jennethink

DEGREES OF SEPARATION

Everyone who lives in Missouri has heard that old joke "if you don't like the weather – stick around". That has never been more true than in the past few weeks. Here in the heartland we've had 40+ drops in the temp in just a matter of hours multiple times. One evening The Hub and I went for a run in shorts, long-sleeved t-shirts and mittens – but WITHOUT hats, coats, long-johns and scarves the way we had been running. It was a glorious run – the temp was bouncing around 60 degrees even after the sun was down and it felt like spring was right around the next corner. Actually what was around the next corner was a blast of cold air. It hit me like a kick in the teeth and I said out loud (okay, panted out loud) … well, here comes winter again… and by the time we got home, the temp had dropped about 15 degrees. The next morning there was snow on the ground and my eyelids nearly froze together when I went outside.

 

It's frustrating. Frustrating when you don't know how to dress or plan or prepare. I feel badly for the weather forecasters around here because I think they are just blindsided half of the time.

 

I've known people in my life who are like the weather in Missouri. Hot one moment, cold the next and going back and forth without warning. Unpredictable. Irregular. Volatile. It's frustrating. And, if I were being honest, I'd have to confess I have problems with this myself. I experience times when I'm up, happy and silly and then, just like that, I'm down. I rarely get angry but I do get upset, distressed, sad. And, sometimes, irritable. Truthfully, I don't ever want to lose those extremes because I think it add characters to my character. I don't want to be steady Eddie, mellow yellow or just "take it as it comes jenne" but I think I do need to learn how to be a tiny bit more predictable. I think it should be easier for people who love me to forecast my moods. I don't think people I care about should go for a run with me, take a corner and get kicked in the teeth by my attitude.

 

Then again, maybe that's just their problem. Geez. Lay off me already.

IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT, DON’T GO TO THE THEATER

A couple years ago I was looking for a birthday card for a friend and came to the conclusion there are no good cards left. Not just in that store, anywhere. I don't think anyone, anywhere is making good happy birthday (or any day) cards. I guess this makes sense, in some ways, as the greeting card industry has been around for quite awhile … maybe they are just out of steam.

 

Then again, music has been around quite awhile too and I still seem to hear new songs I like.

 

I just think it is tough to come up with anything new. Anything that is new, unique, touching, heartwarming, endearing and feel-good. Rough, sarcastic and horrible are easy … it's the feel-good that's difficult.

 

It's the same with movies. I've seen a lot of movies since Christmas. A. Lot. And I can't really think of any that would qualify as "feel-good". I've seen 3 Nazi movies (tough break trying to get a feel good out of that), 2 guy getting old and feeling out of touch and lonely movies (only one of which was good), 5 movies where the main character dies at the end (well, 6 – wait, 7 actually). A sexual predator accusation movie, an end of the world movie, a movie about a corrupt president and an incredibly complicated, involved, difficult little flick about a mouse. The only movie, actually, that I would say was a feel good movie was Slumdog Millionaire. That movie rocked – but even it had some difficult scenes – that's for sure.

 

I guess I don't understand why it is so hard to make a happy movie – I don't really mean a comedy – just a happy movie. I like the other stuff too. Very much, but man – I could use a good old dose of ….

 

I don't know. Something.

 

(clearly I won't be getting a job at Hallmark)

 

Well the thing is

I was going to post about the Oscars but after working out tonight The Hub and I decided to try and make the late showing of The Wrestler. So we were out the door in a fevered rush and are headed to the theater. My point is this is today's post. Have a great weekend everyone! Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

BOY OH BOY

I got to spend today with my friend's little boy while she tended to some important family business. Spending concentrated time with this boy reminded me how "boy" boys are. My only frame of reference for this age is The Kid who was (and still is) all girl. Pink. Pony tails. Dresses and princesses. That's what I know. My friend's little fella is all blue and red (I was told very sternly by him when I was picking out markers for us to use that he didn't like "girl colors" – pink and purple), dinosaurs and cars, and lots and lots of blowing other things up. Had I spent the day with The Kid at this age, we would have had a lengthy discussion about what everyone was wearing to the princesses wedding and perhaps drawn pictures (on pink construction paper) of dresses and adorned our creations with various sizes of hearts. We would have also at some point, taken the kitty to the kitty salon to get a shampoo and set, put on imaginary make-up and practiced curtsying. And then played beauty shop.

 

Today, instead of conversations about weddings and hairdos, I made lots of car noises – vrrrooooooooooooooooommmmmm schreeeeeeeech vrooooooooooom, cheered at various blast noises –BLAMMMM!O WHAM POW, and tried to figure out how to origami a rocket ship. Which, in the end, wasn't necessary since my young friend was able to take the swan I had carefully folded, tear its head off and use the body as a missile. A missile which, I'm proud to say, saved the world from an evil dinosaur.

 

OPEN LETTER TO THE MUSEUM OF HISTORY

 

Dear Museum of History,

 

I don't understand.

 

I know. Maybe I shouldn't judge since I haven't really been inside. Maybe once I go inside I will understand what The Museum of History is all about. But the name of your museum – "The Museum of History" seems a bit … I don't know, vague to me. What could possibly be in your museum? It's like having a Book of Words or a Collection of Information or a Catalogue of Stuff. I know it must be more than just History in your museum. Because how can you have an exhibit or even just a single exhibit of "history". Shouldn't it be "History of …." something or another?

 

Like I said, I don't understand.

 

Love,

Jenne

PHOTO-SHOP

I have a box I keep in the basement crammed full of pictures from the past. The majority of these pictures are from my first marriage and the years since. However, shoved among those photos are random photos from college, high school and my very favorite of all … random photos from my childhood. A childhood accented by a really bad wardrobe.

I know it is usually painful to look through someone else's photos but man, I just have to believe you are going to enjoy these few shots. Are you ready? Here goes:

What the hell is going on in this picture? Just so you know who the players are, let's introduce everyone … in the front, that's my sister, Carrie, with the dark hair and navy dress. Apparently this photo was taken post her lobotomy. That child doesn't look like she has brain one in her head. Behind her, in the red and white and doing my sister's hair (I think that's what she's doing) is my mother … well that's either my mom or a member of The Monkeys. Dear me. What's with that outfit? She looks like she was just challenged to a duel. Either that or she stole Mr. Darcy wardrobe. I could also say some things about my mom's hair in this photo but you'll understand in a bit why I'm refraining. And then, finally, bringing up the rear (so to speak) … that's me in the, well, in the buff.

Let's just list a few things upsetting about this picture: 1) The bedspread. It's not so much the floral print that upsets me, but the color palette... what was the theme here? Colors you find in a toilet? That there is one ugly bedspread. And guess what? There were TWO of those. And they matched. 2) The giant drape on the wall. Wow. That is one heavy drape. I'm lucky that drape didn't fall on me. I'd be crushed – literally. And even though I'm very little here, I can remember that drape. It was some sort of faux-fabric on the front and it had a plastic back. A plastic back. It was like an adult diaper for the wall. 3) Um, hello? I'm naked ….is that upsetting anyone else? My mom claims that she always had to dress me last and right before we left for anywhere if not, whatever I was wearing was in danger of getting ruined. Okay, I'll buy that but would it have killed someone to put underpants on me?

Let's move forward a few years and include daddy:

Well, at least we're all smiling. Dude. One word … Wings. Everyone in this photo has wings in their hair. I guess that was in fashion at the time (oh lord, please let that have been the reason). And I think, upon close examination, my dad has a mustache. Nothing says "Smile for the church directory picture" like a 1970s porn star mustache. When my mom saw this picture recently, she said "Oh I remember that suit! That was my one and only suit!" No doubt. She was probably put on suit probation after buying it. And how about those teeth I'm sportin'? Wow. I could eat into a corner with those beauties. And again, other than noticing the wings I'm holding off commenting on anyone else's hair. Not because there isn't anything to say but because of …..

This lovely portrait. Oh good golly. I can't stop laughing. My sides hurt. Did I say sides? I mean eyes. I don't know what's worse – the picture or the fact that we gave this picture away framed as gifts the following Christmas. There is a lot to talk about in this pic, but let's just focus on the hair. Had you noticed the hair? And let's be even more specific and talk about that blonde atrocity. I mean, sure, my sister's hair is hot mess too but that woman always had difficult hair. But MY hair … people, that was ON PURPOSE. I actually DID that. I mean, I WANTED it to look that way. Hey, just for fun, put your thumb over the top of my hair … use both thumbs if you have to … and slowly move your thumb upwards uncovering inch by glorious inch that pile of sprayed and stacked hair. It's truly shocking how high it goes. I have to say I've never felt guilty about the environment until I saw this picture. I think I may be personally responsible for any holes in the ozone directly above Sheridan, Indiana. Oh 1987. I love and hate you.

Regardless of how bad some of these old photos are, they make me so happy. I'm almost giddy when I uncover a new old photo. I love it that so much awfulness and wonderfulness can exist in the same photo. I love it that when I look at these I can remember how I felt in the photo and how I felt when I first saw the photo. I love it that if it weren't for some of these photos I wouldn't have remembered a dress or a mustache or a hi fi system. I love remembering my daddy and I love laughing with my mom and sister until tears run down our faces. I love the awful fashion and the terrible colors and the ridiculous expressions.

But most of all I love it that my hair doesn't look like that anymore.

TWO-THIRTY? NO, BUT MY HINEY SURE IS SORE (AND OTHER LESSONS OF THE DUDE RANCH)

Know what I hate? I hate working out and then going outside when it is cold. I hate that feeling of being hot and sweating and then instantly freezing. Yeeee … I shivered just thinking about it. Miserable. And lately it's been really cold here. Like hurt deep down in your tushie cold. And the normal discomfort of the cold after a workout has been replaced with downright pain. Especially since I rarely remember to bring warm, dry clothes to change into after a workout. Thankfully, I have The Hub who looks out for me and makes sure I have at least a hat to wear when we leave the gym. Last night, after our workout, he offered me the choice between the orange fleece hat or the black knit cap. I chose the black knit cap and pulled it tightly down over my sweaty ponytail and soon to be icicle ear lobes.

 

Fast forward a little bit later and I'm sitting at my desk in the office typing up an email. I had removed my coat and scarf and my wet clothes and put on my pjs. I still, however, had on my hat because it was chilly in the house and a hat does a lot of good in that area. So there I am typing away when The Hub asks me a question from the hallway. As I answered he moved into the office. I was still looking down as I answered but tracking him with my peripheral vision. I could see he was just standing there. Looking at me. I finished answering him and looked up. We locked eyes for a brief second before he turned away. It was then I caught my reflection in the big mirror across from my desk. Pjs. No makeup. All of my hair tucked up inside a cap pulled way down on my head.

 

"Hey!" I cried, "I look like Chemo Jenne!"

 

 

A few months ago my friend, HOLLIE! broke her ass. Well, she didn't break it, it was broken for her. By a horse. A really big and feisty horse. And a very hard saddle.

 

There's not much HOLLIE won't try or do. She's a bit feisty herself. Feisty may be the wrong word … fierce. That's a better word. HOLLIE is fierce. She's determined. She's a planner AND a doer. When she was going on vacation with her boyfriend (hi Rob!) last year to Italy I asked her about month before if she was going to try to see Michelangelo's David. "It's on the itinerary!" she said and I guess I assumed either a) she meant it was on a mental list of things they wanted to do or b) they were joining some sort of tour group for the day and it was on their itinerary. But no. What HOLLIE meant was it was on HER itinerary. The one she had created. The spreadsheet of places to go and things to see all tied to a timeslot and directions and special notes. I just had to laugh because I went to Italy the year before and not only was my "itinerary" mental, it only contained two items 1) drink wine and 2) eat pasta while drinking wine. But that's so HOLLIE. What's even better is she sent it to me and I have to say it was wonderful to be able to know at any given minute (and yes, I do mean minute) where they were and what they were doing. HOLLIE doesn't miss a trick. So it shouldn't surprise anyone that when given an opportunity to ride a big, feisty horse HOLLIE would respond with "Giddyup!"

 

(Now, at this point, HOLLIE would chime in here and tell you all the reasons why she shouldn't have been on that particular horse and why that horse was saddled too early and what sequence of events led up to the disastrous decision for her to be on that horse and why in the hell didn't the owners of the ranch have some sort of spreadsheet to keep track of all of this? But the bottom-line, pardon the pun, is …)

 

…. Her butt was broken. Not in Italy, in Colorado. They were at a dude ranch (seriously, who goes to Italy AND a dude ranch in the same year?). She was on a horse, the horse took off, she bounced up and down… hard… and her tailbone broke. It was fractured … not just bruised or beaten but fractured. And it hurt. So bad that she had to sit on a donut for like 6 weeks. My total planner and put together friend had to carry around and sit on a therapeutic donut seat so her boom boom could heal.

 

(pause here so I can laugh again … Not at! I swear I'm not laughing AT! … It really was terrible. It's just … okay I know, I shouldn't laugh. And I'm not. I won't. <deep breath> okay, I'm composed again)

 

So the tailbone broke and because of it she couldn't work out for a long time, she couldn't complete the bike ride across Iowa she'd been planning (seriously, who goes to Italy and a dude ranch AND rides across Iowa on a bike all in the same year?), and could barely sit without pain for WEEKS … months even. It was awful. And I'm sure I don't know the half of it. I'm sure it was much more painful and terrible than she let on. But she's much better now and back to doing all the things she did before and the donut is long put away.

 

Then this past week HOLLIE wrote me to tell me she had to have a cracked molar replaced. This is terrible news for HOLLIE because she loves her teeth and also because it's a hell of a process to fix it. Apparently the problem of the cracked molar was exacerbated by an infection. An infection that was started when the tooth cracked and has been increasing in intensity for a while now. In fact, the infection was so bad it had begun to eat away her jaw bone. All of this without her knowing. This was just going on under the surface while she continued her life. Now she'll have to go through heck to get it fixed including pulling out the old molar, putting bone powder in the tooth-hole, letting the bone regenerate, placing a post and eventually putting in an implant. It's a terribly long and expensive process – it will take 5 months and thousands of dollars to complete and the scariest part is that had she not taken care of it, it could have killed her. Yeah, you heard right, the infection could have caused a heart attack. Now, guess when she cracked that tooth … Yup. On the horse. That same ride that busted her fanny also busted her tooth. Peeps, that was one bumpy ride. Sure, she knew the tailbone was busted but she never dreamed months later she'd still be dealing with that big, bad, bumpy ride. That impact caused not only immediate damage but long-term hidden damage. And the hidden damage was much more expensive and insidious.

 

Last night, after I spurted out the words "I look like Chemo Jenne!" The Hub turned back to face me. His eyes were wet and full. He had seen. Clearly, he had recognized it…had recognized her. He looked away again and said "I know." And then shook his head slowly, took a breath and walked out of the room.

 

That chemo … that was one bumpy ride. And I never dreamed all these months later we'd still be dealing with that big, bad, bumpy ride.

Hidden damage.

MIRROR MIRROR

I'm not sure when we started doing it but The Hub and I like to leave notes for each other on the mirror. We use a dry-erase marker which works exceptionally well. In fact, if you are ever hurting for "thinking space" and are just achy all over for a chalkboard or a white board but have neither, remember dry erase cleans easily off of mirrors and windows. This has come in handy for me a number of times and must be something I do often since recently The Hub was working on a logo for a client and asked The Kid to help him brainstorm. She promptly walked to my desk, picked up a dry-erase and headed to the full-length mirror on the back of the door to sketch out some concepts.

 

Man, I love that kid.

 

Anyway, we keep a dry-erase marker in the bathroom. Mostly I use it to keep track of if I've taken my vitamins and medicine that day. If I don't write it down, I forget. And I know you are thinking "why not get a pill case?" and obviously the answer to that is "because I'm not 65" (no offense, honey). So I simply write it on the mirror up in the corner when I've taken my pills. Of course, once a marker is in my hand, it is certainly hard to stop with a pill notation. So often I will shift my focus from my side of the mirror to The Hub's side and write a little message. And often, he'll do the same.

 

It's nice. Nice to wake up in the morning or come home at night at find a little note on the mirror. "xoxox" on his side or "Hot Chick" with arrows on my side or a simple "I love you!!!!!" excessive exclamation points running right off the side of the mirror. Most of these messages have been in the margins of the mirror but there are a couple that have been scrawled right across the middle. I love it that we do this. I think it says a lot about us as a couple. I love it that we find these messages. I love that we leave these messages. Each message stays up for a while but eventually, they get wiped off. Wiped off and forgotten.

 

Sort of.

 

I say sort of because the messages reappear with every hot shower taken in that bath.

 

I never noticed it on any other mirror – I guess because no other mirrors get steamed up the way a bathroom mirror does – but every time I get out of the shower I can see there in the foggy mist on the mirror the messages that have been left for me and the messages I've left behind. I giggle. Every time. Not just because of the message itself but because I like to think about the people who someday will own this house. The people who will come after us. The people who will unknowingly one day take a shower in this bathroom, peel the curtain back and be greeted with "STUD MUFFIN" and "SEXY DOWN TO YER UNDAPANTS!" on the mirror. That just rocks.

 

Not long ago I was on an airplane. I desperately wanted to sleep on the flight. I really, really needed to rest and I really, really had a long and tiring day. I brought nothing on the flight with me to do. No notebook, no puzzle, no book to flip through. All I wanted to do, the only thing I intended to do was either sleep the sleep of the dead or bob and nod the whole way home. All of this, of course, made for a perfect time for someone to sit next to me and talk to me.

 

I knew it was going to happen. I knew it as he came bumping down the aisle. Even though he gave no indication, yet, of where he was sitting, I knew he was going to be in the middle seat next to me. And even though he looked as tired and weary and beat up as I felt, I knew he was going to talk to me. Don't ask me how I knew. I just knew because I know. Because it happens all the time. Call it the universe, call it empathy, call it divine intervention all I know is something happens in my insides when I see someone that I'm going to be asked to connect with. There is a recognition. A knowledge. And I know at some point the person will reach out to me in some way and I will have the chance to say yes or no. Fast forward 30 minutes into the flight … 30 minutes into me pretending to sleep … 30 minutes into me doing everything I can think of to NOT connect with the gentleman next to me when he says quite out of the blue, "So tell me what you do for a living."

 

And I, still not wanting to acknowledge the giant tap tap tap on my shoulder, made exactly zero eye contact and said, "Oh, I'm a consultant." Thinking this was the least interesting of all of my job titles.

 

"A consultant!" he cries, "Well, tell me all about that."

 

And I looked up to the heavens, whispered you win and turned in my seat to have a conversation. And converse we did. For the rest of the 3 hour flight home. We talked about kids and spouses and parents. We talked about divorces and his marriages and high school and business. We talked about health issues and past failures. We talked and talked and talked. And, like always, I was so glad I didn't stay tucked up inside of myself. I was so glad I didn't resist the opportunity to connect. I was so glad I listened. At one point, after confessing to me that he never talks to people on planes and didn't understand why he was talking so much to me, he told me about a meeting that was coming up for him and how anxious he was about it. Maybe he thought I'd let him off the hook because our flight had begun descending but nothing doing. I dug a little deeper on this (it takes forever to land anyway) and I asked him what he was worried about. Asked him what the big deal was. Asked him, "What's the worst that can happen?"

 

He chuckled, tried to make light of it, waved it away with his hand and said, "Oh you know how people are." I said I didn't know how people were, he should tell me. And then I waited. He shook his head briefly and then changed his voice. He dropped it down into a baritone. He pulled the corners of his mouth down and grumbled out, "What a waste of time this was … was that the best you can do? What a total joke."

 

There it was. And before he could roll past it, before he could laugh it away, before he could change the subject or turn to pack up his laptop and papers I said, "Hold up … whose voice was that?"

 

Blank. Just a blank look back at me.

 

"Just now," I said, "when you said 'what a waste of time, what a joke' you were imitating someone … who? Whose voice was that?"

 

I think we descended 1000 feet just staring at each other. And he didn't break that stare as his eyes welled up and he said, "My father … that's my father's voice."

 

 

And I guess all I'm saying is this: as a leader, a spouse, a parent, a friend … be careful what you write on someone else's mirror. It will be reflected back to them for a long, long time. And other people … well, we can see it too.

MEMORIES …LIKE THE SOMETHING SOMETHING SOMETHING

The Hub has a theory about Facebook. I won't go into the details but basically he says we're not supposed to have all these renewed connections. That what was in the past is supposed to stay in the past. But because of Facebook, we have a new pathway into old memories. Stories we'd forgotten come tumbling back when we reconnect with high school cronies (yeah, I said it). Pictures we'd long burned to ashes in our minds get tagged and posted and commented on. Friends we thought we'd never see again (and have a darn tootin' difficult time recognizing even with the helpful hint of their name right there in black and white) suddenly pop up in our inboxes and want to catch up on the last 10, 15 20 etc. etc. years. He thinks it's weird. Truly. And may just cause some sort of strange shift in societal norms.

And I really couldn't agree more. Well maybe not about the societal norm stuff but definitely about the "it's weird" stuff. Just this past week a childhood friend posted a picture of me, her mom and my mom on Facebook. I was maybe 16 when the picture was taken. I can only place it in that time frame because 1) I have on my class ring and 2) I'm wearing my dad's wedding band – which I only started wearing after he died when I was 15. Other than that, I'm a total blank when it comes to this photo. No idea where it was taken or why. We seem to be dressed up – sort of – but then again, it was the 80's… didn't we ALWAYS have to wear shoulder pads? It's really bad, this picture. I think I have on a dress. A dress with some sort of pattern on it. and on top of the dress I'm wearing a jacket – a short-sleeved jacket. And it's red. And the sleeves have gathers … like they are puffy. I mean, what was going on? I have no idea why Suzy chose to post this picture, the caption only read "Mom, Jenne, Barb". Of course, once a picture is posted to Facebook, friends can comment. The conversation beneath this particular photo went like this:

 Jenne Nan Beecher Fromm

wow. really? wow. what the hell am i wearing? so many questions ...and why do i looked stoned?

Carrie Beecher Castino

And what is in your hair? Devil horns?!

 Jenne Nan Beecher Fromm

oh god ... i think it is a bow.

A bow. In my hair.

For about 2 years after my dad died I have no memories. No recollection. Nada. I don't remember anything significant or insignificant. I can't remember friends or vacations or basketball games or classroom pranks. It is a wide open blank in my mind. Sometimes when I'm with family someone will mention something from that time and I just sit and stare blankly. Sometimes friends will be talking about something that happened, some story or tale, and I'll be convinced for a good long while they are pulling my leg until I realize what they are talking about happened in those un-recallable years. I've dug through pictures and yearbooks trying to jog loose those memories but still I have nothing. It's like I was participating in my life without logging any of it into my long-term memory bank. I've heard this can happen when someone experiences intense shock or suffering. It's the mind's way of coping, of making the unbearable bearable. For years I've assumed it was the trauma of my father's death that caused my amnesia.

Now I'm convinced it was the trauma of my wardrobe.

HONK SHEW

I slept in today. Like big time slept in. I got up a few times for biological reasons but didn't actually get out of bed and enter the land of the living until 11:30. ELEVEN THIRTY! What the heckity heck? That's so awesome I just can't even tell you.

 

I'm a horrible sleeper. I can't get to sleep, can't stay asleep and am fitful when I do sleep. I toss and turn. I fidget. I find it hard to get comfy and when I do get comfy I still can't drop off into never-never land. My sister and my mother are champion sleepers. They can fall asleep in about 30 seconds. That's not an exaggeration. 30 seconds and they are out. And for the most part, they stay asleep too. The Hub is a good sleeper as well. He can fall asleep rather quickly and, thankful, is rarely bothered by my rolling around trying to find the magic position that will allow me to relax and sleep. Of course, this can also be terribly annoying. For me I mean. It is so frustrating to be unable to sleep when you are surrounded by the sounds of others sleeping. Many many nights I lay in my bed listening to The Hub, The Yellow Dog and The Orange Dog snooze it away without a care in the world. Almost in sync they rhythmically breathe in and out. Sometimes snoring. Sometimes making tiny little yippy noise deep in the midst of some dream. And there I lay … half of me being grateful they are resting and the other half thinking of all the reasons I hate them.

 

But all that aside, I slept last night. And well into today. I have no idea why last night was so different. I don't know what I did right to cause the sleep fairy to bless me so but I am grateful for those hours of rest. So grateful that I'm thinking of going back in that bedroom right now and making an altar to the snooze god/goddess (who would that be? Mistress Forty Winks? Sleeping Beauty? Michael Stipe?) … kind of like they have at my favorite Thai restaurant. A little place to offer up tidbits of gratitude. My Thai place puts out veggies and sauces. I'll put out a sleep mask and white noise machine. I'll put little flowers around it and maybe light a candle … lavender, I think. Lavender is supposed to help you sleep. Then, of course, I'll take a nap.