tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26516489782721252842024-03-05T08:35:38.351-06:00Madwoman of Preserve PathReflections on middle age in the 'burbsMadwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-76397042803157454342010-04-14T14:55:00.003-06:002010-04-14T15:18:15.296-06:00Musings from a mother of a groomI can't believe that my baby boy is getting married in just a little over a week. It's the weirdest feeling. He's been in a relationship with this girl for 10 years (I'm not exaggerating), and I certainly expected it. But still, I can't quite get used to the idea. After April 24, there's no getting out. He's committed. Not that I want him to de-commit, I don't. I want him to stay married, forever and ever.<br /><br />How do I explain this? With every new marriage, there's joy and elation and giddiness, to be sure. There are months of planning and gobs of resources that go into the wedding. But there's always this little rattle of foreboding lurking just under the surface: Will they be happy? Will they be content? Will they avoid regret and mistakes? Will they be able to pay their bills? Will their kids be healthy and intelligent?<br /><br />Don't get me wrong: I trust my son's judgment, and I love his bride-to-be. She's a wonderful woman. They've grown up together and each is the other's best friend. If I were a gambler, I'd say this was a sure thing. Even so ... .<br /><br />I remember the same feeling before my own wedding nearly 33 years ago. I was so scared the night before I could hardly sleep. What, I wondered, if I was making the Biggest, Most Horrible Mistake? And how could I possibly tell my mother I felt like fleeing? I imagined the whole scenario in my head, ending with the part where my mom could never show her face in church again because her horrible daughter embarrassed her so. And that was that. I regained my composure in the morning, walked down the aisle and got married to a guy I love more than life itself. Still do. Whew.<br /><br />I've decided that nobody who gets married should do so without that little flutter in the pit of the stomach, that little nudge of doubt. Because lots of marital success is like gambling at the casino. Sometimes you hit it big, but most times, you barely break even. But if you can live your life as though tomorrow will always be better than today, I think you'll be OK. What's that line in a song from "Annie"? "Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow. You're only a day away." Here's to many tomorrows, darlings.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-29789768359378228802009-12-14T11:20:00.002-06:002009-12-14T12:04:29.157-06:00Because I shouldSurprise! I'm back! I'm posting again on my blog before year's end because a.) I can and b.) I'm tying up loose ends today.<br /><br />Those of you who know me know I've been a work-widow for six weeks and counting. My husband and I have never been away from each other longer than four or five days in 32 years. This is not my idea of marriage, but you go where the work takes you.<br /><br />So, what does one do when one is abandoned for the almighty dollar and left to her own devices? She learns to be self-sufficient. Not that I'm not already; just about anything he can do I can do better (said with bravado). Not really. But I've discovered I can start the snowblower and brave the blizzard to clear the driveway and get my car out of the garage ALL BY MYSELF. But I don't like to. I've also discovered how to take out the garbage AND bring back the cans and the recycling bins ALL BY MYSELF. But that's not fun, either. Most of all, I've discovered that I can handle the husband's business paperwork like a charm. I've even found that the more I know, the less I stress about it because I'm not seeing piles of paper on every surface of the house, I'm not listening to the boss whining about how far behind he is, and I have better eyesight, finger dexterity and paper skills than he does. So if he can handle the verbal customer service, I can handle the on-paper variety. Plus I'm getting pretty good at Quickbooks. So the old dog can, indeed, learn new tricks. Even brag about them a little.<br /><br />What else does she learn? Well, here's what I'm not going to like if I'm widowed permanently someday: I don't like eating dinner alone, but I'm OK with drinking alone (which leads to early bedtime). I can't reach the stuff on the top shelf without a chair. I can't decide whether that funny noise the furnace is making is worth worrying about. And a good backrub is priceless, as is someone who laughs at my jokes and hangs on my every word. I even miss his snoring. There's a certain security in hearing that sound, even though it keeps me awake sometimes. I know I'll eat my words here, but I sorta miss it.<br /><br />So the house rather echoes these days, and I've turned into a quite-slobby old lady with a cat. Don't worry. My old self will return before Christmas, as will my other half, I hope.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-47437773512418685522009-09-21T16:18:00.002-06:002009-09-21T16:34:00.849-06:00Social media smoshal mediaSo I get a lot of crap from my husband about having a Facebook page (which, I might add, he's never even seen). He's too busy and too important to waste his time on such things. Well, good for him.<br /><br />And I get another lot of crap from some of my friends who are convinced that I'm going to go to Identity Theft Hell because someone's going to steal my identity and all my money (well, they can have it all ... ) because I like to post pictures of my grandkids and dogs and cats and my cabin on my Facebook page AND I like to shop online. Someone would like to be me? Have at it, I say.<br /><br />And I get some (but not a lot) of crap from my kids and their friends who think (but probably just won't say it) that I'm too old and just a wannabe 30-something to enter into their Facebook world. One of their friends would "friend" me? Horrifying! But I do like to eavesdrop because it's one way to get to know them and keep up with their interests without embarrassing them in public. On the other hand, I do understand their pain because I have an ex-nun aunt who once wore fishnet stockings and miniskirts and said "fuck" in front of her mother when she was, like, 40. And my own mother used to sing Simon and Garfunkel songs (but in her own mom-ish style) while she washed dishes. You know? It just didn't work. That was back in the '70s. Most young people seemed to think that adults over "a certain age" should just back off and not try to be something they're not (trendy? cool? interesting?). I'm not convinced that the under-40 crowd doesn't think the same thing today.<br /><br />So screw 'em all. I like social media. Except Twitter. I'm way too wordy for 140 characters.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-91564112970317888122009-07-20T15:04:00.004-06:002009-07-22T14:40:53.252-06:00Let's hear it for the old guys!This week we heard all the golf gabbers opine on Tom Watson's remarkable loss of the British Open. Besides his collapse in the playoff round, there was that pesky missed par on 18. Oh, and he's 59, for chrissakes. Just too damned old to stay sharp. Ran outta gas. He's supposed to be dead or at least soaking up pee in the nursing home. And did you see the wrinkles?<br /><br />Well, young ones, just remember: Just because you're old doesn't mean you lose passion. Can you imagine if someone just pulled a plug on all of us just for committing the sin of aging? There'd be nothing to strive for, no future to ponder. And no elder golfers holding us up on the course.<br /><br />Which reminds me: I was reading the "Irish sports pages," as one of my colleagues calls the obituaries, this morning, and I clicked on one that I thought I recognized. Not so, but I read six or seven of the guest book entries and wished I'd known this person. I hope when I die people will remember me as witty, welcoming, generous and helpful. And smart, too, because I value "smarts." Clearly, I have a little work to do. What would you like to be remembered for?Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-8981671330517982572009-06-19T12:11:00.003-06:002009-06-19T12:31:37.019-06:00Don't worry: I'm not deadSome of you loyal "Madwoman" readers (OK, all three of you) are wondering why I haven't posted anything in this blog since April. Here's why: I have an acute case of laziness. I just don't have any creative energy right now. My mind feels like a pile of mush. So there's that and a generally short attention span.<br /><br />I'll be back one of these days, after I finish up a few other projects, like learning to use my new iPhone. When I figure that out, they'll probably invent something that sucks the thoughts from my brain and beams them to yours. Meanwhile, don't worry. I have no thoughts. When I do, I'll write.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-66606677471891264472009-04-23T11:09:00.002-06:002009-04-23T11:41:04.552-06:00No more birthday treats ..."Call it the Birthday Treat Ban," reports today's <a href="http://www.startribune.com/local/south/43500282.html">Star Tribune</a>. "Starting this fall, students will no longer be allowed to bring celebratory food or gifts to share with classmates, a move that principals say they're making out of concern about childhood obesity, allergies and the feelings of kids whose parents can't afford to buy treats for the whole class."<br /><br />At last. I don't remember when all this overfeeding and overcelebrating started, but I think it might have been in the late '70s and '80s, when many of us mothers entered the outside-the-home workplace. We started sending all kinds of treats to school to make up for our absence in our kids' lives. We felt so guilty for having to make real cash money to afford our overpriced houses that we showered our kids with too much of everything so they would know we really loved them more than the jobs and the real cash money and the too-big houses. Us Baby Boomers really blew it on this one. The results? We created kids about whom we now complain. They act "entitled," we say. Well, duh.<br /><br />Around the same time that mothers began sending 40 perfectly decorated clown-themed petit fours from Woullet's bakery to Mrs. Smith's third grade, the great birthday party competitions began. Before that time, kids' birthday parties were affairs lasting a couple of hours with a rousing game of "drop the clothespin in the bottle" or "pin the tail on the donkey," modest presents for the feted child and homemade cake and ice cream. For a real thrill, sometimes there was homemade Chef Boyardee pizza. Anyway, those parties grew into all-day and overnight, with trips to pizza palaces and pony rides for all. Storytellers, clowns, Sesame Street characters. Helium-stuffed supersized balloons. Goodie bags. "Themes" and matching paper cups. You had to have a damned staff to run a 5-year-old's birthday party. And yes, you had to have ... drumroll, please ... a party coordinator. Oh, the pressure of it!<br /><br />Well, I'm all for simplification. My kids will probably tell you their parties were pretty lame. But there's some mother at Echo Park Elementary who's really disappointed she can't make little Billy's day "really special" and crepe-paper companies predicting a drop in streamers futures.<br /><br />My suggestion? Send Billy with a really good lunch and a napkin note telling him how much you miss him today. Tell him you love him even more than you knew you could love somebody. Tell him today how happy you were on the day he was born. If Billy doesn't think that's enough, don't worry. Someday, he will.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-18526348624312594982009-03-09T14:04:00.005-06:002009-03-09T15:01:31.422-06:00Weighty mattersWhen I was a young girl, I always felt fatter than anybody else. Of course, now when I look back at old pictures of myself, I know that wasn't true. I wasn't a petite beanpole of a girl; I was sturdy and strong. But, truthfully, I see now I was slender. Normal slender.<br /><br />That was about 75 pounds ago. A friend took a picture of me while we were on vacation. I'm a frickin' tank, and I hate it.<br /><br />With my son's wedding coming up here eventually, I have, in the possibility of a photographer's camera catching the width of my backside, some real motivation to lose weight. Besides, I feel miserable. I am actually aware of my middle because it uncomfortably collides with my waist. I hate shopping because I hate the clothes available to me. Now I'm not yet in the "X" or the Women's sizes yet, but I'm close. But it's still miserable to drag dozens of jeans into the fitting room only to find one pair -- in a size larger than all the others -- into which this burgeoning body can budge.<br /><br />So here's what I've eaten today: my calcium, multivitamin and glucosamine supplements, a banana, a cup of oatmeal with Splenda, a cup of coffee, a half of a raised sugar doughnut at this morning's staff meeting (I couldn't help myself!), a cup of spinach with balsamic salad spritzer, a vegetable beef Campbell's Soup at Hand, 10 wheat pretzels, a Braeburn apple and a cup of mint tea. Not too appetizing, but dinner awaits. About 800 calories worth.<br /><br />Here's what I figure I can have for dinner: six spears of Schwan's asparagus grilled in about a teaspoon of olive oil, a grilled chicken breast with a sauce of about 4 T. fat-free sour cream, a cup of sliced mushrooms and a sauteed onion, a medium potato with about 5-6 sprays of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter and a Schwan Healthy Creations bar for dessert. That brings me to about 725 calories, so I can have a 4 oz. glass of chardonnay (about 75 calories).<br /><br />I'd love to hear your 800-calorie dinners. Bring 'em on!Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-68164387525780774172009-02-25T11:38:00.002-06:002009-02-25T11:47:57.454-06:00I'm effedToday the <a href="http://www.startribune.com/lifestyle/health/40262352.html">Star Tribune</a> proclaims, "A new study involving nearly 1.3 million middle-age British women -- the largest ever to examine alcohol and cancer in women -- found that just one glass of chardonnay, a single beer or any other type of alcoholic drink per day significantly increases the risk of a variety of cancers."<br /><br />But it wasn't the story that caught my eye. The online comments were hilarious. Here's a selection:<br /><ul><li>"But masterbation is still good, right? C'mon, man. Don't change this on me now."</li><li>"Oh for Pete's Sake!! We all have to die of something. I wish the research doctors would just shut up already with this crap. Drink red wine ... save your heart. Drink wine or any alcohol ... die of cancer. Gaah! Whatever."</li><li>"News Alert: Scientists have discovered that everyone who has cancer has a heartbeat. They also have found that continuing this behavior increases the chances of getting cancer."</li></ul><p>So here's the deal: I'm trying to lose a bunch of weight, so I'm pushing it at the gym every other day. I'm trying not to eat junk. I'm trying not to snack. It's Lent. I'm offering it up. Plus, it's supposed to snow again tomorrow, which means I get double credit, right? Or something. If I must stop drinking wine now, I'm just totally screwed.</p>Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-88795139736568346232009-01-30T15:23:00.003-06:002009-01-30T15:42:41.389-06:00Old friends are best friendsTwenty years ago, I cut my journalistic/public relations teeth in a job I wasn't much prepared for at another St. Paul college -- my alma mater, at that. I was all of 26 years old when I started, and I think I made a grand sum of about $16,500 a year. I had been a golden child as a student: honors in English, a practically perfect G.P.A., faculty who showered me in adulation. What I didn't know: They'd treat me like crap as soon as I joined the administration. And the place ran like a harem with PMS. Three presidents, three bosses and seven years of loyalty later, my job -- and my salary -- was sheared by half in a fit of cost-cutting. That was the beginning of the end of that journey.<br /><br />But along the way, I had worked with some really lovely and talented people who, like me, needed jobs to survive and endured no small amount of abuse to put food on their tables. One, Barb, a graphic designer, had a houseful of kids ranging from teens to preschoolers. She was enormously talented and, of course, she could hardly wait to get outta there. After she lost a child in an auto accident and her husband to a heart attack, she designed books for a small local press. Today, she paints. After unspeakable tragedy (she doesn't remember most of it, she says protectively), she still smiles. <br /><br />I had lunch with Barb today -- our first in 20 years. We're going to do it again. Life is short, so I might as well spend it with people I really, really like.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-57189453490349731542009-01-20T14:49:00.002-06:002009-01-20T14:52:44.355-06:00The dad of the whole country!I enjoyed a lunchtime jaunt with my grandsons. Their dad is away on business today, so I drove them from school to daycare. I've always found "cartime" to be a great conversation. Today's topic: Our new president, "Rock Obama." Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?<br /><br />Me: "So, Owen, what does a president DO?"<br />O: "Well he's like the dad to the whole country. And he gets to ride in a helicopter!" <br /><br />That just about sums up the job. Good luck, "Rock." Don't disappoint us.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-65218660921524215052009-01-09T13:58:00.003-06:002009-01-09T14:51:38.478-06:00Insomnia, againI remember when I used to have to set my alarm clock halfway across a room so it'd annoy me just enough to get me out of bed. My sleep-coma produced spots of drool on my pillowcase. More often than not, one of my arms would "fall asleep" so profoundly that I'd have to use the other arm to pick it up and shake it awake. If you asked me my name when I opened my eyes each morning, I'd have no recollection. Then I became a mother.<br /><br />After 25 years or so of retraining myself, now I am a perfect insomniac. I wake if light enters my field of vision, if the clock radio clicks softly just before the radio alarm goes on, if my husband breathes heavily in his sleep, if the bell on the cat's collar tings as she slinks down the hall. I swear a feather drifting to the sidewalk could wake me. Permanently.<br /><br />Why is it that every little anxiety, discomfort or obsession magnifies to the height of Mount Everest when you can't sleep? Here's the short rundown of my latest four hours of frets a few nights ago:<br /><br />-- That we'd lose our house to the bank and end up living in Nate and Sara's basement. Mind you, we've never even had a late payment on the mortgage in our 20-some years of having one. Besides, Sara would never make me live in the basement, would you, dear?<br /><br />-- That I really need a haircut and I bet Shannon, my hairdresser, is going to raise her prices again, damn her all to hell. She's worth every cent she earns, and she's much nicer than the priest in the confessional and has better breath too.<br /><br />-- That this funny backache that's irritating me is probably the beginning of some fatal disease I can't pronounce. Except a Tylenol licked it in no time, and I hardly ever work out four days in a row like I did this week.<br /><br />-- That someone in my office will find out about this blog, forward it to some powerful administrator and have me fired on the spot, and then we would (you guessed it) lose the house to the bank and end up living in Nate and Sara's basement. But my co-workers who read the blog have told me they enjoy it. Don't give me up, girls. <br /><br />-- That I will never, ever again have acrylic nails, and I really like them but they cost too much every month to maintain. In reality: Who gives a rat's patootie about fingernails?<br /><br />-- That I need a new swimsuit, and I hate to shop, but we're going to Florida in February and I don't want to look like an idiot. Yeah ... but will a swimsuit really change that? And who the heck there knows me and cares what I look like? As my grandma would say, "Who's going to be stopping their horses to gaze at you?" <br /><br />-- That someday, when I'm dead, nobody will really care one way or the other, unlike the case of my friend Emilie who just died and hundreds, literally hundreds, of people went to her funeral and love just poured forth. Well, she earned that the hard way. I, on the other hand, hope to get run over by a truck when I'm 85 or so. And my kids will cry, won't you, kids? God knows, you know how. <br /><br />-- That my pillowcase has a hole in it, and who has holes in their pillowcases? That's just plain neglect. And that's no invented fret; it's the truth, I'm afraid. And don't get me started on FEARS.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-46539748790503700342008-12-26T17:16:00.006-06:002008-12-28T22:15:22.226-06:00Farewell, EmilieMy friend Emilie Lemmons died on Christmas Eve after a short but intense battle with sarcoma. She leaves behind a 2-year-old, a 10-month-old and the love of her life. She was only 40. I still can't think what I can write about her that will do her justice. <br /><br />Emilie and I weren't "close" in the same way she was close to her dear friends. We had only about a half-hour of face time and a handful of phone calls over the six or seven years I knew her. Ours was mostly a professional relationship: she was a reporter for our archdiocesan newspaper awhile back, and I was just another PR flack supplying her with story ideas and sources. But we had a "karma" between us. Whenever we talked, either via e-mail or on the phone, we got into all these conversations that had nothing to do with our original purpose. I've always thought that, had we been neighbor ladies back in the '60s, we'd have spent entire days letting the kids run wild while we talked over the back fence. <br /><br />When she became a mother and decided to stay home with her little one, she began freelancing. And then there was one more little one, and she was hooked on motherhood. She started a blog when she was trying to get pregnant and wrote terrific columns on parenting and her inner life. She was so happy. Life was good. <br /><br />We began e-mailing each other at least once a week over the past year. I don't even remember how that began. She read (and commented on -- yay!) this blog, and I read hers devotedly. She was an amazing writer and thinker. Funny. Smart. Gutsy. She was a terrific mother. I was -- and continue to be -- impressed at the depth of her spirituality. We had many conversations about that, and each time we did, I felt like someone out there was making me a better person, dragging me kicking and screaming toward heaven. Now she's gone. Selfishly I wonder if anyone will be able to pick up where she left off. Mostly, I thank her for her ultimate goodness, the positive force she was in the lives of others. <br /><br />The Basilica of St. Mary should be packed for her funeral on Monday, as she touched so many people in her short life. I suspect her friend Molly Guthrey Millett, a reporter for the St. Paul Pioneer Press, will tell about that in a <a href="http://www.twincities.com/ci_11319528">column in Sunday's paper</a>. <br /><br />I won't say goodbye to Emilie. Thanks to her, I know I'll see her again, no matter how doubtful I am. I just have to get to heaven to do that. Dang it, Emilie. I don't know if I'm saint material.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-45884609192295310902008-12-17T12:53:00.004-06:002008-12-17T13:05:24.653-06:00My letter to SantaDear Santa,<br /><br />I've been sorta good this year. If there’s any room on the sleigh, here’s what I hope you can bring for me:<br /><br />1. A new, solid gold checkbook. The old one is practically empty and is duct-taped together. And, while you’re at it, bring a giant shredder for all those equally useless retirement account statements. Then, deliver a set of angel wings to President-Elect Obama. He’ll need to arrange something miraculous. Alternate gifts: a "Will Work For Food" sign and a matching handbasket.<br /><br />2. A new ignition switch for our pontoon boat on Cedar Lake. We thought we’d make it through the summer without one repair, but we didn’t and then one of our kids and his friend got stranded when it was too cold to get out and swim. (We thanked our neighbor, The Little Bohunk, for towing them to shore, but maybe you can bring something nice for him, too. He likes switches, too, and things with engines and machinery of all types.)<br /><br />3. Big bottles of bubbly for my husband's loyal customers. They kept us afloat, or at least treading water, all year. A case ought to do it. Maybe next year we’ll have you bring two cases, but at this point it looks like we may be drinking them both ourselves. (Note to Santa’s Elves: Call us for new shelves in Santa’s Workshop, new windows on the North Pole house or those fancy shower doors that Mrs. Claus keeps whining about.)<br /><br />4. Boxing gloves for the grandsons but skip the Ultimate Fighting videos. They need to work their way up, and they promise not to practice on their new preschool friends.<br /><br />5. A perpetual calendar for the grandsons' parents, so they can schedule the next 14 years of babysitters, birthday parties, drivers, carpools, basketball games, spring sings, choir concerts, driver’s ed, swim meets, hockey games, track meets, entrance exams, dance lessons, art shows, college visits, graduations, awards assemblies, proms,tux rentals, limo rentals, all-night grad parties and beer busts. Don’t bother with a checkbook for this pair. The money will just fly out of their pockets on its own.<br /><br />6. A Sherpa for No. 2 daughter and her boyfriend. Those gory medical books that she reads and the million-page law texts that he hauls around can give people hernias. If anything happens to the Sherpa, the boyfriend should have his J.D. in time for the lawsuit or the daughter can prescribe something for the pain. In a few years, they’ll need a new checkbook for all those grad school payments, so you might as well pack it onto the sleigh while we’re thinking about it.<br /><br />7. A friendly visit by Martha Stewart or the HGTV guys to the new home of our son and his fiancee. Maybe they can advise what paint colors enhance Xbox 360 and what style of tap handle can dress up a kegerator. Then, perhaps, they can help them pick a nice color palate for the wedding. What goes with "soon"?<br /><br />That should just about do it. Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!<br /><br />Oh, and before I forget: Throw in some world peace, please. Merry Christmas and love to you all.<br /><br />The MadwomanMadwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-86170565762313092522008-12-08T12:50:00.003-06:002008-12-08T13:38:17.573-06:00Excuses, excusesOur friend <a href="http://www.lucypants.blogspot.com/">Meg</a> recently blogged about all her excuses not to blog. So, feeling creatively arid lately, I offer my own list:<br /><br />I am busy: <br /><br />1. Wrapping the caramels that I made before Thanksgiving (it's OK, they won't go bad, all ye food safety experts) and I'm not done yet. Caramel wrapping inflicts stickiness on keyboards. <br /><br />2. Watching the Weather Channel for hints of The Big One (that's a snowstorm in these parts, pardner). <br /><br />3. Counting the days till my son really moves all his crap out of the house. Him, I could keep. His stuff is becoming rather unmanageable now that his sister's stuff is keeping it company. When, you ask, will his new house be ready? Soon, I'm told. They're plastering Sheetrock and the wood floors get refinished next week. I'm going to make one of those little calendars with the doors (think Advent calendar, but that would be sort of sacreligious) counting the days between "Sign the papers and go into debt for the rest of your life" to "Move every last thing you own out of your parents' house so they can rent out your space for $500 a month."<br /><br />4. Ticking off the hours until my two-week (count 'em!) Christmas vacation beginning Dec. 22. Working at a Catholic university has definite advantages. Every day I pray for our admissions and financial aid people, as our livelihood depends on them.<br /><br />5. Crocheting the lacy little snowflakes I intend to give all my favorite people at Christmas because I'm too broke to buy them anything. Which is really a blessing after all: Curling up in my chair with the cat at my feet and watching those weepy holiday specials while I work is much more fun than trudging through the mall, tossing hundred-dollar bills at ungrateful store clerks. And I don't have to chirp, "Happy holidays!" to anyone.<br /><br />6. Drinking leftover eggnog -- the real stuff laced with bourbon and rum. You can't drink this eggnog and blog anything readable. <br /><br />7. Watching our students begin to walk in their sleep, a spectator sport that culminates in finals week and graduation. Winning scores come in for for number papers written, tests taken and hours awake. Style points: Unwashed hair, beard overgrowth, wrinkled clothes. Lightning round double-scores are earned for talking to themselves and forgetting their iPods in the library.<br /><br />8. Writing the annual Sirek Christmas letter. I'm lying about this one because I haven't really written it yet -- just taking notes. This I know: It won't be a parody of "A Visit From St. Nicholas," a.k.a. "'Twas the Night Before Christmas."<br /><br />9. Trying to lay off the sweets and favor the gym so I can avoid embarrassment in Florida -- although almost anything goes in the Land of Inappropriate Clothing for Body Type. I scored four free airline tickets this year from forgotten American Express points, and the other benefiting couple is likely to pick up the rental car charges, so presto! I have a free vacation coming in February! Yay me!<br /><br />10. And my basic cover-all excuse for my blogging ineptitude? I'm just trying to keep it together until after the solstice. No, I'm not a witch -- I'm a b--ch. I need sunlight to be a nice and creative person. These short winter days put me to sleep and make me cranky. All I want to do is lay in bed and eat massive amounts of dark chocolate and drink gallons of chardonnay. So this is a month of epic scenarios, Good vs. Evil in constant showdown: Do I simply take a little snooze before I go to bed and sleep 12 hours, or do I scream at anyone who drops a Christmas cookie crumb on my floor after I've gained 10 pounds because it's all the fault of Jesus for being born in the dead of winter?<br /><br />Happy holidays :)Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-65618641551387468172008-11-21T12:58:00.006-06:002008-11-21T13:33:26.270-06:00No mutiny on bounty hereIt's almost Thanksgiving. I've been thinking a lot about that -- thanksgiving, not just the holiday at which we celebrate it -- lately. Seems like every morning the clock-radio wakes me, some newscaster is bemoaning the stock market's consistent slide, the automakers' imminent collapse, global disaster ensuing: LIFE AS WE KNOW IT IS OVER! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!! News at 6. If foreclosure doesn't find us, global warming will. If we don't stop eating, we'll die early deaths. Red wine makes us fat and drunk, but happy and cancer-free. Huh? I'm all confused. I don't know what to be afraid of anymore. It's just. Too. Much.<br /><br />There's been a mutiny, and we just refuse to be thankful for what we have. Not "have in comparison to someone else" but "have," period.So, I'm retreating from all of this. Instead of focusing on everything that's gonna drive me to an early grave or send me to hell in that handbasket I'm so fond of, I'm honing in on what I have, and what I'm thankful for.<br /><br />For starters: So far I have a roof over my head and a comfortable mattress. That's all good. I'm sort of creaky and have brittle fingernails, but I'm not too wrinkly and have all my teeth. That's good, too. I have health -- a gift for which I can give thanks every day. I have people in my life who love me and show me, in small but touching ways, that I am important to them: My husband, for example, doesn't get irritated about my crashing around in the kitchen or starting up the washing machine or even running the vacuum before he wakes up in the morning. He knows I'm a neat freak and doesn't complain about it, just lets me do my thing.<br /><br />I have a car with good brakes and a house with three working furnaces (well, one's for the garage, and one's for the workshop). I have terrific neighbors, including a wonderful public high school right across the street from my house. I enjoy watching the kids come and go to school and especially like the nice big scoreboard (I can see that when I'm doing dishes) when the girls play softball. I can see the horizon from my deck, my own version of wide-open spaces in the heart of suburbia. Sometimes, I can see fireworks displays from other cities there. It's very cool.<br /><br />I have a tree in my yard that has to be 100 years old. Isn't that amazing? And my crysanthemums keep coming back year after year. A miracle. <br /><br />I am thankful for the view outside my office windows, the words on my bookshelf, and the Internet. And that is not all, no. That is not all. What makes you thankful? Share the bounty.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-54148532693120952592008-11-07T12:05:00.001-06:002008-11-07T12:08:10.008-06:00Kittehs know best<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_-P0QZwswQYMrhMdUjI7jqcbYik2XUIxOo-mY2GEzBE40qqV6Q1aSKu6a2cLgDTKHvj3EIXmeIoFrTDzmqEy15UyTu4iz4CL_-kcmRUULq97XAHiIL2RMRb60iYTc6cMXhCDKjGTMtg/s1600-h/SKz11yTkUg0l1devBnFlWxSLo1_500.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 86px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_-P0QZwswQYMrhMdUjI7jqcbYik2XUIxOo-mY2GEzBE40qqV6Q1aSKu6a2cLgDTKHvj3EIXmeIoFrTDzmqEy15UyTu4iz4CL_-kcmRUULq97XAHiIL2RMRb60iYTc6cMXhCDKjGTMtg/s320/SKz11yTkUg0l1devBnFlWxSLo1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265978633423991154" /></a>Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-25984390254084411112008-11-04T12:58:00.004-06:002008-11-04T13:14:17.298-06:00The Longest DayYou know, I've been up since 2 a.m. I was so danged excited over the prospect of a new president that I could hardly sleep. I finally got up at 5:45 and was at my polling place when it opened at 7. And I was probably 200th to show up! Elderly election judges had us snaking in lines all over the Crown of Life Church social hall. <br /><br />Remember the old days of levered voting booths? Coocooned by this neat little curtain, we clackety-clacked our selections and voila! When we opened the curtain, our votes were magically counted, and the ballot was cleared for the next voter. I missed those today, especially because I was seated at a table to while my fellow voters in line stood looking over my shoulder. I might as well have turned around in my chair, held up my ballot and asked, "Say, neighbor, whaddya think? Will my vote for Obama push him over the top?" <br /><br />Now, we wait. This isn't like playing a bar video game and having a running total of the score. We have to wait for the polls to close. By the time we have a winner, I might be awake for 24 hours, or the suspense might kill me. I know I'm wearing my lefty heart on my sleeve, but I hope the result is worth waiting for, and I remember this election for the rest of my life.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-31657285186531732822008-10-27T14:51:00.003-06:002008-10-27T14:57:57.514-06:00Make them stop? Please?You want to know why I haven't been able to blog much lately? Don't know. I think my brain has turned to mush and I'm suffering from too many campaign commercials. They've bored little holes in my head and my brains are oozing out onto the sidewalk. By Nov. 4, I should be about as attractive and smart as the Headless Horseman. And about as broke as ever, unless Barack (or, perish the thought, the other guy) starts throwing bags of money into the crowd at his inauguration parade. That'd beat saltwater taffy any day. What was I writing about again?Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-2452573496515333462008-10-07T14:03:00.002-06:002008-10-07T14:10:19.577-06:00Oh, what a beautiful morning ...Today's grayed over with driving rain. Obama and McCain will duke it out on national television tonight, but I don't want to watch. Al Franken's coming to campus tomorrow, and the Colemanites are already whining to the media about it. (I hope they know you can't have a stick on a sign around here because then it becomes a weapon.) I'm afraid to open the quarterly statement for my retirement account. I haven't even made the house payment yet this month because business sucks so much. We're determined, however, not to become a statistic, so we trudge on. Pass the tuna casserole.<br /><br />All day today, I've endured the students of the voice teacher downstairs. Lots of showtunes, over and over and over. "Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day. I've got a beautiful feeeee-ling! Ev'rything's goin' my way." <br /><br />Yeah, right.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-81020616531474783172008-09-29T14:14:00.003-06:002008-09-29T14:22:03.951-06:00She gots spirit, yeah, she doMaybe Sarah Palin needs a writer, or at least a filter. Witness this quote from Mrs. Articulate in a recent interview with CBS' Katie Couric:<br /><br />"We have trade missions back and forth, we do. It's very important when you<br />consider even national security issues with Russia. As Putin rears his head and<br />comes into the air space of the United States of America, where do they go? It's<br />Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is from Alaska that we send those<br />out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia,<br />because they are right there, they are right next to our state."<br /><br />Uh, not to be disrespectful, but WTF? What DID she say? I can hardly wait to hear her debate Joe Biden on Thursday night. High comedy is promised. But it might be an experience not unlike watching old "I Love Lucy" episodes, when I'd put a blanket over my face because I was so embarrassed for women everywhere that any one woman could be so cute but sooooooo STUPID.<br /><br />There. Got THAT off my chest. And now, about that $700 billion and that cardboard box down by the river with my name on it.</p?Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-10279216540978370622008-09-09T14:23:00.004-06:002008-09-09T14:34:59.771-06:00The whirl beginsSome of you might be wondering, "why does she have this blog but she never writes in it?" Some others might wonder, "Doesn't she ever take cool pictures like the other smarter bloggers do?"<br /><br />Answer No. 1: I'm really, really busy lately, now that school is back in session and my real job gets in the way. Plus I help my husband with his business stuff (so we can, like, eat and live in a permanent structure that is nowhere close to "down by the river"). I love to write in this blog and would do so all day long, just to please you, but <em>oh, well ... .</em><br /><br />Answer No. 2: I don't even own a digital camera. And my offspring can tell you what a poor photographer I am, always cutting off heads or sneezing while clicking the shutter. The results aren't pretty. So use your imagination. And read, damn it. That's what words are for. You don't <em>need</em> pictures all the time! This is not Life magazine or People or Us Weekly.<br /><br />But anyway ... I'm dying to talk to y'all about Sarah Palin. OMG. Seriously.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-63245144317848809852008-08-12T14:21:00.004-06:002008-08-12T15:01:25.823-06:00Gold medal monthSo how did the girl who was always picked last end up being such a sports junkie? The family sports gene totally missed me: I can't play golf, don't really get into hiking and climbing and hunting and fishing, would rather sit in the cabin and read all day than waterski or swim and play volleyball. But I am an Olympicsholic. I admit it.<br /><br />I can still remember where I was when that little Romanian 14-year-old, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5gR0g8lHIs">Nadia Comaneci</a>, scored her first perfect 10 on the bars in 1976 (I was standing there in my underwear, ironing in a stifling second-floor walkup apartment overlooking West Seventh and Randolph in St. Paul). And Mark Spitz? No matter what Michael Phelps does in the pool, Spitz is still my all-time favorite McDreamy.<br /><br />Maybe it's because I raised a bunch of athletes and did a little swimming myself a very long time ago that I realize how extraordinary these Olympians are. Their dedication to perfection is something I find quite awe-inspiring. Sometimes, of course, it's downright obsession and probably borders on madness and narcisism. Nevertheless, the Olympics are still a blast to watch, and my anemic patriotism gets a free boost, too, despite living in the city where John McCain is having a great big party next month.<br /><br />This year I'm glued to the TV as I am every four years, although I haven't stolen any planks from the garage for a makeshift balance beam this time. I just can't get that dismount down.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-17537581530819694912008-08-06T08:51:00.004-06:002008-08-06T10:03:47.693-06:00Remembering Cathe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CU6_wUS7VGif_0OLgC7KFNSTMYSg6uuSz-_HBDhqYLbOZJ1OTKdMd4OihZhTPAlQ6kOcThyyGDwQv6Ia0mJhxixFd_ggQcbVVQ6dICa7y69kz6vF8n2He8J6V2MoqWHnXgZlYRynjH4/s1600-h/The+Katies.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231417682540886546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CU6_wUS7VGif_0OLgC7KFNSTMYSg6uuSz-_HBDhqYLbOZJ1OTKdMd4OihZhTPAlQ6kOcThyyGDwQv6Ia0mJhxixFd_ggQcbVVQ6dICa7y69kz6vF8n2He8J6V2MoqWHnXgZlYRynjH4/s320/The+Katies.jpg" border="0" /></a> A little more than five years ago, a dear friend from college, Catherine, died after an on-again, off-again battle (she called it "inconvenient") with breast cancer for years. She was 49. Her little boy was 11. It broke our hearts.<br /><br />Cathe had a way of collecting friends like some people collect coins. She polished all of us and scooped us together in a pile. Lo and behold, we became friends, good friends who gather several times a year to flirt with Italian waiters, eat too much and drink a bunch of wine. Sometimes we top it off with a forbidden cigarette, just because Cathe liked being a bit of a rebel.<br /><br />After she died we had a tree planted in her honor on the campus of her alma mater, the College of St. Catherine. Each spring it boasts pink blooms, and a bench now graces the site, too. On July 31, the anniversary of her death, I sat there again, drinking in a kind of silence almost antithetical to Cathe's nature: She was Irish and never shut up, except sometimes in church, and even then she usually found something to whisper and giggle about.<br /><br />As I sat there thinking about Cathe, I hoped there is, indeed, the afterlife to which we Christians cling. I have some good gossip I need to tell her and I need to feel again the special kind of exhaustion that endless laughter brings. I need her to tell me a story. I miss her "cackle."<br /><br />Suddenly, my reverie was interrupted. Someone walking to his car after a campus summer music conference had burst into a perfect-pitch rendition of "Amazing Grace." Thanks, Cathe.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-65182745704485784512008-08-05T12:33:00.003-06:002008-08-05T12:40:09.161-06:00My 'basket' listI see that actor Morgan Freeman, one of my favorites, had a serious auto accident yesterday. So here, with every good wish that he recovers from his injuries and in the theme of one of my favorite Freeman movies, <a href="http://thebucketlist.warnerbros.com/">"The Bucket List,"</a> is my Top 20 things I intend to do one day, in no particular order:<br /><br />1.) Drink really good Irish ale in an Irish pub, in Ireland.<br />2.) Eat a meal in Tuscany.<br />3.) Publish a book of my poems.<br />4.) Go to my grandkids' grade-school "spring sings."<br />5.) Go downhill skiing again (I haven't since Nicole was born), as it was the only sport that didn't embarrass me.<br />6.) Dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean; closest I ever got was being sprayed by its mist on a foggy cruise of San Francisco Bay.<br />7.) Run a 5K. Really, I would. I just don't know if I <em>could</em>.<br />8.) Learn to back up while towing a trailer.<br />9.) While I'm at it, learn to back up using rear-view mirrors.<br />10.) Dock the boat all by myself.<br />11.) Learn to take good pictures that don't cut off heads.<br />12.) Learn to play bridge or chess or some other mentally challenging game. Best I can do is 500 and cribbage, neither of which I can even remember how to play anymore.<br />13.) Make pasta from scratch.<br />14.) Continuing the food-preparation theme, I'd like to bake a pie with a lattice crust. They're so pretty, but I've never tried it.<br />15.) Put my boxes of photos in some kind of order in albums before I forget who's pictured.<br />16.) Make a quilt.<br />17.) See the Grand Canyon.<br />18.) See Mount Rushmore.<br />19.) Ride a bike or walk to my office at least once. It's 9.1 miles. I clocked it yesterday, and I can do this.<br />20.) Lose 20 pounds before Nate gets married.<br />21.) Just for good measure (you've heard of a baker's dozen, haven't you?), learn to play the piano.<br /><br />Instead of calling this a "bucket" list, I think it should be called a "basket" list. As in handbasket. Because that's probably where I'll end up at the rate I'm going.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2651648978272125284.post-7706565131920294082008-07-28T14:54:00.003-06:002008-07-28T15:08:22.104-06:00Huh?Nobody ever warned me that I'd turn into a blathering idiot when I hit 50. I can't remember <em>shit</em> (sorry, Mom, that's your word, I know). I repeat myself, repeat myself, repeat myself; swear I brought things home but instead left them elsewhere (yes, Nicole, my favorite cooler was still at the cabin), look for clothes I sent to the Goodwill long ago, have imaginary friends and can't remember quite significant things I did 20 years ago. I get back from vacation and can't remember my e-mail PIN. Thank God I wrote it down before I left. So far I haven't left my keys in the refrigerator, but I know that could be coming sooner than I expected.<br /><br />I thought only truly old people did this. Heck, my mom didn't start getting "scattered" like this until she hit 70-something. And instead of letting this frustrate her, she just bought more PostIt<sup>TM</sup> notes.<br /><br />So far this isn't all that debilitating, luckily. I don't usually get lost in the car, embarrass people or myself unintentionally or act legally insane. I probably annoy my children and my husband more than I do myself -- they already know I'm kind of OCD anyway. But when I try to lighten up a bit and am not compulsively tidying my house/workspace/dresser drawers, this is what happens. Promise me: If I get dangerously forgetful, hide the keys in the fridge. That would scare me into submission.Madwoman of Preserve Pathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07021193076097365980noreply@blogger.com2