Three Years in Three Hours

     "You ready?"

     "If I get caught, my parents are gonna kill me." I had never done anything illegal before. Actually, that's a lie. Technically, speeding is illegal. So is drinking before you turn twenty-one. Alright, so is smoking pot, but not for long.

     "It's no big deal. I did it last year in Detroit, and I never got caught." 

     "Oh, of course. That means here in Miami, I'll never get caught." Great logic. I looked at my roommate and saw the face of John Bender in Breakfast Club. "Being bad, feels pretty good, huh?" But I was not Molly Ringwald, and nothing about this felt good. As a teenager I did a pretty good job staying out of trouble, avoiding peer pressure. Why now? Why less than a year before my twenty-first birthday had I decided this was it?

     Allison turned the engine off, I took a deep breath, and we got out of the car prepared to spend a couple of hours at the DMV. With a crackdown on fake ID's around the college bars, this was the only way to guarantee full access. Gone was the old school art of peeling back the melted plastic layers of drivers licenses and altering the date of birth to make the holder legal. No longer was it good enough to find someone legal who kinda looked like you, and beg them to lose their license so you could find it. It was go big or go home. 

***

     By the second week of sophomore year, Allison was bragging to everyone around campus how she got her unchallengeable fake, but not-so-fake ID. She took the papers of a relative, went down to the DMV and convinced them she lost her license. She got her picture taken, they gave her a new license, and she walked out the door. No biggie. "It was easy," she insisted. Back before digital photos and ID cards, there was no permanent record of what people looked like at the DMV. As long as you had the right documents there was no disputing you were who you said you were. At least that's what my roommate told me.

     There was only one person I could ask to let me do this, and if I got caught there would be a world of hurt brought down on both of us. If I was going to take a risk this big, it had to be someone who was as close to me and I could get, someone whose persona I could wear believably. I called my sister, Jamie, and asked her to help me commit fraud. That's not actually what I asked. It was more like pleading a case. I repeated all the things my roommate said to me. "It's foolproof!" 

     "What are you stupid? You don't even really drink." She was right. I hated beer, and I needed control. Staying sober while out with my friends helped me stay away from the bloated feeling of barley and hops, and insured we all had a safe ride home. "So what the hell do you need a fake ID for? You'll be twenty-one in less than a year." She thought I was nuts. Heck, I thought I was nuts. But I pressed on.

     "I don't even need it to drink, I just want to be able to get in. All the best bars are 21 and over." I said it so matter-of-factly as though it was actually a good argument. I really never did drink much. I would stand around talking to my friends, smoke a half a pack of Marlboro Lights, and watch everyone get drunk. But dammit, I needed the ID to do it. It was simple. All she had to do was give me her Social Security Card and birth certificate, and then run down a list of anything and everything that might appear on her driving record. "And you have to swear you'll never tell mom and dad. Even if you're pissed at me for something." Somehow she agreed, maybe because she doubted I could pull it off and wanted to see what would happen. Who knows. But she gave in, with one caveat:

     "If you get caught, I'm playing dumb and you have to tell mom and dad you stole my stuff."

     "Deal." 

     I spent about a week memorizing her social security number, and learning all the things on her driving record. Her tickets, Dad doesn't call her leadfoot for nothing. The fact that she held a license in three different states, that she's had this car and that registered in her name. I was ready.

***

     If I could suppress the rising vomit in my throat and the guilty look in my eye, I would be 21 in a couple of hours. I took a last studious glance at my sister's Social Security card and gripped the documents in one hand. Allison opened the door and a chilling gust of air blew over my face. The Florida air conditioning would guarantee I stayed chilled and on edge. I took a number and we sat down. I continued to repeat the social security number in my head and tried not to think about what would happen if I got caught. I'm not sure I had ever been more nervous in my life, except maybe the night I lost my virginity. But at least that wasn't illegal. I thought about leaving, but I was too scared to move. My number was finally called, and I stepped up to the counter trying to act nonchalant. 

     "Hi. Um. I need a new license."

     "What happened to your license?"

     "I lost it."

     "Do you have any photo ID?"

     "No, all I had was my license." I swallowed. The lump in my throat continued to rise. I tried not to look nervous. "But I have this." I showed her the birth certificate and Social Security card. She had really long, dark, brick red nails. She placed her hand over my papers and slid them over to her side of the counter. She clicked around, flipped through the papers, and never made eye contact. For this I was grateful.

     "Have you ever had a vehicle registered in your name?" I was relieved because I knew the answer. 

     "Yes. A Nissan Sentra hatchback." I let out some of the breath I had been holding.

     "What color?"

     "Blue."

     "Was it ever in an accident?" Shit! I didn't study that, but I remembered. 

     "Yes." This was the reason my sister was a good choice for identity sharing. Many of her memories were also my own. The inquisition continued.

     "Have you ever been licensed to drive in another state?"

     "Yes, in New York and New Jersey." The questions continued and I banged them out one by one. My confidence rose and I was pretty sure I had gotten through the toughest part of this ordeal. She gave me my papers back, and pointed with her long red nail across the room.

     "Take a seat over there and wait to be called for your photo." I waved over my friend and we sat waiting to be called for my photo. I was almost finished. It's funny how guilty you feel when you know you're doing something wrong. I was relieved because at this point I had passed for my sister. I had recalled the important facts of her identity and her driving record. 

     As soon as I saw them, I thought I was caught. They would have no way of knowing what I was up to, but they walked in and I froze. Three uniformed police officers came in talking and laughing. They stepped up to the same counter I was waiting to be called to. Here they are, I thought. I didn't fool the lady with the long nails, like I thought I had. She called them and they're here for me. I could feel the fear and the flush in my cheeks. I looked at Allison and we looked like two stoned teenagers running into cops at midnight in Dunkin Donuts. Like two deer in the headlights. My number was called and we stepped into line right behind them. The lump in my throat was back, and I thought I was going to puke.

     "Go ahead." One of the officers waved me in front of them. I didn't dare say no. I nodded and proceeded to the counter in front of them, wondering why they had waved me on. It turns out they were there getting their photos retaken for new police ID badges. I took another deep breath, and I handed another woman my papers. She pointed me toward one of those background screens. I stood as calmly as I could and fixed my eyes on the spot where she directed me to look. Click. Flash. Done. I walked in Sharon Daniels, 20 and walked out Jamie Daniels, 23, Stone Cold Outlaw.

Earliest Memories

Forever on my journey as writer, teacher of writing, and professional development consultant in teaching writing, I am reading a book in preparation for my work this summer with graduate students. We selected this book, one of two texts for the course, on recommendation from the NWP site director at Morehead in Kentucky. Writing Alone and with Others by Pat Schneider is absolutely wonderful, and I am enjoying interacting with it and getting to know the content. Throughout the book, there are several writing and thinking exercises, and the first one I found a bit challenging. Schneider suggests writing with as many details as you can recall, about your earliest memory- your recollection of being an individual person. This can be difficult because so many of our early childhood memories are those given to us by our parents, implanted on our brains through stories of "Remember that time?" or "I remember the first time you..." I really had to go back.

I know I used to scare the crap out of my mom as an infant, by holding by breath when I didn't want to eat something (I was a picky eater from the get go), but that I loved plums. I know that my sister used to call me Wawie, and my parents would say, "No, Lau-rie," and she would respond, "Yeah, Wawie," and they'd laugh. I know that I attended playgroup (in home daycare) with a group of neighborhood kids who became my buddies in elementary school. I know my mom met my best friend's mom in the hospital because we were a week apart and my mom had to stay in the hospital because she had a C-section (that used to be a major thing). But all of these are memories given to me by my family. I don't actually have any memory of any of it. My husband on the otherhand recalls lying on a changing table at daycare and looking out the window to see his parents coming in to pick him up. Wow, that is a very early childhood memory!

What stuck with me as I rewound the days of my early childhood, was the part when Schneider asked, Can you remember when you were first aware of yourself as an individual person? Wow. When do I recall thinking of myself as an individual person. That's more than a vague memory, more than a story your parents tell about when you were little. I tried to get back there, and the earliest clear memory I could pull up with details, was when I was three or four years old and attending Beth HaGan nursery school at Temple Israel in Great Neck, Long Island where I grew up.

    Temple Israel, Great Neck, NY

The building was large. Not like a school, dfferent. Wide space when you walked in the school side entrance, there were early childhood classrooms forward and all the way to the right before continuing through a threshhold into an open lobby area. That was where the grand entrance (shown above) was, and where the sanctuaries and ballrooms were. Religious school classrooms were immediately to the left. The doors were the way many of us remember old school doors to be, wooden with a glass window opening almost the entire top half of the door to glances from passersby.

The classroom in my memory is big, though this may be due to how small I was at the time. The wall opposite the door was mostly windows, maybe to the parking lot or a playground. This part I do not recollect. But the room, ah the room was filled from one end to the other with what might now be considered toys and play areas to the modern pre-school. But they were important parts of child development and learning to the nursery school of the 1970's (I'll make no commentary here about what was and what should be). An entire play kitchen equipped with miniature wooden appliances, cabinets, and counters- yes wood. Ne'er do I remember a single injury, not even a splinter. We somehow survived. There were dolls and puppets, dress-up costumes, hats, shoes, and jewelry. There were lots and lots of blocks, solid wood blocks.

The rugs were colorful, and they provided the perfect area to lay your blanket out at rest hour- it was never called naptime. Though I am unable to recall anything about the way she looked or sounded, I do remember an endearing Morah Doris (Morah, pronounced mo-rah, means teacher in Hebrew. Most preschool age children in the 70's who went out of the home for "school" did so at their church or temple. I went to my temple). I have many vague memories of my experience there, but two things stand out to me most about Beth HaGan (loosely translated, beth hagan means the youth house or home to the youth). The first is a phase my Morah went through, when almost daily during rest hour she would play a record of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. I cannot remember whether she read along with the record. 

    This version of Peter and the Wolf was very popular during the time period. 

To be honest, she didn't need to read the story, the music said it all. Even as a three or four year old, I knew the sound of the French horns. It was the intimidating and ominous sound of the wolf coming in and out of the story, and it terrified me! I would bury my head in my satiny ice blue blanket squeezing my eyes tight, waiting for it to end. Waiting for the flute to indicate the birds were back, or the violins that played when Peter was strolling along. I never told anyone. I never cried. I cannot recall if I would eventually doze into a nap or just ride it out, lying there awake and uncomfortable. But I can picture the record player. It was common in schools up through the 80's. It was a dark gray box-like model, where all of the parts were contained in the bottom, and a shallow lid would be taken off in order to play the records. The lid could be placed back on and secured with a buckle snap lock, and moved around from one outlet to another because the speaker was contained in the box. I miss the sound of crackling records, maybe not Peter and the Wolf specifically, but records in general. Even today though, hearing that piece even from a world renowned symphony, demonstrates for me the power of music to transcend space and time and place you back into a memory. It brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes.

The second memory I have of Beth HaGan is Friday mornings. Friday at sundown is Shabbat, the Jewish sabbath. Every Friday morning in nursery school we would each braid and make our very own individual challahs. Golden challah, egg bread, a staple at Jewish holiday and Sabbath dinner tables (except during Passover). At Beth HaGan we got to make our own. Morah would issue each of us a sheet of wax paper on which she would then place a blob of dough about the size of an adult fist. We would divide our dough into three parts and roll each part into snakes, equal in length. Then we would lay two snakes out from a point like sides of a triangle, one tip pressed on top of the other, and add the third one down the center with the tip pressed over the other two. The memory is so clear, I can smell the yeasty dough. FInally, we would braid the three pieces, over and under, all the way down to create the traditional Jewish challah. Morah Doris would then take them away on a tray and bake them. Before we were picked up from school at about noon, we were given our tiny loaves of challah to take home for Shabbat, some smaller than others because kids would always nip at the dough for tiny tastes.

         A full-size traditional challah.

Beth HaGan at temple Israel was the place I started so many things-my education both secular and religious, an understanding of my culture, friendships that would be an important part of my childhood. I remember attending children's services on Shabbat and during holidays. I also remember all kinds of special musical programs and events. I became a Bat Mitzvah at this same temple about 10 years after this memory, just before my 13th birthday.

My mom, sister, and me at a children's Shabbat service. Mom is lighting the Shabbat candles.

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