March 1, 2013
The Other Woman
I wasn’t worried when she appeared in my husband’s life or that they had to spend some time together—for work. I didn’t realize how serious it was between them until my husband announced she would be joining us on a trip.
“Are you serious?” I asked. I think I was giving him that squinty look. You know, the one that creases your forehead and narrows your eyes. The look you give a person when you’re thinking REALLY? Then I said, “We’re only going to the store. We know how to get there.”
But when we climbed into the car, she was there between us in the front seat. My husband’s GPS. ”Her name is Lwaxana,” my husband told me as he handed her to me. Lwaxana? I can’t even pronounce it, but it rolls off his tongue like melted butter. He even had reason for giving her that particular name. That’s when I realized I had some competition. That smooth talking machine was vying for my position as navigator and who knew what else.
Lwaxana and Deanna Troi.
“I know how to get where we’re going,” I said, looking at her slim, black case with distaste. He ignored me and left her on the console. After a few months, I gave in and used her for longer trips. I’d grudgingly hold her and relay her directions to my husband; her voice is too quiet to hear over the noise of the road. “I’d rather use a print-off from Mapquest,” I’d mutter to her. She didn’t fool me; I knew she was expendable. And she knew that I knew it.
I’m a great navigator. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but after years of living in New York and Ohio, and after our many road trips, I know how to read a map. I have a good internal compass, too. Granted, I screw up occasionally. “The Alibi is on Rochester between Wattles and Long Lake,” I’ll tell my husband confidently when he asks. But after circling the same stretch of a mile for the fifth time, we realize that I’m three miles off, and we’re a half-hour late to meet friends for dinner; I’m remorseful and apologetic. Lwaxana has yet to apologize for her screw ups. And she has made a few.
When we leave to attend a function on Belle Isle in Detroit, my husband hands me Lwaxana before backing out of our driveway. “Start out going south on John R,” she says in her confident, silky voice.
“I’m taking Fifteen Mile,” my husband says.
“She doesn’t like it when you mess her up and she has to recalculate,” I tell him. “She may not say it, but I know she’s waiting to taser me because you’re not listening to her.”
“She doesn’t mind if I change routes.” He defends her. But he’s wrong. She’s a woman and I know she’s planning her revenge on me. I’m not stupid; I read The Help.
Sharpening their tools.
“I think I’m going to write a blog post about her,” I inform him. “Your other woman.”
“That’s a great idea,” he says and offers to come up with a list of our similarities and differences.
Go right ahead, I think. And when you’re sleeping on the couch, we’ll see if Lwaxana can keep you warm.
We continue our ride downtown. Thank God it’s mostly expressway driving, so Lwaxana remains silent for most of the drive. Maybe she’s using this time to plan how she’s going to taser me the next time Dave doesn’t follow her directions.
By the time we reach Detroit, it’s snowing so hard we see five cars that have spun out and a semi-truck has jack-knifed. Finally, we cross the bridge to the unfamiliar terrain of Belle Isle. Now the snow’s so thick we literally can’t see more than five feet ahead of us. And I say for the first time, “I’m actually glad we have this thing.” I point to Lwaxana because I’m not about to say her name. We follow her directions through the blinding snow and end up at… gates that are chained shut. Obviously the wrong place.
I wouldn’t let her steer my starship.
After a half-hour, we find our destination with no help from Lwaxana. She does nothing to correct the directions and doesn’t apologize for steering us wrong in the first place.
Later that evening my husband hands me some papers. “Here’s some information on Lwaxana Troi for your blog post,” he says. “I’m working on the list of similarities and differences.”
Dave’s List:
How Dawne and Lwaxana are alike
- I look to both of them for guidance
- I don’t always take their advice
- They both speak softly into my ear
How Dawne and Lwaxana are different
- Dawne always laughs at my jokes
- Lwaxana never gets angry when I ignore her
- Dawne is taller
I guess he doesn’t have to sleep on the couch.
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January 10, 2013
The Ties That Bind
My aunt called over the holidays. She’d invited a few of my cousins over for a “ladies’ night” and wondered if I could make it. I was looking forward to seeing everyone for a happy occasion. It seemed many of the circumstances bringing us together recently had been tinged with sadness.
My cousins and I arrived at my aunt’s home with a flurry of greetings. After shedding boot and coats, and sharing news of grown children and photos of grandchildren and great-grandhchildren, we settled around the kitchen table.
I sat quietly for a moment, looking at the faces of the women gathered there, remembering our shared past. I felt the tug of connection that had been missing for so long, lost in the busyness of raising my own family and the isolating blanket of grief I’d wrapped around myself. I loved those familiar faces; they made up a large part of my life. Yet for all their familiarity they’d changed, not so much from the passage of time, but from the lives they’d lived and all they’d seen. And I realized we’d entered a new season of our family life, together.
Spring
When I was born, our family was in the midst of its springtime– seven brothers and sisters (of which my mother was the youngest) their spouses and children (thirty-one kids between them). We saw each other often back then. When we got together, it was always a party and I don’t mean a Norman Rockwell-type party. I mean the dad’s in the basement, drinking beer, watching a ball game and playing Euchre. The mom’s at the kitchen table, after preparing enough food to feed a small Polish city and putting it out on a wood-covered pool table, munching on special mom goodies, and gossiping (in a nice way, of course). Then there were the kids— unsupervised, unchaperoned, unfettered and best friends. We were in heaven. Life was good.
Summer
As the thirty-one cousins grew up, the family remained close. Maybe not quite as close as we had been when we were younger, but we still got together often and when we did it was still a party. And those of us that didn’t play Euchre with the dads were still unsupervised, unchaperoned and unfettered. But now most of us were old enough to drink. That made for more “fun”.
We cousins began to get married, standing up in each others weddings, with the new spouses becoming a welcome part of the chaos that was our family. And as the summer of the family wore on, babies came and families grew. And we didn’t see each other as much as we had in the early summer. But when we did, it was still a party.
Until one of the uncles died, sending a chill over the summer of our family. And yet even in that death we were together, many of us blessed to be in his hospital room with him when he drew his last breath in this life.
Summer was the era of “Girls Gone Polish”—the cousins and the aunts and the music. The highlight of our summers was the outdoor concert. We’d arrive an hour early to get good seats on the hill at Meadowbrook Music Theater, coolers packed with the usual goodies and exotic drinks like “Sex on the Beach” or “Fuzzy Navels”. I sometimes think we didn’t go as much for the music as we did for the autographs. Can anyone ever forget surrounding Roy Orbison’s bus until we got the zillion autographs we were after (a shout-out here to Aunt Dolores) or, if the bus managed to elude us, scouting out nearby Marriot hotels in search of autographs? Have the Righteous Brothers ever forgotten the late night phone call to their hotel room asking them to send down their autographs on the hotel napkins?
Autumn
Autumn came suddenly to the family during an unexpected snow storm. That was the day the youngest cousin died in a tragic car accident on an icy road. That was the day my brother John died.
John had a great love for the family; he was one of those that was always at its heart and core. And even when most of us were too busy to attend this or that graduation or get-together or party, John was there. The death of a beloved cousin, and the youngest on top of that, was painful for everyone. Even so, somehow it made me different from them; I didn’t fit in anymore. I was afraid John would get left behind and I couldn’t bear that. So, I took him to all the family functions with me, and I’d watch the festivities from a distance, with John.
As I sat at my aunt’s table, gazing at the faces it suddenly struck me that each woman sitting there had suffered her own heartbreaking loss since John’s death— the loss of a mother, a sister, a brother, a husband, a father. Yet, I saw a strength and beauty emanating from each of those women that had been lacking in youth. The love we’d always had for each other had deepened and matured. I took a deep breath and settled back into my chair, so grateful for the comfort of being with my family again.
It was a bittersweet moment, because I realized summer had passed and winter would soon be upon us. But I was thankful for our autumn, the most vibrant season of all.
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December 30, 2012
A Word From Dave
I was going to write a new post when I came across this (It’s from December 20). Now that I don’t have to write one, I can use this time to make a sandwich for Dave.
Hello all, this is Dave, the other half of the Dawne/Dave marriage (actually, the other 2/3′s based on girth). Dawne is struggling to come up with something for a post, and since Christmas draws nigh she’s very busy (stressed). She left herself logged on and walked away, and me being the helpful sort I thought maybe I’d contribute – just keep it between you and me.
Since we’re talking about Christmas, I’d like to tell you about a gift I gave to Dawne: the moment I became a far better husband than I was before (and also a better all around person). I didn’t realize at the time that’s what was happening.
Like everyone, when I was growing up, I learned how to do things the way that my family did them. That way may not be the only way, but since they’re the way I learned them, they seem like the “right” way.
The “right” way to mow a lawn.
I learned how to do things like mow the lawn, take out the trash, and make a sandwich. I ate a lot of sandwiches (and still do), so my mom decided to free up several hours a week by teaching me how to make my own.
One of the things she taught me was that if you pull out a piece of bread near the end of the loaf, the bread has a big side and a little side (because the crust is angled, if you’re having trouble visualizing this you need to spend some time making your own sandwiches). My mom explained when the aforementioned situation occurs the little side of the bread slices should be on the outside of the sandwich and the big side on the inside since its greater surface area allows more spread or condiment to be applied thereto, thus increasing the sandwich’s overall yumminess quotient.
As my mom spoke I saw the light and swore to live my life accordingly from that day forward.
Then, down the road, I got married.
Overall, Dawne and I have always been a happy couple. Like any couple, we occasionally have our disagreements, and many times those disagreements are about how to do things the “right” way.
Also, there’s something that happens once you’ve lived with someone for a while– you get comfortable around them. I know that doesn’t sound like a spectacular insight but stick with me on this. What I mean is that you act around them differently than you do around others. You let them see more of what’s inside you, and sometimes what’s inside can be pretty childish.
Not only that, but things about our spouses that drive us crazy, we tolerate in others. Many times we’re far more forgiving of those we barely know. With those we know well we’re comfortable enough to let them see how their actions make us feel, even when those feelings reveal that we’re fairly petty.
Okay, now back to sandwiches and Dawne.
One day, after we were married, Dawne asked if I was hungry.
“Sure,” I answered.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said again (I stick with what works).
And then she made the sandwich, applying the spread to the LITTLE SIDE OF THE BREAD!
I lost my mind. How uncouth could she be? Had this woman been raised by wolves? Had I really married a troglodyte?
I don’t exactly remember what I said to her, but it was on the opposite end of the spectrum from “Thanks for making me a sandwich, dear.” Now, here’s the important part: even though I don’t remember what I said, I remember exactly what I was thinking when I said it— I was thinking I was an idiot.
Christmas gift from my in-laws.
I’m yelling at my wife for buttering the wrong side of the bread? Really? I can blow off all kinds of slights by strangers but I can’t let this slide? Yes, there was the fact that what she did bothered me and I felt comfortable enough around her to let her know it, but on a deeper level, the problem was that what she did bothered me at all. And, ironically, that was the moment I became a better person because at that moment, I became aware how petty I could be. And by being aware of it, and being able to recognize it, I could work on fixing it.
To end the story, I apologized and got my sandwich (with a side of humble pie). Five kids later, Dawne and I have a pretty good marriage. On my better days I can ignore minor problems. Not just refrain from making a hurtful comment about them, but truly ignore them. I’m not perfect in this area; I’m still a work in progress, but I can recognize when I’m letting the little stuff get to me.
This is something everyone can learn to do, and its one of the best gifts you can give. You give it to everyone, and you give it most to those you are closest to and most comfortable around. It’s not found under a tree and you don’t have to wait for Christmas to give it. And the best part is it’s free.
December 17, 2012
The Unthinkable Becomes Thinkable
There is one thing every person (there are seven of us) in my family has in common. We are Hobbit and Lord of The Rings fanatics. Our family rule for Tolkien is “You have to read the book before you see the movie.” Through the years, my husband read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy to our four oldest children. And after a few stops and starts, he and our ten-year-old, D³, finished reading The Hobbit just in time for the movie. Everyone was thrilled when we got tickets to the midnight showing for the entire family.
The night finally arrived and I sat in the dimly lit theater next to D³, listening to the hum of anticipation playing through the crowd while waiting for the lights to go out. Suddenly the midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises and the carnage wrought by James Holmes flashed through my head and a feeling of dread came over me. My eyes searched the crowd. Were there any lunatics lurking among the excited movie-goers? I checked out the exits and looked at my daughter sitting next to me. If anything happened should I shove her under the seat or climb on top of her? And I had a quiet thought, deep down in the center of my being—I wondered if I would have the courage to die for her.
The next day D³ confided in me that she had thought of The Dark Knight Rises when we were at the theater and had decided she’d hide under a seat if anyone started shooting. A few hours after our conversation, twenty-eight people were dead in Newtown, Connecticut. Twenty-seven murdered; twenty of them children.
Unthinkable. That’s a word we use to describe such a tragedy. At one time, such brutality in our midst was unthinkable, but if a ten-year-old is aware of its threat at the midnight showing of The Hobbit, it’s not unthinkable anymore.
In trying to make sense of the tragedy we look for answers and that includes finding someone or something to blame. We’ll blame the shooter’s parents, blame the gun-control laws, blame the shooter’s dysfunction and mental health. We will be carried away on a tide of “Who’s to blame?” ultimately politicizing and demeaning the entire ordeal.
But the truth at it’s core is that Adam Lanza and James Holmes and countless others are the only ones responsible for their actions. Despite their circumstances, their mental health, their upbringing, the weapons available to them, the time spent gaming, the movies they watched and music they listened to, they were each confronted by a choice. And they chose evil. How many other thousands of people in very similar circumstances remain anonymous because they did not choose the evil that tempted them.
As for making sense of it, we will never be able to make sense of the such things because they are ultimately senseless. It’s against human nature to commit such heinous acts against others. It is goaded on and strengthened by malignant forces working on a level that we can’t fathom. We’ve all been furious at someone before but handled it without resorting to, or even seriously considering, murder. Senselessness is a fundamental characteristic of evil and evil is the force behind such violence. And that is the answer to the ultimate question—”Why?”
In every tragedy, for some reason, God becomes part of the drama. People who never give any thought to God when things are going well (except to mindlessly intersperse “Oh my god,” throughout conversations) begin to think about God. Some pray to Him, some question Him (God, why do you allow evil?), some blame Him (God, you should not have allowed this. You should have protected those children). But God is not responsible for our decisions or our actions. Free will is ours and God will not override our will with His.
But these questions remain: “Where was God?” and “Why was evil allowed to triumph?” The answers are that God was there in the midst of the massacre and evil did not triumph. Adam Lanza was not the only one faced with a choice. All the adults were faced with a choice that day–”Save myself or save the children.” And God was there when they chose to save others because no matter how good a person is, it is not possible, of one’s own strength, to choose to die for another. Right now, sitting in front of our glowing computer screen, it’s easy to say we’d die for a loved one or even a stranger in danger. And we’d like to think we would. I think I’d have forfeited my life for my daughter’s but honestly I can’t even begin to imagine being in such a situation, much less how I’d really react. Try to imagine for a moment dying. And then imagine choosing your death over your life to save another. Can you honestly say you’d be strong enough to do it?
This supernatural strength the principal, the teachers and the others were given in no way detracts from what each of them did. They were faced with a choice, and they chose good, and I mean good in the truest, deepest sense of the word. And in their choice they will be forever remembered. When evil threatens to overwhelm us, those that sacrificed their lives are the ones that renew our faith in humanity and give us the strength to carry on, for a light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
December 3, 2012
Scrooge, A Grinch And A Girl
Our family has a Christmas tradition. I felt I had to impose it the year after we watched Highlander on Christmas Eve and there was talk of making it an annual tradition. Highlander our Christmas movie? Over my dead body. Obviously it was a situation headed out of control, so I stepped in a did what moms are supposed to do: took control.
I’m happy to say now our Christmas family movie is Scrooge, the musical starring Albert Finney. My family has come to terms with this tradition (although every year, someone fondly recalls the Christmas we watched Highlander). I think they’re even beginning to look forward to Scrooge. I heard S² humming “Thank you very much” yesterday.
Scrooge has always had a special place in my heart, the Grinch, too. As I lay in bed a few nights ago, pondering metaphysics, God, and man I naturally began to think of those two great characters of classic literature.
Yes, they each have an experience that shatters their existence and makes them realize they can never go back to life as it used to be. But the fact that they don’t want that life back is what makes them so interesting. Unfortunately, my late night ponderings don’t stop there. I begin to wonder what happens to the Grinch and Scrooge after Christmas.
Perhaps the Grinch moves to a small Scandanavian-style chalet at the edge of Whoville. Cindy Lou Who stops by for a visit. She and Max romp around filling the air with giggles and whatever noise dogs make when they’re having fun. The Grinch’s big baby blue eyes crinkle as he smiles. The next day after Cindy Lou has been there for an hour, the Grinch finds himself on the front porch with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming. By the end of the month, he is hiding under his bed, leaving Cindy Lou and the other little Whos pounding mercilessly on his front door. His wide blue eyes are getting squintier and squintier. But the Grinch doesn’t want to go back to his old ways.
As for Scrooge, he spends Christmas partying at his nephew’s home. The next day, unused to such frolicking, he sleeps in for the first time in decades. He drags himself from bed just in time for dinner and heads over to the Cratchit’s to check on Tiny Tim and inveigle a dinner invitation. The Cratchit’s are overjoyed to see him. At first his free and liberally shared advice are welcome, but when he tries to improve upon Mrs. Cratchit’s plum pudding things get a little tense.
Scrooge can really party.
Okay, I know you’re wondering where I get the chutzpah to speculate on the behavior of such beloved characters. And yet I feel qualified to such speculation because Scrooge, the Grinch and I have a lot in common. We each tend (to put it mildly) towards grinchiness but we each desire to change. This desire is precipitated by events that affected each one of us so deeply we realize we can’t continue living as we did.
The event that changed my life happened over seventeen years ago, but it has influenced my life every day since. In itself, it is about the most mundane and unmemorable thing you could imagine. We were driving in our van (on Nineteen Mile Road, two-thirds of the way between Dequindre and Ryan Road, for the Michiganders among you). Suddenly my mind was filled with a sudden blinding revelation: God. This is very difficult to write because there are absolutely no words to describe it—a feeling, an intuition, an awareness, understanding, pure unadulterated joy. Nope. None of these come close. I’m not asking you to understand or even believe me. Quite frankly, it’s not something you can experience just from reading my words (even if I could find some). What’s important here is the fact that this experience was so true and real to me that it changed my life.
I knew God was real. How cool (again, words can’t quite do it, so cool will have to do.) And I decided that I was going to change; I was going to always be good. Not because God demanded it, or because I wanted His approval, but because I loved Him and I wanted to be good for Him. And for myself. I hadn’t realized how unhappy I was until I was surprised by joy.
I floated on a cloud for a few days. But reality (the reality of myself) set in when I had to drive somewhere. I tried SO hard to be good and kind to the other drivers. But there were so many “idiots” on the road, my resolve crumbled. In fact, not only did I revert to my old self, I was worse than I usually was. What the heck was wrong with me? I did not want to behave this way.
But I learned, as I’m sure the Grinch and Scrooge would have if they were real, that a lifetime is a hard habit to break and bad is so much easier than good. But bad habits, even a lifetime of them, can be broken no matter how long it takes. For me, it’s possible with God’s help.
It would be possible for the Grinch and Scrooge, too. I think the Grinch would have moved to a secluded cabin in the woods, visiting the Who’s every week for some good times and a dinner of roast beast. Eventually, he’d begin inviting the Who’s to his cabin for a day of cross-country skiing and an evening of s’mores and cocoa in front of a blazing fire. As for Scrooge, he could have become a very successful business consultant (they weren’t called that back then) and philanthropist. Maybe he’d fall for a jolly widow and they’d live happily ever after.
As for me, I try to take one day at a time. As long as I don’t have to watch Highlander on Christmas…
Highlander, the perfect Christmas movie?
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November 22, 2012
Black Friday Blues
Black Friday comes but once a year
It sets the world upon its ear.
Sane people leave their home before
The dawning sun has yet drawn near.Thanksgiving’s but a passing chore
A sacrifice to gods of more.
Windshields cleared of winter’s frost
We must be early to the store.Employees tired and acting sauced
Cranky at the sleep they’ve lost,
Dream of running from their post
To flee from shoppers that accost.Snaking lines from coast to coast
The winner buying up the most
The savings clearly worth the woe
Thanksgiving giving up the ghost.Black Friday is Thanksgiving’s foe,
And so their armies each shall grow.
Visions of peace then let us show:
Both sides under the mistletoe
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June 21, 2012
Tiger Conflicted
I’m suffering from a malady that’s threatening my peaceful summer existence. I am Detroit Tiger Conflicted.
For those of you unfamiliar with “Who’s Your Tiger?” it’s a marketing ploy that’s recycled whenever the current marketing strategy bombs or gets old. It’s successful with fans that take the team very seriously, the game slightly seriously (or not), and young children. I’m under the impression that those Tiger fans who are die-hard baseball enthusiasts feel that such a slogan is only worthy of the proletariat.
There are as many ways to choose a Tiger as there are Tigers. I’ll venture to say that some fans take the easy way out and choose the superstar that’s currently winning the media popularity contest. Others use stats, and still others have a Tiger chosen for them because they get a jersey with a name on it for their birthday. They’re stuck.
Happy Birthday
I’d like to say I choose my Tiger by logic or statistics. But I will maintain my integrity and admit I choose my Tiger based on emotions and/or hormones. I’m not proud of that, but it’s a fact of my life I’ve learned to accept. I’ve had two Tigers in my life (although Mark “The Bird” Fidrych will always hold a special place in my heart). Nate Robertson was the first (cut me some slack.) He became my Tiger in 2006 but I was loyal to him until the bitter end, (those of you whose Tiger was Brandon Inge can understand).
I tried to use a form of hormonal logic when I chose a Tiger after Nate left. I’ve chronicled my journey here if you’re interested in the sordid details. If not, suffice it to say Brennan Boesch became my new Tiger in his rookie year. And he still is my Tiger. I think.
This season I started noticing Alex Avila because he reminded me of someone. I finally realized he reminded me a cute Shih Tzu. This isn’t a slam against his manliness. Any man that can start the game clean shaven and have picture-perfect scruff by the ninth inning has no need to defend his masculinity.
Am I the only one who sees a resemblance?
I didn’t realize how dangerous the situation had become until Alex was put on the Disabled List (DL in baseball speak. I know a few things) and I missed him a lot. I started feeling guilty when Brennan came to bat and I wasn’t very interested. And I began to whine, “When is Alex Avila coming back?” (nothing against Gerald Laird). As I listened to the familiar buzz of my whining, I realized that I was indeed Tiger Conflicted.
I am a very loyal fan (as the Nate Robertson incident proves), and I will never throw Brennan Boesch under the bus.
But I am ecstatic that Alex Avila will be back in the game tonight.
Look what I found! Maybe for my birthday…
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May 29, 2012
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
I choose books by their covers, wine by its label, and movies by their trailers. And I thought I didn’t care what other people thought of my choices. Until I had an encounter with O. W. Toad.
She doesn’t look like a toad.
I wasn’t always that way. When I was younger, I knew that knowledge was the key (to what I wasn’t sure), and that I was ignorant about many things. I relied on the well-informed and scholarly to choose things that would help me attain knowledge.
I also knew with a certainty that belied my youth, that classical literature was the foundation of knowledge. During high school my brother developed a consuming passion for literature. He devoured it like potato chips. He became my literary mentor. I borrowed his books– Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Tolstoy, Dostoeveky. But I couldn’t devour them. I nibbled at them like they were steamed broccoli. I didn’t enjoy it and if I got any benefits, I wasn’t aware of them (I felt the same about broccoli).
Movies weren’t foundational to knowledge, but they could be building blocks. So I looked to the experts, the movie critics, to guide me into knowledge-acquiring-movie-Nirvana. The critics led me to Pulp Fiction. AAAAHHHH. I wanted to bleach my brain after that. Then their wisdom led me to Sideways. And I wanted to hunt down the critics that had “widely acclaimed” it and demand reparation for the two hours of my life that had been wasted. And while they were at it, they could reimburse me for the movie rental.
In the end, I owe those critics (well, let’s just call it even) because I begin to choose movies without reading reviews first. Move over Quentin Tarantino, I’ve realized I’m not meant to be knowledgeable. Enter Miss Congeniality and Legally Blonde. I don’t care what the critics say.
Literature followed a different path. I just stopped reading for myself; I read to my kids. But when I started grown-up reading again I browsed the bookstore shelves with the anticipation of a teenager with a shiny new driver’s license, getting into a car alone for the first time.
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
I didn’t look at the best-seller list or book reviews. I chose the books that called to me. And I began to acquire knowledge. Not the kind I’d thought was necessary. The kind that taught me about other people, living in their own bubbles, trying to give me a glimpse of themselves. Both of us, reader and writer, connecting somewhere in our guts.
After reading lots of contemporary fiction, deciding to read classic literature again was like summoning up the courage to tip-toe into the cold lake water at the beach. I was fearful that if someone didn’t explain it, or tell me what to think, it would be lost on me. In fact, I was so focused on the mechanics I almost gave up. My brother told me to chill and just read it. So I did.
And I still do. And for the five hundred salient points that sail right over my head, I’m smart enough to get three or four. And that gives me plenty of stuff to ponder.
Which finally brings me to the point of this post— Margaret Atwood (also known as O. W. Toad).
I’d been hearing her name often so I decided to read The Handmaid’s Tale. It was not what I was expecting, and it was not like anything I’ve ever read. As I read, I was vaguely aware of a running commentary in the space between my conscious and sub-conscious minds. It went something like this: “What are her views on this (whatever cultural issue)? Is she trashing my views? Is she anti-Christian? Does she…..?” For the first few chapters I waited for a bogeyman to jump out at me and attack. But he never did. And I became engrossed in the tale and the place in Atwood’s gut that had given birth to it. It was an amazing place.
When I finished it, I gave it four stars in my Goodreads/Facebook account before indulging in my usual obsessive information glut (this explains my in-depth knowledge of things like Temple of the Dog, the life of Ernest Hemingway, and the in’s and out’s of NASCAR racing).
Is this where we live now?
I saw things like “anti-Christian” and “mocking traditional values”, and my heart did a little jumpy thing and a thought went through my mind, like a wisp of smoke, incoherent, just a dread— “Maybe I’m not supposed to like Margaret Atwood’s writing. Maybe I should delete my high rating so they won’t know.”
And I wondered if this place is unique to me or do we all live here? In this place where we believe that someone “from the other side” doesn’t have anything relevant to say, and isn’t worth listening to. So we don’t.
Then I shook my head and the smoke cleared. I did not delete my rating and I won’t delete my opinion. I can’t live in that place. If I did, I’d have to love Pulp Fiction.
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
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May 16, 2012
The Puppy Nobody Wanted Or Hound From Hell?
I have a confession to make. I don’t like dogs. We always had a dog when I was growing up and I never connected with any of them. I’m sure my life would be a little easier if I liked dogs, so I’ve tried. But I can’t force it. Wait— there’s more. Since one took a chunk out of my hand, I’m afraid of them too. For all you dog lovers out there, it’s nothing personal; I don’t like cats either.
But I’m not a total cretin. I like other animals. I love watching squirrels. Don’t let anyone tell you squirrels frolic; they are serious (if not misguided) about their business. And I squeal like a two-year-old when I see rabbits in the yard, even when they’re eating my flowers (I don’t get angry until they’re gone; by then it’s too late.) Then there’s the roaming hawk. He let us watch him eat a mouse once. And I love watching the bats that come out at dusk….
“I wish those birds would leave my food alone.”
Maybe it’s just domesticated animals I’m not fond of. I never met a cow that I wanted to bring home.
Then I met Andrew. I went to pick up my three youngest kids from a sleepover at my brother’s (aka Detroit Dog Trainer). They wanted me to come in and meet one of the dogs my brother was currently working with. I was reluctant to say the least.
“Please come in and see him. Please, please, please,” D³ begged me.
I sighed (deeply) and went in. To my surprise, I liked Andrew. He was an adorable, little mutt, with puppy-dog-eyes. Not all dogs have puppy-dog-eyes. And he didn’t jump, yip or nip. He sat quietly at my feet waiting for me to pet him. So I did. Then he rolled over and I rubbed his tummy. My daughter, D³, had fallen in love with Andrew and was quite encouraged to see me petting him and enjoying it.
“If I ever got a dog, which I won’t,” I told my brother, “I’d take Andrew.”
It’s ironic. Had I known Andrew’s background, none of us would have met him. Cute, little Andrew had a dark past. After a stint with abusive owners, he was taken to Almost Home, a non-kill rescue shelter, where he spent the next six years in his cage (that’s about forty-two dog years). He was adopted and returned four times. After many failed attempts to help Andrew, Gail, the founder of Almost Home, was ready to give up. Enter Detroit Dog Trainer (my brother), Andrew’s last chance.
On their first night together my brother couldn’t get Andrew to come out of the cage because he attacked anyone who came near him. So my brother put on a heavy hockey glove and shoved it into the cage. Andrew bit it for forty-two minutes before giving up. My brother called him “The Little Ball of Hate.”
Adorable puppy or hound from hell?
Three weeks later Andrew was a changed dog and my daughter and I both fell for him. But my brother was concerned. He already owned two dogs and couldn’t keep another, and he worried that Andrew would regress if he had to go back to the shelter. Andrew needed to be adopted. But not by just anyone. Even though he’d come a long way, because of his past, Andrew was considered a “special needs” dog. And he needed a family that understood him.
Enter the miracle. A couple that wanted to adopt a special needs dog was interested in Andrew. A meeting was arranged at the shelter.
“I want you and D³ to come,” my brother told me. “She was really good with Andrew. It’ll be good for them to see him with a little girl.”
So one drizzly Saturday afternoon we make the trek to the shelter— my brother, D³ , Andrew and I. Gail, a pretty woman with long brown hair, greeted us with a wan smile. I could see the trepidation in her eyes as she looked at Andrew, who was still huddled in his cage.
A crowd had gathered around him— he was well-known at Almost Home. But he wouldn’t come out; he had a sudden bout of stage fright. The couple waiting to meet him watched with concern. Everyone backed off as my brother and D³ coaxed Andrew out of the cage and began walking him around. When D³ took the leash and began to pet him, Gail broke out in a huge smile.
“So how does it feel to be Cesar Millan’s (the Dog Whisperer) sister?” she asked later as we watched Andrew with the couple that had come to meet him.
I shrugged. “I don’t really like dogs,” I admitted.
She looked at me with disbelief and I added, “But if I was ever going to adopt a dog, I’d take Andrew in a heartbeat.”
Then she burst out laughing and told the older gentleman standing behind us, “She’s Detroit Dog Trainer’s sister and she’s afraid of dogs, but she’d take Andrew.” He grinned at me.
Then Gail repeated it to everyone she saw and she’d laugh just as hard each time. And they’d laugh too. I finally realized that it was because a miracle had occurred. Andrew, the ferocious dog they’d loved but had almost given up on, had been saved. And I felt the love in this place, and I was grateful that D ³ and I got to experience it.
After my brother said goodbye to Andrew, he watched him with his new family. ”This makes it all worth it,” he said.
But as with so many of the truly good things in this world, there isn’t a happy ending. Rescue shelters are being stalked by an insidious menace. But that is for a later post. Right now, I’ll just be thankful that such places exist, loving and caring for discarded animals that otherwise would have no hope.
Click here to read more about Andrew and Almost Home.
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April 29, 2012
It’s Pronounced Macki-NAW… I Don’t Care If It Has A “C.”
I read this recently:
“Today, as I was walking into the office in the cold and snow, I heard someone behind me laugh and say ‘Another beautiful Michigan morning’.
People in Michigan seem to delight in claiming that they have the coldest, crappiest, most unpredictable weather. I have never in my life known an area more perversely proud of its climate, and everyone is absolutely certain that this is unique to Michigan.
There are tons of Michigan weather jokes, for instance:
Q: How many seasons does Michigan have?
A: Two – winter and constructionBut I grew up in upstate NY, which, as far as I can tell, has exactly the same climate as SE Michigan except we got more lake-effect snow.
And I lived for a time in The Netherlands, where I swear there are 15 different meteorological terms for “mostly cloudy with rain”. If the Dutch talk about weather, I think their complaints are well-deserved.
Why the heck do people from Michigan think they’re so unique, and can anyone tell me if this is a Michigan phenomenon or if every damn state thinks their climate is special????”
— progmom
Relax Progmom, I’m here to answer your questions.
In fact it’s become my mission, because if people like Progmom and Woody Hayes dislike Michigan then there are probably a few others annoyed by us as well. I feel it’s my duty as a Michigander to dispel ignorance about our mental state, thus enlightening the world.
Here is the Michigan Mentality:
Michiganders are perversely proud of everything about Michigan and we think everything about our state is damn special (Kwame Kilpatrick excepted).
Progmom says:
“People in Michigan seem to delight in claiming that they have the coldest, crappiest, most unpredictable weather. “
No, no, no. We know other places have colder, crappier, more unpredictable weather. We claim to have cold, crappy, hot, sunny, dry, humid, unpredictable weather all in the same day. That’s an important difference.
“I have never in my life known an area more perversely proud of its climate.”
Again, no, no, no. We are perversely proud of everything about Michigan, not just the climate. If I was to shrink Michiganders, I’d say that it could be a case of overcompensation. We feel we deserve more recognition than we get. For example, we don’t have the fame of California, but Real Steel was one of many movies made in Michigan. In fact, I think Hugh Jackman has become our adopted son. It’s amazing how many people here “met” him while Real Steel filmed. “Meeting” him includes: thinking you saw him in the vehicle next to you, knowing the waiter that served his bubble tea, being in the crowd watching a scene being filmed, etc.
Hugh Jackman in Detroit.
Hawaii may have the most famous islands, but we have Mackinac Island. Enough said.
San Francisco’s bridge may be well known, but we have the Mackinac Bridge. It’s bigger.
“Everyone is absolutely certain that this is unique to Michigan.”
There are those things that are totally unique to Michigan and we’re proud of them all, no matter how lame they are (Euchre). For example, our name for soda is POP. If you ask for a soda, we’ll look at you like you’re speaking a foreign language (you are) and bring you our version of soda– it has ice cream in it.
We’re very proud (whether we admit it or not) that we can use our hand as a map. There are those Michiganders that scorn the hand-map, but even they use it at one time or another. The proper way to use the Michigan hand-map is right hand, palm up, thumb slightly outstretched. If someone uses the back of their hand as a map of Michigan, they are not native Michiganders. And a word to Wisconsin— Really your hand-map is kind of pathetic. Just stop.
Wisconsin and Michigan. Notice the actual shapes of the states.
Michigan hand-map. Straight-forward
Wisconsin hand-map. It's not even close.
Also, we love the fact that Mackinac is pronounced Mackinaw. We love it even more when someone mispronounces it; that makes us feel intelligent.
And my favorite unique thing about Michigan is Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, a 1976 Detroit Tigers pitching phenomenon. I’ll resist the temptation to write everything about him that I’d like. Here’s the gist of it:
- Fidrych made the Tigers as a non-roster invitee out of the 1976 spring training. His first start was in mid-May. He only made that start because the scheduled starting pitcher had the flu. Fidrych responded by throwing six no-hit innings, ending the game with a 2-1 victory in which he gave up only two hits. He went on to win 19 games, led the league in ERA (2.34) and complete games (24), was the starting pitcher in that year’s All-Star Game, won the American League Rookie of the Year Award, and finished second in voting for the Cy Young Award.– From Wikipedia
- In the process Fidrych also captured the imagination of fans with his antics on the field. On June 28, 1976, he pitched against the New York Yankees in a nationally televised game on ABC; the Tigers won the game 5-1. After a game filled with “Bird” antics in which he and his team handily defeated the Yankees, Fidrych became a national celebrity. –From Wikipedia
“...can anyone tell me if this is a Michigan phenomenon or if every damn state thinks their climate is special????”
Again it’s not about climate. Everything about us is special including our very passionate rivalries, which instead of driving us apart bring us closer together in a weird Michigonian sort of way. Some of these rivalries include: Michigan State vs. University of Michgan, Yoopers vs. Trolls, Eminem vs. Kid Rock and Brandon Inge– Should he stay or should he go?
Alas, Progmom, I don’t think these explanations will suffice. It needs to be in your blood. I’ve lived in many other places, but my heart was always in Michigan.
“Si Quaeris Peninsulam Amoenam Circumspice”
“If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”
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