memories, dull the edges of my mind

I wasn't exactly a mean girl when I was younger, but I was definitely an accessory to mean girls. My little sister might say I was an actual mean girl sometimes, especially regarding possessions. But, for example, I maintain that since I'm 9 years older than her, most of the Barbie stuff was mine before it was hers so how can I be accused of stealing that tiny copper pot and besides, she's known where I keep it not locked up, in plain sight AND I'm pretty sure I've offered it to her many times in our adulthood and she won't take it. So anyway, on the periphery of mean girlness. Moving on.

Lately (which, in an almost-50-year old's brain means "in the past 20 years") I've been giving increasingly more thought to the usefulness of memories. As someone who writes & reads and encourages others to do the same, I realize the importance of memories but after having had a few instances of my very vivid, certain memories turning out to be completely unverifiable with the people involved, I am now wondering what is their real purpose if they're ultimately unreliable? 

First, the case that basically invalidated most of my 6th grade year. To set the scene, I silently but forcefully disliked nearly everything about my teacher that year: he was old, he made us run and play sports CONSTANTLY, he called my mom to admonish her for letting me eat a Pop Tart and orange juice for breakfast every morning, and each week he would dump desks that he deemed 'messy.' Now, as a lucid adult + teacher myself, I can make these adjustments: he was only about 40 that year; we ran and played soccer maybe twice a week; that is a pretty terrible diet for a preteen girl [but still, I felt bad for my mom because she left the house to work at 5:30am so not her fault I was/am still no good at nutrition]; and while I would never shame students, I do promote neatness in my classroom.

The parts of this teacher I did happen to like were his constant encouragement of my writing skills and praise for my tidy desk, which leads to the first memory I had that was blown to smithereens a few years ago: I saw the name of a boy tagged in a former classmate's 6th grade photo and immediately remembered him sitting quietly next to me at the back of the classroom, waiting for that teacher to come down the aisle to dump his desk. Every week. I had offered many times to show him how to organize his books and pencils and tissue box, reminded him to throw out crumpled papers & empty snack bags, actually rearranged his things myself + told him breathlessly, probably harshly (mean girl tendencies) when it was time to CLEAN HIS DESK! I'm starting to sweat again right now. In my twitchy memory, this kid sat with almost amused resignation, as our menacing teacher moved Gestapo-like toward us. 

I immediately sent this guy a friend request and waited, heart thumping, for him to accept so I could find out that he had fully recovered from this obviously horrible and humiliating treatment 30+ years ago. Except that when we did reconnect, he had zero memory of this situation. Nothing. In fact, he sent me a photo from his law office where boxes and papers were stacked impetuously around the room. And, inexplicably, beyond that, he said our 6th grade teacher was one of his favorites - they had gone running and rock climbing with other classmates on weekends; they'd kept in touch for many years afterward.

What?

After a tiny spark of irritation that I had spent so much mental energy trying to needlessly defend this kid's dignity for decades, I realized my own standards of what makes a good experience and solid relationship clouded my perceptions of what happened for him. (Hello, productive counseling sessions). That is, if that teacher even really dumped desks - how can I know for sure? I'm afraid to ask my friend, the classmate who posted our picture in the first place.

But then last week, I found out another situation I had been involved with (this is where the almost-but-probably-an-actual mean girl thing comes in) has apparently not lived on in the psyche of a key player. 

The summer before our Senior year, a friend & I decided to call a pay phone outside the Safeway. (I'm presuming all of my readers are old enough to know what a pay phone is, and understand why calling it randomly would be considered a fun thing to do during summer break in a small town). I think a couple of harried adults answered and hung up before we hit the jackpot with a couple of boys from our high school; we immediately became spectacular improv artists weaving elaborate storylines for ourselves: a couple of hot 18-year old girls from Las Vegas visiting our cousin. The details were embarrassingly, painfully silly and unbelievable but we had a captive, willing audience.

Fast forward to weeks later, after we've called these boys many times at their homes to talk about increasingly outrageous nonsense while somehow never being able to meet up with them in person, and school is starting so the Las Vegas girls have to return home. We promise to call again though, and that's when things become actually terrible - we notice in the halls what these guys wear then claim to have had a dream about them in those outfits, or we remark on something someone at our [pretend] school said or did, which happened to have been exactly what we saw one of our boys did that week.

Finally, because I wasn't a mean girl at heart, I decided we should stop. But also, we needed to tell them the truth. My reasoning, I (think) I remember very clearly, was that they would be confused & sad if the Las Vegas girls just stopped calling them. Somehow it seemed better in my mind to expose their utter gullibility face-to-face. To be fair to young stupid me, I saw myself as the bad guy in this scenario and thought of the reveal as more of a confession (and absolution, of course) of my crime. Regardless, I told "my" guy during a slow dance at school and he laughed. Again, young stupid me considered this a good sign - I actually wrote in my journal that I thought we were going on a date shortly after that, though I'm pretty sure he never spoke directly to me again. And for the last five years, he has not accepted my friend request on Facebook.

But here is the thing that makes me doubt my recollections: I finally found someone to tell him hello for me and mention I was sorry; my theory, based on my finally realizing that the 30-years-ago confession was more a humiliation than a relief, was that he thought I was a horrible person unworthy of being his friend, even in cyberspace, but if he knew I was apologetic we could move on - yet he told that person he has no idea who I am. No idea. Now, I know this thing actually happened because a) a friend was involved and can back me up plus b) I wrote about it in my journal and by God, that thing is full of unsettling true things. It stuns me that someone, like my 6th grade acquaintance, will have a completely opposite memory of a situation and I don't understand why.

However, again as a result of good counseling sessions, I am letting it all go. We with opposing memories will just have to forever agree to disagree. 

Maybe. (Is this a male/female thing? An age issue?)

Probably not. (Why does this matter so much to me??)

I guess I need a few more counseling sessions.

things we forget to remember

I went to my 30th high school reunion this past weekend, and I not only loved every minute of it but I've looked forward to it, and all of my reunions, for years. Somehow I had a childhood that left me unscathed and even happy, and I still enjoy being around the people I grew up with.

Because I am one of the planners (of course) and a huge fan of the Mortified concept, I decided to read some excerpts from my 1985-86 journal. I mainly thought it would be a funny addition to the evening but the more time I spent reading & choosing selections, the more I realized how significant those [insanely embarrassing] reflections really are.

To begin with, the picture I've kept in my mind of my teenage self did not match the voice I heard when I was reading through the journal. It seems strange that I would see myself so differently considering I literally am the person who wrote those things. Many times we will create a version of ourselves that is better than what we are/were but in a way, I've been remembering a Teen Me that was much less confident and more timid than what I presented on those pages three decades ago. Some of it is cringy to Adult Me - the unnerving, lengthy explanation of how I named a teddy bear after Prince, my Canadian boyfriend, and his best friend who I also thought was cute - but a lot of it makes me nod proudly for the moxie I had, at least on paper. Alone. In my bedroom with the door barricaded against parents who never knocked before entering.

Of course there is the obvious connection between my life today, full of Potential Second Husbands - though I didn't call them that then - and the constant celebrity crushes I wrote about: Many were completely understandable like Matt Dillon, Richard Gere, and Andrew McCarthy (who I mentioned at least 4 times in the 18 months of this particular journal, one time in detail as the basis for my fantasy future son's personality) but some were unexpected and intense (Phil Collins, Martin Short...??) or obscure: "I do like Carlo Imperato from FAME very much - yes. And I still feel weak when I listen to Friday Night." Props to Teen Me though - that performance is pretty hot [for 1982].

However, there are dozens - not an exaggeration - of entries featuring boys from school whom I now have no memory of being interested in.

• An excited note remarking on what an upperclassman wrote in my yearbook, which I revisited last week and found hardly eyebrow-raising at age 47. 
• The 4-page entry I read at my reunion that describes multi-day encounters (I'm avoiding the word 'stalking' as it has a deservedly negative connotation) with an underclassman I've literally never spoken a paragraph to, before or after that time. And I know this to be fact, not just an effect of my apparently-faulty memory, because I certainly would have written an all caps, exclamation point-filled follow-up, right? Nothing; I moved almost immediately on to other boys, most of whom were also eventual nonentities in my real life.

I've been trying to figure out what this all means. Maybe nothing; teenage brains are mercifully wired to dismiss a lot of once-monumental information in order to make room for more useful adult details like who will make a trustworthy partner, when rent is due, which vodka is actually good, and how to stay alive in general.

It is probably a good thing that we don't remember all of the things that happened to us in high school, when many of us were so rabidly insecure that we behaved like lunatics, spending half our time desperately trying to be noticed and the other half hoping to not stand out. But I do think that being able to revisit these times is useful in that it resurrects a person you didn't know you were, someone you might actually be proud of, so you can reevaluate who you think you are now and maybe even better understand other people. Reading about times I was nervous but rallied and cheered myself on makes me appreciate Teen Me better, which reminds me to like Adult Me more and stop second-guessing my skills, and praise myself for doing the things I'm afraid to. If I can do this for myself, I should do it for others more often.

I mean, after all, they might really love "Sussidio" too, and that's okay.

in the presence of royalty

I have no idea how I got Prince's 1999 cassette, but I do know that it immediately became my favorite album. Favorite very secret album, playing directly only into my ears through the headphones of my knock-off Walkman whenever I strolled to the beach, mowed the lawn, or tried desperately to get a tan lying in my backyard. 

I felt subversive listening to it; for 1983 small town me the songs were unbelievably naughty. But for all its overt sexiness, Prince never made me feel uncomfortable [except when I thought about my parents hearing the lyrics]. So I knew then for sure that sex was supposed to be a good, fun thing [that I would never ever discuss with my parents]. A couple years later I spent my babysitting money on the Purple Rain LP and fell in love.

Riding the bus home Valentine's Day in 1985, I heard on the radio that they had added another Prince concert for the next night at the Tacoma Dome, and there were still tickets available. I bolted from my bus stop to the kitchen phone, frantically found the number for our local ticket shop/t-shirt printer and called. They said one of their employees might have a couple of tickets to sell, check back in 15 minutes. My heart was pounding - the possibility of seeing Prince was 15 minutes away. Fifteen minutes plus whatever the cost was, a desperate phone call to my mom asking not only for permission but for her to drive me and my best friend 2 1/2 hours each way on a school night, and my best friend's ability to come with me away. I don't think I have ever been so blindly optimistic again in my life.

The tickets were $25 each. They were front row. My parents said okay. My best friend's parents said okay. It was a miracle.

Regardless of our love for Prince, my bff and I were hardcore stereotypical teacher's pet-type girls. So naturally we wore our purple sweatshirts. Over purple polo shirts. With our Normandy Rose jeans and loafers. I am not making this up; I feel slightly embarrassed and very sweaty just remembering our outfits.

It didn't matter how out of place we looked (seriously, no one else was wearing a sweatshirt. Of course.) - WE WERE GOING TO SEE PRINCE FROM THE FRONT ROW. Sheila E opened like a goddess, tied an audience member to a chair and danced & drummed around him in her sheer bodysuit, then it was time. Purple smoke covered the stage and filled my unsuspecting, willing lungs. I have a memory of Prince crawling across the stage at some point but I'm not sure when that happened. He changed clothes a few times, and I'm pretty sure he was shirtless at one point. My stomach felt wiggly, my breathing shallow, and not just because I was on the verge of heat stroke. We were pushed against the barrier fencing for two hours and I thought many times I would lose one of my shoes (honestly, what was I thinking? Loafers.) but didn't really care. It was the best night of my 16-year old life.

For the past 31 years, I have felt like I actually know Prince because of that concert. I believe he made everyone in that arena feel like they knew him. Each time I saw Prince in an interview, on an awards show, with The Muppets, I believed we had a connection. 

Because he was miraculous. 

love life

Yesterday was my 43rd birthday, though not many people were aware as I tend to be pretty secretive about these things.


So anyway.

I realize a lot of people might think it outrageously vain of me to celebrate my birthday with such abandon for [at least] a month. However, there is a clear reason I was born barely after the end of Leo on the zodiac, people - a portion of me really likes being noticed/pampered/applauded/worshipped. Repeatedly.

As an adult, I have decided to embrace most everything about me because the alternative seems sad and boring, for everyone. And, aside from my paralyzing moments of perfectionism, I enjoy trying new things & meeting new people & going different places as much as possible. But this is certainly not how I lived my childhood. Okay, maybe I was always smiling biggest and sitting in front of everyone else in every photo through 1981. Whatever.

In my memories of myself throughout junior high & high school, I was mousey and quiet and didn't make much of an impression. I can specifically remember wishing I were more outgoing, prettier, more fashionable, funnier - but I also specifically recall not speaking up in classes, being inordinately distracted by the state of my hair or the details on my jeans, and keeping my best comedy for only a few close friends. There is a part of me that regrets being afraid to live out loud then, but I am trying not to lament this because there is nothing I can do about it now. I just try to be a confident lover of life and beseech my children & students to please notice/sit by/talk to every one of their classmates at least once, just to be sure they are not overlooking some amazing individual because of that person's insecurity or shyness.

It has been a particular delight getting back in touch with my former classmates at reunions. Some of them have revealed startling facts about my young self - they thought I was funny, that I did have style, that they were certain I must have been part of the popular crowd. But more than these belated compliments, I am overjoyed to watch my own daughter - entering middle school in seven days - be what I always hoped to be. She boldly wears plaid shorts & striped shirts, knee-high zippered sneakers, headbands with giant flowers. My girl kicks ass in track without a thought about her hair and she is the first of her friends to say "Hey" to boys in the hall. When I remark that I'm proud she is willing to do what she wants without worrying about what people think, she gives me a furrowed brow and sideways look as if to say, "Why wouldn't I?"

Exactly.

memory, loss

It's strange to me how we sometimes hold on to childhood memories as though they are absolute truths.

I reconnected with a classmate from 6th grade last year, and the first thing I thought of was how his desk was dumped nearly every week for being messy. That has been stuck in my mind for 30 years - the image of this shy kid sitting next to me with his desk crammed full of crumpled papers, resignedly waiting for our teacher to walk down the aisle and tip everything out; I was traumatized by this and certain he had been, too. Yet when I e-mailed John and relayed my story, he didn't recall any such travesty. In fact, he went on about how much he liked our 6th grade teacher because he was an outdoorsman and encouraged my classmate in running & hiking. Of course, I specifically did not like our 6th grade teacher for that reason (Run? Hike? I don't get it.) AND because he would humiliate (so I believed) kids for their lack of organizational skills. Not to mention he was so into nutrition that he called to chastise my mom when I said I had a Pop-Tart and orange juice for breakfast most mornings. The audacity, I'm sure.

Mr. Kloke died last month while rock climbing. My friend from 6th grade - the one who remembered that year far differently, and more fondly, than I did - had gotten in touch with him over the summer and encouraged me to do the same. But I couldn't shake those perceptions from my silly 11-year-old self and put it off, and now it's too late.

Clearly Mr. Kloke was not hurt by my ignorance - he passionately lived a full, adventurous life - but I am.

what if

As I was driving to my school yesterday, I noticed a young man jogging along the road. Before you start composing your cougar-themed comments, read on.

This young man caught my eye because everything about him at a glance reminded me of a former student. Everything except the running for sport. Our kid was a skater and a saunterer; occasionally he could be bothered to hacky with friends or play Frisbee in P.E., but generally he was surly and stationary. In the space of a few moments - the time it took to drive past the jogger and realize he was not our student - I started to wonder about how changed people might be as adults if they had chosen different activities as kids.

From what we know about our student, there are a lot of reasons he started down his path of inactivity and troubling [generally inactive] hobbies. I often say there is no excuse for bad behavior but there are reasons that we should try to understand, and so we at our school tried to understand where he was coming from - essentially abandoned by a mother who later tried making amends through inappropriate gifts, and raised by an emotionally distant father who never appeared for meetings and seemed irritated when I called to tell him about his son's fine work in poetry. With this kind of unstable, untrustworthy childhood as a backdrop, it would be difficult for a teen to make wise choices; we do the best we can at school to help guide kids, but it's hard to compete with apathetic parents & unsupervised free time.

Other students of ours have gotten pregnant, run away from home, committed crimes, attempted suicide. These are choices - though for some kids it doesn't seem that way because their circumstances are so unbearable. When a teenager has become a parent or lived on the streets or survived incarceration or cheated death, activities like prom and art shows and writing contests and cooking classes can seem ridiculously simple, even meaningless. Yet despite heavy circumstances, life is still going on; we have to keep reminding them, and offering variety.

On a less dramatic note, I think of my own teen years and the kinds of things I chose to (and not to) do. For the most part I was low-key [reading, writing, watching TV, going to movies], but I know some of my decisions were based on how I thought my parents might react; I often would rather decline invitations than get involved in often-convoluted discussions with them about who/what/where/when/why. While I think I turned out pretty well, I do wonder who I might be if I had joined the volleyball team or campaigned for student council or pursued concert band or applied to be one of those rollerskating goddesses.

This student I thought I saw did graduate this year with his class. And before that, he let himself teach some classmates to play hacky sack and even started an informal chess club despite having told me two years ago that those things were stupid. So maybe there is no need to stop and ask what if, and just keep moving forward.

now like then

When I was growing up, I remember wanting to be four things: a mom, a teacher, a psychologist, and an advertising copywriter.

I see my little self taking care of our beloved wiry, ratty terrier Elly May, though "taking care of" meant to me running around with in the weeds, letting her tug on and tear tiny holes in my jacket sleeves, and inspiring her to howl on our trailer porch while I played my shrill recorder at 1000 decibels. When she was hit by a car [not on my watch, for the record], my (s)mothering attentions turned to my baby sister whom I doted on until she was old enough to open the door to my room and mess with my books & records.

I recall the numerous times I set up a classroom of stuffed animals & dolls - everyone in neat rows facing my propped-up garage sale chalkboard - and carefully called roll, pausing to wait for imaginary responses. My grandpa gave me old ledgers from his wrecking yard business that I used for recording class lists and assignments; my uncle gave me old worksheets from his teaching days that I kept in a briefcase and 'corrected' with a red pencil. When my younger cousin was around and later when my sister was old enough, I volunteered them to be my real-live students. We (I) loved every minute of playing School.

I envision my serious face as I studied stacks of teen-girl magazines, applying my rudimentary understanding of subliminal messages and reverse psychology and propaganda tactics. I was determined to resist the pull of Popular Fashion, at least in the sense that I would not be consumed by it; I attempted edgy style with fake military medals on my denim jacket, I bought EPs of The Cult and The Smiths, and I joined Amnesty International. Though I still secretly wanted Normandy Rose jeans, leather Nikes, and hair that could hold a decent curl, if only for just one day.

I revisit the solid certainty I felt in my whole 19-year-old being as I solemnly watched thirtysomething every week, vowing I would become one of those smart, hip adults with smart, hip friends and a smart, hip career. I would design advertisements with a conscience, I would lead people to make intelligent choices, I would change the world for the better. I would be real.

And now, I am a mother not of a wily canine but of two wondrous children; occasionally I run through weeds with them and let them rip things for fun; I've also been known to lock them out of my room, but they do have their own books to mess with.

Now I set up desks in not-so-straight (yet always orderly) rows and real students make up my class lists, but I never use red pencils. I (we) love most minutes of School.

Now I am pretty confident in my analysis of advertising, even when I succumb to its nefarious ploys and buy things I know I don't need. Yet I am never too proud to find my fashions & furnishings at garage sales and thrift stores, in fact I am a zealot about recycling, reusing, and repurposing.  My life is nothing if not conscientious; I am all about changing the world for the better whenever I can. Which leads to my final youthful aspiration - to be smart and hip, with smart, hip friends and a smart, hip career.

Done, done, and done, if I do say so myself.

And I feel real.

wild psych session

Loved, and continue to love the book - each of my kids has a copy, and I bought another for $1 at Goodwill so I could remove the pictures and post them around my classroom. Every spare word of Where the Wild Things Are resonates in my parental mind; whenever my son launches into an astronomical fit or my daughter dissolves into a wailing puddle, I think of Max in his wolf suit making mischief of one kind and another. I take a deep breath, banish them to their rooms, whisper how I'll eat them up, I love them so. And I make sure their supper is always waiting, still hot.

The trailers for the movie version made me weepy throughout the summer, with their sweeping cinematography and giant, lovable Jim Henson costumes and funky thoughtful soundtrack. I invested my memories and connections from the book into the film with sky-high hopes and while I wasn't exactly disappointed, I left feeling dissatisfied. As Mason put it when the lights came up, "That's it? He just comes home and eats cake while his mom watches him? I don't get it." We had questions about what next?, unlike we did after finishing the book, because the bulk of the movie is spent on Max's puzzling interactions with the Wild Things but not on what Max learns from the experience. When he comes home in the original story, he has left because he wants to be "where he is loved best of all" and it is clear he realizes wild rumpuses are not, ultimately, the meaning of life. In the movie version, Max abandons the Wild Things in a bit of a shamble, physically & emotionally, before running back to his frantic mom.

Not to get too Film Student deep about it, but I felt led to believe the Wild Things were meant to represent different pieces of Max's psyche: Carol, the loud & violent but still endearing leader, was the hurt & confused reactionary 9-year old boy; Judith was the passive-aggressive bully side of him; Ira was the quiet "Watch me do a great job and we can all just get along!" child of divorce; Douglas was the smart & practical Max who knew the right thing to do, even if he didn't always do it; Alexander (physically much smaller than the others) was the sensitive, insightful one everyone ignored. KW seemed to be like Max's mom - trying to find inspiration outside the group while keeping peace within, and protecting Max when the others were out of control. And there was another creature, gigantic but silent, always hovering around but never joining in; I grew weary trying to figure out his message.

And that, in the end, was the troublesome part of watching this movie - I felt like I was supposed to be 'getting it,' that each scene should be an "Aha!" moment about Life with a capital L. Where the Wild Things really are, in the book, I could check out of my grown-up life and just let them roar their terrible roars & gnash their terrible teeth for my entertainment while also delighting in the simple presence of unconditional love.

There is definitely love in this movie, but unfortunately Jonze & Eggers tried too hard to make us see it. We already knew it would be there; they had us at "Be still!"

knowledge is power

How wonderful you are.
Here, here.

fresh air fun

Amongst the ridiculous spam in my e-mail today [that acai berry super cleanse is not sounding any better, people; give it up], I spied a note from the Fresh Air Fund about hosting a city kid this summer. First, I love to be helpful & possibly inspiring to kids and second, watching videos of joyful youths cavorting in parks on bright blue-green days made me see the sunlight at the end of our rainy tunnel. YES! Visions of perking up our extra bedroom & planning hours upon hours of outdoor fun danced in my head.

Alas, I am not in the designated area of the US to participate in hosting [though we will be donating]. But I know some of my beloved readers are. I beseech [5 point word] you to check out these videos and visit the Fresh Air Fund site; you will not be able to resist signing up. And dudes, that is prime blog fodder for weeks - the photos alone will bring the world joy. At the very least, please post or pass on the info. This program is a marvelous blessing.

Plus I'd do just about anything for Tiki Barber...

Their laughter alone sends me.

grateful

I am from Laundromats,

from Clorox, All Temp-A-Cheer, and wooden clothespins.

I am from the single-wide trailer with a splintery porch,

a closet-sized bedroom and paper-thin walls.

I am from the crooked apple tree in front and bushy wild rhubarb in back.

I am from the flea market after church and forever bargaining,
from Grandpa Doc & Grandma Minnie, and the Parkers in Texas.

I am from the glasses by junior high and gray hair by 21;

From elbows off the table and chew with your mouth closed.

I am from the Church of the Nazarene each Sunday,

Jesus Loves Me and clay pigeon candle holders;

From bookmarks for memorizing Genesis through Malachi.

I’m from Dutch immigrants, oliebollen and Waldorf salad.

From the times Grandpa went AWOL, Hey Mr. Bakery Man!

and stories about sleepwalking.

I am from shoeboxes in Grandma's cedar chest,

filled with pieces of gold & silver

disguised as photos and letters.

Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are & wherever you're from

originally posted 11/26/07

nonsensical nostalgia

Mason brought home a burning desire to rent a trombone and be in Band; Stu asked why he didn't want to play the piccolo instead because you can carry that instrument around in your pocket, like the magic flute in H.R. Pufnstuf. I immediately became wistful for that admittedly very weird but somehow fantastically fun show while Stu derided it as ridiculous.



After trying to find an episode featuring Freddie Flute to show the kids (no luck; sadness), we jumped to Dr. Shrinker then The Bugaloos, Banana Splits, and finally landed on Swedish Chef skits from The Muppet Show. I loved all of those shows dearly though, excepting the last one, for no good reason. It is truly awful ilk; I can't help but wonder what the actors from those shows are doing now, and do they tell anyone what they did in the 70s? "Nice to meet you. I look familiar? Well, I did once play a rock-n-roller fairy in a magical forest!"

The good news for our nation's future: My kids only lost their minds laughing at Swedish Chef and want the DVD collection for Christmas. Maybe I really am a good mom after all.

But I still love to sing the theme songs of all those terrible Sid & Marty Krofft shows...La la la, la la la la, la la la, la la la la.

Tomorrow, we explore the genius of The Monkees.

sweet sweet nostalgia

The beloved (and WW rebel) Mrs. G recently went down a sugar-coated tangent about her favorite childhood treats, and I could not resist doing the same. (I really hope she subscribes to the "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" school rather than the "You're a copycat hack who'd better step off" philosophy. We'll soon see).

Here are some of my favorite decidedly not organic/sugar-free/trans fat-free/what the hell's high fructose corn syrup anyway? modified chemical reactant foods from life in the 70s & 80s.

_____________________________________________

This one was a little frustrating figuring out how to pronounce - was I supposed to say the U like "you" and make it a fun, winkwink nudgenudge inside joke? (And if so, what should I know??) Or go bilingual with it? Regardless, it was delicious with the tiny specks of nuts in the creamy chocolate center.

Mary Jane - it's a smart-looking shoe and a delicious molasses & peanut butter let's-pull-out-our-fillings treat. And when you introduce them to teenagers for a sensory writing assignment, you remember it's also a fun nickname for a particular smokable item and hilarity ensues.

I'm not sure I really loved the flavor of Squirt so much, but every few weeks I got to go with my grandpa to pick up pop [this is what Northwest people call it, because 'soda' is something else entirely; however, I will fight this battle another day] for the machine in his wrecking yard. Coke & Dr. Pepper were actually my favorites but I liked to mix up the look of the bottle caps peeking from their little pockets so I would pick out some orange (which I hated) & grape (double blech) Fanta, and the bright happy yellow-capped Squirt. What?

This product brought me into my own. I was not an athlete (surprise!) and had no real visible talents other than raising my hand with the right answer, which I tried not to do very often because, well, I was trying to avoid the Nerd Girl label (didn't work). Anyway. Blowing giant bubbles that obscured my face proved too easy; it was the bubble-in-a-bubble-in-a-bubble that made me a legend [in my own mind].And then these. I realize my profession of love for chocolate has become legendary, but the vanilla-flavored Tootsie Roll is a heavenly delight. I will steal them from my children's Halloween buckets.

Mrs. G & I share the fondness for Bit-O-Honey (but only when I couldn't get Mary Janes) and Tang, though I totally wanted to drink it because of the astronauts.

So you know, also? I am not a completely cruel nut who won't let my children experience the decadence of horrific foods - they have been allowed to partake of radioactive powder in a pouch Fun Dip, precursor of radioactive powder, in a paper tube Pixie Sticks, and even *gasp* don't eat them with Coke or your stomach will blow up! nuggets Pop Rocks. I'm not quite ready for this nonsense though. I think I'd rather them have a pack of these babies in their back pockets:

land before dinner time

taken by Mason, age 9

Click for more Wordless Wednesday magic.

not sure where i'm going, but i know where i'm from

I found this nifty idea at the site of Straight Up and Slightly Dirty (who could resist that blog title?), and here is the original poem along with a brilliant fill-in guide.

I have stolen this idea for my poetry class; if all goes well, I might have some amazing stuff to share in the next week. (This is me being optimistic about 29 teenagers in a creative writing class, in the midst of holiday breaks). Meanwhile, this is who I am:

I am from Laundromats,
from All Temp-A-Cheer, Clorox, and weathered clothespins.

I am from the single-wide trailer with a splintery porch,
a closet-sized bedroom and paper-thin walls.

I am from the crooked apple tree in front and bushy wild rhubarb in back.

I am from the flea market after church and forever bargaining,

from Grandpa Doc and Grandma Minnie, and the Parkers in Texas.

I am from the glasses by junior high and gray hair by 21;
From elbows off the table and chew with your mouth closed.

I am from the Church of the Nazarene on Sundays,
Jesus Loves Me and clay pigeon candle holders;
From bookmarks for memorizing Genesis through Malachi.

I’m from Dutch immigrants in Oak Harbor, oliebollen and Waldorf salad.
From the times Grandpa went AWOL, Hey, Mr. Bakery Man!
and stories about sleepwalking.

I am from shoeboxes in Grandma's cedar chest,
filled with pieces of gold & silver
disguised as photos and letters.

paging dr. constantinople

I still have this book from my childhood, copyrighted 1972 (second printing). I remember reading it often and asking my mom to retell her own story of having tonsils removed. It seemed like such an exciting experience! Meeting with the doctor, scheduling the surgery, packing a little suitcase with essentials - "Bathrobe, slippers, comb and brush, a toothbrush...and Old Doll." (I questioned Mary Ann's intelligence considering that was the best name she could come up with for her doll, but I was still jealous). All the while everyone is smiling smiling, like this is the most fun thing ever. It was probably the prospect of hooking back up with handsome Dr. Constantinople that kept Mary Ann cheerful; he was an obvious rip-off of Richard Chamberlain's Dr. Kildare.

I'd go under the knife for that man any day. Apparently, so would my daughter. She has discovered Good-bye, Tonsils and decided she wants to get hers removed, too. Even though neither of us know exactly where our tonsils reside or what their purpose is, we want them out. Maybe for her it's more about the "nurse with golden hair" or walking down the hall "to a pretty room." Or the fat, happy, pink panda that plays a little tune, the surprise from Grandma. (Those used to be my favorite parts, before hormones took over).

There is just something magical about this book, 39 cents brand new, with its Mommy wearing gloves (that she gave Mary Ann to sleep with at the hospital) and the dreamy doctor with an exotic name and a shiny red car that miraculously accommodated six (including Baby Clay). I've tried many times to put it in the giveaway pile, but it won't go. We just can't say good-bye.

are we all this dense, or is it just me?

I watched my daughter walk away from me this afternoon, down the block toward her friend's house. She just turned seven last spring and we have let her go around the neighborhood alone (with a walkie-talkie), but today I wanted to be with her most of the way. Partly because she was sobbing as she left our house - she couldn't find the little virtual pet store neo-something doodad that her friend wanted to "link" with, and there was no time to do a full-on sweep of the room because the friend could play for ONLY HALF AN HOUR, Mahh-hahh-hom! It seemed to me letting a small, bawling young girl shuffle a quarter of a mile by herself was begging for some creep to offer his version of sympathy, and it may have been reasonable grounds for various neighbors to call CPS about the mean (bad) mom sending her poor child away to suffer alone.

Walking alongside, biting my tongue against such unhelpful comments as "If you kept your room picked up like I tell you every week..." and "Maybe it's time to stop spending your money on ridiculous crap that gets lost or broken" forced me to take a glimpse of the world through seven-year-old eyes for a few minutes. I just do not remember actual moments when the world was so small - when not being able to find something to share with a friend truly overwhelmed me enough that I would cry. For five entire minutes. Frankly, I wish I could because it would be a great relief. To have the biggest problem in my life be a lost toy - wow.

I like to think I can empathize with my students when there is relationship drama. I can call up the times I spent weeping in the bathroom during a dance because a particular song was just too hard to bear since the boy I loved didn't love me back. (Open Arms, anyone? Pretty sure I spent most of 1982 in tears). But at the same time, I'm a little mocking of those times. I'm not really remembering the anguish my young self felt - can we do that? Today I really started wondering, because I do love my daughter so much and want to be sympathetic, yet it was hard to get there.

I stopped at the top of the road and let my daughter walk on; her friend was outside her house waving and jumping. Paige turned to look at me half a dozen times as she walked, and I waved each time. She had stopped crying by then, having moved on to a sort of grumpy/sad resolve. I watched her and I thought of how tall she's getting, how she is so at ease with her quirky sense of fashion, how much she loved losing her front tooth this week, how I do not recall any of these things about my own seven-year-old self. I get general flashes of how I behaved, who I cared about and who I didn't, clothes I liked wearing and hairstyles I hated, but I can't pull up any trains of thought or genuine emotion. Are we supposed to be able to do that? Would it be any help at all, or would it just make us feel so old? It seems to me it would be quite helpful, to let the lens narrow a bit in our busy, big world.

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

pretend this post is scratch & sniff

I want scented tarts (not weird) and Crazy Hip Blog Mamas are offering them to whoever writes the best entry about scent memories. You can try it, but in the meantime read mine.
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I am not a gearhead; I don't particularly like to get my hands dirty and I certainly am not interested in fixing anything mechanical. But I will happily stand inside a garage and breathe in the fumes of gasoline & grease for hours (or until I get lightheaded; then I sit, because passing out on a concrete floor is unpleasant).

When I was a kid, my grandpa had a wrecking yard and we lived right next door. I'd spend my days hanging around him and his old friends and dozens of vehicles in various states of disrepair. On his days off, my dad would wander in to help out and shoot the bull. The air was always heavy with the smell of old cars, stale coffee, and GoJo hand cleaner. I remember thinking it was kind of stinky up there, but I loved getting to sit on my grandpa's turning stool in his office and listen to the outrageous conversations ebb and flow. Every visit started with him handing me the key to the Coke machine so I could pick out a bottle of pop. If I were stealthy enough, I could sneak peeks at the dirty cartoons on the bulletin board. Sometimes I was allowed to use the cash register and count back change. Occasionally one of the guys tried to teach me something about an engine or axle or power tool, but I just nodded politely and went out to coax the dog into letting me pet him.

It wasn't until years later, when I was in college and away from my grandpa & dad, that I realized how much I loved that aroma of grease and dirt and working man sweat. I had a series of junky cars that constantly needed work and whenever I stepped into a bay, I was back home. It was never about my grandpa's business - it was the feeling of being part of a secret club; the smells in the wrecking yard represented their man-world, and I was allowed in. Maybe I subconsciously decided not to learn about fixing things myself so I could keep spending that shop time in meditation rather than concentration. And I married the perfect guy to keep these memories alive for me - the smell of our garage is nearly as satisfying as the one I grew up in. Give me the key to a Coke machine and some naughty comics, and I'm set.

collective mentality

Scribbit's Write-Away contest this month is about collecting, and I just might have something to say about that. If you do, too, enter! You have until August 22nd. Collect your thoughts (ha!) and write.
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When I was still a baby, my mom started a button collection for me. ("Buttons" meaning pins, but anytime I say "pins" people think I mean hat pins, which is weird and I'd rather say "buttons" anyway. This is the kind I'm talking about). I've never gotten a really good idea why she chose buttons; they're a pretty dangerous thing for a child to collect, I must say. Getting them on & off the strip of burlap without impaling myself multiple times definitely improved my dexterity though (not to mention my smoothness at cussing).

I think displaying my button collection was an early manifestation of my decoration/redecoration obsession. The ones my mom started with - political badges (Nixon/Agnew is a longtime favorite), her old HS pep pins, random union buttons, a giant I LOVE HERMAN'S HERMITS (with pictures!) - eventually gave way to my own choices around junior high. I bought The Fonz (Ayyyyyyyy) and Vinnie Barbarino (*sigh*), a cutesy Hallmark one for every holiday (ugh), and eventually a bunch of edgier tiny buttons from the edgy record store I frequented (Give me a quarter or I'll touch you). I have no idea how I could afford those along with the dozen that proclaimed me a Duranimal; they would have cost me at least 48 hours of babysitting.

I started collecting buttons for each of my kids when they were small, too. It seems like a cool, backdoor kind of way to learn about stuff. When I was little, I asked my parents and grandparents about the different politicians whose names were on my buttons - Dixy, Maggie, Scoop - and got a feel not only for the political leanings of my family (Hello, liberals!), but also a good bit of history going on. Because my mom would pick up whatever buttons were being offered at fairs, conventions, concerts, garage sales, et cetera, I got to know about things like multiple sclerosis, saving energy, ERA, POWs, conserving water. And as I pick through my collection of 600+ (careful not to get a poke that would surely require an emergency room tetanus shot), I notice that Kentucky Fried Chicken regularly endorsed University of Washington, which may explain my longtime aversion to the restaurant. (GO COUGS!)

There is quite a bit of priceless social commentary in the collection, too. I have buttons extolling favorite phrases of the times - The Devil Made Me Do It, Where's the Beef?, Don't Worry, Be Happy!, Make Love, Not War and its more modern equivalent, Make Latte, Not War. There are at least 25 different smiley faces. I'm not quite sure what to make of High As A Kite, though. It seems out of character for my mom; I have four of them.

Going through them every now & then conjurs amazingly strong memories - of places I've been, things I've used, books I've read, and people I've known. The buttons that weren't randomly picked up at garage sales or given to me as souvenirs (like the ones from Walt Disney World and various Hard Rock Cafes where I've never set foot) represent real events for me, and just looking at them brings back vivid images & feelings. My pin from Les Miserables only has the sketch of Cosette on it, but I am transported to that night, that show (and I can even hear my man's subdued groans at the start of every song...). Gilley's Club in Texas (I was 14 and felt creeped out by the grown men looking at me); Purple Rain concert (16, front row with best friend Liza, I wore penny loafers, jeans, & a purple sweatshirt, my mom drove us to Tacoma and waited in the car); I've Gone Zany (my favorite Avon perfume, it came in a little ice cube-shaped bottle with a roll-on); I RODE THE JUDGE (from riding the Judge Roy Scream rollercoaster at Six Flags Over Texas; it was awesome and at the time I didn't get the naughty double meaning on the button); Lileth Fair (went with my sister, was pregnant with Mason - possibly the only male in attendance, saw Natalie Merchant & Sarah McLachlan & Indigo Girls, ran into my midwife who admonished me to drink more water); Canada Has It All and B.C. is Better (bought in honor of the Canadian boy I was in love with for two years in high school before he stopped calling and writing to me without explanation; I'm not bitter). This button collection is better than a yearbook (or maybe even a martini) for the levels of joy, sadness, angst, and gratitude it produces.

The coolest part of these collections - mine and my kids' - is the inherent "you can handle it" attitude. I have always had at the top of my burlap strip - it never made way for anything different - bright yellow plastic petals surrounding a 2" button with an angry flower face saying BITCH BITCH BITCH. I got the picture early on that I wasn't supposed to mimic the saying, but my parents were okay with me knowing that such language was spoken in the world. (Of course, my grandpa's vocabulary alone opened my eyes on that note, but anyway). My mom pinned on buttons about soldiers missing in action, equal rights, treating people humanely, and banned books along with the cute ones about Jesus loving me and kissing someone because he's Irish. Likewise, I distribute pins to my 8- and 7-year olds about voting, saving the planet, racism, and eradicating AIDS as well as the fun stuff from the library and county fair. My mom trusted me and I trust my own children to ask questions and learn about the world - not only the one around them right now but about the one before and the one to come. Buttons can be silly (I Came, I Saw, I Did A Little Shopping) or sarcastic (Same Shit, Different Day), but they can also say a lot, if you're paying attention. So, Save Water - Shower With A Friend, May the Force Be With You and Have A Nice Day.