Random Thoughts

MTF and I walked a lot in Manhattan. Our hotel was centrally isolated - we could walk anywhere in any direction and something wonderful would turn up. The same can't really be said for Tucson. Walking here is an exercise in hope and optimism - hope that there will be sidewalks and optimism that the cars won't ram into me if there aren't.
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Why do some rolls of chicken wire cut easily, while others visciously resist the tin snips? Arguing with sharp pointy edged metal graph paper while trying not to step on a newly planted Callandria is not my idea of a good time.
*******

Went to ARBICO on Thursday for a gardening field trip. Non-chemical pest control involves buckets of maggots which they were happy to pull out in the Insectarium and that was where Rick lost me, although the fly-covered Insect A-Peel in the veggie garden was a close second in terms of things I don't care to ever see again in what I hope will be a long and event-filled life.

On the other hand, listening to him talk about how the first Earth Day showed him the path his life was meant to take was as validating an experience as I've had in a long time. It's nice to know that our good intentions were actually rewarded. And it's also nice to see someone who told his high school classmates that he was going to grow up and become an environmentalist -- and who is doing just that while making a profit.

And his stuff is great - wonder why there are no flies surrounding those gorgeous hats in the paddocks at Churchill Downs on Derby Day? Ask the ARBICO workers who were wearing Fly Eliminator t-shirts.

I left without asking how to buy one.
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The problem with not going to Board Meetings is that those who do attend tend to talk about you. And to solve problems they have with you without consulting you. And to define the problems in their terms. And the challenge is to laugh it off. I'm trying. Believe me, I'm trying.
*********

I went to the mall on Saturday afternoon to start my holiday shopping. Managing coupons and discounts and on-line product codes was enough of a challenge without the screaming children running riot in the aisles of Express. The beleaugered saleswoman's apology, "They've been here for an hour like that" only made it worse.

Being me, I chastised the loudest 5 year old, reminding him that there were grown-ups in the store who didn't appreciate his behavior. He looked through me, then started running and yelling again. I felt like I was witnessing Chapter One of Education of an Axe-Murderer.
********

I shopped at The Limited and was handed a book of coupons as I checked out. They're offering a 30% discount on Friday. I don't need the clothes I bought until December 25th. The salesclerk looked at me as if I were speaking ancient Aramaic when I asked him to adjust the charges to reflect the 30% discount so that I didn't have to come back on Friday, return these clothes and then buy them again with the coupon.

It was a toss-up which one of us was the most aggravated by the time the encounter ended.

***********

And so it goes......

Peyton Manning Fan Club - the Burrow edition

What a game!

So much for the SI curse!


They're not my home team, but I do like 'em a lot.

Parents as Emotional Loofahs

We don't have these long phone calls very often. G-chat served us well until her employer blocked her access, but emails and texts and the occasional quick question that requires an actual voice-to-ear phone call still keeps us all relatively well-informed of one another's ups and downs.

But every once in a while the land line (yes, we still have a land line) rings at dinner time and it's the Little Cuter, calling to say "Hi!" She's on the speaker phone so TBG and I can listen and smile at each other at the same time in the same place and easily shift off answering instead of talking over each other's voice on an extension. Her physical and financial health is our first priority - do I need to send a bottle of Excedrine Migraine to her at the office or will she remember to bring in one of the 27 little bottles she has at home? Should she have yet another restorative cup of green tea, the wonder cure for the eye-closing-brain-numbing headache followed by the dull-ache-throbbing sensation? These are things a mommy must ask, and they are answered dutifully because she knows that I have to ask them.

That's the balance you strike when you are parenting grown-ups. Years ago, the Little Cuter and I were having one of those arguments mothers and daughters have in the car when I interrupted and asked if her friends' relationships with their mothers were are difficult as ours seemed to be. She nearly plowed the car into Andre Agassi's oleander (yes, they really were his oleander) as she turned to me (the car follows your eyes, Little Cuter !!!) and said "OMG, none of my friends have as good a relationship as we do, Mom."

I felt like I'd just made Dean's List in Teen Parent University.

Never one to let well enough alone, I began to expostulate on what made us so special. She was going off to the Big 10 in 4 months; her whereabouts known only to her from then on. How could I hope to give her anything more than advice at this point? She didn't really need parenting any more. If TBG and I hadn't instilled it in her already, there wasn't much we could do about it in April of her senior year in high school. (G'ma deserves credit for that line - when asked how she could possibly allow me, her soon to be a freshman daughter, to live in one of the first co-ed dorms in the country, she said basically the same thing - "If she doesn't know it now, she'll never know it.")

This did not mean that I was through with her, though. Everyone needs a mother, and she had me. I do not mince my words. I am honest, though I try to be kind. I have no compunctions about telling you that you are wrong even when it's really none of my business. I comment on everything and anything and, because I am your mother, you have to listen. That's all. You just have to listen, with love in your heart and a smile, even a rueful OMG I can't believe she's on this again smile, on your face. Because I am your mother.

Were I to consider this parenting, there would be an expectation of obedience in my ranting and raving, along the lines of the 5th Commandment. But I consider this being a mother, so you can feel free to do what you want because I trust you. I just worry..... and have opinions... and think I know better..... because I am your Mom.

A mother's love has no boundaries, and she is interested in every nook and cranny of your life and has an opinion on the lint she finds in those spaces and you have to listen to it.... up to the point where you tell me that enough is enough. And then I will stop. Because you don't need a parent - you're functioning as a grown up all on your own and doing quite nicely, thank you - but you do need a mother. Everybody needs a mother.

So she calls and she and TBG discuss the business world and what she's learning and how she's growing and then we're on to how happy she is right now not wearing gloves in Chicago's balmy November temps and the snooze-fest that is Biggest Loser this season and the newly posted wedding pictures from our Labor Day adventure in Chicago and all of a sudden we're hearing a deep sigh and out pours her fear and worry and sorrow and anguish for the child of dear friends and for the friends and for her helplessness and her anger and for a while we wallowed in the depth of her reaction.

Between us, TBG and I apparently said all the things that she had been thinking as we tried to help, because after trading the phone back and forth we all realized that we'd been saying the same things for the last 30 minutes. We must be right - we all agree. And we all feel better saying it out loud and being acknowledged by others whose judgment we trust, as if we'd exfoliated the feelings.

Or, as TBG said : Parents as emotional loofahs.

The Right Stuff

I hiked without my camera on Monday. It was about 4 miles of relatively easy terrain covered comfortably with old friends. No need for a big pack with room for 2 water bottles, lunch, binoculars, GPS, whistle, map, compass, a field guide or two, the thermal blanket pack, a LaraBar, extra batteries, lip gloss, Sudafed, Excedrine Migraine, eye drops and whatever articles of clothing I might need to remove as I went along.

Just the ergonomically angled bottle-key-ID holder and my poles.

Daddooooo made hiking sticks out of fallen limbs from the pin oak in his backyard, and they're sentimental and pretty and functional and every once in a while I take one along just to feel that Daddooooo's by my side. But there are no two of them which are exactly the same height, and they're impossible to attach to any pack I want to carry. Like Daddooooo himself, their hearts are in the right place, but the execution is somewhat lacking.

Wally-World is a great place to shop for hiking gear if you know exactly what you want. You're not going to be presented with a wide array of competing brands or models or options. There won't be any salespeople offering to help you choose. But if you know that you're looking for SwissGear collapsible poles because you don't really want to invest in carbon fiber and titanium spring-loaded-shock-absorber-equipped-almost-weightless-and-wildly-expensive sticks, head right over to Wal-Mart and pay less than $20 for either the red ones or the blue ones. They shrink right up to nothing-ness and fit neatly in the straps on all my packs. I can adjust them and re-adjust them and collapse them and as long as I am careful not to over-tighten them there's nothing that can go wrong. I don't even mind taking the time to think about being careful; I try to tread carefully when I'm out communing with Mother Nature and the poles seem to fit right in. Yes, I love my poles.

I'm having issues with water bottles. My favorite ones were made with ingredients that turned up on some kind of destroy-it-before-it-kills-you list and once they were gone (I had to throw them out.... I couldn't donate something that toxic, could I???..... and they weren't really pretty enough to become flower vases) they were gone. Of course, the dangerous ones were the ones I liked the best. They didn't leak. They were light. They kept the ice cold for a long time. They were distinctive in shape/color/texture/design so that I could easily recognize mine on the picnic table as we stopped for lunch. And, most important of all, I could drink from them.

Do not laugh. Haven't you had your lip pinched or your teeth abused or your shirt-front drenched or worse, stared impotently at the container you've just filled, unable to extricate the water from its depths? I know that I have. And I know that one of the hikers on Monday has, too, because she was taking the blue top off the mouthpiece of her Camelback waterbottle in order to get at the water inside. Nope, she didn't know that you had to bite the blue thing gently between your teeth while holding the bottle perpendicular to the ground. That's right, you don't tip this one up the way you drink everything else "from the bottle". This puppy has a real live straw! No squeezing the sides or tilting.... just nip and suck.

Watching her amazement when I suggested that she try it my way was very reassuring. I'd spent 15 minutes that morning trying to figure the damn thing out myself, until I noticed that the tag which was annoying my nose contained the operating instructions. At least I wasn't the only one.

(We never bought Capri Sun packets for just this very reason -- none of us, Cuters or parents or sitter, could get the straw in the hole without bending and breaking the sipper or spraying ourselves. Some things should be easy to use or not used at all.)

Now that I don't feel like the only fool in town, I think I'll get a somewhat larger Camelback. I took it when I walked to the gym today, and it made the transition nicely. I think I may like them as much as I like my poles and my packs.

Aaaahhhhhhhh.

".... our Star Spangled Banner yet waves....."


"......purple mountains' majesty....."

Remember :

Say "THANK YOU !!" to someone who served.

And, perhaps, a moment of silence at 11am.....when the shooting stopped forever..........

the first time.

(today's regular post is below)

Things I Used to Know

Prompt Tuesday wants me to wax eloquent on "I never knew" but I'm not in a very negative mood.

I do have a similar prompt in my journal, though. I've titled a page "Things I Used to Know" and I bet a lot of you used to know them, too. So, let's play:

Question #1: Can you name this dinosaur? (Scoring is arbitrary and explained below.)

Arbitrary Scoring: Award yourself 3 extra points if you referenced the Flintstones' quarry, and 4 extra points for remembering the Sinclair Dinosaur.

But lose two points if you called it a brontosaurus.

Apparently, sometime between my childhood and the birth of the Big Cuter, the correct answer became apatasaurus. Not that the mis-nomer was a recent discovery. Nope, according to Mike Taylor, the change was made in 1903. But the popular press had been pretty impressed with the thunder lizard and turned up its collective printing presses at the thought of calling the long necked vegetarian a deceptive lizard instead. Brontosaurus he was, and brontosaurus he remained.... certainly through the 1950's and '60's when I might have noticed him on one of my many trips to the American Museum of Natural History.

So, given that he has been Apatasaurus for a very long time, what was it about the early 1980's that had children's books changing his name? My memories are hazy with the smog of diapers and pre-schools and babysitters. I know disco was dead, but Raffi is about all the popular music I can conjure from that time. There were elections and disasters and of those I have a vague recollection, but somewhere around the time that I was setting fire to the stove by letting the water evaporate from the pan containing the boiling/sterilizing baby bottle nipples which left them in a pile of goo which became increasingly hotter and melted and then burst into flames just as I was paying the pizza delivery guy and the fire extinguisher was on the other side of the fire under the sink....... anyway, sometime between my childhood and the Big Cuter's emerging interest in the Mesozoic Era, the publishing world seemed to have gotten a conscience. Or else a copy of the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature's latest Bulletin, because suddenly I couldn't find a book that validated Bronty.

No one told me about it. It just happened. Of course, the Big Cuter had fallen victim to my ignorance, and now he, too, shares my disdain for what turns out to be our favorite sauropod's proper name.

This was a fact in the Science category to which I knew the answer. What happened to certainty, I ask you?

OK, end of Rant 1.... how many points did you give yourself?

Ready to play again????

Question #2 Name the parts of the atom.

Arbitrary Scoring: If you graduated from high school before 1973 and have named more than 3 parts, give yourself a pat on the back and as many points as you feel you deserve. If you are My Very Own Private Hell High School Class of 1977 or any class since then, call your school board and ask for a refund. Those of you a little bit in the middle can read the explanation and decide for yourselves what you deserve.

Apparently, once again, what I thought I knew as fact had changed without telling me. I always liked the electrons and the protons revolving around the neutrons. I understood how they were related to the Periodic Table, and I liked feeling smart about that.

All of a sudden, years after I felt the need to read scientific monographs for fun or credit, the word quark began to appear in the New York Times crossword puzzle. What the blazes was a quark???? Or a muon? The The Atomic Energy Commission uses what I knew to be true as its logo.... if they aren't up-to-date on it why in the world should I be?

I think that's a valid question.

There are more questions to come.........

I'm in Heaven

I'm giving you fair warning: this may not be a very long post.

I walked home from G'ma's pod-castle today, listening to this week's Car Talk podcast on my iPod and feeling very proud of myself for no reason at all. The temperatures are perfect and most of the snow birds are still clinging to their real homes up north so the traffic around town hasn't reached its full winter proportions. Still, there was enough road noise that Tom and Ray were virtually shouting in my ears in order to be heard. By the time I got home, I was a rather unpleasant combination of exertion and exhaust fumes.

The cupboards are bare, as I go through my annual what am I not going to eat that would be good for the food pantry cleansing. I'm through the first shelf already; the goal is to have it all reviewed and renewed before the Little Cuter shows up to do her Rachael Ray impersonation in my kitchen. Sharing Thanksgiving with a daughter who loves to cook is one of life's great joys. I shop and chop and wash and find and turn on and turn off and she does all the thinking.



That bit of reverie managed to eat up an hour or so of holiday loveliness as I arranged and rearranged the Thanksgiving decorations (Halloween's remains are in a box in the dining room, awaiting last minute forgotten additions). Suddenly it was 4:30 and I still had to go to the post office to mail a birthday card, to the library to return Laura Lippman's story of dysfunctional high school girls, and to the grorcery store to be tempted into cooking dinner.

Showered and changed I was in the car in 11 minutes, sunglasses and a visor substituting for a brush and a blow dryer. Though I admit that I was impressed by the attention New Yorkers paid to their attire, living in the land of the flip-flop has distinct advantages.


Post Office drive throughs are a challenge for me, being a small person in a low(ish) to the ground car, but the card was mailed and the groceries were purchased and I just had to drop off the book in the library's return slot and go home. But there was a perfect parking space in the lot - the spot under the tree in the 3rd row - and I'm reading a James Patterson book so that takes an afternoon and I'm halfway through and what will I read while TBG is communing with the Broncos so I parked and went in and oh, yes, that was a good decision.

Right there, on the first display rack just inside the door, was The Scarpetta Factor. I've finally moved up to number 156 out of 500+ reserves for this book, which means I'd probably see it sometime in April, if I'm lucky. And there it was, smiling up at me from the third shelf - the one just at my eye level.

Yes, it was a sign. Because on those display racks were Faye Kellerman and Anne Perry and Linda Fairstein and I grabbed each one of them and then, because I was in such a good mood I took a chance on Julie Kramer (the new Janet Evanovich, if the book jacket blurb is to be believed) and I went to the self-check-out counter and didn't even get aggravated when it didn't work. I just walked over to the librarian with a big fat grin plastered on my face and nodded when she said "You look happy!"

Because I am happy. Very very happy. I get to spend hours with characters I know written by authors I admire who tell stories that leave me lusting for more. And it's all for free.

I admire Ben Franklin for many things, but I love him for creating the free lending library.

I have to go now. I have reading to do.

Musings on Watching Sports

Caution: Sports esoterica is ahead. You can try to go with the flow, or come back tomorrow for something less arcane.


It became apparent to me, early on in our relationship, that in order to spend any time at all with TBG I was going to have to learn to watch sports on tv. That's a very different set of skills than learning to love sports or playing sports or attending live sporting events. I had to become adept at sitting and staring at men (always men until the Title 9 girls grew up) moving in patterns which were obvious to TBG and a total mystery to me.

My earliest memories of Zaydeh, G'ma's father, involve watching baseball on tv. Bouncing on his shoulders in front of the black and white Zenith in the living room while he hummed Zionist pioneer songs as his Brooklyn Dodgers went about their business. I'd probably have grown up loving baseball as much as Doris Kearns Goodwin except that I was only 5 when the Dodgers made Zaydeh cry. After they left, he lost his passion for baseball. He wasn't cheering for laundry - he was cheering for his home team.

That was the last time I spent with anyone who might have called himself a sports fan. We'd watch the World Series - it was usually the Yankees, after all - and Joe Namath certainly captured our attention, but I never watched games just because they were on until I went to college.

Over the years, I've come to love college basketball (though less so now in the era of one-and-done), and sometimes I can even see the plays unfold on the court. Mostly, no matter what the sport, I watch the athleticism without much understanding the nuances of the games. Basketball's easier to follow - it's only 5 on 5 - than football (I may never live down my "Wait a minute - there are catchers and there are runners????" comment) but it really doesn't matter. While I can always appreciate a stellar performance by and individual, that's not what I see. The boys are watching the strategy, I'm taking in the gestalt.

Most of the time, I ignore the blather from the commentators. I like Cris Collinsworth (which is a good thing since he is everywhere) on tv and I continue to believe that some of the best written journalism in America today lives within the covers of Sports Illustrated. I liked replays with the telestrator in Madden's hands - I might not have understood the subtleties of his point, but I always got the general idea. And I like watching the coaches.

When Mike Nolan wore a suit and tie and Reebok had a hissy fit, I had an opinion. When The BigTuna was with the Jets, Daddooooo scouted their practises at Hofstra and reported on his repartee with Parcells, who always talked to the fans as he left the field. I watched Phil Jackson give Eastern philosphical treatises to multi-hued Dennis Rodman and admired the chutzpah. John Wooden and Mike Ditka and Dusty Baker and Mike Singletary .... I pay attention to the coaches.

I never liked Bill Belichick. His cut-off sweatshirts seem disrespectful to the experience. If you're going to work, and you're going to be in charge, you should take the time to look the part. The cheating scandal was appalling and confirmed my opinion. He's not someone I'd want in my life.

And then there are his assistants. Romeo Crennell went to TBG's beloved Browns and the thud was enormous. Eric Mangini struck out with the Jets and isn't doing much better with those poor Browns, either. Notre Dame is stuck with Charlie Weis and doesn't seem to know what to do about it. At the time it seemed that all three were hired because they'd learned from the master. But the master had a videotaped advantage, so maybe they didn't learn anything at all. Maybe they were just caught up in the soul-less search for an edge that tarnished careers around but never seemed to really touch Belichick.

But then there's Denver this year. What am I to make of Josh McDaniels? Still reeling from the Shanahan departure debacle, the Broncos could have been forgiven for having an off-year. Instead, with a 33 year old at the helm they are 6-1 heading into MNF tonight.

Professionally, McDaniels was with Nick Saban at Michigan State for just one year before joining the Evil Empire in 2001. Basically, he served his entire pro-football apprenticeship under Belichick. I begin to feel creepy.... credit might have to be given......... but wait..... there's hope for those of us who don't want to see any good in the Patriot's leader........ McDaniels has a great football family. He'd been following his father, the high school football coach in Ohio, to practises since he was 5 years old. Thom's won state championships and had the #1 team in the nation and I've got to think that some of that rubbed off on Josh. Maybe when he sat on the sidelines, and maybe when he played quarterback for his Dad, and maybe around the dinner table or in the backyard or in the car on the way to the grocery store, someone imbued this young man with the ability to come in and start to win.

I really want to think it's a family thing.

Reunion - The Final Chapter

Chapter 5 - Well, Not Really Reunion Related

I'm still feeling the glow, but it's fading from the front of my brain to a spot someplace on the 3rd or 4th step. There..... but not setting my mood each morning.

What I'm thinking about now is the wonderfulness that was The City.

Yes, THE CITY. People in Marin or on the North Shore or The Main Line might talk about going into The City, but I'm sorry...... neither San Francisco nor Chicago nor Philly hold a candle to the Big Apple.

Don't get me wrong - I think Chicago is the best city in America today. For livability, culture, outdoor recreation, free events, civic pride..... it's hard to argue the point. San Francisco has a vibe unlike anyplace else and its residents love it and cannot imagine living elsewhere (as the Big Cuter says, "It's insane.... but it's mine") But they're still not New York. No place but Manhattan has that melting pot vibrancy, that bond forged by the shared adversity of living in the concrete jungle.

Chicago

and San Francisco

mediate the harshness of their hardscapes* by embracing their waterfronts.

I really tried to take a picture of the water from South Street Seaport, but there wasn't an attractive angle. We'd walked there as a destination to remind ourselves that we were on an island, and we'd failed. (I might have had better luck at Battery Park, but it was drizzling and we had dinner plans the day we were headed there so we turned around in the West Village after I ate an expensive and decidedly average cupcake because it was trendy. And because I was in New York and it was a New York thing and that meant something to me.) Anyway......

New York City is comfortable ignoring the waterways that made it what it is today because it doesn't need them to be special. It's not that kind of place. The concrete. The skyscrapers blocking the sun. Traveling underground. This city embraces its solid foundation and keeps the embellishments to a minimum. Sure, Madison Square is an oasis in the urban center, but there's not a lot of greenery there. The trees that line the sidewalks are triumphs of hope and resilience and seem to mock the cigarette butts and iron grates that protect their roots from utter destruction. You have to be tough to live there.

Yet Rhona's face when she said "Yes!" to "You live here, though?" was nearly beatific. I'm serious. The woman is in love with Manhattan. She's not a braggy kinda gal but you could tell that this was something of which she was proud. We talked about reading the canon of Western literature (yes, dead white men for the most part) and not about living in the city, but she was clearly out to dinner with friends while the rest of us were still seriously on vacation. And we were all at the same party.

I have lots more to say about New York, but this is a nice way to end the Reunion stories. The whole thing was so much more than the sum of its parts --- I never understood what that phrase meant quite as fully as I did that weekend. MTF and I, the Park South Breakfast Club, the crowd in Apartment 15F, warm longstanding relationships and friendships sprung from acquaintanceships, not-so-scary Scary Girls and the boy you knew had always hated you giving you a big hug and denying the whole thing. And you let him. Because there was re-uning going on. And it felt great.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*hardscape is a real term - think the opposite of landscape..... anything inanimate in your yard is the hardscape. Does this nomenclature enable you to gaze upon your retaining walls and driveways with new regard? One can only hope.......

Root...Root...Root for the Home Team

A relative has begun signing her emails "Go Yankees". Conversation at the Happy Ladies Club luncheon today dwelled on Oregon's resurgent football team. Gardeners were meeting for an early dinner and a UofA volleyball game last week.

I am bereft. I have no team for which to cheer. I need a home team.

I love Peyton Manning, and the Little Cuter has outfitted me with a commemorative shirt

but I've never lived in Indianapolis so the Colts can't possibly be my home team.

The Cowboys may have been America's Team, but now, I think, the New Orleans Saints have earned that moniker. They are marvelously undefeated and totally fun to watch and it feels good to be able to share successful vibes with The Big Easy, but, again, they're not my home team.

Orb Kcrob never wears anything but Michigan t-shirts. It's where he went and he's damn proud of it. I find myself in collegiate gear from TBG and the Cuters and myself but I can't seem to make myself wear any of the University of Arizona paraphernalia I have acquired in pre-game shopping excursions. Somehow, the weather was never right for the outfit I'd purchased and a plain red shirt or sweater was just fine, thank you. UofA, though I live here, isn't my home team yet.

You have to live and die with a home team. You have to remember when and have the stories to prove it. Where you were when........ How it felt to watch........ How cold/hot/wet/windy it was that time ....... The stories and their connection to who you were at the time are inextricably intertwined with your sense of self.

I remember when the New York Metropolitans were created. The principal was substituting for our suddenly ailing teacher, and "Will you cheer for the new Mets team?" was the topic he chose to discuss with us. What was the right answer? Would the Mets be trendy and would we feel left behind if we didn't jump on the bandwagon early? Should we turn our allegiance from Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris and pinstripes to a stadium in Queens with a team dressed in orange and blue? Weren't the Yankees our home team??

The dichotomy between fans in a two team town became crystal clear to me when we lived in Chicago. Though I spent 9 long months in Hyde Park, on the South Side, my baseball allegiance was formed early on -- on the North Side, in the bleachers of Wrigley Field. We took the train to the games. We stood on Waveland Avenue to buy $2.50 bleacher seats and drank beer and ate peanuts and sang along with whoever was in the announcers box during the 7th inning stretch. The White Sox played in a scary neighborhood; we bought our first house within walking distance of the Cubbies. Planting flowers in the backyard, I could hear the cheers and run inside to see the instant replay. It was the perfect way to watch baseball. Now the Little Cuter and Son-In-Rent have taken up the cause; there's a Cubs room in their apartment where some, but not all, of their memorabilia adorn the walls and bookshelves and windowsills and the rest has spilled over into the otherwise-very-adult living room. They live there and play on an eponymous co-ed softball team. The Cubs are their home team,now.

This summer, our painter, in assessing the house before starting the job, was surprised to hear that I'd never lived with stucco before. "Where did you live?" "New York and Chicago and San Francisco and now Arizona."

His response fits neatly right here: "Boy, what team do you cheer for?"

******

I want someone to give me credit for avoiding Seinfeld's "cheering for laundry" dismissal of team loyalty. Believe me, it was hard to avoid a rant on the subject. Perhaps... sometime soon...?

How to Put the Annoying Into Vacations

I'm talking to Julie from our time share.

Right now, if I were reading this, I would click away to another blog. My heart would be beating rapidly and my palms would be sweaty. My stomach would be churning gurgling bubbling and stabbing me and I would just want the thought to go away NOW.

And yet, I am, in my real life, at this very moment, actually talking to her on speaker phone about the time share.

And I'm only mildly upset. This is a very unusual set of circumstances.

Do you own a time share? Do you understand it? Do you use it? Have you been drawn into the larger time sharing world, joining Interval International? Please please please tell me that you don't vote in the election of officers every year.

My answers to those questions are Yes, No, No, Yes and OMG why don't you leave me alone.


We were sucked into this folly on our house-hunting trip to Phoenix. We decided to take advantage of one of the "2 nights 3 days in a luxury resort" postcards that used to fill our mailbox, back in the 1980's when life was an ever expanding universe of possibilities. Marriott's Desert Ridge Resort (be careful - this link has automatic music that I couldn't turn off) was brand new and gorgeous, and the condos across the road, while a little less upscale in ambience, were absolutely perfect for us. C&B came over and we rode the lazy river and had cocktails under the stars and dined al fresco and, though we didn't like Phoenix as a new home-town, we were growing quite fond of this particular corner of it.


Naturally, that was the point when we met the salesman. This guy was good. Very very VERY good. TBG is no slouch in that department, and over the years he'd hired the very best of the best to sell to the smartest and the richest and yet there we were, agreeing with the salesman. Gone was our solemn vow to each other that we would not, under any circumstances, no matter what he said, no matter how alluring the prospects seemed, no way would we buy anything. Not a chance. We were firm in our resolve. And then we met the salesman.


He was charming. He was delightful. He was a retired military pilot with great stories to tell and suddenly we were holding notebooks and beach towels and visors and sweatshirts and canvas bags emblazoned with the logo of our OMG how did this happen to us brand new time share.


I have a vague memory of extracting a promise from TBG that he would take care of figuring it out. TBG, of course, shares no such recollection. We both remember feeling somewhat over-whelmed but happy with the prospect of vacationing in a lovely spot in the desert southwest across town from our friends-from-forever C&B. There were 2 en-suite bedrooms; we could play cards til the wee small hours of the night and they could crash in their own space without having to do more than pad across the carpet. It was a plan. A mighty fine plan.

That is, until a few months later when we decided to live in Tucson.

It seemed awfully foolish to vacation, every year, 100 miles north of our home. The weather is basically the same - and we think it's better up here. The scenery isn't that different - and, again, we like our middle desert flora much more than Phoenix's low desert plants. There is better shopping and C&B live there and a change is always nice but honestly, if I'm going to go to the trouble of packing a suitcase, the destination better be more exciting than the next big town up the highway. I've got a pretty nice pool right here at home, after all. No need to disrupt my life to loll on a float and bask in the Vitamin D.

The whole experience went downhill after that. The rules were arcane and I really didn't care. Our travels were between children and parents all over the 50 states and anyway we were living in a brand new vacation destination ourselves. We weren't drawn to leave home to find the sunshine; the sun shines 350 days a year here. It was never too cold or too gloomy or too lonely. Friends and family were lining up for space in what was quickly dubbed "Mom's Bed and Breakfast." Spending a week in Phoenix every year just wasn't on the agenda.

On alternate years, owners have the option to turn in their yearly vacation stay for Marriott Rewards points. I have always liked that name - it is what it says it is. There are no complications, no confusion, no inconsistencies or petty bureaucracies. You collect points for rewards. Simple. Every other year, this time share makes me happy because I can deposit my week for points. I understand what that means. I can redeem them with confidence (adhering to TBG's new mantra - "I will not die with unused points!"). They are useful anywhere and anytime there is a Marriott, and anyone who's travelled in the USofA recently knows that their brand is ubiquitous. This is a good thing.

Trying to plan a vacation with the time share is another story entirely. I have tried. I have failed. I have made the effort and taken the time to plow through the documentation and regulations and restrictions and availabilities and ratings and locations (forget big cities anywhere in the USA) and have somehow never, not once, ever over the years that we've owned it .... nope, I cannot plan a vacation with this thing.

Julie has tried. Lord knows, she's tried. She is the most good-natured soul with whom I've ever shared a phone connection. She has no extraneous blather. She genuinely wants to help me. She figures out ways to solve my problem. Marriott didn't have a time share in New Mexico (go figure????) but Interval International's program ought to be able to help. At least, that was Julie's hope, and all I had to do wass wait.... be on hold.... as a recovering social worker I have had years of experience being on hold..... I do it well.... and I was able to type most of this post while she found someone who.....

To be charitable, let's say that she was polite. She read her script in an appropriately authoritative no-nonsense voice..... appropriate if I were a miscreant 2nd grader. She had her pre-approved litany of questions and responses and she was going through them. In order. It didn't matter that I didn't want to discuss my email address with her; she seemed a little peeved. All I wanted to do was plan a spring-time girl's trip to Santa Fe.

Unfortunately, the only time share they had was on the opposite edge of the state, in Ruidoso. Ruidoso is many things, but Santa Fe is not one of them. I cut her off before she could go through her "thank you for calling and how else can I help you and do you know about our..." speech and then Julie and I were back where we'd started.

I own a time share. I cannot go anywhere I want to go with it. I am not surprised.

She sighed, I sighed, then she inhaled sharply (I've always wanted to write that phrase!!!!) and said "Wait a minute.... this doesn't expire until May, 2010."

And now, delightfully, the burden of planning a pre-paid vacation falls squarely on the shoulders of the Cuters. Together. With friends. Over-lapping mid-week. Alone. Skiing or beaching. I don't care.

Julie is expecting their call.

40th HS Reunion - Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Closure

The after party, the dinner with 20 of our closest friends, walking through torrential rain while hugging under an almost-but-not-quite-big-enough-to-share umbrella (why was I the only one who didn't bring a bumbershoot???) capped off by an allergy attack (Himalayan cats have a special big furriness that's gorgeous and deadly) that sent me scrambling home (yes, by now it felt like home) for a shower and a change of clothes..... the night flew by in a haze of your brother did what in the Bush administration? can you believe how much she's changed? she always was the nicest of those girls, wasn't she? and can somebody do the math for the check?

There were three of us in the room that night - a husband's heart attack (can we really be married to people who have heart attacks the night before Reunion?) had changed her roommate's plans and our friend was going to have to camp out in Penn Station unless we took her in. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. Our new roomie's claim to fame (in my world, at least) is that my 9th grade boyfriend took her instead of me to the Spring Dance that year. HE said it was because "her friends made me"; I always knew it was because she was just too cute for words. I was never able to extend the anger I felt toward him toward her - she was just too nice. And here she was, curled up on the bed sharing reminiscences.

The strength of good women never ceases to amaze and inspire me. Her unlined face and comfortable mien belie the sorrows that have plagued her life. There was no self-pity; there were only facts. Facts which could easily have caused her to crumble, but which seem to have done nothing more than inform the person she is today. And that person is pretty wonderful. She's funny and intellectually curious and thoughtful and creative. And now, she's my friend. Not only on Facebook, but, I think, in life as well. This Reunion has done some pretty swell things for me, and she's one of them.

On Sunday, she saved us 20% at Purdy Girl on LaGuardia Place by re-purposing a necklace as a belt; the staff was so impressed that they discounted all our purchases! Outside the store, she posed under the autumn leaves as a beard so that I could take this picture

We giggled about the Yellow Woman all the way to the tony apartment where, yet again, we were meeting friends. M.Robin has fantastic art and interestingly welcoming furnishings and a knack for bringing together diverse segments of our class. The mimosas flowed freely and the conversation was raucous and there was much photography and hugging. She was staying home to watch the Yankees; the rest of us headed to Tribeca for dinner and then bed.

MTF and I were in The City for another day, but that will have to wait for a post on NYC's wonderfulness. The Reunion was over and classmates were departing and there were many plans for future re-groupings. A 60th birthday party when most of us hit that milestone in 2011? Yearly gatherings in different cities? We have SoCal and Florida and the Carolinas and Arizona covered for starters. Oh, yes.... does anyone doubt we're retiring?

These kinds of conversations happen at the end of every event like this, I know. But, somehow, I think that these were less pie-in-the-sky than most. There was a genuine sense that this had been an unusual weekend. Friendships had been rekindled. Neighbors had been revisited. Wounds had been healed and memories had been stoked. Parents and siblings were remembered. The Scary Girls weren't that scary (ok, maybe one of them was.....) and the cliques were less exclusive.

Our Fortune 500 CEO with the beautiful wife and children set a standard for the men that was really hard to touch. His success, I think, freed them to talk about life and love and their hobbies and passions without having to compete for the top of the totem pole.

There wasn't a clear winner amongst the women. Many of us have accomplished great things as physicians and financiers and scientists and educators and authors and and and.... but who's to say that she who waved her baby grandson's picture under every willing (and not so willing) nose with total unabashed delightful glee doesn't consider herself to have the best life possible? That she whose house was too small for kids but now is just right for her to spend the rest of her days there with her much-loved husband hasn't landed in a place that most people would kill for? There are many things inscribed on your permanent record; I think that, by now, the parameters have changed just a little.

And what did I learn? What once was dreadfully important is now less than relevant. People can and often do change for the better. Memories are important but the here and now is much more special. And the old Girl Scout song was right :

Make new friends,

But keep the old.

One is silver

But the other's gold.

40th HS Reunion Weekend

Chapter 3 - The Main Event

We weren't due there til 1pm. It was drizzling on and off all morning, so our semi-formed plan to stroll the streets was put on hold. That was fine; I was still sleeping off jet-lag and the conversation at breakfast was keeping me interested. I hadn't been after-school-socializing-friends with the other early morning eaters at The Park South, but it didn't seem to matter. Career paths, marital woes, demented parents - there was sharing and supporting and commiserating and resource swapping and lots of rueful laughter. Offspring and spouses were mentioned only in passing - this was our reunion, not theirs, after all.

Some had gone out to Long Island the day before, and there were on-the-scene reports of the condition of their old houses and the high school and the now-defunct Rainbow Diner. The Rainbow Diner - scene of every Friday and Saturday night late night it's almost but not quite time to go home gathering from 9th grade through college. One of those real New York Greek diners with the 10 page menu offering everything except Chinese food. Brusque waitresses, endlessly refillable Cokes, french fries falling off a too small flat plate - just the name brought it right up to my taste buds. Now it's called Mitchell's and the waitresses were nicer but I didn't travel with them so my memory is still intact.

We lingered over breakfast, read the New York Times and MTF critiqued my clothes til I got it right and we took a cab uptown with Lovely Linda.

We were early, but we weren't first. Reunions-Unlimited, the less than helpful professionals who'd been engaged to organize the event, were, once again, less than helpful in distributing name tags or moving people away from the doorway and into the larger spaces beyond or announcing that the food had been presented or was being taken away or any of the things one would expect from party planners. They were VERY good at insisiting that we besmirch our outfits with their adhesive-backed labels, though. Apparently, crashing reunions is a common occurrence and R-U was protecting their turf. (At $115 a head, they were clearly raking in the rewards. We're still trying to figure out where they could have spent the money.... the food was good, but $115 for lunch??????? And I could have made their 200 labels for $12 and 1/8th of an ink cartridge on my home printer.) But our hostess-with-the-mostest, who'd been coordinating the event from her home once it became clear that R-U had an email list and not much else, was on top of everything.

We had white card-stock nametags with our senior pictures and our high school names printed in big, bold letters which hung from blue ribbons around our necks. Blue and White - our school colors. She hadn't missed a thing.

There was an open bar and buffets upstairs and down and lots of loud talking. Brief attempts at welcoming and speechifying and background music were overshadowed by the hugging and looking and laughing. The name tags were awkward at first; there were lots of failed and funny attempts to identify older, greyer classmates. After a while, all shame was lost. Necks were craned and pictures were scanned and OMG was the catch-phrase of the day.

OMG is that YOU??? OMG you look exactly the same!!!! OMG you two are married???

OMG OMG OMG.

I captured two long-lost friends and we grabbed plates and a table in the corner downstairs and dove right into the past. Moving from NY to Chicago to Marin to Tucson has given me many groups of friends, but no one who shares my past. My friends know my parents and siblings through my stories, not their own recollections. For a while there in the basement of a restaurant on 3rd Avenue, I was back home on Long Island, surrounded by people who knew me. Really knew me. They understood that Daddooooo was obnoxious but had his virtues, that G'ma ran the PTA, that my younger brother and sister had done this and that and went here and there and I didn't have to explain anything to anyone. They got it all. We hadn't exchanged a word in 4 decades, but it didn't matter. We knew each other, and it felt great.

After that, I spent a lot of time watching. Sitting alone on a bar stool. Leaning against the side wall, framing a photo. Waiting for a drink, and then standing there as the condensation made a lovely watermark on the counter. No rush to rejoin my friends or insert myself into a group. I was comfortable just watching:

Good cheekbones are still good cheekbones - he's as handsome as he was in 1969.

Standing in one place and letting devotees flock to your side - he's conquered that Master of the Universe vibe just perfectly.

She's sitting all by herself even though she's surrounded by conversation - she still hasn't learned to mingle.

How comfortable they are together, after all these years - they tease each other just the way they did when we were 17.

Adorable is still adorable - no one looks or sounds or dresses like she does.

When was the last time I was in a room with so many women who don't color their hair? I'm usually the only one.

Look at how happy everyone is.

In high school, there was no way that being alone at a party was acceptable behavior. It denoted outcast loser friendless one. Last Saturday afternoon, though, I didn't care. I was content to observe. And that was when it happened - when I knew that I'd grown up and moved on. Read and enjoy......

I looked up and there was one of high school's Really Scary Girls. She was standing, right in front of me. Before I could begin to smile and say "Hi" (not that she'd know who I was or remember that I'd existed in her universe but it was Reunion and I was in the mood to re-une) she began to survey me. You know just what I mean.... her eyes started at my damp-from-the-overheated-room coiffure and took in my necklace, my sweater, my pants and my boots and her rolling eyes dismissed them all.

Surprisingly (to me, at least), I wasn't intimidated. I was annoyed. Here I sat, feeling love towards everyone everywhere. Who was she to interject this pettiness? What in the world made her think that I cared, for one tiny moment, what she thought of how I looked?

And then..... right there .... I gave it back to her. Looked her up and down, shrugged my shoulders, made a little "pfffttt" with my glossed lips, shook my head and walked away.

It was mean. It was nasty. It was sooooooooooooooo high school.

And it felt really really really good.