Tonight

He's tall, thin, and bald. It's hard to tell if he shaves his head, or if he's actually lost his hair. He has one pierced ear and a long goatee that appears to be turning gray gradually because it doesn't match his brown mustache. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, not like Harry Potter. The lenses are narrow and rectangular. He carries with him a backpack slung over one shoulder, and in the opposite hand an extra large Tervis cup with a plastic loop, filled with ice water dangling from his index finger. Fashion conscious he does not appear to be. He sports simple black pants, a black t-shirt, and black shoes. He has a Band-aid on his thumb from a minor incident at work.

In steady stride during the downtown lunch hour, he's thinking about where he can get a quick bite to eat and avoid the pretentious business crowd. Soundgarden jams through his ear buds and he considers stopping for a large black coffee instead of having a real lunch, but he knows he'll never make it through the afternoon without at least a sandwich or a slice of pizza. He reaches into his pocket to see what remained from last night's tips after putting money aside for his cell phone bill. Eight bucks and change until tonight's shift, and it would have to do. He refused to use credit cards. It was his life's mission to live debt free, so he lived simply and made due hoping for better times in the future.

He stopped into Mario's for a slice of mushroom pizza and a Cherry Coke with extra ice. There were two small tables available, one by the window and one in the back corner. Usually he would elect to sit tucked away in the quiet corner where he could read, but today he sat by the window. The sun was shining and he liked to watch the passers by every now and then. It was fun to size them up in fifteen or twenty seconds, conjuring up the details of their lives. It was like turning strangers into book characters. He liked to read. Not Sports Illustrated and Playboy like a lot of his friends. He liked to read books. He was smart and well-read, but you wouldn't know it. People judge him by his appearance, and his appearance hardly screams bookworm. In most circles he talks about comic books, sports, or the latest on Cracked. But with a woman, now that's when his softer more intellectual side comes out.

He finished his pizza and looked down at his watch. It was too late to go home or get anything done, but too early to go into work. He took a few minutes to people watch and then went next door to the used bookstore to kill a half hour before work.

***

Across the street the light changes to red, and little miss perfect crosses to the other side. Her strategically streaked highlights were pulled back into a long, neat pony tail that swayed from side to side as she walked. She hustles briskly, pumping her tightly defined arm on one side and gripping her shoulder bag on the other. Fitted in her lemon yellow tank top, her perfect C's sit atop fat-free abs, and are supported by trim thighs and a firm ass. Her hands are manicured, nails in neutral color and she has the perfect tan. The kind you only get from a bottle. The shoulder bag is the latest from the J.Crew spring catalog, and in it she totes a face towel for the gym, a tall bottle of Evian, and an umbrella snug in the curved edge of the bag. Completing the ensemble are "flirty pink" toe nails and yellow patent leather flip flops to match her tank top.

She's just finished Pilates and is stopping as usual, for a green tea. Always tea, never coffee, sweetened with a single Splenda no matter how large the cup. She's trying to decide whether to head back to the gym after lunch to pick up a spin class, or to head home. She doesn't work. She's smart and educated, but she lives for her kids. Shopping, spin class, Pilates. They are all distractions from her life when her kids are at school. She has a perfect-on-paper attorney husband, but he's too busy screwing his secretary in the mail room, or the bathroom at Starbucks to care about what she does during the day. He thinks she doesn't know.

She decides to take her tea and walk around the block before returning to her car. The sun is shining and there's a comforting breeze in the air. It reminds her of the early days in her marriage when she could show up at the firm with lunch and lure her husband out for a picnic lunch in the park. He couldn't resist the chance to lay on a blanket under a tree with her.  He would kiss her behind the ear and she would pull to the side so they felt each other cheek to cheek. It was that intoxicating feel of a new relationship. A feeling she longed to have back. But things were different now. She wasn't sure how or why, but they were. She enjoys a brief stroll back around to Main Street where she arrived in front of her kids' favorite pizza place. She makes a mental note to order a pie for dinner tonight, and instead of spin class she decides she'll pick up some goodies at the bakery and surprise them when she picks them up from school.

***

     She put on her best in an attempt to keep her husband interested for their weekly Friday night date. While the nanny bathed her kids she pulled her hair up with her favorite clip, smiling because she knew how her husband loved to pull it out as he kissed her before they made love. She zipped up her Ralph Lauren dress, slipped on her peep toe sling back sandals, and clasped her pearls around her neck. The ones he gave her when they got married. She put on some lip gloss, and dabbed on some color to go with her flirty pink toes. She checked her phone and then checked out the window. No car. The time was 7:30 and there was no sign of her husband or his car. She sighed. Though she knew her marriage was a sham, Friday nights were sacred. It was the one night a week they left the house together, lived the happy couple facade, and came home together, alone. Most weeks it ended with an obligatory love-making session that sated them both well into Saturday morning. At least until he got up to play golf. Now it was almost 8:00, and he still wasn't home. Bastard. She checked her phone again. This time she noticed a text, several actually:

Mark: I know it's Friday...

Mark: I know it's our night, but I have a big case...

Mark: I gotta work. I'm sorry xoxo...

Mark: I'll make it up to you.

Working? She thought. Bullshit! He's working over his secretary on the table in the executive conference room. She threw her phone at the mirror and watched her reflection shatter into spiderweb cracks. She knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, but he never did it on Fridays. She had no intention of running down to the office to catch him in the act. Instead, she would file it away with all the other reasons she resented him. This one under H for heart breaker.

     After she wiped away her tears and allowed herself a few minutes of self-pity, she shed her country club dress, and neatly hung it back in the closet. She scanned the closet until just the right garment caught her eye. There, that's it. It was the sexiest little black dress she owned. She hadn't worn it since the days her husband was banging her on the conference table because he couldn't keep his hands off her when she'd bring over dinner during late night case prep. Barely there black silk that hung just slightly into her cleavage, and rested ever so gently on her nipples, it was no secret when she caught a chilly breeze or a hot glance. It dripped over her shoulders and down into a perfect U, puddling at the sway of her back. No need for extravagant jewelry, the dress said it all. Just a pair of simple diamond studs, black strappy sandals on a three inch heel, and absolutely no pearls. She looked hot and she knew it. She was ready for a night out. If her husband wouldn't take her, she would take herself.

     She stopped to admire herself in the shattered mirror and tried to smile. Instead, she took a deep breath, pushed down the lump in her throat, and choked back the tears. She turned and walked toward the door and stopped in her tracks. What am I doing? she thought. Where do I go? It had been almost twenty years since she went anywhere on a Friday night without Mark. She thought about the things and places she loved that he never agreed to. Dinner on the beach, open mic night at the coffee house, the jazz club downtown. He said no to all of it. Tonight the decision was hers and hers alone. She decided a glass of her favorite Merlot and a little jazz might be just what she needed. 

     She left the bedroom and walked downstairs tripping over a Barbie and a couple of Legos on her way, bracing herself on the rail at the last step. She kissed her children goodnight and reminded the nanny to make sure they brushed their teeth and were in bed by nine, no exceptions. The kids told their mommy she looked beautiful, probably assumed she was meeting Daddy, and hugged her tight. Then they exchanged I love you's. The nanny gave her assurances and smiled with a look that could only be exchanged from one woman to another as if to say, "You look smokin'."A nanny knows all a family's dirty laundry.

     She got into her Beemer and turned on the blue tooth. She made a last ditch effort to coax one of her friends out to join her. She pleaded saying only that they needed a girls' night out. Rachel and her husband had theater tickets, and Sam was packing for an early flight to Aruba the next morning. She stopped at a red light and checked herself in the rear view mirror. It looks like we're really flying solo tonight. She was a bit nervous, but fueled by her anger toward Mark she suddenly felt invigorated. The light turned green, she stepped on the gas, and she drove downtown.

     The city was bustling. Lots of people, lights from the signs and traffic signals, and music of all types emanating from the entrances of various venues, from restaurants and cigar bars to nightclubs and coffee houses. She valeted in front of the Blue Velvet Jazz Club, slipped her ticket in her purse, and approached the door looking to both sides as though she was worried about being spotted. It was as though her body was betraying her thoughts before she even had them.

     She scanned the room surveying it for something, anything familiar. Who was she kidding? She hadn't hit a jazz club since she got married. Mark hated jazz. The best way to ease into this she thought, was to get over to the bar and start drinking. Normally the smoke would annoy her, but tonight it brought her back to the days before Mark. She sort of welcomed it. It was a time when she got to make choices about where and how she would spend her weekends. Sometimes the club with her girlfriends. Once in awhile a weekend at the beach. Anyway, those days were long gone. She wiggled her way in and stepped up to the bar. Two men in business suits paid their tab and got up, but not before undressing her with their eyes. They left, so she sat down and the bar tender approached her right away. "What'll it be?" 

     "Merlot?" she asked as if seeking approval.

     "Sure." He poured her a glass of wine and centered it on a fresh cocktail napkin. "Just let me know if I can get you anything else." He moved across the bar tending to other customers, topping off glasses, collecting tips from those who had come and gone. But he couldn't help but keep one eye on her. The attractive woman at the end of the bar. Alone. He wondered if she was meeting someone. Girls night out with her friends? Not a chance he thought. A woman like that had to be meeting a man. She never lit a cigarette, never checked her watch or her phone. She just sat there sipping her Merlot and gazing around at the crowd. Not like someone searching for someone, more like someone searching for some thing. He was intrigued.

     "Another Merlot?" She looked down at her glass and twirled it by the stem. There was one swig left. She gulped it down and looked at him.

     "Sure." She finished the second glass a little quicker than the first and appeared to be a little more relaxed. She had a bit of a glow, and her eyes had that glazed over sparkle of a wine buzz. Still alone, she hadn't exchanged more than a few words with anyone who tried. She lifted her hand, and signaled him over for another drink. He nodded to acknowledge her request, but finished the final garnish on a couple of cocktails at the end of the bar.

     She looked like an old cliche. Every guy in the place was hitting on her and she was turning them all down. She appeared to be drowning her sorrows in a wine glass. He watched her from the far corner of the bar trying not to stare but he couldn't help himself. She was beautiful. She swayed gently to the music and closed her eyes. He could tell she was hurting and wondered why. No doubt she's into assholes. He was probably a doctor or a stockbroker with plenty of money to give her everyhing she wants. He made his way back over to her. 

     "What can I get ya, another Merlot?"

     "Please." She paused and continued before he could turn. "Actually, forget the wine. Make it a vodka tonic."

     "Sure thing. With a lime?"

     "Yes. Two."

     "You got it." As he turned around she noticed what might be considered his best side. She had already noted his strong looking but immaculately clean hands, and his charming smile. Good teeth. Bald wasn't exactly her thing. But nothing was really her thing. She'd been with Mark since she was twenty four. She looked away and wondered what happened to her. Her life.

     "One vodka tonic, two limes." He stayed for a minute hoping she would say something. Anything. He had made up his mind she wasn't waiting for anyone. If she was, it should be clear to her by now he wasn't going to show. He went out on a limb. "Waiting for someone?" She sighed and took a sip of her drink carefully holding the swizzle straw to the side of her glass.

     "Actually, tonight I'm on my own." He couldn't help his response. Quite possibly listed in the first chapter of every bartender's handbook, he knew how it sounded the minute it came out.

     "Come on, a pretty lady like you couldn't possibly be-" She interrupted him.

     "Are you serious?"

     "Wow, I guess that did sound pretty bad. But it's really not often that a woman like you sits at my bar without, well, a date. Or at least waiting on a date to arrive."

     "A woman like me?" She was perplexed. She didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. "Let's just say I was stood up."

     "Guy's a fool if you ask me."

     "Well, I didn't. But thanks." She closed her eyes and sipped her drink again. The vodka streamed through her and so did the sultry jazz tune by the live band on stage. Once again the bartender stepped away to serve other customers. They began a bit of cat and mouse, chasing each other with glances but each trying not to let the other know. After she finished her third drink, she twirled her swizzle stick around in her glass. She lifted the glass to her mouth and eased one of the ice cubes in, sucking the last drop of liquor off it and allowing it to melt in her mouth. She gently shook out her hair, took a deep breath and moved toward the stage where the band was playing. He was watching her every move. She was mesmerizing. Elegant and sexy, and her vulnerability stroked by the alcohol turned to a tentative confidence. She closed her eyes and moved with the music. It wasn't really dancing, just feeling. The cocktails had loosened her inhibitions and her muscles, and she was feeling the soothing rhythms of jazz. Others were dancing around her, but all eyes were on her. The blue stage lights reflected off the instruments and cast an icy blue hue over her. The silk moved with her and her senses were heightened. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Any move, any attempt he made, would only be reciprocated out of need and hurt. But he decided he didn't care. As the night went on he hoped she would stick around until closing.  

     She continued to move, one song to the next, and light beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and neck. The band took a break and she stopped in the ladies room before returning to the bar to refill her drink. Two women stepped out and she was the only one there. A solitary stop infront of the mirror gave her a minute to reflect. She looked at herself, the way she looked in this dress. Why did she come here? She wondered why her life had become such a sham, such a living lie. What's wrong with me? What do I want? Her mind was flooded with questions for which she had no answers. The only thing she knew in that moment, warmed by the alcohol, aroused by the jazz, was that she longed for intimacy. She was sick of being a trophy wife, and cold scheduled sex once a week with a man who no longer loved her was not her idea of intimacy. She dabbed away the sweat, wiped her tears and resigned to think about it when she was sober. She decided one more drink and another set by the band, and she would call it a night.

     Another drink and several songs later, she forgot about her resignation. As the night wore on, many tried to dance with her. A few were successful, most were not. But she allowed only one dance before she walked back to the bar for a refill. He continued to fill her up, each time increasing the tonic and cutting back on the vodka. He hated to see a wounded woman drink herself to oblivion. By now he had lost count anyway and wasn't sure about her tab. It was getting late and he was starting to feel protective, though he wasn't sure why. Why was this woman any different from any of the other heartbroken drunks that came in and out of here each night? He wasn't sure. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want her to leave.

     "One more," she said for the third or fourth time. Each time she returned she got a little flirtier, giving rise to his confidence. He couldn't hold back any longer.

     "You want to tell me why a knock out like you, in a dress like that is dancing out there, alone? You mourning the date that never showed?" She didn't respond, just looked at him. She was annoyed by his comment but flattered he called her a knockout. "This place is crawling with guys and you're turning them all away. Any guy would give his right arm to dance with you."

     "Yeah, all except the one I'm married to." She realized as soon as it came out, how pathetic she sounded. Suddenly she felt embarrassed.

     "So, it was your husband who stood you up?" Now he felt stupid. A blind date who didn't know what he was missing was one thing. But her husband? 

     "Twenty years we've been together, married almost that long. He thinks I don't know."

     "Know what?" 

     "He's nailing his secretary. Regularly." He was shocked. What is it with these assholes? She had to be one of the most exquisite women he had ever seen. Maybe she's a head case.

     "I don't know why I just told you that. You must think I'm some kind of head case."

     "Nah." He chuckled to himself. "You can't imagine everything I see and hear in this place. You know what they say about bartenders..."

     "What's that?" She bated him. He told her all about the crazies that come in and out of a joint, talking to a bartender about all their problems. 

     "Like free therapy." He left her to attend to other customers but she couldn't help but follow him with her eyes. There was something about him, a kindness she hadn't felt from a man in a long time. He seemed smart, well spoken.

     

                                                             ***

     The band played final requests and last round was called at the bar. People started clearing out and he could count the number of patrons remaining. He scanned the room, realizing he lost track of her in the rush to fill final drink orders. He feared she'd left without a word and he'd never see her again. He sighed, there she was at the end of the bar sitting relaxed but despondent. He brought her a tall glass of ice water and served it with a wink. "Should I call you a cab?"

     "I can't leave my car here. Besides I can't... I don't want to go home." 

     "I can clean up here and we can go get a cup of coffee, sober up some."

     "Um. Okay. That sounds kinda nice actually." She sat and nursed her ice water while he cleaned up the bar and wiped down the tables. She wondered if she should call home and have the nanny come get her. She felt drawn to stay so she checked her cell phone. No messages, the kids are ok. He did a quick sweep and told the owner he'd be in early tomorrow to give the place a once over before opening. He offered her a hand and she took it. He pushed open the bar door and they were met with a cool evening gust.

     "Are you cold? There's a diner just down the block here."

     "No, I'm ok." He could see through the thin black silk that she had caught the breeze and he swallowed deep trying to hold back the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her. 

     "So you wanna talk about it?" He wasn't sure what to say.

     "I'd rather not."

     "Okay then. Let's get some coffee." They walked into the busy diner. The latenight favorite was full from one end to the other with after hours employees and late night movie goers looking for a post cinema snack. They were seated at a table in the middle of the restaurant, no booth, no privacy. She ordered french toast with cinammon sugar and he a belgian waffle with vanilla ice cream. They both had coffee. The rest just felt like a first date.They talked about her kids, but not her husband. They shared a little about their goals. He was paying his way through school, studying to be an English teacher. After years of working in the restaurant business he decided he wanted something more stable, a career that would allow him to nurture and share his love of reading. He didn't want to take out loans, so he works nights at the bar so he can attend classes during the day. She was a top student in college, journalism major. But she gave up her career to raise her children. She seemed sad, but ok with her choice.

     Three cups of coffee later, they found themselves talking about their favorite books and traveling, and movies. It was like they were old friends. With no apologies, he leaned across the table and said softly in her ear, "You are so beautiful." He sat back, "And the light dances in your eyes and the weight of the world lifts when you talk about your kids... He's a fool." She looked at him, and dropped her chin. It's been a long time since someone looked at her that way, saw deep behind her eyes. She felt conflicted. When she said "I do," she meant it, for better or for worse. But should she be forced to live in a loveless marriage? She longed for the gentle touch of a loving man.

     "If I had a woman like you in my life-" She closed her eyes and shook her head, tears streamed from her eyes.

     "Don't." A million thoughts ran through her brain. Run away with this guy? You don't even know him. A one night stand, really? I'm not like that, and he seems like he deserves better. Live in the moment she thought. Stop thinking about everything like it's a monumental decision. Instead of thinking, feel for a change. She smiled shyly at him.

     "I better take you home," he insisted.

     "Your home or my home?"

       

Is It Wrong to do My Son's Laundry?

Kids today. They are the entitled generation. They are the video game, smart phone, internet generation. They are lazy, disrespectful, and irresponsible. Countless descriptions of today's kids can be read in any number of publications from any decade. But these are some of the things I hear with some regularity from other adults in and around my life. I laugh in my head a little because I think of Paul Lynde's character from Bye Bye Birdie (Yes, I realize I'm aging myself a bit.) singing away about the unruly children of the 1960's:

Kids! I don't know what's wrong with these kids today.

Kids! Who can understand anything they say?

Kids! They are disobedient, disrespectful oafs

Noisy, crazy

Sloppy lazy loafers...

    Paul Lynde, Dick Van Dyke, and Maureen Stapleton in the Bye Bye Birdie scene. 

    Click for the full scene on YouTube: http://youtu.be/1wCXr_6wgns

It is as though it is a requirement that once you reach about 30-years-old, younger if you work with children in any youth setting, to kid bash. What is wrong with them? When I was that age... Paul Lynde continues:

Why can't they be like we were

Perfect in every way

What's the matter with kids today?

Why is it that every generation thinks it is any different for them? Are any of us really naive enough to believe that our parents and their peers were not thinking the exact same things about us as teenagers? The truth is, times change because the world and society changes. Maybe the gripes change a little too, but for decades (and probably centuries) grown-ups have been belly aching about the youth of today.

I understand the importance of raising a good kid. I have one of my own, and nothing consumes more of my mental energy and emotional strength than my parenting. I just said to my husband earlier today, "I always worry about him [my son], about his future and his happiness. But more than anything, my greatest concern is that I don't want him to grow up to be an asshole." There it is. Blunt, and in black and white. I want my kid to grow into a good person. I am not going to expound on all that entails. I assume most of my readers know what I mean and at least loosely agree with me.

So as active and attentive parents we ask ourselves constantly if we are doing it right. Do I give him enough independence? Do I have high enough expectations, but understand that he will not always meet them? Do I listen and support, but give space when needed... But not too much space? Do I hold him accountable for his actions and give him enough responsibility?

I have been listening lately, without judgement, to the way my friends, colleagues, and random parents who talk and share in person and online about their parenting. Specifically, I have been making note of what parents expect from their teens in the realm of household chores and responsibilities. I think back to my own childhood and talk to my husband about his. Much of what we decide about child rearing is based on what we experience in our own childhoods. If we deem our own experiences as appropriate, we share them with our children. If we recall them as particularly harsh or inappropriate, we use them as guidance of what not to do with our own. My husband and I have employed this strategy for much of what we do with our son. We both feel pretty positive about the way our parents raised us, especially in regards to instilling in us solid values. 

I have encountered some people who really have little expectation for their children around the house, other than "to do well in school." But most everyone I know in my personal life has some level of expectation for child labor in their home. Some require every aspect of the housework to be shared, especially those with large families- completely understandable. Others dole out chores based on what they feel their children can handle at the current age. Still others divvy depending on what they are willing to give up to their children, knowing the job will not be completed as well as they could have done it themselves. You know who you are and you know I get it, because I could easily be categorized this way. It is hard to let go of the "No one can do it as well as I could," attitude when you are really particular about certain things.

So here are my son's chores. He sorts and takes out the recycling. He empties the trash. He pulls both out to the curb on their respective pick up days and brings the bins back in later that same day. He gathers yard debris for pick up and mows the lawn. He cleans the guest bathroom, which is really his bathroom because unless we have house guests, he is the only one who uses it. He clears the table on any of our family dinner nights (usually 4-5 days a week), rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher. Oh, and he unloads groceries from the car when I get home from Publix. Finally, though he rarely follows through unless under threat, he is responsible for cleaning his own room. About 2 or 3 years ago, my husband all but forbade me from going in and picking up after him. "He's too old to have his mommy clean up after him!" Of course there are other things that pop up here and there. Yard work with his dad, a chore at my request. But that summarizes his responsibilities as the only child. 

What about the laundry, you ask? I still do the laundry. Many of my friends and acquaintances do not agree with this. They have their kids do their own laundry. In fact, I was doing my own by about age 12. I really do not mind doing his laundry (anymore than I mind doing any of the other laundry), and I have made some unsuccessful attempts to get him to start doing it. 

About two weeks ago I read an article online about when to give kids different responsibilities around the home. The author's suggestion was when the kids are the height of the washing machine, they should be doing laundry. I asked a couple of the girls at work, and those with similar age children said their kids were doing laundry. My best friend said her two kids "help" with the laundry. So later that week, as the weekend (and laundry time) were approaching, I told my son I was not going to do his laundry anymore. It was his responsibility. He smiled and shrugged me off. He knew this would be a challenge for me. While I am not heavy into fashion or trends, I always wanted and still want my son to present neatly and cleanly wherever he goes. I want his clothes to match, I want him to wear fresh smelling attire, and I want him to send the message to the world that he is well cared for at home (as if his clothes really send that message- I know I'm a little cuckoo, I can't help it).

The weekend came and went. I announced on several occasions that all our laundry was done, and the washer and dryer were free for him to do his. Still, the mile high pile of towels from swim practices and a 3-shower-a-day habit was climbing the walls. What looked like every single garment he owned was oozing out of his hamper and strewn about like zombies crawling from their graves across a cemetery. I could no longer see his bedroom floor. Monday came. And went. Tuesday came. And went. The sun rose and set every day and the clothing zombies were still crawling the floor. I wondered if he was wearing clean clothes to school, but I let it go.

Finally, it was Friday. An entire two weeks of laundry cycle had come and gone, but none of the laundry was done. I decided to take the towels and start a load. I figured maybe clearing them out would help motivate him. He was leaving early the next morning for an overnight camping trip with his scout troop. Surely he needed some clothes. I folded the towels and did another load. Now all the towels would be clean, and I told him if he sorted all his clothes I would help him get started. Never happened.

He left Saturday morning, and I just could not help myself. While my husband was busy with other things in the garage, I knew I would be free of chastisement. I went into my son's room, sorted all the clothes, and washed every piece of clothing down to his last sock. You know what? I felt no shame. I felt good. I know someone would say I let him "win" a battle of wills, but I did not care. Sometimes just doing something for your kid because you can, makes you feel good. Makes you feel like a mom. Is that so wrong?

I'm Sorry But We Don't Care

All of us are guilty of meaningless posts on Facebook now and then, but some of us are worse than others. You know who they (or you) are. The people who post the comments and statuses that make even their closest friends say, "Who gives a crap?" So here it is. My list of the top 5 most annoying things people post on Facebook. Truth is though we may love you dearly, we don't give a crap!

5.

That you're going to the gym... again. We get it. You're in shape, you care about your body, and maybe even your health. But posting every time you go, that's just annoying. Pat yourself on the back and compare with your buddy at the gym who's been there more this week. We don't give a crap!

4.

Carpooling your kids. I'm a mom, and I'm all about sharing (showing off) our kids' accomplishments, talents, and achievements. But we don't need to know how you drove them from here and there to the end of the earth. All parents do it, deal with it. Bitch about it to your best friend (I do it all the time). But posting as your status on Facebook as though it's something that's been done to you. Stop. We dont feel bad for you.

3.

Complaining daily how miserable your life is. I'm not talking about a bad day or a request for good thoughts when you or a family member needs communal strength. I'm talking about people who moan and groan just about daily... about every. thing. My husband calls it trolling Facebook for sympathy. As with #4, if you need a friend to lean on because you're going through a rough time, ask. But daily affirmations about how much life sucks are better for your personal journal, not social media. It makes otherwise caring people feel apathetic toward, and quite frankly, annoyed by you.

2.

Cryptic status posts that indirectly beg for people to ask you what's wrong or what is happening. If you want everyone to know what's happening in your life, post it and tell us! If not, call your big sister or your best friend and confide in her (or him) or your therapist for that matter, and get it off your chest. Posting these code messages on FB is kind of pathetic.

1.

Posts that tell all your friends they are gutless if they don't share or like your post. You know the ones: "I bet only 1% of the people who see this will have the courage to share it." Or: "Let's see which of you are really my friends. Like this post and respond if..." Seriously? I don't think there is anything that makes me less likely to read a post than that. I even commented about these posts in my own status one day. Do you really judge my courage, faith, loyalty, or intelligence by whether or not I like or share a Facebook post? If you do, unfriend me.

I'm sure there are others, and many of my friends might be annoyed by my posts about writing, or issues in education- two things I'm very passionate about. But I think I'm easy enough to scroll through  when you feel the need. These posts, especially the ones in the last two, really make me nuts! They're all too common, all too often, and just down right annoying. There, I said it. Can we still be friends?

Shower Power

Excuse the cheesy rhyme, but I could not resist. I have often said the places where I have the best ideas and the most meaningful thoughts are in my car on a long distance drive, and in the shower. It is as though you are encapsulated in these somewhat small spaces, and you become vacuum sealed allowing all of your greatness to ooze from your pores. It is a complaint I have often had because I struggle to recall the details of my thoughts long enough to get my pen in hand. 

This morning in the shower, I started to formulate some organized thoughts about a piece I have been conceptualizing for several weeks and have yet to move past brief jottings. As I was shampooing my hair it was as though I was massaging the thoughts right out of my brain. And I panicked. I had just started my shower, and washing my hair is the first thing I do following the initial warm water rinse. How in the world was I going to remember all of these ideas through the conditioning rinse, the body wash, face scrub, and a leg and pits shave? And like a computer my mind started to create a graphic organizer. It was a desperate attempt to create an image and take a mental snapshot, so I could hold onto the brainstorm until I could get my hands on my journal.

By the time I was exfoliating my face, I got distracted and started to wonder why this always happens. Why, during the two most difficult times to take pen in hand and jot your thoughts, do the ideas start to flow? And just like that my brain was on another tangent. This one. And I think I may have figured it out. Driving down a monotonous highway with the hum of the tires along the road, and no distracting chatter because I have no passengers, allows my mind to be cognitively clear and relaxed. The driving part is automatic, and therefore my mind is free to think about whatever it wants. 

The same could be said for a shower, with the added benefit of physiological relaxation. You step into the chamber and hot water washes down over you relaxing your muscles, clearing your sinuses (which for me is no easy feat), and cleaning away the muck. My routine, and I suppose many others would concur about their own shower routines, is pretty automatic. I follow the same procedure everyday, in the same order. I do not really have to think about it, and it is solitary. So there is the soothing sound of running water, my body is relaxed, my cognitive launching pad is clear, and I start to think.

It can be frustrating at times, but if I can manage to finish my shower, get dried off quickly, and get my hands on a pen and my journal, it is all good. Today was one of those days. I grabbed a towel, jumped out dripping wet, and ran to retrieve my journal from the dining room table. I placed it on the counter in the bathroom, and as I dried off, combed my hair, and completed my post-shower routine, I happily stopped to take notes in between each task. I was able to salvage most of my treasurly thoughts for the post I origianlly began thinking about, and a few that helped me write this post too.

I have often thought about keeping a recorder just outside the shower to catch fleeting brilliance in an emergency. My solution in the car is to voice-to-text myself so I can revisit the thought later. But recently my son suggested he would like to buy me one of these:

I think he may be on to something. Aqua notes would never allow my shower power to go to waste.

 

Celebrity Politics... or What Ever Became of the Dixie Chicks?

I have long been a fan of the Dixie Chicks, even saw them in concert back in the late 1990's- what a show! I have two of their albums and a couple of single song downloads on my iPod, and I just love it when I hear any of their tunes on the radio. But it doesn't happen often, so recently I was delighted to hear Wide Open Spaces on the radio during my morning shower, and I got to thinking. Where in the world are the Dixie Chicks now? I didn't realize, until I started date checking for this post, but this week  marked ten years since the beginning of the end of the Chicks.

I recalled the incident of 2003, when Natalie Maines, lead singer, expressed shame over the fact President Bush hailed from Texas. This was post 9-11, and the nation was still quite raw from the terrorist attacks. Her comments were allegedly meant to show disdain for Bush's choice to go to war. She said it off the cuff at a show in London, and another band member reminded the crowd they support the troops 100%. The fans cheered in response, but Maines would return home to be lambasted by the American media and the American public. She was accused of being unAmerican and the group would soon lose favor with listeners, after becoming the top selling female band of all time. They reportedly received death threats and feared for the safety of their families and themselves. They largely ducked out of the spotlight for awhile, though still entrenched in controversy.

In 2006, they released another album Taking the Long Way Around, which soared to the number one spot on the Billboard Country Album chart, and broke top 10 on the best Album chart. They also won three Grammys, including best Album. They appeared on the cover of Entertainment Magazine, naked and covered in the words (good and bad) slung at them since the 2003 incident.

                  

However, since then the Chicks have called it quits. Maines has been reported to say they will never make music together as a group. It's possible the other two Chicks, who are sisters, blame Natalie for their demise. Most of the articles written certainly blame the incident.

My support for the Chicks is for their music, ok and for their Freedom of Speech. No matter what you believe about the incident, about our former or current President, in our country we have the First Ammendment. And what followed this episode, was an all out boycott of Dixie Chicks music. Radio stations, all of which are owned by only a few broadcast companies, forbade their DJs from playing any Dixie Chicks songs, and a couple of DJs were reportedly fired for noncompliance. It just seems so ridiculous that any celebrity's politics could have that much of a stronghold on what we do. There was no industry boycott over Chris Brown being a wife beater, or Mel Gibson being an anti-Semite. There was no NFL or TV broadcast boycott over Ray Lewis being a murderer. 

Why bring up old news? Plain and simple, I miss the Dixie Chicks. I miss their brand of country, which by the way is not likely to be interpreted as pop. I fought back for some time against recent country music naysayers, who have said country has gone too pop. I've defended my enjoyment of some of the catchy tunes that have been put out by some of the more recent artists. But I'm losing ground, because quite frankly, a lot of it sucks. Rascal Flats? Just the Backstreet Boys with accents. Taylor Swift? Cute and sweet, and a good alternative to some of the trash on the pop chart, but not really country. Even some of the artists who started out country have since crossed over. And I hate to say it, but there are so many new artists with so little flair that I can't even tell them a part. Don't get me wrong, there are some I still like, Little Big Town, the Band Perry, Zach Brown Band, and some of the others. But overall, country music needs the Dixie Chicks to come back. We need the "stripped down" country jamboree country that got me knee slappin' and boot stompin'. We don't need to agree with the politics of our entertainers. We just need to be entertained. That's what they do, and that's what they get paid for. We need the Dixie Chicks back.

Here's an article that explains why:

http://www.savingcountrymusic.com/destroying-the-dixie-chicks-ten-years-after

Soul to Soul

Rather off the cuff recently, after almost 18 years of marriage and about 25 years with my agnostic husband, I looked at him and asked, "Do you believe we are soulmates?" It was not a trick question designed to bait him into an argument, or a test of how he feels about our relationship. It was a genuine and sincere question about something we had never discussed before. 

It is a sticky thought, not necessarily for us as a couple but for people in general. We often hear people say things like, "They were meant to be together," or "They were made for each other." But if we really consider the implications of what that means, it becomes a much more complex discussion. What does "meant to be" mean? Does it mean if you believe in G-d, that G-d put you on the earth for each other and you were predestined to cross paths? No matter what had happened to us and in our lives, we would have ended up together anyway? If my mom never decided to move from New York to Florida when I was a teenager, my Florida born and raised husband and I still would have found our way to each other?  

I read recently that according to mythology ancient Greeks, believed humans were created with four arms, four legs, and two heads (as well as male and female genitals). Zeus feared they would become too powerful so he split them in two, forcing them to spend their whole lives searching for their other halves. Most Judeo-Christian religions believe that woman (Eve) came from man (Adam). There is some pretty good simple information about religious beliefs and soulmates on this self-helpy site about finding your soulmate (http://www.the-soulmate-site.com/soul-mate-theory.html). But is there a higher power of any kind that brings two people together, or is it simply chance that two people make a series of choices, and experience a series of happenings leading them on some path? 

If soulmates exist, then the next question is how many do we have? The next one might be, are all soulmates romantic? My dad, who has been divorced from my mom since 1987ish after being married for 17 years, once told me he believed people have more than one soulmate, and for different purposes. He used the example of his relationship with my mother for bringing them their children, my sister and me. He then explained that his current wife is his life partner, and another soulmate. I am still not sure how I feel about that, but he is my dad. Some of the soulmate self-help gurus online agree with the multiple soulmate theory.

I have talked to others about meeting people in their lives who seem to be there at just the right time, providing just the kind of friend they needed when they needed it. Or have you ever met someone who you felt like you had known for years, even though you are just getting to know them? Many people would say this type of frienship feels like you have met a soulmate of sorts, kindred spirits.

When you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, and it feels so right, you seem to be able to accomplish and survive anything together, it might be difficult to accept that you found each other by chance or by luck. You feel alive and true to who you are, and when two of you come together equally committed to working hard at the relationship when so many others seem unwilling, you start to wonder why and how you were brought to each other. You believe so deeply in the bond of love you have together, it is hard to believe there was no divine intervention or a fate-like power, because your feelings are that strong. I am Jewish by faith, a believer in G-d. As I consider the beauty of my realtionship with my husband, an umatched commitment and unconditional love, I want to believe that G-d brought him to me, and me to him, and our son to us. How can something so divine, come from anything other than G-d? 

But if I believe strongly that the power of G-d brought us together, that chance and circumstance had nothing to do with it, then must I also believe that those who do not have this kind of love in their lives are alone because G-d wants them to be? Why did I encounter my love at the age of 16, and my sister hers at the age of 42? Surely, God did not purposely make my sister wait, make her experience pain and loneliness just because. Those who look to word and acts of G-d quite literally would say that G-d has a purpose and we do not always understand it. We just have to believe, have faith because G-d works in mysterious ways. I believe in G-d. I believe strongly and whole-heartedly in the higher power, in the creator (incidentally, I do not subscribe to the idea that any one book or written work is the literal word of G-d). I just do not think everything is so calucalted like that. I do not ask G-d for things, I do not think every little positive thing in my life is a direct result of G-d up in the sky at the control panel pressing the buttons to help me out because I have been ind to others. I do believe that G-d is within everyone, breathing strength into us, giving us the power to make good decisions, to be the best people we can be, to open our hearts to love.

So does G-d, fate, or any higher power bring us to the ones we love? It is tempting to believe it, but I am not sure I do, at least not completely. Sometimes life presents choices, circumstances, feelings, and as human beings we react. G-d gave us free will, it is up to us to embrace the challenges and choices in our lives the best way we know how. Your wife, husband, best friend, current or future soulmate maybe on your path or in your presence. You may not even know it, or you may be lucky enough to be living it, as I feel I am.  But it is up to both of you to create the lasting, loving friendship that really bonds you soul to soul. Soulmates, in my opinon, are created by the human act of joining in love and friendship infinitely and unconditionally.

Keepin' on Writin' on

I can't seem to figure it out. I don't know when it happened, or why. I remember as a child in school always liking to write. Book reports, stories, science reports, poems, a few of them even survived the selling, packing up, and moving from our family home in New York when I started high school. But I don't actually remember when I decided I wanted to write. It seemed like a part of my post graduate school journey, as this is the period in my life when I spent the most time reflecting and writing. In 2010 I took a wonderful seminar-sized class around a conference table with 7 or 8 of my doctoral cohort members. It was a critical literacies course, and we did a lot of reading and writing about the development and sponsors of our own literacy (Brandt, 2009).

This book, one of the grad school reads that had the most profound effect on me, led us through a series of discussions that really got me thinking. One of the first assignments by our professor was to write an autobiographical account of how we remember developing literacy (I am going to dig it out and include at least part of it in a future post). We were asked to reflect on our earliest memories and experiences with reading and writing. I recalled so many small details leading back to an early love of writing, and choices I seemed to have made subconsciously to support my development and later teaching of this craft. That same semester I applied to and later attended the Invitational Summer Institute (ISI) of the National Writing Project (NWP). What a snowball effect that had! I went on to develop amazing professional relationships and friendships through the NWP. I have since presented numerous times as a fellow and teacher consultant for the NWP, facilitated the ISI, and conducted my dissertation on the phenomenon of the ISI. Today, I have an amazing circle of friends, fellow writers and writing teachers, all as a result of my love of writing.    

A big part of my recent commitment has been finishing up graduate school and being able to enjoy my down time as real down time. Sure I have papers to grade and lesson plans to prepare, but I have finally learned to create a balance between work and home. I have found ways to maximize time while I am at work, and to impose boundaries because it is true that a teacher's work is never done. If we do not cut ourselves off at some point, we would never leave school. That is neither fair, nor healthy. 

As my winter break comes to a close, I feel like I am gradually coming down off a high. I wrote more in the past two weeks than I have since summertime. And I love it. And it makes me feel good. Not having to work allowed me to relax, and my writing to flow. As soon as one piece was finished, another one started to develop in my mind. Sometimes the new one did not even wait for the previous one to finish. I hope to keep up my daily commitment to writing. I want to be able to write professionally, and my blogging has helped me to start building writing stamina and to make it a priority to write. I have some ideas for big projects and some research in the wings, but writing it here reminds me what my goals are. Not resolutions, but goals. I cannot remember who said it, but someone said if you write your goals down your more likely to work at them and achieve them.

So I am going to try and keep at it. I am going to try and keep a balance between work and home. I am going to try and write daily, even if it does not result in a completed piece. I will write, because writing makes me happy, and I deserve to be happy. Don't we all?