41... and Done!

I was just reading over last year's birthday post... and, wow! I really sucked at turning 40!

What is it about that milestone that does so much damage to a woman's psyche?

As I ring in 41 this week, let's look back at the kind:cruel ratio that was my Year of Forty.

• The Quickest Mid-Life Crisis in History: I whined, complained and threw cyber-tantrums as I crested the middle-aged slope and fell directly off its cliff. It was a quick freefall and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about that world!" and went back about my regularly-scheduled business. I like to think that what it lacked in longevity it made up for explosiveness. Was it fair to the world? No. But the world survived it, so I'm over it too. 

• Finally Found a Home: The last thing on my "40" bucket list was to purchase real estate and be living in said real estate by the end of the year. Due to my stubbornness over price and location, it took me an entire year of house-hunting to achieve this final tick mark. (Not to mention, four different mailing addresses in the same amount of time. Believe me when I say that my year of homelessness is still confusing the local post office!) So, does signing the deed at the age of 40.8 still make the cut? It counts in my book! And, being stubborn paid off. I'm in exactly the location I had my heart set on and actually came in under budget, too!

• My Boobs are Playing Tricks on Me: It seems like much more than a year ago that I had my first breast cancer scare, but it was just last summer. Tacky as it may have seemed to some when I decided to share that journey; the conversations it started among friends and family really proved to be worth the embarrassing exchange. (Click link for a recap. To those who missed the follow-up, it was just a cyst in the end!) It seems most women at this age have had their "scares" and for someone who once favored male friendships over female, it really proved to me the necessity of the female-sisterhood. (Love you, ladies!) In other boob news, is there a once-a-decade law of physics that is keeping the bra industry in business?! It happened at thirty when the elasticity of the dermis began to betray me. New bra size! Must go shopping! And, here it is again at forty. Holy tit! As if gravity weren't enough of a foe, they've now decided to go running off in opposite directions! It's like each side is in a race to see who can reach my back first by the age of fifty!* And, of course, hello! New bra size again! This is getting old business is expensive business.

Somehow, this is the only Before/After depiction I could
find on my laptop!

• Lost Weight: I have always been cursed in the weight department. (By "American fashion" standards, at least.) I was a tall gangly child, who got called "String Bean", "Carpenter's Dream"** and the like, more often than necessary. (It's really not necessary to comment on children's body types. Ever. Or, anyone's, for that matter. Will the world never learn?!) Once puberty hit, I was hippy and bootylicious during the entire Kate Moss waif trend. Then, totally missing the boat on both ends, my body chose to revert back to waify twelve-year old proportions in middle-age, just in time to usher in the decade of the butt. I literally cried*** when that Meghan Trainor song was released because it was so catchy that I wanted to sing along, but in order to do so I had to call out "Skinny bitches"**** and lyrically agree that "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.♫" Which leads me to publicly present a challenge to today's pop stars. It's great to celebrate all body types! But, please realize that you can celebrate yours without shaming others in return. Hear that, Meghan? Nicki? Other girls whose names I forgot because I'm not entirely up to date on pop music?

• Lost My Filter: My filter has slowly been slipping away from me since my twenties. The decline has only increased in rapidity at 40. I probably cuss more than I should. I definitely give more unsolicited advice than I should. I fast-tracked from age 39 to 80 in my comfort level of thinking I'm old enough to not have to censor myself. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I do realize. On the upside, it's caused me take better care of my self-worth. If somebody wrongs me, I suddenly have no problem calling them out on it. Which is something I could have never dreamed of doing half-a-lifetime ago. Has it made me popular? Of course not! But, it's sharpened my true friendships and pinched off the ones that were sapping my reserves. Forty had no time for drama. And, forty-one's schedule is looking pretty booked as well. 

• Lost My Grandma: Forty was a terrible year of loss for my family. Both sides lost their last matriarchs. Not just that, but personally my biggest cheerleaders as well. Through all the sadness, I had the privilege of sitting with my Grandma in hospice during her last weeks on this earth. I received from her the best compliments of my entire lifetime and advice that I will cherish forever and ever. Though, it was exhausting, I still miss her every day and have never fully finished grieving over that loss. As my birthday draws near, I will miss that yearly card from her where she would underline in ink pen every word in the lame Hallmark poem that reminded her of me. And, I will forever regret every year that I was too lazy to call and thank her for thinking of me.

• Lost My Way: This year, I decided to be good. Again. Like, daily. Constantly renewing that pledge. Every morning, asking God for a clean slate and yet another do-over. I'm learning to not only speak more kindly, act more kindly and (most importantly) react more kindly. (Powder Keg Mecham, at your service!) I'm really focusing on thinking more kindly, so there are no judgmental or unfriendly comments rooted anywhere to have any chance of slipping out. This used to come so naturally for me, which means my heart must have slipped into an ungrateful place somewhere along the way. I have decades-old walls I'm breaking down. Bear with me! They were there for good reason, but I've grown too old and tired to keep holding them up. I've heard unkind things about myself this year. I don't want to produce that same kind of hurt in others. If I love you, I'll show it. If I give you a compliment, I really mean it. There's no sugar-coating. I'm too lazy to waste my breath like that. 

• Gave in to the Stereotype and Became a Fur Mama: Forty and single equals cat mama... Der! I absolutely adore this girl. And, she seems to tolerate me in exchange. (Although, she's currently glaring at me for having the light on this late at night and impeding upon her 22nd hour of sleep for the day.) Is it cheesy to say she completes me? No, just creepy? Well, thanks for keepin' it real. 

So, last year's post... What did I know? I was just a young 39.99 year-old when I wrote it. Little did I know 40 was bringing with it the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. If this trend keeps up, 41 may possibly leave me with whiplash!*****

But, seeing that I won't see another milestone for nine years is quite a relief. What's on my "50" bucket list, you ask? Let's just start with "Not Dying" and take it from there.******

No pressure this decade.

*Okay, maybe slight exaggeration on my part. They're still pretty cute for their age. Supported or not. And, healthy, most importantly!

**ie. Flat as a board.

***Disclaimer: Hormone surges may also be partly at fault for tears.

****Don't argue that the following, "...Just playin' , I know you think you're fat.♫" lyric makes up for this. No, we don't think we're fat. We're now just doubting our desirability thanks to your insensitive lyrics. Big or small, booties are soft to the touch... and that's what really matters. Trust me, I'm older and wiser. There's no need to cut others down to build yourself up. Lecture over!

*****Whiplash. Best movie of my fortieth year. Go see it!

******And, less footnotes. :)

Let Me Tell You About My Grandma...

Me and my gal.

My dear grandmother passed away this week.

She was my last living grandparent. She was 95 year old. And, once I tell you all about her, you're going to wish you would have known her yourself.

Here's some things you should know about my grandma.

She was:

Brave: As a child, had you asked me if I thought my grandma was brave, I would have said, "No way! She doesn't swim and never even learned how to ride a bike. Her hair is always curled and she wears matching shoes and scarves. She's a girly girl. There's nothing brave about that!" I may not have said it all out loud, but I certainly would have thought it. Strongly.

But, once I became a woman, my grandma shared pieces of her story with me time and time again. The more she shared, the more my opinion of her grew.

Her parents were Swedish immigrants, fresh off the boat. Her mother embarrassed her growing up by saying things like, "Let's take the hiss to the third floor" instead of using the American term "elevator". She later felt sorry for her mother's struggles in this new land with Swedish being her native tongue and came to have empathy for the barriers that must have caused her. But, when you're a kid---even in the 1920's---you wish your parents would just be cool and use the common term for that man-sized box on the cables.

She grew up in Topeka, Kansas, surviving the Depression and later "running away" to Detroit. I wish I had paid better attention, so I could give you an age or a year... but just know that she traveled to Detroit to visit a friend and stayed here. Forever. Never looking back.

It was never clear to me if she traveled here knowing she was to never go home. Was her vacation really a plot? Was she escaping the Dust Bowl? (She was a very much a lady. She would have wanted to keep her dresses clean.) Or, did she just fall in love with the Motor City and cancel her return ticket? My guess is that she was likely in her early twenties, which would have made this the early 1940's. And, that's just not the kind of thing you think of respectable young women in the early 1940's doing.

She lived right in the city, in an apartment shared with an older female roommate. She lived dollar to dollar and ended up falling in love with a handsome Canadian named Elden. It's okay. Elden was my grandpa. So, this is a love story I'm allowed to know.

Elden was a bit older than Alice. (Alice is my grandma's name, by the way.) He already had an ex-wife and two children. But, boy, did he sweep her off of her feet! I remember her once swoonily telling me, "Oh, your Grandpa! I thought he looked just like Tyrone Power when we met!" I glanced over at the old man sitting across the room from us, with his big teeth, bushy eyebrows and probable cookie hidden in his breast pocket; and thought to myself, "Okay, Grandma. If you say so..."

Tyrone Power? Is that you?

So, here's my grandma. Hundreds of miles from home. A new wife. A young stepmother. And, soon to become a mother herself. That seems like alot of responsibility for someone of that age. In my generation, at least, it would have been! I was just starting to feel out my moxy in my twenties. She had fully taken on womanhood! Brave indeed.

She ended up having three girls of her own, which is pretty brave in itself. And, they were three girls from three different molds bearing three very different minds of their own (...just like their mother, now I know.) 

Judging by the stories I've heard, these kids seemed to do whatever they wanted. They were allowed to be adventurous, even if it sometimes meant stitches and/or broken bones.

Pile on the pets!

When I was a kid, we had to beg and barter just to bring one dog and one cat into the house. These girls had several dogs, actual piles of kittens, as well as rabbits and whatever else the cat dragged in (maybe, literally.) One even got away with bringing a horse home from the fairgrounds. A horse, I said! Was she grounded? No way. Just go build a corral and a barn so it has someplace to stay.

Piling pets on the horse!

Brave girls. That's the kind of daughters Grandma would like us all to raise.

My grandma and I had a special bond. I lived within blocks of her house my entire life (even right next door for about a decade.) So, I got in more "Grandma Time" than the average person. She graduated from authority figure to friend over the course of my lifetime.

Grandma loved men. I love men too, but my life never revolved around the importance of constantly being in a relationship. She spent the early half of my thirties saddened by the fact that getting married just wasn't at the top of my priority list. To the point that I came to think that she would never die until she saw me married off. In my mind, she could not leave this earth, until she saw I was "taken care of". In some abstract way, I credited her long life to me being stubbornly independent and never "settling down". But, I recently found out how wrong I was.

I'd never seen Grandma prouder of me than the day I announced that I had put money down on my own place. My own money. For my own home. This was during her first week in hospital, about a month before she passed. I had, after forty years, shown her my own moxy. I now realize that this made her prouder than if I had walked in with a diamond ring on my left hand. I had finally followed her brave lead. She knew I was going to be okay.

Struttin' it out in Topeka

Stylish: Grandma was a lady's lady and handled herself with a grace and poise I can and will never live up to. She was always put together. Always on her manners. She instinctively knew how to accessorize, from the days that she made her own clothing to the ones where she was able to raid the Hudson's store, downtown. She knew what she was doing and was known for it.

In the 80's she even had a full-length faux leopard fur coat that I secretly wished I would one day inherit. It's been long-since donated somewhere. *tear*

She once brazenly told me that she was the first person to put red and brown together. Have you seen that in a fashion magazine? Did you think your grandma started that trend? Well, you're wrong. Grandma was a humble woman and wasn't one to ever want credit for her accomplishments. But, whatever the deal was with brown and red... hands off! She's claimed it!

More struttin' in Topeka, this time with a friend!
(Is she wearing all black? Or, brown and red? We'll never know!)

Funny: We've always thought of Grandpa (the dreamy, Elden) as being the family comedian. You know those Canadians! But, Grandma subtly proved through the years that she could hold her own.

From the time in the 50's when the neighbor kid wouldn't leave her alone. Peppering her with inane questions left and right as she was just trying to fix her tea, already! She sprinkled in her artificial sweetener, holding in her patience, as the neighbor boy obnoxiously asked, "WHAT'S THAT STUFF YOU'RE PUTTING IN YOUR TEA?!" She calmly answered back, "L.S.D." and went on about her snack.

She didn't say it to entertain the kid. There was no audience around to chuckle at her wit. She was just giving herself a laugh to get through the day. Also, providing herself with the years-long amusement of wondering if the story made it home to his parents and are they imagining the sweet Baptist woman in the little white house on the corner tripping on psychedelics during her daily afternoon tea.

Snacking like a lady. But, what's that in her tea?

When Grandpa got sick with Alzheimer's, she told me about the importance of humor. He was doing strange things, not recognizing us all the time, making little sense when he talked and lost his ability to care for himself. She told me, "Kimmy, you've just got to find something to laugh about every day. If you don't, you'll do nothing but cry."

So, we laughed. We laughed at his quizzing us on who we were. We turned it into interviews. We laughed when he'd pet the arm of the wingback chair, thinking it was his beloved cat, George. We laughed as he asked me on a date to go dancing, because he didn't remember that I was his granddaughter. (He did a mean Charleston. You would have accepted too!) We laughed when he told us un-p.c. things about women and made up songs with words we weren't allowed to use.

We laughed our way through his disease, because Grandma gave us the permission to, so it was okay. And, that license helped us survive those difficult years.

Even in her last weeks, she made me promise again to never lose my sense of humor. She begged, "Kimmy, never stop laughing. We need humor in this life." It was an easy promise to make and keep.

Especially, two days after her passing, when we opened her obituary to see dear Alice being referred to as a "Loving Father... Grandfather... and Great-Grandfather to fifteen." Oh, we're laughing Grandma. And, so would you be! 

Above all else, She wanted you to know about Jesus: 

Grandma was a Sunday School teacher when I was a child. I was even a student in her class, along with some of my siblings and cousins.

She grew up Presbyterian, but joined the Baptist church as a Detroiter. Christian is Christian, as far as I'm concerned. It doesn't matter the denomination, but this is how Grandma found God.

Coming to know the Lord was a turning point in her life. It gave her a holy purpose. It guided her conscience. It gave her comfort in times when the world just doesn't provide that for you. She knew the world's job isn't to look out for us, but God is begging to. That was the most important relationship in her life.

Because of her faith, generations of people have found faith and comfort in God. She insisted her family know about Him. Not always tactfully so, but this was a lesson and a priceless relationship that we were not going to miss out on, if she had anything to do with it!

Christianity teaches of salvation (going to Heaven when you die) by faith, as Ephesians 2:8-9 tells us that, "By grace are you saved by faith - this is not from yourselves, it is a gift from God - not by works, lest anyone should boast."

What drew Grandma to her Christian faith is the assurance it gave her in this salvation. You can know where you're going when you die. You don't have to guess. You don't have to hope. You don't have to cross your fingers and count your good deeds to feel God in your life and receive His gifts. You can actually tap into this guidance while on earth. You can have a living Comforter, when humans fail you. You can have peace in your soul over things others try to complicate.

Grandma loved to have conversations about God with other believers. She loved talking to others who have that bond of truly living with Christ in their lives.

We would talk about Heaven sometimes. Grandma was a secretary by trade and she always hated filing. She once told me of her fear that, when she gets to Heaven, she worries God will put her in charge of filing. I said, "Grandma! That doesn't sound like Heaven to me. Where do you think you're going to?" But, she was humble. She had a saving faith that would get her through the pearly gates, but not enough good works, she feared, to get her a sweet gig once she made it there. (Fingers crossed... Heaven has gone paperless by now.)

I told you Grandma was funny! All the good she'd done in life. All the kindness she showed toward others. She always worried, she didn't do enough. She didn't tell enough people about Christ. She'd outlasted all of her friends and peers, so her work must not be done on earth. What was she missing? She was becoming ready to go Home.

In all her worry that she didn't do enough, I watched as her family and former students and people that she had touched shared their seeds with others. Roots she'd planted in life ages ago, were now spreading across the world. People who may not have given God a second thought until they'd met her were now sharing the Good News with their children and their loved ones.

She continued to mentor me, maybe without either of us even realizing it at the time. I began to teach the little ones in my life. I learned to be less legalistic in my own faith. I learned not to sweat the small stuff and let God intercede. I began to allow others to know I had needs (I'm stubborn too!) and became humble enough to ask for prayer when I needed it.

But, Grandma's favorite lesson of all is what Baptists call the Sinner's Prayer. And, I'm going to briefly share that with you, so Grandma can plant a few more seeds even now that she's gone from this earth.

As mentioned, our salvation surely comes from our faith. The Sinner's Prayer is the way she came to declare her faith. (Me too!) I'm sure this is not the only way to come to declare one's faith or become a Christian; but we like it because it's simple, not overly-Theological, and it covers all the basis in what we call, the Roman's Road. (A path through the biblical book of Romans that outlines how to "get to Heaven" or "be saved".)

Step One: Acknowledging your sin. Romans 3:23 tells us that, "All have sinned and come short of the glory of God." We're bad, we're flawed. I don't think any of us could deny this. Even the holiest person you know has had a bad thought, a slip-up, or a moment of vanity that separated them from the perfection of God. This is an easy acknowledgement. To start the Sinner's Prayer, you simply tell God, "I know I'm a sinner. I know I'm not perfect." (Or, your own version of this profession. There are no magic words. Just, with honesty, tell God, "I know I can be bad.")

Step Two: Acknowledging where sin will get you and the help that He sent for us. Romans 6:23 says, "For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." Romans 5:8, "But, God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." Because we sin, we deserve to die one day. We deserve to be separated from God and His holiness. BUT, God sent to us a savior, His Son, Jesus Christ. To take on the death caused by our sins (think of the Good Friday story.) "While we were still sinners..." Even though He knows that we're never going to be perfect, He still offered that sacrifice for us, giving us a way to find eternal life. He's not waiting for us to straighten up our act first. He's not requiring any huge life changes to accept this gift. This leads to the next sentence of our prayer, "I'm sorry for the bad I've done. I know I can't get to Heaven on my own. Thank you for sending Jesus as a way."

Step Three: Ask for it! Romans 10:9,"If you confess with your mouth, Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved." Not only did Jesus die for our sins. But, God raised Him from the dead (think of Easter) to conquer the permanence of death. He proved to us He has power over human death and is offering us eternal life in Heaven, if we're willing to take it. It's free! Romans 10:13, "For everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved." EVERYone. Not just the rich who can afford to give to charity. Not just the goody-goodies who aren't going to drink beer or have sex outside of marriage. Not just the people who commit their lives to professional ministry. ANYone who calls on God can go to Heaven. Even you! Just as you are. Last part of our prayer, "Please forgive me for my sins. I want to go to Heaven when I leave this earth. I believe that Jesus was your Son. I thank Him for dying to cover the price of my sins. I believe you rose Him from the dead and I accept your gift of salvation. I invite You into my life today."

Boom! If you prayed that prayer with belief in your heart, you're saved. Grandma would be so happy!

You now have access to God Almighty. He can give you peace when you ask for it in the most unbearable of circumstances. He can answer your prayers in the most unbelievable of ways. He can give you the best advice by helping you understand The Bible when you're reading it. And, He'll introduce you to my grandma when you go to Heaven one day.

She got to go Home! Not only did Grandma insist we all learn about Jesus all throughout our lives. She also ended her life proving that He's really here. This came as a great comfort to those of us who've ever wondered if we're wasting our lives believing in this guy that so many refer to as a fairy tale.

In her hospice room, standing in the corner, she saw Him visit. Sometimes wearing a white robe. Sometimes in what she called His "work clothes". What His work clothes looked like, we may never know. She never described them beyond that. But, obviously, He was doing His work in them, so that's good enough for me!

She continued to tell people about God and about Jesus, even on her deathbed. I'll bet every nurse and aide that crossed the threshold of her hospice room heard her praise Him.

One day, when she saw Jesus visit her, He told her that she was going Home soon. And, He didn't lie. She went. He took her Home on Sunday, June 7, 2015.

He kept her here just long enough to inspire me to write this entry. Then her work was finally done. Because, she found one last way to tell someone about Jesus.

Thanksgiving Traditions

Here in Detroit, we are not watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this morning.  No, no.  Currently my television channel is set to the local NBC affiliate that is airing Detroit's own America's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Yes, as humble and decrepit as our city may seem to the rest of the country... back off!  Today is Thanksgiving and we have our own parade and our very own football game too.

Living in the metropolis surrounding a core city that's experienced such loss (money, leadership, neighborhoods, Boblo Island!) there's alot that economics can't take away from metro-Detroiters; our spirit, hometown loyalty and traditions.

The parade lives on and is my background commotion this morning as it has been every Thanksgiving in the past thirty-eight years.

In our childhood home the parade would be viewed in the living room.  A quartet of kids, cozy in pajamas, crunching on Cocoa Puffs and hearing the clank of preparations in the next room.  Mom would be rifling through pots and pans and going through her methodical preparations:  Crisco-ing the turkey, lining up the boxes and cans of sides, ironing the good tablecloth and waiting on the electric double oven to heat.  Meanwhile, we kids remained nearby but out of the way.  The Detroit parade, its marching bands and mega balloons being the perfect distraction.

One year, I distinctly recall a local reporter dropping an expletive during the live broadcast.  A giant balloon of an adorable puppy was being commandeered down the street by its bundled-up handlers.  The female reporter, who either was imbibing in holiday spirits a little too early in the day or simply didn't realize that her mic was still live, remarked to her co-host, "Could you imagine if that thing took a *bleep* on your carpet?!"  (only without the censoring bleep!) My eyes went large and my stomach went sour.  That was a word I knew we weren't allowed to use and I wasn't sure I was even supposed to know of its existence!  I peripherally checked my siblings and not a flicker, not a comment.  I don't know if the slip had missed them or if they too were sitting wide-eyed in disbelief.  The purity of my holiday was soured for a moment.  This was not a holiday memory I ever wanted to cherish... but, here I sit with that annual remembering creeping up as tradition.

Eventually Santa would end the local parade and we'd take turns cranking through the six local channels to find more Thanksgiving fun.  Usually another of the major networks would be airing a medley of parades from across the country. They would swap coverage from New York to Hawaii to L.A. to even brief footage from our own humble parade.  It was always odd to see sun and palm trees mixed with turkey celebrations.  We locals associate the November holiday with cold, sometimes wet, sometimes crisp and sometimes snow!  Coconut-shelled hula dancers were always an odd mix in the variety of footage seen that day, but it became tradition too.

At some point we'd be urged out of our flannels and into our clothing.  And, about the time the scent of turkey would start to waft it would be time for the kids in the living room to turn the channel to Charlie Brown. 

Now, for some reason in the mid-eighties, they didn't air the Peanuts Thanksgiving special on Thanksgiving Day.  In the era before 24-hour holiday viewing on cable networks, you could only catch these specials once a year.  Charlie's holiday of popcorn, lawn chairs and toast would be aired an evening or two before the holiday itself.  On Thanksgiving Day, for some reason, the chosen mid-afternoon programming became Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown!  Yep, the special where Charlie, Linus, Peppermint Patty and crew somehow got involved in a water rapids race while away at summer camp.  The Peanuts had to battle the typical camp trials including the navigation of confusing military time, missed buses, nature's elements, Charlie Brown's ineptness and a gaggle of bullies which, of course, included an evil brown cat.  It was never my favorite Peanuts special, but with only six channels to contend with and most other p.m. coverage designated to the NFL, Race for Your Life became a part of our tradition as well.

Around the time the scent of turkey was joined by the additional aromas of rolls and pie, was the time we started crayoning out place settings and watching out the family room picture window for the arrival of grandparents and cousins.  Most major holidays were celebrated with my mom's side of the family.  Thanksgiving would include Lion's football on the tube for the men, a (weather-permitting) half-hazard round of touch football in the yard for the kids and who-knows-what for the ladies because we ran off and left them trickling back and forth between the kitchen and dining room.

Dinner always (and pretty much still) consisted of turkey (which my older cousin would always try to convince me was chicken, so I'd stop making gag-faces and try it), gravy, Stove Top stuffing, Hungry Jack's mashed potatoes, corn, canned cranberry sauce ("the red stuff"), some kind of pistachio dish my grandma would always make ("the green stuff"), sweet potatoes ("the stuff with the marshmallows in it") and heaping piles of split-top rolls.  Dessert was always an assortment of pies, pumpkin always present, and us kids trying to swipe mouthfuls of whipped cream, sans pie.  There is also a birthday cake for my grandmother who's birthday falls on the 25th.

After the carb-load someone would always fall asleep (one or two of the men), the women would sit chattering at the table and us kids would run off and play and/or try to spy on what the women were talking about (and maybe still be trying to swipe the whipped cream.)

Thanksgiving now rotates between venues with basically the same crowd; only now with the addition of spouses and new cousins/great-grandchildren/nieces and nephews (titles dependant on which branch of the family tree you reside.)  We thankfully still celebrate Grandma's special day along with the holiday (Her 93rd, this year!)  The company of my last-living grandparent I still cherish along with the fact that the rest of the family still shares love and company with one another after all these years.  God and is as good to us and he was decades ago, despite lifes ups and downs.  And, the comfort of the parade currently broadcasting in the background is one more way that I'm assured that home is home.

Odd Jobs

I'm starting a new temp job on Monday and the extensive interview process has caused me to fondly reminisce about the jobs of my past.

Babysitter:  Throughout junior high and high school I was the queen of all babysitters.  I started at the ripe age of eleven and babysat for family members, family friends, my brother's friends, friends of friends, church folk and the occasional babysitting gig of a friend that I'd end up crashing by slumber-party-default.  (Warning about tagging along on a friend's gig: You will inevitably end up doing most of the work and take home 0% of the cash.) 

The thing that made me the Babysitting Queen was simply that I actually played with the kids.  It was amazing to me how often kids would compare me to their last sitter with the statement, "You're nice.  You play with us."  Isn't that the gig?  "Well, what did your other babysitters do?"  "Sit on the couch, drink our pop, send us to bed early and watch tv." 

Another reason the kids loved me was that I would never rat out them out for misbehaving. I thought their obnoxious behavior somehow reflected poorly on my perfomance as a sitter.  If Matthew's parents found out that he wouldn't brush his teeth for me, wouldn't go to bed and that he peed on his brother, they'd think I didn't have things under control.  Solution?  "When your parents get home, at least pretend that you're sleeping!"  "How were the kids tonight.  Were they good?"  "Yes."  Cha-ching!  Job perks: Instant cash.  Cute babies.  Cons:  Poopy diapers, sometimes with corn in them.  Bratty kids that won't go to bed.

Bouvier?  Don't mind if I do.  Two dollars, please!

Dog Washer:  My first job out of high school was washing dogs over the holiday season at the grooming shop where my aunt works.  (Is that what they're called; Grooming shops? Pet barbers?  Doggie salons?)  I got paid $1.00 per small dog and $2.00 per large one. (Fortunately for me, the local community had a dense Bouvier population.) Job Perks: Instant cash. (I proudly purchased Taco Bell on a regular basis on the ride home.)  Coochy-cooing adorable pups all day. (Not to mention, the occasional cat.  P.S. Cats always pee when you bathe them.  It's a fact I learned by experience.)  Cons: Have you ever smelled a wet dog? Well, that's what I smelled like every day, all the way down to the bone.  The bathing room was equipped with several aprons (some with pictures of Bouviers on them.)  It was mentioned that I could change them as often as I deemed necessary and strongly suggested that I wear two at a time.  I wore three.  It would take one Bouvier and/or two Standard Poodles to soak through all three layers of aprons, two layers of winter clothing and one padded bra. 

Assembler:  Adding to the tradition of using family to find work, my first full-time job was at a factory my dad's friend owned.  I assembled computer parts.  Modemy-looking things, cabley- looking things... I have no idea what the heck it was that I was putting together.  I just know that at age eighteen, I could crimp, screwdrive and solder on par with any grown man.  Although, I did get fired from this job.  Not for my soldering skills, of course.  For being a motor mouth.  Job Perks: Minimum wage times 40 hours a week never looked like so much dough!  I couldn't believe I actually had hundreds of dollars at one time!  I opened my first bank account and spent it all on Levi's and scrunchies, if I recall.  Cons:  Carpal tunnel syndrome, daily blisters and the early signs of arthritis.  Too young!  I was oh so very young.

Buried alive in porn.

Video Store Clerk:  My first long-term full time gig.  My craziest work stories revolve around the video store where I spent ages 18-26.  I outlasted three store owners, one stalker, one sibling coworker and countless part-timers (including the senior-aged, the middle-aged and more than my share of the drooling and teenaged variety of males.)  The store closed mere months after my resignation.  Job Perks:  Free rentals, free movie posters, an endless wealth of pop culture knowledge, the opportunity to work with one the greatest handicapable souls I'd ever met and the most loyal customer base on planet earth.  I still remember some of my favorite customers' card numbers:

#12209 was a retired widower who was a avid car lover and drag-raced at the local track on the weekends.  He enjoyed war and action movies.  I would always hold a stock of new rentals for him on release day, knowing he'd show up by 4:00 pm and that he would trust me with his selections.  He missed his late wife dearly and still drove her gray sedan in memory of her.  We'd talk for hours about everything from his military enlistment in Guam to hot rods to his questions about the God that I believe in and he didn't understand.

#4528 was in his early-to-mid thirties and would talk my ear off.  His wife once chastised him at home, which he mentioned on his next visit. "She says I talk too much and that I'm boring people and wasting their time!  Am I wasting your time?"  No way, I told him.  Yeah, he talked my ear off, but at least he always had something interesting to say. 

#202 was an elderly friend of my elderly first manager.  He was always full of stories big and small.  I only believed about half of them.  He had a stroke in my last year there and lost his ability to speak.  His favorite thing to do!  God bless his heart. 

"Wild Bill", another senior citizen. He would sexually harass me to no end, but somehow managed to hold a small affection in my heart.  He loved the old westerns and would regal me with stories of his yearly trips to Wyoming. (He even invited me to join him one year. Yikes!)  He was a colorful character who smelled of heavy cigar smoke and wore gobs of Vaseline beneath his eyes.  He lost my affection one day by sneaking a Polaroid camera into the store and taking unsolicited paparazzi shots of me.  Creepy old man.

Joey, a handicapable customer of mine who would visit me at least 3 out of 5 shifts. Sometimes before I had even opened the store!  He loved watching old Wrestlemania tapes (Hulk Hogan era) and I would play them on the store monitors for him on the days when I had a heavy workload to do and couldn't get rid of him.

The couple whose names I can't mention because they were gay and hadn't outed themselves to family even, but had outed themselves to me.  They were featured in a local newspaper story (under assumed names) dealing with the issue that one of them had been living with AIDs.  His own mother was under the impression he had cancer while I, the video girl, was trusted with the whole truth.

Cons: #506 was a pompous foot doctor who once tried to lure me away to work for him.  He was always trying to seem more worldly and important than he actually was.  He would always ask me, "Parlez-vous français?", "Habla usted español?" and "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" My answer was always no, no and no (no translation required.) And, I somehow managed to keep my tongue from asking, "Are those the only phrases you know in French, Spanish and German?"  He was last seen shopping, a decade later, at the video store my sister-in-law worked for at the time.  With the same routine, I'm told, too.  Geezo petes, Doc!  (That's what he made us call him...)  No one cares about your Sprechen!

The one customer whose initial were B.S. (no pun!) He was a lovely person and fun to talk to, but always refused to pay his late fees.  B.S., you caused me a world of trouble!

The porn room and all of its inhabitants.  Especially the scuzzy guy who brought his 15-looking-year-old son in there with him, (His idea of a birds and bees talk?) the guys who stained the carpeting and the ones who would, upon returning their half-watched tape, advise me, "You were in this one" *wink* and have themselves convinced that this was an original line and that I had never heard it before. Shudder! 

Not to mention the obvious cons of lousy pay, lousy hours and zero vacation or sick time.

Video store shenanigans with sis.  I was going through my Pulp Fiction phase.

Which brings me to my last job:

Receptionist/Secretary/Insurance Claims Clerk Extraordinaire:  My most grown-up job to date, spanning the last eleven years of my life.  I can't complain about a day of it (although, I could... it just seems "too soon!")  Where, among the boring churn of the day-to-day, my coworkers and I found opportunity to carve out time to practice our runway walks, create our own Real Housewives intros and envision us in our own reality show.  We had a blast and I miss you gals every day!

I can only hope this next place fills me with such good times, stories, friends and fodder.  If not, oh well... It's just a temp job!

Anatomy of a Childhood Home

I had a small shock administered to my system as I took a spontaneous jaunt past my childhood home this afternoon.  You see, this is my childhood home as we left it when my family moved out in 2001:

This is how we found it today:

Bushes obliterated, Christmas lights hanging in June, grass coming up through the driveway, front porch swing replaced with piles of unused furniture...

... backyard toys in the front of the house, moldy siding, Mom's roses hacked out of the trellis, trees that seem to be growing out of the living room walls...

I fainted and swooned and made the appropriate amount of inappropriate Facebook comments about it shortly after.  Then I remembered that the new owners have a growing brood of three or four offspring, much like the four children of our own family who had the time of our lives growing up on that same lot.

I wondered if we had also left the yard in such disarray as we ran amok for the better part of the 70's and 80's.  Did we always have the time and resources to keep up with power-washing the siding and repairing every peel and splinter?  I decided to dig up some pictures and reanalyze the anatomy of my childhood home from the bones up!

This was the family home in its original form:

That's Tammy's hind and tail you see, my older sister screaming (right) and myself acting extra concerned.

A cinder block bungalow, painted yellow and insulated with old newspapers.  We didn't get around to pouring a sidewalk yet, so we walked on a row of press board sheets, laid single file, to get from the porch to the often muddy driveway.  This system proved good enough for a decade or so.  The boards would start to warp throughout the years, which added an extra ounce of fun to our childhood. Often on a dare and always with thrill, we'd take turns lifting up the boards one-by-one to see if anything good had crawled beneath.  It was usually just ants, worms and roly-polys to be found. But, on a special day, we might discover a crayfish hole.  On an even more special day, we might find a crayfish peeking out of its hole and snapping at us with one claw. Extra fun accompanied by extra squeals!

We had an above-the-ground green Kmart pool installed in the side yard (later moved to the back.)  It didn't matter that our house's paint had started to peel or that the phone line hung low.  This is where we all learned to swim!  My older sister, with obvious glee. Me, on the ladder, waiting to "get used to" the water temperature.  We all shared my yellow doggie bathing suit throughout the years as well as my sister's red one, and we all can now stave off drowning for an hour or two if need be.

I can't say much about the interior decor of our home in the 70's, because then I would also be commenting on the interior decor of your home in the 70's.  I'll let this one photo of baby me and older sis riding off into the sunset of our shared bedroom speak volumes.  I can tell you this, however.  It can be a dangerous thing to lazily roll over in bed and accidentally smack a wood-paneled wall in the middle of the night.  I can vividly remember waking up, on several occasions, with wood splinters underneath my fingernails and only having to venture one guess as to how they got there.  Not to mention, how the pattern of the wallpaper and linoleum flooring offered little comfort to any flu-sufferer stuck in bed. Already dizzy with fever from the virus, the dots and checkers would just spin and twirl until one was sure they'd somehow entered Lewis Carroll's wormhole.

As the 70's neared its close, this kid entered the house---apparently making it much too crowded.  Thus entering the family home into Phase II of its incarnation. That's my younger sister rolling around in her lead-based walker in the middle of an active construction zone. 

My dad designed an addition to be slapped onto the left side of the house.  It included a downstairs family room and dining room, and a new master bed/bath/closet upstairs.  The neighbors all pitched in with the build and, as far as I could tell, they were paid in McDonald's.  I remember climbing the staircase with my mom one evening to check on their progress only to find my dad and all the neighborhood teens sitting atop piles of two-by-fours and munching on as many quarter-pounders as they could stomach. I was incredulous!  We were only allowed McDonald's on Fridays!  Maybe if I could learn to build a house one day I too would be rewarded with fast food in the middle of the week.

Months of blood, sweat, toil and burger grease eventually gave way to this:

Black and white and red on the chimney.  The kids occupied the original right side of the house, still bungalow in style with the interior unchanged. And, the grown-ups took over the left side, where they could actually stand fully erect while digging through their closet.  Yes, as cute of an idea as a bungalow seems, let me present this warning: As I touch the top of my skull with the palms of my hands, I can still feel the lumps left behind from years of knocking my head into the sloping ceiling of my childhood room.  Permanent damage from the innocent notion that I could safely retrieve a clean pair of socks from the dresser drawer and emerge unharmed.  Consider yourself warned!

Well the house looked this way for the rest of my childhood.  The wood paneling doubled in quantity thanks to the doubling in square footage of the house itself.  Years of backyard fun was had as recorded for prosperity in an earlier post.  But, what about the issue of curb appeal that inspired this post to begin with?

With the arrival of my little bro in 1980, came the quadrupling of toys and noise spilling out of our yards, front and back.  I found evidence in this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

God bless the neighbors for still answering their doors when we rang!

We may have always had a project going on...

Maybe the dad who lived there then was a bit handier than the one who lives there now.  Maybe people didn't like our taste in style.  Maybe our dog yapped out back all night and the drivers passing by in the 80's were as appalled by the big wheels and bicycles strewn in the driveway as I was today.

Whether the bones of a house are strengthened throughout the years or left to rot, it will always be the structure the child remembers as "home".  I guess Christmas lights in summertime, furniture on the porch or mold on the siding has no effect on this.  Be it ever so humble... this is where every child's memories will be made, pages added to their story and fodder found for their future blogs.

Daytime TV

If there's one thing about unemployment that I simply cannot get used to, it's daytime television.  I've learned to make a habit of not turning on the tv before 5 pm, lest I sorely regret it. (Unless I'm catching a 3 pm viewing of Anderson. My one exception!)

The last time I enjoyed daytime tv, my age had a one in the tens column.  I'm convinced anything airing before the primetime news is solely directed to either the preschool or retiree set.  Somewhere along the line daytime talk shows have switched their theming from "talk" to "accuse". ("You are NOT the father!")  The allure of a full hour of paternity tests times five days a week is beyond me.  Soap operas don't catch my attention and watching court room shows is out of the question because televising petty claims always was and remains to be, well... petty.

These are the last shows I remember enjoying pre-suppertime:

Mr. Dress Up: Much superior in my mind to Mr. Rogers or any mister residing on Sesame Street.  There was something about Mr. Dress Up that made me unable to miss an airing (even reruns!) How he got his name, I don't know.  I can't even recall him dressing up that much!  Sometimes, yeah.  But, not enough to warrant a moniker.  I do remember alot of craft times, singing, stories and most importantly puppet shows with my favorites: Casey and Finnegan!  I had convinced myself the first two children I bore would be named Casey and Finnegan.  Seeing that I'm pushing forty and still childless, I have now convinced myself that Casey and Finnegan would also make excellent cat names.

Mister Rogers Neighborhood: Oh yes, Mr. Dress Up was superior, but that doesn't mean I didn't stay tuned for a trip to the Land of Make-Believe afterward.  Mr. Rogers was kind and gentle enough.  His voice was very soothing and there was an odd comfort in watching him change from his blazer to his cardigan (Not to mention the suspense of waiting to see if today would be the day that he finally drops his shoe during the theme song's toss!)  But, each day I was basically tolerating the science talks, factory tours, story times and postal visits; all in anticipation for that model train to come whistling through the hole in his living room wall. Yes!  It's Land of Make-Believe time!  The Land of Make-Believe was basically just a bunch of cardboard sets where the neighborhood puppets resided.  Again with the puppets!  I must have had a thing for paper mache' as kid!  If they ever revived any of these shows today, they'd have to add a heck of alot of felt to the characters as not to scare off the children.  The Land of Make-Believe puppets were pretty creepy-looking in retrospect. Especially that crabby lady who wore way too much blush.

Today's Special: Mannequin that comes to life after store hours.  No, not starring Andrew McCarthy... just some goofy Canadians whose names are long forgotten.  I don't remember much.  Just that they'd always get some visitors busting in on their skits (who must have been real slick to get into the mall that late at night and manage to give the security guard the slip.) And, there were probably some creepy puppets too, seeing that the show managed to capture my interest for very long. "Hocus pocus alimagocus!"

Polka Dot Door: "♫The Polka Dot Door. The Polka Dot Door.  Let's peek through the Polka Dot Door, for songs and stories and so much more. [ding dah-ding dah ding ding] The Polka Dot Door.  This is the time we always say, get ready, get set for [fill in the blank] Day.  We'll sing some songs, we'll pretend and play... so come in! The polka dot way.♫"  That's all I remember of the show, but it sounds like a bit of singing, pretending and playing was involved.  (Sidenote: I'm thoroughly convinced I could write a children's theme song after reliving that masterpiece.)

Now, onto the game shows.  Game shows aren't a hot commodity these days, but in the 70's and 80's boy did people get excited for the chance to win a couple hundred bucks.  Remember the days when you didn't get to carry your cash home from a Wheel of Fortune taping?  No!  They forced you to spend those winnings in their own revolving housing goods store where, anyone stuck with a remaining $100 and no furniture left to buy, would be forced to waste that last C-note buying an unwanted ceramic dog (who's value I'm sure was much less than its price.)

The Price is Right: I was hardly in charge of the household grocery shopping when elementary school aged, but that didn't stop me from trying to price household items along with the televised contestants.  Plinko and the big wheel spins were the best parts of the show.  (Maybe because I sucked at pricing household objects, considering the dollar/week allowance I was hardly budgeting well at that age, and these two games were strictly games of chance.)  I never understood how people could accurately price the huge prize packages at the end of the show without going over and be correct within $1,000.  Prices of cars, vacations, appliances and campers were totally beyond my scope of knowledge.  But, it was exciting to watch and made me think becoming a spokesmodel (minus the speaking) was a totally plausible career goal.  Why, I could shift my weight to the right leg while sticking out my left knee and simultaneously wave a hand up and down the contours of a Fridgidare.  Easy peasy!  How much do these girls make? (Bob Barker would have also been happy know that all of our family pets had been spade or neutered.)

Card Sharks: This was my absolute favorite of the game shows, which is hilarious because I can't even remember how it was played. I just knew that jokers were wild (no matter how creepy I thought they looked, you actually did want a joker card!) and that shouting out "No whammies!  No whammies!" was the Card Sharks equivalent to Wheel of Fortune's "C'mon big money!" chant.

Which leads us to the world of talk.  I watched Rolanda, I watched Sally Jessy and, yes, I even watched Jenny Jones.  But, in the mid-eighties a new host came onto the horizon and quickly climbed the ranks of talk royalty. 

Yes, and then there was Oprah! (Did you think I was going to say Montel?!) 

I don't know what it was about The Oprah Winfrey Show that superseded all other talk shows of the day.  Before she was a household name, men usually mispronounced her name as "Ofrah".  And, before all of the celebrity connections and favorite things, she started out just interviewing regular folk like you and me.  Maybe it was that she could calmly mediate between the most controversial of enemies or that she had the stones to let the KKK on her show and patiently let them speak their ignorance.  Maybe it's because she was unashamed to cry for her guests and unafraid to speak the horrors of her own past, if she thought it would touch one soul.  Maybe it was her humor, her spunky pal Gail or that she was somehow able to grab that coveted interview that no other host or reporter had a chance at.  Whatever it was, she set a new standard.  Yeah, she got a little high on her horse and big for her head for awhile there.  I hated when her audience decided she'd reached guru status and began treating her like a deity.  But, she was the best and I even enjoy catching her Next Chapter interviews every now and then.  There is only one Oprah and there will never another one like her. (Although, that Ellen is pretty good.)

Well, I've pretty much convinced myself that anything worth watching during daylight has either been canceled or become no longer suitable for my age range. Which is just as well, because I have enough distractions from productivity from blogging and Facebook alone! 

Besides, who can sit inside watching the tube when it's 2:15 in the afternoon, eighty degrees out and there's birdies chirping?  Thank God there's nothing good on tv!