a high-school speech and drama tournament. That was my part-time job that year: working as an assistant coach for a high-school Forensics team (not the criminal kind) for not a lot of money but a whole lot of teaching experience. The season was winding to a close, as was my college career, and I had a "take life by the horns" attitude that weekend. The world was my oyster, and I was ready to put some hot sauce on that sucker and throw it down.

I had bonded with the other female chaperone and judge, a coed a year behind me and in a completely different social caste. We had a Breakfast Club kind of weekend together full of gut-spilling and heart-to-heart bonding moments in a locked-in environment, which was followed by us barely nodding at each other the rest of the year when we crossed paths on campus. Ah, the power of cliques.

The last day of the competition saw us with 4 hours to kill before the awards ceremony and the long drive back to Centre. We decided to hit a nature trail. Neither of us were wearing the right shoes, and we had a half a bottle of water each, but we were in our early twenties and wanted to get some sun. The skin cancer rates as our generation ages are going to be epic.

"Maybe one of the shorter trails," I said, looking at the brochure I had picked up.

"This one is only a couple of miles," she said. "Chimneytops. We can do that easily in four hours."

What we didn't know is that it was 2 miles straight up. Chimneytops trail isn't so much a nature hike as it is a climb to the top of a mountain. It's a subtle difference.

The first part of the trail was easy. Kids were doing it. We got to a marker showing that the short, beginner's part of the trail was over. We were told to proceed with the rest of the trail at our own risk, or to turn down a path that would take us back down to the parking lot and a lovely vending area. We weren't remotely tired or tan. We were having fun. So despite everyone on the trail ahead of us wearing hiking boots, carrying backpacks, and walking with big sticks, we kept going.

"If it gets too tough, we'll just turn around," I said. "Let's give it a shot."

The terrain changed. We found ourselves sometimes having to crawl up steep inclines and rocky spots in the trail. The air grew thin and cold. My blue suede Converse All-Stars, brand new until that trip, rubbed blisters on the backs of both heels that bled through the socks and through the shoes themselves. We stopped for a moment. This was not the peaceful, sun-soaked nature walk we had in mind. It seemed we may have reached our stopping point.

"Just half an hour more, girls," an older lady told us as she passed us from her way down the mountain. "The view's worth it."

I looked at my fellow coach. She looked at me.

"Well, we've come this far, we might as well see the view," she said.

And we did. We were dirty, tired, short of breath, low on water and food. My feet hurt. My temporary friend had needed to pee for about a half-mile. (We each eventually crept off the trail for a mutual first: going in the woods, hoping you know how to spot poison ivy.) But when we made the last climb, up a scary bald place in the mountain where you could surely die if you weren't careful, we got to see a view of the Smokies that was literally breathtaking.

Someone at the top shared their granola bars with us and passed us a bottle of water to share. No one spoke. It was, to that moment, the most empowering moment of my life. I had never before been proud of myself for endurance or physical strength. But I had just climbed a freakin' mountain. A mountain. And I hadn't even meant to do it.

The walk down hurt my heels and my knees so badly I would feel the pain with every step for a week after. But it went so much quicker than the trip up. We were soon back at the car. We realized we were going to be late for awards and sped back to the hotel, where we walked in just as the kids were taking their seats.

Our head coach looked at us and his jaw dropped open.

"What happened to you two?" We were covered in dust, our hair ratty, and our skin burned red by sun and wind.

"We climbed a mountain." And with that we collapsed into our seats and laughed.

My fellow assistant coach's words to me, at that moment when we were trying to decide whether or not to go on when things started getting tough, have come back to me this week. Until a few days ago, we weren't locked into the home we were buying. There was a question of getting some needed repairs made and some back-and-forth about some issues the home inspection found. We ran into our own issues trying to get some of our repairs on our "old" house completed. There was a moment where I was in tears in our kitchen wondering why the hell we ever started down this road, when suddenly Jason said,

"Well, we've come this far..."

We might as well see the view.

I've been tempted to turn back. To just stop packing and go, "Screw it. This is hard. We're staying." But then I won't get the opportunity to take this new house and make it the way I want it and spend the rest of my life looking around, feeling good that I pushed on even when all signs pointed to staying put and taking the easy road.

So I'm changing my shoes, grabbing some water, and continuing my climb. It isn't easy, but the end of the trail is in sight.

To My Troll, With Love

2011-05-12T08:21:00.000-04:00

Just wanted to take a break from packing to let everyone who reads this know that someone posted a comment on my last post that said, and I quote because it's eloquent, "this blog remains terrible." They didn't capitalize or use proper punctuation, and honestly, that hurts my feelings even though the comment itself doesn't. What exactly are our schools teaching these days? Oh, usage and grammar. How I will miss you when you're gone.

Since I do comment moderation, I didn't post that comment. And I thought about letting sleeping trolls lie, but I do want to remind my new "fan" of a few things:

1. I don't write this blog for anyone but myself. It's my therapy, my sanity-saver, and a way of using my brain in a productive manner those rare times when I realize there's nothing good on TV. It's meant for my entertainment, not necessarily yours. I don't write for you, so I honestly don't care whether you think it's good, bad, or indifferent. My readers are mostly my friends and family who just check in to see what I'm up to and take it for what it is: an amateur blog written by someone who just loves to write. Why do you check in? Run out of puppies to kick?

2. If it remains terrible...why on earth do you keep checking back? You, sir, need a different past time besides looking for people who are inferior to you so that you can feel better about what, apparently, is a miserable, cold existence.

3. No matter what you say, even if no one is reading me, I will continue to write this. Because I love to write. Not because I want fame or fortune or to be published someday. Not because I am some egotistical pseudo-intellectual who thinks the world needs to hear my ramblings in order to keep spinning in its axis. If I have one reader, great! If I have no readers...also great! As far as pasttimes go, amateur, unpublicized blogging is about as harmless as playing golf or growing tomatoes. Plenty of people do those things for fun, too, and some aren't so good at them. And yet...they do them anyway. Even when that little voice in their heads says, after a putt that goes waaaay long--"Dude, you suck at this." And you know what? Those people, who do things for fun and not because they're great at them, those people are happy. And they probably don't go around commenting anonymously on blogs to make themselves feel superior to someone. Just sayin'.

4. And lastly...it takes a lot of courage to post anonymous comments, doesn't it? Not so proud of your comments that you're willing to log on with your Google account, are you? If you really feel like trying to cut me down (and you haven't, but you have pissed me off with your smugness, which is the ugliest of all traits, really) , let me know who you are. It's the brave, respectable thing to do. Which is probably why you won't ever do it. Because it's so much easier to throw stones with a mask on, isn't it?

So you continue to have fun your way (anonymous trolling, which, as everyone knows, is soooo cool) and I will continue to have fun mine (writing terrible blogs that I apparently force you to read--insert evil laugh here!) Haters gotta hate, writers gotta write.

Now, back to moving my life.

Movin' On Up

2011-05-03T15:00:00.002-04:00

We sold our house. We technically have bought a new one. (Though the inspection of that one brought up all kinds of lovely issues the relocated seller may not be able to fix, and I feel like running in the other direction.) So I am surrounded by boxes full of stuff, boxes not yet full of stuff, and things that need to be put in boxes. I am boxed in and boxed out. Box! Boxety-box-box!

All work and no play makes Cranky something-something. Go crazy? Don't mind if I do! It happens. Moving sucks.

The good news? We got a good price on what has the potential to be a good home in a great neighborhood.

"You can always change an outdated kitchen," our agent said, as we stood looking at ugly, dark kitchen flooring in what would eventually be the house we chose, "but you can't change an updated house's location."

So we chose a house that has great potential after some fresh paint and fresh flooring. And some handyman work. And maybe a plumber.

It doesn't help my opinion of the house that every time we've been shown it except for the first time, when we both really liked it in spite of its flaws, it's been raining. Possibly because it's been raining in our part of the world for a solid month now (if you live in northern Kentucky, you know that this really and truly is not an exaggeration.) And it doesn't help that the house has been unoccupied for almost a year. It's dirrrrrty. The first month we live there, I will be like the little cleaner robot in WALL-E. My wheels are gonna spin, spin, spin and I am going to be in constant scrub mode until my little chip short-circuits and fries my hospital-corners brain.

It will either make my OCD ten times worse or cure me of it forever. Vegas odds are on the former.

What keeps my hair from turning white and keeps the nice young men in the clean white coats away is that the house shortens Jason's commute without lengthening mine, has a front porch that I will be able to put Cracker Barrel rocking chairs on, gives us enough bedrooms to have a place my mom can comfortably stay in the next time an artery gets clogged from too many cheese coneys and cigarettes, and puts us on a street that is decidedly free from members of the banging class. It's essentially a blank canvas right now.

A blank canvas in a really lovely museum.

It is a comfortable step up from the space we have now, even if the first year we're there will feel like a step down. It has good bones, as they say. Like a beautiful Hollywood actress who yellows her teeth, has bags added under her eyes, and dons an unflattering wig to play an Oscar-bait role, there's beauty under the dust and cosmetic issues.

Yep, we just bought Charlize Theron in Monster. (Oh, I jest. It's not that bad. Just sorta dark and mildly neglected. Like Kate Winslet in Little Children.)

Because I will be packing, cleaning, planning for cleaning, and having a series of emotional breakdowns in between, I am probably taking some time off from the blog. I know the two of you who read it will have a hard time living your lives, but it's the price we all pay to live in the money pit.

The big move will happen the last week of May, and I suspect I will have a lot to say when the dust settles. A lot to say because there will be a lot of dust.

Have a nice end-of-spring, readers. When I next write you, it will be from the one-seven instead of the one-eight. Holla. Edgewood, represent!

Rage, Rage Against the Dying Of the No-Call List

2011-04-19T16:00:00.000-04:00

I am not really much of a telephone person.

This is why I let my cell phone frequently go uncharged and why it's not glued to my hand as it is with so many women my age. I hate to talk on the phone; I don't want to be reached when I'm working, driving, dining, getting my Modern Family on, grocery shopping, or exercising; the sound of a ringing phone, even when it's my favorite song and not the ancient sound of a ringer bell, destroys my peace of mind. Thank you very much.

So I've always rejoiced in the no-call list. Sure, charities get through. And because I've foolishly agreed to take phone surveys in the past, those sometimes creep in, too. And then there's that whole loophole of businesses who already count you as customers. But the home phone rings a whole lot less than it used to, and my blood pressure is probably lower because of it.

Though last night, after two back-to-back telemarketing calls that absolutely, positively should not have gotten through, but which I had to take because they were local numbers and you just never know, I really thought I was going to bust a blood vessel and stroke out right there at the dining room table.

I was not nice to these people. I was cooking and eating, which, sadly, counts as my afternoon downtime; they were violating what I understand to be the restrictions of the no-call list. I did not set a good example of manners for my kid. And I don't really give a rat's behind.

I know people have to make a living, and cold calling is one way to do so. I keep this mind, that it's not really the fault of the person on the other end of the phone, and try as much as I can to be nice to them. Except for the charity group Kentucky Professional Firefighters, who are really just a bunch of bullies who neither extend nor accept common courtesy.

But I'm done. Done, I tell you. The next time someone calls me to ask me to renew my subscription to Highlights for Children, or sell me on a fabulous new insurance plan for my credit card, or ask me to rank my satisfaction with my cable provider on a scale of 1 to 10 in 20 different service categories, I am going to have a little fun with them.

I'm not going to just let the phone ring and screen my calls. No, sir. So get ready, telemarketers.

If you call me while I am eating dinner, I will eat. Loudly. As Jason can tell you, I am an epic chewer. I have TMJ dysfunction and I'm not afraid to use it. I will grab the loudest food I can find, some Munchos, baby carrots, or possibly Hawaiian kettle chips, and I will chew and crackle and pop loudly in your ear. You will think you have reached a person Jazzercizing atop the world's biggest wad of crispy cellophane.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, is this a bad time?"

"Not at all!" I will say, whilst chewing with my mouth open and demonstrating the terror 2 decades of nocturnal tooth-grinding can wreak on an aging jaw. "I was just eating dinner! Keep going with your special offer!"

Or maybe you will call me after I have worked out and drunk a gallon or so of Smart Water. When it's time to take the longest, most satisfying pee of my life, I will be sure to take the phone into the bathroom with me, where I will make sure it's quite obvious what I'm up to. At the end I will be sure to flush; don't worry. And if the moment is right, I will say, "Can you excuse me for just a moment while I number 2?" Will you still be interested in my radio listening habits?

Usually when I pick up the phone when you call, I apologize to you.

"I'm sorry, I'm really not interested."

"I'm sorry, but I was just on my way out the door."

"Sorry, but my husband and I are just fresh out of charity at the moment."

But you know what? I'm kind of tired of being sorry when you're the one who's calling me. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be apologizing for not wanting to spend $40 a month adding bush and shrub fertilizing treatments to my existing lawncare contract, when all I really want is for you to come every so often and spray for dandelions and clover. I'm tired of apologizing to you when I don't have any bags of unwanted clothes or toys prepared to set out for Amvets by Friday morning because I just rustled up about 8 bags last week. I'm tired of apologizing to you when you call me using a local number that tricks me into picking up, trying to get me to subscribe, add, or donate. When I want to do any of these things, and sometimes I will decide to give money or goods or a service contract to you all of my own accord, I will call you. And if you call me during what's normally accepted to be an American human's dinner hour, or after primetime TV starts, or on weekend mornings when I haven't finished my second cup yet, any words of apology coming out of anyone's mouth should be yours. Because you have interrupted me and intruded yourself vocally into my home.

In the meantime, consider yourself warned. I will not go easy into that "Hello."

Clutter

2011-04-07T07:00:00.000-04:00

Ten years ago, we had so much room.

When we first moved into our house, I was frequently overwhelmed. When the last box was unpacked and I had not put anything except our off-season clothes in the two "extra" bedrooms of our three-bedroom home, I nearly cried. I walked into those empty rooms and wondered what in the world I was going to fill them with until the kids came along.

Exactly one year later, with a large belly and swollen feet, I painted the walls of the smallest extra bedroom and prepared for the crib, dresser, and bookcase to come. That room filled up fast.

Before that baby girl I was carrying was even born, my mom and dad offered us the bed I had slept in during visits home in college, which they had bought for my 19th birthday in what I honestly think was an attempt to lure me back home. They wanted it to be their granddaughter's big-girl bed. It went into the larger room with my old dresser and bed-side table from home. Before Ainsley had slept a single night in her crib, her big-girl room was furnished and ready for her.

In ten years' time, we've filled every closet, every corner, every cabinet, every shelf. We've painted every room except the kitchen, the color of which never has offended us. The walls and tabletops are full of our pictures, the bookcases full of our books, the knick-knacks and toys here and there our memories.

And now it's time to move on.

For a couple of years now, Jason has been telling me it's time to go. It's a great time to buy, he says. We can get a good house for our money. I've dodged it, telling him that I'm perfectly happy in our little character-less bilelvel just like every other character-less bilevel on the street. It might be a boring little house, but it's MY boring little house. I tell him the truth when I say that I couldn't care less about having a nicer house in a nicer neighborhood. And then I say I will know when it's time to move on.

The day THAT house goes for sale, I say, pointing to one of a dozen or so dreamhouses I pass in my travels, that will be the day I decide to move. I want to find the perfect house first.

But there is no such thing as a perfect house. And as Jason's commute has gotten longer and longer over the years, as he's gone from consulting to full-time downtown to full-time well north of the 'Nati, and as we've started chaueffering the kid from different activities in different parts of our world, I've realized the time is right.

And I'm equal parts excited and terrified.

One day, on a whim, we stopped in at an open house for a surprisingly affordable home in a neighborhoood we've always wanted to live in. And one week later we were meeting with a real estate agent. We are not impulsive people at all, but the speed with which we decided to put that For Sale sign in our yard would make your head spin.

It certainly did ours.

In one frantic week, we did months, perhaps years, worth of de-cluttering and home repairs. Ten years worth of accumulated detritus was sorted, bagged, given away, thrown away. A handful of personal items were put into storage; the rest we decided we could live without. It was more emotionally and physically exhausting than I imagined cleaning out and starting a new chapter to be. But our house is simpler, cleaner. Things that have been on the to-do list for almost a decade are finally done.

It makes me realize why I chose that house to begin with. Without all the clutter, you can see all the things that made us, as a young couple, choose that particular house. The large southwest-facing front windows that let late-afternoon sunlight come into the living room and chase the blues away, even on winter days. The French doors that open onto the deck from the master bedroom; I always envisioned long early-morning breakfasts right outside those doors. They didn't happen, but they might still. The built-in bookcases in the family room that highlight the greatest material love of my life: my books. I have yet to meet a person who didn't have a moment during the selling process of, "If only I had kept this place looking this good all the time, I might not want to move."

It was, and is, a good house with a lot of memories. It was here that I welcomed my baby home. It was here that I found solace and comfort during chemo and radiation. It was here that Scout roamed the halls and warmed herself in the sunlight. It was here where my dad spent his last Christmas Day, where Kathie once spent a long, happy weekend, where we met with Jason's family to sort through pictures, laugh, cry, and make funeral arrangements.

A lot of living has gone on in that simple little house in the cul-de-sac. We're still months away from leaving it (who knows; we may not be able to sell it) but so much of what made it ours has been neutralized to make it appeal to another family. A family who will have their own ups and downs and joys and tragedies inside its walls.

It's still our house, but it's not really our home anymore.

By the time we sell, the house we have our eye on may not be available anymore. But I'm not really afraid. I know now what it takes to make a home--time, family, love, and memories. As long as I have those, and maybe a front porch, I can be happy wherever we next put down our roots.

Blue Bloods

2011-03-29T14:35:00.001-04:00

It was 13 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. Most Kentucky Wildcat fans old enough to have seen it do.

We were living in Falmouth at the time and the only entertainment we really had that winter was watching Wildcat basketball with our friends. It was Tubby Smith's first year as our coach, we had made it to the big dance two years in a row, and no one really had very high expectations for that team.

Until March.

I can't tell you a lot about the early games, except that we had this trend of getting behind early and then coming back in an exciting and stressful fashion. My stomach hurt constantly that spring; I'm fairly certain being a college basketball fan gave me an ulcer.

But I can tell you a lot about the Duke game. The parts of it I was brave enough to watch, anyway.

Some of you fair readers are from other states or favor other Kentucky teams and just don't get how it is with us and Duke. We hate them. No, more than hate. We abhor them. Probably the same kind of hate other college basketball fans have for us. The only team in the country that can really make us feel like the proverbial red-headed stepchild is Duke. Year in and year out, we have to hear how awesome they are. Even those years when we're pretty awesome, too. And then there's the whole Christian Laettner thing. How would you feel if your beloved team's most devastating loss shows up in every single highlight reel of the tournament's history every damn year and gets talked about almost weekly by one sports pundit or another? You'd probably have a chip on your shoulder the size of a Chevy.

So of course we met them in the tournament in 1998. We were, as so many are when they meet Duke in the tournament, not the favorite.

We had shag carpet in that little Falmouth apartment, the kind of shag carpet high enough to lose a kitten in. The game came on. I started pacing. We got behind. I paced some more. And suddenly that shag needed a rake taken to it in a bad way. I am pretty sure it had to be replaced when we left in May; I wore that sucker down to a nub.

I did what I always do when it looks like UK is going to lose: I looked away. It's hard to look away in a tiny 4-room apartment, so I went for a walk. A loooong walk. All the way to the mighty Licking River, which, it turned out, you could actually see and hear at the very end of our street. Huh, I thought. No wonder the flood hit our street so hard. I guess we should have maybe investigated that further when my dad asked us how close we lived to the river and whether or not we purchased flood insurance.

Our neighbors, who had just recently moved back into their restored home, shouted the score out to me each time I passed:

"UK's down!"

"They're still down!"

"It's not looking so good!"

Then I stopped getting updates, and the expletives I had been hearing from open windows changed to cheers and claps.

"Get back in here!" Jason called from our tiny, rickety balcony. "They're coming back."

I came back just in time to see the seniors, not a superstar in the bunch, make a collective decision that they simply were not going to lose. It was the most powerful display of sheer determination I've seen in sports before or since. These were kids who had grown up as UK fans themselves. They'd seen the Laettner shot. That chip on their shoulder lifted them up instead of weighing them down.

When Scott Padgett made the three-pointer that gave us the lead, he sounded a battle scream that was pure unadulterated triumph. I decided, as I have done many times since, that UK needed me to look away and send all of my positive energy their way from a quiet place where my mind rays could reach their full potential; usually, this place is the bathroom. I heard footsteps.

"You can come out now. You don't want to miss this."

I came out just in time to see them win and go to the Final Four. We laughed. We cried. We tried to call our friends in Lexington, but got a message that all lines were currently busy. This is the best way I can tell you about what it's like to live in Kentucky: we are, by and large, a united state of basketball.

History has a way of repeating itself. Life is very different for us now; we have a house, not a teeny little apartment. We are parents and have plenty to distract us from UK basketball. But some things never change.

This Sunday saw me, yet again, huddled in the bathroom, not able to watch as a close game became increasingly stressful. Yet again, Jason retrieved me with these words:

"You can come out now. You don't want to miss this."

And for the first time in 13 years, we were back to the Final Four. A team that was in transition; a team we didn't have very high hopes for; a team that decided, just when it counted, that they were not going to lose.

Sounds very familiar.

I texted those old friends who used to live in Lexington (they now live in Louisville) instead of calling them. I had no problems getting through this time.

But that does not mean it's not still a united state of basketball.

The Ides of March...Eh, Not Always So Bad

2011-03-15T12:30:00.001-04:00

When I was a sophomore in high school, I became inspired by Julius Caesar.

It was only the second Shakespeare play I had ever read, but I had a fantastic teacher who made the story come alive and have resonance in the modern world. I fell in love with the language, with the politics, with the grim analysis of human nature and our desire for power.

And during the time we were studying it, I happened to also fall in love with a boy, and I guess that colored my response to it, too.

So enraptured by this play were my two best friends and I that we started seeing ourselves in light of the story and began to call ourselves "The Great Triumvirate." Yep, we were weird kids.

It was not a good year for The Great Triumvirate. We bonded over a shared feeling that life sucks. (And then you die, sometimes at the hand of someone you thought was your friend...Et tu, Brute?)

As a high-school educator, I've always believed that there is a huge gap in physical and emotional maturity between freshmen and sophomores and have wondered what sort of cruel growth spurt Mother Nature puts kids through the summer between those two years of school. Whatever it is, it's intense and clearly visible. The three of us struggled that year; we were starting to see the realities of the adult world, but we still felt an awful lot like kids. Our well-meaning English teacher, what with his Lord of the Flies and Julius Caesar lessons that (in his own words) show us "Man is basically evil", got to us. We took it to heart and saw evidence of man's evil everywhere. Even in us. We were all three seriously depressed by adulthood and its ramifications. Looking back, I'm pretty sure we needed Prozac.

For me, it was just flat-out a bad year. I had entered the world of almost-adult dating the summer before my sophomore year and had back-to-back relationships with two older boys who owned cars, were popular, and who each unceremoniously dumped me within a month and broke my heart. Not because I loved either of them; just that they made me feel terribly young, unpopular, and patently undesirable. My mom had had a serious illness and had undergone surgery, and Dad's drinking was as bad as it ever had been or ever would be, leaving me to care for my mom pretty much on my own. I lost touch with most of my girlfriends, all of whom had either gotten wrapped up in a serious relationship or in school activities that my caregiver status didn't allow me to join or both. I ceased to have anything in common with the girls I had been so close to the years before. I clung to my two closest guy friends and we became almost inseparable. Depressed as hell, and troublemakers in a quiet sort of way, but inseparable.

Then something...changed. That late winter, one of them became more than a friend.

I had seen enough movies and read enough books even at the tender age of 16 that I saw the writing on the wall, and that writing whispered, in a soothsayer's voice, "Beware the ides of March." Metaphorically, of course. Suppose this boy and I admitted our feelings for each other. Suppose we gave it a try and it ended as badly as my other relationships that year had. I would lose one of my best friends. Not to mention what two of the Triumvirate breaking off would do to the third. So many things could go wrong. Somebody could end up getting stabbed through the heart on the capitol steps. It didn't help when our teacher followed Julius Caesar up with Antony and Cleopatra; talk about your relationships that don't end well.

It was around the ides of March, ironically enough, that I realized I couldn't keep my feelings quiet. The Great Triumvirate had gone away to compete in an out-of-town speech and drama tournament, and out of boredom and angst had started to write a collaborative short story/memoir about our alliance. It was meant to be a comedy that played heavily on what our much-admired English teacher had taught us that year both about writing and about literature. I suddenly saw that there was room in the story for a little romance, too.

Jason and I literally and metaphorically began to write our chapter of that story in March of 1990. I'm pretty sure it's going to end well.

As for the third member of the Triumvirate, he remains to this day a good friend and one of my favorite people on the planet. Through every major event of our lives, through weddings and births and funerals, he has been there. He was the best man in our wedding, and somewhere I have a snapshot of the three of us on that day: The Great Triumvirate still.

And not a dagger in sight.

A Lapse in Logical Reasoning

2011-03-09T15:30:00.001-05:00

Consider the following problem my 8-year-old 3rd-grader brought home for homework last night:

You need to fill a container with exactly 25 oz. of juice. You have a 16 oz. bottle and a 7 oz. cup. How can you use those containers to measure out the right amount of juice?

I imagine you had one of three reactions reading this:

1. You thought of the correct solution in under 5 seconds because you're brilliant like that (like my husband.)
2. You said to yourself, "Didn't they do this in one of the Die Hard movies?" (Also like my husband.)
3. Your brain got stuck between gears like a mountain bike being ridden by a 6-year-old, and it took a minute for the wheels to turn and everything to click into place and you got really sad because, after all, you did make an A in Calculus once upon a glorious time. (This was my reaction. Oh, brain. I miss you so.)

I did figure it out once I quit grinding gears, and I tried to explain it to the kid. With words. With drawings. With containers that actually held water. Eventually she did get it, but since her entire homework last night were what the writers of her text and workbook call "Logical Reasoning Problems" we had more like these to do and an hour and a half later, when all 8 problems were done, we were frustrated with school work, with math, with each other, and with existence in general.

I seriously doubt it's supposed to work this way.

I am all for my kid receiving an education that challenges her and pushes her to the best of her capabilities. This is one of the reasons why we are sending her to Catholic school. I am about one less Mass attendance a year away from becoming a non-practicing Catholic myself, so it's not really about the religion (though I treasured my faith as a kid and want her to, as well, even if I have times as an adult that my faith falters.) I work in public education and have seen some things in the elementary schools that I'm not crazy about. I don't want her education to be a cake-walk.

But I also don't want our life to revolve around my young child's homework, and I feel it has this year, so I am thisclose to being That Parent.

She has a teacher this year who believes homework is the answer to all ills. An hour is the average; two hours is not uncommon on weeks that book reports or special projects are due.

It's ridiculous and I am fresh out of patience and good humor.

The teachers who read this know what I mean when I talk about That Parent. That Parent emails and calls and complains that the teacher is assigning too much, grading too hard, not letting kids be kids because they have too much book-learnin' to do. That Parent not-so-secretly wonders if the teacher has any clue what he or she is doing in the classroom. That Parent is passive-aggressive at the least, plain old aggressive at the worst.

I don't want to be That Parent. But I don't want even one more hijacked night, where instead of getting exercise or reading for fun or running errands the kid and I are stuck at a desk near-tears for over 2 hours of homework.

Last night after we had murked through the math, she (I wrote "we" at first; goes to show you that this has become as much my homework as hers) had to write a pen-pal letter and study for a science test over the water cycle. She technically was supposed to study for a spelling and a religion test later in the week, too, but we drew the line. I thought it might be important that she, you know, EAT.

I've kept my mouth shut and my email-pen silent while I sat back and watched this year as she's brought "busy-work" home for homework; reading sections from the social studies or science book and answering the five questions at the end, practicing cursive o's 50 times, phonics worksheets. I didn't voice my concern at the vast Titanic project, in which she had to write both a short story (from the point of view of the iceberg) and a series of 5 journal entries from the point of view of an actual Titanic passenger, which meant research. (And because Ainsley has the storytelling gene, a whole weekend of writing because she wanted these entries to be epic.) I even have kept my mouth shut the past 2 weeks when, in her free time, she's been working on a series of 5 (!) mini-projects for Mr. Popper's Penguins involving writing a poem, a letter, a journal entry, creating a PowerPoint, and reading a picture book aloud to her class and showing them a Venn diagram of similarities and differences between two types of penguins.

I just don't know if I can keep that darn mouth of mine shut now.

When homework becomes work for the entire family, when the child doing it (who by all accounts is a perfectly bright student) can't do it on their own without help from Mom and intense frustration, when it means the kid doesn't get to play outside that day, and Mom doesn't get to go to her exercise class, when it keeps the kid from reading for fun (which I kinda think should be of the upmost importance in the primary years) or practicing piano or getting to bed on time, is it really doing what it's supposed to do? At what point has a mound of homework stopped reinforcing what was learned in the classroom?

I think we might just be there.

I know some of you are moms, and some are teachers, and some (God bless your hearts) are both. How much homework, in elementary school, is too much? And when do I unleash my inner That Parent?

Scout: She Was a Good Cat

2011-03-02T12:15:00.001-05:00

One of the best gifts we can give our pets is knowing when it's time to say goodbye.

Yesterday afternoon, we said goodbye to Scout. The timing was not terrific; Mom is still recovering from surgery and will come home now to an empty house. But Scout made it clear that she wasn't doing well and was ready to go in peace.

It might have been right, but it wasn't easy. I felt I owed it to her to be in the room with her as they gave her the shot, so after Jason and Ainsley petted her gently and said their goodbyes, I stayed behind to be the familiar and hopefully comforting hand that held her head as she left us. I had no idea it would happen so fast. I had no idea how unnatural it would all seem; she didn't suffer, but it still felt like murder.

Over and over as it was happening and when it was over, I gave her the best praise I could think of:

Scout, you were such a good cat.

Good cats can be hard to come by. I've known some who are too aloof and don't make their presence known in a house except to kill the occasional rodent and leave its remains in the most startling place possible. Some never quite get the whole litterbox thing down, some shred draperies, some bite and scratch and seem possessed by inner demons. But a good cat...that is truly a rare gift.

When Jason and I decided it was time to go from being a couple to being a family, we couldn't decide whether our first step should be a dog or a cat (talk of babies could only come after we had kept an animal alive for a while, we thought.) I lobbied for a feline, but Jason had never had a good cat and didn't realize that they could be more than cold, calculated shredding machines who decorate the front window and shed all over the couch and occasionally pee in the laundry basket.

My sister's neighbor took in a pregnant stray, and the kittens were born a month before we were to move back up to northern Kentucky from Lexington. It was a sign; these babies needed homes, we knew they were being handled daily to make them loving and accepting of humans, and my sister could just walk next door and stake our claim.

"I want one of the gray females," I told her.

"Done. Do you have a name picked out? They want to go ahead and start using her name."

That was a no-brainer. At that time, I wanted to name my first-born daughter Harper Lee after the author of my favorite book; it made sense to name our first pet after my favorite character.

"Scout. I want to name her Scout."

"That fits," my sister said. "She looks like a Scout."

From the beginning, Scout was one of those cats that a dog-lover can adore. As a young cat she played fetch with her little toy mice; we would wing one across the room, she would give chase and bring it back to us and drop it at our feet over and over again until we just gave up and hid the darn thing. As an adult she greeted us every day at the top of our stairs, so happy to have her people home, meowing and following us from room to room.

Aloof, she was not.

She never met a lap or a fleece blanket she didn't like. She knew when we were sick and parked herself at the crook of our knees, occasionally coming up to our faces to make sure we were still breathing. She killed spiders (even Shelob-sized ones from the basement) and tried to chase birds through the windows. She only got snippy and hissy in old age, and that only when she was cornered and/or being boxed up for the vet. With all the medical problems she had the last couple of years, and with all the poking and prodding she dealt with at the vet, I can't really say I blame her for fighting us and the carrier with all she had.

Not to say she was perfect. She did like to sharpen her claws on the edges of couches and she was incredibly shy around strangers. It took her a month to warm up to Mom when she left us to go live over there. She could make you crazy with her neediness once she got to know you; I can't tell you the number of nights she went up and down the hall wailing for us when we were in the same bed we'd been in every night for five years.

"Scout! We're back here!" we would holler. And here she'd come at the sound of our voices, running full-tilt-boogie down the hall and onto the bed where she purred and pawed as if she hadn't seen us for a decade or so.

She could drive you nuts trying to drink water from any tap you turned on, regardess of what you might be trying to be do with that water yourself or how badly you might not want her fuzzy butt in your shaving cream.

She had...shall we say, lots of personality.

We almost lost her several times: the electrocution behind the refrigerator, the allergic reaction to the stitches used when she got fixed, the fever and infection she got after a vaccination. Her immune system problems, her bowel problems, the diabetes caused by so many cortisone shots...every time I took her to the vet the last 2 years, I was afraid she wasn't coming back.

I'm glad she had those nine lives, because Scout gave us so much joy. My mom especially; though the living arrangement Scout's had the last few years was necessitated by Ainsley's asthma, it was really a blessing for Mom, who had such a lonely little house after Dad died. Mom needed Scout's company, and Scout grew to love her even more than she had loved us. It was ideal, really, that Scout grew old with Mom; they both favored long afternoon naps on fuzzy blankets and spending most days doing little more than getting a good back rub.

Scout's memory of me faded as the years with Mom passed; sometimes she would come out and greet me and let me rub her cheeks in our old accustomed way, but mostly she ran from me and hid under the bed. After all, I was the one who took her in for the steroid shots. Monday, though, when I checked on her and realized that she was not feeling well and not eating, she came out to meet me and wouldn't let me out of her sight. She purred and waited to be petted, her little body so thin and painfully bony from her illnesses, her once beautiful fur matted and uned for, her eyes sunken in from dehydration. We had thought of putting her down a couple of months ago, but when we looked in her eyes, it was still our Scout who was there. There was still life and light.

Monday, the light was beginning to fade and when my old friend and "furry baby" looked me in the eyes, I knew she was telling me it was time to let go.

She's gone, and we miss her. Mom's house felt so empty last night; my heart did, too. When we first adopted Scout, she made us a family. She gave me something to care for and worry about that was both bigger and smaller than myself. In return, we gave her two loving homes.

In the end, I hope they were enough.

Ma'am, I'm Going To Need You To Put Down the Marlbs And Back Away Slowly

2011-03-01T15:00:00.001-05:00

We started our married lives, as so many do, with four healthy parents.

Well, healthy might not be so accurate given that we'd lose three of the four before we celebrated our 13th anniversary. But on the day we said our vows, all four parents were present and accounted for and were working, functional, productive, happy citizens of the land of the living.

Then we lost Steve to a sudden, massive heart attack. Cigarettes, and the blocked arteries they tend to cause, were certainly a contributing factor.

Then Dad died of bladder cancer, and the oncologist told us that bladder cancer, at least the subtype Dad had, is a smoker's cancer.

Our mothers tried to quit. Mom saw what Dad went through and gave it a good effort; alas, she failed.

Kathie began to have problems of her own and gave it a good effort; alas, she too failed.

We watched as Kathie fought with chronic lung disease caused by smoking and lost. We watched as my mom was diagnosed with both peripheral artery disease and coronary artery disease (smoking was given as a contributing factor) and had multiple angiograms and a stint placed.

"If she doesn't quit smoking," the surgeon who placed her stint told us way back in 2006, "I'll see her again in 5 years or so when the stint fails."

Five years later, he turned out to be right.

Until 2am Sunday morning, I would have bet money that my mom wasn't smoking anymore. She had too much to lose; she told me time and again, after hearing and seeing what Kathie went through, that she wanted more than anything to live to see Ainsley grow up and have children of her own. It made her sad that Kathie didn't even live long enough to see all of her own children marry and have children. Sometimes I smelled smoke on her clothes; I was assured it was from a smoky restaurant, or from visiting her boyfriend.

"Don't you trust me? If I were smoking, I'd tell you I was smoking," she'd say.

Turns out my mom is a brilliant liar.

That sounds more bitter than I mean for it to be. But when the sole surviving grandparent of your child gets taken into emergency surgery to repair a blockage that was supposed to have been repaired 5 years prior, and you find out that she confessed to the doctor that she's still smoking a few cigs a day, it stings a little bit.

"You have to understand," she told me yesterday, "that when we started smoking, no one knew how bad it was. It's so hard to quit something you've done for 50 years."

I can only imagine how hard it must be. I treasure my daily Coke and chocolate break; I like my Saturday night adult beverages.

But if I knew my consumption of those things, even in moderation, could kill me, I'd like to think I could do it. For Ainsley. For Jason. For the trip I want to take to England, for retiring in the mountains, for all the good books I want to read and movies I want to see and experiences I want to have in this world before I leave it for the next.

I'd like to think that. But I just don't know.

People try and fail everyday to quit smoking. It's a powerful addiction I will never understand.

Mom has assured me that this time, she's scared straight. She basically had a "leg attack"; for a few hours, her left leg had no blood flow and the pain and pressure were immense. She watched her foot turn blue and became unable to move it. It was, she said, the most scared she's ever been for herself and the most pain she's ever been in. Worse than childbirth, worse than her gall stones, worse than hernia surgery.

"We don't know that the cigarettes caused this," my sister said. "Mom inherited a lot of her heart and circulation problems from her mom, who never smoked a day in her life. Don't take it so personally that she's still smoking."

It's hard not to see it emotionally. All four of mine and Jason's parents were smokers; three of the four are gone, and gone too young. Some of the smokers I know stand by the assertion that cigarettes don't kill; for every smoking person who's died too young, there's a story of someone who smoked three packs a day and lived to be ninety and died in the throes of passion instead of hooked up to oxygen.

After Dad beat lung cancer and successfully quit smoking, years before he succumbed to bladder cancer, he sat outside at work one day eating a bolgna sandwich.

"Chuck, those things'll kill ya," a coworker told him. At the time, said coworker was taking his designated smoke break and chain-smoking half a pack of Marlboros.

Dad said he looked at him to see if he was joking; surely, a smoker wouldn't feel compelled to tell a processed-meat-eater that he was the one engaging in the risky behavior. He detected no irony, though, and told all of us the story.

"He's probably right," Dad said. "Something's going to get us all, eventually. I shouldn't judge him, and he shouldn't judge me."

I just can't stand the thought of losing our last parent to the same vice that played such a hand in the death of the other three. It seems preventable and senseless.

So, if you're one of the people I love who smokes, please, please, PLEASE put down the cigarettes.

The Day the Perfume Bottles Danced

2011-02-24T11:55:00.001-05:00

Last night I saw Ainsley playing with the little bottles and tubes and jars of little-girl lotions and potions she keeps on her dresser. She told me they were a family and that she had named them; her Johnson's 24-hour moisture lotion, with her tallness and curves, was the mom; the fingernail polish, lip gloss, deodorant, and body glitter were her kids with names like "Brittney" (that was the body glitter, natch) and "Evan."

This sounds weird, I know. But it wasn't weird at all to me; I did the same thing when I was little.

I think it's because both Ainsley and I were/are the only young children in our houses, and had/have very active imaginations. She is populating her room with imaginary characters because she doesn't have to share it with any real ones. I also think we both have the storytelling gene; we like to invent little dramas out of the ordinary and everyday.

My mom, a certified cosmetic addict, had a dresser full of lotion, makeup, and perfume that I used almost every day as a small child to act out a grand soap opera. I've always been a fan of ongoing storylines. Because I was an early watcher of Guiding Light and As the World Turns, my literal soap opera had my dad's aftershave cheating on his lovely wife Jean Nate with the elegant young tube of Avon red lipstick. Perfume and body spray bottles that didn't at all look like each other were discovered to be long-lost sisters, and the eccentric old vixen was a bottle of foundation that was emotionally and physically half-empty.

When Mom completely used up one of her cosmetics and needed to throw away the empty bottle, it was quite an ordeal. It was like I'd lost a member of the family. Mom would roll her eyes as I staged an epic funeral for Mrs. Secret, who had lived a long life and was loved by everyone...but did anyone really know her? Only after the rest of the cast had said their goodbyes could she be thrown away, to be replaced by...(duh duh DUH) ...newcomer Feelin' Fresh, who was going to raise a little hell. You could just tell by her shape and the intoxicating way her aroma filled the room.

Once, as a 4-year-old who should have known better, I got so mad at one of my villains that I had another character throw her across the room and break her. God bless my parents; I was not an easy child to live with.

Things came to a dramatic conclusion, though, on July 27, 1980.

I was six years old. It was a hot, summer Sunday, and Mom had just called me in the house to cool off and to have a late lunch. Dad had the Reds game on, so I headed back to direct the latest episode of As the Noxzema Turns.

No sooner had I rounded the corner into the master bedroom and positioned myself in front of Mom's dresser and its huge mirror did the scene descend into chaos. I heard a loud clap, like thunder, and suddenly the little glass bottles began to dance, moved my a violent unseen force.

I can still see my little skinny bowl-haircutted reflection in the mirror as it, too, began to shake. All of my actors began to jump and move towards me, those closest tumbling off the edge of the dresser as if trying to escape doom by jumping off a cliff.

I ran.

"Mom, mom, there's a ghost in your room! There's a ghost in your room!" I'd seen enough horror movies to know that ghosts moved things when they wanted to scare the shite of out of the living.

As soon as the words came out of my mouth the gallon of milk Mom has placed on the counter suddenly pitched into the middle of the kitchen floor.

"It's not a ghost, it's the damn washing machine." Mom ran over to our washer, which got out of balance and shook the kitchen regularly. But I knew better; no washing machine in the world could have caused what I had just seen in her bedroom.

Things got eerily quiet. Mom realized the washer wasn't out of balance about the time I noticed that I couldn't hear any birds chirping outside or the TV in the living room; the screen had suddenly gone dark. The three of us looked at each other for a split second, all three of us feeling a sense of doom.

See? I wanted to say. Told ya we have a ghost!

Then life started up again. And by that, I mean the Reds game came back on. But we all three heard the announcer say that those of us watching in Cincinnati had probably just felt a tremor, and to stay tuned for more details.

Turns out a 5.1 quake with an epicenter just southeast of us was what had rocked our world. Not a ghost, not an out-of-balance washing machine. A real-life honest-to-goodness bit of drama had presented itself to my little theater of beauty products.

The rest of the day we were, if you'll pardon the pun, shaken up a bit. There were reports of minor damage across northern Kentucky, but all Dad's inspection found was a lot of spilled milk, a loose mirror above Mom's dresser, and some seriously misplaced perfume bottles. Later most of the neighbors gathered outside to swap stories of what they were doing when the ground started shaking.

"Cranky thought it was a ghost," Dad told them, and all the adults laughed and took another sip of their PBRs. I made eye contact with my best friend from across the street, and we didn't laugh; we both knew that things moving of their own accord is not hilarious when you're 6 and alone in a bedroom.

I could never quite handle being alone with my cast and crew making up scenes after that. I knew it had "only" been a minor and rare earthquake, but the horror I felt at seeing inanimate objects suddenly become animated was lingering. It's one thing to imagine a perfume bottle engaging in dialogue with a lipstick in my mind's eye; it's another thing altogether to see these things come to life and march toward you as if getting revenge for years worth of bad storylines and uneven plotting.

At 8, I don't imagine Ainsley's stories with Brittney and Evan and the rest will last too long, anyway. For all I know last night's play was an isolated incident brought on by boredom and her having a bit of an upset stomach and nothing better to do.

At any rate, I hope her cast never quite comes to life for her like mine did.

Taco Boats and Pizzas Shaped Like Stop Signs: Oh Whither Thou, School Lunches Of Yore?

2011-02-18T14:42:00.000-05:00

I am having one of those days where I want to eat everything that's not tied down.

Is this just me? 'Cause sometimes it worries me. For no rhyme or reason there are just some days that from the moment my feet hit the floor I have one ever-consuming thought on my mind: What do I get to eat next?

It's a good thing this doesn't happen very much, and that I am a disciplined exerciser with a genetic predisposition to being thin. Because I have pretty much been grazing on something or other all day.

I wanted a hot lunch so I found myself on a rare lunchtime voyage to the school cafeteria checking out their choices. Hamburger and fries? No. Chicken sandwich? Not from here, thanks. Fish sandwich? Get real. Rectangle pizza? Nope, not feeling it.

I settled on the classic Friday entree here at my school: tomato soup and something that gets called grilled cheese. You remember these "sandwiches", right? The ones that can only be eaten with a generous bowl of tomato soup, which I ordinarily despise, but which serves as a softening agent for a food item that could actually be used to scrub your backyard grill.

While I was waiting for the lunch lady to set me up (we actually have a couple of hot lunch ladies who bear no resemblance to the hair-net wearing Chris Farley characters of our youth) I had a sudden, inexplicable craving for a school lunch room item I haven't seen or tasted since May of 1992:

Octagon Mexican Pizza.

Do you all remember these? We didn't start having them until my sophomore or junior year in high school, but dear Lord, they became my favorite school lunch offering ever. There was nothing to them; the crust was something between an unnaturally-shaped corn tortilla and a soft, doughy, standard pizza crust. I don't know exactly what it was made of, but it was a perfect octagon and it was Bright. Orange. There was a little "taco meat filling" on it and some yellow processed cheese and maybe a half teaspoon of something that might have once been a red pepper. Oh, heaven on a melamine tray.

It was always served with corn. I remember that. Sometimes the funky Mexican corn you buy in a can with green peppers in it. You know. For 'tude.

On those days in my high-school cafeteria, I was ruthless. If you stood between me and my Mexican Pizza, I would have become very un-valedictorian-like and called you a 'ho and maybe stab you with my spork. It meant that much to me to have something in that cafeteria I actually wanted to eat.

Had it not been for Mexican Pizzas (I have to capitalize, because it was unique and special) and taco boats (a taco in a flat, pontoon-like shell you could eat with a fork and not get all over your Hypercolor t-shirt) I might have starved in high-school. The food was just ba-ad. It had been almost good in elementary and middle school, but then someone had to go and complain about there being meal worms in the chicken noodle soup that one time, and they changed a bunch of their ingredients and suppliers for most everything and by senior year we were all begging for them to just go ahead and bring the worms back.

My mom didn't particularly support me packing a lunch every day, so unless I was ill or just really in the mood to get up a few minutes early to throw a P B & J in a brown bag, I was completely at the mercy of the school caf for midday sustenance. Plus, I spent a few years in the good graces of the federal free and reduced lunch program, and I've always been taught you don't turn your nose up at a free (or reduced) lunch.

Things reached their boiling point one day senior year. I was coming off of a stomach virus for like the 3rd time that year; I know there was a nosy junior English teacher who was convinced I was pregnant because I kept leaving the class across from hers and throwing up, but it was just my crappy immune system that got worse with the stress of college applications and my first job. Little did she know I was still pure and would remain so for one more year, thank you very much. Suck it, Mrs Jones.

Anyway, I was having a day much like today after recovering from that virus: I was starving. I needed food. And chicken noodle soup (worm free!) was on the menu. It was looking to be a good day.

But the stuff the hair-netted harpy put in our indestructible plastic bowls bore no resemblance to any chicken noodle soup I had ever seen before. If there had ever been any noodles in it, they had dissolved to nothingness after God knows how many hours of sitting in the broth. Someone had perhaps tried to make it cream of chicken at some point, perhaps after realizing its inherent awfulness, and that just turned it into a thick, pasty mess that my sister could have used to hang the blue-and-mauve paisley wallpaper in her entryway. I tried it, and the taste reminded me of the time I tried to eat the "ice-cream cone" I had made with my friend's Play-Doh McDonald's play set.

I was a senior in high-school, therefore my sense of superiority knew no bounds. I tried to stage a revolt among my friends, but no one was biting. They were all too busy copying their physics homework off of Charlie. I did the only thing I knew to do.

I walked up to the lady who took our trays, a poor dishwasher who never spoke, probably had nothing to do with the preparation of our lunches, and was just there to make minimum wage with our town's limited employment opportunities. She wasn't the right person to call to the mat, but I was young and foolish, and she was quiet and there.

"This," I said, dramatically dipping my spoon into the paste and making a big show about how it didn't easily come off the spoon, "This is NOT soup! I don't know what this is. It is INEDIBLE! How do you sleep at night knowing that this is what you're feeding children?!" And with that, I stomped off.

"How'd that go?" one of the homework copiers asked.

"I don't know. She didn't say anything." But I still was convinced I'd had an impact; for extra effect, I'd written "NOT FOOD!" on my napkin and left it there. Surely, it would get all the way to the manager and she would change her ways.

Change didn't come.

As much as I moaned about those 80s and 90s school lunches, I would have loved to have had a Mexican Pizza, a taco boat, or the "old" chicken noodle soup from the days before the meal worm incident for my lunch today.

Instead, I had canned tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich that was baked in an industrial oven roughly 5 hours before. It was almost bad enough to make me write something on my napkin.

I am all for healthier school lunches and better choices since some of our kids only get one hot meal a day. There is an obesity crisis among our children, and I see it everyday. Someone needs to step up and make these meals better.

But in the meantime, can we please bring back the stop-sign-shaped pizzas?

To My High-School Music Teacher, On the Occasion Of His 60th Birthday (And My 37th)

2011-02-09T12:30:00.001-05:00

Last week, I was contacted by my high-school choir director's wife and asked to write a letter to her husband as part of a birthday surprise in honor of his 60th birthday. She wanted to get a large number of his friends and former students to bombard him with good old-fashioned snail mail on that landmark occasion.

My first thought: holy crap. I remember when we decorated the band room/chorus room with black balloons and streamers in honor of his 40th birthday, and it seems like yesterday. No way was that 20 years ago.

My second thought: of course I will do this. After all, this teacher and I first bonded over the discovery of our shared February 12 birthday way back when I was in 6th grade. I'd be honored to write an actual pen-and-paper letter for this momentous event.

The following is the text of a letter I am mailing today to the best teacher I ever had and the single most important educational influence of my life.

Dear Mr. Durham,

Sometimes Jason and I sit around and wonder how on earth we got where we are. We grew up in families that were sometimes unstable, to say the least. Based on our socioeconomics, the odds were not in our favor for a high level of educational success. How did we grow into the two well-educated, well-adjusted people I like to think we are?

Well, our friends, for one thing. They exerted positive peer pressure, making it cool to be smart; they also made sure we had rides home from whatever after-school activity they roped us into joining. We became a team with that special little group of classmates, and we helped each other clean up the messes when we screwed up. (Those messes included, but were not limited to, the broken shards of a large glass trophy case that once lived in the band room.)

We also had some great teachers. Jason and I had adults standing behind us and encouraging us those times when our parents could not. They told us that we were smart and talented and capable and had such high expectations for us that we dared not disappoint them. They didn't tell us we could go to college; they told us that we would go to college, and do well there. When you come from parents who are not college-educated and struggle sometimes just to put food on the table, that's an important difference.

Then there's a person who was (and remains) both friend and teacher.

Every day from 6th grade through 12th grade, I spent an hour a day with him (Jason spent slightly less time in his company after defecting to the Beechwood Singing Tigers.) I learned a lot about music in those hours. For instance, I know enough to be able to say with authority that my favorite symphony is Tchaikovsky's 6th and can tell you in great detail why the 4th movement's struggle and failure to climb out of the depths of despair is so cathartic for me. I also know that there's nothing more beautiful than being one of twelve voices singing "Ave Verum Corpus" quietly and in tune; it makes every hair on your head stand up.

I learned a lot about myself and the world outside my front door. I was not a talented singer, but I became a very talented listener. It doesn't matter that my parents couldn't afford and were not remotely interested in taking me to Music Hall or a touring Broadway musical; I grew to love good music and good theater and had the pleasure of hearing something beautiful every day for seven years.

Some of the most important lessons came after the bell rang at 2:30. This person could not only teach music, he could also turn a fundamentally shy girl into Bonnie the Moll and The Artful Dodger on stage (and encourage her not-shy partner in crime to commit to a really convincing chair fall that to this day is the stuff of high-school theater legend.) He taught us that singing on our band-room stage for a room full of applauding people was thrilling, but singing Christmas carols at a nursing home was a whole different kind of rewarding. He was knowledgeable about things other than the performings arts; one cold winter night, dropping us off after Honors Chorus, he pointed out the Pleiades, and taught me the trick of averting my eyes when looking at a celestial object as it appears brighter that way. That little cluster of stars amazed me. How had I never noticed that before? It's amazing what wonderful things you can see when you stop looking so hard.

And once, he even taught me that my best response to an infuriating practical joke (which he may have been a party to) is to simply stick out my tongue and flounce out of the room. That'll show 'em.

A lot more years than I care to think about have passed since those days. This person is no longer technically my teacher, but remains a friend. Last year, we caught up over a favorite symphony (not Tchaikovsky's 6th, but his 4th, which isn't too shabby) and a favorite beverage and talked about music and spirituality and beer and old times and new times. This year, we went out caroling with other former chamber choir students and found that singing "Silent Night" for a handful of homesick truckers is as hair-standing-inducing as "Ave Verum" ever was. As he told the altos and tenors to sing out more, I saw that I still have a lot I can learn from him.

In my current school, we are told by our administrators to address each other as "Mr." or "Mrs." or "Ms." in front of students; that title, they say, is a sign of professional respect and a good model for our young people. Because of this, this special teacher and friend will always be "Mr. Durham."

I cannot call you by your given name. You have more than earned my respect. (Though I must say, when we get together with our other chamber choir friends, we still sometimes call you "Daddy Ron." Which is still respectful, in its own way.)

On February 12, 1986, you heard from my 6th-grade girlfriends that it was my birthday; you told me it was yours, too. You said something like, "Great people were born on February 12."

You've no idea.

I wish you a very happy 60th birthday, and very many more. Here's hoping someday we can go to Tchaikovsky's 6th together (and have a Unibroue afterwards.)

Make a Run For the Border

2011-02-04T12:30:00.000-05:00

There was a time in my life when I absolutely positively adored Taco Bell.

In high school, Taco Bell was where I went when I felt like I'd done something particularly noteworthy and needed to reward myself. The day I tried out for and made my school's select Chamber Choir for the first time, I asked my mom to take me to dinner at Taco Bell to celebrate. Sad, but true. It was almost always in my price range; I could usually find a total of $3 in my house if I checked pants pockets, under the couch cushions, and in my dad's loose change cup. Three dollars could get you quite a bit of food back at the Bell in the late 80s and early 90s. I could usually get 2 soft tacos, a Chilito, and a small Dr. Pepper for all that loose change. If I was feeling really crazy, or found an extra quarter somewhere, I could swap out one of the soft tacos for a MexiMelt. Jason and I started many a date there. On those occasions, when he was buying, I splurged and got a Burrito Supreme. Romantic, no. Cheap and tasty, usually.

When a good friend of mine started working at the Bell in our mall, and could buy food for me with her discount...oh, don't even get me started. Not only could I get the discount, but she could make my food for me and put extra cheese on everything. Joy! The fact that around that time is when I stopped being super-thin and started having to exercise to be able to look cute in my jeans is perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not.

This friend used to tell me more than I really wanted to know about how the food was made and how it came to them frozen and pre-packaged and totally and completely processed beyond recognition. We still ate most of their menu items, though, and when we both went away to college at Centre we craved it enough to occasionally make Taco Bell runs all the way to Lexington. That we used to drive all the way to Lexington for Taco Bell still gets me; our classmates were making beer runs, we were driving ridiculous distances for $.49 tacos.

And now it's come out that the "beef" in the tacos we were eating all those years wasn't really beef at all. At least, over 60% of it wasn't. Here's my shocked face: (See, not really shocked at all.)

I can't decide whether or not to be disturbed by this. The fillers that occupy the space where the beef technically should be don't particularly gross me out. Oats are okay, soy is okay. To be completely honest, I thought that the day I learned Taco Bell had been misadvertising its "beef" would be the day we all learn it's made of chihuahua or something. Oh, don't make that face. How else did you think they were making profit from $.99 chalupas?

I know that when I make tacos at home the final "taco meat filling" isn't 100% beef, either. By the time the fat cooks out and I add some water and spices back in, who knows what the percentage really is?

But I still have to shudder when I read that Taco Bell's product is only 36% beef and doesn't even technically meet the requirements to be "taco meat filling."

I think I feel disappointment more than anything, even though I haven't been a regular Taco Bell customer in over a decade. I remember when I was a kid that you used to see Taco Bell workers actually frying up ground beef behind the counter and chopping real lettuce and grating real cheese. When me moved here from Knox County, Mom preferred Taco Bell to any other fast food restaurant when we found ourselves needing a quick meal that she didn't cook. We could see how the food was made and it seemed less shady than the local McDonald's which was worked exclusively by stoned teenagers. I loved that I could afford Taco Bell in high school; but what did we sacrifice by demanding cheap quantity over good quality?

Real beef, apparently.

That Taco Bell's food doesn't even taste the same now as it did in the already-processed-beyond-belief 90s, and that it didn't taste the same in the 90s as it did when I was a kid, speaks a lot about how our standards for food have fallen. I have no delusions that fast food was ever a healthier option than a home-cooked meal. But even fast food used to have standards and tried to be actual, you know, food. Not a formless prepackaged substance that stretches the limits of the government definition of "meat."

My family is more of a Chipotle family when it comes to fast Mexican-ish food, so it's probably not going to hurt Taco Bell too much when I say that I will never choose to eat there again.

And yet I really hope that this thrust into the headlines and controversy over how much beef it takes to actually be beef makes them question their own food and their bottom line. It's probably unrealistic, but I would love to see Taco Bell (and other fast food establishments, for that matter) get their act together and serve us real food again by the time my daughter is a teenager who goes through pants pockets and couch cushions in order to treat herself to a couple of soft tacos and a Chilito. Of course, doing so will mean that she will have to scrounge up a lot more change than I did.

In the end, though, knowing what exactly we're eating should trump $3 value meals.

The Simple Joys of a Ripe Avocado...And Other Things I Almost Missed

2011-01-28T14:52:00.000-05:00

Warning: Descriptive food language ahead. Stop now if you're related to my husband and that kind of thing grosses you out.

I came home from a hard day's work and allowed myself my newest sinful indulgence.

I grabbed a ripe avocado from the fridge and slowly drew my chef's knife around the fruit all the way to the pit, breaking the fruit into taut hemispheres. I hacked into the pit with one swift thwack of my knife and twisted it out with a practiced turn of my wrist. Then I drew the velvetty meat out of the yielding skin with a large spoon, giving me two perfect pieces to slice up like butter. I sprinkled some kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper over the blemish-free slices and ate every bite, standing over my kitchen sink, basking in the sheer joy of it. How can something be both creamy and fruity, both rich and refreshing, all in the same bite? It's bliss.

I've been finding myself craving avocados with the kind of intensity usually reserved for Dove dark chocolate, and I don't know why, but there could be worse things I could be doing at 4 every afternoon. Some people shoot Jack Daniels; I devour green fruit. I save the Jack for Saturday night.

I can't eat an avocado without thinking of how, in my naive youth, I used to absolutely despise them, and how very close I came to missing out on this newfound joy.

I can both credit and blame my mom's distant cousin. Faye lived in the apartment below us the year we spent in Knox County; hers was one of two full apartments in the building and actually had its own bathroom, so we were very glad that it was occupied by someone we knew. Faye wasn't like the rest of the kin I met that year; she was worldly and well-travelled. When she had been married, she lived with her husband and son in California. California! It seemed so exotic. When I camped out at her place one morning through a one-hour snow delay, she told me how her son had once been dismissed early from school because of a real-life earthquake that had opened a huge crack in the road outside his school. Sure made my snow and flood days seem like nothing special.

I stayed with Faye quite a bit when Mom had to work late, and on one of these occasions a commercial for salad oil came on TV. A cheerful-looking woman dipped a slice of something vibrantly green into the oil and seemed to really enjoy that first bite.

"Oh, my God," said Faye. "What I wouldn't do for an avocado."

"What's an avocado?"

"It's a green fruit with a big pit that you can't find here in Kentucky. Not good ones, anyway."

"What do they taste like?"

She struggled for a while and told me I would just have to taste one someday myself.

"Put a little salt and pepper on it," she advised. "That's all it needs. But it is something of an acquired taste."

After that she went outside to smoke a cigarette, and I was old enough to know what human activity people usually wanted to smoke after, so I figured these avocado things must be REALLY good.

A year later we were living back in northern Kentucky and my dad had taken me to a new produce market that opened. I was allowed to pick any fruit or vegetable I wanted, even if it was something I'd never tried before. Dad was fresh out of rehab and was trying in vain to get us all to be healthier. I spied some wrinkled green things: avocados! Yay! Never mind that I hadn't the faintest idea what to do with one.

With much work, Mom peeled and pitted the thing and presented it to me ceremoniously on a salad plate. I picked up a slice; it was so slimy it fell out of my grasp. My mom shuddered. I wanted to like it, so I grinned at her as I was trying to make that first bite actually go down. I was repulsed, but I had been talking about these things for a solid year, and I didn't want to look like a rube.

"You don't like it, do you?"

"Sure I do. It just maybe needs some salad oil."

It went into the garbage. Acquired taste, indeed.

For the next 25 years, I avoided avocadoes and its byproduct, guacamole, like most people avoid liver or brussel sprouts. I gagged at there mere sight of any of that green sh*t next to my nachos, thank you very much. I passed up recipes that called for it and put it firmly on my "I Hate..." list.

Then a funny thing happened. I got a coupon for free chips and guacamole at Chipotle after my very first 5K. I sat on the coupon for a while because, you know, apparently I hate the green stuff. Then I figured if it was there in my purse, I might as well use it for the chips, anyway.

But something compelled me to try it the guac. It was there, after all, and I was still hungry, and it looked quite wonderful. It was nothing like the stuff that used to haunt my late-night nachos at Denny's in Danville.

About a year later I got the nerve to try Faye's favorite fruit in its pure, unadulterated form. For old time's sake. Oh, dear Lord, she was right about them. Why did I ever think they were foul? And they've been a regular in my fridge ever since.

I almost missed out on one of the culinary loves of my life simply because I didn't like them as a kid. I shudder at the thought just the way my mother shuddered when she watched me try to force-feed a slimy avocado to myself at the tender age of 10. What else have I been missing?

There are some things in life you simply have to acquire a taste for. You have to want to like them, and try them enough times that finally, one day, it sticks. The question always is, though, what's worth all that effort? What's worth aquiring a taste for?

Well, beer, for one. Would I be healthier if I'd never tasted an ice-cold beer on a hot summer day and all of a sudden started loving it when as a young adult I thought it was even nastier than avocadoes? Maybe, maybe not. A drink a day is good for you, you know. But would I be happier without that particular acquisition? No. Absolutely not. A good beer is a work of art.

I've also acquired a taste for salmon, which I used to think was the devil's own creation. But it's very good for you, so they say, and on practically every decent restaurant menu, so I am glad I kept trying that one until I discovered the one way that I actually enjoy eating it (marinated and grilled to a char.)

It's not just food; the first time I read both The Great Gatsby and Great Expectations, I hated them. I didn't understand why either of those was considered good literature. But in college, under the instruction of a pair of great teachers, I grew to love them. Dicken in general may be an acquired taste.

I haven't made a New Year's resolution yet, but maybe it should be to give another shot to some things I think I hate. Just to make sure there aren't any more avocadoes out there. Maybe I'll start with Nickleback or Two And a Half Men. (Give me strength.)

Have you ever given something a second chance and realized that actually you kind of love it? Is there anything you'd like to give a second chance? Sound off below.

Shallow Thoughts

2011-01-19T12:15:00.001-05:00

My old friend Insomnia has been back in town; I suspect the stream of snow days we've had is to blame. She likes to show up at my door any time that I get to sleep late on random Wednesdays.

Whenever I spend a few hours with Insomnia, she and I like to talk. Here's a sample of what went rolling through my brain last night:

1. Mom has me worried because she said Scout's been binging and purging. I am not sure if a cat can be bulimic, but it certainly would explain why Scout's been looking lean and svelte. I know it's nice to look good in your skinny jeans, but at what price, Scout? At what price?

2. I've got to print out that picture of Agnes for Mom. Mom had me worried about her, too, when she called less than an hour after picking up Ainsley for some Mamaw-and-me time to say the following:

"Yeah, can you get me a picture of Agnes?"

Ummm...who the f^&* is this Agnes, and how could you have gone senile so quickly? You were making sense an hour ago! How worried should I be that my kid is with this crazy person?

"Uhhh, Mom...what are you talking about?"

"You know, Agnes. She looks just like Ainsley did when she was little."

Fab. Now she's seeing little girls named Agnes running around...oh, wait! Agnes!

"Are you all watching Despicable Me, by chance?"

"Of course we are. Have Jason pull a picture off the Internet for me. Bye!"

I love my mom.

3. "He's climbing in your windows, he's snatchin' your people up, trying to rape 'em so y'all need to hide your kids, hide your wife, hide your kids, hide your wife..." Great. How did THAT get into my head? Again? Thanks, Insomnia. That was helpful.

4. I also can't quit thinking about that "Tiger Mom" book. I was condemning the author pretty hard until Jason told me I can sometimes push Ainsley too hard academically, and now I don't know if I have any business bad-mouthing this woman. But I proudly display Ainsley's last report card even though she got a B in math, and would a true Tiger Mom do that? Probably not. I push Ainsley in some subjects because I know she can get good grades. She is an excellent reader and writer and I will never be able to accept bad grades in those subjects. I don't push too hard; I am nurturing her talent. So that she can write a brilliant and scathing memoir about her relationship with her mother someday. I'm not a Tiger Mom; I'm more of a house-cat mom. I'm all fine and good until you ruffle my fur the wrong way and then I might give you a little hiss and bat you with my paw to let you know I mean business.

5. House cats...Scout...Blurg. Here we go again.

Sleep did come. But this morning in the shower, I still couldn't get Antoine Dodson out of my brain. Such is the life of those who entertain thoughts when they should be entertaining sleep.

Gone Country

2011-01-14T07:00:00.001-05:00

Everything is cyclical.

Pants legs have gone from wide to narrow to wide again and now people are inexplicably wearing skinny jeans that only look good on underweight 15-year-olds (and don't even get me started on denim leggings.) The school day has gone from a 6-period day to block scheduling and back to 6 periods, and reading instruction has gone from phonics to whole language and back to phonics again.

If you live long enough, everything old will be new again.

In the mid- to late-nineties, I went through a country stage. Fed up with the boy bands and watered-down R & B I was hearing on pop radio, I started listening to my mom's favorite radio stations. And I liked what I heard.

Garth Brooks. George Strait. Trisha Yearwood. Tim McGraw. Martina McBride. Deana Carter. The Dixie Chicks. Early Kenny Chesney (the DJ at our wedding played "Me and You" after my matron of honor's teary-eyed and touching toast, and Jason and I have had a soft spot for that song ever since.) Yes, even Shania Twain, much as I hate to admit it. I liked that most of the people I was listening to were talented singers with big voices (Martina!), or good songwriters, or seemed like plain good folks who would be fun to talk to over a plate of fried chicken and an ice-cold Bud. In May of 1998 I bought a box set collection of Garth Brooks CDs after I saw him in concert in Lexington; I feel justified telling you that because, looking at the pop charts for that month, there wasn't too much quality pop music for sale. Backstreet Boys and Savage Garden, anyone?

Then something happened. As quickly as I fell in love with country music, I fell out of it. I think the exact moment might have been the first time I heard Toby Keith threaten to put a boot up someone's ass because it's the American way. I began to find country a little too corn-pone, a little too smugly redneck. When we bought our first new car in the fall of 2001, I didn't program a single country station into the radio's presets.

I still bought CDs from the Dixie Chicks and Alison Krauss with Union Station, but since they didn't get much airplay on my local country stations, I am not even sure they count as "pure" country. Every summer I put a Carrie Underwood barn-burner on my summer mix CD for going-to-the-pool listening, because Carrie's songs are so cute when they're angry. But other than that, I've not given country much love.

Then, out of the blue clear sky, I fell in love with a video and a song that was on CMT while I was working out on the elliptical. It caught my eye on one of the gym screens while I was watching Paula Deen add a stick of butter to something, and I changed my tuner and, just maybe, my musical life. Behold! People with talent! It's like the Anti-Ke$ha!

And I went right home and spent the rest of my night browsing for videos and songs by the Zac Brown Band.

Some of you are more musically knowledgeable and hip than I am and may already know of these guys with the tight bluegrass-y harmonies and stunning virtuosity on their respective instruments. They're new to me, though, and I think I love them. I felt the first twinges when I watched a video of them just sitting around on their tour bus doing one of my favorite traditional bluegrass songs, "Fox On the Run." Then when I found video of them at the CMAs covering "Devil Went Down to Georgia"--mercy. And the following fun fact helped me earn some cred with Jason--they opened for Dave Matthews Band a couple of times this summer.

So I may be back to country now. I have found that I kinda like Dierks Bentley, and The Band Perry, and Jason Aldean. I like them better than Lady Gaga, Ke$ha, and the like, anyway.

Sometimes I don't like to speak of my country roots among the more musically hip of my friends. I hide my John Anderson greatest hits CD or pretend like I don't know every word of "Strawberry Wine."

But it just might be time to dust off my sawed-off cowboy boot-shoes and brush up on my line dancing. I've gone country. Again. And it's all Zac Brown's fault.

Apocalypse Now...or Maybe Later

2011-01-06T07:00:00.000-05:00

When I was a young girl, there were a few things I was absolutely, positively sure of.

I believed the evangelical televangelists my mom watched when they said the Rapture and the Tribulation were coming, and that right soon. I believed that aliens had visited our planet, probably on multiple occasions, and that someday they would make their presence known in a spectacular, possibly violent, manner. I fervently believed in ghosts, and that angels walked among us, and that each of us has a soul that either goes to heaven or gets stuck here on earth in a kind of purgatory when we die. Finally, I believed in a myriad of government cover-ups and conspiracies including, but not limited to, the JFK assassination. No way, I thought at 17, did Lee Harvey Oswald take down a president of these United States all by himself.

I am older and, for the most part, wiser now. I am more of a skeptic about almost everything; thirty-six years on this planet have taught me an awful lot about people, science, and faith. A fantastic professor in college (the first Jewish person I'd ever known, and perhaps ironically, the most knowledgeable scholar of the New Testament I've ever had the pleasure of listening to) taught us that the book of Revelations is not meant to be read literally, but was written in code to provide hope and comfort to struggling Christians in the years following Jesus' death. I've learned about just how special and possibly unique the conditions on our own earth are and how, even if we're not alone, the intelligent life forms elsewhere in the universe may be so different from us and so far away that any kind of clear contact could be impossible. I've had some hair-raising encounters with mediums, psychics, and ghost talkers and had some experiences that I choose to interpret with my heart, but that could easily be explained away with science and a hefty helping of bereavement psychology. And even though my 12th-grade government teacher would be appalled to hear me say this, after an entire grading period of persuasion (I mean instruction), I do think it's possible for one man, even a man of questionable skill, to kill a president. Little men can kill great men, even though it doesn't seem remotely right or fair for the world to work that way.

But inside the skepticism is still that little girl who, like Fox Mulder, wants to believe. I don't keep a flying saucer poster hanging in our family room in imitation of Mulder's "I Want to Believe" wall decoration for nothing. I do want to believe, and I can't really decide whether I am a skeptic or a true believer. It kinda depends on the day, as ridiculous and wishy-washy as that sounds.

And now that birds are falling out of the skies, and fish are dying, and hundreds of little quakes have happened in a little Arkansas town without a fault line near, and the frickin' Lost numbers showed up in the Mega Millions jackpot, for crying out loud, the skeptic's shrewd eyes have failed and I am utterly, completely convinced that apocalypse is nigh.

I've been jokingly sending texts and emails to my friends since all this freaky stuff started hitting the airwaves. "The end is here! Party at my house! Hurry, before it's too late and all the Unibroue is gone!" "Beware the imminent alien invasion! Stock up on water and baseball bats!" (That's for you, Signs fans.) "Stay the eff out of western Kentucky! The New Madrid fault is gonna bloooooooow..." (Well, that one almost makes sense, scientifically speaking. We're due for The Big One, and animals often freak out before Big Ones, right?) But I'm not really sure that I'm joking.

A thousand birds dying of massive blunt-force trauma on New Year's Eve? Okay, I can buy that maybe possibly a scare from fireworks was responsible. But then further reports came out of dead birds in Louisiana, and western Kentucky, and then a bunch of fish died, and then I read from a blogger that close to that same area in Arkansas there had been all these freaky little earthquakes all fall, and so on, and so on. Something is up here, kids. It could be God. It could be aliens. It could be geography, biology, or seismology. It could be an X-File. But don't tell me it's nothing.

It's waaaay too much fun to pretend it's something.

I didn't realize how much I needed a good paranormal-ish mystery (not in my backyard, though, thank God... or whatever) to unfurl my long-missing crazy conspiracy "Spooky Librarian" flag. Rational explanations can be so boring sometimes. Occam's razor cuts too neat a line. I want to talk about some freaky, paranormal weirdness for a change.

And hope (and maybe pray) that despite all this fun, science is right. Because I like this planet too much to have to leave it just yet. I like the idea of an alien invasion in theory, but in practice, it would just make modern life so darned inconvenient. The aliens might not like Modern Family as much as we do, and then where would we be?

Before Christmas, and before all this explained-but-not-explained stuff happened, I had an interesting conversation with one of Jason's brothers about some of these favorite subjects of mine from my naive youth. He's a fan of Ancient Aliens and had me look up the "alien" cave paintings profiled in one of the episodes. Yep, those look like aliens on those walls, alright.Then we started talking about JFK's autopsy, the Magic Bullet, smoke on the grassy knoll, and the Zapruder film ("Back, and to the left....Back, and to the left..." I can still hear my government teacher say.) It was enough to make me a hard-core believer again until the next morning when the Kentucky bourbon had worn off and the reality of life in the 21st century kicked in. Is it possible to be an alien and conspiracy agnostic?

I suppose that's as possible as masses of birds dying from trauma that's merely the result of sudden, startled flying. Fireworks, you say. Sure.

Whatever the final, science-sanctioned word ends up being, there will be those who see government conspiracy, cover-up, little green men, or the hand of God. Provided we're still here to talk about all this (there is an evangelical group who has used the Bible to calculate the end of time and we might only have until May, so live it up), even the last word will not be the last word. This is way too interesting and juicy a tale for me to accept a simple explanation for.

The truth is out there. But it's not nearly as interesting as speculation.

Are you a conspiracy nut? Are there alien bodies recovered from Roswell frozen in a secret hangar at Wright Patterson? Are the end times coming? Or are you just going to use all this apocalypse talk as an excuse to eat, drink, and be merry (for tomorrow we die)?

1999

2010-12-23T06:00:00.001-05:00

"Hi, honey. Would you like a glass of wine?"

Kathie is offering me a glass of wine as if this is the most natural thing in the world. As if this is just a completely normal December 23rd. I take the offered glass, even though the current situation is so far away from normal that normal would need a street map and a really good set of directions to find us.

Two hours ago, things were, indeed, normal. Jason and I were in our apartment in Lexington, trying to get our heart rates down after a nail-biter of a UK game. Today was my first day of Christmas vacation from my job as an education librarian at EKU; we were happy, just talking and laughing, gearing up to travel to Erlanger and Fort Mitchell tomorrow morning to spend Christmas with our families.

The phone rang; Jason just knew it was one of his brothers. After particularly stressful basketball games, one or the other always calls.

"Helllooooo! What did you think of that game?"

The look in Jason's eyes changed when he heard the voice on the other end of the phone. I don't know how to describe it; they were just blank. He stood unblinking, and the only clue I could gather as to what could possibly be going on on the other end of that phone was this, which he kept saying over and over and over:

"Mother, are you sure? Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"

The call ended and he looked at me.

"Mother says Steve's dead. They're waiting on the ambulance to get there."

My response echoed Jason's:

"Are you sure? Jason, are you sure?"

I should have gone to him. But I found myself frozen. The back of my nose and throat began to burn and ache as if I'd been hit in the face and the little part of my brain that was still rational piped up and told me to take a deep breath and focus because this is what shock feels like.

Another phone call, and this time Jason spoke to one of his brothers. Jason is the type of person who, whenever me or his mom or anyone else he knows looks up and screams, "The sky is falling!", takes off his hat, glances stoically at the sky, tests the wind direction with a wet finger, and sends up a hot air balloon.

When he talked to his brother, I could tell he was sending up his hot air balloons.

I don't do that; when someone around me yells, "The sky is falling!", I go grab some umbrellas. Just in case.

So I threw some random crap in an overnight bag and got the car keys and called my sister, who I knew would help sound the emergency alarms to my mom and dad.

An hour and a half later we crunched through a crust of fresh snow into the drive of the house with the pink neon star on the roof. There's a lot more neon now, too, as Steve adds a new piece every year. Candles. A huge Santa. A wreath. Carolers.

Added. Steve added new pieces every year.

By the time we had hit Georgetown, we knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Steve had died. My sister drove over there and arrived just after the ambulance left to check on everyone and let them know that we were on our way. She called us on our emergency cell phone to tell us; he was gone. It wasn't a hilarious misunderstanding we would all talk about every Christmas hereafter; it was real.

We would get the full story later. Steve had come home from work and wasn't feeling well; he went to bed. Out in the living room, the family had gathered to watch the UK game and, later, do the annual Christmas wrapping frenzy (I usually partook in this; in a family that big, it's all-hands-on-deck to get all the presents wrapped.)

When Kathie went into their bedroom to get wrapping paper and presents hidden in the closet, she could tell even by the weak light coming into the bedroom that he was dead. She said she knew immediately. I put myself in her place and I cannot imagine the horror.

The paramedics suspected a sudden massive heart attack. He just...died.

Kathie hands me a glass of wine and I look around. The house is full; several of her sisters have come out, as well as some of Steve's many, many siblings and in-laws. If you didn't know any better, you'd think this was the annual Christmas Eve party. Wine is flowing, voices are raised, plans are being made. My mind can't wrap itself around it. Jason's brothers and sisters are there, and we all sit there wondering the same damn thing:

How? How could this happen?

We're there for hours, giving and taking what comfort we can. We learn that Kathie is still planning on having all of Steve's family over for Christmas Eve since it was her year to host; she says Steve would have wanted it that way.

"Christmas has to go on," someone says.

It feels that nothing can possibly go on right now. It feels like the world should stop spinning. How can we think about Christmas at a time like this?

But we do.

The crowd clears and I realize it's so late that it's early: it's now Christmas Eve. I leave Jason; he's going with his mother tomorrow morning to the funeral home to make the arrangements. More snow has fallen and I am conscious of the slipping and sliding under my tires and of the uneartly quiet the snow has made, muffling everything but the thoughts in my own head.

My sister has filled my mom in (she was on the phone when we were still in Lexington, and since she's the last person on the planet who doesn't have call waiting my sister had to go tell her in person) so she's waiting up for me.

I talk about it as much as I can and Mom makes up my old bed for me with fresh sheets and tells me I should try to sleep. I haven't brought anything to sleep in; my quick and dirty packing left a lot to be desired. Mom finds an old nightgown from back when I was in high school; it's snug and I try so very hard to quiet my mind and rest. Sleep eludes me tonight and, an eternity later, the sun is up and I hear Dad shuffling around the kitchen.

He's been working overtime and got home even later than I did. I can hardly believe he's back up.

He offers me a weak smile.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Hey."

"Are you and Joanie leaving for Lexington?"

And now I know why he's up; Mom has filled him in, and he knows Joanie is picking me up to drive me down to do a better job packing for what will now be a lengthy stay, and he feels the need to do or say something to me. Suddenly I am touched by his concern and feel like crying all over again. But I am not sure anything is left.

"Yeah. I didn't even pack a change of clothes. She should be here in a few minutes."

"Well, you know your sister..."

I manage to laugh. Joanie hasn't show up on time for anything since roughly 1983.

He reaches into his wallet and unfolds some bills.

"Here, take this. You all need money for gas, and stop and get yourself and your sister something to eat. You need to eat even if you don't feel like it."

"Oh, Dad. I don't need your money."

"Yes, you do."

His eyes meet mine, and I know Mom has told him everything. About how our finances are hanging on threads and we couldn't even get each other anything for Christmas this year. About how my new job is barely making ends meets while Jason is still a full-time student, and about how until Jason's student loan check comes in we can't even afford to buy ourselves a carton of Cokes.

I take his money and think about how much he's changed. Yes, he still falls off the wagon every so often in such a spectacular fashion that it defies everything we've ever learned about alcoholics. Once or twice a year, he slips, and from the first drink he takes to the day he's admitted to the hospital he doesn't draw a single sober breath. He's getting older now, and his body can't take that for long, so that old familiar cycle of sobriety to drunkenness to rehabiliation only lasts a few weeks. He has been near-death in an ICU more times that you would think possible. But when he's sober, he is this surprising, wonderful person who I have finally gotten to know. A man who can be devilishly funny, and smart, and hard-working, and loving. The man who looks at me now from across the kitchen table is not the same one who made my childhood a living hell.

We thought we were going to lose him for good last spring. He was diagnosed with stage I lung cancer from years of smoking. It was caught early; it was operable; he was told with intensive surgery and radiation, he could be one of those rare souls to beat it.

And he has. But not before pulling a spectacular drunk right smack in the middle of his month of radiation. The day of his last treatment, he got carted off to the Care Unit. We could have killed him for taking such a stupid risk if he didn't seem to be doing such a dandy job of killing himself.

Jason lost a father yesterday, and the emotions I feel looking at mine, who somehow is still here, well up and I have to look away. If I cry, he will be uncomfortable, and this little moment we're having will pass. I saw last night that when we have those moments with someone we love, we should appreciate them for the little miracles they are. You never know when that person will be gone from your life for good. It could happen, quite literally, in the blink of an eye.

We aren't huggers in my family, so we sit in silence until Joanie comes. We make the drive to Lexington and into an apartment where you can tell life suddenly stopped in its tracks: the ornament I was cross-stitching for Mom sits on the arm of the sofa with the needle just dangling from a thread; my water glass is half- full (half-empty?) on the coffee table and the TV is still on. I pack for both of us, and pick up the pieces we've left behind, and lock up. And before I step back out into the cold I say a little prayer:

Lord, give me strength to get through this Christmas.

Be with Jason, and his brothers and sisters, and give them comfort.

Be with Kathie and give her the guidance she needs.

And Lord, please, please do not take my parents away from me for a long, long time.

I thought losing a parent was something that happened to people a lot older than us, and I thought you got a lot more advanced warning. I am shaken to my very core to know that our parents are, after all, mortal. And they can go in an instant.

There was a time when I thought the best thing that could happen to me was to be far, far away from my father.

Now I am so grateful that when I go back home today, he will be waiting for me in the kitchen, saying,

"Hey, kiddo."

1996

2010-12-21T23:19:00.000-05:00

"I hate men!"

I yell this from the closet in my dormroom where I have retreated after fighting with Jason during his fraternity Christmas party. My anger wasn't even directed at him, really; I was really mad at some jackhole in his fraternity who stole our champagne.

I've been a very good girl in college; funny how having a raging alcoholic parent at home will temper that whole getting-drunk-every-weekend thing that so many people I've been away at Centre with have done. But this Christmas I am 21, I finish up my student teaching on Wednesday, and I deserved every drop of that champagne. Damnit.

"Mom, what was that red champagne you and Dad used to buy at Christmas?" I asked my mom. This would be the first time in my life I could just waltz into a liquor store and buy some champagne; I wanted to get something good, and I figure I can probably afford the stuff that Mom and Dad had around at even our poorest Christmases.

"Cold Duck?" she laughs, and I can practically hear her shudder on the other end of the phone. "You can probably find something better than that. That stuff was awful. We only bought it because we didn't know any better."

Awful or not, Cold Duck (I can't believe that's really what it's called) makes me think of childhood Christmases good, bad, and ugly, so that's what I buy on a beer run up to Lexington one night. I planned on spliting the bottle with Jason and maybe not being the responsible, reliable, sensible English-major-seeking-secondary-certification person I so usually am at fraternity Christmas parties.

But nooooo. Jason and I had just had one glass (from a souvenir champagne glass we get every year, which we usually drink a "mocktail" out of of) of the stuff when he went to the friend's refrigerator where we were hiding our bright red stash and found it had been raided. Not only had someone drunk all but about one shot of the Cold Duck, someone had also taken the Keystone Amber Light he had in case the Cold Duck didn't go down as well as we were hoping. We aren't exactly made of money and barely scrounge enough extra for the occasional pizza or Whopper; that someone raided our booze has made me livid.

"Aren't you going to do something? Find out who did it? It's bright red; it shouldn't be hard to see who has it."

"Just let it go. It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal! This is our last Centre Christmas party. I wanted to drink Cold Duck. Someone ruined that!"

"Let it go."

If there's one thing I'm not good at, it's letting it go.

So I grabbed my coat, didn't say goodbye, and left for my dorm room, where I knew my beloved roommate was having some girls over to watch Star Wars.

And now here I am, in one of our freakishly-huge-for-a-dorm-room closets, taking off my cocktail dress and getting into my sweats, cursing men in general and fraternity brothers in particular.

Karen pauses the movie and asks me if I'm okay.

"I will be." I come out of the closet, so to speak, and pour myself a drink from the bottle of Jameson (came with its own glasses!) Karen bought me for Christmas. Karen's love of all things Ireland has rubbed off on me and the whisky goes down smooth. I bought her a bottle of Bailey's so she can Irish up her hot chocolate this winter; neither of us are lushes, so we know we can handle the good stuff.

The one drink makes my head buzz pleasantly and I try to salvage what's left of my evening.

Before long I'm settled in watching Luke try to take down the Empire just like those pesky womp rats back home, laughing with some of my closest friends, gazing occasionally at the lights Karen has so beautifully strung around the room. I'm totally sucked in to this movie as if I don't know how it's going to end and I wonder why in the world I didn't just do this tonight in the first place.

Because I wanted one last Christmas party before all the uncertainty--that's why.

Who knows where next year will find us. Both Jason and I want to be teachers, and we both want to work in northern Kentucky so we can go back home. But who knows what will happen? Jason wants to be a high-school choir director, and those jobs aren't easy to come by. We're going to apply all over the state and just see what happens. Oh, Lord, I am so not good at just seeing what happens.

This time next year, Jason and I could be on different sides of the state. I'd like to think that since we've been together for almost 7 years that we're in it for life at this point, but as I love to point out when I'm trying to plant a seed, I'm not wearing a ring yet.

My roommate will be in Georgia, and so many of my other friends are spread out, too. Louisville, Lexington, northern Kentucky, Massachusetts, Alabama. This is the last holiday I'll be spending with this crazy new family I've made.

My last four Christmases have had a predictable pattern, and I don't need a therapist to tell me I thrive on predictability (though one did tell me that when I went a little crazy my sophomore year.) I dress up and go to a big party on campus; then on Christmas Eve I go to Jason's family party; Christmas morning is presents and dinner with my family; Christmas night we go to my friend Matt's grandma's house for cut-throat games of Rook or euchre. (Some may think it's odd that we hang out with Matt's grandma, but everyone young or old who's ever met her falls in love with her because she's that awesome.) During this 4-year period my Dad has stayed sober during Christmas though he hasn't at other times of the year. It's been nothing short of a miracle. I am not ready for all this to end.

Not knowing where I might be living this time next year has me seriously rattled. It seems like the whole fiber of who I am and what I know about myself is about ready to change.

Next week I finish up student teaching and my friends start their final exams for this semester. Then Jason and I have to stick around a few extra days performing in the madrigal dinner ("Wassail wassail, all over the town...") and then we go home. And that's it. Half of our senior year over and done. Five months until real life.

I could start to really flip out over this, but Luke is flying his X-Wing into the Death Star canyons and I've regained enough clarity to appreciate this evening for what it is.

Families are crazy and imperfect. Sometimes they're loud, sometimes they're obnoxious, sometimes they steal your Cold Duck.

Even when they make you insane, you love them. Because you never know which Christmas is the last one where you're all together.Tonight, I do know that this is the last one where this little family is all together. I slip out of the room for some water and to call Jason and apologize. I will spend the rest of the night with my hallmates, then go to Jason's on-campus apartment the next night for a bologna sandwich, Grippos, and Keystone Amber Light (he didn't take it ALL with him to the Christmas party). My favorites of his fraternity brothers will be there, and it will be the best fraternity Christmas party I've ever been to.

It's bittersweet that I know it will be my last, but it's the sweet that I remember.

1990

2010-12-21T12:00:00.003-05:00

I'll say this: Jason's family sure knows how to throw a party.

I will also say that I am more than a little overwhelmed. There are just so many of them. I can't even tell you the name of the person whose house we're at right now. I know it's one of Kathie's sisters, but she has quite a few, and I can't keep them all straight.

"Just wait until someday when you go to a party with all the Wartmans," Jason says. "I can't even keep them straight."

Okay, first of all--he's making plans for me to be at future Christmas and family parties with him, and the thought makes my stomach drop. In a good way. The way you feel when you love someone very much and you know he loves you back and you realize that just might be the person you're going to marry someday.

Secondly, I secretly can't wait to meet Steve's family. I love Jason's mom; she's funny and warm and has made me feel like a member of the family. But Steve is one of the most interesting people I've ever met and I imagine his dozen-plus brothers and sisters (!) will be just as fun. Steve is like no one I've ever known; he works insanely hard as a neon artist (! again) but when he plays, he plays hard, too. I can't imagine being from a family as huge as his and want to see how that all works.

I can't imagine being from a family as big as Jason's mom's, either, but I am almost getting used to the noise and craziness and learning everyone's names.

Almost.

"So, we're at which sister's house?"

"Holly's."

"And who's that?" I asked, pointing out a woman who looks enough like Kathie that I know it has to be one of her sisters.

"Donna."

"Got it. Donna. Holly. Only a few more to learn."

It turns out Holly had my name in the big gift exchange, and she got me a bottle of Poison cologne. Well, not the real thing, but she sells cologne that is supposed to smell just like the big designer brands, just for less money. It's a pretty great gift to get from someone who is basically a complete stranger. Now I can smell just like one of the popular girls at school.

I know that I drew one of Jason's cousins, but I have no idea what I got her because I didn't actually get her anything. Kathie said she would take care of it, and before I know it this cousin (who, like so many of Jason's cousins, is tall and sexy and beautiful and makes me feel like a skinny shrimp) is gushing over my good taste and asking me how I knew to get that skirt and shirt for her in just the right size.

I look over at Kathie, who is really the one with the good taste.

Kathie looks gorgeous tonight, and it's clear that she and Steve love each other very much. From everything I've heard, Steve is a vast improvement over Jason's dad, who is (and I think I'm being generous here) a complete cad. Steve would have never walked off and left her with six kids to take care of and refuse to pay a dime in child support. Jason's told some stories, and from what I've heard, he's had some Christmases that make even my poorest Christmas look like a rich man's feast.

I look at Jason, this guy who has been in my world since I was in sixth grade but who now is my world, and it hits me: as long as I have him, no Christmas can ever be that bad again. Even if Dad drinks, even if we're poor, as long as I have him (and his crazy-fun family), I can get through it. My long streak of sitting at home alone on Christmas Eve thinking about how fundamentally sad Christmas is (our Savior was born in a barn, for crying out loud, and no matter how warm and blessed and holy it was that doesn't erase the fact that no one could be bothered to find better accomodations for a woman in labor) just might be over.

After the big party for all of Jason's extended family, we go to his house (decorated for Christmas with a pink neon star on the roof) for a smaller (but still big for me) party with just his siblings. He has six of them, so it's still bigger than any gathering I've ever had with my little family. I learn that they open all the non-Santa presents on Christmas Eve; this is what I've been trying to get my mom and dad to do for years now, ever since we started going to my sister's and brother-in-law's house on Christmas morning to watch my nephew open presents. My esteem for my new extended family goes up a notch for doing Christmas the way I've always wanted to.

Steve drinks Crown Royal while he watches Kathie open the beautiful gifts he got her (Jason tells me that his mom cries over at least one present every year, and this year she cries over a diamond ring Steve surprised her with) and it's nice to see someone drink on Christmas Eve without ruining the holiday for everybody. The younger kids squeal at all the toys their older siblings got for them, and the older kids get tremendous hauls of clothing and what-nots from Kathie. Jason says she goes overboard at Christmas; seeing how happy her family and their joy makes her, I say she's doing it exactly right.

I unwrap a beautiful watch from Jason. I know it took a lot of his Kroger bagging money to buy it for me, and the sweater I got him pales in comparison. Kathie spoils me, too, with a beautiful red silk blouse that looks exactly like me. I will wear it (with my new almost-Poison cologne) to my family Christmas tomorrow morning.

One of Jason's older brothers drives me home with Jason going along for the ride and he looks the other way while I kiss Jason goodnight.

I am so happy I could burst. But I am already dreading tomorrow.

"Did you have a good time?" Mom asks.

"Yes," I say, and I tell her all about Kathie's sisters and the food and the laughter and the presents.

"Is he..." I start after I've finished my stories.

"I don't know," Mom says. "I still can't tell. You know how he is; if I accuse him of drinking now, he'll use that as an excuse to pull a good one tomorrow and not show up at your sister's. Don't say anything to him and maybe we'll get through Christmas without a fight."

We've suspected that Dad has been drinking a little since Thanksgiving, but we don't know for sure. Sometimes he comes home from working second shift and his eyes are a little too bright and his walk a little too uncertain, but we know from experience to just let it go.

Tomorrow, I imagine, we'll find out for sure. It has happened before on various holidays; Mom and I go to Joanie's early and Dad says he'll join us after he's gotten some sleep from working the night before. We'll get "dinner" (hillbilly for lunch) just about on the table and when Mom tries to call Dad to find out where he is, he either won't answer or he'll answer with slurred words that he's not coming. We'll later find out, after hateful words are exchanged, that he spent Christmas morning watching planes land and take off out on Airport Drive while sipping from a bottle of Seagram's 7 that he always keeps under the seat of the car. When I was little, I thought those bottles came with every new car because the very first time Dad took me out for a drive in his new Ford Fairmont he kept sipping from that bottle and it was in every car we ever had after that.

No matter what, I am going to make the best of it. I start to feel some of my old familiar sadness creep in, but I've seen how Christmas should be and I am not going to let anyone ruin it for me. I am going to wear my new blouse to my sister's and watch my toddling nephew Kyle open his many Santa presents. When my brother-in-law takes me to go pick Jason up for dinner, I will put on a smile and act like everything at my house is normal even if it's not, even if Dad doesn't show up.

As I get ready for bed, I can see the red light on top of the radio tower at the police station, the one I used to pretend was Rudolph's nose on Christmas Eve. Even long after I knew better, I loved to think that that was Santa on his way to give me a good Christmas. I am sixteen years old now and way past such things, but I close my eyes and hope that Santa will bring me a peaceful Christmas morning, one where I don't wonder where Dad is and whether or not he's drinking.

I drift off to sleep with Mousie under my arm (I will never outgrow him) and smile; even if things are a mess tomorrow, I have a second family now who have made this Christmas one I'll remember for good things, not bad. As long as I have Jason, and his crazy, wonderful family, I can see many happy Christmases to come.

1986

2010-12-15T15:00:00.001-05:00

Oh, my God! They got me a keyboard!

I knew that's what they were getting me so it wasn't like a surprise or anything but I am still jumping up and down because it's awesome. It has full-sized keys like a piano which is what I really would have liked but I know they're super expensive. It doesn't have as many octaves as a piano but it's much better than the little toy keyboard they got me for my birthday last year.

I was thinking this was going to be a really sad Christmas but so far it's one of the best ones yet. My Mamaw died last year the day after my birthday and this is the first Christmas I can remember where we're not going down home on Christmas day or the day after. We all miss her something awful, but Dad is sober and home for Christmas for the first time ever and I don't think it's possible to be any happier than I am right now.

We almost had Dad sober last year. For the last few years, ever since the spring I was in second grade, he's been in and out of the Care Unit getting dried out and going through the Twelve Steps only to fall off the wagon a few months later and start the process all over again. For some reason, even if he's sober right before Christmas, he always starts drinking again around the holidays. It's made for some really miserable Christmases.

Last year he was in the Care Unit, which is basically a hospital for alcoholics and drug addicts, on Christmas. He was allowed to be picked up and brought home for about 6 hours on Christmas day to eat supper with us and open his presents before we had to drive him back. He had just gotten out of detox, so his hands shook so badly it was hard for him to enjoy eating, and he was a weird, gray color that made me worry about him. That time it was really hard for him to get healthy again; his doctors thought they were going to have to put him in the real hospital because he had been drinking so much his throat and his liver and his kidneys and Lord knows what else were being damaged. We thought he might be scared straight that time.

But no. He started drinking again by summer and within a couple of months he was back in the hospital. I know he will probably drink again. He didn't stop for good when my mom left him, he didn't stop for good when he almost died in a car wreck, he didn't stop for good when he got so sick during detox that they called Mom and said they might have to move him to the ICU. I know in my heart he will probably never stop for good.

Today, though, things are great. He cooked a prime rib for us last night and watched me open my keyboard this morning and has been taking lots of pictures of me in my cool new red hat playing my keyboard. He's laughing and eating and I so wish this was the Dad we had at home all the time.

My sister and brother-in-law are coming over later and I can't believe our whole family is going to be together at Christmas. They are building a house and it should be finished this spring. Then they're going to start trying to have a baby. Someday I'm going to be an aunt and they've said they'll have us over every Christmas morning to their new house so we can watch the baby open presents.

I won't be the baby of the family anymore, but I'm okay with that. I'm growing up. I'm in 7th grade and I've had a couple of almost-boyfriends. I am teaching myself how to play keyboard by paying attention to my favorite teacher in my chorus class and with the help of an old piano book from way back when my sister was a little girl who took piano lessons. I can even play some things by ear. My family likes to hear me play and say if I keep up learning on my own they'll try to get enough money to pay for real piano lessons.

I feel almost like an adult today. I didn't get toys for Christmas (unless you count the keyboard as a toy, and I do not); I got clothes and cologne and a little birthstone ring. I've been through some rough times and I've learned to take care of myself. So it will be nice to have a baby in the family to buy toys for and to babysit and to rock to sleep. We need a kid in the family now that I'm all grown up. It's the only thing right now I think our family is missing.

Besides my Mamaw, of course.

It is sad that we won't be going down home today or tomorrow. When we lived in Barbourville for a year when my mom and dad were separated, I spent so much time with Mamaw. I never knew how much I loved her until I practically lived with her that year. She taught me how to crochet, how to roll out dumplins and cut them and put them in a pot of boiling broth, and how to laugh even when you're sad. I'm reading Gone With the Wind now and she's like Scarlett's mother was: a Great Lady. With the capital letters.

I miss her and I miss going down home, but it feels like things are changing. And not in a bad way. That part of my life, being sad and having to deal with my dad and all that on Christmas, seems like it's over. We're all together on Christmas day and it feels like how it's supposed to be in "normal" families. This time next year my sister will have a nice new house we can all fit into better than our house and who knows? She may have a little baby on the way.

"One more. Without that hat on."

Dad is in my doorway with uncle John's old Polaroid camera. He's been dead a few years now, but we think of him every time Dad gets that camera out to take pictures of everything important that happens in the family. I take off my new red hat (I've decided I look really cute in hats and I always want to have one to wear when I'm feeling fashionable) and hit an F chord on my new keyboard and smile up at the camera.

One...two...three. And breathe. It's the best Christmas yet.

1983

2010-12-13T14:35:00.001-05:00

"You mean, we're not even going to have a tree?"

"No, I'm sorry. I can't afford one. Your Mamaw has a tree. You can spend the night there Christmas Eve if you want."

"Why does it matter? I know there's no such thing as Santa now, anyway."

I sat pouting at the kitchen table in the tiny, 3-room apartment. I could barely stand to eat my dinner, even though it was one of my favorites and one of my mom's most simple creations: Campbell's chicken noodle soup with a can of cream of chicken mixed in. That soup always felt like a hug from the inside.

I stirred the soup and blew my too-long bangs out of my eyes and tried to keep Mom from seeing that I was almost going to cry. Pouting was one thing; crying, when Mom was having such a hard time, too, didn't seem fair.

Nothing about the current situation seemed fair. I had gotten exactly what I thought I wanted, and we had moved to Barbourville. I wanted to get away from my dad, away from the drinking and the yelling and the cruelty he could display on a good bender. But I was 9 and I didn't know how hard it was going to be to be on our own.

Mom found an apartment she could afford, owned by a family member who gave us a great deal, but it was in a run-down building and didn't even have its own bathroom. We hated sharing the one cramped little bathroom with two other families on the floor; I've never felt poorer in my entire life than when I had to wait in line with my neighbors to relieve myself and brush my teeth before bed.

The apartment was a five-minute walk away from my grandma's, and more often than not I put on my coat and walked to the trailer when nature called. That's also where my mom and I bathed; no way was Mom letting me spend any time in a bathtub that was cleaned solely on the honor system.

I was three hours away from my friends and my sister and new brother-in-law and missed them all so much it made my stomach hurt when I thought about it too much. I didn't fit in at my new school; all the kids in my class had known each other forever and didn't want to make friends with the skinny new girl who dressed and talked differently from them.

To top it all off, Mom had just told me the truth about Santa. It wasn't a surprise, but I so badly needed to believe in something that year, something bigger and more magical than a crummy apartment a long way away from the only place I'd ever known as home.

"Well, I'm sorry," Mom said, triple-checking the burner beneath the soup pot. The pilot light was always going out, and she had me scared to death that the apartment was going to fill with gas and blow us and the dirty bathroom next door to kingdom come. "I thought you knew Santa wasn't real. You're too old to believe in that, anyway, and I can't afford to play along. We're just going to have to make do. Now finish your soup. I have some ladies coming over to get their hair done."

Mom was working two part-time beautician jobs, one at a shop and one at the nursing home. Most nights, her family and friends would come to the apartment and have my mom do their hair in the kitchen, giving her a little extra money. She appreciated that, and the money did help. But it meant dinner was often rushed, and I would be shooed from the only spot in the apartment that was bright and cheerful. And I often went to sleep with the sweet smell of perm solution in my nose.

"If Santa isn't real," I asked, "how did I get that bike the year Dad was on strike? You all couldn't afford it."

"Your sister bought almost everything that year," she said. And for the first time since we moved, I thought my mom was going to cry. "Your uncle John bought a few things, but your sister bought the bike and used every bit of money she had saved to give you a good Christmas. Lord, I miss her this year."

And suddenly I missed her so much I thought my heart would break.

We became quiet. We both missed home. We both missed the simple joy of using our own bathroom and taking a bath whenever we wanted without trecking to a trailer five minutes down the road. We missed our Christmas tree and the lights the neighbor put up on his house and shopping and eating out and all the things we used to do at Christmas. We missed my sister, without whom we just didn't feel like a family. Dad had made last Christmas miserable for us (my bedtime story on Christmas Eve was a horrifying tale about an abortion he allegedly witnessed in Vietnam), and Mom didn't want us to have to go through that again. But at that moment, we would have gone back to our house in Erlanger and put up with the drinking, the verbal abuse, whatever just to not be in this sad little tree-less apartment three hours away from all we held dear.

There was a knock on the door. It was one of Mom's cousins, right on time for her shampoo-and-set. But she didn't come alone.

"Here," she said, shoving a big paper shopping bag into my hands. "Randy's coming with the rest of it."

"The rest of what?"

"Oh, just an old tree and some decorations I found. It's small enough to fit on the end table, I think."

Another knock, and my cousin Randy came in with a box holding a perfect little table-top tree. Before we could protest, he started setting it up while Mom's cousin tested lights.

Then another knock on the door. One of Mom's friends came with an extension cord and candy canes. A few minutes later, another knock, and yet another friend with a box full of presents.

"You have to have something to put under the tree," she said, and winked at me.

Over the course of the next hour, Mom's usual clientele of family and friends paraded in bearing beautifully wrapped presents, food, and decorations. We set out the food, decorated the tree and the walls of the little apartment, and laughed together. Someone even brought us a tape player and some Christmas music.

Some of the people who brought presents wanted us to open them right then and there, so for me that little surprise Christmas party was my Christmas morning. Santa DID come that year, and he brought me my very own diary with a lock and key, a set of paper dolls with magnetc clothing that stuck to them like magic, a plastic candy cane full of M & Ms, and Judy Blume's Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. He brought my mom clothes, cologne, and envelopes of cash ("tips", her friends and family told her) that she tried in vain to get people to take back because she felt it was too much, but that people threatened to hide in my pockets if she didn't take it. Santa brought a tree, and decorations, and food and friends and laughter. He brought Christmas to us when we couldn't bring it to ourselves.

The next summer we would leave Barbourville and come back home to the house, the family, and the friends we left. We were happy to go home.

But we would never, ever have a Christmas quite like the Barbourville Christmas again. A Christmas where we saw just how good people can be to each other. A Christmas where we quite literally "didn't have a pot to piss in" (my mom's favorite little colloquialism for poverty) but for one night were as rich as kings because of all the love people showed us.

The year that I found out for sure that there was no such thing as Santa was the same year that I found out there's a little Santa in everyone who goes out of their way to make Christmas for others.

Wassail

2010-12-06T15:10:00.000-05:00

Okay, a short break from the memoir stuff. I had a great experience over the weekend and I just have to write about it. It was That. Awesome.

From 7th grade through my senior year in high school, Christmas had a soundtrack.

The holidays began each year when my chorus teacher passed out old paperback books of traditional Christmas carols and had us brush the dust off of the harmonies so we could go caroling. I had the same teacher every year, and sang with the same core group of fellow students. Every December, we gave a string of performances in venues large and small; there was the big concert in the band room for all our parents and teachers and friends, but then there were the elementary schools, the mall, sometimes a nursing home.

Once I got into chamber choir my junior year, the smaller, elite group consisting of people who were flat-out good singers (plus me, who just worked hard and had a good attitude despite a mediocre voice), we went to even more caroling gigs. Sometimes paying gigs, even, which our teacher used to line the chorus budget coffers so we could have something resembling a set for our annual musical. We sang at the local convention center, we sang at the department store formerly known as Lazarus, we even were featured performers once at a hoity-toity dinner at a country club.

The applause never got old. But more fulfilling than the applause were the quieter moments when you knew your singing had made someone's day a little brighter or touched a listener in a way that didn't inspire clapping. At one caroling outing to a nursing home, a lady got up from her seat while we were singing and came up to my friend Michelle and grabbed her hand. This lady had dementia, and she thought Michelle was her daughter. She just wanted to hear her sing. Michelle kept it together and just let her stand there holding her hand and smiled later when the lady said, "Thank you, Katie. That was beautiful." Then she lost it in the parking lot, as anyone with a heart would.

The annual caroling ended when I graduated. Oh, my college choir tried to get it together once and sent a small group to the hospital and to the nursing home, but it wasn't the same. Since we went my senior year during finals week, our director couldn't make it a requirement and it was entirely on a volunteer basis; not many volunteered. The ones that did show started looking at their watches while we were still at our first stop and acted as though it was a chore rather than a joy. The magic I'd had with my high-school chamber choir was gone, and I remember going back to my dorm and having a good cry because I knew something had just officially ended. A time in my life where the very seasons were dictated to me by the pieces of music in a black folder in a choir room was over.

I don't think it's a coincidence that my shaky relationship with the Christmas season started roughly around the time I said goodbye to those paper-bound books of carols. All those years I took for granted the pleasure of putting a jaunty red scarf around my neck and belting out an alto part in front of a group of shoppers, or children, or the elderly, all of whom needed to hear us as badly as we needed to be heard. Music can be healing for the body and the soul, both for the singer and the listener.

Last night some of that long-missing magic came back in to my life.

Thank God for Facebook. Really. It allowed my former chorus teacher's daughter, herself a chamber choir alum, to organize a group to relive the good old days and go out and carol. Three of us, Jason included, showed up from my graduating class. We were the oldest, and we had never sung with the others that showed who were from later classes. It didn't matter. We were all there because we missed the tradition and wanted to once again sing in harmony for people who needed some cheer.

I didn't think it would come back so easily. My voice is not what it once was, and it was never great to begin with. But it knew the way on "The First Noel" and "Silent Night" and "Joy to the World." There were 13 of us, and everyone there knew their way around a Christmas carol. When we warmed up with a lush arrangement of "Away in a Manger" we all used to love because it's not the shrill melody we all sang as kids, the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. That used to happen all the time when we sang particularly well, and I didn't realize how much I'd missed that sensation.

I also didn't realize how much I miss applause. I blushed the first time a group of shoppers at the Borders coffee shop clapped; I'm 36, and I haven't sung in front of people since I was 22, and it almost felt wrong.

"Where are you from?" someone asked. "You all sound beautiful."

"These are alumni," said our teacher. "I'm retired, and some of these guys have been out of school for 20 years, but we wanted to get together and sing today."

"You mean, you're not part of a regular group?" she asked. "You sound so good! I thought you must be a church choir or a community group or something."

"No, we're just doing this today for fun. It shows you what kind of kids these were."

"Shows you what kind of teacher we had," one of us said.

Our last stop was at a truck stop where one of our alums works as a mechanic. He told us the truckers could certainly use some cheer; it's hard being on the road this time of year. The restaurant area didn't have much room, so we all stood in a circle. We could all see our teacher for the first time as he had mostly been staying in the back row being a bass. He was still our director, though; throughout the day he had called the altos out for not singing out enough, and let someone know when they had jumped from one bass to tenor. Some things never change.

On that gorgeous version of "Away In a Manger", we watched him and got all of his signals and my oh my, we killed that thing. We smiled after the last chord.

"We actually did some phrasing there. Nice job. And by the way," he leaned in to us. "When we sang 'Silent Night', I think you got to some of the drivers. I could hear what they were saying and see the looks on their faces. You touched them. That for me is what this is all about."

No encore was necessary. We hugged, and passed back our borrowed copies of those little paperback carol books, and said our goodbyes as we stepped out into the starlight and the leftover snow from our first snowfall of the year the night before.

And suddenly, just like that...it was Christmas.

1981

2010-12-02T14:00:00.000-05:00

This is the second in my Ghosts of Christmases Past series. Go back a few entries to learn more if you're just joining us.

Cold, bright sunlight comes in through my window and wakes me up. I slept late today. I think we all did. Dad tells me that me and Mom sleep too much and we're sleeping our lives away, but I don't feel like getting out of bed today even if it is Christmas.

I don't know if Santa was able to bring me anything this year. We watch the news every night and those boring news shows on Sundays and I hear a lot about how a bunch of people are out of work this year and I heard one man say that even Santa had to tighten his belt.

My dad has been out of work for a while and I know we're not doing real good. He's in a union and it's been on strike for a while. The strike is supposed to end soon and I hope it does because everything is weird when Dad doesn't work. I get free lunches at school which is neat, but there's some other stuff going on that's not neat.

I got to open one gift last night like I always do on Christmas Eve and I picked the one from my uncle John because his are always the best. This year the box didn't have a fun toy or game or radio in it. It had a pair of bright red overalls and a white shirt and some socks. When I started to ask where the toy was Mom asked to talk to me in the kitchen and told me that she wanted everyone to get me clothes this year because I am outgrowing everything. It made me a little sad, but I do really like the overalls so I tried not to make a big deal about it.

I get up and go to the kitchen first because I can't stand to look under the tree yet. I think I'm the only one awake because things are so quiet and it was such a bad night last night but John is in there. He made some coffee and is drinking some from Dad's U.A.W. mug. He looks tired and I notice how much older he is than my mom and dad.

"What did Santa bring you?"

"I haven't looked yet."

"You haven't looked yet? Why not?"

I shrug. "There might not be anything in there."

John smiles. "I bet there is. I think I heard Santa bringing something big in. Go see what it is."

I go into the living room and see my bicycle. It's not one of the ones with a long seat and tall handlebars with streamers and a basket like my friends have, but it's a nice bike that doesn't have training wheels. It's blue and shiny and all my own. It looks like Santa tried to fit it in a stocking because one of the stockings Mom let me hang on a nail in the living room is on a handlebar. I laugh and run to see if it fits me.

Everyone is awake now. My sister walks in rubbing her eyes. She has a new boyfriend and she went to his family's Christmas Eve party last night and came home after most of the bad stuff happened. She says she loves my new bike. Mom is next and she stands and admires my new bike for a few minutes before she goes in and starts the biscuits and gravy she knows we all love for breakfast.

While everyone is looking at the bike and looking under the tree for their own presents, I sneak over to the other stocking I hung up. I am very curious about something. Some of the kids at school have been telling everyone that Santa isn't real and that it's really your parents that put the presents under the tree. I don't believe them, but I had an idea.

Last night I put an extra candy cane I got from school and one of the oranges we always keep around at Christmas into a stocking. Mom told me once that when she was a little girl in the mining camp, Santa always left her an orange and a piece of candy in her stocking and it was a special treat because they didn't get things like that every day. Ever since then I've wanted Santa to leave me an orange and a candy cane in my stocking even though I can get those things at home. Just in case Santa isn't real, and just in case I didn't find anything under the tree this year, I wanted to pretend Santa is real and that he brought me the same things he brought my mom.

I reach in the stocking and I almost hope they're gone. If they're gone, Santa took them and that means he is real. He put the other stocking on my bike but I really hope he left me something else or took my fruit and candy and left me a note instead.

They're still there. Mom comes in and sees me pull them out.

"Did Santa bring you something in your stocking?"

There's a funny look on her face. She really looks surprised. I feel my heart jump a little.

"No," I say. "I left these for him. He didn't take them so I guess he wasn't hungry."

"Huh. He probably was in a hurry putting your bike together and forgot to look."

Maybe. I don't know what to believe because I don't really think my mom and dad could have bought that bike and I also don't think they could have put it together last night.

Last night started out good. Mom opened a bottle of the red champagne she likes and the adults had some and told old stories and laughed and I watched some Christmas shows on TV. But then Dad moved on to some wine that John bought and then he had some beer. Mom said something about him being "three sheets to the wind." I don't really understand what that means but it makes me think of sheets of the filler paper I have to use at school and how if they were in the wind they'd just blow around all over the place, and that seems about right.

Dad wanted to go out and buy more beer but Mom didn't want him out driving so they had a fight. John tried to get Dad to stay at home, too, but he left anyway. He was gone a really long time and I wasn't sure if he was coming back. And I felt bad because a part of me didn't want him to come back because sometimes things are better when he's gone.

He's up next and we're all quiet when he comes in. But he smiles, and he inspects my bike and says it looks like a good one, and he goes in to have coffee. He and Mom don't talk but I know things will get better because they always do, at least when Dad isn't drinking.

There are other presents under the tree. More clothes for me and the Fashion Plates toy from my sister, which makes me squeal because next to a new bike it was the thing I wanted the most for Christmas.

Soon me, Mom, and my sissy will be going down home for a few days like we always do on Christmas night. Dad never comes with us when we go to visit my Mamaw and I start to feel guilty again because I want to be away from him and from home for a little while. He's a lot of fun this morning and he helps me tighten everything on my new bike. But his mornings are way different than his nights.

For right now things are okay. We eat breakfast and I am allowed to ride my bike for a few minutes in the family room while Dad takes pictures on John's Polaroid. I put on my new red overalls and while turtleneck and when I want to wear the blue socks instead of the red ones I'm allowed even though I know it doesn't match. I pack my Fashion Plates and as always Mousie and get ready to make the long drive to my Mamaw's.

I know I'll sleep in the car on the way down and I know I'll hear my mom and sister talking about things quietly when they think I'm asleep. Things they think I'm too young to understand. Things like Mom leaving Dad and finding a new place to live. They think it would make me sad, but it's really what I want more than anything in the world, more than a new bike or Fashion Plates.

I'm still kind of a little kid, but I know a lot. I know that my sister has a good new job and a new boyfriend we all like and soon she will leave and have a home of her own. I know that my mom doesn't make very much money and with Dad not working we're going to have a really hard time this winter. And I know if Dad keeps drinking too much something really bad is going to happen though I don't know what.

We pull out of the driveway and John stands in the doorway and waves and looks as sad on the outside as I feel on the inside. The clouds look like mashed potatoes in the sky and the sun feels warm on my face even though it's so cold outside. I start to feel better as the car heads south where I know my Mamaw's waiting for us with a turkey and dumplings. I tell myself it will all get better.

It always does.

1979

2010-11-30T12:00:00.005-05:00

This is the first in a little series of mini-memoirs I am writing this Christmas about some of the memorable Christmases in my life. Some will be nostalgic, some joyful, some sad. But hey, that's Christmas. I will be experimenting with how I write and what point of view I take and fictionalizing some details that I can't remember. Feel free to skip this little writer's workshop thing I'm doing and join me back for regularly scheduled navel-gazing in January if you like. For the rest of you, here we go.

I love Christmas Eve. Mom, Dad, and Uncle John are drinking fizzy red stuff and when they let me and my sissy have a sip it makes my tummy feel all warm and my face all glowy. I get giggly after just one sip because that's how people do it on the TV and it makes everyone laugh.

I got to open exactly one present tonight and I chose the one from my uncle John because he always buys me the best presents, sometimes even better than Santa Claus. He's my dad's uncle and he flies in to visit us every year on a big TWA airplane. Sometimes I get to go with my dad to pick him up from the airport and I get to see the airplane and the big arm that goes to the airplane door that people walk through. I love that part.

I think my uncle might be rich because he always buys presents for my family even when it's not Christmas, but Mom says he's not rich, he just doesn't have family of his own besides us. Mom says he was like a Dad to my dad when he was a little boy, and so he's kind of like a Papaw to me.

This year John got me a stuffed mouse with a radio inside it so I can snuggle with it and listen to the radio all at the same time. I already love her and I'm naming her Mouse-a-fee Mouseriddle and Dad found a station on her that will play Christmas songs all night while I'm sleeping. Someday I am going to have her marry my favorite stuffed animal, Mousie, and they can be a mommy and daddy to my sister's hamster, Macy.

I am getting sleepy now but I don't want to sleep yet because I can see Rudolph's nose. My sissy says it's just the radio tower at the police station, and she says it's there every night, but I know that tonight it's really Rudolph's red nose and Santa is on the way to my house. My sissy is a lot older than me and she thinks she knows everything but she doesn't. It bothers me sometimes but she's my favorite person in the whole wide world so I can't stay mad at her even when I try to. She lets me hold Macy sometimes and we look at her poster of Kyle Macy the basketball player and talk about how she's going to marry him someday.

I do hope that red light is Santa's sled because if Santa thinks I was good enough this year, he's going to bring me a doll house. I hope I've been good enough. Sometimes I get in trouble for not listening but my mom and my teacher tell me I am a good kid and I try my hardest to be good. I hope so because I love my new mouse radio but I know I'll love a doll house, too.

It's quiet now and Dad picks me and Mouse-a-fee up and carries us to bed. I can smell the red fizzy stuff and cigarettes but I don't mind. I can hear my most favorite Christmas song, "Silent Night", and from my bed I can still see Rudolph's nose through the window. The covers are warm and soft and so is my mom when she leans over me to tell me goodnight. I close my eyes and hear the TV in the living room and Macy running on his wheel and know that when morning comes, Christmas will be here.

And hopefully my new doll house will be, too.

12 Days of Christmas

2010-11-29T07:00:00.000-05:00

I really wish I liked Christmas.

Like the Barenaked Ladies sing about salmon on their awesome children's album, I've tried it. I want to like it. But it's simply a taste thing.

I've been thinking a lot the past couple of weeks about how tough Christmas is for me and trying to pinpoint the exact moment in my life when all the childish joy I used to feel at the holidays just went flying out the window. Here's the thing: I can't just pinpoint one single moment. Christmas in the Cranky house has frequently been marked by tumoil and strife and battles over who's bringing the ham.

So I am doing something a little different with the blog over the next few weeks. It's going to be part therapy, part writing workshop. See, I've been feeling a little bored with myself lately. I haven't had too many blog-worthy events here lately. But I've been thinking more and more that I want to start writing something real. I've always said I wanted to write a book based on my life, my childhood in particular. I haven't been completely honest about my adolescence here; I've covered up a lot of the warts to protect the innocent and the guilty. But maybe it's time to get going on that book I've always wanted to write, which I've always envisioned could help kids like I was. Tell them they're not alone, and that plenty of people out there deal with dysfunction and come out mostly okay.

Mostly okay, just maybe not big fans of family-oriented holidays.

So I am going to write about some different Christmases I had as a kid (and some as an adult.) I am going to experiment a bit with point of view and such, and because I am writing about things that happened so many years ago, there will be some fictionalization as I fill in gaps in my memory. (Just thought I'd throw that out up front so I don't get accused of James Frey-like shenanigans.)

You can stick around, or not. No hard feelings. You may not at all be interested in my own navel-gazing. I just feel the need to shake things up a little and maybe get a feel for where I may want to go with an honest-to-goodness writing effort someday.

And maybe work through my ghosts of Christmases past.

A Foundation of Poo

2010-11-24T12:00:00.000-05:00

A plumber recently gave my house a colonoscopy, and it failed. Miserably.

We knew the bad smell creeping up from our laundry-room floor drain probably had a sinister origin, but like a person with mild and non-specific symptoms of general unwellness, we put off getting a diagnosis because we kinda didn't want to know what was going on down south. It's amazing how long you can tell yourself, "I'm sure it's nothing." But the day eventually comes when you can ignore your poo problems no longer.

Whether it's from shoddy workmanship when our house was built in the 80s, or whether it's just where our house has settled oddly, our main drainage pipe doesn't angle down to let gravity do its job properly. There's an 8-foot section where it's mostly straight when it should be mostly pitched.

"Uh oh." This is not good to hear when a plumber is watching a camera snake down through your pipes.

I could see the image on the screen, too. "What? What do you see?"

"Well," he said, as he lifted the camera up a little. "Right now we're above water, but right now," and he put the camera back down into the pipe a little further and things got really blurry, "we're in some standing water. You shouldn't have standing water in your pipes. Water should move."

He guided the camera further and there got to be a point where I could see a dip down in the pipes and the water started to move faster. That was the good news; the straight pipe started sloping eventually. The problem is limited to a section of pipe in our laundry room under the concrete slab.

"This is not great to hear, I know," he said, taking off a pair of protective gloves just like a doctor would have. "But it could have been so much worse. I could be telling you we have to dig under a wall, or tear up your driveway or front porch."

Yes. In much the same way that hearing, "Well, it is a blockage, but hey, at least it's not cancer!" should just thrill you as you're being IV ed up for major colon surgery.

As with anything pertaining to poo, it's best to have a sense of humor. I hope I get one soon. It's hard to find anything funny about being out a lot of money and having the laundry room floor jackhammered and losing access to my washer and dryer for a week while the new concrete cures, but I am trying really, really hard to grin and bear it.

Until I find my own humor about this situation, I'll borrow some from Scrubs: "Everything Comes Down to Poo."

Thankful, 2010

2010-11-23T15:00:00.000-05:00

I've done one of these every year, so bear with me as I do another. I would not be able to eat my turkey, dumplings, and pumpkin pie if I didn't take a moment to be grateful. Feel free to throw in your own personal grace in the comments below. It will make your dinner taste better. Honest.

I'm thankful...

1. ...for my family. Of course.
I may not be the most patient mother and wife (okay, I'm KNOW I'm not the most patient mother and wife) but I love my kid and my husband so much it hurts sometimes. I am blessed to have a kid who's 8-going-on-18, a kid who is equal parts serious/studious/scary-mature and goofy/silly/playful. I am also blessed to have a husband who kills big spiders (or at least tries to) and who works so hard for us. Plus, they're both terribly, terribly cute.

2. ...that my mom has a man in her life who adores her and takes her out dancing on Saturday nights and who in general helps to heal the loneliness she's been forced to live with since my dad died.

3. ...for my eyes, which can see tolerably well without thick glasses or uncomfortable contacts after Lasik.
My right eye could still see more clearly, but now that things are healing, I'm quite happy that I didn't chicken out like I was certain I would do.

4. ...that someone at my school district thought I was deserving of an iPad.

5. ...for another cancer-free year. Writing that will never, ever get old.

6. ...for my new favorite blog, Hyperbole and a Half. Allie's writing and drawings have gotten me through more than one rough day at work. (If you're not familiar with that site, this entry is a great one to start with.)

Incidentally, this may be my last "regular" blog post for a while. I'm toying with trying something new for the holidays. Something that may launch me into getting serious about doing some "real" writing that I might try to get published some day. Stay tuned, and have a great Thanksgiving.

If I Give You Some Money, Will You Please Stop Airing Those Commercials?

2010-11-22T12:30:00.001-05:00

I've been sick, and when I get sick, I get weepy.

When I get run-down and under the influence of antibiotics and codeine-laced cough syrup, all it takes is a sad look from Ainsley, or a harsh word from a co-worker, or even just a particularly melancholy view from my bedroom window to set me off.

Saturday, all it took was a commercial.

I've grown immune to the Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials. They're brutal, and that damn song gets me every time, but I've seen the same sad dogs and cats enough to not dissolve when I see it.

The Humane Society's commercial, though, caught me completely off guard. I wasn't even really watching it; I was trying to squeeze in a workout during Ainsley's swim practice, even though I felt like finding a quiet corner and crashing. I was feeling better, but still sleep-deprived from too many nights being woken up by my own coughing fits. I was half-heartedly doing whatever simulated human activity you're supposed to do on an elliptical when the commercial came on to the big-screen TV right in front of me. I had my remote tuner thingy tuned to a completely different channel, but it didn't matter; the darn commercial had titles playing over the various photos and videos, and I couldn't look away.

Images of dogs and cats flashed on the screen along with titles telling us the horrors that have befallen that particular animal. The lucky ones had "only" been abandoned. I have no idea what song was playing in the background since I wasn't listening; I can imagine it was something musically engineered to make animal lovers cry.

Before I knew it I was on the verge of ugly-crying right there in front of a couple dozen strangers. I was able to hold back audible sobs, but I did have to pretend that my eyes were sweating from my strenuous walking/jogging/hiking/whatever-the-heck-it-is-you're-doing-on-an-elliptical.

So, Humane Society of the United States--if I give you some money, will you please stop showing commercials like this?

Sent From My iPad

2010-11-15T15:00:00.001-05:00

I've long rolled my almost-exclusively-PC eyes at the smugness of Apple commercials.

It stared with the early iPod commercials that featured U2 singing "Vertigo" while cool shades of blue, green, and orange flashed against silhouettes of various hip, trendy, and beautiful people dancing with their iPods. I rolled my eyes, then got Jason one for Christmas, then asked for a Nano for my birthday two months later. Now I find my "ancient" iPod a necessity for life.

Then I rolled my eyes at the Mac commercials where a PC was symbolized by a very stodgy-looking, decidedly uncool guy in a plain brown suit (played by the very-cool-in-real-life John Hodgman) and Macs were symbolized by hipster Justin Long. I already know I'm not cool, I thought. Like I'm going to switch from PC to Mac just because this commercial is telling me the PCs I've been using for years are soooo 5 minutes ago. And then Jason's Dell laptop died, and he chose a MacBook citing "more stability" and "better performance". Pshaw. He looked so smug sitting there behind the glowing Apple logo. I started playing around with it and realized that I, too, will probably go that route when my own Dell dies (or I throw it out the window, whichever come first.)

More recently it's been iPhones and iPads that Apple is telling me will make me one of the cool kids. I've got a Kindle to read on, and a perfectly fine phone that makes and receives calls and texts in a perfectly satisfactory manner, I thought. I don't need no stinking iPhone or iPad. And I rolled my eyes at the smug snobbery (smobbery?) of those commercials.

Until several of us at work were given iPads to use. And I am here to tell you I kinda think it's the coolest thing ever. There. I'm smug.

I knew my principal had gotten one when I got an email from her that said at the bottom: Sent from my iPad.

Well, I thought. Aren't WE all with-it and cutting-edge.

The next day I heard that I, too, was among a select few in our building to try being with-it and cutting-edge on for size. Funny how sometimes you can turn your nose up at something you'd have to buy, but when you're given it for free, it's suddenly the best day of your life.

The first thing I did after the thing landed on my desk? Visit the App Store. This is huge, because just hearing "There's an app for that" on the commercials used to make me convulse with smug-overload.

"Oooh, look at me!" I would say loudly to whoever was in the living room. "I'm so cool I don't even have to say the entire word applications. I can just say 'app' because that how we smugly cool Gen-Y pretty people ROLL!"

But the App Store is so full of wonder and delight that I no longer care. There's a paranormal activity detector on there, people! That lets the ghosts in your home actually talk to you! Plus Angry Birds. Let us not forget the Angry Birds.

Of course, I've been spending most of my time on it exploring ways it can make life easier for teachers and/or enhance learning for our students, since I am sure that was the whole point of giving me one. I am staying better connected with work since it lets me check work email from wherever with just the touch of a button. That may not be a good thing. But I also have it connected to my home email account, which I was terrible about checking because it required me to fire up my dinosaur Dell at home and wait, like, 5 whole minutes for everything to load.

Writing that makes me sound like a spoiled technology brat but I don't even care.

Since I got my iPad, Jason and Ainsley have also used it to find constellations and various other fun things to look at in the night sky. I used it to play some tunes on Pandora radio while I got ready to go out on Saturday night, and we all watched a few videos about the new Harry Potter movie.

So, yeah, I love my new gadget despite myself.

And yes, this was sent from my iPad.

The Eyes Have It

2010-11-12T07:30:00.001-05:00

Back when I was in 6th grade, I had an epiphany. I'd realized that I couldn't see my science teacher's chalk-written notes on the space program on the board unless I was sitting at one of the front tables, so I asked to borrow a friend's glasses, slipped them on, and sat back at my usual seat towards the back of the room. The haze of white I had been seeing against the green slate suddenly formed into letters and words that illustrated the old simile "clear as a bell." I could almost hear a chime go off in my brain as my vision cleared; dear Lord, I needed glasses.

Unfortunately, I didn't get those glasses until almost a year later (my mom was convinced I just wanted big, plastic, pink-framed glasses like so many of my friends at school had). When the optician slipped that first pair on my face, I saw everything I had been missing in the couple of years it had taken to realize my once-perfect eyes had gone myopic: trees were made up of individual leaves and were not, in fact, green blobs; who knew?

Countless times since then, I've had similar epiphanies as my prescription changed, or as I found myself with new glasses or contacts. You don't realize how bad you've been seeing until all of a sudden the blinders are lifted and you go, Oh, my God! so THAT's what that sign says.

So then I had Lasik on October 29.

Before I get into the ins and outs of it, let me tell you that I am seeing 20/20. In fact, I kinda feel like my left eye is bionic. I am seeing better through that eye than I have through any pair of glasses or contacts I've ever had. But I am a perfectionist, so my right eye not being quite so perfect (though allegedly still seeing close to 20/20 one week after) has made me wonder whether I did the right thing.

The procedure itself was as strangely frightening as I dreamed it would be.

You've given these people a lot of money for the pleasure of burning away part of your eyeball, so they treat you like a queen and act like your biggest fans while you're there. Everyone is just so darned happy that they are going to change your life that the prep room feels like a big party. The only thing missing are the drugs.

I stil can't believe all they give you at the office I went to is Tylenol PM. When you're having your eyes lasered I think you should at least score a run-of-the-mill Valium, you know?

I honestly don't remember all the details about the surgery because I was kinda sorta freaking out. I know someone put numbing drops in my eyes, and I know that that someone may not have given me time for those to work because I felt a little honest-to-goodness pain when the cutting laser made the flap in my right eye. This was after a big suction cup thingie was placed on my right eyeball with what the doctor told me was "a little feeling of pressure." And it was just a little feeling of pressure, in the way that Pine Mountain is a little mountain. Pressure on your eye is pressure on your eye, whether it's a little or a lot.

They made the flap in the left eye after that, and then they lasered the right eye. Because I probably am OCD, I became obsessed with whether or not I was really and truly fixating on the flashing light I was supposed to be looking at. My cheerleading squad, consisting of a nurse and the optician, kept counting down the seconds left and hollering out, "You're doing great!" But that flashing light seemed to not ever stay in the middle of my field of vision, and once or twice the doctor reminded me to keep still. Just like I kept asking my chemo nurse during my first treament if she had remembered to give me the anti-nausea meds because I was loopy with Ativan, I kept asking the surgeon and nurse at Lasik if I had kept my eye fixated because I was loopy with fear and a pre-existing anxiety disorder.

"Did my eye stay still enough? Because it felt like it was moving, and you kept telling me to stay still, but, you know, I was trying like, REALLY hard but I still didn't feel like I kept my eye still..."

"If you had moved your eye too much, we would have stopped. The laser follows your eye movements," said the nurse.

"Well, if you're sure, but, you know, it just seemed like my eye moved and wasn't in line with the thingie except for that one time the doctor reminded me to look in the center of the light...did it move?"

They kept acting all happy, because they had a lot of my money, but I know they were wishing they had given me drugs. Just an FYI here: I'm really annoying in medical situations. If I ever ask you to accompany me to a procedure, come up with a really good reason not to.

The next eye was uneventful and I had no problem looking right at the center of the flashing light. I knew I was going to have extraordinary vision out of that eye as soon as they smoothed the flap down; I could see intricate detail in the little machine above my head that was making the flashing light. It was...beautiful.

They had me sit up slowly. They had told me earlier that they could tell I was nervous and that I should just relax, and I saw actual fear on their faces when I didn't sit up immediately. They thought they had a fainter on their hands. For a minute there, I thought they might be right.

I sat up to the edge of the table and looked around. They warned me my vision would be like I was looking underwater, and it was exactly like that. Except for one thing...

"Can you tell me what time it is?" the doctor asked.

A regular analog clock was on the wall several feet away. For the first time since I was probably ten years old, I could see the time without squnting or looking through some kind of corrective lenses.

"It's...10:32."

Wow.

The first few hours after the surgery is not comfortable; the numbing doesn't last, and your eyes know they've had surgery and act accordingly. So I slept, and when I woke up, I could see the numbers on our alarm clocks, I could see what channel the TV was on, and I could see that trees do have individual leaves, all without the help of glasses.

Which is, in a word, awesome.

Since then I've struggled some with some glare, even in my Spiderman-like left eye. And my eyes almost always feel dry, like I need to take my contacts out. But I am mostly happy. I am a worrier, though, and I worry that the ghosting/double vision/starbust crap I have going on in my right eye won't lessen up. The visual acuity in that eye has gotten better in the 10 days or so since the surgery, but I see a litte second ghostly image of most things directly under the primary image. It isn't awful, but I don't want to see it the rest of my life, either. With reading and writing, it's not bad. It's things like far-away lights and even the crescent moon that I am just seeing one too many of.

I made the mistake of Googling some of these things and I'm convinced I have a variety of permanent complications. So I am banning myself from online Lasik-related searches until my next follow-up.

Maybe perfectionist, OCD-type people shouldn't have Lasik.

But then I get up in the morning and I can clearly see my alarm clock, I can tell which is the shampoo and which is the conditioner in the shower without holding the bottles 2 inches from my nose, and even from the dining-room table I can make out the scores for UK basketball games (so long as I don't just try to see these scores with my right eye.) So I should be (and most of the time am) really happy that I don't have to fool with contacts or glasses.

I just wish, as I so often do about so many other things, that it had ended up perfect.

I'll Be Seeing You (In All the New, Familiar Places)

2010-10-28T17:00:00.001-04:00

This time tomorrow, I will either be able to throw away my glasses and contacts forever, or I'll be having a seeing eye dog help me to the bathroom.

Yep. I gave in, as I so often do, to peer pressure. Following the lead of several friends, co-workers, and my spouse, I am getting Lasik. Years ago, in the middle of the great Eye Allergy Catastrophe of 2006, my opthamologist tried to get me to see the light in regards to elective eye surgery.

"You may never be able to wear your contacts again," she said, after discovering that I actually had a rash on the inside of my eyelids. "But you could always get Lasik, so long as you don't get it while your eyes are actively inflamed from your allergies."

I laughed and told her there was no way I was going to let someone cut into my eyeballs, even with the help of a what I was assured was amazing technological advances, and that if I couldn't ever wear contacts I would just get along with some spiffy glasses.

That was then, and this is now.

I am possibly not as nervous as I should be. I know a lot can go wrong. I know people have complications. But I feel ready for this. Maybe not the laser-cutting-into-my-cornea-while-a-suction-cup-holds-my-eye-still part, but definitely the life-without-thick-glasses part.

So, wish me luck. I keep thinking that the procedure can't be as bad as some of the other stuff I've had done to my body while I've been wide awake in a medical facility; bone marrow biopsy, breast MRI when they didn't have me postioned correctly and I was face-down into a pillow in a narrow tube for 40 minutes, needle biopsy. But these are my eyes, the only set I'll ever have, and I may be singing a different tube once I start smelling burning organic matter tomorrow morning while the laser does its thing.

I will be taking some time off from writing to let my eyes heal. I'll see you all later...hopefully.

Over The Hill

2010-10-26T15:00:00.001-04:00

I could see nothing but the sky above me as my body was carried higher and higher. My heart was pounding in my chest; I could hear the roar of my own blood in my ears. I was in mortal peril. How, oh how had it come to this? Would this be how it all ended, with me stuck inside a car about to free fall off of a mountain?

"At what point are we too old for roller coasters?" my friend asked.

"I'd say about right now," I answered. We had waited in line for an hour for the privilege of feeling our own impending doom. Why had this seemed like a good idea?

And so went my ride on the Diamondback, the newest, tallest, biggest, baddest coaster in my former childhood haunt, Kings Island amusement park. We survived, and I can honestly tell you it's the best ride I've ever ridden. But I can also honestly tell you that, if I could have chickened out about halfway up the first hill, I totally would have.

It wasn't always this way. For several glorious years in adolescence, my family purchased season passes to Kings Island, which is less than an hour from my hometown. When you can go to a big amusement park any time the family gets bored on weekends or for a few hours on lazy weeknights after work, even the big rides lose some of their thrill. I became a kid who would try any ride at least once and not feel so much as a flicker of nervous butterflies. The only time I can remember being certain I was going to die on a ride was the time a girlfriend and I rode the Beast (still the world's longest wooden coaster) right after a downpour; we knew the ride had felt out-of-control, and when we pulled into an empty station, one of the ride workers congratulated us on being the last ride of the day and informed us the train had jumped the tracks on more than one occasion during our ride.

Now that was thrilling.

I grew up, and so did the park. I haven't been since before Ainsley was born. Fighting oppressive river valley heat and long lines hasn't appealed to me in a long time. But we knew someday it would be time to introduce Ainsley to some rides a little bigger than the festival tilt-a-whirl and the flying Dumbos at Disney World.

That day was Saturday when we found ourselves invited to a company picnic during the park's fall festival. The centerpiece of the park now is a huge new metal coaster that you can ogle from anywhere inside the grounds. It's a far cry from the coasters I grew up with.

And I may never have ridden it. We got Ainsley on a few "starter coasters" within the first hour we got there, and I learned that I have acquired a vivid and morbid imagination. I can see all the ways a thrill ride could go wrong; aging, possibly rotting wood supports, lax safety inspections, a loose screw here, a sagging bolt there. I couldn't enjoy my old favorite Racers. I was too concerned that the three of us would succumb to the laws of motion and gravity and find ourselves careening off the side of the first turn.

Ainsley herself had been overjoyed at first that she met the height requirements for every single thrill ride there. But after coming out of her seat on a couple of smaller coasters, she made an astute comment about the new Diamondback, that monster that dominates the landscape:

"I'm just not ready for that thing yet."

Concur.

But then we were joined by a couple of friends, and a seed was planted.

"You know, I think the ladies should go ride the Diamondback," someone said.

The other lady in the group shrugged and looked my way. Ah, peer pressure.

"Umm...sure?"

We were joined in line by a couple old enough to be our parents and kids as young as Ainsley. It's hard to chicken out under those circumstances. Though we both discussed it.

"We could get out of line now and tell them we rode it and they'd never know."

But we would know. And so would the AARP-subscribing couple behind us.

The ride itself is a blur. I know my scream got stuck in my throat on that first hill; I know that after that I laughed more than I screamed because it felt so good just to still be alive. The bones in my legs turned to rubber from the adrenaline surge and I could barely use them to get to my family, who were waiting for us at the exit.

"Well?" Jason said.

"Momma, was it fun?" Ainsley asked.

"It was...awesome."

Someday I may even have the guts to ride it again.

The Sweetest Day

2010-10-20T07:00:00.001-04:00

Sweetest Day is such a ridiculous thing.

We all know that the only reason there is such a day is so that the greeting card people can make money from the sad fact that not everyone has a boyfriend or girlfriend in February. They figure by throwing in a lovey-dovey holiday in the fall, they're at least getting one romantic greeting card a year out of you. Surely, if you don't have someone special on February 14, you will have someone who wants to hold your hand while the leaves are changing color.

Sweetest Day was not really on my mind Saturday. I saw the balloons floating all over the place at the grocery store, and saw it advertised on a flower shop's marquee, but it didn't click until dinner Saturday when dear hubby reached over and grabbed my hand at the dinner table.

"Happy Sweetest Day, dear," he said.

"Oh, yeah. You, too. That's why I made fettucine alfredo. It's our 'romantic' dinner tonight with the kid." It totally wasn't why I made that for dinner; I really just wanted to get my cheese on.

"Remember that date we had at Olive Garden when we were kids and had fettucine alfredo for the first time?"

Ahh. How could I forget? It wasn't on Sweetest Day, but rather on our one-year dating anniversary when we were all of juniors in high school. We got dressed up and then, since neither of us had driver's licenses yet, met up on a bus that would take us to our restaurant. I remember that dress shorts were in fashion, and I was wearing a pair of unfortunate dark orange wool shorts. Seriously. I thought I was so cute.

I felt on top of the world that night. Earlier in the day, during some free time in chemistry, I used my teacher's state-of-the-art Apple computer to create an anniversary card for Jason. It was such a new and complicated program that I had a classmate help me.

"Wow. I can't believe you two have been together a year. I guess things are pretty serious?" My computer helper, an "it" girl who I used to be close friends with until she became uberpopular with the boys, gave me a mischievious look that made me blush.

"Well, yeah. But not like you're thinking." I could barely get the words out; I was such an innocent little thing, sexy orange wool shorts notwithstanding.

The look on her face changed; I think she was actually jealous. "He must really love you."

As Jason and I enjoyed one of our first romantic dinner together, and he footed the bill from his meager Kroger bagger earnings, I knew that he really did. And I was one of the luckiest girls in the world.

Fast-forward to the present day. We never have much celebrated Sweetest Day, but talking about that big date to Olive Garden (and how we met up after with our friends at the mall yogurt shop where a few of us worked in high school, because that's just the kind of crazy kids we were) and telling our daughter a little about our early years made it special.

But the real sweetest days are all the days between the holidays and special occasions.

Yesterday Ainsley got off the bus with a present for me. Made from a piece of paper towel left over from some class activity, it was a little homemade stapled envelope of the kind we used to have to make for Valentine's cards in elementary school. At the top she'd written, "I love you! From: Ainsley" and inside the pocket was a little red cut-out heart.

Who needs a greeting card holiday when you get that kind of love on a random Monday?

Out of the Mouth of Ains: Spelling Counts

2010-10-19T12:00:00.000-04:00

"Momma, can I spell a bad word if I don't want to say it?"

No conversation with an 8-year-old that begins this way is going to be comfortable.

"Why do you want to spell it?"

"Because some of the kids in my class say it's a bad word and they say it all the time and I want to ask you if it really is a bad word."

Sigh. New vocabulary is a part of every kid's education, even in Catholic school. "Okay. Go ahead."

"D-I-K-E. Is that a bad word?"

Mercy. I almost choked on my dinner. She just recently asked me if she was allowed to say the word "gay" after an episode of Glee; she had heard at school that that was a bad word, and she knew what the word meant, but after she heard characters on that show use the word in a calm discussion it didn't seem to her like it was always bad to say. We had a long talk about how some words aren't good to say in one context, but are okay to use in others. I thought maybe this was coming from that same realm of playground talk, but just in case...

"I want to make sure I understand what word you're talking about. Go ahead and say it out loud. It's okay; you're not going to get in trouble."

She took a deep breath. "Dick."

I dared not make eye contact with Jason. I could see a smile trying to lift up the corners of his mouth as he sat all too amused by the predicament we found ourselves in.

"Yep. That's definitely a bad word. You certainly don't want to be either saying or spelling that one. Except when it's someone's name, and then it's okay...umm...hey, you did a great job eating all your dinner tonight! Go get yourself a treat."

She didn't ask what the word meant, and maybe I should have gone there, but I was still a little in shock. Shocked that the direction I thought we were going in was not the direction we were really going in, and shocked that her spelling and phonics skills are that weak. She aces spelling quizzes; how did she not remember that words that end in "e" have a long vowel sound? So much from that conversation to ponder.

And now I just brace myself for the next set of "dirty word" questions.

Out of the Mouth of My Friends: Aw, Nuts

2010-10-15T15:00:00.004-04:00

I love a good double entendre.

Nothing quite tickles my funny bone more than a seemingly innocent statement that, upon further reflection, is just a little bit diiiirty. This the genius beind, "That's what she said!" She said a lot, apparently. And it's best when the off-color meaning is completely unintentional and organic; it never works when you're trying too hard.

One of the funniest things I've heard all year falls in this realm.

A couple of weeks ago, we had some dear friends visit us to make our almost-annual pilgrimage to Kentucky's Wool Fest. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Part of (maybe all) of the fun lies in the food. Our ritualistic visit to the Wool Fest demands a stop at the booth that sells hot roasted German almonds and cashews. It's not fall for me until I have eaten some of these still warm from the roaster while walking around the fairgrounds listening to the dry leaves crunch under my feet (and smelling the sweet, sweet smell of the petting zoo.)

Each family bought their own bag; Jason, Ainsley and I were enjoying one while our friends and their kids were noshing from another. I was walking point when I heard my girl friend say,

"Well. I'm digging around in someone else's nut sack."

And...scene.

Thanks for this, DRoss. Every time I've thought about it in the last two weeks (which has been often, as I've been meaning to post it) I've launched into a much-needed fit of giggles.

Selfish Day

2010-10-14T15:00:00.001-04:00

I used to be so selfish.

Most young people are, but I really did think the world revolved around me the first decades of my life. I was the youngest sibling in my family by 11 years, so I had my parents pretty much to myself. Not only that, but I was the youngest grandchild on both sides of the family; I was the proud recipient of a lot of my two grandmothers' praise and affection. They all indulged me. Such is the life of the baby of the family.

I was not necessarily spoiled (we weren't well-off financially enough for that) but I didn't really have to think too much about how my actions or inaction impacted others. I didn't have to share toys, clothes, TV time, or a bedroom. My schedule could be as jam-packed or as open as I wanted it to be without having to worry about my mom accommodating another kid's activities. When I wanted to come home and nap for 2 hours, I came home and napped for 2 hours. When I needed to stay at school until 9pm, I stayed at school until 9pm. Any snacks in the house were fair game, and if I took the last Little Debbie Fudge Round, no one was going to be offended. I worried only about my own needs. Looking back, I know that when I got to college I was a bad roommate because of this. I'm sorry, girls. At least I didn't keep any exotic pets (other than Jason.)

Then I married, and then I had a child. There are some people who stay self-centered after they have children; you know who these people are because you hear about them in the news. These are the mothers who get DUIs while their kids are in the car, or who get charged with endangerment because they left their 7- and 5-year-old home alone while they went clubbing, and in the worst of cases, the ones who kill their children and try to stage it as a missing child. But most of us start forgetting who we are the day those precious little creatures burst forth Alien-like from our wombs. Just like people used to believe that the earth was the center of the universe until a man named Galileo said this wasn't so, we mothers eventually realize that we are just another piece of cosmic rock orbiting something greater than ourselves.

I thought things would get easier as Ainsley got older. I can't wait until she is able to go to the bathroom on her own! I thought when she was still in diapers. I can't wait until we don't have to plan our afternoons around her nap time! I thought when she still needed an after-lunch snooze every day. I can't wait until I no longer have to be at her swimming lessons/basketball practices/church children's activities with her and can just drop her off and go shopping, work out, sit at home and read...

It didn't work out that easily. And oh, what I wouldn't do for just one more Saturday afternoon where Ainsley really, really needs a nap after lunch.

Every now and then, you have to cry out, "Enough!"
I am not here today to complain. I've done that before. A lot. Here's what I do want to do: institute a day of selfishness for moms. Just one day a year when we live like we did when we were selfish little kids who knew our parents' world mostly revolved around us. No, Mother's Day does not count. If we're lucky, we still have mothers of our own we want to make feel special that day, and that day can end up being as action-packed as any other Sunday of the year.

What I want, and I know I can't be alone, is one entire day where I have nothing on my "to-do" list. At least, nothing that can't be put off without the world caving in. I don't want to have to be a chauffeur, a cook, a maid, an event planner. I don't want to be needed for anything. I just want to BE. To wake up, look out my window, and let the day carry me somewhere instead of the other way around. If I want to exercise, I'll go exercise. If not, I'll take a nap. If I want a massage, or a pedicure, then I'll do that without worrying that the world will stop turning on its axis without me there to direct the spin. If I want to go to a wine tasting, or a book signing, or go meditate in a park, I can do that, too. On Selfish Day, any or all of these things are possible; someone will watch the kid and the laundry pile while I'm gone, and when I come back everyone will want to drop everything at a moment's notice to go frolic in the backyard or perform a song on Rock Band.

I want just one day where it's all about me. Don't you?

It will take some work, though, and maybe that's what will hold us back. We'd have to get sitters, make appointments, break appointments, and clear schedules. But I'm committed to doing this, and that right soon. My mental health depends on it. I am craving free time like a man in a desert craves water.

Who's with me?

Update--The Spider Is Dead! Long Live the Spider! (Or Not.)

2010-10-12T12:30:00.000-04:00

Creature update! (If you are just joining us, please read last week's post.)

I killed it. Oh, yeah. I killed it GOOD.

It tried to sneak out of the laundry room, but I saw it.

"Jason," I found myself whispering into the phone right next to the lanudry room. "Where did you put the Raid?" Yes, it's perfectly acceptable to call your husband at work if you absolutely, positively have to kill a massive spider in his absence.

"It's in the cabinet under the sink. Why are you whispering?"

"Because I don't want it to hear me." Some people just don't exercise common sense.

With every hair standing on end, and with Ainsley a safe distance away (all I had to say was, "That big spider's back downstairs" and she made like the wind) I sprayed enough Raid at the thing to give myself another case of cancer and to possibly poison the water supply for years to come.

But as spiders tend to do, it just kept moving.

Half a can of Raid, if you can manage a direct hit, is enough to confuse the spider and make it start losing limbs, so it's easy to track. A few good whacks with an old magazine (thanks, Real Simple, for being hefty) mashed my friend to a pulp.

"Die...die...die..." I was saying in my deadliest tone as I smacked the thing over and over the way Hannibal Lecter does when he takes out the cop in Silence of the Lambs. I could all but hear Bach piano music tinkling serenely in the background of my own personal murder scene.

"Umm...are you still there?" Ha! Forgot that I still had Jason on the phone. I guess I have a witness.

We have friends who left a huge spider carcass in their garage as a deterrent to other spiders. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. This is not my style, so dear hubby disposed of the body when he got home. It took everything I had to kill the thing; my work there was done.

Now I just fear retaliation. If God turns out to be a spider, kind of like (spoiler alert!) the evil space alien creature at the end of It does, I am so totally screwed.

The Big One

2010-10-06T14:20:00.002-04:00

I've told a lot of spider stories on the blog. There was the one about the spider I found crawling up my pants when I was out mulching, which caused me to put on quite a show for our neighbors as I danced and screamed around the yard trying to get the darn thing off. Then there was the infamous Bathtub Spider, which was so hairy it rendered me speechless and made me worry that it was going to carry my toddler off in the night. Finally there was the gang of spiders that came out of the grass when I was cleaning Scout's litter box outside at Mom's; it gave me one of my favorite Mom quotes ever: "Wonder what they've been eating...probably kittens."

My spider stories take on a mythical quality with each retelling. Like a good fish tale, the creatures get a little bigger and the fight to net them a little more dramatic. In my mind, the Bathtub Spider has grown to roughly the size of a Volkswagen; the spider battalion numbers around a million and fought bravely until Mom and I vanquished every last one by bravely stomping them into that good night.

But just as every fisherman has The Big One, I now have a showstopper. The One That Got Away. A creature so huge in real life that it needs no embellishment in the retelling; reality is impressive enough. Plus, I have photographic proof that will forever back up my claim.

This is the spider I found in our laundry room last night. This is no exaggeration: I've seen tarantulas smaller than this. Not in real life, but on TV. But still.

I know! By the way, those cobwebs are old and I really meant to get around to sweeping them out this summer, so I really don't think that's its home. If that web really is its home, then yeah, I totally should have known something big was living back there.

It was spread out on the wall behind the dryer as if it were a specimen in a child's insect collection, straight-pinned to a piece of foam board. It stayed there, unmoving, wanting us to be both horrified and awestruck by what an excellent specimen it was. When I first spied it, a mere foot from my face as I threw a load of laundry in the dyer, I of course screamed. But then I couldn't look away from it. I fought the urge to capture it in a jar and take it to a scientist. Perhaps it is a new species of wolf spider; I'll get to name it, and it would be called The Cranky Arachnid.

So far as we know, it's still living somewhere in the walls of our laundry room. After making excuses for why he didn't want to get close enough to it to kill it ("There's too much stuff in the way, like a cord and electrical stuff and the cabinets and things with molecular structures...") Jason swung away and missed. The Shelob crawled back to the portal of hell from which it came, which is the hole where our inside AC unit connects back to the outside unit. I can tell myself that it probably went outside, but it was cold last night, and I have a feeling it was looking for some man flesh. A spider that size can't just be living off of flies.

"Maybe it will help keep mice out of your house," a friend said. I know she was joking, but like Mom's irrational fear that the spider family out in her yard possibly had a small feline wrapped in a cocoon somewhere, I can't help but picture a small rodent caught in a web, squealing for its life while facing a grisly death by fang. This does not make me feel better about having the thing in my house.

I'm behind on laundry, so I've got to spend a lot of time in the laundry room over my upcoming fall break. I am being completely and totally sincere when I tell you I don't know how I'm going to get through it; my heart races from more than my cup of coffee as I write this. Will I find it by accident when I reach down into our hamper of dark clothes? Will I spy it on the same wall as last night and just be forced to pretend it's not there while I toss a load of clothes in, all the while freaking out inside and never taking my eyes off the thing? (Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...) Will I think it's gone away, only to feel prickles on the back of my neck and know, "He's behind me, isn't he?" like in so many horror movies?

Until it's dead (and I am a realist enough to know that we may never find its body and it may just live the rest of its freakish life in the comfortable warmth behind our dryer) I won't be able to really rest. I've felt imaginary spiders crawling on me all day today, and just knowing that it's down there makes me want to pack up and sell the house. But I don't know how to kill this thing; it's too fast to smoosh, and too big to go down with a shot of over-the-counter bug spray. I've had much smaller spiders than that just crawl away laughing when I spray them with Raid. I've thought of arming myself with a blow torch, but something tells me that might create an even bigger problem. I like having a roof over my head, even though said roof might be harboring dessert-plate-sized wolf spiders.

So I know that The Big One is still out there, and I may never catch him. But at least I've got a good fish story to tell.

If any of you have a solid recommendation for how to hunt and kill this thing, I'm open to suggestions.

Clinch

2010-09-29T12:00:00.001-04:00

It sounded like thunder, and I thought maybe we were going to get some much-needed rain to quench our parched gardens and yards.

And then I remembered that the sky had been perfectly, crystally clear when I'd looked out the window right before bed. I knew then what the sound was rumbling in my bedroom on an unusually quiet night in the banging class neighborhood:

The Reds won, and there was an explosion of fireworks from across the river because we just clinched our first NL Central title in 15 years. I think the sound carried better than usual because so many fans had been holding their breath, daring to believe the impossible.

The fireworks seemed to go on forever as Jason and I lay there in the dark. I could imagine all the celebrating, champagne-uncorking, and general mayhem coming from Great American; it's been a long time coming, and Cincinnatians haven't had too much to celebrate these days.

On the radio this morning I heard the DJs talking about our last title back in 1995.

1995. Wow. Life was so much different then. That fall I was in my senior year at Centre, student teaching instead of taking classes, getting a bitter dose of reality. I had thought a full load of classes at a demanding college was hard; I had no idea teaching 90 students a day, most of them freshmen, would make me miss all-nighters and 10-page literary analysis papers.

But I still followed the Reds. My roommate was (and I'm sure still is) a Braves fan, so when the Braves dashed our World Series hopes in an embarrassing fashion, she drew a little broom on the ancient chalkboard in our room; yes, they swept us.

I tried not to hold it against her.

I figured the Reds would get there again someday soon. I'm not a huge baseball fan, but I like to go to a few Reds games every year and I love the energy in the city when one of our sports teams does well. It's a great uniter for a community that can be angrily divided.

I was in high school when the Reds won their last Series in 1990; we all loved that team, and for the first (and really the only) time in my life, I watched pretty much every game. I didn't gripe when Dad wanted to watch the Reds or when a game pre-empted one of my shows. And I cried when they won that last game.

In a city that often takes a beating for its backwardness and quirks, a city that cites "Cincinnati chili" as a claim to fame (and it's not even really a chili, if you want to get all technical about it; it's a Greek stew of sometimes questionable quality), it was really something to be proud of.

I hope we do well in the playoffs, and I hope I get to watch the Reds win another series.

Any maybe, just maybe, I'll be drawing a little broom of my own.

Scream

2010-09-27T15:30:00.000-04:00

I am afraid. Very afraid.

Afraid of many, many things. Some which make sense (spiders, various supernatural entities which may or may not exist, losing someone I love) and some which do not (Lasik, making pie crust from scratch, driving a stick shift.)

I've always been timid, but it's getting worse as I get older. I was never the kind of kid who was brave enough to do cherry drops from the parallel bars on the playground, but I would at least ride any carnival ride, tackle any roller coaster, watch any scary movie, and jump off the high diving board.

Nowadays, I can't even watch my daughter ride the "pepper shakers" at the church festival (the carnie in charge of the ride this year had red eyes and a case of the munchies), and it takes everything I've got to muster up enough courage to jump off the 1-meter springboard at our neighborhood pool.

But the thing that really gets me, the thing that makes my heart beat dangerously fast and makes me shake in my boots are not these things that I can name. See, the thing is, I startle really, really easily.

Everyone gets startled from time to time; I suppose there's some basic survival instinct there that served a purpose when we were hunters and gatherers, a physiological response that made us pump obscene amounts of adrenaline when a lion would come up to us and tap us on the shoulder while we were lost in thought, listening to our iPods.

For me it's an extreme reaction. Or over-reaction. I swear, I've shaved 5 years off my life from all the times my heart has stopped because my husband has the audacity to walk back to our bedroom while I am drifting off to sleep.

"AAAAUUUUGGGHHHH!" I'll scream. And then Jason's heart skips a beat, too, because there's nothing like walking back to your bed in the darkness and hearing your wife's soul being ripped out past her vocal chords.

"What did you think I was?" he'll ask. And I never have an answer; I never have time to think, my body just goes into fight or flight.

Even Ainsley is used to this. A few years ago, I was cleaning the sink in my bathroom when Ainsley decided to do something "cute" to get my attention. She took one of her stuffed animals and had it peep around the corner. My brain had a moment to think this was precious; unfortunately, my heart had already gotten word that a set of beady eyes had just appeared over my shoulder and it tried to jump out of my chest.

"AUUUUUGGGGHHH!"

It's funny; young children have their own reactions to their mommies unexpectedly screaming like banshees. Not screaming, so much. Just a lot of tears.

At 8, she sadly is used to it. The weekend we celebrated her birthday, I bought her a big, shiny balloon that I tied onto the railing of our entryway stairs. When I tied it, it made the balloon about the height of a tall-ish man as it swayed in the constant breeze created by the closest air vent. I went to get something from the bedroom, headed back down our hallway, and caught sight of the balloon. You guessed it; I screamed.

I worried that I had freaked my kid out. But she just rolled her eyes.

"Momma, it's just a balloon," she said. And right back to watching Phineas and Ferb; this is just a part of her life.

A couple that we're good friends with know me very well but have never heard my barbaric yawp, which Jason says sounds like someone has reached down into my stomach and tried to pull something out. Until this weekend, that is, when we decided it was time to watch The Descent. They'd never seen it; Jason and I had been talking to them about it since we all went to see Paranormal Activity and were all kind of underwhelmed. I say The Descent is one of the best horror films of the previous decade; there are several "Gotcha!" moments in it that are great for an easy startler like me, and one in particular that I think might be the most genius of all "Gotcha!" moments in any horror film ever.

So, I knew this scene was coming. I didn't want to give anything away so I was playing it all cool, not wanting to ruin it for them. The thing is, though, I'd forgotten exactly where this moment was; I somehow was taken off guard yet again. I couldn't help myself.

"AAAAAAUUUUUUGGGHHHH!"

You know what's worse than being scared by a horror movie? Being scared by someone else being scared of a horror movie. I like to think that I truly enhanced their movie-going experience. Brought a little verite to the whole proceeding, you know? If they didn't jump from what they were seeing on screen, I know they jumped after I screamed bloody murder out of nowhere in our darkened living room. We all had to stop the movie, laugh at me for a while, and step out of the room for a while to calm our nerves. I'm confident that by the time they left a couple of hours later, everyone's heart rates were approaching normal.

"How did Ainsley not wake up during that?" one of them asked.

Eh. You live with me long enough, you get used to it.

I know that as Halloween approaches some wise guy is going to send me one of those Halloween emails where you're supposed to play some goofy game that has you concentrating super-hard looking for the queen of diamonds on your screen, or where you're supposed to watch a girl on a bike to supposedly see her fall in a hi-larious way, or watch a car ad where a car goes meandering peacefully through a forest, and then out of nowhere Linda Blair's Exorcist face or some other ghastly-looking creature pops up and screams 3 inches away from your face. I know this as sure as I know that the sky is blue and UK will win another basketball championship someday, but that won't keep me from screaming my scream within 30 seconds of opening the link.

Such is the life of an easy startler.

June

2010-09-14T12:00:00.001-04:00

Sad news from the Cranky house: I lost one of my aunts this weekend.

It was sudden and unexpected. She had not been ill, but apparently had a fall and died at home in her sleep after, probably from a blood clot that travelled to her heart.

It's the kind of thing that you almost can't believe when you hear. She was there, and then she wasn't. My mom, sister and I can barely wrap our heads around it.

This aunt lived alone and never married, and there was always something child-like and innocent about her. Her death has hit me pretty hard because it seems so very sad to me that she left this world so quietly and so alone.

This will be the third death in my extended Barbourville family in as many years; it's also the third that has happened in September. Wake me up when September ends, indeed.

For the third September in a row, I will be heading "down home" for a funeral of one more person who tied me to my family and to my birthplace. Like the other trips, I will be travelling under beautifully clear late-summer skies and get to see the leaves just starting to change color up in the mountains and hills. But I won't be enjoying the view; one more link to that world and that part of my life is gone. There aren't many left, and they are getting along in years.

Today I am feeling a healthy dose of guilt as a side dish to the usual grief and sadness over a lost life. I didn't go down to visit her often enough; Ainsley doesn't even remember which aunt she was; the last time I did see her, which was last year during a funeral, she asked me to come down some time and "just visit." I didn't, because in my mind I am always too busy to make the three-hour trek; now I find myself needing to make that trek to say goodbye to someone in death who I should have made that same time for when she was alive.

June was a special person, and she will be missed. She had just about the strongest faith in God I've ever seen. She loved the people in her life completely, absolutely, and without judgement. She loved to work crossword puzzles and could cook a Kentucky cornbread and a pot of pinto beans so good it'd make you want to slap yo' momma. And don't even get me started on her sweet tea, made in an ancient Mr. Coffee coffeemaker with just the right ratio of lemon juice and sugar. Try as I might, I can't get mine to taste like hers. It was rare to see her without a wide, gap-toothed smile, and once you got her laughing about something, she couldn't stop and eventually everyone in the room would be laughing with her.

A friend of mine recently told me that every family has a rock and a light. June was our light. Death won't be able to dim it; even as I write this, and my eyes feel full of tears, I can't help but smile thinking about how much joy she carried with her every day.

Surely, she carries that joy with her still.

Goodbye, June. We will miss you so.

Fine, Fresh, Fierce, I Got It On Lock

2010-09-09T15:30:00.000-04:00

Show of hands: who gets really, really excited to hear "California Gurls" on the radio?

Anyone? Anyone?

It was kinda cute the first few hundred times, but like this summer's heat here in Kentucky, it wears on you after a while. Now when it comes on the radio, I find myself changing the station with a lightning speed previously reserved for any and all Nickelback songs.

While I appreciate Katy Perry's pride in her California girl assets, I feel other states have something to offer, too. We Kentucky girls may not be quite as glamorous as a California girl sipping gin and juice underneath a palm tree, but we can be quite charming drinking a bourbon and Coke from a Mason jar out on the trailer porch. (I kid because I love.)

I am no song writer, but here's my prose ode to Kentucky Gurls.

California girls may have sun-kissed skin so hot it'll melt your popsicle, but we Kentucky girls turn bronze, too. Especially around prom season when every girl between 15 and 18 buys a month of unlimited tanning from the local Fantastic Sam's.

Kentucky girls wear Daisy Dukes, too. Just instead of a bikini on top, we like to wear layered tanks from weekend sales at Old Navy, sweet little homegrown t-shirts with sayings like, "Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky!", or perhaps a Hooters tee. "Tacky, yet unrefined" could really be our state fashion motto and not just the slogan on the ubiquitous Hooters shirt.

We may not have a coast line, but we've got water a-plenty. Kentucky girls aren't getting sand in their stilettos, but on any given summer Saturday you can find them tubing down a lazy river, drinking beer on a pontoon boat at Lake Cumberland, or reading a magazine while sprawled on a plastic lounge chair beside the neighborhood pool. We don't need a Pacific beach to be warm, wet, and wild.

And believe you me, California girls have not cornered the market on partying. Find a big backyard, get a few Kentucky girls, a bucket of Original Recipe, a cooler full of Coronas (or even a gallon jug of sweet iced tea; we don't always approve of the liquor), a cornhole set (it's a game; get your minds out of the gutter), and some country music on the radio, and you've got yourself a shindig.

We may not have west-coast sophistication. We may not have beaches and palm trees. But we're a whole lot of fun with nary an ounce of pretentiousness. Once you party with us (or at the very least, sit down and watch a basketball game or the Derby with us), you'll be falling in love... Oh, oh-oh-oh, Oh, oh-oh-oh....

(Oh, and while I'm singing the praises of my state, let me defend it, too. There's a Popeye's chicken ad out now where the main character says that Popeye's chicken is better than KFC because Louisiana is known for its cooking, whereas Kentucky is known for racing horses. Pshaw. Offends me to my core. Popeye's might have done better in a taste test, but that's still restaurant fried chicken. Don't tell me someone from the land of red beans and rice and jambalaya, wonderful though those dishes are, can compete with us in the fried bird arena. Fried chicken is the pride dish of many a Kentucky cook, and don't you forget it. We'll come down there with a chicken and some seasoned flour and totally kick your a$$. That is all.)

Some of you are neither from Cali nor from Kentucky...what do the Gurls in your state have going for them?

The Heat! My God, the Heat.

2010-09-03T09:00:00.001-04:00

Y'all remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine is talking to Puddy about being afraid she's going to hell and says, "And the HEAT! My God, the heat!"

Our local newspaper had an article today that told us the summer of 2010 was a very hot one, historically speaking. File it under things that make you go, "No sh^%."

Jason and I quote Seinfeld a lot in general, but we've found ourselves throwing out Elaine's above line a lot this summer. If this June, July, and August had a theme for us, that theme would be, "I'm hot. And not in the good way."

With summer unofficially ending this weekend, I thought it would be a good time to take a look back on the long, hot summer of 2010. It was the summer when...

We discovered that our happy place, Hilton Head Island, is not so happy after all.

How could you have such an incredible time at a vacation destination one year, and then be so miserable the next time you go? The place we stayed this time was dirty and (remember the theme this summer?) hot, with air conditioning that only kinda sorta worked. The kid threw up the first night we were there after eating a bad shrimp, my rental bike got stolen even though I locked the darn thing up (there were cut locks littering the ground around where my and several other's bikes were taken), and the only beautiful day we had was, of course, the day we left. However...

We also discovered that, at least in Savannah, we really do believe in ghosts.

The night I found my bike had been stolen (and biking was the most fun thing we'd found to do on gray days) I wanted to get the heck off the island. So we drove to Savannah, got in for dinner at The Lady & Sons with no waiting, and went on a ghost tour. The most fun we had on our Hilton Head vacation wasn't actually in Hilton Head. Ains volunteered to take pictures after the guide told us to look for orbs in our photos, which could be spirits lurking in the dark. Sure enough, we found a perfect orb in one of our pictures, which the guide told Ainsley was definitely a ghost, much to her delight. When we got home, I found two more pictures with orbs. Jason thought they were water droplets until I showed him one picture in which the orb appeared right in front of his male parts, in which case he became totally convinced that it was a ghost. Like the guy in Ghost Adventures, female spirits are apparently drawn to him in a carnal sort of way.

Jason and I got addicted to True Blood.

Where do you go after the season finale of Lost? To a show that doesn't make you think and is pure escapism. We rented the first two seasons on DVD throughout the summer; right now we're using our free trial month of HBO to catch up on season 3 on-demand. No matter how hot it is outside, no matter how bad a day I've had (and there have been many bad days these first weeks of school), hearing Bill the vampire say, "Sookeh!" in that melodramatic rasp cracks me up. And Eric the vampire is so incredibly hot. In the good way.

We watched Inception, felt both awed and confused, and talked about it for days.

It's been a while since a summer movie made me exercise my brain. I know there's been a lot of backlash, but I loved every minute of the ride.

Jason built a 10-inch reflecting Dobsonian telescope that actually works, making an astronomy geek out of our child (and maybe me, too.)

I've never exactly seen Jason as "handy" (love you, anyway! mean it!), so I'm still a little shocked that he was able to build a real, honest-to-god working telescope. It's not a little bucket-scope like we made in Governor's Scholars out of a 5-gallon pickle bucket and some PVC pipe...it's big, freakin' scientific instrument, y'all. And through it Ainsley has seen the rings of Saturn, the Ring Nebula (faintly), 4 of Jupiter's moons, and a host of double stars and clusters and what-not. I love watching her drop all the girly-girly stuff she got for her birthday in a red-hot minute on clear nights after her Daddy calls out, "Want to go look through the telescope?" It's good for a girly-girl to get her geek on sometimes, you know?

I found out there's no joy quite like watching your kid work really, really hard to achieve something.

After a really fun season swimming for our pool's instructional summer team, Ains decided that she wants swimming to be her sport. We thought cheer leading had become her fave; turns out it takes a back seat to her love of being in the water (whew.) She found out she could try out for an advanced indoor team that makes its home at our family rec center, and during the try-outs I saw her push herself harder than I've ever seen before. She set her mind on a goal and focused on it and swam her absolute hardest in an attempt to kick some butt. Her breast stroke was weak so she's been asked to work on that and try out again mid-season, and I thought that might make her want to give up. But she has decided (without my prodding; I'm not one of those parents) to attend 3 practices a week this fall because she wants to be on the team so badly. It brings tears to my eyes to watch her push herself in the pool; every parent wants their kid to work hard for something they want, even more than they want them to be naturally great at something.

I read a very, very good book.

Librarians aren't supposed to say this, but I haven't been completely impressed with books this year. The best things I'd read had been young adult fiction, but it had been a while since I picked up an "adult" book and found it impossible to put down. The Passage, by Justin Cronin, got under my skin in a way a book hasn't in a long time. If you haven't read this one yet, do yourself a favor and get a copy. Don't be intimidated by its heft; you can rip through it fairly quickly because you won't be able to stop yourself. It's a page-turner, but it's also literary...it's just a darn good book.

Jason said goodbye to glasses and contacts forever (or at least until old-age-vision sets in.)

On the day that this post posts, I will be taking the hubby to get Lasik. I'm sure it will go well. No, really, I am. And if it goes well for him, then I will get it someday. Yeah, sure. I probably will. Maybe. If I can get past the thought of, you know, lasers burning away at my cornea.

That's it for me, folks. Here on the tail-end of one hot summer, tell me what you'll remember about this one.