I saw Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds when I was fifteen years old. I was at a party and one of only a few people without a make out partner so I actually watched the movie. The friend who threw the party chose it because she said it was classic and creepy without being gory like the horror flicks of our goalie-masked generation. I thought she chose it because it was just boring enough to intensify the desire to find something else to do at a pubescent coed party. I personally thought it was weird. I’ve never really thought of birds as scary, except for maybe Big Bird and that spinning thing owls do with their heads.
I get that Hitchcock was going for the subtle scare. Take something little, feathery and common, something that provides a soundtrack for nature walks and golf tournaments and when you least expect it . . . it bears its bloody beak! I don’t know. I just couldn’t see Tweety doing such a thing. I left the party virgin-lipped and feather-friendly.
Alfred rolled over in his grave. He was brilliantly bazaar, the King of Creepy and I had the nerve to turn my beak up at him. So, for twenty years he festered in the afterlife, waiting for payback. He patiently waited for me to grow up, finish college, get married, live in a basement apartment for five years, buy and fix up a dumpy townhouse, sell it, buy my first home and live there for several years, sell it, and finally . . . build a house out in the country and take up road biking. He wanted me isolated, alone in a place with lots of open sky and no witnesses. He let me get cozy for a few years, develop bumpkin ways. He’s watched me smile when I hear the unique honk of sandhill cranes in my back field, follow wild turkey troops down my dirt road and wake up to the sound of magpies pecking the rain gutters when I'm trying to sleep. That’s right, get cozy bird-lover, Al whispered.
So, I’m out on my road bike taking one of my usual loops, pedaling a brisk pace and enjoying a crisp morning. Hawk sightings are common where I live. They sit all stately and sinister on telephone poles scouring newly cut fields for unsuspecting mice. I have watched in awe of their cunning, grace and speed as they swoop down and rid the world of another pest that could make its way into my pantry. I didn’t think much of the large hawk I noticed perched on a telephone pole ahead of me as I started up the steep hill I make myself ride if I’ve been chocolate overindulgent. After passing the occupied pole I heard a swishing noise above me. I looked up just in time to see the hawk dip low over my head, then glide up to the next pole. I thought it odd, but not aggressive. I passed the next pole and moments later I heard the same swishing. The hawk again swooped in front of my face, a little closer this time. It could just be coincidence, I thought, or not. I started pedaling slightly faster as the hawk positioned itself on the next telephone pole. As my quads started to protest my pace I started thinking about guys I should have kissed in junior high. My legs started to scream. Then I realized it was not my legs screaming, but the actual cry of a demon creature coming in for the kill from behind. I turned my head in time to see Alfred Hitch-Hawk dive-bombing like a feathered torpedo toward my head. It was terrifying! Talons were spread and bearing down like they were ready to give me an Edward Scissorhands make-over. Its beak opened to reveal a freakish wagging tongue and I felt a sudden empathy for worms everywhere. I answered its scream with my own and commanded my legs to accelerate. I hunkered down into race position to increase aerodynamics, but Hitch-Hawk already had me. My chin hit my chest as the feathered fiend bashed into my head and I heard scraping noises on my helmet. In shock, I almost lost my balance, but adrenalin kicked in and I devoured hell hill in record time. As I sped away I heard an audio montage of a bird screeching and an old man laughing.
When I got home I took off my helmet to check for evidence. Sure enough, the plastic revealed new grooves. I took it in to show my husband.
“I got attacked by a hawk on my bike today.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because hawks don’t attack people and you have a tendency for exaggeration.”
I told him my tale of intimidation and carnage, held out the marred piece of equipment that saved my brain from becoming shredded beef and explained that literary embellishment for dramatic effect is not exaggeration!
“Fine. I’ll bike with you tomorrow. I want to see this ‘Hitch-Hawk.’”
As we headed up the hill the next day, we spotted the culprit on the first telephone pole. Its head twitched as we passed and I prepared for a battle that would confirm my account. The hawk lifted off, spread its wings and gently flew out over the nearby field. We watched as it gracefully bobbed and dipped, making docile patterns in the air. In flight it did circle over us momentarily before disappearing into a tree. I could feel the smugness emanating from my husband.
“It attacked me!”
“Sure it did.”
We biked home in silence. I thought of the spooky silhouette of Alfred Hitchcock they show at the beginning of his movies. His large nose protruding, like a beak. I avoided Hitch-Hawk’s territory after that. From the next road over I could see it hovering, squawking, mocking me.
A few days later my husband came in from a bike ride. “I believe you.”
“What?”
“I believe that you got attacked by a hawk.” He proceeded to tell me his own Hitch-Hawk encounter. He described a similar attack, but said that the hawk was even bolder, coming at him head on. He said that another smaller hawk came out from the trees and joined in the spree. My husband thought it was probably Hitch-Hawk’s mate because there was a large nest up in the trees. I told him there was no need to exaggerate just to make his story better than mine.
Sufficiently spooked, we both avoided the lovebirds’ lair. But, Alfred was not finished with us yet. A few weeks later, while driving up my road I noticed a hawk standing in the middle of the road. Feeling that my minivan offered sufficient protection, I proceeded normally. As I came upon it, it didn’t fly out of the way as birds usually do. It just sat there, staring at me. At the last minute I swerved around it, barely missing it. When I checked my Rear Window, the hawk stood unmoved and unruffled in the same place, still looking at me. Now neither sky nor land was safe! Okay Al, you win. Birds are creepy. Now call off the flock.
He didn’t.
The next day my husband came in from a bike ride on the same road. “I almost died today."
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m the exaggerator, not you.”
He then told me the following true story. (Note: Embellishment added for effect.) While biking downhill toward home he noticed a hawk in the middle of the road. He thought it was a little strange because hawks rarely lower themselves to dwell among overlanders. He didn’t slow down because when there are birds in the road they just fly out of the way. This one did not. Biker and hawk played chicken. The biker came closer. The hawk stood its ground. Fly out of the way birdbrain! It didn’t. He slammed on his brakes and swerved just as the hawk spread its wings and hopped straight into the wheel spokes. The biker struggled to maintain balance as a puff of feathers swirled around him. He slid through gravel on the road’s shoulder trying to avoid tumbling head first into the ditch below. He managed to pull back onto the road just as the last of the mangled carcass rolled out from the wheel and sprawled out across the road. The shocked biker pulled to a stop. His heart pounding, his breath short, the murderer looked back at his handiwork. As he contemplated his own brush with death, he thought of the majestic lord of the sky now reduced to a plate of roadkill. On a lone branch above the scene, a songbird whistled an eerie tune.
“You ran down a hawk on your bike?”
“I didn’t run it down. It didn’t fly out of the way! They’re supposed to fly out of the way! They always fly out of the way!”
“Not for us. We’re bird cursed! What have you done? Now they’ll really have it in for us! You need to go get rid of the evidence. If other birds see what you’ve done, they’ll track us down and attack the house! They’ll eat our dog and our horses in the night! They’ll carry off our children!”
We found out later from neighbors that an injured hawk had been waddling around on the ground for a few days. Someone had called animal control to come and take care of it. No need. A true kamikaze, it sacrificed its life for the greater good of freaking us out.
We stayed in more after that. We opted for indoor workouts and prayed for cold weather to prompt an early migration. We cozied up indoors, put in movies and made out.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Family Business
The expression “family business” has various meanings. For some people, family business means they have decided to further complicate the high emotions of living under the same roof only to leave that roof and reconvene at the same-DNA-established workplace and bounce off of each other some more. If you’re Italian, family business might mean buying a violin just for the case and being suspicious of what’s really in your ravioli. For those of us who don’t have the luxury of mafia connections or nepotism, family business is the private, delicate matters of home life to be entrusted only amongst ourselves and Dr. Laura. But, if you’re clever, the line between these differing definitions can be blurred for fame and gain as recent experiences exposed.
I went to see the play The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I was feeling all cultured, carefree and kid-free as I cozied into my velvet theater seat and casually scanned the program. My high school AP English teacher was thorough, so I was vaguely familiar with the play and other famous works done by Mr. Williams. I read the engaging synopsis, noting that the playwright based characters on himself and family members. I settled in for the complexities of family drama, anxious to see which branches of the Williams’ family tree didn’t fork.
The cast was excellent and I marveled at the brilliant literary quality of the dialog and narration, but as the play progressed I became increasingly unsettled. The fact that Tennessee was a prodigy born out of dysfunction was apparent. Not surprising. Many of the great ones gotta lotta coo coo from the crib. But, the portrayal of one character particularly bothered me. At the center of the play was a flighty, over-bearing, delusional mother. Knowing the character was based on Tennessee’s own mother I was irked by the representation. We all find our own therapeutic formats to deal with family issues, but putting on a tuxedo and selling tickets to the premier of My Mother Was a Quack and Ruined My Life seemed uncalled for.
I realize maternal instincts kicked in and I probably I took the portrayal too personally. I concede that the mother, Amanda, was high maintenance, but her history offered some justification. She grew up in a fluffy world of privilege as a southern debutante. Although Amanda was wooed by a flock of wealthy southern gentlemen, a handsome traveling salesman solicited exceptional charm and closed the deal on her heart. She left the bubble behind with only eyelash batting and gown swishing as life skills. When the realities of life set in that neither charm nor swishing can solve, Mr. Hustle hit the road for an indefinite sales call leaving Amanda to care for two children. Yes, in her desperate situation she developed practices that mingled her pretty past with rotten reality and surfaced as damn-you-taunt. Social graces got Amanda into this mess and, by golly, they were going to get her children out of it. So, she told her son to sit up straight. She told him to eat his vegetables, chew his food before swallowing, get more sleep and tell her where he was going late at night. She told him to stop wasting his time in movies and bars. She told him to bring home eligible friends so she could shmooze them with southern hospitality and introduce them to her lovely, but odd and reclusive daughter of marriageable age. No one is denying that some of her methods revealed a crack in her crock pot, but she did the best she could with what she had.
The portrait pricked a nerve in me because some of the nagging dialog rang too familiar. Is that how I sound? Am I like that? Will my children grow up to be bitter and resentful and use dinner theater as a psychological outlet? My mind began cataloging my children’s creative catharsis. I have one daughter who draws nothing but dragons. Do they all have hazel eyes? My other daughter reads, writes and draws strictly fantasy. Is that her anti-mommy alternative universe? My son likes soccer. Is the ball my head? I hated Tennessee. How dare he air out his dirty laundry on stage! How dare he write plays from Freud's couch and publicly point a finger at the woman who gave him life and only wanted proper digestion and posture for her son! I can’t remember what I thought of Williams’ work when my teen-age brain tried to absorb high frequency literature. I probably would have thought, “That lady is a freak. Get over yourself and lay off already.” But, now it was different. I am a Mrs. Williams of sorts. I haven’t been abandoned by my husband (yet), and I was raised western scrapper rather than southern debutante. But, I'm a mom and I tell my kids to eat their vegetables, sit up straight and tell me the truth about where they go and what they do. I encourage them to have goals and aspirations that will eventually get them out of my house and provide funds for my luxurious suite in a senility ward. Shame on you Tennessee Williams! Since you sold out and cashed in on your mother’s sanity I hope her grave is marked with a very expensive headstone.
A few days after attending the play I witnessed a contrasting family sample. At a writer’s conference I listened as a successful new author and daughter of a world renowned self-help guru raved over her brilliant up-bringing, crediting the application of her father’s principles as key to her success. The father offered a brief cameo at the end of her remarks brimming with pride over his trophy of accomplished parenting. I was about to retch in solidarity for Mrs. Williams and every other malfunctioning mother when these two family displays collided in my brain. As father and daughter gushed and hugged all the way to the bank, I stopped hating Tennessee Williams. I quit feeling sorry for his mother. I realized that the parenting end result was the same in both cases, wasn’t’ it? The trophy child and Ursula's offspring both achieved success! I suddenly realized I could stop contributing to my kids' trust funds. I could tear up the frivolous will that divvies up the residue of my pathetic life. What am I so worried about? Whether I possess the midas touch or poison apple of parenting, my creative spawn can exploit whatever crap I fill their brains and behaviors with and make a truckload! Whether my kids hit the circuit with the gothic novel Reign of Dark Mummy, or produce the musical Kari the Good Fairy, either way they’ll get to meet Oprah. So let the dragons fly! Let the fantasty novels flow! Kick the ball, baby because our family is open for business!
I went to see the play The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I was feeling all cultured, carefree and kid-free as I cozied into my velvet theater seat and casually scanned the program. My high school AP English teacher was thorough, so I was vaguely familiar with the play and other famous works done by Mr. Williams. I read the engaging synopsis, noting that the playwright based characters on himself and family members. I settled in for the complexities of family drama, anxious to see which branches of the Williams’ family tree didn’t fork.
The cast was excellent and I marveled at the brilliant literary quality of the dialog and narration, but as the play progressed I became increasingly unsettled. The fact that Tennessee was a prodigy born out of dysfunction was apparent. Not surprising. Many of the great ones gotta lotta coo coo from the crib. But, the portrayal of one character particularly bothered me. At the center of the play was a flighty, over-bearing, delusional mother. Knowing the character was based on Tennessee’s own mother I was irked by the representation. We all find our own therapeutic formats to deal with family issues, but putting on a tuxedo and selling tickets to the premier of My Mother Was a Quack and Ruined My Life seemed uncalled for.
I realize maternal instincts kicked in and I probably I took the portrayal too personally. I concede that the mother, Amanda, was high maintenance, but her history offered some justification. She grew up in a fluffy world of privilege as a southern debutante. Although Amanda was wooed by a flock of wealthy southern gentlemen, a handsome traveling salesman solicited exceptional charm and closed the deal on her heart. She left the bubble behind with only eyelash batting and gown swishing as life skills. When the realities of life set in that neither charm nor swishing can solve, Mr. Hustle hit the road for an indefinite sales call leaving Amanda to care for two children. Yes, in her desperate situation she developed practices that mingled her pretty past with rotten reality and surfaced as damn-you-taunt. Social graces got Amanda into this mess and, by golly, they were going to get her children out of it. So, she told her son to sit up straight. She told him to eat his vegetables, chew his food before swallowing, get more sleep and tell her where he was going late at night. She told him to stop wasting his time in movies and bars. She told him to bring home eligible friends so she could shmooze them with southern hospitality and introduce them to her lovely, but odd and reclusive daughter of marriageable age. No one is denying that some of her methods revealed a crack in her crock pot, but she did the best she could with what she had.
The portrait pricked a nerve in me because some of the nagging dialog rang too familiar. Is that how I sound? Am I like that? Will my children grow up to be bitter and resentful and use dinner theater as a psychological outlet? My mind began cataloging my children’s creative catharsis. I have one daughter who draws nothing but dragons. Do they all have hazel eyes? My other daughter reads, writes and draws strictly fantasy. Is that her anti-mommy alternative universe? My son likes soccer. Is the ball my head? I hated Tennessee. How dare he air out his dirty laundry on stage! How dare he write plays from Freud's couch and publicly point a finger at the woman who gave him life and only wanted proper digestion and posture for her son! I can’t remember what I thought of Williams’ work when my teen-age brain tried to absorb high frequency literature. I probably would have thought, “That lady is a freak. Get over yourself and lay off already.” But, now it was different. I am a Mrs. Williams of sorts. I haven’t been abandoned by my husband (yet), and I was raised western scrapper rather than southern debutante. But, I'm a mom and I tell my kids to eat their vegetables, sit up straight and tell me the truth about where they go and what they do. I encourage them to have goals and aspirations that will eventually get them out of my house and provide funds for my luxurious suite in a senility ward. Shame on you Tennessee Williams! Since you sold out and cashed in on your mother’s sanity I hope her grave is marked with a very expensive headstone.
A few days after attending the play I witnessed a contrasting family sample. At a writer’s conference I listened as a successful new author and daughter of a world renowned self-help guru raved over her brilliant up-bringing, crediting the application of her father’s principles as key to her success. The father offered a brief cameo at the end of her remarks brimming with pride over his trophy of accomplished parenting. I was about to retch in solidarity for Mrs. Williams and every other malfunctioning mother when these two family displays collided in my brain. As father and daughter gushed and hugged all the way to the bank, I stopped hating Tennessee Williams. I quit feeling sorry for his mother. I realized that the parenting end result was the same in both cases, wasn’t’ it? The trophy child and Ursula's offspring both achieved success! I suddenly realized I could stop contributing to my kids' trust funds. I could tear up the frivolous will that divvies up the residue of my pathetic life. What am I so worried about? Whether I possess the midas touch or poison apple of parenting, my creative spawn can exploit whatever crap I fill their brains and behaviors with and make a truckload! Whether my kids hit the circuit with the gothic novel Reign of Dark Mummy, or produce the musical Kari the Good Fairy, either way they’ll get to meet Oprah. So let the dragons fly! Let the fantasty novels flow! Kick the ball, baby because our family is open for business!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Age of Accountability
From the time I was a sunbeam doing jazz hands and spouting “Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree” at top of my irreverent little lungs, I have been taught that the age of accountability is eight years old. By that time you have hopefully outgrown the worst of childhood mischief, like stuffing your underwear full of dinner mints while your father pays at the register of a restaurant. You can still do stuff like that, but at eight years old your ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card is gone and you must account for such actions. I never questioned this doctrine until I had an experience this summer that made me wonder. I know that sounds bold since I’m not a prophet, seer or revelator. On my best behavior I barely tip the scale as a mediocre member. I didn’t receive this insight through vision, I had this spiritual epiphany during a much more sacred event: A Triathlon.
In case you haven’t been bitten by the bug yet, you should know that triathlons are The Rage of the Middle-aged. When people hit mid-life they used to do the normal things like bleach their hair, drink heavily or have an affair. Those good ol’ days are gone. Now, for some reason, you hit thirty or forty-something and have an uncontrollable urge to simultaneously master three sport venues and pay good money to over-exert yourself wearing sparse spandex.
Two years ago in a freakish fit of overconfidence I succumbed and did a couple of sprint-length tri’s. I was already an avid biker, my daughter coached me through some swim stroke basics, and though I loathe running I figured I could put one foot in front of the other to complete the 5K. I didn’t set any records and avoided drowning despite the violently thrashing swimmer in front of me, but with my age scrawled in permanent marker on my calf I crossed the finish line alive. I admit, I was pretty proud of myself. I was also pretty sure I never wanted to train for a tri again. My bike and I are intimate and I had no desire to step out on it again. I resumed my usual exercise regime and let the leg marking fade into the sunset.
For two years now I’ve been perfectly content with my low-end athleticism. Then, this spring a good friend of mine called and said he wouldn’t be my friend any more if I didn’t sign up for a tri with him. He knew I had ‘tried’ before and he knows I don’t have very many friends, so he used this information against me and coerced me into dusting off my tria-tard.
Who knew I was still so susceptible to peer pressure? As I registered online I could hardly believe the wallet-gauging amount I was paying to engage in organized torture just to keep a friend I now hated more and more with every air-sucking lap. So, why did I decide to tri again? First of all, as a tri virgin my friend had decided to go for the Olympic length and I wanted to see him get his padded shorts kicked. (We’re really close friends.) Secondly, most of my days are filled with dishes, laundry, school principal meetings, etc. and every so often I feel a need to set down my mop and check my moxy levels.
My training regime was fairly loose: bike two days a week, swim two, run two, working up to full lengths. My friend emailed me a high-tech training spread sheet. Did I mention he is seriously over-achieverish? I emailed back, “Dude, you are into this way more than I am.” My goal: finish alive.
At 4:30 a.m. on the day of the tri my alarm went off and I immediately decided I could make it through life without friends. We pulled into the parking lot next to a sporty SUV that had the license plate “TRI CHICK” on it. (I warned you these things are becoming cult-like!) Unfortunately, I left my switch blade at home so I couldn’t slash her tires, but I imagined a target on the back of her perky blond head as she bounded toward registration. This tri differed from the others I had done in that the swim was open water in a reservoir. Luckily I had the smarts to practice an open water swim one time before the actual tri. It’s a good thing I did because I discovered something important: I’m afraid of open water swimming. A week before the tri I found myself in the middle of a reservoir floating on my back trying mentally to find my happy place to stop the hyperventilating. I had no idea how disorienting it is to not be able to see the bottom. Without the pool lane lines to keep my brain occupied it started entertaining itself with images of giant catfish latching onto my face or a dead body floating up through the murky abyss.
I tried to block out the trial run fiasco as I pulled on my rubber suffocation suit and stared out at the official buoy that seemed eons away. I joined the rest of my heat (suckers) in the water and when the horn blew I dove in hoping the dead body in the water wouldn’t be mine. Halfway to the buoy I was praying for a giant catfish to come and swallow me whole. I somehow managed my way around the lake, breezed through the bike (it’s my favorite), but about a mile into the run I hit the wall. In moments of great pain I become the most philosophical. Why am I doing this? Why are any of us doing this? What is it we are trying to prove? Through blurry vision I looked at the ages marked on the calves of those ahead of me and those who passed me, which were many, and the revelation occurred: The age of accountability is not eight years old. The age of accountability is 37, or 40, or 52, or whatever age it is that makes you have enough regret about life that makes you think that doing a triathlon will make it all better somehow. As you swim mind-numbing laps you think about all the wasted brain space occupied with memorized sit-com dialogs. As your rickety knees pound the pavement you think of landfills full of the empty Hostess boxes you’ve contributed. When you squish into clothes tighter than someone your age should ever wear in public you think of the degree you never finished, the business venture that failed, thoughtless words you uttered, failed relationships, unvisited islands, wayward children, deprived childhoods, pesticide toxins, global warming . . . on and on, etc. etc! And so we swim and bike and run and hope that across that finish line is a sense of accomplishment and empowerment to make peace with what we can’t change in the past.
So, I crossed the finish line. On the other side of it was my family, some friends, a drink of water and a cookie.
No regrets.
In case you haven’t been bitten by the bug yet, you should know that triathlons are The Rage of the Middle-aged. When people hit mid-life they used to do the normal things like bleach their hair, drink heavily or have an affair. Those good ol’ days are gone. Now, for some reason, you hit thirty or forty-something and have an uncontrollable urge to simultaneously master three sport venues and pay good money to over-exert yourself wearing sparse spandex.
Two years ago in a freakish fit of overconfidence I succumbed and did a couple of sprint-length tri’s. I was already an avid biker, my daughter coached me through some swim stroke basics, and though I loathe running I figured I could put one foot in front of the other to complete the 5K. I didn’t set any records and avoided drowning despite the violently thrashing swimmer in front of me, but with my age scrawled in permanent marker on my calf I crossed the finish line alive. I admit, I was pretty proud of myself. I was also pretty sure I never wanted to train for a tri again. My bike and I are intimate and I had no desire to step out on it again. I resumed my usual exercise regime and let the leg marking fade into the sunset.
For two years now I’ve been perfectly content with my low-end athleticism. Then, this spring a good friend of mine called and said he wouldn’t be my friend any more if I didn’t sign up for a tri with him. He knew I had ‘tried’ before and he knows I don’t have very many friends, so he used this information against me and coerced me into dusting off my tria-tard.
Who knew I was still so susceptible to peer pressure? As I registered online I could hardly believe the wallet-gauging amount I was paying to engage in organized torture just to keep a friend I now hated more and more with every air-sucking lap. So, why did I decide to tri again? First of all, as a tri virgin my friend had decided to go for the Olympic length and I wanted to see him get his padded shorts kicked. (We’re really close friends.) Secondly, most of my days are filled with dishes, laundry, school principal meetings, etc. and every so often I feel a need to set down my mop and check my moxy levels.
My training regime was fairly loose: bike two days a week, swim two, run two, working up to full lengths. My friend emailed me a high-tech training spread sheet. Did I mention he is seriously over-achieverish? I emailed back, “Dude, you are into this way more than I am.” My goal: finish alive.
At 4:30 a.m. on the day of the tri my alarm went off and I immediately decided I could make it through life without friends. We pulled into the parking lot next to a sporty SUV that had the license plate “TRI CHICK” on it. (I warned you these things are becoming cult-like!) Unfortunately, I left my switch blade at home so I couldn’t slash her tires, but I imagined a target on the back of her perky blond head as she bounded toward registration. This tri differed from the others I had done in that the swim was open water in a reservoir. Luckily I had the smarts to practice an open water swim one time before the actual tri. It’s a good thing I did because I discovered something important: I’m afraid of open water swimming. A week before the tri I found myself in the middle of a reservoir floating on my back trying mentally to find my happy place to stop the hyperventilating. I had no idea how disorienting it is to not be able to see the bottom. Without the pool lane lines to keep my brain occupied it started entertaining itself with images of giant catfish latching onto my face or a dead body floating up through the murky abyss.
I tried to block out the trial run fiasco as I pulled on my rubber suffocation suit and stared out at the official buoy that seemed eons away. I joined the rest of my heat (suckers) in the water and when the horn blew I dove in hoping the dead body in the water wouldn’t be mine. Halfway to the buoy I was praying for a giant catfish to come and swallow me whole. I somehow managed my way around the lake, breezed through the bike (it’s my favorite), but about a mile into the run I hit the wall. In moments of great pain I become the most philosophical. Why am I doing this? Why are any of us doing this? What is it we are trying to prove? Through blurry vision I looked at the ages marked on the calves of those ahead of me and those who passed me, which were many, and the revelation occurred: The age of accountability is not eight years old. The age of accountability is 37, or 40, or 52, or whatever age it is that makes you have enough regret about life that makes you think that doing a triathlon will make it all better somehow. As you swim mind-numbing laps you think about all the wasted brain space occupied with memorized sit-com dialogs. As your rickety knees pound the pavement you think of landfills full of the empty Hostess boxes you’ve contributed. When you squish into clothes tighter than someone your age should ever wear in public you think of the degree you never finished, the business venture that failed, thoughtless words you uttered, failed relationships, unvisited islands, wayward children, deprived childhoods, pesticide toxins, global warming . . . on and on, etc. etc! And so we swim and bike and run and hope that across that finish line is a sense of accomplishment and empowerment to make peace with what we can’t change in the past.
So, I crossed the finish line. On the other side of it was my family, some friends, a drink of water and a cookie.
No regrets.
Friday, September 4, 2009
'Julie & Julia' & Kari
I saw the movie "Julie & Julia" tonight. For those of you who have not seen it, it's the true story of a woman who is about to turn 30, working a Dilbert job feeling like she's hit a dead end because she has nothing to show for her life. Then, like the rest of us please-pluck-me-out-of-obscurity-via-my-clever-blog zealots, she decided to write her way out of her slump. She takes on the project of cooking the 500+ recipes in Julia Child's famous cookbook over the course of one year. She cooks and blogs, dresses a duck, kills her first lobster and almost loses her husband. During this story we also simultaneously follow Julia Child's story of becoming a cooking icon. Both of these women were looking for something meaningful to do with their lives. Both of these women struggle through a personal journey of finding themselves and somehow fumble into fame and fortune. They both had trials and triumphs, and they both had a fabulous, pioneering idea that set them apart from the pack.
I was both inspired and deflated. Inspired because I, too am a wannabe writer who wants my voice to resonate beyond the obscenities I yell into my pillow and this story offers proof that it does happen. Deflated because I realized I'm a creative cul-de-sac. I'm not a brilliant chef or a blogging mentor of a brilliant chef. I don't dream about vampire-human relationships or scribble ideas about wizard academies on napkins. I write about the hap-hazards of inept mothering. I'm just one of a bazillion Erma Bombeck copies trying to laugh my way through the ruination of human offspring. My last blog was almost four months ago. Why? Because, unlike Julie or Julia I have dependents who need life sustenance. Julie blew off her husband to cook and blog and it almost ended her marriage, but he's an adult who was behaving like a baby just because he wasn't getting any. I have real babies who need their mother because if Child Protective Services shows up and takes my kids away then I'll have nothing to write about. A twice-baked potato is better than no potato.
The movie did touch on Julia Child's anguish over being childless, which made me ache for her. Her husband was wealthy, her household was staffed and she was looking for something to do with herself and, boy, did she ever find it! Her recipes were her babies and they grew up and turned out beautifully. But, I'm sure she would have traded it all for motherhood.
I'm not Julie or Julia, and I would hardly trade being a mom for anything, but, like them, I am searching for some fulfillment all my own. So, on occasion (hopefully more often than quarterly) I'll neglect my household and keep writing. Who knows? Somewhere out in the cyber-universe there might be someone interested in knowing why I cried this morning when I turned on the TV to see my sister-in-law (mother of six boys) nominated on KSL News 'High Five' for voluntarily organizing a neighborhood carpool that safely and efficiently shuttles 60 kids to school. I cried because, while Super Mom accepted a day spa certificate for saintlike service she offers above and beyond the demands of a large family, I was administering fiber capsules and a mouth-puckering remedy to my daughter to purge a parasite out of her colon. Apparently, I'm the creator of mediocre ideas and kids who go out to the barn and lick our horses. Hey, it's no sufle, but it's what's cookin' up at my house today. Bon appetit!
I was both inspired and deflated. Inspired because I, too am a wannabe writer who wants my voice to resonate beyond the obscenities I yell into my pillow and this story offers proof that it does happen. Deflated because I realized I'm a creative cul-de-sac. I'm not a brilliant chef or a blogging mentor of a brilliant chef. I don't dream about vampire-human relationships or scribble ideas about wizard academies on napkins. I write about the hap-hazards of inept mothering. I'm just one of a bazillion Erma Bombeck copies trying to laugh my way through the ruination of human offspring. My last blog was almost four months ago. Why? Because, unlike Julie or Julia I have dependents who need life sustenance. Julie blew off her husband to cook and blog and it almost ended her marriage, but he's an adult who was behaving like a baby just because he wasn't getting any. I have real babies who need their mother because if Child Protective Services shows up and takes my kids away then I'll have nothing to write about. A twice-baked potato is better than no potato.
The movie did touch on Julia Child's anguish over being childless, which made me ache for her. Her husband was wealthy, her household was staffed and she was looking for something to do with herself and, boy, did she ever find it! Her recipes were her babies and they grew up and turned out beautifully. But, I'm sure she would have traded it all for motherhood.
I'm not Julie or Julia, and I would hardly trade being a mom for anything, but, like them, I am searching for some fulfillment all my own. So, on occasion (hopefully more often than quarterly) I'll neglect my household and keep writing. Who knows? Somewhere out in the cyber-universe there might be someone interested in knowing why I cried this morning when I turned on the TV to see my sister-in-law (mother of six boys) nominated on KSL News 'High Five' for voluntarily organizing a neighborhood carpool that safely and efficiently shuttles 60 kids to school. I cried because, while Super Mom accepted a day spa certificate for saintlike service she offers above and beyond the demands of a large family, I was administering fiber capsules and a mouth-puckering remedy to my daughter to purge a parasite out of her colon. Apparently, I'm the creator of mediocre ideas and kids who go out to the barn and lick our horses. Hey, it's no sufle, but it's what's cookin' up at my house today. Bon appetit!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Testimony & Tuna Fish
Lessons on life often come in odd ways, which is my personal preference. I’m the ward Primary Chorister and during a recent Singing Time presentation a learning experience spontaneously came full circle. I was mid-production and in need of some chalk. I quickly ventured looking for some in the cabinet under the Primary pulpit. I quickly scoured the cabinet contents: pencils, paper, thumbtacks, crayons . . . can of albacore tuna? Even with the church's emphasis on food storage, a single can of tuna under the pulpit is a fish out of water. Forgetting that forty people were in the room waiting for me to produce chalk and continue, I started laughing. I quickly caught myself and resumed. The mostly-juvenile congregation seemed unphased by my little outburst since I've had this calling about a year now and they've grown accustomed to Sister Rich's little oddities.
I don't know why the can of tuna was there. Maybe someone was teaching about the loaves and fishes and there were leftovers. Maybe someone is taking their food storage very seriously and totes spare canned goods in their church bag and one escaped. Whatever the reason for the can of tuna, it made me laugh because it provided a perfect irony of a recent dilemma that had been vexing me.
As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints we strive for perfection, but are far from perfect. We are sinners labeled as saints because together we are doing a great work despite our mortal imperfections. While many wonderful, even miraculous things happen in the church there is plenty that goes on that is, at times, a little fishy. We all have different backgrounds, understandings, personalities and quirks that we bring to the organization. We are taught, trained and counseled about how to run the kingdom, but as we serve and follow one another in a church of lay ministry sometimes there is resemblance to the court jester act.
I admit, sometimes church is difficult. We've all sat through testimony meetings of travelogues, thankfulmonies, family situation TMI and anatomically incorrect health reports. (My personal favorite is a misspoken use of 'scrotum' for 'sternum'.) We've endured sacrament meeting talk chastisements and unauthorized calls to repentance, discussions on local water rights and Three Nephite sightings. Parents don't even want to know what children raise their hands and reveal boisterously in Primary and Relief Society's "60 Seconds of Good News," let's not even go there.
Of course, things won't always go status quo, but when I attend my meetings and activities and serve in callings I do hope for some soul enlightenment. It's hard when I need my cup refilled and I return home even more parched than before, which is how I was feeling lately. It seemed like there was an overage of albacore antics going on and I was struggling. Lest anyone reach for the protruding beam in my eye, I freely acknowledge personal guilt. In my own spiritual journey I have certainly dumped my share of dreck into the pit, which is part of the issue. I wondered how often I was the camel hogging the watering hole when someone came to drink. Are any of us getting anything meaningful out of these religious rituals while we all take our turn spiritually spewing?
Then it happened; some wonderful, insightful experiences answered my questions, despite my unworthiness to receive them. I was listening to a General Conference talk by President Henry B. Eyring. He spoke about the Savior's ministry and how he spent his time among sinners, lunatics, those possessed by evil spirits, people who were sick physically/mentally/emotionally/spiritually. I realized this description could easily describe any congregation in the modern church and each of us has probably been in any/all of these states at one time or another. We're all there, just like in the Savior's time: a time-warp truckload of rubber-roomies relishing in the company of the promised Savior because we know he has what we need. He loved them and he loves us, even in our dysfunction. There is something to gain in our religious practice even when it contains a little looney-palooza at times.
I was blessed with two other experiences to emphasize the point. (Being spiritually dense, Heavenly Father has to use remedial techniques with me.) I was reading the Doctrine and Covenants Children's Reader with my son and we just happened to be on the story of the night the prophet Joseph Smith was dragged from his home by a mob to be beaten, poisoned, tarred and feathered and left for dead. His family and friends cared for him through the night. The next morning he presided and spoke to a congregation that included members of the mob. When we finished reading the story my son asked me why I was crying. I had been humbled. No matter what happened the night before, no matter who was going to be at church in the morning, Joseph would attend to his church responsibilities humbly serving God and His children.
The finale came from the Book of Mormon. (I marvel when, in my personal scripture study, I just happen to be on a chapter that offers answers to a current concern!) I was reading the writings of Mormon who was called at a very young age to lead a band of wicked people into a series of fruitless battles. At one point he was so frustrated he refused to take part anymore. (I'm sure we can all relate.) He later repented of his refusal and returned to be their leader. Mormon didn't return to help his people because they or their cause had changed for the better. In fact, they were even more wicked than before! Mormon served them for the change that would take place in himself. He exercised faith in what he didn't yet understand believing in God's promises for him in the end.
Whom I serve and the situation I serve in is unimportant. It's my own journey towards becoming Christlike that matters. I had been spiritually fed a three course meal with a side of tuna.
I don't know why the can of tuna was there. Maybe someone was teaching about the loaves and fishes and there were leftovers. Maybe someone is taking their food storage very seriously and totes spare canned goods in their church bag and one escaped. Whatever the reason for the can of tuna, it made me laugh because it provided a perfect irony of a recent dilemma that had been vexing me.
As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints we strive for perfection, but are far from perfect. We are sinners labeled as saints because together we are doing a great work despite our mortal imperfections. While many wonderful, even miraculous things happen in the church there is plenty that goes on that is, at times, a little fishy. We all have different backgrounds, understandings, personalities and quirks that we bring to the organization. We are taught, trained and counseled about how to run the kingdom, but as we serve and follow one another in a church of lay ministry sometimes there is resemblance to the court jester act.
I admit, sometimes church is difficult. We've all sat through testimony meetings of travelogues, thankfulmonies, family situation TMI and anatomically incorrect health reports. (My personal favorite is a misspoken use of 'scrotum' for 'sternum'.) We've endured sacrament meeting talk chastisements and unauthorized calls to repentance, discussions on local water rights and Three Nephite sightings. Parents don't even want to know what children raise their hands and reveal boisterously in Primary and Relief Society's "60 Seconds of Good News," let's not even go there.
Of course, things won't always go status quo, but when I attend my meetings and activities and serve in callings I do hope for some soul enlightenment. It's hard when I need my cup refilled and I return home even more parched than before, which is how I was feeling lately. It seemed like there was an overage of albacore antics going on and I was struggling. Lest anyone reach for the protruding beam in my eye, I freely acknowledge personal guilt. In my own spiritual journey I have certainly dumped my share of dreck into the pit, which is part of the issue. I wondered how often I was the camel hogging the watering hole when someone came to drink. Are any of us getting anything meaningful out of these religious rituals while we all take our turn spiritually spewing?
Then it happened; some wonderful, insightful experiences answered my questions, despite my unworthiness to receive them. I was listening to a General Conference talk by President Henry B. Eyring. He spoke about the Savior's ministry and how he spent his time among sinners, lunatics, those possessed by evil spirits, people who were sick physically/mentally/emotionally/spiritually. I realized this description could easily describe any congregation in the modern church and each of us has probably been in any/all of these states at one time or another. We're all there, just like in the Savior's time: a time-warp truckload of rubber-roomies relishing in the company of the promised Savior because we know he has what we need. He loved them and he loves us, even in our dysfunction. There is something to gain in our religious practice even when it contains a little looney-palooza at times.
I was blessed with two other experiences to emphasize the point. (Being spiritually dense, Heavenly Father has to use remedial techniques with me.) I was reading the Doctrine and Covenants Children's Reader with my son and we just happened to be on the story of the night the prophet Joseph Smith was dragged from his home by a mob to be beaten, poisoned, tarred and feathered and left for dead. His family and friends cared for him through the night. The next morning he presided and spoke to a congregation that included members of the mob. When we finished reading the story my son asked me why I was crying. I had been humbled. No matter what happened the night before, no matter who was going to be at church in the morning, Joseph would attend to his church responsibilities humbly serving God and His children.
The finale came from the Book of Mormon. (I marvel when, in my personal scripture study, I just happen to be on a chapter that offers answers to a current concern!) I was reading the writings of Mormon who was called at a very young age to lead a band of wicked people into a series of fruitless battles. At one point he was so frustrated he refused to take part anymore. (I'm sure we can all relate.) He later repented of his refusal and returned to be their leader. Mormon didn't return to help his people because they or their cause had changed for the better. In fact, they were even more wicked than before! Mormon served them for the change that would take place in himself. He exercised faith in what he didn't yet understand believing in God's promises for him in the end.
Whom I serve and the situation I serve in is unimportant. It's my own journey towards becoming Christlike that matters. I had been spiritually fed a three course meal with a side of tuna.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Mother of All Holidays
Whoever decided Mother's Day should be on Sunday was not LDS. This is the one day a week when every family member has to be cleaned and dressed up better than usual and arrive somewhere all at the same time, preferably on time and be prepared to fulfill whatever collective callings/responsibilities you have for church that day. While other mothers are perusing around a chocolate fondue fountain at the local bistro's Mother's Day brunch buffet and using their gift cards to break the sabbath at the mall, we are slapping Sunbeams around while a raw roast sits in the crock pot we forgot to turn on back home.
And let us not forget the crown jewel of the day, the glowing tributes to motherhood in sacrament meeting, such as the one given in my ward today. A young man paid homage to his mother's sacrifice of giving him life with a dazzling description of his emergency c-section birth where he "got ripped from his mother's belly like gutting a fish." He then acknowledged his mother's many responsibilities with this lovely gem, "My mother is always running around like a head with its chicken cut off." I'm sure this fine young man meant for the fish guts and missing chicken to be some sort of gift of appreciation for his mom. I'm sure she sat in the audience with tears in her eyes, so proud that she raised a son with such vivid storytelling and memorable quote-making abilities.
So, Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there. Here's hoping you don't come home to a cold roast, that your chicken remains securely adhered and that you don't feel like a gutted fish on Mother's Day.
And let us not forget the crown jewel of the day, the glowing tributes to motherhood in sacrament meeting, such as the one given in my ward today. A young man paid homage to his mother's sacrifice of giving him life with a dazzling description of his emergency c-section birth where he "got ripped from his mother's belly like gutting a fish." He then acknowledged his mother's many responsibilities with this lovely gem, "My mother is always running around like a head with its chicken cut off." I'm sure this fine young man meant for the fish guts and missing chicken to be some sort of gift of appreciation for his mom. I'm sure she sat in the audience with tears in her eyes, so proud that she raised a son with such vivid storytelling and memorable quote-making abilities.
So, Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there. Here's hoping you don't come home to a cold roast, that your chicken remains securely adhered and that you don't feel like a gutted fish on Mother's Day.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Wishful Thinking
The other night my husband was reading a life balance/financial planning book called "My Three Wishes" written by an inspiring and brilliant friend of ours.
I inquired: "What are his three wishes?"
Husband: "I haven't gotten that far yet."
My thoughtless blurtation: "My three wishes would be to have clear skin, a faster metabolism and my calling and election made sure."
Husband: "Is that the exact order you would like them in?"
My response: "Yes."
Pondering my hasty response I realized that the shallowness of the first two wishes probably makes me ineligible for the third wish.
I inquired: "What are his three wishes?"
Husband: "I haven't gotten that far yet."
My thoughtless blurtation: "My three wishes would be to have clear skin, a faster metabolism and my calling and election made sure."
Husband: "Is that the exact order you would like them in?"
My response: "Yes."
Pondering my hasty response I realized that the shallowness of the first two wishes probably makes me ineligible for the third wish.
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