Big Time Crush

I have a crush.  It’s on Big Time Rush.  Don’t tell anyone.  I want to keep it hush-hush.

Because who am I, a 41 year old woman, to have a crush on a boy band half my age?!  And they’re not even that cute.  And they don’t sing that great.  And they really can’t dance.  So why do I honestly have a crush on Kendall, James, Carlos and Logan?  I can’t explain it, but I can’t deny it, either.

When my children scan the “Guide,” and decide on a Nickelodeon program, I usually tune out.  (I don’t know why they even check the Guide because they always land on Nickelodeon.  No Disney.  No PBS.  Certainly no Discovery Kids Channel.  Nickelodeon.) I tune out if it’s SpongeBob SquarePants.  Not because I don’t like SpongeBob, because I do.  I actually think “he” and the show are pretty funny at times.  But I also feel like I’ve seen most of the episodes.  Unless it’s one of my favorites, it no longer holds my attention.

The same holds true for iCarly.  I used to really like iCarly until they aired the “iLook-a-Like” episode and I found their behavior so absolutely atrocious that we almost didn’t finish watching it.  If I had been a better, stronger parent, I would have turned it off mid-episode, but I kept hoping that it would get better and they would redeem themselves.  It didn’t and they didn’t, either.  By then it was 8:29PM and we had suffered through an episode littered with bad decisions, dishonesty, and disrespect.  Ever since then I have watched Carly, Sam and Freddie with a great degree of trepidation and lasting dislike.  (I’m purposely avoiding the discussion about whether my children should have been watching iCarly to begin with.)  iCarly has been on long enough that my children feel like they are peers with the cast as opposed to being on the younger side of the same generation.  Therefore the show holds a stage that appears to be a pedestal for their characters – not one they can be knocked off of, but one that children aspire to be on.  As the characters have gotten older I have found that they are better behaved and I can once again stomach them.  But now I am a “good” parent and watch all new episodes before letting my girls watch.

Victorious falls somewhere in the middle.  I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it, either.  Most of the characters are decent people and the one or two that behave selfishly or immaturely do so with such aplomb that it showcases the glaring discord with the other characters.  You can’t help but look at them and know that their behavior is wrong.  “Tori” is the lovable character that usually does the right thing.  Her singing, long hair and down-to-earth personality give her a starlet-esque presence that is still within the reach of most girls.  She could be the teenage girl next door that every little girl wants to be.

And then there’s Big Time Rush.  BTR.  The dogs.  A boy band in a time when I can’t name any other boy bands.  Jake has asked me if the show was supposed to introduce the group to the world, or whether the music is actually a marketing by-product of the show.  I’m still trying to figure that out.  But there’s no doubt that the popularity of the group as a music sensation does not rival that of boy bands of the past.  They may be the newest edition of young males on the scene, but their lyrics are not as contagious as New Edition’s were.  We might find ourselves saying, “Uh-uh-u-oh-oh!” to the newest kids on the block, because their dance moves are not as well choreographed as NKOTB’s.  It is also doubtful we will watch them grow from boys to men as they are already clearly young men and do not harmonize like Boys II Men.    I was never really an ‘N Sync fan so I can’t make any comparisons there.  And they certainly will never hold a candle to the greatest boy band of all time:  The Jackson Five.  I still know that “I’ll Be There” to learn my “ABC”s.

Along with my children I find myself singing BTR's tunes and watching snippets of their videos in between our Nickelodeon programming.  Their songs have each had their fifteen minutes of fame in my house with at least one of my children singing in the shower or while they danced across the family room floor.  I tend to have my karaoke moments in front of the kitchen sink while doing dishes.  Clearly “Boyfriend” is the catchiest tune to date that the boys have crooned through the tube.  I do find myself wondering if the addition of Snoop Dog to the video, and his conspicuous credit-grabbing, were supposed to be musical support, a popularity-legitimizing stunt, or both for the group.  Knowing what I know about Snoop Dog I find his presence more a self-redeeming act than an image-boosting opportunity for the boys.  Either way, “Boyfriend” will be my next search on iTunes. 

Although no one has ever quite duplicated the magic of the “Dancing Machine” that Michael Jackson made famous, there is no denying the effort made by boy bands to get you to “Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground)” along with them.  Justin Timberlake, formerly of ‘N Sync, credits Michael Jackson for inspiring many of his moves and performances.  BTR is not as fluid or smooth in their execution, but here at 5 Harding Lane we try to follow along.  We try to spin and touch the ground and alternate sliding forward and back on the carpet.  Even without soul they encourage us to mimic their rhythm.

Despite all that they don’t have, BTR has something that brings me back to each episode.  They have something that I can’t quite put my finger on.  Like iCarly and Victorious the characters are often selfish and self-absorbed, but there’s a lovable notion to these slightly dim-witted, narcissistic Minnesota transplants.  Their antics are not about hurting others, but more about self-preservation and discovery.  They are teenage boys in California, trying to find their way as a new pop-music group with all of the chaos, stress, and fun that brings.  Despite the highly illogical and unlikely scenario their “lives” present for the viewers, we want to be a part of it.

There is no denying that Kendall, James, Carlos and Logan have my attention.  I didn’t get into Hannah Montana, nor do I have “Bieber Fever,” but I do have my crush on Big Time Rush.  I am serious when I say that if they came to Boston I would stand in line overnight to get tickets to a show.  I might even buy a few seats for my kids.

Cheerleading Is a Curse to Me Now

I don't have blond hair or an especially perky outlook.  I don't bounce from place to place and I don't cock my head from side to side to enunciate my point.  So it does come as a surprise to most people that I was a cheerleader.  Despite my already sarcastic tone, it is probably a surprise to learn that I loved being a cheerleader.  Cheer leading took all that was "bad" about me and made it good:  a loud voice, an assertive attitude and a hard body.  Characteristics that were shunned elsewhere were praised at cheer leading tryouts.  Cheer leading made me the best of who I was.  Mostly, cheer leading made it OK for me to yell.  And I was the best voice.  I didn't get a sore throat like the other girls, or get exhausted by the end of the cheer from trying to yell my way through it.  My cheers came from the diaphragm.  I was a loud cheerleader.  And I was just plain loud.  I got "Loudest" in the senior class superlatives.

Now I know a lot of parents - Moms - who yell.  None of us are proud of it and all of us try reasoning, requesting - and threatening - in mild, easy, level tones first, before being pushed into yelling our expectations.  So why do I feel so much more the Bad Guy when I yell now?  It's all because of the giant, green megaphone I got senior year of high school at the cheer leading banquet:  The "You Cheer Too Softly" Award.

They were mock awards.

So is it any wonder that 20 years later I am still the loudest?  I can't help it.  It was ingrained in me and I can't raise my voice without digging deep and bringing it up and out from the diaphragm.  If I had been a library aid or a member of the Kiwanis Club, or on the swim team (yeah, right!) my children might have had a chance.  I might not be such a yeller at them.  I would be quieter, more persuasive - or waterlogged to the point of drowning (me, a swimmer?!  Come on!)  But I chose to cheer.  So it's nice to have that settled:  I yell at my kids because I was a great cheerleader.

So why do I cringe when my daughters tell me they want to cheer?

It's not because I am afraid that my daughters will grow up to yell at my grandchildren.  It's not because I am afraid that they will yell at each other, or at me - they already do that.  And it's not because I don't like football or crisp, fall days.  It's because of what people think of cheerleaders.  Regardless of the number of years I spent in a too-short skirt with my hair pulled up in school color-coded ribbons, I find myself siding with the stereotypers.  I forget that I was - and remember only what I presume.  I am one of those people who thinks that cheerleaders are stupid, promiscuous, snotty and self-absorbed.  And I want more for my daughters.

I spent YEARS correcting people from calling it "Queer leading."  (Not that my fellow 'leaders and I didn't reference it that way ourselves, but like ethnicity, weight and hair color, only YOU can use "those" words.)  I argued and reasoned about the time, stamina and skill needed to succeed in our "activity" - and why it should rightfully be considered a SPORT.  I made fun of it, I shied away from it and then I tried out for it.   I was a cheerleader and I was proud of it.  I chose to cheer.

It is a terribly painful (and hypocritical) place to be to know that you LOVED something so much that you not only lived it, you fought for it, but that you can't fight for it now.  Am I so different now as an adult?  As a mother?  As a fellow community member?  I honestly don't believe that I lived for 7 years in denial.  I don't believe that I was just an empty skirt flipping around hoping to get laid.  I was too good to believe that then, or now.  I was smart(ish):  in the top 20% of my class.  I was a virgin.  And I also ran track.  Our squad won trophies.  But no matter how good you are at something, no matter how far you think you elevate an image, there are still people who will work to distort all that you believe in and have fought to change.  And it is because of those people that I can't let my girls put on short skirts and bounce around a football field, trying to kick their now-hairless legs into the air.

Cheer leading is an in-your-face invitation to join in the merriment, without actually being a part of it.  It means sitting on the edge of participation.  It is literally the icing on the cake:  the pretty frosting that presents the "meat" to the waiting and anxious sports fan.  As with real cake, many people love the frosting - enjoying the initial presentation, believing it to enhance the experience of the cake.  But also like real cake, many people like looking at the frosting for only a minute before scraping it away to get to the heart of the dessert:  the cake.  Cheerleaders are looked at for a few minutes, and then looked through as their purpose has already been served.  As game watchers, we are taken in by the entire show, but quickly settle in to the main attraction, not needing the neatly coiffed, or the ever-present smile.  We want sweat, grunts, and action.

So the irony continues with the cheerleader.  They are the sweet outer covering of a more brutal and base activity.  And whether that sport is being played by men or women, we want our blood, sweat and tears.  We want grit and determination, heart, passion and skill.  We want camaraderie and winners.  We don't want hairspray and lipstick.  In school the girl who is put together is the one we want to be.  We want to be pretty, stylish and admired.  If you are less than feminine - you blend.  Most girls would like to be desired.  But on the field and on the court that image is suddenly fake and unnecessary.  It's O.K. to be less than feminine, as long as you are scoring points.  A basket, a goal, a home-run - the object of the game is primary.  What is not is how well the player applied her makeup.  This is not to say that female athletes don't wear make-up or make sure that their hair won't get in their face while they play.  But their physical image is not paramount to their performance.  No one will fault the soccer player who hasn't glossed her lips.  The cheerleader who arrives "un-done" is somehow less than ready to perform.  Even an entire squad of un-made-up cheerleaders would stand out for that reason and not because of how they cheered.

Cheer leading is a sport born of sexuality and naivete.  It is confidence and insecurity colliding in a pyramid of chants and drills.  It is too much for 5 and 7 year old girls.  It is truthfully too much for teenage girls - but they will never admit it.  And honestly - by the time we are old enough to handle the pressure and the image, we are exactly too old to be donning the skirt and grabbing the pom-poms.  Cheer leading is a sport for the flexible:  of body and of mind.  You need to be able to do a split while dividing your allegiance to the social network that makes up your world:  popular kids, athletes, brains, geeks, motor heads and the spaz.  It is a collection of girls banding together to form a cohesive union of nothing in common beyond the sweater and the sneakers.  Cheerleaders bound into the air to escape the misconception that they are usually flat on their backs.  They yell the loudest for they are the quietest when confronted alone.  They are in an environment that allows them to be fliers and bases - the reverse of what they are out of uniform.  Cheerleaders are - dynamic!

I am not ashamed that I was a cheerleader in both high school and college.  Rather, I am proud of holding on to a dream and a skill set that allowed me to stay involved in an institution that I believed in:  Minnechaug Regional High School and Framingham State College.  I'm just not ready to pass that enthusiasm along to my daughters.  When my girls are old enough to try out I will let them decide if cheer leading is the sport for them.  Only when they can survey for themselves the time commitment, the uniform, the image and the life - and decide if they want to tackle that, will they be allowed to try out.  Because unlike many other sports, the glory is short-lived.  It comes with making the team and then quickly fades.  With most sports you are glorified for an instant and then must live up to the expectation.  With cheer leading, you are glorified and then must live down the expectation.

It is an activity for the truly skilled.

Why I Blog

Because this time 3 years ago I didn't know what a blog was!  I remember standing at the island in the kitchen Googling "What is a blog?"  And I still didn't get it!  No matter what Wikipedia or Google had to say, it just didn't make all that much sense to me.  "An on-line journal?" I thought.  I know what's in my night-stand journal and I can't imagine that anyone would enjoy reading that!  And did I want people to read it?

"And how come it's called a 'blog?'  Why isn't it simply a website?  How are they different?"  Yes - I was an idiot, because I didn't get it.  Friends tried to explain it.  They encouraged me to try it.  But I continued to clutch at my on-line ignorance, also refusing to get on Facebook or Tweet to anyone.  I claimed I didn't need these things in my life and that more importantly:  I didn't have time.  I believed that "some day" I would figure out the perfect schedule that finally allowed me to keep my house clean, play with my children, go to bed at a decent hour, have sex with my husband on a regular basis and sit down and write the great American novel.  But at the time - there was no time.

Then I realized that 3 years had gone by and my house still wasn't clean regularly,  I didn't always play with my children when they wanted me to, I was still staying up too late, my husband had to settle for what he could get, and there was no novel in the works.

It was time.  It was time to stop procrastinating.  It was time to stop waiting for the perfect time.  It was time to do something.  Anything.  And I realized that I had a lot to say.  I needed to write.  And I wanted people to read it.  And I might want someone to respond (the biggest difference I could determine between a blog and a website!)

So I Googled again.  And Google walked me through it.  Step by step until I was sitting in front of the computer, sweating, and I was suddenly writing my first post.  Just like that.

And now I must keep blogging:  (I still wonder if I'm using the terminology correctly.  My on-line know-how is limited and comical for most on-lookers.)

1.) I blog because I want to write.  I don't have advice to offer, information to share, or a cause to fight for.  My blog is still a huge work in progress that I'm still figuring out.  I want to post more creative writing, but because so much of what I create is still in pieces in my head, it seems odd to put it out there for someone to read when it isn't complete.  And yet, when I think about writing, the musings, stories, thoughts and opinions I have are actually the secondary subjects that I want to express.  It is the creative stories that I want to write.  But maybe I have to be here on a regular basis to get there.  My path to the New York Times Bestseller List has already been a long and arduous one, not to be circumvented now by a sudden burst of inspiration and motivation.  Again, for now I write what I know.

2.)  I blog for Miranda.  Where else could I comment about how beautiful my 6-year old daughter was this past Halloween, dressed as a bride?  I never thought my breath would catch at seeing one of my children in a costume.  Even Ed paused as she entered the room, saying, "A snippet into the future, huh?"  She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen, and she wasn't even engaged, or telling time on an analog clock yet.  There is something about your own daughter in a wedding gown.  I can barely remember what my own wedding gown looks like, but I will remember how Miranda looked in that Halloween dress.

3.)  I blog for Kendra.  Her diet for the first 4 1/2 years was the same as Miranda's:  peanut-free.  Not because she was allergic, but because I was afraid that she would be allergic.  If Miranda didn't eat it, then neither did Kendra.  There were a few exceptions, like plain M&M's, for example.  But never the peanut ones.  Then I realized that I was probably making her susceptibility worse by taking so long to introduce the pesky legume to her.  So the day after Halloween we sat at the table while she ate the Peanut M&M's that I had removed from Miranda's loot.  And for a full 20 minutes I was PANICKED.  My heart raced while I watched her, checked her torso repeatedly for the manifestation of hives, and asked her to tell me stories non-stop so I could listen for changes in her speech.  A swelling tongue and tightening throat would make it difficult for her to regale me with anecdotes.

And yet she was fine.  She didn't really like the M&M's, but she didn't have a reaction, either.  I was simply nervous for the next 20 minutes.  And then I was able to forget that she was exposed to a possibly deadly piece of candy.  Until bedtime.  When I PANICKED again, thinking that there would be a latent reaction that would seize her in her sleep and I would never know about it until it was too late.  I watched her sleep soundly, cursing myself for not putting the motion-sensor monitor I still owned, under her mattress before she went to bed.  I checked on her every couple of minutes until I went to bed, heart still racing.  Thinking the whole time that I was a bad mother because after all - would it be soo bad to live life peanut-free?  Why hadn't I left well-enough alone?  And yet she was fine in the morning.

4.)  I blog for light bulbs.  After having an energy conservation specialist come out to our house and change EVERY light bulb in the house, complimentary, both inside and out (O.K. except for 3) with compact fluorescent bulbs, I finally know why they save so much energy:  because they're so damn bright and annoying you can't wait to shut them off!  Who wants to live in The Home Depot?!  You'll turn on as few as necessary, turning them off as quickly as possible, NEVER leaving them "burning hot in a room," as my dad used to say.  You can't help but save electricity when you're living with only 1 light on for 10 minutes.

5.)  I blog for my children's dental history.  I mean, what am I supposed to do with all of these baby teeth that keep coming out of my children's heads?!  How many little envelopes, pieces of paper and jewelry pouches can I possibly stuff into the bottom of my jewelry box with the notes on which tooth it is and how it came out?  How long do I save them and when will it be O.K. to...throw them out?!  Does a mother do that?!

And I will blog to try some of the poetry that seems to pop up now and then in my head.  I will blog about a few of the stories I hope to develop.  I will blog about my life, my fears, my hopes, my pet peeves and anything else that drives my fingers to my Waterman pen or this keyboard.

But I'm still not joining Facebook.  Or Twitter.  I'll continue to leave that to more knowledgeable folks.

Letting Go

There is a very real possibility that Sturbridge will have full-day kindergarten this fall.  That means that Kendra will have to go from three half school days to five full school days with the break of summer.  She loves to learn and so far, she loves school.  She can't wait to ride the bus with her sister and brother.  She is excited to start kindergarten and hopes that once she is in school she will have the same teachers that Jakob and Miranda have had. Her patience while I attend to two older children in need of homework help, play dates, and after school snacks, along with her enthusiasm to learn what the other two are learning in school, invigorates my desire to have her in school more often.   I'm sure she can handle it.

I used to think that full-day kindergarten was a no-brainer. When Jake was in kindergarten the school sent home a questionnaire over winter break asking parents, if full-day had been available, would we have wanted it.  They asked us to list the pros and cons of full-day kindergarten.  I was all for it.  I would have wanted it.  I found no cons.  And then they never mentioned it again.

Until the "new school" rhetoric began.  Then, the carrot that was dangled for many of us to agree to "up" our taxes for a new addition and renovation to the school, was that the new building could "accommodate full-day kindergarten."  There were no guarantees that there would be full-day kindergarten, but the $46+ million-dollar building project they wanted voters to agree upon could "accommodate full-day kindergarten."  Currently Sturbridge is the only school in Union 61 that doesn't have full-day kindergarten.  Similarly sized communities in Massachusetts have already gone the full-day route.  The current economy and housing market aside, Sturbridge must assess the many facets that future home-buyers consider when deciding on a town for their home.  High school graduation rates and MCAS scores are not the only educational priority.  It all starts with kindergarten.  So, I voted yes.  I voted for higher taxes.  I voted for my child to go to school for over 7 hours, including the bus ride.

I'm having voter's remorse.

I will miss Kendra when she goes to school.  We have spent the last five years perfecting our day.  When she was a baby, she hung out in a bouncy seat while I played with Miranda.  She spent time with my mom when Miranda went to pre-school and I went to the "Y" to workout.  We ran errands together while Miranda went to 1/2-day kindergarten.  Kendra would wait patiently each day for Miranda to come home.  Sometimes she wanted to play with me, but most days she was "a mother's dream," content to play by herself, asking to do play dough at the kitchen table, biding her time until her playmate got off of the bus.  I watched as my two girls grew from just being siblings to being best friends. 

Then Miranda started first grade full-time.  And this year Kendra wants to be with me.  We have our morning ritual:  tea and toast for her, coffee and a bagel for me.  She stands at the counter on a chair and we butter together, stir in our sugar together, and sip together.  And when she's done, she asks to do her thing.  I always say yes.  She sets up her game, takes her place by Jazz on the couch and she plays Mario Bros. on the Wii for a few minutes.  Then she asks me to join her.  I suck, but I play anyway.  And after I've lost my biggie, wasted my ice, and killed off 7 or 8 of Yellow Toad's lives, we are done.  Then it's time for her to get ready for school, for us to go outside, or play Dora Candy Land, or for us to clean something together, or run some errands.

My house is much less organized and regularly cleaned this year, despite the fact that I have more time "to myself" than in years past.  Because I finally get it.  It took three kids, but I finally get it.  I am a stay-at-home Mom because I wanted to be with my kids.  NOT because I wanted to clean my house.  Yes, it saved child-care dollars for me to be home, but I've never really thought about the actual salary that I let go in deciding to stay home.  I'd like to believe that we have saved money.  When I feel those times that I just wish we had a little bit more, I wonder how much we have actually saved.  But again - I stayed home to be with our children.  It wasn't about the money.

And so this year, with Kendra in school three half days (is two hours and 40 minutes really a half day?!) I finally spent time WITH Kendra.  We have spent more quality time together than I have had the honor to do with my other two.  The fact that she is an especially agreeable child has only made it all that much easier.  I realized that although I could tell her that Mommy needed to get some things done and she would understand, smile, and run off to keep herself busy, it was that exact attitude that commanded my attention.  She deserves my time because I have it NOW.  Regardless of full-day or half-day kindergarten, neither of us will have this time much longer.  And she won't always want to spend her time with me.

The expression that "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone," was not a sentiment that I wanted to live when it came to being home with my children.  I can safely say that when this time of my life has passed, that I used at least some of my time, my Kendra-time, wisely.  Yet, I know that I will always be harder on myself than anyone else will.  My children were not relentlessly plopped in front of the television while I surfed the 'net, slept in, or scrubbed my floors.  Oh, yes there were the PBS, Disney and Nickelodeon babysitters when things did need to get done, but we played, visited, danced and painted on a regular basis, as well.  It was OUR time, and hopefully all of us will look back and be thankful that we had it together.

Like labor, diaper bags, and sleepless nights, school transitions come and go.  But as much as we are excited to move on from theses stages, (into what we perceive to be easier times,) reflecting back is done with a bit of whimsy and nostalgia.  The look back is never as painful, aggravating or tedious as it was when we lived it.  I couldn't wait for all of my children to be in school together because I thought it would make all of our lives easier.  Everyone in the same place, not collecting children at 2 or 3 different times of the day from sometimes 3 different places.  Kendra is my baby and if all continues to go as planned, she will remain the baby of the family.  My baby is not a baby anymore, and there are no more babies to come.  We are transitioning out of  a phase of life that affects our whole family.

So I'm sure that I will go to the Town Meeting on June 6, 2011 and wait to raise my hand as a "yay" vote for the school budget that supports full-day kindergarten.  I will do it because I feel that it is the necessary step our school system must take to continue to be competitive in the academic arena.  I will do it because I do believe that it is a positive step in Kendra's education.  I will vote for my child to leave me just a little bit sooner.  But I won't vote "yes" because I want more time for myself or because it makes my life easier.  And just like I've done 2 times before, I will cry as I wave goodbye to the bus on the first day of school.

NOT So Funny Me

I wouldn't describe myself as funny.  I don't think anybody would.  I can be funny, but FUNNY is not the first adjective you think of when you think of me.  Short, loud, assertive - maybe even cute - but not funny.  I don't think if you asked Ed why he fell in love with me that he'd say, "She makes me laugh" or "She's funny."  I don't know if anyone would say I make them laugh - except maybe Cindy.

I know funny women and I am not one of them.  I am glad to personally know funny women.  Erin Kane:  she's funny.  Everyone thinks she's funny.  My parents think she's funny.  My college friends think she's funny.  She's an incredible storyteller and it's why she's a great writer.  Even an e-mail from Erin is funny.

Jackie-Jack is funny.  She's always made me laugh.  Whether we're on the phone or in person she gives me steady giggles.  Colleen makes me laugh.  Her take on life, love and the pursuit of happiness inspire and tickle my funny bone.  Conversations with Cousin Adrienne leave my face hurting because I've smiled and laughed the whole time.  Cindy:   she makes me sweat and my mascara run.  That girl is funny!  These are the funniest women I know.  And y'all know I love Ellen Degeneres!

I feel like I "know" this about myself.  So it struck me odd one Friday night when over dinner with Ed I mentioned a text-volley I had with my very funny friend, Cindy.  I didn't get into the whole back and forth, but I mentioned that in the text I had to explain myself to her, and I finished the text with "This is why Ed doesn't think I'm funny!"  I was still giggling about the texts when he looked at me and asked, "Is that what you tell people about me?  That I don't think you're funny?"  I was taken aback.  Our conversation was about a text-volley that almost had me running to the bathroom.  (It sucks to get old, but that's a subject for another time.)  I had had a good laugh with a friend and wanted to share a little bit of it.  It seemed even funnier to me because my attempt at funny had to be explained to her.  I thought that was funny.  He proved my point because he got up and left the table and never came back.  Later I found him asleep on top of the covers, still in his suit pants.  I'm not sure if I hurt his feelings or if he was just embarrassed that I would reveal his "secret" to a friend.  He told me he was just exhausted.  I don't think my husband thought I was being funny.  I just exhaust him.

I do crack myself up sometimes with my own train of thought.  I find humor in places it shouldn't be and puns keep me giggling long after the moment is over.  I get that from my parents.  My dad and mom are the king and queen of puns.  And they will do what they can not to outdo each other, but to keep it going.  Their back and forth is more about joining each other in a not-so-alone-or-intimate exchange that keeps them completely alone and gives them intimacy.  In the middle of a room with family and friends they will quip and quote, play on their words and innuendo themselves into laughter and snickers.  Around them we are an audience, visitors to watch the match in session, fans of the game.  And they usually end in a draw.  With smiles, they are both the victor.  Again, it's not about outdoing, but about playing together nicely.  It's what people do who have been married for 45 years.

I may not be the character or the card that other people are, but somehow I do offer humor to those around me, ironically mostly to my husband.  Because he knows me the best.  Because he lives with me.  Because he sees, hears, witnesses, and lives with my quirks every day.  As much as I have to explain my own jokes to people, he gets a kick out of watching me sort through life and the jokes around me until I've gotten it.  That makes him laugh.  He is one of the funnies people I know with a quick wit and a sharp tongue.  Like "The Family Guy" and  David Chappelle, no one and no subject are off limits to him.  That includes his wife.  I think if I admit to anymore misunderstood song lyrics from our childhood he'll have an "accident."  (Now that would be funny.)

Ed spends as much time poking fun at me as he does laughing at what is me.  And I love that he includes me in that part of life that is so him.  He is a gentleman:  kind and chivalrous.  He is both family provider and protector.  He is smart - smarter than I am, despite his mantra:  "You didn't marry a smart man."  Oh, but I did.  Street smart, people wise, and an unmatched political and economical sense - these are traits of Ed.  Yet, I smile to think about the beginning.  Because I did fall in love with him because he is funny.  He does make me laugh.

I will continue to make jokes that need to be explained.  I will continue to follow in my parents' footsteps en route to the best puns, travelling a road paved lightly with sarcasm.  And at the end, my husband just might think I'm a little bit funny.

Cheating?

On a test?  Don't remember a specific test, but I don't have the gall to think that I never did it at some point, so - yes.
On my husband?  Never.
On a boyfriend?  Yes.  (But it was "only" a kiss.)
At games?  Yes.  But not as an adult.
On my writing?  I think so, but I'm not sure.

Wow - I've cheated a lot.  And although I am not proud of any of my unethical ways, I am most bothered by the last question.  Is it cheating to call your writing creative if the details are largely taken from your life?  It seems logical that a character, scene, scenario, plot or dialogue would have its origin in the real world.  It is somehow born from people and places that have already been, and are.  Yet, do I deserve "credit" (if I can be so bold as to assume there would be any) if I haven't truly created something?  I've only transcribed it.  Re-iterated it.  Maybe re-worked it.  Have I cheated on the creative process?  Have I cheated my readers out of something new?

The blase response would be that it is all new to you.  The justification would be that art imitates life.  The cowardly answer would be to deny it.  Maybe it's a little of all 3.

But hopefully it's mostly that that's what writers do:  they write what they know.  Although I'm sure that Stephen King didn't have a half-dead cat stalking him at some point in his life, there are sure to be details in Pet Sematary that are taken directly from his life in Maine.  At least one character in Forks, Washington is reminiscent of a college or high school friend of Stephenie Meyer - even if those details don't include that he or she was a vampire or a werewolf.

I take my feelings, my experiences, and my dreams and I put them into a new thought process.  Much of what inspires me to write is finding myself saying, "I wonder what I would do if..."

     What would I do if my husband died or left me?
     What would I do if I found out I was adopted?
     What would I do if I discovered that I have breast cancer?
     What would I do if I won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay?
     What would I do if...

I ride the concerned fence between wanting to get the story in my head out there, and not wanting to let someone - anyone - see what I'm thinking.  "Will it be liked?" is honestly the least terrifying question.  It is much more scary to wonder what people will think of you for your creativity.  Are you sick?  Twisted? Morbid?  Unsympathetic to someone who has actually dealt with what I am storytelling about?  Sinking that scary feeling further into me is the assumption that what I write is somehow not just from me, but was a part of me.  Will I be revealing too much of me in developing a character or a story line?  And what if you don't like me?  We can't all be Sally Field.

My writing is from me, not just from my mind and hand, but it is from what I have lived every day of my life.  I only need look up near the top of this screen to be reminded that I gave myself this "out."  But it is not a cop-out:  it is what it is.  I will write what I know.  Sometimes the scenario will be actual and the details will be borrowed.  Other times the details are original and the theme a re-visited one.  In any case, they are all from me.  And since I know that not everyone can put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard and even re-tell a good joke, I hope that there is something in me that tells it like no one else can.  Regurgitated information or brand-new piece, if I tell it the best than that is creative.

The more I blog, the more I want to blog.  The more I write, the more I want to write.  The more I read, the more I want to read.  And the more I read and write, the more I want to truly create.

It's What I Know.

A Middle of Something

Many times I write about something and I have no idea what it will be connected to or whether it will develop into something more.  This is one of those pieces.  This is a middle with no beginning or end, yet.  Maybe time and this blog will help develop it.  Ironically, since the first time I scrawled it into my journal, to the re-write on my external hard-drive, to this second draft/re-write, I've realized that this could be the beginning or the end.  It might be something other than what I originally thought it was.  Only time will tell...


"CRISP SHEETS"

I sought comfort.  Not companionship.  Not pity.  Not sympathy.  Comfort.

I wanted to feel at ease at home - able to take a breath and not let it shudder back out.  I wanted it to be simple and easy.  To come to me - to not have to look for it.  I needed to slide into it like on a night when there are clean sheets on the bed.

The feel of clean, crisp sheets on my bed always warms me and makes me feel relaxed.  Maybe because I know it's only a matter of time before my body will raise the 63 degree temperature of the sheets to a very toasty 98.6.  But ironically, even when I'm cold - I'm comforted by the cool cotton against my skin.  It lulls me and soothes me.  It signals the onset of sleep and drifting away from the frazzle and hurried pace of my day.  Even when I am sick, I long for the cool and  crisp of clean sheets.  It reminds me that warm is coming.  The cool linens take the bite out of my body.  They are a king-sized compress for my 120 pound boo-boo.

Clean sheets are also a new beginning - a fresh start.  They are a threshold for new dreams - new hope, when the sun rises.  Stripping the bed releases the bad and old energy of my restless days and sleepless nights.  Throwing them into the laundry to be doused in detergent, hot water and bleach washes away all the troubles of that week and gives me a chance to make it all right the next time they are stretched over the four corners of my bed.  And for me, only traditional cotton will do.  "T-Shirt" cotton is not nearly as good.  The cool is not contained throughout the fibers the same way.  T-shirt cotton is comfortable - but it is not fresh comfort.

And a made bed is still not as good as a freshly made bed.  No matter how much I smoothe and pull to make the sheets flat, taught - crisp - they don't stand at attention the way the clean ones do.  Once you've slid into them they take your heat and they hold it in - relaxing their fibers, softening, making a cushy place to lay the next time.  They mean well - to be inviting, warm and protective.  But it's not the same.  Even with 15-18 hours of emptiness, they can not return to clean and crisp.  They somehow hold some little bit of residual warmth.  They are never as cool as the first time they were placed.  And that warmth builds with each night of sleep until it almost feels like I'm slipping into a second skin and there is no change in how I feel.  There is no release - no sense of letting go.  The warmth is stifling.

I wasn't chilled and didn't need automatic warmth.  And with the cool I knew, without a doubt, that the warmth was coming.  It always does.  And it doesn't take long.  There's no impatient wonder as to how long, it just comes.  The cool is the warmth.

I needed clean sheets.

I hurried my pace just a little, but was careful not to rush.  My quickened, deliberate pace was more about clearly understanding my need and not about avoiding it.  I took the stairs two at a time, but with a concerted, gentle step, not with a bound.

I entered the room and for only a moment I paused at the doorway.  The bed was, of course, already made.  I moved to the wicker hamper where we kept the spare sets of sheets and lifted the lid.  I knew what I was looking for before it was up all the way, and swept my hand inside, grabbing the only set that made sense:  the deep rust, 550-thread count set we had selected together on a cold February morning less than a year ago.  Our taste in bedding was much like our taste in furniture and paint:  completely different.  He loved deep, rich colors and antique-inspired styles.  I was more light, airy and contemporary.  When we found ourselves stuck on the Home Shopping channel rewinding with the DVR option to make sure that we were clear on what they were offering, we were surprised that we were both interested.  We both actually liked the bedroom set "in a bag" that would convert our whole room to earthen-colored decadence, from sheets to comforter, to window treatments.  We agreed on a decorating scheme!  We had ordered on the spot.

I piled the pillows on the hamper and threw back the heavy comforter, laying it to rest on the floor at the foot of the bed.  Tugging at the sheets and the blanket simultaneously I finally understood his annoyance at my perfect hospital corners:  they did not give up easily.  More force was required than I wanted to exert, so I slowed my pace and carefully untucked each corner and peeled back the sheets.  I had waited long-enough and wasn't going to enter this moment aggitated.

The "dirty" pile of sheets were slumped up against the wall as I unfolded the clean fitted sheet.  Grasping the sheet half-way down it's side I gripped hard and snapped the sheet hard into the air.  It fluffed up quickly and then seemed to hang in the air for just a second before falling down onto the bed with just enough air in the middle that for a moment, I was reminded of middle school gym classes with parachute fun.  I actually found myself snickering at the thought of scootching under the sheet before it came to a rest on the bed, but there was no time.  The sheet was down and I had work to do.

I started at the head corner on my side of the bed, where I always started.  I moved on to the foot corner on my side, across the end of the bed to the opposite side, pulling the sheet tight as I went.  By the time I got to the opposite head corner, the sheet was flat and almost perfect.  I pulled the side of the sheet towards me and down and finally tucked the last corner over the edge.  Instictively I swept my left hand and then my right over the sheet, pushing the few wrinkles in the fabric to the edges and they miraculously disappeared.  It was just like what I watched my grandmother do when she taught me to make a bed over 30 years ago.  It was flawless.

Stepping carefully back to the other side I continued to make the bed, top sheet first, then the blanket, and of course, hospital corners finished the job.  I pulled the comforter back up, and after smoothing it of all its wrinkles, I slowly folded it back and made one final straightening motion that evened the sides to the height of the bed frame.

Standing there staring at the bed, I wanted to jump in - but I also wanted to turn and leave the room.  Leaving wasn't an option, so I carefully slid into the bed, fully clothed.  Again, I found myself almost snickering.  Afterall, "street clothes" were not supposed to be worn in bed.  Bad habits for other people meant smoking, drinking too much or swearing.  In our house you were committing the ultimate dirty deed by wearing to bed what you had worn out and about.  But at this moment it didn't matter because I wasn't going to be sleeping.  Traditional rules did not apply.

I lay down and immediately felt the cool on my left cheek.  As my eyes closed I curled my left arm under my head, feeling the cool all along my arm from the back of my hand to my elbow, and into my shoulder.  My t-shirt was not keeping the cool from me.  I stretched my right hand out and lay it gently, flat on the bed next to me.  Reaching out to "his" spot I could just feel the dent of the pillow-top below the sheet and I traced the outline with my fingers.  Like so many times before, I heard myself say, "I love you, with all my heart...Wherever you - " and that's where I caught myself.  For I knew exactly where he was this time.

And for the first time since he'd been gone -

 I wept.