Month: March 2012

Fake Plastic Trees

Our tattered and often read Random House copy of The Lorax by Dr. Seuss.

We took the kids to see The Lorax tonight. I have to admit that I pushed to see it. We’ve had the Dr. Seuss book in our house for years, and it’s a favorite of mine. On a camping trip years ago we were introduced to it at a ranger-led evening program. I liked the story’s message, but moreover I like Dr. Seuss.  I can’t help it. His books are just too much fun to read aloud, and I love to read aloud to our boys.

I could give you my review of the film, but I won’t. I will let you see for yourself what you think of it. What I am going to do instead is briefly address the controversy surrounding the film. On Fox News late last month, Lou Dobbs accused The Lorax of indoctrinating children by “espousing the virtues of green energy policies.” Having read the book many times, I must admit that I missed that agenda altogether. I also can’t recall any comments in the film about energy at all. While there are messages about pollution and destruction of the environment, the film (like the book) is a cautionary tale about abusing the finite resources of the planet on which we live. The Lorax plainly “speaks for the trees” which, in the story, are being felled at an alarming rate until ultimately every last truffula tree has been cut down.

Now, I’m not afraid to admit that I am left leaning. I am. Lou Dobbs could definitely lump me in with members of the liberal left with an environmental agenda. While I’ve never actually hugged a tree (at least not intentionally or while I was sober), I do try to respect the environment or at least acknowledge the importance of its existence. I mean, we currently occupy the only planet that we’ve thus far found can support human life. If we kill off the fish, birds, and trees on this planet or pollute or otherwise mismanage our water resources, we’ve got nowhere else to go. Unlike the refugees aboard Battlestar Galactica who can reside on a giant space ship traveling through the universe in search of another home, at this point in time if we ruin our planet we’re effectively screwed.

What saddens me the most about the controversy surrounding this film is that there is any controversy at all. The idea that there’s something inherently evil or ill-advised about caring for our planet is ridiculous. I also refuse to accept that it’s only liberals who care about conservation. Theodore Roosevelt was a Republican president who over 100 years ago set aside 230 million acres of land under federal protection. He knew then the importance of presiding over nature with care and conscience. If Lou Dobbs and other members of conservative media want to view The Lorax as an attempt to indoctrinate the youth of this country with a “liberal” agenda of environmentalism, they’re welcome to their opinions. I’m going to reach across political lines and stand with Teddy on this one. I don’t want to live in a world like Thneedville with fake, plastic trees.

“We have become great because of the lavish use of our resources. But the time has come to inquire seriously what will happen when our forests are gone, when the coal, the iron, the oil, and the gas are exhausted, when the soils have still further impoverished and washed into the streams, polluting the rivers, denuding the fields and obstructing navigation.”   ~Theodore Roosevelt

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Not Just A Lark

“I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.” ~ Laura Ingalls Wilder

Winter in Colorado is far too long-lived. Because we can get snow from September through May, as the actual winter season winds down I begin scouring the landscape for any signs that longer, sunnier, warmer days (sans snow) are on the horizon. There is one sign in particular that I relish beyond measure…the return of the western meadowlark to the prairie fields that surround our home. I’m a bit obsessive about it, actually.

Beginning March 1st, I find a few minutes each day to stand out in the still brisk winter air to listen for the meadowlark. Sometimes it surprises me by being accessible the very first day I listen for it. Other years I haven’t heard it until March 21st or so. But, the song of that bird makes everything right in my world after a too long, too cold winter.  Their migratory return to the fields behind our home heralds the potential greatness of the upcoming summer: long bike rides with friends, days at the pool, concerts at Red Rocks, hiking with my boys, camping in the high country, impromptu block parties where we sit on the sidewalk with neighbors…cold beers in hand. Yep. The song of one small bird evokes all those beautiful thoughts in my winter-weary head.

This morning I was sitting in bed with my laptop, enjoying the latte provided by my weekend coffee bitch Steve, and through my bedroom window I heard it. I paused. I think I heard it. I tossed my laptop on the bed, threw off the covers, and pulled open the window for verification. I scanned the landscape behind our home looking for its tell-tale figure resting on the barbed wire fencing or a tall, long-dead prairie weed. I heard the songs of finches, but no meadowlark. Damn. It wasn’t the meadowlark. Just as I started to close the window, though, the song came again. It was the meadowlark. It was back.

My heart smiled. And, just as I do every year, I leaped to my feet and began yelling to my family at the top of my lungs.

“It’s back! It’s back! The meadowlark is back!!”

Long used to my obsessive ranting about this tan and yellow bird, my family ignored me. Their lack of enthusiasm, however, didn’t dampen my joy. I pulled the blinds up, sat on the floor at the window, and listened for his song again, my heart a bit lighter, my day made, summer finally on the horizon. People often say it’s the little things that make life worth it, and they’re right. The big things are wonderful, but if we take the time to search out and appreciate the little things every day there’s no need to sit around and wait for the big ones. Our souls are filled already.

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My Little Genius

All attitude, but at least it's the right one.

I more often write about my son Joe than about my son Luke. The reason for that is straightforward: Joe is complicated. I struggle more in dealing with him, so I have more to work out about my relationship with him through my writing. My youngest, on the other hand, is simple. He’s affable, confident, hardworking, creative, and affectionate. He loves money, he solves problems, he is a natural-born debater and politician. He has his quirks (seriously, Luke…a different utensil for each food item on your plate?), but he is fun and generally easy to be around.

One of my duties as a mother of boys is to prepare my sons to be the best boyfriends and husbands they can be. To that end, I’m teaching them how to clean bathrooms, how to pick up after themselves, how to hold doors for people and use polite manners, and I’m teaching them that girls are just as capable as they are. Ever since Luke was four he has told us how much he wants to be a husband and a father someday. When I glance into my crystal ball and imagine Luke as an adult, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he will make an excellent life partner for some lucky woman. How do I know this? He’s given us many insights. Tonight, for example, my darling 8 year old boy said this to his brother:

“That’s how you get the girl, Joe…you just do what she wants.”

Only eight and the kid is a genius.

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I Like Big Butts

My friend Kelly posted this Nike ad as her Facebook photo this week. I immediately loved it. I love the photo. I love the text. I love the idea behind it. The entire campaign takes women’s scorned, maligned body parts and shines a positive spotlight on them. There is an ad for big butts, thunder thighs, man shoulders, tomboy knees, and stick legs. I so wanted to find an ad like Kelly had that I could relate to and that could be my inspiration. Sadly, none of them worked with my body issues. While my butt is what I call “fluffy” (as opposed to flat), it would be unfair to characterize it as big. I do have muscular thighs, but they are not actually thunderous. I am not broad shouldered from swimming because my idea of swimming is sitting poolside with a Coke Zero and my iPod. And, while I do occasionally have tomboy knees acquired from falling while inline skating or not clipping out of my bike pedals fast enough, that one doesn’t truly resonate with me either. My legs, belonging to a woman of approximately 5’4″, are not even remotely long or stick-like. Wait a minute. None of these fit because I have no body flaws? Impossible! My hyper self-critical mind simply wasn’t looking hard enough.

My Popeye calves
My Popeye Calves

So, I took a good, long look at my entire body today, reviewing its perceived imperfections from head to foot. I thought it might be fun to create my own inspirational ad since Nike didn’t bother to make one that suits me. I’d lose the message of the campaign if I attempted to put a positive spin on my “too many Hot Tamales” muffin top or my arms that have that aging woman, chicken-fat thing going on where my triceps used to be, so I scratched those off the list of possibilities. I kept thinking. The only thing that might be campaign appropriate are my large calves. The ad could read like this: “I have bulky calves. They get bruised from my ski boots, make it difficult to pull off my skinny jeans, and remind me all too much of Popeye. But, they get me places. They crank up stairs at Red Rocks and whip through miles on my bike. They’re not dainty, but they could kick your butt.” Okay. Okay. I’m not exactly Don Draper in the advertising business, but you get the idea.

I noticed that an odd thing occurred as I reflected on my body and its imperfections today: they seemed to disappear. Yes. My calves are bulky and not traditionally effeminate, but any day I’d take my muscular legs over another woman’s long, straight, piano legs. There’s also nothing wrong with my butt, which has that C-curve from doing chair pose and crescent lunge in power yoga, but at least it fills out the pockets of my jeans. That extra skin that comprises my muffin top? I earned that by carrying two small beings around on my inside for nine months…each! Think about how amazing that is. Every scar, bruise, and imperfection is part of my story, part of the whole of me. My body isn’t perfect, but neither is anyone else’s…no matter how enviable they seem.

Do I think Nike’s ad campaign was successful? Well, it didn’t make me want to run out and buy any Nike gear, but it did make me think. Mary Engelbreit said, “If you don’t like something — change it. If you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.” I’m going to work to change the way I think about my body. It might not be worthy of a photo shoot in a Victoria’s Secret catalog, but it’s strong, healthy, and capable. That in itself is pretty awesome.

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Nothing Lasts Forever…Except That Tattoo

My tattoo..if I ever get one.

My amazing sister-in-law is turning 50 in a few weeks. A couple days ago, out of the blue, she texted Steve and told him she had gotten a tattoo. This was a shock. Such a shock, in fact, that his initial response was a simple but appropriate, “What? And where?” He had no idea she was considering a tattoo. Apparently she shocked herself by doing it. We haven’t yet inquired as to her sudden motivation to bear a lotus flower on her forearm. (I blame that on shock too.)

Hubby and I have debated off and on ever since we’ve known each other about whether we should get tattoos. So far, we’re still uninked. Many of our friends have them, and now all three of our siblings do. About fourteen years ago, we discussed it after meeting our now good friends Robb and Rebecca. Robb and Rebecca are infinitely more hip than we are (proof of my unhipness: I still say “hip”). If they had tattoos, then maybe we should too? So, we began seriously considering it. It went like this:

Me: If you got a tattoo, what would you get it of?

Steve: I don’t really know, which is why I’ve never gotten one.

Me: I can’t think of a thing that I want permanently on my body.

Steve: It should be something that means something to you, right?

Me: In theory, yes, especially since it’s yours for life.

Steve: Well, then, I guess I could get a basketball tattoo.

Me: You mean of like a player or a logo or something?

Steve: No. Of an actual basketball.

(This is where I looked at him like I had no idea what I had married.)

Me: A basketball. A round tattoo that’s orange? That’s it? That’s the best idea you can come up with?

Steve: Well, I like basketball.

Me: Well, I like Red Vines but I’m not getting an image of them tattooed on me forever. Sorry. You cannot get a basketball tattoo. 

And that is when the whole tattoo topic was tabled for further discussion at a later date, preferably at a time when my husband would not be quite as enamored with basketball.

That is why all these years have gone by and we remain uninked. Steve still has not come up with a better tattoo idea than a basketball, and I remain vehemently opposed to that idea. I, unlike Steve, have an approved image, one that means something to me personally, but I can’t decide where it should go. So, we’re still stuck. I figure that by the time we know what we want and where we want it we will either be too saggy to be tattooed or so old that we’ll park our car near the parlor, start walking there, forget where we were headed, and turn around and go home ink-free.

A tattoo is such a lot of commitment. I suppose that’s what is ultimately the hold up. Neither one of us is willing to deal with that level of permanence. We had less concern and discussion about getting married than we have had about getting a silly tattoo. But, then again, a tattoo is forever.

(Author’s Note: Steve and I had a good laugh after I read him that last line, so no worries. My next post will not be about our pending divorce.)

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No More Monkeying Around

Time to tame my monkeys

Ever have one of those days when you are determined to be miserable? I had one today. Every single thing anyone said was an affront or insult or accusation. Nothing worked out the way I wanted. The universe was conspiring against me. I felt completely misunderstood, unappreciated, and thwarted. I even had a headache. Nothing could improve my day. That’s all there was too it.

As self-fulfilling prophecies go, I set up my bad day with my lousy attitude. I acted it out that way with my grumpy behavior. And, I poisoned everyone I came in contact with by sharing my foul mood. And, even though I knew I was my own worst enemy, I couldn’t seem to stop the train wreck that I was creating with my self-defeating thoughts. Sometimes it’s difficult to get my brain to cooperate with what my heart knows. My monkey mind was messing with me. My head was filled with chattering monkeys clamoring for attention and directing me away from what I know is important. Today the fear monkey was the loudest, but his idiot brother the self-doubt monkey chimed in too, creating a cacophony of dissonant noise that disquieted my soul and turned me into someone I am not. Oh, how I hate those bloody monkeys. I can’t believe I allowed those blathering, stinky beasts carte blanche in my head today. I let them win.

In a valiant attempt to silence the monkeys and alter my state of mind, I forced myself to go to yoga tonight even though I had concocted a million and one reasons not to go. I went because when I least want to go is the exact time that I most need to go. I was right, too. The minute I got on my mat, my blood pressure came down, my day melted away, and those monkeys finally shut up. By the time I got to my car after class was over, I was a new person.

I’m not happy with myself for paying attention to the primates in my brain today. If I’d been a little quicker with the self-realization I would have muffled them sooner and tossed them back into their cages where the belong. I would have done it before I’d spoken out of turn and been hurtful to people I truly care about. Just as I was bound and determined today to be miserable, though, I am determined to make tomorrow an infinitely better, healthier, more productive day for myself. No more negativity. Those poo-slinging primates will not live rent free in my brain tomorrow. They’re going to have to take their monkey business elsewhere.

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Food Fight

Hubby and I have a fundamental disagreement about food. I don’t get excited about it and he does. To me, food is sustenance. If it happens to taste good, all the better. Generally speaking, however, I don’t care enough about it to work particularly hard for it. I’m just as happy with a bowl of cereal or cold pizza as I am with Chateaubriand. Steve, however, comes from a family where food is an event. His mother is an accomplished cook who loves to read cookbooks, find new recipes, and experiment. She truly enjoys preparing elaborate meals. I’d rather ride my bike and get Thai takeout.

Now, before you go feeling bad for Steve, you should know that I am a capable cook. I know my way around the kitchen. I’ve been cooking meals since I was about thirteen. Not only can I follow a recipe, but I’m also completely adept at improvising and throwing together something tasty out of a pile of random ingredients in the fridge. I can cook but, not unlike the title character in Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener, I would prefer not to. It’s just such a lot of work for something I simply do not care about.

In a not-so-covert attempt to encourage finer dining in our house, we’ve mysteriously been receiving Cuisine at Home magazine for at least six years now. (I suspect my husband mentioned he liked it and his parents got us a perpetually renewing subscription.) Hubby drools while he drags new issues around the house with him and puts dog ears on pages he’s interested in. I usually pretend I don’t see it and then when he’s not looking I add the latest issue to the big pile of back issues.

The most recent issue, however, had a recipe that intrigued me. It was for crab and goat cheese ravioli with lemon cream sauce. In terms of flavors and ingredients, all my favorites were there wrapped in little raviolis, which I adore. The idea of pairing the pasta with snow peas intrigued me too. So, I stared at the recipe for a week, trying to decide if I should actually attempt to make such a thing. Eventually, curiosity got the best of me. I made it for dinner tonight. It took a while to prepare (as you might imagine raviolis would), but the cook time was quick. When I finally got it plated, it looked almost like the magazine photo. Yay, me. Then I took my first bite. Holy hell. Now I know why the magazine is called Cuisine at Home. It was fabulous. I paired it with a fruity yet dry Torrontés from Argentina, and Steve and I enjoyed a blissful, restaurant-quality meal in our own house. It was borderline miraculous.

When dinner was over, I surveyed the damage to the kitchen with a smile. Years ago to encourage me to cook more, hubby made me a deal…if I cook, he will do the dishes. So, the colossal mess in the kitchen, achieved by a ton of prep time and three pans on the stove simultaneously to perfectly time the ravioli, snow peas, and lemon cream sauce, was not my problem. I grabbed my glass of wine and headed upstairs and out of view of the destruction to hide out. I’d upheld my end of the bargain. I had cooked. My job was finished.

I asked Steve later if the meal was honestly worth the clean up. He emphatically replied, “Yes.” Clearly he is setting me up for more cooking time. Maybe I will throw him a bone once in a while. Perhaps once every month I can acquiesce and prepare a time-consuming but elegant meal for him. Perhaps he’ll eventually tire of the novelty of it. I’ll just have to make sure that the next meal I cook requires more dishes…a lot more dishes.

 

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Hundred Dollar Advice

Time flies when you're growing up

“Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of.”              ~ Benjamin Franklin

Took this photo today of my hubby holding our youngest (who is almost 9). It made me think of how quickly time flies and how fast our boys are growing up. Luke and Joe are 23 months apart, so I was a very tired mom when Luke was born. Keeping up with a two year old while caring for an infant wore me out. When Joe was small, I eagerly anticipated each milestone. I could not wait for him to sleep through the night and to walk. I wanted him to race to get bigger so I could do things with him, talk to him, begin a relationship with him. I was lost with an infant and longed for a child to play with.

But when Luke came along it was a different story because I knew he was my last baby. I knew he was my last opportunity to cherish all those little moments. So, despite being incredibly tired, I paid better attention to each moment than I did when Joe was small. When Joe woke me up in the middle of the night, I prayed he would fall back asleep quickly. Later, I spent hours awake in the middle of the night consciously holding Luke in the rocking chair in the silence of the house, trying to imprint that feeling, that joy, that peace into my brain because I knew how ephemeral it was.

I’m much more careful now about cherishing these moments before they’re gone. I take every opportunity I get to hug my boys. I love it when they fall asleep on the couch and I get to carry them up to bed. When Joe comes in during the middle of the night and asks me to tuck him back into bed I no longer get frustrated by it; I know that in a couple years he won’t need me that way anymore and I will miss it. They’re growing up so quickly and I don’t want to miss a thing, so I pay better attention these days.

I’ve always been a forward-thinking gal. I don’t spend much time living in the past. The choices and mistakes I made created the person I am today and I’m happy with who I am, which means it’s all worked out well. The problem with looking ahead, though, is that sometimes you miss what’s right in front of you. I’m working to be more aware these days. I’m only guaranteed this moment. I will not squander it.

Posted on by Me 2

Unfriended

Joe's Tiny Zoo from whence I have been banished.

This morning our oldest woke us up at 6:30 a.m. He does this quite often because, well, he has massive impulse control issues. At any rate, we sent him and his brother downstairs (presumably to watch Phineas and Ferb quietly so we could continue sleeping). A few minutes later, however, I hear Joe’s whiny cry. It’s not a true cry but a sort of cry/whine hybrid whereby he sounds not unlike a tornado siren. Actually, they should substitute the current tornado siren with Joe’s whiny cry. It might get people to run for cover more quickly. I sensed that any moment his problem would become ours. He burst back into our room, still whining.

“I didn’t get to my crossbreed fast enough, and he got sick,” he whined, referring to his Tiny Zoo app.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. That sucks,” I replied, trying as hard as possible to sound truly sympathetic.

“I had to abandon him because I knew you wouldn’t give me even $1 to save him. Now I need $20 to buy more coins to breed him again, but I know you won’t give me that money either.” Tru dat. “And I had to spend all my coins to get him. Now I don’t have any left. I’ll never get enough coins to buy this crossbreed again.” Drama queen.

“Oh, Joe. You will get enough coins eventually. Just keep saving. You’ll get there.”

“No I won’t. If you would just spend the money this would all be fixed.” Ha. This kid is delusional.

“I’m not buying imaginary coins to save a fake animal on an app, sweetie. Sorry.”

His cry became louder and more desperate but, sensing that he was getting nowhere with this discussion, he charged out the room letting the door close a bit too loudly. I put a pillow over my head to drown out his whining, tried to remember that it was early and his ADHD meds had not yet kicked in, and attempted to go back to sleep. A few minutes later, there was a light knock on the door. It was Luke this time.

“Mom,” he whispered, “I just thought you should know that Joe deleted you from his friends list on Tiny Zoo. Don’t tell him I told you.” This was getting hysterical.

“Thanks for the heads up, Luke.” And, with that, the informant exited as stealthily as he had entered.

“Wow, hon. I’ve been unfriended by my own son,” I told Steve.

“Thank God we haven’t given him his own Facebook account yet,” he replied, “or he could unfriend you there too.”

The whining steadily grew louder again. Clearly he was on his way back upstairs to have a second go at me. Apparently unfriending me was not punishment enough. He reappeared in our room.

“Joe, before you say anything, let me remind you that this was your mistake and no one else’s,” I said, trying to curtail his complaints quickly. “You knew what time you would have to collect that animal and you didn’t make it back in time.”

“But, you never TOLD me that crossbreed animals could get sick if you didn’t get them fast enough. I didn’t know. Maybe if I had known….”

“Stop right there. You made a mistake. It’s okay. In a day or so you will be able to get that animal for your zoo again. No worries. And,” I added, “I still love you even though you unfriended me.” I smiled brightly at him.

Exasperated, he moaned out loud and then turned and left, ushering his way out with his whiny cry once again. He hates it when I love on him when he’s angry with me. I may go on record as the meanest mother ever for today. But by tomorrow when his zoo has a brand spanking new axolotl, a gilled salamander nearing extinction in Mexico, I’ll be back in his good graces and on his friend list once again. And he will understand (at least on some level) these two things: 1) Tiny Zoo is a game and not a life or death situation (even if the game plays out that way) and 2) the world doesn’t come to an end when you don’t get what you want at the exact moment you want it. I figure that lesson is plenty worth being unfriended over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Infamous Last Words

This was so not worth the wait.

“Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, meet the expectation.”               ~ Charlotte Bronte

Tonight, after a conversation Steve and I were having about junior high, I ran down to our storage room in the basement and found my 9th grade yearbook from Castle Rock Junior High School (Go Blue Knights). I was giddily flipping through it, showing him photos of people he knows now from my reunions and from various friendships from that time that still exist today. The clothes and hairstyles (more Izod and feathered hair than were ever necessary) were a riot. As I shuffled through the pages, though, one memory in particular jumped out at me.

From fourth grade through ninth grade, I had a big old crush on a boy who lived in my neighborhood. We were never in the same class, but I adored him from afar. He had the perfect amount of freckles, lovely eyes, and a stellar smile. I remember riding my ten-speed by his house on what could only be described as a perpetual loop. And, although he never really acknowledged me, I remained undeterred and unwavering in my devotion.

Then, in ninth grade, after years of crushing on him, my dear, sweet, well-meaning friend Andrea (who was far better acquainted with him than I was) took my yearbook to him to get it signed. I could hardly stand the anticipation. I remember her bringing the book back to me after he had signed it. I wouldn’t let her see what he had written. I wouldn’t even look at what he had written. I packed the book in my bag and got on the school bus to head home. I found an acceptable seat toward the back, lowered the window to catch the spring breeze, and curled up with my knees on the back of the seat in front of me, at last prepared to spend the 45 minute bus ride reading and rereading his words. I began shuffling through the pages in search of his handwriting and name. I was dying.

At long last I found what I had been waiting five years for. There, on page 124 at the back of the book, was his signature and his comment. Short but sweet. No wait. It was simply short. It said, “Justine, Have a good summer. Darren.” Ugh. Seriously? That’s IT? I waited five years for that? At that point, it became incredibly apparent that this kid, despite his darling freckles and flawless smile, was not the guy for me. Even in 9th grade I knew that words mattered to me and that a guy who could barely come up with “have a good summer” was not my type. And, that was the end of my crush. I never rode my bike by his house again.

Now, in all fairness to Darren, he didn’t know me well (or really at all). We didn’t even have one class together. He had no idea that I had passed him in the hallways and had heart palpitations. Add to that the fact that he was a mere teenage boy and my expectation that he would write something brilliant, heart-warming, and truly, deeply meaningful in my 9th grade yearbook was borderline insanity on my part. What did I expect? Too much, I guess.

I think about it all now with a smile. At our 20th reunion (after several vodka tonics), I told poor, unsuspecting Darren that I used to ride my bike by his house. He looked at me as if I was a lunatic (probably while considering obtaining a restraining order), and I deserved it. Still, I felt good about it all the same. I’m sure on some level he appreciated hearing that I had once had a serious enough crush on him that it was worth it to me to tell him about it 24 years later. I know I would be flattered if someone from my past told me something similar. Besides, my confession was my way of writing (unsolicited, I know) in his yearbook. And, at least “I used to ride my bike by your house” is a more eloquent and memorable statement than “Have a good summer,” right? 😉

Posted on by Me 2