Stuff from Sherry Stanfa-Stanley

What We Believe When We Are Fifty

2012-02-08T18:01:00.003-05:00

A follow-up to my last post, in which in we reflected on what we believed when we were six:

Now that I'm fifty, I realize I may still know more than my young adult children, but that the gap is quickly narrowing.

I believe that no one should ever try to run away from their problems, but that a temporary escape into a great book or movie can be a life-saver.

I've concluded that each time I watch the movie Groundhog Day, I learn as much about how to live one single day as Bill Murray did, while laughing twice as much as the first (or eighth) time.

I realize my parents didn't know everything, but they weren't too far off about much.

I may be fifty, but I still believe in magic.

I've learned that pets may interfere with my independence, my housekeeping, and my sanity, but that I still wouldn't want to live without them.

After studying old photos, I now know the tight perm and oversized glasses I wore in the eighties were not, in retrospect, such a good idea after all.

I've come to accept I may never again be a size six, but that being healthier and happier are still good and achievable goals.

I realize that I've sometimes succeeded and sometimes failed, but that the two weren't always mutually exclusive.

I know that yesterday lingers and tomorrow beckons. And I believe that what's important, today, is to make the most of them both.

What have you learned, at your age?

What We Believe When We Are Six

2012-02-01T19:16:00.004-05:00

When I was six, I believed that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy most certainly did exist, because my own parents would never lie to me.

I knew that the Wicked Witch of the West and her flying monkeys were images on my television screen, but this didn't mean they couldn't reach out and grab me.

Somehow, I was sure that Toledo and Detroit were just different names for the same city where I lived, much like my sister Denise also went by the nickname of DC.

When I was six and a first-grader in my Catholic school, I thought that being forced to wear a paper towel or a boy's baseball cap on my head--when I forgot my chapel veil for a school Mass--seemed, well, wrong. (I was right. I just didn't know the word "sacrilegious" yet.)

I was absolutely confident I could train a cat.

At the age of six, I believed the public library to be the most wonderful, magical place in the world. (I haven't changed my mind.)

I thought the words to The Lord's Prayer were as follows, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hell be thy name."

If I was in big trouble, and I hid between the two mattresses of my twin bed and lay there VERY STILL AND VERY QUIET FOR HOURS, I believed my parents would never find me.

I was certain that I really would have run away from home and never returned, as I stood with my pink plastic suitcase at the front door and announced this, if my mother hadn't reminded me that "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" was starting in just five minutes.

I believed that no one should ever be served liver and onions, with a side of lima beans, and not be expected to discretely spit each unchewed bite into a wadded napkin.

What truths or untruths did you know when you were six? When did you stop believing? Brussel sprouts or lima beans?

Raising Iron Man

2012-01-25T21:14:00.005-05:00

When my two boys were very young, we were frequent flyers at the ER.

If we could have accrued points for our visits, we'd have achieved Medallion status and gotten all the great perks, like priority first-class seating in the waiting room and free drinks. Sadly, the hospital never once offered free Bloody Marys, even at those times when I could use one most.

After the fourth ER visit in a three-month period, I cowered in the corner of the exam room. "I hope all these repeated visits won't prompt a call from Children's Services," I told the doctor, with a nervous laugh.

He reached into my older son's nose with what appeared to be needle-nosed pliers. I watched as he pulled out a tiny wad of clothes dryer-hardened Kleenex, which Son #1 had apparently relocated from his pants pocket into the nether regions of his nostrils.

"I wouldn't worry too much about Children's Services," he said. "I haven't seen an abusive parent yet who shoves balled-up pieces of tissue up their child's nose."

Son #1 had his share of ER trips for sure. But Son #2 was an ornery, hyperactive youngster, particularly prone to accidents and mishaps. His younger years presented a unique set of parental challenges. (Son #1 surpassed those challenges in his teenage years.)

Fortunately, we of the Stanfa lineage are a tough bunch. As my dad was fond of saying, "When it gets too rough for everyone else, it's just about right for us."

Yet no one in the family was tougher and more resilient, in times of medical crisis, than Son #2.

Many of his injuries were endured with little or no complaint. He barely whimpered about his two fractured wrists, so I refused to feel too guilty for waiting weeks after both incidents to finally haul him off to see a doctor.

But some occasions demanded immediate attention. Like the time he was a toddler and I found him belting down a bottle of cough syrup.

We headed off to our second home, where the ER nurse handed us a tall glass of some charcoal-flavored antidote. "It tastes God-awful, so we can never get any child to drink it, but let's see if we manage to get just a sip or two down him."

I sighed and handed my two-year-old the witches brew.

He took one sip. He swallowed. He peered down at the cup. And he then proceeded to chug, hardly bothering to breathe between gulps. When he finished the entire contents, he handed the cup back to me. Awaiting a refill.

The nurse watched, bug-eyed. "In all my years here, I have never--not once--seen a child drink the whole thing."

A stomach of steel. Yes, I was raising Iron Man.

I didn't comprehend the strength of his super powers until years later, when we learned his too-small palate couldn't accommodate a normal full set of teeth. Consequently, the orthodontist recommended that he have several pulled. We headed off to the dentist--a man aptly named Dr. Moeller.

Dr. Moeller reached toward his young patient, with the first in a planned series of novacaine shots.

Son #2 clamped his hand over his mouth, releasing it just long enough to shout. "No shots! I don't need any shots! Just pull the teeth."

Dr. Moeller tried to reason with him: The novacaine would numb his mouth. The extractions would be far more painful without it than with it. He'd never pulled a tooth before, in all his years as a dentist, without numbing the patient's mouth first.

His pleas were to no avail. Young Iron Man shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. "No shots. Just pull them out."

Finally, Dr. Moeller nodded. "OK. I'll start to pull on the first tooth, and you let me know when to stop. Then we'll talk again about some novacaine."

He winked at me. I nodded back. We both knew how this was sure to play out.

Dr. Moeller reached back into the boy's mouth, this time with dental forceps. I watched him take hold of the tooth. No reaction.

He jiggled it. Nothing.

He began to pull. I cringed and turned my face away, holding my hands over my sensitive maternal ears to block out my child's inevitable scream of agony.

Not a sound.

I looked back to see the dentist holding a tooth, roots and all, within his forceps. He shook his head in disbelief, and we both glanced back at the boy in the chair.

"See? Easy," said Son #2.

Within minutes, the dentist had pulled the other three teeth. Iron Man lay silently until the dentist announced he was finished. Then he opened his eyes and grinned.

"See? Easy," he repeated, as blood dripped from the corners of his smile.

Within an hour of returning home, young Iron Man was requesting macaroni and cheese for dinner. I managed to appease him with a glass of chocolate milk.

I needed a drink that night too. Something with a much bigger kick.

But somehow, I couldn't face a Bloody Mary.

Did parenthood provide you with a card-carrying ER membership? Are you a wimp or are you Iron Man?

Notes of Interest

2012-01-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

I went to lunch last week with two close high school friends with whom I hadn't spoken in twenty years. Inconceivable, wasn't it, that we'd go from being nearly inseparable, to sending Christmas cards, to... nothing?

Yet over our salads and sandwiches, the years melted away. One moment we were middle-aged near-strangers, and the next, we had managed to conjure up some semblance of what is was to be fifteen.

As we reminisced about our collective pasts and caught up with our current lives, my friend Sue reached for her purse.

"I put these aside to bring to our last class reunion, but I never made it there," she said. "So I figured I'd bring them along today." She pulled out a plastic baggie stuffed with paper and handed it to me.

I opened the baggie and began unfolding one of the pages. "Dear Susie Baby," it began. The writing, in faded purple ink, seemed familiar. I squinted at the page and glanced up at her.

"These are all the notes you wrote me in high school. Most of them during biology class in sophomore year," she said. "I saved them all, in a cookie jar."

"You're kidding."

She shrugged and smiled. "Every time I moved, I'd find them and think about tossing them, but I never did. I don't know why. But they're a hoot. You should take them home and read them."

And so I did.

I'd like to say she saved them for thirty-five years because I was a teenage prodigy and the words I wrote as a high school sophomore were already Pulitzer-worthy. They were, indeed, sometimes funny and heart-warming.

But what they contained wasn't some award-winning writing. What was meaningful about these words, scrawled during a single hour each day during a single school year, was that they provided a written snapshot: a clear image of one short but meaningful time in each of our lives.

What I read reminded me about events I'd fully forgotten. About our favorite catchphrases and favorite people. About the person my friend was at fifteen, and the person I was then, too.

My last words were written in June 1977. "Well, Big Baby, this is the last note I will ever write to you in biology class... I hope you have kept all my notes this year. It's a valuable collection!"

None of my high school scribblings would net a dime on Pawn Stars. But valuable? Ah, such a subjective term when it comes to pieces of our past.

Stashed away in my basement, amidst holiday decorations and cartons of books, are cardboard boxes filled with mementos. Among these are countless handwritten memories: postmarked envelopes with letters written in a long-gone aunt's cursive script. Handmade birthday cards from my sons, in a child's clumsy printing. And somewhere, for certain, contraband notes from old friends written during school days when we knew friendships to be far more important than any teacher's lectures.

Will today's generation still have the ability to capture this magic of their past, thirty or more years from now? Will they be able to scroll through old text messages and emails and Facebook posts from long-lost friends or deceased loved ones? If so, will those electronic words in some computer-generated sans-serif font still hold the same meaning?

I hope so.

The passing of years turns our memories into muddied images. But what remains behind in paper and ink enlightens the past in vivid detail, often more so than a photograph. It recaptures meaningful moments from the writer's point of view. It reminds us of who and what was once important to us, and often explains why we are whom we are today.

I might not still be that fifteen-year-old telling bad jokes, practicing even worse Spanish skills and plotting big plans for the weekend.

But thanks to my words, preserved by a friend for thirty-five years, I had one hell of a time getting reacquainted with her.

Do you still believe in paper and ink? When's the last time you sent snail mail? Who were you at fifteen?

Now You See It, Now You Don't

2012-01-18T12:25:00.000-05:00

Is the text on this blog blinking and switching fonts and disappearing altogether?

You say the comment section has totally disappeared, and you can no longer post a comment or even read what others had to say?

No, it wasn't an intentional statement to protest the Stop Online Piracy Act in the House and the Protect Intellectual Property Act under consideration in the Senate. It's just my Blogger program. Or me. Or a combination of both.

I made some recent layout changes--ironically during National Delurking Week--that wreaked havoc on the blog's appearance for some readers. Apparently, these are issues only with certain versions of Internet Explorer. Therefore, the simple remedy is to open the blog in a different browser. (I understand Firefox and Chrome both work well. Don't have Firefox? You can download it free here.)

Thank you!

Back soon with a real post. And hopefully one that won't blink and change before your very eyes...

Top Ten Reasons to Delurk

2012-01-11T19:40:00.003-05:00

Hello! Oh, it's you? Thanks for stopping by again! I would love to address each of you by name, except a crapload of you frequently stop by without introducing yourselves. What's up with that? (I'm talking especially to you, anonymous readers in Canada, the U.K., and Chase Bank.) (Regarding the latter: Please reassure me you're not just my creditors.)

Not that I mind your dropping in that way. (Unidentified guests are better than no guests at all). But I'm hoping this week will be different: I am told this is "International Blog Delurking Week." The theory is that formerly shy readers, or those who have apparently been afraid that commenting here might tarnish their image, will finally break down and let the rest of us know you're lurking out there, by leaving a comment.

Yes! Please do!

Why? I'll give you ten good reasons.

Top Ten Reasons for You to Delurk on This Blog

10) All commenters receive a free, personalized response, so your life will *finally* be complete!

9) My regular commenters are bound to start finding something more interesting and worthy of their time, such as cleaning the litterbox or sorting out their Tupperware drawer, and where will that leave me?

8) You will not be contacted by any third-parties, including insurance salesmen, vinyl siding companies or Jehovah's Witnesses.

7) I'll derive great comfort in knowing a few of my unidentified blog hits are actual readers who didn't just happen upon this site by Googling, "Is the cat peeing in the bathtub unhygienic?" or "syndrome for losing keys" or "burying dead bodies."

6) Commenting requires you only to provide your name, social security number and banking information. OK, perhaps just your name and how you found me here?

5) Commenting on a blog is like Paying It Forward; you get nothing in return except knowing the world is a better place for your actions. So basically, commenting here is a humanitarian effort that you sadly can't write off on your taxes.

4) I can only guess that you non-commenters are deviant stalkers with pin-ups of odd middle-aged women on your dilapidated apartment walls, and I will be forced to hire a really cheap attorney.

3) If you are not a deranged stalker, I will have to assume all unidentifiable blog hits are the actions of that relentless George Clooney, who refuses to leave me the hell alone.

2) A blog is like a party; everyone who attends is socially obligated to either bring the hostess a bottle of wine or at least say "hello" when they show up. (Your choice. If you prefer to send me wine, I'm totally good with that.)

1) After just one comment, you will gain fame and wealth, lose ten pounds and be featured on the cover of People magazine!*

*not a lifetime warranty

Do us both a favor during International Delurking Week, won't you, and enter and sign in, please?

Are you experiencing technical difficulties when you try to comment? (If so, email me.) Should I have offered prizes, like a free, chronically irritable cat? Regular commenters won't forsake me for your Tupperware drawer this week, will you?

Shucks, Folks, I'm Speechless

2012-01-03T20:18:00.001-05:00

During my recent Holiday Hiatus, I was pleased to be given the honor of the Versatile Blogger Award by Ashlee, of Something to Say. In return for accepting this award, I was asked to reveal seven snippets of information about myself and then to bestow the same honor upon five of my favorite bloggers.

After nearly three years of this blog, most of you know everything you might possibly care to know about me (and some stuff you rather wish I never shared). But I dug deep tonight. And so, here goes:

I've been warned to never admit, if visiting Philadelphia, that my name is "Stanfa." The jury's still out on whether being shirttail relatives with this guy would be a disgrace or possibly an advantage of sorts. Meanwhile, you may want to stay on my good side.
When I was growing up, my family referred to dinner time as Sarcasm Hour (indicating no chance in hell that I'd ever amount to normal).
I always suspected I'd have three sons, and planned to name them John, Paul and George--reserving "Ringo" for a family pet. I did indeed name Son #1 George, but changed my name plans when Son #2 was born. I quit birthing babies altogether after two boys. (Sanity prevailed.) Yet I did name the dog Ringo. And although Demon Cat has shown no inclination whatsoever to give peace a chance, his given name is Lennon.
I go through vacuum sweepers, lawnmowers and telephones like nobody's business. I ruin them all, toss them out and move on to new ones--hoping no one will take notice. Much like politicians go through mistresses and naive interns.
I had a job for two years during high school playing the Easter Bunny at our local mall. Best. Job. Ever.
My pet peeve? Gum-snapping. Hate. Double hate! LOATHE ENTIRELY!
My first job out of college was as a staff reporter for a small newspaper named The Expositor (which I fondly called The Suppository). I immediately proved myself to be the consummate writer and ace photographer, but when researching my first big expose'--a story about the operations of the county dog pound--I blew my blossoming professional persona by breaking down and bawling on the spot.

So, that's the goods on me, in a nutshell.

Although I'm hard-pressed to choose only five fellow bloggers on which to bestow this award, I'm pleased to pass it on to these favorites, for whom I'm hoping this is a first-time honor:

Sarah: Sharpest librarian on the whole World Wide Web. Not a poetry aficionado? She'll convert you.
MSB: Her writing? Swoon. Her photography? Double swoon.
Amanda: Read her blog for a week, and I promise you'll soon be running away. And I mean that in the good and healthy way.
Teri: Read about her life. Read about her take on books. Love it all. Rinse and repeat.
Carrie: She cooks, she writes, and she posts mouth-watering photos of every dish, making you wish she'd invite you to dinner some evening.

Thank you, once again, Ashlee! So you'll blurb my book, right?

Can you suggest a favorite blogger who isn't already on my blogroll? What don't we know about you? Does gum-snapping drive you, too, to the brink of insanity?

Holiday Hiatus

2011-12-08T11:33:00.004-05:00

I'm taking the next month away from the blog, to focus on holiday cheer, family and friends, and finishing a book rewrite.

Hope your holidays are filled with a few of your favorite things.

See you all back here in January!

XOXO,

Sherry

An Open Letter to the AARP

2011-12-01T13:00:00.002-05:00

Dear AARP,

I am overcome with gratitude at your kind offer--thank you! I've not been guaranteed admission into any organization since the Girl Scouts, which ended badly when my sixth grade troop leader revoked my membership.

Just a few things I'd like to clarify:

I understand your formal name is no longer the American Association of Retired Persons. This is good to know since I am not now--nor will I likely ever be--retired. According to my financial calculations, I shall be working until the day someone gleefully pries my cold, stiff fingers from my computer keyboard.

(Which reminds me: Is there any organization for people whose retirement or permanent leave, in any form, is among their coworkers' daily prayers? If not, you should seriously consider establishing something called the AAIP--American Association for Irritating Persons. Membership would be by nomination only, and would likely number in the millions. Trust me on this.)

But if retirement is no longer an AARP prerequisite, is your new admission criteria based solely on age? Or is actual maturity a consideration? If so, would I be precluded by the fact that I recently spent an entire evening giggling at fart jokes?

And pray tell, if not for "retired," what does the "R" in AARP now stand for? Responsible, refined and resplendent? Or more along the lines of ragged, rickety and rambling? I can't say I have ever been labeled "refined," but I am told (especially after leaving voicemails for my children) that I do ramble. On and on and on. Please confirm this requirement before I mail my $16 check.

Finally, your invitation claims an AARP membership will help me "make the most of life over 50." This promise is quite appealing. I can only assume it to mean my benefits will include a weekly housecleaning service, copious amounts of liquor and a hot pool boy. If not, I suggest you hire a new membership director who better understands your target market.

In closing, I thank you once again for your generous offer. I await your prompt response, before you have any chance to reconsider.

Sincerely,

Sherry

Is retirement in your near or far-off future? Are you refined, resplendent, rickety or rambling? Anyone you care to nominate for the AAIP?

Giving Thanks to My Children

2011-11-21T19:45:00.009-05:00

An early post tonight, in anticipation of the Thanksgiving holiday. Hope all of you, too, find much for which to be thankful.

As both my young adult sons return home for the holiday, I've promised myself to bite my tongue about sleepless nights and randomly scattered piles of "stuff." Instead, I will focus on counting my blessings. I'm fortunate to have many, although sometimes it takes a holiday to serve as a reminder.

My two children have taught me much. I am especially thankful for both of them, because:

They tell me 50 is still young, that I look good for my age, and they say this with conviction.

They devour the whole package of Little Debbies before I manage to get my hands on it.

They prove to me that good music has indeed been recorded after 1983.

They know how to work the universal remote and the router.

They help me acknowledge and understand my mistakes.

They laugh at my good jokes and fake a smile at my bad ones.

They occasionally nod and agree that one more cat or dog won't necessarily make me a crazy lady.

They may someday provide me with grandchildren.

They pursue their dreams and are willing to take me along for the ride.

They end every phone conversation with the words, "Love you."

And that makes every dirty dish and every stress-filled moment worthwhile.

What are you thankful for?

One Siri-ously Funny Conversation

2011-11-17T07:00:00.008-05:00

We all need someone in our life who makes us convulse with such laughter that we squirt adult beverages out our nose and practically pee our pants. (Yes, I am five going on eighty.)

Lucky for me, my friend Mike has a Ph.D. in adolescent behavior, with a specialty in potty humor.

Before my recent Milwaukee visit with him and his wife Peggy (one of my oldest and dearest friends), Mike bought a new iPhone 4S. Infatuated with his toy--as grown men tend to be--he began to show off the phone's new voice-command feature.

"Text Scott Johnson," Mike instructed Siri, the voice-recognition assistant.

Siri seemed a bit slow on the uptake."I don't know who your father is," she replied. "In fact, I don't know who you are."

"What the hell?" Mike said. "OK, text Sherry Stanfa."

"Sorry," she answered. "I can't find places in the Falkland Islands."

"What an effin moron," Mike said.

Poor Siri. I was willing to give her another chance. So far, she didn't make me feel anywhere near as stabby as GPS Wench, who constantly likes to remind me how my screw-ups have forced her into "recalculating."

But Mike had his fill of serious queries. He was ready to move on. "Siri, why do farts smell?"

I giggled. Fart jokes: Not just for kindergarten anymore.

"I have no answer," said Siri. "How about a Web search for 'Why do farts smell?' "

"No," Mike yelled. "I said, 'My wife farts a lot. Why do they smell so bad?' "

"What's your location?" asked Siri.

We howled. Apparently, Siri wished to steer clear of our particularly unpleasant smelling location.

"Forget that," Mike said to Siri. "Where is my underwear?"

She hesitated just briefly before responding. "You sound disoriented," she told him.

And that's when my drink found its way out of my nostrils. It seemed Siri could give it as good as she could take it.

The saintly tolerant Peggy glared at her husband. "Mike, ENOUGH. You're going to make her mad."

"Peg, it's a computer," he said.

"I don't care. You're going to piss her off and break the phone," said Peggy. "Besides, don't you think there are ten million people asking her these same stupid questions?"

I crossed my legs, still laughing. "He asked where his underwear is," I said. "I sincerely doubt ten million people have asked that."

"OK, but he bought this phone and is paying hundreds of dollars for something he has no idea how to properly use," Peg said. "Mike, do you even know how to send a text message?"

"Sure," said Mike. He squinted at the phone. "You just have to push something."

Peggy rolled her eyes and refilled her drink.

"I'm paying hundreds of dollars for this phone," Mike demanded of Siri. "So I want to know, where is the nearest whorehouse?"

"Jesus," Peggy said, with a palm to her forehead. "You're going to get a phone call any minute from a customer asking, 'Why did you just text me and ask where the nearest whorehouse is?' "

Mike ignored her, still intent on his nonsensical phone conversation. "Siri, can you explain poop soup?"

And so it went for the rest of the night. Mike berated Siri with juvenile and inappropriate questions, and I giggled until the wee hours of the morning.

We had lunch the next day with my youngest son, a Marquette student majoring in techno-geekology. I relayed Mike's encounters with the new iPhone and Siri.

He nodded. "Yeah, Siri, she's a sassy one. Let me see the phone."

"Siri, why are you such a bitch?" he asked.

After the previous night's altercations, Siri apparently had grown weary of such talk. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she answered.

"Really?" he countered. "I don't believe you."

And right on cue, Siri said, "You are certainly entitled to your opinion."

"See?" Son #2 said, passing back the phone. "The computer understands almost everything you say, and it's recorded and saved forever."

"Forever?" Peggy's chin dropped. "Oh Mike, you are so screwed."

But it seems to me Mike has found his match in Siri. I'm guessing they'll become fast friends.

I just pray she doesn't short-circuit when she squirts her margarita out her little electronic nose.

Are you hot for the new iPhone? Do you have a friend who makes you squirt margaritas out your nose? What's the stupidest question you've ever been asked? And do you know where your underwear is?

Friends Indeed

2011-11-09T23:16:00.011-05:00

Sometimes you have no idea where a road will lead you until you've been wandering it a while.

I had no real expectations when I began this blog over two years ago. I figured it to be a short-term device to keep my creative juices flowing while I took a break from writing a novel. Any actual readers, outside of obliging family members and a few close friends, would simply be an unexpected bonus.

What I never fathomed were the friends with whom I'd reconnect, nor the new ones I'd make, along the way.

Through this little internet writing gig, I've rekindled friendships with people I haven't seen in thirty years. And I've struck up electronic relationships with dozens of readers whom I've never met and likely never will encounter in person.

But the greatest phenomenon of all has been developing a community of fellow writers and bloggers. And eventually meeting some of them face-to-face.

Who'd have thought writers are real people? That the words appearing each day on my computer monitor were typed by hands I would one day shake? That the personal stories shared with me grew from the creative minds--and warm hearts--of people whose arms might eventually wrap around me in a mutual bear hug?

First, I met the fabulous Amanda. Except little did I know when I read her comment on another blog and followed it back to her own website, that I'd actually seen her around and said hello in passing because she worked in my own office building? (Seriously, what are the odds?)

Then, I spent a weekend this past June with Betsy. Including Betsy as part of my own writing community is either a clear understatement or a vast overstatement, since she is the queen. An award-winning author and kick-ass literary agent, her two books (especially the one with the warm and wonderful personal inscription) hold prominent places on my bookshelf. Her blog is the first I ever read--and it's still the best. So is she.

I met Bluzdude in August. He's originally from these parts, and if we'd known each other when we were teenagers, we surely would have been great friends then, too.

This past weekend, I traveled to Chicago for the biggest meet-up of all. Four of us--a group of women writers who met through Betsy's blog and have become fast friends in a circle of more than a dozen--spent the day together.

AmyG, Lyra, Teri and I talked for hours. We shared our thoughts about writing, about our day jobs, about our mothers and our children, about our successes and our struggles.

We discovered how different we are from each other, yet how very much alike. We talked. We listened. We nodded. We hugged.

If we'd had a full week to spend together instead of a single afternoon, I doubt the conversation would have ever run dry.

Some relationships, even ones forged through printed words on a computer monitor, end up meaning so much more.

I never dreamed, when I typed my first story on this blog in April 2009, that people like you might see it. That you'd find anything I said worth reading. That you might take the time to comment and then come back the next week, and the next.

Writing, so often, seems a solitary and lonely effort.

Until it's not.

Not going to bother with any trite questions here. Just two words: Thank you.

Key Signs of Disease: One Sufferer's Story

2011-11-02T20:30:00.000-04:00

For years, I blamed my symptoms on my children. Or my housecleaning service (that long-lost luxury--sigh). I even went so far as faulting some malicious demon that apparently lurked in small places such as pockets and purses.

But now, I realize what's truly responsible is a progressive and debilitating disease.

I have, what's known in layman's terms, as "Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome."

The diagnosis comes as a relief, really. At least I know my own actions, in no way, can be blamed.

My mother--bless her heart--has been plagued by the condition for years. Not comprehending that what we were witnessing signaled a serious hereditary disorder, my sisters and I offered her little compassion. We rolled our eyes, exchanging knowing glances behind her back.

Until we started suffering the same symptoms.

After I began losing my keys two or three times a week, I knew it was more than simple carelessness. I am the Queen of Organization. I make beaucoup lists. I know what's buried in every pile of papers on my desk. And I carry a purse in which each important item has its own special compartment.

Alas, there are no preventive measures one can take, nor any available cure, for sufferers of Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome. The most we can hope is to manage our disease, through wall-mounted key hooks and extra sets of keys hidden in safe places--locations we can only pray to recall in times of key emergencies.

And now this horrific disease has struck our own young adult children. My sisters and I have begun preparing them for what lies ahead. We try to help them cope. We attempt to show compassion.

"Have you seen my keys? I've looked everywhere!" The 22-year-old appears frantic as he searches the house. "I left them right here, I'm sure of it, but now they're gone!"

I pat his hand while fighting back a tear.

"I know, honey," I whisper. "I know."

Oh, the long and frightening road he faces.

I'm already dreading the day I have to explain he's inherited the awful "Chronic Lost Credit Card Syndrome" as well.

Are you or any of your loved ones afflicted with "Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome"? Are you famous for making beaucoup lists, or do you wing it? Are you turning into your mother, too?

A Birthday to Truly Celebrate--Reprise

2011-10-26T19:10:00.003-04:00

Battling a bout of The Crud, as well as seeing Son #1 off to his new digs in South Carolina, left me no time or energy for a new blog post this week. With yesterday being my birthday, I'm sharing a a post from last year, updated to reflect my new--and debatably improved--age.

I had a birthday yesterday. Well-meaning friends and family refer to ones like this as "special" or "big." People actually in the midst of hitting such an age call it a "Holy shit, how could this be when just yesterday I still needed a fake ID" kind of birthday.

Although my family offered to throw me a party, I declined. Some birthdays are made to be celebrated and others, simply to be had. I told them I'd rather take a raincheck, one that could be used, say, fifty years from now. Because that, my friends, will be a birthday to truly celebrate.

So, let me take this moment to cordially invite all of you--to my 100th birthday party!

Please save the date: October 25, 2061.

No need to RSVP. It's quite likely I'll have no clue if you're there or not. I may not know where I am either, but I plan to have one bodacious good time.

If you don't recognize me, just look for the four-foot-tall, prune-faced biddy wearing a strapless red dress and eff-me heels. Or else a floral shift and bunny slippers. I'm 100. I'll wear whatever I damn well want, thank you.

No gifts, please. Instead, I ask that all guests purchase Xeroxed copies of one of my unpublished novel manuscripts. These will be personally signed by the author, of course, although I may need some assistance with the inscriptions. ("What was your name again, honey? Oh, you say you're one of my children? Uh-huh. And what is my name?")

I can't spend my entire evening signing autographs though. I will be too busy doing tequila shots. At 100, I figure I can rekindle all those bad behaviors I left long behind in my wayward youth. If someone passes a doobie, I'll probably take a hit or two.

For dinner, I will eat an entire bowl of dill pickle potato chips and three pieces of chocolate cake. No one will blink an eye. If anyone dares, I will growl, "What the hell's wrong with you, sonny? Quit gawking and go get me another tequila shot!"

We will play loads of games and my guests will declare me the winner of every one, even if I nod off in the middle.

I will kiss all the babies and all the good-looking men in the crowd. I may invite the hottest guy there back to my private room, in the nursing home.

Who knew there was so much to look forward to, in our golden years?

If you want in on the festivities, please leave your name in the comments section. My mom is already compiling the invitation list; Glo does like to plan ahead. She promises to bring enough tequila for everyone. But the dill pickle potato chips? Those are mine. I'll be 100, and I shouldn't be expected to share with anyone.

Bring your own damn chips.

Wow, turning 100 is so liberating. I can barely wait.

I'm buying the bunny slippers tomorrow.

Do you want to celebrate or commiserate about your next big birthday? What's on your gift wish list? And I lied--I totally want presents too--so, what will you bring me?

Miles on the Minivan

2011-10-20T18:00:00.000-04:00

I stared at the blank page for twenty minutes. Little chance of any thoughts forming into articulate sentences, not with the pulsating music from the next room where Son #1 sat working on a new song.

He'd been at it for hours. Sigh. At least one of us was a writing wiz tonight.

He hasn't been a devoted musician all his life. He flirted with piano and guitar lessons when he was very young, but he soon grew tired of practicing and I grew tired of nagging. He abandoned the interest in music and moved on to other things, one after the other.

And so it goes with so many childhood activities.

Between my two sons, we dabbled in nearly every kind of lesson and organized activity on God's green and synthetic-floored earth. We tried music: piano, guitar, clarinet and choir. We played sport after sport: gymnastics, swimming, soccer, baseball, basketball, football, weightlifting and rowing. We ran through the endless gamut of school clubs, from Power of the Pen to Quizbowl. We gave art lessons a shot and took part in a dozen plays. We enrolled in weeks and weeks of summer camps, ranging from glass-blowing to horseback riding (which resulted in lots and lots of envy from their office-dwelling mother).

We exhausted every available creative, academic and athletic opportunity in which our children took a trifling interest--and exhausted the family minivan and its driver along the way. We filled our children's days with sidelines and structure, yet ensured they still found time to play with Legos, read Harry Potter and watch Star Wars.

We wanted them to learn the meaning of discipline and teamwork. We wanted them to exercise their body and their brains. We wanted them to grow up well-rounded.

But mostly we hoped, through their exploring the world around them, they would find something--that one special thing--that struck them straight in the heart. And we were compelled to help them discover it.

What if Beethoven never touched a piano? Or if Steve Jobs never sat down to a computer?

Even so, as we exposed our children to all these opportunities, we never knew what might stick for good. Who could really guess what might be a passing fancy, become a lifelong hobby or lead to a fruitful career?

It's difficult to categorize these two young adult sons of mine. At 20 and 22, they both have an interest in history and the Beatles (thank God). They each love a pick-up football game but enjoy an occasional theatrical production, as well. They did indeed grow up to be well-rounded.

But as far as that one special thing? That much is still proving to be a surprise.

My son who once far preferred making music to playing sports now rows in college; he talks of coaching. The son who spent most of his youth on the ballfield has recaptured a brief childhood interest in music and sits right now in the next room, perfecting a song on his keyboard.

Who knows where their lives will truly take them. Maybe further along these same tracks, or maybe down another. What's for certain is, if we'd labeled them and limited them early on, they wouldn't be enjoying the lives they have now.

And the beautiful strains of music from the next room tonight? Maybe not such a terrible distraction after all, for either of us.

Perhaps all those miles on that minivan, long since retired, were well worth it.

Did you follow your early childhood dreams or go another route? Are you raising the next Beethoven or Steve Jobs? Is your minivan worn out too?

Of Pawns and Cat Kings

2011-10-13T19:06:00.003-04:00

Searching for a new pastime to stimulate your mind and raise your heart rate? Look no further than an exhilarating game I call "Medicating Your Cat."

If you don't own a cat, run out and get one. If you've no time to cat shop, feel free to take one of mine. (Send me your address; I'll be right over.)

Once your cat is procured, choose teams and positions. Simply explained: A cat's role is always king or queen, while you must play pawn. For a more challenging version, include multiple cats, particularly those with anxiety and social disorders. (This encompasses most of the feline population.) Regardless of how many cats you own, all will play for the opposing team.

The rules are as follows: A cat exhibits some inappropriate, unhealthy and likely unhygienic behavior, e.g., peeing in the bathtub or puking wherever your bare foot happens to step. To win, you must discover the cause, treat any underlying conditions and finish the game relatively unscathed.

A typical game transpires much like this, recently played out in my own household:

One of my cats begins by attacking members of his own team (much like politicians in a primary election). This particular player is named "Lennon," in honor of the man who penned "Give Peace a Chance." The irony does not escape the snickering crowd which nicknames him, more suitably, "Demon Cat."

I attempt to stop Demon Cat through a variety of maneuvers, most notably the popular Squirt Bottle Play. But, oh, he's a clever competitor! In one match-winning strategy, he stalks the squirt bottle from across the room and smacks it clean off the table.

As the game progresses, the other players succumb to Demon Cat's bad sportsmanship. When the cat known as NUTS (Neurotic, Unbelievably Timid and Stupid) begins puking blood on the arena's new carpet, I consult the team physician.

Herein lie my most challenging game duties, as pawn.

First, I must capture NUTS and transport him to the doctor. After three days of failed tackles, I finally manage to corner him. As I shove the snarling and lashing creature into the cat carrier, I question my sympathy for this downed player.

Second, after the team physician flips a coin to announce any sort of diagnosis, I must open my wallet and allow it to bleed dry. (Sideline action: As I drive away, the doctor chortles and books a week in the Caribbean.)

Third, I must administer the ordered treatment. NUTS is prescribed twice-daily antibiotics and anti-nausea medicine for ten days. In addition, the physician also recommends a daily pill for Demon Cat--to be administered indefinitely.

This medication is best described as Kitty Prozac.

I spend a week chasing down one neurotic feline and another one clinically diagnosed as "aggressive." Throughout my repeated attempts to capture NUTS and Demon Cat and pry open their jaws, the crowd roars. Ringo, the amiable golden retriever mix, watches my moves from the bleachers with a desperate, salivating hope that I'll drop a pill. If only I were trying to medicate the damn dog--then this game might be as simple as his tiny brain.

By day seven, I manage only three doses in each cat. And in an arena where I once couldn't walk without tripping over three or four lounging players, not one cat can now be found. The entire team has virtually disappeared from the playing field. Well-played, you friggin' felines! Far more impressive than your seven lives is your apparent sixth sense.

Demon Cat gradually begins approaching me again-- preening and purring--but only when I neglect to close the bathroom door. I briefly consider carrying Kitty Prozac with me when I pee. But wrangling a cat while sitting bare-assed on the toilet seems vaguely wrong. (And the crowd mutters a collective "Eww.")

Meanwhile, the team physician calls to say the bloodwork he did on NUTS also indicates a thyroid issue. NUTS will require two more daily pills, FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.

In addition, the hit-or-miss doses of Kitty Prozac will do Demon Cat no good; his medication is reliant upon a cumulative effect. The by-far-second-best medical tactic, the doctor notes, is something called a "Nurture Collar." This is a contraption infused with maternal hormones which theoretically calm aggressive and anxious cats.

I frown. I am merely a not-so-bright pawn, but I know my own middle-age experience with female hormones is not such a favorable one. Regardless, I hand over my credit card to the team physician. I leave with a vial of likely never-to-be-ingested pills and a plastic purple collar.

As expected, NUTS will have nothing to do with the thyroid pills, even when crushed and hidden in canned catfood or tuna. Beaten, I again consult the doctor, whose final suggestion is a liquid compound. It's chicken-flavored! And it is available, by special order, for only $50 per vial! I hyperventilate just for a moment before agreeing. Because this is sure to be the game-winning play!

Apparently NUTS has grown street-smart with his recent excursion into the outside world. He isn't fooled by my mixing the medicine in dry catfood, in wet catfood or even in canned tuna. But just as I'm ready to forfeit, I finally score! I dribble .5 ml of this Liquid Gold into a pile of fresh roasted turkey--which NUTS promptly devours!

I accept my win with mixed enthusiasm. It seems this cat will be eating better than I do, for the rest of his life. (As will the rest of the menagerie, all of whom circle my feet every night when I prepare NUTS this post-game feast.)

As for the Nurture Collar, Demon Cat wriggles out of it within two days. I head to the doctor's office to buy another. I sigh. I hand over my credit card once again.

I figure it's not really a useless investment.

If I can't keep the damn thing around Demon Cat's neck this time, I'll wear the magic soothing collar myself.

Because I'm clearly the one in need of medication.

Who wins the game between Pawn and King in your house? Is it just my vague recollection, or is attempting to medicate your cat much like coercing your husband to go to the doctor? And all you non-cat owners--call me for a special delivery, please?

Hair Today, Goon Tomorrow

2011-10-05T19:51:00.006-04:00

"So," she asks, dipping your head under the faucet, "are we just trimming it up tonight?"

You've obsessed over this for weeks: Whenever you've spied a college student with a thick flowing mane, a model with a cute pixie or an actress on a TV legal drama with a fabulous bob. Every time you saw an attractive woman with great hair, you thought, "Wow, if only I had hair like that, I'll bet I'd look just as hot!"

You gaze up at your stylist. "No, I'm thinking something different this time," you finally answer. You attempt to explain what you have in mind, biting your bottom lip as you consider how this monumental decision could potentially ruin the next eight weeks of your life.

But she simply cocks her head, glances at your hair and nods. And you realize this woman with your head--with practically your entire life--in her hands, is a paid professional. She makes her living by making women beautiful. Surely you will live to have no regrets.

Forty-five minutes later, she brushes the clippings off your shoulders and removes your apron. You gather the type of courage generally reserved for a job interview or a root canal, and you peer into the mirror. You look... gorgeous!

Well, not all of you, perhaps, but at least your hair. Yes, that looks amazing.

You beam. "I like it!"

"Yeah? Good," she says, with not an ounce of the desperate relief you are experiencing. Whatever calming and confidence-building drugs that hair stylists must be required to consume, you definitely want in on that shit before your next appointment.

You hesitate as you grab your checkbook. "So, you think I can do it just like this myself, right?"

"Oh, sure," she says over her shoulder, as she motions to her next client. "Just make sure you use plenty of Product."

You contemplate the word "plenty." Hmm. Is that a tablespoon or a quarter-cup? You'd prefer an exact measurement. Using your own judgment in the care of your hair has never proved entirely successful.

"And when you're blow-drying," she continues, "be sure you hold the dryer nozzle underneath the roots of each section of hair as you lift it up, like I did."

"Uh-huh." Your mind races to recall that particular step of tonight's appointment. This memory is fuzzy, since you spent much of the hair-drying segment shouting about the injustices of parenthood. Or the injustices of your job. Or both. Who needs a therapist when you have a hair stylist?

"And then, don't forget," she adds, "to spray it again."

Again? Wait. Were you supposed to spray once already before this step? You bite at the cuticles of your newly painted nails.

"That's it, really," she says as she begins to shampoo her current client's hair. "Except you'll probably need to scrunch it a bit. Just a tiny piece at a time. Then, take a look and decide whether or not you want to use a curling iron on any section. But with the right amount of Product and drying and scrunching, you should be all set. Unless you need to spray it again."

On the drive home, you repeat this set of instructions to yourself, over and over. It is an all-consuming lesson. You nearly run a stop sign, stopping just short of t-boning a minivan as you murmur the mantra, "Product, dry, lift, spray, scrunch, curl, spray again."

After a sleepless night, you rise early. You run methodically through every step of the process. Your fingers begin to ache from scrunching.

You finally step back and survey yourself in the mirror. You squint. Huh. Is this how it looked last night? Perhaps you're simply not objective enough. You scrunch and spray one last time, shrug and continue getting ready for work.

Just as you're headed out the door, your son--who for twenty years has appeared oblivious to a single one of your outfits or hairstyles--stops in the hallway to stare at you.

"Um, hey, Mom, your hair looks a little, well, funny."

You fight a swirling stomach of despair, as you realize even this most lowbrow of opinions is likely on-target. You glare at him and mutter how he'll need to fend for himself for dinner tonight.

But you have no time for further reflection; you are already late for work. You shuffle to your car. You spend your drive-time peeking in the rearview mirror, scrunching some more. For the next eight hours, you hide inside your office, with the door closed.

Before going to bed that night, you shower and wash out the copious quantities of Product and hairspray. You collapse in bed with a wet head.

In the morning, you peek in the mirror. At the sight of your Bed Head, you sigh.

Yet maybe it's not so bad, just like this, you consider after another look. A little flat in one area, but a tousled, carefree kind of look. Sort of like Meg Ryan in whatever-the-hell that one movie was.

She and her son probably both loved her hair like that.

And if they didn't, you can bet neither one of them spoke a word about it that night, over their bowls of SpaghettiO's.

So, did your last haircut turn out just like that photo in the magazine? Are you hair-challenged, too? What kind of gossip do you confide in your hair stylist?

I'm Fixing to Fix That

2011-09-28T22:30:00.006-04:00

So you know how you invite someone for dinner and you want everything to be perfect, even though your dinner guest is just a long-time friend or perhaps your mother, who you know would never think of judging you?

Exactly.

After a busy workweek, I'd spent the always-too-short weekend cleaning. On Sunday, I whipped up a batch of meals for the week and to save in the freezer. I so deserved the Suzi Homemaker Award, and I figured I'd win it that night through my Grand Finale of inviting a dinner guest.

It started off well. The Homemaker Trophy was practically in my hands.

Dinner Guest: "Wow, you've been busy! I thought you were just making shish kabobs. Gosh, it looks like every seasoning you own is on the counter!"

Me: "Oh, those. You're right. Those are all the spices I own. The Lazy Susan door is broken, so I've been keeping everything inside it out here on the counter until it's fixed. It's actually kind of convenient, having all of them right here. You never know when you'll need a teaspoon of mustard seed or maybe some saffron, right? Can I get you something to drink?"

Guest (following me to the refrigerator): "Sure. Uh-oh." She points to the hardwood floor in front of the fridge, where a puddle of water has pooled. "Looks like you have a problem with your refrigerator."

Me: "Yeah, I really need to get that fixed." I mop up the floor with a wad of paper towels. I grab our drinks, and we head to the back deck. "Beautiful night, huh? Glad you kept your shoes on when you came in the house though. I tried to powerwash the deck last year and it ended up in splinters instead. They really should warn you about getting that nozzle too close to the wood. I'll bet lots of people have that problem. I need to get it sanded and water-protected again. It's on my list to do. Maybe next year."

Guest (staring at the ripped-up wood deck and then turning toward the yard): "No problem. Boy, that rose bush is really beautiful."

Me: "Thanks! I probably do need to get the lawn mowed though. Pretty soon, I guess."

Guest: "Yeah, I did notice it's a bit, uh, long."

Me: "Well, my mower's still broken. My neighbor thinks the grass is too tall to cut even with her rider mower. I'll probably have to hire a service with some type of tractor. They don't ask you to pick up the dog poop first, do they? Because I tried today, but with the grass this tall I couldn't really find it. Shoot--I better make sure I tell them to use the fence gate on the left. The one on the right broke last year. Or was that two years ago?"

Guest: "Two years ago? Doesn't that drive you crazy?"

Me: "Nah. The other gate still works. As long as you push the bottom pole up with your foot and twist the handle really, really hard."

Guest: "Uh-huh."

Me: "Guess I should start the grill." I turn on the gas and the burners, roll up a piece of newspaper and light the end. The paper flares and then dies out.

Guest: "Is your grill igniter not working?"

Me: "No, it broke right after I bought the grill. And I never could find the warranty. It's really no big deal to light it manually."

Guest: "Wouldn't it be easier to use one of those long fireplace and grill lighters?"

Me: "Yeah, I had one but it stopped working last week." I relight the newspaper and point the flaming coil into the grill. With a boom, the grill burners flare. I blow hard on the burning paper, but instead of extinguishing the flames, it appears to feed them. I run in the house and throw the paper into the sink, just as the edges of my fingernails turn black.

We move on to dinner, which is fabulous. *Of course.* My dinner guest utters words of admiration and appreciation and then offers to help clean up.

Guest: "Can I put these dirty dishes in the dishwasher?"

Me: "Sure--but just the plates and silverware, into the bottom rack. I'll have to get the glasses because the top rack has been way off-kilter. It takes a special touch to pull it out and move it back. It's on my list to get fixed."

Guest (hesitating): "Oh. OK. Why don't I just take care of these cans and bottles then? Can I take them out to your recycling bin in the garage?"

Me: "That would be great, thanks. It's probably pretty full though; I forgot to put it out at the curb last week."

Guest: (nearly inaudible sigh.)

Me (calling after her): "Probably because I haven't been using that door to the garage. Oh, don't let that door close behind you. I'm having a bit of a problem with the handle. The door can only be opened from the inside. I've locked myself out twice already." I laugh. "Funny story, about that. Last month..."

Guest: (Interrupts me by knocking at the closed door.)

The funny thing is, after I played around with the door handle and let her back in the house, my dinner guest seemed to leave in a hurry. She didn't appear to be in the mood to hear any funny stories at all.

That's fine though. I'll just add telling that story to my list of things-to-do.

I have a few of those.

Any annoying little household problems you've been putting off? Any chance you know the difference between a screwdriver and a butter knife? If so, can I borrow you for a few weeks?

And the Envelope, Please...

2011-09-28T19:35:00.003-04:00

I'm pleased to report the winners of the random drawing for last week's blog contest:

- The $10 Barnes and Noble gift card goes to... Averil, or The Artist Previously Known as Averil.
- The $25 gift card goes to... BG, also known as Barb.

If each of you will email me your postal addresses, I will drop your prizes in the mail. And Averil, please let me know how to address the envelope, because that has me the tiniest bit stumped. ;-)

Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to answer the survey. I enjoyed hearing about your reading experiences, and I'm sure everyone's to-be-read list just grew a bit longer...

So, does this count as this week's blog post? No, you say? OK, that's next...

Read 'Em and Reap

2011-09-22T18:23:00.006-04:00

Books. Remember those? As the new TV season begins, I hope you are fitting in a few minutes to read a good book, too.

I'm curious about each of your reading experiences and your opinions about books. In my quest to learn more about my readers, to encourage reluctant commenters to finally chime in (it's painless, really), and to keep my local Barnes and Noble in business, I offer the following short quiz.

You'll be glad to know there are no right or wrong answers, and you won't be evaluated on being creative or witty. (Although wit and creativity aren't discouraged either.) Simply answer the following questions, and you may win a gift certificate for B&N in a random drawing.

What's the best book you've read in the past couple years?
What book didn't live up to its hype?
What book kept you awake at night (for any reason)?
What book have you read over the years again and again?
What writer (dead or alive) would you most like to have dinner and drinks with?
If you were a character in a novel, what would the genre be (romance, mystery, etc.)?
What's the next book on your reading list?

I will assign each comment a number and choose two winners in a random drawing, one for a $25 gift certificate and the second for a $10 certificate.

Note: If you post your comment as anonymous, you may have to click "Post Comment" a couple of times for it to publish (according to some commenters). BE SURE TO WRITE YOUR NAME (at least first name and last initial) at the bottom of your comment. If you continue to have difficulty posting, email me your answers at sherry @ sherrystanfa-stanley.com (no spaces) and I will post them for you.

The deadline is midnight, Wednesday, Sept. 28. I will post the winners here on Sept. 29.

Ready? Set? Go.

To Have and to Hold

2011-09-14T19:35:00.000-04:00

Traditional wedding vows spell out what is expected of us in marriage: "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Parenthood requires no such verbal agreement. Yet these same vows surely apply to having a child. Most of us who sign on acknowledge this, understanding this is one irrevocable deal.

The To Have part generally proves unpleasant, especially for the mother. We endure nine months of anxiety, emerging stretch marks and intrusive medical instruments. The incubation period culminates in a formidable event purported to be part of the cycle of life, but which seems to indicate God has a rather sick sense of humor.

But the To Hold component wipes the slate clean. As soon as we hold that infant in our arms, we've already--in our minds--ushered in the For Better part.

Oh, the For Better! It's the stuff parental dreams are made of. The first smile and first steps, the soccer goals and dance recitals, and that march across the stage for the happy hand-off of a diploma. We cling forever to the moments--and the memories--of the For Better.

Yet, in between, lurk those For Worse times. Lord, we struggle with those. The grocery store tantrums, the turmoil of that first broken heart, the wild arcs of teenage rebellion or withdrawal. Sure, we've been warned, but nothing truly prepares us for them. If we've ever considered backing out of the deal, it's during the For Worse.

And For Richer? Well, that's a misnomer. From the cost of diapers to college tuition, parenthood sucks us dry. Once children enter the picture, it's always, always For Poorer. We can only sigh at our pile of bills and write another damn check.

We welcome In Health with a different sort of sigh--one of relief and gratitude. As we look around and view children who are the victims of fatal genetic diseases, cancer or life-altering accidents, we reconsider the possibilities of what we once believed to be For Worse. Nothing puts our own In Sickness experiences--the middle-of-the-night ER visits and basketball injuries--more in perspective than a child with a brain tumor.

None of us chooses to dwell on the idea of Until Death Do Us Part. We can endure almost anything. Except that.

We strive to keep our unspoken vows to our children as they grow up. And even as they grow--or move--away.

We'd like to be by their side for everything they experience: for the agony and the ecstasy. But from that first slumber party to their first night in a new apartment eight hundred miles away, we realize we must allow them to inch away from our arms. To become self-assured, self-motivated and self-sufficient.

We take a forever-vow to Hold them, yet we can't hold our children in our grasp forever.

All we can do, ultimately, is hold them close in our heart.

And have them promise to call us, frequently. They can keep that one little vow, right?

Any trouble letting go? What's the For Better or the For Worse you've experienced?

It's Party Time!

2011-09-09T18:40:00.005-04:00

Lots of little things suggest we're not as young as we used to be: Spying ourselves in some clearly malicious mirror. Deciding that sleeping until noon is more a waste of a precious day off than a constitutional right. Scheduling that colonoscopy.

But the signs aren't obvious only in how we look or what we do. They're also apparent in what we say--or more accurately--what we don't say.

For example, it seems I rarely find occasion these days to use the words "mosh pit." (Oh, I love that term, and I still dig a great concert; yet surprisingly few people dove into the mosh pit the last time I saw James Taylor.)

And I have never, not once, uttered the words "fo sho." (True Story: Stymied while trying to conjure up words people my age don't use, I queried my twenty-year-old son, without telling him why. After his suggestion, I wrote back, "Thx. That's perfect. Fo sho." Because that's the kind of hip and aware mother I am. He texted back, "God help us all.")

But most noticeably of all, the word "party" has practically disappeared from my vocabulary.

At one time--roughly age 14 to 24--"party" was a mainstay of my vernacular.

It showed up liberally in everyday conversation, particularly in the form of a plaintive plea: "Anyone having a party this weekend?" And "party" was an equal opportunity word. We were also fond of using it as a verb, as in "Hey, we have an algebra test next period. Want to go out to the parking lot and party instead?" We employed various derivatives, too, the most popular being the noun describing a person, such as "Yeah, man, he's a cool teacher. I heard he's a partier."

Oh Lord, the parties where we partied in my youth. From the one which the local news station came to cover (my ex-boyfriend's) to the one at which the front door was broken in (my sisters' fiasco) and the repair fund raised from helpful party-goers was stolen just before my parents arrived home.

I was totally an innocent bystander at those. But later, when I was voted Best Party Giver in our school newspaper just before graduation, my perplexed mother asked, "When did you have parties?"

Figuring I had little to lose anymore, I shrugged and replied, "Every night you were gone."

(This was the SEVENTIES, people. Have you ever watched That Seventies Show? Even the good kids partied around the table in their basement, while their parents were home! I was thoughtful enough to wait for mine to leave, which practically makes me a saint.)

But those crazy years are just a memory. A foggy one, at that.

And few people my age have parties anymore.

Now, we "have people over" or we have a "get-together." When we do use the term "party," it's generally to describe a fully different event than those of our late teens and twenties. Most of the parties I hosted after my late twenties included a pinata, a case of juice boxes and a bunch of rugrats. Wild, yes, but nothing in which the local news seemed to take an interest.

And we seldom party in the same active verb tense anymore. Many of us haven't touched the wacky weed or anything in the under-the-counter drug family in years. Oh sure, we still imbibe in more than moderate amounts of alcohol from time-to-time. (When I say "we," I mean "you" not "me." Of course.) But we seldom say we partied too much. In my crowd, we prefer to use more sophisticated terminology, vaguely suggestive of our being victims of circumstance. We say we were "overserved."

We're still a fun bunch, post-thirty (or post-forty). We enjoy a good get-together, a few laughs, a few drinks. We just don't break down doors or draw nightly news coverage anymore. We may not say the P-word much, but damn it, we still know how to have a good time.

I'll bet we could party with the best of them, at any crazy party, if we tried.

That's fo sho.

What words have disappeared from your aging vocabulary? Been to any good parties lately? Do you still party like you're nineteen, or like you're forty-nine?

It's the Real Thing

2011-08-31T23:00:00.001-04:00

My friends and family have grown greatly troubled. They see the hold this stuff has on me. They've heard my cries of denial. They've witnessed my half-hearted attempts to quit.

They tell me addiction is its own form of hell. But they don't understand.

Because my Diet Coke--oh, it's such a lovely little taste of heaven.

How bad is my habit? Some questions a lady prefers not to answer. If pressed, I'll admit to a few cans a day. Maybe a six-pack. Possibly more. OK, damn it, I mainline the shit.

I started young. "Tab" was my gateway drug. Through the years I experimented with Diet Pepsi (subtle hints of bug repellent) and Diet Mountain Dew (undertones of bumblebee pee). None offered the not-too-bitter, not-too-sweet taste of my long-standing drug of choice. And DietRite, with zero caffeine? Clearly a marketing practical joke, much like the Snuggie.

I lived blissfully for years within my Diet Coke-cloaked little world. But then, scientific researchers and the always buzz-killing media reared their ugly heads.

My children and co-workers began emailing me horrific stories about the health risks. I sneered at these. Weight gain? As if switching to sugar-infused drinks might reduce me to a size two? Hardly. Headaches? No better over-the-counter headache meds than a couple tall glasses of Diet Coke. Hypertension? I wouldn't have a freaking pulse if it weren't for my daily Diet Coke intake.

Yet the warnings kept rolling in: Alzheimer's, cancer, depression, stroke, bone loss, tooth enamel loss, ulcers and PMS.

I'm awaiting the rest of the research results, which are sure to include random chin hairs. And garden slugs. And writing rejections.

But I jest. (Health risk #4,327: pitiful attempts at humor.) The growing barrage of health hazards finally prompted me to reflect on my addiction. Son #2, who runs and rows and hasn't sipped a soda pop in seven years, capitalized on my recent weak moment of admission. He began pushing me to simply replace my Diet Coke--with water.

Oh, my sweet naive son. Water? Really? How could pure water win over Diet Coke's irresistible formula of aspartame, caramel coloring, citric acid, formeldehyde and cocaine? (What? Cocaine's been omitted from the ingredients? I don't think so.) Beside, water lacks that one essential attribute: caffeine.

I would not make it through my first waking hour without copious quantities of caffeine. My colleagues would find me flat-lined on my office floor by 9 a.m.

Surely you coffee drinkers understand this dilemma. (Most of you need your own intervention. And I'm taking names.)

My concerned offspring's answer to this issue? Caffeinated water. This, just as it sounds, is pure water tainted only by a shot of caffeine. Believing this to be the methadone for my heroin, my son bought me a package. And in the name of family harmony, I gave it a try. The necessary kick? Maybe. But the taste? *Sigh* This stuff tasted like... water.

Yet I promised him I wouldn't give up. I'd beat this addiction somehow. Plus, I'd remind him that as his mother, it's my role to be the nag in the family.

Weeks later, I spied an iced tea maker on a store shelf. Tea? Hmm. A bit of taste--check. A healthy dose of caffeine--check. A (mostly) lack of debilitating and deadly chemicals--check.

I tossed the machine into my shopping cart (on top of the two cases of Diet Coke). The very next day, I carried it into my workplace, nodding to my coworkers as I strutted toward my office. I immediately called my son to proclaim my Diet Coke Cure lay only inches away, on top of my filing cabinet.

And there the contraption sits, and dreams of glory. Unused. Four months later. After the sixteen cases of Diet Coke I've since consumed.

Perhaps I am a hopeless addict. Maybe I need a twelve-step program. Or intensive inpatient treatment.

It's bad, my addiction, and I do plan to beat it. Unless that means truly giving it up.

Because that would be hell. And I do love me a little taste of heaven.

It's well worth an ulcer.

And the occasional chin hair or two.

Coffee, tea or Diet Coke? Do you justify your addictions? Who's been nagging you, and about what?

Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

2011-08-25T18:00:00.000-04:00

When I was a teenager, my life was defined by music and words. And these two forces culminated in a special sort of ecstasy every time I bought a new record album.

Each step of the ritual remains as engrained in my memory as the grooves in the now dusty and warped vinyl disks.

I cradled my new record between both hands. Gently placed it on the turntable. Dropped the needle. Rushed to sprawl across my twin bed in the room I shared with my older sister, and picked up the stiff cardboard album jacket.

Only then, once the music began, did I allow myself the magic of studying the album's back cover and--if I was particularly fortunate--the lyrics printed on the liner. A song never hits its mark, never fully transported me from my parochial world, until I read the lyrics.

My friends and I listened to all the popular rockers. My first concerts included Aerosmith and the Stones. We all had our favorite Party Music and later, our favorite Cruising Music, enjoyed on tape by the lucky few with an eight-track or cassette deck in their car.

But at fifteen, I envisioned myself a poet. And, especially when I was home--alone in my room--I gravitated toward the musical poets: the brooding deep-thinkers, the songwriters who wrote of soul-searching, lost love and loneliness.

Not that I personally knew much of those emotions, except a bit of youthful discontent and rebellion. I'd been enveloped within a safe harbor, with loving parents and a secure neighborhood. I was never sexually abused nor truly socially maligned. The worst horror I'd experienced was the betrayal of a teenage boyfriend.

So what drew me to these types of songs? Did I simply want to open my arms to the shower of all human emotions? Was I under the power of hormonal overdrive? Was I suppressing a buried sadness I wasn't willing to acknowledge or admit?

Even at those occasional moments in which I did feel burdened by some teenage angst or weepiness, I immersed myself in it. I listened to my old favorites: The Beatles, Bob Dylan or Neil Young. I'd hear Cat Stevens' Father and Son, and know my feelings were universal. Or read the lyrics to The Needle and the Damage Done, hug myself and hold out hope that my life would end less tragically. I'd drop the needle on the stereo a second time, a third.

I'd listen and sing along, until feeling worse somehow made me feel better.

Later, I'd find myself writing my own poetry. I configured pieces of my emotions into rough words I might decide to submit to my high school paper, but more often than not would just hide in a notebook under my mattress.

I haven't written a poem in thirty years. My writing has changed, as have my reading tastes. Yet nothing still touches me more than a melancholy melody or an introspective tune.

Oh, how I still love a sad song.

It's not the same now, of course. I seldom buy a CD. When I do, I don't sprawl across my bed, pull out the paper insert and attempt to memorize every tiny printed word.

If songs still came embedded in scratchy 33 1/3 rpm disks, with full-size graphics and lyrics, I wonder how music might affect me now. Would it still encourage me to dig deeper within myself? To try to connect with others through their musical words? To live fully--for a few moments--within someone else's soul-searching short story?

Or do we view the world in a whole different way when we're young?

All I know is I never felt so sad, so often, as when I listened to music at fifteen.

Man, did it make me happy.

What kind of music moves you? Does a sad song make you better? Do you still hoard all that vinyl, inside dusty boxes in your basement?

Lost and Found: A Tale of Bad Kitties

2011-08-17T22:00:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time, there was a cat known as Neurotic, Unbelievably Timid and Stupid (NUTS). He was neurotic, unbelievably timid and stupid. This is his story.

Late one night, NUTS follows his brother, Bold And Delinquent (BAD) cat, into the kitchen. The door to the garage is cracked open, and the outside garage door open as well.

"Holy shit!" cries BAD cat. "We hit the motherlode! Let's run for it! Think of the adventures that await us!"

NUTS cowers. "But who knows what's out there? We could get in big trouble!"

"What are you, a scaredy cat?" growls BAD. "A fraidy cat? A pussy?"

NUTS cat tucks his tail between his legs and follows BAD cat out the door.

Several minutes later, Sucker Animal Person (SAP), snoring in bed, hears a shout. "The cats got outside!"

SAP, who has tossed off her nightshirt after her last hot flash, throws it back on and runs out. She reaches the yard just as BAD cat is caught in the beam of the flashlight. He scurries back to the garage and disappears inside the house.

NUTS cat is nowhere to be found.

SAP roams the neighborhood for days."Here, NUTS cat! Here kitty, kitty, kitty," she yells. She crawls on her belly, peering under trees and neighbors' decks. She plasters flyers on lampposts. She walks the dog through yards and fields, hoping he might catch NUTS' scent. She shakes a can of cat treats as she wanders, chanting, "Treaties, NUTS cat, treaties! Come get some treaties!"

The neighbors sigh and shut their windows. SAP envisions the terrified, starving cat--lost and lonely--and sadly sniffs.

Finally, SAP spies eyes glowing in the darkness under a neighbor's deck. "Oh, NUTS cat, it's me, Momma! Come here, baby!" she cries.

Apparently paralyzed with fear, NUTS cat doesn't budge.

SAP convinces Friendly Neighbor Lady to help scare NUTS out with a garden hose. They corner him into a spot where SAP can just barely reach him. She yanks him out by his paws. NUTS cat thrashes in her arms. He chomps down on her hand. Repeatedly. SAP loses her grip and drops him. NUTS cat escapes into the night.

SAP bandages her bloodied hand. Cursing but persistent, she sets a live trap baited with catfood. She keeps station outside, watching across the yard and awaiting the prodigal cat.

Soon after, the trap snaps shut! SAP rushes to claim her prize but discovers she has caught--the neighborhood stray. She is greatly displeased. Stray Kitty, who hisses as she opens the trap, is equally pissed-off.

An hour later, SAP finds the same friggin' stray inside the trap. She admonishes him as he sulks away. Clearly, more than one stupid cat roams the neighborhood tonight. She resets the trap.

But stupid cats aren't the only animals drawn to catfood, SAP quickly discovers. Big, frightfully mean raccoons are, too.

The trap is carefully released and relocated to SAP's front porch. NUTS must still be nearby. SAP hopes his brain is larger than it appears.

At four a.m., the dog--a failure as a bloodhound but still a loyal watchdog--barks once.

The AWOL cat is captured.

NUTS goes nuts in the trap. He flails and foams at the mouth. Once the cage is carried inside and opened, he flees up the stairs.

Relieved but exhausted by the eight-day ordeal, SAP collapses in bed. Minutes later, NUTS peers through the doorway.

"NUTS," she calls lovingly to him. "Come here, little NUTS."

He saunters across the room, hops on the bed and plops beside her. He purrs.

"You neurotic, unbelievably timid and stupid cat," she mutters. "Sure. Now you come when I call you."

Any bad dog or bad cat stories to share? Anyone want a neurotic and wayward kitty? Do your neighbors think you're nuts, too?

How to Write a Book

2011-08-11T18:00:00.000-04:00

Remember me? I hope so, because I missed you all terribly. *sniff*

I learned oodles during the month-long blog hiatus spent concentrating on my book, and I'm pleased to share my newfound wisdom (pro bono even) with each of you. So, here for everyone who ever wondered how to pen a masterpiece, is How to Write a Book 101:

First, announce to everyone you know that you are writing a book, so six years and two unsold manuscripts later they can ask you, "Hey, did you publish your book yet?"

Buy a new wardrobe two sizes up, so you have something to fit your ballooning ass after all the time you spent sitting on it.

Ignore everyday distractions such as scrubbing your toilets or paying your bills. You can hire an accountant and a live-in maid in a few months, after you receive that six-figure advance check. If not, none of it will matter after the foreclosure and bankruptcy.

Alienate your family and friends; how important can they be if they're not editing or selling your book? (If you're writing a memoir, half of them will someday hate you anyway.) Surround yourself instead with a houseful of pets who will purr or lick your hand after you read them an especially brilliant passage.

Don't worry about your writing getting sloppy as your alcohol consumption soars. Stephen King doesn't even remember writing "The Tommyknockers." Surely your drunken scrawl will be just as genius.

Take great pride--after 336 drafts--in finally getting that single paragraph on page 117 perfectly worded, just before everyone in your writing group suggests you delete the entire scene.

Refrain from checking your email every fifteen minutes after you submit a query. Wait--was that an email notification?

Never hate the agents or editors who send you rejection letters. Save your animosity for clearly talented published authors. Like Snooki and Bristol Palin.

Don't quit your day job. Once your boss catches you writing erotica on company time, you're likely to be fired anyway.

And finally, never ever give up.

Unless you have a real hankering to clean those dirty toilets.

What's the best or worst career advice you've ever gotten? Writers: Did I forget any other pearls of wisdom? And hey, did you publish your book yet?

To Be or Not to Be--Guest Post by Gloria Stanfa

2011-08-04T00:00:00.001-04:00

After my month-long hiatus, I'll be back on the blog-wagon next week. Meanwhile, I'm pleased to share a guest post by none other than Gloria Stanfa, AKA my mother. (Her first-ever attempt at writing something like this. Don't hate her for being naturally talented.)

I had an interesting daydream the other day, nothing mind-bending but it was thought-provoking. Come along with me as I share my would've, should've, could've world!

What do I wish I did in my life? Had the big wedding? No, not particularly. Got a degree at The University of Toledo where I was employed? No, my few credits and our girls graduating is sufficient. Learned to swim? A small maybe. Lost at least 20 pounds? Yes, still!

I was a loved, overprotected only child, who in grade school wrote stories, poems, and took art classes at the museum. In high school I majored in art and was in the drama club, appearing in one-act plays. In our junior play, Men Are Like Streetcars, I waltzed across the stage with an imaginary partner as the curtain opened. I was hooked!

Several years later as a young mother of three girls ages 6, 5 and 3, we made our way into a local production of Gypsy as walkons, with my oldest daughter Lori getting the role of Baby June. Naturally, our daughters discovered their own niches as time passed.

Their mom dabbled in a couple local art classes for fun and one for college credit with Sherry. I took creative writing at UT and yoga classes with DC.

Ah yes, the belly dancing lessons.

After one home demonstration, my husband Denny asked me, "What was that?" My response: "It was a hip roll."

He replied with our Stanfa sarcasm, "Oh, I thought you were having a seizure."

Not long after, Sherry, my friend Barb and I took acting at the Toledo Rep from a wonderful actress/instructor. I found it more intriguing than my oil painting or writing. Our acting teacher saw potential in me, complimented what I did and said I'd be a great Auntie Mame (the famous Rosalind Russell role).

Life and perhaps a lack of confidence in remembering some lines led me away.

Several years flew by and sadly Denny passed on, yet four wonderful grandchildren entered my life. I enjoyed delightful travels and times with family and friends. I wrote several eulogies and poems, but my daughters are the writers and story-tellers now.

Eventually, Sherry and her two boys (then in grade school) and I took acting classes one summer. Wow, I was still smitten!

I've seen many singers, such as Elton, Tony, Rod, Paul, Jimmy Buffet, even Frank back in his day! But the plays and stage productions are where my heart lies. The Phantom in London, Cats in Toronto, Mama Mia in Vegas, The Producers in New York (even Gypsy for my 70th in NYC) were some of my big ones. Florida, Michigan and Ohio have also given me great productions. Our local playhouses are to be remembered as well. In fact, we just saw Denny's cousin, Martin Boyer, locally in Bye Bye Birdie.

Would've, could've, should've... I still have the acting bug in my heart. Does this one dream that stands out above the others make me feel sad after all these years?

No. I'm smiling as I write this, and I feel quite confident and content.

I see the audience through the bright lights, as I walk out slowly and dramatically, entering stage right. I clearly look it, I feel it, I own it and I don't forget one line!

I am Auntie Mame, just as I always knew I could be.

Any dreams you still ponder or wish to fulfill? Any regrets of doing or not doing so? Better yet, in line with my theatrical thoughts, who do you think could play you--or whom would you like to portray--in a stage production or movie?

This Bird Has Flown (for a Bit)

2011-07-06T21:01:00.000-04:00

Oh, you're here?

Hello.

Probably expecting a nonsensical musing or some attempt at a poignant story?

Sorry. Better luck next month.

This month, I am avoiding such distractions and am gluing myself to a book rewrite. Yes, another. *sigh*

So, carry on, people. If you find yourself bored, scroll through my two years of archives. Talk amongst yourselves. Write your own damn book.

See you back here in August.

Lalalalala... I Can't Hear You!

2011-06-29T18:17:00.011-04:00

Wednesday, 1:45 P.M:
Sensible Sherry: "So, that's that. If this spring's financial fiascos weren't a wake-up call, this week's fiscal emergencies surely were. The broken rider lawnmower (irrepairable), the car air conditioning (estimated fix of $600-$1,200) and the house's central air (replacement totaling $2,500)? You need to make some significant changes in your life."

Stupid Sherry: "Yes, yes, you're right. I will change my lifestyle right now. I will start by playing the lottery every day and by switching to Natural Light beer."

Sensible Sherry (glaring): "What I mean is truly tightening your pursestrings. No more eating out, no more vacations and no more spending a fourth of your weekly grocery bill on adult beverages."

Stupid Sherry: "Wow. You are a tough taskmaster."

Sensible Sherry: "I am. And from now on, you shall be my bitch."

2:15 P.M.
Sensible Sherry: "Um, excuse me? Is that you, clicking around on Orbitz.com?"

Stupid Sherry (glancing around): "Who, me?"

Sensible Sherry: "It's like I don't even know you."

Stupid Sherry: "I know, but remember back in early April, when I found that unbelievable deal for taking the Megabus to New York City? A round-trip ticket from Toledo for $4.50? Four dollars and fifty cents! I booked it right then, just in case I could make it work."

Sensible Sherry: "It won't work. Walk away from the computer."

Stupid Sherry: "But I managed to change my reservation! Instead of spending three nights in Manhattan, I'll only spend one! Look at the money I've saved already!"

Sensible Sherry: "So, you will sit on a bus for twelve hours, stay in New York for a single night and then turn around and spend another twelve hours on a bus?"

Stupid Sherry: "Yes! What an adventure it will be!"

Sensible Sherry (sighing): "That's what the Donner Party said."

2:38 P.M.
Sensible Sherry: "Tell me you didn't."

Stupid Sherry: "Can you believe my good luck? A hotel room for only $100, on Manhattan's lower east side!"

Sensible Sherry: "Did you notice the fine print, about the 'shared bathroom'?"

Stupid Sherry: "I won't shower. And I'll cross my legs."

Sensible Sherry: "What about bed bugs?"

Stupid Sherry: "Bed bugs? The hotel amenities didn't list those."

Sensible Sherry: "Right. And what will you do in New York, with no money?"

Stupid Sherry: "I will engage in several hours of fun and free things! I'll visit the public library and walk through Central Park. I will pass by homeless people and feel really good about myself."

Sensible Sherry: "Mm-hmm. How will you eat?"

Stupid Sherry: "I'm planning to pack a bag of peanuts and six PB and J sandwiches in my duffle bag. And I'll drink from public water fountains."

Sensible Sherry (closing eyes and shaking head): "You are so full of shit."

Stupid Sherry: "OK. I will pack a bottle of cheap vodka and eat $2 hot dogs from street vendors. And I will ask for extra mustard packets and make an entire meal out of them."

Sensible Sherry: "You need professional help. Although you can't afford that either."

Stupid Sherry: "Come on! How could anyone let a practically free trip to New York go unused? That's like telling Ed McMahon to go away when he shows up at your door."

Sensible Sherry (checking Dead-Celeb.com): "Ed McMahon died in 2009. If he happens to show up at your door, promise me you'll tell him to go away."

Stupid Sherry: "OK. But I am definitely going to New York."

Sensible Sherry (rolling her eyes): "Fine. Spend three days of your life with twenty-five hours squeezed into a bus seat and another eight hours sleeping in a frightfully cheap hotel."

Stupid Sherry: "Yes. Yes, I will. Sounds delightful. Jeez, you're such a worrier. I mean, with a great plan like this, what could possibly go wrong?"

To be continued...

So how are you spending your summer vacation? What would you do in New York City on a dime? Do you listen to the angel or the devil on your shoulders?

Lambchop, We Hardly Knew Ye

2011-06-22T19:10:00.002-04:00

Am taking a cue here from a character in my current novel-in-progress, who contemplates how her obituary might read. Feel free to add your own comments and memories. Special bonus: As of tonight, I'm still here to read the Guestbook!

Sherry Stanfa-Stanley passed away peacefully last night, an ancient bitch who lived far longer than she deserved.

She was born in Toledo, Ohio, a city immortalized by John Denver and a mayor who proposed relocating deaf people to the airport.

Her parents already used up their favorite girls' names. So they entrusted their youngest daughter's lifelong personal identity to her two- and three-year-old sisters. They named her after puppeteer Shari Lewis. She forever regretted not being dubbed "Lambchop."

In her youth, Sherry possessed a great sense of adventure. Tragically, this quality managed to escape the Girl Scouts of America, the St. Patrick's seventh grade basketball team and Junior Achievement, all which booted her before she made her sure-to-be landmark contributions.

An alumna of Toledo's E.L. Bowsher High School, she anticipated the day a statue--presumably entitled The Truant Student--would be erected in her honor. Instead, the school board voted to raze the building.

Redeeming herself at The University of Toledo, she somehow graduated with honors. She later took pride in the fact that she was never technically fired from a job.

Sherry excelled at editing, due to her love of pointing out other people's mistakes. She also wrote several books, masterpieces which would have topped the New York Times Bestsellers List and won the Pulitzer, if only she'd received an effin' publishing contract.

She was indulged by a few and whispered about behind her back by the rest. Those who knew Sherry well said she never met a margarita she didn't like.

She is survived by family members who wish to remain anonymous, as well as 213 dogs and cats.

In lieu of flowers, Sherry requested memorial contributions be made to Hoarders Anonymous or the International Movement to Ban Bad Speling.

Services will be held at her own bedside on Monday at 2 p.m., since Sherry despised getting out of bed, and nothing pissed her off more than being nudged from a dead sleep before noon.

Son #1 tells me I have a sick sense of humor and this post is bad karma. So, what are the odds I'll be hit by a bus tomorrow? Any details or memories you care to add? How do you envision your own obituary?

Bruno: A Bear of a Man, Reprise

2011-06-16T00:00:00.007-04:00

Seem to be thinking quite a bit about my grandparents these days. With Father's Day approaching, I wanted to once again share a story about my grandfather.

His name was Bruno, German for "brown bear." A fitting name for a man tough as a grizzly, soft as a child's teddy.

Emigrating to the United States at age 12, Bruno found himself plunged into a new world and a different culture. Without knowing a single word of his new country's language, he managed to achieve all A's in school--except in his English class. He spoke of this years later, in now perfect English, with pride at his accomplishment and a twinge of disappointment at that one failure.

But education was a luxury for many families, especially immigrants, in the 1920s. He left school after the eighth grade, his carpenter father insisting boys his age must learn a trade. Bright and good with his hands, Bruno trained to be a machinist. A humble occupation, it didn't bring great wealth but ensured a decent enough living, and of that he remained proud. Decency--in a person's character and their work ethic--mattered much to Bruno.

If he'd been born wealthier and a half-century later, his calling would have been an engineer or a computer scientist. At a holiday gathering when he was about eighty, he quizzed my computer salesman brother-in-law.

"How are things at your shop?" (Every workplace was a "shop," whether the person worked in a factory, an office or out of their home.) He leaned forward, listening, as my brother-in-law fumbled through an explanation of the computer network sales business. Bruno nodded, his bushy gray eyebrows knitted together and his ever-alert blue eyes particularly intense.

"But now explain this to me," he said, in his legendary line of questioning of everything in life. "How exactly does a computer work?"

No one could satisfy his insatiable curiosity.

It was even more impossible to deter the man's determination.

A heart attack, when he was only in his forties, fortified his will to live. Damned if he'd let a bad heart get the best of him. That heart attack was Bruno's first and his last. He survived another forty years.

While he was in his sixties, the company for whom he worked more than thirty years folded. He lost not only his job but his entire pension. Self-pity or despair were never an option. Bruno simply persevered and found another job.

Years later, a horrific car crash left him with injuries that included several broken ribs and a pulverized face. (His jaw would be wired shut, rendering him unable to speak and on a liquid diet for weeks.) The day after the accident, he ignored the hospital staff's heeding and plodded down the hallway to the ICU to be by the side of my grandmother, who suffered a broken neck.

Bruno didn't believe in giving up on giving his all. That's what I remember most about my grandfather. Plus his exuberant bear hugs. And his misty-eyed, frequently repeated words, "I'm so proud of you kids."

I wish I would have, just once, said I was proud of him, too.

Bruno outlived his wife of sixty-two years, who never fully bounced back from that accident. He also outlived my father, whom he never called his son-in-law but always his son.

My dad died from cancer, at age 53, only four months after the car crash. (Ironically, while already scheduled for chemotherapy, he was the only one uninjured out of the vehicle's six passengers.) My father-in-law died just two years later--also at age 53--when my two sons were just babies.

Although he was their great-grandfather, Bruno is the only grandpa either of my now grown boys remember.

Bruno lived to a more-than-decent age of 89. He'd be 100 next month. He's been gone for more than ten years, yet I see his warmth and his fortitude alive still in my mother. I'd like to believe that I possess just a bit of both of those qualities, too. And when I look at my two sons, I'm certain I see fragments of their great-grandfather.

Yes, he was a Great Grandfather.

Happy Father's Day, Grandpa.

Any characteristics you wish a parent or grandparent passed down? What would you say to your grandparents now, if you had the chance? Can you please explain to us all how computers actually work?

Will You Take a Quarter for This Blog Post?

2011-06-09T19:34:00.010-04:00

With temperatures in the nineties, accompanied by a heat advisory warning by the National Weather Service, I spent the last few days as any practical and precautious person would: doubled-over and wheezing while producing gallons of sweat within my unairconditioned garage.

Oh sure, there are some folks who probably sought a safe and comfortable refuge from the hazardous heat. They retreated to their home's central air or cooled off in a neighborhood swimming pool. Pfft. I decided nothing could delight me more than spending Every Freaking Day of my one-week summer vacation inside my attached two-car sauna.

Nobody knows how to have a better time than I do. So, for the hottest week of the summer, I scheduled a garage sale. And because I enjoy a seriously good challenge, I did nothing to prepare for it until just days before the event.

For those of you who have held a garage sale, you know that if there's anything even more fun-filled than actually hosting the sale, it's the cleaning, organizing and tagging that comes first. For the average person, this results in a somewhat tiring project. For people like me, who have not touched most of their household belongings for nearly twenty years, it is as wearisome as the Republican Party's search for a decent 2012 presidential candidate.

Some people scrap-book; others play tennis. I like to consider "collecting loads of shit" a bit of a hobby.

Astute readers might recall my kitchen cupboard purging escapade of this past February. Although I had high hopes for offers from TV game show producers, I've been forced, sadly, to move on with my life.

Specifically, I moved on to cleaning my basement. And I'm fairly certain that this time, the producers of Hoarders will not let me down.

I have never understood the adage "Less Is More." Is having $50 to your name truly better than having a million? Is a third-grade education more beneficial than a college degree? Hell no. So why own three kitchen spatulas when you can own twelve? Why pay for food and veterinary bills for one pet when you can have the satisfaction of paying for six? Why drink two margaritas when you can drink... (Wait, is there actually some limit?)

My recent basement purging was not unlike my kitchen cabinet cleansing--except instead of discovering twenty-three beer koozies, I discovered an endless bounty of toy action figures. At best guess, approximately 503 of them lay dropped and discarded across the basement floor.

Among these was every Happy Meal toy made between 1990 and 2000. I'd like to believe this is a sign of a loving and doting mother. In reality, it's the sign of a woman who apparently didn't prepare a homecooked meal for ten years.

I'm told that some of these items are collectibles, garnering big bucks on eBay. I'd like to believe choosing not to do so is the sign of a busy professional person with no spare time. In reality, it's a sign I'm lazy.

On the rare occasion that I've cleaned out closets, cabinets and toy bins, I simply hauled everything off to the Goodwill. This time, I decided I could use the money. (Still paying off bills from my Month of Financial Hell.)

Today was my garage sale premiere. I made a total of $63. At this rate, I should make about $150 over the course of the three-day event. Not a paltry sum. Until you consider the countless hours I spent sorting, washing, organizing and pricing. Given the time invested, I figure I'll net roughly 25 cents an hour.

This garage sale gig is way less lucrative than selling my body on the streets. A middle-age, overweight, unenthusiastic body at that.

I'm thinking of looking for an evening job instead, fit in somewhere between the day job and my extracurricular writing. Maybe McDonald's? After all, Mickey D positions are plentiful and the hours are flexible. In a fully airconditioned environment.

If I'm lucky they also offer an employee discount on Happy Meals. Because by Sunday, after I've finished sweating and wheezing, I expect to develop an ache for some cheap plastic action figures. Damn, those tiny toys are cute. I hear they do well on eBay.

And I'll bet not a single customer will ask, "Are you willing to take a quarter for this cheeseburger?"

Are you a hoarder or a purger? What are you willing to do, legally or illegally, to make a few extra bucks? Any big interest in a twenty-year-old food processor or some plastic Pocahontas toys?

Note to my fellow (and far more talented) bloggers: Between my recent writers workshop and the garage sale hell that followed, I am way behind in my blog reading. I promise to stop by your way this week...)

A Cupful of Memories - Reprise

2011-05-26T09:23:00.003-04:00

I grasp my grandmother's hand as we wait for the bus. She squeezes back, and I peer up at her. Even at age six, I sense she's the kind of woman who draws admiring looks: dark with high cheekbones and a slightly beaked nose, traces of her Algonquin Indian blood from generations past.

I do not know, until years later, the effort required to maintain that beauty. I don't realize the toll taken by years of factory conditions. I pay little attention to the ointment she applies every night to her face and arms, to soothe wounds from the flying metal fragments embedded in her skin, or to the wigs that cover the thinning hair from similar spots on her scalp.

In 1967, I comprehend none of this.

We climb on the bus. Grandma Stanfa doesn't drive; she is accustomed to this ride from the Old South End to downtown Toledo. The only bus I've ridden is the one to my suburban school, where I'm in the first grade.

"Grandma," I announce with wide eyes, "look at all the chocolate people!"

"Shh." She raises her finger to her lips. "They're called colored people. You know, like Moms Mabley."

I nod, sneaking another look at the woman across the aisle. I've never seen a colored person in my neighborhood or school. But I'm familiar with Moms Mabley, whom Grandma loves to watch on TV. Later, Grandma talks about the importance of respect. She explains that words, even spoken out of innocence, can offend or hurt someone. I'll bet my grandmother has never hurt anyone's feelings. I hope I don't either.

Grandma sits straight. She rides the bus with a quiet dignity. I swing my dangling feet, kicking them against each other, and chatter away. Grandma smiles down at me. Unlike so many other adults I know, she answers my endless questions not just with patience, but with interest.

Although she has six other grandchildren, today is just about Grandma and me. She allowed me to choose our supper menu, bought me my very own can of black olives and even let me pick today's movie: The Jungle Book. I know my sisters and cousins have had their own days like this with Grandma. But today I feel special.

I hesitate when she stops at the concession stand. My family's far from rich, but I know my grandmother is worse off than we are.

My mom says Grandma's first husband died not long after my Uncle Bob was born. She married again and had my dad and my Uncle Sonny. I'm not sure what happened to my grandfather. I guess my dad met him just once, when he was three. I overheard my mom tell that story, too. "You're doing a good job with the boys," he told my grandmother when he visited. Then, he was gone for good.

My Uncle Bob still lives with Grandma though. He was in the Korean War, and he hears voices that nobody else hears. Grandma tells me I don't need to be afraid of him.

Grandma finally convinces me to get something to drink. I chew my bottom lip, considering my choices. I order a grape drink, served in a plastic, purple fruit-shaped cup.

I have never been to an indoor theater before, only to the drive-in movies with my parents and sisters. From my velvet-covered seat in the Pantheon theater, I stare at the movie screen, mesmerized. I accidentally slurp--too loudly--through my straw. Alarmed, I glance up at my grandmother. She winks at me.

When we return to Grandma's house, she pours herself a drink. Whiskey. She lights a cigarette. When she's not looking, I stub it out in the ashtray. When I'm not looking, she lights another.

The next morning, we walk to Mass. I attend a Catholic grade school, but my parents aren't so religious about weekly Sunday services. Grandma's a good Catholic. The kind who goes to Mass every morning, seven days a week. The kind who doesn't remarry after a failed marriage and a long-gone husband, because the Church doesn't believe in divorce.

When my parents pick me up, Grandma kisses me goodbye. I wave as I climb into our car. I leave her behind in her tiny two-bedroom house, with her freshly printed church bulletin, her pack of cigarettes and her schizophrenic son, for whom she will care until she dies in a hospital bed, seven years later.

Some people leave your life too soon. Often, years pass before you fully appreciate them for what you didn't know then--and what you still remember now.

Sometimes, you wish you'd collected every one of those memories and saved them, perhaps in a grape-shaped purple cup.

How well did you really know your grandparents? What is it about a rainy day that makes us remember, with a wistful smile, those we loved and lost?

Oh, What a Night! (Middle-Aged Style)

2011-05-19T18:40:00.000-04:00

Join me, if you will, on one middle-aged party animal's night on the town.

You primp and you polish, then you glance in the mirror. On a scale of 1-10, you are a *generous* 2.5 You pile on another layer of concealer and decide it will have to do.

Not a parking space to be found for this new hot bar. You cruise around in your minivan for 20 minutes until a decent spot opens up. ("Decent" meaning no more than 50 yards from the door, so as not to render you prone and hyperventilating on the pavement.)

You frown as you size up the crowd. Clearly these must be middle-school students, keeping the Fake ID Industry alive and well. The girl beside you sports a micro-top that reveals most of her as-yet-unsagging cleavage. Her heels measure approximately one-fourth of your full height. You're fairly certain one of your children used to babysit her.

You glance down at your presumably fashionable smock top and hope no one mistakes you as pregnant. It dawns on you that not one person here might imagine you as still of child-bearing age. In between heavy gasps from your 50-yard walk, you sigh.

You shake this off and squeeze through the crowded dance floor because you need a drink. Or six.

When you've made your way to the bar a half-hour later, you order a Miller 64. It's all the calories and alcohol your body can handle. The bartender finishes pouring tequila shots for other customers and sneers at your order. If you were his mother, you'd ground the little bastard.

Finally, you spot your friends in the mob. You attempt to hold a conversation, but you can't hear a word over the music. You nod and smile when anyone appears to say something in your general direction. You make a note to schedule an appointment with an audiologist, right after your mole-check and colonoscopy.

You spend the next couple hours pretending to enjoy the music. The band is playing Oldies, which apparently now consist of songs from the nineties. You don't recognize one. You were too busy during that decade changing diapers and driving to soccer practices to keep up with the latest from Nine Inch Nails.

A couple friends suggest dancing, but you're not entirely sure what type of dance moves this music requires. Besides, your bad knee isn't likely to handle any moves at all.

When Mother Nature calls, you welcome any reprieve from the thump of the bass. You head to the restroom. Pushing and pausing through the endless crowd, you remind yourself to plan ahead for any future bathroom breaks--well before you are once again stooped over and crossing your legs. This wisdom comes in handy tonight the next four or five times you have to pee.

One glance and whiff in the restroom causes you to recoil. You fight back the bile rising in your throat and ransack the room in search of a toilet brush and can of Scrubbing Bubbles. Your quest is futile, since most of the staff here reside blissfully in the questionable hygiene of a college dorm.

As you rush from the restroom one last time, you glance at the clock: Just after midnight. Well past your bedtime!

You shout an apology to your friends and make your way to your minivan. You squint and swear as you crawl down the highway. You need to talk to your optometrist ASAP about this freaking night blindness! But your failing vision is the least of your worries right now. Because, Holy Mother of God, do you need to pee!

The next time your friends call about getting together, you suggest a Saturday luncheon at the art museum cafeteria.

If you're going to feel outdated and ancient, you're going to do so with a hint of class. At a place where no one is likely to flash a fake ID.

But if they ask for your damn AARP card, you're out of there.

Can you still hang with the Wild Ones? What constitutes your big night on the town? What ever happened to cover bands playing the damn Beatles?

Superheroes in the Waiting Room

2011-05-14T00:00:00.000-04:00

So Blogger.com ate my May 12 post the same day I published it. (I won't take it personally, since writers everywhere experienced the same fate.) I've been out of town at the FABULOUS Midwest Writers Workshop Retreat and couldn't deal with it before now.

It has miraculously reappeared in my draft folder, but the handful of reader comments made before it disappeared are gone for good...

Shall we try this again? New--and old--comments are welcome!

Superheroes in the Waiting Room

As they spill through the doctor's office door, every head in the waiting room turns. We crane our necks from the TV and peek over our outdated issues of Good Housekeeping. Those here for our weekly or biweekly allergy injections have learned to expect this procession. Yet we still can't keep our eyes off them: the five blond little girls, all under the age of eight.

We divide our attention for the next half-hour or so between each of them and the mother who every week single-handedly accompanies, corrals and cares for them. We're mesmerized.

Large families weren't once such an aberration. Two of my dad's uncles each had ten children. And even in the sixties and seventies, most of my Catholic school classmates hailed from families of six or seven siblings. My family fell in the minority: I was the last of just three (much to the relief of many of our teachers and our principal, Sister Mary Sadistic).

Whether due to the expense or the physical and mental exhaustion of raising a large litter, even Good Catholic parents gradually caved to the accessibility of reliable birth control. That's not to say big families are fully extinct. The omnipresent media reminds us of the extreme examples, such as Octomom and the Duggar family (population currently 21). The public seems to view those as freakshows. And perhaps some parents do procreate in great quantities for questionable reasons.

Yet isn't it possible some people want a large family simply because they love children? Because they welcome the joys and feel fairly equipped (no parent possesses total confidence) to accept the challenges? I recall a family from my two sons' grade school: eight stair-step children, all who seemed to thrive and excel, whose parents somehow found the time and energy to be engaged in their schooling, their sports and their scout troops--and still keep their sanity.

What does it take to successfully raise a big brood like this? Time management skills? Fortitude? Damn good luck?

The doctor's office buzzes with the sound and activity of the five little girls. Their mother simultaneously assists one with a hand-held DVD player, oversees the oldest's homework, reads a picture book to another and breaks up a squabble between the other two.

The waiting room crowd watches, all eyes riveted. We steal a smile at each other as one two-year-old twin climbs over the back of a chair and the other twin drops her drawers in the middle of the room.

A few of us seem to be awaiting the train wreck: the final crash and explosion. But while the train occasionally coughs and sputters, rocks and shakes, and maneuvers its way over a stretch of rough tracks, no train wreck is in sight. Because this appears to be one well-oiled machine.

We're not witness, of course, to the daily challenges that may erupt from the time their parents get them all dressed each morning until they finally fall asleep each night. But having to haul five young children to a doctor's office each and every week? This must surely rate among the greatest potential nightmares any parent can imagine.

One of the twins wanders across the room to admire a newborn in his carseat. Her mother drops the other toddler from her lap and rushes over, to intercept any unacceptable interaction.

"Sorry," she says in apology to the newborn's mother.

"No problem," the other mother replies. "She's just curious. All of your girls are so well-behaved. They seem so happy. And you're great with them."

The rest of the women in the room nod our heads and murmur, "Yes, they are. Yes, you are. Yes, we're amazed."

She thanks us and sighs. "It's not always easy. But sometimes it's really great. Five is enough though. These youngest two will definitely be our last."

At those words, every smile in our group fades.

When someone appears so successful at something--whether it's making music, running a business or raising children--we tend to hope they'll never stop. One mere mortal becomes our personal superhero. We don't ever want to see them give up their gig, especially when we know few people would be willing or able to put on the cape and take the job.

Superhero capes, especially in the world of parenting, aren't one-size-fits-all.

Not every mother or father is equipped to oversee Metropolis. Most of us peer down at our tiny kingdom of one or two, occasionally don a mask and just hope for the best.

Yet whether we're the parent of one or of ten, we devote a lifetime of love and attention and energy to that responsibility. No matter the size of our own kingdom, surely our own role is equally important--and something to be admired.

And that makes every one of us a superhero.

Any of your own large family experiences to share, as either child or parent? What superhero powers does parenting require? Do you ever get a whiff of baby powder, sigh and wonder 'what if'?

Sherry's Royal Wedding

2011-05-05T18:57:00.001-04:00

The Royal Wedding is a week behind us, yet much of the world is still nibbling scones, clinking teacups and sighing over the pomp and romance.

I slept during the nuptials. I tuned out the stream of TV reruns, choosing instead to drink beer and watch season four of Doctor Who. I didn't purchase any commemorative coins, cups or condoms--though I did contemplate the commemorative royal Pez Dispenser.

Before you label me a cynical bah-humbugger, let me explain my disinterest in this momentous occasion: I'm far too busy planning my own wedding festivities (round two, for those who are keeping track).

First, I need to work out a couple preliminary items. For example, no one has *technically* asked for my hand in matrimony. And I haven't had a real date since a downtown street-dweller offered me a drink from his bottle. But these are mere details I expect to resolve while I'm planning my to-die-for ceremony and reception.

I have no complaints about my first wedding. Yes, I suffered from a severe case of laryngitis and couldn't actually say my vows. And the groom did have to nudge me and tell me to look at him during the ceremony, since apparently my gaze was fixated on the priest, Father What-a-Waste. (Seriously, ladies: What. A. Waste.) Yet the entire event was really quite lovely, and even if the whole marriage thing didn't exactly work out, I wouldn't change a thing about that magical day.

But the second time around will be so, SO fabulous. The New York Times has already reserved a full page for coverage, and Oprah hinted she'll extend her last show date for an exclusive interview. Meh. I'm holding out for a bigger offer.

Meanwhile, I'm pleased to share some of the wedding details with you, my beloved readers.

As most of you know, I'm the traditional type. So I will be married once again in the Catholic church, if they decide to allow me back in. I'll insist the Mass be performed in Latin. It's such a beautiful language, plus I don't care to fully comprehend what I'm consenting to. And if Father What-a-Waste won't agree to be the groom this time, I hope he'll at least agree to officiate.

The wedding party is still under consideration. Positions shall go to the highest bidders. Do I hear one dollar? Anyone? Anyone? However, I do know my dog, Ringo, shall serve as ring-bearer. (Ringo. Too perfect, yes? Just cross your fingers that he doesn't leave a little offertory gift of his own at the altar.) Sadly, my father isn't here to walk me down the aisle, but I can guarantee my two sons are all too willing to give me away, especially if it means I'll never again nag them to mow the lawn.

I will forsake the gorgeous satin wedding dress and heels this time around. Shouldn't one celebrate the most special day of one's life in blissful comfort? I will be attired in sweats and my favorite fluffy slippers. My hair will be tied back in a Chicago Cubs scrunchie (2011 is the year, Cubbie fans)! Makeup will be optional, depending on just how late I happen to be running that day. Regardless, I am the bride, so people will tell me how radiant and ravishing I look!

The band for my first wedding reception was so wonderful I'd hire them again. Except I'm not up to hearing one single more rendition of the Chicken Dance or Proud Mary. So instead, we'll opt for karaoke. Wedding guests will be forced to have their names checked against my "Approved Singer List." (Sorry, Mom, but you'll be noted on my "HELL NO List.") I will likely climb on a table and belt out American Pie at least three times. The crowd will applaud with gusto no matter how off-key I am because, again (see the previous paragraph), I am the bride and this is my damn day.

We will dine on crab since it's my favorite food. Besides, when I dribble crab bits and melted butter all over my dingy gray sweatshirt, it's certain to be less conspicuous than the red blobs of mostaccioli all over my white gown at reception number one.

You are all sure to buy me spectacular wedding gifts, and I am good with that. No worries about trying to be creative. I will gladly accept obscene quantities of cash.

I've given the honeymoon little consideration. A fleeting one-week trip seems rather insignificant when the rest of my life with my new billionaire husband will be one permanent vacation. (Is it too premature to offer my boss my two-week's notice today?)

The wedding invitations shall go out soon. All I'm waiting on is a confirmation on the date. Oh, and a proposal from a prospective groom.

Please clink your royal teacups together in my honor!

And sharpen up those karaoke skills! I'd hate to put any of you on the "HELL NO List" with my mother.

(Mom, you'll still attend though, won't you? Free crab--and all the wine you can drink! Plus you're certain to want your very own collectible Bride Sherry Pez Dispenser! OK, and I promise a bit of lipstick for the occasion. But the sweatpants are totally a deal-breaker. Sorry.)

Were you glued to every moment of the Royal Wedding? Team William or Team Harry? Any personal wedding day bliss or wedding bell blues you care to share?

The Stories that Stick

2011-04-28T00:00:00.008-04:00

A few friends with young children recently experienced the most magical of all spring vacations: a trip to Disney World.

Oh, my absolute envy. If I could, I'd make a pilgrimage to that Mecca of the Mouse every single year. My own Disney trips with my children evoke such exciting, heartwarming memories. Except... honestly... even as my mind races to recall these vacations, I remember very little. Neither do my two grown sons.

The passing of time is only partly to blame. I think the real reason these memories are vague is because the trips were perfectly pleasant--and not blemished by any tiny disasters.

And seriously: What fun is perfection?

Of the twenty or so vacations my sons and I have taken together, the one we remember most fondly is the Spring Break from Hell.

My sister DC is to thank--or to fault--for this. (She's at fault for much in my life, including my Barbie's fall from grace to a pin-pricked voodoo doll.) A few years ago, DC craved a last-minute escape from the harsh spring of Ohio. She booked a trip with her daughter to the only southern destination available through her time-share trade. With no plans ourselves, my boys and I joined them.

None of us can name the tiny mid-state Alabama town where we landed. I doubt it even exists on a U.S. map. What we haven't forgotten is desperately biding our time by renting dozens of movies from a video store where the clerk told us the nearby Walmart was the hub--nay, the heart--of the entire county. (We spent the next day there, and she was spot-on. Everyone who isn't anyone was there.) What we also remember is eating Easter dinner at a barbecue buffet where shoes appeared optional. And as far as our escaping to the sunny south? One needed a parka, which none of us packed, to venture outside at all. (We did so anyway. But we did wear shoes. With socks.)

A freaking catastrophe of a trip. But looking back at it now? Best. Vacation. Ever.

That experience was much like my other favorite vacation memories.

Of all my college-era camping trips, just one clear memory remains: the weekend thwarted by such a downpour that we slept in our cars and spent our waking hours huddled under a dense stand of trees. (Yes, lightening struck all around us, but we were young; beer trumped common sense.) Ravenous, we eyed our rations: potato chips and a pack of hot dogs. My friend John (rest in peace, Mr. Burgermeister) pulled out a paperback he was reading. He speared it with a stick and lit it afire with his Zippo. We shielded ourselves from the storm and singed our hot dogs over the sputtering flames. "It wasn't a very good book anyway," he said with a shrug.

I remember nothing about another camping trip my sisters and I took to Assateague Island in the eighties, except the part where the wild ponies knocked down our tent as we slept inside.

On a recent trip to New York City, two friends and I dined at world-renowned restaurants and saw a terrific Broadway show. So what do we recall when we discuss this trip? We talk about the drive home through the mountains when one of us had the highly unfortunate experience of needing to go to the bathroom---pronto--without a rest stop or exit for miles. We laughed, she cried, she crossed her legs. Oh, what memories our sadistic potty humor made during that single half-hour (which seemed likely seemed a century to her).

These are the stories that stick in our lives. What we recall forever are seldom the most perfectly executed experiences. Our best memories tend to be those moments that catch us off-guard. The little calamities. The lamented misfortune that at the time makes us hang our heads and yet weeks, or even years later, prompts us to turn to each other, grin and say, "Oh my God, remember that?"

If we want to collect a lifetime of happy memories, maybe what we need is a little bad luck.

I'm hoping to get seriously lost on my next road trip. To face nightmarish weather that causes me to alter my carefully planned agenda. To experience some tiny disaster that turns the vacation of my dreams into the trip from hell.

Oh, the horror I'll endure!

And later, I'll inevitably smile and think, damn, was that fun.

Any vacation catastrophes to share? Low points in your life that somehow became high points? Want more details on how you, too, can spend your spring vacation at an Alabama Walmart?

Playing Truth or Dare

2011-04-21T00:00:00.017-04:00

Our favorite game in junior high was Truth or Dare.

Nearly everyone at my Catholic school picked the Dare, even when playing the game in our most reckless venue of all--weekly Mass. (Years later, I've come to hope God possesses a good sense of humor. And a short memory.)

We believed choosing the Dare proved our confidence and our courage, two attributes that play heavily in a thirteen-year-old's popularity.

Even then though, I knew the Dare was the safer choice. Answering a difficult personal question with honesty? This required true bravery. At thirteen, we're far too guarded and insecure to open ourselves up to that transparency, vulnerability or potential peer disapproval. It's a self-defense mechanism which becomes even more ingrained as we grow older.

Hiding from the Truth is a game we play much of our lives.

When we confront difficult personal issues, we tend to evade. We conceal. We occasionally outright lie. Sometimes we're not honest with someone else. Sometimes we're not honest with ourselves. Denying certain Truths, especially troublesome ones, is always easier than acknowledging them.

On a night out a few years ago with a group of girlfriends, someone suggested a grown-up game of Truth or Dare. We quickly dismissed the option of Dare. What are we, kids? No, we most certainly are not. We laughed. Just as friends don't let friends drive drunk, middle-aged friends don't let middle-aged friends run outdoors in their skivvies.

The rules were simple: Each woman in the group would ask one question, and everyone had to answer. We agreed the questions should be thought-provoking yet benign. After all, we were out that night to relieve our stress, not to magnify it.

Choice of plastic surgery? Nose, boobs and all the usual suspects.

Biggest fear? We toyed with the common themes of flying, of tornadoes, of heights. But every one of us with children eventually gave the same answer.

Number of men with whom you've slept? Ah, maybe not such a benign query, this one! Of all the questions, it caused the most consternation and cringing. We tried to veil our surprise at the woman who answered "just one" as well as the woman who said she'd long ago lost count.

Then we came to my--seemingly mild--question:

If you could succeed at being anything in life (actual talent not a factor), what would you be?

We nodded and smiled at the responses: Broadway actress, singer/songwriter, president of the United States. We turned to the last friend in the circle, awaiting her answer.

"My dreams aren't as exciting as all of yours." She hesitated. "Because honestly, if I could choose to be anything, I'd still choose to be a housewife." She looked away, then added in a near whisper, "But I would want to be a happy one."

The table fell silent. None of us would ever have guessed her wish. Because most of us had no knowledge of her reality.

We weren't able to provide a solution to her situation. What we offered her that night was a roundtable of empathy and sympathy, and a bit of friendship-inspired therapy.

I can't be sure she's found peace even now, but just maybe she feels less burdened and less alone in facing the Truth. Maybe she's succeeded at the first crucial step which will allow her to face the next step, whatever that might be.

Truth or Dare is a tough game at any age.

But by daring ourselves to acknowledge one key Truth, maybe we can find answers to other important questions in the bigger game of life.

Have you ever lied to yourself? What's the most frightening or embarrassing Dare you ever accepted? If you could be anything, without the possibility of failure, what would you be?

Mercury in Retrograde

2011-04-14T00:02:00.008-04:00

We interrupt our normally scheduled blog programming to vent and rant and moan and bitch.

These are the events of our last few days:

We pay the $143 traffic ticket for the car accident which was *apparently* our fault.

We also pay the carpet cleaning company (we choose not to read the exact amount on the credit card receipt) for steam-cleaning the one-year-old carpet which they cleaned just two months ago but which has now suffered the wrath of an exploding jar of salsa brought about by an unnamed individual whom we may--or we may not--allow to live.

We venture to the post office to sign for a certified letter from our insurance company that is written in such horrifically standard legalize that we read it three times before finally comprehending the meaning, which is that they may--or they may not--cover the estimated $2,000 damage to the other car in the aforementioned accident, because we may--or we may not--have reinstated our coverage for the winter-stored vehicle we were driving.

We dwell on this possibility from approximately 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., finally concluding that if indeed we are responsible for these damages, we can pay for them by scraping the bottom of our savings account barrel which we had planned to use to replace the huge arched window that somehow managed to simply drop out of its second-story socket and crash to the ground.

We experience a fleeting glimmer of hope that perhaps a portion of one of these costs can be covered by our 2010 tax return, about which we are awaiting word from the accountant who is currently mulling over our likely incomplete paperwork.

We receive a Fed Ex package from our accountant, THIS VERY SAME DAY, indicating that not only will we not be getting a tax return but we actually owe $1,500.

Finally, we discover our happy little goldfish has chosen today to float belly-up.

Is Mercury in retrograde? Did a black cat (which we unwittingly neglected to adopt and add to our residential petting zoo) cross our path? Are we being penalized by some higher power for that incident back in third-grade when we reached under the bathroom stall and stole our classmate's loafer that was dangling from her foot?

Sigh. That is all.

Stay tuned next week for our regularly scheduled program.

And now you expect some sort of inspirational and idea-provoking questions? Nah. I got nothing. You may--or you may not--choose to leave a comment.

Recipe for Disaster

2011-04-07T18:12:00.005-04:00

Here's a fun little recipe I recently concocted. Feel free to try it!

Ingredients:

Several stories of cooking catastrophes suffered by family and friends who probably prefer not to be publicly ridiculed
A dash of smugness about your own impeccable kitchen record
A cup of bad karma

Combine all the humiliating stories, being sure to include such tales as:

The woman who prepared her first bowl of potato salad for a group picnic but lacked the listed finishing touch of paprika, so she covered the salad with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon.
The newlywed who excitedly prepared a pan of lasagna but was confused by the terminology and used not just a single clove of garlic but an entire bulb.
The grandmother who baked her three-year-old grandson his much coveted Elmo birthday cake, and then frosted it with an icing which melted and dripped in such a ghastly fashion that the cake resembled Elmo-On-Acid and prompted the horrified child to scream, "I don't like this kind of cake!"

Layer these tales with biting sarcasm and wit. Let them simmer for a few weeks, as you plan to make them public over the World Wide Web. Chuckle at the ineptness of the inexperienced chefs.

Meanwhile, prepare a huge pot of chili. Make a big enough batch to share, because people will fall all over themselves in gratitude for your culinary prowess.

The rest of this process is complicated, so be sure to follow these directions carefully:

Brown a couple pounds of ground beef. Add a few cans of Brooks Hot Chili Beans. Peel and chop a half-dozen tomatoes and dice a couple onions. Pull an assortment of peppers from the freezer: Add a couple bell peppers and a few jalapenos. Remove the seeds from the jalapenos, because not everyone can handle the heat like you can.

Next, ponder the freezer bag of quarter-sized orange peppers which came from an unidentified plant in an assorted nursery pack. Although you never tasted one, they are tiny--and you have a big kettle to fill. Cut up seven or eight and toss them into the pot.

Within a half-hour, you should nearly collapse from the excruciating pain of your burning hands. You will know the pain has fully set when you feel you'd prefer to have a root canal without Novocaine. This signals it is time to Google a cure, as we know is the M.O. of any proper homemaker.

You will find 154,000 hits for "hot peppers burned hands." This will not immediately relieve your physical pain, but it will ease your mental anguish to know that more than a hundred thousand people were as stupid as you.

Be sure to attempt every listed cure: Wash your hands until you are qualified to write a memoir about OCD. Lather them in aloe. Soak them in rubbing alcohol. Pop potentially lethal quantities of Tylenol and antihistamines.

Finally, plunge your hands in bowls of ice water. Be certain to sigh with the ecstasy of immediate relief. Use up every available ice cube in your freezer. Within a few hours, the pain should subside enough for you to face the next step.

Eye your pot of chili. By now it should be bubbling much like a witch's cauldron: one eye of newt, two dragon teeth, and eight devil peppers.

Sample a spoonful. You will immediately forget the pain in your hands--because now your tongue and mouth will be on fire.

Rush back to Dr. Google. Ignore the first noted cure, which is drinking milk. Also disregard Cure #2: sugar water. Proceed promptly to Cure #3: alcohol.

Consume several cold beers.

Next, return to the still brewing pot of Demon Soup. Recall, in your half-plastered stupor, that sugar is supposed to neutralize heat. Pour in a bit of sugar and stir well. Swallow a big spoonful.

Cry, "Holy Mother of God!" Dump in the rest of the bag of sugar. Drink another beer.

The next day, recall that you made soup while you got stewed. Sample your pot of Candied Chili. Cringe. Dump the entire thing in the garbage.

Now, return to your original recipe for a humiliating blog post about your loved ones' pathetic cooking catastrophes.

Toss that too.

Eat crow instead.

Any kitchen disasters you care to share? Has Bad Karma bit you in the ass lately?

It Only Takes a Moment

2011-03-31T20:42:00.000-04:00

The law says we become adults at the age of eighteen. Yet no one turns into a grownup at that particular midnight hour. No magical hour or legally defined day determines when we truly cross over from child to adult.

There are simply a handful of tiny defining moments.

We all experience single instances which cause us to pause and think, Damn. I guess I'm an adult now.

Many of us feel initiated into adulthood the first time we flash a legal driver's license to buy beer. (Years later, when a store clerk glances at our face and doesn't bother asking for an ID, we experience yet another defining moment.)

We know we're adults when we first feel the freedom of making our own decisions and choices: the first time we buy a painting and decide where to hang it, in our very own home. Or bring home a stray animal--without needing anyone's permission to keep it.

The epiphany of adulthood often surfaces when that new-found freedom is accompanied by responsibility: paying our own rent or buying groceries from our own paycheck. Applying for our first credit card, mortgage or life insurance policy. (Only adults even consider the long-term need for life insurance.) Or glancing around our trashed apartment and realizing our mother won't simply get fed up and clean it for us. Yes, we grow up quickly the first time we have to unplug a clogged toilet.

We seem to transform into adults the very moment we first mark the "married" box on a doctor's office form. Many of us experience a similar but more sobering feeling the first time we're forced to check the box "divorced."

And some of us feel we're forced to grow up overnight when one of our parents is suddenly gone forever.

Not all the defining moments of adulthood are easy ones. We know we're adults in the instant we accept that life changes and that the most well-adjusted adults are those who learn they must keep moving on.

Perhaps nothing initiates us more into the world of adulthood than becoming a parent. We realize we've crossed the threshold that very first time we carefully lay our newborn baby in his crib and think, I brought this child into the world, and my life has changed forever because of it. Every tiny step that child takes throughout his own life is another defining moment: his first day of school, first soccer game, first driving lesson.

And when that child begins experiencing his own defining moments? There is no question then. The parent of an adult clearly must be an adult herself.

Strange how we sometimes feel sixteen still in our heart.

But as I knock cautiously at the door of age fifty, I know a lifetime compilation of such moments signals--undeniably--that I am an adult. Each of those moments defined not only what I am but who I've become: a grownup with my own set of strengths and faults, successes and failures, disappointments and dreams.

And I wonder: Does being grown-up mean we've fully finished growing? Or is growing up simply an endless stairway we climb for all of our lives?

Perhaps it's a journey, and not a final destination.

Maybe the defining moments never end.

When did you first feel like an adult? What were your defining moments? How do you still hope to grow?

(And a note to my regular readers: Writers are fickle. I am now blogging on Thursdays. Look for me then--barring, as my bio reads, any emergencies or extreme laziness.)

Pet Peeves: Grading the New Kid in the Class

2011-03-21T00:01:00.002-04:00

FINAL REPORT CARD FOR LENNON 'DEMON KITTEN' STANLEY

Grading Period: What Felt Like Freaking Forever

Geography: B+
Improvement shown. Has finally grasped knowledge that the entire indoor world is not a litter box.

Foreign Language: C-
Able to speak fluent Squeakish but still fails to translate into standard Meowese.

Science: A+
Has mastered the biology and chemistry of hairball production.

English Literature: D
Seems to believe the newspaper is intended solely for chewing into pieces to be spit upon the carpet. Extra credit given since our paper is The Toledo Blade.

Math: F
Has difficulty solving basic story problems such as this: Sherry has three cats. In a moment of weakness, she adopts one more. If "Y" equals the amount of work each original cat required, what is the algebraic equation for her total amount of work adding the new cat? (a) 3Y+1 (b) 3Y+Y (c) Who the hell knows, since Sherry flunked high school algebra (d) an infinite amount of work, multiplied by many sleepless nights (e) both c and d.

Art: A-
Demonstrates creativity with use of materials, particularly shredded rolls of toilet paper.

Home Economics: D
Fails to understand basic meal planning, such as cat chow is provided for cats and dog kibble for dogs.

Health Education: D
Doesn't grasp standard grooming techniques. Efforts at hygienic success are hindered by shedding copious amounts of hair and by delighting in chomping chunks of fur out of others.

Gym: A+
Climbs exceedingly well on counter tops. Excels at the 100-yard dash, especially when chased with a spray bottle.

Final Comments: Doesn't respect personal property or play well with others. Deficiencies are somewhat overcome by ability to appear sweet, through innocent wide eyes. Purrs adorably when treading one's chest at 4 a.m.

Student is graduating against teacher's better judgment.

Your turn to grade Sherry: "B" for Benevolent or for Brainless? Any stories about your own Pets from Hell? Anyone wish to adopt an adorable renegade cat?

Breaking-In Middle Age

2011-03-14T21:28:00.013-04:00

Wild woman that I am, I just returned from my spring vacation to Florida. Not much has changed since my college spring break days. OK, so maybe just a few things:

Packing List
At Age 19: Cute new bikini, short-shorts, sundresses, Tylenol (for possible hangovers), Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil.
At Age 49: Whatever bathing suit appeared least repulsive in the bedroom mirror, capris or shorts that FULLY cover ballooning thighs, sweaters, Aleve (for medley of body aches), 30 SPF sunblock.

Transportation
At 19: Straight 20-hour drive through the night; totally awesome if parents offer their car.
At 49: Direct flight; lovely if credit card points are available.

Accommodations
At 19: Cheap motel room, as close to the Strip as possible. Two to three people squeezed into each bed. (Several more can crash on the floor, if necessary.)
At 49: Quiet, nicely equipped condo. Preferably one bedroom per single person or couple. (Pack snore strips and earplugs, if necessary.)

Beach Day
At 19: Body-surfing, parasailing over the ocean.
At 49: Wading in the water up to the ankles, shrieking at the undertow and the frigidity of the ocean.

Dinner
At 19: Beer or Tequila Sunrises, followed by a few shots.
At 49: Steak or seafood, followed by a few minutes of gazing at the dessert menu, saying, "Oh, I really shouldn't, but..."

Nightly Entertainment
At 19: Drinking games, dancing, passing out in bed at sunrise.
At 49: A game of Yahtzee, watching television, collapsing in bed at 11:30.

Yep, nothing like a spring break at 19 to make you feel like you're truly an adult. And at 49? Well, apparently I'm ready for that AARP card now.

I hear the Cracker Barrel right off the Strip is a pretty crazy place.

How did you spend your spring vacation? Want to 'fess up about your college spring breaks? Or is it getting hard to remember that long ago?

Only a Moment Ago

2011-03-07T00:36:00.004-05:00

We remember the moments in tiny flashes, usually triggered unexpectedly. Pieced together, they take us back to another time: to a world filled with sounds and smells and sights once a taken-for-granted part of our everyday life.

Last week, I returned to the fall of 1970.

I'm getting ready for school. I yank the pink sponge curlers from my hair and brush out the tangled curls. I pull on the brown leather jumper my mother has laid out on my dresser. My stretched-out knee socks fall to my shins, and I secure a rubber band around the top of each, to hold them into place.

Scanning what remains in the Kellogg's Snack Pack in the cupboard, I select a box of Sugar Smacks. I carefully slice it open on the dotted lines. I pour in the milk and eat the cereal straight from the tiny box.

I thumb through the pink Melmac bowl filled with plastic bus tokens, avoiding the toothmark-riddled ones apparently once gnawed by some nasty boy at my school. I grab my metal Monkees lunch box, containing a wax-paper wrapped bologna sandwich, apple and a Snick-Snack bar from my pillowcase of Halloween candy.

It's an okey-doke school day.Yes, we have to suffer through an hour of Mass, but I stay entertained by staring at the older boy I adore from afar who is serving as an Altar Boy. I sigh, watching him lighting the candles, in his black and white robe. Too bad there is no such thing as Altar Girls; I would surely become one.

It's a warm November day, and after school I grab my roller skates. I slide the metal soles across the bottom of my tennis shoes until they fit snugly. I turn the key, locking them into place. My best friend Joyce and I take a break from skating in the street to jump in the pile of newly raked leaves at her curb. Her father shoos us away. He bends down, lighting the pile afire with his metal Zippo lighter. We watch the flames spark and enjoy the smell of burning leaves before our mothers call us in for dinner.

It's Friday night. Dad's bowling tonight and my two older sisters are at sleep-overs, so Mom and I get a treat: TV dinners. I help Mom pull the two metal trays from the oven and we carefully carry them to the living room where we place them each on a folding TV table. I peel away the foil on top, as Mom turns on the television set.

The TV warms up, a tiny ball of light in the center of the screen glowing and then expanding into a full color picture. We just got the new color TV last year, and I'm still excited every time we turn it on.

We have a choice of five stations. I watch the news with mixed interest until my favorite line-up of shows starts at 7:30: The Brady Bunch, Nanny and the Professor, and The Partridge Family.

We take a quick break to make a snack. Mom heats some oil in our biggest iron skillet and pours in a bit of popcorn. I need both hands to shake the covered pan, listening until the kernels stop bursting before emptying the popcorn into a green Tupperware bowl. I grab a large tin can of Hawaiian Punch from the cupboard. I listen to the air hiss out as I punch it open with a can opener. I struggle with the metal ice tray, and Mom takes over. She succeeds in pulling the lever hard enough to loosen the cubes and drops a few in my pink aluminum glass.

Before I head to bed at 9:00, she reminds me to call my grandmother to thank her for my birthday card and the $10 bill slipped inside. I pull the heavy plastic receiver from our phone which hangs on the kitchen wall. The cord is tangled, so I let it dangle for a moment, watching as the receiver twirls from the unraveling cord. My index finger pulls the dial clockwise for each number, and I wait as it slowly ticks backward before I continue dialing.

Grandma is pleased to hear from me. I eagerly tell her everything I bought with the $10 she sent: the Partridge Family record album, a Nancy Drew book, and a Twist N Turn Barbie doll.

Lying in bed, I listen to my new album, singing along from the lyrics on the record sleeve.

I can't imagine a much more perfect day.

I wonder what tomorrow might bring.

What do you remember?

Tale of the Effin-Painful Finger

2011-02-28T17:01:00.002-05:00

It's a gruesome story, not one for the faint of heart. Much like Edgar Allan Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart, I share with you today: The Tale of the Effin-Painful Finger.

The terror begins with a slamming door and a blood-curdling scream. Swearing and shrieking and swearing some more, I stumble to the kitchen. I wrap the finger in ice and huddle in wide-eyed fear, until every cube melts into a faintly pink pool of water. Only then do I peek to assess the damage.

My finger appears roughly the size of a fat Cuban cigar. A purple one. With an ominous black fingernail. If I had a bottle of OPI Black Onyx, I could paint the other nine for a matching Gothic set.

I wiggle the finger and blow out a sigh when nothing appears to be broken. So do I rush to the ER, where I risk a three-hour wait only to be sent home with a bandage and some Neosporin? I do not. I do what any sensible person in the 21st century would do. I Google.

The most common treatment for such an injury appears to be this: the doctor drills a hole through the fingernail.

I fight back the bile building in my throat. I read on. Terrifying, yes, but the blood is consequently released, the pressure relieved, and voila! The demons are defeated, and the horror story has a happy ending!

Sadly, I couldn't operate a Black and Decker tool if I owned one. Yet surely I can improvise. I survey the surgical instruments at hand: a safety pin, a stolen nail from a picture hanging from the wall, or a shish kabob skewer.

I opt for the safety pin. I bite my lip and punch through the fingernail. A few drops of blood ooze out. And then--nothing. I punch again. And again. After ten minutes of self-surgery, I'm left with a blood-tinged Kleenex and a fingernail much resembling a window screen.

I plaster the finger in Neosporin, bandage it and let it incubate for three days.

Despite my adroit medical skills, I wind up at my doctor's office with an infected finger.

The nurse leads me toward the exam room. "Let's just have you step on the scale first."

I freeze and brace myself against the wall. "You're going to weigh me? But I... I'm only here for an infected finger." I thrust my damaged digit in front of her face. I realize, too late, that I have just flipped off the nurse. A justifiable defense, perhaps, for anyone being threatened with a scale.

"But wait," I plead, "I'm wearing my heavy winter boots."

"Yes, I'll be sure to make note of that." I note the wicked glint in her eye.

I collapse on the exam table, and the nurse promptly takes my blood pressure. I frown, confused by the order of events. Surely if physicians' offices tested a patient's blood pressure before making her step on a scale, blood pressure rates across the world would plummet. But clearly, this is part of the evil conspiracy.

The doctor finally enters the room. Fearful she might order me back on the scale, I shout, "I slammed my finger in a door. See?" I am careful to stick out my entire hand, not just my middle finger.

She examines the infected finger, tsk-tsks a bit, and prescribes an antibiotic. She tells me to return in two weeks. "Or," she adds as an afterthought, "we may have you see a plastic surgeon."

I raise my good hand to my face, pondering what, exactly, she thinks needs work.

"A plastic surgeon?"

"The nail bed could be permanently damaged. You may lose the fingernail."

"Oh, that." I nod, smug in my Google-researched medical knowledge. "Yes, I read about that on the internet. Right before I poked all the holes in my fingernail."

"Huh." Oddly, she appears less-than-impressed with my personal doctoring. "So then, you also understand that the nail might die, but not fall completely off on its own?"

I stare at her, still not comprehending.

"And that we may need to pluck out the dead nail?"

This is where the tale gets a bit blurry. It's possible I curl into a ball right here, upon hearing the words "pluck out." (Maybe, amidst their perusal of biology textbooks, medical students should also be required to study a thesaurus for more benign terminology. The words "pluck out," along with the words "I need to probe the wound," once uttered by an ER physician after my Life-Threatening Dishwashing Accident of 1986, are not highly recommended.)

I yank my hand away and cradle it against my chest. "But then, the fingernail will grow back, right?"

The doctor shrugs. "Perhaps. Or you might just be left with scar tissue."

I'm not certain what more pleasant term exists for a finger forever devoid of a nail, but I'm fairly certain I will find a better one than "scar tissue" once I consult my thesaurus.

First, however, I stop at the pharmacy to fill my prescription. While there, I pick up a package of press-on nails. And a strong pair of tweezers.

I figure I can handle any at-home surgery now. After all, I am a Google-certified physician.

But you can bet I won't weigh myself first.

That should eliminate half the pain.

Tell me my fingernail is a survivor. Tell me you Google-treat your own medical issues. Tell me I'm not an idiot. (OK, maybe that's reaching.)

Cross-Country with the Cursed

2011-02-21T00:02:00.006-05:00

Our flight's booked. Our rental car secured. Our pet-sitters lined up. The only item yet remaining before next month's vacation to Florida with my mother is my mental preparation: for Mom's inevitable Vacation Medical Catastrophe.

Glo's general health is not the issue. The woman seldom gets a headache or a cold, and I'd venture to guess she'll someday be the one visiting my sorry ass in the nursing home. She is, as my German maternal grandfather used to say, "Strong like an ox."

Until she decides to fly the friendly skies.

The Gods of Mishaps and Maladies apparently keep close tabs on Glo's travel calendar. Her friends and family have all caught on to this by now. Still, she persists in scheduling vacations and continues to convince some naive sucker among us into tagging along.

First, we witnessed the Grand Canyon Fiasco of 2004. A pleasurable enough summer vacation, what with our visiting one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and all. And Glo was her usual amicable and entertaining self. Except for her nonstop complaints about the oppressive heat and all the walking. And her 15-minute intervals of coughing spasms. And her 15-minute-spaced runs to the ladies room. The Grand Canyon may be beautiful, but I could expound much further about the views from Arizona's restroom lobbies.

No great surprise, Glo's coughing, breathlessness and weakened control of bodily functions, considering her doctor's diagnosis after we returned home. I'd guess any vacation might be marred by a freaking case of pneumonia.

Oh, but that one trip was a fluke, surely, we thought. A minor blip in the whole scheme of Glorious vacation possibilities.

We're a sadistically optimistic bunch.

Flash ahead a couple years. My mom, my two sisters and I planned a long weekend to New York City to celebrate Glo's 70th birthday. We made it as far as the Detroit Metro airport before the trip's little hiccup. Those moving sidewalks in the terminal do indeed hasten your trip to your departure gate. Unless, of course, you're facing backward while riding, engaged in mindless conversation and paying no attention whatsoever to the sidewalk's end.

Glo mastered a perfect back-flip before crashing to the floor.

Daughters (crying in unison): "Mom! Mom! Are you alright?"

Glo: "Uhh."

Daughters: "Oh my God! Help, help!" We waved wildly for medical assistance, an unnecessary gesture since a lawsuit-leery crew was already enroute, their cart's emergency lights flashing and siren blaring.

Glo: "No, no, just let me lie here." (You've heard those Jewish mother jokes, concluding with "No, I'll just lie here, alone, in the dark." Yeah. Glo would be the German-Catholic version.) She finally agreed to wheelchair transportation to our gate, just minutes before the plane took off.

Once we were in NYC, Glo hobbled and held her hip as we attempted to walk through Central Park and Times Square. In between heavy sighs and eye-rolls, we three daughters did entertain a worry or two. We agreed to take taxis whenever possible, even if it required us to take out second-mortgages on our houses. A week after we returned home, Glo finally visited the Urgent Care Center. An X-ray revealed she fractured her femur bone.

Yes. Of course she did.

This was followed, a year later, by her misstep at a party in Florida. (She insists that I note here that she was totally sober at the time. OK then. I have thus so noted.) The very same night at the VERY same party, her best friend also took a fall. (Her friend's sobriety is still unconfirmed.) The two of them enjoyed a tag-team visit to the ER. Glo was treated for a cracked rib, while her friend received numerous stitches in her forehead.

And so now, the vacation calamities appear to be contagious. Seriously. Why would anyone venture to take another trip with this woman?

Glo didn't manage to even make it to the airport for her most recent scheduled vacation, this past fall. As they neared Detroit, she began hemorrhaging uncontrollably from her nose. With blood spurting all over the car, they pulled into a gas station restroom. She depleted the entire supply of paper towels and a bag of ice while attempting to stop the bleeding, to no avail, before they headed back to a hospital in Toledo. She lost a lot of blood but somehow managed to keep her humor: She said Detroit police are probably still busy searching for a butchered body.

Vacation curses and all, she's a trooper, that mother of mine. She's managed tours of the Grand Canyon and walks through Central Park amidst circumstances which would leave most people bedridden.

Still, I'm not placing any bets on this upcoming trip. I'm paying for travel insurance. I'm tucking a first-aid kit in my luggage. I'm carrying my own medical insurance card.

And I'm packing a big bottle of vodka.

If my mother's managed all these horrors while sober, I think she at least deserves to endure one while half-drunk.

And no one should have to self-medicate alone.

Any travel horror stories to share? Suggestions of survival tactics? Extra vodka?

What I Never Dreamed to Find in My Kitchen Cupboards

2011-02-14T20:35:00.004-05:00

I created a new game show today that I'm just itching to pitch to the Television Powers-That-Be. It combines all the giddy purse-searching excitement of "Let's Make a Deal" with the lip-curled disgust of "Hoarders." Until I come up with a better title, I'm calling it, "Holy Shit--What I Never Dreamed to Find in My Kitchen Cupboards."

The basic premise is this: Homeowners receive big bucks for novelties, as well as obscene quantities of ordinary items, stashed away in their kitchen drawers and cabinets. The pilot episode took place this weekend, as I attempted to organize my very own kitchen. Sadly, Bob Barker (yes, I know the original Let's Make a Deal host was Monty Hall but Bob's my man, damn it) was away for yet another eye-lift. Therefore, I was forced to play the roles of both contestant and host.

It went something like this:

Bob (played by me): "So, Sherry, let's play today's first round, shall we? I'll give you $100 right now for every outdated medicine bottle you can find in your kitchen cabinets."

Sherry (scrounging through kitchen cupboards): "Well, Bob, I happen to have seven of those, including a bottle of vitamins expiring in 2001 and a half-finished vial of antibiotics from 2003! No wonder I still have that nagging sinus infection eight years later."

Bob: "Huh. OK then, here's $700 and an extra $100 to help treat that mutant drug-resistant bacteria festering in your body. Let's move on to the next item. Every kitchen drawer contains a spatula or two. I'll give you $50 for each spatula you own. Should make you an easy hundred dollars with that."

Sherry (rummaging for spatulas through three different drawers): "Oh, lookie here! Wonder of all wonders, Bob! It appears I own twelve of them!"

Bob: "Twelve spatulas? Twelve? Um, OK, here's $600 in reward for your apparent obsession with the perfect burger-flipper. Maybe that can help pay for a couple OCD therapy sessions. Let's raise the stakes with this next one; it's a toughie. I'm betting a cool $500 that you don't have a Mexican coin in your silverware drawer."

Sherry: "Oh, you'd lose that bet, Bob. Because right here it is! Funny, considering I've never once used Mexican currency while cooking and I've never even been to Mexico."

Bob: "Hmm. Quite the well-equipped kitchen you have here. So, think you can root around in that silverware drawer of yours and happen upon a child's plastic toy?" (Bob winks confidentially at audience.) "Let's say, a Playskool Weeble?"

Sherry: "Yes, indeedy! Here's one rocking little fireman Weeble, Bob, mixed in with all my mismatched forks and spoons. Still standing upright after all these years, too, even though both my children are grown and gone. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down, you know. Haha."

Bob: "Fascinating. And you did say both your children are grown? And no grandchildren yet? Then surely you have no need for a sippy cup in your house. So, I'm going to offer you $500 if you can manage to produce a sippy cup right here today." (Bob folds his arms smugly.)

Sherry (frowning while tossing dozens of Cleveland Indians and Toledo Mud Hens plastic souvenir cups from shelves): "Oh. I don't think... hmm... could it be, here at the back... Yes! Not only one but two sippy cups! Plus, here's a Sesame Street thermos, minus the top, and oh my gosh, a baby bottle! A baby bottle, Bob, even though my youngest child is a nineteen-year-old college student. Do I get extra prize money for that?"

Bob: "No. You get paid only for the damn sippy cups. Here's your friggin' $1,000. And that, thankfully, concludes today's show."

Sherry: "That's it? But my cupboards are still half-full. I have lots of stuff in here. Lots!" (Sherry peers into cabinets.) "How about beer koozies? Ask me about those, Bob!"

Bob: "No, beer koozies are not on the list."

Sherry (counting while piling beer koozies onto kitchen countertop): "Four, five, six... Maybe just $25 each? Twelve... thirteen... fourteen..."

Even as I knew the game was over, I turned to the counter and studied my pile.

Twenty-three beer koozies.

Hot damn! I totally mastered my own game. My personal hoarding finally paid off. At least in my television dreams.

So, I'm planning a huge celebration party when my game show gets picked up by one of the major TV networks. I'll splurge on lobster and filet mignon and, of course, an open bar. You're all invited.

I do hope plenty of you are beer drinkers. It seems I have a few beer koozies to put to good use.

And I've got you covered if you're a sloppy drunk. You're getting a sippy cup.

I did indeed find all of this in my kitchen cupboards. It's seriously time to clean out the crap in my house. Any hidden treasures you care to share?

Be a Man, Reprise

2011-02-07T20:59:00.004-05:00

If I could teach a boy to be a man, I'd tell him to play football. Or take up theater. I hope he'd learn that neither measures the man.

I'd tell him his mother may have read his mind when he was eight, but it was an easy guess that he felt sad after losing his soccer game. Mature men must communicate their feelings and needs--with mature words.

I'd advise him that sending flowers is always, always good. Sending them for no reason at all? Even better. And when he calls the florist, he should be sure to remember his mom.

I'd explain that being a father requires that he discipline. And also that he hug. Real men know the appropriate time for each and that the two actions are not mutually exclusive.

I would tell him to compromise when he should and apologize when he's wrong. Being a man does not mean command and control. Nor does it mean blind surrender.

I'd suggest that it's all hunky-dory if she cooks and he mows the lawn, but that defined roles only work if both partners embrace them. I'd add that raising children is a tag-team sport, even if she happens to be a stay-at-home mom. I'd remind him, softly, that his six-year-old son won't be there for bedtime stories forever.

I'd warn him that being a hard worker is an asset, but caring about nothing but his career will just make him an ass.

I would ask him to call his mother--and his father--more often. Mothers may be more vocal about it, but fathers miss their grown children too.

I'd let him know that it's OK to cry if his favorite pet dies. Tears won't make him less manly, only more human.

I would tell him he's free to ignore anyone's advice or opinion. But a real man takes the time to listen before he disagrees.

And if he disagrees with me, I hope I'm woman enough to admit if I am wrong.

If you could teach a boy to be a man, what would you tell him?

Rhoda Morgenstern and Me

2011-01-31T15:30:00.001-05:00

I know every word to the song American Pie and can name all the kids in my third-grade class. Yet in terms of learning from my mistakes, I possess the memory of a goldfish.

Just a month ago, I swore off sports and exercise--in any form--for life. Not because I'm lazy, mind you, but because I came to realize that the Twin Gods of Physical Harm and Humiliation had chosen me as their personal pet project.

Soon, however, my scale began whimpering as I approached. Even as I recalled my Vow of Slothfulness, I sighed and dusted off the treadmill. Walking in place: how dangerous could it be?

If I were to endure this for thirty minutes every day though, I'd surely need to be entertained. No TV set in the room, and reading was out of the question. (One hand off the rail for a flip of the page and I'd find myself doing a full body flip.) But with my laptop, Hulu.com and an endless stream of sixties and seventies TV? I'd have so damn much fun exercising, I might stay on the thing all night! I studied the drink holder. With a tall glass and a long straw, a margarita might raise the entertainment level a notch.

Alas, even with the audio fully cranked, I couldn't hear the Mary Tyler Moore Show from the laptop's position across the room. So I got to pondering my predicament, conjuring up all the engineering skills that made me such a quality D+ student in high school science and math.

Fifteen minutes later, I had rigged a laptop treadmill shelf, and the computer hummed brightly, just inches from my face.

The treadmill did not hum happily along. It whined and wheezed and roared. It seems treadmills object to years of neglect and all that rust and dust accumulating in their gears. I hovered closer to the laptop, straining to hear the audio through the treadmill's roar. Instead, I detected a secondary rumbling noise.

But this newest sound was not coming from the treadmill at all. My comprehension of the situation--that my makeshift stand had a slight design flaw and that the laptop was vibrating its way off the shelf-- arrived a moment too late. The computer rocked a couple times more, and then it took a nose-dive toward me.

At that very moment, the hand-eye coordination which eluded me all my life decided to make amends. As I fought to keep my brisk walking pace, I happened to catch the laptop with my left arm, between my wrist and my elbow. Normally, I'd take a moment to gloat over such a success. But my dilemma had only begun. As the laptop slipped off its rudimentary shelf, landing fortuitously upon my arm, it first managed to hit the treadmill speed control.

The belt surged at Olympic-speed rates.

My eyes bulged and my feet raced. The laptop jiggled, perched precariously along my forearm.

With a flash, I recalled the treadmill's emergency pull-string. But it lay just out of reach of my right hand. The only way to pull this emergency chute would be to remove the one fist which remained gripped around a handrail. The God of Physical Harm chuckled.

Somehow, I managed to twist the laptop off my arm, maneuver it sideways and wedge the keyboard between my left elbow and my waist. I hugged it to my side and then grasped my left hand around the rail.

By now, I was bent forward at an 180-degree angle, with my feet flying underneath me. "Red-rum, red-rum, red-rum," the machine roared.

I would not be defeated. Not this time. Even as my feet began to slip on the track, I clenched the laptop under my left arm. I lifted my right hand off the rail and stretched. My fingertips brushed the emergency chute. I tugged.

The treadmill halted. The gears fell silent. The only sound, from the now clearly audible video, was Mary's voice.

"Oh, Rhoda," she said.

And as my knees buckled beneath me and the laptop crashed to the floor, Rhoda found nothing to say in her defense.

Care to share your week's personal failures? If not, at least laugh with me.

Brotherly Love

2011-01-24T00:00:00.010-05:00

When I was pregnant (many stretchmarks ago), my vision of motherhood was that of my happy little brood sitting around the kitchen table playing board games. Afterward, we’d cuddle together reading bedtime stories, before my darlings would drop off into a peaceful slumber, their tiny hands grasping mine. I’d adore my perfect children, they’d adore me and of course, they would adore each other.

To further ensure that our children became Best Friends Forever, their father and I elected to space them closely together. Surely two close-in-age siblings would share interests and friends, daily traumas and triumphs, and unfaltering love forever.

As planned, my two sons were born exactly two years apart.

As far as my other envisioned plans for our happy little family? Well, if you ever want to make God laugh, just tell Him you have a plan.

My dreams of evenings playing Battleship and reading “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” soon made way for nights of drawing battle lines and screaming, “If you gave your brother a concussion…!”

By the time they were two and four, it was clear my dreams were just delusions. The only things my two boys shared were a gene pool and a desire to irritate each other. Different interests, different personalities, different world views altogether. Blood may be thicker than water, but it doesn’t dictate that two siblings must like each other. Blood, in our house, only made the carpet impossible to clean.

My dreams became nightmares, especially as the two boys grew into teenagers. As much as I dreaded the daily antagonizing and bickering, the physical fights rendered me most hapless. As the youngest of three girls, I had little experience with testosterone-fueled brawls, except for all those boys fighting over me in junior high. (Oh, wait, that was just another unfulfilled fantasy of mine.)

Extended family dinners were particularly horrific. Sure, when my mother and sisters began heading to Florida for Easter, they said they needed a break from Ohio’s slow-to-vanish winter. I knew what they truly hoped to escape.

I can't pinpoint exactly when my sons finally called a truce. The transition was imperceptible, and the signs were bewildering. Somewhere around the time my oldest graduated from high school and the youngest turned sixteen, they began talking casually about sports and music. They started exchanging political views (similar ones, and my own, thank God). They began asking each other, “How’s school going?”

They started shaking hands instead of making fists.

Now, at nineteen and twenty-one, they suddenly and incomprehensibly are friends.

As their mother, I've been warmed and heartened by this unexpected turn of events. My God, the days when they hated and fought and hated some more seemed to never, ever end. But the years? The years rushed by so quickly.

I only wish they were both here tonight, for the three of us to cuddle together. I’d squeeze their hands and I’d read them “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”

That one always made us smile.

And I’m such a sucker for a happy ending.

Is your place a peaceful bunkhouse or a battlezone? Did you terrorize your younger sister? Battleship, Scrabble or the Game of Life?

Just Running to the Store

2011-01-17T13:30:00.003-05:00

I spent an hour that morning making fresh salsa for a fabulous fish taco dinner. All that stood between me and an Iron Chef award was cheddar cheese and an avocado.

Apparently, I would have to run to the store. (Cue heart-heavy sigh.)

In the three months since our town's ginormous new Kroger opened, I patronized it once: to procure a bottle of vodka. I'd been frequenting a small locally owned market instead, a place I could get in and out of in half the time.

Alas, the small market, which didn't carry vodka, wasn't likely to carry avocados either. I resigned myself to going Krogering.

I climbed in the car and adjusted my rearview mirror. Holy Mother of God! What Stephen King monster had slithered its way into my minivan? With a second trembling glance, I discerned it was the reflection of my own face, sans makeup. Beauty would be too steep a price to pay though, considering it meant going all the way back into the house. I grabbed my son's baseball cap from the van floor and slipped on my sunglasses. That seems to work well for Lindsay Lohan.

Besides, it was 10 a.m. on a Sunday. Certainly everyone in this small town but me was at church.

Everyone, it appeared, but my perfect neighbor: the one who ran a scrap-booking business from her home, juggled a handful of volunteer positions in the community and homeschooled her six children. Her perfect life left me dazed, when it didn't make me want to puke.

Spying her coming, I bolted toward the next aisle. Then I wandered down the next two. A full three aisles of organic foods in this store. Seriously? At this rate, future generations would never know the pure ambrosia that is a can of beans and wienies.

Figuring I lost Perfect Neighbor, I wheeled down the canned goods aisle. Hmm. Beans and wienies could be the perfect lunch. (Before my healthy dinner of grilled fish tacos. I am all about balance.) I reached, on my tippy-toes, for the top shelf and grabbed two cans. In the process--surely due to clumsy stacking by a stocker--I knocked another can off the shelf. It fell with a thud and exploded. Tomato sauce, speckled with beans and a few wienie bits, oozed onto the floor.

My eyes darted up and down the aisle. No other shoppers in sight. But before I could make a quick escape, a store clerk, maneuvering a hand truck, suddenly appeared. He frowned down at the can and the sauce pooling near my feet.

"Yes, I was just going to report that. Can you believe someone dropped it and just left it there?" I tsk-tsked and steered my cart toward the dairy section.

On my way to the cheese, I pondered my morning. So far, I failed to remember the Sabbath, bore false witness and possibly coveted my neighbor's life. I guessed it might not bode well for my intake interview with St. Peter.

My spirit quickly brightened though, as I passed a display of gelatin and pudding cups. Oh my! Pudding cups! Ten packages for ten dollars! Who could resist such a steal? I filled my cart.

Studying the cheese selections, I attempted a cost-comparison. But one item was broken down by price per pound, while the other brand was labeled with price per ounce. So. God had chosen to chastise me for my morning sins through the most painful of all penances: math.

As I stood there, attempting to divide and multiply and recall any element of fourth-grade arithmetic, I heard someone call my name.

"Sherry!"

I turned to see Perfect Neighbor, with three of her six Perfect Children in tow.

"Oh. Hey. Hi." I glanced at the group, mother and daughters resplendent in dresses and heels, their hair impeccably coiffed. I tugged at the bill of my baseball cap.

"We're just coming from Mass. Dan and the boys drove separately because they're stopping at the lumber store. Dan's building an addition on our summer home on Lake Michigan. Gosh, isn't this new store wonderful?"

"Yeah. Wonderful. I just ran in for a couple things for tonight's dinner."

I followed her glance to my shopping cart, noting its sole contents: two cans of beans and wienies, and forty pudding cups. Her eyebrows lifted, and then her eyes traveled from my scuffed tennis shoes up to my sweatpants, finally landing on my chest. I glanced down and spotted tomato juice stains sprayed across my sweatshirt.

"Uh-huh," she said. She smiled brightly. "Well, so good to see you."

"You too. Gotta go," I said, whisking my cart away. "Need to make it to 11:00 Mass."

I checked out and quickly retreated to the parking lot. I glanced at my dashboard clock. Running to the store had taken precisely thirty-eight minutes.

The trip cost me $15.78. As well as a complete loss of my pride.

And in the midst of all the fun, I forgot the friggin' avocado.

I ate pudding cups for dinner.

Your Turn: Any shopping horror stories you care to share? How many sins have you committed today? Want to come over for fish tacos?

Top Ten Reasons It's OK to Give Up Those New Year's Resolutions

2011-01-10T18:40:00.008-05:00

10) That Little Debbie Nutty Bar provides a gram of fiber and five grams of protein.

9) The world ends in 2012, so hike up those credit cards, baby!

8) The chance of sudden death during exercise is one in 15,000. You could be that one.

7) Giving up goals in January saves you eleven months of unhealthy stress.

6) Getting organized is fine--for the obsessive-compulsive.

5) Smoke three packs a day and never worry about saving for retirement.

4) Chubby people have less wrinkles.

3) Why look for a new job you'll soon hate when you can complain about the one you already have?

2) Hitler prided himself on self-discipline.

1) If Jesus wanted us to drink less alcohol, he wouldn't have turned water into wine.

Looking Past the Obvious

2011-01-04T21:15:00.011-05:00

I wasn't the worst behaved child in Mrs. Kasper's sixth grade class. I don't doubt that at least one has a nice mugshot plastered on a post office wall somewhere. But if she ranked the students who made her head--and her ears--hurt most at the end of the day, I'm sure I'd rate right there at the top.

At age eleven, I'd finally managed to step out from the shadow of my two, more outgoing older sisters. I'd acquired my first boyfriend and experienced my first kiss (a closed-mouth, snot-smeared meeting of shivering faces on a sledding hill). And I was just popular enough to enjoy a bit of attention through my adolescent wisecracks and ill-advised antics.

Looking back, I realize I was exactly the kind of preteen girl whose screeching dialogue and megawatt giggling at the movie theater now makes me want to bury my head in my bucket of popcorn.

When you're in the sixth grade, however, you embrace whatever notoriety you can get.

Mrs. Kasper was no newbie to irreverent young girls though. I spent more than my share of time banished to the hallway or repenting my classroom sins in the office of our Catholic school principal, Sister Mary Sadistic.

Yet strangely, even as I knew Mrs. Kasper frowned on my endless chatter and bad behavior, she never once showed signs that she disliked me as a person. God knows a few other teachers throughout my academic career weren't so thoughtful. Such as the one the very next year who glared at me and announced in front of the entire class: "Miss Stanfa, for such a little girl, you have the biggest mouth I've ever heard." (Granted, the embarrassment shut me up for the rest of the day.)

Mrs. Kasper saw every one of the faults and failings I displayed as an annoying and immature adolescent. Yet she also managed to look past the obvious. She sought the diamond in the rough.

By sixth grade, I'd already taken an interest in writing. Our English class assignments encompassed a number of creative writing projects. Throughout the school year--even as she punished and pleaded with me to change my wayward behavior--Mrs. Kasper encouraged my writing ability. An occasional compliment in front of the class, a few nice words when we talked one-on-one and a host of supportive comments noted on my papers.

The last note she wrote, in her impeccable cursive script, read: "You better do something with all your talent, or I will come back to haunt you."

Given what I'd dealt her all year, she easily could have written instead: "Your smartass remarks and incessant chatter will come back to haunt me." But she didn't. She pushed aside the obvious negatives and focused on the single, most positive attribute she could find.

That sixth-grade short story, with her last comment, is stored away in a box of school mementos. Her encouraging words have lodged themselves in my memory for nearly forty years. They still bring me confidence in moments of self-doubt. Because, all else aside, someone believed in me.

I'm sure Mrs. Kasper has nearly forgotten me, yet I will never forget her.

We may never know the impact our words have upon those we meet, however brief our relationship. Most times, we never even consider it.

But maybe, if we choose to look past the obvious in people, we can give them just what they need to search for their own diamond in the rough.

Falling from Leaps of Faith

2010-12-28T21:45:00.004-05:00

I've lived my life by a simple motto: "Try everything once. If you enjoy it, don't stop." This adage served me well when I wrote my first story; not so much the night I tried my first rum and Coke.

My adventurous spirit took me to many highs and lows in my life. Yet none were as demeaning, demoralizing or dangerous as my athletic pursuits.

I attempted a wide range of physical activities throughout my youth. The most benign, like my second-grade ballet class, only resulted in public humiliation. The worst, such as horseback riding, ended with a trampled ribcage.

Some people are born athletes. Others can't manage the mere ability to clap in sync with the cheerleaders at a football game. I would be the latter.

Still, I continued to run (only figuratively--man did I suck at track) through the gamut of athletic endeavors. Once I realized I failed at every traditional activity, I attempted to diversify.

When snow skiing became the hot new trend in high school, I joined the ski team. My first trip ended, surprisingly, with both my body and my pride intact. So I signed on for a second trip, just confident enough to venture beyond the tow ropes and bunny hills to the chairlifts and "intermediate" hills.

My eyes traced the height of the hill, with some trepidation, as the chairlift approached. But as I ascended several feet upward, I quickly learned that my fear of losing control on the hill and crashing into a tree was fully unwarranted.

Because I fell off the chairlift.

(Note: I wrote this post last night, before I read today about a chairlift accident in Maine. Unlike that catastrophe, my fall cannot be blamed on any mechanical failure.)

The lift was stopped for several minutes while the ski patrol tended to me. And while the entire crowd watched.

Fortunately, nothing was broken. Nothing except my spirit. I spent the rest of the day in the lodge, sneaking contraband beverages.

My skiing career ending prematurely, I traded in the snowy hills of Michigan for the green hills of southern Ohio. I tagged along with a youth group to Hocking Hills State Park, where we planned to repel down a cliff. The good news was that we were already on top of the mountain--no chairlifts could turn traitor on me.

With my first leap off the cliff, I took my usual leap of faith, too. With each step down the rope, my feet landed safely against the mountain. My heart soared. Repelling down mountains--who could have guessed this might be my athletic calling?!?

And then, halfway through my descent, I happened to look down. The harness was caught in my shirt. Every step I took yanked my shirt higher. It was already hiked well above my belly button. I struggled to pull my top out of the harness, to no avail. My choices were either to slip out of the harness and fall to my death, or keep descending and provide the crowd below with a full view of my lace-trimmed bra. Wait. Was I wearing a bra?

Eventually, the crowd got its peep show, I plopped safely onto the ground, and I gave up that repelling shit for good.

I should have, right then, forsaken every physical endeavor forever. But through my typical marred judgment, I continued to seek my athletic fortune. Not one ended well. The workplace softball league in 1982 resulted in a line drive to my face, and the rollerblading incident of 1999 ended with a CT scan in the ER. (Some people still maintain the hospital missed my residual brain damage.)

So now, I will finally proclaim: I am done with them all. Through with dancing, horseback riding, skiing, repelling, softball, rollerblading and with any activities that even peripherally involve animals, mountains, balls, or anything clamped onto my feet. For my New Year's resolution, I vow to never again attempt such trickery.

I shall live the rest of my life purely as a sports spectator, even if I do clap to the beat of a different drummer.

The sad reality is, the Olympics wouldn't award me even a cheap plastic medal. And Bristol Palin dances far better than I could ever hope to.

Talk about the agony of defeat.

Ho Ho Ho to All!

2010-12-23T13:17:00.005-05:00

Ho Ho Ho! Happy Holidays to everyone in all my networks! (Click on the image below to see.)

Letter to Santa, Reprise

2010-12-17T13:45:00.001-05:00

OK, this one really, is a final blast from the past. Santa's elves promise you a new blog post for Christmas...

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I know it's been a few years since I've written. Thankfully, you haven't forgotten me. The vacuum sweeper you brought in 1986 was truly splendid, as were the ones you brought in 1993, 1998 and 2004.

I'm not writing to complain (I've already written to Hoover twice). I do appreciate your continued generosity and thoughtfulness. Household appliances don't come cheap, I know, and besides--any guy who's willing to clean up after eight reindeer who've consumed 1,000 tons of carrots in a single evening is OK by me!

Anyway, thought I'd get a jump on all those greedy children. Although I must pass on the Twilight action figures this year, I've been thinking a few toys might be nice after all this time. Sadly, my mother sold off many of my favorites at garage sales ($2.50 for a prime condition Easy Bake Oven? I still haven't forgiven her). And my sister DC confiscated all my Barbies to use as voodoo dolls (I was too terrified of her to complain).

So, here is a list of my favorite toys from my childhood, which I've concluded would have new purpose and merit for a middle-aged woman. If the elves can't make these, Wal-Mart probably sells them cheap, and I promise not to tell the unions where you got them:

1) Sting-Ray Bike with Banana Seat: Because why is it that, as our butts grew bigger, the bike seats grew smaller?
2) Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots: After forty-five minutes of listening to a client's rants, even a pacifist wants to knock someone's block off.
3) Mystery Date Game: But don't bother including the "Dreamboat" in the white tux. What a goober. Give me the scruffy-looking "Dud" date. Yes, by my age I should have learned my lesson, but there’s still something about those Bad Boys…
4) Easy Bake Oven: Cooking's never been as much fun since; the calories in bite-sized cakes are surely too paltry to matter, and I need to make peace with my mother.
5) Creepy Crawler Oven: Can you make the goop liver-flavored? Because goopy edible creatures probably don't have the same horrific crunch as the live moths and spiders my cats now enjoy eating.
6) Magic 8 Ball: I'm way tired of making important decisions. I'd rather leave it up to the wisdom of a toy plastic ball. Sherry: "Shall I get that colonoscopy?" Magic 8 Ball: "My sources say no." Well, OK then!

If you can't bring all of these, a gift card would be fine. But no gift substitutes please. My vacuum sweeper, when I last used it a month ago, appeared to be working fine.

Love,
Sherry

Reflections on a Reunion, Reprise

2010-12-02T19:57:00.002-05:00

One last look back on the past year:

Reflections on a Reunion

A few remembered everyone. Everyone remembered at least a few. We insisted a couple guests never even attended our school, clearly there just to crash a good party.

Some couldn’t be identified without our scrutiny of a nametag. Several retained a hint of their former selves. A few looked inconceivably young or simply damn good. We empathized and sympathized with the heavier, the grayer, the balding, because that comprised nearly all of us. We tried not to begrudge those who looked far better than we did.

Most appeared to have gotten through life with a few hiccups. Some flourished in lucrative careers or long, secure marriages. A handful hadn't fared so well. We made small talk with them before edging away, uncertain how to respond to their stories of misery and grief.

Several still live within blocks of our old school. Many converged upon the nearby suburbs. Others scattered to the coasts or to far-off homes in Germany or Australia. Those who remained midwesterners felt thankful to have family and old friends nearby, yet envied the more adventurous.

We made each other smile with high school tales of classroom pranks, football wins and unsanctioned parties. Some hungered to return to those days. Others were grateful to move on.

Eleven among us have died. Few remaining were spared the loss of a close classmate. Nearly everyone has also lost a mother, a father or even both. A number have parents who are ailing or impaired. All of us wished we’d appreciated them more.

Some are still raising young children. Several are grandparents. The majority of our children are grown, or nearly grown. We who are empty-nesters nodded in recognition at each others' contradictory sentiments of both weepiness and relief.

Most who were remembered as reckless or wild teenagers somehow morphed into respectable or more conservative adults. Others never made that transition. Nearly all of us still feel sixteen in our hearts.

Very few left early. Many stuck around until we were forced to leave. A good number continued the conversation and camaraderie at a nearby bar, staying late. As the bartender announced last-call, we disregarded the toll it would take the next day on our not-so-sixteen-year-old bodies.

And as we wandered across the parking lot, returning to our cars and to our middle-aged lives, two things remained clear.

We all changed. And we all remained the same.

I'll Get Right on That, Reprise

2010-11-28T19:13:00.003-05:00

Another blast from the past. But this year, I swear, I will surely be on top of things:

I'll Get Right on That, Reprise

It all started, I believe, with my intention of paying a late bill.

I remember logging onto the computer, figuring I'd best ensure my checking account wasn't once again in the red. Lo and behold, I spied an email from Ticketmaster, announcing an absolutely MUST-SEE concert which, deficit funds be damned, I could conveniently put on my credit card.

So I hurried to the kitchen to check my desk calendar, which was buried beneath a week's pile of unread newspapers. As I scooped them up, I caught an interesting headline. Whoa, what's up with this global warming shit; well, aren't those polar bears screwed?

Halfway through reading the article, I remembered tomorrow was recycling and trash day. I tossed the entire heap of papers in the garage (figuring an ignorance of current events never hurt many elected officials), and decided I should take a moment to clean out the molding leftovers from the refrigerator too.

I threw some days-old chicken bits to the cats and lobbed four indistinguishable food items, plastic containers and all, into the garbage. Before I closed the fridge, my eyes lit at the sight of a hardly-touched bottle of Bloody Mary mix in the back. Might as well finish that up before it went bad, so I could recycle it, too. Plus that soon-to-be emptied vodka bottle. First, however, I should clean up that steaming pile of cat-puked chicken bits from the carpet.

But cat puke on carpet is best left to harden, I deduced, so it can simply be peeled off the next day. (I'm all about time management.) Which led me to recall that I hadn't yet checked with the pet-sitter about the date of my impending vacation. So I rummaged through my purse for my cell phone, and broke a friggin' fingernail.

The second broken nail in two days, which TOTALLY pissed me off, because it undermined the aesthetics of an otherwise unflawed, candy apple set of eight. The others, sadly, would have to be filed down to a more uniform length. I headed down the hall to the bathroom for the nail polish remover which, I astutely reasoned, should be my next step.

Holy Mother of God, do I live in the desert or what? What's with these giant, threatening tumbleweeds in the hallway?!? Clearly I needed to brush the dog more often. Which I decided I must do, immediately. But as I reached for the brush, I chuckled. Tumbleweeds of dog hair? Haha! Terrific concept for a blog post in that.

So I sat down at my computer. With broken fingernails, an insanely potent Bloody Mary, and a nearby pile of drying cat vomit.

Oh! But look who's on Facebook now!

Call me ADD or diagnose me with early senility, if you'd like. I choose to label myself a busy overachiever.

Yet it's a good guess I'll find myself too damn preoccupied tomorrow to talk on the phone, when the collection agency calls.

The Moan in the Mirror, Reprise

2010-11-23T21:35:00.002-05:00

One of my early posts. And sadly, I haven't gotten any younger...

The Moan in the Mirror

Mirror, mirror, on the wall: Who’s the fairest of them all?

Not you, oh Demon Glass of Gloom. No, you aren’t playing fair at all these days. In fact, you have some ‘splaining to do.

First off, what’s with the chins? Didn’t I used to have only one?

Though I’m lucky I can see the chins at all, what with this big honking nose in the way. Perhaps you thought I couldn’t smell adequately with the old one? Yes, a funny joke indeed, your lopping an inch or two off my already inadequate stature. But must you shift every lost inch to my nose?

The mushrooming nose might be tolerable if it weren’t for that bump on the end of it. And the bump on my chin. And the one on my other chin. Apparently, you’ve adopted a catchy new advertising slogan: “Big Zits: Not just for teenagers anymore.”

And speaking of my teen years, remember when I used to stand before you and actually PLUCK my eyebrows? Oh great mirror, where did my eyebrows go? As you’ve been busy focusing on amplifying my pores, you seem to have misplaced my eyebrows altogether.

Ah, but fortunately, my tweezers have not been rendered useless by the mere disappearance of my eyebrows. Not with this stray hair you show sprouting from one of my chins. Thank you for that.

Not to despair. I am not saddened by the state of my eyebrows, my chins or my nose. No, I welcome this metamorphosis with much joy and mirth, if the crow’s feet and laugh lines you’re presenting are any indication.

So, should I wear these fabulous new additions to my face like a badge of honor? Yes, I will do so. And when these odd gray hairs, which are now promptly yanked from my head, start to multiply like fish and loaves? I will wear them proudly, too. Or perhaps I will consequently go bald.

But don’t expect to see me smiling about it. An unlikely scenario, now that you’ve decided to do away with my lips.

Final Goodbyes, Reprise

2010-11-18T00:27:00.003-05:00

Continuing with blasts from the past. Here's a favorite, though bittersweet, post from last fall.

Final Goodbyes

It wasn't the kind of goodbye I envisioned.

I knew saying goodbye was inevitable, once the plastic tubs crammed with clothes and electronic equipment and a thoughtfully packed first-aid kit were unloaded from the van, once the futon and lofts were assembled and arranged, and once $400 worth of textbooks were procured (and most thankfully, paid by a blank check from his father). We'd enjoy one last supper together, not really tasting the bites of sandwiches consumed amidst our animated discussion about the campus and classes and crew practice.

And then, before I left for the long drive home, we'd have our goodbye scene. I'd offer a farewell speech, peppered with insightful parental advice, and we'd have lengthy mutual proclamations of love. It would end with a final hug on the sidewalk in front of his dorm.

But dinner ran late, and he had just minutes to make it to a mandatory student orientation meeting. I pulled up in front of the classroom building. He eyed the clock in the car--two minutes to get inside and find the room. He opened the car door and quickly slammed it shut.

No opportunity for any of the elements of the scene I'd already drafted in my mind.

"Good luck, honey," I told him. How did I condense a ten-minute speech into thirty seconds? "I'll miss you."

"I know." He offered a sympathetic smile. "I'll miss you too."

"So, see you in six weeks."

"Yep." He glanced toward the building and gave me a quick wave before backing away. "Love you," he yelled.

"Love you too," I called after him. But he was already several feet away, his back turned to me.

I inched forward before the line of cars behind me honked and I was forced to hit the accelerator. My last glimpse of him was a fleeting image, through the open car window, as he raced toward the building.

"Just as well," my sister told me the next day. "Short and sweet is better than a long painful goodbye."

Perhaps she's right, I thought. Although even short goodbyes can still be painful, at least they preclude massive emissions of tears. And I'd promised myself on the drive to Milwaukee that I couldn't cry.

For several weeks leading up to this, I prepared myself for a tear-filled farewell. It was, after all, the Ritual of the Strings-Cutting Parent. Particularly in the case of a youngest child, it was normal. It was justified.

But nothing makes you reassess your own life more than someone else's death.

Three days before our departure, a boy down the street was killed in a car accident.

He, too, had just graduated from high school and was preparing to head off to college. He, too, was the youngest of two children. While his parents had been helping him plan and pack for the start of his new life, on a campus three hours away, I'm sure they were filled with excitement, trepidation and grief at the idea of him leaving for school.

But in the instant it takes for an out-of-control car to strike a tree, their grief was the only emotion that remained.

Jake would be starting college next week. The event is probably still scribbled on a family calendar. No doubt it is etched upon his parents' minds.

I'm certain they would welcome, so very gladly, the opportunity now to see him off to college. To hear him say, "I love you," before they drove away, perhaps teary-eyed but knowing they'd see him again in six weeks.

As I maneuvered my way out of downtown Milwaukee that day, leaving behind my child to live the life yet awaiting him, I did cry.

But not for the reasons I once imagined.

The Drunken Wench in the Night, Reprise

2010-11-10T23:06:00.005-05:00

OK, so here's the deal: I'm taking some time off from the blog for much of the rest of the next month, to concentrate on a novel and on some fabulous trips and on recovering my sanity. In place of new stuff here, I am posting The Best of Stuff from Sherry. (Or what I've been told is my best.) Have a suggestion of one you remember? Leave me a comment.

Here's one from last winter. Hope you enjoy (again):

"When you write the story," she begged, "do you promise to be discreet?"

I agreed, knowing that "discreet" is a vague term and that verbal contracts mean shit. But I am feeling benevolent tonight, so I will acquiesce and withhold her real name. Henceforth, I shall simply refer to her as the Drunken Wench.

A nor'easter on the shores of Lake Erie, with a threatened dump of snow, is nothing to reckon with. But we were four strong women, willing to sacrifice our wellbeing to attend a fund-raiser an hour away to help with the medical expenses for a family friend. Surely the God of Insufferable Winter Weather would acknowledge this goodness in our hearts. Besides, the evening promised great food and many drinks, and that is always OK by us. We're charitable that way.

Much merriment followed: lobster and laughter and witty conversation. Meanwhile, as promised, all hell was breaking loose outside. And then I realized we had a Drunken Wench on our hands.

Her shit-faced condition was unexpected, considering she'd consumed a full dinner and only three glasses of wine over several hours. But sometimes the God of Liquor just looks down and laughs and claims you as his own. After witnessing her gleeful conversations with less-than-gleeful strangers, and her Jello moves on the dance floor, I deduced it was time we left.

I was the designated driver. I grimaced, pushed my way through the knee-deep snowdrifts, cleaned off the SUV, and pulled up to the bar's entrance.

Lori and a third comrade, Lisa, climbed aboard. I peered into the rear view mirror, eying the sole empty seat. The Drunken Wench was not following protocol.

"Get in," I yelled through the open car door.

No response from curbside. Just a muffled giggle.

"What's the problem?"

"I can't get in. My legs are a little... rubbery." More giggles.

Lisa climbed out to help. Lori and I silently cheered her generous spirit—or her escalating impatience. We didn’t much care which it was. We cranked the heat and waited.

Over the howl of the nor'easter, we soon heard sounds of a more relentless force of nature. Let this be a lesson to you students of physics: Nothing is as unbudgable as a Drunken Wench with Rubbery Legs.

Lori sighed and joined them outside. I hunkered down in the driver's seat. I was already serving as designated driver. How selfless must I be?

Oh, the coaxing and pleas that ensued. "Grab my hand," "Just one more step," and "No, don't sit down in the snow, you might suffocate."

By now, the Drunken Wench managed to intoxicate her assistants with her laughter. (Their own consumed cocktails might have played some part.) I hadn't heard this much giggling since a sixth-grade slumber party. I knew futility when faced with it. I honked the horn. "Leave her here," I shouted. "We'll come back and get her tomorrow." My sympathetic nature was frostbitten. Did I mention it was cold?

Ten more minutes passed. In late night winter storm time, this equates to roughly six hours. My frozen hands managed to pry open my door. I took several giant steps through the snow. "Move aside," I growled at Lori.

Lori was happy to oblige. She had laughed so hard she'd peed her pants. They were already frozen to her legs. She'd be forced to peel them off later.

I stood on one side of the car and pushed. Lisa stood on the other side and pulled. We pushed. We pulled. The mass that was the Drunken Wench didn't appear to understand the law of physics. Still, we finally managed to get her half-sprawled across the back seat.

"OK, stop, stop, I'm good now. Let go," she slurred.

We hesitated before pulling our hands away. She slid off the seat into the snow.

But we heaved and we hoed again, and managed to get her entire torso back on the seat. Only her legs remained sticking out of the car. I offered a suggestion for this, but apparently no one was in possession of a chainsaw.

Lisa shrieked when I decided to simply shut the door on the protruding legs, cramming the Drunken Wench inside like one might sit on an overstuffed suitcase to close it. So I took, instead, to bending the legs. This way and that way. I squinted as I peered down at them. One didn't seem to be bent in an entirely natural position.
Regardless, she was in! I slammed the door, the howl of the wind masking the whimpering which was emitting from the back seat.

Sure, she'd be bruised the next day, the Drunken Wench. But she'd wake up in the comfort of a warm bed, not a blanket of snow in front of a downtown bar. Dislocated limbs aside, I figured she'd thank us for that.

And you can bet I'll think twice, before I ever again go out drinking with my mother.

A Cupful of Memories

2010-11-03T21:45:00.003-04:00

I grasp my grandmother's hand as we wait for the bus. She squeezes back, and I peer up at her. Even at age six, I recognize she's the kind of woman who draws admiring looks from others. Dark with high cheekbones and a slightly beaked nose, traces of her Algonquin Indian blood from generations past.

I do not know, until years later, the effort she makes each day to mask the wear her daily factory work takes on that beauty: the ointment she applies every night upon her face and arms, to soothe the wounds from the flying metal fragments embedded in her skin. The wigs she wears to cover the hair that grows thin from similar spots on her scalp.

In 1967, I realize none of that.

We climb on the bus for the ride from the Old South End to downtown Toledo. I've just become accustomed to my bus ride to my suburban school, where I'm in the first grade. This bus ride is markedly different. Grandma, who doesn't drive, appears used to this route and its array of passengers.

"Grandma," I announce with wide eyes, "look at all the chocolate people!"

"Shh," she whispers. "They're called colored people. You know, like Moms Mabley."

I nod, still staring at the dark woman across from us. I don't know any colored people. But I'm familiar with Moms Mabley, one of my grandma's favorite entertainers. Later, Grandma explains that we must be careful to show respect for everyone; that my words, even spoken out of innocence, could offend or hurt someone. I'll bet my grandmother has never hurt anyone's feelings. I don't wish to either.

Grandma rides the bus with a quiet dignity. I chatter away, like my mother and my mother's mother--my other grandmother. Grandma Stanfa smiles down at me. Unlike so many other adults I know, she answers my endless questions not just with patience, but with interest.

I'm one of three children and one of my grandmother's seven grandchildren, but today I feel special. I was allowed to pick out our supper menu, given a whole can of black olives to devour by myself, and even asked to choose today's movie: The Jungle Book. I know my sisters and cousins have had their own days like this with Grandma; we're probably all special to her. Yet that doesn't diminish my feelings.

I hesitate at the concession stand. I've been told Grandma doesn't have much money. I've learned that she's worked for many years at a factory job. She raised three sons without a husband to help her. Her first husband died of pneumonia. He was the father of my Uncle Bob, who still lives with Grandma and was in the Korean War and hears voices. I'm kind of afraid of Uncle Bob, but Grandma makes me feel safe. Her second husband was father to my dad and my Uncle Sonny. I don't know exactly what happened to him. My dad met him once, when he was three. I overheard the story. "You're doing a good job with the boys," he told my grandmother when he visited. Then, he was gone for good.

At the concession stand, Grandma insists I get something. I squint, considering, before ordering a grape drink, served in a plastic, purple fruit-shaped cup.

From my velvet-covered seat in the Pantheon theater, I stare mesmerized at the movie screen. The only sound I make is an occasional slurp through my straw. I look up to see my grandmother gazing down at me with a smile.

When we return to Grandma's house, she pours herself a drink. Whiskey. She lights a cigarette. When she's not looking, I stub it out in the ashtray. When I'm not looking, she lights another.

The next morning, we walk to Mass. I attend a Catholic grade school, but my parents aren't so religious about weekly Sunday services. Grandma's a good Catholic. The kind who goes to Mass every morning, seven days a week. The kind who doesn't remarry after a failed marriage and a long-gone husband, because the Church doesn't believe in divorce.

When my parents pick me up, I casually kiss my grandmother goodbye. I wave at her as I climb into our car. I leave her behind in her tiny two-bedroom house, with her freshly printed church bulletin, her pack of cigarettes and her schizophrenic grown son, for whom she will care until she dies in a hospital bed, seven years later.

Some people leave your life too soon. Often, years pass before you truly know them and can begin to understand them. Before you fully appreciate them for what you didn't know then and what you still remember now.

Sometimes, you wish you'd collected every one of those memories and saved them, perhaps in a purple, grape-shaped plastic cup.

A New Gig

2010-11-01T22:12:00.007-04:00

"I think I need a new gig." She fingered the stem of her wineglass, sighed, took a slow sip. "You know? Something different. Something new."

I nodded. "You mean a new job?"

"I don't know. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. I just need a way to jump-start my life, a way to reinvent myself."

"A new house? A move to a new city?" I squinted, studying her, seeking to comprehend.

"Yeah, all of that. Or none of it. I don't know, really." She sipped more wine and frowned, her eyes focused on the distant horizon, searching for something beyond her vision.

"Yes." I nodded again. I understood.

Nearly all of us understand that, don't we, at some point in our life? Some vague sensation of discomfort and unrest which we wish to overcome and repair. We don't know what we want or need, exactly. And even if we're fortunate enough to figure out that much, something often stands in our way of initiating the means to change it. Uncertainty. Fear. Weakness. Simple inertia.

"So, what do you really want most in your life?" I prodded her. "The comfort of a relationship? The challenge of a new career? The excitement of different surroundings?"

She bit her bottom lip. "Do I have to choose? Can't I have it all?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps. Some people believe they do."

"But how do I get it?"

"Well, I think you first need to decide what you want. And then you need to take the necessary steps toward it."

"So I need to figure out what I want?"

"Yes."

"OK. That's easy."

"And?"

She sighed again. "I want a new gig."

The questions are simple, for all of us. For most, the answers don't come so easily.

A Waste of Time

2010-10-27T00:00:00.003-04:00

I see by the calendar that it's nearly time, once again, to turn back our clocks. The downside, of course, is 5 p.m. sunsets. The upside is an extra hour of sleep, on one morning out of the entire year. I'll take it.

Not that any mornings, for people like me, are welcomed with bright, sunshiny faces. Some of us take to mornings like Jon Stewart takes to Glenn Beck.

I've come to realize the world is divided into two kinds of people: There are morning people, and then there are people who say, "WTF? Can't I sleep just one more hour?"

Like most morning-challenged individuals, I attempt to cope. For starters, I've eliminated a host of little tasks many people needlessly assign to the early a.m. hours.

I prepare my lunches in the evening. I bathe before bedtime. I even lay out the next day's wardrobe the night before. (Warning: Do NOT attempt this after consuming several drinks. I assure you, by 2 p.m., you will be reconsidering that houndstooth blazer with the fuschia and lime green striped T-shirt which appeared perfectly matched the prior night.)

Sadly, however, not all morning tasks can be allocated to the previous evening. Midnight snacks of cold pizza or an entire box of Wheat Thins aside, most of us need to eat something soon after waking. This, my friends, is why God invented the office vending machine. Or, on a really good day, leftover bagels from an early morning meeting which fortuitously, was not on our calendars.

Makeup, well, that's a nagging issue. I've considered skipping it altogether. But I fear if I attempted a day at the office sans-makeup, my coworkers would flee from the building, shrieking like hapless teenagers in the movie The Night of the Living Dead. Consequently, I apply my makeup each day like any normal woman should--on my drive to work. (What? Do you know a better way to occupy yourself at red lights? I'm all about time management, people!)

By implementing each of these time-saving steps, I've whittled down my morning regimen to roughly twenty minutes. Up at 7:30, out of the house by 7:50, to work by 8:20. Give or take a bit for traffic jams. Or for a few more minutes of sleep.

And you people who start your mornings--BY CHOICE--at 6 a.m.? Because you want to prepare and enjoy a bacon and egg breakfast? Or watch television? Or empty your dishwasher?

Well, don't judge me, you freaks of nature. Because next spring, when the Time Gods mess with us again, you'll be waking up at five! And even you morning people will be whining then.

Don't call me to complain. I don't answer my phone before 7:30, give or take an hour.

But I will take your call in the car on my way to work--as soon as I finish with my mascara.

Promises, Promises

2010-10-22T21:08:00.006-04:00

As election day approaches, do you grow weary and wary of dirty politics and ill-fated campaign promises? Do you tire of political candidates who are so full of bullshit they could fertilize every farm field in the nation?

The solution is only two years away. I slouch before my computer today to announce my candidacy for President of the United States in 2012.

First thing on my agenda: outlawing this "gay" marriage stuff. Who's kidding who? Because no one should feel light-hearted and happy after twenty years of picking up a spouse's dirty underwear. (Oh, did I misunderstand the question?)

I will give a nod to my own version of universal health care. And read my lips, "No new taxes!" This cost will be fully covered by charging your own doctor for every minute you wait past your scheduled appointment time. Additional hefty fees will also be assessed to any physician office requiring patients to step on a scale. Finally, painless and affordable health care for everyone!

If I'm elected, millions of Americans who spend grueling days in thankless jobs--as well as stay-at-home parents with thankless children--will receive a special perk: free housecleaning services. Yes indeed, your toilets will be cleaned, free of charge, by those slacker citizens who didn't bother to take ten minutes to vote. I'm calling it the "Don't Dare to Complain that Your Life's Now in the Shitter" law.

Lastly, I will make great strides toward world peace by forcing terrorists and world leaders who can't play nice to watch Barney the Purple Dinosaur sing "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family" on continuous loop for thirty days straight.

Believe me, this is one political candidate who won't back off her promises (unless a publisher offers me a book deal to retract my entire platform) and won't take bribes (unless they're really lucrative).

I ask you: Are you hungering for a new type of leader? One who has the courage to openly acknowledge her blemished background and clearly questionable judgment? If so, then I'm your (wo)man.

I'm Sherry Stanfa-Stanley, and after consuming a few drinks tonight, I approve this message.

What We Take Away

2010-10-15T18:44:00.008-04:00

Such a beautiful service, we murmur. The eulogy was so touching. Everyone seemed to be holding up well, considering. She looked good, peaceful, didn't she?

We wipe away our last tears and stuff the tissues in our pockets. We hug a cousin we haven't seen since his wedding ten years ago, and likely won't see again until another occasion like this. We take one last glance at the casket.

We wander to the parking lot, our throats tight and our chests heavy. Yet we're still somehow buoyed by the day's exchange of warm memories. Comforted by those who shared our loved one's life and now, our grief.

As we climb in our cars, grasping the hand of our spouse or our child or our friend, we know the reality of our loss hasn't quite hit us. We will resume our life tomorrow, as we must. And in a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, the void will surface with a jolt. It will rip a hole within us. We will suddenly miss her smile. Her phone calls. Her quick wit that left us in giggles. Her warm embrace which now leaves us with empty arms.

The grief that follows the loss of someone we love never fully disappears.

But in the best of relationships, some bits of that individual linger behind forever: what we learned from them, how they enhanced our life, who they helped us become.

We will always carry that with us. Mere mortality can never rob us of the gifts they gave us in their lifetime.

What was taken from us will be outweighed, always, by what we were able to take away from them.

The Monster in the House

2010-10-12T20:37:00.005-04:00

A monster dwells in my house.

It's resided here for many years, since that day I unwittingly welcomed it into my home. I harbored a tad of trepidation even then, yet I hoped this harmless appearing thing might be of some value to my life.

I greatly underestimated its power--the terror it could instill, the carnage that would linger after each of our battles.

I contained the monster to a single room and did my best to avoid it. But it remained a lurking evil in the corner, and from time-to-time, I was forced to confront my fear and face it head-on.

Tonight, I know I must once again summon my courage.

Oh how I long for some protective suit of armor. Heavy armor serves no purpose, however, in our terror-filled showdowns. Inexplicably, I must approach the monster while I'm nearly naked.

My bare skin prickles tonight as I enter the room.

Although the monster is mute, I swear it growls as I eye it. I hear an inhuman rumble of evil laughter.

I so want to squash it like a spider. But stepping on this monster only enhances its power. This much I know, even as I am forced to do what I must to see the battle through to its finish.

I step forward.

The monster's red eyes begin to glow. My fear intensifies, and I shield my eyes. Then, I force myself to turn back. I stand tall, peer down and confront the enemy.

My God, the horror.

I leap away. I scream and flee through the house. I collapse on the couch. I whimper and gasp for breath.

The trauma is all consuming.

Seriously, my bathroom scale has got to go.

I Could Have Died on the Spot!

2010-10-04T21:45:00.010-04:00

Join me, if you will, in a little game I like to call, "How Freaking Embarrassing Was That?" also known as "Oh My God, I Could Have Died on the Spot!"

I'll go first.

Mid-career and pre-children, I decided that perhaps I'd missed my true calling and should have been an actress. I took a series of acting lessons at the local repertoire theater, and was encouraged in my pursuits by the teacher. I boldly headed off to my first audition.

I knew I possessed a keen memory for dialogue (although not for remembering what I ate at lunch yesterday) and could feign an array of emotions and expressions with ease. Speaking on stage I could well handle.

But singing and dancing? Not so much. Not even a little.

My confidence fled the auditorium the moment they inexplicably asked a group of us to dance. It was a simple Do-Si-Do. I could manage that, I tried to convince myself. However, while everyone else was Do-ing, I found myself Si-ing. Over and over again. For what seemed like several painful weeks. I prayed that, amidst the onstage crowd of would-be actors, the audition committee somehow wouldn't detect my total lack of coordination.

Then I was prompted back onstage to sing. A solo.

Any thought of redeeming myself disappeared as I ran through my very best rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Oh yes, the gentlemen--and ladies--of the audition committee, the sole audience members sitting in the sixth row of the theater, they soon appeared merry enough. In fact, they were practically convulsed in laughter: peering up at me, nudging each other, and chuckling among themselves.

I didn't stick around to hear about call-backs.

The horror remains with me to this day. No one can top that, I tell my embarrassing story-telling comrades.

But wait--Glo has a tale to tell too.

It was Christmas, and she was in charge of coordinating the annual office party: decorating, planning refreshments, and ensuring that everyone was invited. The newest departmental graduate assistant passed her in the hallway that day. He was a shy and timid student; she was the warm, welcoming type. She wanted to make a point of personally inviting him.

"Don't forget about the Christmas party this afternoon," she told him with a bright smile. "We're having cookies and punch!" Except that wasn't exactly what she said. What happened was that her words became churned within some strange verbal blender of sorts, and what poured out of her mouth instead was, "We're having pookies and cunts!"

The horrific realization of her error hit her as soon as the words left her mouth, and she could do nothing more than simply keep walking past him.

He never showed at the party.

Oh. My. God. My story-telling comrades and I are hushed in empathetic horror.

Until John chimes in.

"I can top that."

John had met a young guy at a party, introduced by a mutual friend. He hadn't quite caught the stranger's last name, so politely asked, "Sorry, what was your name again?"

When the young man repeated it, John squinted and said, "Oh, was that (name redacted)?" Then, to further clarify his understanding, he tried spelling it and added, "like that guy who was all over the news a couple years ago for (redacted very lewd behavior)?"

"Um, yeah," the young man replied.

John paused. "Oh." He managed a nervous laugh. "So, you're not related to that guy or anything, are you?"

"Yeah," the stranger who might have otherwise become a friend answered. "Actually, he's my father."

My story and Glo's? Trumped. Right there.

We'd have died on the spot for him.

Any humiliation you care to share?

Leaving Home

2010-09-25T17:15:00.013-04:00

The smell of new carpet has faded, and fresh paint on the walls dried. Except for a stack of framed pictures awaiting rehanging, renovations are complete.

My eighteen-year-old home feels new once again. I plan to enjoy the newness, the HGTV-dicated updates, for a few more years. And then I'll do the logical thing, the sensible one. I'll put the house on the market.

As a recent and single empty-nester, selling this two-story, twelve-room house should seem a foregone conclusion. Yet that logic is swayed by sentiment. In my mind, this remains the dream house my former husband and I designed and built--when our marriage was still intact and our children still toddlers. It's the house where I raised two boys to manhood. It's the only childhood home either of them remembers.

Memories lurk in each corner of the house, linger in every inch of the yard. How will I follow through with letting it go, on the day I finally move away?

As I glance at the front porch, I'll recall the home's early life: its rising wooden frame beckoning us all toward the future. The image of my towheaded two-year-old, his Fisher-Price tools clutched in his mittened hands, remains frozen in my memory. "I build the new house, Daddy," he announced with a proud smile, his plastic hammer rapping on a four-by-four board.

Wandering around to the back yard, I'll admire the pine tree. It was nothing more than a stick when Son #2 brought it home from his preschool Arbor Day celebration; now it nearly reaches the rooftop. The back lawn and mulched flower beds somehow survived years of Capture the Flag and pick-up football and baseball games. Our back yard also served as the setting of many teary-eyed funerals for tadpoles and hermit crabs and guinea pigs, who did not survive the years.

The wooden deck appears weathered and worn after countless barbecues and birthday parties. I smile, remembering the neighborhood concerts held here too: the exuberant voices of eight-year-olds, who fortunately still lacked the self-consciousness their teen years would bring, as they belted out the Backstreet Boys to an audience of parents and neighbors.

I'll roam through the house, wandering into the dining room, where we hosted holiday dinners for nearly two decades. I will stroke the sleek surface of the long mahogany table, which will likely not find a place in my new, smaller home. At the adjacent piano, my two young sons once played a duet for their great-grandfather, just a year before he died.

Peering down the basement, I'll recall my sons' tiny fort beneath the stairwell. Only the rough-hewn wooden door remains. The fort has sat dormant for years, eventually vacated for more grown-up occupations. But once upon a time, it held the rapt attention of several flushed-faced young boys wielding hammers and saws, building a place to call their own.

Finally, I will pass the upstairs bedroom which once held our last baby crib. If I close my eyes tightly, I'm sure I can still imagine the sweet scent of baby powder.

Is a house simply some physical structure in which portions of our life play out? Or is it more? Is it our memory-keeper, our field of dreams?

On the day I leave here for the last time, I will commit this all to memory--the images of our lives which took place in every room, every hall, every inch of the yard.

And once I know I can take all of that with me, I will tell myself I'm ready to move on.

Top Ten Musings While Dog-Walking

2010-09-19T17:20:00.004-04:00

10) If we installed outdoor dishwashers next to grills, would all these guys do the dishes too?

9) Shopping List: milk, cheese, bread, beer, George Clooney lookalike.

8) OMG! That cloud looks exactly like Sarah Palin hoisting a shotgun!

7) Six kids at once on a trampoline? If people needed a license to have kids, how many would be revoked?

6) Scientific Observation: The volume of a dog's bladder corresponds directly to the exact number of fence posts and bushes he passes.

5) And now I have to pee, too. Wonder if anyone would notice if I dropped trou right here on the path?

4) If was wearing makeup, black spandex shorts and a sports bra, I would totally look as good as that woman who just sprinted past me for the third time.

3) Hate heat! Hate humidity! Hate rain! Hate wind! Hate cold! Hate snow! Rather enjoy complaining.

2) I'll bet some of those women on Wife Swap secretly wish they could keep their temporary family.

1) Park levies would be more likely to pass if parks provided margarita fountains.

Reigning Cats and Dogs

2010-09-13T20:51:00.006-04:00

Each morning, I rise and survey my kingdom. "All hail Sherry," I proclaim, "Queen of the Castle!"

And then my cats convulse in laughter.

Who am I kidding? Surely not my household menagerie. I haven't ruled in this house since I brought home my first set of feline furballs thirteen years ago. Just a year later, in yet another characteristically weak moment, I welcomed two more.

Early on, it became clear the crown of royalty belonged to Tiger. Sure, Cubby fought a helluva political race. But hers was a dirty campaign--filled with threats, intimidation tactics, and empty promises.

Tiger showed us he'd rule with a combination of strength and kindness. He kissed the babies, learned to make peace with potential enemies (AKA the new puppy Ringo), and remained stoic and calm amidst the most turbulent and combative conditions. As a result, he was loved and respected by all.

World leaders could learn much from Tiger.

When Tiger passed on to the Great Litterbox Beyond, the kingdom fell into chaos. Who would lead this nation of pets, along with their subservient vendor of food, treats and soft beds?

Neither in the second set of cat twins (AKA the Scaredy Cats) were contenders for the throne. So would it be Ringo, the affable Golden Retriever-Mix? Certainly he had the edge in size and physical power. But he had learned the pecking order in the cat colony from early on in his puppyhood. Besides, it's difficult to muster respect for someone whose idea of a dinnertime delicacy is frozen poopsicles from the back yard.

Cubby's green eyes glinted with anticipation of her impending power. Surely the crown would finally be hers.

And then the new furball arrived.

The newcomer evoked sympathy from those who knew his sad background: an undersized orphan, living on the streets, surviving on hand-outs. A timid outsider who could voice his needs only through a passive squeak. He simply needed to be understood and accepted in order to be a participating, though clearly subordinate, member of this society.

Some leaders, like Tiger (God bless his feline soul), are elected. Others are self-appointed.

It took us only months to realize that the crown in our kingdom had passed--unwittingly--to little Lennon.

Ironic, of course, that we named the kitten for a songwriter who embraced world peace. Lennon the Cat's view on peace was distinctly different from his namesake's. And his leadership style proved to be distinctly different from his predecessor.

Oh, how the other cats now cower and run in his very presence! He delights in their fear. He revels in their vulnerability. He basks in his hostile dominance--especially of Cubby.

If I could only rename this tiny kitten. "Napoleon" comes to mind.

Somehow, despite his frightful dictatorship, he's managed to acquire a single comrade. Ringo the Dog adores him. And the adoration appears to be mutual. They're cuddled together, on the couch, at this very moment.

Strange, this alliance that's been established in our little kingdom.

Yet maybe not so surprising, Ringo's taste in best friends.

After all, his taste in backyard dining isn't so impeccable either.

A Birthday to Truly Celebrate

2010-09-07T23:32:00.001-04:00

I have a birthday next month. It's not a big one. I had a big one nine years ago. I have an even bigger one next year.

At this particular age, I view birthdays as being "had," not as being "celebrated." Even so, my mother informed me this week--more than a year in advance--that she and my sisters plan to throw me a party in 2011. The unspoken assumption was that I'd attend.

I politely declined. I told her I'd rather take a raincheck. One that could be used, say, forty years from now.

So, let me take this moment to cordially invite all of you to my ninetieth birthday party! Please save the date--October 25, 2051.

No need to RSVP. It's likely I won't know if you're there or not. I may not know where I am either, but I plan to have one bodacious good time.

If you don't recognize me, just look for the four-foot-tall, prune-faced woman in the strapless red dress and eff-me heels. Or else in a floral shift and bunny slippers. I'm ninety. I'll wear whatever I damn well want, thank you.

No gifts, please. Instead, I ask that all guests purchase Xeroxed copies of one of my unpublished manuscripts. These will be personally signed by the author, of course, although I may need some assistance with the inscriptions. ("What was your name again, honey? Oh, yes, you're one of my children, aren't you? Uh-huh. And what is my name?")

I can't spend my entire evening signing autographs though. I will be too busy doing tequila shots. At ninety, I figure I can rekindle all those bad behaviors I left behind long ago in my wayward youth. If someone passes a doobie, I'll probably take a hit or two.

I will eat an entire bowl of dill pickle potato chips and two pieces of chocolate cake for dinner. No one will blink an eye. If anyone dares to, I will growl, "What the hell's wrong with you, sonny? Quit staring and go get me another tequila shot!"

I will kiss all the babies and all the good-looking men in the crowd. I may invite the hottest guy there back to my private room--in the nursing home--later.

Who knew there was so much to look forward to, in our golden years?

If you want in on the festivities, please leave your name in the comments section. My mom's already compiling the invitation list. She does like to plan ahead. She promises to bring enough tequila for everyone. But the dill pickle potato chips? Those are mine, and I'm not sharing. I'll be ninety, and I shouldn't be expected to share with anyone.

Bring your own damn chips.

Wow, ninety is so totally liberating.

And I bet I'll look great in that strapless red dress and a pair of bunny slippers.

Contemplating Happiness

2010-09-04T18:26:00.005-04:00

We hadn't talked--not really talked--in a long while.

Much had transpired in both our lives.

We relay our stories, in between drinks and admiring glances at family photos pulled from our purses. As we each listen to the other's tales, we nod. Some stories elicit grins. Others cause one to draw in a breath and grasp the other's hand.

Life elicits a myriad of responses. Years condensed into one dinner outing encompass them all.

"So, are you happy?" one finally asks the other.

"Happy? I don't know." A pause. "Are you?"

The one simple question grows into an hour of contemplation. Because what is happiness?

Does happiness mean we wake each morning, eagerly anticipating both the expectations and the uncertainties of the day?

Does happiness mean our everyday activities provide us satisfaction?

Does happiness mean our loved ones bring us joy?

Does happiness mean we bring joy to others?

Does happiness mean we feel productive and somehow valuable?

Does happiness mean we can manage to laugh?

Does happiness mean that, amidst anything else, we retain hope? Or faith?

It's a broad and vague term, this idea of happiness. Meaning such different things to different people. Its connotations change even for ourselves, at varying times in our life. Something we once thought would ensure our happiness isn't, one day, enough. Something we never before dreamed might bring us contentment can unexpectedly make us sigh, and say, "Yes. This is good."

"Are you happy?" Neither of us truly answers the question tonight.

But before we leave, heading back to the comforts and the challenges of each of our lives, we smile and embrace each other. It is good.

And we realize that, maybe, happiness should be measured by an accumulation of single moments like this.

Stories You Keep from Your Children

2010-08-29T19:50:00.006-04:00

We don't blame them. Can our parents be faulted just because they took such horrific risks with their children's very lives? (Although clearly we should find ample opportunities to blame our parents for many things.)

It was a different era, raising children in the sixties and seventies. It was a time of innocence. And a time of ignorance.

Our parents didn't know better when they allowed us to run, shrieking and giggling, through the chemical fog spewing from the mosquito trucks that patrolled our neighborhood.

No seatbelt laws were in effect when they piled ten kids into a five-seater car, to haul us all to the county recreation center for a day of swimming.

They saw no need to stick around at the pool to supervise us. Nor did they accompany their children on our two-mile walk there for swim lessons, when the oldest was only ten and the youngest just seven. The news then didn't broadcast a stream of announcements about nationwide child abductions. No one could yet conceive of the necessity of something called an Amber Alert.

We roamed the neighborhood for hours with no declared destination and no cellphone for parental communication. We played in parks and in the middle of streets several blocks away until the streetlights came on. Or well after.

Not only did our parents trust society, they trusted us--even when we became teenagers. They never imagined what might transpire if we had friends over while they were gone. Likewise, they never thought to call and confirm that the party we were attending would be chaperoned. In many cases, they never knew at all where we were going when we headed out the door on Saturday night.

High school "After Prom" parties weren't school-sanctioned, lock-in events. They were hotel room keggers.

Some of us went on unchaperoned spring breaks our senior year in high school. We ventured to Fort Lauderdale or Daytona Beach, driving twenty-hour trips in our parents' own car. Only half of us were even eighteen, but our parents figured all of us were nearly adults. Legalities were only technicalities then.

Amidst all this reckless behavior, most of us managed to survive our youth.

But once we became parents ourselves? Oh, the difference a few decades make.

It's not that we're a generation of better parents. Perhaps, however, we're better informed, thanks to health and safety laws and the ubiquitous media. Maybe we're wiser, too, due to our recollection of what we did--and shouldn't have done.

With all that we 21st-century parents now know, we can hope our own children reach adulthood safely, and cause us no undue worries.

Just as long as they do as we say, and not as we did.

And we keep a few stories to ourselves.

Bet Your Ash on That

2010-08-26T21:03:00.004-04:00

It's been twenty years since my dad's death, and yet the man still finds a way to get around.

After my father passed away in 1990, my mother honored his wishes to be cremated. She bought a mausoleum vault in a cemetery twenty minutes away, overlooking a riverside metropark. Only after his funeral did we notice the park sign directly across from the cemetery entrance, identifying that section of the park as the Indianola Area.

"Indianola" was the name of the obscure, tiny street where my parents bought their first home, raised their family and spent nearly thirty years of their lives.

Cue the Twilight Zone theme music.

An eerie coincidence or a comforting form of fate that such an unusual and aptly named location should be my father's final resting place? (We went with comforting fate.)

Yet the mausoleum wasn't to be his final resting place. My mother wouldn't hear of it. Just because the man was dead, she figured, didn't mean he should have to give up traveling. Or golfing. Or fishing.

So, she kept a portion of his remains in the mausoleum and retained a personal stash of ash in an urn in her bedroom. And over the years, we scattered some of his ashes in a few of his most beloved places: the fairways at Toledo Country Club, the shores of Lake Erie and at Manistique Lake in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

We'd like to believe that some part of my dad will remain at those places forever. And he will enjoy his favorite haunts (no pun intended) through infinity.

What we didn't count on, however, was one particular place his ashes would unexpectedly wind up.

My mother became an impeccable housekeeper through the years. Living by herself in a two-bedroom condo resulted in little clutter or accumulated dirt or dust. Still, she had her carpets professionally cleaned annually because... well, that part of the story remains unclear.

What is certain though, is the horror she experienced when she entered her bedroom to observe the carpetcleaning serviceman desperately attempting to redo a wrong.

By vacuuming up the "dirt" he'd spilled on the carpet after he'd knocked over some ceramic container.

Hearing my mother scream, he jumped and gaped wide-eyed at her, even as he continued pushing the industrial-sized vacuum over the debris. When he finally turned off the sweeper, she explained in frantic sobs exactly what he'd been sucking through that undiscerning hose.

If it had ended there, it's a good guess the serviceman would have been scarred for life. Enduring sleepless nights or perhaps nightmares of a vengeful and dusty ghost.

But after my mom realized the gallows humor of the situation, her sobs turned to laughter.

Sometimes, in moments of horror or fear, there's nothing like a bit of dark humor to lighten things up.

Not only did she end up reassuring the carpetcleaner that no real harm was done, she actually rehired the man a year later. And why not? Surely no mistake he might make on the second visit could match the monstrosity of his first.

Knowing my dad's sense of humor, I'm sure he's still laughing about the whole incident too. In between his fishing and golfing and admiring the scenery of the places he's busy visiting.

Life is funny. And even afterward, one can still find something worth laughing at.

Yep, you can bet your ash on that.

Oh, How She Made Us Laugh

2010-08-19T18:57:00.003-04:00

When we recall the loved ones in our life who have died, we generally do so with a tear at their loss, or perhaps a smile at some warm image. Yet there's a rare individual whose memory, even a decade after their death, still prompts us to burst out in laughter.

During the thirty-five years I spent with Alma Stoll, no one made me laugh as frequently or as heartily. My grandmother possessed the kind of good nature that naturally made people smile. It was her collection of antics, however, that induced our out-and-out laughter.

Malapropisms were her legend. No one could turn a phrase or switch around words quite like Alma. The minor ones elicited a simple grin. As long as she lived, for example, she referred to the Christmas nativity scene as an "activity scene." We stopped correcting her. It was more fun that way.

And occasionally she offered a doozy. Like the time she called my childhood home, announcing to my father that the news just reported a possible UFO. "Someone's spotted an Obscene Flying Object!" she told him. "Be sure to tell Gloria," she added in an excited rush of words. "I know she's really interested in that kind of thing!" Alma never lived that one down. Nor did my mother, whose apparent preoccupation with flying penises proved to be amusing news to all of us (including my mother Glo.)

Even in her mid-years, Alma showed an enthusiasm for life. This, along with her German bullheadness, led her to take on pursuits for which she wasn't quite capable. An avid fisherman, she once took the rowboat out by herself while we were vacationing. Later, our repeated attempts to call her back for dinner--through our yelling and motioning from the dock to the boat hundreds of yards from shore--proved fruitless. She seemed to have lost all control of the heavy wooden boat. She rowed in perpetual circles for nearly half-an-hour. Only after my father headed out in someone's motorboat to rescue her did we discover the cause of her problem: she had the anchor out the entire time.

With her typical good humor, she managed to laugh at herself that day. Just as she laughed at herself the time she called our house and, with growing frustration, kept asking my mother to repeat herself. "I can't hear you! Speak up! Honestly, Gloria, something must be wrong with this phone." Finally she paused. "Oh, wait a minute. I forgot," she said. "I have cotton in my ear."

That was the thing with Alma. We never felt we were laughing at her. We were always laughing with her.

The comical stories eventually slowed, as did Alma's body and mind, in her later years. The grandmother I knew became weakened by congestive heart failure and by dementia. The broken neck she suffered in a car accident, although thankfully not paralyzing, took its toll on her too.

The older, frail woman she was in the last years of her life tended to overshadow our view of her. At times, we had to remind ourselves of her former physical strength: how she cleaned piles of freshly caught perch and pounded rugs clean on her back porch.

We had to nudge our memories to recall her former mental strength: this woman who spent much of her youth in an orphanage, and declined an offer of adoption when it finally came, because she wouldn't leave her five younger siblings behind.

Yes, Alma was once vibrant and determined and inspirational. And oh, how she once brought us laughter.

I'd like to think she's smiling, remembering it all, right now.

I hope she's fishing tonight. And that someone else offered to row the boat.

Follow Me Over to "So Wonderful, So Marvelous"

2010-08-08T10:40:00.006-04:00

Guest-posted this weekend on a terrific blog, "So Wonderful, So Marvelous." Read it here.

Be sure to check out the rest of Michelle's blog, where she posts on parenting, cooking and crafty activities, and makes the rest of us wish we were half as inspired and talented.

See you there?

Stories You Keep from Your Parents

2010-07-26T20:20:00.004-04:00

If there's a statute of limitations for our youthful misconduct, it must expire about the time we turn thirty. That appears to be roughly the age most of us finally 'fess up to our parents about the bad behavior we entertained between junior high and college.

By the time we've morphed into full adulthood--perhaps married or college graduates--we figure we've turned out decently enough that our parents might finally laugh at our misdeeds. Or maybe they'll at least determine it's much too late in the game to ground us.

So, late in the evening at a holiday family gathering, we'll pour a third glass of wine, push back from the dining room table, and tell a story or two. We don't spout them all during one setting; we don't wish to be the cause of our mother's cardiac arrest. No, we dole them out gradually, eventually, over a matter of years.

Oh yes, the most interesting stories of our lives are those we choose to keep from our parents for more than a decade.

(The following true stories may or may not be fully autobiographical. One or more stories have been relayed by siblings or friends. No names are given, to protect the guilty.)

We finger the rim of our wine glass, and divulge the school escapades: "So Dad, remember how you caught me skipping school in freshman year and you grounded me, and because I never got caught again, you figured I'd learned my lesson? Well, here's the funny thing. I worked in the school office for the first semester of my sophomore year, stole a few pads of excused absence slips, and used carbon paper to trace the principal's signature for the next three years! Haha! You have to admit, it was somewhat genius!"

We wink at our mother, and share the tales that involved teenage lies. "Oh, that's right, you never knew I saw the Rolling Stones in concert. Yeah, you wouldn't let me go to that concert, so I told you I was sleeping over at a friend's house that night. Instead, we caught a ride to Cleveland with a couple older guys we barely knew. After the concert, their car broke down in this horrific storm, and we hitchhiked to a nearby house of one of their friends, but he wasn't home. So we took shelter under his back porch, until the neighbors thought we were trying to break in and they called the police, who showed up and questioned us and asked us all for identification, but all I had to show--since I wasn't old enough to drive--was my library card and my school bus pass. But boy, it was a great concert."

We pat our mother's hand and ease into the clearly illegal stuff. "Glad you like the silk flower arrangement I bought you. So, remember that beautiful terrarium I brought home to you as a Mother's Day gift when I was thirteen? You oohed and aahed about how beautiful it was and how I shouldn't have spent that kind of money? Well... I didn't spend a cent. But it was the thought that counted, right?"

We cringe a bit and tread ever so carefully into the area of really dangerous items. "OK, so speaking of trains (of course you've waited until a relevant and appropriate discussion for this particular segue so as to soften the jolt), I guess I could tell you now about the time I was at a party on the golf course one night during high school, and we thought it would be fun to walk out on the train trestle to admire the view over the river. But then a train came, ROARING toward us, and we only made it safely back to ground by a matter of seconds, and it was just like that scene in the movie Stand By Me, except we were 15 not 12, and most of us didn't comprehend the true terror of our near-death experience until the next morning when we were sober."

A few of these long ago stories elicit the hoped-for smile, a snort of laughter from our parents. Others are met with a sigh or perhaps a silent Sign of the Cross.

They're comforted, of course, that we lived through it all. And likely relieved that they weren't privy to the details until many years later.

We tell our parents these tales and, as we reminisce, we shake our own heads at our bad youthful decisions and smile at our good fortune at reaching adulthood, alive, nearly responsible and respectable.

And we vow that if we ever hear similar stories from our own adult children, we will somehow find a way to ground them.

When Understanding Eludes Us

2010-07-21T20:16:00.003-04:00

When understanding eludes us, we struggle to accept.

When mere acceptance seems unacceptable, we seek change.

When change appears formidable, we strive for strength.

When our strength is insufficient, we turn to others.

When others can't aid or comfort us, we lean on faith.

When we question faith, we're compelled to search for more.

When we truly search, within and without, we discover hope.

Because sometimes hope is all that remains.

And when we find hope, perhaps, we finally possess all we ever needed.

In Which She Redecorates the House

2010-07-14T21:56:00.007-04:00

The house was beautiful when it was built back in 1992. But after eighteen years as the backdrop for the escapades of two boys, two dogs, five cats and two free-ranging guinea pigs? It resembled a biker bar after a particularly ugly night of spilled drinks, bar room brawls and piss-poor bathroom aim.

She'd like to fully blame the menagerie of pets and human boy animals for the home's slow demise. Yet she is forced to admit her own bad judgment might, just possibly, have played some small part.

Like that time when she was overserved on a night out with the girls. The next morning, she stayed curled semi-comatose in a fetal position, pillow over her head, even as she heard the then two-year-old leave his bedroom and descend the stairs. When she finally climbed out of bed, she was greeted not only with the hangover from hell but with a trio of other treats: Silk flower arrangements plucked, their petals strewn from the back deck into the breeze. Eggs cracked and dropped into translucent goop on the hardwood kitchen floor. And every one of the carpeted stairs marked painstakingly, with a black Sharpie.

All that red Kool-Aid her children loved, but which never seemed to find a straight path from cup to mouth? Clearly bad judgment. Banishing it from the house was such a wise choice! She learned her lesson indeed after, say, the seventeenth spill on the light gray carpet. The decision to switch to orange Kool-Aid, however, might only qualify her for the short bus.

And maybe it wasn't the best judgment, a couple years back, to leave her college age son home to "house-sit" for a weekend. In retrospect, perhaps she should have realized her mahogany dining room table was the perfect size for 48 straight hours of beer pong.

But eighteen years after moving in, she deduced it was finally time to repair and redecorate. The kids were grown and gone, and the newest dog house-trained. And her own judgment at this mature age?

Sadly, still questionable.

Why else would she believe the painter who told her the entire job (painting every interior wall and piece of trim) would take only two weeks? Why would she plan a week-long vacation--eight hours and two states away--for the very next week?

Why would she assume the aforementioned painter would be sure to close all the windows before he left each day? Why would she not surmise a curious, badly behaved cat (yes, badly behaved cat=oxymoron) would end up on the roof?

Why would she trust this same painter to move the two fishbowls, from a to-be-painted high shelf, into another safe location? Why was she shocked when one of her college age sons, stopping home during the day for a free lunch, called her as she vacationed, screaming, "The cats knocked over the fishbowls! They're spilled all over the carpet! The fish are dead!" *

Why was she dumbfounded to come home, expecting to admire a brick red foyer, only to shield her eyes from the glare of bright fuschia walls?

And why would she choose now to adopt a stray cat who's never used a litterbox in his life and expect him to comprehend that her new $7,500-khaki colored carpet is not one great, glorious toilet?

Perhaps--just a guess here--it was due to bad judgment.

Her new counter tops went in this week. They tell her quartz is quite durable, although not exactly stain-proof.

Ha! This one, she has covered. Not a single ounce of red or orange-colored drink remains in the house. Oh no.

After everything she's experienced, she's existing solely on margaritas.

* Happy aside here: Her next-door neighbor Annette proved to be the Fish Whisperer.

Ghosts of Vacations Past and Future

2010-07-08T20:50:00.004-04:00

We leave for our extended family vacation in a few weeks. It's become an every-three-years tradition for my two sisters and me, our families and our mother. Every three years works well for the Stanfa clan. It's frequent enough to maintain those warm and fuzzy family ties, yet far enough distanced to forget how close we came the last time to committing family genocide.

In families like ours, the key to vacationing together is learning survival tactics. I don't mean knowing how to make a shelter, how to signal for help or how to ration a water supply. In our extended family, roughing-it survival means knowing ahead to rent three separate cottages with multiple bedrooms, ensuring we find week-long entertainment suitable for replacing Facebook and reliable cellphone coverage, and having access to plenty of liquor.

We were not, clearly, destined to stay with John Boy and Grandma on Walton's Mountain.

Stanfa Family Vacations weren't always this way. For the first 14 years of my life, our yearly family vacation consisted of spending not one but two weeks every summer in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. No bathtub or shower. No hot water. No TV. No playground or organized activities for the kids.

We bathed in the frigid lake. Our primary entertainment was playing pinochle or fishing from a rented rowboat. We slept--all six in our extended family--in a tiny two-bedroom cabin.

Yet somehow, for all of us, this cramped, self-entertaining trip was the highlight of the summer.

So what's changed? Why do we require so much more from a family getaway now than we did then?

Could it be that we're all more tightly wound than we were a few decades ago? That we've all become accustomed to living in 2,500-foot homes and staying in four-star hotels? That the entertainment value of card games and casting for perch have made way for wireless internet and weekend parties with everyone but our own families?

Maybe those of us old enough to remember the Ghosts of Vacations Past have simply forgotten their magic. And those too young to have experienced them simply need an introduction.

I started packing this week. I gathered together a deck of cards and a couple board games. A bag of marshmallows and some Jiffy-Pop to burn over the bonfire. A couple of dusty fishing poles.

I decided, with a lingering and forlorn glance, to leave my laptop behind.

But I am sure as hell not giving up having a bed to myself. Or a bathtub, with running hot water. And while I will gladly partake of a fresh lake perch dinner, there will be no cleaning of fish guts in my future.

Nostalgic memories aside, some ghosts just make you shiver.

First Yet Not Last

2010-07-01T21:44:00.007-04:00

Son #2 turned 19 today; Son #1 hit 21 last week. Hard to believe, since I'm barely 20 myself.

This particular year, my two sons' birthdays bring them each a milestone, a First and a Last. The older one can drink his first (legal) beer. The younger one has entered his last teenage year.

We tend to track our lives through a list of Firsts and Lasts. Once we become parents, however, we often stop marking our own and begin noting our children's.

The baby years bring a flurry of Firsts: first tooth, first word, first steps, first wailing trip to the ER.

These make way for the noteworthy moments of young childhood: first spin on a two-wheeler, first day of kindergarten, first dance recital or soccer game.

At some point, the momentum slows. As our children grow, the Firsts become not only more infrequent but also infused with some parental apprehension: the first evening alone without a sitter, the first date (which he will never acknowledge as such), the first moment behind the steering wheel, the first unchaperoned party.

And by the time our kids reach the end of high school, we realize we've stopped tracking the Firsts altogether and have started noting the Lasts.

As both of the young men I've raised head into their twenties, I look back on their years of milestones with a combination of joy, pride, disappointment and simple relief.

Yet I realize the cycle of moments-to-remember hasn't ended at all. It's simply started all over again.

I know I won't be there for every monumental moment of my sons' adult lives, but I look forward to taking pleasure in many: their first "real" job after college, their first dance with their new wife at their wedding reception, their first child. They'll learn then a bit more, themselves, about the significance of Firsts and Lasts.

And I hope they learn, early on, that "Lasts" are not to be lamented, but to be acknowledged for what they truly are: the transitions to new and rewarding "Firsts."

Position Wanted: Questionable Skills Provided

2010-06-24T21:30:00.009-04:00

From time-to-time, I envision reinventing myself in a whole new career.

But who would hire me? Alas, the demand is low for employees who like to sleep until noon, can’t find something they possessed just five minutes earlier, and believe staff meetings in the conference room should be replaced by Happy Hours at the closest bar.

Not that I don’t have job potential, people. I’m so full of talents and skills that I’m practically regurgitating them. A few of my job possibilities:

Airplane Pilot: I have decades of flying credentials, albeit as a passenger. I might successfully fly the plane too, as long as I could maintain a steady IV drip of Bloody Marys. And as long as my copilot doesn’t mind my constant whimper of, “We’re gonna crash. WE’RE GONNA CRASH!”

Bookkeeper: I’ve worked alongside accountants for eighteen years straight, and I’ve come to believe they know nothing about job efficiency and time management. Need an account balance? Just glance at your banking website, nod your head assuredly, and plug that number into your spreadsheet. It works for my checkbook. Corporations have overdraft protection, no?

Surgeon: I have an iron-clad stomach and no fear of blood. Sure, the only tiny detail might be my eye-hand coordination. Sherry, in the operating room: “Oops! Well, hell, I didn’t mean to cut THAT thing!”

Drycleaner Worker Person: First, do you think they’d give me a title other than Worker Person? Second, will they mind that I happen to shrink every freaking piece of clothing I touch? Third, I won’t have to operate some type of industrial-sized iron, will I? Isn’t this why God invented “Permanent Press” and “Wash and Wear?” (Question: Wouldn’t the iron be the first thing you offer your ex in a divorce settlement? Discuss among yourselves.)

Telemarketer: I’m certain my interpersonal skills and honesty would be terrific assets. My well-scripted phone calls would go something like this: “Hey, between you and me, you don’t really want to buy one of these products. Seriously, talk about an overpriced piece of crap.” (These jobs are never monitored nor based on commission, are they?)

Housecleaner: Wait, no. Just no.

Personal Trainer: Could I do this job online, or would I actually be forced to get off the couch?

OK, so maybe I’d better not quit my day job quite yet. Unless any of you are looking to hire?

Bruno: A Bear of a Man

2010-06-20T22:11:00.006-04:00

His name was Bruno, German for "brown bear." A fitting name for a man who was tough as a grizzly, lovable as a stuffed teddy.

Emigrating to the United States at the age of 12, he was plunged into a distinctly different culture, a whole new world. At his new American school, without knowing a single word of English, he still managed to achieve all A's--except in his English class. He spoke of this many years later, in now perfect English, with pride and just a twinge of disappointment.

But education was a luxury for most immigrant families in the 1920s. He left school just after the eighth grade, his carpenter father insisting that boys must learn a trade. Bruno was smart, inquisitive and good with his hands. He became a machinist, a humble occupation which brought little wealth or fame, but ensured a decent living. It was enough. Decency was what truly mattered to Bruno.

If he'd been born wealthier and half-a-century later, his calling would have been that of an engineer or a computer scientist. I remember a holiday gathering, when he was about 80, just after computers had become common household fare. He leaned forward, his bushy gray eyebrows knitted together, and his blue eyes intense, as he quizzed my computer salesman brother-in-law about his job. "But explain this to me," he said, in his legendary questioning of everything in life. "How exactly does a computer work?"

It was often difficult to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. It was even tougher to deter the man's determination. Of that, we were always envious.

After a heart attack, when he was only in his forties, he fortified his will to live. That heart attack was his first and last.

When the company for whom he worked for more than thirty years folded, when Bruno was in his sixties, he lost not only his job but his entire pension. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and despair, he simply persevered and found another job.

Years later, a horrific car accident left him with injuries including several broken ribs and a pulverized face. (His jaw would be wired shut, rendering him literally speechless and on a liquid diet for weeks.) The day after the accident, he ignored the hospital staff's heeding and stoically marched down the hallway to be with my grandmother, who'd suffered a broken neck.

Bruno didn't believe in giving up on giving his all.

That's what I remember most about my grandfather. Plus his habitual hugs. And his often repeated words, "I'm so proud of you kids."

Bruno outlived his wife of sixty-two years, who never fully bounced back from that accident. He also outlived my father, who was never his son-in-law but always his son. My dad died from cancer, at age 53, only four months after that car crash which, ironically left him the only uninjured one of the vehicle's six passengers. My father-in-law died just two years later (also at age 53), when my two sons were just babies. Although he was their great-grandfather, Bruno is the only grandfather either of them remember.

Bruno lived to the ripe age of 89. Although he's been gone for nearly ten years, I see his warmth and fortitude still in his daughter, my mother. I'd like to believe I, too, possess a bit of both of those qualities. And when I look at my two grown boys, I know I see remnants of their great-grandfather.

Yes, he was a Great Grandfather.

Happy Father's Day, Grandpa.

The Summer Whine

2010-06-14T22:08:00.003-04:00

As a midwesterner who abhors the cold, I'll take June over January any time. Yet, like most adults I know, my outlook about summer has morphed a bit through the last forty years.

Do any of us reason about our summer priorities the same way we did at nine-years-old? I think not. Let us compare our way of thinking, now and then:

Summer Saying at Age 9: "Could I have a sleepover tonight?"
Summer Saying at Age 49: "Could I possibly manage to sleep through the night tonight without waking up every freaking hour?"

Summer Saying at Age 9: "But the ice cream truck is here! I swear one popsicle won't ruin my supper!"
Summer Saying at Age 49: "But someone needs to finish this ice cream in the freezer! Surely just half-a-carton won't ruin my diet!"

Summer Saying at Age 9: "OK, if you won't give me the $5 for the new Partridge Family album I want, could I do something to earn it?"
Summer Saying at Age 49: "OK, if I don't have the $5,000 to buy the new central air conditioner we need, could I just win the damn lottery?"

Summer Saying at Age Age 9: "Kool-Aid! Yay! Can I drink it with supper?"
Summer Saying at Age 49: "Margaritas. Thank God. I'm drinking the whole pitcher. Screw dinner."

Summer Saying at Age 9: "I'm so bored. There's nothing to do today."
Summer Saying at Age 49: "If I only had a personal housekeeper, gardener, carpenter, painter, mechanic and chauffeur, I might get through my to-do list today."

Summer Saying at Age 9: "Can I put on my bathing suit and run through the sprinkler this morning?"
Summer Saying at Age 49: "Can I possibly avoid trying on a bathing suit this entire summer?"

We're not old and cranky. We're... mature. And... contemplative.

Yes, summer is still the best time of the year, even at 49.

Especially with a pitcher of margaritas for dinner. And a half-carton of ice cream for dessert.

Leaving a Legacy

2010-06-10T19:41:00.004-04:00

I sit on a university scholarship committee which, among our interrogations--I mean interviews--of candidates, annually poses the question: "What was your greatest contribution to your high school, and what will be your legacy there?"

Not an easy question for any incoming college freshman, even one with a 4.0 GPA, a near perfect ACT score and an impressive resume'.

It's an even tougher query for the average high school graduate, particularly one whose high school legacy (theoretically speaking of course) was being named Best Party Giver.

Fortunately, the value of one's contributions in life are not based solely on their high school experience. We all have a lifetime to accrue personal achievements, to impact other people, to make our mark on the world--however tiny and intangible it might be.

Some may be recalled for success in their chosen career. Others may have selflessly volunteered in their community or for a particular worthy cause. Others simply may be remembered for perhaps the greatest and most socially underrated accomplishment of all: being loving and nurturing parents. Most of us won't go down in history for monumental achievements like inventing the internet or bringing peace to the Middle East.

Yet each of us will be remembered by someone, for something.

Legacies are shaped, not just through our changing the world, but by our benefiting a few lives.

It's never too late for each of us to make our mark.

So, what do you hope will be your legacy?

WWFS? (What Would Freud Say?)

2010-06-03T18:30:00.004-04:00

Early last week: I stare, slack-jawed, at my exam schedule. What the hell is this on the list? I never attended a class by this name! I don't even remember ever registering for it! I missed a freakin' class the whole semester, and now my final grade depends on my passing the exam?

The exam location is mysteriously not listed on the schedule. I rush to the office.

The entire football team is in line in front of me. My exam starts in five minutes.

My panic mounts. Perhaps I have a copy of my original classroom schedule in my locker. But wait... what is my locker combination? Six, thirteen, twenty-one? No, thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six? Shit. I can't remember. In fact, I can't even remember where my locker is located.

I am so, so screwed.

Yet this fiasco is nothing compared to the events of last weekend.

Mother nature calls, with a violent urgency. I scramble to the nearest commode, yank down my pants and sigh with relief.

Then I glance up to see a crowd of people surrounding me--all studying me at the most personal of moments, while I'm seated on a toilet which I now realize is strangely situated in the middle of a very large, very public lobby.

I jump up and run, discovering too late that my pants are still down.

And don't even get me started on yesterday, when my doctor informed me I am... *gasp* pregnant!

Fortunately, before I endure any additional stretch marks, I wake up.

Not sure what Freud would say, but I'm guessing he'd have a word or two about my pitiful subconscious.

So, have any interesting dreams lately?

Welcome to Time Continuum Airways

2010-05-29T19:55:00.005-04:00

Welcome to the reservation website of Time Continuum Airways!

Through new state-of-the-art tesseract technology, we offer direct and expedient round-trip excursions to any place and time in the history of the earth. Our sole requirement is that you give your travel plans and objectives considerable thought before booking your trip. We cannot offer a money-back guarantee, since all travel is free of charge.

To fit every traveler's needs and dreams, we offer four travel options:

- The Live-and-Let-Live-Again Plan: Our economy package takes you back to any one day in your life. Perfect for nostalgic types, this plan allows you to relive any blissful 24-hour period. Favorite choices among past customers include weddings and births. Please note: The day revisited must be experienced exactly as it originally occurred. Any requested changes incur an additional cost. (See "The Change Your Life Plan" below.)

- The Change-Your-Life Plan: Our value-added package offers the same features as the economy plan, but with the additional capability to change any choices you originally made on the selected day. Geared toward the daydreamer or the repentant, this plan enables travelers to retract poor decisions, or even prevent a personal tragedy.

- The See-the-World Plan: Our deluxe package, aimed at history buffs, takes you back to legendary moments in time or enables you to experience a single day of life in any historical time period. A few of our popular trips are attending the Woodstock Festival and walking on the moon with Neil Armstrong. As with our Live-and-Let-Live-Again Plan, the day must be experienced as it originally occurred. However, travelers are guaranteed immunity against disease and injury. (One of the many benefits we are pleased to offer.)

- The Change-the-World Plan: Our deluxe-plus package allows you to visit any day in history, with the added power of intervening in that day's occurrences and consequently altering world history. Popular destinations among humanitarians and idealists include the Holocaust and the events of Sept. 11, 2001.

Trips are limited to one per plan category (a total of four trips per customer).

To make your reservations, please leave the details of your trip(s) in the comment section below.

We hope you enjoy your trip, and we thank you for flying Time Continuum Airways: the airline that takes you any where--and any time--you want to go.

Martha Stewart in the Kitchen

2010-05-17T21:28:00.004-04:00

I rank housecleaning, on my list of favorite activities, somewhere below root canals and calls from telemarketers.

As a cook, however, I've always been more enthused. A mop and bucket may be hapless tools in my quest for Suzy Homemaker, but I achieve a bit of magic with a spatula and frying pan.

I learned my way around the kitchen at a young age. I remember calling my mother at work, when I was ten, with a question about stuffing the roast chicken I was making for dinner. The greatest benefit of having a mother who worked outside the home was being given the responsibility and liberty of preparing dinner (that and having an excellent venue for afternoon parties on school holidays).

My mom's own mother never allowed her anywhere near the kitchen. This resulted in a few culinary disasters later in her young adult life, such as the time she made potato salad for a picnic and figured a generous sprinkling of cinnamon on top could substitute for paprika. (A red spice is a red spice, she reasoned.) Oh, Mom. *sigh*

Although she went on to be a fabulous self-taught cook, she wanted to save her three daughters similar humiliation. Consequently, by the time I was 21 and living on my own, I was a wiz in the kitchen. Albeit one with a sink full of days-old dirty dishes.

But then, over the past few years, all my dinner guests left the building.

As a single and new empty-nester, dinner time now is often a table-for-one affair. Cooking hardly seems worth the effort. Suddenly, a bag of popcorn and can of Diet Coke is a quite suitable meal. My freezer is loaded, not with beef roasts and chicken parts, but with stacks of Lean Cuisines. Twice last week, I said "Screw Dinner" altogether.

Oh, the horror of my woebegone ways.

Martha Stewart may have politely turned her back to my dusty bookshelves, but she surely won't excuse my dipping a Dorito in a bowl of salsa and calling it a meal.

Martha, however, is not my biggest concern at the moment. Son #2 returned home from college this weekend for the summer. After nine months of cafeteria food, he's looking forward to a home-cooked meal or two.

I'm more than happy to oblige him.

I hope he likes his popcorn well done.

The Best of Plans

2010-04-25T19:16:00.005-04:00

I have a plan: A 24-hour roadtrip to the burbs of Chicago, for a reading and book signing by a favorite author, Elizabeth Berg. I schedule time off work, book a motel, and Mapquest the route. It is the best of plans. But if you ever want to make God laugh, just tell Him you have a plan.

The plan is running smoothly as I cruise into Chicago in less than four hours. A glance at my directions shows a mere 12-mile drive out I-290 to the motel. But then I spy the orange barrels. And realize it is rush hour. And come to a complete stop. One freaking HOUR later, I pull up to the motel, praying my bladder will be patient enough for check-in.

The other bad news is the area appears sketchy. No worries, since I won't spend much time here. All I need is a short but meaningful affair with the internet and a hot shower before heading to Oak Park for the event.

The very bad news is the motel's internet service is down, quite likely for the night. I sigh, glancing with longing at my laptop, and turn on the shower.

The very VERY bad news is the motel's plumbing issue. No hot water. Not even tepid.

The front desk clerk, hoping to make amends, offers me alternate directions to Oak Park, to avoid the hell that is 290. I glance at my disheveled hair in my car's rearview mirror and sniff my underarms. I hope Elizabeth Berg has a soft spot for homeless people.

I find my way through several suburbs to the venue in Oak Park, with only one missed turn. I manage to find a streetside spot, just around the corner. Boy-howdy! Perhaps my luck is changing!

Elizabeth Berg and her cohort, Julia Keller, are inspiring. I am pumped as I wait in line to have Berg sign a copy of her book. I rehearse some wise and witty commentary for our little chat. Once I am actually in front of her, however, I am tongue-tied. I stammer a couple lame statements and questions. She responds as politely as one might to an imbecile.

I hustle away. I need drinks. Now.

Out of courtesy to the people of Oak Park, I decide to not grace a local drinking or dining establishment with my foul presence. I will buy a six-pack, some fast food, and retreat to my lowly motel room. Perhaps the internet will be working. Perhaps the water will be somewhere above the freezing level.

On the way back to the motel, I find myself hopelessly lost. Meanwhile, I endure a series of anxious phone calls from my mother. Are you lost? (Yes.) Are you in a bad part of town? (Quite likely.) Are you frustrated? (ABSOLUTELY. STOP CALLING ME!)

Beer and drive-through food procured, I finally land back at the motel. As I exit my car, I notice the ominous orange envelope on my dashboard. I sigh, speculating upon its contents, although it's not a difficult guess, as it is labeled "The Village of Oak Park, Parking Operations."

I change into my pajamas and open a beer, before I remember my new Berg book and my writing materials are both in the car. I'm too spent to head outside for either. And perhaps I shouldn't wander into this iffy neighborhood parking lot in the dark. My karma seems a bit off tonight.

So, here I sit, in my motel room. Drinking a lukewarm beer and writing on a 4x5 notepad from the room's desk drawer. (I haven't scrawled words this tiny since the biology cheat sheet I wrote my sophomore year in high school.)

I pull out my parking ticket and examine it. I owe a pretty sum of $250. However, I can appeal the violation within 14 days, in person, in Oak Park.

Hmm. A roadtrip to the Chicago suburbs. Maybe next week?

Sounds like a plan.

Shoulda? Coulda? Woulda? Did.

2010-04-19T22:00:00.006-04:00

I haven't been the impulsive type since a spring break in Fort Lauderdale 30 years ago, when I allowed someone to strap a parasailing harness on me that hiked me incomprehensibly high over the Atlantic Ocean. (Note: I'd swallowed a great deal of liquid courage first. This sort of decision shall never be repeated.)

No, I tend to be the overly analytical type, contemplating each decision and action, measuring every risk and benefit, weighing all pros and cons.

So it was out of character, a year ago this week, when I sat down at the computer and briefly entertained the idea of writing a blog. I Googled the word "blog," and found a basic template program. Within minutes, I had a registered blogspot and then a blank field on the screen, with instructions to start typing away.

Frightening, isn't it, how they let just anyone's rantings and ramblings to be published online?

It would be a fleeting experience, I figured. I'd struggle over a few blog entries, and I'd quit after a matter of weeks. Lack of topics, of commitment, of readers--something was likely to convince me to cease and desist soon after I first hit that "publish post" button.

I didn't count on the fact that I'm apparently full of all kinds of sometimes contemplative, sometimes crazy crap which I'm more than willing to share. I never considered that producing a short piece of writing each week could prime my creative juices for other more intensive writing endeavors. I didn't realize that, in brainstorming and writing a weekly blog post, I might become more thoughtful about events and emotions in my own life and in the lives of others.

And I certainly never fathomed how my weekly words could reconnect me with old friends, and allow me to meet new ones.

One year and 65 blog posts later, I'm awed by what this blog has given me. Although I can't say for certain how long I will continue it, I know it's been rewarding in more ways than I ever imagined.

Thanks to all of you for reading. For commenting. For indulging the past year's monologues, and allowing some of them to turn into dialogues.

It's been the most gratifying impulse I've acted on in 30 years. I'd do it all over again.

Unlike parasailing over the ocean. That shit was just crazy.

Turn Around

2010-04-12T21:23:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I wrote that taking even baby steps might help get us on track to our goals. Like the Alcoholics Anonymous motto, perhaps we just need to take One Day at a Time.

"Well, taking baby steps forward is plenty good and all," one reader wrote. "But what about when you take several steps backward? Sometimes you need to acknowledge your goal is futile and just give up."

Hmm. Yes, that comment is something to consider.

Let's say, for example, you're a woman who always aspired to be five-foot-seven. If you're middle-aged and stand five-foot-two, in shoes (hypothetically speaking, of course), it's time to cash that dream in for a new one.

Yes, some goals probably are unrealistic. Certain circumstances in life are locked in. Some objectives, due to age, genetics, health or other factors, can't be achieved, no matter how hard we try.

So where is the line drawn? What's possible and what's fully implausible? If we start off with the odds stacked against us, or take several steps backward, when should we decide to just call it quits?

Do we give up on losing weight, because we've regained the ten pounds we previously lost? Do we toss the idea for a new career, because we failed a required college course? Do we say, screw the possibility of seeing our grandchildren grow up, because our cholesterol and blood pressure have already risen off the charts?

What we need to decide, when contemplating seemingly insurmountable goals, is whether they're truly impossible or simply difficult. And that differentiation is, well, difficult in itself.

My friend Cindy compared goals and missteps along the way to driving on the turnpike. "If you want to be headed east and find yourself going west, do you simply say, 'Well, I'm already going west, so even if it's the wrong direction, maybe I should just keep going this way?' Or do you turn around?"

I've found it's an analogy that works for most of my own life goals.

If it's possible to truly reach your destination by reversing direction, even if it means traveling many more miles, are you willing to do so? Or do you just keep heading in the wrong direction, because you can't fathom the effort of turning back?

Occasionally life is black or white. Can or can't.

Often though, life is one great gray area. Try or don't. And when we encounter a gray spot, perhaps we should view it as a green light, and gun the gas pedal.

Will you do so, even if it means you have to first turn around?

What's the Matter with Kids Today?

2010-04-05T21:31:00.005-04:00

"That's the problem with kids today," my friend said, shaking her finger. "They're lazy."

"Yep," I agreed. "They're lazy. And irresponsible, too."

We both nodded, our lips tightened into grim lines as we stared into the abyss and contemplated the waywardness of today's youth.

"I mean, it's April," my friend continued, "and she hasn't even looked for a summer job yet!"

"Unbelievable." I rolled my eyes. "Hell, I was working long before I was her age. Since I was 12, counting babysitting," I reminded my long-time friend.

"Hmm." My friend squinted. "I'm not sure you should count that. Wasn't that the babysitting job where you talked on the phone the whole time while the kids played in the street?"

I straightened in my chair. "Well, yeah, but neither of them ever got hit by a car. And then I got a real summer job, working at the zoo when I was only 14. And when I turned 16, I worked year-round at McDonald's for, well almost a year. Juggling school and a job demanded a lot of responsibility."

"Heh." Her lips curled. "I remember the McDonald's job. You used to inhale the helium from the balloons they passed out to kids. Then you'd squeak over the drive-through intercom, 'Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order please?' I can't believe they never fired you for that."

I frowned. "Well, they didn't. Because I was a hard worker. And I left there, on my own volition, for a better job, remember? At Ponderosa."

"Oh, yes." My friend nodded. "I remember your stint at Ponderosa. You worked there for one month our senior year. Just long enough to make some money for our spring break trip to Fort Lauderdale. And then you quit, without giving them notice."

"But not before they promoted me from busser to salad bar attendant," I practically shouted. "Clearly, my work ethic was obvious! Besides, I got right back to work that fall, at the university bookstore. Where I worked for four full years!"

"Oh, yes, your bookstore job." She grinned. "That was a perfect one to keep for your four years of college. They were always really understanding on those mornings you called to say you couldn't come in because you had to study for a test. Made it much easier to sleep off your hangovers."

"Huh." I crossed my arms. "But I did put in a lot of hours at that job, later in the day."

"Haha. Remember how they could never find you in the afternoon, from 3-4? They'd say, 'Sherry, where were you? We've been looking for you?' And you'd say, 'Oh, I was out stocking something on the floor,' or 'Oh, I must have been back in the stockroom then,' when really, you were just up in the student union lounge every day, watching General Hospital?"

"Sure, but come on, give me a break!" I threw up my hands. "Those were the Luke and Laura days!"

"Good point. And I'll bet you worked your ass off from 4-5."

"I did. I absolutely did," I agreed, nodding. "I had a work ethic. Not like kids today."

"Yeah, kids today are just lazy. And irresponsible."

"Exactly."

Top Ten Reasons Pets Are Easier Than Children

2010-03-29T22:32:00.006-04:00

10) A dog hangs its head out the car window and grins, never asking, "Are we there yet?"
9) Cats may believe you're lame, but they never say it to your face.
8) You're allowed to mess up royally with raising guinea pigs, hence the term "guinea pig."
7) Dogs never, ever complain about leftovers.
6) Pets won't stare at you in disbelief when you can't help with their junior high algebra.
5) A dog doesn't leave the toilet seat up (though it may be pleased when you do).
4) If you call him a Bad Dog and send him outside, he won't write a scathing memoir 20 years later.
3) With three-second memories, goldfish can't remind you of promises you didn't keep.
2) Cats are happy to cuddle, even when they're 12.
1) Dogs beg for biscuits, not for a new car.

Not that I ever truly considered trading in my two sons for a couple goldfish...