“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes Awww! Jack Kerouac -On the Road
Katy Perry’s new single Firework did something for me the other day. It made me realize that I am a burned out Firework. I was a Firecracker once. I once had that passion for work, school, marriage, child rearing, even my appearance. What happened?
Perry’s song draws reference from Jack Kerouac’s novel of random thoughts–On the Road. They both claim that it’s people that show their sizzle, their spark, their passion for life that sustains the day. I need some of that; I need some of that around me. Most of the time, I gravitate to a couple of people who are my fireworks. My daughter and my sister. My daughter; is an exploding firework. I do sit back and go Awwww! I can’t wait to see her perfect road. I am extremely proud of her, her accomplishments, her talents, her beauty, even her scary downward spirals when she makes mistakes and picks herself up. She dazzles me. My sister is a fabulous yellow roman candle. She lights up a room, is quick with the wit, and is hilariously funny. She explodes with confidence and sister crazy.
Maybe it’s the first born syndrome? The Serious One? Was I always? I don’t think so. My sorority sisters would say otherwise. As I got older I lost my spark? Has the harshness of age, trials and tribulations beaten me up? The Mojo is gone?
Maybe the line: Do you ever feel like a plastic bag; drifting through the wind, wanting to start again? YES! I do!
The line: Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin, like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?
YES! I do!
But then the hopeful lines: Do you know there's still a chance for you? Maybe you're the reason all the doors are closed, so you could open one that leads you to the perfect road?
Where IS that?
So I have pledged that Firework is my new anthem. For me and the other Fireworks in my life. I hope we all show the world what we’re worth. Make 'em all go AH AH AH.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Wax Thanksgiving Candles
If you like to wax nostalgic; take a trip down memory lane with me. When we were little, my treasured memories of Thanksgiving was the typical stuff. Turkey smells and watching the Macy's Parade on a grainy, bad color television . Because my parents liked to watch two televisions at once; the other television would have a football game. Seriously... side by side televisions, with competing programs. One for Dad; one for Mom and the girls. No wonder I went into broadcast journalism. I grew up watching dueling monitors!
Anyway, Thanksgiving was always about the perfect meal, the perfect table, and a quiet deaf dinner ambiance, since it was usually just the four of us and the blinking televisions. One thing about the perfect table, it was set with lace tablecloth, corelle-ware, and crystal bowls with cranberries, pickles, an assortment of dinner accoutrement's. And then there were the Wax Thanksgiving Candles.http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/42514. I remember them as far back as I can remember. A big mulit-crayola colored hued Turkey, a little Turkey, a Pilgrim, A Mommy Pilgrim, A Indian, and an Indian Maid . My relatives might have had the expanded family of Little Pilgrim Children and Little Indian Children... but my memory says; we only had these Thanksgiving Wax Candles: Pilgrim, Pilgrim Wife, Indian, Indian Maid, Big Turkey, Little Turkey. They commanded the center of the table and they were NEVER lit. A serious dead look would come from my Mother if someone said, "Let's light the candles!" "No, they're only for pretty" she would sign.
So one day, bored, with the blinking televisions on, probably doing homework at the table, I noticed, that the Pilgrim, Indian, and the Indian Maid no longer had eyes or mouths! Someone had taken their fingernail and scraped the painted wax dot eyes and mouths off their faces! They were blind, mute! AH! I shot a look at my little sister... really? Mom would kill us. Of course, my mom noticed, gave us a stern "WHAT FOR-WHY?" sign, and then left them on the table... blind and mute Pilgrims and Indians. It was a sad commentary on Thanksgiving. The candles were there for a few more years, and then my mom tired of the doll-like old decor; just put them somewhere.
Years later when I returned home from college for Thanksgiving break; I would say.. "Hey where are those cute candles we used to have? My mom would sign "Well you girls defaced them and ruined them so we don't have them any more." I was sad, knowing that I was getting older and a little piece of my nostalgia had created a bad memory for my mom. She replaced the ruined dolls with new ceramic vibrant Gold Turkeys to match her new Gold Checked wallpaper to go with the Gold, Burnt Orange and Brown recently remodeled kitchen that she was so PROUD of.
I never thought of those candles again. After countless Thanksgivings at my parents home with new grandchildren in place, relatives that would come and share our family gathering, new table settings would come and go. It wasn't until four years ago, almost to the week; that those eyeless, mouthless candles re-appeared. It was Thanksgiving 2006, and my mother was in Hospice...dying. Of course, we didn't have a real Thanksgiving that year. My father had just died, we were eating some kind of meal that we numbly put together because no matter what was going on at Hospice, we needed to have the sense that Thanksgiving would go on, and we were thankful to be there with our mom. It was her last days; and my sister and I were in the basement of my mom's house-searching for something. It seems bizarre now; but we needed to be in the basement, finding our memories. Something to cling onto because we couldn't cling on to what was happening at the Hospice house. It was awful. Rummaging through old Christmas stuff, old picnic items, vintage cooking appliances; stored in the cold cupboard was a white paper bag. It was the WAX THANKSGIVING candles. We screamed! It was a sign, it had to be! So we then and there decided that we would always have these candles at our family Thanksgivings...despite no eyes, no mouths.. we didn't care. I was given the treasured white paper bag with the candles and tucked them away at my house.
The following year, I bravely stated that I would host Thanksgiving. In our first year without our parents; my sister and I still wanted to have some semblance of what was our Thanksgiving tradition--will always be? Of course that isn't true today; but three years ago, my sister and I wanted so much to hang on to that. I looked for the little white paper bag with the treasured candles about a week before the festivities. I located the bag in a dresser drawer in a upstairs bedroom. Upstairs guest room, that probably never had a window open all summer, and where it probably got to 100 degrees that August since that was the summer of fires and heat. Inside the paper bag, was a melted wax ball of hideous brown, white, blue. Eyeless faces melted into wax turkey feathers. I screamed and just cried. I cried like it was the funeral again. Because in a way it was.
I cried to my sister that I had ruined Thanksgiving, and I was desperately looking for replacement candles. "They don't make them anymore! Did you know that?" I thought I could just go to Micheal's Crafts and they would be proudly standing there. I was defeated, sad, and felt awful as my sister's family came to join us for Thanksgiving. I put some lame ceramic Pilgrims and Indians on my table that I found on clearance at Joanne's Fabrics. It was insulting. I walked into my dining room after helping my nephews unload the car; and there on my table were the WAX THANKSGIVING candles! My sister found them. EBAY! She found enough for my table, her table, and our kids tables for years to come. She found the Thanksgiving Six, along with the little pygmie pilgrim-indian families. To this day, I cannot thank her enough. She told a great story of finding them, her whole office helping her outbid other Ebay freaks to save my Thanksgiving.
Today, I am packing up my little treasured WAX THANKSGIVING candles to accompany us to our daughter's college house to share Thanksgiving with her. For this, I'm truly thankful.
Anyway, Thanksgiving was always about the perfect meal, the perfect table, and a quiet deaf dinner ambiance, since it was usually just the four of us and the blinking televisions. One thing about the perfect table, it was set with lace tablecloth, corelle-ware, and crystal bowls with cranberries, pickles, an assortment of dinner accoutrement's. And then there were the Wax Thanksgiving Candles.http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/42514. I remember them as far back as I can remember. A big mulit-crayola colored hued Turkey, a little Turkey, a Pilgrim, A Mommy Pilgrim, A Indian, and an Indian Maid . My relatives might have had the expanded family of Little Pilgrim Children and Little Indian Children... but my memory says; we only had these Thanksgiving Wax Candles: Pilgrim, Pilgrim Wife, Indian, Indian Maid, Big Turkey, Little Turkey. They commanded the center of the table and they were NEVER lit. A serious dead look would come from my Mother if someone said, "Let's light the candles!" "No, they're only for pretty" she would sign.
So one day, bored, with the blinking televisions on, probably doing homework at the table, I noticed, that the Pilgrim, Indian, and the Indian Maid no longer had eyes or mouths! Someone had taken their fingernail and scraped the painted wax dot eyes and mouths off their faces! They were blind, mute! AH! I shot a look at my little sister... really? Mom would kill us. Of course, my mom noticed, gave us a stern "WHAT FOR-WHY?" sign, and then left them on the table... blind and mute Pilgrims and Indians. It was a sad commentary on Thanksgiving. The candles were there for a few more years, and then my mom tired of the doll-like old decor; just put them somewhere.
Years later when I returned home from college for Thanksgiving break; I would say.. "Hey where are those cute candles we used to have? My mom would sign "Well you girls defaced them and ruined them so we don't have them any more." I was sad, knowing that I was getting older and a little piece of my nostalgia had created a bad memory for my mom. She replaced the ruined dolls with new ceramic vibrant Gold Turkeys to match her new Gold Checked wallpaper to go with the Gold, Burnt Orange and Brown recently remodeled kitchen that she was so PROUD of.
I never thought of those candles again. After countless Thanksgivings at my parents home with new grandchildren in place, relatives that would come and share our family gathering, new table settings would come and go. It wasn't until four years ago, almost to the week; that those eyeless, mouthless candles re-appeared. It was Thanksgiving 2006, and my mother was in Hospice...dying. Of course, we didn't have a real Thanksgiving that year. My father had just died, we were eating some kind of meal that we numbly put together because no matter what was going on at Hospice, we needed to have the sense that Thanksgiving would go on, and we were thankful to be there with our mom. It was her last days; and my sister and I were in the basement of my mom's house-searching for something. It seems bizarre now; but we needed to be in the basement, finding our memories. Something to cling onto because we couldn't cling on to what was happening at the Hospice house. It was awful. Rummaging through old Christmas stuff, old picnic items, vintage cooking appliances; stored in the cold cupboard was a white paper bag. It was the WAX THANKSGIVING candles. We screamed! It was a sign, it had to be! So we then and there decided that we would always have these candles at our family Thanksgivings...despite no eyes, no mouths.. we didn't care. I was given the treasured white paper bag with the candles and tucked them away at my house.
The following year, I bravely stated that I would host Thanksgiving. In our first year without our parents; my sister and I still wanted to have some semblance of what was our Thanksgiving tradition--will always be? Of course that isn't true today; but three years ago, my sister and I wanted so much to hang on to that. I looked for the little white paper bag with the treasured candles about a week before the festivities. I located the bag in a dresser drawer in a upstairs bedroom. Upstairs guest room, that probably never had a window open all summer, and where it probably got to 100 degrees that August since that was the summer of fires and heat. Inside the paper bag, was a melted wax ball of hideous brown, white, blue. Eyeless faces melted into wax turkey feathers. I screamed and just cried. I cried like it was the funeral again. Because in a way it was.
I cried to my sister that I had ruined Thanksgiving, and I was desperately looking for replacement candles. "They don't make them anymore! Did you know that?" I thought I could just go to Micheal's Crafts and they would be proudly standing there. I was defeated, sad, and felt awful as my sister's family came to join us for Thanksgiving. I put some lame ceramic Pilgrims and Indians on my table that I found on clearance at Joanne's Fabrics. It was insulting. I walked into my dining room after helping my nephews unload the car; and there on my table were the WAX THANKSGIVING candles! My sister found them. EBAY! She found enough for my table, her table, and our kids tables for years to come. She found the Thanksgiving Six, along with the little pygmie pilgrim-indian families. To this day, I cannot thank her enough. She told a great story of finding them, her whole office helping her outbid other Ebay freaks to save my Thanksgiving.
Friday, November 19, 2010
The Better Dog
People who know me know about my dog. Gunnar is our family German Shepard. Gunnar is the third German Shepard that has been a part of my family household. I love Gunnar with all my heart. But, I was not always a dog person.
Growing up up with deaf parents, having a dog was sort of a challenge. We had a crazy Norwegian Elk hound ( that's what they passed her off as- but I think she was part sled dog-indian dog) with an unpronounceable name. Eleyska. Something we made up out of the World Book Encyclopedia. My mom thought it should have a Norwegian name, so dutiful little girls with the teacher mom looked up Norway in the book and found a town named something, Of course, not having a hearing parent to help us figure out how to pronounce the name, we came up with something like Ah LEESK a. A better name would have been "crazy indian dog". Deaf parents can't really command a crazy dogs attention. We had no training, and she didn't understand the deaf "NO!" which is very different than the Norwegian Elkhound NO!
She dug, she jumped up on everyone, it barked and ate the corners of the dog house, and then my mom's fabulous blonde furniture. That was probably the last day it ate any furniture ever, because then, one day crazy indian dog was gone. My dad said she ran away, but I knew.
Then, another crazy dog. This one was my sister's dog. Pepper. Pepper was a mutt faced mix of poodle, terrier and spaniel. If you could ever have a dog with a psychotic mix, this was it. Pepper arrived when I was about to leave home for college. Pepper also didn't understand the Deaf "NO" . She liked underwear. My sister's underwear. If there was a door, she would bolt. "It's a open door, I have to go, go somewhere, I don't know, but I'm going, I'm going to the street, then the neighbors, and I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you."
So my formative years growing up with dogs, was with two crazy dogs that ate furniture and underwear. Gah.
Then I met my husband. He came from Alaska with a dog that was a pure specimen of Dog God. MAJOR. Major was a purebred AKC German Shepard. Sable mix, 120 pounds of muscle that had traveled the Alaska Highway, ventured out on Oregon and Alaska rivers, spent every moment of his life with his ex-Army Ranger that logged, ranched, built log houses, guided king salmon fishing trips, grizzly and caribou. Major was an Alpha male that lived his life for another Alpha male. They were a team. He was not a dog that would ever eat underwear. He was magnificent and knew it. When I met them, I was truly in awe of the Dog God. He was obedient, he was loyal, he listened. He would actually communicate. He was respectful. He learned to love me. Especially since I had a warm apartment, and I smelled like cookies. Major was a superior dog, and there will never be another like him.
As our life moved into marriage, the hole without Major was killing us. We wanted another dog, but there was never going to be another Major. We knew he was irreplaceable. We looked. We even called the Oregon breeder, but decided that we couldn't heal the hole in our heart with a clone. We found a new German Shepard dog for our new life together- RUGER. All Black and from the Gallatin Valley, Ruger was essentially the essence of his name. Ruger-- a badass firearm. Intimidating, a little too serious, a combination of my husband and me, starting out in life with a new baby and the oppressiveness of life challenges on our back. Ruger was the protector. We trained him in Schutzhund training, mostly as something for us to do as a couple , and partly to see what would happen if you trained a German Shepard to actually defend, protect, even maim. He eventually learned to be brave on command, even in German. We showed him off with his little German commands... "Platz" "Auz" "Blieb". A little Nazi-SS dog machine. He was loving, but he knew his job was to protect the homeland. He did that. No one got in our yard in the ghetto. He would KILL YOU. Because he was a little defender on four legs, he did not like being in the house. He was not a house dog, and even if you smelled like cookies, Play-Doh or Barbies, he really didn't want to be with any of us. His job was to stay out there with the rabbit he almost killed, and the garden that smelled like old sunflowers. Ruger had a challenge with his digestive system, perhaps from the stress of defending the homeland, it eventually got the better of him.
A couple of bunnies, and a cat (story in a future blog) later; we decided that the bundle under the perfect Christmas Tree, for the perfect eight year old daughter, for the perfect new house, was a perfect little German Shepard Puppy. A puppy with five sisters, a big overbearing brother, and a runty brother, from the Hi-Line Plains of Montana. Dad and daughter played with the puppies in the Havre K-Mart parking lot on Christmas Eve, and decided that the one that kept coming back to her would be the one we took home.
We named him immediately, Gunnar. The Alpine name of a sweet brother combined with fearless tank sniper who could take out an enemy outpost. We hoped that he would be a combination of the two.
Gunnar is best dog I have ever had in my life. He is loyal, obedient, brave in the face of squirrels, somewhat stubborn, and a true imprint of what our life has become. Settled. Major was my husband's dog, Ruger was the protector, and Gunnar was my daughter's dog, but now has become my dog. He sleeps by me, gives me head hugs( dog head in-between my legs) he talks to me via brown eye gazes, helps me mow the lawn, helps me with the garbage, defends my yard from squirrels. Once in awhile, he decides to check out the neighborhood and roams around, but he has never been the mean scary police dog that I have to worry about. Neighbors bring him home, or call me and tell me Gunnar is over here. He's the best dog, with the best reputation. I found him last month, in the park with a bunch of children, and a little girl who I would have thought would have been scared of a big German Shepard, tied a plastic bow on his neck, and was dragging him around the school yard. Gunnar was in heaven, tongue lolling out, following this little girl who smelled like shampoo and outside. I couldn't ask for a better dog.
Growing up up with deaf parents, having a dog was sort of a challenge. We had a crazy Norwegian Elk hound ( that's what they passed her off as- but I think she was part sled dog-indian dog) with an unpronounceable name. Eleyska. Something we made up out of the World Book Encyclopedia. My mom thought it should have a Norwegian name, so dutiful little girls with the teacher mom looked up Norway in the book and found a town named something, Of course, not having a hearing parent to help us figure out how to pronounce the name, we came up with something like Ah LEESK a. A better name would have been "crazy indian dog". Deaf parents can't really command a crazy dogs attention. We had no training, and she didn't understand the deaf "NO!" which is very different than the Norwegian Elkhound NO!
She dug, she jumped up on everyone, it barked and ate the corners of the dog house, and then my mom's fabulous blonde furniture. That was probably the last day it ate any furniture ever, because then, one day crazy indian dog was gone. My dad said she ran away, but I knew.
Then, another crazy dog. This one was my sister's dog. Pepper. Pepper was a mutt faced mix of poodle, terrier and spaniel. If you could ever have a dog with a psychotic mix, this was it. Pepper arrived when I was about to leave home for college. Pepper also didn't understand the Deaf "NO" . She liked underwear. My sister's underwear. If there was a door, she would bolt. "It's a open door, I have to go, go somewhere, I don't know, but I'm going, I'm going to the street, then the neighbors, and I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you."
So my formative years growing up with dogs, was with two crazy dogs that ate furniture and underwear. Gah.
Then I met my husband. He came from Alaska with a dog that was a pure specimen of Dog God. MAJOR. Major was a purebred AKC German Shepard. Sable mix, 120 pounds of muscle that had traveled the Alaska Highway, ventured out on Oregon and Alaska rivers, spent every moment of his life with his ex-Army Ranger that logged, ranched, built log houses, guided king salmon fishing trips, grizzly and caribou. Major was an Alpha male that lived his life for another Alpha male. They were a team. He was not a dog that would ever eat underwear. He was magnificent and knew it. When I met them, I was truly in awe of the Dog God. He was obedient, he was loyal, he listened. He would actually communicate. He was respectful. He learned to love me. Especially since I had a warm apartment, and I smelled like cookies. Major was a superior dog, and there will never be another like him.
As our life moved into marriage, the hole without Major was killing us. We wanted another dog, but there was never going to be another Major. We knew he was irreplaceable. We looked. We even called the Oregon breeder, but decided that we couldn't heal the hole in our heart with a clone. We found a new German Shepard dog for our new life together- RUGER. All Black and from the Gallatin Valley, Ruger was essentially the essence of his name. Ruger-- a badass firearm. Intimidating, a little too serious, a combination of my husband and me, starting out in life with a new baby and the oppressiveness of life challenges on our back. Ruger was the protector. We trained him in Schutzhund training, mostly as something for us to do as a couple , and partly to see what would happen if you trained a German Shepard to actually defend, protect, even maim. He eventually learned to be brave on command, even in German. We showed him off with his little German commands... "Platz" "Auz" "Blieb". A little Nazi-SS dog machine. He was loving, but he knew his job was to protect the homeland. He did that. No one got in our yard in the ghetto. He would KILL YOU. Because he was a little defender on four legs, he did not like being in the house. He was not a house dog, and even if you smelled like cookies, Play-Doh or Barbies, he really didn't want to be with any of us. His job was to stay out there with the rabbit he almost killed, and the garden that smelled like old sunflowers. Ruger had a challenge with his digestive system, perhaps from the stress of defending the homeland, it eventually got the better of him.
A couple of bunnies, and a cat (story in a future blog) later; we decided that the bundle under the perfect Christmas Tree, for the perfect eight year old daughter, for the perfect new house, was a perfect little German Shepard Puppy. A puppy with five sisters, a big overbearing brother, and a runty brother, from the Hi-Line Plains of Montana. Dad and daughter played with the puppies in the Havre K-Mart parking lot on Christmas Eve, and decided that the one that kept coming back to her would be the one we took home.
We named him immediately, Gunnar. The Alpine name of a sweet brother combined with fearless tank sniper who could take out an enemy outpost. We hoped that he would be a combination of the two.
Gunnar is best dog I have ever had in my life. He is loyal, obedient, brave in the face of squirrels, somewhat stubborn, and a true imprint of what our life has become. Settled. Major was my husband's dog, Ruger was the protector, and Gunnar was my daughter's dog, but now has become my dog. He sleeps by me, gives me head hugs( dog head in-between my legs) he talks to me via brown eye gazes, helps me mow the lawn, helps me with the garbage, defends my yard from squirrels. Once in awhile, he decides to check out the neighborhood and roams around, but he has never been the mean scary police dog that I have to worry about. Neighbors bring him home, or call me and tell me Gunnar is over here. He's the best dog, with the best reputation. I found him last month, in the park with a bunch of children, and a little girl who I would have thought would have been scared of a big German Shepard, tied a plastic bow on his neck, and was dragging him around the school yard. Gunnar was in heaven, tongue lolling out, following this little girl who smelled like shampoo and outside. I couldn't ask for a better dog.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Second Hand
Lately, I've been hanging out at second hand stores. Stores like Goodwill, Salvation Army, St.Vincent De Paul. No, I'm not turning into a hoarder, although that show is very interesting. I can see how hoarders end up that way.. easily.
No, those second hand stores are like a peek into yesterday. Funky smells, weird stains on blenders, cups, greasy afghan "quilts". I wonder... who would ever want this stuff? Who had this stuff? Why is it here? Dark shadows run through my mind. Is this someone's "estate"? Is this the discarded remnants of someone's full vibrant life? Did they make pancakes every Sunday on this stained, wobbly, singed marked griddle? Could someone pick up this griddle and start a new Sunday tradition, and the traces of the previous owners Sunday morning griddle life would somehow transfer into a new place? Eh... creepy.
But then the quirky and weird always make me smile when I'm in those placees. Not quite antique, not quite vintage... but just the discarded stuff that someone didn't want anymore. Maybe they moved, maybe they got better stuff, maybe they married and their old stuff wasn't needed anymore? I saw nine George Foreman grills at St. Vinny's today. I'm sure they function quite well, but why are they here? And why did nine people discard them? Did they get them for Christmas? Was it some subtle hint by a relative, --Hey, I know you're trying to lose weight, here's a grill for Christmas. Nice. That's why the grills are there. George made millions on those grills, and there they sit on the salvaged shelf at St.Vinny's for $3.00 - $5.00 a piece. Means something I'm sure.
But mostly, I hang out there to find stuff for my daughters new life. Hopeful, that some of the discards will find a happy new life. Vacuums, pots and pans, blenders, even a funky weird chair from 1977 will become a treasure or at least a prized possession? I have great hopes for that funky find; that it will become a party chair, a featured backdrop in campus party pictures. "Hey, here's Kristin passed out on that awful chair. OMG.. that chair is so ugly it's hilarious."
Somehow tying the past of that chair- the once vibrant harvest gold floral pattern for the woman of the house, to greet her guests for a night of bridge-- to it's present day position of beer pong chair.. is just. Perfect.
No, those second hand stores are like a peek into yesterday. Funky smells, weird stains on blenders, cups, greasy afghan "quilts". I wonder... who would ever want this stuff? Who had this stuff? Why is it here? Dark shadows run through my mind. Is this someone's "estate"? Is this the discarded remnants of someone's full vibrant life? Did they make pancakes every Sunday on this stained, wobbly, singed marked griddle? Could someone pick up this griddle and start a new Sunday tradition, and the traces of the previous owners Sunday morning griddle life would somehow transfer into a new place? Eh... creepy.
But then the quirky and weird always make me smile when I'm in those placees. Not quite antique, not quite vintage... but just the discarded stuff that someone didn't want anymore. Maybe they moved, maybe they got better stuff, maybe they married and their old stuff wasn't needed anymore? I saw nine George Foreman grills at St. Vinny's today. I'm sure they function quite well, but why are they here? And why did nine people discard them? Did they get them for Christmas? Was it some subtle hint by a relative, --Hey, I know you're trying to lose weight, here's a grill for Christmas. Nice. That's why the grills are there. George made millions on those grills, and there they sit on the salvaged shelf at St.Vinny's for $3.00 - $5.00 a piece. Means something I'm sure.
But mostly, I hang out there to find stuff for my daughters new life. Hopeful, that some of the discards will find a happy new life. Vacuums, pots and pans, blenders, even a funky weird chair from 1977 will become a treasure or at least a prized possession? I have great hopes for that funky find; that it will become a party chair, a featured backdrop in campus party pictures. "Hey, here's Kristin passed out on that awful chair. OMG.. that chair is so ugly it's hilarious."
Somehow tying the past of that chair- the once vibrant harvest gold floral pattern for the woman of the house, to greet her guests for a night of bridge-- to it's present day position of beer pong chair.. is just. Perfect.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
First and Ten : Why I love Football movies
So, I am not an expert on Football. I really don't even understand the game that well. But, Football Movies--those just get me. Because they aren't really about Football. It's about heart, emotion, leaving it on the field with abandon. Radio, Rudy, Friday Night Lights, Remember the Titans, We are Marshall, the Blind Side...countless others. So if it's on.. I'm watching it.
Maybe it's the upcoming school season, college football, the high schooler that's always within me; it's like a ritual. Maybe because deep down, I really wanted to have that kind of intense personal commitment to a goal - to a team - a coach. I see it there on the big screen, or in my living room. and I say THERE!...That's life! No wonder that guys who play the game in school, never let go of that passion. I think it's something that men take with them forever. If they played the game, it's with them.
My experience has been that women don't get that kind of intense emotional relationship where EVERYTHING is on the line- unless it's bitchy. Maybe? I don't know. I don't think I've been involved in a battle where it really mattered with a group of women. There might have been an important deadline or project, but it doesn't compare to the "game". But, since I'm of the generation that ushered in Title 9-- where girls did cheerleading, drill team, gymnastics or swim team- there wasn't that much to get in the game about. "Does my hair look cute?" "Does this leotard make me look fat?" "God, I hate wet hair".
Now young women have that high level game experience that I apparently missed out on. They've been out there, in battle,on the field. Frankly, I'm jealous. Girls today have no idea what it was like to be repressed, to not compete and get our emotions on. It wasn't feminine. Oh sure, there were some girls that did the softball thing and girls basketball was just starting. But come on, you know most of us - even now, just marched in the band or twirled a baton at the game. I guess the Bring it On movies are for us? Yuk.
So it's the season of football, and I know I can find my favorite football drama on some cable channel.
Young man vs. Goliath of Football glory-dom?
Physically/mentally challenged boy vs. Stereotypical Prejudice?
Racism vs.Athleticism?
Emotional devastation vs.Rebuilding?
Homelessness vs.Grace?
Oh, and there's a football game or two in there.
Maybe it's the upcoming school season, college football, the high schooler that's always within me; it's like a ritual. Maybe because deep down, I really wanted to have that kind of intense personal commitment to a goal - to a team - a coach. I see it there on the big screen, or in my living room. and I say THERE!...That's life! No wonder that guys who play the game in school, never let go of that passion. I think it's something that men take with them forever. If they played the game, it's with them.
My experience has been that women don't get that kind of intense emotional relationship where EVERYTHING is on the line- unless it's bitchy. Maybe? I don't know. I don't think I've been involved in a battle where it really mattered with a group of women. There might have been an important deadline or project, but it doesn't compare to the "game". But, since I'm of the generation that ushered in Title 9-- where girls did cheerleading, drill team, gymnastics or swim team- there wasn't that much to get in the game about. "Does my hair look cute?" "Does this leotard make me look fat?" "God, I hate wet hair".
Now young women have that high level game experience that I apparently missed out on. They've been out there, in battle,on the field. Frankly, I'm jealous. Girls today have no idea what it was like to be repressed, to not compete and get our emotions on. It wasn't feminine. Oh sure, there were some girls that did the softball thing and girls basketball was just starting. But come on, you know most of us - even now, just marched in the band or twirled a baton at the game. I guess the Bring it On movies are for us? Yuk.
So it's the season of football, and I know I can find my favorite football drama on some cable channel.
Young man vs. Goliath of Football glory-dom?
Physically/mentally challenged boy vs. Stereotypical Prejudice?
Racism vs.Athleticism?
Emotional devastation vs.Rebuilding?
Homelessness vs.Grace?
Oh, and there's a football game or two in there.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Mad Maddict
My one joy this hot summer is the return of Mad Men. I absolutely LOVE this show. I know there are people out there, who don't "get it" or are bored by it. But me... I can't get enough. I watch an episode at least 4 times just to make sure I didn't miss a dialogue note that will come to mean something later or is a big FORESHADOWING of something to come. Matthew Weiner is a genius, and even though he was born later than this time period...he KNOWS this. I subscribe to other blogs about it, my other work "maddicts" gather at the coffee station at work and go GA GA about it. So last week, a newbie to our group, said she watched the season premiere, and just didn't get it. I don't get that! Of course, working in advertising, I can't help myself. It's drawn from a period of time that to some people, doesn't seem believable. But, yes... women wore girdles, and the bras really looked like that. Women wore nylons, that you had to clip to a garter. You'd shop in a fine department store-not a mall, your items would be handed to you in a crisp, thin paper bag , not some plastic drawstring thing.
My passion for the show is that it is like opening up a old photo album, or an old magazine from my youth. It is full of touch point references that I cling to. The smoking, the attire, the furniture, the hair, the drinking, the cars, the ads, the history. It's so perfect. The production people, the writers of this show are out of their minds-detail driven. Even the football game on the season opener was the one that was airing on the television "in the background": is the exact college game that would have aired in New York on that station, on that day, that time in 1964! Perfect.
I am mesmerized by the show, mostly because of the quality of the writing, ensemble cast, and dead on accuracy and detail; and because it is full of the elements that bring my youth back. Sure, I was only a toddler during this time... but what Mad Men brings to the screen are the things that are links to my past and my husbands time. Links to my parents time. The ash tray on the coffee table in Don's office... "Yes, I remember those!" The pin on Joan's dress.. "Yes.. my mom had something just like that!" The highball glasses and liquor set.. "My god, yes.. why don't people have those out anymore?" "The kitchen clock.. yep.. seen one.. in my friends house. " The cigarettes, hats, hair, attire, furniture,cars.. all of it. Those things reference all the things around me as I was growing up. That stuff was my dad, mom, family friends, teachers, schools, stores I saw as I was growing up, and sadly those things left behind when I had to clean out my parents home and closets after they died.
Of course, the Mad Men story lines of alcoholism, cheating, divorce, racism, were not part of my life story. I am blessed to have had the best upbringing possible from two deaf parents. But those themes were around, and I remember the friends and family who did suffer from dark episodes of divorce, drinking, and family drama.
That is why I watch the show. Even if the the show lasts 5 to 8 more seasons, it will be fascinating to watch. Because, from our past, you know what's coming for the characters. The turmoil of 1968, the war, lung disease, Free Love.... working moms. That's what's sustains this audience. We all know what is ahead for people, just like chapters in a book.
My passion for the show is that it is like opening up a old photo album, or an old magazine from my youth. It is full of touch point references that I cling to. The smoking, the attire, the furniture, the hair, the drinking, the cars, the ads, the history. It's so perfect. The production people, the writers of this show are out of their minds-detail driven. Even the football game on the season opener was the one that was airing on the television "in the background": is the exact college game that would have aired in New York on that station, on that day, that time in 1964! Perfect.
I am mesmerized by the show, mostly because of the quality of the writing, ensemble cast, and dead on accuracy and detail; and because it is full of the elements that bring my youth back. Sure, I was only a toddler during this time... but what Mad Men brings to the screen are the things that are links to my past and my husbands time. Links to my parents time. The ash tray on the coffee table in Don's office... "Yes, I remember those!" The pin on Joan's dress.. "Yes.. my mom had something just like that!" The highball glasses and liquor set.. "My god, yes.. why don't people have those out anymore?" "The kitchen clock.. yep.. seen one.. in my friends house. " The cigarettes, hats, hair, attire, furniture,cars.. all of it. Those things reference all the things around me as I was growing up. That stuff was my dad, mom, family friends, teachers, schools, stores I saw as I was growing up, and sadly those things left behind when I had to clean out my parents home and closets after they died.
Of course, the Mad Men story lines of alcoholism, cheating, divorce, racism, were not part of my life story. I am blessed to have had the best upbringing possible from two deaf parents. But those themes were around, and I remember the friends and family who did suffer from dark episodes of divorce, drinking, and family drama.
That is why I watch the show. Even if the the show lasts 5 to 8 more seasons, it will be fascinating to watch. Because, from our past, you know what's coming for the characters. The turmoil of 1968, the war, lung disease, Free Love.... working moms. That's what's sustains this audience. We all know what is ahead for people, just like chapters in a book.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
At Eighteen
Eighteen years. At eighteen, the world is out there for you. It's ripe, ready for tasting. For most of us, it was the best time. Back then, we were "adults" We could drink, vote, join the army, get married. Many of my classmates did. Now, I don't know very eighteen year olds who are "adults". I don't think I was an adult at eighteen either-emotionally or mentally. Most of us were pretty naive and sheltered. I know I was. Maybe that was a product of my family life or where I grew up. I just recall that my first year in college, was - let's say-a transition period for me.
My wish for my daughter's eighteenth year is all good things. I hope she experiences that big earth shattering mental shift that inevitably will come sometime. I hope it's the mental shift that results in some reflection and growth and not panic or mistrust. Sometimes, I get a glimmer of her realization that she is a distinct individual-totally capable of knowing, seeking, understanding the world with no influence from anyone. That glimmer has been slightly annoying lately, to tell you the truth.
But there will be that moment when the world for her will be honest, real and sincere and I can't wait for that day. I remember the day with my mom, when she just looked at me and signed... "you really have learned a lot of new things?" I smiled. Of course, I didn't know very much then. I am still learning and making mistakes, but you live through them.
So, I hope my 18 year old has the best year of her life. She truly deserves it. A year filled with hope, excitement, joy and wonder.
My wish for my daughter's eighteenth year is all good things. I hope she experiences that big earth shattering mental shift that inevitably will come sometime. I hope it's the mental shift that results in some reflection and growth and not panic or mistrust. Sometimes, I get a glimmer of her realization that she is a distinct individual-totally capable of knowing, seeking, understanding the world with no influence from anyone. That glimmer has been slightly annoying lately, to tell you the truth.
But there will be that moment when the world for her will be honest, real and sincere and I can't wait for that day. I remember the day with my mom, when she just looked at me and signed... "you really have learned a lot of new things?" I smiled. Of course, I didn't know very much then. I am still learning and making mistakes, but you live through them.
So, I hope my 18 year old has the best year of her life. She truly deserves it. A year filled with hope, excitement, joy and wonder.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Fairest in the Land
My hometown is home to the STATE FAIR. Fans of old timey movies will remember the musical State Fair.-"Our State Fair is the best State Fair"...I think that's how it goes? In my memory, the local fair sort of compares... sort of. There's livestock, pies, jellies, and out of town families that come in to the big city to win the big 4H prize and carnies. There's the freak shows and seedy characters, outrageous flirting and fights. So not much has changed? I guess that's comforting? I know relatives and family that plan their visit home just so they can go to THE FAIR.
Every year I say I'm not going to go to The Fair, but we go. During the first week of August my house is usually 95 degrees, so of course we go where it's even HOTTER and there's people everywhere! But there's something about it. The memories, the children, the smells, the organic heap of it all.
Of course, I've been to the pinnacle of amusement parks several times-Disneyland-and seriously; nothing compares to that Walt magic. You're in a bubble when you're there. The world is perfect, people are perfect,children are smiling, bubbles, balloons, it's pure magic. There's nothing slimy, seedy or smelly about it. But it's not fair to make a comparison between the two. Disneyland is a fairy tale princess castle, and The Fair is vomit in a trash bin.
So why do I go to The Fair every year? To me it's a snapshot of the cosmic community. Overall, it's a mass representation of what we are. Cranky kids in strollers with sunburned cheeks.A good harvest of new vegetables, garden flowers, fine rabbits and chickens; contrasted against the extreme chaos of the midway, juvenille madness, cliques and gangs, beer and greasy smells. And those smells, oooh. A curious cultural mix of Indian tacos, pizza, gyros, Norwegian deep fried meatballs and Bar B Que, layered with the sticky sweet fragrance of burnt caramel sugar.
So I go to The Fair because it is like life. Not all magic and bubbles in a fairy land far far away. The Fair is real. There's truth there. Hot and exposed, warts and all, the tattoos, the muffin tops, wife beater shirts, mullets, piercings, diapers on the park lawn, sippy cups, and sticky hands.That harsh ride that makes you sick, noisy tractors from 1926, pungent hay, the stillness of the quilt room. There's years of memories in every building, and it takes you back. It's the real deal baby.
They're always trying at The Fair to clean it up, pave walkways, put clean shirts on the workers and bring in Branson-type shows to "bring it up a notch." But it's the same. But there is one thing that just fixes it for me. If I'm walking down the midway, and if there's just enough money in my pocket for a Fresh Squeezed Lemonade, my life is good. And that lemonade at The Fair IS good.
Every year I say I'm not going to go to The Fair, but we go. During the first week of August my house is usually 95 degrees, so of course we go where it's even HOTTER and there's people everywhere! But there's something about it. The memories, the children, the smells, the organic heap of it all.
Of course, I've been to the pinnacle of amusement parks several times-Disneyland-and seriously; nothing compares to that Walt magic. You're in a bubble when you're there. The world is perfect, people are perfect,children are smiling, bubbles, balloons, it's pure magic. There's nothing slimy, seedy or smelly about it. But it's not fair to make a comparison between the two. Disneyland is a fairy tale princess castle, and The Fair is vomit in a trash bin.
So why do I go to The Fair every year? To me it's a snapshot of the cosmic community. Overall, it's a mass representation of what we are. Cranky kids in strollers with sunburned cheeks.A good harvest of new vegetables, garden flowers, fine rabbits and chickens; contrasted against the extreme chaos of the midway, juvenille madness, cliques and gangs, beer and greasy smells. And those smells, oooh. A curious cultural mix of Indian tacos, pizza, gyros, Norwegian deep fried meatballs and Bar B Que, layered with the sticky sweet fragrance of burnt caramel sugar.
So I go to The Fair because it is like life. Not all magic and bubbles in a fairy land far far away. The Fair is real. There's truth there. Hot and exposed, warts and all, the tattoos, the muffin tops, wife beater shirts, mullets, piercings, diapers on the park lawn, sippy cups, and sticky hands.That harsh ride that makes you sick, noisy tractors from 1926, pungent hay, the stillness of the quilt room. There's years of memories in every building, and it takes you back. It's the real deal baby.
They're always trying at The Fair to clean it up, pave walkways, put clean shirts on the workers and bring in Branson-type shows to "bring it up a notch." But it's the same. But there is one thing that just fixes it for me. If I'm walking down the midway, and if there's just enough money in my pocket for a Fresh Squeezed Lemonade, my life is good. And that lemonade at The Fair IS good.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
It's a Jacket
Whenever I am out wandering department stores, boutiques, malls; whether it is by myself or with my sister and daughter; I stop and admire jackets. Fall, winter, spring, even summer. It’s my thing. Of course, this has become a family joke. “Look – It’s a JAAAAACKET” I love the whole premise of the word “Jacket”. Derived from Old French- jaquet: short jacket -short coat, one that is hip-length and has a front opening and sleeves. But other definitions strike me as perhaps there is more to the covering than the intended purpose, and possibly there is more behind why I love Jackets.
More definitions:
A life jacket: something that resembles this or is designed to be worn around the upper part of the body: meaning protection, safety security.
An exterior covering or casing, such as the insulating cover of a boiler: functional, purposeful.
Skin of a baked potato- natural, part of existence.
Metal casing used in certain types of ammunition – A shell to encase power.
Sleeve a cover to protect a gramophone record – preserving a memory.
Folder or envelope to hold documents- protecting information.
So, thinking about these things has led me to realize that there is way more to my closetful of jackets. I am, of course, all those things defined above. I am always seeking safety, security, a functional yet purposeful life. A natural existence. I guard the power of my emotions within, and also very protective and diligent about keeping my past with me.
My jackets have changed over the years as fashion trends come and go. A child of the 70’s; I was one of the multitudes of “working girl” masses that entered the work force in the 80’s. As a retail chick working in the mall, I sold newly empowered women those Power Suits complete with shoulder pads. Even the blouses under the suit jacket came equipped with shoulder pads. It seemed like working women had evolved into linebackers ready to take on the world. Personally, I never really reached that tier of needing an everyday power suit ensemble; but I had at least two or three that I wore – on occasion. I marveled at how the 80’s transformed into the hot suits of the 90’s – Ally McBeal style. Now, not only did women need the power suit jacket, they needed the micro mini skirt and legs to pull off the charade of making it in the working world. That really was ridiculous. Will my daughter have to endure a female dress code manifesto? On a recent trip to the mall, I’m not too sure. Tank tops, leggings, low rise jeans. No jackets. The kids just are; open, free, exposed. It’s different now.
But as my working world adapted to more casual dress, I too left the constraints of the suit-straight jacket to more casual jackets. In fact, I’ve evolved to the sweater jacket. It’s softer, looser, comforting. I think it reflects how I feel about life. What’s next for me? The cardigan sweater. I’m sure that’s coming. “Look mother- it’s a lovely pink cardigan.”
More definitions:
A life jacket: something that resembles this or is designed to be worn around the upper part of the body: meaning protection, safety security.
An exterior covering or casing, such as the insulating cover of a boiler: functional, purposeful.
Skin of a baked potato- natural, part of existence.
Metal casing used in certain types of ammunition – A shell to encase power.
Sleeve a cover to protect a gramophone record – preserving a memory.
Folder or envelope to hold documents- protecting information.
So, thinking about these things has led me to realize that there is way more to my closetful of jackets. I am, of course, all those things defined above. I am always seeking safety, security, a functional yet purposeful life. A natural existence. I guard the power of my emotions within, and also very protective and diligent about keeping my past with me.
My jackets have changed over the years as fashion trends come and go. A child of the 70’s; I was one of the multitudes of “working girl” masses that entered the work force in the 80’s. As a retail chick working in the mall, I sold newly empowered women those Power Suits complete with shoulder pads. Even the blouses under the suit jacket came equipped with shoulder pads. It seemed like working women had evolved into linebackers ready to take on the world. Personally, I never really reached that tier of needing an everyday power suit ensemble; but I had at least two or three that I wore – on occasion. I marveled at how the 80’s transformed into the hot suits of the 90’s – Ally McBeal style. Now, not only did women need the power suit jacket, they needed the micro mini skirt and legs to pull off the charade of making it in the working world. That really was ridiculous. Will my daughter have to endure a female dress code manifesto? On a recent trip to the mall, I’m not too sure. Tank tops, leggings, low rise jeans. No jackets. The kids just are; open, free, exposed. It’s different now.
But as my working world adapted to more casual dress, I too left the constraints of the suit-straight jacket to more casual jackets. In fact, I’ve evolved to the sweater jacket. It’s softer, looser, comforting. I think it reflects how I feel about life. What’s next for me? The cardigan sweater. I’m sure that’s coming. “Look mother- it’s a lovely pink cardigan.”
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Helicoptering: Launch Pad
Helicoptering: Launch Pad: "I've been dreading this coming event. My only child, darling daughter, everthing in my world is leaving home in a few weeks for college. I'v..."
First Time
I am venturing out into the land of blogs. First, to find out how to do one; second because I think I'm a frustrated writer that always got B's in composition in college. Maybe this will help me become a better writer. I'm not always going to correct my syntax, my dangling participles, and my run on sentences. I actually think that the era of text messages and email has created a new style of writing. I'll probably employ that style here.
So my blog- Benn there. Sort of a play on my name of sorts. But also a nod to my maturity. Because, dear reader... I have reached that milestone of age-dom. But I still cannot accept it. But I have "been there", probably done that, and have gained wisdom from it. I have learned that it is better to be humble about one's experience and knowledge than to spout off about it. However, I do take occassion to go to my "been there" lines when it comes to discussions with my child. Despite what she thinks, my wisdom and hard lessons are there for her to learn from not tune out.
My posts will mostly be about my journey into the next year. I have a huge transition coming my way. So I'm hoping that anything I've learned from my past will lead me through the next new thing.
So my blog- Benn there. Sort of a play on my name of sorts. But also a nod to my maturity. Because, dear reader... I have reached that milestone of age-dom. But I still cannot accept it. But I have "been there", probably done that, and have gained wisdom from it. I have learned that it is better to be humble about one's experience and knowledge than to spout off about it. However, I do take occassion to go to my "been there" lines when it comes to discussions with my child. Despite what she thinks, my wisdom and hard lessons are there for her to learn from not tune out.
My posts will mostly be about my journey into the next year. I have a huge transition coming my way. So I'm hoping that anything I've learned from my past will lead me through the next new thing.
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