The magic of the movies

When I lived in Sarasota, I had a favorite movie theater.  It was actually a megaplex with about 8 theaters – which are not always the best theaters.  Truthfully, there are different types of movie theaters in which I prefer to see different types of movies.  I prefer little, single, old movie houses for foreign and independent films.  But for all the regular, major, first-run movies, I like nice, big, clean, new theaters with big, comfy, stadium seats and all the best snacks.

And I have to have snacks.  I’ll sneak in what I can, but I always have to go to the concession stand for something because it is part of the magic of the movies [ridiculously exorbitant pricing notwithstanding].

The thing that made this particular movie theater my favorite was that between the movies, they showed the usual local advertisements and running movie trivia and the like, and when the previews were about to start (another thing I can’t miss – but I’ll get to that in just a moment), the lights would dim a bit and the coming attractions were played.  Then, when the coming attractions were over and the movie was next, everything would go silent, the curtains (yes, they actually still had big, beautiful, dark red/purple velvet curtains) would close from the left and the right until they met in the center.  Here’s where the real magic would start.  The lights would dim a bit more and – wait for it – wait – wait – the curtains would raise, gathered uniformly across the breadth of the screen like a Roman shade!

Movie theaters don’t do this anymore.  And there is something magical that happens in those moments when you are sitting in a darkened theater with fifty to two hundred and fifty strangers, holding your breath, awaiting the beginning of the movie.  There is something sacred, some sense of reverence for the ritual of the curtain going up, that I cherish.

In those moments, I don’t care about who sat where near me.  I’m not thinking about the smells and sounds of my fellow movie patrons.  I’m in the moment and I’m in it with everyone around me.  No matter the type of movie we’re all about to see.  No matter the weather outside.  No matter what bills are waiting to be paid or dinner to be made or appointments to keep.  In those moments before a movie begins, I am there and I am waiting to take a journey with strangers, together.

I took a second job at that movie theater when I was a single mother and they were nice enough to allow me to be scheduled every other week, on the weeks when my son was with his dad.  I sold tickets and I loved it.  I sold a ticket to Jerry Springer once – but I didn’t know it was him.  In fact, I thought he was looking at me strangely because he recognized me from the office building I worked in (day job) and thought I knew him.  What an ego [mine], eh?   Anyway, this job allowed me to see every movie for free and I loved it.  I used to see every movie that came out except Kung Fu movies and horror movies.  I saw them all.

I prefer to see movies alone, but I’ll take company if it’s available.  I’m always amazed to meet people who say they could never go to a movie alone.  What?!?!  It’s the best way to see a movie!

I mentioned that I also love the coming attractions and I won’t dream of missing them.  I know people who purposely time their arrival to scoot in just as the opening credits are rolling for the movie they’re seeing.  Appalling!  Movie trailers and coming attractions are like watching Oprah’s Favorite Things episode each year!

Not every movie measures up to expectations and not every movie is memorable, but they sort of all have their place in my life.  They are like bookmarks or footnotes to punctuate the times of my life.  There have been movies which have changed me forever – probably too many to really mention or remember – but some which etched a message on the slate of who I am.

My favorite movie of all time – no kidding – is “It’s a Wonderful Life”.  I always watch it at Christmas and I try to watch it once in the summer, just to remember the message.  Clarence:  “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”  Puts a lump in my throat just thinking of it.  I love that movie most of all.

The movie “Gandhi” was life-changing.  I was in college when I saw it and was confronting some childhood anger/rage issues for the first time and I was so inspired by Gandhi’s wisdom and the peaceful perspective from which he viewed everything.  Ben Kingsley became Gandhi and I have never been able to see him in another role (almost – see the following paragraph) without imagining him as Gandhi.  What a wonderful movie.

There was also  “Schindler’s List”.  That little red coat!  Filmed in black and white . . . but that little red coat!  Profoundly impactful and remarkable.  Anyone who has seen the movie knows – and I need to say little to expand on the experience.

Then there were silly movies which I loved as well.  I saw the movie “Parenthood” with Steve Martin and have always remembered that experience.  I saw it as a premiere the week before it opened in a sold-out theater.  I don’t really know if the movie was THAT funny and THAT good or if it was just the absolute best way to see a comedy – but it was one of the times when I was intensely aware that I was sitting in a packed theater with 275 strangers and each and every one of us was laughing until our sides hurt and we were all going on the same ride.  It was the same feeling I have when I ride roller coasters.  Really.  Ups and downs and loops and crazy spins and we’re all in it together!  We all walk out of the theater/ride and go back to our lives – but we just spent the last experience together having the same experience.  We might never see each other again – we probably won’t – but we shared this snippet of our lives.  That’s just really cool to me.

There have been a million wonderful movie experiences, and whether they’re all good or all bad, whether they’re all “worth the money” or not, whether they’re life-changing or just a momentary diversion – they are all magic.

And if you can find a movie theater that still raises the curtain before the opening credits – take it in and revel in the moments of anticipation of what is to come.  Whatever movie it is, it is bigger than just you, bigger than just your life, bigger than wherever you are – for the time that you are in it.  That’s magic.

I’m nothing if not resourceful . . .

Today was to be big old, yummy, Hunk-of-Ham-Cooked-in-Apple-Cider-in-the-Crock-Pot Day.

Apple Cider?  Check.

Big, old, yummy hunk of ham?  Check.

Crock Pot?  Check.

Crock Pot Liner?  Check.  (By the way, for any of you slow cooker fans out there – you must discover slow cooker liners – they are the cat’s meow.)

I put the hunk of ham in the Crock Pot only to find that I put a bit too much emphasis on “BIG” when perhaps I should have thought more about it fitting into my Crock Pot (and I do have a big Crock Pot).  The big pig bone and surrounding fat (oh glorious pig fat) was sticking out of the top and there was no way to put the lid on.

Out of the Crock Pot Mr. Pig came and landed squarely on my biggest cutting board.  I wielded my bestest, sharpest knife and began to saw at Mr. Pig’s Big Bone.  I was only able to abstract all the surrounding [glorious pig] fat from the bone.  My cleaver worked no better, although it did split Mr. Pig’s Big Bone down the middle into two more manageable pieces.  Marty’s work trailer is locked and he has the key with him so I can’t go borrow a coping saw.

Necessity may be the mother of invention, but desperation is the father of ingenuity and resourcefulness.

While looking for serrated knives, I came across the serrated knives which go to my electric knife and (light bulb moment!) an idea was born!  So I plugged that sucker in and starting sawing away at Mr. Pig’s Big Bone.  The smaller half finally snapped off and I was left with the bigger, more gnarly and challenging half of Mr. Pig’s Big Bone.  I sawed all the way around it until I began to notice that my chainsaw, er, electric knife was starting to get hot and smell sort of burn-y.

Time to grab my pliers and see if I had done enough preliminary prep work to be able to snap Mr. Pig’s Big Bone clean off.  Indeed!  It worked!  Now my lovely hunk of ham fit perfectly into my Crock Pot and I was able to bathe it in apple cider, turn it on low and await all the glorious goodness which will be Mr. Pig for dinner.

In all the hub-bub over sawing Mr. Pig’s Big Bone, I used up all the paper towels and when I opened my cabinet to get a replacement roll, I noticed that the cabinet door was not closing quite properly.  Feeling all handy and resourceful, I grabbed my Philips Screwdriver, loosened both screws, raised the cabinet door up a smidge and tightened the screws up tight.

Perhaps I should see about changing the oil in my car . . . hmmm.

Chapter Six: What I would tell me about hair

First and foremost, because you will wear your hair so short for so much of your early life, you will never realize that you have sort of curly hair!  And when you grow it out, you will perm it to get you through those horrible in-between stages so even then, you won’t know you have curly hair.

You will cut your hair in a flat-top crew cut and keep it cut like that for three years and those will the happiest hair years of your life.  You see, dear younger me, you have phenomenal hair.  It’s thick and it’s dense and it’s healthy.  But during those times in your life when you are judging yourself so harshly because your hair simply will not do the Farrah Fawcett style of the 70s, and it will never cooperate enough to do the Dorothy Hamill wedge – you have your own style deep within you.  Embrace this style because you can own it like no one else.

You need not be slave to curling irons, blow dryers, flat irons or hot curlers.  You needn’t identify all that you are with your hair.  Your femininity will not be defined by the length or locks of your hair.  You are strong and you are unique – and you are infinitely female through and through.  No one will ever again mistake you for a boy, even when you cut off all of your hair.  You are far too prissy to be anything but female.  But first you have to get through middle school/junior high.  Because right up until then – stupid people will think you are a 10-year-old boy.

Fortunately, you will “own” your own style fairly early in your twenties, contra to what I would expect.  Oddly enough, you will often curse your hair in the “early years” because it just doesn’t want to conform to what everyone else is doing.  But be patient, dear younger me, for better hair days are coming!  And by your mid-twenties, you will scoff at the hairstyles of the day and find your own way.

And the best news that I have to share about hair is that in the years to come, there will be amazing new technology which will render nearly every hairstyle a possibility.  You want curls?  There are permanents that are great and very effective curling irons.  You want perfectly straight, slick hair that swings like a beaded curtain?  There are flat irons that make it possible.  You want longer hair than yours will ever grow?  There are extensions which will “grow” your hair overnight.  (Try explaining that at the office tomorrow!)  You want a variety of colors and textures?  There are hair products for everything imaginable.

The possibilities are endless [in the future].  But even if you’re stuck with your own hair, my dear younger me, you’ve got it pretty good.  You just don’t know it yet.

Labor Day

Labor Day sucks.  There.  I said it.  There are good things about Labor Day, sure.  It’s a day off, first of all (not that I’m overwhelmingly concerned about days off these days!).  And it’s always within a week of my birthday (and my dad’s birthday and my friend Maureen’s husband’s birthday – I guess all really fabulous people are born on September 7th) so it always feels like a holiday to celebrate my birthday.

But way back in 1894 when Grover Cleveland made it a federal holiday, he did so to appease the goddamn unions in this country and that just makes my stomach churn today.  Back then – when we actually needed unions so that employers wouldn’t and couldn’t work 11-year-olds 75 hours per week for 8¢ a week and then fire them when a 9-year-old came along willing to work more hours for less money – unions actually formed to do good, not evil.

But today we have labor laws that cover every conceivable wrong an employer could ever consider even on their most malice-filled, greedy, Scrooge-like day.  Simply put: unions are now the greedy bastards who are bankrupting this country.  So I’m not so much in favor of a holiday to celebrate them.

But more than that, Labor Day symbolizes the end of summer.  That’s just sad.  That’s just depressing and sad.  You can’t wear white after Labor Day (just watch me – nothing I love more than white corduroy).  People put their lawn furniture away not long after Labor Day.  Kids go back to school and we have to sit behind the stupid buses as they transport all the little kiddies (who look out the back windows at you and glare – or worse, they wave excitedly and you’re supposed to engage them and match their enthusiasm when doing so – ugh) to schools when you’re trying to get to work on time or get home to make dinner.  All the stores are filled to the brims with Halloween (and yes – wait for it – wait – THANKSGIVING – yep, I said it) decorations.  The nights are longer and the days are shorter.  The trees and flowers and even the weeds look tired and ready to go dormant.  Sure you get to turn off your AC for a few weeks before you need to turn on the heat – small consolation.

There are people out there – you know who you are – who positively swoon over the coming of the fall season.  Sunnydale Insane Asylum called and they want their freaking inmates patients back.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking I sound awfully bitter and negative.  That’s okay.  You can say it.  I’ll not apologize for it.  I don’t even mind the coming of winter as much as the coming of fall.  Winter comes at Christmastime and nothing in the whole year is as wonderful as Christmas.  And even though there are a few things I truly love about the fall season (football, pretty fall colors, the first week I get to switch to my colder weather wear and those rare beautiful Indian summer days of blue skies, pumpkins and brilliant fall foliage on a 65 degree day), they just don’t compare to what it signifies.  It’s an ending after all.  That’s why they really call it “fall”.  I think they call it “fall” not because the leaves fall but because it’s our fall from spring and glorious summer.  It’s when we fall into the pits of winter.

Ho hum.  This is not a happy blog post.  I’m sorry for that.  I’m just telling it the way I see it.  It’s a picture-perfect, beautiful Labor Day.

But it’s still Labor Day.  Damned unions.

If I were a Superhero, my special power would be . . .

. . . the ability to see into someone’s true self.  Call it someone’s soul or spirit or heart or center – whatever – but if I were a superhero, I would have the ability to read what’s really at the core of a person.  I would know what makes that person “tick”.  I’m a fairly good read of people as it is, but I can never really be sure that I am reading someone accurately.  I’m not sure this ability would really qualify me to be a “superhero” but it would be very helpful and I’ll bet I could use it for superhero purposes.

I would want this special power because then no one could ever lie to me and I would always know the other person’s “currency.”  Never underestimate knowing exactly what motivates another person.  And I suppose if I were truly one of those altruistic people who wants to help the world find peace and who wishes to fight evil (blah, blah, blah), then I could see into the hearts of evil-doers and enlist the help of like-minded others to stop the evil-doer from doing his or her evil.

But the truth is, and for those of you who know me well, I’m just not that generous.  Or maybe I don’t really believe that I have the power to impact the fate of the world [yeah, let’s go with that].  In any case, I’d be using this special power to help myself and my friends and loved ones to avoid pain and heartache.

Imagine all those dates you’ve been on and you thought for sure the guy was really going to call you after you slept with him before you should have because you really thought he cared (cue the song “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” by Meatloaf), if you could see into his deepest, darkest core and you knew what he was really motivated by . . . yeah, I’m thinking that date would turn out differently.

Imagine the job interview you went to and you really pulled out all the stops and presented your best self and thought this was the job that was going to take you to career nirvana, if you could read the inner motivations of your interviewers and knew they were really only looking for a glorified receptionist and just wanted to get someone overqualified that they could underpay and under-appreciate . . . yeah, I’m thinking there would be other interviews for sure.  Or at least, if you knew what they really wanted, you could amp up the skills they’re looking for to get the job offer.

Hey, I never said I would always use my special powers for good over evil.  Sometimes [most of the time] I would be a pretty selfish superhero.

So, this isn’t a very exciting special power I suppose.  If I were a superhero and had to pick a second runner-up for special powers, I’d be able to fly.

Just because being able to fly would be really cool and fun [as long as I didn’t have to flap my arms to do it – I’d have to be able to fly like Superman].

If it sounds too good to be true . . .

In May of 2008, I interviewed for a new job and was offered a position.  It was twice the money, twice the vacation and far better benefits.  I confess that I worked fastidiously at first to quiet that little suspicious voice in the back of my mind that said, “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”  For the next two years, I enjoyed working in an environment where I had a voice and I was respected and utilized.  It was invigorating and motivating and validating.  It was great.

A year ago, the owner of the company made his long-overdue appearance back into his company.  He had taken a bit of a sabbatical for years and – as often happens in such situations – he came back and felt the need to grab the reins with gusto.  In the past three to six months, this family run business which employed three family members now employs about a dozen family members.

Monday, August 23rd, the owner – on the advice of his accountants – started making big changes.  He fired a couple of the senior executives and let a couple of others go as well.  I was one of those “others”.  I was the only employee to receive a severance package and I think he genuinely felt bad letting me go in this economy – for what that’s worth.

So, I’m licking my wounds and going through all the stages of denial.

Yeah, sort of like that.  I’ll let you know when I get completely past the anger stage.  Right now, not so much.

My working memory is unemployed

My birthday is about three weeks away and on that magical day (it’s always a magical day on my birthday, you just never knew why September 7th each year, it was a magical day), I shall have completed my 48th year of life.  Birthdays aren’t like cable bills, you don’t get them in advance.  On my 48th birthday, I will begin my 49th year.  It’s like getting a bonus year of wisdom.

Or so you would think.

I have been noticing that the old gray matter just ain’t what she used to be.  My memory has undergone serious and profound alterations.  Heck, I barely recognize it . . . but that may just be yet another symptom . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t tell.  Now, there is no risk [yet] that I’ll be wandering around the streets of South Yarmouth in my husband’s bathrobe, eating peanut butter out of the jar with my bare hands, wondering where I live, but I forget things.  I never used to forget things.

I’m pretty sure my son thinks that he is destined to have to feed me baby food and introduce himself every time he sees me in the not-too-distant future.  See, just about every day I ask Spencer what time he has to work tomorrow and he tells me and I say, “Okay.”  Then the next day, I say “What time did you say you get off work?”  And he tells me again.  Then, later that same day, at 5:30pm, I go to pick him up from work and I text him to tell him I’m there.  He texts me back to tell me he gets off at 6:15pm.  This has happened so many more times than I am willing to admit in a public forum, that he is thinking of getting me a little notebook so I can write down notes, but he’s concerned that eventually he’ll be insulted because I’ll read a note and say to myself, “Why am I supposed to pick up this kid, Spencer?”

I feel it’s not so much that my memory is completely shot, it’s that my attention span has shortened to that of a gnat.  I have enough other things on my mind all the time and I’m juggling information of which only I am the keeper, that when information hits me which I can easily access/confirm again later, I just don’t pay close enough attention to it to retain it.

Guess what?  I’m right!  (That’s not a big surprise, by the way.)  I just read this great article about what happens to the “working memory” as we enter our 40s and 50s.

http://www.oprah.com/health/Midlife-Memory-Loss-How-to-Remember-More

In fact, even more proof of my shortened attention span is that I didn’t even read to the end of the article yet.  I got halfway through and my mind jumped to, “I have to share this article with others!  I’m going to post a link to it in my blog.”  And here I am.

Note to self: Finish the article.  Maybe it gives tips on how to get your working memory working and your attention span paying attention.

Chapter Five: What I would tell me about money

First and foremost, there will never really be enough money.  The more money you have, the more money you need to live and you never reach a point where you think to yourself, “Huh.  Okay.  I have all the money I can handle now.  I don’t need any more money.  I can afford to do everything I ever wanted to do now. ”

There will be times when you have more money with which to do things than other times, but if you’re waiting for the right amount of money to do the big things in your life, you’ll be waiting forever.  There’s never enough money to have a child, for instance.  There just isn’t.  Children are very intuitive little leaches.  They will suck up exactly the amount of resources you have – and then they’ll grab just a little bit more, for good measure.  Children operate like inconsiderate bosses.  They take everything you offer and then, when you’re functioning on reserves, they’ll come in and dump a “challenging new project” in your lap and smile as they walk away saying, “I know you’ll tackle this and complete it with all of your usual efficiency!”

So don’t make the mistake of thinking that there will be a time when you have enough money (or time or patience or maturity) to have a child.

You’ll hear many times that money is the root of all evil.  It’s not.  Selfishness and/or narcissism is usually the root of all evil.  Hate the player, don’t hate the game.

One piece of advice that I should definitely give you – if you’ll listen to me and take heed – is that you really shouldn’t spend as much money as you want to.  You’re not a saver and that’s going to bite you as you get older.  But even as I offer this advice, it’s hard for me to do it with any real conviction because I know that if you didn’t spend your money foolishly for the first half of your life, you wouldn’t have the wonderful collection of shoes and clothes that you have now (many of which I still enjoy a great deal).

Also, all the money you’ve spent over the years on pens: well spent.  You never lose them and you will always love a well-writing pen.  However, with the advent of computers, text messaging and email, you will actually write with a pen less and less – so come about Year 2000, slow down.  You’re just not going to be able to ever write with all the pens you have.

The worst thing about money is that it is one of the few things over which you will actually experience a guilty conscience.  And you will definitely spend a fair amount of time worrying about it.  Remember, worrying never, ever adds zeros to the end of your checking account balance.  Worrying about it is a waste of time.

Everyone contemplates money, no mater how much they have.  Here are some of my favorite quotes about money:

Dorothy Parker said, “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”

And E.E. Cummings said, “I’m living so far beyond my income that we may almost be said to be living apart.”

Errol Flynn said, “My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income.”

And Rita Rudner said, “Someday I want to be rich.  Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity.  That’s how right I want to be.”

The bottom line is that you should be practical, use moderation and, in the end, “Don’t worry.  Be happy.”  It usually works itself out in the end and you are nothing if not resourceful.

What’s the best advice you ever received?

I was in junior high school (that’s middle school for you New Englanders) and I had just gotten a new haircut and braces.  It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t cute.  It was back when we didn’t have curling irons and flat irons and blow dryers and hair products in our homes (back in the middle ages – you remember – when we wrapped our wet hair around rocks and then tied them with vines and used tree sap as styling mousse).  I was no raving beauty in junior high on a good day.

Add to all my goofy, gawky, geeky grossness a fresh new, shiny set of braces – and, well, I was just plain uglier than homemade sin.

I went to a friend’s house (whose name I can no longer remember) and I was grumbling about how everyone teased me about my braces and my haircut.  Truthfully, I was probably crying about it.  In my mind I’m sure I was swearing and yelling and hurling venomous threats at the perpetrators of the embarrassing onslaught of insults, but one doesn’t share that with one’s friend’s mother, after all.

My friend’s mother said to me, “You know that their teasing is not about you, right?  It’s about them and their insecurities.  It takes courage to be different at your age and courage is something you won’t appreciate until you’re much older.  The differences that make you a target today are the differences that will set you apart from all of them some day.  I’m sorry you have to wish away these days to get to those days.”

She also told me the next time someone teased me I should say “Jealousy will get you nowhere.”  She said that they probably won’t know what to say in response.  Okay, that was not good advice, because junior high kids [bullies] know what to say to everything and when I tried out “Jealousy will get you nowhere!”, they just roared with laughter and pointed out that there was absolutely NOTHING about me which could possibly warrant jealousy.

But the other advice she gave me, although cold comfort at the time, has always stuck with me.  Usually when people do mean things and you feel like you’re the target, it’s not about you.  It’s all about them.  She taught me that it’s not usually personal, even when it feels like it is.

And it did take courage to survive being bullied in junior high for being different.  And I do appreciate courage today.

And I’m pretty sure that all of those terribly mean girls (and mean boys too – my bully allure crossed gender lines) are now big, miserable, banal, homogeneous, boring, lonely, stupid, insipid housewives (or househusbands?) whose children can’t stand to be near them and whose spouses left them for younger, better people.  I’m fairly certain they will all die alone in their recliners and no one will know until the neighbors smell something funky and call the police.

At least that’s the way I imagine things.

Plinky Prompts

One day when I was roaming the internet, I came across this thing called Plinky Prompts.  You can sign up to have blog topic suggestions emailed to you.  I think you’re supposed to submit your answers and they publish them or some such, but I was more interested in seeing if there were any interesting suggestions for blog topics.

It’s not that I don’t have a lot of ideas myself [okay, sometimes the well runs drier than other times], but I thought if there were any good topics, it might be fun and sort of challenging.

Turns out, Plinky has some great prompts.  So from time to time, I decided I would pick one and take a stab at it.  It should be fun.  Well, I’m pretty sure it will be fun for me.  I hope it’ll be fun for you.

Besides, it’s just fun to say and type “Plinky”.  Go ahead, say it.  Plinky, plinky, plinky, plinky . . . yep, fun.

He’s baaaack

Well, not quite, but he will be back tonight after we pick him up from the airport at 9:48pm.  Spencer’s flight arrives tonight from Tampa.  This summer he was only gone for a couple of weeks which is weird because he has always been in Florida for seven to nine weeks over the summer.

This is where I’m supposed to lament on and on about how horrible it always was to put him on a plane and not see him for the entire summer.  This is where I’m supposed to say that I just could barely stand to be alive while he wasn’t with me.  See, it’s not as simple as you’d think.  I always knew that he was in good hands with his dad.  And he loves his dad so much and he loves visiting his dad in Florida so much.  And he is and always has been such a great kid and so responsible and so level-headed.  So I never had to worry that he was going to meet some horrible, untimely end or be tragically damaged, scarred or injured.  I knew he’d be okay and in fact, I knew he’d have a blast.

Hmmm.  Maybe I’m not as egotistical as other mothers who think they are the only human beings in the world who can adequately and properly take care of their children.  Maybe I’m the mature and reasonable and responsible and rational one.  Maybe . . .  well, probably it’s not really that.  But anyway . . .

The truth is that I  am not afraid of the truth.  And the truth is that every mother needs a break.  And my situation provided a good break – for Spencer and for me.  I was able to enjoy the break because I knew he was safe and loved and happy and in good hands.  And fast forward 12 years and I have the evidence that he has turned out great.  If you asked Spencer today if he wished he hadn’t had to go to Florida every summer, I’m betting he would respond with a resounding NO WAY!  So, no harm done.

This year, however, he’s all grown up and big and adult and this year, he was only gone for two weeks and this year I missed him A LOT.  What’s up with that?

It’s because he has become this phenomenal and funny and engaging and intelligent young man and I have missed him.  He’ll be back in his room by bedtime tonight and I’m glad.

*sigh*

It’s all good

It’s summer.  So, it’s all good.  And this year, it’s really, really, kick-ass summer in top form.  The days are long, the sun is shining, the ground is warm, everyone’s wearing flip-flops and big straw hats . . . hell yeah, it’s summer.

And when it’s summer, the idea of thinking about school is just downright wrong.  The concept of digging deep into complicated issues is “off”.  The obligation to engage in heavy lifting in the political arena is a travesty.

So, we all agree, right?  And then, why do I bring this up here?  Because I had a bit of an epiphany this morning.  If it had been February, I’d have had this moment of clarity long before now.  The Dennis-Yarmouth Regional School District times its budget process at the end of the school year.  I think the first vote by the town (Yarmouth) on the annual district budget override was in May, then the second vote just took place yesterday, and now there will be another infamous “tent meeting” (which will include our neighbors in Dennis) within the next month where they will undoubtedly drive the final nail in the coffin of the clear message sent by the taxpayers to deny their never-ending request for more money.

My epiphany was that they time this during the summer because they know that, during the summer, people are just more lackadaisical about everything.  How angry and worked up can anyone really get when you live on Cape Cod and it’s summer and everyone is smiling and happy and there are beaches to visit and hot dogs to grill and the sun’s rays to soak up?  Oh yeah, a wily and sly plan to be sure.

I think the budget for the following year should be decided on in February.  Let the school district have the gall to ask a town of voters for more money [again] after we’ve been shoveling snow, bracing against the cold winds, hunkering down in our darkened living rooms and packing on the pounds from seeking comfort in heavy stews laden with potatoes.  Yeah.  No, I don’t think so.  And let them bring the vote to the taxpayers again in March when we’ve been schlepping through freezing rain, surviving a month with not one holiday, tired of our children and their homework and school projects and sick to death of putting on the same damned sweaters and corduroys day after day since November.  Right.  I would almost respect them for the courage it would take to do so.  And for the grand finale, let them try to get all the interested voters from Yarmouth and Dennis to come to the school some dark, cold, rainy night in April when we’re all homicidal from living through endless rain, cold and gray, can’t even imagine that summer will ever even exist, and angry because most of the rest of the country gets spring and the Cape never does (except in glorious 2010 – thank you God).  It would be a bloodbath and I don’t think one person in town – except Superintendent Woodbury perhaps – could muster up enough passion/compassion/empathy to throw a nickel at the School Committee – let alone vote to raise our taxes for the rest of our lives!

Light Bulb Moment: This is why the budget is voted on in the summer.  By that time, parents’ aggravations at their kids’ teachers are a thing of the past and we’re hopeful that next year will be a great year for our kids and they’ll have teachers that they (and we) love.  By then, the ridiculous things that went on during the year (politically correct new rules, stupid teachers holding up offensive signs, etc.) are a distant memory and we feel fondness for this time in our children’s lives.

So, if something which is hotly contested and debated each year must be voted on at all (and boy, how I’ll bet the Superintendent and the School Committee wish they could run their little show with no interference from the stupid taxpayers!), then do it in the summer.

Because in the summer, it’s all good.

Well, it’s not all good.

My big surprise

Just in case I haven’t sung my husband’s praises adequately or vociferously enough lately, he recently gave me a huge reason to do so.  Never let it be said that I don’t jump at every opportunity to praise good behavior!

We closed on our house a year ago (I won’t even begin to address where the hell a year went) and we always said that as soon as Marty has some time with no work scheduled, he will remove wallpaper and paint a room at a time in our new house.  Fast forward one year and there has been no down time.  That’s one of those good news/bad news things [great news/somewhat disappointing news is more accurate].

So a few weeks ago, in one of our relaxing sojourns in the hot tub, I said something like “I know you have work lined up pretty much non-stop and I am so grateful for that and I certainly am not advocating that you stop work – but one of these days you’re going to have to throw an old dog a bone and paint a room for me.”

Off I go to Indy for the Great Bowling Extravaganza [as I’ve come to think of it] for nine days, leaving my devoted and loving husband to his own devices.  Last Saturday, when we returned from the airport, he unlocked the front door and stood back to allow me to enter the premises [home sweet home].  When you walk in our front door, you have a direct view straight down the hall and into the kitchen.

He painted my kitchen and dining room while I was away! I’m not certain, but I am fairly sure that the skies parted and doves flew and angels played little harps and violins . . . it nearly knocked me off my considerably stable and sturdy legs!

The pictures don’t even begin to do it justice either.  In order to accomplish this little feat, he had to remove wallpaper, repair walls, prime walls, cut in and roll the walls no less than four times – not to mention painting all the trim and caulking and all the other things that go into the project.  AND, he never said a word to me about it.  AND, he still went and did his other jobs during the day.  AND, he only golfed once [that can’t be right].  AND, his work is re-freaking-markable.  AND, the colors are exactly what I wanted.  AND, I didn’t have to be present and go through the pain.

Who’s the best husband in all the world?  Is Marty the best husband in all the world?  Yes he is.

I love my new car

I have loved my car from the moment I drove it off the lot. I drove my old car for 11 years and I shopped for a new one for years and years online until I could finally trade it in. That was five years ago. How does that happen? How did my new car get to be five years old? When did the spot where I place my driving heel on the mat wear through the mat? When did it start smelling like an old car?

Last week, when Spencer and I were in Indianapolis, I rented a Chevrolet Equinox for the week. It was nice. I liked it just fine. It drove well and I was glad to have a small SUV while I was driving around a city with which I wasn’t familiar.

Then I got home and I hopped in my “new car” for the first time after driving the Equinox. Uh-oh. I was not notified of the status update to my vehicle.

It’s not new anymore. And it doesn’t even look new anymore. In fact, it developed a tiny rattle sound while I wasn’t paying attention too. Guess what else? It has some little scratches on the outside. Everything still works perfectly and I know it would never dream of causing me a moment of concern. I mean, it only has some 55,000 miles on it so it really isn’t old by any stretch of the imagination.

It’s just not new anymore.

A hiatus of sorts

So, I certainly did not intend to neglect my blog for so long, but it just happened.  Sometimes life gets in the way of your best intentions.  Damned life.  Honestly, I wake up in the morning many mornings and I think: Hmmm, today will be a great day for me to blog about . . . [fill in the blank].  And then life happens and I don’t do it.  It’s not that I haven’t been busy because I’ve been remarkably busy in the past month.  It’s just that I don’t understand what I’ve been busy doing.

What this has made me aware of is the fact that my timing is screwed up.  See, most women I know express that the busiest, craziest time of their lives was when their children were young.  They were working, making dinner, driving their kids everywhere, attending parent/teacher conferences, helping with homework projects, going to practice or games or performances with their kids, having dinner parties/play dates or chaperoning.  Ugh, it’s exhausting just thinking of it all.

Me, not so much.  I did do all those things when my son was younger but it wasn’t “nuthin but a thang”.  I did all that and had time to spare.  I used to get pissed that I could never get in touch with my girlfriends without interruption to chat.  So, why now, when my son is almost 18 and, other than driving him and picking he and his girlfriend up from places (she now finally got her license so I won’t have to chauffeur anymore) and I no longer have to be involved in every aspect of his life, do I find that I have so little time to commit to the stuff I want to do?  What happened?  What has changed?

Oh God.  Please don’t make me say that it’s because I’m old and decrepit and I can no longer manage my time properly!  Please don’t make me say that it’s because I’m so old that I need more time for everything and I just can’t fit everything in as seamlessly as I could when I was younger!  If that is so, then why weren’t other mothers as capable as I was back then?  Please don’t make me say that I walk slower and I think slower and I do slower and that’s why I don’t have time for anything anymore!

Nah.  I’m pretty sure that something has happened to the time continuum of the universe and it’s just moving faster.  Some imperceptible event has occurred that has sped the earth’s rotation up (and all of the clocks too) around the sun.  See, I’m not so old that my mind is moving slower.  I’m actually so tremendously perceptive and in touch with the finer elements of the universe that I’m the only one who has noticed that the earth is perhaps spinning faster and may be about to spiral right off its axis.

Whew.  I’m good.