In my oldest daughter's bedroom sits a wooden dresser. It has been painted countless times over the years, and it has seen me through childhood and adolescence and now houses the clothes of my own girls.
This weekend I was organizing the clothes for winter, storing the summer clothes and cleaning out the girls' drawers. When I emptied the top sock drawer, I smiled. Etched in ballpoint pen on the wooden base of the drawer is the careful I Love Brandon. I wrote that 25 years ago, and to this day, I can remember how strong my crush was on this boy. For two years I was his friend, and watched in agony as a girlfriend of mine "went" with him (do you remember? "Will you go with me? Circle yes, no, or maybe"). I remember being transfixed by the way his shoulder blades moved through his t-shirt when he would use his pencils as drumsticks on the top of his desk. On the last day of school, our junior high homeroom teacher awarded two leadership awards, one for a boy and one for a girl. Brandon and I were chosen, and I recall feeling the happiest I'd ever felt as an angst-ridden pre-teen.
I scooped the rest of the socks out of the drawer, and underneath my memory-rich scrawl was another message. In writing nearly the same as my own, I read I Love Jake. I smiled. My oldest, in seventh grade, is nearly the same age I was when I wrote my declaration of love. My smile faded, though, as I thought of how she must feel. The difference between my daughter and me at this age is vast. She is lovely. She is ethereal and flawless and has absolutely no idea how stunning she is, only that she hates that she doesn't look like her friends. If Bob and I were the type of parents to allow our daughters to "go" with a boy at this age, she would likely be with this boy. But we're not. Remember, she has good reason to believe that we're conspiring to "turn her Amish." Our hard and fast rule is no dating until junior year in high school, as long as NHS grades are maintained and at least one activity per semester. This may as well be a hundred years away for our daughter.
Then, last night, as I clacked away on my computer in my office, I felt a presence outside my door. I looked up to see tears running from crystal green eyes, her blond head shaking in the hall light. She is filled with anguish that this boy she "loves" is dating a friend of hers. Worse, this so-called friend is filled with glee that she has something my daughter doesn't, and makes efforts to point this out during school as often as she can.
I listened as she poured out her heart, both thrilled that she trusted me and miserable with my inability to fix things. I thought of how mediocre this friend of hers is, how she will likely become like her family, scratching away a life with little purpose, flat expressions on all their faces, apathy toward children that need to be supervised and guided. This little girl is "lucky" because she basically raises herself and her younger brother. The level of independence and lack of supervision is stunning. She is rough, with thick features, a mean streak, and always looks dirty to my mom-vision. She is one of the most popular girls in the class.
I want to tell my daughter this. I want to tell her this young girl will likely peak in a few years, and that she will forget her pain of the moment and go on to have a wonderful life (I hope, oh how I hope). I want to be mean-spirited myself and predict teen pregnancy for this girl, or STDs or a future of housecleaning. But I don't. I just look at my daughter and then hold her and murmur, "It will get better sweetie. I promise."
My heart hurts. But probably not as badly as hers.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Monday, October 08, 2007
The Tenant
"We tried to find the visiting teacher a place, but even the hostels are full. Can you help out? It's only nine weeks."
I thought about this. We have a small guest house that's detached from our home. When we bought the place, it was dark and dirty, but over the past three years we have changed it to an inviting space with wood floors, light paint, and cute furnishings. Currently, its primary use is for sleepovers my daughters host. Still. The idea of having someone we don't know living on the property is a little strange, and I know this won't go over well with Bob.
"Yes, sure! Of course we'll help!"
He arrived on Saturday, and when the principal introduced him, I couldn't place his accent. Vaguely European? He looks like a child, although I will find out later he is at least in his late twenties. He is very thin, with pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. He is also very, very gay. This puts my husband at ease with the concept of a male tenant, and also mildly irritates him. Like most straight men who are not homophobic, he is uncomfortable with the sashaying, hand gesturing and giggling that accompany this visiting dance teacher.
"Where are you from?" I ask.
He sighs. It is, clearly, a weighty question. Why have I asked such a question when he is so jet lagged?
"Ohhh. 'Tis a hard question." His voice is nasal, and he sounds strained, as if it is a mammoth effort to speak, so he comes across both bored and pained. And with a slight head cold.
"I was born in Lithuania, but I've lived in Austria, Germany, France..." he trails off. "I need water. It is so dry here."
Later that day, I knocked on his door with a bag of sheets and towels from Target. He opened the bag silently, then took out the package of sheets. He held them in his hand at arm's length, then brought them closer, squinting.
"Are these black?"
"No. I think they're navy blue. But they're flannel. So you'll be warm. It should be well below freezing tonight."
He thrusts the package back at me, and I fumble as I grab the sheets. With a tsking sound he tells me, "They are cobalt blue. I am, how do you say? Allergic to cobalt blue." His body suddenly shudders all over as he runs his hands up his thighs and brings them to his face.
"I get hives. All over. You have tea? I have the ulcers."
He shuts the door. Eight weeks and six days to go.
I need to start saying no.
I thought about this. We have a small guest house that's detached from our home. When we bought the place, it was dark and dirty, but over the past three years we have changed it to an inviting space with wood floors, light paint, and cute furnishings. Currently, its primary use is for sleepovers my daughters host. Still. The idea of having someone we don't know living on the property is a little strange, and I know this won't go over well with Bob.
"Yes, sure! Of course we'll help!"
He arrived on Saturday, and when the principal introduced him, I couldn't place his accent. Vaguely European? He looks like a child, although I will find out later he is at least in his late twenties. He is very thin, with pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. He is also very, very gay. This puts my husband at ease with the concept of a male tenant, and also mildly irritates him. Like most straight men who are not homophobic, he is uncomfortable with the sashaying, hand gesturing and giggling that accompany this visiting dance teacher.
"Where are you from?" I ask.
He sighs. It is, clearly, a weighty question. Why have I asked such a question when he is so jet lagged?
"Ohhh. 'Tis a hard question." His voice is nasal, and he sounds strained, as if it is a mammoth effort to speak, so he comes across both bored and pained. And with a slight head cold.
"I was born in Lithuania, but I've lived in Austria, Germany, France..." he trails off. "I need water. It is so dry here."
Later that day, I knocked on his door with a bag of sheets and towels from Target. He opened the bag silently, then took out the package of sheets. He held them in his hand at arm's length, then brought them closer, squinting.
"Are these black?"
"No. I think they're navy blue. But they're flannel. So you'll be warm. It should be well below freezing tonight."
He thrusts the package back at me, and I fumble as I grab the sheets. With a tsking sound he tells me, "They are cobalt blue. I am, how do you say? Allergic to cobalt blue." His body suddenly shudders all over as he runs his hands up his thighs and brings them to his face.
"I get hives. All over. You have tea? I have the ulcers."
He shuts the door. Eight weeks and six days to go.
I need to start saying no.
Friday, October 05, 2007
A Meme Walks Into a Bar...
I've been tagged by Andi for a Four things meme. If you're not in the mood for a healthy dose of narcissism, please scroll to the bottom to see if you've been tagged.
Four Things...
Four Jobs I've Had
Trash picker at the Oregon State Fair. I was fourteen and got the job because my uncle was the fair director. I actually liked it. I can still remember the smell of the hay in the barns in the early morning, and the way the dust looked in the sunlight in the stalls. And the fair food for lunch. Who doesn't want some good fair food?
Victim Witness Coordinator. I was assigned to adult felony crimes at our DA's office. This was my very favorite job. I loved going to court, the police ride alongs, the feeling that I was helping people and working against the "bad guys." What I didn't like was how insensitive it made me. You have to develop a hard shell when you're dealing with constant tragedy, and I got to the point where I could eat my lunch and look at autopsy pictures, or get excited when a "good rape case" landed on my desk.
Case Worker. This was a little more my speed. I worked at a battered women's shelter and handled a case load of clients. I liked that my job was to help them get back on their feet, make a new life. I didn't have to deal with the abuse aspect, rather I was there as a healing "move forward" catalyst, and there is nothing like seeing a woman get an admission letter to a local state college and acting as if it were a Harvard acceptance letter. Because to these women, doing anything on their own without being controlled is an enormous victory.
Minion. I don't know what my actual job title was, but in college my husband (well, at the time boyfriend) started a company that ran political campaigns for local candidates. I worked on two campaigns - one for the mayor and one for a city council person. I licked envelopes, made calls, and helped canvas neighborhoods to register citizens to vote. And I was dating the boss.
Four Movies I'd Watch Over and Over
Finding Nemo
The Thomas Crown Affair (1999)
The Wizard of Oz
The Godfather series
Four TV Shows
The Girls Next Door (Can't. Look.Away.)
Big Love
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Sex and the City reruns
Four Places I've Gone on Vacation
Bahamas, Lost Lake, France, Jekyll Island
Four Fave Foods
Goat Cheese (on anything. A caramelized onion tart, my entire body - doesn't matter)
Pad Thai with tofu
Gin and Tonic (limes happen to be an excellent source of Vit. C)
The spicy bean burritos from the vendors in Peurto Penasco, Mexico
Four Websites I visit Daily
Several dozen or more from my favorites list (there are over a hundred on there)
Huffington Post
The Weather Channel (I know. I check every day. Nerd alert)
Uh, more blogs from my favorites
Four Places I'd Rather Be
In bed reading
In a hammock on an island, reading
Snorkeling through calm lagoon waters with my kids, with a good book waiting on the beach
Disney with the kids
Four Bloggers I Tag
Painted Maypole
Kristi
Dorky Dad
Absolutely Bananas
Four Things...
Four Jobs I've Had
Trash picker at the Oregon State Fair. I was fourteen and got the job because my uncle was the fair director. I actually liked it. I can still remember the smell of the hay in the barns in the early morning, and the way the dust looked in the sunlight in the stalls. And the fair food for lunch. Who doesn't want some good fair food?
Victim Witness Coordinator. I was assigned to adult felony crimes at our DA's office. This was my very favorite job. I loved going to court, the police ride alongs, the feeling that I was helping people and working against the "bad guys." What I didn't like was how insensitive it made me. You have to develop a hard shell when you're dealing with constant tragedy, and I got to the point where I could eat my lunch and look at autopsy pictures, or get excited when a "good rape case" landed on my desk.
Case Worker. This was a little more my speed. I worked at a battered women's shelter and handled a case load of clients. I liked that my job was to help them get back on their feet, make a new life. I didn't have to deal with the abuse aspect, rather I was there as a healing "move forward" catalyst, and there is nothing like seeing a woman get an admission letter to a local state college and acting as if it were a Harvard acceptance letter. Because to these women, doing anything on their own without being controlled is an enormous victory.
Minion. I don't know what my actual job title was, but in college my husband (well, at the time boyfriend) started a company that ran political campaigns for local candidates. I worked on two campaigns - one for the mayor and one for a city council person. I licked envelopes, made calls, and helped canvas neighborhoods to register citizens to vote. And I was dating the boss.
Four Movies I'd Watch Over and Over
Finding Nemo
The Thomas Crown Affair (1999)
The Wizard of Oz
The Godfather series
Four TV Shows
The Girls Next Door (Can't. Look.Away.)
Big Love
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Sex and the City reruns
Four Places I've Gone on Vacation
Bahamas, Lost Lake, France, Jekyll Island
Four Fave Foods
Goat Cheese (on anything. A caramelized onion tart, my entire body - doesn't matter)
Pad Thai with tofu
Gin and Tonic (limes happen to be an excellent source of Vit. C)
The spicy bean burritos from the vendors in Peurto Penasco, Mexico
Four Websites I visit Daily
Several dozen or more from my favorites list (there are over a hundred on there)
Huffington Post
The Weather Channel (I know. I check every day. Nerd alert)
Uh, more blogs from my favorites
Four Places I'd Rather Be
In bed reading
In a hammock on an island, reading
Snorkeling through calm lagoon waters with my kids, with a good book waiting on the beach
Disney with the kids
Four Bloggers I Tag
Painted Maypole
Kristi
Dorky Dad
Absolutely Bananas
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Philanthropy Thursday
Gah! What a day (and it's barely 7:00 AM as I write this). I need to do something good today to just get my mind off things. Despite my vows to simplify things this year, busy-ness has crept up behind me on soft padded feet. And she's a tiger. Add to that an increasingly deranged form of PMS that hits me each month (it gets worse as we get older, right? This is normal and my uterus isn't going to just plunk out on the floor on me one day in revolt?), extreme fatigue from dragging my sorry self to a PTA meeting last night, and then unwisely choosing to read a great book late in to the night and I'm ready for the weekend.
Today I am going to finish making calls for a PTA project I have. This feels really giving right now as I would rather do a face plant into some Thai food and finish my book. I am also going to jot down some ideas I have for a meeting this weekend. In a fit of mania (or perhaps I was just ovulating), I agreed to become the volunteer coordinator for the Democratic party for my county. It's going to be a bit of a challenge in this Red State I live in, and I have already begged a girlfriend of mine to do this with me. Of course, she's busier than I am, and smarter, too. So promptly after our meeting, I get to go help her paint her home office in return. I'm hoping the paint fumes ease cramps.
Lastly, I recently figured out that my family eats $170 worth of yogurt each month. Is that obscene? I thought so. It's not like we don't stock plenty of snack alternatives, so for the month of October I will not be adding yogurts to my cart at the store, and on November 1st the kids and I will go buy $170 worth of canned food and take it over to the food bank. They can nosh on cheese this month. I think they'll live.
By the way, I'm reading Prep. It's been hailed as Salinger-esque and I totally agree. But be warned: you will neglect people until you finish this book.
Today I am going to finish making calls for a PTA project I have. This feels really giving right now as I would rather do a face plant into some Thai food and finish my book. I am also going to jot down some ideas I have for a meeting this weekend. In a fit of mania (or perhaps I was just ovulating), I agreed to become the volunteer coordinator for the Democratic party for my county. It's going to be a bit of a challenge in this Red State I live in, and I have already begged a girlfriend of mine to do this with me. Of course, she's busier than I am, and smarter, too. So promptly after our meeting, I get to go help her paint her home office in return. I'm hoping the paint fumes ease cramps.
Lastly, I recently figured out that my family eats $170 worth of yogurt each month. Is that obscene? I thought so. It's not like we don't stock plenty of snack alternatives, so for the month of October I will not be adding yogurts to my cart at the store, and on November 1st the kids and I will go buy $170 worth of canned food and take it over to the food bank. They can nosh on cheese this month. I think they'll live.
By the way, I'm reading Prep. It's been hailed as Salinger-esque and I totally agree. But be warned: you will neglect people until you finish this book.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Are You Listening, Dave Barry?
Dave Barry and I have a lot in common. He writes columns that make millions of Americans laugh. He’s syndicated. He’s written books. People know who this guy is.I write things that make my husband laugh (when sex is on the horizon). I leave comments on other people’s blogs. I have earned several dozen dollars in Amazon gift cards over the course of my writing. The similarities? They are eerie. I have a call in to John Edwards (the psychic) to investigate our parallel existence.
Other bloggers have voiced their appreciation for writers they admire. I am going to do the same. Except that I will not be making a video. I considered a rap, but Dave Barry is very old and may not appreciate anything outside of Neil Diamond’s genre.
So I wrote him a letter.
Dear Dave Barry:
I have a blog, too. So why don't I have a syndicated column? Aren't you heading into retirement soon? I've been reading you since roughly the third grade, and I'm not so young anymore, so that makes you, what? Ninety?
Because I understand how compelling these words must be, I am willing to spare you the shame of begging and say, yes. Yes, I will take over your column. Look at the Abbey women. You could follow in their footsteps! Plus, I have more kids than you.
Just be sure to tell the good people over in payroll that it's Jen, not Jenn. I want to make sure the check clears before buying that Volvo.
Jen M.
Friends, fellow bloggers, lurkers: if you are reading this, I am beseeching you to send Dave Barry the following form letter, asking him to let me write his column for a day. Just cut and paste the following…
Dear Dave Barry:
I am a crazed fan of Get In The Car! and I am telling you: you’re on your way out, Old Man. Why don’t you rest your bunions and let her write your column for a day? You could garden, maybe get to those coupons, or hell, babysit some of her kids. She has enough. If you messed up and lost one due to your senility, she might not even notice.
If you do this, she has promised to split your earnings for a week among us super fans. That is a very generous thing of you to offer, and we appreciate it. Obviously, without financial compensation, we
Very Truly Yours,
Crazed Fan Number ________(please start with 46,892 as this makes me look good)
Then send it to: DaveBlog@Herald.com
p.s. Would Secret Agent shoot me an email? You won the bracelet from last Thursday's Philanthropy Thursday! Thanks, and congrats!
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Would You Do A Favor For A Fellow Blogger?
Fellow blogger and fabulous writer, Jenn, over at I serve The Queens has lost a family member. She is creating a web card for Terry & Cheryl Blaskowski, parents of Sgt. Matthew Blaskowski.
http://iservethequeens.blogspot.com/2007/10/of-america-heroes.html
Comments will be moderated; no anti-war messages will be posted.
Would you take a moment and send your kind thoughts? She would like to get this to them ASAP.
http://iservethequeens.blogspot.com/2007/10/of-america-heroes.html
Comments will be moderated; no anti-war messages will be posted.
Would you take a moment and send your kind thoughts? She would like to get this to them ASAP.
This Just In: Britney Spears Loses Physical Custody of her Children
In a shocking twist in the oft-discussed Britney/Kevin love spiral, Britney has just been ordered to relinquish custody of her babies to her ex, Kevin “my middle name is class – or is it ass” Federline (cuz ass is good, right?).
What went awry in the marriage to lead them both down this path of heartache and despair? I can tell you. In fact, it’s quite simple.
Britney should have married my husband, Bob, a.k.a. The B-Mag or Jam-Master Finance. It's all good, homies, and I’m going to lay it out for y’all.
Picture it, if you will:
May, 2000: Britney enrolls part-time at the University of Oregon. She lives in the dorms to get closer to the real people; although she is frequently gone promoting what will soon be her first album. Dorm mates spot a young man approaching and point in delight. Could this be Brit’s new boyfriend?
Indeed it is. The young ladies gasp collectively as the tall figure walks through the courtyard into the dorm entrance. The tails of his Polo button down sway in the warm breeze, his pulled up dress socks adding just the right dash of je ne sais quoi. Two girls literally swoon. Britney knows this is her man, as he’s carrying his signature briefcase by his side. After all, he is the star College Agent for a national life insurance company. Yes, it’s college: a time to experiment, to be free, and to delve into the fantasy world that is Fortune 500 companies. With a familiar “click click” Britney hears Bob snap open his briefcase as he approaches her door. Her entourage moves to the sides of the room to prepare for his entrance, and the doors open to Bob holding a whole life policy in Britney’s name. “This ain’t term, baby,” He croons, and two months later, Hit Me Baby, One More Time is born.
2004: Britney is impregnated with triplets. B-Mag doesn’t like to mess around with the average, and by God, his woman is gonna breed, dammit. Get that DNA out there! There are future Phi Kappa Psi Presidents to be made! Three months after the triplets are born, Britney succumbs to his virility and conceives yet again. Oops...I Did it Again goes double platinum in a re-release.
2007: Britney announces her retirement to train German Shepherd Dogs, and is elected to her children’s PTA for a record four year presidential term. Bob couldn’t be prouder, and promotes Britney to Chief Operating Officer of their household affairs.
2020: Britney celebrates twenty years with B-Mag, and in honor of their loving bond, releases her first album in 13 years: a Christian collaboration with Kathie Lee Gifford singing backup. For the piece de resistance, Britney and Bob adopt two of the Jolie-Pitt children that were left out in a previous divorce decree.
2053: In a tragic set of events, Britney’s plane crashes en route to charity work at the Oregon Alpha chapter of Phi Kappa Psi. Her dream of adding a wing to the crumbling frat house and becoming an honorary House Mother burn with the plane wreckage. Four days later she is buried next to Bob’s first briefcase. The nation mourns.
Do you see how differently things could have gone for Brit?
What went awry in the marriage to lead them both down this path of heartache and despair? I can tell you. In fact, it’s quite simple.
Britney should have married my husband, Bob, a.k.a. The B-Mag or Jam-Master Finance. It's all good, homies, and I’m going to lay it out for y’all.
Picture it, if you will:
May, 2000: Britney enrolls part-time at the University of Oregon. She lives in the dorms to get closer to the real people; although she is frequently gone promoting what will soon be her first album. Dorm mates spot a young man approaching and point in delight. Could this be Brit’s new boyfriend?
Indeed it is. The young ladies gasp collectively as the tall figure walks through the courtyard into the dorm entrance. The tails of his Polo button down sway in the warm breeze, his pulled up dress socks adding just the right dash of je ne sais quoi. Two girls literally swoon. Britney knows this is her man, as he’s carrying his signature briefcase by his side. After all, he is the star College Agent for a national life insurance company. Yes, it’s college: a time to experiment, to be free, and to delve into the fantasy world that is Fortune 500 companies. With a familiar “click click” Britney hears Bob snap open his briefcase as he approaches her door. Her entourage moves to the sides of the room to prepare for his entrance, and the doors open to Bob holding a whole life policy in Britney’s name. “This ain’t term, baby,” He croons, and two months later, Hit Me Baby, One More Time is born.
2004: Britney is impregnated with triplets. B-Mag doesn’t like to mess around with the average, and by God, his woman is gonna breed, dammit. Get that DNA out there! There are future Phi Kappa Psi Presidents to be made! Three months after the triplets are born, Britney succumbs to his virility and conceives yet again. Oops...I Did it Again goes double platinum in a re-release.
2007: Britney announces her retirement to train German Shepherd Dogs, and is elected to her children’s PTA for a record four year presidential term. Bob couldn’t be prouder, and promotes Britney to Chief Operating Officer of their household affairs.
2020: Britney celebrates twenty years with B-Mag, and in honor of their loving bond, releases her first album in 13 years: a Christian collaboration with Kathie Lee Gifford singing backup. For the piece de resistance, Britney and Bob adopt two of the Jolie-Pitt children that were left out in a previous divorce decree.
2053: In a tragic set of events, Britney’s plane crashes en route to charity work at the Oregon Alpha chapter of Phi Kappa Psi. Her dream of adding a wing to the crumbling frat house and becoming an honorary House Mother burn with the plane wreckage. Four days later she is buried next to Bob’s first briefcase. The nation mourns.
Do you see how differently things could have gone for Brit?
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