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.

"No Offense!"

I have a five-year old nephew who thinks "I'm sorry" is a get-out-of-jail-free card.  He thinks he can punch his brother, kick his sister, slap anyone's face and not get in trouble because, "Well... I said, 'I'm sorry!'"

It's not uncommon to hear a thud coming from the other room, instant tears accompanied by an "I'm telling!" that's very quickly followed with an "I'm sorry!  It's okay. I'm sorry!"  It's also not uncommon for me to enter the room as a slap-down is in progress, meet eyes with the five-year-old slapper and still have him play his card once it should be too late.  "I'm sorry!" he tosses out to his nine-year-old brother whom he's just publicly walloped.  Nine-year-old brother looks at me and tosses out an equally hasty, "It's okay, I forgive you."  Fake hugs are the next order of business and they think this means all is well.  Yes, he may forgive you, but it's not okay!

I don't know if I'm more perplexed by the logic of the apologizer or the forgiver in this scene.  That is, I was perplexed until I learned older brother's new piece of rationale.  The phrase "no offense" has entered his fifth grade vocabulary.

He uses his get-out-of-jail-free card as a means to criticize everyone's weight, looks, intelligence or natural body odor and thinks he can cash in our forgiveness by prefacing the whole insult with a "No offense, but..." 

Only someone with the audacity to say such things as, "No offense, but your armpits smell like toothpaste." and "No offense, Kimmy, but I weigh 70 pounds and you weigh a thousand times more than me." (Oh yes! Real life examples!) would have the same reasoning to forgive someone as they are simultaneously pounding in his solar plexus.  Maybe he's just laying the groundwork for a "No offense, but you're a big-headed buttface" that he knows he'll be dishing out within the hour.  Who knows!

I hope I've effectively used this weekend to clear up that once a bad deed is done, sorry or not, it is still wrong and there will still be punishment.  And that, if you feel the need to say "no offense" before making a comment, it's probably a comment left best unsaid.

Now if I could just remove the word "sexy" from the five-year-old's vocabulary. As in:

5YO: "There are three Japanese girls in my class.  They all love me and they are all SEXY!"

Me: "What?! What do you know about sexy?"

5YO: "I'm telling you, these girls love me and they are [in a creepily sing-songy voice] sex-y!!!"

Me: "That's the most inappropriate thing I've ever heard!"

5YO: "But, they are!"

Me: "That is not a word for kids. I don't want to hear of it coming out of your mouth again until you're at least twenty!  And, not even then!"
5YO: "I'm not lying.  They are sexy and HOT!"

Me: "That's gross.  No five-year-old is sexy!"

5YO: "It's okay.  One of them is six!"

No offense, but I foresee the principal's office calling next school year with a complaint that "I'm sorry" won't be good enough to fix. Sigh...

Things Unemployment Has Taught Me

Upon entering my fifth month of unemployment, I have decided the following things:

• I will never make judgemental comments about anyone on unemployment ever again. 
• I will never look down on fast food workers again.  Even accidentally.  Even if they forget my fries.
• I am not quite ready to work at McDonald's yet.
• Saving money is easier than I thought back when I was still making some.  Never realized how many unnecessary things I used to purchase each week until I stopped doing so.  Grateful to have learned that lesson before the severance checks stopped.  My bank account now thanks me!
• Politicians who make any mention of the unemployment rates have no idea what they are talking about.  If you really want to include that in your platform, refuse your pay and insurance for the better part of a year, live off your savings, pay your doctor's bills in cash, manage to still keep your home and cars somehow, and then you may speak.
• Although I'm desperate for work, I will not act desperate.  Just because I may need your job does not mean you do not need me.  I am still a valued worker.  Don't treat me as less than that.
• Single parents who work three part time jobs to feed their families deserve applause.  (And insurance.)
• For every job I don't get, I'm genuinely happy for the person who does.
• Magazines can be read for free at the library.
• They've got free books to read there too!
• Fresh air is a necessity.
• New clothes are a luxury.
• Taking thirty seconds to enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes every day is still a valuable use of time.
• Anyone paying off student loans while having to apply for the jobs ads listing "Bachelor's Degree required. Pay rate $10/hr." has my deepest sympathies.
• Money does not equal happiness.  Although, it could buy a little peace of mind.
• Maybe I'm not quite ready to retire.  Twenty-four free hours can be long ones to fill!
• I will still daydream about retiring one day, though.  It can not be helped.
• I am not a loser. 
• You are not a loser.

Bunheads

When I heard there was a new tv show coming out that had named itself Bunheads, it was the last thing I thought I would find myself watching.  However...

You know how nothing really good is on primetime tv during the summer?  And, how it's no fun doing hobbies at night, because that's regularly designated "tv time"?  And, how the same thing goes for reading a book because reading is delegated for quiet afternoons or bedtime?  And, how this leaves you, partially reclined, clicking the remote with such fervor that you're practically inviting carpal tunnel syndrome into your life?  Well, that's how I ended on the ABC Family channel last night, which---mind you---is a channel that I rarely ever flip to.

I had read that Bunheads was created by Amy Sherman-Palladino, the inventor of all things Gilmore Girls.  I loved Gilmore Girls as much as every other fast-talking sarcastic gal of my generation, but this show is called Bunheads for crying out loud!  There are toe shoes involved!  I'm no princess.  I'm a Lorelai! But, noting that I was already settled in my pjs and my other viewing options were the even less enticing reruns of River Monsters, Lizard Lick Towing or My Big Redneck Vacation, I decided to give it a go.

Our lead bunhead is named Michelle (played by Sutton Foster) who is a dancer gone cryptically wrong who somehow ended up as a Las Vegas show girl.  Which seems like an unlikely employment option once you see her slim birdy figure getting swallowed up by a giant red feathered headdress and spangly french-cut panties.  But, this is fiction... so we can overlook this and suggest to ourselves that maybe there are a few Vegas shows who consider themselves equal opportunity employers to the unimplanted.

Well, Michelle has a sweet-seeming fan/stalker who (uncreepily, they somehow convince us) shows up backstage once a month bearing lavish gifts and dinner invitations.  His name is Hubble, which is interesting and left unexplained.  But, even better, he is played by Alan Ruck (first seen, by me, as Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off and last noticed as a nameless second-rate ghost in Ricky Gervais's Ghost Town.)

Michelle apparently still auditions for more noble productions whenever she can swing a break.  But, after a particularly disappointing veto and a pity dinner date with Hubble to vent, she finds herself imbibing in a few too many cocktails and waking up in a preppy-looking station wagon cruising down the early morning coastline (Left Coast, I'm assuming... even though it had a very Right Coast feel to it) with a little sparkler on her left ring finger.

Bunhead got herself hitched and out of Vegas!  Hubble lives in a quaint little town (They don't even have a movie theater! This is made very clear to us several times throughout the episode.)  Oh yeah, and with his mother (Gloriously played by Gilmore Girls Kelly Bishop) who runs the local ballet studio.  It's made very clear, very quickly, that the whole town---who she hasn't even formally met yet---absolutely hates her!  News travels fast on the West (or maybe East) Coast!  This all leads to funny little encounters with appropriately quirky, for a Sherman-Palladino production, town folk who mistakenly refer to her as "stripper", "hooker" and "Playmate".

I started to fall in love with the show a little just as Michelle was finally falling a little bit in love with Hubble.  THEN they had to go and kill my little show crush by ***SPOILER ALERT!  SPOILER ALERT!  DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU!!!*** literally killing Hubble!  (Poor Cameron, never could catch a break.)

I understand, this is probably just the writers way of finding a way to get the Michelle character out of Vegas and into this small town, but then allowing an open door for a little Luke-Lorelai sexual tension with some new character eventually down the road.  But, pilot episode?!  Poor Hubble never even stood a chance!

Overall, it was cute enough where I'll probably find myself tuning in again next week.  Sutton Foster has the right speed to snark ratio in reciting her dialogue to make this potentially a signature Sherman-Palladino hit.  They squeezed in a sweet bonding scene between her and the junior bunheads to hint at where her place might end up being in this sleepy coastal town.  And, have I mentioned the magnificent Kelly Bishop?

Now, let's just cross our fingers for Alan Ruck next pilot season.  Get at least six episodes written into your next contract, buddy!

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!

When Movies Ruin My Inner Playlist

I have a pet peeve.  Just an irk.  I'd like to blame it on Hollywood.  I'd like to blame it, like everyone else, on the music industry.  But, it's probably my own sense of recall that's at fault.  My dumb, stupid, insidious habit of letting every piece of irrelevant information take root in my memory, but letting the reminder that there's clothes in dryer somehow get filtered out.

I'm the type of person that, when I hear a song, I see an image.  I'm sure this is true with most of you.  Classic songs should conjure classic images.  But, that's where my irk comes in.  Newer movies and tv shows, heck, even laundry detergent commercials, hijack my classic playlist and ransack the place with new unwelcome visions.

This was fully realized by myself last night when I heard "Everybody's Working for the Weekend" on the car radio and an uninvited image of Chris Farley, Chippendale dancing in ill-fitting pants, magically appeared.

This isn't the first time this has happened.  My eighties flashbacks have been disrupted by new images created by Generation Y and whatever generation these new Disney kids belong to.  When I hear the chant, "Hey Mickey! You're so fine! You're so fine you blow my mind!" I wish to see Toni Basil with her pigtails bopping around as my mental music video.  But, no!  The Bring it On! girls have now crashed the party!

"Cruel Summer" is supposed to evoke a playback of the Karate Kid kicking a soccer ball around on the beach, not Blue Crush!  I'd like to hear "Rock the Casbah" without suddenly wondering if Claire Dane's character really did it in Brokedown Palace. And, I can no longer hear the song "Footloose" without hearing Lisa Kudrow's voice in Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion mis-singing, "I'm going to tell you... you've got one hell of an eye ♫" 

These are all good movies! That's not the part that I mind.  I just never asked to have my nostalgia replaced.  I miss the dancing feet in  polka dots socks, Peter Pan boots and legwarmers!  This is a part of my subconscious that didn't need a reboot.

I'm pretty sure the entire playlist of the 60's was not intended to conjure visual images of Forrest Gump, the music videos of the 80's did not star The Wedding Singer and, as funny as Jack Black is, I much prefer the soundtrack of School of Rock in its original format.

Oh well, I guess I should just submit and realize that the movie industry marches forward, while the soundtrack remains the same.  Besides, I'm sure this is the same way Wayne Newton fans feel when I choose to associate "Danke Schoen" with Ferris Bueller and how Queen's original audience feels hearing me admit that I'd first heard "Bohemian Rhapsody" while watching Wayne's World. 

Que sera sera. ~Heathers

All Hail the TV Mom!

In honor of Mother's Day, I decided to pay tribute to some of my favorite tv moms.  Being a lifelong tv addict and seeing that I spend about as much time with my television families as I do with my biological one... it only seems fair. 

 

Carol Brady (The Brady Bunch)

The world seems to epitomize every 1960's era tv mom as being the ideal mother.  To be quite honest, though, I can't really name any particularly outstanding achievements of Lassie's mom, Ricky's mom or even the adorably perfect June Cleaver.  They all blend together in a colorless mix of aprons, ironing boards, rolling pins and cast iron pots.  They all speak softly except when exhaustedly exhaling their husbands' names when said mates are being especially sarcastic or stubborn.

But, then came technicolor and with it came Carol Brady.  Mrs. Brady had style and false eyelashes.  She was sensual but matronly.  She was elegant, but could don a flannel shirt with ease for the occasional backyard leaf-raking or camping trip.  And, she broke the cardinal rule of 60's tv motherhood by (gasp!) employing a maid!  A sixties tv mom who admittedly needed assistance with the household duties??? (faint!)  But, at least Mrs. Brady could always be found stirring a pot or assembling school lunches right next to good ol' Alice.  Not too proud to pull at least 30% of the weight.

And, Mrs. Brady was cool!  She'd always be shopping to keep the kids' wardrobes properly groovy.  She would bring such finds home from the kinds of stores that would wrap each shirt in its own little gift box, with its own fold of tissue paper tied together with its own little brown string.  She'd let her girls grow their hair to inappropriate lengths if they wanted to, with no concern for tangles or knots.  She'd let her kids take chances, but make sure they learned from their mistakes. She'd nurse you well when you were sick.  Take on your tiny problems as if they were her own.  Help you with your homework.  Let everyone have their say in family matters.  And, all with liquid eyeliner perfectly in place and while blissfully unaware of her husband's homosexuality.

Wilma Flintstone (The Flintstones)

The only cartoon mom that comes to mind, so she must have been the best!  She had the patience of a saint dealing with that hot-headed caveman of hers.  And, she could stand her ground next to him!  If she wants to sleep in her own twin bed, she'll sleep in her own twin bed.  If she wants to swoonily wait for the neighborhood Kissing Bandit to accost her, she's going to openly wait for that Kissing Bandit.  If she wants to hang out with Betty Rubble all evening, she's going to hang out with Betty, dang it!  I also always admired her red hair and giant rock pearls.  And, she did bear the cutest little cave baby known to man.

 

Carol Ingalls (Little House on the Prairie)

Oh Mrs. Ingalls.  So gentle, so wise, so good-hearted and even tough when necessary.  With all of these wonderful traits, all true, my biggest childhood impression of Carol Ingalls remains to be how she could take her hair down at night, brush all four feet of it with a boar bristle brush and look every inch a runway model.  On the prairie.  What a waste.

Claire Huxtable (The Cosby Show)

Look at that face Mrs. Huxtable is making at you. You're not even going to think of sassing Mrs. Huxtable when she's giving you that look! Now, you take your books, you march upstairs and you do every speck of homework in sight until you make something out of your life! She didn't work this hard for this long raising this many babies to sit around and watch you throw it all back in her face.   Are we clear???

"Picture it, Sicily, 1923..."

 Sophia Petrillo (Golden Girls) 

Oh Sophia!  You give your daughter and her roommates such a headache!  But, one day Dorothy will realize you've given her the greatest gift.  The gift that all daughters wish they had once their mothers are gone.  An exhaustively detailed ancestral history.  There will be no question, filling out that family tree, where Mama Petrillo came from!

 

Roseanne Connor (Roseanne)

The real mom.  She made mistakes.  She'd eventually admit to them.  She'd let you roam, knowing when not to sweat the small stuff and when to reel you back in.  She made the recipes off the backs of the boxes.  She'd put ketchup in the spaghetti if it saved a few pennies.  Yeah, her house may smell like mildew (I'm assuming) but you were always welcome back into it.  With your husband.  And, you're husband's brother. (Hey, maybe you could get one of those guys to look into that mildew problem...)

 

Cindy Walsh (Beverly Hills 90210)

The other nineties mom.  Practically perfect in every way.  Who else could handle Brenda's reign of terror without breaking a sweat?  Not, Kelly Taylor's mom.  That's for sure!

 

Caroline Manzo (The Real Housewives of New Jersey)

In a reality franchise meant to be utterly satirical; where viewers point and gawk at over-privileged undeserving housewives as they raise their families in the most stomach-churning and spirit-wrenching of ways... Out of the moral rubble, emerges a real life supermom!  Mama Manzo not only successfully parents her own brood of three, but dozens of middle-aged Joisy women as well.  I'll put myself up for adoption any day, if you're looking to replenish that empty nest of yours.

 

Claire Littleton (Lost)

I can't do a "tv favorites" post without mentioning my absolutely favorite television show of all time!  Claire was the only mom of the original cast, so it is what it is.  Yeah, there was Danielle.  And, eventually Sun.  And, Kate stepped in for a little bit there.  But, Claire was the only mother we got to spend an adequate amount of time watching her parent.  During which, she lost her baby to a kidnapper, almost let Charlie run off to psychotically baptize/drown him, left him to fend for himself in a pile of twigs with a sleeping Sawyer, a forest full of ghost whispers and legions of Others, Whatevers and Freighter Folk running amok nearby.  She eventually goes feral and forgets every important and sane detail of her and her child's life together, not to mention, how they parted.  Well, okay... so maybe I should rethink this nomination.

So what have we learned today?  Most good tv moms first names start with the letter C.  An even better ones, use some derivative of the name Carol. 

As much as we love and admire our tv moms, let's not forget the real ones this weekend.  No matter what your experiences with your real life mom, she's the one God appointed to you.  The least you can do is pick up a phone or a greeting card this Sunday and let her know she's the only mom for you! (Love you, Real Mom!)

Book Review: Then Again, by Diane Keaton

I know, I seem to be on a celebrity memoir kick lately... but, what are you gonna do?  It's too intriguing to peek a glimpse at the famously rich doing ordinary things.  I guess I'm a sucker for the preamble leading up to the "How'd it all happen?", to the "It's finally happened!" to the "What d'ya do now?" 

It's amazing to hear tales of the present tense.  The marquee faces, that seem so familiar, doing extraordinarily low-key things that the rest of the population can all too relate to.  Visiting hospitals and nursing loved ones back to health.  Schlepping kids from Point A to Point B.  Trying and failing, even after wealth.

Diane's story is no different.  Kooky family.  We all have one, right?  Insecurity.  Even while in throes of affairs with Woody Allen, Warren Beatty and Al Pacino.  Every woman hears ya!  Fame that seems to come suddenly.  Career highs and lows.  A (somewhat surprising) eating disorder.  Family loss.  All the usual ingredients of an autobiographical celebrity tome.

Diane's a pretty good writer.  Her voice certainly chirps off of the page, as it does off of the big screen.  But, the unique twist to her story is that she decided to share it.  With her mother's.

Dorothy Hall (yep, her family the inspiration behind The Hall's of Annie Hall notoriety) was a frustrated artist herself.  Once, a beauty pageant queen, basking in the glow of having an audience's approval.  Then deciding to chuck it all in favor of raising her family.  She kept up with her hobbies of photography, collaging and writing throughout motherhood.  Only, her story, no one bothered to read until her passing.

The pages of Then Again, jump back and forth throughout time and between authors.  Switching between Diane's story and her mother's journal entries within each chapter, symbiotically.  As Diane tells us what it was like starring in her first Broadway play, Dorothy explains how much pride she felt in the audience.  As Diane nervously watches the premiere of the movie that will launch her to stardom and later climbs the stairs at the Academy Awards, reaching for her work's prize... Dorothy's account is right there with her.

This isn't a juicy book.  You won't find much dirt here.  But, what you'll find is a mother's love for and devotion to all of her children (even the "normal" ones), and a daughter's last respects. 

It's a sweet read.

The Pride of Worrying

I've never labeled myself as being a prideful person.  To me "pride" was always depicted in the egomaniacal braggy braggart types.   Pride is sinful.  Pride is to be abhorred.  Pride leads to ruin (Proverbs 16:18).  Pride will get you nowhere (Proverbs 26:12).  Pride is a sign of very high self-esteem.  So this couldn't be me, since my self-esteem resides somewhere between your shoes and the door mat.

But, it turns out I am prideful.  Maybe not in the Webster's Dictionary sense of the word, but in a deceitfully hidden offshoot definition of the term.  You see, I'm a worrier.

Worry might seem like the antonym of pridefulness to the naked eye but, if you look a little closer (like all of us worriers tend to do), you'll see exactly what I mean. 

When doing my Bible study yesterday morning, I realized that worry produces the very "Me! Me! Me!" mentality that we often use when describing egomaniacs.  "How is this going to effect me?", "I can't do this.", "This is just too much for me to handle."  Worry, worry, worry.  It may not be boastful in the very least, but it's certainly a preoccupation with self.

I'm a champion worrier from a world-class bloodline of them.  People who say they strive on stress are an enigma to me.  Stress just gives me the scoots!  I've always strove to pursue the simple life depicted in I Thessalonians 4:11, "...make it your ambition to lead a quiet life and attend to your own business and work with your hands..."  That's the loveliest of prospects to me.  Favor calmness, mind your business and keep busy.  But, being the champion worrier that I am, I can even screw up the simple life.

Someone once told me that I handled a certain life-or-death situation that our family once faced so well and that I was so strong during this time.  I was flattered, but this comment also left me stunned. Mainly because my memory of the same situation is of me running to the bathroom to throw up the entire contents of my stomach and then praying as fervently as a new convert on death row, because I didn't know what else to do.  What this person witnessed was actually just God's answer to my sloppy prayers.  My being numb by fear, producing the image of calm and His granting of that Peace That Passes All Understanding that held me upright and helped my legs to move forward and my spirit not to faint.

The Peace That Passes All Understanding has been God's greatest gift to me during the hardest points in my life.  But, I seem to let it slip away during the typical day to day needs.  My habit of worrying is the ultimate peace-blocker.  I don't know why I choose to overanalyze and worry over the simplest things.  And, yes, it's a choice!   Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise.

My current worry, of course, is my job search.  When the office I worked for closed down in February, it was a very stressful time but also a release into freedom.  I had become frustrated in working the same position for eleven years straight and all upward mobility had begun to slide backward.  I was granted seventeen weeks of severance and I saw it as a time to unwind, relax, pursue creative endeavors and then eventually pursue a new career path.

Now that I'm down to my last six weeks of mini-retirement, the pressure is on to figure all of this out and quick.  I cringe at listings resembling anything to do with my last position, but find those are the only positions that I'm qualified for with the job market in my area being very sparse.  The spirit of common sense would remind me that I liked my job and that it wasn't until the wheels of the office closure were set into motion that my job duties started being taken away and reassigned to other offices, leaving me frustrated.  And, all of those other industries that seemed so appealing at the time, merely on the fact of being different, now turn out to be much less intriguing upon further research.  It's time for big life decisions.... and those are the kind I have no idea how to make.

Instead, I worry that I'll finally get into a new job and end up hating it.  I worry that I'll spend a decade at the next place and wind up frustrated again.  I worry that my new boss will be mean, that my new coworkers will be gossipy, that I will be sexually harassed, that I won't like the hours, that I won't get good medical coverage, that my breaks won't be at convenient times to accommodate my Hypoglycemia... The list goes on and on and gets more ridiculous as it goes.  But, the biggest worry of all is that I can't see the future and that's scary.

The curse of having a colorful imagination is that you will find incredible ways to misuse it.  I haven't once overthought the possibility of being overpaid, meeting nice people, having flexibility in new roles, learning something not only new, but interesting.  Why is it that those thoughts don't come as easily?  I'd like to blame the hardwiring, but knowing that The One who wired me does not want any of us to think that way, I have to take the credit.  Or blame.  Me. Me. Me. Me!

So, moving forward, I would like to welcome Peace into my life, all day, every day.  Not just during the hard times or when I realize that I need it.  I'd like to start to using my imagination for good and not evil.  I'd like to pray more sloppy and emotionally, like I do in hard times, because it's at least sincere.  And, I'm going to try to learn to choose not to worry.  It will be a hard habit to break... but, my tummy will thank me.

All the Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise!

Why is it that some noises can drive us climbing up the wall by our fingernails and others can be the sweetest sounds to kiss our eardrums?  I have a fickle relationship with noise.  I may sometimes be the noisiest thing in a quiet room but I'm---more often than naught---the quietest thing in a noisy space.

I've heard alot of noise lately.  We're having flooring installed at home and every bad noise that could possibly come with that followed.  By Day Two I had to escape!

Then, I heard more noise.

First, I packed a lunch (because noise and digestion are not compatible) and went to the park.  There I found alot of sounds I liked.  I was amazed to find that one dead leaf brushing against the armpit of a tree was, not only audible, but loud enough in this peaceful environment to make me spin around and "What's that?!"  The bullfrog I thought I heard was nothing more than a detached branch caught midfall and rubbing against a tree trunk, creating such a ribbit.  And, that very peculiar noise that sounded something like a waterfall---only one whose molecules had shifted, causing it to sound more like a solid-fall than a liquid-fall---ended up being two adorable baby squirrels chasing each other around the base of a tree.  Toenails clamping onto the bark in a downward spiraling motion.

I accidentally disturbed quite a few pairs of birds enjoying the Spring mating season.  I was merely hiking down the marked trails in an innocent manner, not wishing to offend.  But these avian flew away from me with such speed and attitude, you'd think I was an overprotective father busting up their session at Inspiration Point.  Wings wildly flapping, twigs violently swatted out of the way... now that was a sound!

Then I went to the library.  For a place whose national motto is, "Shhh...", there's certainly alot of noise going on in there.  There's guy who thinks he's obeying the "Do not hold cell phone conversations at the desk" sign, by slipping into the entry hallway and holding a thirty minute conversation loud enough to echo through the rest of the building.  The book cart with the squeaky wheel.  The shuffling of feet.  The schooching in and out of chairs.  The phone ringing.  The kids running by.

Then I went to my beloved Target to grab a few grocery items.  I'm now noticing the decibel level increasing with each bulletpoint of my day.  We all know the shopping noises.  Hundreds of conversations blurring into each other and taking place all at once. Cash registers, shopping carts, babies wailing, the "beep beep beep" that those tiny stock vehicles make.

I finished my quick stop and then proceeded homeward, only to find the flooring truck still in the driveway.  My peaceful sanctuary was still being molested by the sounds of power saws, vacuums, clunking and hammering.  The walls were practically vibrating, so I escape with my mother for a quiet walk around the neighborhood.

Boy, are those neighborhood kids noisy...

Easter Traditions

Easter begins with an itchy dress.

Throw in an optional bonnet, patent leather shoes, some lacy gloves and a pair of white tights (that are sure to run and have dirt stains on the knees by the time lunch is served) and you've got our childhood Easter tradition.

No one knew this better than my grandma, because she's the one who started it all.

In the weeks leading to every Easter (and Christmas, as well) she'd wrangle up the grandkids, one family at a time, and take us to Sears for the traditional dress shopping spree.

In the earlier days of her grandparenthood, she used to simply shop on her own and deliver a pile of taffeta and scratchy lace to each house before the fateful morning.  I, unknowingly, changed things (at an age when I was too young to even remember) by scratching at my fluffy sleeve, making a sour face and proclaiming, "I no like'it!" during one such dress rehearsal.

Since that day, she conceded that not every girl loves ruffles, straw hats and lace gloves (fortunately for her, my sister and cousin loved hats, ribbons and gloves) and from that year forward, she would take us along to assist her in her purchases.

Easter morning always started with the baskets.  We used the same ones every year.  Carefully dying our eggs the night before, leaving them in a bed of plastic grass and out on the dining room table for the "Easter Bunny" to easily find (We had the same "don't ask, don't tell" policy with the Easter Bunny as we did with Santa Claus.) The air, by then, thick with the smell of vinegar.  (I, to this day, associate the smell of vinegar with The Resurrection.)

In the morning, we'd rush downstairs to find a toy or two, a chocolate bunny (hollow milk chocolate or white chocolate, for me) and a random assortment of additional chocolates, Peeps and jelly beans.

We'd then down our traditional Sunday morning breakfast of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls and Kool-Aid, hurry our sticky selves into our itchy dresses, and rush on off to Sunday school.

Easter morning was a different kind of church than we'd witness every other Sunday.  There were, not only more hats in attendance than usual, but many more people in attendance as well.  After Sunday school we'd end up squeezing into the sanctuary for the regular service. Usually being bumped from our regular pews by the twice-a-year Baptists who, in their infrequent attendance, didn't understand the normal seating arrangement.

That was okay though, because we'd soon be distracted by the fact that every child-sized patent leather purse (mine included) was filled with assortments of contraband sugary treats.

We'd hide the chocolate eggs to the side of our laps that our mothers weren't sitting on and oh so quietly try to unpeel the tin foil wrappers without being disruptive.  Whether or not it's even possible to quietly unpeel foil-wrapped candy is probably a moot point, seeing that the entire congregation smelled like one huge exhale of chocolate breath on that one April Sunday morning of every year.  The jig was probably up years ago, but no one told the kids.

Easter Sunday sermons were always a sweet relief to the horrific account we'd heard about at the prior Good Friday service.

We'd had one full day and two whole nights to shiver in the gruesome memory of what injustice our sweet innocent Jesus endured on account of our own sins. Then Sunday was a breath of fresh air because that's when the victorious coda of His story would be retold.

I'd always anticipate the Doubting Thomas part of the message. I always liked to think that I wouldn't have doubted Christ's resurrection like Thomas did... but I also always thought it would be oh-so-cool to be the one to get to touch our Savior's palms.

I'd say a silent prayer of thanks during the invitational for Jesus's sacrifice. This meant---not only a thankful heart for my salvation---but also that, thanks to His precious gift, we were no longer required to sacrifice pet sheep as a part of our church services as they did in the B.C. days. Phew!

After service, we'd rush across the jelly bean-littered parking lot and into the family van (with Jelly Belly remnants now stuck to our shoes) and hurry off to family dinner to meet up and play with all the cousins.

Dinner was ham.  A considerable amount of rolls would be consumed.  And, then would come the Easter hunt my aunt would annually produce.

She'd fill the empty lot, where our house now sits, with chocolate eggs and bunnies.  The candy was arrayed as if she just threw it about by the handful and then carefully laid a few pieces in the climbing tree and on the fire hydrant... which, I'm pretty sure, is exactlyl what she did.

Every July, my older cousin would always somehow find an errant piece of candy that had been hiding under a bush for the past three months, finally to be found and consumed.

The sugar high would last for weeks and the memories would last for years. 

These days we still get as many siblings, cousins and offspring together as we can.  Though, we all go to different services in the morning, or none at all.

I home-church my brother's kids, in which the annual tradition has been established of me choking and sniffling through the Good Friday message each and every year.  This year I made it through, without a tear!  (I kind of wonder if the kids were disappointed by this.)

Dinner is still ham. Rolls are still consumed by the dozen. And, chocolate candy is still to be found strewn about on the very same lot that is no longer vacant.

The crunchy bunnies are still the best, and God is still very good!

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." (1 Peter 1:3)