Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Behold: my grandson.


My twins are 'grown and flown,' and have been for twenty years. I'm so sorry I missed those years, while they were growing up, and I did. I was there, all right, but in a fugue state, evidently.



My son was born with multiple birth defects. Thirty surgeries, six of them brain surgeries, before age nine. Much angst, beyond description, really. Suffice to say he was baptized four times, at deaths door.



His twin was unaffected, at least physically. She was affected all right, in a way that no child should ever experience. But, for my girl, it was rudimentary. She never knew anything else. I tried to make sure she knew her role, it seemed to come naturally to her. After all, they bonded in the womb, didn't they?  But in between all those clinic appointments, physical therapy,and everything else, I made sure she was able to celebrate too. Celebrate the miracle that is Gina.



I learned so much from my twins, especially when they were young. It cost them a lot for me to learn life's lessons, but learn I did, because they were excellent teachers.



We were all rewarded in the end. We have been given,and I bet if I asked him, gifts beyond compare. My son thrives and is successful. My daughter delivered to us the most amazing boy, ever.



I know all grandparents think that.But not all parents/grandparents realize the miracle that is Luca.




To watch him grow, learning two languages, seeing and appreciating his little neurons firing, synapses like fireworks, is a joy to behold. I missed that the first time around.  I was always worried about crisis,' and nurturing and so very busy orchestrating it all.


I care for this boy whenever needed, and I marvel at the wonder of him. I look at his tiny physique, his beautiful blond curls, big blue eyes and a laugh you could drown in.


And I thank God. As a family we not only survived the horrific traumas, we were rewarded, greatly, all of us.


I'll never wonder why anymore, because now I know...and I bet if you asked his uncle, even he would say it was all worth it.


DNA,  Go figure.

The State of Confusion

I have just spent two hours in New Jersey. It felt like a week.
I'm speaking, of course, of the unspeakable, reality tv.

It was too hot today, so my plans got cancelled and I was left with time on my hands, a book I'm too far into not to finish and cable.

The mind reels !

Who are these people? Why do they have so much money and such little lives? My God, the women dress like drag queens and the men look like steroid infused testosterone torsos, with muscles between their ears.


The children are overindulged beyond belief and if any of us had dared to express ourselves in such a way, would be dead, or want to be.




When I see God, one of my first questions is going to be "Why??"  Why  do so many people live such opulent lifestyles, to the point of the ridiculous, and so many others suffer and are hungry. But, I digress. Anyway, I'm sure God's probably sick of answering that one, because so many people are stymied.



In this,state, this New Jersey, "The Stupidity uh, Garden State" you see bad boob jobs - they look like they've had tennis balls implanted like pacemakers ! Their hair is volumized with extensions that are so poorly done you can see the stitches and they have talons for nails. The faces are filthy with make up. I spend so much money trying to look natural and evidently, at least in New Jersey, that's not the way to go. I'll stick with clear nail polish and lip gloss, thankewverymuch.



But the most pathetic, the most painful to watch, is a cast who's grammar is unforgivable, who's crisis' consist of imagined transgressions and who, with all of that wealth, actually spend it on themselves.

Then, because of people like me, they parade it on tv and get paid even more money.



Tonight's episode involved an extravagent christening during which, punches were thrown. Shades of Michael Corleone. The women were fighting among themselves and invited their children to the dinner that was scheduled to "resolve everything." Tables were overturned.



I pride myself on being at least a bit of an intellectual, at least I keep trying to improve. These people are so ignorant and have it so easy I cannot believe this is deemed reality tv.



Waitaminnit. Now, who's stupid?


Back to that book.....

Headlights and Highlights

I'm going for a change. I've decided to find my "natural beauty" and run with it, much to the dismay of my family and friends.


Five years ago, I experimented with my hair color and even my hairdresser loved it, despite his losing revenue. I stopped coloring my hair. I liked what I found ! It was white in the front and gradually went to gun metal gray in the back.


 I was born a blonde, was a towhead as a toddler and when I was a freshman in high school, was sabatoged by my sister and my mother with a box of "Summer Blonde." Turns out, as I entered puberty, one of my many changes was (horror of horrors!) my hair was turning dishwater blonde/light brown. (Frankly, I hadn't even noticed as I had several other changes going on that I found much more interesting.)


That night at dinner, my distinguished father made his opinion known, in no uncertain terms. Before he even sat down, he stood at his place and regaled us with the beauty of a nun's complexion. Nuns are beautiful because they do not mess with what God created. My heart slamming against my chest wall, I slunk down in my chair and professed that it was done to me, not by me. He looked at me as though I were still responsible. My guilt ruined the outcome for me but I continued the charade, covertly, through high school, gradually lightening my hair, so Dad wouldn't notice. (He was a doctor, it was never even remotely possible that he didn't notice.)


I know that I am blessed with "good hair." It's very thick, with a natural wave and I am grateful for the frequent compliments I'm given. I know too, that I'm lucky I have any hair at all, after having been married to a hairdresser for fifteen years. Every method/treatment/color was tried out first on me. I modeled in hair shows all over - Chicago, New York, Detroit & we won, almost every time, My ex-husband is a master hairdresser. I'd still go to him today, except I fear he'd give me the "Marie Antoinette"look.


When I last sported my silver hair, my youngest was living in France. On a visit home, when I picked her up at the airport she was thrilled with my decision. She liked what she saw. Three days later, at lunch, she stated "Mom. You've got to color your hair!" I questioned her about her initial impression at the airport and she'd since decided it made me look older. I pointed out that it made her  look older and that I would continue to wear it proudly.


Turns out, I was in the minority. Everyone who saw me, friends, family, co-workers, even bosses all had an opinion. And it was negative, and I caved. Back to the hairdresser, back to the process, back to blonde.


  Perhaps my hairdresser is encouraging me to go gray because I'm such a pain the ass to work on, all that thickness takes a lot of time to cover. The only thing that's thin about me (according to my cardiologist) is my vasculature...but that's a whole other blog.


Nonetheless, I love this stage of my life, I can stop coloring my hair and still be hip and that's just what I intend to do. It's a work in progress, it may take all summer, but I'm free to be me.


Make no mistake. I'll never give up my contact lenses. I do have some limits.


Here's lookin' at you ~

Damned if you do....

...and damned if you don't.

I'll never learn.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I always believed that with age comes wisdom.




Not so much.




With age comes lots of surprises, most of them good. Mentally you're more relaxed, less self concious, less inhibited. You worry less.You have more time to do for others and you have the inclination.Sometimes,if you're like me, you rush right in to help, but harm instead.



I'm a great listener. A fixer, not so much.



Most of the drama is gone from my life. So why do I invite it back? Is it something I can't live without? Am I so complacent in my life I get mired in the excitement and stress of others?



Ok, enough mystery. I screwed up. In trying to help someone, I've enraged someone else. I made a judgement call using poor judgement.
I feel horrible !  After much deliberation, I betrayed a confidence. I had knowledge I thought would aid someone else and I spilled the beans. I have since apologized but have yet to be forgiven. There's nothing I can do about it, my transgression actually helped the person who needed it, as I knew it would, but ended up hurting me.


It's hard for me to stand idly by if I think I can do something. It's hard for me to remember that the best way to help is simply to listen. That's something I'm going to have to work on. I'm going to carry on, concentrate on myself and my family and try to stay out of trouble. Less drama, more comedy.


Life is funny. Not funny haha, funny strange. Not drama, not comedy, more like dramedy.



 I'll carry on, try to remember my lines and forget everyone else's.  There's one I can't forget though, and it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Rodney King.



" Why can't we all just get along? "

Enraptured

August 15, 2003 was the day of the first rapture,and I remember it clearly.

Naturally, time stopped. EVERYTHING stopped. There was a black out and it was eerie.

I was leaving work when the power went out. It was still light out, so it was only mildly interesting. Until we realized that fifty million people had no power. Whatever was going on was affecting the northeast United States. It closed the Detroit/Canadian border, no tunnel, no casinos, everything went quiet.

Nuclear power reactors, subway systems, even water were shut off. There were no traffic lights, no phones, no way to charge your cell. And it was HOT, in the high eighties, low nineties. Restaurants were serving food at ridiculous prices, hospitals were on generators, I'm tellin' ya, it was spooky !

 What the hell? I was not alone in wondering if it were an act of terrorism or the end of the world. Those of you who are too young to remember it, believe it. It might have been the end of days.

It lasted about 48 hours in my area, 72 hours in other areas, other states, even parts of Canada.

So, I was not even mildly annoyed by the doomsayers yesterday. "The End Is Coming at 6pm May 20, 2011"  Really?  I know that even Christ doesn't know when it's scheduled. "No one knows the hour or the day, except God the Father." (Matthew 24:36)

The point is, I'm not in the least concerned,since I know where I'm going. Another point I'm making is that I already have my heaven on earth. I've got it good, man ~


I've got it all.

Feast or Famine, All or Nothing

Now that I'm retired, I often wonder how I ever had time to work...at other times I feel so crazed I wish I had that structure back in my life. I was committed, through working , to keeping certain hours.



Now my schedule is all over the place, BUT, it's feast or famine. I may have so much to do it's overwhelming, or, not enough to do and my days drag on, which makes me feel guilty. (Irish catholic, comes with the territory.)



If I had a regular schedule, I would have order in my life. I had it for almost thirty years and managed to keep all the balls in the air at the same time.



I need to recognize retirement for what it is, a kind of promotion. After all, watching my amazing grandson is the best job I ever had! Plus, it's part-time ! I have license to use my own judgement and am able to plan tasks according to my whims.I have more time to shop, go to the library and run errands during the week. I have respect for the employed and try to stay out of their way on the weekends. I remember getting frustrated about that, about seniors and young moms in line ahead of me, or causing traffic tie ups on weekend hours, when I was working full time.



I need to stop thinking about structure and schedules. I need to remember the words of the great Pearl Bailey and live accordingly:



I never really look for anything; what God throws my way comes.I wake up in the morning and whichever way God turns my feet, I go."

"Hello, Dolly!"

Twenty Things a Baby Boomer Never Thought She'd Say

   
1)  We're going to hang the tv today.


2) I saw gas @ $4.19 today, thank GOD !


3) I'm dying for some hummus!


4) I'll TIVO it.


5) So, I started a blog.


6) You've gotta live green, man.


7) Sorry, I've gotta take this.


8) I'll have a carmel machiatto latte grande minus foam please.



9) We should all be driving electric cars.


10) Remember when y2k didn't happen?


11) I was going to get the droid, but decided I'd just go with an IPad.


12) Chocolate martini, please.


13) That dress I saw is marked down to $2400.00 !


14) I don't have that app.


15) My friend got the cutest puppy ! It's a labradoodle !


16) She went to Japan, so I caught her on Skype.


17) Keep your phone on.


18) I got a Garmin, thank God!


19) I'll just make a deposit from home.


20) I can't make it, I have a Zumba class.

BEHOLD!

Think of the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you.

I can top it.

This didn't happen to me, (Thank You, God!)  it happened to somone I knew a long time ago. This person is pretty well known around here. She shall be nameless, for obvious reasons. Knowing me as she does, she wouldn't blame me for putting this out there, especially given her anonominity. It is one of the best stories I've ever heard and it goes like this:

We recovering catholics have a lot from which to recover. This particular anecdote took place back in the sixties, probably well before the ecumenical council took place. I point that out because since then a few changes have been made in the church. A few, not enough. But that's a whole 'nutha' blog.

At that time, it was required that females did not enter the house of the Lord without a head covering. Girls traditionally wore what was known as a chapel veil. It was a pretty, lacy,frothy, little white thing about the size of a yamulka. When you were older you would probably wear a black mantilla, but that was almost a rite of passage. We weren't that sophisticated yet. No matter what, your head must be covered and in a pinch, even a kleenex bobby-pinned in place would do.

My friend was the oldest of eight. (Oh, those catholics) One Sunday morning, she was instructed to get ready for church and make sure the others were present and accounted for. She did as she was told, grabbed her missal and chapel veil and off they went.

Depending on who's celebrating it, the mass can last about an hour. About forty-five minutes into it, my friend was tapped on the shoulder by the lady sitting behind her. This thoughtful woman whispered in her ear: "Dear, there's something tangled in your chapel veil." My friend made that frantic, grabby little move, to no avail. Her benefactress offered her help, leaned in and untangled....



a sanitary belt.



It had been sitting there, in that top drawer, all clean and ready to use,  snagged in the lace that made up the sacred head covering. In her haste, her scrambling to get everyone organized and ready to go, she who shall be nameless was unaware of what she was wearing so proudly as she prayed, sang, listened to the sermon and received communion.

She was so mortified she refused to return to that particular church for many years, until she was sure any witnesses must be dead. She never lost her faith, she only lost her nerve.


Hats off to all of us who have been caught in the act of being ourselves.


Onward, Christian soldiers.

"What Fresh Hell is THIS?"

Well,now what?

We're all aware that being in church makes you no more a christian than being in a garage makes you a car.

If you're gonna talk the talk, you'd better walk the walk.

No, this is not your concious speaking, it's mine.
And it's nagging me, constantly.

Because I'm not doing enough.I've got to figure out what I want to do, personally,hands on, rather than donating. I'm involved (& enamored with) a wonderful group with wonderful ideals and plans in motion. Their numbers are legion, their faith and their will is strong and they are making a difference. I'm proud that I belong to Pax Christi.

I used to feel that I made a difference. I still believe I did, in my own little way, for years and years, but I got paid for it. Now, towards the end of middle age, while I've still got some steam left, I'd like to use it.

I spent some time as a caregiver in the not too recent past, for a little boy who's Cerebral Palsy was so severe he had no abilities of his own. My problem with him is that he got too big for me to carry !

I'm thrilled to be able to care for my own (healthy,thank you God) grandson and I treasure every minute I get to spend with him. But that's getting, not giving.

I'll find something, different and special, I hope, but I wish I had traveled when invited overseas with "Operation Smile."  It's a ship that goes around the world, changing staff every 2 weeks. I was invited by a plastic surgeon I'd scrubbed in with to join this team about 12 years ago and I declined. The ports of call were Viet Nam and Kenya and their mission was to do nothing more than repair every cleft palate they could find. It's a forty-five minute procedure and gives these babies a better chance in life. There is no charge, the docs do their own triage and decide exactly whom will be given this gift the following day. Staff rotates every 2 weeks because they HAVE to, The conditions are poor, the hours are long and the work is exhausting. I was honored to have been asked, but declined. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.

So, I'll be thinking of something,probably minor, but something,anything, in the next few weeks that will make a difference.Not because I'm all that noble, but because the voices in my head are telling me to. And I'll do whatever it takes to quiet them.

I regret not taking the chance on "Operation Smile," but I need to get over it and move on, because that ship has sailed.

Godspeed.

In the Eye of the Beholder

I had a nice long visit today with a friend,a good friend, someone with whom I've shared a great deal.

As usual, our conversation was all over the place, as happens when you're in and out of touch over the years. The best thing about that kind of friend is that you can pick right up wherever you left off...and we always do. We  share anecdotes, catch each other up, laugh & bicker, just like the old days.

We touched on a lot of topics today and he, eventually,as he always does, struck a nerve. Not a major nerve (he can do that too) a minor one, but we touched on it lightly & it resonated enough that I decided to blog about it, he already knows how I feel.

 It's this:

 One of things I'm known and, presumably, loved for is my sense of humor. I'm fortunately (and amazingly, considering everything) a very high spirited person.Too grateful to get depressed, too tenacious to know when to lie down & say "Uncle!"

I have a finely tuned sense of the ridiculous. I'm not exactly "a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants" kinda gal - pratfalls and sight gags don't get me going. It's the unexpected, the bon mot, the witty, the puns, the subtleties of life that crack me up, that slay me. I'm great at laughing uncontrollably & inappropriately (ask anyone.)

But what doesn't ever delight or amuse me is sarcasm. I loathe, detest, despise and abhor it...(but lemme tell ya how I really feel !) I think it is, as I reminded my friend, the weapon of the weak, the heavy handed humor of the adolescent and certainly unkind. It isn't used by anyone I know or love, I'm happy to say, at least around me. My family are like me & and I guess that's the way we roll.  Laughter at another's expense is cruel. I find enough in my everyday world to keep me upbeat, smiling and for the most part, happy.

But, I guess it's all about your environment.

 "You don't have a sense of humor, it has you"
(Larry Gelbhart, producer of MASH)

Now,that's what I'm talkin' about!

Onwards and Sideways

I want to read all night again, like I've done for years, but my eyes won't let me, despite having a recent eye exam & desired correction. My eyes will tear & ache, forcing me to call it a night. Except, I can't. I am plagued with, not insomnia, because I have no problem falling asleep, but with "sleep disturbance" (the clinical term)

It's disturbing, all right, it's beyond disturbing, it's downright frustrating! It's like taking a nap in the middle of the night. Then I awaken. God only knows why,nothing nagging at me, causing me to toss and turn. In fact, my dreams are rather interesting. I wish they were longer.

I guess this goes back to an earlier post, about "Passages" by Gail Sheehy. This is part of it, isn't it..? I talk to friends, complain about it and learn that they, too were awake at just the same time. We could've gone out for coffee or started a backgammom game online. But no one wants to call anyone else in the middle of the night, in case they got lucky.

(I remember when "getting lucky" had a whole nutha meaning)

So, I've reasoned that lack of sleep is responsible for lost synapses.My neurons aren't firing as fast as they once did. What tricks are needed to hang on and stay sharp? I'm great at head games, as long as they have to do with math or sentence structure.

With retirement, I've lost any structure my life had. No schedule. (No regrets, either) so my wake/sleep schedule is like that of a newborn.

I think I'll start setting my alarm clock again, just so I'll have the pleasure of slamming "snooze."

Now, that's what I call "getting lucky."

Bittersweet

The best relationships I've ever had have been with my dogs.The most lasting, too.

I'm so enjoying the company of my faithful companion, a shih tzu, named Georgia. I realize that is an odd choice for a name, but it suits her & had I one more girl-child, it would've been her name. I think it's sweet & feminine.

Make no mistake, in no way is Georgia feminine. She is, however, very sweet. In fact, I like her more than I do most people. Shih tzu is a breed I never dreamt I'd own. I never imagined I'd be that lady with a lap dog. And now that's exactly who I am. The minute I met her, 12 years ago, I fell in love with her, her scary looking underbite & big  brown cow eyes. That underbite would keep her from ever being a show dog, thank God. (I haven't stooped to that yet.)

 At 6 weeks, she was the size of a hamster. I brought her home in a slipper. I found her in northern Michigan & I thought she looked as out of place as I felt while living there. I came to adapt, to love the lifestyle actually, but that's another story, another blog.

I've always loved dogs so much & owned several, but always a large breed. German Shepard, Goldens, & a Collie who, while beautiful, was dumb as a box of rocks.I loved her too (that would be Lucy) but she couldn't jump up in my arms without knocking me down.

Georgia can. Georgia has been with me longer than several of my ex-husbands.  (again, another story....) She has a personality that is so comical, so endearing and is such an important part of my life. Her traits are many & varied. It's like she's inside my head ( it gets crowded in there sometimes)

With the spring, I felt the urge to rearrange the living room furniture. This interested her greatly. Except. She doesn't like any change in her routine & refused to enter the area for 2 days! She made her derision known by standing in the dining room & barking at it. Finally she succumbed & has again found her niche.

Her niche is with me, wherever I am. I realized last night as I climbed the stairs, following HER schedule for bedtime (she's so insistent!) how much I will miss her when that sad day comes. I know I'll be inconsolable. I know too, that if dogs don't go to heaven, I want to go where they go.

Another Country Heard From....

Lately, I have been chewed up & spit out by people I thought I knew. People with whom I've shared holiday dinners, a Godchild, & so called "Facebook Friends." (really, how many of them would give me a kidney?

It all had to do with the exciting news that our # 1 national enemy has been killed. It all has to do with the varying reactions with which this news was met.I was, AM distressed by all the "Dancing in the Streets."  Martha Reeves knew that dancing in the streets was celebratory, but for the sheer joy of being alive, of experiencing Motown in the summer.

This. This is a horrific display, celebrating the fact that more killing, a vengeful killing occurred. While I appreciate that OBL has been found, that the figurehead is no longer, I cannot jump for joy over even more murder. I don't understand ( &, being a retired hippie,("Peace & Love, y'all") probably never will understand why things went down the way they did. A covert mission involving Navy Seals, check. The discovery of public enemy #1, check. The fact that OBL refused to surrender, check. He resisted arrest, check. ZING - 2 bullets, head & heart, check. Wait. Why?  I'll never understand why he wasn't overpowered, tasered, captured.

I realize it would've been costly to the American people to house this man, try this man, maintain this man. But there's no price on life. In my opinion, he needed to be captured, tried and then forced to live out his life in solitary confinement.

But that's just me, I'm a catholic, I'm pro life and I'm a retired hippie.

Peace & Love, Man ~

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." —Rev Dr Martin Luther King, Jr.

Strange, But True ...

I was in my home office, working on ( well, that doesn't matter) and I had nothing but silence surrounding me. I was engrossed in my project, typing furiously, when I heard the most beautiful, melodic whistling I've ever heard. It was pitch perfect and solitary. Clear as the night air. I stopped typing and was afraid to even move. All windows and doors were open, so I sat back to listen. The tune was familiar and complete. The song was a favorite. It was 4:15 am and someone was serenading me with " I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen"

I stepped outside, dog at my feet, silent too & learned the source. It made me laugh and cry at the same time and wonder if I were dreaming. ( I wasn't)

It was a nightwatchman across the way, walking through a parking structure, affording him delicious acoustics. Far too old for the job ( he HAD to be, knowing that particular song) and I'm thinkin' he was a little fearful of sabatoge. For while his lyrics are of another, safer day, his circumstances were not.

I hope he comes back, I hope he remains safe and I hope to God I hear him again