Thanks, Mom

It has taken me this long to understand where my mom was coming from. 

Back when I was still living at home and antsy to get out into the big, wide world, my mom laid it out for me:  once I decided to move out of the house, I was ALL out.  There would be no financial support, and I wasn’t going to be moving in and out again at my convenience if things got tough.  I had to be sure I could make it on my own. 

To be fair, she did issue a caveat.  She knew that I’d most likely be moving in with my boyfriend and, the ever-suspicious mom, she did say that they would take me back if he ever hurt me.  And, not ‘hurt’ as in a broken heart.  If we broke up and he kicked me out, I was still on my own.  But ‘hurt’ as in a broken arm – that was a different story. So there was that, at least.  But only that.  At the time, I thought it was pretty harsh.

Nevertheless, I moved out.  I didn’t jump without a parachute, of course.  I had a car, a job and an apartment to share with my boyfriend.  But that’s not to say I didn’t have to learn some things along the way.  

I learned never to shop when you’re hungry unless you want to blow through two weeks worth of your grocery budget.

I learned about the credit card trap and, subsequently, I learned about consolidation loans.

I learned that having good credit is no joke.

I learned that sometimes you have to work at a crappy-ass job - or two - or four, whether you like it or not.

I learned that the weekly ten-cent wing night at the bar next door can help stretch your food budget.  And provide some great free entertainment, to boot.

I learned about consignment shops and flea markets.

I learned that paying rent to live in not-so-ideal conditions always sucks, but that it’s a powerful motivator.

The point is, I learned.   More to the point, I might not have learned these things half so well if I’d thought there’d be a comfy cushion to fall back on.  And I wouldn’t have learned them at all if I’d had things handed to me.  I might not have tried so hard or been so resilient or learned to rely on myself to get me out of trouble.

So, now I understand what my mom was setting me up for.  And it turns out, her intuition about how to create a responsible adult was right.  So right, in fact, that I hope I have the fortitude to do the same with my kids.  Even if, down the road, we can give them the things they need to have a comfortable life, my hope is that we don’t, and that they learn to earn a comfortable life on their own, struggles, lessons and all.

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P.S. Yeah, yeah, Mom knows best – usually.  Her suspicions weren’t always spot-on, though.  The boyfriend I moved in with?  He never hurt me, not even once. In fact, he treated me so well that it was a no-brainer to accept his proposal when he finally asked me to marry him 17 years ago :)

9/11: I hope I can do it justice

When I was in elementary school, we were handed a sheet of questions.  There were lots of questions like, “What do you remember about the Great Depression?” and, “What did you think on the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated?”   We were instructed to sit with our grandparents and ask them these questions and write down the answers.  We were also asked to tape-record the interview (I still have the cassette, though I’d be afraid to play it, for fear it will break).  What a great project that was.  I wasn’t able to fully appreciate it at the time, but now I realize what a treasure of information my grandparents were.  I mean, they provided the 3-D texture for those events, where school textbooks gave us the flat facts. 

I can still remember the tone of my grandmother’s voice when she was recounting how things were during the Depression.  Even though I was young, I still got a sense of the severity and solemnity of the experience. It was amazing, the detail she could remember.

But my grandfather stole the show. He seemed to have perfect recall of the history he’d witnessed, even if it had been a half-century since the actual event.  And not just the event, but things leading up to it, and the aftermaths as well.  And he recalled it with feeling.  I could tell which events had worried him, or made him angry or sad.  For not having been alive for any of those events, I was able – through my grandfather – to better understand the gravity of some of the things that shaped our country.  Even my teachers were impressed by his interview.  They listened to portions of our tapes and they nodded their heads in approval when my grandfather would throw in extra historical tidbits.  They said he had a tremendous speaking voice (he really did) and I remember being so proud that he did such a good job.

I got wondering if my grandkids will ask me someday to tell them about the day the Twin Towers fell.  I guess, by then, the full impact of that day will have played out.  But that’s hard to imagine because, as of this writing, eleven years later, we’re still trying to navigate the fallout.  Like a Polaroid picture that’s taking way too long to show itself, we can see some of the results, but we fidget and wait for the rest in order to find out what we really have.

Because of this, it’s challenging to explain to my kids when they ask about it.  I’ve had several years of practice so far, but as they are able to understand more, I have less to tell them.  Sure, every year I tell them about where I was and how I felt.  I’ve always tried to make it less terrifying and retell the stories about strength, courage and outpourings of humanity.  But I’m at a loss when I try to bring it back around to tell them what it – and everything since then – has all been for. 

All I know, for now, is that the events of this day one decade and one year ago changed the course of American history and with it, all of our lives. Exactly how and how much it changed us has yet to be seen.  I’m hoping that, by the time my grandkids get around to asking me about it, I can do it justice.  I hope I can bring home the importance and meaning and emotion of a momentous time, the way my grandparents did for me.

When an omission makes a statement

“I love my kids – they’re my whole world.” Sometimes that statement makes me cringe. Especially if I know that the mom who said it is in a meaningful relationship with the dad. I always hope he doesn’t find out that she’s letting everyone know what’s most important in her life and he didn't even warrant a mention. What IS that? 

It’s a glaring omission. I get an image in my head (it’s unfortunately unoriginal, but hey, it’s what pops up): a small island in the middle of a vast sea. Mom and kids are on the island, hugging. Dad is adrift just off shore, in a rowboat with no oars; close enough to see what going on, but apparently uninvited to join. Oy.

Hubby and I were together for about nine years before we were blindsided surprised by my pregnancy. We hadn’t scheduled kids into our agenda yet, so the idea took a while to blossom into prenatal joy and excitement. I was naïve, of course, and was a bit resentful toward the impending newcomer. It felt like I was going to have to take the affections I had for Hubby away from Hubby in order to give them to the new baby. And it made me quite sad. I never wanted to put anyone before the love of my life. 

I learned, to my delight, that love and affection don’t come in limited quantities; that you can always make more. No one has to be shorted in order for someone else to get some. One’s world tends to expand in a family situation, and there’s plenty of room for everyone.

So where along the way - and how - does someone get left out of a proclamation of love, when they were there from the beginning and are still there?

Maybe she thinks, “Oh, he KNOWS what I mean”, or, “Pffft – he doesn’t care”. Hmmm, really?  Quite an assumption there.  OK, maybe he wouldn't have been offended.  But what a missed opportunity to make someone feel special. 

Breaks my heart every time.

Something amazing happened today

They planned a munchie day at work for today where everyone brings in a dish and then shares at lunchtime. I went back and forth for a few days, not sure what I should bring.  I finally decided to make and bring a fresh salsa.

I woke up in a panic at 1AM this morning because I'd forgotten to go to the store for the ingredients.  My first thought was to just throw together the brownie mix I had in the pantry and call it good.  But I really wanted to do the salsa, so I decided to get up early and get to the store so I could make it before work.

It's a tasty snack, so it got the usual compliments, but one lady in particular asked for the recipe.  She said she was going to bring some back to her coworker to try.  Her coworker was on an organic diet as a way to help her fight her cancer, and was interested in anything new she could try.

So I emailed the lady my recipe and got an email in response.  She said that her friend loved the salsa and that it was something she could eat on her new diet.  She thanked me up and down.  I wrote back to say she was welcome and I told her that I'd almost brought something else, but that I guess I'd made the right choice.

She wrote back and said, "You have no idea what you've done - you were guided.  My friend is starting to struggle with the limitations of what she can eat.  We see this as a new gift that will help her stay strong so she can fight her disease." 

What she said - about being guided - made me think back to all the things that led up to that last step of putting the bowl of salsa out on the table in the breakroom.  Had I really been "guided"?   It seems I might have been.  And for an awesome purpose.  To re-inspire someone to keep battling cancer?   Amazing.  Overwhelming.  In itself, inspiring. 

If that's what being guided is, if it leads me to unintentionally and even unknowingly help others, in big ways or small, I hope to always go where I'm led.

I was a hippy beach dude in another life?

Even been in funk? I’d describe it as a temporary condition, just this side of depression. You can still function, still socialize, still laugh, but you can’t help feeling something’s off. Apparently, I was in one and didn’t know it until today when I realized I’d just come out of it. Crazy. Here’s the story:

So, the last time my phone was ready for an upgrade, I was either short on cash or patience or, most likely, both. As such, I was in no mood to scout out the latest and greatest gadget and opted for the free, bare-bones model. It was a clam-shell phone with no touch screen, no data plan, no qwerty. At the time, and for the next year, I told myself I just didn’t need the bells and whistles. Fine and good. Between then and now, C got his first phone and entered into the world of texting. Also, more and more friends started using texting as the go-to way of reaching out. No problem at first, but then I realized that, honestly, texting on a non-qwerty keypad bites.

Then I had one of my not-so-great-in-hindsight ideas: to motivate myself, I would abstain from getting a new phone until I reached a certain weight-loss goal. I figured it would be a suitable reward for my hard work and, by that time, I’d certainly deserve it.

 Fast forward a year, where I found myself no closer to my goal than before. And now my phone was eligible for another upgrade. What to do? Some irrelevant drama ensued, but at the end, I abandoned my goal and my unspeakably thoughtful Hubby got me a new, “real” phone. 

While setting it up, Hubby suggested that I get the Pandora app. Probably the best advice he’s ever offered that I’ve had the good sense to take.

All day today I ran down my data allotment, streaming Pandora from my new phone. In the middle of cubical city, as I listened to my customized station, as one great song after another was piped through my earbuds directly into my brain, I felt myself coming out of the funk I didn’t realize I was in. I had to make sure that’s what it was and, when I did a quick lookback , it’s true: I’d been kind of lost and just shy of feeling awesome for a while there. But no longer.

 So, with help of Hubby and Pandora, I learned some stuff:

 One: I will never again deprive myself of the latest technology if it will mean I’m also depriving myself access to other cool things in the big, wide world.  Even if I think I don't need it. 

Two: I thought that, when I got my new phone, I'd be in a great state of mind because it would have meant that I reach my weight-loss goal.  It turns out that getting the phone first actually LED me to a great state of mind.  And without all the sweating.

Three:  Of all the channels I could have picked on Pandora, I went with Jack Johnson and damn if every last song didn't reach me. In addition to loving all of JJ's stuff, I also discovered some new guys:  Donavon Frankenreiter, Michael Franti and Dispatch.  Apparently I have some kind of connection with beachy, hippy dudes.  Cool.

Hitting the books: gay marriage

Bible Thumping

I’m a Catholic with a brain. I get that my faith is based on the Bible. But I also get that the Bible has to be interpreted with some application of common sense.

Ponder: who even originally wrote the Bible? Men. Arab men. Three thousand year-old Arab men. Call me crazy, but I’m wondering if modern-day Catholic (or other Bible-based religious group) Americans have a lot in common with the original authors. Do you suppose any of our beliefs have evolved to become different than theirs? I'm guessing so, since we no longer stone our criminals, we don't consider it dishonorable for men to have long hair and women to have short hair, and adultery no longer carries a death sentence. Yup, these things are all commands the Good Book (still) gives us.  Yet, somewhere along the way, we decided to tune out these particulars.

How did we decide (and who decided, anyway?)  that we could ignore those directives and still consider ourselves good followers?   Perhaps, at some point, we reviewed the writings and realized that they were based on ancient, outdated points of view and that we needed to do some updating to our rationalization of the text.

Huh.  What an idea.

Dictionary Thumping

You know I love words.  I get great pleasure out of extracting their true meanings and promoting their proper usage.  I’ve been thinking about three words in particular:  Christmas, traditional and marriage.

Christmas breaks down into two parts:  Christ + mas.  Literally, Christ + mass:  mass, meaning celebration, Christ, meaning…well, Christ.  It’s a celebration of the birth of Christ.  A birthday party, folks.

Traditional – customary, conventional, usual, habitual.  

Marriage – a close union, blend or mixture of two things.

So when someone says “traditional Christmas”, it can be taken to mean “a customary celebration”, or “a celebration we do out of habit”.   What it brings to mind is a pine tree with lights, presents, carols, turkey dinner – all of our standard little rituals and customs that we do in order to celebrate the birth of our favorite VIP. 

I know a family that doesn’t exchange presents at Christmastime, choosing, instead, to donate that money to charities.  In my own family, it just wouldn’t be Christmas dinner without lumpia (Chamorro eggrolls) on the table.  Some choose to spend Christmas in exotic places, rather than gather around the hearth at the homestead.    All quite un-traditional practices, but do they diminish the heart of the celebration itself?  Not in the least.  Put another way:  as long as I show up to the party and am mindful of what I’m actually celebrating, then I don’t think the Birthday Boy cares whether I bring traditional cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles or I bring an untraditional fig tart topped with crushed macadamia nuts, drizzled with a chocolate liqueur glaze with a lit sparkler shooting out of it.  It’s all for the sake of the celebration, and it’s all good.  It’s all about the “Christmas” and not the “traditional”.

Then how about “traditional marriage”?   In that phrase, “traditional” is not the subject at all; it’s merely the adjective used to describe the subject, which is “marriage”. 

We can all agree that marriage is a union.  We also agree that marriage should be rooted in love.  How can we impose sanctions on a union based on love?

Love (noun): affection, adoration, friendship, tenderness, feeling, fondness, devotion, passion.  These are the things we want to have the power to red-light or green-light at our discretion?  In these uncertain times, when grim news comes down the wire every day, these are the values that we would rally against?  And why? Because we would stand on tradition?   The words that now come to mind are:  preposterous, ridiculous, unreasonable and outrageous. 

Because I like words so much, I tend to use a lot of them.  But there’s something to be said for coming to the point as quickly as possible.  I think Lenny Kravitz did a great job of it and he did it using only three words:  let love rule. 

Indeed.

Take a compliment, give a compliment

 

Maybe it’s because I witnessed too many people give insincere, kiss-uppy compliments to one another that I made a subconscious decision to never give out gratuitous compliments of my own. I say 'subconscious' because it wasn’t until recently that I realized I am very, very stingy when it comes to doling out compliments. Oh, I give my kids compliments all the time. It’s good for their self-esteem and all that. But grown ups – and especially fellow womenfolk? Nope. I mean, not even my mom. Not that I don’t admire things about people, but I guess I have a deep-seated fear of coming off as disingenuous and would rather keep my praise to myself than sound fake.

I think I hated that most compliments seemed to place emphasis on shallow, unimportant things.  I would grit my teeth to hear a conversation between two ladies that would start with a squeal followed closely by, “Ooooo! I soooo love your shoooooes!” Dry heave. And no, I wasn’t jealous that it wasn’t my shoes that were being fawned over. I received a designer bag for Christmas and carried it, in part, so that my mom could see that I liked her gift. But I got disgusted when a couple of ladies from work, who never talk to me otherwise, went way out of their way to compliment my bag. Ugh. As if only now that I carried a status symbol on my arm was I interesting enough to speak to. Barf, barf, barf.

After that, I went away for a Girls’ Weekend with six other ladies – some old friends and some casual acquaintances. It was fun and over too soon and before I knew it, I was back home, replaying random moments in my head. It was during this internal lookback that I noticed there were compliments flying every which way all weekend. Not always about important things, but at the same time, not necessarily insincere.  And in the case of the girls that I didn’t know as well as the others, complimenting each other was an icebreaker of sorts. Kind of like when you were in kindergarten on the playground and went around asking people, “Do you want to be my friend?” – but only in a more sophisticated, grown up way. I also noticed that, amongst friends, it can be an amiable and charming way to express fondness and acceptance.

Would I rather be complimented on something I achieved than on an accessory? Sure. Will I still wretch when I hear sugar-coated compliments preceded by double-cheek air kisses? Yep. But I’m learning that, while some compliments can be gratuitous, they aren’t automatically empty. Taken – and given - in the right context, they can brighten a day or even kick-start a friendship. Huh. Whaddya know.