Seen on the street

What a weekend!

The weather here was simply gorgeous, and cookouts were all over the place in my neighborhood. We held an impromptu one ourselves yesterday, which turned out terrific, except I tried to kill myself.

I dropped a Corningware dish yesterday (fell from my wet hands as I was drying it) and it hit my kitchen floor and exploded. I got shrapnel wounds on my temple, ear, eyebrow and a huge gouge in my upper arm that rode the line of looking like it might need stitches. It stopped bleeding soon enough and I've got a big bandage and neosporin on it. It's gonna leave an ugly scar.

How was your weekend?

You'd do less time for murder

So Mr. Hug and I have been married 15 years now. That's 22 years together, if you count the seven years we dated before we married. Impressive, isn't it? My own parents were married 42 years, and Mr. Hugs made it to 41, I believe, and both marriages only ended due to the death of one of the spouses. There's a lot to be said both for and against monogamy by a lot of people, but I have to tell you I have not one regret about being married this long.

Some people have asked me across the years what the secret is to staying married, and staying happy in that marriage. Truth is, I don't know entirely. Has it been all sunshine and roses? PUH-leeze. But if I had to look at our lives cumulatively, there's been a whole lot more good than bad. If you can say that about your marriage, then I guess you're doing OK.

Here's a great quote I'd like to share with you:

“The great secret of a successful marriage is to treat all disasters as incidents and none of the incidents as disasters.”

I don't know who said it, but it's true. You can make anything grow to epic proportions in your mind if you dwell on it enough. If you shelve it where it belongs and move forward, there's no time for it to take root, grow and overshade everything else you've been working for.

I think the best quote I've ever heard on the subject of marriage was from a couple who'd been married 70+ years. They were being interviewed on 60 minutes (I think) during a segment they did on marriage and monogamy. The interviewer asked what the secret was to staying married all those years, and the husband replied quite simply (with his wife nodding along):

"We never fell out of love with each other at the same time."

That's about it. When I feel like I don't have a drop of love in me at the moment, he somehow finds a way to loan me some of his. And when he's having a spell where he's about as loving as a bear with boils, I go into overdrive and figure I'd better have enough love to carry both of us for a little while. It's never an extended thing, and I doubt anyone could continually channel love into bottomless well, but sometimes one of you just has to put the air in the sails for awhile while the other sits on the deck and contemplates the sea.

Hungry?

How about some meatballs? No? Then how about some just desserts?

People. Honest to Pete, where do these people come from - and more importantly - why am I so fascinated to read about them?

Just wondering.

Sorry for the sparse posts

I just returned from a week long vacation down south, where I ate a ton of barbeque and my family and I were probably the only people in the south who won't drink their glass of tea with forty five tablespoons of sugar in it. We had a blast, and I'd like to give a big shout out to one of the four cities we stayed in (but hands down the best): Chattanooga, Tennessee. We had a hotel right on the river, walking distance from the Tennessee State Aquarium and all the great restaurants around it. It was just beautiful, clean (at least where we were), friendly, and reasonably priced. There's also a huge children's museum in the same area, but the aquarium alone would have been worth the drive there.

Our final destination was Memphis in May, the world BBQ Cookoff. We saw great teams like the Reservoir Hogs, Slab Yo Mama, and Pigs O War, to name a few. Got to smell and eat some great barbeque in the city of Memphis (I wholeheartedly recommend Leonard's, one of the oldest in Memphis) and of course, got to experience lots of southern hospitality.

So now I'm home, standing in a mountain of laundry and desperately wishing I could take an eleven hour nap. What are my odds on that, do you think? (My Grandma would say the odds were "Slim to none, and Slim left town").

Oh well, back to life.

Melt With You

Saturday morning, and it's beautiful.

I've made pancakes, and we're eating out on the screen porch. My husband hooks up the Sirius Satellite Radio, turns it to "Big 80's" and we commence eating with gusto. My three year old is waving his pancake in the air, spraying syrup all over himself and his edge of the table. The sun is streaming through outside, the birds are chirping, and a breeze is blowing. Heaven. Just plain heaven. My daughter is bopping happily in her seat to the music.

"I like this song!" She exclaims, with a mouthful of syrupy bacon.

I smile and say "I do too." And I do. It's one of those songs that always lifts my mood. Modern English: "I'll Stop The World and Melt With You". I sit back in my chair, turning my head to look at my husband. He smiles and we share a moment.

Back in May of 1992, we got married. We had loads of friends and family there, but the only parent in attendance was his Dad. My Mother-in-law had passed away a few months before the wedding, after a short but excruciating battle with cancer. My parents were unable to attend the wedding, so I had my brothers walk me down the aisle that day.

As we sat there planning our reception, our DJ was asking us what we were dancing to, etc., and then he started discussing the Father/Daughter dance, and did we want a Mother/Son dance? No to both, unfortunately. So I said "Hey? Can we dedicate songs to each other? Y'know...like a bride's dedication to the groom, and a groom's dedication to the bride?" The DJ said "Sure, it's your wedding, isn't it?"

My husband was quite underwhelmed by the idea, but he played along. We dutifully scribbled our choices on paper, folding it over and giving it to the DJ so that the other wouldn't see what we chose. It was schmaltzy, but hey, I'm schmaltzy. That's just the way I am.

Our wedding day dawned bright and beautiful, with just a spot of rain that ended quickly. We got to the church on time, said all the right words, and the deed was done. We took pictures, headed to the reception, made our grand entrance, danced our dance, stuffed a few fleeting bites of food in our mouths and made the rounds at all the tables. Somewhere in there, the DJ announced it was time for the Groom's dedication to the Bride. My new husband led me to the floor to the strains of Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight", and I smiled as I laid my head on his shoulder and we danced. As the music wound down, the DJ announced it was time for the Bride's dedication to the Groom. My husband didn't let me go, clearly expecting something soft and slow and romantic. Hey, I'm a Barry Manilow fan. He was ready to suck it up and drown in the schmaltz, if it would make me happy. The music started, and he pulled back in surprise.

Modern English. "I'll Stop the World and Melt With You".

"Where did that come from?" He asks.

"I dunno. It just seemed right." I say. And it did. Marrying him wasn't all romance and flowers and smouldering glances and heart-to-heart talks and schmaltz. Marrying him was about joy. Pure, unbridled joy and happiness. I was practically radiating with it that day, and people remarked on it as well. I was marrying not only my best friend, but my best partner in adventure. He loved museums and learning and camping and hiking and Mel Brooks movies. He grabbed me in the supermarket and waltzed me down the aisles. He sang horrible, off-key songs to me while holding my hair as I puked when I had the flu. When I had a bad day at work, he got angrier about my boss than I did. Whenever, wherever, whatever - there he was. I knew I would never be bored, never be at a loss for a good conversation, and though he might drive me buggy sometimes, I knew I'd never look back on my time with him at some date in the future and consider it a waste. I was right. And that song said it all.

"Oh no!" My husband's voice pulls me back to the present. My son has just tipped over his cup of water into his pancakes, and he's making a dam of them, to stem the river he just created. He's a bugger sometimes. My daughter is laughing uncontrollably - her fake laugh that's even funnier because she's forcing it so hard. My husband shakes his head, smiling and says "I live in a madhouse".

"Yes," I reply with a laugh. "Yes, you do."

And I'd still stop the world and melt with you.

I'll stop the world and melt with you
You've seen the changes and it's getting better, all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you

The future's open wide
The future's open wide

Today's linkage

This one is fun - check out all the stuff in the microwave! The eggs, soap and Christmas lights are the best.

I just have to share these two stories - if they don't make you smile, I don't know what would:

GPS in cellphone tracks down a boy waiting for a heart transplant

Fifth graders raise money to give their school janitor his dream vacation

And on a sadder note, my soul mate, Johnny Depp, is finally marrying his longtime girlfriend Vanessa Paradis. I know he'll always wonder what "might have been" between us, but alas, Mr. Hug and I are celebrating 15 years of wedded bliss next week, so it's unlikely I'll be flying to Paris to talk Johnny out of his nuptials. He'll just have to learn to live without me.

That's all the news there is to print for today. Ciao!

I like this one

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

I'll be on vacation most of next week, enjoying the sunshine of the south and eating some great barbeque. I won't get my traditional breakfast in bed from the kiddos, but it'll still be a nice day.

The fact is, no gift they can give me could be any greater than the gift of them in my life, every single day. That's quite enough for me.

Hope you all have weather as beautiful as mine is right now, and a life as full of beauty as mine is, as well.

To be a kid again

My daughter told me yesterday that she wants to skip straight to fifteen and be in high school. Of course, my heart exploded immediately in my chest and my hair all fell out at the thought of her in high school, so I told her that wasn't such a good idea.

"Why not?" She asked. "I'm tired of being six."
"Sweetie, don't lose a minute of this time. Don't rush it, and don't try to skip over it. You'll get to fifteen soon enough, I promise."
"But I want to be there NOW!"
"Oh Boo, do you know what I'd give to be a kid again?"

She doesn't know, of course. And she won't realize it until her childhood is well behind her. Life's not fair that way, but that's how it is.

Summer is coming, the weather is turning gorgeous, and soon everything will be popsicles and swimming pools, sunburn and bare feet. One of the worst, most rotten things about being a grown up is that you usually lose "summer" as defined by a kid. Unless you're a teacher, (and many of them take a second job due to the pay scale), you're working during the summer. No more three months of freedom, burning your feet on hot sidewalks or riding your bike till your legs ache. Its times like this, when spring turns to summer, that I miss my childhood most.
I have many great childhood memories, but to narrow it down to three (for readability sake), I'd have to pick:

Hiking with my Dad - he loved the outdoors and we hiked almost every weekend. My hometown is surrounded by mountains on all sides, so there was never a shortage of trails. A few times a year, we'd go to Carlsbad Caverns (the biggest, deepest caves on earth) and hike the cavern - it's magnificent, and if you ever get a chance you need to go.

Saturday nights, after my bath/shower (so I'd be fresh for church in the morning, of course), my Mom would pop a big pan of popcorn and we'd all watch Star Trek (dating myself here, but yes, "classic" Star Trek) together. I used to toss popcorn in the air and catch it in my mouth - my record was 41 straight without a drop. My daughter and I now have contests with popcorn catching on our "movie nights".

Riding my bike all over, everywhere. In the summer (or on weekends), I'd leave the house around 10am and my Mom usually wouldn't see me back till it was getting dark. Sometimes I'd pop in for lunch, but right back out again, riding with the wind in my hair, visiting friends, walking around the five and dime - and if it was really hot sometimes I'd go to the town library and just sit and read in the air conditioning. I loved that bike - it was independence for me.

What are your three favorite childhood memories?

Her name was Betty

Today was my Mom's birthday - or more precisely, would have been.

She died in the very early morning hours after Christmas night of 2002. She was lot younger than she should have been at death, due to a nearly 50 year smoking habit and a family history of heart disease, diabetes and vascular disease.

My teen years with my Mom were filled with endless fights interspersed with the occasional moments of mother/daughter bonding. I know our relationship was particularly hard on her - she was extremely close to my grandmother, and while grandma was living, she wrote her every week (sometimes twice) and called her monthly. My mom had 4 sisters and she was definitely a "chicks" kinda girl. I had no sisters and 2 older brothers, so I really never got the "bonding with my girlfriends" kinda groove. I've always had a better time hanging with the guys, and my Mom never really related to that. Our relationship improved greatly just as soon as I moved out (and several hundred miles away) and we stopped butting heads. Once I graduated college, I saw my Mom exactly 4 times before her death in 2002.

I miss her.

My Mom loved old musicals. I grew up on Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby and Russ Tamblin and Carmen Miranda. We used to pop a big bowl of popcorn and settle in, usually on a Saturday night, and by the time I was 11 or 12, I knew the songs well enough to sing along. She always encouraged that. If you asked my mother, I could have been a star, I sing so well (I'm on the good side of passable, but hey, she was biased...).

My Mom had a wacky, bizarre sense of humor. She'd do anything for a laugh. She'd embarrass herself 10 times over if it meant you'd laugh. No one told a story as dramatically as she did. My friends loved to come to my house and see what she was going to do next.

My Mom was an Air Force Wife. My Dad went TDY a lot (temporary duty, usually 30-90 days) and she had to be a single mother all that time. I still remember her packing us all up, making her way through a maze of airports and plane changes and somehow we all arrived at Frankfurt, Germany in one piece. Of course, in the middle of a huge crush in the airport, I saw a man in uniform and just KNEW it was my Daddy (I was 4) and wrenched free of her hand, darting off into a sea of people. I heard her screams behind me and knew I was in trouble, but I had to find Dad. It took her several minutes to locate me, and I was just as scared as she was when she did. My Mother (with my brothers in tow) vaulted over several people and pushed another dozen aside until she collapsed on the floor at my feet, pulled me into her arms (while still maintaining a painful grip on my brothers) and just held me for the longest time. She didn't even yell at me, though I know I deserved it. She referred to that incident all my life as "the day you tried to kill me". I always thought she was being overdramatic on that one until I had a kid or two of my own.

I once, in a fit of nostalgia, videotaped myself singing "I'll be home for Christmas" and sent it to my Mom as a Christmas present. Two years later, she asked me to do it again. I said "Mom, I did that just a year or two ago!" She said "Yes, honey, but I wore that tape out. It doesn't play anymore."


When I found out I was pregnant, after all the years of infertility and pain, the very first person I wanted to call was my Mother. My husband kept telling me to wait for that magic 3 month mark before telling anyone, but I knew my Mom would be calling me long before then, and I wouldn't be able to hide my joy from her. I remember asking them to pay us a visit, her puzzlement (that's not something I asked very often, since we're so far away and at the time they had limited income), and then I said "Well, you want to meet your grandchild, don't you?" Silence. My Dad, on the other line, said "Are you telling us you're pregnant?" I said "Yes!" Silence. My Dad said "That's wonderful!" More silence. I said "Mom, are you there?" Still silence. Finally, my father walked into the other room and said "We'll have to call you back." My mother was sitting with her face in her hands, weeping so hard she couldn't even make noise. She was that happy for me.

Once I came home from work and checked the messages on the machine, and there was a hangup. I checked caller ID, just to see if it was anything important, and it was my Mom. I called her back right away. "Mom, did you call? Why didn't you leave a message? Is everything OK?" There was an embarrassed pause, then my mom said "Oh honey, I just wanted to hear your message." I said "My message?" and she said (with a catch in her throat) "I just missed hearing your voice and I didn't want to bother you...."

My Mother loved me. There were many times in my younger life that I wished she didn't love me quite so much, but it was always there and I never questioned it. I always knew it, but it wasn't until I held my daughter in my arms that I realized the depth of that love. It wasn't until I wrestled exhaustion and a sick child that I realized the sacrifices she made for me. It wasn't until I had the flu and had to take care of the entire family (who also had the flu) anyway because I'm Mom and that's my job, that I appreciated just how hard she did work at being there for all of us. I watch my daughter, and now my son, and I know their childhoods are flying by and someday I won't be their everything. I'll be that embarrassing Mom that they don't want to be seen with. I'll be packing them up someday, maybe watching them move too far away, seeing them every year or so, calling their answering machines just to hear their voices. How did she bear it? I can't even bear thinking of it.

I miss her today. Probably every bit as much as she missed me. And oh, what I wouldn't give to see one of her goofy emails in my inbox today or have her hang up on my answering machine again.

Only a moment

It was Tuesday night, late, and I was tired and cranky and standing in a line at the hotel desk, waiting to get checked in. The strap on my overnight bag was digging into my shoulder, I'd just navigated a maze of detours all around the city streets leading to this hotel, found the parking garage - 3 lanes away across bumper-to-bumper traffic and to top it all off, the hotel didn't validate parking so I had to pay $16 a night for the priviledge of parking the only place I could near there. I just wanted to go upstairs and lie down.

The woman next to me is waving her hands frantically, full of energy granted her by her anxiety and temper. Apparently she was an employee of that hotel chain, but in another city. She had booked her rooms with a friends and family discount, but the man behind the desk was having trouble finding the reservation.

"We have a block of rooms. Didn't they call you? I have ten people outside with luggage and we need to get settled! I'm an employee and my general manager called ahead to make sure you had the room for us. Look again. Maybe it's under this name."

She supplies another name, the man behind the counter looks dutifully in the computer and she mutters "I can't believe this" as she runs a tired hand across her brow. Counter guy is taking his time, and her frustration is palpable.

"We're here for a funeral. You know that big fire yesterday that killed all those people in the apartment complex?"

"A fire?" Says Counter Guy, smiling blandly.

"Yes. The fire that was all over the news down here. That was my daughter's apartment. She's in the hospital and my granddaughter is dead. She was only six."

Counter Guy looks up from his computer, fake smile still on his lips, and nods politely.

"We have to bury my granddaughter" she says again, like she has a hard time still believing it. She puts her face in her hands.

Counter Guy looks up, smiles and says "Here are your key cards, take the elevator to your left and I'll call the bellman to assist you with your luggage. Enjoy your stay."

Enjoy your stay? He didn't just say that. I look over incredulously, and he's still smiling like some kind of robot attendant, without a shred of soul beneath that starched, pressed uniform.

The woman turns tiredly away from the counter, and I can't help it. My hand reaches out and touches her arm. She looks up at me warily.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I say. And I am. I have a six year old girl. I am so sorry for her, it hurts. She must see that in my eyes, because she swallows hard and starts blinking back tears. I move instinctively, without a thought to the fact that I'm tired and she's overwhelmed and we don't even know each other's names. I wrapped my arms around her and she held me tight and we didn't give a damn who was staring at us in the glaringly lit hotel lobby.

After a moment, we let go, and she said quite simply and with feeling:

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I needed that hug."

"I wish I could do more than that for you", I say, helplessly.

"Honey, you were a moment of compassion in the middle of business as usual. And I needed that so badly tonight."

I wished her well, told her she was in my thoughts, and we went our separate ways. It was only a moment, but it lasted much longer for me, replaying in my mind again and again that night and even to today. Would it have killed Counter Guy to show her one moment of compassion? A kind word, a hand squeeze...just something. How can you see a human being in agony and just pretend it isn't happening? How does it not affect you?

I guess I'm just one of the ones that can't look away. And I hope in her long journey through healing to peace, she'll remember that moment of compassion and the many others that I hope will come her way in these hard days. I hope she wraps them around her like a big, fuzzy blanket whenever someone's plastic smile chills her bones. Most of all, I know that someday she'll carry that moment forward, wrapping her compassion around another, because she's just like that.

One who can't look away.