Jodi Brougher of Cascio's Fruit Market in my home town of Somerset has asked me to write a weekly guest blog. We call it the Tuscan Corner and each week I try to create a Tuscan inspired meal complete with the recipe, pictures and a little humor. Since I've not posted here in awhile, I thought you might enjoy reading my latest installment:
__________________________________________
By Sunday with our Thanksgiving travels complete, black Friday insanity behind us, and blog space to fill, it was time to go back out into the shopping world....grocery shopping that is. I salivated over several Tuscan recipes, made a list and checked it twice! It’s hard to think about food when you’ve over-indulged all weekend, but the refrigerator was bare and I could no longer fake it without at least the essentials.
Typically I am less than enthusiastic about a trip to Giant Eagle. My husband had offered to take on this task for me, but I wasn’t going to produce a blog piece or any Tuscan magic with a pound of bologna, American cheese and a case of Coke, so I’d still have to venture out there. I’m not being cruel at his expense because this is my “thing” and I’m a control freak. It can be intimidating for anyone to be sent off with MY list of expectations. Ladies, see if you recognize this scenario...
Initially, my list would not be clear to him so there would be a few phone calls to clarify. By the third call he’d hear the frustration in my tone and he would then quit calling out of fear. (That was in the old days, he now just "forgets" his phone in the car). He would then return home to my heavy sighs and mumbling criticisms where a small “discussion” would take place. He’d then retreat to the man cave and I’d still be forced to make the trip when a key ingredient failed to make it home. But I digress....besides grocery shopping with a buddy is less daunting and much easier than carrying all those bags into the house on your own. He’s always a good sport until he sees the total at the register. This is where I dutifully remind him of all the “fuel perks” we’ve earned and the color returns to his face.
I needed a distraction tactic when purchasing Parmigiano-Reggiano at $18.99 a pound. He’d never enjoy it as much if he realized the cost per bite. So I sent him off in search of two pounds of butter. He returned empty handed. “Did you want salted or unsalted butter?” he asked sheepishly. “Surprise me” came to mind as my knee jerk answer. But I went with the politically correct response, “how about one of each?” as I hurried off to purchase what he’d consider ridiculously over-priced shrimp, a key ingredient in today’s recipe.
Ricotta Mousse with Giant Shrimp
2 medium zucchini, chopped coarsely
1 shallot, chopped coarsely
3 T extra virgin olive oil
1.5 C of ricotta (about 10.5 oz)
3 egg whites
Salt and freshly ground pepper
15 small cherry tomatoes
9 large red shrimp or scampi
1 sliced tomato (for garnish)
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Saute the zucchini and shallot in 2 T of olive oil for about 10 minutes, until they begin to soften and brown. Remove from heat. Beat the ricotta and egg whites together in a food processor for about five minutes. Remove to a bowl and add salt and pepper. Mix in the sauteed zucchini. Butter a round baking dish that will allow the mixture to rise (it will immediately fall again, so not to worry) and pour in the ricotta mixture. (I used a quiche dish). Bake for about 30-45 minutes depending on your oven*, or until the top begins to golden and the mixture is firm.
Quarter the cherry tomatoes and cook them quickly in the remaining olive oil. Squash them gently with a fork, and allow them to sit.
Peel the shell of each shrimp, leaving the tail. Steam for about 3-4 minutes until they are just cooked. Place the baked mousse in its baking dish on a serving platter. Top with the cooked tomato sauce and surround with shrimp. Serve warm
*A few notes: I had to bake the mousse for a good 45 minutes in my oven and finished with the last five minutes under the broiler to brown and bubble the top. It never really rose and fell like a souffle as the recipe indicated it would. I followed directions to the tee so I’m not sure if my oven was the culprit. But it still turned out well.
If you prefer a firmer, more quiche like texture I’d suggest that you add one or two more egg whites. This was a simple dish, with a mild taste. The tomato sauce topper made a lovely, more acidic contrast. You may also substitute spinach or any vegetable of your choice for the zucchini. I combined this with a butternut squash soup and small salad as a light dinner but it would also make a terrific brunch item.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Devil Does Indeed Wear Prada!
Because your words and thoughts
are not her words and thoughts
Because you are only a visitor
but I know this road
Because you live for the thrill
while I see the pitfalls
Because you think your pain,
is bigger than mine
Because you have been selfish
while I have been selfless
Because you have no boundaries
you do not see mine
Because while you have been rebellious
I have been vigilant
Because you are deceptive
and you've drawn me in
Because now I have exposed you
and you have no shame
Because you are a rebel
I lay down my arms
Because to destroy your evil grasp
I must surrender
are not her words and thoughts
Because you are only a visitor
but I know this road
Because you live for the thrill
while I see the pitfalls
Because you think your pain,
is bigger than mine
Because you have been selfish
while I have been selfless
Because you have no boundaries
you do not see mine
Because while you have been rebellious
I have been vigilant
Because you are deceptive
and you've drawn me in
Because now I have exposed you
and you have no shame
Because you are a rebel
I lay down my arms
Because to destroy your evil grasp
I must surrender
Friday, October 21, 2011
Channeling Maria Pellicione
It’s been two weeks since we have returned from Italy and I am fully recuperated; for certain! I had made the mistake of believing that after day four and then promptly hit the wall. During my return to "normal," I’ve been cooking Italian meals from scratch, sorting through all of the pictures and processing the question everyone has asked, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” There were some especially delightful places and things I’d consider “highlights” of course, but for me it was more about remembering moments with my late grandmother and a experiencing a connectivity to a country and its culture. I am after all, half Italian.
My grandma was a petite Italian woman who never met a soul with whom she couldn't have a pleasant conversation. She even considered Ralph, the guy who sold her a brand new 1966 Corvair as a friend. I suspect that's how he glad-handed her into buying such a sassy car! Her house had its own distinct scent of oregano, garlic and Jean Nate cologne. Her term of endearment for me was "poco chiacchierona" (little chatterbox) and when she gave me a directive, it was usually followed by "capisce?" (Do you understand?). My mother worked, so Grandma was my caregiver during the week. From as early as I can remember, we were a team and it seemed to me that she was always organized and had the right tools for the right occasions, including her faith.
We visited funeral homes while she paid her respects to old friends. A devout Catholic, she carried her rosary beads in a zippered leather pouch....always. She taught me funeral home etiquette so at a tender age, I actually felt comfortable expressing my condolences. It seemed we were always popping in on the priests at the rectory to deliver a baked good which was shared over coffee. She liked to keep the priests on her good side, just in case I suppose! Frequently in August she would randomly stop the car along a rural roadside because she instinctively knew where to find blackberry bushes. A berry basket lived in her trunk for such random adventures, along with a shovel, rubber boots, an umbrella and a collapsible lawn chair. And while she prepared buttered dittalini noodles with fresh Parmesan cheese, I'd turn raw tubular pasta into a noodle necklace.
She loved to visit. So I tagged along to see her numerous friends in the villages of Acosta, Gray and Jenners Township where they fed me pizzelle cookies and sugar coated almond candies. These were the homes of her immigrant friends, some living in former duplex style “company homes” that the mining company had once owned. Others in nearby single dwellings. A company store was once the lifeline of these villages. Here was what remained of what could be described as Somerset’s “Little Italy.” Cats lounging on porch railings. Windows wide open and laundry hanging on lines. Small dogs were treated as well as the guests. Soups and sauces simmering on the stove. They spoke very fast Italian. Conversations were in raised voices, alternating between staccato and legato with hands conducting and punctuating emotions, because a true Italian can not speak without using her hands. They were "la famiglia," not bound by blood, but culture, circumstances, and life experiences. They had nursed each others' babies if one of them fell ill. They had supported each other through the loss of children and protected one another from the hands of abusive husbands. I had been privy to the tail end of era now gone and I didn't understand it at that tender age. But the memories are strong and I can still smell the anise that permeated these modest homes.
So something felt welcoming and comfortable as I wandered through the colorful streets of small villages our first few days into the journey. How simply and intimately the Italians live. Windows and doors without screens are open to the world. Laundry is literally aired off of balconies and across alley ways, dotting the grey stone facades with bursts of color. In villages, children race through the piazzas while old men engage in heated banter on benches. Dogs are well behaved and welcome almost anywhere. Cats sit on ledges observing life around them. The aroma of Italian cooking wafting through the streets mingled with conversations through open doorways and windows. The emotion of fast talking Italians flailing their hands. At one point Dick even stated out loud that I seemed to “fit in” and I understood what he meant: simpatico! It isn't so much that I look Italian, but the innate way I express emotion and use my hands when I talk. And although my Italian was anything but fluent, the few words I managed to speak seemed to flow with the proper annunciation.
My grandmother's influence struck me. I had flown nine hours across the Atlantic. The architecture and terrain were foreign and sometimes even medieval, yet there was something familiar to me. Sometimes it was a smell that stirred a memory or a familiar phrase of Italian, but the sights, sounds and aromas of my childhood were all around me. I loved hearing the Italian language spoken the way I had heard it so frequently back then. And the simplicity with which the Italians live brought to mind how simply she lived. She could make magic with noodles, an event of a drive on a rural road, or a night on her couch a "teachable moment." Through my grandmother's eyes I saw myself. And though now gone for the better part of my life, she is my touchstone. The source of my passion, my love of cooking, and the reason I yearn to visit again and again.
My grandma was a petite Italian woman who never met a soul with whom she couldn't have a pleasant conversation. She even considered Ralph, the guy who sold her a brand new 1966 Corvair as a friend. I suspect that's how he glad-handed her into buying such a sassy car! Her house had its own distinct scent of oregano, garlic and Jean Nate cologne. Her term of endearment for me was "poco chiacchierona" (little chatterbox) and when she gave me a directive, it was usually followed by "capisce?" (Do you understand?). My mother worked, so Grandma was my caregiver during the week. From as early as I can remember, we were a team and it seemed to me that she was always organized and had the right tools for the right occasions, including her faith.
We visited funeral homes while she paid her respects to old friends. A devout Catholic, she carried her rosary beads in a zippered leather pouch....always. She taught me funeral home etiquette so at a tender age, I actually felt comfortable expressing my condolences. It seemed we were always popping in on the priests at the rectory to deliver a baked good which was shared over coffee. She liked to keep the priests on her good side, just in case I suppose! Frequently in August she would randomly stop the car along a rural roadside because she instinctively knew where to find blackberry bushes. A berry basket lived in her trunk for such random adventures, along with a shovel, rubber boots, an umbrella and a collapsible lawn chair. And while she prepared buttered dittalini noodles with fresh Parmesan cheese, I'd turn raw tubular pasta into a noodle necklace.
She loved to visit. So I tagged along to see her numerous friends in the villages of Acosta, Gray and Jenners Township where they fed me pizzelle cookies and sugar coated almond candies. These were the homes of her immigrant friends, some living in former duplex style “company homes” that the mining company had once owned. Others in nearby single dwellings. A company store was once the lifeline of these villages. Here was what remained of what could be described as Somerset’s “Little Italy.” Cats lounging on porch railings. Windows wide open and laundry hanging on lines. Small dogs were treated as well as the guests. Soups and sauces simmering on the stove. They spoke very fast Italian. Conversations were in raised voices, alternating between staccato and legato with hands conducting and punctuating emotions, because a true Italian can not speak without using her hands. They were "la famiglia," not bound by blood, but culture, circumstances, and life experiences. They had nursed each others' babies if one of them fell ill. They had supported each other through the loss of children and protected one another from the hands of abusive husbands. I had been privy to the tail end of era now gone and I didn't understand it at that tender age. But the memories are strong and I can still smell the anise that permeated these modest homes.
So something felt welcoming and comfortable as I wandered through the colorful streets of small villages our first few days into the journey. How simply and intimately the Italians live. Windows and doors without screens are open to the world. Laundry is literally aired off of balconies and across alley ways, dotting the grey stone facades with bursts of color. In villages, children race through the piazzas while old men engage in heated banter on benches. Dogs are well behaved and welcome almost anywhere. Cats sit on ledges observing life around them. The aroma of Italian cooking wafting through the streets mingled with conversations through open doorways and windows. The emotion of fast talking Italians flailing their hands. At one point Dick even stated out loud that I seemed to “fit in” and I understood what he meant: simpatico! It isn't so much that I look Italian, but the innate way I express emotion and use my hands when I talk. And although my Italian was anything but fluent, the few words I managed to speak seemed to flow with the proper annunciation.
My grandmother's influence struck me. I had flown nine hours across the Atlantic. The architecture and terrain were foreign and sometimes even medieval, yet there was something familiar to me. Sometimes it was a smell that stirred a memory or a familiar phrase of Italian, but the sights, sounds and aromas of my childhood were all around me. I loved hearing the Italian language spoken the way I had heard it so frequently back then. And the simplicity with which the Italians live brought to mind how simply she lived. She could make magic with noodles, an event of a drive on a rural road, or a night on her couch a "teachable moment." Through my grandmother's eyes I saw myself. And though now gone for the better part of my life, she is my touchstone. The source of my passion, my love of cooking, and the reason I yearn to visit again and again.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Apology Forum
I came upon it totally by accident while conducting a web search. It was a public apology forum, both odd and intriguing. Cathartic confessions left hanging in cyberspace, hoping that the intended recipients would find and read them someday. Morbidly curious, I scrolled through them. There were hundreds dating back to 2007. I began to feel like a voyeur. There was the giddiness of a teen stumbling upon her sister’s diary sometimes mixed with the discomfort of finding something rather shocking and unsettling in its content.
I was touched by the gesture of a now senior citizen regretful for standing up a blind date arranged by a fraternity brother back in 1967. His shallow youthful actions obviously haunted him for decades. He had "chickened out after catching a glimpse of her from a distance and determined she wasn’t attractive enough to be on his arm." He knows it wounded her deeply and he wishes he could now have coffee with her and explain. It’s sweet revenge to know he has carried this guilt with him, but comforting to know he had a conscience. Who hasn’t been that girl? But then, haven’t we all been that guy?
Some were funny and hinted of intoxication: “To the guy at the Bestival who was in front of me at the go team for the first night. I am so sorry for urinating. I thought I had my own little space and it would soak into the ground but I must have accidentally got your leg. I am so sorry, I couldn't get it out of my head all weekend, and I hope it didn't ruin your night or your weekend too much, sorry again.” I suspect this guy was still reeling from a hangover when he posted.
So many were written to ex lovers over bad break-ups, apologizing for indiscretions that happened “one too many times.” One cowardly lover confessed to living a lie: “I'm sorry for all the happiness you are sharing with me. I'm sorry that you love me, and I'm sorry that I love you. I'm sorry for loving someone behind your back. I'm sorry for lying to you, I just don't want to lose what we have. I'm sorry for knowing that I'll have to end it soon, someday. I'm sorry that you think I'm everything I'm not. I'm sorry I've made you believe I'm the one for you. I'm sorry that we're together. I'm sorry that we've ever met. I'm sorry. I love you.” Posted in 2007, I can’t help but wonder their current status. I feel the punch this may have delivered to some unsuspecting lover or spouse. How many of these couples walk amongst us?
There was an apology from a heartbroken grandfather who had fallen out of favor with his granddaughter. A touching and frustrating attempt at something he was unlikely to resolve. He wanted her to know that even if she didn't want any part of him, "all of the good memories were enough to let him die a happy man." I couldn't help but hope that whatever he did was forgivable and that a powerful force led her to this page.
But a few posts later, I was haunted by a man who apologized for the “horrible thing” he did when he was young to a “much younger” child. It was important that the victim know that this never happened again. While I felt the weight of his tremendous guilt, I am hesitant to feel compassion or empathy. I suspect his victim is as well and perhaps this one is simply better left alone.
Drawn into these apologies which were feeling more like confessions, I began searching for and hoping that there might be something for me in this forum. Something that would help me stop picking the scabs of old wounds. How sappy, poetic and optimistic of me. Would I even recognize it if there were one? Would I leave a response?
A woman's pain is palpable and I related all too well. If only someone had the appropriate blend of words and deeds to bring her back into the fold: "Your illness became mine while I slowly sunk into a depression from all the attacks. My anger became a weapon; a weapon you were then able to use against me. I am sorry I wasn't better trained in this warfare. I allowed your illness to manipulate me and cost me a healthy relationship with our family. I had no idea how far you would go to cover your illness until I was left standing with my heart in my hands, on the outside looking in."
So I crafted soothing words to the woman above, words I'd want to hear: "My lies became the truth. My pain became your pain. By dividing and conquering I ostracized you. I made you question and doubt my and my family's love for you. I painted you as unstable and untrustworthy, so that your motives and integrity would always be in question. If I turned my family against you, you could never share with them the ugly truths you knew about me and the painful things I said and did to you. I used you as a scapegoat to hide my demons. By making you appear weak and stupid, I looked strong and competent when indeed I was a mess."
Maybe she will read them, feel less burdened and begin to heal. It doesn't matter who wrote them. It matters that someone understood. Oh the power of a sincere apology!
I was touched by the gesture of a now senior citizen regretful for standing up a blind date arranged by a fraternity brother back in 1967. His shallow youthful actions obviously haunted him for decades. He had "chickened out after catching a glimpse of her from a distance and determined she wasn’t attractive enough to be on his arm." He knows it wounded her deeply and he wishes he could now have coffee with her and explain. It’s sweet revenge to know he has carried this guilt with him, but comforting to know he had a conscience. Who hasn’t been that girl? But then, haven’t we all been that guy?
Some were funny and hinted of intoxication: “To the guy at the Bestival who was in front of me at the go team for the first night. I am so sorry for urinating. I thought I had my own little space and it would soak into the ground but I must have accidentally got your leg. I am so sorry, I couldn't get it out of my head all weekend, and I hope it didn't ruin your night or your weekend too much, sorry again.” I suspect this guy was still reeling from a hangover when he posted.
So many were written to ex lovers over bad break-ups, apologizing for indiscretions that happened “one too many times.” One cowardly lover confessed to living a lie: “I'm sorry for all the happiness you are sharing with me. I'm sorry that you love me, and I'm sorry that I love you. I'm sorry for loving someone behind your back. I'm sorry for lying to you, I just don't want to lose what we have. I'm sorry for knowing that I'll have to end it soon, someday. I'm sorry that you think I'm everything I'm not. I'm sorry I've made you believe I'm the one for you. I'm sorry that we're together. I'm sorry that we've ever met. I'm sorry. I love you.” Posted in 2007, I can’t help but wonder their current status. I feel the punch this may have delivered to some unsuspecting lover or spouse. How many of these couples walk amongst us?
There was an apology from a heartbroken grandfather who had fallen out of favor with his granddaughter. A touching and frustrating attempt at something he was unlikely to resolve. He wanted her to know that even if she didn't want any part of him, "all of the good memories were enough to let him die a happy man." I couldn't help but hope that whatever he did was forgivable and that a powerful force led her to this page.
But a few posts later, I was haunted by a man who apologized for the “horrible thing” he did when he was young to a “much younger” child. It was important that the victim know that this never happened again. While I felt the weight of his tremendous guilt, I am hesitant to feel compassion or empathy. I suspect his victim is as well and perhaps this one is simply better left alone.
Drawn into these apologies which were feeling more like confessions, I began searching for and hoping that there might be something for me in this forum. Something that would help me stop picking the scabs of old wounds. How sappy, poetic and optimistic of me. Would I even recognize it if there were one? Would I leave a response?
A woman's pain is palpable and I related all too well. If only someone had the appropriate blend of words and deeds to bring her back into the fold: "Your illness became mine while I slowly sunk into a depression from all the attacks. My anger became a weapon; a weapon you were then able to use against me. I am sorry I wasn't better trained in this warfare. I allowed your illness to manipulate me and cost me a healthy relationship with our family. I had no idea how far you would go to cover your illness until I was left standing with my heart in my hands, on the outside looking in."
So I crafted soothing words to the woman above, words I'd want to hear: "My lies became the truth. My pain became your pain. By dividing and conquering I ostracized you. I made you question and doubt my and my family's love for you. I painted you as unstable and untrustworthy, so that your motives and integrity would always be in question. If I turned my family against you, you could never share with them the ugly truths you knew about me and the painful things I said and did to you. I used you as a scapegoat to hide my demons. By making you appear weak and stupid, I looked strong and competent when indeed I was a mess."
Maybe she will read them, feel less burdened and begin to heal. It doesn't matter who wrote them. It matters that someone understood. Oh the power of a sincere apology!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Acceptance
I am a control freak out of control. The irony is not lost on me; I can’t even control being a control freak. I can’t remember how it feels to be at peace with things out of my control. Maybe it’s because I’ve rarely been at peace. I mean true peace without regrets, realizing that I had done the best I could. Releasing the guilt and blame to someone else and being done. I have a hard time letting it go and walking away. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
I hate that friction feels familiar; even “normal”. Fighting to be understood, validated; trying to find that middle ground. Wanting to substantiate, explain and release this burden. Trying to create peace and calm creates such chaos, at least internally; my point lost in the noise. Why didn’t I stop while ahead? The moment is gone; futile attempt. Losing ground in a few short sentences. Intellectually aware but emotionally foolish. Locked in the same dance. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
Being in control takes vigilance. My brain is always churning, thinking of new ways to control what I can’t control. Thinking is exhausting. There is a script that plays when I am alone with my thoughts. It runs in my car, in the shower, in my bed when the world is quiet. It’s what I would say if I had the chance to confront her again. What I should have said if I had been better prepared when he and I disagreed. It’s easy to be right and to be heard when only I am talking, when only I am listening. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
I seek closure and I want all of my stories to have happy endings. But I am not the only character in these chapters. Unwritten endings may be wrought with anxiety but I believe there is always a chance until the last page is turned. Not every story ends well. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
I hate that friction feels familiar; even “normal”. Fighting to be understood, validated; trying to find that middle ground. Wanting to substantiate, explain and release this burden. Trying to create peace and calm creates such chaos, at least internally; my point lost in the noise. Why didn’t I stop while ahead? The moment is gone; futile attempt. Losing ground in a few short sentences. Intellectually aware but emotionally foolish. Locked in the same dance. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
Being in control takes vigilance. My brain is always churning, thinking of new ways to control what I can’t control. Thinking is exhausting. There is a script that plays when I am alone with my thoughts. It runs in my car, in the shower, in my bed when the world is quiet. It’s what I would say if I had the chance to confront her again. What I should have said if I had been better prepared when he and I disagreed. It’s easy to be right and to be heard when only I am talking, when only I am listening. Sometimes the only option is acceptance.
Friday, July 29, 2011
A Parent
hopes and dreams
the promise and anticipation
of something better than me
a clean slate
loving and guiding
nurturing and teaching
rarely perfect
frequently flawed
bothered by
mistakes I've made
but sometimes
I hit one out of the park
highs and lows
laugh and cry
the rhythm of
each and every day
too little attention
they slip into the cracks
too much structure
I only battle myself
the results are tallied
the bell has been rung
it’s not perfection
but it’s good enough
do they know it
do I show it
my shell can be hard
but my heart melts
reconciling this
it is what it is
let it go, let it be
wishing i had no regrets
preconceived ideas that
sometimes got in my way
it was after all a clean slate
it just wasn’t mine
the promise and anticipation
of something better than me
a clean slate
loving and guiding
nurturing and teaching
rarely perfect
frequently flawed
bothered by
mistakes I've made
but sometimes
I hit one out of the park
highs and lows
laugh and cry
the rhythm of
each and every day
too little attention
they slip into the cracks
too much structure
I only battle myself
the results are tallied
the bell has been rung
it’s not perfection
but it’s good enough
do they know it
do I show it
my shell can be hard
but my heart melts
reconciling this
it is what it is
let it go, let it be
wishing i had no regrets
preconceived ideas that
sometimes got in my way
it was after all a clean slate
it just wasn’t mine
Friday, May 13, 2011
Growing Up Catholic!
I am in the last few weeks of a 22 week Bible study about the life of King David. This is my first Bible study and it’s been a satisfying experience. I approached it from an intellectual standpoint; a kind of “book club” where we would dissect the Bible much like I had discussed best sellers with girlfriends. I wasn't comfortable with the Bible, never sought it out as a source of comfort and I had begun to question why. Was my family apathetic? Nobody in my family read the Bible but we attended mass. What I discovered is that I was raised as a Catholic in an era that didn’t encourage us to read the Bible. That was left to the priests and hierarchy to interpret and dispense. I found this out from other women in this new church who had also been raised Catholic. These comparisons and discussions have given me an opportunity to challenge and even appreciate my experiences of growing up Catholic. I have relived these moments through my kids that as a child were to me were somewhat daunting and intimidating.
Dick and I were both Catholic and we seemed destined to raise our children in the Catholic faith. I don’t even recall having a serious discussion about it. I felt good about the process and enjoyed “baptizing” both kids in familiar rituals which of course now made more sense to me. Later there were the other rituals like the weekly fights with our kids about attending CCD and fighting with Dick over whose turn it was to fight with the kids about attending CCD. Apparently arguing about attending CCD is something they got from my DNA. I hated it too!
One day a packet followed young Zach home from CCD regarding his First Holy Communion. Prayers that looked hauntingly familiar glared at me. I knew these prayers because I had spent months memorizing them at this age but they had changed a bit. This alone should tell you I was not really a strong and practicing Catholic. Included were forms regarding his First Reconciliation? Had they added a new sacrament in the last 30 years? Aha! This was a new word for Confession and the fact that I didn't readily know this confirms that I was a lousy Catholic. Confession....that moment when we tell our sins to the priest behind a curtain in the confessional (I recall making things up because at age six, I simply hadn't had much time to perfect my sinning). In return we are given “penance”, which are the prayers Catholics are told to recite by the priest as a form of repentance for these sins which we have just confessed. Zach had been raised in a football playing family so you can imagine his confusion over the “Hail Mary” as a form of atonement.
Jordan’s First Holy Communion was special as we chose to do it apart from the class during a Sunday mass which was pretty much (some things never change) all about her. We sat in the front row of the church where Father Duch directed his attention and kind remarks toward her during the service. For a visual which you will soon understand, I should note that the choir was seated in the front of the church, directly facing our family.
The big moment came when Jordan, along with our family was prompted to be the first to receive Communion with everyone as her witness. A tiny cutie in her white dress and pink patent leather mary janes, she approached the priest and held out her little hands to receive the host. “The body of Christ.” She responded with an appropriate and angelic “Amen.” and danced back to our pew. I followed shortly behind. As I began to kneel in prayer, I noticed Jordan also kneeling yet still holding and staring pensively at that host in her little hands. This had not escaped Father Duch either! I gave her a gentle nudge and reminded her to put the host in her mouth. “I don’t want to!” she replied. Only a few of us were witnessing the private little drama that now began to unfold. Communion had paused, the choir was simultaneously singing and chuckling at us in amusement. Father Duch, not so much. His eyes glued to her, he gave her a cue by lifting his chin and opening his mouth indicating that she should put the host in her mouth. She shook her head regretfully from side to side. His eyes widened and with a patient smile he cued her again, shaking his head up and down. Again she shook her head “no!”
Now panic was beginning to set in and I could feel my face turning red. It had been a good two minutes or so since this began and it was clear that Communion and the service would not proceed until this host was swallowed. The entire choir was now enjoying this private performance. A few of them were even tearing up with laughter. As amusing as it is in hindsight, I was feeling the pressure. I nudged her again and this time added a frantic and harsh whisper “Please swallow the host!” The priest obviously knew what I had said because he was nodding in agreement while smiling and motioning with his hands for her to get on with it! “But I don’t want to!” returned the tiny voice out loud. Finally in total despair I said to her in an almost threatening whisper “Jordan, it’s the body of Christ! Put it in your mouth NOW!” Nothing. Finally, her father on my other side intervened. He gave her a stern look and a quick command. And with that, he host disappeared into her mouth. Father Duch smiled and I could see him breathe a sigh of relief. Trust me, I was looking for it! Communion commenced and I felt the tension in my body release. As I rearranged myself in the pew, Jordan also sat back and looked up at me. The host clearly still in her mouth she mumbled, “Mommy, I don’t like it and I’m going to spit it out.”
Dick and I were both Catholic and we seemed destined to raise our children in the Catholic faith. I don’t even recall having a serious discussion about it. I felt good about the process and enjoyed “baptizing” both kids in familiar rituals which of course now made more sense to me. Later there were the other rituals like the weekly fights with our kids about attending CCD and fighting with Dick over whose turn it was to fight with the kids about attending CCD. Apparently arguing about attending CCD is something they got from my DNA. I hated it too!
One day a packet followed young Zach home from CCD regarding his First Holy Communion. Prayers that looked hauntingly familiar glared at me. I knew these prayers because I had spent months memorizing them at this age but they had changed a bit. This alone should tell you I was not really a strong and practicing Catholic. Included were forms regarding his First Reconciliation? Had they added a new sacrament in the last 30 years? Aha! This was a new word for Confession and the fact that I didn't readily know this confirms that I was a lousy Catholic. Confession....that moment when we tell our sins to the priest behind a curtain in the confessional (I recall making things up because at age six, I simply hadn't had much time to perfect my sinning). In return we are given “penance”, which are the prayers Catholics are told to recite by the priest as a form of repentance for these sins which we have just confessed. Zach had been raised in a football playing family so you can imagine his confusion over the “Hail Mary” as a form of atonement.
Jordan’s First Holy Communion was special as we chose to do it apart from the class during a Sunday mass which was pretty much (some things never change) all about her. We sat in the front row of the church where Father Duch directed his attention and kind remarks toward her during the service. For a visual which you will soon understand, I should note that the choir was seated in the front of the church, directly facing our family.
The big moment came when Jordan, along with our family was prompted to be the first to receive Communion with everyone as her witness. A tiny cutie in her white dress and pink patent leather mary janes, she approached the priest and held out her little hands to receive the host. “The body of Christ.” She responded with an appropriate and angelic “Amen.” and danced back to our pew. I followed shortly behind. As I began to kneel in prayer, I noticed Jordan also kneeling yet still holding and staring pensively at that host in her little hands. This had not escaped Father Duch either! I gave her a gentle nudge and reminded her to put the host in her mouth. “I don’t want to!” she replied. Only a few of us were witnessing the private little drama that now began to unfold. Communion had paused, the choir was simultaneously singing and chuckling at us in amusement. Father Duch, not so much. His eyes glued to her, he gave her a cue by lifting his chin and opening his mouth indicating that she should put the host in her mouth. She shook her head regretfully from side to side. His eyes widened and with a patient smile he cued her again, shaking his head up and down. Again she shook her head “no!”
Now panic was beginning to set in and I could feel my face turning red. It had been a good two minutes or so since this began and it was clear that Communion and the service would not proceed until this host was swallowed. The entire choir was now enjoying this private performance. A few of them were even tearing up with laughter. As amusing as it is in hindsight, I was feeling the pressure. I nudged her again and this time added a frantic and harsh whisper “Please swallow the host!” The priest obviously knew what I had said because he was nodding in agreement while smiling and motioning with his hands for her to get on with it! “But I don’t want to!” returned the tiny voice out loud. Finally in total despair I said to her in an almost threatening whisper “Jordan, it’s the body of Christ! Put it in your mouth NOW!” Nothing. Finally, her father on my other side intervened. He gave her a stern look and a quick command. And with that, he host disappeared into her mouth. Father Duch smiled and I could see him breathe a sigh of relief. Trust me, I was looking for it! Communion commenced and I felt the tension in my body release. As I rearranged myself in the pew, Jordan also sat back and looked up at me. The host clearly still in her mouth she mumbled, “Mommy, I don’t like it and I’m going to spit it out.”
Friday, April 1, 2011
The Singles Drawer
I’m a minimalist which means I don’t like a lot of clutter in my world. My husband has a sock drawer. Of course that’s not unusual. But this particular sock drawer is specifically and only for those socks who have lost their mates. I consider it sock limbo and a total waste of perfectly good drawer space. A more suitable vessel for these things is a garbage can. But Dick takes this match-making service seriously and thus we have the singles drawer. I will even give him credit that once in awhile he has success in finding the mates. But you have to understand that not all of these socks are worthy of salvation....like Zach's mud stained soccer sock from the third grade. This is where his thriftiness clashes with my compulsion to purge. I’m sure there is a name for his disorder.
Of course his disorder pushes my buttons in other ways as well, including the fact that he doesn't acknowledge that he has a disorder. If I’d ever let him get a word in edgewise, he might try to convince you that I am a control freak which is of course just another symptom of his illness. For instance he insists on washing dishes by hand when the dishwasher is completely empty! He puts my baking pans in the cupboard with my casserole dishes. He folds towels unevenly and then stacks them haphazardly in the linen closet even after years of instruction and counseling from me on the proper way to do it. He washes black bath towels with light towels and if I don’t monitor him closely, he will sneak a pair of jeans in with that same load. He used to store the grilling utensils inside the gas grill which I found ridiculous. (On this one I was validated when he lit the grill forgetting about the utensils and they melted.) When he feeds the dogs, he does not use the specific measuring cups that are stored in each dog’s food bin....he “eyeballs” it. And after 23 years of marriage, he can’t seem to return bread to the bread drawer and still doesn’t know that crumbs on the counter make me mumble obscenities under my breath. The term passive aggressive comes to mind.
Until he admits he has a problem, I am destined to refold the towels, reorganize the linen closet and kitchen cabinets as well as feed the dogs a tad less in the morning to compensate for the extra calories they receive on his watch. I will probably continue to load the clean dishes he left in the dish drainer back in the dishwasher. Why can’t he leave these domestic matters to me? I respect his space, his things and his budget. It was logical for me to use his cordless beard trimmer on Cooper. I saved us $60 in dog grooming fees. And when his nasty old “Beer of the Month” club t-shirt became my paint rag, I did him a favor by removing it from his wardrobe. If he would just listen to me, I would not have to continually point out his errors.
Sometimes I mess with his singles drawer. I pull out a few socks and toss them in the garbage. However if I am not crafty, he rescues them and returns them to the drawer. For example: I have been throwing away the same cotton Birkenstock socks for years; as a pair! They were my socks but they lived a good life and it was time to part with them....in 2007. They are holey, threadbare on the heels and just when I think I have shaken them, they reappear in my life! Yesterday I had hoped to discard just a few more of the singles without detection and this is where the story gets a little sick and twisted. I opened the drawer and what did I find? The Birkenstocks. As a pair. In the singles drawer! He thought he could safely rescue the Birks this time because he thinks I never look in the singles drawer. You see each time I encounter the Birkenstock socks, I have to inspect them to (1) confirm that these are the same socks and not a new pair, (2) assure myself that disposing of these socks is indeed warranted, and (3) dispose of them again. It's a sick game! However this time I outsmarted him. I hid them under moist coffee grounds and slimy eggshells. If they reappear, I am going to have to request an intervention.
Of course his disorder pushes my buttons in other ways as well, including the fact that he doesn't acknowledge that he has a disorder. If I’d ever let him get a word in edgewise, he might try to convince you that I am a control freak which is of course just another symptom of his illness. For instance he insists on washing dishes by hand when the dishwasher is completely empty! He puts my baking pans in the cupboard with my casserole dishes. He folds towels unevenly and then stacks them haphazardly in the linen closet even after years of instruction and counseling from me on the proper way to do it. He washes black bath towels with light towels and if I don’t monitor him closely, he will sneak a pair of jeans in with that same load. He used to store the grilling utensils inside the gas grill which I found ridiculous. (On this one I was validated when he lit the grill forgetting about the utensils and they melted.) When he feeds the dogs, he does not use the specific measuring cups that are stored in each dog’s food bin....he “eyeballs” it. And after 23 years of marriage, he can’t seem to return bread to the bread drawer and still doesn’t know that crumbs on the counter make me mumble obscenities under my breath. The term passive aggressive comes to mind.
Until he admits he has a problem, I am destined to refold the towels, reorganize the linen closet and kitchen cabinets as well as feed the dogs a tad less in the morning to compensate for the extra calories they receive on his watch. I will probably continue to load the clean dishes he left in the dish drainer back in the dishwasher. Why can’t he leave these domestic matters to me? I respect his space, his things and his budget. It was logical for me to use his cordless beard trimmer on Cooper. I saved us $60 in dog grooming fees. And when his nasty old “Beer of the Month” club t-shirt became my paint rag, I did him a favor by removing it from his wardrobe. If he would just listen to me, I would not have to continually point out his errors.
Sometimes I mess with his singles drawer. I pull out a few socks and toss them in the garbage. However if I am not crafty, he rescues them and returns them to the drawer. For example: I have been throwing away the same cotton Birkenstock socks for years; as a pair! They were my socks but they lived a good life and it was time to part with them....in 2007. They are holey, threadbare on the heels and just when I think I have shaken them, they reappear in my life! Yesterday I had hoped to discard just a few more of the singles without detection and this is where the story gets a little sick and twisted. I opened the drawer and what did I find? The Birkenstocks. As a pair. In the singles drawer! He thought he could safely rescue the Birks this time because he thinks I never look in the singles drawer. You see each time I encounter the Birkenstock socks, I have to inspect them to (1) confirm that these are the same socks and not a new pair, (2) assure myself that disposing of these socks is indeed warranted, and (3) dispose of them again. It's a sick game! However this time I outsmarted him. I hid them under moist coffee grounds and slimy eggshells. If they reappear, I am going to have to request an intervention.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Dress
A good friend who is a gifted writer recently told me that doing something he loves often helps him get past writer’s block. So for a week I took his advice but still nothing. Until today. Oddly it was doing something I dislike. I was in a mall, shopping for dresses. Don’t get me wrong I like buying new clothing, but I don't like the shopping process. It also helps my attitude if I am shopping in comfortable shoes, which is simply a matter of planning. I had not planned to spend four hours in Macy's today. But a charitable event was looming and I realized after my class ended that if I did not get to the nearest mall today, I’d be attending the gala in something <gasp> "vintage". I had this epiphany while sporting pointy toed boots with heels.
Trying on formal wear is as deflating as trying on bathing suits. If the dress is not showing all of my flaws, it’s probably because it fits like a potato sack. And if it fits like a glove, that means I will be wearing full body Spanx and suffering from oxygen deprivation by the end of the evening. But that gets into a whole other realm of shopping for unmentionables which is about as satisfying as installing french drains: nobody sees them but your foundation is questionable without them.
My past experience has been that Macy's carries a large selection of reasonably priced formal attire. I could quickly try on a few from the sale rack and be back in my car in an hour. But today the selection was disappointing. I chose several dresses from the main racks which would later be disqualified in the fitting room. (Two would be age appropriate for me at my grandchild’s wedding in 2050. Two others exposed cleavage I would have been more comfortable exposing in 1988.) From there I went to the clearance rack to find "season appropriate" dresses and was having some success. Wading past the velvet, bugle beads and plenty of frumpy attire, I spotted a long black ruched taffeta sheath, with cap sleeves and a simple ruffled v-neck collar. It was so chic. And it was my size! This was the one!
Next I found myself in the fitting room and I was stuck. Not stuck in the dressing room itself but in the dress. I’ve done it before and you’d think I’d have some Houdini moves by now. First, the skin tight dress apparently ran a bit small; at least that is what I told myself and later the sales assistant. Second the zipper started at the small of my back and ended somewhere between my shoulder blades. For those in the dark, taffeta does not stretch or give. To make matters worse, a few strings had become stuck in the zipper somewhere around T-7 of my spinal column. Now panic was mounting. Using perspiration as a lubricant, I was somehow able to maneuver my arms out of the armholes and twist the dress an inch at a time until the zipper was on my left. This took some time and patience. But I was determined to see this dress on me. Finally the threads dislodged, I thought perhaps I could finish zipping and then twist it back. But as I started to zip a little more, I caught some skin and nearly fainted. It was time to either admit defeat or request a bigger size.
Changing into a different dress, I slinked out to the registers and managed to attract the attention of the surly sales associate who had been doing her best to ignore me so far. "Do you have this in the next size?" I chirped while holding up the object of my affection. A quick check of the computer database and a snarl in her voice revealed that a larger size was supposed to be in stock but it was not to be found in the rack inventory.... and something told me she was not up for the hunt. Grabbing my handbag from the dressing room I continued to unsuccessfully scour the racks in a matronly frock and bare aching feet; quite a sight for the security cameras and I'm praying it does not turn up on YouTube. Two hours later my new dilemma was choosing between two other dresses that I liked but did not adore, and finding sassy footwear, which does not imply practical footwear. So I surrendered, bought them both and set off to the shoe department for more aggravation.
An hour later, juggling several bags, my throbbing feet carried my weary body to the car. Of course I had walked an extra mile trying to recall exactly which entrance I entered hours earlier. I was nibbling on the $2 Godiva chocolate bar that Macy's strategically places at the registers for women with no willpower when I began to replay the dress scene in my head and rallied in my amusement. On the drive home I began to make mental notes for story ideas. Then it dawned on me; while one man finds inspiration is in doing things he loves I am quite possibly the opposite. It's the day to day absurdities of my ordinary and often chaotic life that often inspire me. I guess I was not supposed to have that dress for a reason. I think I figured out why.
Trying on formal wear is as deflating as trying on bathing suits. If the dress is not showing all of my flaws, it’s probably because it fits like a potato sack. And if it fits like a glove, that means I will be wearing full body Spanx and suffering from oxygen deprivation by the end of the evening. But that gets into a whole other realm of shopping for unmentionables which is about as satisfying as installing french drains: nobody sees them but your foundation is questionable without them.
My past experience has been that Macy's carries a large selection of reasonably priced formal attire. I could quickly try on a few from the sale rack and be back in my car in an hour. But today the selection was disappointing. I chose several dresses from the main racks which would later be disqualified in the fitting room. (Two would be age appropriate for me at my grandchild’s wedding in 2050. Two others exposed cleavage I would have been more comfortable exposing in 1988.) From there I went to the clearance rack to find "season appropriate" dresses and was having some success. Wading past the velvet, bugle beads and plenty of frumpy attire, I spotted a long black ruched taffeta sheath, with cap sleeves and a simple ruffled v-neck collar. It was so chic. And it was my size! This was the one!
Next I found myself in the fitting room and I was stuck. Not stuck in the dressing room itself but in the dress. I’ve done it before and you’d think I’d have some Houdini moves by now. First, the skin tight dress apparently ran a bit small; at least that is what I told myself and later the sales assistant. Second the zipper started at the small of my back and ended somewhere between my shoulder blades. For those in the dark, taffeta does not stretch or give. To make matters worse, a few strings had become stuck in the zipper somewhere around T-7 of my spinal column. Now panic was mounting. Using perspiration as a lubricant, I was somehow able to maneuver my arms out of the armholes and twist the dress an inch at a time until the zipper was on my left. This took some time and patience. But I was determined to see this dress on me. Finally the threads dislodged, I thought perhaps I could finish zipping and then twist it back. But as I started to zip a little more, I caught some skin and nearly fainted. It was time to either admit defeat or request a bigger size.
Changing into a different dress, I slinked out to the registers and managed to attract the attention of the surly sales associate who had been doing her best to ignore me so far. "Do you have this in the next size?" I chirped while holding up the object of my affection. A quick check of the computer database and a snarl in her voice revealed that a larger size was supposed to be in stock but it was not to be found in the rack inventory.... and something told me she was not up for the hunt. Grabbing my handbag from the dressing room I continued to unsuccessfully scour the racks in a matronly frock and bare aching feet; quite a sight for the security cameras and I'm praying it does not turn up on YouTube. Two hours later my new dilemma was choosing between two other dresses that I liked but did not adore, and finding sassy footwear, which does not imply practical footwear. So I surrendered, bought them both and set off to the shoe department for more aggravation.
An hour later, juggling several bags, my throbbing feet carried my weary body to the car. Of course I had walked an extra mile trying to recall exactly which entrance I entered hours earlier. I was nibbling on the $2 Godiva chocolate bar that Macy's strategically places at the registers for women with no willpower when I began to replay the dress scene in my head and rallied in my amusement. On the drive home I began to make mental notes for story ideas. Then it dawned on me; while one man finds inspiration is in doing things he loves I am quite possibly the opposite. It's the day to day absurdities of my ordinary and often chaotic life that often inspire me. I guess I was not supposed to have that dress for a reason. I think I figured out why.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Damn Day!
Suffering from writer’s block, I decided to tweak a story I wrote in 2003 after another routine day as a working mother. While this day was exceptionally stressful, with humor I'm also describing how I felt nearly every working day. Guys should know this contains girl talk, mentions feminine products and may not portray your gender in a particularly kind way. Feel free to eavesdrop but you have been warned!
This is dedicated to all mothers everywhere, because all mothers work!
_______________________________________________
The day began early and would now be extra frustrating because I had just realized that I was low on tampons. This meant I was A) very crabby and B) dreading a trip to the store because my day was packed. You can already feel the tension, can’t you? I was up earlier than usual because the dog had an appointment to be neutered. Dick and I had exchanged a few words so in my PMS fog I was mentally redecorating the master bedroom in a feminine scheme just in case I were to find myself single. I went to the den to check my business e-mail, only to have the dog follow me and promptly chew through the power cord on my corporate issued laptop! Sparks flew, Cooper yelped and the icon for the charger now indicated that the laptop was not charging! Damn dog! Leaving Dick in charge of the morning school routine, I grabbed the dog and the marathon began.
I deposited Cooper at the vet clinic and continued on to work. I needed to finish a proposal which had to be mailed that afternoon to meet a deadline. I now had a power cord to buy as well as tampons, and experience told me I was not going to find them in the same store. I needed another errand like I needed a second husband, two more children and another dog. I had planned to stop at a drug store before work but an extraordinarily long commute in Pittsburgh’s morning rush hour had eaten up my window of opportunity. I got to the office by 8:30 and buried myself in my work. Damn traffic!
I had skipped lunch since I was stressed over my part of the proposal and needed to leave early, so it had been a long day with still no end in sight. Low blood sugar and PMS would be a deadly combination for anyone who got in my way. My head was pounding as I left the office at 4:00, popping Ibuprofen on an empty stomach. Damn PMS! I still had to buy a power cord, pick up the dog, make dinner, take Jordan to meet Dick at the dentist for their back to back appointments, attend a meeting at Jordan’s school and buy tampons! My first stop was at Radio Shack. I dropped $120 on the cord. Damn Radio Shack! Leaving the store, a frantic call from my office alerted me that the proposal had to be changed because the broker had given us an incorrect spelling of the prospect’s name...the proposal I had skipped lunch to finish so it could ship that afternoon to meet a bid deadline. I now had to call the broker to get an executive order to stop the shipment and spent the next 30 minutes in the car on the phone figuring out these details while navigating traffic. Damn brokers! No time to stop at the drug store!
Nearly catatonic, I arrived home to find my daughter, Jordan inconsolable because her best friend had not sent her a birthday party invitation. Certain that this was a mistake, I called the friend's mother to get the story straight only to find that a disagreement had apparently soured the friendship and this was indeed true! Feeling the pain of Jordan's broken heart, I mentally scorned this mother and daughter duo. Damn girl drama! With a growling tummy, tearful child, a dog waiting at the vet and no dinner ideas, I was also down to one tampon. I called my neighbor, but she only had one to spare. “I’ll take it” I said sending Jordan to her house to retrieve it on our way out the door!
Next stop was the vet where Cooper had racked up another $120, but this time it included painkillers! While paying the bill, Zach called asking to spend the night at a friend's house to finish a project. This required me to pack and drop off an overnight bag. I had just picked up two more tasks. Damn school project! Now it was time to meet Dick at the dentist where he was getting a root canal and Jordan would get a tooth filled. We arrived promptly at 6:30. I made brief chit chat with the receptionist who collected Jordan and then rushed off to the 7:00 meeting at school....still no dinner, no tampons and I had noticed earlier that Jordan had one tiny line of homework which would loom over us until bedtime. Damn homework!
Arriving back home after a breezy meeting, with Taco Bell in hand I found that Cooper, sick from the anesthesia had developed a case of the runs in the kitchen. Jordan was responding like a typical 11 year old, complete with gagging noises. Dick was cranky from his root canal and impatient with the cleaning chore. Nobody could eat because of dental pain, Novocaine and lingering thoughts of dog poop. Double damn dog! I packed a bag for Zach and was just about to leave, only to be interrupted by my 16 year old senile cat, Woody who had just christened the brand new carpet. This required immediate action! Armed with enzyme cleaner and a wet vac, I began cleaning, taking several phone calls in between. One call was my impatient son wanting to know when he might receive his bag. It was now after 9:00. Damn cat!
At 9:15, I was back in the car. I called to RSVP to a party along the way and then made plans with a friend, dropped off the bag for my son, got to the store just before closing, and scored TWO boxes of tampons! I finally made it home at 10:00 to crash! I was greeted by a husband with a Scotch in his hand in serious pain from the root canal begging to be mothered. I briefly considered giving him the dog's pain medication and a lecture about childbirth, but instead I found an expired bottle of Percocet from some previous surgery in the drug cabinet. He would never know. I refilled his Scotch, pulled out the heating pad for his neck, an icepack for his cheek, administered the drugs, faked empathy while I rubbed his back, watched a few minutes of Monday Night Football then excused myself for a hot shower. Damn men! I stopped along the way to peek in on Jordan who was sound asleep with Cooper on her bed. My heart softened as I tucked the covers around her and stroked both her and Cooper's heads.
11:00 and nearly 18 hours since my day began, all was finally quiet as I melted under the sheets, escaped into my book and soon into slumber. Then I heard noises upstairs and looked at the clock. It was after midnight. The dog was slowly hobbling down the steps, followed by Jordan who was gagging and complaining vociferously. Still not feeling well from the anesthesia, Cooper had vomited all over her bed and carpet! Triple damn dog! I went back to the laundry room for the wet vac and supplies, readily available from the cat's earlier episode. I checked for a pulse as I passed by Dick sound asleep on the couch, threw a blanket on him and turned off the television. Damn men! I tucked Jordan into the guest bedroom, stripped her bed and began a load of laundry! At 1:00 a.m. I was now into a new day, scrubbing another carpet while everyone else slept. Five more hours until the alarm clock would put me right back into the grind. Damn alarm clocks! Thank goodness I had plenty of tampons!
This is dedicated to all mothers everywhere, because all mothers work!
_______________________________________________
The day began early and would now be extra frustrating because I had just realized that I was low on tampons. This meant I was A) very crabby and B) dreading a trip to the store because my day was packed. You can already feel the tension, can’t you? I was up earlier than usual because the dog had an appointment to be neutered. Dick and I had exchanged a few words so in my PMS fog I was mentally redecorating the master bedroom in a feminine scheme just in case I were to find myself single. I went to the den to check my business e-mail, only to have the dog follow me and promptly chew through the power cord on my corporate issued laptop! Sparks flew, Cooper yelped and the icon for the charger now indicated that the laptop was not charging! Damn dog! Leaving Dick in charge of the morning school routine, I grabbed the dog and the marathon began.
I deposited Cooper at the vet clinic and continued on to work. I needed to finish a proposal which had to be mailed that afternoon to meet a deadline. I now had a power cord to buy as well as tampons, and experience told me I was not going to find them in the same store. I needed another errand like I needed a second husband, two more children and another dog. I had planned to stop at a drug store before work but an extraordinarily long commute in Pittsburgh’s morning rush hour had eaten up my window of opportunity. I got to the office by 8:30 and buried myself in my work. Damn traffic!
I had skipped lunch since I was stressed over my part of the proposal and needed to leave early, so it had been a long day with still no end in sight. Low blood sugar and PMS would be a deadly combination for anyone who got in my way. My head was pounding as I left the office at 4:00, popping Ibuprofen on an empty stomach. Damn PMS! I still had to buy a power cord, pick up the dog, make dinner, take Jordan to meet Dick at the dentist for their back to back appointments, attend a meeting at Jordan’s school and buy tampons! My first stop was at Radio Shack. I dropped $120 on the cord. Damn Radio Shack! Leaving the store, a frantic call from my office alerted me that the proposal had to be changed because the broker had given us an incorrect spelling of the prospect’s name...the proposal I had skipped lunch to finish so it could ship that afternoon to meet a bid deadline. I now had to call the broker to get an executive order to stop the shipment and spent the next 30 minutes in the car on the phone figuring out these details while navigating traffic. Damn brokers! No time to stop at the drug store!
Nearly catatonic, I arrived home to find my daughter, Jordan inconsolable because her best friend had not sent her a birthday party invitation. Certain that this was a mistake, I called the friend's mother to get the story straight only to find that a disagreement had apparently soured the friendship and this was indeed true! Feeling the pain of Jordan's broken heart, I mentally scorned this mother and daughter duo. Damn girl drama! With a growling tummy, tearful child, a dog waiting at the vet and no dinner ideas, I was also down to one tampon. I called my neighbor, but she only had one to spare. “I’ll take it” I said sending Jordan to her house to retrieve it on our way out the door!
Next stop was the vet where Cooper had racked up another $120, but this time it included painkillers! While paying the bill, Zach called asking to spend the night at a friend's house to finish a project. This required me to pack and drop off an overnight bag. I had just picked up two more tasks. Damn school project! Now it was time to meet Dick at the dentist where he was getting a root canal and Jordan would get a tooth filled. We arrived promptly at 6:30. I made brief chit chat with the receptionist who collected Jordan and then rushed off to the 7:00 meeting at school....still no dinner, no tampons and I had noticed earlier that Jordan had one tiny line of homework which would loom over us until bedtime. Damn homework!
Arriving back home after a breezy meeting, with Taco Bell in hand I found that Cooper, sick from the anesthesia had developed a case of the runs in the kitchen. Jordan was responding like a typical 11 year old, complete with gagging noises. Dick was cranky from his root canal and impatient with the cleaning chore. Nobody could eat because of dental pain, Novocaine and lingering thoughts of dog poop. Double damn dog! I packed a bag for Zach and was just about to leave, only to be interrupted by my 16 year old senile cat, Woody who had just christened the brand new carpet. This required immediate action! Armed with enzyme cleaner and a wet vac, I began cleaning, taking several phone calls in between. One call was my impatient son wanting to know when he might receive his bag. It was now after 9:00. Damn cat!
At 9:15, I was back in the car. I called to RSVP to a party along the way and then made plans with a friend, dropped off the bag for my son, got to the store just before closing, and scored TWO boxes of tampons! I finally made it home at 10:00 to crash! I was greeted by a husband with a Scotch in his hand in serious pain from the root canal begging to be mothered. I briefly considered giving him the dog's pain medication and a lecture about childbirth, but instead I found an expired bottle of Percocet from some previous surgery in the drug cabinet. He would never know. I refilled his Scotch, pulled out the heating pad for his neck, an icepack for his cheek, administered the drugs, faked empathy while I rubbed his back, watched a few minutes of Monday Night Football then excused myself for a hot shower. Damn men! I stopped along the way to peek in on Jordan who was sound asleep with Cooper on her bed. My heart softened as I tucked the covers around her and stroked both her and Cooper's heads.
11:00 and nearly 18 hours since my day began, all was finally quiet as I melted under the sheets, escaped into my book and soon into slumber. Then I heard noises upstairs and looked at the clock. It was after midnight. The dog was slowly hobbling down the steps, followed by Jordan who was gagging and complaining vociferously. Still not feeling well from the anesthesia, Cooper had vomited all over her bed and carpet! Triple damn dog! I went back to the laundry room for the wet vac and supplies, readily available from the cat's earlier episode. I checked for a pulse as I passed by Dick sound asleep on the couch, threw a blanket on him and turned off the television. Damn men! I tucked Jordan into the guest bedroom, stripped her bed and began a load of laundry! At 1:00 a.m. I was now into a new day, scrubbing another carpet while everyone else slept. Five more hours until the alarm clock would put me right back into the grind. Damn alarm clocks! Thank goodness I had plenty of tampons!
Friday, March 4, 2011
There Are No Coincidences
The “to do” list was full of trivial errands. It was a cold and blustery Monday. I was struggling with something that morning. Nothing new for me but a challenging day where I had been suffering a setback. Excuses had run out and it was much later than I had planned to leave the house. On my drive to the dreaded post office I began talking to myself. Actually I was venting and praying out loud. He’s heard it all before except until recently it was not very sincere and I have been known to go rogue (no Sarah Palin jokes please). I ended my rant with “you are going to have to help me out here. I need strength and I need a sign!” I was blotting a few tears as I pulled into the post office, composed myself and went about my business. It was now almost noon and the line was beginning to form behind me.
She came in the door and we gave each other a big smile of recognition, followed by a retreat. You know that feeling of avoidance when dementia takes control and your mind begins to race. “I know her, but how?” After a moment she broke the ice. “Will Zach be home after he graduates in April?” Now it hit me! Her daughter and my son are friends. We had enjoyed lunch together over Christmas break with our kids who had insisted that we were alike and needed to meet. She and I had connected instantly and our children were probably both excited and overwhelmed by how much we had in common. She and I were actually giddy in the similarities. This second meeting moved into the post office lobby after we had both finished our business. The talk got more involved about some concerns we shared. She and I had bonded earlier over similar mother/daughter relationship issues and ADD /ADHD kid things. She has walked and still tiptoes in my shoes. She has found her grace. I am getting there. We decided that this conversation needed to continue over lunch. So much for my other errands but this was much more inspiring.
Details of what we discussed over lunch are not as important as the point of my story. This was a “timely” meeting. I explained to her how I had delayed leaving the house and of my meltdown in the car. She too had been pulled off course that morning and was late getting started. She had been wanting to share something with me and it had been weighing on her mind until that fateful morning. For almost two hours we shared things that needed to be shared and again, we were in awe of how much we are alike and how similar were our stories. She was confirming my spiritual journey because we are both convinced, there are no coincidences.
Anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes knows I am an open book. I tend to say what I feel and feel what I say. Sometimes it's an asset, sometimes a liability. I have made some big mistakes in my life but I don't feel overall that I have lived in a state of hypocrisy. When I have listened to anyone's pain in the past, my words of comfort were always sincerely “you are in my thoughts”. I never said “in my prayers” because that would have been lying. I did not pray. At best I had been an apathetic Catholic who has been going through the motions. Three confessions in 44 years and yet I have ingested hundreds of communion hosts. You do the math. I am going to hell. Perhaps I am a lousy Catholic, but that does not mean I am not a good person with good intentions. Maybe I just needed to tweak my course.
I’m not a bible thumper. I’m still even a tad concerned about putting much out there in terms of my new found spirituality. But over the years as I have observed other shareholders while still not buying the stock (my broker will appreciate this metaphor), I could not help but realize they are much calmer and much more at peace with their lives and decisions. I have been second guessing and feeling little resolve. Am I ready to hear the lesson?
The signs were always there, I just didn't see them until recently. Some of you reading this know how much you have inspired me because I am sharing things with you and you know we are experiencing something very powerful together. And it's working. And others of you are seeing the changes I am experiencing and I think you appreciate them. The day I gave a devotion with a personal spin and broke down in front of 30 women I barely knew was both intimidating and gratifying because everyone had a similar story. When I finish writing my thoughts, I feel accomplished. As soon as I publish them, I worry that I have shared too much. By sharing, I have allowed you to see my human and fragile side. I hope you feel that we share some human frailties and that I have given you something worth considering and sharing. But most of all, I hope you feel that you are not alone.
She came in the door and we gave each other a big smile of recognition, followed by a retreat. You know that feeling of avoidance when dementia takes control and your mind begins to race. “I know her, but how?” After a moment she broke the ice. “Will Zach be home after he graduates in April?” Now it hit me! Her daughter and my son are friends. We had enjoyed lunch together over Christmas break with our kids who had insisted that we were alike and needed to meet. She and I had connected instantly and our children were probably both excited and overwhelmed by how much we had in common. She and I were actually giddy in the similarities. This second meeting moved into the post office lobby after we had both finished our business. The talk got more involved about some concerns we shared. She and I had bonded earlier over similar mother/daughter relationship issues and ADD /ADHD kid things. She has walked and still tiptoes in my shoes. She has found her grace. I am getting there. We decided that this conversation needed to continue over lunch. So much for my other errands but this was much more inspiring.
Details of what we discussed over lunch are not as important as the point of my story. This was a “timely” meeting. I explained to her how I had delayed leaving the house and of my meltdown in the car. She too had been pulled off course that morning and was late getting started. She had been wanting to share something with me and it had been weighing on her mind until that fateful morning. For almost two hours we shared things that needed to be shared and again, we were in awe of how much we are alike and how similar were our stories. She was confirming my spiritual journey because we are both convinced, there are no coincidences.
Anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes knows I am an open book. I tend to say what I feel and feel what I say. Sometimes it's an asset, sometimes a liability. I have made some big mistakes in my life but I don't feel overall that I have lived in a state of hypocrisy. When I have listened to anyone's pain in the past, my words of comfort were always sincerely “you are in my thoughts”. I never said “in my prayers” because that would have been lying. I did not pray. At best I had been an apathetic Catholic who has been going through the motions. Three confessions in 44 years and yet I have ingested hundreds of communion hosts. You do the math. I am going to hell. Perhaps I am a lousy Catholic, but that does not mean I am not a good person with good intentions. Maybe I just needed to tweak my course.
I’m not a bible thumper. I’m still even a tad concerned about putting much out there in terms of my new found spirituality. But over the years as I have observed other shareholders while still not buying the stock (my broker will appreciate this metaphor), I could not help but realize they are much calmer and much more at peace with their lives and decisions. I have been second guessing and feeling little resolve. Am I ready to hear the lesson?
The signs were always there, I just didn't see them until recently. Some of you reading this know how much you have inspired me because I am sharing things with you and you know we are experiencing something very powerful together. And it's working. And others of you are seeing the changes I am experiencing and I think you appreciate them. The day I gave a devotion with a personal spin and broke down in front of 30 women I barely knew was both intimidating and gratifying because everyone had a similar story. When I finish writing my thoughts, I feel accomplished. As soon as I publish them, I worry that I have shared too much. By sharing, I have allowed you to see my human and fragile side. I hope you feel that we share some human frailties and that I have given you something worth considering and sharing. But most of all, I hope you feel that you are not alone.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Bella Miracolo
It's been six months and I am still annoyed. It takes me by surprise when I catch a glimpse of Jordan’s lower bare back as she reaches for something or assumes a downward dog pose next to me in yoga class. It's morbid curiosity. I want to look but it’s disturbing. I’m not an expert on its details because I’ve only asked to see it once, and rather reluctantly at that. But from recall and those glimpses, I know there are two rather imposing birds perched on each kidney staring at one another. In dramatic Burgues Script below, the words “bella” and “miracolo”. In Italian it means “beautiful miracle”. I am talking about Jordan's tattoo. Perhaps literally I should say tattoos because there are two of them. But I can hardly get past the fact that she has one. So it's singular for the sake of my sanity (and it makes for good use of alliteration in this sentence which also validates me as a writer).
It’s that impulsive thing; hyperactivity. The “H” in ADHD. Her nemesis and by default, mine. It is that thought that settles into her head and refuses to leave. It gets her into trouble, mostly with me. It is not a welcome guest in the life of a teenage girl who by the genetic luck of the draw was blessed with a good dose of drama anyway. Even Jordan will admit that the "H" has put her into some uncomfortable situations.
She began to discuss it at age 15, threatening to do it when she turned age 18. I just didn’t give the “H” enough credit to know that it would be ON her 18th birthday. I even pooh poohed it as a thought that would evolve over time, long after she was out of my house. It grew into a test of wills. Her father forbade it while I pleaded with her to postpone the appointment and to give it more thought. But she did it. And then it morphed into a Jerry Springer episode one lovely September afternoon. Fortunately our neighbors know us to be rather sensible folks and they have all been the victims of teenagers. The police even took my side.
I doubt Jordan gave any thought to irony or how literally the words “beautiful miracle” applied to her when she chose them. She just thinks Bella Miracolo is the first and middle name she would like to give to a daughter one day if she is fortunate enough to have one. Jordan was the result of a much wanted but difficult pregnancy. She arrived six weeks early in a life and death moment for both of us, weighing 3 pounds. We weathered six weeks in a NICU with many set-backs, six months with an apnea monitor, and countless drugs and doctor visits. I wished away her first year as we welcomed each milestone pushing past the fear of developmental delays or problems. There were none. She was even "advanced" in some of her skills. The “H” didn’t present itself until much later. But considering that she was delivered early into this world with no warning, thought or time for preparation I have to wonder: was the "H" a genetic component which prodded her to leave the nest as a survival tactic? Or was the “H” a by-product of over-stimulating buzzers, lights, IV’s, drugs and drama of the NICU?
That tattoo artist had no idea what he was literally inking on to my newly christened adult daughter’s back that day for eternity. The moment was lost on her insecure, and I am pleased to say former boyfriend who picked up the tab in a last ditch effort to keep her. To Jordan this was really about emancipation, her declaration of adulthood. At the time I viewed this as the ultimate slap in the face. I'm coming to terms with it. I'm slightly hurt that she shared the experience with people who will fade with time. After all, I was there for the original miracle. I’m beginning to like the idea of the “bella miracolo” tattoo. The birds I could do with out. Did I mention this came with a nose ring?
It’s that impulsive thing; hyperactivity. The “H” in ADHD. Her nemesis and by default, mine. It is that thought that settles into her head and refuses to leave. It gets her into trouble, mostly with me. It is not a welcome guest in the life of a teenage girl who by the genetic luck of the draw was blessed with a good dose of drama anyway. Even Jordan will admit that the "H" has put her into some uncomfortable situations.
She began to discuss it at age 15, threatening to do it when she turned age 18. I just didn’t give the “H” enough credit to know that it would be ON her 18th birthday. I even pooh poohed it as a thought that would evolve over time, long after she was out of my house. It grew into a test of wills. Her father forbade it while I pleaded with her to postpone the appointment and to give it more thought. But she did it. And then it morphed into a Jerry Springer episode one lovely September afternoon. Fortunately our neighbors know us to be rather sensible folks and they have all been the victims of teenagers. The police even took my side.
I doubt Jordan gave any thought to irony or how literally the words “beautiful miracle” applied to her when she chose them. She just thinks Bella Miracolo is the first and middle name she would like to give to a daughter one day if she is fortunate enough to have one. Jordan was the result of a much wanted but difficult pregnancy. She arrived six weeks early in a life and death moment for both of us, weighing 3 pounds. We weathered six weeks in a NICU with many set-backs, six months with an apnea monitor, and countless drugs and doctor visits. I wished away her first year as we welcomed each milestone pushing past the fear of developmental delays or problems. There were none. She was even "advanced" in some of her skills. The “H” didn’t present itself until much later. But considering that she was delivered early into this world with no warning, thought or time for preparation I have to wonder: was the "H" a genetic component which prodded her to leave the nest as a survival tactic? Or was the “H” a by-product of over-stimulating buzzers, lights, IV’s, drugs and drama of the NICU?
That tattoo artist had no idea what he was literally inking on to my newly christened adult daughter’s back that day for eternity. The moment was lost on her insecure, and I am pleased to say former boyfriend who picked up the tab in a last ditch effort to keep her. To Jordan this was really about emancipation, her declaration of adulthood. At the time I viewed this as the ultimate slap in the face. I'm coming to terms with it. I'm slightly hurt that she shared the experience with people who will fade with time. After all, I was there for the original miracle. I’m beginning to like the idea of the “bella miracolo” tattoo. The birds I could do with out. Did I mention this came with a nose ring?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The quest for Jane Lite
I have been a hero and a villain, a martyr and a victim, a disciplinarian and an enabler. And that’s sometimes all before noon. I have woken up as Dr. Jekyll and gone to bed as Mrs. Hyde. No, I do not have multiple personalities. I am the parent of Jordan, an ADHD teenager. Technically at 18 she is an adult. She reminds me every time I threaten to take her “hand held device” or her car.
All kids provide us with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows occasionally. What mother has not experienced that door slamming, name calling, high drama moment which makes her want to revoke her membership in the parent club? However kids with ADHD can bring out those feelings routinely, sometimes even hour to hour. It's a bumpier ride than most which lasts a bit longer. It begins much earlier than the teen years with impulsiveness and emotional irregularity being the underlying problems. It may be hard to separate the child from the condition when you are in the throes of it.
ADHD has equipped me with vocational skills for which I have never received compensation. I am a warrior, used to seeing heavy combat. (Fortunately there have been no casualties to report). I have flight experience as a helicopter parent who has monitored everything from homework to friendships. I am a professional athlete because no matter how hard I try to stay on the sidelines, I’m often called into the game. I am a skilled mediator/negotiator, who has bargained with my daughter every week of her life to not quit something and with God to give me the condensed version of this very long lesson. With absolutely no gymnastic training, I became her cheerleader when teachers or coaches did not give her the support she needed to succeed. I’ve also been on call as a therapist when anxiety and panic paralyzed her in the middle of the night.
As the parents of these children, we are our own worst critics. Our kids are often rejected by other "normal" kids and adults, criticized routinely and usually quite low on self esteem. It's a problem born out of the struggles with being different. My burden like any parent is that I wear my child's heart on my sleeve. My job is to love my daughter unconditionally and to be her advocate when necessary. Journaling and sharing my thoughts are both a way to let it go and to educate others on the life of an ADHD family.
For 18 years I have been living in a chronic hyper-vigilant sentinel mode. It has warped my personality and I am on a quest for balance. So with a good dose of spirituality, the love of my family, some very dear friends with generous ears, and a good sense of humor I am off to find “Jane Lite”. It also helps to retain a good therapist and to enjoy a few glasses of wine on this journey. I hope you will enjoy the adventure with me!
All kids provide us with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows occasionally. What mother has not experienced that door slamming, name calling, high drama moment which makes her want to revoke her membership in the parent club? However kids with ADHD can bring out those feelings routinely, sometimes even hour to hour. It's a bumpier ride than most which lasts a bit longer. It begins much earlier than the teen years with impulsiveness and emotional irregularity being the underlying problems. It may be hard to separate the child from the condition when you are in the throes of it.
ADHD has equipped me with vocational skills for which I have never received compensation. I am a warrior, used to seeing heavy combat. (Fortunately there have been no casualties to report). I have flight experience as a helicopter parent who has monitored everything from homework to friendships. I am a professional athlete because no matter how hard I try to stay on the sidelines, I’m often called into the game. I am a skilled mediator/negotiator, who has bargained with my daughter every week of her life to not quit something and with God to give me the condensed version of this very long lesson. With absolutely no gymnastic training, I became her cheerleader when teachers or coaches did not give her the support she needed to succeed. I’ve also been on call as a therapist when anxiety and panic paralyzed her in the middle of the night.
As the parents of these children, we are our own worst critics. Our kids are often rejected by other "normal" kids and adults, criticized routinely and usually quite low on self esteem. It's a problem born out of the struggles with being different. My burden like any parent is that I wear my child's heart on my sleeve. My job is to love my daughter unconditionally and to be her advocate when necessary. Journaling and sharing my thoughts are both a way to let it go and to educate others on the life of an ADHD family.
For 18 years I have been living in a chronic hyper-vigilant sentinel mode. It has warped my personality and I am on a quest for balance. So with a good dose of spirituality, the love of my family, some very dear friends with generous ears, and a good sense of humor I am off to find “Jane Lite”. It also helps to retain a good therapist and to enjoy a few glasses of wine on this journey. I hope you will enjoy the adventure with me!
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