Lisa Smith Molinari

Archive for the ‘family’ Category

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The Dirty Secrets of Property Ownership

In family, Humor on April 1, 2012 at 8:56 am

When asked by friends recently what my family was doing for Spring Break, I declared boastfully, “Oh, why we’re going to our beach house, of course.”

Leaving a pregnant pause, I hoped my friends would ask for more details, so I could brag that “my family” has owned a beach house in North Carolina’s windswept Outer Banks since the 1970s. I hoped that my explanation would conjure up visions of Kennedy-esque old money, and me lounging on a sun-soaked chase overlooking the sea, wearing a nautical-striped boat neck top, large sunglasses and a silk scarf blowing in the cool ocean breeze.

Little do these friends know that, although I am one of 12 extended Smith family members who own a beach cottage, our ownership experience is nothing like Jackie’s and John John’s days spent carelessly frolicking the grounds of their estate on Maaahtha’s Vinyaahd. I’d say our family vacation property ownership experience is more akin to what might happen if the Hatfields and the McCoys went in together on a timeshare on Lake Winnipesaukee.

There’s no question about it—the benefits of co-owning a vacation home must be balanced against the reality of sharing the property with relatives.

When the house was first built in 1979, I was most likely humming “Muskrat Love” in a pink halter-top while sipping Tang from the banana seat of my yellow Schwinn, so I was happily ignorant of the practical ramifications of my parents’ decision to invest in a vacation property with our quirky relatives. All I knew was that we had the grooviest beach house ever, and I claimed the loft bedroom with the gold shag carpeting at the top of the mod spiral staircase as my own.

It wasn’t until I bought my own share of the beach house in 1992 that reality slapped me hard in the face. I soon realized that “my” beach house was not really “mine.” I was sharing this place with a bunch of strange relatives, many of which harbored long-standing family rivalries, and some of which thought the upstairs loft bedroom was theirs too.

This was not the beach house ownership status that I’d envisioned, and I soon became aware of the secrets families who co-own keep.

Like, that owning an “equal” share does not necessarily mean sharing equally in the responsibilities. One owner might stain the entire deck on his vacation, while another might sacrifice only the amount of time that it takes to pencil into the beach house repair log, “New light bulb needed in bedside lamp.”

Like, that no co-owners’ cleaning standards are alike. One owner might think it completely appropriate to dump all the Scrabble tiles, Happy meal toys, and a few used cotton swabs into the utensil drawer, while another owner will spend an entire day of every annual vacation reorganizing the toys, linens, tools, cookware, games, cards and cleaning supplies. Oh, and she will spend a few more precious minutes wiping the splattered daiquiri someone left on off the wall behind the blender. (Not that I’m bitter or anything.)

Like, that co-owners never own up to breaking anything, and will think nothing of propping the foosball table up with the leg their kid just broke off, knowing full well that 150-pounds of wood-laminate-covered particle board might come crashing down on the next vacationing owner’s foot.

Like, that co-owners will take items that would not sell in their garage sales and unload them at the beach house. Ours has no less that 13 small pans that are meant for sautéing shallots, a plastic plant, seven used bedding sets in every floral pattern imaginable, nine toothbrush holders, and five Thanksgiving-themed tea towels.

Like, that co-owners will vote on strict Rules and Procedures prohibiting pets and smoking, but will do whatever they darned well please, believing the rules to only apply to the other owners, and knowing full well that no one will be able to pin the inhuman black hairs imbedded in the carpet on them.

Like, that co-owners never bother throwing anything away. Our house has a drawer full of owner’s manuals from every alarm clock, toaster, microwave, grill, washing machine, VCR and fan we have jointly owned since 1979. We also have over a dozen clickers that don’t seem to work with any TV. Additionally, our shared storage closet contains a discarded shoe, a bicep curl apparatus, an empty DVD case, a curtain rod, old saltshakers, a can of coffee that is at least 15 years old, and a bottle of cheap Asti Spumante.

Despite these dirty (and sometimes sticky, cluttered and tacky) little family secrets, we all feel fortunate to have something most people only dream about – vacation property ownership. And just like the defunct TV clickers and old saltshakers, no one will ever take that away.

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The Skittles-Space Continuum

In family on January 15, 2012 at 11:47 am

“Where are the tickets?” I said with a half-panicked gasp. The line was moving steadily ahead, and we were almost at the admissions booth.

My husband searched his wallet, while I frantically fondled my video camera case; my pockets full of gum, tissues, and Dramamine for motion sickness; and my backpack stuffed with water bottles, sunglasses, wet wipes, and brochures

“Found ‘em!” my husband exclaimed with relief, just as we stepped up to the Kennedy Space Center ticket window. Following a wave of tourists through the entrance, our family headed to the IMAX theater to watch a 3-D movie about the Hubble Space Telescope.

Once in our seats, I wondered why humans can put a man on the moon but can’t figure out how to make 3-D glasses look anything less than absolutely ridiculous.

Suddenly, Leonardo DiCaprio’s voice boomed through the theater’s sound system and bursts of stars and nebulae hurtled toward my face. For the next 45 minutes, we were totally transfixed, as unfathomable images of space-walking astronauts, neighboring planets and distant galaxies floated weightlessly before our ridiculously bedecked eyes.

At one point in the film, we saw Hubble telescope photographs of galaxies at the far reaches of our known Universe. Leonardo explained that, due to the speed of light and the mind-boggling distances involved, the images portrayed the celestial bodies as they actually were nearly 13 billion years ago.

As the spectacular images bombarded my senses, my mind struggled to comprehend how mere human beings have figured out how to take detailed photographs of infant galaxies from the dawn of time.

At this very moment, my overworked brain approached maximum capacity. Like some kind of computer crash, the mental strain caused my mind to go blank, and the only thought I could manage was what I wanted for lunch.

We recuperated over hot dogs and soda before heading for the bus that would take us on a tour of the NASA launch facilities. While waiting in line, I occupied my time with people watching

I always enjoyed performing amateur analyses on strangers. I liked to think that I could figure a person out just by seeing what they had in their grocery cart, or what they were reading at the airport terminal, or what they were saying to their friend in the food court.

As I looked up and down the line of space enthusiasts, I noticed a lot of foreigners — Asians, Indians, Persians and Arabs in particular. Everyone looked highly intelligent, and I started feeling a bit intimidated.

I glanced self-consciously at my own little family. Our teenage son was scraping off and eating the plop of hot fudge that was in the middle of his Steeler shirt. Our teenage daughter was twirling her hair and looking at her nail polish. Our youngest daughter was staring cross-eyed at a bubble she just blew. My mother was playing peek-a-boo with a nearby toddler, and my husband was yawning.

Compared to this crowd of intellectually superior science enthusiasts, we looked like a bunch of simpletons.

Just then, I saw another average middle class American family in line, searching for their bus tickets. The husband (or baby-daddy) was wearing a t-shirt that read “Bacon is Meat Candy,” and the mother was clad in a lace crop top that allowed the exposed parts of her tattooed fleshy mid-section to bulge over the top of her short shorts. The daughter was wearing Minnie Mouse ears, and the son was picking his nose.

As they anxiously searched their camera bags and pockets for the tickets, something dropped from the mother’s purse. Colorful candy balls scattered everywhere, and the kids scrambled to retrieve the fallen Skittles. Despite some slight differences (I wouldn’t be caught dead in a crop top and prefer Junior Mints to Skittles) I felt a certain kinship with the family and empathized with their plight.

Later that night after touching moon rocks, riding in Shuttle simulators, and gazing at launch pads, we laid in our hotel beds, still struggling to fathom that a group of chain-smoking, coffee-drinking, Bryl-cream-wearing math and science geeks from the 1960s sent men in a rocket to the moon in an age when cutting edge technology still included black and white console TVs, rotary dial phones, and transistor radios.

The next day, I found myself people watching again while waiting in line for 90 minutes at nearby Space Mountain. Most were wearing silly hats, at least half were eating turkey legs, none looked particularly intelligent, but all seemed happy.

I realized that the people of this world are incredibly diverse. Like space and time, human beings fall on a vast continuum, and whether one is a rocket scientist or dumb as a rock, it is our similarities rather than our differences that define us as humankind.

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A Christmas Carol, Redux

In family, Humor, Memories, modern culture, parenting on December 5, 2011 at 2:03 pm

Thanksgiving was over, to begin with.

For some reason, my sports watch alarm went off at midnight, waking me from a strange dream, in which I was unable to run from a monster, molded from leftover stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy dripping from its outstretched arms, due to the weight of my own enormous thighs.

I started to drift off again, when a form suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed. She wore a floor-length polyester red and green plaid skirt, a white ruffled blouse with huge tab collar, a crocheted vest, and a Christmas tree pin.

“Hi, like, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to take you on, like, a pretty decent trip back to the 1970s,” the apparition said while twirling a segment of her long hair. No sooner did I grasp the ghost’s braided macramé belt than we were whisked on metal roller skates to the home of my youth.

It was about two weeks before Christmas 1974, and my mother was preparing her shopping list while my brother and I decorated the Christmas tree with silver tinsel, careful not to rest the tiny plastic strips on the bubble lights, which might burn the house down if we were not careful.

My mother’s list included the names of our little family, along with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. She had saved enough in her Christmas account to buy fruitcake, tea towels, Avon perfume, Barbis, Tonka trucks, and decorative tins of ribbon candies.

Although my brother and I loved to go downtown to see shops decorated with lights and mechanical elves, we begged to stay home so we would not miss the new Rankin Bass special, “The Year Without a Santa Clause,” which our console television might pick up if the antennae were turned just right.

My mother agreed to put off shopping one more day. Instead, she wrote out her twelve Christmas cards and served us cocoa in Santa mugs with cookies, which we were disappointed to find contained prunes, raisins, molasses, mincemeat, anise, or some other objectionable ingredient. Nevertheless, we lay contentedly on the green shag rug listening to a Burl Ives record, gazing up at our tree and its Styrofoam egg carton star.

I reached out, trying in vain to re-experience my youth, but was wrenched from my trance when a bubble light scorched my arm. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, and was abruptly heaped upon my own bed, surrounded by nothing but the dark night and a faint tapping sound.

There, seated on my bed, I saw the second apparition, her thumbs poking away at an iPhone. She glanced at me and said, “Hey, how’s it going. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, but hold on a sec, I have to answer this.”

Finally, the specter finished texting and proclaimed, “Alrighty, touch my yoga pants and let’s do this thing, because I’ve got carpool duty in a couple hours.” I grabbed her spandex waistband and was transported to scenes of unimaginable Christmas chaos.

First, we saw the three-page Christmas list I made right after Halloween, which included gifts for the school lunch ladies, Anna’s ukulele instructor, the seven neighbors we like and the three we don’t but can’t leave off the list for fear of inciting neighborhood drama.

Next, we joined a stampede of Black Friday shoppers, all poised to pepper spray each other over the last X Box 360 at Walmart. The Spirit took me to Starbucks, where we paid $5 for a Mocha Peppermint Chai Tea and $300 for gift cards for the kids’ teachers. Then we dashed home to type, print and mail out 150 copies of the annual family Christmas letter, replete with exaggerated superlatives about the kids and the daily activities of our dog.

Then, we ate, and ate, and ate. Everything from gallons of hot dip to platters of cookies packed with peanut butter chips, candy chunks, marshmallows and M&Ms. We washed it all down with cartons of egg nog which, according to the sell-by date, would still be edible come Valentine’s Day.

Finally, the Ghost dropped me in front of our HDTV virtual fireplace glowing beside our artificial tree with its economical LED lights. Exhausted, I pleaded, “Have mercy! Haunt me no more!”

Just then, a figure approached from the shadows. “Are you the Ghost of Christmases yet to come?!” I yelped in fear. The apparition only nodded and handed me a small high tech device. With a swipe, I activated a life-sized holographic Christmas tree. A second click started microwaving a frozen Christmas Tofurkey dinner with all the vegan fixins. In mere nanoseconds, I sent personalized Christmas video messages to friends of friends of friends on Facebook.

But then, the Spirit pointed a long finger at the futuristic device. On the screen appeared countless images of people sitting alone in the dark clicking buttons on Christmas. “Oh, no Spirit!” I cried, “I will heed these lessons and honor Christmas in my heart!”

I awoke in my own bed, and rushed excitedly down the stairs, shouting to my daughter, “Turn off that virtual fireplace before you dot another i, Lillian Molinari!” To my husband I demanded, “Off with you to the Winn Dixie for the fattest turkey in the freezer case!” I ripped up my three-page shopping list, put on my Sinatra holiday CD, and resolved to keep Christmas well.

The Spirits taught me that Christmastime needs balance. I shouldn’t go overboard and complicate the holiday with obligation, commercialism, and stress. I should spend less time at the stores or in front of the computer, and more time with family and friends. I must never allow the gifts, food, and decorations to overshadow the real reason for the season.

And lest I forget, God Bless Us, Every One!

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Putting the PC out to pasture

In family, Humor, Middle-Age, modern culture on November 28, 2011 at 1:10 pm

I keep things forever.

I have my seventh grade yearbook with the Smurf puffy stickers I stuck on it still decorating the back cover. I have my 2005 Toyota Sienna minivan with 82,000 miles on it, a dent in the hood, and Goldfish still under the seats from when the kids were little. I still have a pair of Lee overalls that I have not worn since 9th grade when they were, believe it or not, in style in my hometown.

And I still, until quite recently, contentedly tapped away at our old 2004 computer.

I knew that old PC like the back of my hand, both of which, lately, have been showing obvious signs of old age.

When we first got her, we were amazed by her state-of-the-art 80-gigabyte hard drive. We couldn’t believe that she could connect with the “world wide web” in a matter of seconds, and without the annoying dial up screech-ping-dings we were so accustomed to hearing. We felt exhilarated when scrolling around her desktop icons and multiple open windows with a click of her newfangled mouse.

Seven years, two hard drive crashes, and an added memory board later, our old PC is ready to call it a day. Despite my meticulous maintenance, her keyboard is gummed up and some of the letters have rubbed off. The mouse has lost its get up and go, especially after we’ve banged it on the desk one too many times when the cursor got stuck. And, her antiquated floppy drive slot is packed with dust from years of neglect.

Try as she might, she can’t handle today’s barrage of data. We don’t dare get on Facebook and Googlemail at the same time, for fear that our screen will freeze up. We can’t upload photos, unless we can wait the rest of the day while she takes her sweet time. And we certainly can’t expect to watch a YouTube video without it pausing every four seconds while she tries to process chunks of information in manageable bites, like spoonfulls of tapioca pudding.

As much as we loved our old PC, we knew it was time.

It’s always good to know a computer geek, and recently, my husband befriended one at work. His name was Jimmy, and, like all techno-dweebs, he was more than happy to give us advice on buying a new computer.

Although he started out using the technical jargon of his field, he learned very quickly that he needed to dumb it down for us.

“I personally recommend switching to an Apple iMac for a number of reasons, the least of which is the Thunderbolt data-transfer technology, and of course there’s the four gigabyte memory, AMD graphics processors, and one terabyte hard drive. You can stream half a dozen HD videos simultaneously from an external RAID array, no problem.”

He might as well have been speaking Cantonese. We thought a “terabyte” was something like a “gazillion”, or perhaps it was some prehistoric creature, and all the acronyms had our simpleton brains yearning for remedial assistance.

“Listen, Jimmy, we just want a magic box that will let us type up stuff, look at pretty pictures, and we want it to go real fast and not give us any grief. If the one you are talking about can do all that, we’ll buy it. Now, can you set it up for us and teach us how to use it?” we asked, shamelessly.

With the promise of free food, Jimmy accepted our proposal, and over the course of the next couple weeks, he became a regular at our family dinner table.

As amazed as we were at the capabilities of our new computer, Jimmy was equally amazed at our almost complete lack of computer knowledge.

“So do you guys want me to set up your apps?” he asked one night after a pork loin dinner. “Heck yea, but first tell us what an app is?” I asked, and Jimmy shook his head.

Another night as Jimmy was giving us a printer tutorial after chicken enchiladas, we asked when he was going to connect up the half a dozen cords and wires that seemed to be missing. Jimmy shook his head again, and explained that our mouse, keyboard and printer were all wireless.

We stared into space for a moment, overcome by that weird feeling you get when you contemplate the vastness of the universe.

My husband snapped out of it and inquired with feigned seriousness, “Have you installed the multiplexer yet?” Jimmy shook his head again and laughed, both at my husband’s joke and at our unabashed stupidity.

Despite his frustration with our ignorance, Jimmy continued to subject himself to our requests for his help. For the price of hoagies and chips, he set up our television. For pizza and beer, he programed our DVR. For spaghetti and meatballs, he installed Microsoft Office.

In the end, we put our dusty old PC and her tangle of outdated wires out to pasture, and with Jimmy’s help, we are learning about our new magic box with her state of the art terabytes and microchips.

Too bad that it will only take a nanosecond for her to become obsolete too.

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Brotherly Love and Other Forms of Abuse

In family, Humor, Memories, parenting on November 13, 2011 at 9:35 pm

First, we hear giggling. Then a sharp squeal. The creak of the mattress springs, a bump on the wall, a muffled “Ouch,” then more giggling.

“Girls! Knock it off!” my husband yells from his recliner. There is a moment of silence, and then the ruckus starts all over again.

I am not sure why we are conditioned to feel utter agitation when we hear our kids roughhousing. It may be that, even though they are merely having fun with each other, we know from experience that those innocent giggles, if allowed to continue, are usually followed by alarming noises that require immediate parental intervention.

Here’s the scenario: After about five minutes of giggling between siblings, an invisible line is crossed. The play becomes rougher, and inevitably, skin is pinched, hair is pulled, heads are bonked, or some other pain is inflicted. Screaming or crying ensues, followed shortly thereafter by a very loud argument, usually accompanied by slapping, kicking and biting.

That is when parents have to get up from the comfort of their lounge furniture and intervene, which is annoying, especially when “Survivor” is on. So, rather than wait for this series of irritating events, we try to stop sibling interactions while they are still in the giggling phase.

As a child, I never understood how siblings can be the best of friends and the worst of enemies at the same time. I remember watching my best friend from high school and her older sister viciously beat each other with hangers. Back then, I thought they must’ve hated each other’s guts, but now, with girls of my own, I understand that the violent hanger beating was all part of sisterly love.

The age difference between my brother and I was too big for us to be playmates, so we never engaged in the “giggling phase” of sibling roughhousing. Essentially, my very existence annoyed my brother for some reason, so he would inflict pain on me purely for his own personal pleasure.

When my brother was idle, he transformed into the predator, and I was his prey. He would launch sneak attacks like Cato in “The Pink Panther,” jumping out from dark corners to place me in a headlock. After receiving a book on judo one Christmas, I often found myself being flipped over his knee on my way to my bedroom. At restaurants, my brother’s preferred method of attack was spitballs, and at church, he would pinch the sensitive area above my knee with his thumb and forefinger if he did not decimate me first at church bulletin tic-tac-toe.

I would always cry, whine or otherwise alert my parents to the attack, and they would ground my brother for a period of time commensurate with the injury. The punishment only served to fuel my brother’s motivation to torment me, and this pattern went on and on for years.

I can only recall one occasion when I got the upper hand, and it didn’t last for long. One lazy day after school, I was stretched out on my parent’s bed, with my head resting on one bent arm while the other hand slowly smoothed the day’s knots out of my long hair with a pink plastic hairbrush.

As I gazed half-awake into the nearby television, which was playing reruns of “My Three Sons,” I had no idea that my brother was silently crawling commando-style into the room on his stomach.

Just as Uncle Charlie was about to give dating advice to Chip, my brother popped up from the floor between my face and the television and blurted, “BOO!”

Taken completely by surprise, animal instinct took over, and I watched in slow motion as my hand whipped the pink plastic hairbrush in the direction of my brother’s face. Next thing I knew, he had both hands over his nose.

I crouched on the bed in a defensive posture as my brother looked into his hands and saw blood. His eyes glared at me with the pure fire of utter vengeance. He leaped onto the bed, and kneeling over me, raised one hand into the air in a tight fist, with the middle knuckle protruding slightly for maximum point of impact pain.

WHAM! His knuckle hit the center of my thigh, causing an immediate Charley horse and excruciating pain. I walked with a slight limp for the next couple weeks, but it was worth it, knowing I had finally given my big brother a dose of his own medicine.

 Call it sibling rivalry, brotherly love, or aggravated assault, roughhousing is a normal part of life with siblings. As long as parents don’t encourage mortal combat by supplying their children with books on judo or hard plastic hairbrushes, we can sit back and relax in our lounge furniture secure in the knowledge that what doesn’t kill them only makes them stronger.

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Sorry for the short lapse in posts, folks! We just moved (AGAIN) and are wading among scores of boxes, cable guys and computer geeks to get things set up here in the new Molinari household. Expect upcoming posts related to all aspects of chaos, disorganization, ineptitude, extreme laziness, and overeating, of course.

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Sharing Happiness

In family, Humor, military, self-image, social scene on October 3, 2011 at 1:09 pm

My phone rang this week, and for once, it wasn’t my kids or my husband or my mother or my carpool partner or my in laws or one of those pre-recorded doctor’s appointment confirmation messages.

“Hey Lisa, what have you been up to?” she asked. I was dumbfounded. I had not received a purely social call in months — it was as if I had forgotten what to do. My mind raced as I tried to remember how to engage in idle chit chat.

Why on earth is she calling me? I thought. I mean, we only know each other because our husbands work together, and besides, I’m new here, but  she’s lived here for years. She has plenty of other friends to call . . . there must be some problem.

“Oh, you know, the usual . . . busy, busy, busy!” I lied, waiting for her to ask to borrow money, or give her a ride to the airport, or buy overpriced candles for her son’s baseball team fundraiser.  

“Well, listen, I really need some exercise… would you like to go on a power walk or something?”

You’d have thought I was a double winner on the Price is Right Showcase Showdown by the way I reacted.

“Really?! Yes! I would love to! What time?! Where do you want me to meet you?! I’ll go anywhere! I already have work out clothes on, so I am ready to go whenever you are, so just say the word and…”

“Nine-fifteen at the Park and Ride lot on Wonderwood Drive,” she interrupted my pathetic ramble.

“You got it!”

I arrived twenty minutes early, and sat desperately waiting to spot her mini van. When she arrived, I bolted from my car as if it had burst into flames.

“Hi!” I yelled and waved across the parking lot, startling her out of her morning haze. For the next hour, we did what housewives do so well – analyzed, pondered, proclaimed, opined, pontificated, empathized, chastised, gossiped and even listened a little bit, all under the guise of exercise. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Back in the parking lot, my new friend suggested that we make the outing our new Thursday routine. I eagerly agreed, and nearly skipped back to my car with a goofy grin.

On the drive home, I thought, Finally, a real friend. I can’t wait for next Thursday. Boy, I wish we could meet Tuesdays and Thursdays. But maybe that’s too much. I don’t want to scare her away. Hmmm. Come to think of it, maybe I did come on too strong. I don’t remember listening all that much, actually. I think I did most of the talking. Why do I always do that? She was probably wondering whether I’d ever shut up. I’ll bet she will call and cancel next week because she thinks I’m an annoying blabbermouth….

I pulled into my driveway, put the car in park, and looked at myself in the rear view mirror. Not only did I realize that, on the walk, my bangs had fallen into that unflattering middle part that made my face look like a full moon, it also occurred to me that this had all happened before.

Suddenly overwhelmed with that bizarre déjà vu sensation, I tried to recollect the past. It didn’t take long for me to recognize that the internal conversation I just had with myself was the same one I had in 2008, 1998, 1996, 1994 and 1993 – basically, every time the military has ordered us to move.

After every move, I busy myself with setting up our new life – new house, new schools, new doctors, new dentists, new music teachers, new gym, new church, new pizza place, new routines — a daunting task which keeps me occupied for several months. But once the new routines are in place, there’s nothing left to do except live.

I don’t care whether you live in Poughkeepsie or Prague, boredom eventually sets in. You find yourself dawdling on the internet, throwing dinner together last minute, ignoring housework, and eating too much. You put on work out clothes every day, but never make it to the gym. You call your husband at work even though you know he can’t chat. You write long e-mails to friends from the past who are too preoccupied to write back. Even your own mother tries to get off the phone when you call, and your last resort, the family dog, has no good gossip to share.

You are bored out of your mind.

As I fixed my bangs in the rear view mirror, I remembered the story of Christopher McCandless, a young man who disappeared “Into the Wild” (the name of the book by Jon Krakauer) to live free from obligations and relationships. After spending over three months utterly alone, he finally realized that he had been wrong about life all along. Days before he died of starvation trying to make it back out of the wild, he wrote “Happiness is only real if shared.”

Remembering the quote helped me understand why I always get a little pathetic every time we move, and although I’m in no danger of starving anytime soon (quite the contrary in fact,) I realized that everyone needs a good friend or two to nourish the soul.

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The Sandwich Queen

In family, Humor, Middle-Age, parenting, self-image on September 26, 2011 at 1:49 pm

About a million years ago, I had a career. I had a briefcase, an office, a secretary, and a view from the 24th floor. I did research, argued motions, interviewed clients and attended the firm holiday party. My name was on the wall in the lobby.

But then, when I least expected it, something happened.

That something was an incessant, unrelenting thing called life.

Two years after being unexpectedly blindsided by love, I found myself sitting on my Navy husband’s bachelor couch in our dumpy base house, in a state that did not recognize my law license, nursing our new baby while watching Maury Povich interview people who’d been abducted by aliens.

At first it was kind of fun, getting to relive all the times I played house as a kid, except that the babies really filled their diapers and I also had to do the boring stuff like making sandwiches and cleaning toilets. I never really thought it all through, and truly believed that I’d get back to my career at some point.

Fifteen years, seven moves, and two more babies later, I’m still making sandwiches and cleaning toilets, and the opportunity to get my career back simply never came.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered that long term housewifery does not always provide one with the obvious sense of achievement that a career offers. In fact, the daily drudgery of housework and mothering is highly susceptible to being completely taken for granted. We do not get bonuses for sparkling floors, pay raises for fresh laundry, or promotions for perfectly steamed green beans.

So, we veteran housewives must seize our ego boosts where we can get them.

Recently, my son, Hayden, started his sophomore year at his new high school, and I pack his lunch every day as usual. But this time, I decided to bump it up a notch.

My usual routine was to roll up three slices of deli chicken breast and place them onto two slices of whole wheat with a leaf of lettuce and a slice of Swiss cheese. To reward my son for working hard at football practice, I decided to double the meat, adding tender slices of ham and roast beef to the chicken. Two slices of pepper jack and extra lettuce made the sandwich so thick that I had to put it into a quart-sized storage bag.

On our way home from football practice that evening, Hayden, who is firmly entrenched in that infuriating stage of teenagedom characterized by an almost complete lack of normal conversation, said, “Hey Mom, I really liked that sandwich.”

My heart nearly skipped a beat.

Over the next couple weeks, I continued crafting thick, meaty sandwiches, sometimes substituting cheeses, adding spicy slices of pepperoni, or a fresh sub roll. Instead of waiting for accolades, I had taken to eagerly asking him how he liked the sandwich on our ride home from football practice. He would answer in typical teenage brevity, but always communicated his appreciation.

Then one day, Hayden told me that his football buddy commented on how meaty his sandwich was, and that he wished his mom made sandwiches like that. I couldn’t believe my ears and was exhilarated by my new sense of culinary superiority.

Call me pathetic, but the seemingly insignificant compliments gave me a renewed sense of purpose, and a slight spring in my middle-aged step as I packed the lunches each morning.

Sometimes, I’d receive a bonus with my son’s usual mumbled words of praise. Like the day he told me that the school security guard noticed how thick his sandwich was, and ordered Hayden to bring in an extra one for him sometime. And the time his JV football coach called him over during practice and said, “Hey, I heard your mother makes you a big deli sandwich every day for lunch; so when are you going to bring one in for me?”

Sure, it’s true that the closest thing I have to an office has a washer and dryer in it. And yes, it is rather ironic that I used to have a secretary but am now Secretary of the Football Boosters Club. And even though my name is no longer posted in an office lobby, my name is the one my kids utter when they want a tissue, help with their homework, a snack, someone to hear about their day at school, or a hug.

While I may never make Senior Partner of a Law firm as I had planned over 20 years ago, I’ve attained a status I never expected. I’m Head Nurse, Accountant, General Manager, Commander in Chief of the House, and thanks to recent events, The Sandwich Queen. Sure, my scepter may be a toilet bowl brush and my carriage a mini-van, but I don’t mind, because I know I am loved by my people.

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Farewell to Rinse and Spit

In family, Humor, Memories, Middle-Age, modern culture on September 17, 2011 at 9:46 pm

I placed the magazine nonchalantly in my lap and covered it with my purse. With one hand pretending to grope for a tissue, and the other hand secretly holding the desired page, I began to tug.

I stopped, fearing the man across from me heard the initial tear, but just then, the doors to the waiting room opened, and a bulky woman entered in a boisterous rush. “Sorry I’m late!” she bellowed in the direction of the receptionist’s window. I took the noisy opportunity to finish the deed.

In one fell swoop, I tore the page out of the magazine and slipped it into my bag. Grabbing lip balm to give supposed purpose to my shifty movements, I tried to look bored.

Yes! I always wanted a good recipe for peach cobbler and now I’ve got it, I thought. Feeling a little guilty as I always do when I compulsively tear recipes out of waiting room magazines, I tried to accept this tiny tendency toward kleptomania as a minor personality flaw.

A few minutes later, a young hygienist with a fluorescent white smile called my name. The exam room had the usual dental décor – reclining chair, rolling instrument cart, torturously bright light suspended from robotic hinged arm, pamphlet rack, and poster with ghastly photos of gum disease.

She adorned me with a paper bib and laid the lead x-ray vest over my torso. One after the other, she jammed those uncomfortable little x-ray slides into my gums, each time asking me to open wider. After a dozen or more x-rays, I felt as if my lips had exceeded their elasticity and might droop down past my chin like one of those Ethiopian tribal women.

The hygienist then gave me the run down: first I’d meet the dentist [how nice of him to grace me with his presence,] then he’d take a look at my gums [poke me with a sharp object while shouting secret codes,] then she’d clean my teeth [most likely with a chisel, ice pick and sledge hammer,] then he’d come back [and try to sell me some expensive cosmetic procedure I don’t need.]

Soon, the dentist loped into the room and flashed a huge toothy white grin. “Hi there, I’m Dr. Altenbach!” He was wearing blue scrubs as if he’d just performed heart surgery in the other room and looked to be all of about 19. During some initial chit chat, he noticed my Smart Phone beside my purse and blurted, “Hey, my dad has the same phone; do you like the keyboard? Cuz if not, I can show you an app that he really likes.”

First of all, I am still not quite sure what an app is, but more importantly, why is this guy putting me in the same category as his father?

As Dr. Altenbach poked my gums with his fish hook on a stick, my mind wandered back to my childhood dental exams. I recalled the taste of soap in my mouth from Dr. Petras’ freshly washed bare hands as he cleaned my teeth using the sterile instruments laid out on a blue paper towel on top of a rolling metal tray. He polished my teeth with the ticklish little rotating pencil eraser tool. I had to rinse and spit many times into a swirling sink that looked like a miniature toilet bowl, and always had trouble disconnecting myself from a long string of saliva.

The goggle-protected hygienist woke me out of my daydreams to jab me with her own set of weapons. I could not help but marvel at her sparkling white straight teeth. Dr. Petras had his share of coffee stains and fillings, but today, everyone in a dentist’s office has unnaturally white, perfect teeth. It’s nothing but a high pressure sales tactic, I thought.

At a pause in the cleaning, I looked around for the little toilet bowl, but there was no where to rinse and spit. Instead, the hygienist hooked me like a catfish with a curved plastic tube that magically sucked my mouth dry.

When it was all done, I sat up and tried to put my lips back into place. As promised, Dr. Altenbach showed me how to download the new app, and while he was demonstrating, I noticed that his phone’s home screen had a running surf report. Also, I thought I saw him wiggle his hand with his thumb and pinkie extended in a “hang loose” motion a couple times when he was telling me where to get good fish tacos.

As I checked my teeth in the rear view mirror on the way home, I realized I’ve entered that phase of life when doctors, news casters, and even presidents are younger than I am. I learned that, although may be difficult to take direction from someone who you are older but not wiser than, it’s part of the natural progression of life. Besides, I thought, who’s the one with the peach cobbler recipe, hu?

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Surviving the Storm of Terrorism

In family, Memories, military, modern culture on September 11, 2011 at 1:17 pm

As the victims of Hurricane Irene repair their flooded homes, new winds over the ocean whip in circles. Some will peter out, while others will twist and writhe into gigantic storm cells that threaten our coastlines. This pattern is repeated year after year, and we cope with the destruction as life goes on.

This year, the East Coast survived Irene. In 2008,Texas survived Ike. In 2005, the Gulf States survived Katrina. In 2003, the Mid-Atlantic survived Isabel. Each time, the affected people dealt with their losses, gathered with their communities and rebuilt their lives.

A decade ago, we were hit by a destructive cell bigger than any hurricane. It was the Storm of Terrorism and it rained down on us on September the 11th, 2001.

Ten years after the devastation of 9/11, has ourAmerican Wayof Life survived the storm intact? What is unique about how Americans react to disasters, both natural and manmade?

When Hurricane Isabel roared through the Mid Atlantic States in September 2003, my family of five was gathered around a battery operated radio in our family room inVirginia Beach, nervously listening to news of the storm’s path.

On September 11th, my family was gathered in that same family room, shocked by the news of the first plane crashes.

During one of Isabel’s howling gusts, our house was suddenly slammed with something that shook the foundation. I instinctively grabbed the kids and headed to a doorway in the center of the house, while my husband ran out onto our porch to investigate. “It’s bad, Honey! Really bad!” he yelled, darting back into the house and up the stairs. When he finally joined us, he reported that a 90 foot pine tree had uprooted and fell through our roof, breaking through the second floor ceiling.

As we stood within five feet of our television screen on 9/11, with the children at our feet, I gasped loudly and put my hands to my mouth when the Twin Towers collapsed to the ground.

In both situations, our children were too innocent to understand what was happening. They had never experienced hurricanes or terrorism. Both times, they watched my husband and me, trying to make sense of it all, and both times, our children reflected our fear.

Not more than a minute after the tree hit, our neighbors shuttled the kids and I to their house, while the men braved 100 mph gusts to anchor tarps over the gaping hole in our roof. That night, we tried to sleep on the neighbor’s floor while our minds raced with thoughts of the damage, the deductible, reconstruction, and loss.

Once we were able to grasp the horrific events of the 9/11 terror attacks, our minds raced with thoughts of the devastating loss of life, the mind boggling acts of heroism, and the inevitable war to come. The tragedy was almost too much to bear.

The day after Isabel spun her way northward, we awoke to a beautiful, sunny day, and although there was much work to do, we were grateful to be alive and felt a new appreciation for our family and our neighbors. People on our street shared water, tools and generators. On our gas grill, I cooked up all the thawing steaks, sausages, bacon and eggs from our powerless refrigerator, and passed breakfast out to the neighbors. Even the most recluse of our neighbors was out on the street, willing to lend a helping hand.

Similarly, in the days after the 9/11 attacks, Americans from every race, political party, and socio-economic group banded together and displayed unbridled patriotism, the likes of which our country had not experienced in decades. Flags flew on every street. Neighbors, friends and family reached out to connect, enlist, volunteer and donate. Despite the divisive views on the War on Terror now, back then it was clear to everyone that the US had to show the rest of the world that no one can attack Americans and get away with it.

It is as if these destructive events serve to remind Americans of how good we have it. After these storms, whether natural or manmade, the clouds of political divisiveness and floodwaters of our daily routines disappear. We can suddenly see our lives clearly, and find new appreciation for our families, our communities, and our nation.  

But since the 9/11 attacks, our collective visibility has been overcast with the minutia of the War on Terror, the controversy over the 9/11 memorial site, claims of corruption in charitable fundraising, and other complicated political issues. Our ability to clearly recall the injustice of the 9/11 attacks has eroded. Instead of banding together to stand against such forces of destruction, we are fighting with each other.

On this, the tenth anniversary of the senseless terrorist attacks on our shores, let’s put our differences aside. Bring to mind that fateful day and how it felt. Think of those who lost their lives in the attack and the heroic rescues. Honor the military members who continue to fight so that terrorism will not make landfall in the United States again. Harness those emotions, memories and patriotism. Be grateful for our families, our communities, our nation, and the one thing that no storm or terror cell can destroy – our uniquely American way of life.

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The Wheels on the Bus

In family, Humor, Memories, modern culture, parenting on August 29, 2011 at 9:34 pm

As a squishy little second grader at East Pike Elementary School, the bus stop on Sixth and Chestnut Streets seemed like a huge unruly mob to me.

Somehow, by the time the bus showed up, the kids at our stop had already climbed trees, thrown chestnuts, knocked books to the ground, acquired fresh grass stains, and executed several wedgie attacks. Much of the shenanigans were prompted by the older boys, which included my 5th grade brother.

Boarding the bus each morning, I found my assigned seat in a way which would attract the least amount of attention, so as to ward off the onslaught of daily harassment that might follow.

Most days, I kept a low profile (literally, since I was kinda short and could hide behind the green vinyl seatback,) but this particular fall, I was forced to take my turn as the subject of public humiliation.

My brother’s gang had been ordered by the driver to sit in the front seats of the bus due to their consistently boisterous behavior, but rather than serving as a penalty box, the front seats were ironically more of a podium, effectively making the gang of boys our sadistic morning dictators.

Snorting and giggling, the boys would lead chants and jeers targeting particular riders in a twisted game of Russian roulette. One morning, the barrel of their gun was pointed at me, and the chamber was full.

Quite fond of nicknames, my brother had a vast repertoire of epithets for kids in our neighborhood, our pets, and unfortunately, me. I was called Bubbs, Bubbs McGraw, Chunk, Chunky Dinners, Chung King, Skunk, Skunkgrass, and Pig (which was later outlawed by my parents so he reversed the letters and deceitfully referred to me as “Gip.”)

A rare summer trip to Hawaii to visit our grandparents inspired my brother to add the Polynesian nickname “Lee Lae Lon” to his inventory. Despite being meaningless, I hated the name, which was exactly what my brother wanted.  Unable to come up with a retaliatory name other than “Big Meanie,” I soon learned that incessant whining was my only recourse.

After tiring of leading the kids on the bus in several rounds of an old standby chant (“Thad’s on the toilet, ooh, ahh; Thad’s on the toilet, ooh, ahh”) which targeted a shy boy in the back, my brother and his gang turned their attention to me.

“Gimmie an L!” my brother’s hulkish friend, Jimmy, yelled in front of us. Everyone looked confused, so Jimmy yelled the order again, and the crowd hesitantly responded, “L?”

Jimmy and the gang of boys continued, “Gimme an E!” Even I repeated, “E!” and the chant gained momentum.

After L and E, Jimmy added another E, then another L, and so on, until he screamed “What’s it spell?!” No response was forthcoming from the confused riders, but Jimmy’s gang yelled the pre-planned answer: “Lee Lae Lon!”

“Who’s a Pig?!”

“Lee Lae Lon!”

“Louder!”

“Lee Lae Lon!”

Other than the sniveling gang of boys, no one initially understood the chant, but it soon became a well-known part of the morning regimen dictated by the boys in the front of the bus. Thankfully, I was not singled out again after that fateful fall and went on to have many pleasantly uneventful bus rides to school in the years to come.

I only have one other less-than-fond memory of my school bus days: During my secondary years, our bus had an outdated 8-track tape deck with only one tape. Every verse of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” has been seared into my brain forever.

Despite it all, I am sad that my own kids won’t suffer the slings and arrows of riding the school bus this year. Due to drastic education budget cuts, many kids like mine have been told that the bus isn’t stopping at their school anymore.

A couple months ago, our school district announced that transportation to seven of the county’s best schools would be cancelled, so in the face of high gas prices and tight family budgets, parents like us are scrambling to find carpools to get our kids to school.

Seems that lately, as the price of gold goes up, the value of the Golden Rule goes down, and school districts across this nation are cutting education bedrocks such as sports, art, music, physical education and transportation. Some politicians feel these cuts are just part of necessary reductions in spending, others say taxes must be raised to keep these programs afloat. Regardless of political leanings, many consider it tragic that our children’s educations and ultimately their futures will be compromised by our generation’s economic failures.

The yellow school bus has always been an integral part of our public education system, and despite my own mixed experiences on the bus, I hope the cuts to school transportation and other fundamental programs are only temporary.

As for my kids, they will be sitting in the back of a carpool minivan on their way to school this year. I will try to make their experience as memorable as mine, but without a good old AC/DC tape or the manpower to muster a humiliating chant, the kids in my carpool will have to settle for mumbling along to a song on the radio.

 
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