Thinning the Herd: Making Friends With the Cow

Years ago, many years ago, one of my friends, someone I knew but perhaps not well enough to be considered a very close friend, came to visit. She stayed with me for several days, at her own invitation.

In my kitchen was a butter dish, one that my grandmother had just given to me, and in it I had butter. But unlike a conventional American style butter dish, where the domed portion is on top of the flat platter, this butter dish was reversed. The base was the deep dish and the top, a flat piece of glass with an embossed cow, more like something you might find in Europe. I loved my new butter dish and thought it a culinary, and artistic, masterpiece.

My house guest turned over my butter dish, explaining that I was using it incorrectly and that, in fact, the cow was to be facing downward, with the domed dish on the top. I did not think this was correct and explained that my dish was different and that I liked it just the way it was. I righted the wronged butter dish and went about my day.

The next day I found the cow face down in my kitchen. I turned her over.

Bessie was face down on day three, and once again, I turned her over. When the house guest appeared in my kitchen I asked her to please quit overturning my butter dish; at this point the butter was a shamble and the cow confused. "But you are using it the wrong way, that looks ridiculous", said the house guest.

I do my best to be the kind of friend that would never turn over your butter dish.

Disorderly Conduct

To begin with, it is not a conversation about the culpability of the victim. It is not about what she is wearing or what she is doing, or what she might have done before. It is a conversation about making good choices and always knowing where you are and what you are doing.

Last weekend the house next to ours was occupied by a herd of men in their twenties, in town for a golf weekend. Friday night they rolled home around 2:00 a.m., all driving, and all clearly drunk beyond any reasonable measure of fun. They poured out of their cars and into the street, our driveway, our yard, their yard and whatever other space they could loudly occupy in our quiet little town. From my window I peeked cautiously at the madness happening outside. Getting out of a car, parked at the end of our drive, were three young girls, all giggling and screaming and enjoying their wild night, and all, from my view, well potted. They were whisked into the growing party by several of the men.

Back to bed, back to trying to fall asleep, back to staring at the ceiling, and now worrying. The celebration went on until 5:00 a.m. when a crowd gathered at the end of the driveway, a fight over who knows what, that thankfully ended before anyone was hurt, and was perhaps the impetus for them to finally be quiet. When I got up, two hours later, the girls' car was gone.

So many things could have gone wrong but thankfully it seems, as far as we know, none of them did. The lesson, for me, is to teach my girls about making good choices. Putting yourself, your drinking self, in a house full of drunk men, is not a good choice, no more so than walking down an alley at night in Chicago. It's not about blame but about keeping yourself in a safe place, trusting your instincts, and keeping your instincts sober enough to have a voice.

The problem of drunk driving is not lost on me, its just not my focus here. That they were all drinking and driving clearly only escalates the situation.

Mistaken for a Native

While traveling in Ireland several years ago my mother in law was elated, moved to almost tears, when in Galway she was asked for directions. Standing in front of the Boots, looking confident and far less lost than I do even in Chicago, a wandering stranger stopped to ask her which way to a castle. Or a pub, I don't remember.

Of course she had absolutely no idea, and most likely had trouble even understanding the question given the ongoing issues her mid-western ear had with the thick accent (her son suffers the same exact fate: he once asked a woman, who was describing in detail her flat, how her flight was), but she was overwhelming giddy with the idea that someone had mistaken her for a true Galway'ian.

Yesterday at Target two men stopped and asked me for directions; despite their thick Chicago accents I understood immediately, "do you know where the hand soap is?". I checked my shirt, black cardigan, nothing red on my upper body at all. I stuttered, "well, it's um, well I think it's over near the toothpaste". They nodded and thanked me, "yep, you looked like you might know".

It's come to this, mistaken for a native at Target; one who buys excessive amounts of hand soap. 

Nailed it.

Maybe It Was All About the Pike Place Roast

Maybe the ceiling of her bathroom at home was leaking or maybe she had just hung up the phone with her mother ending a particularly combative call, but when the woman in front of me at Starbucks was told that they were out of the Pike Place Roast, at least for now, she just snapped. They had the Holiday Blend and the Blonde Roast but no Pike Place; would she like to try one of the others?

She did not, nor did she care to hear any explanation as to why they had none of her favorite coffee available. Maybe this had been a really bad day, maybe she had been dreaming of a grande Pike Place all morning or maybe she was just a rotten person but for reasons unknown she chose to take her frustration out on the barista who was exceedingly gracious when faced with the wrath of this coffee displeased woman. She left, or actually she stormed out, choosing to go without rather than try another option.

Maybe I had just spent the past hour trying to pay my mother's phone bill from 500 miles away, which proved to be insanely difficult given that I was trying to actually give them money, or maybe I had been on the phone for most of the morning with doctors and movers and retirement home coordinators, but thankfully Starbucks had all the Awake tea I wanted: two bags and a smidge of cream. What if they had said no, not today. What if they had offered me a cup of green tea, or worse, calm tea? Who knows what I might have done. I'll never know. Nor will I know what happened to the coffee lady just before her morning coffee dreams were shattered. I'd like to think I'd choose kindness over madness, but I just don't know.

A Not So Simple Apology

On Sunday afternoon, in the small Michigan beach town where we are spending the bulk of our summer, I bumped a teenager with my too large bag. We were in the small ice cream store, made smaller by the great amount of people crowding in on a warm summer day, and quite by accident, I cut a corner too close and bumped him on the shoulder.

"Oh, I'm so sorry", and I turned and smiled, having not seen the target of my purse assault.

And then it began, "are you all right? I'm so sorry, I just didn't see you! Oh, of course I did, it's just there are so many people in here, what a warm day! Wow! Time to really expand the little ice cream store isn't it? You're sure you are all right? Why on earth do I need such a huge bag? What do I have in here that is so important? So, ice cream store needs to get bigger and my purse needs to get smaller! Right!"

His mother smiled at me, that warm lunatic accepting smile, and he said "really, I'm fine".

Had it been Saturday afternoon a simple "I'm sorry" would have been perfectly fine but because I bumped him on Sunday, and because his skin was brown and mine was white, and because I blather incessantly when I am embarrassed or uncomfortable, a rambling apology for a simple whoops happened.

As if I could apologize for all the wrong that was done on Saturday.

I Can Breathe Clearly Now the Rain is Gone

Recently I've noticed that I am growing more and more boring, which I attribute to age. It seems now that one of the most exciting things I can find to discuss is the weather. I'll discuss the weather with anyone who might listen, and it is clear that I am thrilled to have such fascinating content at my disposal: Saturday it was hot and Sunday it was cold! Madness!

I mentioned this to one of my college roommates, who is also getting older, interrupting a truly titillating conversation on wind, "do you think we're getting old? We talk about the weather". She did not see this as a problem, pointing out that we choose to talk about weather, rather than other more pressing things, like dry cleaning. This is a woman I lived with for almost four years; someone willing to discuss with me, in great depth, the motivation of the boy downstairs in taking his garbage out at midnight rather than 10:00 pm. Hours of our young lives spent, across the table from one another at Egg Roll King, trying to identify every ingredient in chicken fried rice. We talked into the night, on more than one occasion, in an effort to understand why the woman who drove the bus to campus didn't have the huge, hairy mole removed from her chin. We strove to understand the deep meaning behind the lyrics of every Janet Jackson song.  We were never getting married, or we were but we were not changing our names, we were never having children, or we were having five.  Our lives were wild, chocked full of intrigue and mystery, we were interesting. Now we are grown up and too busy to notice hairy moles on bus drivers.

Just when I thought I could not possibly get more dull my allergies arrived. Through my thoroughly congested nose I tell anyone who cares to listen about how difficult it is to breathe, how I can't believe how quickly this came on, how they do seem to be getting worse as I get older and yes, incorporating both my interests, "it must be the weather this year, allergies just seem to be worse than ever before". Understand I said they exact same thing last year, and the year before that.

Last week someone at school, clearly unable to listen to me blather on any longer, suggested I try the Neti Pot.

"Really? They look so awful, you run water through your nasal cavity? All of it, just irrigate the entire thing? And stuff comes out? Like, snot, things like that? In lumps, or clumps? Does it just run out in one long boogery stream? Is it one big horrid snotty mess? Sounds a bit scary really". She smiled and ran from the room.

This weekend I bought a Neti Pot. So overjoyed with the disgusting result, and my new found ability to take long deep breaths through my nose, I raced to the phone to call the college roommate. "No", said Jack, "just no".

He thwarted my attempts to post this miracle on Facebook. He reminded the children that I love them when I shouted, while still taking deep breaths, "Glory be! This is the single greatest day of my life" over and over and over. He tried to interrupt when I said that nothing had more dramatically altered my life than this miracle pot, nodding to the two children staring in complete shock at their temporarily allergen free mother.. He stopped me from explaining just how good it felt to breathe without congestion to the nice lady taking my breakfast order. And he yelled "no, stop, enough" when I stood on the back deck singing "I can breathe clearly now the goop is gone". 

It's going to be unseasonably cool in Chicago this week. Bundle up if you live close to the water and don't let that sunny sky fool you, it's chilly out there! As it turns out, it was entirely possible to get more boring.

How Far For Pho?

It's an ongoing battle. My want of life in a charming small town versus my husband's insistence that there is no such place. My visions involve summer dirty children, running wildly in great expanses of grassy fields, riding bikes on sidewalks to the main street ice cream store (Eleanor Roosevelt panting in chase behind them), long lazy days on blankets eating sandwiches and analyzing clouds, and Independence Day parades full of local high school marching bands, Miss Blue Hydrangea 2012, and dogs in Uncle Sam hats.

Jack's vision involves Wal-Mart.

"Would you give up Vietnamese food for life in a small town? Because there are no Vietnamese restaurants in small towns", he says with the authority of one who has visited every small town in each state I find acceptable to call home.

"I would not. I love pho. Maybe I could learn to cook it myself".

This portion of the conversation is now over, Jack is laughing too hard to return fire.

The girls and I return home from picking up the dry cleaning and a stop at the tea cafe nearby. I'm aglow, basking in the kindness of those who always remember my children, and almost always have a small something for them to stuff into their pockets. This week it is a hair bow, from the dry cleaner, a trinket her daughter picked up in Korea. "Imagine the familiarity in a small town Jack, imagine how friendly it would be and the sense of community...", my voice trailing off, wandering miles from our apartment.

"There are no dry cleaners in small towns. There are no people with daughters who randomly stop by Korea to pick up some hair bows", he counters.

But there are cafes, and women working there who smile often and pinch cheeks and ask if I'd like my English muffin toasted or on the griddle. There are farm fresh eggs and local honey, hotcakes and corn cakes and pure maple syrup. There's a guy named Sam who sits outside the cafe in the morning, reading his paper and waiting for Wilma, his wife of 58 years, to finish having her hair done next door at the Curl N' Cut beauty shop.

Jack's small town breakfast is a ham, egg and cheese biscuit from the Burger King drive-through, tossed to him by a pimple faced teenager, working on Saturday morning to pay off the final installment on his girlfriend Jessie's tattoo. Just a few more Whoppers to go before her backside reads, in full, Jessie n' Josh 4Ever, with entwined hearts and roses. The biscuit smells of cigarette smoke; Josh has been sneaking a few in the break room, the stress of tattoos and parenthood at 17 are really getting to him.

Jack grew up in a small town, I did not. He is deeply familiar with crossing highways on foot to get to the school, Dominoes pizza as the sole option (in both delivery and ethnicity) and the eternal ache of wanting to find something bigger. I am familiar with strip malls, dual turn lanes, subdivisions and the easily replicated vibe of modern suburbia. My ache was in wanting to walk to town to visit my dad at work, waving to Floyd and Goober as I ambled along the dusty roads. Impossible, my dad worked in an office building in the middle of a huge parking lot, surrounded by overpasses and faux woodsy bike paths. Not once did I walk to his office, or anywhere; there is no walking to actually get anywhere in the suburbs, all walking is reserved for laps in enormous indoor malls and designated walking trails (frequented by the suburban villain, the flasher).

The battle continues. I search the internet for Vietnamese pho recipes and online sites that deliver nuac mam, sawgrass and sriracha sauce. Jack savors the shrill of sirens on our street at four in the morning. The girls wear hair bows from Korea, Sam and Wilma celebrate another anniversary and Josh and Jessie make wedding plans.

We will never move.

Finding My Balance

My wrinkle cream is giving me pimples.

At an age when I might finally be able to admit it's the mid-point, a close to the halfway average of the eventual last age of my two grandmothers, I see myself teetering on top of Mount Aging Gracefully. I am not steady, it's a balancing act, and I've never been to sure of my footing at high elevations. My skin is as confused as I am.

Several months ago I sat with a group of women all close in age, early to mid forties, and one 37 year old. She sat silently as we discussed this new found aging. I was truly shocked to discover that all those pretty freckles on my hands were actually age spots; the old gals enlightened me, but not my spots; those creams don't work they said. The 37 year old chimed in, "neither do the wrinkle creams, so I had Botox". We all stopped, looked and inspected. "See, my forehead used to look like that", pointing to my severely disfigured cranium, "but now it looks like this" and she gestured, Carol Merrill like, at her smooth yet immobile temple space. The forty year old crowd was without words, their not yet gray heads bobbing back and forth as if they were center court at Wimbledon, searching for vast differences in our foreheads. I smiled and crinkled up my skin to get a better look.

Only validating my theory that 37 was the perfect time to have children, I seem to have lost my tiny print eyesight at the precise time my girls have learned to read. Coincidence? I think not. No longer am I limited only to restaurants where I know the entire menu by heart, "what's this?" I say, gesturing at some mouse sized words under the header "primi". Kate reads, in her best Italian, every detail of the cappellacci di zuca and we move on to the wine list.

It does not seem that long ago when I would spend Sundays with my grandmother, dividing the morning paper and joking about my reading the wedding notices while she read the obituaries. Here I am now, somewhere between weddings and funerals, working on the crossword puzzle. It seems to me that my crossword puzzle years should be relatively skin issue free.

Many years ago, when Mimi was considering a face lift, I said no, assuring her that I really liked her wrinkles. I did, her face without them wouldn't have been her face at all. In my life, she had always been a bit lined, "Allyson, just look at this chicken neck, someday you won't think this is so beautiful!". Her face was wonderful, familiar and loved. The benefit to wrinkles, versus the pimple, is that there are very few "Good Lord, where did that come from?" mornings. Wrinkles sneak in where the pimple announces his arrival with gusto; wrinkles reflect happiness and experience, pimples reflect stress over finals and too many late nights at The Wheel.

The real buger is this: I thought I had conquered adolescence. Rarely am I without a date on Saturday night, and when poker night trumps sitting at home with a movie, I cherish the quiet. Long gone are the days when I felt self conscious, with snickering teenagers ready to mock my every move. Of course I do realize that with two seven year old girls in my home, the snickering will soon reappear, to some degree warranted as it's not infrequent that I show up at school with a large hole in my sweater or with my pants unzipped. But still, haven't I grown too old to worry about looking geeky? Isn't it time to embrace my inner geek?

There is no longer room for both adolescence and middle age on my pale freckled face, although I'm not really ready to commit to either. My days are spent fine tuning the balancing act, teetering with one foot on either side, a stop at the Clinique counter on the way to the Estee Lauder night cream. I'm simply confused, as is, apparently, my skin.

Genius.

Treading Water in the Shallow End

Not so many years ago someone said, when referring to me, that I was simple minded. Not her words exactly but the essence was that I was lucky to be able to go through life unencumbered by deep thoughts, and I do know that she used the word deep. Prior to that I had not heard the word deep used, outside of swimming pool references, since junior high when Susie would pass me notes that said "that is so deep!" after quoting lines from her favorite Air Supply song.

The truth is, I can be deep, just like I can be obnoxious, but more often than not, I chose not to be. If deep means that I am so burdened by the challenge of daily living that I cannot be cordial to the cashier at Trader Joe's then I agree, I'm simple. If being deep means that I need to suffer through the agony and angst of motherhood, without allowing myself to be overcome with joy at the deliciousness of children, it's perfectly fine with me to stay in the shallow end.

When my father was in the hospital, when we thought he had just had a major stroke and was certainly dying, the very night that I flew 500 miles to hold him close to me one last time, my aunt greeted me in the hospital hallway with "thank God you're here, we need to laugh a bit", and I felt, while suffocating in scared and lost, appreciated and home.

My truth is that I prefer to laugh, and sometimes I prefer to laugh when it might not be appropriate, when common convention tells us to be somber and morose. I've had my share of opportunities; from a life that was once so easy and fun, people have died, plans have changed, and I have cried.

After my grandmother's funeral, when none of us were ready to step away and let this be over, we moved our horrible day to a favorite restaurant. Late into the evening, after a wonderful meal and countless bottles of wine, the waiter asked what we were celebrating. The laughter that had been nonstop for hours came to an abrupt halt, there was an awkward pause, and I answered, "our grandmother". It was not the answer he expected but it was the best answer we had, and it was just the answer that Mimi would have loved. In the end it was the laughter that allowed us to hold onto each other for just a while longer.

Treading water in the shallow end has served me well.

I wish I could carry your smile in my heart
At times when my life seems so low
It would make me believe what tomorrow could bring
When today doesn't really know.

Now that's deep.

All Out of Love, written by Graham Russell, Clive Davis, and Lewis Martinee

Hand in Hand

It was clear when they walked in that they had been married a very long time. In one hand he held a folded newspaper, in the other, her wrinkled hand. He pulled out her chair, sat down himself and began to read.

"Where is that restaurant?" she asked.
"Downstairs dear".
"So it won't take long to get there?"
He smiled at her, she checked her watch.

He read, she flipped pages in a magazine.

"Do you know our tickets are for 1:30?"
"I know we are going to the symphony this afternoon," he answered.

I checked my watch, it was 11:10; we were one half block from the symphony center.

"What are you going to eat? At lunch."
Without looking up he replied, "I haven't seen the menu yet dear".
"I think I'm going to have soup, something that won't take long to prepare. What do you think?"
"I think you should get whatever pleases you."

He read; she flipped pages, crossed and uncrossed her very old legs, adjusted her skirt, rifled through her purse and sighed loudly when she checked her watch again.

He folded his paper and looked at her, "Marilyn, would you like to go and have lunch?".
"You know, I believe I would."

They left hand in hand.

Take This One, Really

He hit the corner just before I did, which is exactly what you don't want to happen when you are running late for a funeral. His arm went up to flag the only taxi in the oncoming pack of cars. I stood, checking my watch, silently berating myself for taking the 30 seconds to stop and wave at the family who runs the corner taqueria. It began to drizzle.

"Do you need a cab?"

Taunting, of course I do.

"Here, take this one, I'm in no hurry".

I peered at him over the top of my glasses. He switched the 12 pack of Bud Light to his other arm and opened the door for me, "take it, really. I can wait".

For nine months I rode the train to work, pregnancy oozing from me at every available egress, and I can count on one hand the number of times people stood up and offered my swollen self their seat.

My calloused soul climbed into the back seat, "thank you so much, I mean, it's just that I am late for a funeral and I, I just don't know how to thank you". He smiled, moved the Bud Light again, and closed the door.

Cheers kind man, and thank you.

Tell Me Lies

Several months ago a woman I know lied to me. She did not omit nor dance around the truth, she lied. She looked me in the eye and told me a lie. It was more than "yes I used soap when I washed my hands" and less than "the Iraq regime continues to possess and conceal some of the most lethal weapons ever devised." It caused no permanent damage, it did me no harm, but it bothers me still.

The lie involved our children, it was a fabrication, the creation, in her mind, of something that did not happen, and the retelling of that fiction. It wasn't the substance that bothered me in that I knew immediately that it was untrue, but that she felt the need to tell this story. She reached across the table, patted my arm and condescendingly reinforced the known lie. I said nothing.

Jack wanted to appear at her door and announce that he knew she told a lie. I convinced him this was not necessary as I was certain that she was well aware she had just lied, the issue was that she didn't seem to care. That I find to be concerning. In all honesty, I'm not always honest. Occasionally Jack will call to find out just how late we are and I will say that we are almost to the train when we have really more than one block left to walk, and then I urge the girls to walk even faster, to make time to cover my misleading location fib. When I am tired or frustrated or angry I will answer "fine" in response to "how are you?". I do not tell people that the food they have put in front of me is horrible, or bland, or overcooked, and in that omission, I am not telling the truth. But with these untruths now revealed, I can confidently say that I strive every single day to lead a very honest life, and so I am shocked to find that blatant lying, as an adult, can come this easily. Akin to littering, didn't we all learn long ago that garbage goes best in a garbage can and not tossed into the park? Didn't we all learn that honesty was the best policy?

Last year a parent at school suggested to me, in front of their child, that we, as a school, lie to the school board regarding class instruction time specifics. I'm certain my jaw actually dropped just a bit in response. You are suggesting we mislead the authority which governs the school, and you are suggesting this idea in earshot of your impressionable eight year old child?

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it; I'm a terrible liar. My parents knew it, as does my husband. I become quite befuddled; I stammer, giggle, cry, vomit, spin in a circle and bray like a donkey when attempting to mislead anyone. Not true of liar woman, she handled it with ease, smoothly rolling out her story with nary an animal sound nor a single tear. Maybe that's why it sticks with me, and maybe that's why I now feel like I have to question everything she says.

And that's the truth.

Swimming, But Not in Books

Faced with almost six hours each day to myself, having spent the last five years with less than six minutes a day to myself, I am understandably lost. In an effort to shape my days, and my thighs, and keep me from wandering the neighborhood as the scary lady with the empty stroller, I've made two commitments to myself: to find the me that is buried beneath the five years of days spent with children, and to write a book. And so, three days a week I drop off the kindergartners and join my husband on the train to the loop, posing as an actual commuter who has an actual place to be. In reality, of course, I do not. I could stop and do some shopping, or wander the Art Museum, but I don't, I head to the gym and swim away my morning, flopping about in the pool with more direction, and less skill, than ever before. And after an hour or so of that, I make my way to the library where I sit and focus on task number two, a bit more challenging, especially today when it seems that all of Chicago is on fire and every fire engine in the city is racing by my window, but it's a great view.

The pool is one of the best places to be, back and forth I go in the initially painfully cold water, all alone. At my time the real swimmers are off to their offices, leaving me alone with the pool guy who wanders around picking up towels and playing on his computer. This is the perfect schedule, this solitude allows me ample to time to think and organize my thoughts, which is what I must do before I sit down to write anything. But problematic, I'm old now, drat, and what I compose so elegantly in my head is lost immediately if I don't get to a pen, fast. Difficult when immersed in 8 feet of water, perhaps I could shout out my musings to the meandering pool man, he looks like he needs something to do, other than watch me flail away in the deep end.

There are two real challenges to writing a book, aside from my memory issues, as I see it. First, used book stores. Let's start here, I love my local used book store, I can spend hours, really, wasting time, peering at the unorganized madness. But who wrote all these books? There are this many books in the world that have been relegated to used book stores? My book will never make it to the first run shops, I know it. Boxes upon boxes will be deposited on the steps of the used book store, never having seen a Barnes and Noble. My book tour will involve me stopping at Dunkin' Donuts on the way to Powell's, I'll bribe a few people I pass on the way with free coffee and bad donuts, if only they will come and listen to me read from my fresh on the used book shelf book. Who could possibly read all these books?

Which brings me to the second problem, apparently no one. In my two days of pseudo commuting I have discovered that in the five years I have been away, people have stopped reading books. In fact most have stopped reading all together, save the few hardy souls who soak up their morning news in the form of The Red Eye, the Tribune's effort at soft core news, with all the local celebrity sightings; today's juicy tidbit, the Bachelorette and her fiance were seen "canoodlin'" in the Windy City. But no books, rather people played with their phones. My phone does not play with me, it allows me to make and receive calls but we do not play together. There's no hard feelings, I think we like each other, but for several reasons, it is just not a good playmate. It also does not give me directions or allow me to check football scores, so perhaps if I upgraded to a better and newer friend, we'd have more to play with. Others who have better friends then are probably far more skilled in finding celebrities and hot spots, but not bookstores, they don't need to be, they aren't any. We don't read books anymore.

Back to the pool.

Tide's Out

Chappaquiddick is a small island just east of Martha's Vineyard. When the tide is out you can drive over, on the beach, south of Edgartown. My father was not at all interested in visiting the site of the "incident", especially given that the incident concerned one wild liberal Senator. So I took myself over, drove right across the sandbar one afternoon in the big woody wagon, and busied myself for a few hours on Chappaquiddick, driving the small roads, sitting on the beach and visiting the bridge.

In fact, I had such a lovely time I paid no attention at all to the time, or the tide, and when I ventured back to the beach for the drive home I found that the path was now under water. There is a ferry that runs from Chappaquiddick to Edgartown but it requires cash and as I was just out wandering, and I was probably 16, I had none with me. My dad answered the phone, curious as to where I had been for the entire afternoon. He was not pleased. He had to drive into town, take the ferry over and then pay for my return passage, and his, on the boat back.

"All of this, really? Of course, sounds just like something ridiculous he would have done. Serves you right chasing after your liberal politics".

Did my dad just compare me to Senator Kennedy? I could not have been more pleased, even if it meant spending the evening in, ruminating over my poor time keeping skills and honing my liberal politics.

Thank you Senator Kennedy.

Organ Donor

"The Illinois Secretary of State commends your decision to join the state's donor registry".

Standing on our corner, reading my mail and looking for a taxi, sometimes difficult to find on Cubs home game days, so I stepped further into the street. Paying little attention to the passing cars, looking only for a sign on the top, I flagged down a Asian Driving Academy car, they did not stop. I went back to my mail. Nothing, I creeped further out into the street, still clutching my letter from Secretary of State Jesse White. The irony was not lost on me, wiped out by a speeding car, my mutilated remains found clutching my "welcome to the Illinois Organ Donor Network letter".

I stepped back onto the sidewalk.

Be an organ donor, but please don't read your mail in the middle of a busy street.

Mary Tyler (Moore)

Our college age conversations frequently dealt with the hypothetical, the future, and the unknown. Our favorite place to blather on for hours, the pond on west campus, also frequented by the campus flasher, although we had no idea at the time how really creepy and dangerous he could have been. Over Diet Coke, Lays Cheddar and Sour Cream Chips and Glamour magazines we spent hours in the sun; Egg was certain, she would never change her name. For my part I wasn't sure, at 20 I wasn't so attached, and I wasn't convinced that my name was an essential part of who I was.

At 34 I felt differently. My name was mine and I was not ready to give it up, to become someone else. Jack was ambivalent, not concerned with us sharing the same name, knowing our names would not dictate the validity of our marriage. But I was unsure, worried that my need to keep my name would somehow isolate me from his family, and in the end decided to add his name to mine, like my mother and grandmothers, although I intended to use all three names, to become Mary Tyler Moore.

That just didn't work. Immediately I became Mary Moore. It was a great theory but unless you are Jennifer Love Hewitt or Sarah Jessica Parker, you are only allowed two names. My business cards clearly read Mary Tyler Moore, as did the plate on my door, but my feminist, and married female, boss introduced me as Mary Moore, and the name stuck. Our mortgage application was in all three names but at the closing I was shocked to find that Mary Moore was the buyer, not me. The woman at the DMV called Mary Moore eight times before I looked up from my book, and then only to find out who the bimbo was that had left before picking up her license. This was not working.

Losing my Dad confirmed what I already knew, I was not Mary Moore, and I never would be. Changing my name was not a part of me and doing it for anyone else was not the right decision. My 20 year old self thought it didn't matter, but my grown up self found out it did. My name is a part of me and the choice to stick with what was mine is a reflection of who I have become, and an example for my two girls, who need to know that the choice is theirs to make.

Opening My Door

For years I thought I was all alone, or at least in very limited company. It was in college when I really realized what was going on and while I was at a very liberal university, I was still deep in the Midwest, away from anyone or anything that would make me seem "normal". There were places, just a few, in my college town but even those were not completely committed, close but not ready to make the final leap.

Moving to Chicago helped, far easier to stay under the radar but be true to myself. Not once did I attach to a name to it, being undefined and uncommitted allowed me move about in the mainstream, with friends who knew and didn't care. Occasionally I'd be confronted, forced to make a choice, but in Chicago it was much easier, more options, less preconceived notions about what was right and complete. Kelly made it so easy, a friend of a friend, I found out that she was just like me, and not afraid, she embraced who she was and surrendered to the assigned stereotypes. And then boom, the door closed when I heard others talking about her, making disparaging remarks and not understanding, unaware that Kelly and I shared the same secret.

When I got off the plane in San Francisco I knew things were going to be different. It was in the air, the way it smelled; I knew this was it, and I was ready to jump in and shout out. Everywhere I looked I could sense it, there were others, plenty of them, and this was the place to be, to revel in what set me apart. And then, over an amazing dinner at Green's Restaurant where I realized I could order soup freely, without having to ask what stock was used, it hit me, I was out, the door was wide open; I was a vegetarian, right then and there I put a name to it, and breathed deeply.

One delicious week later I was on the way home to Chicago, finally at ease with the person I had become, and so grateful to my friends in San Francisco for showing me the world outside my steak and potatoes life. Certain I could take all this freedom home with me I waved goodbye and set off to a new enlightened life in the Midwest. My one hour layover in Dallas turned into a three hour stop and so with a new confidence I set off to find something to eat. Finally settling on a Mexican cantina in the American terminal I boldly stepped up to place my order, "taco salad please, with beans". "What kind of meat with that?". Alright, yes, "no meat, just beans please". He looked confused, "so chicken, you want chicken?". Breathe, "no chicken, just beans, please". More confusion, a lost look and then a realization, a broad smile and "oooh, I see, you're a, whatcha call it, a vegetable, right?".

Welcome home.

Mother Versus Machine

For my purposes, the automobile is simply something required to get me from point A to point B when absolutely necessary. Long ago I gave up any residual teenage love of driving, stashed away when I was forced to own a car with an actual hard top, and handed over the keys to the CTA, quite happy to move about the city on the train or the bus, truly enjoying the freedom of being car free. The joy was not mine alone, Jack, along with our insurance agent, celebrated as it seemed the less I drove, the less likely I was to hit things along the way.

Mary and Kate put me back in the car, at least part time. When forced to drive, I believe that the car should do what I say. It need not flash its lights and wink when it sees me coming, I see no reason for it to honk or beep at me, and please God don't ask it to give me directions. Some of these things now talk? No, that won't do, I'm in charge, and if I have to stop to listen to where my car thinks I should be I'm certain to run right into a tree. There seems to be mutual feelings of distaste as the car and I now are engaged in some sort of bizarre turf war as to who is actually in command of this thing.

Twice recently it has exploded into every kind of honk and beep imaginable upon my opening of the driver door, from the inside, each time in the relatively small, and indoor garage, at Trader Joe's. With the girls laughing, and Kate grabbing furiously at her ears, I search frantically for the panic button, and after two or three firm jabs it shuts up. And then I open my door and the whole spectacle begins again. The first time it happened I went through this routine three times before waving the white flag and resigning myself to a life trapped inside the beast. Thinking I should call the husband and let him know that the children and I would be living out the rest of our days from inside the car, I found that my phone did not work in the garage. Of course having already released a child from the confines of her seat belt and unable to open my door without great fanfare, I was forced to climb into the backseat and reattach her car seat straps. From the street outside I made the call, his assistant answered, he was in a meeting. A message, yes, please tell him that the car won, thank you.

It happened again today, but defeat would not come so easily this time. Open door, mad honking and beeping from the car. Red button, repeatedly, and it's quiet. Open door, repeat, three times, just for good measure. While Kate calmly raises her hands to her ears, Mary erupts into hysterical laughter, hardly able to contain herself. We sit in the small garage, averting eye contact with other shoppers, and wait, for what I have no idea. Eventually I back down, accepting that yes, yet again, the car wins. Without so much as a gallon of milk I start the car and being to back out, realizing that I look like a complete idiot to anyone who might be so bored on a Wednesday afternoon as to be sitting in a parking garage watching an over 40 mother of two relinquish control of the family grocery shopping to her car.

And then from deep within, finding strength of character I did not know I had, I stopped. No, not this time, we'll get our milk ladies, and maybe some eggs if the mood strikes us, we're back, let's open that door, we're strong together.

Not one beep, not so much as a squeak as I boldly opened the door. Game over car, your turn to wave the flag, today I win.

What A Difference A Day Makes

For years a beautiful poinsettia plant appeared at my home on the day after Thanksgiving, a gift from my wonderful former step father. He was only married to my mother for a few years, but he was committed to a relationship with both my sister and me far beyond what he had lived with our mother. And we adored him, in all his gruff bravado but kind interior, he remembered every birthday, something my mother had never done, and made every effort to include us in his life beyond the Sharon years. At my father's memorial he told me that when he died he wanted something very similar to what we did for Dad, a celebration. I brushed him off, said of course but there were no plans to be made quite yet. Nine months later my stepfather died, unexpectedly really, and there we were again, at a celebration.

And that year, on the day after Thanksgiving, no poinsettia plant arrived at my door.

One day, many years ago, I walked into my office at The Bank and was surprised to find that my light had not been turned on. It didn't register immediately, I stopped, sensed something was different, backed up and then flipped on the light, realizing, quite suddenly, that I didn't remember a day when I had actually turned the light on myself. Around lunchtime it hit me. The day before the branch security guard had a heart attack while opening the drive through, one of the tellers found him. I had been at a meeting downtown and didn't make it back to my office until well into the afternoon. Carl was a wonderful person, a person who actually took a real interest in the well being of those who worked with him, those whose safety was his responsibility. He often chided me for staying late, worrying that I was vulnerable in that bank all alone at night (I was). He wandered the branch during the day, eyes darting around looking for anything unusual, moving towards the teller window or personal banker desks when he detected unrest. Carl appeared right outside my door whenever an angry customer found his way to my office.

And Carl had been turning my light on for five years, every day, and I never once noticed.

Every year at Christmas my kind husband sends me, and my sister, a beautiful poinsettia, having witnessed my break down the year it failed to appear. A nice reminder now of two people very dear to me, my stepfather and my husband. And Carl, who always left the light on.

Try Harder

Here is the one thing that people always seem to want to tell me that I could live my entire life without knowing: "We're trying!".

Right then. I assume that you, as a (usually) married couple are perhaps enjoying all that marriage has to offer but telling me this only confirms something that is in no way my business, nor is it something that I ever want to know.

And yet, I've been told this more times than I care to recall, although I have plenty of visual memories to remind me.

Best of luck.