Happy Holiday Mugs

Our holiday mugs: Will (coffee with cream and sugar), Becky (coffee with cream), and Katie (hot cocoa)

Will came home with a Santa coffee mug the other day.

"Where's mine?" I asked.

Will smiled like, well look who's back on her sertraline and said, "You want a Santa mug?" 

"Maybe not a Santa mug, but some kind of festive mug would be nice."

Will raised his eyebrows and kissed me on the cheek.

We took Katie to the craft store Michaels to see if they had any paint-your-own nativity sets.  While looking through their holiday supplies, Will found some festive mugs.

"Look here, Babe.  Do you really want a Christmas mug?" he asked.

"Sure," I said and began picking one out.

"Can I have one too?" Katie asked, lining up in front of the selection.

"Sure!" Will and I said in unison.

And now we're the kind of family that each has a festive holiday mug.  Now I've got to go drink coffee and cocoa with my crew while we watch A Charlie Brown Christmas.

Best Query Rejection Ever

I've read some literary agents' blogs that offer advice to novice writers about the best way to query agents so they'll want to help you get your book published.  Never have I read a writer's response to a literary agent to help them help them get their book published.  That's too bad.  Why does it have to be so one-sided?  Since I've become a mother, I realize how much my child has to teach me about life.  Couldn't literary agents also learn from writers?

Just before Thanksgiving, I emailed ten query letters to ten literary agents.  I've compiled forty-six of the best essays from This Ambiguous Life, framing them as chapters of a memoir about mental health and body acceptance called My Body: From Anorexia and Anxiety to Body Acceptance and Bravery.  The manuscript also includes a previously unpublished chapter about my brother’s death and my decision to talk openly as a sexual abuse survivor.

It's pretty heavy, I know. It will take time to find the right literary agent. I've received three rejection responses to my query letters so far. Three out of ten ain't bad. At least they're responding. When I queried agents for my fiction manuscript, the one that's currently residing at the back of my desk drawer, the majority of them didn't even bother responding.

One of the responses I got this time is so great, even though it's a rejection, it fills me with hope. And isn't that ultimately what an unpublished writer needs most? Hope. Nothing triggers writer's block more than no hope. It's romantic and all to say that I write because I'm compelled to, whether or not others ever read my words. But I'm no Emily Dickinson. If I wrote just for writing's sake, I'd be a diarist. I'm not. I'm a blogger. My intent is to share my words with the world. My hope is to get my memoir published, because that's when more people start paying attention.
So, if you're a literary agent reading this blog, thank you. And also, take note. This is the best query rejection I've ever received:

Thanks for letting me take a look. I'm afraid this doesn't seem like the right project for me, but I'm sure other agents will feel differently. Best of luck placing your work!  --Monica Odom

Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus

According to this news report, when it comes to toddlers, messier eaters make better learners and make better sense of their world than tidier toddlers do.

Katie is seven and she's still a messy eater.  She must be a freakin genius.

No, seriously, I'm way less concerned about Katie's messy eating habits than I was before Katie and I discovered the wonderful book,  Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus.  Now whenever I look at Katie covered in food goo, instead of nagging her once again to use her napkin and utensils, I remind myself of the wonderful story, about a tiger cub whose father worries that he's not keeping up with his peers on all sorts of developmental milestones, but the cub's mother lets him be and tells the father that he'll bloom in his own time.   This compassionate story helps me understand that my child will learn whatever she needs to know in her own time.  If I model good dining ettique, eventually Katie will catch on and quit trying to eat oatmeal with her hands.

Or, maybe I could learn a thing or two by emulating my daughter.  I sure do love Ethiopian food.  I thought it was the spices, but maybe it's the act of eating with my hands triggering something different in my brain that I like.  Maybe I'm the one who should start eating with my hands instead of nagging Katie to stop eating with hers.  I wonder if this messy learning works on adults?

I know something that works on both children and adults.  Reading together.  It's one of the best things you can do for each other.  Check out Leo the Late Bloomer from your local library.  Or, it'd make a great holiday gift for anyone with a child of lap-sitting age.

Orphan Messenger

***Caution: this post contains both a gruesome true-crime story and video of adorable, adoptable cats.  Something for everyone!

I love crazy cat ladies.  Especially this one who hosts Christmas Cats TV.  Have you seen it?  Watch as this grandmotherly cat lady sits in her rocker knitting and hanging out with some awesome adoptable cats.  What a hilariously strange way to raise awareness of all the wonderful cats available for adoption this holiday season through the North Shore Animal League.

I imagine if it weren't for Will keeping me grounded, I might end up a crazy cat lady too.  I've heard Will shout so many times, "No!" whenever I'd mention something about us rescuing another orphaned pet that I long ago gave up asking.  Now I just bombard my Facebook friends with pictures of desperate orphaned pets, hoping someone will come forward and save them.  I know I can't reasonably save all the world's pets by myself, but I can do my best to raise awareness so others can help.  I can be an orphaned-pet messenger, even if I can't adopt them all.

Will knows I'm a pet-rescue addict, but over the years, with his guidance, I've learned to change my pet-hoarder tendencies.  

"You wouldn't have as much time to care for the pets we already have if you brought in more," Will reasons with me.

He's right.  When Will first met me, I was living in a one-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor with my ex-girlfriend, six cats, and three dogs.  Dogs we had to either walk down nine flights of stairs with or wait for the old elevator to get to our floor so we could take them outside, in whatever weather, to go potty.  I barely had time to pet them all.  I don't even remember all the cats' names.  I started to view my caretaking duties as a pain and not a privilege.  Now that we live in a three-bedroom ranch with a fenced-in back yard, and we're down to two dogs and one cat, I have more time to sit and do the thing you're supposed to do with orphaned animals you bring into your home: pet them.

So yes, without Will to restrain my urge to help abandoned animals, I could see myself, easily, ending up with endless orphaned cats and dogs, spending more money on pet food than the electric bill, sitting under a pile of blankets covered in pet fur, lap cats covering every square inch of my lap.  No room for my laptop.  No room for me to write about their plight.

So I've learned to rely on others to help too.  If we each do a small part, change happens.  

I joke about what a crazy animal lover I am, but I'm not the only one.  Lots of my friends say with a straight face that they like hanging out with their pets more than people.  I get it.  If you scroll through Google News on any given day, you'll see so many reports of humans abusing, raping, killing each other, it's easy to understand why many people would prefer to sit at home and pet their pet instead of going outside to face the brutal world.

And it is brutal, but not always.  Especially not with crazy cat ladies around, saving the world one feline at a time, even if it seems like too daunting of a task to do so. 

Humans are not the only animals who are concerned about orphans of other species.  Watch this video below, but be warned.  If you are out of tissue, go to the store now.  It's touching.  
   



This Huffington Post article about the video describes what happens:

A 2-year-old leopard cub named Legadema had just made her first kill -- a baboon -- when a baby emerged from the dead animal's pouch. Unexpectedly, Legadema ignored her meal, gently carried the baby to the safety of a tree, and began to care for the newborn.

Perhaps living beings will never fully get over their killer instincts--how odd that we often feel we must end anothers' life to survive--but it's good to see that most adults in many species across the globe recognize that orphans must be cared for, especially the ones whose orphan status is a direct result of your killer instinct.

When I saw the video above, I immediately thought there are human beings who could learn a lesson in empathy from this wild beast.  If a leopard can pay more attention to her maternal instinct than her killer instinct, why can't humans? We live under the false assumption that humans are the only animals that possess elevated emotions such as empathy and regret.  This is simply untrue.  Some individual animals respond to their inner kindness more than some individual people do.  Perhaps it's possible for any sentient being to learn to change.  

While watching the video of the leopard caring for the orphaned baby baboon whose mother it had killed, I thought of the horrifying human tragedy that happened in my part of the globe last summer.  Myeisha Turner, 28, and her three year old daughter Damyiah White were murdered in Kansas City.  The murderer is still at large. Whoever this killer is, he or she walks free after leaving Myeisha Turner's son, Damyiah White's brother, a one-year-old, to wander among their dead bodies for who knows how many days.

A leopard in the wild has the decency to care for the baby of its prey.  This human killed not just a mother, but a child, and left a baby, orphaned and alone, to fend for himself on that horrible summer day.

What kind of person would do that?  Can that kind of inhumanity be overcome and the killer's life be turned around?  Can a murderer who ignores the needs of the victim's orphan unlearn such unimaginable hate?  Is the effort worth it for us to try to help?

If not, what else can we do?  Sit back and just watch it happen?  I can't.  I gotta at least share the story.  Maybe someone is out there who can help.  Please, you share it too.  If we each do a small part, change happens.  

Yesterday the amazing human rights activist Nelson Mandela died.  PBS shared on its Facebook page a photo with one of my favorite quotes that the great Mandela left with us on earth:

source

The man who spent twenty-seven years in prison, but still manged to free his people.  His exemplary life proves hateful minds can learn to love.

Police and activists in Kansas City need witnesses to come forward with information about the murders of Myeisha Turner and Damyiah White, so someone who values human life so little can be kept off our streets until they unlearn to hate.  This crime occurred at 55th and Wabash, but I don't care where you live. All victims of unsolved murders deserve us to treat each other's streets as our own.

If you have any information that could help police on this case, please call the TIPS Hotline at 816-474-TIPS (474-8477).

Missouri's Marijuana Laws are Bad for Families

Jeff Mizanskey is a sixty year old man from Missouri.  Twenty years ago, he was convicted on a non-violent marijuana charge and sentenced to life in prison without parole.  Yeah.  He's gonna die there.  

One of Mizansky's two sons was just thirteen years old when his father was arrested.  He was interviewed for this incredible story in The Riverfront Times, a local St. Louis area newspaper.  

"We missed out on a lot not having him around," says Chris of his dad's prison term. "He always took us fishing and hunting, he made sure we went to school, he did all those things. If he was around, I wouldn't have had to quit school and go to work. I think maybe I'd have a lot more going for me today."  

When I was thirteen years old I was rolling my eyes at my dad, calling him an asshole when I felt he deserved it, but mostly just ignoring him.  As much as Dad and I fought during my teenage years, I understand now how lucky I was to have him in my life.  Sure, he was an imperfect father.  He was cranky and volatile.  He was too often mean to my mom, to my siblings--his step-children--and to me.  He was gross and annoying.  But you know what?  He was there.  

He went to work every day and came home every night.  He paid for the roof over our heads even if I refused to spend much time in the same room with him.  He bought me my first car.  Then my second car when the first one died.  Sure, I ended up giving it back to him after a particularly bad fight we had so I wouldn't feel like I owed him anything, but we tried.  All these years later, living on my own, without Dad's support, I still feel like I owe him something for providing me with my cushy middle-class up-bringing.  Even if he was often a pain in my tushy.

Before Mom married my dad she was a single mother raising four young children in the late 1960s.  My brothers and sisters grew up thinking that sausage was hamburger because it was twenty cents a pound cheaper, so Mom made them sausage burgers instead of hamburgers.  If they were lucky and it wasn't fried bologna sandwiches night.

After Mom married my dad, her life and the life of her children improved.  She could give birth to me, quit her job and focus on raising the kids and taking care of the home.  My dad bought the kids new bicycles for Christmas one year.  We consumed hamburger galore.  And pop.  And we got to go to the drive-in theater, and Worlds of Fun once a year.  And we got to eat out at an actual restaurant like once a month or so.  We were living the high life compared to how Mom and her kids lived before Dad came into their lives.

Dad doesn't talk about it, but I understand now that he cared for me to the best of his ability.  He didn't tell me he loved me until I was in my early thirties.  He was living in his winter home in Texas when I got a phone call from him.  I was living in Overland Park, Kansas.  He was getting ready to go in for bypass heart surgery--having had another one twenty-one years prior--and figured he should probably let me know what was going on.

"Don't drive down here.  I'm fine.  There's nothing you could do but sit in the waiting room.  You might as well just wait at home.  I'll call you when I can," he said.

As we began to get off the phone I could feel my hot cheeks and my heart pounding inside my chest.  I had never told my Dad I loved him, but, you know, he could die in this surgery so--

"I love you,  Dad," I said breathlessly like I'd run up to the phone from a million miles away.

"I love you, too," Dad said in a heartbeat.

He was fine.  He's still alive and kicking and being an occasional pain in my ass.  But now whenever we get off the phone I say I love you and he says I love you too.  It's strange and awkward but really good too.

My parents were both pretty lenient about my upbringing.  Dad let mom make most of the decisions regarding my care, and Mom subscribes to a laissez-faire style of parenting: back off and see what happens.  All of us kids are creative and funny and caring.  I think much of where we get this is from Mom letting us do our own thing without a lot of rules encumbering us.  Or maybe it's in our genetic code.  Who knows how much both nature and nurture influence us? 

I never became an alcoholic despite having easy access to alcohol growing up, and plenty of relatives on both sides of the family with addictions to alcohol.  I like to drink.  I even like to get drunk once or twice a year when I know I'm not driving.  But I've never felt like alcohol empowers me any more than good music and good conversation does.  To me, alcohol is just part of party life.  It's celebratory and relatively harmless.  It's been easy for me to put down the bottle when the party's over. 

When I asked for a bottle of pink champagne for my fourteenth birthday, because I'd read in Star Hits Magazine that the members of Duran Duran drank pink champagne, Mom and Dad were unfazed by my request.  On the table at my birthday party sat a bottle of chilled pink champagne along with a chocolate cake Mom had decorated with the words "Happy 14th Birthday, Becky".  I remember to this day the thrill I felt clanking glasses with my parents in our kitchen before we each took a drink.  How grown up I felt at that moment.

"Now we don't mind you having sip of alcohol here and there at home around us, but that's it.  No drinking anywhere else," Dad said firmly, then smiled and licked his lips.  Dad kept a six pack of Hamm's beer in the fridge the whole time I was growing up.  For all I know it could have been the same six pack of beer, moved from fridge to fridge with each move we made.  I remember seeing Dad drink a beer once or twice, but that's it.  Before I knew a lot about dad's family background, I sometimes wished he'd drink a little more to loosen up.

I never felt that way about Mom.  Mom's already pretty loosey-goosey.  She's funny and open-minded and sometimes dingy, just like a drunk person, only it's her natural personality.  She doesn't need alcohol to be the life of the party.  A couple weeks ago I had a Big Lebowski Birthday party where we all sat around in our robes, drinking White Russians, except for Mom.  She wore her robe, but she drank water.  Still, my friend wrote this on our bathroom wall:

I bitch a lot about my dad, but when I think back on it, now that things have settled down between us, and we've both mellowed with age and sertraline, I'm glad Dad's in my life.  I think he's always been glad I've been in his.  He just had subtle ways of saying it without actually saying it.  Like coming home every night from work.

Sometimes he was more obvious in his caring.

When I was sixteen Dad handed me a laminated quarter.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Put that in your billfold.  Use it at a payphone if you ever get stranded somewhere and you're too drunk to drive home," he commanded.  "We don't want you to drink when you're not at home, but your mother and I both know how teenagers are.  I still remember the time my buddy Hermie fell out of the car while he was driving and I had to slide over and take over the wheel.  We were dumb lucky kids..." Dad said, his words trailing off.

Dad claims he drank a lot in high school, but I've never known him to be a big drinker.  He gave it up when he became a dad.  He wanted to be responsible.  Not like his dad.  He could have easily been a drunk too, but instead Dad became a workaholic.  The bartender might have called me to come pick Dad up when I was a teenager like Dad had to pick up his dad at the local bar.  Sometimes Dad would find his dad literally passed out in the gutter in front of the bar with puke on his face.  I often found my dad passed out in front of the TV with popcorn stuck to his chest hairs, which at the time I thought was pretty traumatizing, but I now understand how much worse it could have been. 

I remember getting so sick of hearing Mom telling me to count my blessings.  "At least you have a father who's at home every night.  Your brothers and sisters haven't seen their dad since they were young kids," she would say and I would feel guilty.

Mom's first husband split after she divorced him when she discovered he'd been cheating on her.  She had tolerated his squandering the family's money at bars, his lack of participation in childcare or housework, but when she found out he was cheating on her, and so unoriginally--with his secretary--she had enough.  My siblings were 8, 6, 4, and 3 at the time.

Pat was the four year old.  By the time he was forty-nine he was dying of liver failure.  Pat's dad actually flew back to see him.  Everyone was surprised.  Pat had only seen his biological father maybe a handful of times since he was four years old.

What would have been different if Pat's dad had played a more important role in his son's life?  No matter how imperfect a parent is, more often than not, having that parent around is going to make your life better.

When I think about the case of Jeff Mizanskey, sitting in prison for life for a non-violent marijuana conviction, unable to participate in his son Chris's life, I wonder what the hell is wrong with the drug laws in our country.  Alcohol, which contributes to many deaths, is perfectly legal in our great nation, but pot, which has never killed anyone, is not?  

How can it be that if Jeff Mizansky were caught with marijuana today, twenty years later, just two states away in Colorado, he wouldn't be arrested and he certainly wouldn't be rotting in prison at the taxpayer's expense?  How can it be that the citizens of Colorado voted to legalize marijuana in their state, but Missouri still has a three-strikes-you're-out law that sends non-violent offenders to prison for life, away from their kids, for something that naturally grows on God's green earth?  

The part of the story that breaks my heart the most is this.  Apparently Mr. Mizanskey was self-medicating in an effort to stay away from alcohol because he'd seen what it did to his dad:

"I did construction work, and I'd be sore when I got home. So I smoked a joint," Mizanskey explains in the Riverfront Times story. "I didn't drink. I didn't like to drink because my father was an alcoholic and I had seen that growing up. So I smoked."

If you'd like to help get Mr. Mizanskey released from prison so he can reconnect with his family, here is more information, including video, about his case.  Mizanskey's attorney is working on an effort to get people to write letters to Governor Nixon and contact his constituents' office at 573-751-3222.  If you live in Missouri, I encourage you to contact Governor Nixon and let him know what you think.

Update 1/14/14:

Here is a petition asking Governor Jay Nixon to give Mr. Mizansky clemency.  Please sign it.  Thank you!

Update 9/3/15:

Jeff Mizanskey has been released from prison! Now he can spend time with his family. Thanks to all of you who worked on this case and who continue to fight for justice.

Evo-love

I've gone to church three weeks in a row. I don't know what the hell has come over me, but I love it.  

I never thought of myself as a particularly churchy person.  Jesusy: that's what gifted writer Anne Lamott calls them.  She begins her amazing essay about searching for the meaning of grace during the Advent season like this: 

We are now in the third week of Advent, which is a big time of year for my Jesusy people.

I love that.  Both the invention of the word Jesusy, and the concept of "my people".  A tribe.  A community.  A group of people bigger than oneself that can accomplish things we cannot do alone.  

I'd like to have something like that.  A family, but even broader.  Deeper.  Something to both take from and share my gifts with.

I never thought I'd want to join a church though.  Most of the churches I'd attended previously, most, not all, but still, they made me either feel like I was crazy or narcoleptic.  

Katie showed an interest in attending church.  I don't believe in discouraging kids from seeking answers to their questions from all sorts of sources, as long as I see they are not harmful.  So what the heck?  The kid wants to go to church.  I'll take her to church.  I can sit through a couple of hours of daydreaming while the parishioners chant "Our Father..." in a tone resembling that of a cashier who's been on her feet for seven hours and forty-five minutes telling you to have a nice day.

But I was wrong this time.  

The people at Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church don't seem to be just going through the motions.  Everywhere you look there are barrels and tables to put donations--food, clothes, diapers, Christmas gifts.  There are signs plastered on the wall urging you to join their group that ministers to the poor, the hungry, the homeless.  You know.  God's children.  The ones Jesus is said by his biographers to have commanded we love.  Not just the ones who smell good.  Not just the ones who tell good jokes.  Not just the ones who have the ability to give back and overcome and serve.  All. 

I'm hearing the term social justice through the halls of this church nearly as much as I did back in college when I went through my phase as a sociology major.

I had no idea the chants and sermons and song would affect me in such a positive way.  I find myself joining along.  Something bigger than myself.  To soothe my worries when I'm down.  To give me other people to prop up when I'm up. 

I used to think joining a church is an exclusionary act.  When you join a group of people, you automatically exclude the people outside that group who have not, perhaps yet, perhaps never, joined the group.  You are saying "We are us, you are them."  Us and Them makes me queasy.  I'm a Wish You Were Here kinda chick myself.  Unless you're talking about the Pink Floyd songs and not the concept of exclusion vs inclusion, in which case I like them equally well.

But now that I see there exists a church that is at its most basic a community of people who have agreed to follow the guidance of Jesus and love all people, I'm feeling kinda Jesusy.  It's good to see people who treat love as it is: an action verb.

I might find that I disagree with some rules and regulations of the church.  I always do.  That's at the core of my very being, being disagreeable.  But it's cool to find a place to hang out with people who want to do their part to make peace on this earth.

So, just to clarify things a bit, here's a brief summary of my personal spiritual beliefs, whether or not they align perfectly with church doctrine:

I believe that since energy can be neither created nor destroyed, we are all part of the source of that energy, which you can call God if you like.  Some beings throughout history have been more attuned to their inner energy.  Jesus told us He was the Son of God.  I believe we are all God's Children.  I believe in science and evolution.  I also believe that human beings have an inexplicable side to them that goes beyond understanding but is felt if we open ourselves up through reflection.  You can call that prayer if you like.

Mostly, I believe in love.  I yearn for world peace, both internal and external, personal and political, but even my bleeding heart sees how unachievable that dreams seem to be.  But when I work on loving people to my best ability, all people, included on that list myself, I feel tingly and good about myself and my position in the cycle of life.

Now, that may or may not jibe with the Presbyterian view of things, but a lesson I relearn daily lately is that just as not all gay people think alike, not all straight people think alike, not all men think alike, not all women think alike, not all atheists think alike, not all religious people think alike.  Two Freds, Fred Rogers and Fred Phelps, can both call themselves Christians but we don't have to think that means the same thing.

I'd love for our culture to evo-love, evolve with love, into one in which we love and respect all people.  All.  Period.  I get that vibe from this church.  So I'll go until I no longer get the vibe.

I'd like to end this post by sharing with you three video clips from the inimitable Vlogbrothers, John and Hank Green, about God and religion and churchy things that are kinda awkward to talk about but inspirational to hear.  The Greens are so good at that sort of thing.

Peace and love to you!

On Religion (uploaded June 20, 2011) - John

Do You Believe In God? (uploaded June 22, 2011) - Hank's response


On Religion (Redux) - John summing up

Santa Issues

The other day I asked Katie if she wants to see Santa this year, now that she knows the truth about him.  She said no.

I must have had a crestfallen look on my face because she mirrored mine and seeing her face made me feel worse.  I plastered on a fake smile and said in my most supportive voice, "Oh, it's OK.  You're allowed to grow up."

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

Yesterday Katie asked me what's Santa's address.  

"It's just The North Pole.  There's no street name or number or anything since it's just Santa and Mrs. Claus who live there," I explained.  "Well, and the elves..."

I'm way more into the whole Santa fantasy now that our seven-year-old actually knows it's just pretend.  Just like how I'll gladly engage in conversation with her about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Greg Heffley.  I'll "play pretend" with my daughter as much as she wants.

"OK, Mommy, you're the teacher.  Your name is Mrs. Carleton.  I'm a new student.  My name is Kaylee.  This is my first day of school.  I'm an orphan.  My mommy and daddy died so I was sent to this boarding school to live and to go to school.  So you're like my teacher and my mom.  OK?"  Katie will say.

"Sure.  Why did your parents die?" I'll dig deeper so I can really get into character.

"Oh, ya know.  I dunno.  They died when our house burnt down," Katie will say.

I'll get a horrified look on my face and say, "Ugh.  But you got out of the house fire alive?"  I'll continue.

Katie will nod her head somberly.

"Wow," I'll say.  "You must really miss your parents."

"Yeah," Katie will say, looking away wistfully.  She'd make an excellent silent movie star.

Before she knew the truth about Santa, whenever Katie'd ask me a question about him I was incredibly vague, having vowed not to lie to my child.

"But what if someone lives in a house that doesn't have a chimney?" Katie would ask.

"Hmm.  I don't know.  What do you think happens?" I'd stall by answering her question with a question.

"Maybe Santa comes through their front door?" Katie would suggest.

"Smart thinking, Punk.  I bet that's what happens..." I'd say and then quickly change the subject.

I got away with evading her Santa questions until one day, when Katie was about five, we were sitting together on the couch and, apropos of nothing, she asked, "Mommy, is Santa real?"

I immediately felt like throwing up.  My heart started racing.  I could feel the sweat collect on my forehead.  What should I tell her?  What should I say?  I told Will I'd play along with the charade until she asked me flat out and then I'd tell her the truth.  But she's so young.  It's fun to see her face light up over the magic of it all...

In my panic, I stood up from the couch and heard a crunch under my feet.  I looked down and saw that I had--thank God--accidentally stepped on one of Katie's favorite video tapes my mom had picked up at the Catholic Charities thrift store where she volunteered.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed.  "I think I broke your video, Honey!"

Katie burst into tears.  I begged her forgiveness.  She forgave me and promptly forgot what we had been talking about before all the commotion.

Whew!  I got out of that one!

Will does not think telling kids that Santa Claus is real is lying per se.  He's way more traditional than I am about holidays in general, especially Christmas.  He's also much more mentally well adjusted than I am.  He did not move to a strange new city when he was six years old and have the girl down the street start laughing at him and saying, "You still believe in Santa Claus?  You're such a baby!" He didn't run home and tell his mom what happened and have his heart drop into his belly when she looked back at him with gentle eyes and said, "Oh, Honey.  She's right.  Santa is not real, but he lives in our hearts..." like I did.  I will never forgive that neighbor girl for shattering my dreams and making me feel foolish--like all the big kids and grownups were playing a mean trick on me.

But I'm glad my mom told me the truth.  To this day, I cannot stand liars.  I'd much rather hear the cold hard truth than feel like I'm missing out on some key information everyone else knows.  As the youngest of six kids, I think I have Little Sister Syndrome.

Will understands that he married a woman with more than just Little Sister Syndrome.  I have Santa issues.  I understand that I married a man who's a big Santa fan.  He knew I'd tell her the truth when the time came.  I played along til the bitter end until, when she was six, Katie asked me again, flat out, "Mom, is Santa real?"  I had no video tape around to step on, so I told her the truth.

I took a deep breath and said, "Oh, Honey.  Santa is not real, but he lives in our hearts..."

"OK," Katie said, like no-big-deal.  "I thought so."  Then she looked off into the distance and said, "I think Santa was real on one day.  Do you know what day that was, Mom?"

"No, what day was Santa real?" I played along.

"The day Jesus was born," she explained.

I didn't even want to get into how I felt about the likelihood of that having happened.  "Oh yeah?" I asked.  "You mean like Santa was one of the Three Wise Men?"

"Yeah," Katie nodded her head like yeah, that sounds about right.

We talk a lot now about what is real and what is from our imagination.  These philosophical discussions with a seven-year-old are often the brightest part of my day.  I love being able to talk openly with my child about all the things that come into our minds.

I still get a twinge of sadness that she's growing up, though.  I mean, I want her to grow up.  That's kind of the point of it all.  It's hard to watch my baby need me less and less each day, just as it's wonderful to watch her grow and come into her own.

"Can I put this letter in the mailbox, Mom?" Katie called from the kitchen table.

"What letter?" I called from my computer keyboard.

"My letter to Santa Claus," she said, plainly.

I smiled.  What the heck?  "Sure," I said, playing along.

A few minutes passed before Katie called out again, "Mom.  I know you're really Santa Claus, so here you go."

I heard something light land on the stairs.  I walked over and found the letter, addressed to Noth Pole.

My girl is old enough to know I'm Santa but she's not old enough to know how to spell North Pole.  Thank God she hasn't grown up that much yet. 

You Realize This Will End Up In My Blog, Right?

My sister Kit sent me this awesome t-shirt for my birthday:

First thing I did was try it on and have Will take a picture of me in it so I could post it on my blog.

Thanks, Sis!  You know me well.

Bonobos Don't Give a Shit about Your Parking Spot, Man

WVVA TV Bluefield Beckley WV News, Weather and Sports

After watching this news report about two men who were arrested when they got into a knife fight over a parking space at Walmart on Thursday night--on Thanksgiving, when we celebrate family, friends and loved ones and give thanks for the blessings we have--I am reminded of the primatology class I took at the community college years ago.  We studied primates of all kinds, monkeys, apes, humans.  My favorite primates are the bonobos.  They are not aggressive over territory like other primates, including humans, are.  Bonobos are the hippies of the primate world.  They make love, not war.  Over every disagreement.  They have an fascinating culture.

Humans could learn about cooperation and harmony from our primate cousins.  I'm staying home today to focus my attention on bonobos, a distraction from the Black Friday madness.  Of course not everyone who likes to go shopping for good deals on Black Friday is a violent crazy person like the two in the above video.  But dude, there's a website that keeps track of the injuries and deaths...yes I said deaths, that take place on this day each year.

Yeah.  I know.

If  you need a break from your fellow humans right now, why not watch a video about one of our more peaceful cousins, the bonobos.  Bonobos don't give a shit about your parking spot, man.

Sugarcubes Country

Will and I had only been dating a short while when he bought me a car stereo.  I was so excited I had to run inside his folks' house and puke in their toilet.  Will was still living at home not because he's a slacker but because I'm a cradle robber.  He was just twenty-one at the time.  I was thirty-one.

His parents, of course, thought I was pregnant and asked Will about it after I left.  He laughed and said no, I'm just weird.  My natural response to someone giving me a thoughtful gift is not to hug them and say thank you but to run away from them and vomit.  The fact that Will is OK with my weirdness is exactly why I married him.

source

The CD player is starting to die.  It refuses to play most CDs now, and even if it accepts one, more times than not it makes it difficult to get it back.  As Will's first gift to me is weakening, my love for Will grows stronger with the passing of time.  I still get butterflies in my stomach when my memory takes me back in time to when Will gave it to me.

It's too old to have a slot to plug in a digital device.  I like that because it means my love for Will is also old.  Our only option now is the radio.  Which is not ideal, but it's the tightwads' best option.  I'd prefer to listen to Patti Smith's "Horses" CD in its entirety than to Miley Cyrus's "Wrecking Ball" for the kazillionth time this month if I had my druthers, but my druthers are pretty picky and prefer not spending money on a new car stereo until this one completely conks out.

Not all songs on the radio suck.  I actually like Daft Punk's song "Get Lucky," especially when Katie sings along with me on road trips.

My sister and brother-in-law live in a tiny town surrounded by farmland in northwestern Missouri.  As we cruised down the interstate on our drive to their house for Thanksgiving dinner, Will, Katie, and I were listening to 96.5 The Buzz, an alternative rock radio station from Kansas City.  OK, we were actually mostly listening to Mix 93.3, a top-40 pop station from Kansas City, because Will is such an excellent daddy and Katie likes to sing along to the teeny-bop pop songs she hears at her school's roller skating parties.  During commercial breaks, I'd switch it over to the alternative rock station to give myself a break from the overly-autotuned crowd.

As we rolled along the hills of the state highway, getting closer to my sister and brother-in-law's house, just as we crested a peak and saw a herd of cows grazing, seemingly oblivious to either the cold air surrounding them or the sunshine up above, to my utter surprise I heard a song that took me back to my seventeen-year-old self, a weirdo wearing homemade hippie clothes hanging out with my friends clad in black from eye liner to black canvass shoes they got at the Asian market at the mall.  A friend once called me a Pippy - a punk-hippie.  I rarely felt like an outcast among this group of outcasts.  The group of punks, gay kids, and art students I hung out with in high school were the most accepting group I'd ever encountered.  I have many fond memories of drinking too much Boone's Farm and running down the hill at "The Big Dick in the Sky," what us churlish kids called the Liberty World War I Memorial back in the day.

"Oh my gosh!" I exclaimed.

Neither Will nor Katie reacted.  They had no idea what was going on inside my head.  They had no idea I was no longer the 43-year-old wife and mother they knew, but a 17-year-old girl stumbling along her drunken path.  They probably figured I was oh-my-goshing something in nature currently surrounding us.  They're used to my comments about the beautiful countryside and probably figured I was just appreciating the cows or that tree over there.  Instead I was remembering the tree I peed behind in my drunken youth while one of my friends played a cassette tape inside their parked car.  It was a new band I'd never heard before.

I looked over at Will.  "This is The Sugarcubes!  Remember, I was just telling you the other day that Bjork was once in a band called The Sugarcubes and how much I loved them when I was in high school."

"Oh, wow!" Will said.

"The Sugarcubes?" Katie asked from the back seat.

"Yes.  You know how Daddy loves that singer Bjork?" I asked.

"Yeah," Katie said.

"Well, Bjork used to be in this band, The Sugarcubes," I pointed to the radio.  "We were just talking about this the other day.  And I couldn't remember the name of the song I wanted to play for him, but this is it.  This is the song." I suddenly shut up, realizing I'd already talked through too much of it.

Here's a couple of versions you can listen to.  This one is the official video:



This one's a recording of their performance on SNL:


The Sugarcubes - Birthday (SNL 1988) by runehede

The three of us listened silently for about thirty seconds.  Bjork has such an amazing voice, I thought to myself.  Then, as the car came to the bottom of a hill, for a second the station went fuzzy, then faded into some country song.  The radio waves were picking up a stronger signal at a local station.

As we approached the top of the next hill, the station went fuzzy again, only this time it switched back to The Sugarcubes.  As we approached the top of the third hill, after the station's fuzz, The Sugarcubes's song and the country song were overlapping each other.  Will and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.  It was as if our old car stereo, the first gift Will gave me, his lovely weirdo, was still making beautiful music by creating a mashup of some artsy-fartsy alternative rock group and some new country pop star.  It was brilliant.

For a moment.

And then, by the fourth hill, the country song won over the radio waves.  We missed the end of The Sugarcubes' song.  Will switched off the stereo and we rode the hills to our Thanksgiving celebration the rest of the way with just the sound of our own voices talking and laughing, which turned out to be the best of all.

We parked in the driveway, grabbed our side dish and our pie and entered their house to laugh and pray and eat and sit on our asses watching athletically gifted people toss a ball around a well manicured field, with relatives who love us despite our differences.  We're all weird in our own way.  It's a good feeling to know you're loved.  All of you.  You're weirdness and all.