Mar 3, 2012 |
You know that still, small voice we all have in our heads?
Yeah. Notsomuch.
Mine decided to shout at me over the last 36 hours.
And I’m so glad it did.
Once or twice a week, I get together for an early morning Starbuck’s with my VIP Julie. We talk about our kids, her husband, my writing, life, God, coffee, cooking, the weather… we talk and talk and talk and when we’re done… well, we’re never done. So we get together often. At least we try.
Last week we each cancelled so Monday was going to be our first Girl Talk Time in two weeks. You know we were chompin’ at the bit to meet up with over 300 hours of what I like to call “shtuff” to talk about. We usually have less than an hour and that wasn’t enough so we set another meet up for yesterday.
But when yesterday came, my heart wasn’t in it. I really just wanted to cancel. But then I’d miss hearing how this story ended or that one began and all the in-betweens. So I sent her a text. We have it down to a science. One sends “Starbucks?” and the other replies either “Yup” or “Can’t”. We save the rest for the face-to-face chat. Yesterday, I initiated. And to my surprise and relief, her response was the negative. She forgot she had another appointment, so we rescheduled.
I was relieved. Because I really was tired. And had errands to do. So this worked out fine for me. And I didn’t feel let down. The fact that I made the effort even when I didn’t really want to, made me feel better. I heard that still, small voice get louder. I heard it cheerfully say, “At least you tried!”
Today I had grand plans to leave resumes all over town. Due to a minor comedy of errors my schedule went kablooey (technical term, that is!) and I was only able to drop one.
There it was again. “At least you tried!” I felt good about my efforts. Even if it doesn’t show. Even if I’m still unemployed. Even if potential employers aren’t looking at my resume this evening. At least I tried. And in that, I find satisfaction and completion. I can’t make anyone hire me. But at least I can get noticed.
It’s the same thing with my writing. I may not be a Nobel prize winning poet. I’m okay with that. Maybe my books won’t sell in the millions and buy me a mansion. While that would be okay with me, it’s not the end of the world if it doesn’t happen. It’s not the end.
And that’s when it hit me. It’s not so much crossing the finish line that defines a person. It’s how we get there that counts. I have a brand new understanding of being told that adage as a kid, “It’s not whether you win or lose. It’s how you play the game.” I never truly got that before. But now I do.
And I’m determined to play hard and authentic and genuinely. I’m determined to play the game.
Because the end result just means there’s a new goal. It never really means the end. So why not make the most out of getting there? I can’t even start the race if I don’t get out of bed. So I have to at least try.
I’ll never be published if I don’t write the book.
I’ll never find a day job if I don’t go out and look.
… well, I didn’t mean for that to rhyme, but as long as I’m at it, here’s a new one.
I’ll call it Journey:
If I fail, I learn from mistakes.
If I win, the glories I’ll take.
Step One is to plan.
Step Two is to try.
Okay, seriously. I can’t seem to focus enough to finish this great little inspirational poem right now. But you know what’s going through my head?
No joke.
You got it.
At least I tried.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Mar 2, 2012 |
It’s not the first time such a tragedy has shattered its way into our living rooms, our lives. Unfortunately, we also know it won’t be the last.
The news broke sparsely at first: another school shooting. Another random victim. Another suspect at large.
The information trickled in slowly and even now, days later, the aftermath is still confusing, still missing pieces.
But what I think I know, based on what the media has told me, is this:
TJ Lane was bullied.
He grew up with rough parents.
He didn’t get the help he obviously so desperately needed.
He took a gun to school.
And he killed Daniel Parmertor, Demetrius Hewlin, and Russell King, Jr, as well as wounded several other students.
He fled the scene, was pursued, surrendered and is going to be tried for murder.
Please don’t misunderstand what I’m going to say. Because I believe there should be legal and civil consequences for criminal action, especially when such actions result in the ultimate price. I believe there needs to be justice for the murders he committed.
But something about TJ’s story, as I’ve heard it so far, has brought me to tears.
I often see sadness in the news these days; but this story is different. I let myself feel more deeply. I let myself cry without caution. I don’t want to be strong against this fear and sadness. I don’t want to be desensitized to this type of situation or immune to these emotions.
I don’t want to stop thinking, if only…
I think he never really had a chance. I think he was doomed from birth to live in tragedy. I think he was discarded and not paid attention to when it should have been critical to listen to him. I think he was taught at a very young age to not ask for help. I think he learned a twisted lesson about what’s right and wrong, and he learned it far too late.
I think too many people put in half an effort and not enough people put in a full one. I think, ultimately, he was just alone, a lonely guy with no one to help or direct him.
I can’t imagine the horrors, the agony, the numbness that would drive a young man to feel he had no voice to be heard except the bang of his bullets. What evils could well up inside him to the point of taking such drastic actions? Was there any point when he had the tiniest glimmer of hope that he’d be caught and stopped? How lonely was he, how lost, to have planned out such cold-blooded slaughter of other kids?
And for the loneliness that I think he must have felt for most of his life, I cry. I cry a lot. I cry for the boy he never was, and the man he will never be. I cry not for the loss of his childhood, but for the obvious absence of it.
A healthy, well-adjusted, mentally stable person doesn’t wake up one morning and shoot people. This was a chaos in the making for many, many years. And I cry. Because someone, somewhere, must have seen something. And didn’t care.
And all he wanted was someone to care.
And I cry for the three students who died as a result of his downfall. That they suffered for hours, being worked on and hooked up and unplugged. How hard they labored for their breaths. How softly their families sobbed for them.
I can’t imagine the emotions any of them felt that day and continue to feel.
Because I’m so far removed from the situation. I’m on the other side of the nation. I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m not personally connected.
But I’m personally affected.
There’s a world of hurt in TJ Lane and what he’s done.
And for him, and his victims, and even the survivors who have to live in the aftermath ~ I cry. And I keep crying.
And I hope I always will.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Mar 1, 2012 |
I’m not always good at meal planning. I forget to defrost the meat in time. Some days I’m too hungry to wait an hour or more for cooking. I get so busy that I just throw quick things together.
And you know what? I hate it. I had the three-week virus-turned-cough that drained any energy from me for days on end. February was also an otherwise busy month and I missed having dinners ready shortly after Dot got home from school. The kind that also provides those really good leftovers instead of “whatever-you-can-find” foods. Some days I didn’t cook at all and we opted for the semi-healthy fish taco take-out … or worse. Fast food at its finest.
And you know what? I. Hated. It.
I know I have enough in my dry goods pantry and in the freezer to make meals for the month. To be good at it would just take a little strategic planning. And fun.
So here we go.
Invariably, whenever I make a monthly meal plan, it gets waylaid by Day Ten. Things come up. Plans change. And the refrigerated meat I bought three days earlier is now starting to turn. Eww, right?!
So I came up with this great idea. One that will add family fun to the March meals. One that will make sure I take the meat out of the freezer in time. One that incorporates side dishes too.
First, I made sure whatever foods I bought at the first of the month could either be frozen or stored in the pantry. I also kept an “allowance” available for the periodic fresh shopping throughout the month.
Then I had to figure out how many meals to plan for. This is where my basic math skills come into play. Let’s see… 31 days in March. But we don’t always eat together at home. At least once a week, we eat at my mom’s. Twice a month we also eat out. That’s six days. About half of these meals will allow for next-day leftovers. So 31 minus six divided by two less leftovers… that’s just over two weeks worth of meals to really plan out. Round it up to three weeks to include a change of plans or extra meals for company… Hey, I can do that!
To make things more fun, I took some colored index cards and cut them in half. On each one, I wrote a main dish and side dish. For those meals that require fresh produce, I made a note on the bottom of the card so I’d be sure to stop at the store that day. I also noted whether this meal should provide leftovers (also good to know for the days we’re having company).
Once I started, I was amazed at how little time and effort it took to really make a meal plan for an entire month!
My plan is, each morning before we leave the house, I’ll let Dot pull a card from the Meal Jar, and whatever that card says is what I make for dinner that night. No exceptions. No trades. And no more excuses about not defrosting the meat on time. [The only exception would be if we’re having company which would necessitate a meal that offered more servings such as possible leftovers.]
With a little decorative label and a ribbon, my jar will be as pretty as it is functional.
I’m looking forward to a month of healthy, thought-out, ready to cook meals.
And you know what? I think I’m gonna love it.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Feb 29, 2012 |
Davy Jones is dead. For some of you, this means nothing. But for those of you who get me, who grew up in the 70’s, who liked bubblegum music before it was bubblegum music… it means everything.
Davy Jones is dead.
And I’ll never be the same.
My memories of the Monkees are far more than being a young girl sitting on the floor on summer afternoons watching the TV. More than rushing home from school in time to catch a snack while singing along. They are milestone moments: connected to events, feelings, growing, being.
And now all these memories and moments are rushing back in a flood. I haven’t been called “Mouse” for decades, until Chuck posted on my facebook wall with his sympathies. I haven’t sung “Daydream Believer” for months. And now I can’t stop.
For as long as I can remember, I was in love with Davy Jones. The two girls next door, another friend, and I each had our own favorite so there was never any fighting. I was the one who always got to pretend to be married to Davy. He was short. Cute. Adorable. And the lead singer. This boy was IT.
In sixth grade, they called me Mrs. Jones. In junior high, I didn’t care to outgrow my infatuation.
In high school we moved to California and I was filled with daydreams. I met my two best guy friends in my senior year (and they still kinda are), who in turn introduced me to their family and friends. I’ll never forget how often Debby, Shawna, Trinity and I used to walk the length of the Mall doing our “Monkees” walk. You know: arms around the shoulders, holding each other up, stepping right leg over the neighbor’s left… People had to get out of our way. Cuz we weren’t separating for anything.
In 1988, the Monkees had their 20th Anniversary Reunion Tour, sans Michael Nesbitt. My friend Traci had an extra ticket and guess who got to go! (Okay, I’m pretty sure I remember blackmailing her to get it, but hey… it worked.)
There we were, two young women who arrived hours before the concert at the Universal Amphitheatre in Hollywood. We arrived so early, in fact, that we beat security.
Yeah. You know where this is going…
We were too afraid to try to actually break into anywhere, but we learned to conveniently hover. In particular, right outside the secure parking entrance. Lo and behold, soon enough a tour bus pulled up. Unfortunately, we were on the driver’s side so we didn’t get to sneak around to the door until the occupants disembarked. By that time it was too late… or so we thought.
Traci and I argued about who’s cuter. I stood up for Davy, of course. She preferred Mike. But Mike wasn’t even at the concert, I told her, so he just loses points as a matter of principal. She still stood up for him. I admired that (but would never tell her!).
There were a few band members on the bus that we ended up chatting with. They weren’t allowed off the bus and there was no way we were going on, so it wasn’t a real conversation. But it was during a moment of “What? I can’t hear you?” and “Don’t you understand?” that we took a few steps back
and literally
bumped
into
Mickey Dolenz. MICKEY. DOLENZ. !!!
He was walking from another car into the building, and ever so politely apologized to us for us getting in his way. Seriously! I turned, and he’s inmyface. And all I could do was stammer something along the lines of “huhnnahuhnnana” to which he responded, “Sorry, excuse me.” And he walked around us. Which was followed by our girlish squeal. Many. Girlish. Squeals.
And then… (I know, like it couldn’t get any better, right?!) Peter Tork comes on scene from the other side of the bus. So we’re starting to realize this bus isn’t The Bus. It’s just a bus. The roadies had their laugh at us: two teenaged girls holding hands, squealing with delight, shrieking noise that only dogs can hear… I often wonder what we must have looked like.
We began to calm down and talk in normal pitch when, yup, you guessed it… a family comes walking by. A family! Really?! Here?! Ah, but it was obviously no ordinary family. As we glanced their way
my
heart
stopped.
Pretty sure I swooned as Davy Jones waved and said something. I can’t tell you what he said. I don’t remember. I’m not even sure I ever heard it over the blood rushing in my ears. I think it was something mundane like, “Hey”, or even “How are you?” before he turned and walked away. Who. Cares. Who cares what he said?! He spoke. To. Me. ME!!! Davy Jones finally acknowledged that I exist and we had a connection.
Life just doesn’t get any better.
Finally the big parking garage door opened to let the bus in so it rolled slowly away. Traci and I stood there, waiting for something more to happen. But there couldn’t be anything more. We’d seen all the Monkees there were to be seen. Mike wasn’t on tour. So no joy for Traci.
Oh, yeah?! Just as we decide to turn back toward the Amphitheatre a limo pulls up. A limo. A long, shiny, dark blue blackish limo. With personalized plates. Traci had been saying all along, Mike lives in L.A. How could he not join the Monkees this weekend? She held out hope, and it proved her right. I don’t remember what the license plate read. I know we never actually saw Mike in person. But we did scream at the limo and were greeted with a friendly wave wearing a ring that we recognized as one that Mike has worn in photographs.(It was later on the news that the Monkees reunion had a nice surprise when Michael Nesbitt joined them onstage!)
The concert was fantastic. We had nosebleed seats but we didn’t care. It was the time of our lives. Traci kept trying to tell me something about the people behind us. There were two guys and a girl. I couldn’t hear her over the music. Finally, one of the guys tapped me on the shoulder and said, “She’s talking about me.”
You know those moments that seem too good to be true? Here’s another one. Sitting behind us (which I always thought was weird, cuz you’d think they could afford better seating)… were Darrel Maury and Robert Pierce: “Mario” and “Bingo” from the TV show, “Joanie Loves Chachi”. And sitting next to them was Maureen McCormick and her husband. Marcia from “The Brady Bunch” was sitting behind us, talking to us! Robert invited us to the after-party and Darrel was all for it, but Maureen apologized, saying it was invitation only. Way to crush our dreams, Maureen… otherwise, they were all very nice.
We all talked about music, acting, dreams, California dreaming… I remember Robert asking how young we were; surely nobody born as late as us could really know the Monkees. Reruns, Robert. Reruns! When I told him I was born in 1968, he said that was a “Watershed Year” and asked if I knew what that meant. I admitted I did not. He explained that it meant a turning point, a critical moment when things begin to change. I always remembered this, because it made me feel important by association. I was born in a watershed year. I was going to be important. And someone else knew it. Thanks, Robert.
And then we went our separate ways.
On the ride home (Traci’s mom had picked us up), we played our cassette full blast with the windows rolled down and, I’m sure of it, made utter girlish fools of ourselves. But we didn’t care.
Shortly after leaving the concert, a limo drove tandem with us for a few miles. When we had to diverge, the rear window lowered, and Davy Jones waved and blew kisses at us.
Our night was complete.
***
But not our weekend.
Two days later, Traci heard that the Monkees were doing an autograph and photo session outside Licorice Pizza in Hollywood. Licorice Pizza was one of the greatest record selling stores. It was huge. Three stories tall. And they carried everything. Naturally we had to get new Monkees albums, so why not drive ninety miles and an hour and a half away to do so?
So we did. My first time driving on a freeway. Ever. And we drove all the way to Hollywood. It struck me when we got to the intersection of Hollywood & Vine. And Melrose Place… just like the TV Show. I was in awe.
We missed the Monkees, but not the car. We bought our records, and posed. This is me, in 1988:
We decided to see if we could make it to the concert again. They were sold out, but we figured if we went around back again, we could get in this time. Unfortunately, the security guards were already in place. We were sobbing. Sobbing! And this woman, dressed in a skirt and jacket, came over and asked to talk with us. Unbeknownst to us in our moment of drama, we were going to be on the Eleven O’Clock News. She asked why we were crying and we explained that we just “love them so much” that we had to see them again or our lives would be over, but they refused us. We were ultimately devastated, and there we were, pouring our hearts out to the local newscaster about it.
Sure wish I’d seen that interview. But when it aired… well…
You remember my history of California freeways? Yeah. They don’t like me much. Traci’s mom had told us, “When you’re heading down, just go west and south. When you’re coming home, go north and east.” But nobody told us which numbers to pay attention to. Oh, and did I mention, during this entire venture my mom thinks I’m only five minutes from home?!
The 101 North could be a lovely freeway… could be. But to two lost girls who find themselves in Ventura instead of Victorville… notsomuch.
We pulled into a Shell Gas Station, shaking as all get-out. The patrons and the clerk took mercy on us. We explained our foolish endeavors and were greeted with “aww’s” and “ohh’s”. Two mean each paid $5 to put gas in the car (for those who don’t realize, Ventura is three hours north of home for me. And I hadn’t planned on doing any driving that weekend to begin with, so the gas tank was a little thirsty by then). Another gentleman wrote out very easy directions that would get us home the “back way” which meant long empty desert roads, but quicker. (I kept those directions in my glovebox for 20 years. I think I might still have them somewhere…) And a married couple offered to stock us up on hot dogs and drinks. The sodas we took but we were took nervous to eat.
I called my mom from the gas station:
Me: “Uhm. Hi. It’s me.”
Mom: “Hi?”
Me: “Yeah. You wanted me home by ten. I’m not going to be home on time.” (It was a little after 9).
Mom: “Okay. Why?”
Me: “Well… we got a little lost.”
Mom: “What do you mean?”
Me [deep breath, one word]: “Traci-and-I-drove-down-to-Hollywood-to-see-the-Monkees-and-we-got-our-picture-taken-with-their-car-then-tried-to-go-to-their-concert-again-but-they-wouldn’t-let-us-in-so-we-started-home-and-got-lost-but-it’s-not-my-fault-because-her-mom-didn’t-give-us-the-right-directions.”
Mom: … … (not expletives, just breathing.)
Me: “Mom?”
Mom: “Where are you?”
Me: (gulp.) “What?”
Mom: “Where. Are. You.”
Me: “… Oh. We’re in Ventura. … … Mom. Mom?”
Mom: “Get in the car and come home. Now.”
Me: “Okay.”
Mom: “I’m waiting.”
Me: Gulp.
It didn’t take as long to get home as I thought it had. It seemed like it took all night. It was just over 90 minutes til I walked in my mom’s house.
I was grounded.
It was worth it.
Rest In Peace, Davy Jones. You were an integral part of my growing up.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
[This post was featured on BlogHer.com on February 29, 2012]
