Once upon a time, a little girl dreamed of owning 27 dresses. Yep, that would be my five-year-old daughter, Bunny. She is the world’s girliest girl, or at least the girliest girl in my world.
She has always been ultra-feminine. When Elle was playing with trucks, trains and balls, Bunny was playing with dolls, Barbies and dress up clothes. She loves princesses, everything about princesses. If she could, she would wear a tiara 365 days a year.
How did a five-year old come up with a goal of owning 27 dresses? The movie 27 Dresses, of course. It has been a hot and humid summer around here in Kansas, almost too hot to go to the pool and definitely too hot to play outside for hours. I wouldn’t go out and play in this weather, so why would I make my kids play outside? Rather than playing outside, the girls have turned the basement into their own clubhouse, play area and train track. It can be 100° outside, but the basement is always a cool 67°. But playing in the basement day after day while the temperature climbs outside can get boring.
We also have a home theater in our house. We didn’t build it…it came with the rest of the house. It was rather ingenious of the builders to take useless space created by angular rooflines and design a home theater. There are no windows and the room has been soundproofed. We put a really comfy sectional couch in it with a humongous TV. It is the perfect place to spend a hot summer day.
I collect movies…mainly chick flicks. I started my collection when Tom died and I have been buying them ever since. The girls also have a lot of movies. Between Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and Valentine’s Day they have there own Disney and animated collection of movies.
But that isn’t what the girls like to watch…especially Bunny. They like chick flicks with pretty dresses, handsome men and a good love story. One weekend when Colby was gone we had a “movie weekend.” The first night we watched Sandra Bullock in The Proposal…the next night, The Blind Side. Bunny’s favorite movie? The Proposal…because they fell in love at the end of the movie, plus there was a cute little dog.
Last week we had a movie day when it was really, really hot. We popped popcorn as an afternoon snack and curled up with blankets and pillows. The movie du jour was 27 Dresses. Bunny watched entranced as Katherine Heigel opened her closet full of 27 bridesmaid dresses. I realize that the movie wasn’t the most appropriate movie for a five-year old…but I knew most of the movie would go over her head and she would really enjoy all of the dresses, including the wedding dresses. She loves wedding dresses.
The next day, Bunny told me she wanted 27 dresses. Since she has always been a girly-girl, she might just be on her way to achieving her goal. She even went into her closet and counted her dresses. Currently she has 19 dresses. Prior to this summer, Bunny attended a preschool that required a uniform four days a week. She didn’t have much choice everyday and only on Friday was she allowed to express her personality in her clothes. Now that she is starting kindergarten in 19 days…it is only fitting she has 19 dresses, but I still have to take her school clothes shopping. Bunny has more than just dresses in her closet. She has really cute shorts and shirts that she helped pick out, but everyday…she puts on a dress. Everyday.
I know that when I take her school shopping, she will pick out dresses. Preferably eight dresses! I don’t think that is an unattainable goal. After all, the girl has to have new clothes to start kindergarten in. It also helps that Mommy loves dresses as much Bunny.
Elle might look exactly like me…but Bunny takes after me the most. She is becoming very goal-oriented. 27 dresses is a good first goal for a five-year old!
I have a lot in my life and I am very blessed. I have a man who adores me, I have two beautiful daughters, I have my health and I am truly happy. But there is one thing in my life that is missing, not exactly missing, just not something I have close by. Girlfriends.
I have girlfriends. I have a group of friends from school days and we have managed to become reunited despite the decades and distances that separate us. We call ourselves the Ya-Yas. We have nicknames and hats. We get together at least once a year at our high school homecoming and laugh and talk and drink. We dress up in feather boas and tiaras and we are even going to enter ourselves in the homecoming parade this year.
I have girlfriends from college and my sorority. They have stood by me during weddings and funerals. We don’t see each other often, but I know they are always a Facebook message away. We are trying to plan a girl’s weekend, maybe January in Napa Valley or Savannah, GA. Tiaras might be required.
My mom lives close by and we are really close, but she still is my mother and it’s just not the same. I spend vast amounts of time alone. I write, cook and read and I’m not really lonely, but I do feel the absence of close female friendship. Colby often tells me I need girlfriends and I need to spend time with them. My mom tells me I need to find girlfriends and spend time with them. Even my therapist tells me “we” need to find me some girlfriends.
It’s not like I don’t have them…as I’ve explained, but they just aren’t close by. I sort of feel like I should hang a sign around my neck that says, “Please be my friend.” Sort of pathetic, although I do agree that I need to find female friendship that is less geographically challenging. Facebook, Twitter and my blog have helped. I have followers from all around the country, but they are cyber acquaintances…not someone you can have coffee with or a good old-fashioned martini lunch. I met an amazing group of women at RAD camp and we definitely keep in touch, but I can’t sit with their kids if they need a break from motherhood or commiserate with them if we have had a horrible day with our RADishes.
My BFF, Brenda, spent the weekend with me and it was wonderful. We talked, and drank, and cooked, and drank, and shopped and drank. We even managed to fit in a Paul McCartney concert. Brenda and I started kindergarten together…in 1969. That is a really long time to know a person. I have so many countless stories of Brenda and all the fun we had growing up. I can’t really remember a time when she wasn’t in my life.
Except for the 27 some odd years we didn’t see each other or talk to each other. She had issues with her life and I went away to college. I ran into her once my senior year in college. I was busy with graduating credits, sorority and a boyfriend. She was married and had a young child. And then nothing. It wasn’t until almost three years ago when we happened to be on the same emailing list. Out of the blue she called me. I think that first call was at least two hours long. Two hours isn’t very long when you are catching up on almost 30 years. We continued to call each other and email, but it wasn’t until last fall that we saw each again. It was like the years disappeared. We had both aged, both physically and emotionally. She was married, had a grown son and a first grandchild soon to be on the way. While I was still in booster seats and kid’s menus, she was an empty nester. We represented both sides of the parenthood scale.
But it didn’t matter. Since last fall, we’ve spent more time together and countless hours on the phone. There might be a week or so when we disconnect from each other, but when are worlds are less chaotic…or we need moral support…the phone starts ringing again. This last visit was special because it was the first time she visited my home and met my husband and my littlest.
I put her to work while she was here. I had corn to cream, pickles to brine and basil to pesto-size. We almost communicated without words. She just seemed to know what I needed done. But maybe that is because of her psychic ability. Hmm…I’ll have to think about that one. It was joy having her in my home…sort of like a long, lost soul sister.
On the night before she left, we were lying on my deck drinking our second bottle of wine. It was dark outside and we could see the moon and stars. Somehow we started talking about the 30 years we weren’t in each other’s life. I admitted to not really remembering when she disappeared from my life. She was there and then she wasn’t, but I had to confess not thinking a lot about it. That makes me sad to realize that I let her vanish from my life without a fight. I’m ashamed.
Evidently she was having similar feelings. With tears in her voice, she regrets not reaching out to me when Tom died. She knew he had died in a plane crash and she knew when his memorial service was being held, but she didn’t come. She said she didn’t want to appear to out of the blue…didn’t want to look like a curiosity seeker.
She has regrets and I have regrets. I told her all of that didn’t matter…because what mattered now was that we were together again. From this day forward we would always be in each other’s life, whether we are five miles apart or 500 miles. There is some property for sale less than a mile away. I can’t imagine the trouble we would be in if we lived that close to each other. Maybe it is a good thing that we live seven hours apart.
So, I have friends, really great friends. Maybe I am a little short on coffee friends or martini lunch friends, but I am willing to be patient and take my time meeting people, because there is something to be said for 41 years of friendship…even if it was absent for decades.
Princess Dragonfly,
I’m glad you are back in my life.
Love, Duchess Fleur de Lis
I did something this weekend that I have never done before…I went to my first rock concert. Yes, you heard that right…I have never been to a concert before. What concert was my cherry concert? Paul McCartney.
Two of my girlfriends live for Paul McCartney. I think between them they know everything about the Beatles, Wings and they know more personal information about Paul than Paul’s mother does. They are nothing but walking Beatles Wikis. So when the tour dates for Paul’s Up and Coming Tour were posted, Brenda and Suzanne were all over it like white on rice. When they asked if I wanted to go to the concert, I had to admit that I had never been to a concert before. I think if it were possible, they would have fallen on the floor trying to pick up their jaws. How is it that I had never been to a concert? I don’t know. It just never seemed to be a priority.
It wasn’t like I didn’t have the opportunity. Growing up near Champaign, IL there was never a shortage of concerts to attend. My parents went all of the time. They were even at the famous concert when Loretta Lynn collapsed on stage. My brother went a lot and Tom (my first husband) even asked me to go to a Fleetwood Mac concert in high school. I declined. Maybe I was scared…or maybe I just wasn’t that interested.
Brenda and I grew up in Tolono, IL, a small town 10 miles south of Champaign. It was also home to some of the members of REO Speedwagon. In the mid ‘70’s before they made it big, they used to play in a condemned building in downtown Tolono. Brenda used to ride her bike over to listen to them from the sidewalk below. I should have known then she would one day be a rock-n-roll encyclopedia.
Ok, maybe I have reached the advanced age of 46 without seeing a rock concert, but I have been to the ballet a number of times, and the symphony…including the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and the Boston Pops Orchestra. Tom and I used to go to the theater all of the time. I saw Jerry Lewis in Damn Yankees, Sarah Jessica Parker in Once Upon a Mattress and Matthew Broderick in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. I have spent my fair share of time with my butt in a concert hall, but never for a rock concert.
When Saturday rolled around, I was ready. More nervous that excited. It was fun to see Suzanne and Brenda excited. After dinner and drinks we made our way downtown to the Sprint Center. Our seats were 22 rows up from the floor to stage right. I was amazed at the graphics of the concert. There were so many old pictures and home films from the early days of Paul, the Beatles and of Wings. I was also surprised at the crowd. It ranged from people in their 70s and 80s to kids of five or six. I expected people standing in front of the stage dancing in a cloud of marijuana…but there was no pot in sight. I was a bit disappointed.
Paul played for three hours and it was a great three hours. I knew less than half the songs he sang, but that didn’t take away from my enjoyment. My favorite song was Back in the USSR for obvious reasons. Paul commented on visiting Russia and how fabulous the crowds were in Red Square. He told the story of many Russians commenting that they had learned to speak English by listening to the Beatles…that included the Minister of Defense. Now that’s scary!
So, I survived my first rock concert. It was fun and memorable. I didn’t get high on pot, but my ears rang for quite a while afterwards. Colby thought my first concert should have been Poison or White Snake, not one quarter of the Beatles…but I wouldn’t have changed it for anything.
A HUGE thanks to Brenda, Suzanne and Paul for a great first time!!!! First concert that is!
Well, I did it. I got a tattoo. Sending a huge thanks to everyone who weighed in on whether I should get one or not in To Tattoo Or Not. It was icing on the cake. The experience was great, memorable, and painful. The pain was to be expected.
Colby and I landed in New Orleans Friday afternoon and grabbed a bite to eat at Acme Oyster House and then plopped our fannies down at the Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone. We didn’t talk much about the tattoo. I knew Colby still wasn’t thrilled, but he was being incredibly supportive. Dinner at Mr. B’s Bistro…where I had the most amazing Shrimp & Grits of my life…but how can you go wrong with shrimp, bacon, cream and butter? No wonder I felt like a Beluga whale when I got home.
The next morning dawned and we got dressed and headed over to Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait. But there was a little problem. There were 24,000 Lutheran youths in the city and I swear they were all in line for Café du Monde. I have been going there for years and I have never seen the line so long. OK, on to Plan B. We ended up having a great N’Awlins style breakfast…but again, how can you go wrong with Tabasco?
The countdown was on. As I watched the minutes click away, my anxiety level started to rise. I was excited and very secure with my decision, but that didn’t make the butterflies in my stomach any smaller. After a little shopping, we started walking to Electric Ladyland, a very popular and reputable tattoo parlor on the fringes of the French Quarter.
It was strait up noon and I was the first patron in the door. I chose the pattern I wanted out of a book filled with Fleur de Lis patterns. I waited until one spoke to me, and on the very last page, there it was. I talked about shading and placement and was shown one of the artist’s arms so I would understand how it would look in the end. I paid my money in cash, was told to wait until the artist was ready and I took a seat.
Colby was still by my side. Another couple came in. The sat down across from me. They were more of the tattoo type than me and seemed to be more comfortable in this very eclectic environment. Once again, I was the odd bird in a sea of tattooed flesh. With my blond pixie cut, white capris, lavender tank top with a mardi gras colored scarf, diamonds flashing, I was a bit out of place. The reactions were similar to the time I got my first tattoo. Evidently I am SO not the tattoo type.
The man across from me had his ears pierced with big, round studs that create a hole in the ear. I had always wondered how that worked. So I asked. He explained how it all worked, with a thick N’Awlins drawl and amusement in his voice. It passed a few minutes while I waited.
Finally a very normal looking man came out and asked who was getting the Fleur de Lis tattoo. He looked my way and asked if the woman with the petrified face was the one. I took offence to that. I wasn’t petrified, perhaps a little anxiety ridden, but not petrified. He took me back to his table and we got started. As he began to work, we started the normal chitchat. He had a few tattoos on his forearms, but he wasn’t covered with them like most of the artists. His hair was cut clean and short and he had a polo shirt on. If I didn’t look like the tattoo type, he didn’t look the part of a tattoo artist. He was form New York, had been a New Orleans police officer and was married to an attorney. I guess that just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover.
I had three tattoos before I decided to get a Fleur de Lis…one pink ribbon and two nipples. None of them really ever hurt when I got them. Yes, I felt some pain, but no big deal. They also didn’t cause me problems when they were healing. This one is different. It hurt from the moment he touched it with the tattoo gun, it ached afterwards, it swelled up, it hurt to have clothes touch it, and it has itched like there is no tomorrow. One night I was sort of complaining to Colby, knowing I had no justification to complain. He told me that my other tattoos had always taken place in “the zone.” The zone was related to my breast cancer where nerves were cut and permanently damaged. My new tattoo wasn’t. It was a “full on tattoo.”
As I watched my tattoo take shape on my ankle and tried not to make too many faces, I began to gain new respect for all of the people who choose to decorate their bodies with tattoos and the artists that create them. It isn’t something I would ever consider…I’m done getting tattoos, but it is an art. It is a craft that requires true artistry and patience. I enjoyed the time I spent at Electric Ladyland. Everyone there made me feel welcome even if I didn’t look like I fit in. I got what I came for…a true souvenir from New Orleans, one that I will have for the rest of my life.
Starting college was really difficult for me. As you might have read in A Curtain of Shyness, I am painfully shy and going away to college was going to provide ample challenges beyond learning and studying. I was excited to go away to school. I wasn’t going so far that my parents couldn’t be at school quickly, but far enough away that I would experience my first taste of freedom.
I started my college career at Eastern Illinois University, a small state school that had once been a teachers college. Once I was accepted, I started receiving all types of information about class schedules, housing information and extra-curricular activities. One of the brochures was about the Greek system at EIU. The pictures of the sororities and fraternities entranced me. They seemed like they were having such fun. My brother had been in a fraternity at the University of Illinois and I always envied him all the parties and adventures he seemed to have.
There were only two other people attending EIU from my high school, but unfortunately for me they were guys. None of my friends would be joining me. Other than Cliff and Brice, I knew no one at school. Was I going to make friends? Was I destined to spend every night in the library alone? How scary would it all be? I spent hours pouring over the sorority brochure and decided that as scary as sorority rush would be…I was going to do it.
Sorority rush started the day I arrived at EIU. For the next week I would put on my nicest clothes, trying for good hair and better makeup. I went from house to house, meeting new people and making small talk. As scared as I was, I kept pushing on. I finally decided on a sorority that made me feel welcome and one that I knew could be my new home. The day I received my bid from Sigma Sigma Sigma (SSS) I was so excited! The dye was cast.
The day I pledged was surrealistic. Before the pledging ceremony, all the pledges were gathered in a room in the basement. Being shy, I kept to myself and just listened. There were 19 of us all together. Other girls were chatting like they had known each other forever. Some had. I remember one girl talking about the diamond ring her father had given her before she left for school. At that moment, I felt so out of my league and had moments of terror alternating with major feelings of inferiority. But I kept moving forward.
Pledging was fun and horrible at the same time. In addition to schoolwork, I had sorority work. We had to dress up everyday and wear our pledge pin. On Fridays we had to wear jeans and our Greek letters. Every day we had to carry our pledge book, a purple book with all of our pledging information. We had to guard it with our life just in case someone decided to kidnap it and hold it for a ransom. We had meetings and requirements to go to all functions with fraternities. This wasn’t a problem so much as it took up a lot of time. We had to meet with members of the sorority, which at times was a scheduling nightmare, and we had to have their personal information memorized. Most of the girls were great…some, not so much. We worked towards two things, activation…and a sailor’s hat.
Yes, a sailor hat. When we had achieved some secret requirement, we were given a white sailor’s hat. We glued our Greek letters on the front and divided each section between all the fraternities on campus. We were required to wear the hat Monday thru Friday from morning until dinner. When we were in class, we took our hats off and guarded them with our lives…just like our pledge books. We had to get 15 signatures from every fraternity in a certain amount of time. Very fun…but very stressful. We were the only sorority on campus that wore sailor hats and boy did we stand out.
Through all the requirements and fun activities, the girls in my pledge class began to bond. I never imagined that being forced together; working towards a common goal would bind 19 girls from different backgrounds into a cohesive working unit. These girls became my best friends. We did so many crazy and fun things together. My memories of these years were some of the best of my life. I lived in the sorority house my sophomore year. I majored in sorority that year…my schoolwork was secondary to the house. My grades definitely reflected this. I became a little lost my sophomore year. I had lost any vision of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I learned that my parents feared I would do something to myself and it was finally decided that I should come home. Coming home meant attend the University of Illinois.
I would miss my sorority sisters, but I knew this was the right decision. Fortunately, there was a chapter of SSS at the U of I. I plunged right back into the new house. It gave me an anchor on a campus that was three times the size of EIU. One of my pledge sisters had also transferred, so I wasn’t walking into a house full of strangers. Immediately I was accepted and started making new friends. Eventually two of my new sisters would stand up with me when I got married and held my hand when my first husband was killed. They were back by my side when I remarried and welcomed my daughters home.
Through the years I have mourned the loss of my pledge sisters. I have tried to reach out to all of them with some success. A number of us are on Facebook and it has been fun to catch up. The girls I knew in college have become remarkable women. They represent an important part of my life. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without them. They accepted me in a time of loneliness, shared crazy times with me, and looked out for my best interest as I looked out for theirs. They stood beside me in times of sorrow and happiness. They challenged me to be the best person I could be.
Twenty-eight years after that fateful and frightful day of pledging, we remain connected by a sailor’s hat, signatures faded by time, but the meaning behind the purple letters remains bright and true.
OK, before you go getting you panties in a wad, I am not a drug addict. I have never snorted cocaine and I have never smoked crack, but I do have an addiction…books. Love them! My favorite thing is a trip to the bookstore. I love the big bookstores like Barnes & Noble. I find small, independent bookstores to be quaint and I love the feel of them, but I want…need to have more selection.
I grew up going to the library as a kid. Every week my mom would take me to the library to get books and the smell of the library made me imagine the endless opportunities and adventures I could read about. Being a child of the ‘60’s, I watched Captain Kangaroo every morning. He read the best books on his show, so when it was time for our weekly trip I was so excited if I could find a book the Captain had read.
When I was in junior high/high school, during the summers I would ride my bike to the library and check out 10 Harlequin romance novels. I would check them out then put them in my white plastic wicker basket and pedal home. It would take me a week to finish them, and then I would head back to the library for more. They had a whole row of romance novels and that clearly is where my love for trashy romance novels started.
I was privileged enough in college to work at one of the University of Illinois’ libraries. I worked part time at the Physics library shelving books, helping students find resource materials and I worked at the checkout desk in the evenings and on the weekends. It was the greatest job because as a student myself, the staff never minded that I studied if I had all my work done. I think this was the only time I really hung out with super smart, rocket scientist kind of people. They were scary smart.
After working in the Physics library for a while, I was offered the opportunity to work at the small town library I grew up in. I thought the Physics library was cool, but now I got to work a few blocks from my house, work Monday through Thursday from 4:30-7:00p and 9:00a-noon on Saturdays…right back in the very building I spent so many years at as a little girl. I got to see people I grew up with, their parents, their children and I got to influence a whole new generation of young readers. My favorite time was in the evening when it was close to closing time. If I had finished studying and there were no customers, I would sit in the tiny little chairs in the children section and reread my favorite books from my childhood. Just touching them and smelling them always brought a sense of peace to me. I enjoy taking my daughters to the library and watching their faces as they pick out a week’s worth of books.
I rarely borrow books from the library myself because my habit is greater than that. I need to own the books. I need to dog-ear the pages and when I’m finished I love to look at a wall of books I’ve read. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. I always have a stack of books under my nightstand. I read legal thrillers, historical novels, non-fiction, period romance novels and trashy contemporary ones. I rotate an easy read book with a book about the history of oil, then another trashy romance with a book about Che Gueverra. I reread my favorite books, sometimes once a year. I don’t think I have a most favorite book, I have several, but the Laura Ingalls Wilder series is a favorite along with Gone With The Wind and The Endless Steppe by Esther ****.
If my stash pile of books starts to get low, I start to panic. Oh my God! I’m running out of books! Quick, get in the car…we have to get to Barnes & Noble! I always have a book with me. When we go on vacation I take four or five. If I know I am going to have some downtime while running errands, there is always a book in my purse. If I finish a book when I am out and about, there better be a grocery store or a pharmacy readily available, because otherwise I am going to have a panic attack. And, there is no way I can walk into a bookstore and not buy books. Impossible. I can drop $100 in a heartbeat and not blink an eye.
I haven’t really embraced the idea of an electronic book reader…like a Kindle. I understand its value, but I am a tactile person. I need to see the book, hold it, smell it, and turn down the pages. And if you had a Kindle, how can you read on a plane as you are taxing and taking off. You have to have your electronic equipment turned off. Then what do you do? That’s 15 to 20 prime reading minutes.
I take pride that my daughters are becoming readers. Elle can read faster than me, and that’s saying a lot. I come from a family of readers and to see the excitement on their faces when I tell them we are going to the library is priceless. I have made my addiction an expensive little hobby. But when you compare it to other addictive hobbies such as hunting and diving, it comes out on the cheaper end.
I will continue to feed my habit. It is healthy and allows my mind to keep working as I learn about new things and people. So all you crack cocaine users out there…you can have your needles, mirrors, pipes and rolled up dollar bills…I am quite content to being a reading addict. And I won’t get arrested for it.
There are few things in life that require us to close our eyes, hold our breath and leap. Very few. Most every decision we make in our life, we have the ability to make informed decisions. What do I want to be when we grow up? Should I take a job with that particular company? Do I really want to marry this guy?
We study and research before we choose a college. We research the pros and cons of going to work for a company. We hopefully spend a lot of time getting to know the person we are contemplating spending the rest of our life with. Even when it comes to having a baby, it’s not a complete leap. You either get pregnant by accident or you plan it. It happens or it doesn’t. If it does, there is research to do, people to talk to and doctors to visit. If it doesn’t, what are the options? Isn’t the internet a great thing?
But the greatest leap of faith I ever took was to look at a picture of a baby girl, thousands of miles away, and decide this will be my child. There is no opportunity to research her on the internet. The only piece of information you have on her is a one-page sheet with her medical statistics…in Russian. The adoption agency tries to help as much as they can, but their advice is to send that single sheet of medical statistics to an international specialist who can analyze the medical information and tell you if the child is healthy or not. Whether she thinks that child will grow up to be a healthy and happy, productive member of society, or if her slightly enlarged head is predictive of mental delays. Did I mention there was only one sheet? In Russian? Not a lot of help.
Then there are the pictures. The first set came in a FedEx package and there were only three. You can read more about this here. One picture made her look like she was strung up on a meat hook, being held by a big beefy Russian hand. One picture had me wondering if she had two hands or a hand and a stub. None of them gave me the sense of her size or what really had happened to her in the proceeding five months. But with this information, I was required to decide whether I would make this child my own. The facts are limited, the leap huge, so you close your eyes, take a deep breath…and jump.
The faith I had was strong, my gut was speaking loudly. This was my child. I signed the paperwork to proceed with the adoption and less than three months later she was sleeping in a crib across the hall from me. That was 11 years ago and I have never doubted that I did the right thing. Well, maybe on some days…but she is my daughter. She is no less my daughter had she come shooting out of my vagina.
But not everybody can make the leap. I actually knew a woman that rejected the first referral she received from Russia. That seems pretty amazing if you knew how much she wanted a baby. But something in the picture and on that one sheet of medical statistics wasn’t right. She couldn’t put her finger on it. She grappled with the decision for weeks…for as long as she could before she said no. She knew the risk she was taking. Piss someone off along the adoption journey and you could see your dreams of a child disappear. She didn’t care…it wasn’t right. So she prepared herself to wait…and wait…and wait. But it wasn’t long and she received another referral. Another little girl, another little baby named Victoria. This time it was right. Her gut sang that this was her daughter, but still no guarantee that the baby would grow up to be a healthy and happy, productive member of society. It didn’t matter…she leapt.
I often tell Elle that she is lucky she got me for a mother. The fates smiled on us the day the FedEx package arrived. I remember whispering to her in the orphanage that it was just the two of us…but no matter what happened in our life…we would work through it together. I also tell her that if I hadn’t adopted her, someone else would have, but her name would be Fern and she would live in Idaho. I don’t think she wants to be named Fern and live in Idaho.
So, if you ever find yourself being faced with taking the greatest leap of faith in your life, listen to your gut, close your eyes, hold your breath…and jump. The journey down will be worth it.
I came face to face with old age today. Not mine, but an elderly woman who was wandering in the middle of the road…a road with a speed limit of 50/mph. I was driving along, a bit over the speed limit, when I noticed something blue in the road. My first thought was it was a construction worker, but there was no road construction. My second thought was someone was just crossing the highway, but we were miles from town and there were no houses nearby. My third thought was someone was drunk, but it was 10:20a and there were no cars in sight.
I never imagined it was an elderly woman. What in the world was she doing in the middle of the road? It was already 90° and we were expecting a heat index of 110°. In shock, I slowed down and pulled up beside her. As I rolled down my window, I wondered if she was OK. She stopped and walked over to the passenger window. I turned the radio down and asked if she was all right. She said she was fine and she didn’t need any assistance. I kept asking if she was sure she was OK and she repeatedly replied she was fine. She thanked me very politely and told me she was going home.
With a strange feeling in my stomach, I started to pull away, but as I watched her in the rear view mirror, I saw another car pull up behind her. A small woman jumped out. So many thoughts started whirling through my mind, the strongest being that something was very wrong. I stopped the car, told the girls to sit tight and jumped out. I quickly walked back as the other woman approached. I held my phone up indicating if I needed to call 911. She said she had already called and they would be there shortly.
I asked the elderly woman her name. She told me it was Evelyn. We started questioning Evelyn about where she lived and where she was going, what she was doing. She was coherent, but clearly confused and dazed. Her stories weren’t making any sense. We walked past my car at a brisk pace. She was a woman with a destination. I signaled the girls everything was OK, but wait. Cars kept whizzing past us. It started to dawn on me the precarious situation we were in. As we tried to get her to turn around and get in one of our cars, I called 911. The police would be there shortly. The more we tried to direct her, the more annoyed she became.
As the situation became more serious, a police car pulled up behind us. I walked back to the car to explain the situation. The sun continued to beat down on our heads. Evelyn’s back was wet with sweat. She continued to become more agitated and was starting to get angry with us for calling the police. The policeman asked her some questions, but let us lead. She seemed more comfortable with us than with him. He finally convinced her to come to his car and sit in the backseat where it was cool. She refused and kept pulling away from us. As we stood there, trying to convince her to let us help, another car pulled up. It seemed rather comical…we had a little parking lot going at the side of the road…cars still speeding by.
An elderly gentleman was driving the car and Evelyn immediately walked over to the side. I was on one side of her and the policeman on the other. I watched the man behind the wheel and he clearly wasn’t happy…angry was more like it. I opened the door and tried to help her get in. Evidently this was her husband and he walked around to help. He angrily approached as we got her in the car. When she wouldn’t put her feet in the car, he moved her feet and slammed the door.
I stayed to talk with her as he spoke with the officer. She was getting really irritated with me, as I wouldn’t let her open the door. She told me if I didn’t let her out she was going to sue me. I chuckled and told her she could sue me if she wanted. I didn’t mention that I was a lawyer. That would really have pissed her off. When she got a really angry look on her face and lifted her arm out the window, trying to punch me in the face, I finally asked for a little assistance. Both men came back and her husband told her to stay put and locked the door. This didn’t stop her from trying to escape. He muttered that she was getting out of control and he couldn’t keep up with her. He needed to put her in a home.
At this point, the other Good Samaritan had driven away. As I spoke with the officer, Evelyn and her husband pulled away, heading home. The officer walked me back to my car…needing to check my driver’s license. I was a bit shaken up, and sensing my unease, he told me everything was going to be OK. He was going to follow them home and check on the situation.
As I climbed back in my car, answering the questions of the girls, I realized I had met the face of Alzheimer’s, and it wasn’t pretty. I was sure Evelyn’s husband was angry, but not because he was a bad person, he was scared. He had been working on his farm when she wandered off. It was over half a mile to his house. She was fast and he couldn’t cope anymore. The desperate nature of the situation sank in. Sadness enveloped me.
So often we drive by, not wanting to get involved. I hesitated, but in the end I jumped into the situation headfirst. I did the right thing and I taught my daughters an important lesson. You may not want to get involved, but sometime you have to help others. The kindness of a random stranger can make the difference between life and death.
I am not afraid to admit that the first car I ever bought was a Yugo. That right, a Zastava Koral direct from Yugoslavia. It was blue and it was 1987.
Since my junior year in high school, I had been driving a hand-me-down car given to me by my parents. It was a 1973 ‘98 Oldsmobile…the largest car to ever roll off the assembly line of Detroit. When you are 17 and your parents hand you the keys to a car, debt free and no requirements to pay for the insurance, you don’t question it. You just drive. And drive I did. Tom (my first husband) and I dated in high school. I was 1 ½ years older than him and I had my license…he didn’t. I would pick him up on dates and he would drive, because I had had my license over a year he was legal to drive. Oh, the things we did in that car! We drove it fast, making the jogs at the county line as fast as we could without braking, and we parked a lot. I didn’t lose my virginity in this car…but I could have…it was big enough.
But I traded it all away for one of the smallest cars to ever grace the roads of the US. A Yugo…all the rage my senior year of college. I had always driven hand-me-downs and I wanted to buy a new car…but financially, I couldn’t buy a “normal” new car. I didn’t have the cash or the job to make the car payment. Once I saw a Yugo on the lot, I was sold…I wanted one and I wanted one bad.
Without my parents, I marched down to our small town bank, sat in the VP’s office and asked for a loan. Charlie had known me my entire life and he seemed amused that I was asking for a car loan…by myself. He asked me the type of car I wanted and seemed intrigued. I know now that he was secretly laughing at me, but he kept a straight face. He was getting ready to turn me down when he asked if I had any collateral to put down for the car. “Well, of course I do…I have $2,500 in cash.” His demeanor changed…this was different…the girl had cash. I suppose considering the sales price was $3,990 and I had $2500 to put down, Charlie figured this was a good deal for the bank…plus he knew were my parents lived if I ever missed a payment. My monthly payment? $89.00.
With the bank papers signed, I went to the Yugo dealership and bought my very first car. I was so excited. I gave it a test drive and was really scared because it was a 4-speed manual transmission and I was afraid I would kill it in front of the salesman. I didn’t, but pulling out into traffic was stressful. I remember the salesman had a smirky look on his face. He had a young, college woman wanting to by a Yugoslavian made car…he had a sucker on the line. The car was a Yugo GV. I asked him what the GV stood for…with a straight face, he replied, “good value.” Like the naïve, young, college woman I was…I believed him. Now I realize that as car salesmen go…he was on the bottom of the totem pole. I bet he doesn’t admit to anyone that he ever sold Yugos.
I got a lot of shit from my friends and family. Tom was really tall. When he sat in the car, he looked like a giant sitting in a clown’s car. He had to fold himself into it and his knees were up around his ears. He hated driving that car. At a family gathering, his brothers thought the car was so “cute” and little that they picked it up and turned it sideways in the driveway. They were also intrigued by the toolbox that was in the trunk. One of his brothers made the joke about it having its own toolbox…including a hammer and sickle…you know, from the former Soviet bloc country of Yugoslavia. Tom used to make fun of my car because it didn’t have an engine…it had a conveyor belt powered by a gerbil.
All jokes aside, it was a great little car. It got decent gas mileage. I never got it stuck in the snow. We lived in Fargo, ND the first two years I had it. It always started, except for once when the temperature was 30 degrees below zero. Not many cars started that day. The maintenance on it was next to nothing. I had to have a belt replaced once…it cost me $19.95. It wasn’t the fastest car in the world, but it always got me where I needed to be.
When I had the car for five years, we started to debate what we should do with the car. It was five years old, and although I had had no problems with it, Tom had the concern that the car would start needing maintenance. It had a Fiat engine, but all the parts had to come from Yugoslavia. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but Yugoslavia wasn’t Yugoslavia anymore and they were in the middle of a civil war. Tom thought it might be best to get a new car…one from a country that wasn’t practicing genocide on its citizens.
I finally decided to trade the Yugo in for a new car. Once more I had to endure the laughing, jokes and innuendos from the sales staff. But that’s OK. I drove the car for five years, with almost no maintenance and a monthly payment of $89 a month.
Remember…he who laughs last laughs loudest.
I spilled my deep, dark secret, so what was the first car you ever bought by yourself?
As I write this, I am jetting through the friendly skies having spent a fabulous weekend with my husband in New Orleans. As predicted in Laissez Le Bon Temps Rouler, there was an abundance of phenomenal food, no lack of cocktails, sweat soaked clothes because of the hot and sultry weather, and of course, a trip to the tattoo parlor. Yes, for all that were interested, I did get a Fleur de Lis tattooed on my ankle.
But after a weekend of eating and drinking more than normal, I am flying home feeling bloated, puffy and just a little uncomfortable in jeans. I feel Beluga whale-like and it just isn’t sitting very well with me. I’m sure when you fly away to exotic destinations where the food is rich and plentiful and there are no alcoholic inhibitions, you come home feeling slightly larger than when you left home.
That is what fat jeans are for. Come on…you have to admit you have at least one pair in your closet. I have about 10 or so pair of jeans. They range from tight fitting jeans that require you be at your lowest fighting weight…to the fat jeans when you just feel so fat and bloated that you want no constriction at your waist at all. I have a few pairs. Not that I am fat all of the time, but I am beginning to think they weren’t lying about this age thing. I can put weigh on easier these days and it is much harder to take off than say…15 years ago. For the most part, I am fine with a little extra weight, but when it results in wearing your fat jeans day after day after day…I get a little concerned.
I have also found myself wearing a lot of flowy shirts lately. I found some lightweight cotton shirts that closely resemble the daily wear of those from Pakistan. I call them my Hare Krishna shirts. I don’t care…I look Zen, I am comfortable and no one can see my ever widening rear-end. Plus, Colby compliments me every time I wear them.
I haven’t done a lot about my weight this summer. Before the summer began, I was pretty good about going to the gym five days a week. I would walk, lift weights and swim, but with the kids home it is a little more difficult. I really don’t want to haul the girls to the gym with me where Bunny can go to childcare, but Elle is too old for babysitting, but too young to go on the workout floor. That leaves the pool, and by that time it really isn’t efficient. So, I decided to walk every morning at 6:00a on my own person-walking trail created for me by Colby. You can read about it here. But that hasn’t worked out so well. Partly because it has been so blasted hot and humid at 6:00 in the morning, but mainly I just don’t want to get out of bed. It is summer vacation!
So the grand plan of staying fit through the summer has fallen through the floor. My garden has kept me busy and that has been fun, but it doesn’t quite give me the cardio workout I need. School starts in 30 days so I have a month left of just enjoying the girls and doing all those fun things I did in the summer when I was a kid. Until I can have more control over my schedule and have huge blocks of time to myself, I will continue to wear my fat jeans and flowy cotton shirts.
I just hope my fat jeans don’t become my skinny jeans and I have to buy more fat-fat jeans. That would just be sad.
