It's our 31st wedding anniversary today, and I woke up in bed by myself this morning. Sigh. So I got up, went downstairs and found my sleepless partner dozing in the chair. His knee hurt. And his business has him in a worried funk. I always thought by now we'd be taking it a little easier, the kids would be on their own, we'd be done paying for schools and basketball camps and swimming lessons and iPods. But I didn't think we'd be paying $4 a gallon for gas, that groceries for two would cost over $100 a week (at one time, that fed a family of five quite nicely), that I'd be prayin' for furnace season to end, and that we'd be 10 years into a struggling family business.
But all finances aside, do I have a regret in the world? Not one.
We are blessed. Thirty-one years ago today we started something pretty rare. He's still my best friend, and I'm still his. He still makes me laugh, and I still put away his laundry. It's a fair deal, even though most young couples would think we're old-fashioned. Together we raised three fabulous children, of whom we're so proud. They're like badges of honor on the sash of this marriage. Do we have disagreements? Sure. But doesn't everybody?
Sometimes you have to be thankful just to be there -- to be present -- for each other. My friend Arlene's dad, Clarence Vail, died a few days ago. There's a story about him in the St. Paul Pioneer Press today. When he died, Clarence was 101, and he and his wife, Mayme, had been married 83 years, longer than any other couple in America. Their secret? Nothing fancy: Just respecting each other and working together to get through the day, the month, the year.
Facing an uncertain future is always a little easier with a hand to hold. And I'm still so grateful we were able to keep a promise we made so long ago.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
If it's all the same to you, those are laugh lines, not wrinkles
MinnPost writer Christina Capecchi, one of this blog's few but esteemed readers, has an interesting piece today on wedding trends that reveal our society's obsessions with celebrity, its stunning lack of self-esteem and its amazing gullibility: "Here comes the bride -- picture-perfect, thanks to the likes of Botox, veneers and stunning makeup."
About to become a bride herself, Capecchi has interviewed providers and pushers in the "personal services" industry who aim to make brides (and their mothers, mothers-in-law and little dogs too) feel not quite good enough to walk down the aisle without having a little "work" done. Now I don't know about you, but just the thought of a Brazilian wax makes me catch my breath a little. If you think anyone's gonna stick a needle in my face, you have another thing coming. And if my teeth are crooked, old and not bright white, well ... that's what photo retouching is for. As Popeye said, "I yam what I yam." I'll be a mother-in-law, with gray hair and a girdle, I guess. (Unless, of course, I can wean myself from wine except on weekends and get to the gym a few more days a week.)
I do hope, however, that my soon-to-become daughter-in-law doesn't get sucked into all of this self-flagellation and knows she's beautiful just as she is, inside and out. I'm reminded of a line from a song in the 1965 TV version of Rodgers & Hammerstein's "Cinderella": "Do I love you because you're beautiful or are you beautiful because I love you?" (Nostalgia alert: You can swoon over the dreamy prince here. I used to pretend I was the princess, played by Lesley Ann Warren, who, I might add, has crooked teeth and a funny smile and is breathtakingly gorgeous just the same.)
About to become a bride herself, Capecchi has interviewed providers and pushers in the "personal services" industry who aim to make brides (and their mothers, mothers-in-law and little dogs too) feel not quite good enough to walk down the aisle without having a little "work" done. Now I don't know about you, but just the thought of a Brazilian wax makes me catch my breath a little. If you think anyone's gonna stick a needle in my face, you have another thing coming. And if my teeth are crooked, old and not bright white, well ... that's what photo retouching is for. As Popeye said, "I yam what I yam." I'll be a mother-in-law, with gray hair and a girdle, I guess. (Unless, of course, I can wean myself from wine except on weekends and get to the gym a few more days a week.)
I do hope, however, that my soon-to-become daughter-in-law doesn't get sucked into all of this self-flagellation and knows she's beautiful just as she is, inside and out. I'm reminded of a line from a song in the 1965 TV version of Rodgers & Hammerstein's "Cinderella": "Do I love you because you're beautiful or are you beautiful because I love you?" (Nostalgia alert: You can swoon over the dreamy prince here. I used to pretend I was the princess, played by Lesley Ann Warren, who, I might add, has crooked teeth and a funny smile and is breathtakingly gorgeous just the same.)
Monday, June 9, 2008
Sha na na, dip dip dip dip ...
We have a job-seeker at our house -- a 23-year-old, engaged-to-be-married guy who's a good dresser with lots of ambition, is easy on the eye, has a bachelor's degree in business communication, reliable transportation, a little job experience in radio and remodeling and washing cars. Take my son, please ...
It's a tough row to hoe for these newly minted college graduates. I remember looking for that first job, writing cover letter after cover letter, blanketing the world with my resumes and trying to act all mature and confident when I actually got to beg a real person to hire me. When I finally succeeded, I think I was making all of $5 an hour, a living wage in 1977. I was thrilled to have the job even though I basically hated it because I'm really not an extrovert and had had to be with people ALL DAY LONG. I didn't like the job much, but it sounded good on paper. My first child was my little excuse for a graceful exit since I am not a quitter and didn't want anyone to call me a job-jumper.
Now job jumping is normal behavior and a sign of ambition. Go figure. I've been in the same job 20 years. Does that mean I'm not ambitious? I don't think so. I'm just lucky and content and have good health insurance. Why mess with a good thing? I know some corporate types who would gladly trade places with me. Besides, right now I am wearing flip-flops and a pair of bermuda shorts and have had one tiny phone call all day long. I get paid for reading, writing, editing, advising, planning. All the things that one nearsighted, wardrobe-challenged, introverted grammarian can do. And lately, I get paid for being the devil's advocate, the "common scold." Everyone needs at least one.
It's a tough row to hoe for these newly minted college graduates. I remember looking for that first job, writing cover letter after cover letter, blanketing the world with my resumes and trying to act all mature and confident when I actually got to beg a real person to hire me. When I finally succeeded, I think I was making all of $5 an hour, a living wage in 1977. I was thrilled to have the job even though I basically hated it because I'm really not an extrovert and had had to be with people ALL DAY LONG. I didn't like the job much, but it sounded good on paper. My first child was my little excuse for a graceful exit since I am not a quitter and didn't want anyone to call me a job-jumper.
Now job jumping is normal behavior and a sign of ambition. Go figure. I've been in the same job 20 years. Does that mean I'm not ambitious? I don't think so. I'm just lucky and content and have good health insurance. Why mess with a good thing? I know some corporate types who would gladly trade places with me. Besides, right now I am wearing flip-flops and a pair of bermuda shorts and have had one tiny phone call all day long. I get paid for reading, writing, editing, advising, planning. All the things that one nearsighted, wardrobe-challenged, introverted grammarian can do. And lately, I get paid for being the devil's advocate, the "common scold." Everyone needs at least one.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Not exactly Perry Mason
On Saturday I officiated at an argument worthy of witness by the Supreme Court. The defendant? Owen, age 3. The prosecutor? William, 3 himself.
W: "A truck is a car with a box."
O: "No it's NOT. It's a truck. A truck is not a car."
W: "Yes, yes it IIIIISSSSS! A truck IS a car!"
O: "No it's NOT! A truck is not a car, it's a truck!"
This conversation continues escalation, punctuated by a good-sized slap to the head, followed by another, at which point the parties were returned to the bench. Sobs all around.
Me: "Owen, you're right. A truck is a truck. And Will? You're right, too. A truck can, indeed, be a car."
O: "Nonna, that's not right."
W: "Yeah, Nonna, that's not right."
Me: "Well, at least you can agree about something."
Case dismissed.
W: "A truck is a car with a box."
O: "No it's NOT. It's a truck. A truck is not a car."
W: "Yes, yes it IIIIISSSSS! A truck IS a car!"
O: "No it's NOT! A truck is not a car, it's a truck!"
This conversation continues escalation, punctuated by a good-sized slap to the head, followed by another, at which point the parties were returned to the bench. Sobs all around.
Me: "Owen, you're right. A truck is a truck. And Will? You're right, too. A truck can, indeed, be a car."
O: "Nonna, that's not right."
W: "Yeah, Nonna, that's not right."
Me: "Well, at least you can agree about something."
Case dismissed.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Mommy blogs
The St. Paul Pioneer Press has its own "mommy blog," surrounded by its new MinnMoms.com site. This whole "mommy blogging" phenomenon is fascinating to me, particularly because women have talked like this with each other for years, using whatever technology was available to us.
I wrote gobs of letters to my best girlfriends in high school. We talked incessantly on the phone (the kind with cords, horror of horrors) in college and when our kids were young; one of my 30-something neighbors saved me from toddler insanity with daily naptime phone calls and the knowledge that she, too, was still in her pajamas and had not brushed her teeth yet. Now the only way we can get hold of each other is via e-mail (one of my friends travels for work all the time, another's kids are of the age that seals her butt to the driver's seat around the clock, one works night shifts in her nursing job) and blogs. Whatever way works, I say. We crave connection. It's a girl thing, my husband would observe. He's not being sexist here. Women are the glue that hold the world together. If no one nurtured relationships and communication on this earth, we'd have blown ourselves up long ago. But I digress.
Even the national media are taking notice of "mommy bloggers." Dooce.com's Heather Armstrong showed up on the Today Show recently.
What puzzles me about the "mommy blog" label, though, is the kind of packaging that other media appear to be imposing on women who blog and the audiences who read their work. Traditional media try to create their own versions of these blogs and fail miserably. You'll note that MinnMoms, for example, has topical areas, most having to do with children. OK, that's because it's a site for mothers. But it's odd that I find nothing on the elections or economics or other national issues that must concern mothers. I was hoping to find out if Minnesota mothers are gunning for Hillary because she's one of them, if they find Obama more appealing or if McCain's trophy wife speaks (sorry, Republican friends). I'm wondering how the moms in Hugo are managing to find their kids' school clothes. I'm pondering how the women affected by China's terrible earthquake are managing to get out of bed in the morning, their only children gone.
Because in the real "mommy blogs" (if we should call them that at all), these subjects do, indeed, come up. Women of all ages and stages do more than cook, shop and care for kids. We think, pray, philosophize. We've been doing it, I think, since the beginning of time.
I wrote gobs of letters to my best girlfriends in high school. We talked incessantly on the phone (the kind with cords, horror of horrors) in college and when our kids were young; one of my 30-something neighbors saved me from toddler insanity with daily naptime phone calls and the knowledge that she, too, was still in her pajamas and had not brushed her teeth yet. Now the only way we can get hold of each other is via e-mail (one of my friends travels for work all the time, another's kids are of the age that seals her butt to the driver's seat around the clock, one works night shifts in her nursing job) and blogs. Whatever way works, I say. We crave connection. It's a girl thing, my husband would observe. He's not being sexist here. Women are the glue that hold the world together. If no one nurtured relationships and communication on this earth, we'd have blown ourselves up long ago. But I digress.
Even the national media are taking notice of "mommy bloggers." Dooce.com's Heather Armstrong showed up on the Today Show recently.
What puzzles me about the "mommy blog" label, though, is the kind of packaging that other media appear to be imposing on women who blog and the audiences who read their work. Traditional media try to create their own versions of these blogs and fail miserably. You'll note that MinnMoms, for example, has topical areas, most having to do with children. OK, that's because it's a site for mothers. But it's odd that I find nothing on the elections or economics or other national issues that must concern mothers. I was hoping to find out if Minnesota mothers are gunning for Hillary because she's one of them, if they find Obama more appealing or if McCain's trophy wife speaks (sorry, Republican friends). I'm wondering how the moms in Hugo are managing to find their kids' school clothes. I'm pondering how the women affected by China's terrible earthquake are managing to get out of bed in the morning, their only children gone.
Because in the real "mommy blogs" (if we should call them that at all), these subjects do, indeed, come up. Women of all ages and stages do more than cook, shop and care for kids. We think, pray, philosophize. We've been doing it, I think, since the beginning of time.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
My kind of nerds
OK, if I were ever going to be a revolutionary, I'd join these guys, profiled in the May 21 Chicago Tribune:
Jeff Deck and Benjamin Herson have not wasted their lives.They fight a losing battle, an unyielding tide of misplaced apostrophes and poor spelling. But still, they fight. Why, you ask. Because, they say. Because, they must.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Springtime streams of consciousness
When I first graduated from college, I had a corporate job for a national retailer, Donaldson's. For those of you too young to remember "the Little D" (the "Big D" was Dayton's), the department store was headquartered right across the Nicollet Mall from its bigger, classier sister. I toiled in the basement, right next to the loss-prevention guys who acted furtive and tough like CIA agents. I, on the other hand, was a sales trainer and part-time employee publications editor for HR, one of a first wave of female corporate-support employees who weren't secretaries. On my $5 an hour salary, I could barely afford the clothes it took to work there.
When spring and summertime came to Nicollet Mall, it was as if something in the downtown stores and office buildings sprang a leak. People flooded onto the sidewalks and plazas on their lunch hours, lolling anywhere green after months of being trapped in the skyways or of scurrying quickly to their cars, hunching into their collars, chins to chests, against the winter winds. It felt a little like it did on campus in the spring, minus the Frisbees flying and the couples making out on the quad. The whole world cried, "ahhhh!" and breathed a collective sigh of relief.
That's how I feel today, the last day of the university's academic year. Commencement is tomorrow. The campus is lush with new grass and well-tended flowers. I love the sound of lawn mowers and the smell of freshly cut grass, and I enjoy watching students pick up their caps and gowns, giddy and terrified at the same time.
After tomorrow, there will be three whole months where I won't be racing to work to nab a last-available parking spot, when the phone won't ring incessantly, and when the deadlines relax a bit. It's a time when I have a nice little cushion in most days. Although I'm working, it's less frantic. Because most students are away during the summer months, news surrounding their escapades slows down, too. (That's good, because we've spent most of the year in media hot water for one reason or another.) I will get the flowers planted. I will spend most weekends at the lake.
Tomorrow, my oldest daughter will be awarded a master's degree in art history -- a pretty awesome achievement, considering her twins are just 3 years old. Last weekend, my future daughter-in-law graduated with her bachelor's in nursing. Next week, my son has some job interviews scheduled in the Twin Cities and is moving home until he and Sara get settled and employment becomes gainful. Last week, my dearest uncle died at 77. Wednesday is my mother's 80th birthday, which I can hardly fathom. And yesterday, my good friend told me that she was finally marrying the guy I set her up with 25 years ago. It's a time of transitions, of celebrating pasts and futures. Transitions used to scare me a bit, and now I welcome them. I've come to realize that the dips and turns of this roller coaster -- which sometimes raise my stomach to my throat -- are good for the soul and make me realize just how adaptable we are. Rather than growing more set in my ways with age, I aim to savor sponanaeity. What are we celebrating next? I'm in ... .
When spring and summertime came to Nicollet Mall, it was as if something in the downtown stores and office buildings sprang a leak. People flooded onto the sidewalks and plazas on their lunch hours, lolling anywhere green after months of being trapped in the skyways or of scurrying quickly to their cars, hunching into their collars, chins to chests, against the winter winds. It felt a little like it did on campus in the spring, minus the Frisbees flying and the couples making out on the quad. The whole world cried, "ahhhh!" and breathed a collective sigh of relief.
That's how I feel today, the last day of the university's academic year. Commencement is tomorrow. The campus is lush with new grass and well-tended flowers. I love the sound of lawn mowers and the smell of freshly cut grass, and I enjoy watching students pick up their caps and gowns, giddy and terrified at the same time.
After tomorrow, there will be three whole months where I won't be racing to work to nab a last-available parking spot, when the phone won't ring incessantly, and when the deadlines relax a bit. It's a time when I have a nice little cushion in most days. Although I'm working, it's less frantic. Because most students are away during the summer months, news surrounding their escapades slows down, too. (That's good, because we've spent most of the year in media hot water for one reason or another.) I will get the flowers planted. I will spend most weekends at the lake.
Tomorrow, my oldest daughter will be awarded a master's degree in art history -- a pretty awesome achievement, considering her twins are just 3 years old. Last weekend, my future daughter-in-law graduated with her bachelor's in nursing. Next week, my son has some job interviews scheduled in the Twin Cities and is moving home until he and Sara get settled and employment becomes gainful. Last week, my dearest uncle died at 77. Wednesday is my mother's 80th birthday, which I can hardly fathom. And yesterday, my good friend told me that she was finally marrying the guy I set her up with 25 years ago. It's a time of transitions, of celebrating pasts and futures. Transitions used to scare me a bit, and now I welcome them. I've come to realize that the dips and turns of this roller coaster -- which sometimes raise my stomach to my throat -- are good for the soul and make me realize just how adaptable we are. Rather than growing more set in my ways with age, I aim to savor sponanaeity. What are we celebrating next? I'm in ... .
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