Oh brother....

I have a brother, Charlie. He was a perk that came with being adopted by the family that picked me. By the way, since all the talk recently is about family values and what to do with pregnant teenagers, I just want to point out that my very own family lived the dream and adopted me, even though Madonna and Angelina Jolie hadn't yet made it The Next Big Thing. My parents as trend setters? My mother is so cute. She always told me that God knew they couldn't get me the usual way, so He arranged for alternate delivery.

Which, quite frankly, worked out pretty well for them, because I came fully clothed, sort of talking, mostly potty trained, and with my own set of silverware. I even came with an owner's manual in the form of a three page letter from my foster mother. What more can you ask for? Of course, it worked out even better for me, I realize, but still. Can we say win/win?

Anyway, Charlie was born in 1949, an archetypal baby boomer, who grew up on Howdy Doody and the Twilight Zone (that would be the show, although that may be an apt description of certain periods in his life, too, I dunno. You'll have to talk to him about that.)

I don't know what he thought about having a sister come barreling into his life, but I'm guessing he was okay with it, since he gave me my very first doll that day. I still have it; falling apart, sawdust fluttering to the floor every time you pick her up, but I have it. Incidentally, he also gave me my very most favorite doll, my Thumbelina, which now sits hairless and falling to pieces on my closet shelf. I see her every day when I'm getting dressed, and it's a reminder that I am not alone in this world, which is the best thing about having a brother.

My brother is much older than me, eleven years [I never let him forget that, obviously,] and he was already a busy teen by the time my parents picked me out of the line-up. Well, okay, there was no line up. Actually, the truth is, they got me on approval - theirs, not mine - sort of a thumbs up or down situation. Good thing I was lot cuter then, and a lot more quiet. Which leads me to a point I've always felt put me one up on my brother. Our parents were stuck with him, but they got to choose me. It's not much, I know, but it's all I had.

Because my brother was definitely, and I do mean without question, the favorite child. I know this for a fact because he was always the topic of conversation, whether he was there or not. Seriously, Chuckie, as we knew him then, was always the center of intense discussion: mom and him, dad and him, mom and dad and him, mom and dad.... They all talked a lot except me. I was not consulted on anything, so I just played dolls. Did I mention he was a teenaged boy with a motorcycle? And a rather interesting definition of fun?

By the way, you know how some families have pet names for each other? Well, my brother apparently thought my given name wasn't quite bad enough, so he decided to give me a nickname. Zelda, and he did not mean Fitzgerald. If he was only slightly annoyed, he called me Zelda Mae. If he was really mad, I was Zelda Bean. I saw my cousin recently at a family funeral, and by golly if he didn't call me Zelda Bean. Isn't it funny how you can leave home but some things never change?

For awhile there, I was under the misapprehension that I had two brothers, because my cousin, Jim, spent as much time with my family as my real brother did. If we went up north fishing, he was there. (I think my parents introduced him to fishing, actually, which wouldn't be that big of a deal, except that it turned out to be one of things he loved most in life.) If we went to church, there he was. If we went to the grocery store, he was there, too. (I didn't realize he worked there until later, but it seemed to me he was everywhere we went.) Jim was a good guy with a crazy hair fetish, which worked out, because he grew up to be a barber and do a radio show on fishing, a sport he loved until the very day he died. Ironically, on his way home from a day of fishing.

Anyway, my brother introduced a lot of fun into my life. He was always up to something goofy, a real idea guy, and I followed him on his exploits as much as I could. Which means not very much, because he was eleven years older, and he got away from me a lot.

Charlie is very creative and artistic, and he was always making something fun for me. My first playhouse was a giant cardboard box that we kept in the corner. I'll bet he doesn't recall it, but I remember a lot of happy hours in there, thanks to him.

He built a tree house Way High in a pine tree, (okay it was for him, but I still got the benefit, which lasted until I was in high school,) and which provided me a place to run away and be totally alone when I needed a break. I had a bucket on a rope that I would put my book and some snacks into and pull up, and I would sit up there and read and snack all afternoon on a summer day, out of sight and out of my mother's mind, so she wouldn't get annoyed by seeing me with my nose in yet another book, instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing.

My brother was occasionally forced to babysit me, not often, but that was probably my favorite time of all. It was the only time he really felt obligated to notice me, and he would do things with me that my parents would never have allowed otherwise! For example, one time we got tacks and put them on the backs of the piano hammers, so that when we played, it sounded sort of like a harpsichord. And he would give me motorcycle rides, which was probably the best thing of all. I am happy to report that whatever chances he took with his own life, he never took them with mine. He made me wear a helmet and went about four miles an hour, but at the time, it seemed like amazing speed, and was quite a thrill.

My brother always came through with the very best Christmas presents a girl could imagine. Among the most memorable were my Thumbelina doll, which moved like a real baby until I lost the key, a set of twin dolls in a stroller which I named Salt and Pepper, because of their blond and brown hair, and, of course, my cat, Puss Puss.

The story of how I got my cat is one that still makes me feel warm all over. I think it makes my mother hot, too, although possibly not for the same reasons. We were opening our Christmas presents, I was maybe eight or nine years old, and my brother ran upstairs to get me my present. He wasn't living at home by then, he had an apartment in The Cities, so when he came home, he brought his presents with him. [This is pertinent, you can take my word for it, because if my mother had gotten wind of what he brought, that cat would never have seen the light of day.]

When he came down, my present was meowing, and it turned out to be a cat that he had gotten for me at the Humane Society. I have no idea what on earth possessed him to get me a cat, but I was enthralled. I am pretty sure my mother groaned, possibly even uttered the Norwegian epithet, uff da, but I was too busy being thrilled to notice.

My cat came with food, a litter box, and a little sheaf of papers, and he was the best present I had ever gotten. I named him Artexerxes, from the Bible, King of Persia, I can't really remember why on earth I was so taken with that name, but of course, we never called him that. Instead, I just called him Puss Puss.

This was one very large cat, with paws like a bobcat. At his biggest, he weighed 17 pounds. I would put him into my doll buggy and try to stroll him around the yard, which would last just until he could jump out and get away, and then he would go and fight with the other tom cats and come home with slashed up ears. I still see him in my mind's eye with purple ears from the antibiotic spray we used on his wounds. I loved that cat as much as any pet I've ever owned, and it was one of the best presents I've ever gotten.

When my brother graduated from high school, he did what teens were doing back then, he became a full fledged member of the counter culture. In other words, he was a hippie. Long hair, fringe, war protests and colorful flowers became a part of his personal landscape, but any rumors that he ever went to Washington are just a vicious slander. Unless they aren't.

Our family first went to Alaska in 1969, when my brother was just 19, and he fell in love with the rugged and beautiful state. He knew then that he had found his home, and within just a couple years, he was already working to achieve that goal. I will never forget seeing my cousin Barb, her husband Randy, and my brother setting off for the long drive in a little VW bug, looking for a future in a state proud to call itself the last frontier. He fits in up there. Sort of a cross between Grizzley Adams and John (Pa) Walton, I think.

The older we get, the more Charlie reminds me of my dad, which is sort of weird and spooky, but in a nice way. He is a hard worker, great with his hands, and very resourceful. Charlie is also a genuinely nice person, quiet and thoughtful, and wants everyone to be happy, much like my mom. He has a gruff exterior, but inside, he is a marshmallow, reluctant to say no, who would willingly sacrifice himself to bring joy to the people he loves. He is extremely easygoing, which makes him a very easy person to have around most of the time. Dad would proud to see what a terrific man he has grown up to be.

He does, however, have one trait that leads to a certain amount of frustration for his nearest and dearest. He likes to be sure that he gives due consideration to every possible angle when making a decision, which means that he spends an inordinate amount of time making up his mind, at which point, he wants instant action, because the whole thing has taken too long and time's awasting.

A few years ago I took my kids up to Alaska to visit Charlie's family, and we got to see him in action. I should add here that my son is not exactly into spontaneity, and likes to have his life mapped out for weeks in advance, if possible. We would get up in the morning, and Charlie would present us with several options to choose from for activities we might do that day. As we mulled things over, trying to decide, he would suddenly, out of left field, come up with a previously unmentioned idea, and off we would go, totally unprepared.

But never fear, my brother does not travel lightly. He has an RV and a trailer, and they are both full of whatever he thinks we might need to have the best possible time. He takes everything but the kitchen sink for a weekend camping trip. Actually, come to think of it, we had a sink in the RV. So he brings everything.

When you get to the campsite, he begins unloading. There are chairs, tables, food, stove, guitars, hammocks complete with mosquito netting and fishing rods. But on one notable occasion, what he did not have was an epi-pen. Which would have come in handy, since I'm allergic to bee stings, and he stepped on a ground hive. It's all sort of a blur, but involves some panicked travel to a hospital, a lot of epinephrine, and a memory of him standing over me in the emergency room telling me in all seriousness that I needed to get myself together because Mom would never forgive him if something happened to me. Excellent. No need for pesky priorities.

One of the humorous things about that trip, especially in light of all the moose talk in the news recently, was that my kids desperately wanted to see a moose, and never did. We saw a black bear, lots of salmon, and even visited a reindeer farm where yet another cousin lived [yes, I do have a lot of them,] but no moose. That was the great disappointment for the trip, which should tell you we had a lot of fun.

The best thing about having a brother, though, is that he is there for you, no matter what life throws your way. You have shared memories that no one else can understand, like how your dad's glasses always hung on the tip of his nose when he was working hard, or being crammed with your parents into the cab of a truck for a week while driving up the Alcan Highway, only to sit on a parking lot for days while it rained.

You are the only ones who know how the dials came off the black and white television when you were fighting over whether you were going to watch Star Trek or Romper Room. And you both remember when one of you went through their psychedelic period and moved their bedroom to the attic for a few weeks, spending days asleep and nights listening to songs about living in yellow submarines. Not naming names or anything, but you can pretty much assume it wasn't me, since I wouldn't admit to doing anything that silly.

Ironically, we each ended up married at age 23 to similar personalities, and we both ended up divorced after 20 years of marriage, too. We agree that our parents were probably responsible for that. Who knew marriage could be so hard? It was false advertising, since they made it all look so easy. In that very hard time, Charlie provided the kind of moral support that only a big brother could. Partially in the form of his new wife and true soul mate, which means I get to have her in my life, too, which makes us all really lucky he found her. He didn't pretend to have the answers, he just loved me, believed in me, prayed over me, and let me know that it would all be okay in the end.

Although we annoyed each other at times when we were young, I have always felt a little sorry for only children, because it must be lonely when life's biggest decisions knock on your door and you are the only one who can answer it. I am really glad that I can turn to him when something goes wrong, and he cares as much as I do. So, as we approach another birthday, ironically, our birthdays are eleven days apart, I just wanted to say, happy birthday big brother, and here's wishing you many, many more. I love you.

Broken glass....

There is an old saying - those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. I don't really know where that came from, but that has been my overwhelming thought the last couple of weeks, when watching the political conventions. Or not watching them, really. Because I don't actually care what they say at the conventions, which I think are exhorbitantly expensive relics of an earlier time that should go the way of the dinosaur. It looks to me like there are glass shards all over the ground, and it's sort of fascinating watching the two sides fall all over themselves in their anxious rush to step on them first. I wonder if it's the same drive that led Nero to fiddle? But that's all a lie, it turns out, so anyway....

If you think I'm taking sides on this post, you are crazy. People I dearly love can be found on both sides of every issue, and I'm not into offending anyone, much less those I care about and depend on to love me back. Everyone who knows me already knows where I sit, and I'm pretty much always there, never change, doesn't matter whether I am rich or poor, young or old. I think life is pretty much lived in the gray area, so that's where you will find me. That would be the middle ground, where everything is not black and white, clear and simple. Most of the time. Not always. I am not a moral relativist, as my children will be happy to tell you. Some things are black and white.

Um... where was my ritalin?

Anyway, I do have something to say on the current political situation, although it will disappoint my newly activated son, who has strong opinions on everything. [I miss being 23 when life was so much more clear. But then again, I was probably never as opinionated, nor as well read, as he is. Apparently I wasn't as smart, either, since I was married at 23 and he isn't, but I think I'm wandering again....] Here is my ground breaking revelation. I think all four candidates are flawed. Seriously flawed. Not because they are bad people, but because they are human, and we are all flawed. I want you to ask yourself - who do you know in politics that is perfect? Or even close?

I am of the opinion that to want to be involved in politics in the first place, you have to have an ego the size of Alaska, [notice the current and topical reference here, I am on the ball,] and a skin thicker than elephant hide. You would not get into politics if you didn't think you knew more than everyone who is already there, whatever position you are running for. Somehow, I do not see these as the top qualities you are trying to instill in your children, if you have them. Or looking for in a spouse, if that's where you're at. Or even desirable traits in a friend, to be honest. These people are not role models, they are politicians. Think about it.

Which is really the theme of this little post. Thinking about it. Please. Our country is in a vulnerable place, from a lot of directions. This voting is serious business, and we need to take it seriously. Know who you are voting for and why. Know their positions, their policies, their experience or lack thereof. Judge the candidates, all four of them, on whatever criteria you want. But judge each one fairly and squarely on the basis of what is actually there, same criteria for all, not what the other side tells you, or worse yet, based on what you read in an e-mail forwarded from someone who doesn't even realize they are being used. If you don't usually take forwards seriously, why would you base your political opinion in the most important election in a generation on information from a chain letter?

And then, when it's all over, I'd like you to think about something else for a minute. Like I said, people I love and care about can be found on both sides of the aisle. How is it that people I respect can have such different opinions?

We keep hearing, from both sides, how we are the most divided populace in the history of our country, how we have diametrically opposing points of view with no common ground. And yet, when I am out in the world, I find that most people are pretty much like me. They have too much to do with too little time to do it, they are worrying about their kids or their pets or their jobs or their house, and the most important thing they have on their mind is what they are going to make for dinner, because they forgot to take meat out of the freezer. Unfortunately, I feel like the only people we are hearing from are the agenda-driven fringes on both ends, while the moderates in the middle remain largely silent. But maybe that's just me. Where I see a bell curve, other people see the bell cracked, I guess.

Anyway, from where I'm sitting, neither party looks 100% good or bad, and neither are their candidates. There is something to like about each of them, and there are things to disagree with as well. I exhort you to listen to the candidates themselves, read their platform and their agenda in their own words, compare it with how they have lived their lives and what they have accomplished when given the opportunities, and take it all with a grain of salt. Or a salt mine.

Your vote is precious, bought with the sacrifice of a lot of American lives, both Republican and Democrat. They say there are no atheists in fox holes, and I would believe it. I don't think there are Democrats or Republicans, either. I think we are all Americans, and as we go to the polls, I hope that we will all remember we are Americans first, last and always.

Happy voting!

Company towels....

Human beings tend to save their best for the people they know least, and show those closest to them their worst. It's sort of a backhanded compliment, I guess, because you know that the people you love, and who love you, will put up with you, no matter how badly behaved you might be. [Sorry to disappoint, but this one is not about the ex. I have to dole out those stories in small doses, so as not to cause mass hysteria.]

I don't know how you grew up, but in rural Minnesota where I was a kid, cleanliness was not next to Godliness; that place is reserved for the thrifty. My mother was, and is, the thriftiest person I have ever known. She was a Depression child, and like most people who grew up in that hard time, she learned to make use of whatever was at hand, rather than count on being able to buy new. We used and reused everything. She was green before it was fashionable - recycling was a way of life, not a political statement.

If you were to go on a scavenger hunt at my mother's house, you would certainly find whatever you were seeking, because she saves everything. And I do mean everything. My mother, I should add, is a genuine saint, role model extraordinaire, you should meet her if you haven't, because then you would understand why I used up all my good luck in life landing in her lap, although I'm not so sure that was a two way street, because I've been a lot more trouble than I am worth, but that's another story.... Where was I?

Oh ya. My mother saves everything. We darned socks and stitched up worn out underwear, because it still had some use left. She has balls of string, any number of safety pins and paper clips, has every pen that she has ever been given, a drawer full of twist ties (those little paper and wire twisty things that come in every single package of plastic trash bags), the world's largest collection of plastic bread bags, and my personal favorite, tin foil that has been washed and folded up for reuse. Waste is anathema to my mom, one of the seven deadly sins. Being a Lutheran, I don't really know what the rest of them are, I admit, but I'd be willing to bet the Vatican doesn't worry about waste. However....

As a kid, it was not unusual to walk into the kitchen and see a few bread bags turned inside out and hanging over the faucet or standing up on the stove. Mom was just replenishing her supply, upgrading from the sticky ones in the drawer. I am not sure what happened to the ones that they were replacing, but I have memories of digging through that drawer, pulling out folded bag after folded bag, peeling them apart to find one that wasn't all sticky on the inside, and then whatever you put in them would smell like bread. She would wash her gently used tin foil with soap and water while doing dishes and leave it standing to drip dry in the "clean" side of the sink, so that the next time we needed to line a pan or the burner on the stove, she wouldn't have to take new. Now that I'm an adult and see how much that stuff costs, I see the point, and it's not nearly as funny as it was when I was a kid. Although I do still occasionally giggle, I can't lie.

My mom taught me to use soap to the last sliver, melting it onto a new bar, so as not to waste a micron. We cut open the end of the toothpaste tube to scrape out the final brushful, and she would use a little wand to get every last ounce of lipstick out of the bottom of the tube. She cut buttons and zippers out of clothing that had gotten so worn even she couldn't patch it any more. You would be surprised how many times I have matched a missing button from her splendid collection. It's a treasure trove, not only of buttons, but old memories, which come flooding back when you see a button from an old outfit long forgotten.

All this saving and scrimping did not mean that my mother was without nice things, however. Indeed, I believe she would argue that it was because she was willing to save and reuse that she was able to have the nice things she has. And among the special things are company towels.

We had towels, of course, that we used for "every day." They were not threadbare, we didn't suffer, although they may have the occasional snag or pull. Then she had some very special towels, never to be touched by the likes of me or any other child, which she saved especially for company. When the company towels came out, I knew someone really important and unrelated was expected, because those very special towels were only put out for people I didn't know well. They were soft and new and beautiful, edged with lace or special decorative touches.

There is a protocol with company towels, one that my own children and their friends seem not to have learned. Everyone knew the drill when I was growing up, of course, it was standard behavior. Everyone had company towels for guests, and it was part of potty training, I think, to learn about their significance.

The most important thing to know about company towels is that they were Never Used. That's right. They were there to look pretty, a decoration, but not to be touched. Because then you would have to wash them, and they wouldn't be pretty any more, and then they would no longer be company towels. Once you had ruined a company towel, your mother would see you for the disgrace you were, and the dreadful words would be uttered, "Well, I guess now we will have to use it for everyday, because it's not good enough for company any more." Augh.

The protocol extended to other people's towels as well, of course, and it's a habit I cannot seem to break even now, when I am the company. Upon entering the bathroom in any one's home, the first thing I do is scope out the towel situation. If I see a suspiciously pristine piece of fabric hanging on the bar, a frantic search for the "real" towel hanging behind the door or the shower curtain will ensue, because I am not one to disgrace the family. If I don't find one, rest assured I will exit with wet hands before I will ruin your beautiful decoration!

As a child, I was always a little offended that I wasn't allowed to touch the company towels. I saw it as an insult, almost, like I wasn't important enough to partake in the best of life's offerings. As an adult, I have realized I had that backwards. While you are being celebrated as a special guest with the company towels, and that is certainly no insult, the real honor comes when you find the everyday family item hanging there. You have gone behind the facade to the real family, and you are invited to be a part of it.

You know how when you are a kid, you always say, "I'm never going to do this or that when I grow up." Well, one of the things I said was that I would never have company towels, because it always seemed silly to me to save the best for someone who would never really arrive. There is nothing wrong with having company towels, of course, it's a nice way of honoring your guests. But for me, I saw it as a way of honoring my family. I want everyone who comes to my home to feel like they belong, like they are a part of the family, an insider.

Of course, having said that, I do have one set of towels that no one is allowed to use, much to my children's disgust. I tried to explain that they are decorations, themed to match the spirit of the space, too pretty to use. They just think I'm silly, but I like to think with age comes wisdom, and I know more than they do.

Recently, when I was home visiting my mom, (going to visit my mom is always going home, regardless of how old I am or where I live now,) she mentioned that she had new towels hanging in my bathroom, and that I should use them. WHAT???? I tried Mom, I really did. But in the end, I had to take them down and put them in the cupboard, because it felt wrong. You cannot use company towels in your mother's house, because wherever she is, you are home.

A short story.....

Long ago, in a far away galaxy.... Oh wait. That's the beginning of Star Wars. Although, in many ways, my former, pre-divorced life does seem like a different world. Anyway....

I was married to a former refugee from another country, and when we met he didn't speak English very well. He used to joke that he was illiterate in two languages, which is not as funny as he thought. One of his main problems with English lies in his native language - they do not have the plural form of a word, it remains the same from one to infinity. So he is constantly struggling to pluralize words, which leads to some interesting statements. For example, he will ask if you want some soups, to which you cannot help but reply, "No thanks, one is enough." He had two childrens, 300 suit, and one kitchens, which brings me to another funny story.

Incidentally, I do like to give credit where credit is due, and he picked up language skills at lightning speed. Considering that he arrived in the US with no English whatsoever, he was more or less fluent within a couple years, and actually had a pretty fair vocabulary, so he did really well for himself. But there were some words that constantly seemed to give him trouble, which, because his basic skills were normally so good, made the mistakes funny. One of those words was kitchen. He could never remember the right word, and even now, you will occasionally hear him say chicken instead of kitchen. Abbott and Costello all over again.

Anyway, one day we went to the Cities, and on our way home, we stopped at this Chinese restaurant we frequented. We had an unusually good waitress that day, and being in the food service industry at that point, my ex was very aware of how important it can be for a waitress to be complimented to her boss. So he called the manager of the restaurant over to our table, a Chinese man with an equally strong accent, and in his most serious, self-important voice, declared that, "Your waitress is the most curious I have ever had."

Ah ha. At this point, as I have realized not only what he said, but the implications for the waitress, I am both rolling on the floor laughing while trying to explain that Mr. Pretentious really meant "courteous." I spluttered. I had tears rolling down my face. I was unable to speak.

An interesting observation I have made over the years is that when you have two people with strong foreign accents speaking English to each other, they are even less likely to understand each other than when speaking to a native English speaker. The manager, already upset, had clearly decided he must have heard wrong. So naturally, he asked my ex to elucidate. "What did you say?" Not realizing he was using the wrong word to begin with, and already accustomed to my irreverent laughter by then, my ex repeated, with gravitas, "I just wanted to make sure you knew your waitress is very, very curious."

Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!!!! I am still struggling to regain my breath and explain as I see the manager's face getting increasingly upset. It was clear that waitress was in a for a hard time, and I was the only one who was going to save her.

I finally pulled myself together enough to blurt out, "He means COURTEOUS!" The manager simply shook his head and walked away. I didn't blame him. I wouldn't want anything to do with it either, if it wasn't so funny.

That, however, was not the funniest language related incident we ever had.

If I may get off track for moment.... I realize there may be those who stumble across my online ramblings and think that I am taking easy pot shots at a man who is not here to defend himself. You would be right. He left. It was his choice, and because he did, I now get to tell my story however I want to. And that is with humor. It is the way I get through life, which has not, by and large, been all that funny. And if you want to know the truth, he usually laughed along with me, because although he has his faults, he knew a good joke when he heard one. Even when it was him.

So, back to the story. One afternoon we had a fight about cherry pie. I will write about that another day, but let's just say, I was right. I was pretty angry, so I decided to take my little boy and go out for a drive. He was about five at the time, and I was pretty mad, so we were gone for awhile, driving around in the countryside near where we lived. By the time I had cooled off enough to go home, my ex had run to the store.

I was still plenty upset, so I was in a pretty serious mood when he walked in and the fun began. This was well before his rainbow period, when he wore mostly black, solid colors, no prints. Nothing fun, nothing exciting, nothing that would stand out in a crowd. On this day, he would stand out in any crowd. He was wearing the most exciting pair of shorts I had ever seen. They were white, with geometric designs all over them, in a thin cotton fabric that looked suspiciously like... no, it couldn't be; BOXER SHORTS.

I took a second look, and yep, that front placket was there all right. This ultra serious stuffed shirt just walked in from the outside world in boxer shorts. I gasped. I said, "What on earth are you wearing? [You may notice that is an ongoing theme where my ex-husband's clothing is concerned.] Are those BOXER SHORTS?"

He looked at me, totally bewildered by what had set me off, and said, "They are short. I just got them at WalMart. I thought they were pretty cool. What your problems?"

I started to giggle, I couldn't help myself. I said, "They are boxer shorts. Underwear. Boxer shorts are underwear. You have been running around the countryside in UNDERWEAR!"

Well, he was not one to take THAT lying down, so he stood his ground and replied, in high dudgeon, "They are NOT underwear. They are SHORT."

Well, they may have been short, all right, but they were certainly boxer shorts, and I felt it was essential to get across to him that, as funny as it may be to me, he probably didn't want to continue wearing underwear around the neighborhood. I got out the dictionary, to show him the entry for boxer shorts, which would have been an excellent idea, except that he was not prepared to concede that is what they were.

So I asked him where in the store he found them. He told me they were on a little table in the main aisle. I said, "Were they in front of the clothes or the underwear section?" His irritated response? "They were in the men's wear section."

Clearly, he was not going to give way to logic or reason. So I said, "We need to go to WalMart so you can show me where you found them." He was all for it, mortally offended at this point that I didn't take his word for it that he knew better than I did what he was wearing. So off we went, me barely restraining myself, him maintaining a wounded silence, and Adam happy because he thought he might get a matchbox car, since that was usually what happened when we went to WalMart.

We walked into the store, the Peacock in full, fan tailed feather, and he strutted down that aisle in haughty splendor. And then, there it was, the table filled with shorts just like the ones he was wearing - a live mannequin right there in the WalMart. And in a large sign above it, for all the world to see, it said "Boxer Shorts."

He looked at the sign. He looked down at his fancy new shorts. He looked at me, irritation replaced with panic and humiliation. He grabbed his T-shirt, pulled it down as far as it would go and hissed at me, "Let's go." Which I would have been happy to do, really I would, except that I was literally lying on the floor, underneath the men's jackets, tears streaming down my face, out of breath and laughing harder than I have ever laughed in my entire life. I felt for him, really I did. I understood all too well the vagaries of the English language, and knew that he had been tripped up by a colloquialism that he couldn't possibly have been expected to appreciate. But it was funny, too. Something that even he was willing to allow, once he got home again and replaced the boxers with a pair of the usual black variety.

He kept those shorts for a long time, and wore them at night. He paid good money for them, and he wasn't going to waste it. And besides, he still thought they were fun. But he finally gave it up when he realized that every single time he put them on, I would start laughing uncontrollably, instantly transported back in time to one of the funniest moments of my life.

On cameras....

The recent love affair our culture has with cameras is baffling to me. Everywhere you look there is a camera, snapping or videotaping, (is that word even part of the nomenclature any more , since nowadays the images are usually being saved directly to a flash drive and downloaded onto a computer with nary a tape in sight?) Wherever you are, it seems, there are cameras documenting that you were there, a computer enhanced Hansel dropping crumbs to show your path.

The current adolescent generation has had virtually every moment of their lives documented by parents who are unwilling to miss a moment, so the constant invasion of their privacy by a camera or the posting of their photos and videos on the internet is unremarkable to them. While parents worry about a predator tracking their child down from online information, young teens are posting pictures of themselves nude, taken with cell phone cameras, and sent to their best friends. [I am not even making this up. I read it on CNN, so it has to be real.]

All this, I believe, is what has led us to the reality television glut we are currently experiencing. Among the most popular shows are those which take the proverbial ugly duckling and make her a swan, although there are some dead ducks that litter the red carpet to fame. Everyone wants to be a model; they are beautiful, they are sophisticated, they are wealthy, they have it all. Some of these programs are brutal, cutting down the hopefuls for our entertainment. And in the end, one lucky girl gets to do an ad and then disappear, never to be heard from again. Unless it is on a talk show, revealing her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It almost seems that if your life isn't documented online, it can't be real. Every person on the planet has probably been online in a picture at some time or another, even if only by Google satellite, which I must say, is a little creepy. You can see my deck furniture in the most recent shots. That is a little more information that anyone needs to know, if you ask me. George Orwell never saw this coming.

But for some people, being photographed is an ego boost, something they seek out. My ex-husband was one of those people. Every time a camera came out, he was yelling, "Take my picture." And then he would pose, in what he thought was his "model" look. Well, I guess it was his model look, since he was a model. Sort of. Well, parts of him were, anyway.

One of the many ways that I learned he was in the midst of the father of all mid-life crises was when he decided that he was going to be a model. Mind you, he didn't just volunteer the information to me. I found out because I saw pictures of him in various levels of disarray, obviously shot by a professional, and so it was already a done deal by the time I heard about it.

Anyway, he was a work out freak, getting up at 4 a.m. so he could get to the gym and work out for at least two hours before going to his real job. He started out by wanting to lose a few pounds, a goal of which I was originally very supportive, but then, like so many obsessive people before him, he got carried away. He kept going, and going, and going, like an anorexic Energizer bunny, losing more weight, getting more buff, all the while eating ever increasingly weird foods, until the house stunk to high heaven and there was very little left of him. Which, if you saw what he ate, you might have thought was not unrelated, since it was mostly inedible....

Now, you may think the less of him, the better. Certainly, I do. But in this case, the thinner he got, the more delusional he became. Do you think they serve steroids at the salad bar? But I digress.

It was at the point where you couldn't see him if he turned sideways that he decided he was model material. Evidently, when he looked in the mirror he did not see a short aging refugee with no hair and bad clothing sense. He saw Mr. Cool looking back at him, and felt the need to share himself with the world.

According to him, he contacted a catalog whose clothing he admired (more on this later, it's hilarious,) and notified them that he was prepared to model for them. [It would never occur to him that they wouldn't be interested, and since he could sell ice to a penguin at the South Pole, I guess they bought it.] He went to a photographer at some point, who realized pretty quickly that his "best side" was not going to include his face, which should have tipped him off right there that his view of reality was a little skewed. That photographer shot him from every conceivable angle, in various states of undress, but in every picture I saw, his face is barely featured, while his best side is always clearly in view! [I know, I know, red flags covering the field, but after 20 years, you sort of learn to overlook....]

Anyway, I didn't know a thing about it, until one day a catalog arrived, and right there, on the back page, was a torso that looked mighty familiar. I will spare you the gory details of that conversation, it's not something I remember with a warm glow, unless it's steam coming out of my ears. In the end, Mr. Universe simply couldn't understand why I wouldn't be proud to be married to an underwear model. I will say right here and now, if you have to explain, it's a lost cause.

But about that catalog.... The ex thought he had the world's best fashion sense, and there are a lot of very funny stories to do with his clothing choices. I will share one, to show you how it worked. Or didn't work.

One afternoon, the kids and I were in the kitchen, when Mr. Peacock came strutting in the door after work. My ex never just walked into a room, he Made An Entrance. Anyway, he was wearing a new suit, an almost daily occurrence, and not one that we usually took note of. However, on this day, we all looked at him in stunned silence, because you couldn't help but notice. It was red, with shiny brass buttons down the double breasted front. My son summed up the situation when he said, "What on earth are you wearing? You look like a bell hop!" He was not amused. I am still laughing, still savoring that moment.

We call that his rainbow period, (among other things,) because he went all colorful for awhile. And I'm not just talking clothes. Orange skin. Seriously. Another suit was a hideous pea green color, but when I brought that up, he got offended. It wasn't pea green, he informed me, it was kiwi. Oh. Well all righty then, that changes everything.

Back to the catalog. It was immediately apparent with a glance that this catalog filled the needs of a particular... um, segment of the male population. The clothing, although pretty, had a certain... feminine look to it. But to Mr. Flare, it was all about style. We were wrong, we didn't know fashion when we saw it. Which is probably true, I admit, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Well, mostly. When I wasn't rolling on the floor laughing.

He ordered a lot of clothing from that catalog, but since we never went out in public together, I didn't really care. However, on one occasion, I did have the last laugh. It was the day of his surprise 40th birthday party, and we were at the neighbors with all three of his friends, and a whole lot of mine. The day started off well enough, he was surprised, but then he got chilly, so he ran home to get a jacket.

Well, he came strutting back into that party, and what a picture he made. He had ordered himself a leopard skin jacket with puffy sleeves and a little collar, and he thought he was a show stopper. Which, as it turned out, he was. Because our neighbor took one look at him and burst out laughing - deep belly laughs - and finally gasped out something about how hilarious of Mr. Birthday Boy to wear his daughter's jacket. Eventually, when our neighbor saw the BB's face flush to the roots of his receding hairline, he realized it was not Erin's jacket at all, and he tried to apologize, which was funnier yet. The next thing I knew, that jacket was in Erin's closet, although even at 11 she had more sense than to wear it, and eventually it went to charity. Although I have always imagined it was more to give them a laugh than to wear.

I was at WalMart the other day, and a mother was there video recording her daughter, who was in the most ridiculous get-up I've ever seen. [Well, not really, I have lived with Kiwi Boy, but I wanted to create dramatic effect.] Mom got mad at me because I got in the way of her taping, which, since I didn't realize there was a party going on in the middle of the men's socks, seemed a little unreasonable. And it made me wonder; to think about the wisdom of recording every moment of life, and whether or not we might be raising a whole generation of narcissists.

Although, in retrospect, I sure do wish I had been recording the bell hop moment....

On words.....

My daughter had an assignment for her AP Comm Arts class this summer, to write a brief essay on why she writes. I thought that was an interesting topic, and I enjoyed what she had to say. In fact, I knew exactly what she was talking about, because, like her, I don't really have a choice - I have to write. It's a compulsion even more than a passion, something I am driven to do, whether I want to or not, because if I don't express myself through writing, I will probably burst.

Most people consider their word choice very little. 'One word is as good as another,' they seem to think, 'as long it has the same basic meaning.' What difference does it make if you use big or large or huge? But for me, words have color and shade and nuance, and each word I use is chosen specifically and thoughtfully because it is the only word for that moment.

That doesn't mean that I spend hours selecting every word, even though I do it with care. On the contrary, I probably spend less time than most, because I am more specific with the meaning of my words. Only the one word will do, instead of having an array of verbal choices, so therefore, it's easier for me to spit it out.

I have been told over the years that I have a rather wide ranging vocabulary; that I know a lot of words. I have a good friend who once told me, very seriously, that she loved talking to me, because she always increased her vocabulary whenever we had a conversation. When we were young, my cousin would call me Miss Vocabulary. Every now and then she still makes me laugh, because she will tell me she has to get the dictionary to figure out what I am talking about. (I wanted to use the word "elucidate" there, but I restrained myself, because I didn't want to show off.... Which is another problem with verbal gymnasts, but now I am wandering far afield.)

This is not just pointless verbal meandering. I am compelled to write, to use words, to express and emote in print. Whether you enjoy it or hate it, I, a writer, am compelled to share it with you, a reader. As I have said before, you are not a writer if you never allow the reader to come in and join you at the table. Although it may seem that writing is one sided, you, the reader, respond by leaving the table or coming back for another helping. If you are partaking in my verbal feast for the first time, or you are coming back for another helping, welcome to the table. I hope we will have many more meals together.

Barbie doesn't live here any more.....

When a girl comes into your life, you have no idea how she will wrap you around her finger. From that moment on, prepare to be short of money, short of time, short of breath, and short of any ideas of your own, because she is now in charge, and there is no turning back.

Never one to be outdone, my daughter proved to be as much a challenge in her own right as my son. From the beginning, it was clear that, although born second, she would never take a back seat to anyone.

During that pregnancy, I had hyperemesis, pre-term labor, bed rest, and finally a premature birth. She may have been bored with the pregnancy thing, but I wasn't, and all the way to the delivery room, which in my case was a surgical suite, I kept saying, "I am NOT having this baby today. I'm not ready."

Once again, the baby failed to consult the manual, and she came in her own time and her own way. Which means too early, and with a lot of fuss and fanfare. I had people sticking me from all sides, while rushing me into the operating room. The anesthetic didn't work, so they would cut and I would yell, and they would assure me that I couldn't possibly be feeling that pain in my abdomen that I was obviously feeling. She had no apgar score. And her lungs were underdeveloped. So ya. The fun never ends in the parent-hood.

When she finally got to come home, I got to go back for a week. Did you know it is possible to not have a blood pressure and still be alive? Well, it is. But not for long.

Eventually, we all ended up at home, and although tiny enough to hold in one hand, our little darling soon revealed herself as a despot. She was only home a few days when we saw her first pout, a look that would become a favorite tool. But she soon learned to charm us with her smile, as well, realizing that she could beam herself into anything she wanted.

The little princess was a born performer, and she started putting on a show from the moment she could walk. She would cruise the furniture, waiting for us to notice and cheer her on, before finishing the trip. Then she learned to talk and sing, and she began to perform in earnest.

One day, she was perhaps two or so, while she was singing and dancing for me, the appreciative audience, she decided to sing her A, B. C's. I started to sing with her, and she stopped and looked at me with a most exasperated expression. Then she said, "NO. Don't sing." She wanted the stage to herself, and she did not need a sidekick!

She flirted with disaster, as most kids do. You wouldn't know you had been a parent if you didn't have a few stomach sinking moments to relate. One of the earliest was when we moved into our new house. She was about a year old, and walking was still a new experience. She loved to walk up the stairs more than anything, and if she got to the top, she would stand and smirk at me because she got away with it.

Her brother was doing a puzzle on the newly installed dining room table, and she was wandering in and out as we pulled up old carpeting, which we needed to replace. All of a sudden, we heard Adam yell from the entryway, "GET IN HERE NOW." We ran out there to find them in the little hallway at the top of the stairs overlooking the entry , him inside the railing holding her arm as tightly as he could while she squirmed and tried to wiggle loose a full story above the tile. I saw her life pass before my eyes that day, and it was way too short. So she not only owes her brother her name (he picked it,) she also owes him her life.

Erin is a very funny girl. She is sharp, both in wit and in temper, and both are often on display together. The funniest family story we have involves an angry three year old, and a stunning show of intellect. She and her brother had been playing together when he came downstairs. Although I was sitting in the living room at the bottom of the stairway, she apparently did not realize it, as her angry eyes were fixed on her brother. As she stomped down the steps, she said, "Adam, you are so stu...." when she realized that he was not alone. With hardly a pause for breath, she finished up, "...pendous."

Well.

You can imagine my shock that a three year old even knew the word, to say nothing of her ability to come up with it in the heat of the moment like that! I wanted to keep a straight face and call her on the carpet for what I knew she was originally going to say, but it just wasn't possible, of course. We all burst out laughing, and it has become a favorite family anecdote.

Another hilarious incident occurred a couple of years later, when she was well into her princess phase. I was again sitting in the living room one afternoon, when she came strolling down the stairway, lightly brushing her hand on top of the rail. She looked at me, quite seriously, and said, "I am the Queen." I looked back at her and replied, "And I am the dictator." She was momentarily non-plussed, then asked, "What is a dictator?" When I told her the dictator was the Queen's boss, she looked chagrined, then said, "Well, in that case, I need lunch."

Erin loved dolls from her first moments, and she was always asking for baby dolls and Barbie dolls. While I was fine with baby dolls, and think it's good for both boys and girls to have them available, I was going to be one of those "enlightened" mothers who didn't allow my kids to play with guns or Barbie dolls. Naturally, my son started using his finger for his gun at age two, and my daughter latched onto Barbie before she could even talk. She had an extensive collection by the time she was eight or nine, complete with house, hot tub with Roman-Greco columns, and a red convertible. We still have three large plastic barrels full of Barbie accouterments, in case she has a moment of nostalgia, in fact. Or a daughter of her own someday, in which case, she will save herself a fortune by just passing her own stuff along.

Have you ever had a really good look at Barbie? If your daughter actually looked like that, you would hospitalize her. So of course, I always pointed out that Barbie was not real, and hers was not a look that anyone should try to achieve. I quit when she reminded me that she knew the difference between fantasy and reality. Oh.

The old saying goes that girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I am guessing that person was not harboring the teenaged variety under their own roof, or they wouldn't have used the word "nice." The movie, "Mean Girls," is not fiction, it's real life in the hallways of America's high schools. When your daughter tells you that you don't know what it's like, she is probably right.

Instead of telephones connected to the kitchen wall, and within the earshot of your mother, we have cell phones that make harassment a 24/7 opportunity from the privacy of your own bedroom. Instead of a slam book passed around at school, and eventually confiscated, we have facebook, where you can assassinate the character of your entire class in an afternoon, haunting them, and possibly you, for all eternity. It's a jungle out there, and the animals are now in charge.

Having a daughter means never having to be overly confident, because they will not hesitate to cut you down to size. But they are also loving, caring, selfless creatures who will remember your birthday and shower you with priceless homemade presents, make you dinner when you are sick (toast and coke are good for you when you are sick,) and bring hearts and rainbows and the color pink into your life. You will learn that there are over 400 different beanie babies, and you will go on your own personal safari to find them all because it will make her happy. You will hold your breath when she falls off her bicycle, because you can't stand to see your precious little girl get hurt, but then you will see how tough she really is as she pushes her face into a grimace and gets right back on to try again. You will feel sick to your stomach the first time she drives away from you, and you will find yourself feeling warm all over (and I am not talking hot flashes here) when you see her in her first high school dance outfit.

Having a girl has been the Everest of roller coasters (it's at Animal Kingdom in Disney World, and if you haven't been, you have missed out on quite a ride.) It has turned my world upside down, and in doing so, made everything right. My girl is the one who has been with me for the toughest moments of my life, and I cannot imagine going through it with anyone else. Barbie doesn't live here any more, but I'm sure glad Erin does. Cheers!