What Color Shoes Are You Wearing?

AGAIN ???

I got another one of those bloody email “just for fun” questionnaires today and like a mindless idiot I filled it out AGAIN!!!

What’s wrong with me???

The most ridiculous part is that it’s usually between the same group of people whose ice cream preferences I am now MORE than well aware of !

What I want to know is, why do people always answer these questions so literally? I use these surveys to jiggle my friends’ giggle reflexes by answering in as absurd a way as possible. Today’s responses were as follows:

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?	Nope, other than my middle name, Christine, in tribute to Jesus Christ, lord and savior of all the universe and galaxies beyond including Alpha Centauri.
2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?	BAH! Last Tuesday night after Bunco. I had such a wonderful time with all of you that it just makes my heart melt. (See question about “sarcasm” below)
3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?	Only when it’s on the bathroom wall. Michell, I especially like what I wrote about you at Chili’s in stall #3 on the left.
4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?	Sauteed cat lips
5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?	Not yet. Not my fault. Nancy is sterile. Too many years of wearing tighty whities…
6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?	Are you asking if I’m schizophrenic? Or are you asking my friend here?
7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?	No comment
8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS	Not after yelling at Jack last night
9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?	Only once. Without a cord. I believe in unassisted suicide.
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?	Any kind whose texture reminds me of chicken feed. Excellent fiber. Provided there’s a bathroom nearby.
11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?	I don’t wear shoes with laces. I was absent that day in kindergarten. I am shoe-tying illiterate but was afraid to admit it. Thank goodness for slip-ons. They’ve allowed me to hide my disability.
12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?	Please discuss amongst yourselves.
13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?	Anything Nancy doesn’t like (which is, like, any flavor but vanilla) And since I refuse to buy vanilla, I usually get to eat all the ice cream!
14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?	How they look at my filthy clothes and unshaven legs. I need to hang out with more blind people.
BLACK OR PINK?	Pink. Black often implies necrosis, depending on what we’re talking about.
16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?	Let me get back to you on that. There are simply too many options to make a choice right now. Maybe I’ll do a poll of my multiple personalities and see what they think.
17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?	George Washington
18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?	God, no!
19. WHAT COLOR SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?	Pink (feet). They are not yet necrotic.
20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?	Salmon & rice left over from Michell’s (she doesn’t know it yet — she’s planning to have it for lunch).
21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?	Murphy farting and snoring. It’s great having an older dog.
22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?	All of ‘em, mashed up, which I guess would actually end up being black.
23. FAVORITE SMELLS?	See # 21.
24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?	Miss Tina. In case anyone is wondering, we have actually solved all the problems of the world, but nobody ever seems to believe us.
25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?	Define “like”.
26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?	The crying little kid across the street being chased by Murphy. Go Murph!
27. HAIR COLOR?	I’m not telling. And I’m not showing either so don’t ask. I dye that part too.
28. FAVORITE PET?	Nancy
29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?	Once, about 20 years ago. I think they might still be in there.
30. FAVORITE FOOD?	Whatever leftovers Michell has in her fridge
31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?	Happy movies with scary endings.
32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?	“Reality Bites and So Does My Dog”. It’s my own screenplay inspired by my neighbors across the street — I previewed it on my computer.
33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?	Pale pink. Not actually wearing a shirt.
34. SUMMER OR WINTER?	Summer. Don’t have to wear clothes. Except for filthy ones if necessary.
35. HUGS OR KISSES?	Depends. Who are we talking about here?
36. FAVORITE DESSERT?	Ice cream that Nancy doesn’t like.
37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?	The police
38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND	Child protective services
39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?	Reading? See question #11. That was the same day they taught reading. I barfed up apples & milk on my buckle-up shoes so they sent me home. I think I should write a story about that.
40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?	Let me check my underwear. Hopefully nothing. I should be done by now, thanks to my recent D&C.
41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?	“Mr. Obama Goes To Washington”, followed by the sequel: “Mr. Obama Gets His Ass Kicked By Conservative Third-Graders”
42. FAVORITE SOUND?	Jack chewing asphalt.
43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?	Beatles being crushed by Rolling Stones. That would sound cool — playing both simultaneously — backwards. You could probably hear Paul McCartney saying “I… buried… Mick”
44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME???	Alpha Centauri. See question #1. That’s how I know about J.C. I’m thinking about becoming an evangelist in outer space if things keep getting any creepier here on Earth. There’s gotta be hope somewhere in the universe…
45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?	Nothing I can discuss on a public forum. I don’t want to set off any alarms with the spiderbots.
46. DO YOU BELIEVE IN ANGELS?	Only Ahmy….
47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?	Nobody’s. If I hear back from anyone, it will probably be at my front door by someone bearing handcuffs or a straitjacket.

I mean no offense to the senders of these ludicrous quizzes, but I’m sure I’ll get another one soon enough and I’ll be impelled and inspired to answer at least as obnoxiously.

I hope it wasn’t a matter of life or death for any of them to know what color my shoes really are….

Labor (Day) of Love

We have a guest commentator today:

ELLEN’S ACHING HAMSTRINGS !!!

I know — bitch, bitch, bitch — it’s not like I was out picking lettuce all day…. but it sure feels like it!

Once again, the course of current events has inspired me to learn a little more about yet another subject I assumed I knew about already, only to find out that I don’t know Shinola.

But you know what? I’m not alone. Not that this gives me comfort because it makes me realize (again) how careless we’ve gotten about learning the history of our country.

Today marks the 127th anniversary of the first Labor Day. If you don’t know about the origins of this holiday, as seemed to be the case with most people I spoke to this weekend, here’s a little info about it…

According to About.com: Many immigrants settled in New York City in the nineteenth century. They found that living conditions were not as wonderful as they had dreamed. Often there were six families crowded into a house made for one family. Thousands of children had to go to work. Working conditions were even worse. Immigrant men, women and children worked in factories for ten to twelve hours a day, stopping only for a short time to eat. They came to work even if they were tired or sick because if they didn’t, they might be fired. Thousands of people were waiting to take their places.

When Peter Maguire was 17, he began an apprenticeship in a piano shop. This job was better than his others, for he was learning a trade, but he still worked long hours with low pay. At night he went to meetings and classes in economics and social issues of the day. One of the main issues of concern pertained to labor conditions. Workers were tired of long hours, low pay and uncertain jobs. They spoke of organizing themselves into a union of laborers to improve their working conditions. In the spring of 1872, Peter McGuire and 100,000 workers went on strike and marched through the streets, demanding a decrease in the long working day.

This event convinced Peter that an organized labor movement was important for the future of workers’ rights. He spent the next year speaking to crowds of workers and unemployed people, lobbying the city government for jobs and relief money. It was not an easy road for Peter McGuire. He became known as a “disturber of the public peace.” The city government ignored his demands. Peter himself could not find a job in his trade. He began to travel up and down the east coast to speak to laborers about unionizing. In 1881, he moved to St. Louis, Missouri, and began to organize carpenters there. He organized a convention of carpenters in Chicago, and it was there that a national union of carpenters was founded. He became General Secretary of the United Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America.

The idea of organizing workers according to their trades spread around the country. Factory workers, dock workers and toolmakers all began to demand and get their rights to an eight-hour workday, a secure job and a future in their trades. Peter McGuire and laborers in other cities planned a holiday for workers on the first Monday in September, halfway between Independence Day and Thanksgiving Day.

And so, on September 5, 1882 the first Labor Day parade was held in New York City and 20,000 workers marched in a parade up Broadway. Within two years, with President Grover Cleveland’s blessing, Congress declared it a federal holiday.

Today, as others went about enjoying their hard-earned day off, I set out with my collection of sidewalk chalk to try to capture the essence of sacrifice that this day was intended to signify. In that first parade, some marchers carried signs that read, “Labor Creates All Wealth”.

That seemed like a timely slogan all these years later as we are in the biggest fight of my lifetime for the soul of our country. Detractors of our President, the first black man to hold the office, are accusing him of trying to create a Socialist government. I see his statements simply as a reminder to my fellow country people that we are all interdependent, that no one makes his fortune without the help of many others. Over the past several years it seems that people have grown rich without the sense of responsibility to reach down and help up those upon whose backs they’ve climbed to attain their success.

I don’t know how I’d define my own sense of what is best for our country. Certainly there are merits to all ideas, but alas, even a melting pot of civilization must come to some agreement about how to proceed. Right now, we are just an angry mix of ingredients, all insistent that our own particular flavor come through most strongly in the stew.

Tomorrow, the President will attempt to address the school children of our nation to the dismay of many who fear that he is trying to indoctrinate them into thinking the way he does.

One of the questions he plans to put forth asks the kids for their ideas about how to help him do a better job. It’s an age-old question that the youth of our nation have been trying to answer for years. But lately, there are many who find this query suspect.

What I understand about our system of democracy is that it is the responsibility of each of us as citizens to educate ourselves about the issues by listening to all sides, regardless of whether or not we agree. Only then can we form meaningful opinions and make informed decisions.

It’s remarkable how far we’ve come in 127 years. We’ve handled quantum changes in the way our system functions as new capabilities and technologies develop and we always seem to end up better off through common sacrifice and cooperation, making the organizations that ostensibly exist to fight for our rights become less necessary than they originally were. Rarely have threats and intimidation created a healthy atmosphere for growth, yet all segments seem vulnerable to becoming corrupted, even the labor movement. It’s not ideal by any means.

My hamstrings and I did our small part in helping to educate those around me about the importance of taking care of each other by supporting the efforts of EVERY citizen, regardless of creed, station, or education. To some, this  might look more like an attempt to indoctrinate the neighbors with Socialist propaganda…

Labor — hard work — does indeed create all wealth, both economic and spiritual, and I refuse to believe that any American does not want the opportunity to earn those rewards. Isn’t it time we stopped trying to knock each other off the ladder in our race to the top and start reaching out a helping hand so we can all get there someday?

A Priest and a Nun Walk Into a Restaurant…

We sat there yesterday and talked about it all, my old friend Sean and I, early-comers to the Bahama Breeze.

He’d called me late the night before after alerting me to his overnight stay in Tampa between flights. I was in tears after an online conversation with another friend, a purging about past mistakes for me, and his call was like a beacon. Of course I would meet him for lunch.

The first order of business was to acknowledge the recent suicide of one of our fellow high school classmates, Shawn Balla, who ended his life in an epic jump off the Golden Gate bridge. Only conjecture can explain his actions since so many of us had lost touch with him over the years. What we did know was that he had battled addiction and that he was gay; a tough combination for a middle-aged man who’d grown up in farm country in New Hampshire.

Yet it’s that very background that brings Sean and me together. During Christmas break in 1983, he and I came out to each other. We also came out to a few trusted mutual friends from school. Some of them never spoke to us again.

Yesterday, Sean added to some of the stories he’d told me back then of his early experience coming out at the Ivy League college where he’d been awarded a full scholarship because of his exemplary high school career. The story I’d remembered of his dorm mates urinating under his door was followed up with tales of harassment, beatings, and of graffiti scrawled on the walls of his gay friends’ rooms by these intellectual elite.

I’d never experienced any of that and I told him that I have often been disturbed by the reported actions of gay men who can’t seem to put their flamboyance away for five minutes in order to see the bigger picture of what and whom their actions represent. Of course, my opinion reflects my own self interest and the grace that has kept me safe from harm. The rights I wish for all of us do not often take into account the primal response to the persecution that many of his friends have faced.

Eventually, as most of my conversations with people seem to do, we got around to the subject of God.

“Do you believe in God?” he cautiously asked me.

I thought for a moment and replied, “Someone asked me that recently and my answer was, I don’t believe in nor worship God, per se. Rather, I experience God. I have spent my lifetime trying to understand what “God” is, as I try to reconcile the many different ways we all are in the world and resolve the paradox that there can possibly be any one way to experience our divinity. I am fascinated by the spiritual journeys of others as much as my own.” I told him that I’ve actually heard myself say that if I had been raised Catholic, I would probably have become a nun.

He nodded. He’s not sure he believes in God, as so many gay people have been left to feel. As the oldest of seven children in a strong Irish Catholic family, he has been put in the position of being the leader of the family as his parents’ mental and physical health decline. He feels that he is being asked to assume responsibility for them because he has no family of his own and since he’s a flight attendant, he should be able to travel to be with them more easily. It feels to him as though his life is not as important.

But I see it differently.

Over the years, I have watched this man attend to the spiritual needs of others. I don’t think he even realizes he does it. Having been castigated by his peers early on after a popular high school career when he was voted most likely to succeed, the scars of that rejection still show behind his soulful eyes. He’s made many friends over the years in his pursuit of theater work and a lot of them are gone now, victims of their own self-abuse. He knows the profundity of their pain and has always done his best to help them through it, even when he knew his efforts would be in vain.

In his travels, he always makes it a point to connect with someone he knows, spends time in conversation with them, taking into account their joys and struggles even as he humbles himself by sharing his own.

But I am especially grateful that Sean has always kept up with those of us who knew him before he stepped into that fearsome world. We sit and recall the innocence of those days before we came to understand who we really were or what “God” was asking of us. There is great comfort in recalling that time for all of us, but for me it holds greater significance because of our common bond.

So there we were; the lesbian daughter of a Congregationalist minister and the gay son of devout Catholics wondering aloud about what God intended in making us this way and trying to reconcile the damaged world view of our old friend, Shawn.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sean became a priest somewhere along the way and just forgot to mention it to us. And maybe I’ve became a nun after all. Or maybe it’s the other way around…

WHAT’S SO FUNNY ???

Ever wake up laughing?

I don’t usually but I did today. It wasn’t because of a dream — in fact, my dream was actually creepy and shameful — but I woke up feeling positively NUTTY!

People have been telling me lately that I’m funny. I find this funny because I’m not the funny one in my family. Actually, I kind of fear being thought of as funny because the people in my family who ARE funny are the nutty ones — certifiably nutty. Like, mental hospital nutty.

So when I say I fear that title I’m not kidding. I start having visions of a wardrobe comprised solely of strait-jackets.

I’ve heard that my real mother was funny. Vivacious, life of the party, entertaining. But she spent a good deal of her adult life in a sanitarium trying to decide which was real and which was Memorex. I’ve heard that she had some interesting conversations with people inside the television, used lipstick to draw roadmaps on her face, and even left my father at some point to marry a man she thought was Jesus Christ. She was very, very funny…  and very, very nutty.

It wasn’t until my younger sister started showing signs of this same “sense of humor” that I started to worry. Up until then, it looked like our mother had died taking the curse with her, but it came back. Thanks to modern medications, that little peccadillo is kept at bay, but always, the rest of us are on the lookout.

So when I wake up laughing and having what can only be described as a “Manic Tuesday”, I get a little anxious. I’m funny as hell, could probably do a little Fred Astaire up on the rooftop, challenge a greyhound to a race, but it’s hard to enjoy this fun fluctuation in hormones because:

WHAT IF IT’S NOT JUST THAT???

I don’t remember my mother. She died when I was less than three. My sister was only 11 months old. Somewhere along the way I acquired a reel-to-reel tape that was purported to have her voice on it and I have carried it with me for years, wondering what’s on it. Because of the old technology, I’m not sure I would even be able to listen to it but I still carry it with me. What if she sounds crazy? What if she sounds like ME?

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m a little funny. Well, let’s just say I have an over-developed sense of irony, a sixth-sense for satire. I just find the world absurd most of the time and am always looking for a way to make fun of it. My steady diet of ill-gotten candy and MAD magazines as a kid made me wonder if there really was such a thing as a REAL world….

Maybe I am as nutty as my mother was. Maybe she was just ahead of her time and the real world wasn’t ready for her yet. After all, who’d ever heard of funny women in the 50s and 60s? And a minister’s wife, to boot! That’s enough irony to do a whole stand-up show…

There’s a little pool dedicated to her memory out behind our church in Michigan. Once it had some lights and a fountain in it and was neat looking. I saw it again a couple weeks ago and it was murky and full of rocks on the bottom.

I chuckled.

If I were a little kid, what better way to honor someone that nobody remembers than throw rocks in their pool and watch the ripples…

But if I’d been there to see them do it, you can bet I would have made up a story about how anybody who got splashed with the water would end up in the CRAZY HOUSE!!!!

I think that’s what my mother would’ve done… And that would have been funny….

“Laughter is Good for your Peristaltic Movement”

That was one of my favorite quotes from a long weekend of memorable lines as a group of my extended family members gathered together to make new ties and strengthen old ones. “Peristaltic movement” refers to digestion and indeed, between the food, drink, and conversation, there was much to digest!

This is my official endorsement for families to make an effort to gather together, in whatever configuration, to celebrate their relatedness. Our family has always tended to be far flung and our reasons to gather anymore are not usually happy ones. I still don’t know what it is that makes our connection so special, but the strength of our family bond only seems to grow with time.

Aunt Diane (who turns 79 this month), ever the quick wit, tossed out that nugget of wisdom about digestion as we traveled the windy roads of northern Michigan, past Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, on our way to visit legendary Cherry Republic in Glen Arbor, a stone’s throw (or would that be a pit’s spit?) from Traverse City, the Cherry Capital of the World! In the midst of 4 days of near orgiastic feasting, peristalsis was in high demand as we continued to enjoy meals and stories that were in perfect keeping with our woodland adventure and were surely a comfort during the cool rainy weather that was, for me, a highlight. Begone, memories of Florida in August!… at least for a few days….

Having been one of the youngest cousins of my generation, I finally felt like a grown-up as the grand group of matriarchs (Aunt Louise, Aunt Marianne, Aunt Diane, and now Aunt Jenny Lou) shared some of the stories that weren’t “for young ears” in the olden days. We, in turn, did our best to shock them right back with our tales of teenage terribleness. With all of them standing proudly on either side of 80, they are unflappable. They’ve seen it all, heard it all, and in some cases, DONE it all! The years between us made a TTTHHHHWWOOOP! sound, as they were swallowed up in the vacuum of time. For a few days, we were all one….

Whether we intended it or not, our group was represented by at least one child of each of the siblings in my Dad’s family who’d had kids. Kathy came all the way from Oregon to join Aunt Diane and brother Chris (the children of Uncle Norman and Uncle Len), Nancy and I (my dad was the oldest brother, Ray) traveled from Florida, Carolyn arrived with Aunt Mary (Uncle Rick’s family) from Ohio, and Uncle Dave’s daughter, Barb and husband Craig brought Craig’s mom, Jenny Lou, up from Columbus. Aunt Louise, gracious as she has been for all the years I’ve known her, welcomed us with open arms. I’ll call it the “F-11 Summit”, some of the progeny of GR and Florence Fenner, held at the lake home of Aunt Louise and Uncle Dave (1930-2003) — “Cedarfen” — on Big Platte Lake in Honor, Michigan. Just a quick canoe trip up the Platte River from Lake Michigan, serenity abounds in the midst of the birches and pines, the deer and raccoon, the Queen Ann’s Lace and goldenrod …a scene right out of a Gwen Frostic print. (click here to watch wonderful Gwen Frostic video)

Spirits of those who have gone before us resonated in the pine-paneled walls with every round of howling laughter, and were felt through loving embraces when that fine line was breached to become a rush of cathartic tears. We felt the sardonic humor of Uncle Dave, the patriarch of Cedarfen, as the men in the group tried to use an unwieldy telescoping tent-pole to remove what turned out to be a dead bat that Carolyn had spotted hanging high in the cathedral ceiling of the great room. Their attempts were fruitless, save for a tiny tuft of fur that floated down, and the next morning we saw that blood had dripped down the beam. Yup, that was the spirit of Uncle Dave all right, giving us fodder for a sequel to the little book cousin Barb put together of his “Famous Fenner Tall Tales”…and select poetry about life and family at Cedarfen. I have a sneaking suspicion that he might have titled this story “A Gathering of Old Bats”…. No, wait, that’s what MY dad would have called it.

We managed to fit in a hike up to Empire Bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan and the distant Sleeping Bear Dunes and Manitou islands. 82-year-old Aunt Mary, who we learned had been referred to in her youth as “Fearless Fenner” (no doubt due to being the only girl in a family with 5 boys), hiking in her Espadrilles outpaced us all without breaking a sweat. We told her she deserved a medal of valor and that we would make one for her out of tin foil when we got home. This was before we took her on the ill-fated ride on the lake in a brand new boat. A submerged “something” caught the propeller and bit off a chunk. Still functional, we decided to head back at a good clip, drenching Aunt Mary and Jenny Lou in the back seats. The crew of the SS (small ship) Intrepid carried on undaunted….

Later on, a campfire warmed us from our boat adventure and the official Cedarfen songbook reminded us of our dads and their rich tenors and baritones. Though our group had a distinctly treble tone this time, the bass was filled in by our memories of bygone days with the wonderful fathers and husbands who made this such a “Fenntastic” clan.

Our family configuration is ever changing as members come and go, but at the heart of our group is something so wonderful, so life-affirming, so RICH, that no matter what happens in my own life I feel that power radiating within me, a legacy of strong men and stronger women, of a love so pure and unconditional that I feel the courage to step out and try, even to fall down, knowing that there will always be someone to help me up.

CEDARFEN, you are a magical, spirit-filled place….
May you continue to be so for generations to come.

Molleeeee!!!!

“Many people who have turned away from someone in need feel that their own life could have been far better if they had chosen to act more compassionately. We probably are placed in someone’s path for a reason — for the opportunity to do good and to fulfill a portion of our life purpose”. — Caroline Myss

I read this passage yesterday and it stuck with me. In two sentences it sums up my philosophy about life. While I don’t wear my compassion for people on my sleeve and am not always as trusting as I could be, I make up for it when the “person” is a dog… and it runs in the family.

For us, a stray dog in the neighborhood is like a baby in a basket on the front doorstep. There is no question that we are to take that “child” in and either treat it as our own or find someone else who can. As my friend, Jackie, reminded me, “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me…” Maybe that’s how we see it, subconsciously.

Such was the case when my sister, Cheryl, found a female pit bull wandering through Inwood Park on the upper West Side of Manhattan a few years ago. The dog was friendly and immediately captured Cheryl’s heart (which is never a hard thing for a pup to do with her). She and her husband, Frank, really didn’t have the space or the resources to add another dog into the fray which included their three large sons and 150-pound Bull Mastiff, Hank, all trying to inhabit a 900 sq. ft. apartment on the 10th floor, but they brought her home anyway.

Immediately, “Molleeee” (a naming convention unique to our family — long story) endeared herself to all of them. Compared with Hank, she was tiny and snuggly and could jump from the floor all the way up into 6′7″ son Robert’s arms. She could also manage to confiscate whatever food wasn’t behind lock and chain, including a turkey that she and Hank made quick work of. Once a starving stray, always a starving stray….

Molleeee had probably had at least one litter of puppies and as time went on, various health problems arose. When the family moved to Connecticut a couple years ago, they packed Molleeee up with them and she made the adjustment to suburbia. Just as I am prone to do with one of my dogs, they’d trusted Hank and Molleeee to go out and take care of business by themselves, even as new neighbors began calling to report that “a certain someone had wandered over to their house and was making herself at home”. Already, Molleeee was using the charm that had found her a wonderful family to expand their social rolodex.

Our dad taught us how magical a dog could be for helping people and making new friends. For as long as I can remember we always had at least one dog. Then, there was the period when he decided to become a breeder of Siberian Huskies. If ever there was a reason for our mother to leave him, it might have been over that. With a human family of 10 already, he would periodically add another 8 or so canines and since we lived in suburban Long Island it was particularly challenging. Our social rolodex there seemed to shrink with each new litter. But since he was a minister (and had a dog sled!) no one challenged him about our “kennel”.

Dad was a pushover about obedience, with us and the dogs, and we were not experts at raising them up in the way that they should go, but we did our best to give them shelter and shower them with love. With our legacy of canine compassion, we set ourselves up for a lifetime of unparalleled joy, but with it, the need to mourn far more often than those who have never known the love of a dog.

Yesterday, Cheryl and Frank learned that Molleeee is in the final stages of renal disease. The signs have been adding up, between inappropriate urinating and the smell that indicates that her kidneys are shutting down. The vet has recommended that they put Molleeee to sleep before the disease becomes too painful for her.

If ever there were one deserving of compassion, it is a dog like Molleeee. Though she has cost my sister’s family more than they could afford to spend on a non-human family member, they seem to understand that what is paid out monetarily is not ill-spent; it is simply transferred to their soul bank accounts where the interest rate couldn’t be higher.

Thanks, Molleeee, for finding the people who needed you most. You’ve taken wonderful care of them, good and faithful servant….Wander on, little angel… your work here is done.

Get this one in, STAT!

It’s somehow appropriate that I have an old military guy for a dentist.

In my case, going to him is usually like arriving at a M*A*S*H unit by helicopter. A quick triage with x-rays tells him what the problem is, and unless he knows he can’t take care of it himself, he ushers me right in and gets started. He doesn’t give me the opportunity to chicken out. I’ll bet in the Air Force he was the guy that used to push the young paratroopers out of the plane…

I am an unrepentant sugar addict from way back. In fact, of all the friends I’m still in touch with, candy is the one I have the fondest memories of — sorry, but an addiction is an addiction.
It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve come to appreciate having had dental insurance when I was growing up and a mother who revered dental health more than most do. At almost 80, she still has all her original teeth. Unfortunately, her fanaticism didn’t pass on to me….

When I go to the dentist now, it’s usually with my tail between my legs, shame in my heart, and a mouthful of trouble. Unlike most people, I actually have dental insurance, and I still put off my visits. I am the reason not everyone deserves well-care insurance. We don’t use it properly and it makes our eligibility rather pointless.

About a year ago I started having tenderness in the gum surrounding a bicuspid root canal and crown that had been done about 4 years ago. I didn’t pay much attention, having had such things resolve themselves before. I started pushing on the area with floss, hoping to get it to release and I thought I had succeeded because the pain went away… until I felt a lump up near the top of the root and tenderness leading to my left sinus. I started fooling with that, too, but it kept getting worse.

"Capt. Tooth"

With vacation coming up next week, I finally decided to try to get in to see “Captain Tooth”, a.k.a., Dr. Curtis Moore. This guy has an Alabama accent that sounds like he’s got a mouthful of novacaine. He wears the same hairdo he probably had when he was 10 and has hands that I’m sure are just under the acceptable size limit for a dentist, along with a nice soft belly to rest your head against as he’s jamming sharp spinning metal things into your teeth. He’s kind of like an old school car mechanic who actually understands the workings of the vehicle without having to rely on some hi-tech machine to tell him what’s wrong – He just knows….

An appointment slot opened up and I was able to get in within the hour. Thinking he might be able to just take something and poke my gum to release the infection and then send me home with antibiotics, I swaggered in, gave him a wink, and cheekily said, “Have at it, doc — just don’t make me cry”. It was when he asked if I wanted gas that I should have started worrying. He’s never offered me gas before….

“Nah, I’m much tougher than I look,” I said. I’d had a crown/root canal re-drilled by an endodontist for a similar problem before and it was a piece o’ cake. But this tooth is a single root with a porcelain crown. He’d have to work around it.

Out came THE NEEDLE. I have to say, Capt. Tooth is a master with that thing. I still don’t know how he blindly navigates around all the nerves in my gums, but after nearly 50 years of dentistry, this guy’s got it down. I almost (ALMOST) look forward to getting his shots. 10 minutes later, I was numbed up and we were well on our way to “Elvis lip”.

The best part about this particular procedure (I thought to myself, pleasantly surprised) was that there wasn’t a lot of drilling, at least not the usual high-speed screeching kind that is the real reason I hate going to the dentist. I had to guess what was going on until a fellow dental worker came in to see what was happening. The tech who was assisting happily explained to her IN VERY GRAPHIC DETAIL that they were performing an “apicoectomy“.

Editor’s note: I just went online to search for a video example of the procedure and almost lost my breakfast Skittles! Watch it if you dare:

GAAHHH!! Who in the world would want to become a dentist anyway??

There was a final step in the procedure and I became aware that the novacaine was starting to wear off but I figured the worst was over. Apparently, I was…

WRONG!!!

The dentist pushed on something and my whole body stiffened until only my heels and the back of my head were touching the chair!

“I hate to have to do this”, he said as he quickly grabbed another needle and jabbed it into the roof of my mouth. Even without anesthesia, I preferred that pain to the one he’d just inspired. While we waited for the new numbness to kick in, I managed to eke out that “it’s that sort of feeling that incentivizes me to stop abusing my teeth…”

Me, currently known as "Princess Chubby Cheek"

A lot of emotional sweat, a few sutures, and an upper-lip filled with gauze later (I looked like the love child of Daisy Duck and Elvis), I finally stood up to leave and Capt. Tooth gave me a big bear hug on the way out… usually he just salutes me… “You’re very brave,” he said. Yeah, bull-tickies, I thought to myself. If I’d had any idea what he was about to do to me when I came in, I would have run out of there like my butt was on fire. It was just as well that he had maintained his stoic military demeanor until the job was done.

He called me later that night to see how I was doing and his first question was, “Am I still your friend?” Thanks to the pain meds, I thanked him and forgave him. I probably would have even without the drugs.

A couple days later, I still have a swollen cheek, kind of a “botox-gone-bad” look, and prescriptions for antibiotics and narcotics, but I also have the sense of relief that the stupid infection I’d allowed to progress to the point of needing minor oral surgery has been eradicated.

Therefore, I promise (fingers crossed behind my back where my wallet still contains 80% of what that procedure might have cost me without insurance) that I will never take my dental health for granted again!

And I pray that the next time I’m in this situation Capt. Tooth hasn’t retired… Bless your heart, you dear sweet man… I love you more than I hate you!

Sleep is Overrated… Change is Not!

Here’s are some tips for all you (fellow) insomniacs out there….

1. When you can’t sleep, trying turning around in the bed, putting your head where your feet usually are. It may not help your slumber but it sure makes not sleeping a lot more fun!
2. Don’t get up and read emails from old schoolmates who make you think deeply about the mysteries of life. If you should happen to fall asleep, it’ll make for interesting dreams, but more likely, you’ll lie awake searching for answers.

As the result of my blog, I have reconnected with an old high school friend. We didn’t know each other well back then, but through our recent discussions we are finding that we’ve ended up at similar places coming from different directions. In other words, in a very short time I’ve found a kindred spirit. We’ve discussed relationships, tragedy, spirituality… the things you usually don’t talk about with someone right out of the gate. But thanks to 21st century technology, we are able to peel back the tough exteriors we’ve developed over 25 years and have these discussions without really knowing what the other looks like now, yet with the relative assurance that the other is probably not a serial stalker. I said “relative”…

When I was growing up, my father was a minister and would often counsel parishioners at our house. Imagine the temptation of seeing your friends’ parents arrive for marriage counseling and not be able to tell them! (I got pretty good at keeping secrets — especially my own.) Though that knowledge weighed heavily at the time, I now deeply respect those people for recognizing the catharsis of pouring out your secrets and fears to another. It’s a big step to take.

We graduated from high school in 1982, my friend and I, which puts us squarely in the middle of middle age. We have become the parents we talk about having had, adults in all their imperfection, and we are learning a new appreciation for the difficulty of raising children when you yourself haven’t really come to grips with what it is you think they need to know or be. It’s a time when we either decide to cling to the past that vexes us or break the chains and free ourselves to become the people we always imagined we could be someday.

We got talking last night about the ways we believe we’ve been expected to be in our culture, how deeply ingrained our perceived roles are, yet as we reach this point in our lives, we are itching to change, to break out of the patterns we’ve established for ourselves. I’d call it “fresh start-itis”. No wonder so many marriages split up at this point. Couples will cite their inability to grow within the relationship, blaming the other for not letting them change when the reality is: We won’t allow ourselves to grow and change.

My parents’ marriage was the second for both. Close to middle age, they understood that marriage was not the youthful fantasy of endless romance and bliss. In their case, bringing together two families for a combined total of eight children was a business proposition — “I’ll take yours if you’ll take mine”, or something along those lines. Any growing and changing of their own would have to be done for the sake of the whole, not for themselves.

Maybe that’s where things have gotten off track. We’ve become so self-focused, so concerned with our own happiness that we have lost sight of our “role in the whole”. We don’t know where we fit and that can be excruciating. No matter where we are, we think we’re supposed to be somewhere else.

So, my old friend and I are trying to figure all this out. What if our assumptions about ourselves were inaccurate? What if the mistakes we continue to punish ourselves for were long ago forgiven and we don’t even know it? Middle age is a time of reckoning. For some it will be a time of radical change, but for most of us, if we are courageous enough we will sit still right where we are and take off the blinders that have kept us “safe” for so long and begin to see ourselves and others in a whole new way. With all the chaos in the world right now, we must learn to see things differently in order to heal ourselves and bring new vision.

Thought for today: Give yourself permission to change and you will free others to do the same.

Saving Private Ryan, The 40-Year-Old Virgin…

Yes, I meant to write the title that way, blasphemous girl that I am! This was actually inspired by schizophrenically clicking back and forth between those two movies on TV one night. Talk about mind-altering….

(Forgive me if my metaphors seem inappropriately mixed in this post. The content is intended simply for ironic illustration and not professional promotion. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain!)

Once upon a time I wanted to join the army. After completing my first unfulfilling year as a music major at college, I passed the audition to play in the band at Ft. Devens, MA. I even took off 30 pounds to meet the weight requirement, but when I got to the physical and mentioned the knee pain that bothered me recurrently, they said thanks, but no thanks. Apparently, my honesty got me barred from the service and as a female recruit during peace time, there was no room for anomaly of any kind. A male college friend was inducted at 40 pounds over the weight limit and they allowed him to drop it during basic training. Thinking back, I don’t envy him that. Neither do I envy those who signed up anyway despite their reservations when, for the first time in US military history, under Ronald Reagan, they were asked “Are you a homosexual or have you ever had any homosexual experience?” The only acceptable answer was an emphatic, “NO SIR!” (sorry, but you know me…I just had to get that dig in there!)

So I had to take another route. I’d always imagined myself serving my country just as my father had in WWII, and now I needed to figure out a different path. I’m a bit of a wandering soul, rarely able to light on anything for very long, and I thought that the army would help me find the sense of discipline I so lacked. Oh sure, I could play my trumpet for hours and hours, taming my tendency to otherwise waste time in a less constructive fashion, but it was always a cover-up for not knowing what else to do with myself. It earned me a scholarship to college but when I got there and figured out what its real meaning had been in my life, I realized it had little to do with a passion for teaching kids how to toot horns or bang drums.

Out in the real world, I floundered around for a while, living out of my car for a time and working at jobs like overnight cashier at a gas station for $3.00 an hour. I did what I could to keep my big fat brain from exploding out of my head in frustration but it only exacerbated the sense that I had no idea where I was headed.

For the next 20 years, I followed this pattern of starts and stops, always changing direction when the next step forward was required. I might have made a great front-line player in football, just moving laterally, or slowly back and forth with the rest of the line, but in my mind I’m the one who should be making the great breakout plays, the hero in the endzone! More often though, I’m the right tackle who once in a blue moon picks up a fumble and then realizes, “Crap! What do I do now????”

Recently, the superintendent of schools in Hillsborough County, FL, saw some work we did at an elementary school in Tampa and because they plan to do a lot more of these projects at various schools in the district, she wanted us to apply to be on their preferred-vendor list as a minority-run (woman-owned) business. Despite the fact that I have painted more than 20 murals all over the country, in order to bid on (and get paid for) mural painting jobs in the school system, we have to become a legitimate, licensed business. WHY DOES THAT SEEM LIKE THE MT. EVEREST OF IDEAS TO ME???? Perhaps it’s because then I’d have to officially declare my intention to continue moving forward, and maybe that’s what always stops me. I’m like the 45-year-old vocational virgin who just can’t get up the courage to get over that first hump …. so to speak!

The Tree of Opportunity along the Pathway to Success -- I can paint it but can I climb it?

In the backseat of my car is a notebook where I write down thoughts and draw pictures as they come to me and as I was flipping through it the other day I found a page I’d written several years ago that said, “I don’t know if I’m a good leader… All I know is, I’m a lousy follower.” Gee, I guess I’ve reached this juncture before….I probably never would’ve gotten anywhere in the army.

So, Private Ellen, is it time to promote yourself through the ranks of your life by surrendering your professional virginity?

Stay tuned…..

P.S. We learned that the school where we had done the previous mural work as a volunteer job went from an “F” rating to a “B” last year, missing the “A” by only one student. I can’t see myself teaching little kids directly, but it sure would be cool to have an influence on their success…. read more about that project here but be warned: it contains my usual personal diatribe!

“Why didn’t you make him stop?”

Not sure how to rate this entry. Let me just assure you that I am not  making light of a serious subject. I’m simply trying to illustrate a symbolic revelation. I hope it doesn’t come across as too weird.

Tonight, one of our neighbors brought over a bottle of wine to share with us accompanied by her new dog, Utley, a 3-year-old Australian Shepherd she adopted to take the place of her 13-year-old Aussie that she recently had to put to sleep. Utley was taken from an abuse situation and is working on adjusting to his new life, and if anyone can socialize another dog, it’s my dogs. They don’t hold back in their enthusiasm for a new friend.

We sat and chatted, trying not to interfere with the dynamic as the dogs did their dance. Wacky Jack, the Weimaraner, yipped and barked and tried to get Utley to take away his bone from him. Murphy, the old lab, rolled around on her back and roared out deep a-WOOFs. Utley hid behind his mom’s chair. Murphy got up and we were encouraged and laughed when she came over to me, and with some effort, got up on her hind legs and grabbed my leg with her forepaws. Arthritis in her hips has slowed her down lately, but Murph is a big leg-humper from way back, especially when you’re playing pool. Whoever’s turn it is will be at her mercy and she makes it much more challenging to complete a shot.

When Utley still was not impressed with the other dogs’ antics, I got down on my hands and knees and tried to engage him in some fake play. He started to emerge from his hiding place when I felt Jack’s forelegs clamp around my waist as he attempted to mount me from behind. Thinking he would give up after a few seconds, I didn’t resist but when I tried to stand up and couldn’t I became concerned. I had strained a muscle in my leg earlier today and knew that I didn’t have the strength to pull away from him. Uncomfortable laughter came from the others in the room and I began to feel a little humiliated. Finally, he let go.

Later on, when our guests had left  after an ultimately successful first meeting of the dogs, the subject of Jack’s “attack” came up.

“Why didn’t you make him stop?” asked Mama N.

“Why didn’t YOU make him stop?” I replied, feeling that I had somehow done something inappropriate despite my physical inability to stop it.

Strangely, images of Jodi Foster in “The Accused” popped into my head. Everyone saw what was happening, yet they just laughed and let it go on. I felt confused about what I should have done differently. I thought maybe I had invited the assault by being in a situation that was highly charged with dominance, but shouldn’t I have expected that the others in the room, when they began to become uncomfortable themselves, would have come to my aid?

I once asked a couple of friends who had both been sexually abused when they were younger why they thought it had happened to them. Was it something they did? Were they dressed provocatively? Did they lead him on? I could not understand why it had never happened to me. What had I done differently? In my mind, I was somehow superior to them because I had never been assaulted. They told me they didn’t believe they had caused it to happen. It was simply a matter of opportunity for someone else who didn’t know any better to dominate them. In both their cases, it had been someone they’d known and trusted.

In my “panic” with Jack, my mind had scrolled through a list of thoughts: What had I done to deserve this? Was I in the wrong place at the wrong time? How can I get away? Why won’t someone help me??

I do not mean to diminish the real horror of sexual assault by comparing it with being humped by my dog in the midst of play, nor do I want to make it sound any stranger than it was, but I think I gained some understanding tonight of the powerlessness one feels when unable to disengage from an act of personal violation, the confusion that results when good intentions are trampled on, and the distrust that forms when no one will stand up and defend you.

To my two young friends who tried to explain this to me, as well as the many others who have experienced this trauma, I apologize for my past ignorance. I will try to be more compassionate from now on.