From the Treadmill: Thoughts on Daytime TV

1. Jenna Bush works for the Today Show. Really? Really?

2. Ellen's standup on her show is not funny, but I like her interviews. She's way funnier there.

3. Rachael Ray cannot cook. At all. You can't just add bagged pre-grated mozzarella cheese to shit and call it a great family dinner . Her perkiness does not work for me, nor do her stupid orange kitchen accessories. And I like orange.

4. Matt Lauer is way better looking in person. And he's way shorter. I love him.

5. Diane Keaton's ad campaign is making me rethink Chico's.

6. Nate needs to lay off the spray tan.

7. Kathie Lee is holding Hoda back.

8. What? “Let's Make a Deal” is still on TV?

9. I kinda miss Regis. Didn't see that one coming.

10. Ann Curry remains the worst interviewer on the face of the earth. Cloying. She is the malaprop queen. I would stop watching the Today Show except for my love of Matt Lauer.

11. Jane Fonda rocks thigh-high boots on morning television. She is 75. There is hope.

Unexpected friends

One of the best, if not the best, thing about traveling is meeting people who actually live in the place you are visiting. This is more difficult to do if you stick to the tourist highlights: Not many locals hanging around the Leaning Tower. Or the Boston Duck Tours. Or the Blarney Stone. I like seeing some of these places too but the best stuff happens when you least expect it, and it's more than likely to be unplanned.

Last October, we were enjoying another magical day in Venice. In the morning we wandered through the famed Rialto Market. 

Zucchini blossoms and multi-colored peppers. Fresh octopus and squid. Friendly vendors and lots and lots of photo ops. We stumbled upon a small trattoria, Tre Spiedi, and went in for lunch. It was crowded and the three of us squeezed into a corner table to order salad and pizza. At the table right next to us, there were 2 men dining on HUGE portions of pasta. They were seated at the table side-by-side, facing us. One was a generation or so older than the other. Father and son? Business associates? They kept looking at us, smiling and giving a quick nod, then commenting to each other. We smiled and nodded back, and speculated that we must so obviously look like tourists that we are eliciting comments. They left the restaurant before we did; the older man tipped his hat at us as they walked out the door. We continued on our way, enjoying the rest of our magnificent day in Venice.

The next morning, the hotel had arranged for a water taxi to take us toMurano. The ride over was fun, but the island itself was just OK. Glass blowing factories lined the canals and the shops were full of the kind of trinkets that can be found around Piazza San Marco. On a whim, we took a ferry over to the island of Burano. Ahh, Burano.

Lots of little canals. Lots of brightly painted doors on small brick and stone buildings along the canals. Lots of bikes. Shoes on windowsills. It was breathtaking in its ordinariness and lived-in look. We headed toward Al Gatto Nero for lunch; it was recommended by a glassblower we spoke to on Murano. 

Luckily, it was 2:30 and we were able to get a table after a short wait. The place was packed. As Massimo, the owner and our waiter, escorted us to our table, we saw the two men from lunch the day before! Many smiles, lots of hand gestures. They spoke no English; I speak very very basic tourist Italian. I did understand they were recommending the octopus (polpo) and pasta with black squid (calamaro nero) sauce. I felt like we were locals ourselves, regulars who are recognized and noticed in our own little neighborhood. 

A few years ago (OK, it was 13) we were traveling in Shannagary, County Cork in Ireland. We were staying at Ballymaloe House, an old manor house covered in ivy with croquet courts on the front lawn and horse stables in the back. Their dining room busted the myth of terrible Irish food, using local fish, meats, and produce, not to mention a well-trained chef. In fact they had their own cooking school andvegetable gardens down the lane. The gardens and grounds were open to the public, so off we went.

The woman at the front desk let us know that they were only allowing tours in groups and that they were expecting a bus momentarily. We looked at each other; we don't do tours and we don't do tour buses. The gardens were enticing, though. As we debated, a small van pulled up and out popped about 10 Irish senior citizens, 2 of them men. They were on a day tour; it was a group from the small town of Ennis on the west coast. We got swept along in their friendliness and enthusiasm. Everyone it seems has a relative in Somerville or South Boston. At one point one of the women linked her arm through mine as we sauntered through the beautiful Ballymaloe herb gardens. We ended up in the kitchens of the cooking school, watching demonstrations by local chefs. Our new Irish friends were effusive in their appreciation of the beauty and wonder of our surroundings. They were interested in our visit to Dublin. Were we going to the Ring of Kerry? We had a blast. When the tour was over, there were hugs and sincere goodbyes.

We headed back to the hotel to have lunch and hang out. We had no plans for the afternoon; the concierge suggested that we drive over to the Jameson whiskey factory. It is in Midleton, not too far. Back into the car we go and careen down the country roads toward Irish whiskey. We pull into the dirt parking lot and who do we see? Our Irish friends from Ballymaloe! Another tour? This time we didn't hesitate.

Still in the Driver's Seat, For Now

Yes. I'm still driving him. And I'm done being apologetic about it.

Yes. He's had his driver's license for over 5 months and could probably drive himself the 25 miles to classes on the 3 days he attends. But, he doesn't. I do.

At the beginning of the semester, it was my intention to do the driving for a couple of days then have him drive with me in the car to make sure he knew the way. Oh I had my reasons: it was rush hour, after all. Bumper to bumper on 2 congested highways, not a quick trip to the local high school. He, like his older brother and unlike his sister and me, doesn't really like to drive. He's not a freaking control freak and is quite fine sitting in that passenger seat. I am a freaking control freak and never like sitting in the passenger seat. Ever. I especially hate it when one of my kids is at the wheel. I gotta admit that I didn't really take that last point into consideration when plotting out my original plan.

It just became a habit: I would drop him off and either head back home to the gym and the treadmill or to a cafe to write. He never insisted on driving; I never insisted he drive. Friends started asking, "Why doesn't he drive himself?" and I started making excuses. "He's not comfortable with the route" turned into "We're down a car and I've got stuff to do" turned into "It's so snowy and icy and oh those crazy drivers out there."

And now, damn it, I like it. We listen to Morning Edition on the drive in and Radio Boston on the way home. We groan in harmony when Sarah Palin's name is mentioned and debate economic and racial segregation in the neighborhoods of Boston. I hear about the Ugandan boy in his anthropology class who is estranged from his family and holding down a full time job and the man, who apparently is even older than me, that sits behind him in his world history class. I can get away with comments like, You know, when you're away at school next year, you'll have to be responsible about eating right/getting enough sleep/keeping your side of the room clean/insert another annoying momism here and he can't run away because he's stuck in the car laughing at me.

This is the third kid of mine to go away to school; when Fall rolls around I don't want to wish I had spent more time with him when I could have. So I complain about having to get up early and worry about being pulled over by the cops when I'm in sweats and no makeup and lament how much time out of my day all this driving is taking while in private I'm enjoying the hell out of it. There's only a month left. It's not nearly enough time.

Less and More

Things I'm going to do less of in 2011

Worry

Eat

Spend time in Boxborough

Play spider solitaire

Clean

Things I'm going to do more of in 2011

Read

Travel

Swear

Cook

Write

Travel

Go to the beach

Watch movies

Travel

Make money

Visit museums

Run

Travel

Moisturize

Accessorize

Travel

Dance

Laugh

Sing

Travel

I'm delighted that my More list is 4 times as long as my Less list.

Don't Mess with the Mamas

“A table to eat, or to drink?” the waiter asked. “Both,” I answered. It was my first night in Venice; as usual, I only slept briefly on the flight over and was determined to stay awake and adjust to local time as quickly as possible. I made my way to the tourist clogged Rialto Bridge to absorb the frenetic energy, and found a canal-side restaurant, Caffe Saraceno.

“For one, only?” Little did I know at the time that all waiters I encountered during this solo trip to Venice and Florence would react to my table-for-one request with emotion ranging from mild surprise to total horror and as a result, I never really dined alone. During my second week, Carlo in Florence asked, “Where is your husband? Did you have a fight?” When I told him I was traveling alone, he invited me to meet him the next morning and we would ride his scooter to Piazelle Michelangelo for cappuccino. “Maybe another time,” I told him. Another Florentine threw up his hands and exclaimed, “Impossibile!” when he discovered I was on my own. Both hotel concierges in both cities went out of their way to help me when I needed it; Fabio in Venice even walked me to a restaurant he claimed was difficult to find.

This first-night Venetian waiter was a bit younger than me, about the same height, with droopy hangdog brown eyes and grey streaked short hair. As he asked the question, he touched my elbow so I pushed my agenda. “Si, un tavolo per una. And I'd like to sit next to the canal.” There was only one table available, set for 4, and Giovanni (“call me Gianni”) walked me right over to it. “Prego, Signora.” Already seated next to me were three women, perhaps in their late 60's, speaking rapid fire Italian. After he handed me my menu, Gianni delivered a bottle of wine to my neighbors, then returned to take my order.

He made some menu recommendations, one of which I took, poured my wine, and became very chatty. Where are you from? How long are you in Venice? Are you traveling alone? Really? He would leave my side briefly then reappear in a flash to refill my wine glass. After placing my salad on the table, Gianni whisked away the table oil and vinegar and replaced both with extra virgin and balsamic. “For you, Signora.” Again, with the elbow touching. I was totally charmed.

My table was perfect; I had a great seat: front row on the Grand Canal. Gondolas drifted by. Vaparetti stuffed with tourists wielding video cameras chugged along, the waves from their wake lapping by my boots. I finished my salad and sipped my Chianti. I'm sure I must have sighed. Here comes dinner. As Gianni served the veal, the table next to me erupted. The trio of Italian Mamas was pissed.

I couldn't understand much, but I heard “L'Americana” this, and “L'Americana” that. Hands flying. Fingers wagging. They had no food yet. “No rispetto! No rispetto!” Everyone in the restaurant was watching. I was terrified and terribly entertained at the same time. Gianni stood there, arms crossed. Then one of the women shouted, “Il conto. Allora!” Yikes. They wanted the check before they even had dinner. He started to reason with them, I think, but seemed to get nowhere. I concentrated on my dinner and the water taxis zipping by, avoiding eye contact with both the table of Mamas and my beleaguered waiter.

He finally raised both hands and shouted, “Basta!” He brought them their check and as they stormed out, one of the Mamas lectured another waiter as well, for good measure. Wow. I wasn't expecting dinner AND a show.

Gianni sauntered over with a slight smile and a big shrug. “Mi dispiace,” he said. “Boy, you really got in trouble,” I told him. His smile widened and he poured me a big glass of wine: not my house Chianti, but a Brunello. “My compliments, Signora.” As I left the restaurant, he thanked me with a kiss on each cheek and a “Ciao, Bella!”

And that, my friends, is one of the many many many reasons I return every year.

Next Week

In one week and a few hours from now I will be sitting on KLM flight 6030, Boston to Venice with a connection in Amsterdam. One week in Venice; one week in Florence. All alone. Can't wait.

I can't remember if I've ever traveled two weeks straight by myself. I don't think I have. I've spent weekends alone: Three days of yoga in the Berkshires. Three days in Manhattan, when nobody I knew wanted to pay the exorbitant cost of a Sting ticket at St. John's Cathedral in Harlem and so I went on my own and enjoyed every second.

Other than 3 firm commitments to meet friends and acquaintances, and the ever-present Sting concert (he performs in Florence) I have no set itinerary for these two weeks. I have been to both cities twice and have seen the tourist-musts. The Doge's Palace, Bridge of Sighs, Santa Maria Salute, Rialto Market. Ponte Vecchio, the David, the Duomo, the Uffizzi. This time, I will wander.

I will practice my paltry Italian in cafes and street markets. I will eat pasta and panini and drink red wine. I will chat up the staff at both hotels to get the scoop on where to really go and what to really do and see. I will try on boots and ignore the snickers of the salesgirl when I tell her my size. I will make new Italian friends and invite myself back to visit them next year.

As my friend Susan says, It's a tough job but somebody's gotta do it.

Road Trip Down Memory Lane

I just spent a weekend in upstate New York with my writers group. Unseasonably warm fall weather, great eats at great restaurants, and the fact that one of us grew up in Woodstock and could serve as tour director, contributed to yet another wildly successful road trip. Another reason for our visit: as a young mother some 23 years ago, I lived about 8 miles from Woodstock. I haven't thought about that phase of my life in a long, long time. Now, I'm thinking.

We moved to Kingston when our oldest was 6 months old. It was a change we were looking forward to. Steve had just finished a grueling stint at a Boston law firm; he would stumble through the front door at 10 PM every night only to face a colicky infant and the kid's frustrated and exhausted mother. An offer came to our rescue in the form of an alternative energy start up located in upstate New York. Still a lot of work, but more reasonable in its demands as well as more in line with his interests.

Real estate prices in that area of the Hudson Valley were low compared to the Boston suburb we were leaving and so we were able to buy a big old rambling colonial in the middle of the city of Kingston. We loved the converted carriage house that was now a detached garage. We loved the large backyard which could contain a playset and a sandbox and a garden. We loved the side sun porch with the gleaming wood floors. We could walk Uptown for lunch or coffee or ice cream. It was a great beginning.

Then, I tried to make friends. There were no neighbors close to our age, adults or child. I couldn't find a playgroup. It is difficult for me to remember how we spent those days, some 23 years ago. I soon discovered while our little part of Kingston was fine, we couldn't walk TOO far without hitting some areas in which I was uncomfortable with a stroller: Broken beer bottles on the sidewalks. Crumpled up trash blowing across the street. Deserted buildings and shattered windows. You get the picture. I do remember taking long drives: to Stone Ridge, to Boiceville, to Ellenville to meet Steve for lunch. I was on the phone a lot to folks back home in Massachusetts: friends, my mom, my sister.

Our second child was born in the middle of a really hot summer eighteen months after our move. That fall, we enrolled our oldest in a local preschool that took 2 year olds located just outside of Kingston. Aha, I thought! Now I will meet people. Oops! Not so fast. I had very little in common with everyone I was running into. Many parents were ex-hippies who once-upon-a-time moved up to the Woodstock area and now were tooling around in late model BMWs with their toddler Dylans and Jonis, espousing the joys of country life and tie dye t-shirts while waiting for the nanny to arrive. Others were folks down from the mountainside, badly in need of a bath or a shave; sometimes both. Where were the in-between people?

I made one friend. One. But she was a good one. Our kids were the same ages. We both read the same books and liked the same movies and laughed at the same jokes and shared the same politics. One of my best memories of that whole wretched 3-1/2 years was rigging up a small TV on her patio so we could watch "Blue Velvet" outside on a hot summer night and drink glass after glass of red wine while the kids played inside.

So, I returned last weekend armed with my one pleasant memory and many more distressful ones. What did I discover? Not much had changed, except that my lovely oasis of a house had aged badly, looked neglected and lonely, and unfortunately fit in too well with its dilapidated surroundings. So sad. So glad we left when we did.

Mall Walking

On my daily run this morning (OK, more of a walk than a run but I do run a bit) I spent a lot of time with my eyes riveted on the ground, dodging road hazards. Loose gravel, tiny potholes, kamikaze chipmunks, a pre-autumn slippery leaf or two. This cautionary approach to my morning routine prevented me from true appreciation of the brilliant sky and the puffy clouds. I didn't realize this until I was back in my own driveway and it totally bummed me out. I like being outside rather than inside on the treadmill because of the fresh air and the diversity of the scenery; now, I felt like I was missing out.

A month ago, while walking on a city sidewalk with eyes focused straight ahead, I tripped on uneven pavement and went flying through the air. I hit the ground squarely on my knees and the palms of my hands, all 4 areas badly skinned as if I were 5 years old again. It hurt; I bled and cried. That's why I run with my eyes on the ground now. I am actually afraid of falling. What am I, 80 years old?

Then something unbidden flashed through my mind. You must have seen them in the mall: Usually white-haired, always in pairs or trios, they walk. Bright white orthopedic sneakers and track suits. They circle the interior of the mall relentless until they reach their desired distance. I used to chuckle to myself at the silliness of it. Now they have me thinking. You don't need to worry about tripping on anything but your own two feet. The weather is always perfect. The people watching would be fun. Running would probably be frowned upon but you could get a good walking speed going. At the end of your 5 miles or whatever you can go to Starbucks or Nordstrom's or both.

I'm worried about myself. But god forbid should I break a hip.

Things I Have Noticed Now That Jenny Has Moved Out

1. She really is the only person in this household who understands me.

2. The liquor cabinet is mine, all mine, again.

3, It's not as much fun watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians without her.

4. No one gets my Gilmore Girls' references. “Oy, with the poodles already.”

5. No one gets my Sex and the City references. “You get a day, not a week.”

6. The coffee supply lasts a lot longer.

7. There's no one to give me an honest opinion about my shoe choice.

8. The smoke haze in her car (now Connor's) is slowly dissipating.

9. There's no one to make fun of the songs on my ipod. Oh, wait. . .

10. Who's gonna side with me on the AC/No AC and heat/no heat arguments with Pops, as she calls him?

Mary Kate

I met Mary Kate when she was part of the welcoming committee at Voyagers' orientation for our first Fall semester. While not completely new to homeschooling, I was new at this homeschooling coop and a bit tentative. Mary Kate didn't waste any time. She plunked herself down in the chair next to me, the omnipresent reporter's notebook in hand: you know, those long, thin, lined ones. After the usual introductions, the recruitment began. “How old is your child? You have a boy? Excellent. Is he interested in Shakespeare?” she asked. I had no idea if he was interested in Shakespeare but her enthusiasm almost made me hope he was before I really knew what she was talking about.

It turns out that he did perform in Voyagers Shakespeare Company; Mary Kate was a producer. Those notebooks of hers contained every last detail of each production from rehearsal schedules to costuming to publicity to ticket sales. Once, when the notebook went missing, we all dropped what we were doing and scoured the premises searching for it. I found it on a windowsill just behind a flap of curtain. She shrieked in delight; she was saved!

We attended Voyagers on different days so our only real connection was through Shakespeare. Until The Diagnoses. When I learned Mary Kate had melanoma, I joined our mutual friends with feelings of shock and sadness. I had a few private conversations with her, mostly of a practical nature, concerning how her treatment would impact her involvement at the coop. We didn't touch on how her diagnosis was affecting her family, or her personally, at all. Until my diagnosis.

We were in the Voyagers office when I told her, and the bond was instantaneous. I was new to this cancer thing and didn't realize at that time how this disease unites those afflicted. Mary Kate grabbed my hands in hers and we let the tears flow, something neither of us allowed often. Although our cancers were different, both diagnoses were late stage, and dire. From that point on, outside of her close circle of friends, mine was one of the few calls she would take. We let each other prattle on, didn't ask too many questions, appreciated the importance of just listening. My youngest kid had recently celebrated a birthday; I told her how I worried I would not see another. Her only daughter, 6 or so at the time, had been dreaming aloud about her future wedding; Mary Kate had to leave the room so her sadness wasn't revealed.

I was lucky. My treatment plan was straight forward and went smoothly. Mary Kate was not so lucky. Regular treatments didn't work; she must have been enrolled in every clinical trial available. When they found a tumor in her brain, I accompanied her to the brain oncologist; her husband was unavoidably out of town and she wanted someone non-emotional who would ask tough questions and take good notes. I was honored. When she returned from yet another trial, this time at the National Cancer Institute, I picked her up at the airport and watched her doze off in the passenger seat on the way home. “I just have to hang in there until the technology catches up,” she said. “I know it's stupid, but I'm pissed that I'm losing my hair.” She had great hair, long and thick and red. She had every right to be pissed.

Today, a day after Mary Kate passed away, I can't get her out of my mind. I hope I never completely do.

All You Need is Love. Really.

Cirque du Soleil has never interested me. Never. It's never been on my radar screen. Never. And the few glimpses I had on TV coupled with reviews from friends convinced me that this was a show I could skip. While a fan of the soleil, I am not a fan of the cirque. I know, I know. It's not really a “circus.” My skepticism, and a full list of the performing arts that I found compelling and was willing to shell out the bucks to see, prevailed. And then. . .

A couple of years ago while in Las Vegas, my husband tried to convince me to attend Cirque's “LOVE,” based on the music of The Beatles. In response, I attempted to stand my ground. “Are there French Canadian clowns? Are there mimes?” I asked. “Are they going to infuse the Beatles stuff with creepy Cirque music?” He told me he had no idea and then, in an act of uncharacteristic decisiveness brought about by his love of the Beatles, bought the tickets.

I LOVED it. The plot loosely tracks the Beatles' biography from the London Blitz in the 1940's through the group's formation, rocket ship ascension to stardom, and breakup. Fictional characters from the Beatles' lyrics bring the show to life: Lady Madonna and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds were two of my favorites. “Drive My Car” features a vintage VW Beetle stuffed with floppy-haired young men. “Blackbird” is danced by a bevy of beautiful and graceful ballerinas. There is a bit more dance than acrobatics and an even mixture of comedy and tragedy, all of which seem perfectly matched to each tune. I was high-fived by a performer on his way off-stage. I chatted it up with an usher while leaving. “Wasn't it great to take a stroll down Penny Lane?” he asked. “All you need is love,” I answered.

On the way out of the theater, I was surprised to overhear a few comments regarding the authenticity of the piece. No live music. (The Beatles' music had been remixed by George Martin for this performance.) Not enough acrobatics; what was with all that ballet? Not in the usual tradition of Cirque, some said. I didn't pay much attention at that time; I had nothing to compare it to. As soon as we arrived home, I ordered the LOVE soundtrack.

So, I thought, maybe I was wrong about the Cirque. Fast forward to present day. A few weeks ago, my younger son and I were in Quebec City, home of Cirque du Soleil. We were traveling with 2 other families, all of whom are Cirque fans and when one of the other parents suggested we purchase tickets to the Cirque du Soleil performance in town during our stay, I said sure.

The distinctive yellow and white tents were set up down near the industrial docks of the St. Lawrence River; we could see them from several vantage points throughout the city. Halfway through our stay in this beautiful city on the evening of the performance, the ten of us trekked down Quebec City's hills and stone steps to attend Totem.

The semi-circular seating in the audience surrounded a turtle shell shaped stage. I was seated in the second to last seat near the stage on the right, behind a huge pole holding wires and clamps and acrobatic paraphernalia. As the evening crawled on, I thanked the fake stars in the fake sky above for my obstructed view.

The lights dimmed, and voila! There is a succession of performers dressed as: frogs, Native Americans, alien beings, fishermen, mad scientists, archeologists, monkeys, and surfer dudes. The characters who creep around, like the frogs and aliens, are accompanied by that creepy Cirque du Soleil music. Two of the Native American characters, in roller skates, spin around on a small trampoline. For kicks, there is a slimy Italian gigolo as the clown character, I guess. He isn't funny. And what's this? Four Asian girls balance stacks of plates while on unicycles.

Yeah, I kind of get it. Kind of:  Totem. Evolution and Legend. Science and Custom. The meshing of various views of the universe. And I even appreciate the athleticism and the grace required of these performers. I really do. But, c'mon..

The music is annoying in that whiny way that I had always associated with Cirque. The different scenes have no connection to each other. First there are frogs, then there are surfer dudes? Really? What's with all the Eastern European guys balancing on the sticks? Aliens in unitards? I kept pulling out my cell phone to check the time.

As we were trooping out at the end, I caught the eye of my son who had a seat at the other end of our row. He rolled his eyes back and shook his head. We were in the minority so we kept quiet (for us); as we stood waiting for others in our group to fetch souvenirs, he grinned. “At least I only fell asleep once.”

Lesson learned. No more Cirque du Soleil for us, unless it involves The Beatles.

The Lovers: A Novel

I have to admit that the author's name is what drew me to the novel: Vendela Vita. If she were a character in a story or movie, I would think that the author was trying too hard. As I was contemplating reading The Lovers: A Novel, I found out that she was married to Dave Eggers and co-wrote the screenplay for Away We Go. That settled it: I downloaded it to my Kindle and started reading.

Widowed in her early fifties, Yvonne travels back to Turkey where she and her husband spent their honeymoon 23 years ago. She is going there, she claims, not to relive that time but to remember it. During her stay, she is haunted by memories she was not anticipating: the difficult times caused by their troubled daughter, and the growing distance between her and her husband, Peter. She finds herself way out of her comfort zone, both physically and emotionally. The Turkish cast of characters, from the house owner's estranged wife to the shell-collecting 10 year old boy, add authenticity and depth to the story.

Vida nicely weaves present day events with those in Yvonne's memory. She details bigger-picture conflicts, such as East vs. West as well as the everyday challenges involving men and women, and parents and children.

Read it. You can do it in a day.

Move over Kathy

A guest columnist for the Sunday NY Times labeled himself a "writer/comedian." Can you just call yourself a comedian, or do you actually have to perform on a stage? I call myself a writer; doing so makes me write more. If I call myself a comedian, will I get funnier? Writer/comedian is kinda perfect. I'm stealing it.

Who Knew?

When I pulled my youngest child out of public school near the end of third grade to homeschool, I had some doubts but I was pretty sure it was the right thing to do. We were all miserable and frustrated, parents, child, and teachers alike and homeschooling seemed like the best solution.

Wow, everyone said. This is going to be a huge time and energy commitment on your part. I know, I told them. I got a bit swept up in what a wonderful martyr I was. Anything for the kid.

The truth was it was easier to help him follow his interests and be excited about learning again than it was dealing with the bureaucracy and narrow-mindedness of our public school system. Instead of focusing on what he had difficulties with, we focused on his strengths and passions. He read voraciously (considered a “problem” in school because “All he wants to do is read”). We joined support groups, went on field trips, and became active in our local 80+ family homeschooling coop. That funny, bright, wise-ass personality that we knew before he entered school was reemerging. He made many many new friends. And, much to my surprise, so did I.

I went into this homeschooling thing as a rescue mission. I will sacrifice all my personal interests and time, I thought, because that's what one does as a parent: if your child needs something, you provide it. I was ready to do what it took, and then resume my own life at a future date. Boy, was I wrong.

When we first started going on group field trips, picnics, and gym days I was undeniably aloof. I was here for my kid, I already had plenty of friends, I would like to use this opportunity to read, thank you very much. And, to the credit of the adults around me, I was left alone. Then a funny thing happened. Overheard conversations sounded really interesting. These parents aren't just talking about their kids (although that certainly happened too) but politics and travel and friendships and food. Hmmm.

As more time passed and we spent more hours at the coop, I put my book down more often. I found that I enjoyed the conversation and the camaraderie. Before I knew it, more than a few relationships extended beyond the bond of homeschooling, and true friendships developed outside the realm of what we were doing with our kids. Book groups, martini tastings, trips to San Francisco, snowshoeing, bike riding, coffee drinking. When I received a serious medical diagnosis a few years ago, these new friends rushed to help out in any way they could, making sure the kid got where he needed to go so I didn't have to worry about that, at least. One made me a beaded “Fuck Cancer” bracelet, which showed how much she understands me. On the last day of chemotherapy, I arrived in the hospital parking lot to find that my car had been decorated with with balloons, humor and good wishes. My tears lasted the whole way home.

Most recently, I am part of a writers group which consists of 3 other women whom I first knew through some avenue of homeschooling; this group has been a major source of creative and emotional support over the past year. We meet, we laugh, we eat, we go to the movies, and sometimes we even write. When you share your writing, you share everything. You trust with the truth. These girls have become my go-to safety net and Ultimate Truth Tellers.

What I did 8 years ago for my kid was what he needed and deserved.

What I did 8 years ago for my kid was one of the best things I ever did for myself.

Who knew?

Self Indulgent Rant

Having a hard time lately shaking off this feeling of impending doom. It's like when Charlotte in the Sex and the City movie won't go on her usual runs in the park after she finds out she's pregnant because she's scared. “No one gets everything she wants,” she says. That's what I feel like these days. OK, this week.

Of course this has to do with the upcoming CT scan. It's been 6 months since the last one; that's the longest I've gone. The rational side of me says, that's great. The further out from diagnosis I am with no visible trace of disease, the better. The irrational crazy side of me wonders why am I so lucky? Those teeny tiny cancer cells have come back and are multiplying, we just haven't been able to see them yet.

I've been too cavalier with my health lately. I've let the pounds pile back on. I'm inconsistent with my workouts. I enjoy my martinis too much. I'm mean to people who piss me off. And I'm worried I'll be punished for all of it.

Yes, it's stupid and irrational. But that's the way I'm feeling.

Live Free or Die

I was tooling down Daniel Webster Highway in Nashua stopping in at this store or that because that's what you do when you're in Nashua. My Ford Escape hybrid has Massachusetts license plates, and it is adorned with bumper stickers of various Democratic candidates, from our state senator to our governor to our president. This is something I rarely think about; it just is.

I was in the right lane; the driver's side window was down because it was warm and sunny. Furious beeping started and I looked around to see what was going on. A red pickup truck zoomed past me; the driver was simultaneously leaning on his horn and giving me a determined thumbs down.

It took me a minute: My bumper stickers. I've never had that happen to me before. You have to be pretty pissed off to go out of your way to honk your horn repeatedly and gesture out the window while traveling at 40 miles per hour or so.

It makes me determined to get even more stickers in the next election cycle and travel to Nashua more often.

My Bullies

The bullying tragedy in western Massachusetts has rightfully received a lot of press, with columnists and psychologists and educators commenting on aspects of the case from cause and prevention to warning signs and severity of punishment. I bet there are many of us who can remember an incident or two from our far gone (or not so far gone) school days. Here's mine.

I really, really liked high school. I had a lot of friends, got good grades, and remember laughing a lot both in and outside the classroom. Except for a 3 month period as a freshman, during the spring of 1972.

I was 14 and he was 18; a senior. And not just any senior. He was on the football team. He had just been voted “Best Looking” for the annual yearbook. Not only good looking with his swept back, medium length brown hair and chiseled cheekbones, he was charming and funny and sweet. All the senior girls were gaga over him. He hung out with everyone, not “dating” anyone in particular.

He started talking to me in the hallway between classes. I can remember feeling my cheeks grow bright red as I was singled out. “Hey, what class do you have next?” “I'm going the same way. Let's go!” After about a week of this, he started calling my house and we would talk almost every night. I remember being on the phone for a long time, but I don't remember what exactly we talked about. He laughed at my jokes. I was floating. I was one of those annoying little girls that always “liked” a boy. Or two or three. And boys always liked me. But, still, this was pretty heady stuff.

We went public: movies (Dirty Harry), dinner (lasagna at the local Italian restaurant). And then, the senior girls went into action.

I started getting tripped in the hallway at school. Scathing looks. Pairs of senior girls would walk behind me and whisper loudly. The phone would ring repeatedly at night, and there would be nobody on the line. (We had a yellow rotary dial wall phone in the kitchen. My parents had a table phone in their bedroom, which was quite advanced for our day. No caller ID. No *69.)

Then came the day of the Girls Club vote. The Girls Club was ostensibly a service group set up to fundraise for good causes. It was for girls in grades 10-12. The glitch was that the current members voted in the new freshmen members. I was sunk. The senior girls, one in particular whose name I still remember and would never have had a chance with him even if I was not in the picture (sorry, it still pisses me off), orchestrated my black balling. Every one of my friends got in. Not me.

I never said a word. We continued to go out; have fun. I would listen for the chug of his beige VW Beetle as it made its way up our street to our house. He would come in, talk to my mom, and we'd be off. We went to his house; I met his family and sprayed his little sisters with the hose as we washed the Beetle. He was the first boy to tell me he loved me. In retrospect, I can't believe how well mannered and controlled he was. Sure, we parked and kissed and a little bit more, and I would have rolled for him in a minute. But he never asked for it; it was never an issue.

We double dated with his friends and their girlfriends who were quite nice to me, although also warning me to be careful at school. Notes started appearing on my locker. “Bitch” and “Slut” are what I remember. More phone hang ups.

Then, he stopped calling. Just like that. Even worse, he didn't show up for a long standing date we had discussed for the school's gym show. I was crushed. I didn't see him at school anymore. I cried and cried and cried as only a heartbroken 14 year old can.

A couple of weeks passed and then he showed up at my house unannounced. I was in my room, and I thought, once again, I heard the chugging of the Beetle. I looked out the window and couldn't believe it. We sat on the front porch and he told me he thought is was unfair to feel so deeply for someone when he would be leaving home soon. He realized he was wrong to just stop talking to me; he thought that was all he had to do. He was sorry. At that time, I believed him but I think I would have believed anything he told me. Who knows. He drove off and that was that.

In light of the recent headlines, I wondered what my life would have been like if there had been Facebook and the internet and texting in the 70's. I remember the viciousness of those girls way back then. Today, they would have had many more tools of torture. Who knows what would have happened to me.

Just something I'm thinking about.

Aladdin

I was on the treadmill this morning watching Gilmore Girls reruns on the ABC Family channel (Season 2: Lorelai and Max are engaged for about a minute) when a commercial came on for a upcoming showing of Disney's Aladdin.

When my oldest son was about 3 (he's almost 24, now) I thought I would treat him to a movie. His younger sister had been bugging him and hogging all the attention with her wobbly walking and lispy talking. He needed some extra attention; a Mom and Kid day out. He'd never been to a movie theater before and was very excited. The Little Mermaid had just been released so we headed to the mall.

He lasted about 2 minutes. The beginning of The Little Mermaid has big, loud waves (I can't remember if they were crashing against the shore or against a ship or just against each other. And I can't look it up because Disney keeps its old movies “in the vault.”) and he was terrified. It was just too loud. The movie had barely begun when I scooped him up and carried him out of the theater. After a chocolate ice cream cone, he was fine.

When I naively relayed this story to other mothers with kids his age, there were snickers. He was afraid of The Little Mermaid? Are you serious? I stopped telling the story and it became part of our internal family lore.

Three years later, when he was 6, I took him and his younger sister, 4, to see the new Disney movie, Aladdin. This time, it was their idea. I frankly cannot remember if we had seen any movies in between, but I'm thinking no. Everything was going fine until about halfway through. He jumped up, and ran out of the theater, claiming he had to use the bathroom. I got up to follow him; his sister refused to budge. Yes, I left a 4 year old alone in the theater to chase after her brother. I had a feeling something else besides a biological urge was going on.

I found him in the men's room crying his eyes out. He looked at me and blubbered, “It is so sad that Aladdin doesn't have a mom or a dad!” What? Did I miss that plot point? It was the sweetest thing, really. And this time I didn't share the story until he was old enough to understand how wonderful it is that such a thing would bother him so much.

We stayed away from Disney movies and movie theaters after that. Interestingly, the youngest in the family, also a boy, shared his older brother's dislike of: 1) loud noises in movies; 2) dark theaters; 3) anything sad. Middle child, the only girl, watched Dennis Hopper get beheaded in Speed at the age of 13 without blinking an eye. A story for another time.

New List

List of what I did today, so far:

1.Ran one exhausting, ugly, wheezing, complaining mile; walked two.

2.Did some PR/Marketing for that slave driver of a boss, CHC Design and Redesign.

3.Cleaned out 3 more flower beds: raked and wheelbarrowed the leaves over to grouchy neighbors' side of the yard. Dumped them there.

4.Dug out vehicle ID numbers so Daughter can recover the towed car.

5.Wrote a total of 500 words on current piece for writing group.

6.Started 2 more travel pieces.

7.Read both the Sunday Globe and NY Times.

8.Yelled at the neighborhood boys who were taunting my sweet, old black lab. Little shits.

9.Showered.

10.Moisturized.

11.Accessorized.

Some days, I really can't stand myself.

This is what I am doing today.






No food since 9AM; only clear liquids for the rest of the day, with nothing at all after midnight. This is my third time in, so I guess I'm kind of an expert. You have to drink 2 liters of vile tasting liquid, camouflaged as “lemon lime,” in order to clean out your system for optimal viewing. Bathroom proximity is a must. Everyone says the colon preparation, my activity for the day, is the worst part of the procedure. I guess that's true, unless you get results like I got the first time around. Waking up to the white coat at the foot of the bed telling you that there is a tumor in your colon so big that the scope couldn't get by it and you have to go down for a CAT scan right away -don't even get out of the bed, we'll wheel you as is– that's the worst part of the procedure. Trust me.

So, I'm trying to keep the prep in perspective. I can hang out in my bedroom and watch movies all day, breaking frequently for the obvious reason, without feeling guilty. Good variety of films: Summertime, with Katherine Hepburn and evocative scenery in Venice (although they took a boat to what they referred to as Murano; it looked more like Burano to me, with its colorful architecture and fishing boats); Milk, which is beautiful and sweet and heartbreaking and I keep hoping for a different ending every time I see it; and Wuthering Heights with Laurence Olivier and the magnificently overwrought Merle Oberon.

Tonight, between bathroom breaks, it's reality tv all the way.

And, first thing in the morning, I jump on the scale. I'm counting on being 5 pounds lighter.