jennethink

BECAUSE I SAID SO

My sister and I are different. I've posted about those differences before. It's amazing we came from the same parents and grew up under roughly the same conditions. It's like planting 2 seeds in a pot, covering them with the same dirt, setting them in the same window sill, watering them the same amount, fertilizing them with the same poo and one grows into a tomato plant and the other grows into a giraffe.

I'm the giraffe, by the way.

I'm glad we're different. I need us to be different. There have been many, many times when I've relied on what my sister has because I just don't have it. She's strong where I am weak. She's together where I am scattered. She's like the lady at the grocery with the list divided up into sections that correspond to the aisles and I'm the lady who tries to fit 2 cases of diet coke into the plastic hand basket on top of the hamburger buns and oh could you hand me those doggie treats … just put them here under my arm with the ice cream.

I know my sister isn't perfect. And there have been many times in my life when she's driven me right crazy. From the time we were teenagers and she told me I wasn't throwing away my sanitary napkins the "right" way (Really? They're in the trash can, aren't they?) to the times while growing up when I didn't sort the socks the "right" way to the time we worked together and I didn't sharpen my pencil (you guessed it) the "right" way. Still, I wouldn't change it – or her. She is who she is and I think she's pretty great.

There's only one area, one thing, one aspect of my sister's personality I really wish I could change. One thing about myself I wish I could somehow push into herself. One characteristic of mine I wish I could clone, chop up into bite-sized pieces and feed to her. I wish she liked herself more.

And here is where I'm going to reveal a deep truth about myself. Are you ready? despite my short comings (and I have a lot of them), despite the fact that I've made some pretty questionable decisions in my life, despite my physical 4s, 5s, and even 3s on a scale of 1 to 100, I can't help but think I'm the bomb-diggity.

I know … I know! I know how that sounds. I know I sound all cocky and whatnot. I know I sound like I'm tooting my horn and I know it isn't attractive at all – but that's part of it – even though I know all of that, I STILL think I'm pretty cool. I STILL like me. I STILL would choose to be my friend and I'd pick me first on Red Rover. The truth is, I'm quite enamored with myself.

And maybe that's where my sister and I differ. I've never had to be convinced that I deserve a lot out of life. I've never had to be talked into wanting the best for me. I've never once thought my life was ruin-able. I've always known, somewhere deep down that I'll pull through … even if I make a bad decision, even if it all goes to hell … I'll pull out of it. somehow. Someway. And more likely than not, I'll look damn fine doing it. The bottom line is, even though I know I've got a long way to go in my personal development, even though I know I frustrate people (including myself), even though I know I probably shouldn't think so highly of myself, even though even though even though … I'm pretty easy on myself.

Once I was having a discussion with my sister and she was trying to figure out if she should do something or not (this is a big deal with her … the "shoulds"). I said, Well, do you want to? and she looked at me like a tomato plant looking at a giraffe. And mumbled something like 'well that hardly matters in the decision, does it?" and I was floored. Because to me, that's maybe the MOST important question. When I'm making decisions about well, anything, I first ask myself "will this move me closer to becoming the woman I am meant to be?" then in nearly the same breath I ask, "and do I want to do it?" and basically if it do want to do it and there isn't some big issue of conflict between doing it and becoming the woman I'm meant to be then …. I do it. If I don't want to do it …. I don't do it.

I guess I just believe there aren't really that may have to's in life. Oooh .. I bet I can make a grid out of this … let's see

	Want to	Don't Want to
Moves me closer	Do it – no hesitation. Next question is what are the obstacles and how will I overcome them? Example: Running with Bulls in Pamplona. Many obstacles to overcome (most of them drunk) but never entered my mind I wouldn't do it just how I would do it	Will do it – eventually. Next question becomes how will I manage my emotional reactions and what can I do to turn this into a "want to". Usually involves keeping my eyes focused on the end result. Example: Chemo. No way no how did I want to do this. However, I didn't want the consequences of NOT doing it and it definitely moved me toward the woman I was meant to be (i.e. alive). So I did it. And each day I would try to do something that reminded me this was temporary. This is the hardest quadrant, by the way, and many people I know spend a lot of time here. I guess I think a lot can be done with the quadrant by adjusting your attitude.
Doesn't move me closer/neutral	You know, I might still do it. As long as it doesn't move me FARTHER FROM becoming the woman I'm meant to be, I'll probably still figure out a way to do what I want to do. Example: um. Lots of stuff.	Duh. Just not going to happen. The only thing to do now is to communicate with others in a loving and straightforward way. This box usually fills up with stuff other people want me to do. This is where the loving straightforward part come in. Example: Organizing a block party for the neighborhood. "There's just no way at this point in my life I could give this the kind of attention it deserves and needs. And on top of that, if I agree to do this, I'm going to become frustrated and angry since it really isn't a strength of mine … do you think we can find someone else who would be excited about it?"

What does this have to do with liking myself and wishing my sister liked herself more? I guess I think the reason I'm able to do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do is because I'm willing to suffer the consequences – even if it means someone isn't going to like me. Do I want people to like me? Yes. I do. I really really do. And it hurts my feelings when people don't like me. I've often said I would be a terrible sales rep because when someone said No I would say "that's fine, you don't have to buy it but do you still like ME?" But the bottom line is, I guess, that my own vote carries a lot of weight. The Hub's vote does too. And a handful of other people. And those are all people I don't have to perform for. I just have to be.

So, when my sister asked me how it is that I can just do what I want to do and not do what I don't want to do and I guess I should have said she was partly to blame. I do what I want to do because I know, deep down she loves me no matter what. I do it because when push comes to shove, I'd be friends with me. And I don't do what I don't want to do because in the secret recesses of my heart I know a love from others that is unconditional. And I don't say that lightly and I certainly don't take it for granted. In fact, I'm in awe of it.

And I wish she felt it too.

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.

TRACTION

I think a lot of life comes down to traction.

 

Think, for example, of a truck stuck in the mud or a car slipping on ice. It's not a lack of power that's keeping the vehicle from moving forward, it's a lack of traction. So it goes with life. It's not a lack of ability that keeps me from accomplishing what I set out to do or even a lack of intent, desire, fight or passion. Many times, it's a lack of traction.

 

I don't ever get the basement completely organized because in order to organize it, I have to make it messy – no traction.

It's hard to drop the lbs I put on over the holidays because it takes so long to see any improvement – no traction.

The car stays dirty because every time I go somewhere I take 2 things out but bring 3 things in – no traction.

 

I guess the trick here is to figure out how to get some traction. I don't have to be better, do it better, see it better or perform better. This is not about applying more power – it's about tossing some kitty litter under the slipping tire. Once the traction is there, the rest is easy. And so the question as I'm setting out to achieve my goal (large or small) is: What small thing do I need to do or accomplish in order for this goal to catch and grab hold? What mini-goal or accomplishment do I need to achieve in order to see progress? What small success is necessary to seed the pot for other successes? In short, what's my kitty litter?

 

The answer is, clearly, I don't know. But I'm working on finding out.

 

 

The rest of life, of course, comes down to wardrobe.

SETTING THINGS WRITE

I talk to my mom almost every day.  I talk to my sister a lot too. If we ever go too long without talking one of them lays a guilt trip on me.  That's fair ... it is most likely me that is not holding up my end of the bargain.  I’m the weak link in the answering the phone chain and so comes the “gee we haven’t talked to you in a loooooooooooooong time” trip. It’s okay.  I deserve it.  The truth is they call and I don’t answer.  They make the effort and I don’t respond.   It’s a thing I do.  Not as a punishment.  It’s just that sometimes I’m not ready to talk – I mean at that moment when the phone is ringing.  I’m not ready or willing and so I don’t answer.  This is a very self-centered attitude, I know, because maybe they are calling to talk about THEM and not me.  And maybe just because I’m not ready or willing to talk I could and should be ready and willing to listen.  So really, how hard is it to pick up the phone when it rings?

Trust me.  It is Very. Very.  Hard.

But most of the time, we talk often.  More than often … we talk a lot.  Daily.  When we’re on a roll, it is more than daily.  Let’s just say I’ve changed my phone plan many times and finally crossed into “unlimited” because it was the only plan that was going to keep T-Mobile from joining forces with the Columbia House Representative.... you know what I'm talking about.  Those daily phone calls are awesome.  Some are long.  Some short … and even though we talk multiple times a day, there are many times when I hang up and immediately have to call back. 

Because I forgot to tell her something. 

When you talk everyday, you have a lot to say.  Somehow everything ranks.  Everything is significant. 

The Hub’s family doesn’t talk often.   That’s their pattern.  Sometimes they’ll go long stretches without talking.  Like long.  For real.  Not like the 6 hour stretches that my mom considers long … “I called you before lunch, on the way to lunch, after lunch and then later when I was thinking about what I had for lunch and you didn’t answer any of those times.  What’s wrong?”  but REAL LIFE long stretches.  Weeks.  Months even. 

They aren’t angry at each other.
They enjoy conversating when they do talk.
It’s just the way it is. 

And the thing I’ve noticed is that even though they will go a long time, their conversations are no longer than my multi-daily conversations with my family members.  In fact, at times, it seems like they have less to talk about.  It seems like the less often they talk, the less they have to say.

And I guess that makes some sense.  I mean, after a while, it’s hard to know what to say.  It seems weird to talk about trivial stuff when you haven’t talked for so long.   Once you’ve gone a week or so without talking, it seems silly to talk about what you might or might not have done for the weekend.  Two weeks and your latest minor successes at work tend to fall by the wayside.  A month and the only things worth talking about are serious health issues, serious career issues or serious weather issues.

It all kind of, sort of HAS to be serious.

Not posting for a little while has the same effect.  Missing a day is forgivable.  Expected even.  Two days and the reader might not even notice.  But once we hit a week – we’re getting into dangerous territory.  What I had for lunch doesn’t seem to be worth writing about – especially since we all know it was Chick-fil-a.  Suddenly what I write about feels like it has to matter.  Once 10 days pass without a post that funny thing that happened on the way to the tattoo shop is sort of not so funny in that you had to be there sort of way and after a full two weeks I feel like I have to write the comeback post of all times or I will be hung by the cord of my own mouse.   

I hate it when bloggers apologize for not writing for days and days.  “I’m sorry I haven’t posted!  Gosh I’ve been so busy what with blah blah and yadda going on.  I promise I’ll do better.”  It seems so self-centered.  Believe me, blog writer, I’ve survived just fine without knowing what art supplies you’ve run out of and without hearing all the details about your dog’s ear surgery.   

Now I’m sounding cynical.

I guess what I’m saying is that there is a habit to communicating … a pattern.  And when that habit is broken, it is difficult at best to retrain the habit into habitualness again.  When I write each day, I find significance in most things – the way the ground sloshes when it is thoroughly soaked with snow reminds me of my own saturation point and how I too get noisy when I reach it.  The snow and ice on the Chicago streets and the stain the salt leaves behind on the legs of my jeans hints at the unseen dangers of those "safety measures" that are laid down in my path. The slow, almost plodding walk of the yellow Lab that lives down the block warms my heart and reminds me of the slow pace of old farm dogs and old farmers I knew when I was growing up.  And the difficultly getting a contractor to call me back reminds me that those guys are real sons of bitches.  That’s not significant, that’s just fact.

But when I go without writing for a stretch, nothing seems to be important.  Lessons lie unlearned.  I hear only hollow honking when the geese fly by and see nothing significant about their presence in the middle of winter.   When I run out of ink in my highlighter and have no pen in my purse and have to instead memorize the most significant things about an article on the plane I see it as a nuisance and not an opportunity.  And when the small bright-faced group of teenagers bundled in scarves and puffy coats in the park hold up hand-made multi-colored signs that read “FREE HUGS” I see nothing beautiful and instead mutter “weirdos” under my breath.

And so I come back to writing. 

Because I don’t want to be that girl. 

THE START OF A JOURNEY

When I was 16 we went on a vacation to Mackinac Island in Michigan.  Cool place.  It really is an island – it’s not just a cute name – and to get there, we had to take a boat.  Uh… I guess that makes sense.  What I’m saying is that there are no cars are on the island – you get there by boat and then you can only get around by horse, by bike or by whining until someone carries you piggyback.  That’s just the way it is.  It’s quaint.  It’s neat.  I liked it.  I liked it very much.  I vowed to go back to Mackinac again and again.  That could be because every third store is a fudge shop. 

At some point during the vacation, my sister and I decided to rent a couple of bikes for the day.  This is pretty common on the island and we were excited to have some other mode of transportation other than our feets.  After getting the bikes and peddling up and down main street a couple of times we decided to ride around the island – like completely around it.  How far do you think it is?  I asked.  A couple of miles I think, she said.  That’s all I knew.  We took off.

You know how it is when you ride a bike or run a race or watch American Idol?  How you start and you think it is going to wiz right by but it ends up lasting so much longer than you thought?  Or is that just me?  Anyway, that’s how this was.  It seemed like a good idea at first but about 30 feet into the ride, I was wishing I was back at the fudge shop.  Or the one next to it.  Or the one next to that one.  I’m not picky.

But I kept riding.  Because that’s what you do when you’ve set off to ride around the island.  You keep going. 

I think it is more than a couple of miles, I huffed out at one point.  Yah, my sister called back over her shoulder, it does seem to be taking a little longer than I thought.

And we peddled

And we peddled

And peddled.

Eventually we came across a sign.  Restroom – 1 mile, it said.  Jeepers! We said.  Town is STILL a mile away!  And we rode on.  And rode on and on and on. 

1 mile later, we came to a Port-a-Potty -not town – and a sad realization.  We weren’t even halfway around the island.

Turns out that sucker is like 9 miles around.  Not a lot, I know. But when you are expecting 2, it’s a big difference.  The moment my sister and I realized we had miles and miles to go was painful.  We stopped for a while.  We talked to some other bikers whizzing by.  We confirmed the size of the island and the length of our trip.  We walked to the water and grumbled.  We berated ourselves for not checking first.  We skipped a couple of rocks.  We rubbed our sore fannys and then we got back on the bikes.  And we kept going.  Because after a certain point, going back is senseless. 

A friend of mine is starting chemo this week.

It will be longer than you think.

You may need to take a couple of breaks – skip some rocks, rub your fanny, grumble.

But you can do it.

Going back is senseless.

SOME OF THE BIGGEST LESSONS ARE TAUGHT IN SPITE OF US

Recently I had my mother retell me the timeline of my father’s cancer diagnosis, treatment, reoccurrence, remission, reoccurrence and death.  Actually, I knew when that last one was.  I couldn’t remember details about the rest.  Couldn’t remember what happened when.  Going through it the first time ages 1 to 15 made it kind of a blur.  All I really knew was that dad was in and out of the hospital.  Sometimes he was sick.  Sometimes he wasn’t.  That’s about all I knew.

Hospitals were regular occurrences.  I can remember being in Jr. High and a classmate saying they’d never been to a hospital before.  You mean as a patient? I said.  And she said, No.  I mean ever.  Why? she said, Have you?

Have I?  Good lord, I grew up in hospital hallways.  Strange, but I feel at home in hospitals.  They don’t bother me.  Maybe because I’ve spent so much time in their nooks and crannys – I got bored easily as a child and often went exploring in the hospitals.  That made my sister mad – she thought I should be with my dad when we were there but my dad was made out of the same stuff I was and, of all people, I’m sure he understood.

You never knew when a hospital trip was coming.  I do remember that.  I remember everything being fine and then wham – we’d be headed to St. V’s for some reason or another.  And often for days.  That’s just the way it was.

One year it looked like we were going to have to celebrate Christmas at the hospital.  In the days leading up to the holiday my dad tried to convince the doctors he could go home.  They were budging.  Somehow, however, at the last minute the doctor found some Christmas spirit and told him he could go home the next day – Christmas day.

My mom, my sister and I turned elf.  We drove home and somehow, someway found a tree.  We wrestled the tree inside and the decorations down from the attic and decided if Daddy was coming home, we’d damn sure have a tree up and decorated.  We were so excited. You can hardly blame us.  It wasn’t often we’d get to surprise my father.

We had to help him inside – he was pretty weak. We were all just bursting waiting for his reaction.  He saw the tree.  We shouted Surprise!  He smiled and laughed and we talked a million miles a minute telling all we had to do in such little time.  And then, suddenly, things went wrong.  As my father was looking at the tree, his gaze zeroed in on the tree stand.  He moved closer.  And then closer.  We all kind of chuckled.  The night before, when we tried to get the tree in the tree stand, it wouldn’t’ really fit.  We tried to hack at the trunk with a saw and even tried to adjust the stand but just couldn’t really make it work.  Eventually my sister came up with a brilliant plan to get it to stand up by wedging it with pieces of brick.  It was a smart idea.  We worked and worked and busted up some brick and eventually got the tree to stand proud and solid.  It wasn’t pretty but it worked and we were proud of ourselves.

As my father looked at the tree and tree stand, realization came across his face.  And that’s when it happened … his hands let go of the hearth where he was resting his weight and flew to his head.  MY BRICK!  He shouted.  What did you do to my brick???

And from us, a rousing round of, Huh?

Apparently the brick my sister and I smashed up and used bits of to wedge the tree in place was a very special brick.  It came from a smokestack and it was round.  Curved.  I guess they don’t make them like that anymore.  I don’t know.  All I know is my dad went ape shit.  It was like we shot his dog.  And then busted the mutt into pieces and shoved it in the tree stand.

I’m sure he was tired.  He was sick.  Truthfully, he shouldn’t have been anywhere but in the hospital and given all of that, I guess we can excuse him.  But man oh man, did he make us feel right horrible about that brick.  He went on.  And on.  And on.  We ruined Christmas.  That’s what we were told.  We ruined it.  All because we didn’t think.  All because we rushed and had to do something the easy way instead of the right way.  All because we broke that brick.

I still feel awful when I think about it.  When I think about that blasted brick.

My father died alone.  Hooked up to machines and unable to talk.  I’ve occasionally wondered what thoughts went through his mind when he was taking his final breaths.  I don’t really know.  I can guess.  I think he was probably thinking about his wife.  He was probably thinking of all the events – graduations, weddings – he would miss in his daughters’ lives.  Maybe he was looking back - wishing he’d done some things differently.  Maybe he was thinking of Peaches, his girlfriend from high school or places he never went.   Maybe he was thinking about his very near future, about heaven and seeing his father again.  Maybe one single thought went through his mind.  Maybe a hundred shouted for attention.  I don’t really know.  But I do know one thing.  I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he did not lie there, gasping for air alone in an intensive care unit thinking, Damn. I wish I had that brick.

Some things matter.
Some things don’t.

Not confusing the two, that’s the tough part.

SELF-AWARENESS AND SANJAYA

Sometimes people ask me what it means to be self-aware.  When I teach about Emotional Intelligence, I often start with self-awareness.  I often say that if you are not self-aware, there is not much growth that can take place in your life.  Self-awareness is the foundation of all growth.  But how does someone know if they are self-aware?

I’m really in love with this whole Sanjaya phenomenon.  If you haven’t been keeping up, you can read about it here or here.  Side note:  upon looking up Sanjaya in Wikipedia, I noticed this:

Is that pronunciation seriously helpful for anyone?

Basically, Sanjaya is a contestant in American Idol.  He’s not the best singer in the group.  And since my mom and Cowboy Bob taught me if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all, that’s all I’m going to say about his talent  (see how nice I am? I didn’t even put quote marks around the word talent). Even though he has questionable skills, he is still in the competition.  Which means someone – a lot of someones actually – vote for him every week.  They pick up their peanut-sized phones and punch in just the right numbers to say, Hey, that Sanjaya is one cool kid and YES! I’d like to see him back next week.

America is so freakin’ awesome.

Vote for the Worst has rallied their readers to vote for Little S.  Howard Stern is in on the gig.  Also, I suspect every pre-pubescent girl with a cell phone and a severe lack of pitch watches each week screeching and nearly fainting dead away because ohmygahejustlookedatthecameraandsmiledblaaaaaaaaaahh! It’s clear to me that this is his target audience.  Girls just old enough to know they are supposed to like boys but not old enough to really like boys yet and so they pick a boy to like that in many ways looks and acts just like they do.  Boys like this seem safe.  With just a hint of sexy – or at least what they think is sexy.  It sort of comes off to me as pitiful or confused.  Like that one time The Hub tried to lean coyishly against the door frame with his hands in his pockets but missed the wall and unable to catch himself fell like an elephant seal into the hallway.  But it works for the little girls watching.  They fall for Sanjaya.  Not because of his voice or his ponyhawk, but because it’s safe and a little dangerous all at once.  Not too much.  Just a little.  It’s like a trial-sized obsession.  A sample-sized crush.  They are trying it out.  Seeing how it works.  It’s not quite the real thing – it’s a pre-teen version of the real thing.  Sanjaya is the Love’s Baby Soft Perfume of music.

This is not the first time something like this has happened – where questionable talent makes it big because of the power of the pre-teen.  And Sanjaya really does have all the makings of the next Menudo.  Except for he’s one guy – not five and, of course, he’s not Puerto-Rican.  I don’t think.  But really, if you watch just once, you’ll see he’s too-tight pants and a headband waiting to happen.  Mark my words.  Then, if you have daughters in the 9 to 12 range, turn the channel or every stray dog within a 10 mile radius will show up on your porch.

Oh, my point.  Self-awareness.  Is he or isn’t he?  For this poor sap it all comes down to this, is Sanjaya in on the joke?  Does he know he’s not so good and is just riding it for all it is worth or does he really think he’s got this sucker in the B.A.G.?  Not sure.  All I know is that a couple weeks ago when a disgusted Simon sarcastically said, Okay, let’s change tactics ... you were incredible.  Sanjaya piped up enormously, WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSE OF SANJAYA!  And that frightens me.  Frightens me big and bad.  And not just because I began to think about if The Universe of Sanjaya had an beauty pageant or not.  But because I just think anytime anyone is uttering the words, Welcome to the Universe of <insert name here>, self-awareness just may be the least of their worries.

And that’s all I have to say about that.  For now.  From the Universe of Jenné.

BIRTH OF A WRITER

I really only remember one fight my parents ever had.  It was enough.  It was a doozie.  It was a traveling fight, starting in their bedroom, moving to the kitchen, spilling out the back door and across the paddock to the workshop where my father hung many of his tools along the walls in the narrow rooms.  They weren’t hanging for long.  My mother saw to that. Don’t want to listen to me?  Maybe you’ll listen to this!  And they came crashing down.  Back across the paddock, back into the house – this time through the front door, back into the kitchen. You want to make a mess of my space? I’ll make a mess of yours! and the next thing I knew a dinner plate took flight and slammed against the panty wall and exploded. 

Like I said, it was a doozie.

A few years ago I became somewhat of a regular at a Greek restaurant near my home.  The food is mediocre but the entertainment – which includes a belly dancer and the restaurant owner who could double as Johnny Cash’s grandfather walking around pouring Ouzo down your throat – is enough to keep you coming back again and again.  I love going there.  I love listening to the music, watching the dancer, joining in.  Every now and again the owner is overcome with such joy and alcohol that he begins smashing plates on the floor.  In a joyful frenzy he tosses one after the other at the feet of the busboys dancing in a line around the dance floor.  The intent is pure but the sound for a moment makes me seize up.  and I blame that, like most things, on my parents.  The sound of those many breaking plates in the Greek restaurant are nothing compared to my memory of the sound of that single plate smashing into the wall.  A cymbal crash, a sonic boom.  So loud.  The kitchen was small, enclosed and the crash echoed. That sound of shattering was frightful.  And I think it startled them both. It surely startled me standing alone in the living room.  The shouting stopped.  I watched my father turn on his heel and storm to the bedroom.  I expected him to slam the door.  But he didn’t.  Instead he came out with his keys. 

Oh God.  I stood completely still. For a hundred years I stood completely still.  I was made of wood, concrete, marble.  A statue. Let dust cover me and weeds grow up through the floorboards and root me to the floor.  I would not move one inch toward him or toward her.  If I just stand here I’ll be forgotten, unremembered, ignored.  And I won’t have to do what I’m about to be asked to do.

At the door he turned.  Are you coming?

And there it was.  The Decision.

It was never said, Do you side with me or your rake-throwing mother? But that’s the question I felt being asked.  It was an impossible situation.  If I went with him, my mother would feel abandoned.  If I stayed, my father would feel betrayed.  And although I’d never been faced with this choice before, I knew somehow that’s what I was being asked to do.  I was being asked to pick.

My parents had an amazing relationship.  Up until this point I’d barely seen them argue.  I’d seen them disagree, but I’d always seen them figure it out too.  Our home was bursting with laughter and teasing and all the things that made my house the one that all my friends wanted to come to after church even though there was just as much stall cleaning as there was story telling and banjo playing.  I always felt secure in my home.  Even though I grew up knowing my father had a terminal illness it never worried me, not really.  I never really thought about it.  Girls at school – talking about their own dysfunctional families - once asked me who I would go with if my parents got a divorce and I answered. I picked one of my two parents.  I made a choice. But I didn’t mean it.  I only answered because that’s what everyone was doing – choosing a side, but I knew deep down I’d never really have to.  It was just a game.  And now, here I was.  Actually being asked to make a choice – a momentary choice, but a choice nonetheless. 

Mom’s pride and joy

Or Daddy’s little girl

Which?

I, of course, went with my father.  Not because I liked him more, understood him better or sided with him in the argument – hells bells I don’t know now nor did I know then what the fight was about – but because he was less forgiving than my mother.  He was faster to anger and slower to remorse.  This is the truth.  And I supposed deep down I knew it would be easier to get back in mom’s good graces than back into Dad’s.  Besides, I had the silly notion if I went with my father, I could negotiate a truce between the two of them.  And I tried.  I laid out all the reasons why he should apologize as we tore down the gravel driveway.  I counted off reasons on my fingers why this was no big deal.  I told him to remember how much he loved my mom and I told him that it couldn’t be so bad.  It’s not so bad, right? I said.  And I remember him driving.  Facing forward.  He never looked my way.  It was like riding next to a stone.

I pressed on.  Determined.  I explained why mom was probably so upset and I asked him to see it from her side and, believe it or not, I told him about a time at school when I was mad at a friend and how we worked it out.  Eventually, after a very long silence, he spoke, This isn’t something you could possibly understand, he said.  And I turned to look out the window.  I was hurt by his comment.  He acted like I didn’t know anything.  Like I wasn’t paying attention.  As if.  I let two or three fields go by before I spun back around and shouted, I’m not dumb you know, I’m not dumb, maybe YOU’RE the one who doesn’t understand!  He said nothing.  He’d returned to rock.

It’s an impossible situation to put a child into. 

We ran some meaningless errand taking the long way to town and the longer way back.  We didn’t speak another word to each other. When we got home I bolted from the car and ran inside as fast as I could.  My mother was sitting at the kitchen table.  Before I could get one word out about anything my father came up behind me and quietly asked my mom if he could speak to her in the bedroom.  Together they went in.

And closed the door.

Up to this point, this story is nothing remarkable.  Truly.  I think everyone can recall at least one horrendous fight between their parents.  At least one – maybe the remarkable thing is that I can recall ONLY one.  Parents aren’t perfect.  I’ve just recently realized they are human and we, as parents, are not given a handbook of any kind or initiation into sainthood upon the arrival of our children.  Although I’ve said it before and will say it again, any woman who can push an 8 pound anything out her hooha deserves sainthood.  At least.   The remarkable part of this story comes in what took place after that bedroom door opened back up. 

They apologized.  Not too each other – although I’m sure they’d done that already – they apologized to me and to my sister.  Sat us right down on the couch and apologized.  Apologized for the fight, for arguing in front of us, for making us worry.  My mother apologized for raising her voice and my father apologized for yelling at our mother and breaking her dishes – and he then told us that the first dish he pulled out of the cupboard was a old plastic plate we had and we all laughed thinking of what a fizzle it would have been for him to fling that plastic excuse for a plate across the room only to have it clatter wimpily to the floor.

And then we all got back to being a family.

Sometime later when we were alone and working side-by-side in the barn my father said, I want you to know I appreciated what you had to say to me in the car.  It was good, he said.  It was good stuff Jen Ben.  And it was then my turn to be as silent as stone.  I didn’t want to break the spell.  Good golly molly, tell me that every moment of every day and it still won’t be enough.  Give me that kind of positive feedback and I'll shut up forever.  It was awesome.  Of course I knew then as I know now that I wasn’t responsible for the resolution of my parents’ argument.  I knew more likely than not my father was just trying to affirm me, validate me, make sure he and I were okay – that I wasn’t injured by what he said, by his telling me I couldn’t possibly know what I was talking about.  But there was a tiny grain of a thought in my brain that maybe something I said HAD helped.  Maybe my talking and presenting my ideas to my dad DID change things.  Maybe I WAS in a tiny, tiny way responsible.  Maybe it mattered.  It was weird to think something I said could actually change the way adults behave.  And thrilling.  And it was the first time I can remember thinking,

Maybe I have something to say.

.

.

"THE WHOLE LIFE OF MAN IS BUT A POINT OF TIME; LET US ENJOY IT." – PLUTARCH

For the past 7 months I’ve sat in rooms filled with people who are dying.  People who have no chance.  People on their way out.  And I’m not talking about the chemo room.  I’m talking about offices and movie theaters and restaurants.  Because we’re all dying.  Every one of us.  I know we don’t like to think about it but last I checked the survival rate of life was pretty low.

I taught a class last week about time management.  It was my first time teaching time management since my diagnosis and treatment for Hodgkin’s lymphoma.  It was awesome. You might say my perspective about time has changed.  Then again, I’ve never taught this class in the traditional way.  I always teach it differently.  Which makes it sort of sound like I teach it while pulling my own teeth or standing on a sawhorse or something.  And I don’t.  Although a couple weeks ago The Hub and I attended a Cirque du Soleil performance and for at least 4 hours afterwards I was convinced all my classes would be so much better if I spent the first half of each class balancing a bmx bike on top of someone who’s Chinese.  Or boneless.  Also, a tangent to this tangent, while there I spotted Michael Moloney  who was also figuring out how to work a contortionist into his job as a designer on Extreme Home Makeover.  When he was leaving we locked eyes for a moment.  I smiled and said “Hey.” because, you know, I always can come up with the perfect thing to say in moments like those.  And he said “How are you doing?”  and I said “Good.”  So you can see, we’ve clearly started a beautiful friendship there.

Anyway.  Time management class.  I started by asking them to picture a timeline of their life.  I put my left hand up in the air and said “this hand represents the start of you and your life.”  they nodded, “and,” I put up my right hand, “this one represents the end of your life.”  They nodded again, they knew what a timeline was.  They were smart, this class of business people. Then I asked them to mentally place an X on the time line to represent where they were in their life.  “Where’s your x?” I asked.  Almost in unison, they answered “In the middle.”

Which I think is where most of us place our Xs.  In the middle.  Some may place it a little closer to the left hand and some a little closer to the right hand.  But pretty much, we all put our X’s in the middle.

Is that accurate?  Maybe.  The thing is, no matter where we place our X, we have no control of the right hand.

Take a moment if this is the first time you’ve realized that.

Ever since the nice doctor in the ER screamed CANCER up and down the hospital hallways, I’ve been living life like my right hand was right on top of my X.  You might think that’s a great way to live.  It isn’t.  I understand why people say “live day-to-day” but day-to-day can really suck.  After all, goals are fun.  Planning is exciting.  Dreaming, hoping, wondering about the future is motivating.   How can I make progress on the bigger goals if I live as if each day were my last?  I can’t.

And, of course, I can’t really live like my right hand extends to forever.  Like the end is never coming.  Because we all know it is.  I know it because I have read articles about long-term survival rates of Hodgkin’s patients and you know it because I’m telling you so.

So even though they don’t have a circus for it, this is the real trick of life - managing your behavior, not your time.  Pretty tough.  But easier than swinging through the air in tight white pants, I think.

“IT HAS LONG BEEN AN AXIOM OF MINE THAT THE LITTLE THINGS ARE INFINITELY THE MOST IMPORTANT.” SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

My mom has a mess of cousins.  I’ve grown up knowing them.  They live in different places, different states.  Occasionally, 2 or 3 or 12 of the cousins will get together.  When they do, the always tell The Stories.  Sometimes it happens early – like upon meeting up.  Sometimes it’s after a few drinks.  But it always happens.  Always.  The Telling of The Stories is a ritual.  I’ve yet to sit with extended family and NOT tell The Stories. I don’t know what I’d do if that happened.  It would be a sure sign to me that my family had been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by automatons.  Even if the Mother Automaton could tell me my birth weight and size of the episiotomy that went along with my entrance into this world, but didn’t begin to tell The Stories in the presence of Family, I would surely question her authenticity.  It would, in fact, be a dead give-away.

This weekend, my mom and two of her cousins got together.  I was lucky enough to be there too.  The Stories started after dinner.     My mother grew up in West Virginia in a small coal mining town in the mountains.  And if that’s not enough to fill the story box for years of get-togethers, add to it that her grandfather owned a lumber mill and her father was the town doctor.  Add to that an extended family of mine that includes a great uncle who lost his leg on the railroad and a great grandmother who graduated college, a great aunt who died at 17 and a second cousin who went into a set of bushes and came out engaged and you’ve got generations of anecdotes.  It’s more than folk lore.  It’s the stuff of legends.  I’ve heard all of The Stories before.  About Dick Palmer (yes, that’s his real name) and the condemned movie theaters he owned.  About Erma – the live in who helped raise the family – who was mean enough to my uncles that eventually they cracked and chased her with a broom until she agreed to lighten up. About my grandfather – the small town doctor who while stitching a man’s head asked him how he was injured.

Man:  Oh, I fell and hit my head on the ketrouck
Grandfather:  On the WHAT?
Man: The ketrouck.
Grandfather:  What the hell is a Ketrouck?
Man:  Oh you know doc, it’s a rock ……. sort of scooped out, ………we feed the cats out of it.

Dick Palmer, Erma, The Cat Rock, I’ve heard them all.  I never get tired of them.   I laugh each time like they are new.  I add details – even though I wasn’t there – when details are left out or forgotten by my elders.  I’ve retold The Stories myself.    They are now, in many ways, My Stories.  I’ve earned them.  They are a part of me.  Second nature. Like walking, breathing or putting on nail polish while driving – I don’t even think about it.

Somewhere along the way, each time The Stories are told, I am forgotten.  Not just me, anyone who wasn’t actually there, didn’t actually grow up living The Stories.  Through the years I’ve watched spouses Get Forgotten.  I’ve watched grandchildren Get Forgotten.  I’ve watched my sister, my cousins, current friends and young children all Get Forgotten.  It isn’t insulting.  It’s just reality.  They try, those who are telling The Stories, to include you.  They occasionally try to segue into your life as their laughter dies down, “So … when did you two meet?” or “You were in the marching band, growing up, weren’t you, honey?” or some such thing.  But quickly enough, the conversation turns back to Frog Morton or Second-Gear Hemry and well, once again, you Get Forgotten.

It was during one of these attempts to include me into the conversations this weekend that my mother’s cousin asked me where I was living now.  “Kansas City” I said, eager to get back to The Stories.  I couldn’t care less about Being Included.  I just want to laugh on the fringes.  “There’s a song about Kansas City, isn’t there?” said one cousin. And soon all the elders were trying to find the song.  What was the song?  A song about Kansas City.  They hummed a bit.  They squinted and hit the table with fists.  They looked up, at each other, back at the table.  Oh what is that song? They all cried.

“I can hear it in my head!” one of the cousins shouted out.  “I can HEAR IT!”

“Then SING it!” another shouted.  “Sing it and save us!”

“I can’t!  I can hear it in my head but I can’t sing it!”

“AGHHH” my mother shouted as she tried unsuccessfully to pry the song from her head.  “It’s right there!” she said while pointing to her head, “right there!”

I knew the frustration.  I’ve done that before.  Heard songs in my head and been unable to sing them.  As clear as they are inside my brain, the moment I try to produce them, it all falls apart – they are muddled and sound nothing like the symphony in my brain.  Unrecognizable.   I watched the cousins all try to sing the song.  They kept trying and laughing and trying again.  One would sing a word and then la la la and another would jump in but they couldn’t quite find the right melody.   

I knew the song.  I could’ve sung it. The song is “Goin to Kansas City.”

But I didn’t sing it.  I just sat there.  I know I should have sung it.  I should have set them free.  I should have hummed or whistled or belted out the tune.  But I didn’t.  Not because I wanted them to be frustrated but because I was stunned.  Stunned because I recognized something.  Something huge.  I couldn’t quite place it at first.  But there was something there.  Something about how they were skimming around a thought unable to pin it down.  Something about them having the knowledge bumping around in their heads but not being able to articulate it.  I just sat and watched.  Watched them fumble.  Become frustrated and fumble some more.

Eventually the cousins moved on.  Eventually the pull of The Stories was too great and they were back at it.  The song about Kansas City was forgotten.  But the moment stayed with me.  It wasn’t until I was on the plane last night flying home that it hit me.

I’ve forgotten my song.

For the past few weeks I’ve been trying to fit back into my life.  I’ve been trying to find my pace again, trying to remember who I am, who I was.  I know that person.  I know her so very well.  I know how she reacts and thinks.  I know what she loves and what she tolerates.  I know what makes her laugh. I know how easy it is for her to forgive and smile.  I know her desires.  I know what she needs.  What she gives.  I can hear her, in my head.  She’s so real to me.  She’s right there.  Right there.  And the moment I try to conjure her up, she’s gone.  Instead something else comes out.  Something garbled, different.

Unrecognizable.