I wish I had a clever title for this post!

I just got an email from an old friend of mine. She's been nominated for a position in President Obama's administration.

What's amazing about this news is my reaction (hey it's my blog, I can have it be all about me!)

I've known K since high school. She & I were in the same tennis P.E. class. She was good. I was good. We tied when we played each other.

We really hit it off. I went with her when she checked out the college she ended up attending. She got interested in religion and joined my church.

We really love each other and are always there for each other. Oddly enough we can go for long times not writing or seeing each other. Yet we always have our friendship in common, even if not a whole lot else.

I love being a child of the 60's. She thinks our generation was selfish and self-serving.

I've been married since college and have kids. She's single with no kids.

I have had a slap-dash career, never sticking to anything for long and making no name for myself whatsoever! (can you put smiley faces in blogs? if so, one would go here!)

She has had a fabulous career: breaking barriers, heading non-profit organizations & academic departments.

And all I could think when I read her email was, how cool! I don't know anyone who's more deserving. I have other friends who have achieved wonderful things in their lives, who get to do neat things or travel to places I would love to see. But I often have an ambiguous feeling -- on the one hand, how nice for them, on the other, envy.

So I was delighted with myself -- amazed, really to realize that, looking back, I have never felt ambiguous about K's opportunities and accomplishments. There just hasn't been envy or jealousy, ever. Nothing but wow, another fun thing she gets to do; another opportunity to do something worthwhile and important.

I love having this friend who sees & brings out the best in me.

Seasonal Memories

I just got the sweetest email from a man I went to college with. His sister passed away, and learning of it, I sent him a note of condolence and to let him know I was thinking of him. I have not been in contact with him since college, so it took a bit of internet searching to find him. But I was successful and he responded.

The sweet part was both that he was appreciative of my comments and that he remembered me. I wasn't sure he would. It's been decades. It makes me smile to know that someone I thought of so fondly has returned the sentiment.

For my first two years in college I hung out in the theatre department. It was a magical place. The women were beautiful, the men were beautiful (it was the late 60's after all) and everyone was enormously talented. I loved it but I couldn't see myself making a career of it, so I hightailed it over to the anthropology department and happily studied culture and primates and early man. I have never regretted returning to an academic field. But thinking about my old friend brought back all sorts of memories. I was delighted to remember the names of the productions I worked on (I did Tech -- set painting, stage crew, costumes), the parties I attended, the romantic intrigues of my fellow students, and now that I think of it, the faculty as well.

Freshman year, around this time -- October/November -- it seemed I and everyone around me was feeling out of sorts, itchy, like something was off, but we couldn't put a finger on it. I was sitting on the stairs in the theatre building, probably looking out of sorts, when the beautiful woman who loved & was loved by the subject of this post wandered by. She took one look at me, sat down, and declared it was "the season of the witch." Brilliant! I knew exactly what she meant. It was that time of the year when things are just weird.

All day I have been listening to 60's music, dancing to Laura Nyro & Van Morrison, and thinking how it's kind of that time of year. As I was writing this post I found Donovan's Season of the Witch and listened. The lyrics don't really say anything but the music reminds me of old friends never forgotten. It's ok if things get weird. I'm still smiling!

How Can Pink be Red?

I was wandering over in the pretty pink arty section of the blogosphere and was really surprised to find a woman commenting on how glorious Red is, as in politics.

I do forget that people who like the same things as I do (art, collage, lace, pink), do not actually think like I do. Honestly I was dumbfounded. I'm trying to figure out if this means I never visit her blog again or say hi to her at art events. It actually changes how I view her! Hmm will this post change how you view me? I'm hoping the three people who read this blog are left-leaning.

I always say I'm not interested in politics. But I'm pretty sure that is not true. I care about this country. I care about kindness and generosity; smart politicians and helping people who are not as fortunate as I. I care about organizations like the ACLU who are accused of left leaning but still defend right-wing groups if their rights have been impinged.

I did hear an interesting comment on NPR last week. A man called in and said since it would probably happen anyway, some good could come out of the republicans gaining power. They will have to do something and not just sit back and blame the democrats, as they have these past 2 years. Who knows, it may energize the left. Look what happened to Newt Gingrich.

And does anyone wonder why the republicans want to be considered RED? Don't they know red is communist, that Joe McCarthy's followers stressed "better dead than red?" Where is their sense of history? Their erudition? Oh wait, I forgot for a moment who I was ranting about!

addendum: I re-read this post and realize it might seem a bit naive. It wasn't really that someone had a different point of view than I have, it's just I've never seen anyone over in that part of the blogosphere talking politics. Here I would expect it, but there? Get out your best Gomer Pyle voice and say, "Surprize, Surprize."

My Big Bold Bodacious Birthday Bash

hey, I like alliteration!

Next January is a decade birthday for me. I don't want to be that number, but I'm really ok with who I am, how I feel, where I am in my life. All that is ok. The number just bothers me. I said that to a customer service person at one of my credit cards and he said, "Hey, 30's not bad." He's right. 30 wasn't bad. In fact, most years have been good for me. A few in the last decade I would gladly have slept through or not experienced what I did, but hey, in life ya get good with bad and hope joy out weighs the troubles.

But this whole birthday thing has been on my mind since this summer. I talked with a friend from high school, born the same year, and her response was, "It took you a long time to get there, why not take a long time to celebrate?" A new concept. One I have taken to heart!

The day of my birth is this magical day for me. My 19th birthday -- I was in college -- was amazing (obviously since i can still remember the entire day). I took a final in my Theatre Design Class; walked into town to my favorite boutique and bought a wondrous pair of pants; watched a drama class production of This Property is Condemned, staged on the railroad tracks; received a dozen yellow roses from my Nana; and topped it all off with a party given by my friends in the theatre department. Magical.

It was the first birthday I was living away from my family and the first time I really did exactly what I wanted -- well, maybe not the final exam, but I loved that class so it was alright.

Since then I have always given myself permission to enjoy the day and do things just for me. I like having a January birthday. When my kids were little I would take a week in January to go walkabout. I've gone antiquing all over Southern California. I went to Cape Cod one year when I wanted snow and cold and an excuse to do nothing but sit inside and have a fire in the fireplace.

So to make next year about the adventures and the experiences and not about the number, I am going to celebrate all year. I can't afford to travel the whole year, but I plan to do something special each season. I have trips planned for January & July -- Winter and Summer, and some ideas for Spring and Autumn. I like the way this is being set up, I am looking forward to the year and not dreading it! I'm also going to document my year. Take more photos, keep a creative journal, blog about it all.

Moving On

It seems that I am writing the same things about my kids as I did last year. They still are not sure they want to leave home, still not sure they don't want to chuck it all to live in their bedrooms, watch cartoons and ask me if I mind very much making them dinner.

A month ago my daughter left for Berkeley, California. Yesterday my son left for Austin, Texas. He's off on a new adventure and he's not sure . . . He has a friend who works in an office job and on the side buys rental real estate. His friend has already purchased 4 quadraplexes.

He thinks this is what he would like to do -- get a day job, establish a good work and credit history, buy rental property. He also has Americorps tuition-credit, so he's wondering about grad school.

My first response to real estate in Texas was, "Can't you do this in California?" His just gave me "the look." You know the one that says mom as a two or three syllable word? Days passed. He finally explained that Texas has two advantages (three, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition): his friend is there doing this very thing; his friend's dad is there and has owned rental property for over 30 years; California real estate is more expensive. Good points. I can move back to Calif even if my kids don't live there!

He is driving to Texas. He got his first cell phone and we added him to our family plan so he would have a way to get job phone calls. He calls each night to tell me where he is -- Virginia the first night. Arkansas tonight. And each call ends with, "Mom, I don't know if this is what I should be doing."

I don't know either. But I know it really is time for him to leave home. There are no good job prospects here. Real Estate is pretty expensive. There's a certain inertia that happens to the kids who stay here and all but one of his closest friends have left.

I'll miss him. He's been my tv buddy this summer. We've been watching summer shows -- Warehouse 13, Eureka, Burn Notice, etc. So while his dad is off playing or teaching music, my boy and I sit on the couch & watch tv together. I can talk, but only at the commercials. He'll explain what I have missed if I am attempting to watch tv and be on the computer simultaneously.

When I woke up this morning I was the only one home. My husband left for work at 0-dark-100. My son left yesterday. The house felt different. There was a different energy.

It kind of feels like we're all moving on -- finding that next thing which calls to us. I spent the whole day making art. It'll be interesting to see how we all weather this year and what lessons we learn.

How Did You Get My Number?

What I hate most about telemarketing calls is that for me to get off the phone, I have to be rude. I really hate being rude. Today I got 2 calls from the same guy.

It was an offer to help us with our credit card debt. I really wasn't interested, but when I stated that, the soft-spoken Indian man on the phone said I didn't have to make a decision right then. Ok, so I allowed him to speak . . . and speak . . . and speak . . . and make assumptions about how easy or difficult it was to make our payments each month. And lied about our indebtedness. He was polite and so earnest. It seemed rude to hang up on him.

But I didn't want to tell him anything about us. I knew I was never going to use the services of a company that calls me out of the blue. I may be in debt, but I'm not a dummy!

I was then transferred over to someone else, who I also did not want to talk with. These guys have already taken up too much of my time. So when the second guy came on and sounded like a bad American used car salesman, I didn't let him say more than 2 sentences when I said, "I am not interested. I didn't want to be rude to the other guy. However, I am going to be rude to you. Goodbye." And I hung up.

The phone rang a moment later. It was the Indian man asking what was I doing? I told him I was not interested. He argued. I told him I had not wanted to be rude to him. He kept arguing. I screeched, "I am not interested." And then I hung up a second time.

I feel so much better getting that off my chest.

Now what is the number to remove our phone from the telemarketer's lists?

Friends & Lovers

I've known Amy since my library school days. We met at work and it was instant friendship. I know her family and became friends with some of her friends. I thought you had to be under the age of 12 to make a new best friend. She introduced me to Cape Cod and is godmother to my kids. I went to her 50th birthday blow-out weekend and she would have gone to mine if I had had one! We've actually gotten closer recently. She was the one I turned to when I was sure my daughter, then aged 19, would never speak to me again. She said my daughter would like me again and she was right!

She's living near me for the summer and has only been around for a week, but it has been so eye opening. Since she's going to be around for the summer and likes vintage goods, she offered to help with with my antique shop. She came over yesterday and I gave her the job of pricing. I really don't like to price. She plopped herself down in the linens and made up prices. It was great. It was so nice to feel I have someone who I can talk to about the shop, who will help me and who is on the same wave length.

This morning as I was in the shower I had a major epiphany about crucial relationships in my life. I don't know about you, but the shower is my most productive place to think! I was thinking about how nice it was to have Amy to share the shop with. For years I have tried to get my husband to be my partner in the business. It doesn't bore him completely. He has ideas, he will give me his opinion about displays and will move the furniture around if I ask him. But, sadly, it never feels like he's completely engaged. And I've known for a while that without a partner or a deadline, I just don't get many projects done.

What I realized is that there are people who think like me and there are people I have much in common with. And I don't have to demand both from one individual. Amy and I think alike. My husband and I do not. Amy's sense of style, her sensibility is similar to mine. We can work together and we have, both as librarians and cleaning out her parent's homes. We could easily start a business staging houses, or being bridal consultants, or selling antiques. We just think alike.

My husband and I do not think alike. When I met him, he was the first person I was family-close to who didn't criticize me. He listened to all my stories and was interested. So all these years I've believed we think alike. We don't. I even don't care why, which is strange cuz I always care why! But in this instance it doesn't matter why, cuz just knowing we don't think a like makes so much of my married life make sense!

What we have is a life in common. And I don't mean our married life. We have our childhood in common, even tho we didn't meet til college. We are the same age and grew up in similar neighborhoods in the greater Los Angeles basin. We experienced the '60's. We listened to the same AM radio stations. We know the same songs from high school. We remember the Sunset Strip "riots," and know it was the basis for Buffalo Springfield's For What It's Worth. We both went to The Troubador, even if we didn't see the same groups.

We also have a life in common after we met. I knew within three days of meeting him at summer camp that I would spend the rest of my life with him. We have that summer camp and all those friends in common. We have the same religious and spiritual beliefs. He knows my family, I know his. We have kids together.

Things have been difficult between us for the past six or seven years. Not consistently difficult, in fact inconsistently so, which probably makes it all the worse. Things will be going along smoothly and then I'll get hurt and threaten to leave. He wouldn't seem to understand. And I couldn't figure out why my thinking isn't perfectly clear and understandable to him. He understands the feelings, but my thinking was foreign to him. Well, if after all these years of me not really understanding how he thinks, I'm pretty sure he doesn't know how I think either. I don't know if this will make a difference to our lives, this understanding that we have lots in common, but not the way we think. I don't even know if I will tell him of this "ah ha." It helps me, but will it help him? He might think it's cool and then again he might just not get it!

Luckily we will always have Paris? No, forget Paris . . . we will always have our roots in common.

Rock & Roll Dreams

When I got married, I thought I was gonna be a rock & roll wife!

My guy was an electric bass player and keyboard player and he was really good. As a sideman, he had already recorded a couple albums with a singer-songwriter buddy from college. One single went to #9 on the Billboard charts. They went to the Grammy's, they toured, some of the tours were hilarious, not at all glamorous and a lot of fun. I didn't have a career or children, so I could go with him sometimes. I liked it a lot.

While I was finishing up a BA in anthropology, he was off at music school studying bass and music education (his parents were paying after all). The powers that be discovered he owned and played baritone sax and suggested he'd get lots more playing experience if he changed to a woodwind performance major. At the time I didn't realize this meant me giving up that dream of being a rock & roll wife. He became a jazz educator/musician and while people think it's way cool, I still sometimes miss the possibility I could someday dress up for the red carpet at the Grammy's.

I must be incredibly clear. It was never his dream. All he has ever wanted to be was a working musician. He would be happy working at a music store if he could talk music and noodle on the shop instruments. I don't know when I realized he didn't care a bit for the fame and fortune of rock & roll or even jazz greatness. Sometime after that realization I went back to grad school, established a career, had kids and didn't think too much or too often about reflected rock & roll glory.

A couple years ago a female student of his wanted to be a jazz wife. His jazz wife. (What ever happened to feminist principles where you never went after another woman's man? I guess I'll save that rant for another time). She tried to convince him it was all my fault he wasn't a famous musician. She couldn't understand how someone so talented could be so unknown. And since she was in love with him, it couldn't be him, so it had to be my fault! I'm glad he's always known that fame doesn't matter to him and could ignore her subtle and not so subtle attempts to . . . do what? what the hell was she trying to do? Actually I saw her emails, I got a pretty good idea of what she wanted! She moved away, we moved away, he's not her teacher anymore, he and I are still together.

But something rather interesting has been happening this coming-up-to summer season. A musician we have both loved for years, who isn't exactly famous, but could be, who doesn't exactly play rock & roll, but it's close, has asked him to join his band on a little more permanent basis. My guy is thrilled! He still doesn't care about the fame. He still is just delighted to be playing really good music and to be appreciated for his talent.

This band, where all the players are amazing, is downstairs right now practicing. Before they arrived, my guy set up the keyboard and started playing some of the stuff he used to play for me. It reminded me of my dreams of standing in the wings of The Fillmore in some fabulous costume, basking in the reflected glory. Our youngest daughter graduates from college on Monday, our son has finished school and is making his own way. It's a little later than I thought and I'd have to get a facelift to look like I did when I had these rock & roll wife dreams. I'm way more realistic about fame and what makes a person really happy. But ya never know! I may get a shot at those dreams after all!

Fan Blogs Are Not For English Majors

I'm still trying to get myself motivated to do something. It has been awfully difficult. I've been clinically depressed in my life and this is not it. But the behavior is a little too like for my comfort.

As my DH observed, depression is like having the engine turned off. What I'm doing is the equivalent of having the engine idling. And when I find what my destination is I'll engage and take off.

In the mean time, I've spent a lot of time online looking at fan blogs. It's easy, one does not have to expend much energy and it takes me out of myself (someplace I have noticed I have been avoiding for more than a few months). People can get rather passionate about a fav book/movie/fictional character or actor, whew! The comments on these blogs rather astound me. Some of them -- ok, most of them -- are so rude! And not to be unkind, but have these people ever heard of spell check/grammar check?

Before reading some of the comment streams I thought I could be just as catty and unkind as the next person . . .but whoa, I was wrong. Seems everyone has an opinion and they feel they have to express it -- but not in any sort of proper grammatical way. They are painful to read (specially after these past couple years reading my daughter's excellent college essays) and sometimes just plain mean.

I keep looking for the magic key to get going. I'm pretty sure the world of fan blogs is not it! I know I need to engage. I keep thinking if I only knew what the hell was going on with me I would snap out of it. I haven't a clue what is going on and I don't seem to snap out of it. But at least I laugh with myself at my emotional ineptitude. And I write in my personal journal and sometimes I come here and try to make sense.

"It's Not Rocket Science"

I get such a kick out of that phrase. Someone said it to me the other day and it made me smile.

You see, I was raised by a rocket scientist. My dad, a mechanical engineer, worked for a NASA contractor. He was the project manager and part of the team which designed one of the Apollo engines.

Whenever I hear that phrase I think, ". . . rocket science isn't such a big deal." It's not that my dad isn't smart. He is. But he always made me feel I was just as smart as he was. It's kind of one of the neatest things about my dad. And my dad didn't think he was the smartest man. There were always others (electrical engineers as a group, for instance) who he thought were smarter.

His humility about his own intelligence is one of the nicest things about my dad. His intellectual curiosity and kindness are what make him one of the smarted men I know.

Why Do I Do These Things?

I do my kids' taxes cuz a) I'm a nice mom. b) I'm nuts. c) I'm a control freak. d) I can't say no. e) all of the above.

I hate tax forms. They make me hyperventilate. I swore I would not do my son's again. He even asked me to ask our tax account to do his, but I dithered, didn't ask her til I thought it was too late, worried it would cost him a lot (she charges us an arm & a leg, but we think it's worth it), so here I am doing his taxes again.

They are done. His were pretty easy and my daughter's were form 1040EZ simple. The state forms aren't too bad and all this is just a rationalization for the reality that I should have my head examined.

Tomorrow I am spending the day in the city. My daughter is being inducted into her college's honor society. (Top 10% of seniors are invited). I will be attending, but this is another one of those multiple-guess answers (see options above), cuz she's not even going. She doesn't want to miss class, doesn't like fusses made over her, who knows why.

Part of my day tomorrow is not multiple choice. It's cuz I want to! I'm going to see The Runaways. I have long been a Joan Jett fan and who doesn't like a little kick-ass female rock & roll? Nobody I want to talk to tomorrow!

Happy Easter

If the kids were here, we would have had an Easter Egg Hunt. The last one was when our son was in 10th or 11th grade. He was new in school and I'm not sure his friends had ever met anyone as nutty as his mom -- planning an egg hunt for 16 year olds! We all had a blast.

As it was, my husband and I spent today like most other Sundays: church, lunch out, browsing at our fav bookstore (he gets coffee, I read magazines) and a leisurely drive home on the scenic route.

When we returned home one of B's friends had sent him a link to Peeps dioramas. Ya gotta check it out. We were in hysterics. Having read a lot of books to my kids, I was delighted to see their favorites featured: "Where The Wild Peeps Are" And "Goodnight Peep." We laughed and laughed and I had to share it. What will you make with Peeps next year?

Enjoy!!!

Passion

I tie myself in knots because I think I should be passionate about something productive. It's an attitude handed down by my engineer father and probably one I have handed down to my kids.

The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language gives "boundless enthusiasm" as one of the definitions of Passion.

I was thinking, as I was driving, that maybe I have lost a sense of passion, at least the kind that translates into doing something. The kind I remember having in college when we protested about everything -- the Viet Nam war, women's rights, relevancy in classes. We were a passionate generation, everything mattered. Maybe it was being 19, maybe it was the times. Maybe it was having the enormous freedom to go to college and not work full time. Whatever it was, my youth was not wasted on the young! And somehow those passions seemed productive. We were "doing" something -- ending a war, allowing women to keep their own names, reading Malcolm X and Eldridge Cleaver!

But these days I don't seem to have a passion for running a business or making art -- both things I say I would like to do. Those are productive things. But they are not the things that get me going each morning.

My boundless enthusiasm is the same as it was when I was eight years old. Reading and stories! I love stories, whether a novel, non-fiction work, or movie; any thing that sparks my interest and allows me to put myself into a place or learn about interesting characters. I really love to read. And finish a couple books each week. When my daughter was in kindergarten, the teacher asked her what I did. She replied, "My mom reads books." The teacher, who knew me, said, "Oh, is she a librarian?" My daughter answered yes, which I am. But the truth is, "My mom reads books," is probably the truest thing she could have said about me.

I don't read for a living (tho I did love that Robert Redford's character in Three Days of the Condor actually did get paid by a spy agency to read). I don't have a library job, by choice. So some days, like today, I feel just a bit stuck that the thing I do well, and a lot isn't a job or career and takes up a lot of time I think I should be doing something else.

I wish I had a good conclusion to this post. But that's all I've got. I just wanted to write it out.

Waiting

It is such a relief I can write this blog again. I have also started to write in my journal again. I kept waiting to feel like writing or blogging. I kept waiting for the perfect time or idea or something. I would compose posts while driving, but get home and not post. I have no idea what allowed the storm to pass, but I'm awfully glad it did.

About six years ago I went through a very tough time in my life. It was filled with despair and loss and I truly felt I would never get over it. During that time I wrote in my journal daily, sometimes hourly. It was a necessity to keep from completely falling apart, but also a record of dark times. And at one time I couldn't bear the thought that that much misery was floating around in words in a journal . . . so I ripped it all up. There were a few pages I am sorry I got rid of. They were not despairing, but thoughtful insights -- even the beginning of a short story I thought I might write about the whole miserable experience. Destroying that journal and tossing it out was a good thing and I have even come to peace about the few pages I used to pine for. I didn't want that much hurt to reside anywhere.

But after the destruction, I was not able to use a journal for a long time. I would write, desultorily, but never with any help coming from it. Writing has always been cathartic for me. It allows me to see what is really going on. Sort of like writing out involved dreams and then going, "ah ha! I know what has been bugging me!" Losing that medium was tough. I felt adrift.

I have known for the past couple months that I am in a state of waiting. Have you ever read the amazing poems of Lawrence Ferlinghetti? I discovered him in college and fell in love with I am Waiting and the oft repeated phrases " I am waiting. . ." and ". . . a rebirth of wonder," which have always spoken to me at the very center of my being! Over the years it hasn't bothered me to wait, for I know that the rebirth of wonder will appear. Of course, wonder fades and waiting starts up again, but knowing that never discourages me. Even at my lowest, even when I think I just will never be a trusting person ever again, there at the back of my being are Ferlinghetti's lines

I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

I don't know if I've found what I was waiting for. I do know I have come to a place that is more centered. I can write again in a way that is healing and makes me smile. I've almost gotten to the place of seeing how to maintain both the pretty pink blog, which is all smiles, and this much more honest one.

Right now all I'm waiting for is Spring!