Published in The Ferndale Record-Journal, November 25, 2009

Here are a few things I am not interested in: Vampires, werewolves and moody teenagers.

Having said that let me qualify it slightly. I have a teenager. Sometimes he’s moody. He just got his learner’s permit to drive a car, and I’m wildly interested in that.

This teenager is the fifth of my five children, and it’s his turn. But it has been a long time since the last one learned to drive and I’d forgotten what that means.

The first thing it means is that I have to be a better driver than I normally might be. Little rules and regulations I take for granted and fudge occasionally are things he’s required to know and practice before becoming a licensed motorist.

These days I drive more deliberately than usual because I don’t want to be an example of what not to do. But even those of us with the best intentions fall short sometimes—way short.

This week on MSNBC.com I read a story out of Monroe, Ohio:
“A top cop mistakenly shot himself in the thigh after giving his daughter a lesson in gun safety, police said.
“Middletown police Chief Greg Schwarber, 54, was preparing to clean his Glock .45-caliber pistol on Friday and didn’t realize the gun was still loaded, according to a police report.
“When officers arrived, they found the chief lying on the floor with a towel covering his leg. Schwarber was taken to a hospital for treatment.
“The hospital had no record of Schwarber being treated or admitted. A home phone number for him couldn’t be found.”

Well, the hospital may have been able to cover up this incident. But the press latched onto it and I’m pretty sure it’s a gun safety lesson his daughter will never forget. Well done, Chief Schwarber. Way to drive home a point.

Another parent with pure intent was my niece. On a road trip through Nevada, she felt compelled to demonstrate to her young daughter the evils of gambling.

The details are sketchy, but something like this: They stopped at a gas station with slot machines. In answer to a question, and in an effort to dispel any idea of the glamour of easy money, my niece slipped some coins into one of the slots.

The short story is she won $50. What did she say to her daughter? “OK. That was a bad example.”

Parental lessons gone awry are nothing new. But I don’t want to be the one to show my new driver how easy it is to get a speeding ticket, or what can happen if you nick a pedestrian in a crosswalk.

It reminds me of parents who encourage their children to be good sports in the game, and then end up slugging it out or talking trash with other parents, creating not only tension, but sometimes tragic results.

The absolute truth is that the things we do and say are on display to our children—always. It’s scary, but true.

So, I get to be more road wary, which is a good thing, and I get to have a teenager who wants to go wherever I do hoping he can drive, and that’s an even better thing.

Vampires, werewolves, new moons, twilights, and eclipses are getting all the adolescent attention right now. But thankfully, at our house, there’s a teenager who’s interested in little more than one thing—driving.

Now, let’s see if his mom can learn how to quit punching the gas on a yellow light.

Published in The Ferndale Record-Journal, November 11, 2009

I like November.

I like the flashy leaves, the wind, the cooler, bordering on cold weather. I like a late World Series, Thanksgiving, pecan pie, and the promise of December’s holidays.

But the real reason I’ve always liked November is because it’s my birthday month.  I get a little goofy inside when Halloween’s over and I suddenly realize it’s almost here.

November days until my birthday are just preparatory. I’m not sure for what, exactly. There doesn’t have to be an event, a party, or anything thrilling planned to make my birthday extraordinary.  But, hey—it’s MY day. I know I probably share it with a lot of other people. I even know some of them. But it feels like it’s all about me.

I have to credit my mother with making birthdays an exceptional experience. They were always a big deal, and I perpetuated the tradition with my own children. Surprises, balloons, friends, cakes, parties, dinners out, presents—they were always extravaganzas.

I’ve learned that when you’re an adult, you usually have to plan your own party, except for when little children and spouses make an effort to fuss over you like you’re nobility. That’s always nice. But minus kids or a significant other, you get to do whatever you want and that’s not bad either.

Best birthday ever? My 17th.

My boyfriend, who lived about 40 miles away, told me to expect a surprise. I knew it wouldn’t be a visit from him, but he was nothing if not a romantic. Whatever it was, it was going to be great.

Around 5:00 p.m. I watched a flower delivery truck pull into our driveway.  The driver handed me a dozen red roses and a gift card that I still have. Yup. The boy pulled through in a big way.

That night, my best friend, Lila, came over for a dinner Mom made at my request. Roast beef, homemade Au Gratin potatoes, and for dessert, a Tunnel-Of-Fudge cake. And yes, it was as insanely delicious as it sounds.

After these tasty eats Lila and I went to a movie, then I came home and shut myself into my bedroom all alone with those fragrant roses. Every deep breath reminded me that someone was in love with me. How awesome is that?

I haven’t had a worst-ever birthday. I think it’s because I expect them to be fun. Phone calls, Emails and a little extra attention go a long way with me. I don’t consider myself high maintenance, although others may argue that point.

I worry very little about aging, so the numbers don’t matter. Although, lately I’ve become slightly unhinged at the thought that I’m considerably older than I feel, and I know the end of this story, which is, with any luck I get to grow even older.

So, I anticipate my birthdays, no matter the year, and feel a kind of sweetness about having a day all to myself, even if people standing in front of me in line at the post office don’t know it. I know it, and that’s all that matters.

Eleven other perfectly good months come and go. But when the wind starts to howl and Jack-o-lanterns begin rotting on porches across the nation, my inward excite-o-meter begins to rise, looking forward to the love and remembrances coming my way.

It’s November, and it’s my birthday.

This post is not rocket surgery.. nor is it meant to offend anyone, although it might.  It’s just me, sitting here, musing about annoyance.

Here are a few things that for me,  produce eye-rolling and unmuttered phrases of disgust.  Why unmuttered.. you ask?  Because I really am too nice (or chicken) to say much of this out loud. So instead, I write.

1. Unrequited love for the New York Yankees: New York fans need to get over themselves. This is not the greatest sports team ever. They’re good, but not the best. Just because they’re from New York doesn’t mean anything. People call New York City the greatest city in the world, and that may be true. But the Yankee Fan Machine makes me crazy.

2. Gaga grandparents: Let’s be honest. Your grandchildren are no more precious than anyone else’s. They may be adorable, gifted, and have chubby cheeks that look like they’re storing nuts for the winter, but they’re no cuter or more desired, beautiful, special, divine, dazzling or talented (or any other adjective you put in there) than mine.  They are yours, you love them, and that’s good enough.  No need to whip out the professional photos of Dakota Cheyenne Isabella Madison Chloe Makayla in her first dance recital to prove your point. A simple cell phone shot will suffice.

3. Michael Bolton and Barry White: Bolton sounds like he’s either going to explode or summon neighborhood dogs on the high notes. His nasal rasp makes my eyeballs bleed. And White’s music tries so hard to be sexy that it’s just embarrassing. Especially when I’m grocery shopping and the muzak oozes  “I’m Gonna Love You Just A Little More Baby.” His moaning makes eye contact with fellow shoppers humiliating, not to mention intimate. I think once I was accidentally engaged in the tomato sauce aisle during “Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe.”

4. Tepid water: Really? I’m paying for this meal and you offer me water at room temperature? If I ask for it (and I never will) that’s one thing. To assume I want it is another. Pour me an icy, bordering on too cold, tall one. Then refill the glass with ice water. I mean.. I want to hear the ice jangling around in the pitcher you bring to the table. If I want lukewarm I’ll buy bottled water off the shelf.  Pass the ice, please.

5. Animal clothing: If you’re a circus animal, maybe. If you’re a domestic pet, you shouldn’t wear clothes. Although I’m somewhat amused by this, I’m told animals don’t like it and therefore people shouldn’t clothe them. I suppose my real contention here is with owners who dress their animals because they like to treat them like humans. I believe that animals are not human. I don’t know what they prefer.. I just know that most of the time they look silly in sweaters, dresses, or pant suits. Although I once knew a bassett hound who really rocked a striped hoody.

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.