When life hands you lemons… December 31, 2007

I just finished reading “The Lovely Bones” by Alice Sebold, a Christmas gift from my nephew.

I’m exhausted, yet exhilarated. Amazing how a novel has the capacity to affect one’s mood so strongly.

The story is about a 14-year old girl who was raped and brutally murdered. It is told by the girl as she adjusts to her new life in “my heaven,” which is really a transitional dimension, a sort of infinite holding room, that her soul is temporarily placed in until she is able to reconcile the horror of her death and let go her earthly attachments to family and friends.

It was certainly a doozie. I tore through it in 3 days.

It was eloquently written. Beautiful in it’s curt frankness. The narrative captivated me with it’s very matter-of-fact delivery, like when the murdered girl states that her elbow was dug up by her neighbor’s dog. The technique, the style of how she talks about it – so far removed, so unemotional – was amazing and wonderful to me.

What is most interesting to me though, is the novelist herself. There is an article published at the end of the book that appeared in the Boston Globe after the book was released and praised as the best selling book of 2005 (?). Turns out she was in fact raped as a teenager and went through years of psychological trauma. She discusses how she had pursued writing as a means of therapy. After taking some creative writing classes, she went for her masters in writing, became a writing professor, and wrote a few novels that were never published. Eventually she wrote the first chapter of The Lovely Bones in one day, and she was well on her way. She comments in the article that she never realized the horror of her rape would prove to be her ultimate liberation in the telling of her story and propulsion into a writer’s life.

I’m inspired. Blown away. Motivated.

I had written in my journal once that I never thought in a bazillion years the tragedy of my dad’s death would be the thing that got me to write. Perhaps I’ve begun making a small batch of lemonade. Sour, but drinkable.

Cowboys December 28, 2007

Last week my company offered overstock 2008 calendars free to all employees. They were basically all the designs that didn’t sell. We were invited to go up to the stockroom to check out the variety of design themes and take whatever we wanted at will. I was like, “Nah, what do I need a wall calendar for?” Of course, today I found myself wanting to reference a date a few months out, and it would have been mighty convenient to be able to just glance at a calendar in front of my face (nevermind that I have a calendar at my fingertips on my
computer!) Anyhow, I e-mailed the girl in charge and asked her if there were any left or had they all been grabbed by now? She said she had exactly two left: Fly Fishing and Cowboys. I figured she meant the football team. Dang if I wasn’t pleasantly surprised! Nice! Now I can enjoy keeping company with a bunch of
husky Marlboro men in my cube!

Whew. Gotta love a man with a lasso. Check it out!

Christmas Gifts and Goofs December 27, 2007

Another Christmas has come and gone. Tucked inside the yearly traditions were many memorable moments that whisked by too fast to be preserved on camera or accurately recollected for my memoirs. What can be documented however, is Gianni being 10 months and giggling with blissful glee, and Michaelina being 6 years and bursting with perfectly wonderful wide-eyed exuberance.

Butterscotch, an enormous mechanical pony, was the motherload of presents this year for Lina. It’s all she’s longed for for the last 11 months. Her Nana introduced her to Butterscotch one day whilst shopping at Target. That’s all she wrote. Michaelina has been pining for that horse ever since. I don’t think Santa and his elves knew what they were in for this year, cause Lina’s friend Erin asked for it too… and her friend Fiona… and her friend Ada. I wonder if Santa had trouble getting the sleigh off the ground this year?

Gianni was pleased as punch to just sit on the floor and watch Lina groom Butterscotch and feed her a carrot. Lina tore open a few of his gifts for him, but here we are two days later, and many of them are still sitting under the tree, fully wrapped. Oh well. What can you do? He takes his time. I love that about him.

Neal received his coveted i-pod. 160 GB. He would have been more enthused had he not accidentally discovered the invoice while cleaning off the kitchen table 3 weeks ago. Seems I went upstairs to bathe the kids and left the evidence right out there in the open. I was heartbroken. I really wanted to shock him this year with my stroke of gift-giving brilliance. Except for the Father’s Day Beermeister, I have yet to truly impress him in the awesome-present department. One year I gave him an iron. What? He was living with bachelors. He needed one.

Another year I gave him a vaccum. No wait. That was the same year.

One year I gave him a t-shirt from the bahamas. And a pipe. Yeah, that kind. You smoked from the end of a rather large phallus. I thought it was thoughtful.

Another year I gave him ice skates. That was pretty good, I guess. Until I saw him use them on ice. Let’s just say to my disappointment, he’s no Brian Boytano. I had envisioned us skating romantically together. My hand in his. Maybe he would even lift me up and twirl me around like Big Bird did with that little girl in Christmas Eve on Sesame Street. In reality, maybe a hit off the phallus pipe would have helped with his sense of balance.

This year I was very impressed with myself. The i-pod was to redeem me for all the gifts gone wrong. I suppose it still did, sans the element of surprise. He’s anxious to load it up and use it, so I suppose I done good.

Happy December 21, 2007

Little baby G-man woke up, drank his bottle, and when his belly was feeling happy, he pulled the bottle from his mouth and just laid there in his daddy’s arms. Neal rocked with him in the rocking chair. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. All quiet. All peaceful. All content.

As I put my socks and shoes on, he and his da-da looked on. The room had that grey-blue hue to it, the color of early winter morning. The house was silent except for the creak of the rocking chair.

It was one of those times when you will yourself to resist saying even a single word, for breaking the silence would surely influence the precious sweetness suspended inside the moment.

As if it couldn’t get any sweeter, the baby began to softly, rhythmically clap his hands in time with the rocking.

Neal and I looked at each other, smiled wide, then looked to the baby and quietly whispered, “Yay!”

Party On December 17, 2007

I attended our friend Scott’s 40th birthday party this past weekend. I have to admit. I had a lot of anxiety going into it. It’s a tough time of year for me, for a lot of people. By the time mid-December hits, many of us are typically so short on time, money and patience, that a party tends to feel more like an inconvenient hassle than a welcomed reprieve.

The room was cozy and set for the season, with a fireplace (complete with the twinkly lights on the mantel), wreaths, soft candlelight, and 3 christmas trees decorated in holiday cheer. The atmosphere was ambient and lovely.

When all the guests began to arrive, gradually people gathered into their comfortable, predictable cliques. I was feeling surprisingly merry within the setting, despite my will to be miserable, so I decided to introduce myself to a few people I’d never met… Scott’s family and other friends. Some greeted me with warm friendly faces, others threw their defensive walls right up. Nonetheless, I made small-talk with a few people, chatting about how they knew Scott and what a nice room it was… I mingled, I toasted a couple beers, I began to feel warm and fuzzy. The band took to the stage, with the birthday boy on drums, and I was one of maybe three people groovin’ to the classic rock music. A few guests bobbed their heads in their seats or tapped their foot as they stood and looked on. A few others sat motionless and still, if not entirely bored. Meanwhile I did the twist and rocked out front and center.

As the party went on, I began to realize that the room was literally divided. All the way in the back of the room stood our group of friends literally whooping it up. Gathered at the tables sat the other group that looked as if they’d just attended a funeral.

In my mind, this called for the one-(wo)man-pep-rally… me.

The band broke into some hot rockin’ tune and I grabbed one of the many inflatable Eddie Van Halen guitars that seemed to be mourning the lack of people’s interest in themselves. I rocked out and made a complete ass of myself as my friends grabbed their cameras and snapped away.

I turned to my friend, Desi, and said, “Come with me.” We went out onto the porch and I said, “Put all the coats on me.” Desi is one of the happiest, giggliest partiers around, and one of the biggest advocates of the ridiculous. After she finished laughing at the idea, she immediately sprang into action and organized the coats from smallest to largest, thinnest to thickest and wardrobed me.

Picture Randy from “A Christmas Story.” I couldn’t put my arms down. My belly hurt from laughing. Soon there were multiple scarves wrapped all around my head, neck and face. It was utterly hilarious.

Desi opened the front door and I went bobbing into the room. I had only one intention, to make Scott laugh so hard on his birthday, he’d forget what he was playing. I loafed up to the front of the stage and bounced in place. A few people chuckled and snapped more pictures, but as I later learned Scott couldn’t see me from behind the drum kit on stage. The musicians never missed a beat, and I felt a bit sheepish waddling back to the porch.

Soon thereafter, I was called to the stage to belt out my rendition of Heart’s “Crazy On You.” It’s often a crowd pleaser, however my angle on the song is always to make a mockery of myself. Which I consistently seem to do well.

As that song ended, the band immediately went into the opening notes of AC/DC’s “Shook Me All Night Long.” Sigh. This is my signature song… however at this point in the night, I had been acting like such an ass, it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I did it anyway, and my husband laughed his head off at me, as usual, more photos were snapped, and my vocal chords wanted to strangle me for all the abuse. We ended the night with a spontaneous 3-verse version of “Happy Birthday” in which I proceeded to torment the audience with silly made up parts such as, “How old are you now? (OLD AS SHIT!)”

After I had long overstayed my welcome, I jumped off the stage and began to help with the clean-up. Scott’s brother approached me and said the only words he said all night, “Well, you certainly don’t enjoy drawing any attention to yourself.” Scott’s sister came over and said, “You really need to work on coming out of your shell.” Scott’s mother remained markedly silent as she scrubbed dishes.

My neighbor Susan and her boyfriend Warren cornered me saying they were impressed with the “New Denise.”

Another neighbor, Jen, said she was very “entertained.” Another neighbor said nothing at all.

I woke up Sunday morning, mortified. I second-guessed everything I had done in the spirit of spontenaeity. I berated myself for the way I acted. I felt embarrassed. I felt sad. I felt stupid. Then it occured to me that the only thing I should really be feeling is gratitude. Because at the end of the day, I lived in the moment. I celebrated the gift of life that equaled the birth of one of my best buddies 40 years ago. I am grateful for my legs that dance, my voice that “sings,” my belly that laughs, and my eyes that see what a beautiful thing it all was.

“Things To be Desired” December 13, 2007

DESIDERATA
Written by poet and lawyer, Max Ehrmann, in the 1920s
(Not “Found in Old St. Paul’s Church in 1692″)

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Wishes & Heroes December 11, 2007

I was 8 months pregnant as I watched the towers fall on 9/11. I sobbed on my family room floor in paralyzed grief. I felt utterly useless. After all, what could I do? It’s not like anyone could jump a plane and be there in a flash to help. I paced and paced and paced that day, climbing the walls with an insatiable need to help.

I fell to my knees in anguish when I watched live footage of the Tsunami literally ripping apart families as they clung to each other for dear life. I sobbed. I paced.

I stared in slackjawed disbelief and squeezed my eyes closed in denial as I watched Katrina devastate the lives of our brothers and sisters here in America.

I was stunned and horrified as I read about the massacre in Lancaster, when some insane psychopath opened fire on innocent children in an Amish schoolhouse.

These are the headlines. And there are infinitely more tragedies that have the capacity to level me at every corner.

Yesterday, the news reported that a 14 year old girl was found in a trash heap behind her condominium complex. In the middle east, 60 women were brutally beaten and murdered for not wearing veils. A toddler in Texas was thrown across the room when he resisted having his diaper changed and died of multiple blows to the brain. And this past weekend, here in my town, a spirited 19 year old girl has just succumbed to her long, courageous battle with cancer and gone Home. And as her family bids her farewell, they struggle to keep their own.

The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming.

But there is hope. It’s in the form of a website, and it’s called Wish Upon A Hero.

It’s a meetingplace for people with hopes and needs, and the humanitarian ambassadors that have the capacity and desire to grant them. Just one case – A woman caught in the California wildfires lost everything. She had nowhere to go. So a wish ambassador offered her one of the two homes she had in Nebraska. The woman didn’t know how she’d possibly get there, so within hours, dozens more wish ambassadors pay-palled her the gas money to make her journey.

I’ve heard it said, “Instead of being part of the problem, be part of the solution.”

I think the problem is that when tragedy strikes, far too many of us say, “Oh, that’s what the Red Cross is here for.” or “That’s what FEMA’s here for.” or “That’s what the EMT’s are here for.” or “That’s what the fire fighters are here for.” or “That’s what the churches and non-profits are here for.” But guess what? The Red Cross and EMT’s and firefighters and churches and non-profits are me and you and your dad and your cousin and your neighbor. When this stuff happens, that’s what WE’RE here for.

Today, I have a wish… that I find the wish I have the ability to grant.

Honor Your Father & Mother December 10, 2007

This morning I’m thinking of the word “honor.” There are 10 meanings in the dictionary:

hon·or
Pronunciation: ˈä-nər
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French onur, honur, from Latin honos, honor
Date: 13th century
1 a: good name or public esteem : reputation b: a showing of usually merited respect : recognition 2: privilege 3: a person of superior standing —now used especially as a title for a holder of high office 4: one whose worth brings respect or fame : credit 5: the center point of the upper half of an armorial escutcheon6: an evidence or symbol of distinction: as a: an exalted title or rank b (1): badge, decoration (2): a ceremonial rite or observance c: an award in a contest or field of competition darchaic : a gesture of deference : bow eplural (1): an academic distinction conferred on a superior student (2): a course of study for superior students supplementing or replacing a regular course7: chastity, purity 8 a: a keen sense of ethical conduct : integrity b: one’s word given as a guarantee of performance 9plural : social courtesies or civilities extended by a host 10 a (1): an ace, king, queen, jack, or ten especially of the trump suit in bridge (2): the scoring value of honors held in bridge —usually used in plural b: the privilege of playing first from the tee in golf

Interesting how none of those definitions accurately apply.

I recently picked up the book “One More Day” by Mitch Albom, the same guy that wrote “Tuesdays with Morrie.” I began reading it last week. I’ve only gotten maybe 1/4 of the way through it so far… as I’m a little short on time these days, I guess. Last night, the Made-For-TV movie version was on ABC. I didn’t want to watch it because I wanted to finish the book first, but I was irresistably drawn in by the previews and figured it just may be one of those movies I’d be foolish to miss.

My instincts were right.

The story is about a washed up professional baseball player who once even made it to a World Series. After the Series, while playing in an insignificant exhibition game, he injured himself and his career as a professional athlete was officially over. His dreams were shattered and he spiraled down into an apathetic life of dead-end sales jobs and alcoholism. His mother dies, his wife leaves him, and his daughter chooses not to invite him to her wedding. He concludes it clearly doesn’t matter to anyone if he lives or dies, so he decides he will take his own life. As he’s about to pull the trigger, he sees his dead mother standing before him in the flesh. The rest of the movie is a reflective life journey with his mother as his angelic guide, although he doesn’t necessarily realize it. Her appearance, he chalks up to hallucinatory drunkenness. In the end he comes to realize the depth of his mother’s love for him, the sacrifices she willingly made, the poor choices he’s made, and ultimately the chances we all are granted to right the wrongs in our lives.

It really moved me. To the point that I was overcome with grief for the opportunities I’ve let pass to hug my mother, kiss her, and thank her sincerely for all she’s given, and continues to give me. My mom is 65 now. I realize there will come a day, not long from now, that I will be standing at her grave and long to have her with me and my children. There will be a dizzying amount of “I’m sorry’s” in my heart that I’ll wish I’d have said, and infinitely more “Thank You”s.

My daughter is 6 and my son is 9 months. I want them to have their Nana forever.

I want to have my mommy forever.

After the movie was over, I sobbed with my head in my hands as I revisited the ways I’ve often failed to observe the basic Christian value of honoring my parents. I’ve been without my dad for 12 years now, and in licking my grief-stricken wounds, I’ve found a certain degree of healing in writing about him. Last night, I cried myself to sleep as these words looped in my mind, “Honor your mother… Honor your mother… Honor your mother… Honor your mother… Honor your mother… “

Morning Glory December 6, 2007

Michaelina opened the bathroom door excitedly this morning. With a beaming smile on her face, she interrupted the conversation Neal and I were having as I applied my makeup and he showered.

“Mommy? Can you come in Gianni’s room real quick?”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yes. Just come here.”

“Can it wait ’til I’m done getting ready for work?”

“It’ll only take two minutes, Mom.”

I set my makeup down and followed her into the baby’s room where he was kicking and punching the air with reckless abandon. He squealed at the sight of me and flashed a smile so huge, I think the sun had competition for brightening the day. He kicked furiously and released a long, ecstatic scream.

Michaelina and I laughed. Neal laughed from the shower. The baby laughed at us.

Between giggles, I asked Michaelina, “Ok, so what’s up? What did you need me for?”

“Mom. Gianni said his first words.”

I should mention here that Gianni is only 9 months old. His “words” consist of “Dahdahdah,” “Baaahb,” and “Brweh,” with the occasional “MaaaaaaaahMehhh” thrown in for good measure.

“He did?” I mocked surprise. What did he say?

“He said… ‘EXPLOSION’ and ‘EGGS.’”

Mother & Child December 5, 2007

I sat down for day three of my Advent commitment to contemplative silence this morning. At the heart of my silent prayers, there continues to be a deep concern for children, for their faith. I feel a sense of urgency for parents to insulate their lives with prayerful contemplation and reflection. In doing so, their kids will observe what it means to walk in faith.

As I sat in the quiet darkness, my daughter suddenly appeared. I hadn’t even heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. I opened my eyes and there she stood.

“Mommy? Can I pray with you?”

I was stunned.

“Of course, honey. Please do. Here, come sit with me.”

She shuffled over to me and sat in my lap.

After a few long moments of silence she gently whispered, “What do we do now?”

I smiled and whispered back, “We sit still in the quiet and just think about God.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

So there we sat, just me and my beautiful little girl, praying in total darkness and silence. A six year old. Sat. Still. Praying.

I was, and still am, completely blown away.

After a half hour (!) of complete stillness, I broke the silence with the Our Father. I stretched out onto the floor and breathed in deeply. She rubbed my arm and laid her head on my belly, just as she’s always done since she was a baby. As we lay there together, I flashbacked to the day she was born. I distinctly recalled the pain of her birth, and the sublime joy at the first sight of her beautiful face. I remembered the intense devotion I felt, right then and there, to faithfully raise her and help her grow into the loving child of God she was divinely designed to be. At her baptism, tears had run down my face as I reflected on my Christian responsibility, feeling honored beyond measure to be her mother.

It’s amazing how life has it’s way with you, how we always tend to get so caught up in nonsense. This morning, the pattern was broken for me. I was delivered back to my original intention – to be the mother I’m divinely designed to be.