Dear Gods Of Baseball…

If it’s not too much to ask, can you please provide teams I care about for the next World Series?  And if one of the teams has the words “New York” in the name, can it please be the Mets?

The only reason I rooted for the Phillies this year is because they weren’t the Yankees.

Baseball gods, people get silly about the Yankees.  Fans strut, pound their chests and give the rest of us the finger.  I have nothing against Yankee players, except maybe Derek Jeter and his claim that the fifth World Series win was the most special of all. But c’mon. Really? The “we’re all that” attitude is wearing a little thin. Especially when in recent years, the Yankees clearly haven’t been.

I don’t like not liking the Yankees. I wish I did. But I really don’t. In my estimation, there have been maybe three good things about them, all of which are no longer relevant:

1. Joe Torre (a Dodgers/Yankees series I would’ve watched)

2. Tino Martinez in pinstripes

3. George Costanza as assistant to the traveling secretary

It’s hard to overlook Johnny Damon defecting to the dark side after Boston’s triumphant season, and Alex Rodriguez morphing into someone that old school Mariner fans don’t recognize anymore.

So, baseball gods..  how about a surprising match up for next year?  Not just the Yankees and (insert team name here).  It’s fun to watch good baseball, but there are other great teams. Can we please watch them play in the World Series, too?

Lou Piniella once said that any given team could beat any other given team on any day. I understand that bringing the best together is what the World Series is. I just don’t believe that they are the only good players in baseball.. or even the very best ever.

So, how about next year, gods of baseball, you shine down on someone besides the Yankees.

Alot of us would really appreciate it..

Oh, and while you’re at it.. if you have a minute, could you please see to it that Mariano Rivera breaks a finger or something?

Yours truly,

Friend of baseball, but not the New York Yankees

Need A New Game? Name Your Favorite Words.

Published in The Ferndale Record-Journal, October 28, 2009

Language fascinates me. It always has.

Some words delight me more than others because they’re either fun to work into a sentence, or they amuse me in some way.  Below are a few words that fall into this category:

Cupcake – The words ‘cup’ or ‘cake’ alone don’t thrill me, but put them together and magic happens.  Maybe it’s the image of an actual cupcake that I like. Or perhaps it’s because this is what my sister calls people she finds adorable, as in “Oh, the new Snodgrass baby is a cupcake!”

For whatever reason, I like this word. I like how it makes me feel, and that it has an earthy, hard ‘K’ sound—not once, but three times.

Snarky – True, this word is trendy. Pop culture enthusiasts employ this little nugget ad nauseum. One definition in The Urban Dictionary says ‘snarky’ is  “A witty mannerism, personality, or behavior that is a combination of sarcasm and cynicism. Usually accepted as a complimentary term. Snark is sometimes mistaken for a snotty or arrogant attitude.”

The reason I’m drawn to this word is because it sounds made up. I also like to think of different ways to use it: Snarkalicious, snarkonomic, snarkoleptic, ensnarked, desnarkification.

With a word like this, the possibilities are all over the map. You can use it for anything! It’s snarktastic!

Purple – A person cannot say this word without making an entertaining face. It’s impossible to do. Lips get scrunched and pouty, and cheeks puff out. On top of which it sounds throaty and punchy.

I say you can add the word ‘purple’ to almost any sentence and make it more interesting.

Bosom – In my opinion, this is a word, when used in just the right way, provides substantial hilarious bang for your comical buck.

I don’t know when I decided this about ‘bosom’ but I suspect it has to do with an early episode of The Simpsons.  Of course, it’s also used on occasion to describe a certain female characteristic.

However, I favor this word because it’s fun to say and rarely used. Say it out loud several times. Then think of a way to use it in a sentence. I can almost promise it will make you smile, and maybe even laugh.

My list of engaging words is long and these are only a few. But let’s try using them all in a sentence, shall we?

How about, “I grabbed a purple cupcake from the bosom of that snarky hostess.”

Or maybe, “My bosom ached for a purple begonia so my recently desnarkified husband brought me one, and a cupcake, too.”

I get that not everyone appreciates language and word play the way I do. Maybe it’s better that way. Society wouldn’t accomplish anything if we just sat around making up and deconstructing words all the time.

Still, you’ve got to admit it might be fun. Everyone has certain words they use consistently. I say ramp it up with some you haven’t used in a while, or ever. Pick a couple you like and try using them in conversation.  Let your creativity bubble to the surface and impress your family, the crowd, or just yourself.

Ooh. ‘Bubble’ — there’s another one I like!

It’s All About The Food

Published in The Ferndale Record-Journal, October 14, 2009

My childhood home was always interesting. There was plenty of emotion, lots of fun and laughs, some sorrow, nurturing, moments of pain. Probably like a lot of other families. The odd thing is, and most especially at this time of year, I can’t stop thinking about the food. My mother made sure we were well fed and her meals, especially the desserts, were legendary.

Her metal recipe box was military green, industrial length—maybe 18 inches long, and jammed (in an orderly fashion) with newspaper and magazine snippets, and 3X5 cards containing the best, and I mean the very best, recipes for home cooking ever compiled.

She used what was in season—a habit, no doubt from years of farm and frugal living. She canned every fruit she could and probably some she shouldn’t. Her pear preserves were the nectar of the gods.  And before I grew up and left home I thought everyone ate canned raspberries.

Certain times of the year I crave different things. For example, in the fall and winter months I’m hungry for my mother’s baking powder biscuits and raisin pie. Not just any biscuits and pie—but my mom’s.  I’ve learned how to make these things and they taste pretty good. But truthfully, they fall short of hers—at least in my mind.

Her Sunday roast beef dinner, complete with burnt (yes, that’s right) carrots and roasted potatoes is always on the tip of my taste buds.  The gravy she made was not necessarily silky, but the flavor was off the hook.

In the fall I think about her apple crisp with just the right amount of tart to sweet ratio, and her homemade applesauce, punched up with cinnamon, cloves, and allspice with big chunks of apple in the mix.

Spring and summer were mostly about fruit pies and cobblers.  Sometimes, even though my dad and I stayed clear of it, Mom would make a rhubarb pie. My father would eat anything she made—except that.

Big bowls of strawberries, raspberries, or peaches and cream with a slice of bread were sometimes lunch or dinner. And in August I begged for her Blackberry Fruit Roll.  It was like a cobbler on steroids, bathed in sugar syrup.  If there is heaven on earth, it was the moment when that flaky dough, and tart, sweet berry mixture hit my lips.

Wednesdays were her bread making days and, and those loaves rose higher than any I’ve ever seen. They made exquisite toast, hunky sandwiches, tuna melts, and creamed-whatever on toast.  With a slice of bread like that and a white-sauce dreams are made of, it was Nirvana.

But the most spectacular of all were Mom’s desserts. She planned those before ever considering what we were having for dinner.  Everything was from scratch. Chocolate, spice, white, and nut cakes lifted up high out of the pans and were covered in layers with frosting the likes of which I’ve not experienced since. As hard as I try to recreate these literal works of art, I can’t.

Her pies were just as noteworthy. Lemon meringue, coconut and chocolate cream. All homemade, no box stuff here. Cookies, pan desserts—it was all her specialty, and lucky for family, friends, and neighbors, she liked to share.

A friend of mine, coming to terms with diabetes and the limitations it imposes on her diet, pointed out how much our society is built on food as a socializing factor. Whenever people get together, food is inevitably part of the equation.

It’s true. Food, with all the bounty, guilt, and love/hate feelings it summons is, if we’re fortunate, part of the human experience.

The way I see it I was extra lucky. My mother set the gold standard for food and now nothing else is as worthy as hers was. I had the best. There were other good things about her too, of course. But the way she took care of people was to cook for them.

Let’s face it—in the world of parenting, there are worse legacies.

The Bizarre, Beautiful Mix That Is Family

Published in The Ferndale Record-Journal, September 23, 2009

Not long ago, on a small stretch of beach along the central Oregon coast, I gathered with the people that have known me the longest.

For a couple of days we caught up with the old and plunged into the new. We welcomed family members we’d never seen before, missed those who couldn’t make the reunion, and reminisced about those who’ve passed away.

I realized then in that little microcosm of time that it would be short-lived. Soon we’d all be back into our daily routines with the people we see every day going about the business of our lives.

I also knew I’d miss the feeling of being under the same sky at the same place with my extended family—people who find my idiosyncrasies endearing, or at the very least entertaining. I knew I’d miss the faces that I see too seldom and the stories that aren’t told often enough.

Ours is a tough crew. Lives have been stormy at times. There’s been disease, death, drugs, and divorce. We are all shapes and colors, ages and persuasions. We are planted, and we travel with the wind. We have snowy white skin or are tattooed and pierced. We’re creaky with age and springy with youth.

Some are liberal, some conservative, some are nowhere near either one of those; some are well traveled and others stay close to home.  Most speak their minds openly, but some don’t.  Many of us will talk until we shouldn’t anymore, and others prefer to not say much at all.

We are also nothing if not hilarious.  Some of the most amusing people I’ve ever known are members of my own family. We are a clever and quick-witted bunch; we also weep easily and probably too often.

There was at least one face I hadn’t seen for 40 years. Really. 40 years. Others I’d seen in the days and weeks before. But those faces are always changing and I guess that means mine is, too.

In the end it didn’t matter how anyone looked. What mattered is that we were there together. And that somewhere in the vapors, my father and mother were rejoicing for the large, warts-and-all family that still gathers in their names.

Over succulent barbecued pork sandwiches and birthday cake for twin 12-year-olds, everyone remembers the good times, forgetting for a moment the riffs and weirdness that can prevail in families, and that have certainly been part of ours.

Watching cousins play in the surf and reconnecting with people I’d known were somewhere in the world, but not sure where, was sweet. No, it was better than sweet. It was delicious.

On the way to our reunion, my children and I stopped by the cemetery to decorate the graves of my parents and my brother.  In a private moment I thanked them again for everything, not the least of which is my crazy, wonderful, collection of family.

They are my people. We belong to each other. Sometimes it’s hard to be part of a family. We’re expected to do things, be engaged, we disappoint others, and our attachment to them gives them the power to break our hearts.

But that bit of time with these folks reminded me how bare my life would be without them, and that despite, maybe because of our foibles, we come together willingly looking for the connection that exists in family.

Pictures and email will hold me until we meet again in three years.

And frankly, that shiny feeling inside of me will, too.

One Day In September

Published in The Ferndale Record-Journal, September 9, 2009

It might have been sunny that Saturday morning in September of 1980 but I don’t remember for sure.

All I know is that I wanted to get to the hospital so the baby wouldn’t be born on the bathroom floor, like the last one almost was.

This was my third child and the pregnancy had been close to perfect. But I was almost two weeks overdue and was afraid that maybe this baby was never going to come out.

I could picture myself on the front of the National Enquirer under the banner headline, “Terminally Pregnant Woman Discovered in Washington State.”

So when contractions began that morning, I was thrilled. Especially since I was afraid this would be the year I would discover the true meaning of Labor Day. Nope. It was two days before the Monday holiday. My baby would be born on Saturday.

Happiness at the onset of labor can be short-lived. For me, the initial excitement soon gave way to the hard work of birthing—1980s style. It hurts to have a baby. It hurts bad. And this was back in the day when women were compelled to earn a natural childbirth merit badge. No drugs, no epidurals—just the unfettered joy of pushing that baby out into the world. Uh-huh.

Well, this approach had worked fairly well with the two preceding babies. But during this pregnancy, I could tell this little guy was bigger than the others. On top of which, during labor it was discovered he was turned the wrong way. No, this was not going to be easy or joyful. In fact, I remember thinking, “So, this is what it feels like to die during childbirth.”

If someone had offered to hit me over the head with a baseball bat and get that baby out of me, I would have agreed. But instead, I had a kind doctor, a good husband, and nurses who were literal angels of mercy.

People say you forget about the pain and remember only the happiness of having a new baby. I say they’re wrong. I can recreate that overwhelming, impossible feeling in my mind anytime I want, which is almost never, by the way. And I had two more children after him. So, I suppose the sentiment is true.

But what I remember most about that day, of course, is the baby. He was a whopping 10 pounds, with the chubbiest cheeks ever. He was, in my mind, perfection personified.

Last night, on his 29th birthday, I told him over the phone I’d do it all again, that he’d always been a joy, a bright spot in my life. And despite the hardest labor and delivery I can imagine, this is the truth.

In St. Joseph’s Hospital in Bellingham, that day in 1980, another mother had a baby. He was born sick and sometime in the middle of that first night, despite doctors working over him in his little crib, he died. That mother’s sobs will always be carved in my heart. I had my baby and she didn’t.

It’s common for holidays to come with emotion. Sometimes it’s sorrow for those not here anymore, or maybe it’s because we get to share the day with loved ones.

I’m thinking that for most people Labor Day isn’t one of those pivotal days. But this time of year, when the air turns crisp, the spiders come out, and children go back to school, I glaze over a bit.

That day all those years ago, the relentlessness of childbirth, his first squeal, my aching body, the grief of that other young mother, my heart on fire with mommy-love—it all comes flooding back on this day.

And yes, I’d do it all over again. A million times.

Spiders And Bug Spray And Coworkers..Oh My!

Warning: This post is about the spawn of Satan. It is about evil incarnate.  Just accept it.

Last week, my close to ideal working conditions took a concerning twist.

One of my coworkers found a large spider under his desk. It freaked me out, but I was able to maintain a modicum of composure.  I use the word “modicum” advisedly. Secretly, I was ready to run for higher ground. But due to imminent teasing from fellow employees, I sucked it up.  Sort of.  They all got a pretty clear picture that spiders are the proverbial chink in my otherwise rock-solid armor.

I’ve written concerning my paralyzing fear of these vile creatures before, but my history with them is ongoing, and thus post-worthy. Or not. Either way the writing does me good.

The offending arachnid was disposed of and I was at peace for the moment.  But only after I’d moved my personal belongings off the floor and checked my own workspace. I told myself it was a glitch, a hole in the wall of the corner office. I was safe from eight-legged intruders.

Today, ugh. Hanging out, waiting for pizza, and another coworker, one who works a scant ten feet from my desk, comes out of his office bearing a small box containing a spider larger than the last one. This one was big enough to produce its own weather system. It was black, gnarly, and repulsive.

To his credit and my chagrin, he took the box outside and freed said arachnid. It was still in the world. Did he put it on my car? Would it show up with friends later? Karma be damned. Kill the thing and kill it good.

During the melee, I stood at the ready with a can of bug spray and turned into a facsimile of myself, only with less control.  My heart raced, nostrils flared, and I threatened poison to the face of anyone who dared approach me with the box. They laughed, they thought it was funny. I was in survival mode.

The short story? My fate is sealed. I’ve now divulged my greatest fear to snarcastic fellow employees looking to see me squirm, and perform like I did today–out of reckless fear.

My pleas for fumigation fell on a boss’s deaf ears. After all, he’s from Texas where they grow BIG spiders.. not the relatively wee one we found here.

Here’s what I’ll do: Be aware of my surroundings, be ready to spray poison, and be thankful they’re not scorpions–the only thing I can think of worse than spiders. Rodents? Bring ‘em on. Roaches? Pshhh. Even tiny spiders I can dispose of on my own.

The big ones can burn in hell, which, I suppose, is where they came from in the first place.

Meanwhile, my watch is vigilant, the spray can at my side, and I’m practicing how to be cool.

Gahhh. I’m a dead woman.

Love Me Some R&B

You know the feeling you get when you wake up after a dream–a dream about someone?  Maybe it’s someone you’d never dream about on purpose, but, well.. there they were.. and now, you have that fuzzy, goofy, anything’s possible sensation?

That’s how really good rhythm and blues makes me feel–goofy.  I’m not sure why, and don’t really care.  It’s just the way it is.

Give me some Four Tops, Isley Brothers, and Temptations.  Throw in the O’ Jays, Dramatics, Tower of Power, and top it off with some Blood, Sweat and Tears. OK.. pile on Earth, Wind and Fire while you’re at it. I keep thinking of others to add to the list.  It all gets me silly and I play my favorites until the CD dissolves into vapor.

I’ve discovered common components in the R&B that gets my nod.  The vocals have a gritty quality.. like the singer’s been chewing on sandpaper, or just recovered from strep throat.  I’ve gotta have brass/ and or and strings.  A good bass line doesn’t hurt.  Choreography like the Temptations mastered sweetens the deal–it’s an art form.

And.. this is very important.. R&B has to be cranked.  LOUD.  I have to hear every nuance. This is why MP3 players with headsets don’t work well for this kind of music.  I’ve got to feel it.. not just hear it.  It has to surround me.  Becoming one with the music gets real and I can do anything. Wow.

I realize the evangelical nature of this post. It’s just one woman’s way of being in the world.. and it works for me.  Music can challenge my senses.. it invites me to a higher (or lower) road. It is a little like a drug.  And R&B is not the only genre I love.. but boy howdy, it sure is way up there.

(SLH — I know you loved you some R&B, too.  Groove on in the stars above me.)

Just finished writing this to “Ain’t No Woman Like The One I Got” by The Four Tops.

Oy. Bring on the goofy.

Channeling My Domestic Goddess

She’s in there, and speaks to me often. But I’m usually too busy coming up with lame excuses to pay attention to her.

Last Saturday, though, in a fit of uncharacteristic domesticity, I listened.  What prompted this?  Friends who’d stayed with me for a week used the refrigerator as a depository for canned dog food for their beloved Dachshund. I do not tolerate canned pet food of any kind in my home. It’s a personal policy. Just accept it.

By the time I’d figured out the vile substance was not only being stored in the fridge, but dispensed with silverware we use for eating, I was speechless. Besides, I like these people and wanted them to feel comfortable at my place. I said nothing.

However, after they left, I was compelled to reclaim my territory by sterilizing everything that might have touched the dog food.

It’s OK. The fridge needed it anyway. Big time. A fish stick lodged in one of those hard to reach places had been there since the early years of the Bush administration. It was literally time to take out the trash.

And there was a lot of it:  A bottle of steak sauce from 2004 and several items that had expired in 2006. Also, I found some cat hair. What? I don’t think my cat’s been in the refrigerator, but I suppose I can’t be sure.

In addition to these items of note, there’s a coconut I’ve kept in the refrigerator for 31 years. This is not a joke. It’s an actual, whole coconut with a history in our family and it’s doing just fine, thank you very much.  The children even ask about it occasionally. I brushed off the grime and put it back in the crisper.

This time I vowed I wouldn’t employ my traditional Suzy Homemaker “no fridge booger left behind” policy.  I’ve already earned that merit badge several times over.  Nope. This time it would be a quick in and out.. cleaning like mad and no worries about stray crumbs. Just get in there and get it done.

I now need sunglasses when I open the refrigerator door. It’s snowy white, tidy and fragrant, but more importantly, it’s dog food free.

So is all the silverware, which I ran through the dishwasher–twice.  The kitchen hand towels and dishcloths were also properly sanitized.

Call me obsessive-compulsive or just plain weird. I don’t care. What I know for sure is when the stakes are high, the goddess comes screaming through.

Livin’ The Dream

My friend Dave is making it work. He talked about it for a long time, figured out his niche, scraped like mad, and then it happened–His first movie trailer.

Karen’s family left the nest. She worried about money and what would come next. I asked her what she wanted to do. “Um, maybe get an office job.” No, really, I said. If you could do anything, what would it be? The words tumbled out even while she tried to contain them: “I want my own dance studio. I want to teach dance.” I saw the spark in her eyes and felt the fever in her voice. Next thing I knew, she’d remodeled her basement and had 30 young dance students.

A single, 30-year-old mother of one spent years working in a job only marginally satisfying that allowed her to pay the bills. In the meantime she composed music, experimented with a huge variety of instruments, bought a laptop and started mixing her own tracks. She’s already put out one CD on her own, is working on her second, and is now registering for college to expand her considerable talents into parts unknown but suspected. All while working at her day job.

Hmmm. These are all people I know. In some ways, they’re much like me. Yet, they landed on something I haven’t. They figured it out. They decided on the best thing that could ever happen, and pursued it. Really. They’re living the dream.

I’ve been reading about cognitive dissonance. Longer ago than I care to remember, during a time of intense personal ickyness, a friend gave me a book on the subject. I read 11 pages. But I got the drift and ever since then, the idea stuck with me. I think it’s lodged in my brain for a reason–I need to understand it, remember it and how it relates to me. Because, truthfully, I keep pushing up against it rather than just riding the wave into greater purpose.

Believing one thing about myself while acting out the opposite is bogus. The resulting discomfort rages and time’s a wastin’. I love what I work at and suspect it’s lifting me to a higher place. But I know there’s more to discover.

Success stories inspire, but unless my uneasiness provokes action, it’s all they do.

The rub? Still figuring out the dream.. but the good news is, I’m getting closer.

Childhood Lost

Oh.. that face I love. It still gets me—every time. All those years locked behind the blue eyes and long lashes. Years I can see and remember. Years that he wishes I would forget. But I can’t. I can’t. And that’s why it hurts.. because I have to let go.. and pretend the years don’t matter.. at least for now.

He’s a teenager full of angst and questions. Rebellion and hormones. He stumbles and pushes. Softens and stiffens. I’ve been through this a few times before but still struggle to make sense of it. I could be an award-winning actress.. my heart is on my sleeve, outside my body, vulnerable and aching. But I’m the only one who knows it. And he doesn’t care. Not really.

He can’t. He’s individuating. And I care more than ever. The paradox is strangling, devoid of any sense. But there it is—yet again. The dichotomy that is adolescence—one moment everything he was as a child, the next, someone I’ve never met. And I am expected to be the adult—in control, solid, ready with a firm hand and a loving heart. I am tangled and torn, weary and raw. My love for this child is swallowing me up. And the irony is I can’t allow that. I must individuate, too.. if I want to keep him in my life.

I don’t like this. The older I get.. the more I know what’s at stake for him. But he gets to choose. And I get to watch.

Only, it occurs to me, yet again, that watching isn’t all I must do. I have to continue to live, work, play and grow.. no matter how much his decisions and developing attitudes worry me. I cannot afford to succumb to paralyzing fear. I’ve given into this before and I know it’s not the answer.

Peace.. the only real peace, comes from pursuing my own life–fully, and without reservation. The years of child bearing are over.. and the few years left of child rearing are fading fast. My life waits.. while I grieve over lost childhood that is rightfully over.. but painfully gone. The future calls to both of us. Oh, how I want his to be happy.. but I can’t make it for him.

He is not that child anymore—he is a young man.. and while finding his own way, makes some good decisions along with the shaky ones. He is smarter than I stop to think he is. My first instinct is to question him. I need to stop this. At least most of it. He gets to choose. He gets to choose. He will make decisions I won’t be happy with. That is certain.

So.. maybe, even though his childhood is lost to me, for good.. my future and his, are found. I just have to let it be whatever it’s going to be for him.. and be around to help with any rubble he might want me to assist with.

Oh.. the letting go is like extracting my heart and throwing it onto a soccer field.. and letting it be booted around until he decides to kick it into the net. It’s the passing from one set of cleats to another that knocks the fight out of me. Where will it end up today? Can’t we just land somewhere?

No. Not yet. It’s not time. And besides.. part of what I have to do is find a way for my heart to be more of a spectator than a participant. That freakishly unbreakable mother-love is always there. And while he grows into whoever he’s going to become, I have to do the same.

Childhood lost—both of our futures found. But oh.. the ache, the longing, the worry.. and yes, the hope. Always the hope.