peevish mama

Atticus to Scout:

“First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view -”

“Sir?”

“- until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

We just read (or re-read, in most cases) To Kill a Mockingbird in book club. When we picked it a few months ago, I knew I would go to the third floor of my house and find the ragged paperback I had read when I was in sixth grade. This book has survived countless moves across the country and more importantly, my periodic book purgings. The pages are yellow, the spine is cracked, there is a piece of tape over the inside cover page and it is filled with highlighted passages and my little twelve year old notes, penciled in bubbly letters. Inside the front cover, my name is crossed out and Maestro de Bife’s name written below, he having read my copy when I was away at college. I had no idea my book had been in such peril, in the hands of my adolescent brother. He is either kind to books, or didn’t read it.

I’ve been reading the book for a couple weeks, sort of taking my time with it and savoring it. My little notes are distracting in a very sweet way. It’s hard not to stop and read the definitions I had so earnestly written in the margins: for protruded: thrust out, for tirade, long outburst, for viscous, thick, for druthers, choice. It was the first novel we read in Language Arts class and the first time I wielded a highlighter. I remember wrinkling my nose at my friend Sweet Sue drawing a rectangle around a passage and coloring the whole thing in with her highlighter. Surely, line by line was the proper way to highlight. There are even a few spots with liquid paper carefully dabbed on the pages where I had changed my mind about something I wrote.

This book has lived vividly in my imagination as much because of the beautiful, compelling and humorous work of literature that it is, as for its symbolic position of being the book that really taught me how to read. I had been a bookworm for a long time, chewing through books at breakneck speed, but this is the first book I remember reading in the active sense: carefully, with attention and some sense of rigor.

Reading it again, holding that same copy in my hands, I felt like I had slipped into some secret tunnel straight back to my youth. At one point we were talking about Maycomb and the freedom that Jem and Scout had to roam around the town. Lady Crow Call said, You guys, it was just so fun to be a kid! We all remember that feeling of running around our “perimeter”, knowing like the back of our hand the best climbing trees and hiding spots, the dark spots (Boo Radley’s house), the light spots (Miss Maudie’s house) and all the well worn paths in between.

All you really needed for an adventure was to open your back door and find your best neighborhood friend standing there, barefoot and ready to go. The freedom, both physical and psychic, that we all had as children, allowed us to rub up against the edges, dip our toes into the scary stuff. And if it wasn’t really scary, we made it scary. I wonder now, if part of the magic of our childhoods might have had something to do with the fact that they were laced with a small amount of fear, that delicious frisson of the dark and unknown. (Of course, I’m not talking about real fear stemming from abuse, war or other atrocities that some children face – that’s a whole other ball of wax and there is nothing magical or redeeming about those situations.)

For me, and for Scout, mundane terrors loomed large. A highly active and colorful imagination and an early penchant for calamatizing kept me on my toes – running up the basement steps, checking under the bed at night, holding my breath as I passed cemeteries in the car. I was afraid of being embarrassed, carrying my lunch tray like it was the holy grail, so sure was I that I would die of shame if I ever dropped it. I was afraid of our neighbor named Hank and his giant dog, who I was convinced would maul us to bloody bits. I was afraid of the infirm woman who lived behind us and used to conduct stake-outs from atop our swingset, waiting for her to pass by a window or, horror of horrors, come out into the yard. My biggest fear was that my mother would die, like ALL the mothers in ALL the shows we watched in the seventies (seriously, what is up with that? Think about it! Eight is Enough, The Love Boat, The Brady Bunch, Nanny and the Professor, My Three Sons, Family Affair, Diff’rent Strokes!)

I felt a twinge of compassion for my younger self as I was reading this book, for the innocent, ignorant, impressionable and scared little girl I was. I remember the pit in my stomach and the anxiety, but I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t know. By all accounts, I was normal, if kind of mouthy and moody. I don’t think anyone knew when I was scared. That was me, but a different me and until I re-read this book, kind of a forgotten me. I think children carry around a significant amount of fear, just by virtue of being children and not entirely in control of their destinies. To remember that, to climb into the skin of a child and walk around, as Atticus would say, is a really lovely thing to do, especially when that child was yourself.

From Illustration Rally via Malark

We’re in the middle of a monster storm here in the Little Apple, although I must admit when I woke up this morning, that familiar childish impulse to rush to the window pulling me out of my warm bed at 6:45, I was unimpressed.

But here it is, an hour later, and it’s coming down hard. I think – I hope – that in the end, when the last flake has fallen and settled with an angel’s hush, I will indeed be impressed. Needing a little wonder, a little awe, a little knock-your-socks-off-weather drama.

Come on Mother Nature! Work it, sister!

Often, when I walk around my beloved Lake Harriet, I think of the Wim Wenders movie, Wings of Desire. Ah, ring a bell? If you were like me, you would have shuffled into an art house or slipped in a VHS tape circa 1991, when movies were films and you had time and emotion to burn. Maybe you held your boyfriend’s hand, shifting elbows and fingers to find the clasp that felt like two puzzle pieces locked in place. You would have been blown away by this beautiful dark German film and then talked about it, earnest and teary, hunched over beers in a loud bar, feeling separate, special and immune for the emotional and artistic journey you had just taken. It would have underscored what a compelling medium cinema could be, how challenging and gorgeous and smart, in the right hands, with the right story – almost better than books and music. For a few years anyway. Until you got over yourself, ditched the metaphorical beret and really got down to the business of living for someone other than yourself. Movies were a way to try on other lives, try on other truths, all so very important to a young woman trying to figure herself out. Wings of Desire was about an angel who was weary. As he walked around the sooty gray urban landscape, he could hear people’s thoughts. The words, sounding like papery whispers, would flood him and the burden of so many voices, so many worries and desires, was taking its toll on the angel.

This has always stayed with me. It’s easy to forget that each and every person we pass has their own internal monologues running through their heads. They have private thoughts and preoccupations that are given body and pulled into long swirling strands by words, silent words. When I circle the lake, I’m usually by myself and my mind is on fire. I daydream, I analyze, I remember, I imagine, I plan, I brainstorm, I wonder, I decide, I vow, I fret, I exhalt. I take epic journeys forward and back in time. I think about the angel’s burden, the burden of being privy to all of this and I wonder: the woman walking with her head bent slightly to the left, what is she thinking? What if we could hear each other’s thoughts?

Yesterday I stumbled on this tree of wishes at the lake and I was captivated. Flicking gently in the wind are all those voices I wonder about. I stopped and read a few, and then a few more, and then a few more. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know who started it, but people are responding. They are responding with whimsy, with pain, with pleading, with wide-eyed hope, with pragmatism, with honesty. As I read, I could hear the whispers: I wish my mother would stop fighting with my brother. I wish for a clean bill of health at my next check up. I wish for a dog. I wish for equal rights for all regardless of race or sexual orientation. I wish for world peace. I wish for lots of snow this winter. I wish K would propose to me. I wish for our cancer journey to be short and our outcome to be a miracle. I wish for my baby to be healthy. I wish for a happy marriage and lots of babies. I wish for more lake friends. I wish that I get divorced and have my kids 90 % of the time. I wish for love, happiness, success and confidence for my child. I wish my knees would stop hurting. I wish. I wish. I wish.

In case you’re wondering, she wishes for dolphins to swim in the lake.

And me? Well, only the tree and the air and anyone listening to the whispers can know.

I’m not sure when it happened or how it happened, but we have become a soccer family. We started out doing the sweet recreational soccer teams at the parks with Saint James when he was four, one thing led to another, the boy fell hard for the game, and we followed him over the abyss like a family of lemmings. Until now, it’s been all about Saint James. Supergirl also went through the parks’ soccer programs and we tried our best never to let on that her games were in any way less important or fun to watch as Saint James’, when truth be told, they were. As the Minneapolis United boys’ legs grew long and strong, as their feet got as quick and nimble as fingers, their games have gotten to be really really cool to watch – nail biting, heart wrenching, and beautiful. Her games were cute and itty bitty in contrast. We scarcely noticed how good she was.

Supergirl came out of the gate knowing what to do. Where Saint James’ first couple seasons had Dash and I shrugging our shoulders and painfully joking to each other that maybe sports weren’t going to be his thing, what with all the break dancing and donkey kicks he was doing out on the field, Supergirl was focused, aggressive and coordinated. Sure she had spent countless hours on the sidelines, arguably picking up the rules of the game, the point of the game, but she never appeared to be paying attention. She was always in a tree or running around with other younger dragged-along siblings.

This year we asked her if she wanted to try out for Minneapolis United. She would be playing up by a year, but since Saint James did it, we figured she should have the chance. She thought about it for days and days. Playing MU, assuming she made a team, would mean saying goodbye to playing with her guy friends on the park team. It would mean more practices, winter training – just more soccer. I got the sense that she was hesitant to try-out because she didn’t want to commit to all it entailed. There was also a little bit of fear – fear that she wouldn’t make it at all.

Consistent with her ability to surprise us at every turn, she made the top team and her fate was sealed. She was proud. And she was playing MU. I watched her first game on Sunday, and I don’t know if it was the fact that I was alone (Dash and Devil Baby were at Saint James’ game across town), the fact that it was a spectacularly gorgeous day, or the fact that I was feeling a wee bit fuzzy around the brainy bits after a late night, but I felt about ready to weep at the sight of these girls going at it as hard as they were. We played Plymouth, who were all giant blonds with matching head bands and backpacks perfectly lined up along the sidelines like menacing black tombstones. We got creamed. But our girls played with so much heart and sweetness and toughness that I could scarcely contain myself.

Girls bring such a different energy to their sports. They hesitate just a titch too long if someone takes a tumble. They say sorry after collisions. They talk to their parents on the sidelines if the play brings them close. But make no mistake, they are no less intense. No less fierce, no less swift, graceful and powerful. It’s just different and as much as I adore watching Saint James’ team play, I am beside myself about these girls. Go girls! Go!!!

This is my kind, my ken, my kin.

And I cannot wait – I simply cannot wait – to see where this goes for my Supergirl.

I hadn’t thought about my relationship to organized sports for decades until a couple years ago when I dropped Saint James off at his first winter training session. As he trotted off to join his team, I spotted a group of girls, maybe 16 years old, warming up. Some were  stretching, some were casually kicking balls back and forth. I wanted to watch Saint James, but my eyes kept straying to the girls, to their strong legs, their glossy hair tied up in all manner of ways. They were so loose in their bodies, so completely unaware of themselves. They were without guile, without self consciousness or worries. They were, in a word, happy. I know it sounds preposterous, but I know a happy girl when I see one. A few of them started to bust out a couple dance moves and then collapsed on each other laughing and my heart just about broke. That was me. That was my youth. That was the last time I felt like I really truly could do anything. I stood at the sidelines, my eyes darting between the tiny boys and the big girls, trying my hardest not to look like a perv, but I couldn’t drag myself away.

I realized something then that I didn’t know when I was a girl: that girls need sports more than boys. Boys will get their sports, no matter what. If there is a ball, any ball, they will pick it up, hold it in their palms. They will dribble it, kick it, balance it on their feet or index finger. If it’s tiny and bouncy they will zing it against the nearest wall and see what happens, inadvertently figuring out the physics of force and angles. They will run and jump, finding the best and fastest way to move their bodies through space. They will compete, keep score, triumph, spit on the ground in disgust. They will woop and puff their chests out. Their cheeks will burn with shame and they will have no choice but to prove themselves all over again. All manner of life lessons will be learned, just because boys and the lives we lead, are hardwired a certain way. On the other hand, but for the rare exception, girls don’t go nuts for hoops and nets, sticks, pucks and balls. It doesn’t take long for them to come away from the games on the blacktop and cluster in groups, wrapping themselves in words. They start to pay attention to pop culture and how they look. They start to sing, make up dances, read, jump rope and gossip. Without organized sports – the teams, the practices, the schedules – girls would move on to other things and lost would be the pounding hearts and throbbing lungs, the sisterhood and that feeling of total power: power over your body and the way you can and can choose to move it through the world.

I love girls’ athletics. As someone of the post Title IX era, I got to take sports for granted, I never had to fight for the right to play. Anything I wanted was available to me through my schools and I had the luxury of saying yes or no. But mostly I said yes. I played tennis, volleyball and lacrosse in high school and some of my best friends, my best memories are tied to being on those teams. In many ways, who I am and what I’ve done may stem from those years of competitive sports, and I wasn’t even that good. Here is an interesting article from the NY Times on this. Last year, when I wrote about hurting my knee in high school, I wrote about the feeling of invincibility that is borne of youth sports and I cannot think of a better reason for girls to play (or dance, or ski, or figure skate for that matter). Yes, it’s good for their health. Yes, it keeps them out of trouble. Yes, it looks good on college applications. But it’s the sisterhood of strength that makes it so damn worthwhile. When a girl competes, she’s not thinking about how her body looks, what her body can’t do. The mind/body connection is severed, for a bit, so that a girl can fly, fly away from self doubt, from glossy magazine photos and impossible standards, and just fly.

On Friday afternoon, I packed Doctor Dash’s car with entirely too much stuff for a 36 hour getaway and hit the road. The book club ladies had left a couple hours prior, and I was anxious to catch up so I wouldn’t miss anything. I hadn’t even considered that the drive might be anything more than a means to an end, but as soon as I hit that open highway, I felt my whole body go aaaaahhh . . . 

Man, I had forgotten how good it feels to drive. Solo, no less. No kids. No stops. No satellite radio. Just me, my thoughts, some tunes and the road unfurling ahead of me like a gray ribbon.

I grew up in suburban Detroit – car country. The day I got my license was – let me see – the fifth happiest day of my life: marrying Doctor Dash, the birth of each monkey, and then, yep, getting my license. I went to the DMV on my sixteenth birthday (duh, waiting another day would have been an exquisite torture) and the first thing I did afterwards was drive my sweet ass cream Buick Electra station wagon with wood panelling over to Sweet Sue’s house. We were besides ourselves. We were crazed. We were euphoric. We went to see Manhunter at the Pontiac Showcase Theaters, because we needed a destination. The movie scared the crap out of us and we were so frazzled and giggly when it finished that neither of us noticed that I was driving south on Telegraph Road instead of north towards home. We were deep in the hoods of downtown Detroit before we figured it out and sheepishly turned around.

Not surprisingly, I was a total lead foot. Over the next years, I managed to cry my way out of three traffic stops before an Indiana cop decided he wasn’t buying my shit and slapped me with a huge ticket. I had been driving back to college and I remember wailing something about being soooo excited to see my friends because I missed them soooo much. I guess he didn’t find me and my giant perm and crocodile tears all that compelling because he said I don’t care and walked away. To which I shrieked You’re so mean! 

The summer between freshman and sophomore year in college, Sweet Sue and I convinced our parents to let us go on a tour of the East Coast. We crashed with friends and relatives, ate, people watched, and schemed about how to get into bars with only one fake I.D. between the two of us. Despite all our underage drinking shenanigans, it was the epic drive that I remember best. We drove fast (Sweet Sue got a ticket) and we drove far. There was a lot of Van Morrisson played on that trip.

And of course, college was sprinkled with so many great road trips: Dead shows, football games, Mardi Gras, spring break, camping. It was all about getting out of South Bend, maybe trading cloudy skies for some sun, scaring up an adventure in some new place. Same friends, different location – beers, laughter and running around in technicolor.

In my twenties, road trips weren’t always so frivolous. To and from law school and first jobs in big firms, I drove with angst and stress whispering in my ears. I turned up the music and wished for the road to go on forever, for the hours to stretch and multiply, keeping the crush of reality at bay for just a bit longer. As long as the wheels were moving, time might just stand still.

I had forgotten all about the joy of the open road. Call me crazy, but it’s hugely compromised by having to think about snacks and DVDs and toys that beep. Once upon a time all you needed was a joint, a pack of gum and a full tank of gas. What a lovely discovery to find that a long drive is still a total pleasure under the right circumstances – specifically, alone or with adult company and going somewhere fun. 

And say what you will, but, America, with all its warts and freaks, is a great place to road trip. Endless space, sun, wind, music, open road. It’s a good place to run. It’s a good place to chase. It’s a good place to drive far. Think far.

I opened up my comments today to find the following:

“I am very sorry I did not pay attention to you when I was in 5th grade. It only had to do with the fact that girls were not on my mind. I do miss Way School and the simpler times of life. I am glad that I could be of help with the frog.”

The comment is from none other than – are you ready for this? Jeff freaking Borglin!!! My fourth grade crush! I wrote about him in a post last year about falling in love with music and in my infinite naivete, it didn’t occur to me that this post could somehow land right in his lap. But it did. And he has reached across a span of thirty years to what, WHAT? Apologize for having ignored me when I was at dawn of my ugliest awkward stage and the high noon of my goofiest annoying stage? Who can blame the poor guy? Certainly not me.

Of course, I can think of no better surprise than to google my name (not that I’d ever do that) and discover a luscious little memoir piece written by some boy from my past, but he is not me. I cannot even begin to imagine what he thinks about all this business, let alone whether he even remembers me! His message is so terse and spare, he gives nothing away. Jeff freaking Borglin!!! JEFF FREAKING BORGLIN!!! (Notice I will hereinafter refer to him exclusively as “Jeff freaking Borglin” to thwart any further google searches. So crafty.) 

The more I think about it, the more humiliating this is. I could DIE! And by die, I mean in the fourth grade way, not the fast approaching middle age way. Incidentally, this is why I would never join Facebook. Obviously I’m not cut out for these kinds of blasts from the past. This is almost as embarrassing as the time I wiped out in front of his house whilst trying to do a dance routine on my bike to the song Electric Avenue. Almost. 

Ever the sceptic, Doctor Dash reminded me that it could be a trick. But there appears to be a legitimate email address and he used the proper appellation for our school. Moreover, who of my friends would go so far back into my archives? And wouldn’t said trickster have posted something a little, uh, juicier? Such as: I remember you, Peevish Mama, so many years ago, so beautiful in your powder blue moon boots that didn’t match your tan and navy ski jacket, which your mother told you, but you didn’t care about because you wanted those boots so bad. No, wait. Strike that. How about: I remember you, Peevish Mama, so many years ago, so lovely in your powder blue moon boots. It was only the paralyzing potion of love and fear that kept me from talking to you at the bus stop, but oh, how I wish I’d had the words to turn your sweet face in my direction. Every single day of my life, I regret not having beckoned you out of the bushes behind my house where you and your friend used to spy on me while I watched TV. And when you fell on your cool bike, it took all of my strength to stand on my lawn with my mouth agape and my football in my hand when all I wanted to do was to run to you, cradle you gently in my arms and croon the remaining verses of Electric Avenue in your ear.  Right? People, am I right? THAT might be suspicious.

I think it’s him. I do. 

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!!! 

It may come as a surprise to you, but I love Valentine’s Day. I don’t consider it to be a Hallmark holiday construed to torture lonely hearts, purge the sappy and guilt ridden of their hard earned pennies and replenish the candy coffers of children. Instead I take Valentine’s Day to be a simple and pure celebration of love. What’s better than love? And if you are lucky enough to be in love, why not have a day where the red carpet is unfurled for all sorts of showy and not so showy demonstrations of that love? Why not wallow in cupids, hearts and flowers for just a day, without feeling sheepish, without feeling cynical? Why not be a little flamboyant? A little racy? A little cheesy? Why not?

Valentine’s Day happens to be a quasi anniversary for Doctor Dash and me. In February of 1992, after five months of friendship and on again off again more-than-friendship, I finally stopped my senseless running and over-thinking. I stopped being cavalier about my friend’s feelings. I stopped ignoring the fact that if there were a hundred people at the keg party, Dash was the one I always wanted to talk to. I stopped. With Dash. And I thank my lucky stars he stood still long enough for me to run around like the fool girl I was and then find my way back. 

♥ ♥ ♥

Last night, our sitter comes at 5:00 so we can go to the wake for Circus Lady’s dad. As I look at a beautiful board of old photos, her mom and dad so young, stylish and happy, I feel my heart contract. How can it be, that you can love someone almost your entire life only to have them ripped away from you? What is she going to do now? How will she live, with her other half, her life’s partner, gone? It’s too much, I wail to Doctor Dash in the car. What’s the point of this short wretched life? There is so much suffering, it’s over so fast, WHAT THE HELL IS THE POINT? For twenty minutes we plunge in deep as we race to our next destination. We question the logic of despair and human suffering, the need for faith, our lack of faith, how the existence of an after-life seems like such an easy palliative, how incredible it is that as humans we still don’t know, we don’t really know what happens after we die or whether there is a God. In our car, hurtling through the dark, I feel like we’re careening into the yawning, impenetrable depths of life’s greatest mysteries. And then Dash says simply: I think the point is love.   

With all of this churning in my chest, we grab our mats and walk into the yoga studio for Crackerjack’s special Valentine’s class and there she is in her red shirt, with her arms open for a hug. She’s got wine chilling and a table set up for appetizers for after class. She’s greeting people, making sure everything is just so, fluttering around with that anticipatory energy that is so uniquely her. Renaissance Man is helping her, quietly lighting votives all around the studio, being the man behind the woman (and if I’m not mistaken, having a pre-yoga glass of wine, but I can’t be sure). All of this I take in as a sensation, through tear blurred eyes. Mindfully, excitedly, and with open hearts they are preparing something special, for others. And boy does that class lift my spirits and settle my angst. By the time Doctor Dash is able to peel me away from my friends and the wine, I’m feeling positively bouyant, peaceful. And a little drunk. 

It’s ten o’clock so we rush over to Barbette, one of our fave haunts. I watch Doctor Dash get out of the car and check the meter. He’s the details guy, the responsible one. When I’m with him I’m free to not pay attention to where we’re going, not carry money or keys, chatter aimlessly, make silly observations, daydream. I stand on the chilly sidewalk, dusted white with salt and frost, and wait for my friend, my love, of eighteen years.

Love is the point.

OK, that’s possibly a little misleading. Possibly a little very misleading. I’m no Kenny Rodgers, if you know what I mean. There haven’t been that many who have travelled in and out my door, if you know what I mean. I’ve loved many boys (and still do), but I haven’t luuuuved many boys, if you know what I mean. Cough. Cough. Good Catholic girl, etcetera, etcetera. And yet, and yet . . .

A couple weeks ago, I went out and kicked up a little dust with my girls on a Thursday night and long story short, I ended up calling some old buddies at three o’clock in the morning. You know, just to shoot the shit. First I called The Fox, then I called Devious Knickers and then I called Tartare. By some miracle, none of them picked up, and I left them each long and ludicrous voicemails. I talked and talked and talked until each of their respective phones cut me off. What can I say? Doctor Dash was working an overnight shift and I was bouncing around the house, snarfing Dutch Crunch Mesquite BBQ Chips and feeling chatty. I was in a state of mind that called to mind my old good time friends. I could have kept dialing, but after Tartare a seed of good sense took root and I switched gears and listened to some loud music with my cushy head phones. Like I said, I was bouncin’.

The next morning, over a woozy and funny breakfast with some of the aforementioned crazy girls, I happened to mention that I had called my buds in the wee hours and Nanook’s eyes bugged out at me just a little: You went home and drunk dialed two GUYS? There was no judgment in her voice – just surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to me that my calls might be deemed inappropriate by oh, I don’t know, like, the whole world.

I started pondering, because that’s what I do. Was it inappropriate for me, a married lady, to call two married guys at three a.m? (By the way, Doctor Dash is also friends with them – he has a separate and distinct but equally as important friendship as mine – but I knew them first – they are mine). What’s the litmus test for inappropriateness? What my mother would think? What their wives would think? The purity of my intentions? What The Fox and Devious Knickers think? What Doctor Dash thinks? What is the test?

And more importantly, WHY DOES THERE HAVE TO BE A TEST? They are my friends. Some of the most hilarious, trippy adventures of my life have happened to me with one or both of them at my side. London, Chicago, Southbend, Detroit, New York, Seattle, Key West and God knows where else. We’ve wandered and imbibed and woven miles of floating tapestries with our serpentine conversations, our peculiar observations and our extravagant laughter.

They are two of my favorite people in the world. They just happen to be men.

By mid morning, I had heard back from both of them. The Fox and I chatted on the phone and Devious Knickers and I exchanged a flurry of emails. They were amused by my ramblings, sounded happy to hear from me, if a little surprised at the late hour. It was great to catch up.

Since he is ever willing to indulge me in my musings, to delve into the shadowy crevices of human nature, to poke holes in the smooth fabric of convention and peek his curious little eyeball through, I wrote to Devious Knickers about the issue I’d been noodling since breakfast – why did I feel like, suddenly, the friendship that I had with them was no longer legitimate? No longer sanctioned. Devious Knickers responded: “And to get back to the issue of calling boys that aren’t your husband at 3:30 a.m, yes, you are right that there aren’t too many people who would understand what was at play there.” But isn’t it enough that we all knew what was at play there? I knew I wasn’t being shady and he knew I wasn’t being shady, so isn’t it ipso facto NOT shady?

And to take it one step further, aren’t we allowed to do what we used to do ever again? Eat, drink and smoke everything in sight and go on a crazy adventure in some strange place? There are socially acceptable reasons to see my college girls, but them? It seems like it just can’t happen anymore – not without chaperones. They are lost to me and I to them. We joked of going to Cairo. Exotic cafes with hookahs and belly dancers, delicious lemony mezze, dusty labyrinthian streets, bustling markets with shady characters beckoning and yelling over tables of gold, silk, and fruit. Oh, to go to Cairo!

And to be fair, I got to marry one of my adventure boys. We do go on adventures – I have that in my life, but I still miss those boys, those adventures, that freedom, that youth.

Doctor Dash, is an eminently fair guy, who understands my friendships and loyalties, the things that make me happy. He knows how I am about my guy friends because he was (and is) one of my guy friends. And he agrees that there is a double standard for old friendships based on gender. He agrees that it’s unfair. He agrees that it doesn’t make sense. But the standard is there nevertheless. We talked about the fact that he could jet off to meet up with them at any time, no questions asked. On the one hand I’d be happy that the boys I love are together, reenforcing and tending to old and valuable friendships. On the other hand, I would be bereft. I would feel so left out. So sad to be missing the fun.

To my surprise, he said: You could go to Cairo, but only if both of them went. Aha! Oho! I’ll take that! He is nothing if not fair, my Doctor Dash. Fox? Devious Knickers? What do you say? Cairo? Hulloooo? Hulloooloooloooo???

Just mulling anyway.

Just mulling – missing a vanished piece – wondering if it’s vanished forever.

I don’t know if you would find this surprising or completely predictable about me, but I’m a huge fan of the fat man. The reason I phrase it like this is because at Lady Doctah K’s holiday party, my ladies were shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn that we have a fake tree. Oh, please, I can practically hear you gasping too. As if somehow, the persona I project out in the the world is someone who would sooner lay herself over the tracks of the Polar Express than forgo the bracing red-cheeked adventure, the spindly glamour, the bright piney smell of a real tree. Truth be told, I was thinking that our tree looks rather bushy compared to all my friends’ trees. And I think – well, I think I know – bushy ain’t good. Bushy ain’t good in any arena of life that I can think of, except for maybe squirrels tails and actual bushes (and I don’t mean the lady variety, so get your mind out of the gutter). My friends Rip Van Techno and Circus Lady always have a gorgeous tree – tall and leggy, like a supermodel to my hairy peasant. But in my defense (not that I’m defensive), I grew up in a stridently faux tree family, annually regaled with cautionary tales of fires, allergens, critters, and messy pine needles. As a girl, I would wrinkle my nose at the carcasses of natural trees, pathetically awaiting removal at the ends of driveways in January, thinking Hooo boy, that family dodged a bullet, they’re so lucky they aren’t dead. So it’s not surprising that the first year Doctor Dash and I were married, I went right out and bought a big beautiful fakey for our apartment in Boston. And now I’m kind of stuck with the bushy beast, unless I’m willing to step into multiple tree territory, which as of this date, I am not willing to do. But that’s not at all where this post was going.

I’m feeling the need to talk about Santa. We are on the eve of what is most likely the last time we will have a houseful of believers. Saint James is nine. I thought for sure it would be over for him this year, but he seems to be, as of yet, a true albeit muted, believer. We went to get the annual Santa picture taken yesterday and he waited in line in silence, as if weighing the evidence for and against, ticking through his Santa knowledge base: collected memories, words overheard, cookies vanished. He gamely sat next to Santa for a picture, smirked and when asked what he wanted for Christmas, answered: I don’t know. Now, I know he knows. What kid, in this day and age, with the material blessings he has, doesn’t know exactly, precisely what he wants? I think Saint James was trying to avoid bringing down this whole house of cards. He was trying to buy himself some more time. He was trying to avoid catching Santa, and all of us, in a great sad lie. I remember being crushed when I asked my mother about Santa and she told me the truth. I had been looking for affirmation, just a word to let me know that in the face of everything I was hearing at school, it was ok to keep believing – because I still wanted to believe. I remember flipping out and shrieking at my mother as I ran from the room: I don’t care what you say! I still believe in the Easter Bunny! Waah! Waahh. (Have a mentioned I was a rather melodramatic girl?) 

We go to extremes to keep the dream alive: stashing gifts at other people’s houses, buying and hiding different wrapping paper, eating cookies we’re not hungry for on Christmas Eve, keeping our antenae on the alert for those nasty third born children, wise and mouthy, threatening to ruin everything for our precious innocents. A few years ago, my son’s best friend started to mouth off about the mall Santas not being the real Santas. We had yet to cross that bridge as I had been careful to always take them back to the same guy at Southdale Mall. I’m not proud of this, but I smacked that boy down like an angry Grizzly sow. I summoned up all of my gigantic, prickly, legitimate adultness, locked eyes with him and cooly replied that WE SAW THE REAL SANTA. TOO BAD YOU MISSED IT. MAYBE NEXT YEAR. Oh, geez. Bad mama? Good mama? What the fuck? But look! It bought me a couple more years! Well worth it, I’d say.

I’ve heard talk of parents coming clean with their kids because in an era of truth-trumps-all, that’s what you’re supposed to do. This article in the New York Times has various experts weighing in on the Santa issue. It’s fascinating reading, especially for someone like me who is watching with alarm as the cobwebs lift from my son’s eyes by the minute. I like what Allison Gopnik has to say: “Why do children love imaginary figures like Santa Claus, then? Because they like to pretend. And when children pretend, they are exercising the evolutionarily crucial human ability to envision alternative ways the world could be. In adults that ability is at the core of our very real capacities for invention and innovation.” That’s a pretty snazzy rationalization for the big old guy – makes me puff up my chest like I’m doing something really good for my kid, for humanity even! 

But the whole Santa thing is so much simpler for me. None of these articles mentions the simple fact that it’s fun. It’s fun to believe. And as you grow, it’s fun to pretend. And when you’re grown it’s fun to knit together a world so your children can believe and pretend. The years where they’re old enough to understand about Santa and young enough to believe in Santa are breathtakingly few. They skip by as quickly as elves scattering out of sight. That kind of magic – it’s a big deal. I would hazard to guess that everyone remembers the moment they learned the truth: how they found out, who told them, the stash of gifts they discovered in the back of their parents’ closet. First teeth lost, first periods, first kisses, first bras, first drives, first jobs, first loves. These are the things we remember. They each represent stepping over one of the many shimmering lines between childhood and adulthood. Sometimes taking the step is messy, sometimes easy, sometimes painful, sometimes mind blowing and perfect, but always seemingly inevitable. And here, now, both feet firmly planted on the other side of the line, I can say:  Honeys, my loves, please believe me when I tell you this. Wait. Wait as long as you can. There’s no rush.

Merry Christmas my readers, my friends. May your holidays be simple and lovely, shiny and bright.

There have been some recent events, which I’m not at liberty to discuss, that have gotten me thinking long and hard about females, friendships and feelings. For better or worse, I’m not sure if I’ve ever given more than a glancing thought to these issues. I pride myself on my relatively drama free life. I love the ease of all my guy friendships and my low-maintenance girl friendships. The last fight I was in was in seventh grade when my best friend Sweet Sue and I broke up for a whole summer. I can’t even remember why. I do, however, remember seeing her on the first day of eighth grade in Mrs. Strong’s classroom and just adoring her violently Sun-Inned hair and realizing, in a rush, how much I had missed her. We made up. Just like that. Then once in college I got really mad when my friend La Peruanita took my big red boxy sweatshirt, which if I recall correctly, wasn’t even my sweatshirt and might actually have been her sweatshirt, but I had kind of adopted it and it was a crucial piece of my wardrobe. She heard about my ire through the grapevine and the wretched thing reappeared in my milk crate in due course. Crisis averted, I suppose.

When I wrote about the Babe-o-matics recently, it occurred to me that it was remarkable that six girl/women had made it four years with zero drama. But in retrospect I wonder if that was really the case. One of the original Babe-o-matics chose to cut ties with us a few years after we graduated. The rest of us have tried to work through the why’s of it, with little success. There is never a time that we get together that she doesn’t come up. It might be something that has to do with her more than us. Or maybe, something did happen and we missed it.

I have another more recent friend who would say time and time again – she doesn’t like me, or that one’s hot and cold with me, or she has it in for me, or I never know where I stand with that one. And I would listen with a mixture of fascination (because what’s more fascinating than someone else’s drama?) and scepticism. I find her loveable and thus constantly felt like Jerry Seinfeld’s mother shrieking in my best Jewish old lady voice How could anyone not like you?  And every once in a while I’d feel a little frightened by it – like is this ever going to trickle over to me? Because I have a horror of this kind of thing. I don’t think I could go through even one day suspecting that someone I deal with on a frequent basis has a beef with me. It would drive me absolutely bananas. And so I avoid the whole kit and kaboodle.

No drama for this mama.

But I wonder if my drama free life is really as drama free as I think it is. The recent episode that got me thinking about this made me realize that I sort of stomp through life in big boots and maybe I need to be more careful. The whole thing took me by surprise and I realized that I’m just not tuned into this kind of thing, at all. And because these people are special to me, I felt bad about it, even though I wasn’t directly involved in it. As a rule I don’t feel a lot of angst or insecurity or competitiveness with other women and I choose to assume everyone else is the same. Maybe in my fervor to steer clear of sticky situations, I have let myself become impervious to other people’s fragilities and feelings. Maybe my mellow, low-maintenance, confident schtick is really a cop out – because I don’t want to tangle, or tango, or whatever.

Assume socks are drama. It’s possible I’m the guy who truly doesn’t see them on the ground when he walks by. Or maybe I’m the guy who doesn’t want to pick them up, so he pretends he doesn’t see them. I really don’t know. I hate that second guy. On the other hand, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life picking up socks. Isn’t it better to turn a blind eye, sail on above it all, and if you miss a couple hurt feelings here and again, so be it? Or is it better to be open, to be perceptive, to be sensitive to the drama like my Jerry Seinfeld friend?

I don’t know. I don’t know which is better. And maybe it’s not even a choice so much as a reaction you can no sooner control than fear or surprise. In any event, I think I’m keeping my big boots. And I’m not saying I’m going to pick up any socks, but maybe, just maybe, I’ll try to see one every once in a while.

Take one.

On one end of the beach is a girl. She’s running with a huge smile on her face, her braces catching the light of the sun, the green rubber bands in her mouth strained to capacity. She’s wearing a plaid kilt, navy and dark green with thin lines of red and yellow, and an oversized white oxford shirt, tucked in only at the front. On her feet she wears knee socks pushed all the way down and loafers with one penny tucked in on heads, one on tails. The girl believes this to be a clever way of beating the odds of life. Under one sock around her ankle is a thick band of multicolored woven friendship bracelets. Months later when she grows tired of them she will cut them off and sew them to the pocket of her jean jacket. She is sporting a formidable lion’s mane of dark permed curls, scrunched to perfection, redolent of Vidal Sassoon styling mousse, bouncin’ and behavin’ as if they have a life of their own. She wears dangly earrings and a gold class ring bearing the Sacred Heart of Jesus, but is otherwise unadorned, save a scrunchy around her wrist. Her face is tan and line free. Everything is either a joke or a drama.

A woman is running toward the girl, if you can even call it running because she hasn’t done any cardio in ages and is a bit winded. Also, she’s wearing tall boots and skinny jeans, neither of which is particularly conducive to the long gazelle-like strides of the girl. No matter, thinks the woman, she’ll get to me eventually, running’s no good for my joints anyway. She watches the girl’s knock-kneed gait, her flailing arms, and wonders when she lost the unselfconsciousness, the joy of pounding the earth with the soles of her feet. Probably on this day, the day that sports died. The woman has gobs of gold jewelry stacked on her wrists and around her neck, some of it real, most of it faux, all of it gaining a certain je ne sais quois by virtue of being piled on in a more-is-more-mish-mosh, or so she thinks. One of the few perks of growing older, she believes, is the freedom to over do it with the jewelry and fur. Subtle, be damned, she thinks as she feebly slogs through the sand. Understated be damned. The woman’s hair is straightish, her future husband having extracted a vow in 1992 that she would never again perm her hair. Her face is no longer tan, no longer line free. Everything is still a joke or a drama, only less so. Or maybe more so.

There is no way to be sure anymore.

One thing and one thing only has brought the girl and the woman to the beach and set them on a collision course for each other: Jay Z’s Young Forever featuring Mr. Hudson.

CUUUUUT! That’s a wrap!

Holy buckets, Jay Z! This song is just TOOOO much! Do you know how much I used to love Alphaville? Do you have any idea how much I had to finagle to get Sister Church (her real name, no joke) to agree to let us sing this for our class ring ceremony Junior year?  Do you know that she made us replace “are you gonna drop the bomb or not” with “are you gonna sing the song or not”? Do you know that we stood in the chapel in our blue blazers and plaid skirts, our arms around each other, singing our hearts out in a teary crescendo until we were all sobbing in a florid display of adolescent group-think copy cat feminine hysteria? No, seriously, it’s true. This kind of stuff happens all the time at Catholic all-girls’ schools. Apparently, we wanted to be forever young, really really bad.

Listen, Jay Z, you better believe I’ve been trying to figure out my fascination with hip hop because, frankly, it’s vaguely unbecoming for a mother of three to drive around in her minivan with heavy base shaking the bumpers, my childrens’ heads, barely visible through the tinted windows nodding in rhythm to some seriously unsavory tunes like a bunch of bored hoods. I actually considered that I might be doing it out of peevishness. That I might be doing it because I like to imagine Lil’ Wayne standing on a corner and the look on his mug when I drive by with a little Mrs. Officer on deck. What’s that you say? Lil’ Wayne is totally down with Minnesota housewives? Good to know. I suspected this went beyond peevishness anyway. 

With this song, you helped me figure it out. Sweet Jay, you have managed to take the addled, melodramatic, swelling synthesizers of my teens, the anthem to long drawn out sighs, daydreaming and feverish journal writing and mash them up with your song (a doozy, by the way, well done). In a genius bit of alchemy, every thing I love about hip hop rose to the top like thick beautiful cream: First of all, it’s collaborative and creative. I love that artists are constantly showing up on each other’s tracks. It actually seems like the norm and I’d love to know how it happens. Do you guys text each other? Dude, I think you introduced me to Santigold with Brooklyn (Go Hard). I love that sampling is one of the building blocks of hip hop – there is nothing like decontextualizing something to give it a brand new shiny veneer, new legs, new life. I love that it’s about beats not tears, stories not drama (for me anyway). And sometimes it’s just about a party, unobscured hedonism. I love that it’s quick and dirty: the fastest way to a good time, to shakin’ my booty, to a laugh and a drink.

When I was a teen, the emotions were big and sweeping and all my synth pop seemed tailored made to wrap me up in a big blanket of ennui, all the better to wallow in. I’m done navel gazing. Now, I’m looking for a little relief from the monotony of emptying the dishwasher, of that umpteenth drive to soccer, of that mountain of clean laundry that needs to be folded. If a song makes me dance in my kitchen with my kids, makes me laugh, makes me blush, makes me lunge at the pause button so my kid doesn’t hear the rest of it, then that song is doing exactly what it needs to be doing for me.

So let’s dance in style, let’s dance for a while. Thanks for the memories, Jay.

My college girls and I used to call ourselves the Babe-O-Matics, and lest you think we took ourselves seriously, please know that it was all in jest. Mostly. Back in the day, I had inherited a tape player called the Invert-O-Matic (my dad has always been a gadget guy and this was pure seventies cutting edge stuff) which, no joke, would eject the tape, flip it over, suck it back in and play the other side. Someone covered the “Invert” with “Babe” and that’s all she wrote. I don’t remember exactly when we became the Babe-O-Matics – it feels like we just always were. And as it turns out, I think we always will be. We may no longer be running around Southbend, Indiana dressed like grungy man-girls in big Levis, flannel shirts, Birkenstocks and boots, but Babe-os we remain.

I’ve been sitting on this post for a few days – it doesn’t seem to be writing itself, as usually happens when the emotions are bigger than the words. Earlier this summer, I had intended to write about the bookend stop in Chicago on our way back from Michigan and I never did. The words sort of eluded me to describe how much fun we had overnight at Sunny’s* house in Wilamette with her hubby, Tax Man Italiano, and their four kids. Our other roommate, Shady** came in from the city for the night and we slipped right back into our old mischief, feasting, drinking, and gabbing to excess – only now we were surrounded by a gaggle of kids and a couple of indulgent husbands who seem to understand implicitly that if there was ever a night to step up and get the kids to bed and let us talk, it was then. Late night, sitting on Sunny’s porch, drinking those last beers we would regret in the morning, it struck me that after college, I was far too cavalier about the Babe-os spreading out around the country. Nothing seemed permanent back then. Nothing seemed of consequence.  We all had things we needed to do, and I figured they would always be as close to me as they were on that sad day we all drove away from our little blue house on St. Peter’s Street for the last time – weeping, desolate, inconsolable in the knowledge that we would never have that kind of fun again. 

Looking at my girls over the flickering candles on that porch, my heart caught in my throat. We could be doing all of this together. Instead, we live parallel lives in different cities, only catching up for a few golden hours every year. Shady goes to a lot of the same concerts we go to when they hit Chicago – she was at Beck and at De La Soul. What a partner in crime she would be if we lived in the same place! And Sunny’s kids and my kids paired off and scampered away like they see each other every day. Sunny and I could be sitting at the pool together, at the beach together, cobbling dinners together out of cheese and crackers and wine. I married someone who knew me way back when – back when I was young and fun and didn’t have a care in the world. I know how much humor and patience and leeway and pleasure you draw out of that pot of memories, that book of characters and references. It’s huge. Embarrassingly, I think I might have blubbered something about missing out on my Ya Ya sisterhood, but Sunny and Shady understood. When six girls spend a whole Halloween night tied together disguised as a drain hair shark, on mushrooms, well, it adds a whole other dimension to your relationship. 

We could be doing all of this together.

But we’re not. And as bittersweet as seeing each other may be, it’s also completely restorative, satisfying and necessary. To laugh like that, to be understood and accepted like that, fills us up and lets us glide on through until the next time. We all have other wonderful friends where we live, sisters, the ladies you count on. But what we Babe-os had remains utterly apart – maybe because we’ve always lived apart – it’s locked away in time, but breathtakingly accessible. All we have to do to tap into that, is put ourselves into the same room. So we do.

On Saturday three of us flew to Saint Louis to surprise Dolly*** for her 40th birthday party. She had no idea we were coming. Her lovely sisters and hubby, Soul Daddy, masterfully kept it under wraps. Tartare had flown from Seattle to meet up with Shady and Sunny in Chicago and they flew in together. When I looked up from my phone to see the three of them striding toward me in the St. Louis airport, looking all foxy and smiley, my heart did a little jump. All together! For a party! For Dolly! It was just too good. 

The surprise was perfect. We didn’t jump out of a cake. We simply walked down the street and as we approached we could hear Dolly’s daughter, Mimi, yelling Moooom, come outside! So of course, there was shrieking. Of course there were hugs and laughter. Dolly was grinning ear to ear, as was the adorable Soul Daddy. Operation Babe-O-Matic was a success.

The Babe-os were in da haaayouse and Dolly’s relaxing afternoon had just morphed into something else entirely. We chatted, drank in their three adorable kids, oohed and aahed around the house, soaking up the wall colors, the pictures, the stuff of our dear friend’s day-to-day life. We felt lucky to be sitting in her kitchen, even for a couple hours, to have our hands on the counter top where her kids color, where they spill cereal, where Dolly rolls out pies, where Soul Daddy chops and puts out cheese and olives. We Babe-os take nothing for granted, least of all time in each other’s homes. It’s just too rare. And even back in college, back when all we really cared about was the next great party, we were all about nesting, making our dorm rooms and then the house on St. Peter’s Street sweet little homes to relish, share, and make memories in. Some things never change.

A lot of things never change.

After a little adventure to Dolly’s favorite nail salon for manis and pedis, a quick beer, and that festive, oh so fun, getting ready time when we chatted and cackled and checked out eachothers’ lotions and potions, outfits and jewelry, we were off like the wind to Dolly’s bash. We knew it was going to be great because it was at the house Dolly grew up in, now owned by her sister, the lovely Maisie and her family. We had already celebrated Dolly and Soul Daddy’s wedding at that house, not to mention various stops to and fro Mardi Gras throughout the years. This family knows how to fling open their doors, hug you close and throw down for a really good time. There were pretty lights strung up in the yard, cocktail tables with candles, delicious food and bevvies, jello shots in every flavor, and tons of party people who all love Dolly.

We knew it was going to be fun. What we didn’t know, is that we were going to spend the next nine hours in a magical musical pleasure fest! Soul Daddy’s old band set up in the garage due to some threatening sprinkles, which, luckily, never ended up getting much footing and began a night of amazing music. Lordy, did we dance! Soul Daddy sang and we all swooned. Dolly sang and we swooned some more. Our girl! As the night tore on in a mad blur fueled by beer and restorative stops to the food table, all of Dolly’s sibs took a turn, and then her uncle and then her cousins and before we knew it, the night had devolved into a beautiful crazy hootenanny. It was great. And if you went inside, you had their exquisitely woven playlist to contend with. I have fuzzy memories of lurching around, dancing to So Lonely, screaming the words while gnawing on a chicken wing. It was a buh uh uh uh laaasst!!!

Just like the old days, the Babe-os would fan out at a party, flitting around, talking to everyone, only to find each other again in a riotous explosion of cheers and hugs and laughter, feeling like you were home again after a crazy odyssey. This would happen, and did happen on Saturday, multiple times a night, all night long. We may have lived together, but we were always happiest to see each other. 

A lot of things never change.

Tartare, Sunny, Shady and Dolly, you are my heart. Happy birthday Dolly. I love you rockin’ Babe-o-matics.

*Because of love of, disposition, outlook, and Coppertone always at the ready.

**Because why mess with a good nickname?

***Because she has a love for Dolly Parton, not because she looks like Dolly Parton.

Yesterday was such an odd day – it was the quintessential, hot, sunny summer day in the Midwest replete with a comfortingly familiar level of humidity and mosquito action. We swam, we idled around home, we face painted, we rode our bikes and I even broke out the Deep Woods OFF for the first time this season. It was a good day. It was a regular day. And in the midst of my morning, I find out Farrah Fawcett died, which is sad, but she was sick and it was no great surprise. I always loved Farrah in that sad sort of way a little Argentine girl living in Michigan would. She was the ideal, and I, with my dark hair, big feet, long legs and funny name, was most definitely not. Before a family vacation, I even got my hair cut so that it would “feather,” having no clue that you needed a curling iron to do it. Not to mention that my hair was so thick and heavy that it would have required mad skilz, copious amounts of hair spray and a head immobilizer for me to pull off a feathered do. Instead my hair fell around my face like Cousin It until my mom got so exasperated she bought a barrette from a Disney World gift shop to pin it away from my face. Michigan in the seventies was not a place you wanted to be different. It was a time before Benneton ads, J Lo, Beyoncé, and High School Musical. Little girls swoon when they find out my name now, but back then, Gabriela was odd and ugly – just like me. Revisiting those youthful cringes and tinges upon hearing of Farrah’s death, while not entirely surprising, amounted to more than plenty melancholy nostalgia for a hot June day.

I screamed and practically jumped out of my skin when I read that Michael Jackson had died. Michael Jackson is dead. Not that he was the picture of vitality, by any stretch, but still – it just doesn’t seem possible! Talk about a tragic life spiral. I’ve always been a fan, but like most people, had sort of let him go as he got weirder and whiter – as he finally succeeded in erasing all traces of the beautiful black boy he had once been. He was so talented that it somehow made his erratic behavior and freaky looks all that much more distasteful. It just became easier to ignore him than to try to understand what was going on chez Neverland. Oh, but what a cool little kid he was, what a voice, what a dancer! And to die at fifty, alone, and hidden away in that big weird house, living out a fantasy most certainly gone awry. Tragic. Check this out, though. The footage from Harlem is breathtaking and I could watch that all day. Hopefully he’s watching from wherever he is and has found whatever he was looking for. Good bye MJ.

And good bye beautiful Farrah.

You may or may not have noticed that new column over there to the right, down a bit, yep, there. I just sort of slipped it in casually, pretending it’s been there all along, half hoping you wouldn’t notice because God knows, I certainly don’t want to diminish my tenuous, paltry readership by pointing you in the direction of other, better blogs! To tell the truth, when I started this blog, I didn’t read many, if any blogs, so a blogroll didn’t even occur to me. Then as I started to wade around in the murky waters of the internet, I realized just how deep it is, just how vast. Wow, I could swim in this! Shit, I could drown! Fashion blogs, mommy blogs, literature blogs, food blogs, political blogs, design blogs, funny blogs, sad blogs, freaky blogs.

Easily overwhelmed, I was overwhelmed. Easily demoralized, I was demoralized. What is the point of adding my voice to this chattering chaos? Who cares? Who is ever going to find me and hear me? Maybe I really am spewing words into the ether. So I had a little freak out and stopped writing for a while until I realized, no, remembered, that spewing words feels pretty fucking good – regardless of whether anyone is reading. So I started spewing again, and here I am. Spewing and also pointing you to other, better blogs. I am one ballsy and reckless fool today.

In my blogroll live both friends and strangers whose words I have come to really like and anticipate. I have figured out that there’s a little clique of mommy blogs – funny, irreverent, mommy blogs that don’t make me want to stick my head in the oven à la Sylvia Plath. They all seem to know each other and love each other and hang out all the time and go on crazy adventures, notwithstanding the fact that they’re scattered around the country. I feel like the girl on the playground sullenly looking on with her fingers crooked around the chain link fence and one knee sock drooping down around her ankle, wishing they would ask her to join in. But they don’t know me. They don’t see me. They’re having too much fun sharing links and laughs and witticisms and Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker. So I’m just gonna turn around, sit on the crabby crass, behead dandelions and scratch my mosquito bites. 

One of the funny popular girls is Finslippy, who recently raved about a blog by a friend of hers (see? they’re all friends – I’m not making this up) called The Diamond in the Window, and because I trust Finslippy, I checked it out. It really is wonderful. It’s a blog about books and girls and books for girls (to be fair, boys too) and is written so beautifully that I just want to crawl into my yellow beanbag chair and read The Little House on the Prairie. This woman clearly loves books, but what I find magical is that she is still breathtakingly in touch with what books meant to her as a girl. Maybe it’s because she has girls, but I think it’s because you never really out grow being a bookworm. This blog brings me right back to that heady feeling of pedaling home from the library on Deep Wood Road, my backpack filled with treasures, shimmering and shivering to get out. I loved books. I read at the table, on the toilet, in the tree, in my bean bag chair, on a shag rug, in my bed, in my parent’s bed, on the bus, in the car, at recess. If I had a good book in my armpit, the only thing I could think of was finding a spot to drop and tuck into it.

If you are, were or are raising a bookworm, check out this lovely blog. 

And now, back to the playground. Mama had a baby and her head popped off.