At Least He Didn't Give Me Herpes...

When I moved out to Suburbia, I was all full of my righteous, organic yard/garden self. I’d easily managed doing organic in several different yards/gardens. I knew this was a bigger property, but hey, I’d read Prodigal Summer, and if that old lady with the orchard could do it, I could, right? 

Wrong.

The people who lived in this house before us had a sprinkler system (long destroyed from neglect by the time we moved in) and plenty of lawn chemicals.  They never planted a single tree and mowed the entire 2.67 acre yard.  Oh, weren’t they silly, we said.  We’ll let it all go NATURAL, we said.  Oh look, aren’t the purple thistles beautiful?  We mowed paths around them and I pointed them out to family and friends visiting - we can enjoy the beauty of invasive species, aren’t we cool? We decidedly did not use chemicals, and I even bought a more industrial sized dandelion popper in order to work with the, ahem, slightly larger dandelion varieties out here... We planted over 200 trees and when the deer came to destroy them (and destroy many, many of them, they did), we used the natural, nasty smelling deer spray only. We started a compost - to improve the soil and encourage “natural” strength of the healthy plants (in actuality, the compost did nothing but attract the neighborhood dogs and act as a breeding trough for mice each spring).

Neighbors eyed us suspiciously. They smiled and lightly mentioned that the thistles out here are a pretty big problem.  Next door neighbor Tom asked me if I was opposed to at least putting a little Preen in the veggie garden (hello, gentle yet prophetic warning...). Absolutely, I’m opposed to using Preen!  We’re going organic over here.  Look how we can enjoy the dandelions in the front yard!!  Our dog won’t have cancer!!! I’ve always been able to keep up with weeds in my perennial and vegetable gardens.  Seriously, people. I’m 40-something years old, I know what I’m doing.

I did not know what I was doing.

Eventually, the thistles got so bad, we couldn’t really even walk out in the “prairie” without protective footwear and Carhartt coveralls.  Kids fled from the garden covered in rash from the stinging nettles. The front yard, with all of its substandard “fill” soil was completely overtaken with dandelions of some mutant variety, sporting root systems up to a foot deep, leaving virtually no actual grass.

Sigh.

The embarrassed teens began to beg for lawn chemicals.  You’ll thank me when you DON’T have cancer, I said, defensively.  Couldn’t we just do it ONCE to kill a few of the dandelions, they whined. What happened to my little children who used to call them dandyflowers and thought that I was the smartest mom in the world, anyway?

I clung to the small victories.  Like the fact that there didn’t seem to be the rabbits out here eating my garden like they did in the city.  And the Creeping Charlie, plague of virtually all city & suburban yards, wasn’t present in our yard.

Until we got the raspberries.  A couple years ago, when my ex-husband was still speaking to me, he said we could help ourselves to his ever-expanding raspberry bushes.  I noticed he had Creeping Charlie in his yard, but I carefully selected shoots in areas without it and pulled away all the extra weeds before replanting in our yard.  I think you can probably guess how this ends.

And this spring, as I prepared for my daughter’s graduation party and desperately tried to get the yard looking decent, I was out weeding the raspberries.  And there it was, among the thistle, stinging nettle, clover and dandelion - the Creeping Charlie.  Not on the best terms with the ex, in a haze of bug spray and overtired from a peri-menopausal poor night’s sleep, the Creeping Charlie just put me completely over the fucking edge. I mean, this whole thing has been WAAAAAY beyond anything I could even have imagined.  The weeds, the invasive species... Lawn chemicals could be a start, I suppose.  But I think unmanned drones and heat-seeking missiles might be the better way to go. Or straight up explosives.  Fire, maybe. And there I was, preparing for a party my ex refused to help with in any way and pulling HIS Creeping Charlie out of the garden.

In retrospect, if the worst thing he gave me was Creeping Charlie, I’m probably lucky.  It could have been much, much worse.

And, after over 20 years of dragging my garden around, through 5 different houses in five different cities, I’ve decided that I’m bringing NOTHING with me when I go. It’s time for a fresh start. 

It's All Going To Be OK.

I did not personally know Zach Sobiech and I do not know his family.  Although, I can say without hesitation that I am forever touched by his amazing life, his courage in the face of death and the character and strength his entire family has shown through it all.  Not a day has gone by in recent months when I didn’t think of him, and especially of his mom, as she faced what no mother should ever have to.  

Since Zach died, his story has continued to unfold in amazing ways all week, with exciting moments like “Clouds” hitting #1 on itunes.  There are wonderful tributes, news articles spreading like wildfire and there is no question that Zach left a big impact on the world.

But tonight, I’m thinking about the incredible friends that he has left behind. This morning, instead of attending one of their few remaining days of high school school to talk about the long weekend ahead, college plans and upcoming graduation parties, those friends gathered together to say goodbye & honor their friend Zach.  At the very place in their lives when mortality should be the furthest thing from their minds, they plowed into it like a brick wall.  On the very brink of all the excitement that having “the rest of your life” ahead of you brings, they paused...

Because when someone we love dies, we pause - for hours, for days or for as long as it takes to get our bearings again.  Suddenly, all the things that seemed so important are ridiculous.  Deadlines get pushed back, appointments are canceled and phone calls are not returned.

But not for these kids.  Today, they attended an emotionally draining funeral mass. They hugged each other and told stories and cried. They went to the cemetery and said goodbye to their friend. And then you know what they did?  They went to school to perform their Pops Concert. Twice. They sang and danced and smiled and played their instruments and spread the joy and love of music that they have in their hearts and souls. And that Zach had in his. They didn’t go home and curl up in the fetal position, refusing to come out for days. They didn’t say they simply couldn’t face it. They picked themselves up and carried on.

And after a show filled with creativity and musicianship that never ceases to amaze me, they concluded with a group piece, “On Top of the World”.  I mean, it almost seemed like a cruel joke at first. They just buried their friend and now they are doing a dance number while singing about life being super duper fucking awesome??

But you know what? It worked.  It worked because these kids ARE super duper fucking awesome and they showed us all tonight that they can celebrate this wonderful time in life AND mourn the loss of their friend.  And man, do I admire their spirit and determination. I’ll probably burst into tears several times tomorrow over someone I didn’t know, while they are studying for final exams and scheduling their college orientations. They are strong and courageous and I’m so proud to know them.  

Here I am, a mom just ready to send my kid off into the great big world, to nudge her out of the nest, as any good mama bird must do.  And all of us parents, we want so desperately to protect them, don’t we? We want to shield them from all the shit that can hurt them...from the pain of this strange and winding journey that is life. But, their lives, like the lives of us all, will be filled with joy and disappointment and laughter and sorrow and surprises both good and bad.  

And it’s all going to be ok.

Walking The Stairs

Having grown weary of choking on lawn chemicals blowing in the spring wind and dodging gravel trucks and texting teens on 55 mph suburbian roads, I’ve recently decided to head into town and exercise on the *locally* famous Stillwater stairs.  For those of you who don’t know them, they are basically the longest in a series of concrete stairways located around Stillwater.  If you’re from San Francisco or various cliff communities in southern Italy you would likely scoff at us. But hey, this is the midwest, and 157 stairs is kind of a big deal for us, all right?

Tourists climb to the top for a lovely view of the Stillwater lift bridge and delinquent teens creep into the buckthorn-filled bluff to smoke weed and feel each other up.  

And then there are those of us who go for the exercise.  We march up and down, down and up, hoping to burn fat and keep our hearts healthy and justify what will surely be a visit, perhaps later that same day, to that patio bar we can actually SEE while participating in said exercise. Yeah... maybe it’s just me thinking that.  

What with my unpredictable schedule, I’m at the stairs at various times throughout the week.  And I’ve noticed that there are very different crowds, depending upon when you go.

The dinner hour crowd. 

This is primarily middle aged men.  I generally don’t mind them, even when they are overly enthusiastic (how many steps are YOU doing today, they ask with two [yes, two] thumbs up), although I have to fight off my urge to judge them.  Why aren’t they home for dinner?  Is “the wife” cooking dinner, even though she left work early to pick up kids from school and get someone to a music lesson while she helps the other two with their homework?  I bet she’d LOVE to be taking the stairs two at a time right now while you were home dealing with all of that.  Or, are you here alone because you are divorced and have nothing else to do after work except stay in shape in the hope that you may actually land another woman half as good as the wife you up and left, in which case I usually segue into a brief panic about the potential of running into my own ex on the stairs... 

The weekend crowd. 

This group tends to be the most unpredictable. There’s the very granola looking lady who is always smiling (why?? why is she so happy?) and the guy with the long hair who wears shoes that don’t look nearly supportive enough (should I recommend a new pair to him?  He could at least tighten up those laces. I’m worried about potential low back issues for him...).  Occasionally, there will be the couple that I think must have just gone to lunch in town and are walking home and using the stairs, but then, NO... they are actually there to exercise in Wrangler jeans and matching Minnesota Wild jackets and shoes that aren’t even in the CATEGORY of tennis shoe.  And actually, this couple makes me very happy, because they remind me of why I left my very UNIFORM and suburban neighborhood to come into town.  Weekends are also the time when I tend to see someone who I knew from another time in my life - one of those vague people who you were “friends” with for a specific reason at a specific time and you really don’t think of them at all anymore.  Inevitably, we look at each other with the slightest bit of recognition, and then immediately pretend we have never seen each other before in our lives and move on.  

The early morning crowd.  

Oh come, on, you didn’t really think I’d ever gotten up early and gone over there, did you?

The middle part of the day on any given weekday crowd.  

This is the crowd I like the least.  It’s a mix of in-shape women.  They seem to be mostly around early 30s, but there will be the occasional “just home from college, trying to stay in shape” type or the “wealthy mom exercising with just out of the nest daughter”.  The older mom types are the most likely to be friendly, and they do occasionally say hi.  But the rest of these chicks?  TOTAL bitches.  And the thing is, I’m there, all “sports bra barely getting the job done and yes I’ve got plenty of back flab and yep, that’s a pouch where the stomach just never, ever went back to normal after I popped out three kids in three years”, so why do you have to look me up and down all judgy like that?  My face is beet red and I am panting more than you, with your flat abs and your fancy arm band that is probably tracking every bodily function you have, as well as updating your Twitter and taking Instagram shots of you working out. I know I belong with the weekend crowd and you’d never show up then, because you’re probably busy running a half marathon and catching a nap before you go out with your friends on the Pedal Pub later that night.  And YES, those are ugly bruises mixed in with the ever increasing veins on my legs, because you know what?  Middle aged people like me have YARDS to care for.  We have graduation parties to prepare for. I earned these bruises and stretch marks and wrinkles over many years of being a super mom.  I’m a fucking warrior!!  

So, after years of exercising out here in Suburbia, alone, I’m reminded of the benefits of group exercise.  Humanity is interesting.  Being with other people, even when we aren’t talking, is the perfect combination of annoying, motivational, comical, embarrassing and affirming.  I think I’ll stick with the stairs.

The Day I Only Spoke In An "NPR Voice"

I often wonder if the public radio shows hosts really sound like that in their regular life.  I mean, we all laugh about it, there are SNL skits about it, but really, do they walk around all mellow and low tones like that ALL THE TIME? Do they ever shout? What happens when they’re mad or have a road rage moment? 

So, I thought I’d try it.  

I didn’t tell anyone I was going to do it. And yet I was certain it would become almost immediately obvious to others, because I tend to be....well, loud.  And honestly, the first couple hours really went well.  Of course, I spent them in complete silence, working at my computer.  But on that screen, I was at least able to freely use multiple exclamation points and even SHOUTY CAPITALS all I wanted.  The true test was yet to come...

I left to go pick up Emily from school.  This was the day she would take her road test to get her driver’s license.  And for me, this presented what I knew very well might be the end of the whole experiment, because the last time Em and I had been out together with her doing the driving, the NPR voice just wasn’t going to cut it.  Example: I shouted “STOP” two different times as she was about to hit another car.  She had suggested during that car ride that I should have simply said calmly and quietly “Be careful so you don’t hit that vehicle” (btw, in the time it took me to say ‘be careful so-”, we would have hit the car).  But, I digress.

She got in the car and we started speaking, Emily in normal voice and me in my NPR voice.  Everything was going pretty well, and even when I felt I could barely hear myself, she seemed to have no trouble hearing me.  But then, a song we both like came on the radio.  She sang along, but I couldn’t figure out a way to sing and stay within the NPR voice. In fact, one of the things I found I missed most the entire day ended up being singing along obnoxiously loud to all my favorite songs.  The only one that worked at all was “My Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades” (stop judging), to which I sort of “talked” along with the music in my low, breathy tones.  The disappointment of the whole moment is difficult to describe.

Emily passed.  I wanted to shout with her, but instead, I asked in a lowish monotone, “Should we jump up in the air together?”  I guess she was too distracted with her own happiness to notice the ironic contrast of what was going down. We jumped, but my jump didn’t feel as good as they do after and/or during a “shout”. I didn’t even raise my arms.  Geez.

The rest of the day moved along and I continued to be surprised that nobody asked me to speak up.  Even at Chipotle (so loud there!) I was heard just fine asking for my beans and salsa.  

By the end of the afternoon, I was really irritated with myself.  The entire thing was making me tired.  I felt like a big breathy nothing of a person.  I wanted to sleep it all off.  I wanted to scream.  My throat felt weird. Why was I even doing this?  But, I needed to see it through, dammit.

It happened to be Valentine’s Day, and so we had our family “heart shaped” party and compliment box opening.  There are many of us, and on holidays things always ramp up in volume, so I anticipated it was only going to be a matter of time before I was either called out on my ridiculous voice or just lost it altogether and ended up shouting something loudly to be done with it for once and for all.  

But you know what?  Nobody even noticed.  I was asked to repeat myself several times, but nobody questioned it.  I took big, deep and intentional breaths as I waited for everyone’s attention before I read one of the compliments or I just talked and realized that half of the people weren’t hearing me at all.  It’s a bit of a pride swallower for a loud lady like me who is used to being heard and commanding attention.  

Interestingly, I envisioned that the day was going to end with a shout.  Or with a laugh about what I had done.  Or with some big revelation about the whole experience.  Or at least an eye roll from one of my kids at the crazy stunt that I was trying to pull off.

but. they. just. didn’t. even. notice.

Here are some sweeping generalizations I’ve made about the whole speaking in the NPR voice thing:

1. It DOES make you more boring.  Take this blog.  It’s my worst one yet.  It’s like the creativity was sucked out of me somehow through lower volume, lack of vocal inflection and limited intonation.

2. I don’t need to be so loud, but I will continue to be.  Example...I found myself shouting “fuck” loudly a couple of times today at my desk (calm down, it’s a home office and nobody was even here) just because I could.  The issues I screamed about weren’t even that big a deal.  It just felt good to do it, you know?

3. My family is loud.  Even the people who THINK they are quiet are loud.  You can defend them by saying it’s learned behavior from living with me. Whatever.  I’m just saying...they’re loud.

4. If I was ever to be a radio DJ, I’d be destined to be on one of the annoying morning shows where they play top 40 music and talk stupid while the rest of us drive in to work.

5. I need to get out more. 

The Chicken or The Chicken?

Yes, the photo is proof.  I’ve purchased all things bad and all things good about store bought chicken in one fell swoop.  I can explain...

See, I’ve just been to the grocery store.  Well, Target, actually.  And before even going, I knew my grocery choices would be limited, the produce would likely be “less than” AND I might have to purchase some chicken that was, shall we say, not as “righteous” as I would prefer.  But listen, it’s 1 degree out.  ONE!  And that’s not even including the windchill.  And the wind chill is significant, all right?  I just couldn’t face yet another trip through a freezing, slippery, oversized suburban parking lot facing pretentious, high maintenance people driving large SUVs while talking on their cell phones and in a hurry. So, I decided to make it all work at Target.

Things were going along swimmingly, strolling along through wall hooks, eyeliner, dishrags and they even had the natural soda I’ve been looking for.  Until I got to the chicken.  You see, they DO have choices.  

They have the “Just Bare” brand, with the photo of the healthy “serving suggestion” on the top (I thought it looked like shit, actually, but I’m a vegetarian, so what do I know from chicken...).  “Just Bare” advertises its lack of added hormones, antibiotics and animal by-products (I don’t even want to THINK about how they could somehow insert animal by-products into chicken breasts).  And look at the green leaf on the label.  It just looks like a responsible decision for family meal planning, doesn’t it?  

And then.  Well, then there’s the Market Pantry brand.  Or, the Golden Plump brand.  Equally horrifying, yet so wonderfully economical, it’s enough to bring a conscientious mama to her knees.  Please, for the love of all things good and right, why, WHY much I make these choices??

Thus begins the internal dialogue...

“Gina, how can you question whether or not you can afford the ‘good’ chicken.  You know the truth here, you can’t afford NOT to buy the good stuff for your family.”

“But Gina, that specialty, hand-trimmed chicken only comes two to a pack and you have FIVE kids to feed, not to mention that tall and hungry husband with the hollow leg.  Look at that Market Pantry pack that’s only $2 more than the two pack, but has 7 GIANT breasts in it.”

Ugh...

“Gina, you know why the breasts are giant.  You know what they’ve done to make them so giant... really gonna put that shit into your kids’ bodies? Really??”

“But Gina, think of all the garbage they CHOOSE to put in their bodies.  And what about their OTHER houses and parents?  Do they feed them the good stuff? (momentary panic over the complete lack of control I actually have over anything at all)  Am I really going to make a difference with the hand trimmed chicken?  It’s a losing battle, right?”

(another momentary panic thinking of where the school gets the food for school lunch followed by quickly suppressing a memory of the “good” mom I used to be who packed healthy choices in my kids’ lunches each and every single day).

Shit!

That’s it!  I’m getting the good chicken, dammit.  So, I went over and grabbed a pack of the “Just Bare”.  Then another pack.  And another.  And I glanced quickly at the price as I realized I only had six, tiny little “healthy” chicken breasts and who was I kidding thinking that was going to feed my family. Then, I put the good chicken down and went over to the Market Pantry stuff.  I saw a guy looking at me and shot him a look.  That’s right mister, I’m feeding a big family and I don’t need you getting all judgey about how I put the good stuff down and came over here to make an unhealthy and irresponsible decision, ok?  And I bet you take your kids to McDonalds a LOT more often than I do.  

Just as I was about to abandon my cart and run, I made an impulsive decision to buy BOTH of the packs of chicken. I tossed them in among the toilet cleaner and socks and briefly wondered which family members would end up with the good chicken on their plate and which family members would be instead destined to a lower quality life because of the selfish and fiscally conservative choice I made one cold night in January.

Grocery shopping.  It ain’t what it used to be.