Movie Review

Against my better judgment, I allowed the kids to talk me into taking them to see Avatar in 3-D. I knew this was going to be a disaster because the movie is too popular right now, and I knew I would be annoyed with the logistics of getting tickets and seats (shows are selling out right and left, so we had to show up 2 hours early to get tickets, and then stand in line for an hour to get seats, and even then, we had to sit in the front, which I hate). I also knew I would HATE the movie because it combined the 3 movie genres I loathe: 1) Sci-Fi, 2) Fantasy, and 3) Action/Violence. Oh wait, make that 4 movie genres--add any movie involving James Cameron as #4!

Yes, the movie is stunning and visually appealing, and the graphics are technologically amazing--I will give you that. The 3-D stuff was pretty cool, and it didn't make me nauseous, although I had difficulty focusing sometimes, and honestly had to shut my eyes during some of the action scenes so I wouldn't get a migraine. But (and this is a BIG "BUT") the movie contained every formulaic plot-line and stereotype that has ever been done, and they were done so blatantly BADLY, they were vomit-inducing. Let me list them for you:

1) Insensitive, racially-superior, short-sighted, capitalist White Men/Americans (think Dances with Wolves, Far and Away, or any movie involving George Clooney.)
2) Out-numbered, Underdog Battle Scenes (think Braveheart, The Patriot, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, etc.)
3) Ridiculously-overdone and wasteful destruction by military machines/weaponry (think Terminator, Transformers, War of the Worlds, Independence Day.)
4) Annoyingly-Predictable Romance: Boy meets Girl under False Pretenses, Girl Hates Boy, Boy wins Girl over while falling for her, Girl discovers False Pretenses, Girl hates Boy again, Boy redeems himself and wins Girl back (think How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, She's All That, 10 Things I Hate About You, You've Got Mail, and about 1,000 other examples in the "Romantic Comedy/Drama" Genre.)
5) One-dimensional, Evil Bad Guy that takes forever to kill (see films mentioned above, plus about 1,000,000 other examples from the Horror and Suspense Genres.)

But the WORST thing about this movie was it's blatantly-obvious, preachy, condescending moral/political/environmental Agenda that was shoved down the throat of the audience with NO subtlety or artistry. I like dramatic movies. I like intelligent dialogue. I like subtle humor and symbolism. I like movies that make me think. So, I can respect a movie with a message, but I also want to be treated like an intelligent person with a brain and Free Will. I do not appreciate being bitch-slapped by someone else's "Agenda."

I also found the movie's portrayal of the U.S. Military offensive. I hate war movies and violent movies because they ALWAYS feature hundreds of deaths of "minor characters" and "extras," showing no regard for them as human beings. (This goes for "Good Guys" as well as "Bad Guys." EVERY PERSON in a movie is somebody's son or daughter and could be somebody's parent or sibling or friend--I HATE the way Hollywood so easily treats human life as "expendable.") While the movie tried to "separate" the audience from their loyalty and support of American Men and Women currently serving their Country by stating that the soldiers stationed at Pandora were just "mercenaries" going there for a paycheck, I still found it offensive and insensitive. The plot was rife with symbolism and metaphors and parallels equating Pandora's natural resources with Iraqi Oil. They even included a line for the maniacal Bad-Guy Military Commander, labeling the "Natives" as Terrorists and stating, "We'll fight terror with terror" (knowing full well that the "Natives" had no weapons that could penetrate their military machines and that "women and children" would be killed.) Plus, the movie gratuitously showed a Marine slaughtering his former co-workers dressed in the same Military Fatigues that our Men and Women serving in Iraq, Afghanistan, Korea, etc. are CURRENTLY WEARING! Am I the ONLY person in America who found that OFFENSIVE?!?!?

I left the movie theatre feeling completely pissed off and really annoyed that I paid full price for the tickets. I ranted all the way home to my kids, in an attempt to "de-program" them from their Brainwashing Experience, pointing out all of the STUPIDITY in the plot and dialogue. Hollywood honestly wants people to think that our military and political leaders sit around and make decisions without caring one iota about innocent lives and collateral damage. Hollywood is FULL of ignorance. Unfortunately, Hollywood is also full of financial wealth and the ability to use movie-making to push their lame and ignorant "World View."

I came home tonight all riled up and wanting to vent, but I have no forum/influence outside of the impressionable minds of my two children, besides this blog which is buried in cyberspace and un-influential. My kids respect my opinions and listen to what I have to say, and I think my dialogue with them afterwards made an impression. They both loved the movie, but it was our discussion AFTER the movie that made them THINK. Thankfully, they understand that movies are "make-believe" and so they seperate "real life" from movies. (They told me, after my Rant, "Geez, Mom--it's JUST a movie! Lighten up!") Still, it saddens me to get on the internet, hoping to find Like-Minded people posting reviews of this movie noting the same things I noted, and, sadly, can't find many.

I can only hope that "Real America" agrees with me, but they are too busy being fiscally-responsible and taking care of their kids and their communities and preparing "Care Packages" to soldiers overseas to have time to waste dithering about a STUPID movie on the internet.

I am deeply-saddened that during times of recession, Hollywood continues to thrive. I will never, EVER pay full-price for a movie again. I will wait and see it at the Dollar Theatre or for it to become available on NetFlix, but NEVER AGAIN will I give that VILE INDUSTRY more than a dollar of my wages! And the only reason I will give them THAT much is because Hollywood employs A LOT of people--set designers, camera crew, costume designers, make-up artists, etc. and brings Revenue to the locations they are filming in (including my home state), so, as a Capitalist, I won't cut them off completely, but I can certainly "limit" my "donations"!

Rant Over.

I think I need to go watch It's a Wonderful Life again so I can purge James Cameron's Cattle-Prod from my backside. (Fortunately for me, my head is not shoved up my ass, so my brain was not damaged by his attempt at turning me into an ignoramus.)

Game

If I see another segment on a supposedly "legitimate" News Show (like Good Morning America, Nightline, 20/20, etc.) that has ANYTHING to do with Tiger Woods, I swear I am going to throw a brick through my TV set.

Tiger Woods is famous for playing Golf. Kobe Bryant and "Magic" Johnson are famous for playing Basketball. Frank Gifford is famous for playing Football and then becoming a Sports Commentator. Alex Rodriguez is famous for playing Baseball.

What do they all have in common?

They are famous because of their skill at playing a particular sport. They made their fortunes through playing a GAME, and playing it well, and, consequently, were paid VERY well. They are also "famous" for being philanderers.

I admit, I'm disappointed by Tiger Woods, but I can't say I'm surprised. He "appeared" to be different from Other Athletes, but, in the end, he is earning his living playing a GAME. He is NOT a teacher, NOT a Police Officer, NOT a Marine/Air Force/Army/Navy Soldier. He plays GOLF for a living. Gee Whiz. How vacuous and unsubstantial is THAT? Sure, he earns a great deal of money, but for WHAT? Yes, he has a skill, and it required hours of practice and discipline to acquire that skill, but, let's face it, Professional Golfers aren't going to achieve World Peace or solve World Hunger.

Professional Athletes are in the upper eschelon of income in America, but the millions that they earn, and the reason WHY they earn so much is a bit distasteful to the average Americans like myself who USE THEIR BRAINS to make a living. From my perspective, playing a sport professionally seems to be such a vacuous and redundant gig, that I would consider it to be my Worst Nightmare. Professional Athletes are expected to play the same game, over and over and over again. Yet, they are pandered to and fawned over so much that it nauseates anyone with any sensibility.

There are many professional athletes out there who are barely literate--and certainly not articulate--who should NEVER have been allowed to graduate from high school, yet have somehow managed to gain college degrees. Tiger Woods was "different" because he was articulate and appeared to be "smart." Oh--and he was Black, so, of course, America will bend over backwards to embrace him as the Next Great Role Model for our children.

Guess what? He is NOT that smart!

A SMART man, knowing he was in the Public Eye, would not cheat on his wife. A SMART man would appreciate the stability and loyalty of a Good Woman. Tiger Woods was well aware that he was a public figure, followed by Papparazzi, yet he picked "Cocktail Waitresses" as his source of Sexual Release? Dumb, DUMB, and DUMBER!!!! These vacuous, narcissistic females are among the MOST indiscreet, gold-digging, LEECHES! He stupidly subjected himself to extortion and blackmail, and for what? Sex? What a CHUMP!

Ah, well, he certainly has plenty of company--John F. Kennedy, Bill Clinton, John Edwards, and David Letterman come to mind...

So, yeah, I think Tiger Woods is an IDIOT now, but I also do not consider him to be a legitimate News Story. He's a GOLFER, for crying out loud! Golfers do not contribute to my life or my children's lives in any meaningful way. He can cheat on his wife all he wants, but--gee--so long as it doesn't affect his Golf Game, WHO CARES!?!?

Yeah, Tiger Woods and his wife (and his kids) are in a world of hurt right now, but how is that relevant to me and America? And WHY is it any of our business?

There are so many "regular" Americans (who can't play golf for shit), who are worrying about making their mortgage payments or finding a job or feeding their kids. We honestly don't care about Tiger Woods, and I wish the News Media would focus more of their attention on "regular America" instead of sensationalizing so-called "Celebrities."

Goodbye, Dear Old Desk

Today my "New Desk" arrived. It was shipped from Seattle, but made in China. I have to assemble it myself, which will require a mechanical screwdriver and a Genius IQ (to interpret the sparse and cryptic instructions.) New Desk is made of crappy particle board and cheap veneer. Old Desk was made of solid oak, circa WWII. It has to be "unassembled" into 3 ridiculously-heavy pieces in order to move it. Each piece requires at least 2 people to move because they are so LARGE. It also dominates whatever room it resides in because it is a HUGE, solid Oak, Government-Issue desk with a formiddable expanse measuring 5 feet across and 3 feet deep. My parents probably paid $5 for it decades ago. It was a "cast-off" from the Los Alamos School System, unloading "antiquated" furniture to make room for new. Dear Old Desk resided in our family home for as long as I can remember, in a corner of the living room, across from the built-in bookcase that housed my mother's many cookbooks and our family photo albums. My mother originally used it for her sewing machine. She taught herself how to quilt in 1976--a hobby that became her passion. I learned how to sew on that very same Bernina sewing machine, on that very same desk. (My sister still has--and uses--that very same Bernina 33 years later.)

Every two weeks, my father would push the sewing machine out of the way and use the desk to write out checks and pay bills. He kept the bills neatly-organized in a sectioned wicker basket, hidden behind a hinged-board inside one of the cabinets, originally designed to store and hold a manual typewriter.

After my sister and I left for college, my parents converted my sister's bedroom into a sewing room. My mother "upgraded" her Bernina (to the one I own and use today), so Dear Old Desk became my father's computer desk--back when monitors were the size of a large TV-set and laptops did not exist. There was enough space on the desktop for a Monitor, Tower, Printer, and Scanner, plus plenty of drawers and storage beneath for papers, manuals, and stacks of CD-ROMs.

Dear Old Desk moved into my Household just after my Divorce. My mother was ready to be rid of it. She was okay with having it around while my sister and I were young, and she and my Dad were funneling all of their available funds towards us, but once we were out of college and gainfully-employed, she was more than thrilled to replace all of her old, second-hand, cast-off furniture with new and purposeful purchases, reflecting her style and impeccable taste. At the time, I was lacking furniture and had a Rental House with a Master Bedroom large enough to accommodate Dear Old Desk (as a Single Woman, my bedroom had only one dresser and a bed). It bothered me to think of Dear Old Desk being donated to strangers who wouldn't appreciate my sentimental attachment to it, not to mention my appreciation for the fact that it was built out of Solid Oak, since that is hard-to-find these days. It has been my "Computer Desk" for 5 years. I had visions of sanding it down and re-finishing it and re-purposing it as a Craft Table/Sewing Table, but, alas, in my new house, it just doesn't "fit" anywhere.

My Household, with two tween-agers, is rapidly warping into flat-screen monitors, laptops, zip drives, MP3 Players, digital downloads, and electronic media. Gigantor--albeit sturdy--desks don't "fit" into the decor anymore. We need "space" for Living Room Aerobics, a Pool Table, and Gaming Systems that accommodate multiple players possessing gangly, clumsy, nearly-Man-sized bodies.

I rarely sew anymore, and my Scrapbooking Hobby is easily accommodated in my much larger house with the extra bedroom devoted to storing all of my crafting and sewing supplies. Dear Old Desk is occupying far too much space in the corner of my Formal Dining Room that I plan to convert into a formal "Parlor" housing my piano, my grandmother's wing-back chairs, and my china cabinet. Dear Old Desk just doesn't belong there. I have no other place for Dear Old Desk, because I am trying to free-up space for a Pool Table in the only other spare room of the House.

Dear Old Desk is beautiful, but it needs so much work to restore it to it's true glory, and it just doesn't "fit" in My House anymore. As much as I would love to restore it, I doubt I would ever find the time to do it justice. I am so sad to let it go, because it has been part of my family for so, so long (more than 30 years). I am especially sad because the product that is replacing it is so much more inferior.

I'm damn sure Dear Old Desk (bearing authentic "stamped for inventory" Block Lettering from back in the 1950s) was made in the U.S.A.

Sadly, I only possess a few items today that can make the same claim.

Well, CRAP.

After writing this, I have recognized that I may not be able to part with Dear Old Desk. I have an even Larger Master Bedroom in my New House, and with some re-arranging, could devote the far corner of my bedroom (my Home Office) to Dear Old Desk. I could also part with the never-used Twin Bed in my "Craft Room" and replace it with Dear Old Desk as a workspace...hmmmm...

I guess I will be telling my Dad I want a Palm Sander for Christmas...

Tattoos and Me...

I don't have any tattoos, and I never will. I don't dislike tattoos on other people, I just can't see myself with one. It does not "fit" my personality or lifestyle. I have several friends with tattoos, and I like their tattoos and think they look good--on THEM. But, me getting a tattoo? Too weird!

Tattoos have come a long way in the last few decades. They used to represent either jail-time, Biker-Gang membership, or military service. Nowadays they are far more mainstream. But, for uptight, prissy people such as myself, there is still that stigma of "trashiness" that first pops into my head when I see a tattoo. I try to be open-minded and non-preachy, and I have learned to set aside my biases, particularly when people I know and like display tattoos. How can I say tattoos are "bad" when this person, who I really respect and like hanging out with, has several?

I try not to judge.

But, I DO judge people who complain about "being poor" and not having enough money to buy school supplies for their kids or school lunches for their kids, yet they are sporting new and expensive tattoos every time I see them. The most heavily-tattooed people I know happen to be "Welfare-to-Work Mothers" who have received subsidized housing, childcare, and healthcare. That kind of BUGS me. They can drop $500 on a new tattoo, but can't pay $200 for after-school care for their kid? How is that possible? Their kids get "scholarships" to attend Boy Scout Camp while I have to write a check and forego a haircut and cut back on groceries for two weeks so the check will clear.

I would like my checkbook to reflect my values, so dropping hundreds of dollars on "inking" myself (or buying expensive jewelry for myself) seems selfish and shallow. I also know that I cannot drop hundreds of dollars "marking" myself in a permanent way that I can't take back (at least expensive jewelry can be pawned...) I sort of like the idea of always having an "undo" button for my life. I lecture my kids all the time about consequences. You get a tattoo and BAM there is no going back! When you are 85 and in a nursing home with sagging skin and back fat, those "cool" angel wings adorning your lower back, just above the waistline of the low-rise skinny jeans you had when you were 22 are going to look rather ridiculous.

I understand that people tattoo themselves as a form of "self expression" and put lots of thought into their design choices. I understand that tattoos are a form of artwork and can even have cultural origins and significance. They just aren't a form of artwork I want to own. Quite frankly, I'd rather buy new furniture, a cordless drill, or a palm sander. Oh, look! It's my Christmas Wish List!

When I look back on my life, I can see how I have morphed and changed so much during the last 2 decades. I can't commit to a tattoo because 5 years from now, I may have morphed and changed some more and could regret it. Nothing feels more hopeless and chastising than regret, so I choose to avoid things that might lead me to that state.

I work for a conservative agency. I have serious "self-esteem issues" when it comes to my body parts. The LAST thing I would want to do is call any sort of attention to my body parts, which, from my perspective, is something tattoos tend to do. I would rather be recognized for my writing or my public speaking skills and not for my ankles or my cleavage. Judge me on my brain, not on my looks. And, yeah, I know, it's "narrow-minded" and "snooty," but if you are going to tattoo yourself, you are just going to have to face the fact that a certain segment of the population is going to think that makes you look like "trash." I prefer to avoid such a label. Call me a coward, but I am struggling through this life with a limited support system. I am not "tough enough" to repel such backlash, when I already feel burdened repelling all the backlash I get (real or imagined) for being a) divorced, b) a working mother, c) a Civil Servant, and d) a Conservative. I get PLENTY of darts thrown in my direction already--I certainly don't want to be a target for any more.

So, that being said, let me talk about how I spend Quality Time with my kids. I have no problem finding opportunities to spend Quality Time with my daughter--after all, she is my little "Mini-Me," so we find all kinds of hobbies and interests we can share together. We garden, we sew, we compost, we bead bracelets, etc. But, I also have a 12-year-old son going through puberty whose interests are largely limited to football and computer and video games. Lately, he has expressed a lot of interest in learning how to cook, so that has been a good way for me to spend Quality Time with him. But, it is really hard for me to feign interest in his video games and movie choices because he loves Fantasy and Sci-Fi--two genres I LOATHE. But, he does like a lot of the same music that I like, so lately we have "bonded" over bouts of RockBand on the Wii system he got for Christmas. He plays the guitar, and I play the Drums (badly, I should add...) Every once in awhile, we will stay up on a Friday night until the wee hours of the morning playing RockBand. Recently, he had us go "On Tour," which was upsetting because it required me to play up to six songs in a row with no break (not good for an Old Lady with Carpal Tunnel Symptoms in her hands). He told me we had to go on Tour, because you make more money that way. He then showed me how to go to the Rock Shop and SPEND that money on my character. And that's how I got hooked!

I GOT TO GO SHOPPING WITH FAKE MONEY!

My "alter ego" (or "Evil Twin Sister," as I like to call her), has a Barbie doll figure (of course--RockBand--like all Video Games--only allows for Female Characters that are painfully skinny yet still manage to have Big Boobs), and I dressed her up in a ridiculously-expensive, low-cut Goth top with fishnet stockings and a mini-skirt and Sexy Boots (also ridiculously-expensive). My son got all indignant and said, "Mom! You are a DRUMMER! You can't play drums in that skirt!"

I rolled my eyes and reminded him, "it's just a GAME, and that's not ME, it's my Evil Twin Sister!"

And then I learned that tattoos are FREE in the Rock Shop, so I headed over there and got upper arm and chest tattoos (some sort of scrolly-hearts and angel wing things), and my son got all mad and said, "Now THAT'S just DISTURBING..." and refused to play RockBand with me for the rest of the night.

So, now you see why I can't get a tattoo--it would just be "too disturbing."

But, if I ever did get a tattoo, I would probably get some sort of flowering vine that wrapped around my ankle, or maybe a tiny little intricate heart design somewhere the sun doesn't shine...(not that I've actually put any thought into it or anything...)

First there was the Dead Bird Incident. Then there was the discovery that my entire house smells like dog pee because, for some odd reason, I--the girl who loves MUTTS--wound up with not one, but TWO purebred dogs, both of them from breeds who are commonly described as "stubborn, willfull, highly energetic, and difficult to train."

Of course, my sister, my father, my in-laws, and my co-workers find this very amusing because that's EXACTLY how all of them would describe ME!

So, then there was the day I came home from work and found my cell phone, chewed up like a rawhide bone, lying in 3 bite-punctured, mangled pieces on my artificial grass.

Effing dogs!

Yes, it is my own fault. Molly (Prime Suspect #2) has confiscated my cell phone more than once, stealing it off the nightstand or end table and leaving it out in the back yard overnight a time or two, but she never CHEWED on it!

I usually keep my phone on the dining room table or kitchen counter--safely out of reach--but one night I had a call from a friend, so I sat down on the couch to chat, and stupidly set it down on the end table after the call ended. Buddy (Prime Suspect #1) probably grabbed it and followed in Molly's footsteps, only he, at 7 months old, is definitely in the "Chewing Phase" of puppyhood and is most likely the Guilty Party.

I am a cheapskate who has had the same cell phone service provider for nearly 6 years. Every time my contract comes up for renewal, they send me a postcard offering up a free phone. Sure, it's a basic phone, without any bells and whistles, but it's not like I use any of those fancy features anyway, so a basic phone is fine by me because I don't know how to do anything with the phone besides set the alarm, use the calculator, add contacts, and turn off the ringer, and that is PLENTY for me. However, I now have a couple of 'Tweens in my house who have discovered "texting," and my son has told me that his phone (the first free phone I received from my Company X years ago which doesn't even come with a camera--HORRORS!) is, and I quote, "An embarrassment to me and all of my friends!"

So, I was lured into the nearby Company X store, thinking my contract was close to renewal, as was the additional phone plan I had added for the kids, so surely they would have something to offer, preferably something with a QWERTY keyboard, so that when my son sent me text messages, it would take me less than 30 minutes to compose a response (I suck at text messaging because I refuse to abbreviate or intentionally misspell words).

Well, apparently, cell phones have become so "fancy" that they can't offer up free phones anymore, but they do offer up plenty of discounts and rebates for long-time customers (read: too lazy to switch) such as myself.

One hour and $300 later ($150 after mail-in rebates), I walk out of the store with not one new phone but TWO, both with QWERTY keyboards, GPS, unlimited Web/Text/email access, and I don't know what all else.

Yeah, I know. I'm a sucker.

I tried to tell the salesman I wouldn't USE all of those "features," and he assured me that once I knew I had them, I would use them. He also assured me that my kids most certainly WOULD use them, and would love me forever if I provided them!

Oh, yes, he was GOOD--no doubt the 20-something child of divorced parents who totally learned how to turn Parental Broken Home Guilt into Personal Gain! In fact, I'm SURE of it, because one of the first features he showed me after I started to balk was the "Locator Service" Company X provides that allows the parent to TRACK the whereabouts of her child's phone at all times...Mwa ha ha ha ha!

Because I am too lazy/busy to shop around for competitively-priced plans and because I don't have that many "friends" to put in "my circle" anyway, I have this plan with Company X that offers all the bells and whistles, which I have been paying for (and have NOT been utilizing) for months now. So, I might as well keep paying for it and start getting my money's worth, donchathink?

I even splurged and downloaded some ringtones: Hawaii Five-O Theme Song for people in my Contacts list (hee!), Mission Impossible Theme Song for unidentified callers (ha!), and AC/DC's Back in Black for certain people whose calls I actually look forward to (Hell Yeah)! My kid's phone has "Oh Yeah" by Yello ('80s Tune featured in the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off) for their phone.

My phone is pink. The kids' phone is black and flips shut. I made it very clear to them that they needed to think of that phone like a Laptop Computer (because it cost almost as much!) and treat it accordingly, which means keeping it out of the dogs' reach, and NOT leaving it in their pants pocket on Laundry Day (that caused the demise of the 2nd Free Phone Company X provided two years ago).

We took "Mug Shots" of the dogs and posted them on Facebook. Then, the kids texted each other, and I amused myself by reading through the exchange:

Daughter to Son: You are a turd

Son to Daughter: You have hairy arms

Daughter to Son: You stink

Son to Daughter: You have dreadlocks

Daughter to Son: Stop texting me!

Note that neither one of them substituted "U" for "You." They fear the wrath of their Mom--the Grammar/Spelling/Editing QUEEN--or perhaps they are just enjoying that QWERTY keyboard...

As for the dogs, well, I am trying to patiently endure and survive Buddy's "puppyhood." We had him neutered a couple of weeks ago, and I keep hoping that age and loss of testosterone will make him less annoying. I keep the doors shut to all the bedrooms whenever I leave the house, knowing that someday the carpet will be yanked up and replaced with wood floors, and until then, our house is a home--to messy kids, messy dogs, and a less than perfect (but pretty damn cool) Mom.

Pilgrimage

My Mom died in March 2008. She was 64 years old. She died from "complications" of a very complex surgery she (we) chose to elect in an effort to prolong her life (there was a "troublesome" growth on her pancreas--not cancerous now, but likely to become cancerous later). My Mother was terrified of Pancreatic Cancer--she did not want to die a slow and painful death. The surgery was supposed to avoid that outcome--extend her life. Instead it killed her, and we were left behind stunned and in shock and completely unprepared. None of us had truly anticipated that outcome. We refused to consider the risks of surgery because we were all so focused on ridding her pancreas of that "troublesome" growth, we neglected to assess the other potential outcomes.

When I was still a small child, maybe 4 or 5 years old, my Mom reached over to answer the phone one day, and wrenched her back so badly that she slipped a disc. Living in a small town with sub-standard medical facilities, that slipped disc went undiagnosed for TEN YEARS. She was pretty much given prescriptions for Valium and told to "rest." I honestly have no memory of my mother being anything other than a Chronic Pain Sufferer. By the time her back problems were finally taken seriously by doctors, the slipped disc was 80% extended out of her spinal column, and she had been walking around like that, taking care of 2 active children, for TEN YEARS, causing permanent and chronic nerve damage. She had back surgery when I was in High School, but by then the cortisone shots and other "experimental" treatments for back pain had invited other complications, including a "frozen shoulder," loss of bone density and unstable vertebrae in her neck that also had to be fused surgically. And then, just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis--a particularly severe case because medical ailments never seemed to strike her with anything but unusual complications.

Despite those challenges (or perhaps because of them), she was the Lioness in our household. She was never "just a Housewife" or "just a Mom." She was so much more than that. She was passionate and spirited and bold and courageous and gifted. She was the Heart and Soul and Voice of our Family.

But, basically, I grew up with a mother in a constant state of suffering. All things considered, she suffered well because she was stubborn and determined and incredibly, incredibly intelligent, talented, and devoted to her family. We were everything to her, and not in an icky-sweet co-dependent kind of way. She was fierce and strong and bold. She suffered in silence, stubbornly fighting doctors and pain. She refused to give in. She pushed us; inspired us; drove us; lectured us. She was both our harshest critic, and our staunchest supporter. She was NOT the "TV Sit-Com Mom." She was not a cheerful "Brady Bunch" Mom. There were dark days where harsh words were exchanged--words that were burned into my memory, and then buried deep. There were days when I "just knew" I needed to "be especially good." There was one Christmas (but only one Christmas) before she FINALLY got her back surgery--when I had to decorate the tree all by myself (and that's a BIG DEAL because my Mom was HUGE on the whole Christmas thing). There were times when I was stunned and shocked by her support of Dr. Jack Kevorkian and abortion. But, she was also much more intimately acquainted with true suffering than I was...

When we cleaned out her closet and bathroom cabinets after her death, we found numerous prescription bottles, mostly full, of powerful painkillers--valium, vicodin, demarol, oxy contin--prescriptions she tried NOT to take. They made her mind "fuzzy," and that was just something she could not tolerate. For all of her talk about "Quality of Life" and the "Right to Choose," she had enough prescription pills to overdose a football team at her disposal.

She wanted to live.

When she was in the hospital, she suffered a seizure, and they had to do an emergency tracheotomy, leaving her hooked up to a respirator. She couldn't talk, and that was a torturous complication for her. Pain, or no pain, communication was her greatest strength. We tried giving her a notepad and pen to write things down, but the pain medication affected her fine motor skills, so we couldn't read her handwriting. I brought a whiteboard from my daughter's room, which, ironically, was a Christmas present to her from her Grandma, and some Whiteboard markers. She could write messages to us on the Whiteboard more easily.

The last message she wrote--to my Dad, who was with her, as she struggled to breathe because her lungs were filling with fluid, and her internal organs were beginning to hemorrhage, and she knew recovery was unlikely: "I would do it for you..."

She was begging him to "Pull the Plug"--end her suffering. (Which, of course he could not and would not do...)

She left behind not only us (husband, daughters, grandchildren), but also a house full of unfinished projects and unfulfilled plans.

Five unfinished quilts sat in her sewing room. Three of them only needed to have the binding sewn on. I finished those in time for her Memorial Service, so we could display those quilts during the service. Her best friend--despite being very ill and fighting her own battle against ovarian cancer--finished a quilt for my nephew that was similar to the one she made for my son, her first grandchild. She appliqued letters cut out of fabric onto the back of the quilt that spelled out, "To Nicholas with Love from Nana." I'm still working on the fifth quilt--a quilt all in white, with an intricate, hand-quilted "Tree of Life" design, also for my nephew because she made one for my first baby just like it.

I received a message recently on my Facebook account from a woman I am related to only by marriage--her husband's mother is my grandmother's aunt. I came to know her through genealogy research--a hobby that my mother introduced me to. There is an entire shelf in the "office" of my parent's house that holds books on genealogy. One of her wishes was to travel to Pennsylvania and Ohio and seek out the locations of the old "Family Homesteads" and cemeteries. She talked about this often, but knew it was impossible. Her medical conditions made travel over long distances impossible.

We had my Mother cremated, and my father, my sister, and I all have urns with her ashes. I carried my little urn in my purse when I traveled last year. I went to Washington, D.C. and Springfield, IL. I scattered her ashes near the Lincoln Memorial and Lincoln's home in Springfield (he was her favorite President). I also journeyed to Seattle, WA--where my sister and I were born. My father, my sister, and I all agreed that the time where Mom was probably the happiest was when she lived in Seattle--where she was a young wife with beautiful babies and her whole life ahead of her. Healthy, strong, and pain-free. Some of her ashes were scattered along Alkai Beach and within Seattle's Arboretum.

But I also realize that wherever I get to go--places like Washington, D.C., Yellowstone, Springfield, IL, etc.--those will all be places that my Mom would have loved to visit, too. If she were still here, she would have expected me to come home and "tell her all about it."

Instead, my Pilgrimage is to visit all those places my Mom would have wanted to go, and leave some of her ashes.

It would be so much better for me to come home and "tell her all about it," but instead, my pilgrimage is to GO, take her with me, and get to live out the life she would have wanted me to have.

Not Your Ordinary "Bad Hair" Day...

My kids came back from a week at their dad’s on Saturday afternoon. We goofed off, stayed up late, etc. They didn’t have to go back to school until Tuesday, so I figured it was “okay” to allow them to “maximize” their Winter Break. Sunday night rolls around, though, and I ordered them both to take baths or showers (silly, because with a jetted tub in the new house, they ALWAYS opt for a bath over a shower—I don’t know why I even still offer them an option!)

Sunday afternoon my daughter told me she wanted me to take her to see Greta (our long-time Hair Stylist) for a haircut. My daughter has always FOUGHT getting haircuts. She hates to brush her hair and has a very sensitive scalp, but she also wants to have long hair. Her hair is like mine—baby fine and “naturally wavy.” It is like her dad’s because she has TONS of it.
Her hair is beautiful. Women all over America would pay Top Dollar to have her hair color. I suppose the best way to classify her hair color is to call it “light brown with golden highlights.”
And when I say “golden,” I mean GOLDEN. Her hair changes color every time the light hits it. She could be called a Blonde or a Brunette, even a Redhead, depending on the angle of the light. Upon close examination, her hair strands probably come in 16 different colors. My Girl should, in all honesty, have a contract for shampoo commercials, except for one small detail: she hates to brush her hair.

The Dog Bite from two weeks ago did not help this issue. Besides 14 stitches on the side of her face (from her ear down to her lip-line), the Girl had 4 staples—yes, staples(!) placed in her scalp for puncture wounds. The ER staff was so caring and gracious to place those staples without shaving a single hair on her head. But that means the staples (now removed), and the lingering scabs (still there) were all tangled up in her lovely locks. Not to mention the fact that having Rottweiler teeth imbedded in your scalp for a bit leaves a certain painful tenderness that makes hair brushing even more traumatic than it was before.

Poor R could not wash (or brush) her hair for a couple of days after the Dog Bite Attack. Even once she was cleared to wash her hair, the staples and dried blood in her hair made it difficult to brush out her beautiful golden brown locks.

We resorted to the "Classic Ponytail," only brushing the ends of her hair, to prevent “pulling” on the hair that was entangled in staples.

She was well on the mend when she left my household the day after Christmas—stitches and staples had been removed. She returned on January 3rd, still sporting her Classic Ponytail. On Sunday, she asked me to make an appointment for her with Greta to get a “Pixie Cut,” just like I had when I was her age.

I immediately knew something was wrong.

A Pixie Cut? In 2009?

I reminded her that my Mother-induced/Mia Farrow-inspired Pixie Cut warped me for life—I was in the 3rd grade, buck-toothed, and nowhere near puberty, and I was often mistaken for a…gasp…BOY…in public places. It scarred me for life! To this day, I do not wear pants ever—only skirts/dresses as a result of the trauma I suffered when I walked into a restaurant bathroom only to be greeted by a little old lady with, “I’m sorry, LITTLE BOY, but aren’t you in the wrong room?” (Horrifying—truly horrifying!)

There just HAD to be something wrong—this was soooo not like her! While she hates to brush her hair, we seemed to have reached a reasonable compromise—to keep her hair shoulder-length and utilize the “ponytail” during the day to keep it pulled back and “neat,” which helps to minimize the snarling.

Just in case, I indulged her with internet searches for cute “short” haircuts for girls and convinced her that a Kicky Little Bob would be sooooo much more delightful than a Pixie Cut.

And then bathtime came. I told her I would “help her” brush out her hair—being extra gentle and careful, in case her scalp was still sore.

She spent over an hour in the tub, turning all wrinkly and pruny, not wanting to get out. When she finally did get out, she tried to lock herself in my bathroom because she was dreading the Hair Brushing Exercise so much.

I finally coerced her into sitting on my bed and letting me take a look.

And when I did?

Oh. My. Goodness.

She had washed her hair, not brushed it at all, stuck it into a ponytail, slept on it while still wet, repeat, a few times, for over a week.

Her beautiful, golden mane was nothing but a snarly, rat’s nest from one side to the next. It was like one short, but GIANT dreadlock.

R cried.

THIS is why she mentioned the Pixie Cut—she had tried to brush her hair, but the snarls were so bad—and so deep—that she believed the only solution was to cut off all her hair!
And, to tell you the truth, at first I was thinking the same thing! But I just couldn’t give up without trying! Her hair! Her beautiful, BEAUTIFUL hair!

I slathered up my hands with Dove “Leave-In” Conditioner. I gently—so very gently—began to brush out what I could—at first just the ends of her hair, but then I started working on the top layer of the snarly mess. (I was crying, too, by now.) I had to use my fingers to pry apart the knots, but gradually—very gradually—as strand after golden strand of loose hair wound around her hairbrush, the snarly mess began to “give way.”

One hour (and 3 hairbrushes full of Spun Gold) later, darling R’s hair was a sleek, soft, silken waterfall of glory!

She cried, and she laughed, and she HUGGED me, and she SWORE she would brush her hair twice a day—every day—from here on out.

Poor girl.

She was so afraid that the snarly mess she KNEW existed on the back of her head was completely “unfixable,” she was willing to “fall on her sword” and cut it all off.

Quite frankly, I’m a bit amazed myself—I felt the density of the knots with my own hands, and contemplated “the scissors” myself, initially, but I persevered—kept trying, plying my daughter with perky, pleasant, distracting conversation. And, as we chatted, those snarls and knots seemed to “melt away.” I couldn’t help but notice that many of those clumps of hair came away with pieces of dried blood and discarded scalp (effing Rottweiler!), yet my daughter only winced a few times.

I have witnessed her brushing her hair several times today, and she still mentions the “Kicky Little Bob” as a future alternative, but she thinks it is important to grow her hair out another couple of inches, so that when she goes to see Greta for the “Kicky Little Bob” someday, she can donate what is cut off to “Locks of Love.”

Isn’t she great?

Oh, by the way, today is her BIRTHDAY. She is 10, and my Gift to the World!



And I just LOVE that my Pressed-Back chairs created little Devil Horns in this picture!

For Richer for Poorer

Hmmm...considering that getting divorced cost me tens of thousands of dollars (in fact, it is STILL costing me to repay a loan against my retirement account for the money I had to give away thanks to community property laws and my own stupidity), I should probably stay away from making this post about marriage vows.

Like most Americans, I have never known what it is like to be truly "poor," and for that I am grateful and appreciative. I know what I have. However, I did get married young, before I finished college, and my then-husband was working dead end jobs in retail, just above minimum wage. I took a "Government Job" after graduating, and my starting salary was $21,000 per year. That was in 1991. We lived paycheck to paycheck because we had student loans, credit card bills, and a car payment. As soon as we would start to get ahead, my then-husband, the ex, would "quit" his job over some minor transgression, and spend a month or two out of work, before finding something new. I remember going to the grocery store, calculator in hand, keeping a sub total of every dollar spent to make sure I didn't exceed what was left in our bank account. I used coupons religiously. But, I didn't mind because there was always enough for the essentials, and my salary increased every year between Cost of Living adjustments, promotions, Performance Awards, etc.

Two children came into the picture, and my then-husband took care of them during the days while I worked. My job was now a career, and since I had the most earning potential, it made sense for me to pack up my breast pump and march off to work each day while he stayed home with the babies. (Minimum wage employment wouldn't cover the cost of full-time childcare for two kids anyway.) Even though my salary had more than doubled by this time, we still lived paycheck-to-paycheck, but the essentials were covered.

"The essentials," though, were far greater than those we had initially. As your income increases, so do your expenses because the more you make, the more you spend. When we were first married, rent for our 1-bedroom apartment was only $360 a month. Now we had a $1,200 mortgage payment and utility bills that exceeded $200 a month, plus the cost of diapers and baby food.

My ex had gone back to work when the kids were in pre-school, but then was laid off. He spent nearly two years out of work, not even attempting to look for a job. The marriage was strained. He resented my job, I resented him for not doing anything about his own situation. For richer for poorer. But in what context?

The divorce put us into a financial tailspin, but I had to get out when I did for reasons of personal safety. It took 4 years for me to "recover" financially from divorce. I had to let the house go because I couldn't pay both alimony and child support and sustain the mortgage. We both returned to "renter" status in smaller spaces. Payments on the loan against my retirement will still cost me $700 a month for another 3 years, so a big chunk of my earnings is not accessible to me. I have a bigger house now (with an even larger mortgage payment), but I also have a much bigger paycheck. My kids are happy and safe and well-adjusted. My ex was able to finish school and get a teaching job and buy a small house of his own, taking advantage of home builders in financial crisis that were willing to do anything to unload new construction. We are both in "better places" emotionally and financially.

I still feel like I live paycheck-to-paycheck, and wish I had that additional $700/month to spend on vacations and furniture, a new computer, college savings plans for my kids. But, I also know I am fortunate to have a secure job and a good salary, and I know that I have it so much better than so many.

I've looked over my bank statements for the last several months and noticed there is a lot of "waste" in my expenditures--eating out at restaurants when I'm too tired or uninspired to cook. Mid-week trips to the grocery store to buy snacks and convenience foods. Impulse purchases to take advantage of "unbeatable" sale prices on clothes I didn't really need. These are all things I was not able to do years and years ago.

I have much to be grateful for, so I am making a conscious effort this year to go back to my old grocery shopping patterns: planning meals in advance, sticking to my list, and shopping with coupons and a calculator in hand. The money I save on groceries and non-essentials this year (I'm estimating it to be about $150 a month, if I'm diligent), I want to set aside for others--donations to local food banks, charitable giving to organizations that assist victims of domestic violence or disabled veterans returning from the War, and my church that provides food, clothing, and educational materials to an impoverished community in Mexico that cares for orphaned/abandoned children (most of them girls).

Sure, I could go shoe-shopping with that money, but I feel guilty doing so, under the circumstances. I will still buy shoes and clothes for me and my kids--my contribution to "stimulating the economy"--but I will buy at the same level I have in the past. I am finally at a place in my life where there is money between paychecks, and I can afford to (and should) give some of it away.

As for a Family Vacation this year? We're going camping. I spent a good $500 on camping equipment last year, so now we're going to go out and get our money's worth out of all of that gear!