Why I've Been MIA

There's been a new addition to the family...Meet Ozzie (as in Smith, not Osbourne). B. took me to a local shelter last Saturday to see if there was a kitten I wanted to adopt for my upcoming birthday. I was smitten with this little grey striped guy right away.

However, the transition at home has been rough. Karma, my other cat, has been an "only child" for four years and hasn't taken too kindly to the new kitten. No fighting, just lots of hissing. I think she's actually more afraid of him than angry. Which is weird b/c she's about three times the size of him.

Then on Monday night, I noticed that he was sneezing and wheezing a lot, so we had to go to the vet yesterday and found that he has an upper respiratory virus...That means we get to feed him (i.e., force into his mouth) antibiotics twice a day for 10 days. That's about as much fun as it sounds. Plus, I've been constantly worried that he's not eating enough or using his litter box. And, he stays up all night and sleeps all day. Yikes...if cats are this hard, what would I do with kids???

That said, I've skipped two workouts this week (partially from being exhausted and partially to rest my hip that was giving me trouble again). But, I've got a 5k on Saturday, so hopefully that will get me back into the swing of things!

Creating Ritual

B. and I have decided to celebrate Chanukkah this year, so I spent the morning yesterday shopping online for menorahs. My favorite were the sketchy ones on eBay that didn't actually have the required 8 candleholders. There were also traditional, modern, and artsy ones to choose from, and even a Waterford crystal one if you want to drop $300. Let's just say I was a little overwhelmed by all the choices.

The idea of creating rituals with significant others and loved ones has come up quite frequently lately. I think it's a part of growing up and putting down roots to want to create meaningful traditions with the ones you love.

A dear friend wrote a piece about this subject for one of her American Studies classes. I wish there was a link for you to read it because it was beautifully written (Publish it, J.!!!). She wrote of deciding in what ways to observe her cultural traditions in the family she's creating with her fiance and how our generation differs from the previous one in that many of us buy the cultural symbols (usually the grandest and most expensive) that the previous generation had passed down to them from their families. As I recall it, the piece essentially questioned whether rituals mean more when they are passed down from generation to generation or when we co-op them in ways that are meaningful to us personally. I think this is especially true when people come from different backgrounds. I am interested in knowing the basis of the original traditions, but I love the idea of blending the elements that mean the most to both of us to create our own unique celebrations.

Another friend recently told me how much she wants to build traditions with her group of friends. She said that since she isn't that close to her family of origin, she considers her friends and their significant others to be the family that she has chosen for herself. She wants to build holiday traditions and annual vacations with us. We are planning to begin this year with a week-early Thanksgiving dinner together. I love the idea that one day our families will spend the week sharing condos on the beach or going skiing together in the winter. "Family" takes on a lot of different forms, and I'm excited to share that label with her.

As it turns out, B.'s family has a spare menorah for us to use. Neither of us will be home at sundown on the 4th to light the first candle, but I think we'll find our own way to commemorate those 8 days. I'm just excited we get to spend another holiday together.

Daddy's Day...a day late

I remember hearing somewhere that lots of girls want to marry a guy like dear old dad. I didn't used to understand that. It seemed way too Freudian. I thought that would mean wanting to marry someone who liked to go fishing or lived in a small town or imposed early curfews.

Now I get it. It's more than listening to Cardinals games on the radio. It's more than motorcycles and Dirty Harry movies. Maybe it's because I've fallen in love with someone that now I can identify how many of the qualities that make me feel loved in my relationship are qualities that made me feel special back when I was daddy's little girl.

Whether it was hearing him walk around the house before bed checking that the doors were locked and the oven was off or knowing that if it came down to it, my daddy would kick some serious ass to protect me, I learned from him that the one who loves me will go to great lengths to keep me safe. I'm a tough girl, I can take care of myself, but I like the security of knowing someone else has my back in a sometimes scary world.

My dad was forever checking my oil, gauging the air pressure in my tires, changing spark plugs, filling up washer fluid, giving me emergency gas money. At the time I took it for granted that it was something fathers were supposed to do. Now I realize that those little gestures were just one of the nonverbal way he showed he cared. Those little gestures have come to mean the world to me. Sweet notes left on my keyboard, some much-needed Advil, blue sour Skittles...Because of my dad, I know to treasure all those little "I love you's".

My dad and I have a similar sense of humor. We're both sarcastic and witty and sometimes just plain goofy. We laugh at the same slapstick comedy. We instigate inside family jokes and never let them die (much to the annoyance of the person the joke is on). We used to watch the old Pink Panther movies and be the only ones laughing hysterically. We've been quoting the same lines from Ferris Bueller's Day Off for like the last 15 years, but it never gets old to us. Today, one of my favorite things about spending time with B is that most of it is spent smiling and laughing. We entertain each other endlessly it seems. And, that's the way it should be.

My dad loves my mom like crazy. I almost never heard them argue (although I'm sure they must have). I caught them making out in the kitchen more than once. They still hold hands and go for weekends away together. They still can't wait to sit down together and hear about each other's day. When I was younger all I could see was the old-fashioned division of chores in the household and once said I didn't want a marriage like theirs. I wanted someone who would do the dishes with me and help fold laundry. I still want those things, but more than that, I want someone whose passion for me sustains and grows until we are old and gray the way theirs has. (Not that either of you are old or gray, in case you're reading, Mom, Dad...)

There are so many more instances I could share. My dad is awesome. Both of my parents are, really. I often wish it hadn't taken me so long to grow up and realize how much I appreciate them and the way they've shaped so many of my perspectives. Better late than never! Happy Father's Day, Dad!

An Ode to Mom

Sometimes I miss my Mom. Especially on days like early last week when I had the flu. Driving home from work, hunched over the steering wheel in a way that seemed least likely to make me puke all over the car, I dialed her work number. "Mommy, I'm sick," I whined. When I was little and sick, my mom would take the day off work to stay home with me, make me blue jell-o, and rub my tummy until I felt better. No matter how much anyone says they love you, there's no one else in the world who will do this for you in quite the same way. This particular day she gave her best flu-care advice over the phone; "Stop and get some Gatorade, take an Advil, take a nap, and then make whatever you vegetarians eat in lieu of chicken noodle soup." I did, and I'm all better now.

I think about my mom every time I give myself a manicure too. When I was a kid, I loved her hands. I liked the way her wedding ring looked and the shape of her nails. They were what I believed a grownup lady's hands looked like. And now, I realize mine look just like hers. We both have long fingers with wide knuckles and oval nails that break too easily. We have short, square palms with long life lines. Both of us have veins running across the tops of our hands, visible under our pale Irish skin. We have beautiful, delicate wrists that contrast with the curvy-ness of the rest of our bodies.

I'm proud of those hands as much for their functionality as their beauty. My mother is the most efficient, capable, hard working woman I know. She knows how to take care of the people she loves. She doesn't like to cook, but she does it with pride. Ours was not a Chips Ahoy house growing up. We had the real thing. Weeding the vegetable garden, the chore I hated most as a child, she taught me not to buy things that you could make yourself. It would taste better that way. It appalled her that we like mashed potatoes out of a box much better than the homemade kind because they were runnier. She taught me how to iron clothes (and how to get away without ironing things). She taught me that Saturdays are for cleaning the house, vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing the bathroom. She taught me that I should always balance my checkbook (a lesson that I observe in my own non-mathematical way) and how to count back change without using a calculator. She taught me to drive a car, all the while clutching the door handle.

When I was a spoiled teenager going to a private school on a scholarship supplemented by her work on the custodial staff, she taught me not to flinch from working hard for something I want and not to let other's opinion of what it meant to "have to work" bother me. "Working is nothing to be ashamed of, she told me. "Nothing in life is free." She also taught me that if I want something I should buy it myself. "You'll appreciate it more, if you bought it yourself." And I did. I earned and spent my own money on my love of fashion, going out, and even my education.

In all her practicality, my mother was a little bit of a softy. She cried when she read the poems I wrote for her on Mother's Day, and she's kept every single school craft project any of her children ever made. The Christmas tree I used to loathe for its gaudiness was loaded with our elementary school ornaments. Our baby albums are filled out in great detail, with letters from her to us that she wrote before we were born. In all those things, she's instilled in me a sentimentality for the artifacts of our daily lives, the symbols of the relationships we have with others. She taught me that the best gift we have to give is ourselves.

I like to say that everything I know about fashion and makeup, I taught myself. My mother grew up in the hippie era of fashion. To this day, except for special occasions, her approach to makeup is generally a little mascara and blush. I have been the one to teach her how to use spray wax and how to magically conceal our hereditary undereye circles. But actually she did teach me a few things. She tried to teach me that nice girls did not wear skirts that short or shirts that low-cut, but she also taught me not to hide in my clothes. She taught me to shop for a bargain and the art of the end of season clearance sales. She taught me to have good posture and that carrying yourself with confidence makes any outfit sexy. Most of all she taught me that I was beautiful. Even when I was a gangly teenager who wanted desperately to have boobs, even when I had a curvy body and wished I could have the angular one back, and everywhere in between, my mother has genuinely believed I looked perfect. In a world where everyone is judging you, it's nice to know that at least one person wouldn't change a thing about you, not even your back fat. And in her no-nonsense way, she made sure I knew that attitude is 99% of beauty; "That's a really ugly attitude you've got on, and you better change it pronto." Now I know enough pretty people with sucky attitudes to get exactly what she meant.

Some would call me independent. I learned this from Mom as well. She taught me not to rely on others, not because they couldn't be trusted but because I was strong enough in myself. I knew that wherever I went—a sleep over, away to college, traveling abroad—she and the rest of my family would be there when I got back. She taught me to seize opportunities, if you are on the right path for you, everything else will fall into place. Because of her, I never felt homesick, I never felt incapable. She made sure I knew from childhood onward that anything I wanted to do career-wise was a possibility. There was no class I couldn't pass with flying colors. There was no limit to what degree I could earn. She taught me that I shouldn't stop learning new things until I'm dead. She thinks I can do anything, and you know what, I can.

My mother has also been the person I confide in about guys and relationships. I haven't always liked her advice, but she's been right more often than not. She's not the kind of mother that believes no man is good enough for her daughter (that's my dad); whatever makes me happy makes her happy. But when happy turns sour, she's made me take a hard look at whether what I thought I wanted was so great after all. "Why would you want to be with someone who doesn't appreciate who you are?" "Well, he's obviously not mature enough to be in a relationship." And the last, my least favorite, "There will be other men. You won't always feel this way about him." But she was right—there are, and I don't. While my mother has taught me not to take any shit from guys, she's also a bit of a romantic. She and father have been married for over 30 years, and I'm even convinced that they still like each other a whole lot. She believes in things like the necessity of being swept off your feet, the existence of true love, and the value of committing yourself to someone special. If I ever believe in those things too, it will be because I've seen in her that they are possible.

My mother and I don't always agree. Sometimes I still roll my eyes at her. She's the conservative to my liberal, the country to my city, the old-fashioned to my contemporary. We don't always understand or fully appreciate where the other one is coming from. But now that I'm older when friends or family members say I remind them of my mom, I take it as a compliment. At the heart of who I am lie an idealism, determination, and compassion that grew out of watching her. There are a lot worse things I could become than my mother.

01/26/07