Easy As 1, 2, 3

One of the downsides of Facebook is that the constant ability to instantly transcribe brief, random thoughts into words has taken a major cut out of my blog fodder. Things that once would have been elaborated into several paragraphs are compressed into a single summary statement (e.g., “SAM only becomes a more cautious driver when assaulted by loud noises, so your honking really doesn’t help”). And like many Facebookers, I spend my days narcissistically converting every thought, action, opinion and pithy insight into status-friendly phrases. In the course of doing this, I often come up with general statements that really aren’t that relevant to the moment at hand, or just sound plain self-absorbed. Which got me to thinking, hey! Isn’t it about time for a new 100 Things About SAM? SAM thinks it is.


1. I am the very definition of an ISFJ.
2. I got my first car when I was 26.
3. I could eat an entire loaf of warm sourdough bread with butter, regardless of size.
4. I hate drinking water.
5. I get migraines triggered by flying, extreme weather changes, hormones, and red wine.
6. I long planned to name my first son Samuel Clemens.
7. I do my best to make my kids laugh before I get them out of bed in the morning.
8. I have not yet let go of the hope that I will someday end up at an impromptu 11pm concert at Paisley Park.
9. My favorite artificial flavor is red.
10. My first response to being stressed out is to want to take a long drive around the lake.
11. I once won a letter-writing contest to have heyday-era Pauly Shore tape his show at my house for a week, but MTV revoked it when they found out I was 12.
12. I generally drive no more than 5 miles per hour over the speed limit. Maybe 7 on the highway.
13. I’m still mad at everyone involved in the making of What Dreams May Come for making me cry like that in public.
14. I don’t get angry until the third time.
15. I have more country knowledge than the average city girl.
16. I have Raynaud’s disease.
17. I’ve always had the desire to be a teacher and the knowledge that I’d be terrible at it.
18. I’m not afraid of heights, but I will not voluntarily leap off of them.
19. I wish I knew more about plants.
20. I had a pet goldfish named Hot Lips Houlihan.
21. I have practice/pretend conversations in my head that are half-expressed on my face.
22. My dream job involves the porch of an old Victorian house, a sundress, and a laptop.
23. I have martyr tendencies.
24. I’m usually reading at least two books at once, and often three or more.
25. I still buy CDs.
26. I’m highly sensitive to caffeine.
27. I want to be Emmylou Harris when I grow up.
28. I am tormented by my total lack of natural musical ability.
29. I’ve never used a lighter and can’t remember the last time I struck a match.
30. In the last three years, I’ve lost three people dear to me who were 29-33 years old.
31. When told to go to my “happy place,” the first place that comes to mind is my bed.
32. I flew alone for the first time when I was ten.
33. I have a hard time not assuming the worst.
34. I have a poor sense of spatial relation.
35. I only dabbled in team sports, but I took dance classes for five years.
36. I expect to eventually have some form of cancer.
37. I’ve never worked in the food industry.
38. I was told by an acting professor that I have “very expressive eyebrows.”
39. I’ve never touched an illegal substance, smoked a cigarette, or engaged in underage drinking.
40. My college regrets are not the same as your college regrets. Unless you’re Dooce.
41. I don’t enjoy Monopoly.
42. I am a mosquito magnet.
43. It troubles me that working full-time makes me less involved in my kids’ daily lives than my mother was in mine.
44. I don’t plan to ever watch another horror movie.
45. I could really go for a gyro right now.
46. I’m not good at telling pre-written jokes.
47. I’m a decent tipper.
48. I thought my stuffed animals were capable of independent thought until I was at least nine years old.
49. I’m reluctant to medicate.
50. I appreciate good design, but can’t create it.
51. We don’t have enough time for me to explain my job.
52. I spent a combined total of 50 months breastfeeding.
53. I’d still be in therapy if it weren’t for the co-pays.
54. The closest thing I have to a hobby is finding amazing bargains online, putting them in my virtual bag, and then never buying them.
55. I am sometimes awed to speechlessness by my children’s beauty.
56. I don’t really care for whipped cream.
57. I moved five times across three states before I was ten.
58. I moved 400 miles from home when I was 17.
59. I get so embarrassed by other people’s public displays that tears come to my eyes.
60. I’ve never ordered anything for myself at Taco Bell other than a bean burrito (no onion).
61. Given the option, I’d wear a dress every day.
62. You don’t want to be behind me if I have to make a left turn against traffic.
63. I can still recall the theme songs of an unsettling number of obscure ‘80s sitcoms.
64. Most of my friends are closer in age to my big sister than to me.
65. My shyness is often mistaken for aloofness.
66. I’ve seen psychometricians in action.
67. My drink is gin and tonic with bitters and lots of lime.
68. My years of retail work pay off when I’m folding laundry.
69. Hearing multiple electronified sounds (TV, stereo, computer) at the same time makes me feel like I’m going insane.
70. I’m not good at parties.
71. I have above-average willpower.
72. It thrills me that my daughter looks forward to going to Minnesota as much as I did when I was her age.
73. I’m a strong swimmer.
74. I’ve lived in Memphis over ten years, but know better than to say I’m from here.
75. I support my children being taught to say “Yes, ma’am.”
76. I believe in the benefits of homeopathy.
77. I own every one of the twelve albums released by Chris Isaak and have attended six of his live shows.
78. I can’t devote an ounce of fandom to someone I don’t find funny. Exception: Springsteen.
79. I’ve ground my molars just about flat.
80. I let my tea sit until it’s nearly cold.
81. I’m highly sensitive to, and resentful of, being treated like a child.
82. Forget-me-nots always remind me of our mailbox in Pittsburgh.
83. As an eighth grader, I could quote the Dadaist Manifesto.
84. I can’t stand looking at a Word document at anything other than its natural, 100% zoom level - no more, no less.
85. I’m sentimentally attached to my first e-mail address.
86. The only fish I’ve ever enjoyed was a parmesan-crusted mahi mahi at Tsunami.
87. I frequently have the desire to ride a horse.
88. The first thing I remember writing was a book about a hobo.
89. I’m currently in the best shape of my adult life.
90. I was nearly passed over for my current job because my personality test results (accurately) indicated that I am freakishly reserved.
91. I do eventually warm up. Usually within 1-5 years.
92. I’m indifferent to clowns, really.
93. 38% of my monthly take-home pay goes toward paying off my closed business’s debts.
94. My favorite Memphis Zoo residents are the elephants.
95. My balance is skewed to the left.
96. I’m best at chores that require one tool or fewer.
97. I spent one school year in a class consisting entirely of gifted children.
98. I stopped keeping a diary when I was 22.
99. I attend the Church of CBS Sunday Morning.
100. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

Laughing, Running, Jumping, Playing

In his column this week, RJA talks about how his kids constantly ask if they’re going somewhere. It’s a phenomenon I’ve observed firsthand, both with his kids and my own. And while I agree with his idea of making the family-friendly attractions of Memphis more financially friendly, I think there’s another issue at play here.

At play. Get it? See what I did there? Well, not yet you don’t. Just wait.

If you’re between the ages of 30 and 112, think back on your childhood. More specifically, call to mind your free time, your evenings and weekends, your long summer days and stunted winter afternoons. Where were you? What were you doing? If you’re like me, you were running around with a pack of other kids, roaming neighborhoods, riding bikes, playing complicated variations of tag. If the weather was bad, you were in someone’s basement or rec room, rollerskating on unfinished floors, thinking up exciting new ways to melt G.I. Joe figures, choreographing complex routines to the songs of Purple Rain (What? No? Just me? Liar.).

Now, if you have kids, or know kids, think about what they’re doing after school, or how they’re spending their weekends. Chances are, your seven-year-old isn’t wandering alone through the woods behind your neighborhood. And I’m willing to bet that there’s no ten-kid game of Ghost in the Graveyard going on across multiple yards on your street. If there are two unrelated children in the same area, it’s safe to assume that the situation was planned, approved, and supervised by at least 50% of the involved parents.

It would be easy to blame overprotective parents for this shift - Michael Chabon does as much in his own lament for the lost wilderness of childhood (if I cite it, I'm not plagiarizing it!) - but I think there are multiple factors involved. Our neighborhoods really are less safe than they once were, not just due to crime, but also suburban sprawl, reduced green spaces, and 16-year-olds on cell phones. Plus our kids are taught from preschool to be wary of strangers, which is a good policy when it involves dudes in windowless vans, but not as useful when it comes to their own peers.

And, and … okay, yes, some of it is the parents. I can’t imagine letting my 6-year-old spend an entire afternoon building a tree fort in a construction lot with no one over the age of ten in attendance (although I did) any more than my parents would have let me play on an active train trestle (like they did). I think it’s natural to retroactively panic about the risks we took as children and swear never to let our own kids take those chances, but I’m afraid we’ve reached the generational nadir of acceptable childhood danger.

So I feel sympathetic when the kids start asking what we’re going to do, where we’re going to go, because I know their desire to go out into the world is normal, but their ability to do so on their own has been so greatly limited. Even if you can get them to bike off down the block by themselves, as Chabon wrote (far more artfully), they’re unlikely to see another kid while they’re out there.

The conundrum is that any adult intervention to change this dynamic is just one more way of meddling in their world, when what we all need to do is just step off. It may already be too late, though. The die is cast.

But what with the pendulum swinging and nature abhorring a vacuum and whatnot, we can at least be comforted in knowing that our kids will someday see their own childhoods as dangerously sheltered and will raise their own offspring in the other extreme. We might as well sit back and enjoy the regulated rambunctiousness now, because we’ll be spending our golden years dragging our grandchildren off of train trestles.

Three Minute Rule

As anyone keeping up with this blog has probably observed, I'm a slow writer. It can take me hours to put 200 words on a page, and so my posts are typically few and far between. As for writing of any greater length, that's almost non-existent. In the last year, I've produced little more than a file full of story ideas and about a page and a half of a novel. Now, it's probably not a total coincidence that my personal writing has slowed down at the same time my actual career as a writer has flourished. I actually spend eight hours a day writing for my job, and can produce pages of highly technical documentation with one solid morning's effort. And I'm very happy with that, of course. I feel very lucky that I make a living doing something I'm both educated and naturally inclined to do. But I've also been wanting to build my confidence and practical skills as a creative writer - a fiction writer, specifically.

So when the other two writers in my house decided to participate in NPR's latest Three Minute Fiction contest, I thought ... well, I thought, "nah." But then I did it anyway. I wouldn't say it's the best thing I've ever written, but it's certainly one of the most concise. The 600-word limit forced me to put the exposition truck in park and just get on with it. The challenge of the contest was to write a story based on a photograph they provided, and so with no further ado, here they both are ...

Interview

I nearly knocked over the old man. He was trying to squeeze into the bookstore’s crowded entryway, his overstuffed messenger bag knocking against the racks of free magazines. I thought I could get by, but my own bag caught on the strap of his, and as I moved forward, he lost his footing. He tried to catch himself by grabbing the community bulletin board, and as I cleared the doorway, I heard tearing paper and the pik-pik-pik of thumbtacks hitting the tile.

I threw a breathless apology over my shoulder, but I don’t think he heard. I felt like he was staring at me, maybe even shouting at me, through the store window as I tried to hail a cab. I nervously squawked “Taxi!” several times before a maroon Crown Victoria stopped at my feet.

“Columbus and Randolph. Please.” The driver was a solid woman with hair like a cloud of rusted steel wool; it moved en masse when she nodded and said, “Sure thing, hon.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to refocus. This interview had been arranged at the last minute by a friend of a friend of my father’s, and I assumed favors had been called in. I didn’t even know what the company was, but I’d been given a first name and phone number and told to show up exactly at 1:00.

I rode without speaking while a distant dispatcher’s voice crackled over the cab’s radio, demanding locations and impatiently reminding drivers of pick-ups. I could only see one side of my face in the rear-view mirror, the short hairs around my ears quivering in the full blast of the cab’s heat vents. It looked like I'd left most of my lip gloss on my coffee cup, but re-applying in a moving car seemed dangerous, especially at the speeds she was going. The waves breaking in my stomach reached higher crests at every turn.

I’d been at the bookstore longer than I’d planned. My grandmother sent me a birthday card with a crisp $50 bill inside, and I’d just stopped in to break the bill so I could splurge on a cab ride. I could have easily taken the el and walked from Wabash, but the temperature was unseasonably cold and my only coat was a campus-friendly down parka. Hard to look professional while puffy, I thought. The coffee line was interminable, though. When I finally got my order, I drank it in three hurried gulps and rushed from the store. I didn’t even see that old man until we were practically conjoined.

The driver came to a double-parked stop in front of an 80-story building. I wiped my palms on my skirt as I entered the lobby. An ornate gold clock on the wall read 12:58. A woman with a headset gazed at me from behind an enormous granite bunker of a reception desk.

“Where may I direct you?”

“Oh, I … just … just one minute.” I dug my hand into my briefcase. I’d written the interviewer’s contact information down on my roommate’s copy of the Sun-Times. I’d made sure it was still tucked into the side pocket of my bag as I got up to order coffee. I’d touched it like a talisman as I threw out my empty cup.

And then, I realized, I’d seen it out of the corner of my eye, being waved by an old man calling to me from the other side of the bookstore window.

Mama, Don't Take My Kodachrome

Miss M was the Star of the Week in her classroom last week. An honor, to be sure, but also one with a burden: she was supposed to bring in a picture of herself for the Star poster. An actual, physical, three-dimensional picture. As I read that request, it occurred to me that it has been months, if not years, since I have produced a hard-copy photograph of either of my children. All of their memories are locked away in digital form. Which doesn’t bother them at all, of course. They’re happy that the longest they have to wait to see a picture is the time it takes for them to run to the other side of the camera. There are no multi-day waits for processing, no delayed thrill of opening the sticky-sealed envelope to see what 24 treasures are inside. I feel some nostalgia over that, but really, it’s a technological advance I have no qualms about, either. More pictures get taken, more moments are recorded, and for someone with a memory as bad as mine, more of our past remains accessible in the future.

But as I printed a grainy black-and-white picture (we were out of color ink) for Miss M to take to school, I did wish that I spent a little more time and money to make those pictures a part of my everyday surroundings. I have a plethora of talented photographer friends and more amazing photos of my family than I can count, but the only pictures on my desk are Miss M’s pre-school Mother’s Day card, a home-printed photo pulled off a CD (also forced to be grayscale), and my niece’s birth announcement (made on Shutterfly.com).

I don’t care if my kids never drive up to a Fotomat, but I do want them to know the pleasure in pulling out a photo album and flipping through their own personal stories, even those stories that pre-date their existence. I can clearly envision the album in my parents’ house that contains pictures from my dad’s time in Vietnam. The weight of that book across my knees was significant, and the solidity alone lent itself to reverence. I looked through it many times as a child, always quietly and carefully, knowing that many of the details from the year it documented would only be revealed to me through those pictures. It’s hard to imagine that a Flickr stream would have quite the same effect.

So this morning, as I got Mr. Baby into his button-down and special-occasion sweater in preparation for pre-school spring picture day, I made a mental promise to both of us that I’d transform more of our virtual memories into tangible artifacts. And when the box from Shutterfly eventually arrives, I’ll let the kids open it and ooh over what’s inside.

Come On Get Happy

Sarah Jane, by way of Sarah Jane, suggested the sharing of ten simple things that make me (us, you, etc.) happy right now. Seemed like an especially good exercise after the extended wearing of the crabby pants around here lately, so here we go:

1. Sarah’s hand-writing reminding me of notes passed in junior high
2. Opening the sunroof
3. Leftover ravioli and pork chops and chicken enchilada casserole for lunch (not at the same time)
4. Watching the birds in our courtyard
5. Planning a summer vacation
6. My kids’ excellent choices in car music (Rosemary Clooney, “Mambo Italiano;” Lucinda Williams, “Honey Bee;” Prince, “Starfish and Coffee,” aka, The Alarm Clock Song)
7. House Hunters International
8. Leaving work while there’s still daylight
9. Vitamin B12
10. The quiet time after the kids are in bed

Sarah passed the challenge/opportunity on to ten more bloggers, so Kristy, RJA, Stacey, Shannon, Chockleys, Elizabeth, Katherine, Kim, Carma, and Melissa (and anyone else out there; I wasn't technically asked to do this), I'd love to see your lists, too. It's been a hard winter, let's all make some happy.

Put The Lime In The Coconut

Well, don’t I feel silly.


The good news is, after four hours of drinking baking-soda-and-snot-flavored Crystal Light, eight hours in gastro-intestinal misery, at least one kitchen breakdown, and over $600 in uninsured costs, my doctor determined that I do not, in fact, have any sign of Crohn’s Disease.

And yes, that is good news. But all that other stuff that came before it? Well, they’re sort of killing the buzz of not having a chronic illness. Also diminishing the delight is that there is still no official answer at all regarding what in blazes was/is wrong with me in the first place. All the progressive testing - bloodwork, ultrasound, CAT scan, colonoscopy – got me right back in the exact same place I started. I can accept that the first problems I had may have just been a virus, or even an unusually dramatic flare-up of the IBS I self-diagnosed at the age of 12. But what about the lump? There was a lump. Let’s not talk too much about where, but suffice to say, it was a real pain in the butt. And it was there. Unequivocally. And it hurt. Badly. And yet, that x-ray they took of my entire torso showed no sign of it, and the tiny camera rooting around my guts didn’t catch sight of it, so I couldn’t even get official confirmation of what seemed to be my one observable, undeniable symptom.

So now, instead of relieved, I just feel embarrassed and a little crazy. It shames me to have spent so much time and energy and money and worry and sympathy on something that remains completely intangible, and therefore could just as easily be a figment of my powerful psychosomatic imagination. Who’s to say? I’m also just plain angry, a feeling stoked when my doctor answered the question, “What did they see on the CAT scan that made them think it was Crohn’s?” with a very dismissive, “Well, how about … they read the film wrong?”

I’m lucky. I know that I am. It is good news. But it’s going to take me a little more time to get the bitter taste of Tri-Lyte and $500 deductibles out of my mouth. And I have a feeling I’ll never use baking soda toothpaste again.

Everybody Look What's Goin Down

The blog silence around here probably leaves one to assume two things: either I have nothing going on worth writing about, or I've got too much going on to stop and write. Okay, maybe three: I'm just too lazy and winter-malaise-ridden to hit the New Post button and start typing. The reality, as it turns out, is a combination of the last two. It's been a busy month in a lot of ways. Instead of a post-holiday calm, we were hit wth random snow days and illnesses and a full-blown case of The Twos. I've been so busy gearing up for Mr. Baby to hit The Dreaded Threes in six months that I forgot that two-year-olds are fully capable of earning their terrible rep. A lot of it is independence and separation issues that I can understand and empathize with. But then, there's The Noise. The high-pitched, incomprehensible string of syllables that indicates he wants something ... something ... what, this? How about this? No? Can you show me? Just point, son. Arch your back in the proper direction or something. Anything. Just stop. making. that. sound! Gaaaaah!

Phew. Anyway.

Miss M also had a string of less-than-stellar conduct reports from school (her teacher provides thorough and unintentionally amusing details, such as "After hearing a talk about appropriate uses for hand sanitizer, Miss M put some in her mouth."), but she seems to have come through her adjustment period and has been showing increased calm, restraint, and focus. Or maybe it just seems so in comparison to the blonde dervish with the new penchant for dumping out whatever bottle he can reach in the bathroom.

Aside from the kids' ongoing floor show, I've been keeping myself busy with a suddenly successful effort to sell the remaining store inventory, so a lot of my evenings are filled by label printing and envelope stuffing and feedback-leaving. 

The most pressing thing on my mind, however, has been something I haven't been quite sure how to write about, or whether I should write about it at all. I guess I've been waiting until I have something definite to say, but I've decided that the process of getting there is relevant, too, so I might as well go ahead.

Since the holidays, I've had a series of of annoying medical issues that have brought me to multiple gastroenterologists, phlebotomists, and radiologists. After a month of prodding, poking, and X-raying, I finally seem to be getting close to a diagnosis. And while that's a goal I've been eager to reach, the specifics are dampening my enthusiasm. According to the doctor who reviewed my CAT scan, I have results that are "consistent with Crohn's disease." For those unfamiliar, Crohn's is a chronic illness under the broad heading of inflammatory bowel diseases. It causes ulcerations in various parts of the digestive system, depending on the type, and results in myriad unpleasant symptoms and complications. And even though it came up on the list of possible causes every single time I put one of my random problems into the WebMD Symptom Checker, I always disregarded the possibility because it just seemed too serious, too severe, and too ... permanent. Even though I've had symptoms for 20 years, it's hard to imagine that I have an illness that will be with me the rest of my life.

Crohn's is a tricky thing to diagnose, so on top of the bloodwork and CAT scan, I will also be going in for a colonoscopy and biopsy* this week. Having already experienced the joys of sigmoidoscopy (after an episode that should have been a Crohn's red flag to any GI doc, but apparently was not), I know that the procedure itself is not a big deal. But the preparation for it is something that sort of makes me want to weep in self-pity. (Which possibly I have. Maybe. Shut up.) Not just because of having to do it now, but knowing that, if Crohn's is confirmed, this will be part of my medical maintenance from now on.

I know there are far worse things to endure, but it just ... well, it just bums me out. I was looking to 2010 as a time of relief from the store-related financial stress, and now here I am starting it off with a big health cloud over my head. And increasingly ominous medical bills to boot. I know that having a word put on a problem I already have doesn't change how it affects me right now, but I'm a planner, a predictor, a classic ISFJ crepe-hanger, and reading that 75% of Crohn's patients have at least one surgery related to the disease, and that having it for more than 10 years is linked to a significant increase in colon cancer, makes me mourn in advance for the vibrant, active, freakishly-youthful retiree I planned to be.  And yes, I understand how depressing and pessmistic that is, but if I'm honest about what's in my head right now, that's what is. This word changes my plans, and that's something I've never handled easily.

I know I'll get through it. Hell, it might not even be an issue a week from now, when I've got a clearer set of test results to go on. But right now, I'm in a place between uncertainty and fear, and those are my two least favorite places to be.


* The biopsy is to test the intestinal tissue for the markers of Crohn's, not because they suspect anything scarier. Breathe, Mom.

January Is The Month That Cares

Looky here, Memphis. This was not our arrangement. I offered you my life, livelihood, and first-and-second born children, and in return, you promised that the average January high would be 48.6 degrees. That’s almost 49, which is practically 50. Where I come from, that’s shorts weather.

So what have you been trying to pull, with the snow and the ice and the mothertrucking windchill? The only windchill I should feel in Memphis is the goosebump-raising blast of air conditioning as I walk into Macy’s in July. Nowhere in our agreement was it specified that I’d require a hat while driving, and you certainly didn’t include any verbiage about my car sliding uncontrollably into gaggles of children. I’ve navigated the winter streets of Minnesota and Chicago and never had a life-threatening incident with black ice. I did not sign up to have one in front of a Memphis grade school!

I know times are hard for everyone right now, and there’s a lot of thermostat-lowering going on, but let’s be reasonable here. I can’t just put on a sweater and soldier on. Because sweaters make me look lumpy, and if I wanted to look lumpy, I’d be waddling around up north in a down parka. And, blog forbid, socks. You never told me I’d have to wear socks! These boots weren’t made for snow-walking, and this scarf is purely decorative.

So let’s get one thing straight. If I’m going to put up with the crime and corruption and questionable hairstyle decisions you surround me with, you’re going to live up to your end of the bargain and allow me to endure those indignities in comfort. Got it?

I’m sorry, what’s that you say? High today of 51? Predicted high tomorrow of 57? Oh, darlin. I just can’t stay mad at you.

Days of Auld Lang Syne

Well, Interwebs, it’s been quite a year.

About this time last year, I took the Holmes and Rahe stress test, and received a score of 349, which indicated an 80% likelihood of developing stress-related illness. This year - after a move, an IRS audit, and a divorce - my score still managed to go down to 217, with only a pitiful 50% chance of stressing myself sick. So hey, progress!

My goal for next year is to slide right down to the low-risk numbers, and I’d say I’ve got a good shot at it. Because if you take out the major catastrophes, it’s been a good year, and I only expect the next one to be better. Unlike December of 2008, I know where I’m going to be living in two months, I know where my kids will be in school next fall, and I know that I’m at least 98% done with the fallout from my failed business. Even more importantly, I know I have loyal, loving friends and family who will support me and my children through whatever comes next, just as they did during the past twelve months. It hasn’t been an easy year, but thanks to that support, it’s been much more manageable than anyone would assume. Exhibit A? Not a single sick day taken on my own behalf. Well, maybe one. But still.

I know there are still challenges ahead, both predictable and completely unforeseen. But the advantage of surviving a litany of personal disasters is that even the dark twists down the road don’t seem so scary. Maybe they would be if I knew I had to travel alone, but I don’t.

Thanks, y’all. Happy new year.

Let Your Heart Be Light

For the 14^th or so year in a row, I didn’t quite get it together to send out Christmas cards. I can’t quite bring myself to send out a mass e-mail (although I really don’t find it offensive and in fact admire the eco-friendliness of it, plus how it spares me the guilt of eventually throwing out pictures of your kids), so in lieu of all that pretty cardstock and personalized messages, I bring you …

The 2009 SAM Christmas Letter

Ho ho ho, y'all, and happy holiday greetings from Memphis! East Memphis, to be exact. After almost a decade as a proud Midtowner, and, I'm sure coincidentally, 5-time crime victim, I began 2009 with a cross-town move to the pastoral acres of the east. In February, the SAM household (SAM, Miss M and Mr. Baby) moved into a huge 1970s compound with the Sassy-Urf! family (R, K, C, JP, S and GK) and formed one giant acronym conglomerate. Adjustments to the new arrangement were smoother than anyone could have hoped, owing mostly to the fact that we already spent most of our time together but in a much, much smaller space. 

Speaking of small, Mr. Baby is the only member of the family still wearing the same size jeans from a year ago. What he lacks in size, however, he makes up for in smarts, adorability, and pure goofiness. He's currently thriving in pre-pre-pre-K, making friends, charming teachers, and singing most of the alphabet in almost the right order.

Fortunately, big sister Miss M is always at the ready to assist him in matters academic and otherwise. The girl finished kindergarten with finesse and made a wonderfully smooth transition to first grade at a whole new school, thanks both to her genuine love of learning and her wonderful teachers at both campuses. She's thrilled to be reading on her own, and has also discovered the joy of having longer books read aloud. We're currently working through the Little House series, and I can't wait to blow her mind by taking her to Laura Ingalls' old Minnesota homestead next summer.

And my year? Well, you made it to this page, so there's a good shot you've been reading the sporadic updates through the year, and if not ... well, I'll try to keep it brief. I've continued my tenure as a fully-employed professional writer, working with people so nice I'm reluctant to go into detail about them or they'll think I'm just sucking up because they found my blog (hey, guys!). I've tried to balance out the more stressful uses of my free time (e.g. gathering tax-related documents, visiting with lawyers) with completely relaxing-but-not-especially-documentable uses (e.g. reading, seeing how long I can stay in bed before I feel guilty about it). Most of my time off from work was spent with one sick child or the other, but we did manage to make a trip to the ancestral homeland for Corn Capitol Days, and are about to return to the frozen north for Christmas.

I hope that, if you've visited this blog this year, you've found something entertaining or interesting or at least worth your time. I thank you for reading and for letting me share these parts of my life with you.

To me, the spirit of Christmas is love and wonder and joy, and exists for everyone, of all beliefs, to embody and enjoy. I wish you that spirit during this season, as I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

      

My Mama Told Me

Very true things my mother has taught me:

• You should always have something in your closet that you can wear to a funeral, because that’s a terrible time to have to shop.
• You won’t stop feeling sick until you take a shower, put on real clothes and walk around some.
• Cottage cheese in lasagna is an unforgivable sin.
• Clean sheets are one of life’s greatest simple pleasures.
• It’s never too late to love something you were once terrified of.

In Chevron Formation

The advantage of being a blog slacker is that, eventually, other people will cover most of the stuff you’ve missed. And so it’s not really necessary to tell you any more about the gorgeous November Rock-n-Romp, because it’s been so aptly detailed here. And with such great photo documentation and a lovely post by Stacey, plus RJA’s column, there’s really not much more to say about Ravioli Day 2009. And everything I just said right here? Well, Stephanie already beat me to it. The only other thing I can think of to discuss is just how impossibly beautiful the fall weather has been lately, and even with that, I think a picture is worth more than my 1,000 puny words.



(Click it to see full desktop-background-worthy size)

We'll Have A Jubilee Down In Memphis

In the last few sparingly documented months, a milestone silently passed. No, no, not the birth of my new niece Madeleine (heck, that was all over Facebook, anyway). This landmark was a much more bittersweet occasion. I’m speaking, of course, of the close of my first decade as a Memphian. I recently realized I have spent ten years as a resident of the city of Memphis, county of Shelby, state of Tennessee, US of formerly confederated A.

I feel like I should have something insightful or wise to say about that, but really, I’m just baffled. It still boggles my mind that a girl who grew up around lakes and loons is now at home with magnolias and mockingbirds. But have I become a belle in this epoch? No, definitely not. I still feel like I trip over my thick Midwestern tongue whenever I’m around Southerners, and Southern women in particular. There’s an ease and grace and openness that I don’t think I’ll ever master, no matter how well I integrate “y’all” and “ma’am” into my vocabulary.

Memphis is its own particular breed of Southern, of course. It’s the loveable ne’er-do-well, the kid brother who keeps swearing to pay you back that ten bucks he owes you from 2002. (When he took it out of your car. With a hammer.) And also the stage-frightened protégé, the reclusive genius, filled with so much talent but terrified to do anything with it. It’s a big city with seriously small-town self-esteem. Over the last ten years, I’ve grown fond of its foibles and exhausted by its drama. I’ve been its champion and its victim. And I’ve worked hard to raise two native residents who can see their hometown for both its joys and sorrows.

When I was up north (the generic term Memphians use to describe anywhere above the Mason-Dixon, whether it’s Northeast or Midwest) this past weekend, I realized what a homeland limbo I’m in now. Friends from high school marveled at my Southern accent, a cashier at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport asked where in the upper Midwest I was from, and the DeSoto county resident sitting next to me on the plane said I obviously hadn’t lived in Memphis that long. And it’s not just my phonemes that are hard to place. I have Southernized, to a degree. My manners have softened, my pace has slowed, and I’ve learned to make a mean pitcher of sweet tea. But you can’t take the Minnesotan out of the girl, either. Just being in the airport and seeing St. Olaf sweatshirts made my heart ache a little. As we took off from the Lindbergh Terminal, that Mississippian asked me what that big city was over on the horizon, and my voice caught a little as I said Minneapolis. Because in that one word is many others: Wayzata, Minnetonka, Olivia. Guthrie, Walker, Calhoun. Sister. Parents.

And then, two hours later, I landed. I walked out into a perfect Memphis autumn day, and into the hugs of my children and friends. I spent the afternoon playing in my yard, lounging in my house, and hearing stories of what I’d missed. And I had missed it. The pull I felt toward the color-shifting birch trees of Minnesota was, bizarrely but truly, just as strong toward the Dixie Queen on Airways. They may not be comparable in beauty, but they are both vivid markers of their place. And for the past ten years, this place has been my home.

Postscript: it occurred to me this morning that ten years is longer than I've lived, consecutively, in any one place throughout my entire life, and about matches the collective time I've lived in Minnesota. Which explains why it's not unlikely for me to utter the phrase, "Y'all want some pop?"

Why Don't You Write Me?

I'm way behind in both blogging and general daily duties, so I'm going to brazenly rip off Elizabeth (who I think may have subliminally ripped off Craig Ferguson, which is always cool by me) and catch up through the power of the open letter.

Dear Shelby County Business Tax Office Employees,
Look, I know you have a pretty miserable job, what with irate taxpayers in your faces all day. But isn't there a better way to conduct business than to have everyone stand at the same counter, shouting their personal financial issues through the office?

Dear Andy Wise,
You may want to investigate the HVAC system at the Shelby County Business Tax office, because they seem to be pumping in some sort of airborne depressant that makes otherwise stoic taxpayers burst into tears within five minutes of entry.

Dear TN Department of Revenue Tax Enforcement Officers W***** and N*******,
Y'all are very sweet and efficient and professional. You make releasing a payroll garnishment a pleasure.

Dear Rain,
Enough. Seriously.

Dear Sickness,
Would it be too much to ask that you make a decision? We could live with stomach flu, or sudden, brief bursts of fever, or the loitering weeks-long sinus issues, but all of the above is a bit much to handle. Let's focus here.

Dear Dad,
I'm sorry I suck and never call. Thankfully, it looks like your 10-months-pregnant daughter picked up the slack during your week in the hospital and ongoing post-surgical recovery. It's cool, I understand about the will.

Love,
SAM

Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby

I don’t know what it is about six years old, but it seems so much more grown-up than five. Five is kindergarten, learning the alphabet in the correct order and counting to 100. Six is first grade, spelling tests and math flash cards. It’s the leap from child to kid.

Miss M turns six years old tomorrow, and although it’s expected to say that I’m startled by that fact, it seems just exactly right to me. In many ways, she’s always seemed that age – precocious and overly aware of the world occupied by bigger girls. She grew so naturally into the fully verbal version of herself that it’s sometimes hard for me to grasp that the pre-verbal baby was really the same being. Her first years were hard, it has to be said. She was not an easy, laid-back baby, and I eagerly anticipated the movement through the frustrating periods when all she wanted was to walk and talk and couldn’t get her body to cooperate. I don’t miss her as a baby. I am so happy she is in this place now.

And, for the most part, she is, too. She loves school and the independence it offers her. She is gaining confidence every day, in academic as well as social arenas. When we visited Minnesota over the summer, my mother marveled at the formerly-withdrawn little girl who nonchalantly joined in a game with children she’d never seen before. She’s curious about the world around her and enthusiastic about her place in it. It’s a joy to watch her grow into such a smart, strong kid.

She relishes the things she can do and understand now, and I’m grateful for the freedom it gives us both. But sometimes, out of nowhere, she’ll wrap her arms around my waist and rest her head against my stomach, tears starting to well in her eyes. When I ask her if something’s wrong, she says, “I just love you so much.” In these moments, we both remember that she is still my baby girl.

Happy birthday, Miss M. I love you so much.

Girl, Put Your Records On

I started out with the plan to make a Top Five Favorite Songs Ever, but then I thought of a 6th ... and then a 7th ... and then I started listing them chronologically. So what we now end up with is:

My Personal Top Five Songs From Each Of The Past Five Decades:

1960s
"Don't Think Twice (It's Alright)," Bob Dylan
"Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons
"In My Life," The Beatles
"God Only Knows," The Beach Boys
"Try a Little Tenderness," Otis Redding

1970s
"Oh Girl," The Chi-Lites
"Something So Right," Paul Simon
"Thunder Road," Bruce Springsteen
"American Girl," Tom Petty
"Tom Traubert's Blues (Four Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen)," Tom Waits

1980s
"Jessie's Girl," Rick Springfield
"I Could Never Take The Place of Your Man," Prince
"With or Without You," U2
"(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding," Elvis Costello
"You Are The Everything," R.E.M

1990s
"One," U2
"Hallelujah," Jeff Buckley
"Forever Blue," Chris Isaak
"Road to Ensenada," Lyle Lovett
"The Way," Fastball


2000s
"When The Deal Goes Down," Bob Dylan
"Million Faces"/"Loving You," (tie) Paolo Nutini
"Put Your Records On," Corrine Bailey Rae
"Dance With Me," Old 97s

I know there are glaring errors and omissions (where's the Bowie?), but unless I make this a Top 100, or 1000, I'm going to miss some of the songs I really love. But I keep coming back to the fact that these are the songs that define me, for better or worse. Although, obviously, the decades I discovered them don't necessarily correspond with the dates of their releases.

Deride if you must (yes, yes, I said Fastball), but I'd much rather see your own lists. Try it, it's fun!

There's One For You, Nineteen For Me

Probably the only thing more boring than doing your taxes is reading about someone else’s tax issues, but I feel the need to write something about it before I go all Falling Down.

Sometime this last spring – late April, I think? – I received a very intimidating letter from the IRS. It informed me that my business tax return from 2007 was under review and could I please get together my documents and meet with an agent to discuss. Which seemed sort of benign at first, until I realized, “Wait … documents … agent … this is an audit!” But I complied, of course. I took two days off of work so that I could sit in my house and answer questions and provide records for a business that did nothing but lose money for five years. And closed in 2008.

At the end of those two days, I was told that I would be given a report by July 20. “It’ll probably be before then,” the agent said, “but I’ll give it that much time, just in case.” So the weeks went by and I kept waiting for another ominous envelope. And waiting. And waiting. July 20th came and went, and then on July 22, the day before I left for vacation, I got a call from the auditor saying she was going to need some additional information about my personal return, but would send out the business report and I’d have 30 days to get her the other info she needed. She gave me the gist of what I had to come up with, so when I got a thick document request in the mail, I didn’t pore over it. In fact, I didn’t even open it. But I did set about culling my credit card websites for 2-year-old statements (thank you, Chase, for the easy access to archived statements, and suck it, Bank of America, for wanting to charge me $5 each). But I wasn’t in any real hurry, since I hadn’t even gotten the report yet, and figured I had a couple more weeks at least. The auditor was calling a couple times a week with updates, but since they were just informational, I was letting the calls go to voicemail.

And then, on Tuesday, there was a message asking if we could move our Thursday meeting from my house to her office. Wait, wha? What Thursday meeting? I scrambled to get that thick envelope opened, and sure enough, there on the bottom of the second page was a date and time for her to go over the new paperwork. I didn’t think I could get everything she needed in the next 48 hours, so I called back and asked to reschedule, and mentioned that going downtown to her office was going to require me to take half a day off of work. Her schedule was full for the next month, however, and the appointment was going to take three hours regardless, so rather than drag it out any more, I quickly requested Thursday afternoon off and, two days later, hauled my computer and ten pounds of files to the IRS Service Center.

The next three hours were about what I expected. I was shuffled from a gray waiting room to a gray “Interview” room and then proceeded to look over spreadsheets and bank statements, answering questions and explaining my English major accounting process. As the details unfolded, we discovered that I’d made some small errors, but when totaled up, they basically canceled each other out. A little under here, a little over there – came out just the same in the end. There was no malicious intent or devious effort to conceal income. I doofed it up a little, but nothing major.

Which, really, just makes me more upset about the whole thing. If they had spent all this time uncovering some egregious error, I would be stressed about coming up with the money, but at least I’d feel like they had used all of this time to someone’s benefit. But as it is, I have burned more than 10% of my vacation time, not to mention hours of research, document-gathering and sleeplessness, and the IRS has spent at least 30 woman-hours to find out that … we’re square. It’s maddening. It’s absurd. It’s enough to make me dig out statements from 2006 so I can prove that they actually owe me money. Because, by gum, if they can’t make all of this hassle worth their time, I’m sure as heckfire going to make it worth mine.

Apropos Of Nothin

My Top Five Most Hated Songs, in order:

1. "Kokomo," The (alleged) Beach Boys
2. "Deacon Blues," Steely Dan
3. "Red Red Wine," UB40 (I have no quarrel with you, Neil Diamond)
4. "River of Dreams," Billy Joel
5. "All I Wanna Do," Sheryl Crow

I have nothing to say about song quality or lack thereof. I simply hate them all.

And now they're all in my head. Gah!

You Are So Lucky On Your First Day

So while we were still grabbing clean clothes out of our vacation suitcases, it was already time to start up the new fall routine. For the second year in a row, Miss M is at a brand new school and Mr. Baby is starting at a brand new daycare, so the anxiety level was at a peak. Well, mine was, anyway. After a summer of worry and occasional tears, Miss M had recently come to terms with the start of first grade and the move to a new school, and even seemed excited about it. Mr. Baby was blissfully unaware of the changes afoot, although he had shown great enthusiasm for the playground at “new sool!”

Still not entirely sure how I was going to get all three of us ready for the day before 7:15, I had planned to drop the baby off first, thinking this would make it easier to navigate the elementary school crowds later, plus provide me with Miss M’s help to haul in the nap mat, bedding, change of clothes and diapers required by the daycare. About five minutes before I’d intended to leave, however, I realized this plan wasn’t feasible, so I called an audible and reversed the drop-off procedure. I wasn’t sure how much time it would take to get M to her room, so I gave us a wide window.

Turns out, dropping off a child who just two weeks ago was weeping about starting first grade was much easier than anticipated. Parking and crossing an un-crossing-guarded street with two little ones was the hardest part of the process. Once we got to M’s room, she was all confidence, or at least bravery. She gave me a kiss goodbye and walked off without complaint. She hugged her teacher hello and entered her classroom with her head held up, although once inside, she seemed a little less sure of what to do. I had to leave before her look of determined fear-conquering broke my heart in half.

Mr. Baby’s drop-off, unfortunately, was heart-breaking in other ways. Once we got to his school, he put on his little backpack and marched all the way into his classroom without a care in the world. It was pretty much the most adorable thing that has ever happened on Earth, except for maybe the sneezing baby panda. But then he realized I was leaving. And oh, did he have cares. His cares were audible all the way out into the parking lot. I know he’s an agreeable child, and I knew he would recover and most likely have a good day, but it was still a very rough start. He didn’t seem so much sad as … betrayed. Like, he knew all about this school thing, but no one told him he had to go without any of his people.

The pick-up report was that he had in fact calmed down quickly and been a model of citizenship throughout the day, but the next morning, he was much warier as we approached the doors. I’ve been through this process several times now, and I know, logically, that it’s going to be better before I know it, but man, that just does not make these first weeks any easier.

On the plus side, Miss M had a great first day and has remained eager and positive about her new school and class. She’s being tested and assessed and will be placed in her permanent classroom at the end of the week, so I’m hoping that she’s just as happy about where she ends up as she is about where she is now.

It's A Long Way Home For The Summer

When I was growing up, the start of August meant we were in the homestretch of summer. There were still a few weeks left to enjoy long evenings, late bedtimes, and Facts of Life re-runs. No school I ever attended began before Labor Day. But for my kids, and all kids in Memphis, August is the very end of the line. By Labor Day weekend, they’ve been closed up in their classrooms for a month. So it was with particular pleasure that, during the last weekend of July, I scooped up the children and skedaddled out of town for the most traditional of our family’s summer activities: Corn Capital Days.

As a child, I spent all year looking forward to the two weeks we spent in my parents’ hometown of Olivia, MN. We lived in Pittsburgh during my formative years, and we would load up the car (usually a Jeep Wagoneer, although there was one memorable Summer of Fuego), with our sleeping bags, books, cooler and games, and hit the road for a non-stop, 21-hour trip across the upper Midwest. It sounds like an interminable misery, but it actually wasn’t so bad, and the promise of freedom - of Gramma’s house, of small town streets, of 9pm sunsets - made it all worthwhile.

This year was the first time in Mr. Baby’s life, and the first time since Miss M’s toddlerhood, that we were able to make the pilgrimage to Olivia for this event. (Mr. Baby had actually been to Olivia twice before, under much sadder circumstances.) We were spared the road trip aspect by Pops’ very generous gift of frequent flyer miles, shrinking the travel time from 15 hours to two, but air-traveling alone with two small children in post-9/11 airports, I think I still got a glimpse of the tension my dad used to feel when driving unfamiliar Chicago roads at rush hour. We made it without major incident, though, and after a day to recoup in the suburban buffer zone, we made the last leg of our trek down highway 212, to the seat of Renville County.

Things may change over the years, but the feel of a small town is hard to mess with. Even with the high school knocked down from three storeys to one, the shiny new playground equipment in the parks, and the tragic loss of the Ben Franklin general store from the anchoring corner of downtown, Olivia still looks, feels, sounds and smells like Olivia. The streets still come to a dead stop at the edge of town, flanked by endless seas of corn and soybeans. The summer evenings still come on with air cooled by the moisture rising from the fields. The hours are marked by St. Aloysius’ bells, although the coo of mourning doves is just as reliable for indicating that it’s suppertime. And the smell of earth and growth, dusty roads and damp furrows, diesel tractor engines and truck beds full of sweet corn, make up an olfactory environment that has remained constant throughout my life, and I suspect for generations before me.

Speaking of those generations, the other great joy of our yearly trips to Olivia was the chance to see relatives that were otherwise out of reach. In Pittsburgh, we were a family of four, with no other family for 1000 miles. But in Minnesota, we were surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins of all degrees. My father alone has 64 FIRST cousins, many of whom still lived near the house he grew up in. The house my grandfather built with his own hands, his wife and four sons living in the basement while he finished the floor above.

I didn’t take the kids to Olivia expecting them to instantly warm to or appreciate the extended family that had traveled from all over the country to be there at the same time - 31 in total, not counting the hyper-extended family I probably passed in the street without even knowing it. I just wanted them to see the faces and learn the names, and I held some hope that the next time we came to visit, they might be a little less shy. So I was astonished when, within an hour of our arrival, Miss M had thrown off her bashful guise and was running from pool to playground with her cousins, chasing after great-aunts and –uncles she hadn’t seen in years, and doing it all without a glance in my direction. She was instantly comfortable in a way I have never before witnessed. It seemed like she just naturally knew that this was her place and these were her people.

I caught glimpses of her as she finished off her cob at the corn feed, or chased after the candy tossed at the Grand Parade, or zipped off with her uncles in the golf cart, and those glimpses looked so familiar it was startling. At the end of the day, I would track her down in whatever lap she ended up in, and she would tell me she was ready to go to bed. After my sense of reality recovered from that statement, I would tuck her into the rollaway in the basement, a large, dark room with a formica bar and stone fireplace hearth that provided countless hours of childhood entertainment for my sister and me. Both nights there, she went to sleep without a word of complaint, so exhausted and content she didn’t even have anything contrary to say about sleeping in a windowless cellar.

Unfortunately, Mr. Baby had a little anxiety that kept him from fully enjoying the trip – namely, his body-shaking terror over coming in proximity with a dog – but I think that’s something he’ll outgrow by next year. In the meantime, I’m still fulfilled by the knowledge that I can share part of my childhood with my children, as well as provide the same connection to our roots that has been the grounding force throughout my life.