Erasers

My dad has a short fuse. Fortunately, he has a big, broad heart and is a forgive-and-forget kind of guy. I was thinking of him yesterday as I was writing to a friend of mine. This friend is going through some tough stuff right now, is under a lot of stress, and is a little worried about inadvertently taking it out on her husband and kids. I told her she probably would. But I also told her what my dad told me in my early years of parenting: "Kids have big erasers."

We all make marks (good and bad) in other people's Book of Life. Some we intend, some we don't, and some we heartily regret. Luckily, everyone comes with an eraser. Call it what you will -- forgiveness, grace, mercy, charity, absolution -- my dad understood that kids seem to have it in spades. But he also knew you had to ask for it.

He knew this from experience.

No, the blowing of his top wasn't a regular occurrence, but when it happened, everyone in the house heard it. And just so we're all on the same page here, be assured, he was never physically or verbally abusive. But all four of us kids have had the opportunity to watch his face turn tomato-red, have witnessed the steam whistling from his ears. We all remember the moment my older sister was "grounded for life," and, though many details of my youth are blurry, I do recall the last time I got a firm swat on the hind-end. I was eight. I had been in a water-balloon fight with the neighbor kids. On Easter Sunday. In my good clothes.

Whatever the reason for the explosion, after the offender had retreated to their room in tears and my dad had a chance to cool his jets (which may have taken minutes or hours), he would always come knocking on the door to apologize. The nice thing was he usually didn't rehash the reason why he got mad in the first place. It was kind of understood that he was still mad about that and you were still in trouble, but he was there to say sorry for going overboard.

Basically, he was asking you to use that eraser.

We all have our moments. Parenting can be tough. Life can be tough. Everyone flies off the handle at some point or another. But when the steam clears, breathing slows, and your face returns to a slightly more human color, saying you're sorry -- to anyone, child or adult -- is strong evidence that you don't take a good relationship for granted.

And hopefully that big eraser will work its magic and remove the mark you wish you hadn't made. (Or at least lighten it to the point at which the incident ceases to be rift-making and becomes fodder for family reunions. Or blogs.)

Pharmaceuticals

I felt it coming on yesterday afternoon, knew it as soon as I sneezed. It wasn't one of those too-much-dust-in-the-house sneezes, nor a spring-allergy achoo. It was the kind of sneeze that comes from someplace deep within and leaves a funky aftertaste in the back of your throat. I even looked at my daughter and said, "I think I'm getting sick." Sure enough, by ten o'clock, my nose was running and taunting me like the Gingerbread Man: "You can't catch me!" And it was true. Sometimes before I could lift the tissue, the drip would land on my shirt.

I tossed and turned all night as the leaking continued and the pressure built. By the time the alarm went off at 6:30, my head was in so much pain I wanted to stick needles in my ears and pull out all my teeth. I got out of bed and went to the kitchen, pressing my fingers to my cheekbones and moaning, "Ow, ow, ow, ow..." As I reached for the white bottle in the basket on the counter, I heard a majestic voice say, "And on the seven-hundred-thousandth day, God created Advil." And I washed down 600 milligrams with a cup of hot tea. Within forty-five minutes, the urge for self-mutilation had passed. Yes, I'm still sick, and it probably won't be a very productive day for me, but at least I won't end up toothless.

Spring Cleaning Epiphany

I need to clean my closet. A professional-organizer and fashion-forward friend of mine is appalled that hanging in there are pieces of clothing which are over ten years old and haven't been worn in five. (I think she's also silently horrified by the stuff that's ten years old that I still wear, but that's for another blog post.)

She's right, of course. I need to let some of this stuff go. But I might fit back into it someday! But I paid good money for it and only wore it twice! But I might have a wedding or a fancy dinner to go to! But... that work-out resolution isn't going very well. And the last time I went to a wedding, I bought something new. And when was the last time I actually went out to a fancy dinner?

Any-hoo. This past weekend, I'm at Savers doing a little thrift-store shopping with my sister and Hair Nite friends. In case you're not familiar, Savers is kind of like Goodwill. Some things are brand new, tags still on them. Some things are practically perfect, only worn once or twice. There are designer-name pieces that are certainly used, but made of good materials and still in good shape. There are items that I lift from the rod, consider thoughtfully, then go, "Eh," and put back. And, yes, there are things I am surprised anyone would want.

And as I'm sifting through all these things in the store, it hits me. It's just like my closet! And what I need to do to finally clean that stale compartment is take everything out and look at each piece as if I were going to buy it at Savers! If I'd spend $6 or $8 or $15 on something, it's going back in. If I wouldn't even buy it at a bargain price, it's headed out. (Probably to Savers.)

I know my friend, who is a thrifty shopper herself, will be proud of me. And with the extra space I get, I'll have room for the black velvet GAP dress, Ann Taylor capris, Lucky jeans and Born mary-janes I bought last weekend -- plus whatever I get with the coupon I'll receive for my big donation. Gotta love recycling.

My Backyard

Sometimes I think my (metaphorical) backyard isn't all that different from a lot of other people's. My home is in a first-ring suburb of a large city. Some of the schools are within walking-distance, others require a bus ride. There's a Target nearby. And a library. We're not too far from a shopping mall. I've got neighbors; some I know, some I don't. I read the local papers, occasionally watch the news. I live close to my immediate family, not close enough to my extended one.

Yet every day, I am made keenly aware that I do not share the same backyard as people who live only a few miles from me. I've never known extreme poverty or extreme wealth. I don't drive a luxury car, don't have a swimming pool. But I also don't wonder how I'm going to feed and clothe my children.

Basically, my backyard is in the middle. And honestly, I'm very comfortable in the middle. It's my favorite place. I'm a middle child. I have a moderate temperament. I don't need to be first but dread being last. So even if I've had a rotten day -- if the bills are piled up or the dishwasher overflowed, if I'm ticked at my husband or mad at one of my kids -- when I walk the dog around my neighborhood, it almost always lifts my spirits. Kids are usually out, laughing and playing. I wave at friends and often stop to chat. I pass sturdy, warm houses with pretty flowerbeds and imperfect lawns. I hear the birds and see the trees, and by the time I get home, I'm thinking that life is pretty damn good -- right here in my own backyard.

Associations

I have this weird thing. Certain items or images are, in my mind, indelibly linked to certain song lyrics. I blame my father for this.

When I was a kid, hanging around the kitchen at dinnertime, I would occasionally hear my mom say, "Jim, could you get me a platter?" And my father would chime, "Own-lee yooouuu!"

Get it? By The Platters? Maybe you're not old enough. Anyway. To this day, I can't reach for a platter in the cupboard without hearing that refrain.

So one day recently, I'm in the car, on my way to work and stopped at a stoplight, when I glance in the rearview mirror. Suddenly, the lyrics for Cold as Ice by Foreigner are rocking in my head -- because the woman in the car behind me is picking her nose. And I'm not talking just thumbing the nostril. She's got the first digit second-knuckle-deep.

Now for as long as I can remember, the rare instances of witnessing someone cleansing their nasal cavity in this manner have caused that particular late-seventies hit to reverberate through my brain.

Why, you ask? Well, sing along with me...

You're digging for gold

Yet throwing away

A fortune in feelings

But someday you'll paaayy!

I look away as quickly as I can, but unfortunately not only does the song stick with me for the next several days but so does the image of this uncouth stranger digging for gold. And now that I have relived the incident here, I'm sure it will be several more days before I can forget it again. Hopefully it won't be that long for you.



A Link

My firstborn turns seventeen today.

There are many cliched things to say when your child has a birthday. Things about how you'll never forget the day, how time has flown, how you remember being that age, how it was just yesterday...

But on this day, when I look at my son, I see more than just him and me on the day of his birth. I see more than just him at one or five or twelve. I see more than just me at twenty-seven or seventeen.

No, when I look at my son, I see my mother.

He is the only one of her seven grandchildren that she got to hold.

Tea Lights

So I'm at Costco last week with my nearly-seventeen-year-old, and he asks me if they sell candles.

“Maybe. Why?”

“I need a bunch.”

“How many?”

“345.”

The cart crashes into the end-cap stacked with peanut-butter pretzels as I gasp, “For what?!”

“I wanna ask someone to prom.”

My heart swells just a little, and I smile and steer back down the aisle, asking for an explanation as to what he has planned and promising that if they don't sell sacks of them here, we can check at Target – but I'm not driving all the way down to Ikea.

Target comes through for us. Four-hundred tea lights, two long-handled candle-lighters and $30 later, we go home and my son duct-tapes 345 tea lights onto cardboard, spelling out in big letters: PROM?

He drives to the girl's house, lights the candles (most of which won't stay lit in the wind), she says yes, and now I have 345 barely-used and 55 never-lit tea lights.

Any suggestions?

The 'Stache

I get it. I'm in my forties. I have dark brown hair. It was bound to happen. But when it started looking like my fourteen-year-old son's, it was time to do something about it. It being – da da da dum – The Momstache.

I've been checking out the options. There are a lot of them – some expensive, some not so much. At first I just plucked out the little dark rebels as they appeared. But I knew that wasn't going to be the answer forever.

So I'm at Hair Nite – no, it's not some weird waxing party, it's where me and my sisters and friends get together to have our (head) hair cut and colored, and we eat a lot and drink a lot and eventually say things like, “You should totally go lighter!” – and I decide to ask around. My younger sister tells me not to bother with waxing a 'stache; that it'll just grow back darker and thicker. She says bleaching is cheap and quick.

I'm all over cheap and quick, so I buy the box. But it sits on the shelf in the bathroom for a while. I mean, there's all these warnings about burning sensations and rashes and stuff. And it's not like I've got a hedge growing. In fact, I'm not sure anyone even notices the shadow except me – and that's only when I'm peering at it in the mirror.

But after a while, I get tired of tweezing (and kidding myself that no one who's ever stood close to me hasn't glanced at my upper lip – because I know I've done it to other women) and decide to give it a shot.

It's not that bad. There's only a little burning tingle in the few minutes that I have the cream on my face. And when I wash it off, there's no rash and no shadow! Yay!

So, of course, then I have to take off my glasses and lean over the sink to get a good look. And as I'm inches from the mirror, with my lip stretched down over my teeth, all I can see is a bunch of bright yellow hairs, and I think, Great. Now I look like The Lorax.

As soon as I get some cash, I'm ordering a no!no!

That One Person

That guy over there, across the room? He's not my boyfriend. He's not my Significant Other. He's not my Life Partner, my Domestic Partner, my Business Partner or my Dance Partner. He's not my Bed Buddy or my Friend With Benefits.

No, wait. He's all those things. He's my husband.

Ah.

Makes you look at him a little differently, doesn't it? Makes you look at us, as a couple, differently.

Having a spouse means something. Being a spouse means something. It means something more than all those other things combined. Everyone deserves the right to have and to be a spouse. Every couple deserves the right to be – if they choose – married.

There's no better way to identify yourself with that One Person.


No, not that guy. The other guy.

How We Got Here

A few years back, I wrote a book.

Some -- the four of you know who you are -- said, “I loved it! It made me cry! It made me laugh!” Others offered me a kind, “It was good.” I paid a publishing consultant $200 just to hear it was decent but WAY too long. And a published author (who didn't read it) told me to consider it an education and see if I could write another.

So I did.

The second book is certainly better-written and definitely a more publishable size (in other words, not a doorstop). With two books under my belt and several thousand hours devoted to the cause, I started thinking about making this writing-thing more than a hobby. I did research. Research told me to take a class.

So I did.

Research (and my instructor at the Loft Literary Center) told me to revise, revise, revise.

So I did.

Research told me to join a critique group.

So I did.

Research told me my first attempt at a query letter was crap and to start over.

So I did.

And now Research is telling me that potential agents and editors want to see if I can sell this book before they even decide to print it. Research is telling me that I must have an internet presence. Research is telling me that I need a blog and a Facebook page and a Twitter account. That I need to post and tweet.

Are you freakin' kidding me?

I have kids! I have a husband! I have a job, a house, laundry, dirty dishes, groceries to buy, meals to cook, carpools to drive, homework to help with. I spend all my free time trolling the internet for information about agents so I can write query letters that satisfy their specific submissionary needs!

And Research is telling me that I have to be worried about my social status and how many friends I have?! Good Lord, will we all never graduate from high school??

So here we are. I have a blog. I have a Facebook page. And I have to ask that you be my fan, my follower, my friend. Because someday someone might actually read my manuscript and say, “Hey, this is pretty good. But can she upload?”