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.

How China Filled A Void That The Thanksgiving Stuffing Could Not...and other suburban fairy tales

Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, Cyber Monday and the newest add on....Giving Tuesday. 

As Thanksgiving approaches, we know what we’re supposed to do. We’re supposed to have grateful feelings, to plan a gluttonous meal reminiscent of a distant gathering of pilgrims and Indians or whatever fairy tale we learned in 3rd grade regarding the Thanksgiving story, all the while tracing our hand with colored marker to make a turkey that our grandma could admire over her pumpkin pie.

But, the truth is, it’s hard. The approaching holidays are an unpleasant reminder of our dysfunction, staring back at us in the mirror each morning. It’s easy enough to ignore the hard facts during the rest of the year, but a holiday designed to bring families together makes it pretty hard to deny that certain members of said family aren’t even speaking to you. As Thanksgiving day approaches, anxiety bubbles under the surface, the knowledge that unfinished conversations and taboo topics just might come out after a certain number of cocktails. And the fact that you only see your kids on holidays every other year per your divorce decree notwithstanding, it can be a pretty fucking difficult time.

However, we’re Americans. And if there is one thing we are good at, it’s self medication. We consume. So, the balm to our pain is purchase. And since we are bound together, as the greatest nation in the world (*gag), we might as well set aside a day we can all share in this gluttony together. Black Friday. The consummation of our consumption.

And on paper, yes, I know it probably started as a way to get a jump on your holiday shopping (*shopping for others...?) and for some, it’s a nice tradition and way for ‘the women’ to stay busy after Thanksgiving while their husbands sleep off the turkey coma....blah,blah,blah.  But, I spoke with several people this year, including a couple of retail employees, regarding Black Friday shopping.  And you know what? I didn’t hear much about this “shopping for others” concept. I heard mostly about purchasing great deals to further one’s own.....well being?

We have a collective conscious, I suppose. We know on a certain, politically correct level that all this gluttonous spending to further our own well being is wrong. Or at least not “righteous”. So brought the birth of Small Business Saturday. And I saw it written in recent weeks that one might consider how purchasing products from China at discount prices will further our own struggling economy. Good point. Cleanse yourselves with a couple of Small Business Saturday purchases and feel that you’re doing your part.

But, no worry, you won’t have to wait long for another chance at the really good deals, because here comes Cyber Monday.  And this one I promise you’ll like. No need to concern yourself with pesky details like the potential to become trampled to your death by a flash mob looking to buy a 700” TV for $59.99. This time, you simply sit in the privacy of your own home/cubicle/office/car and you point, click, point, click. It feels good, doesn’t it? Because looking forward to that awesome new pair of shoes on your doorstep feels a lot better than trying to determine which side of the family you’ll spend Christmas with. Or trying to find the appropriate gift for a family member that you don’t really know well enough to even power through a lunch date, much less participate in a gift exchange.

And “Giving Tuesday”?  Well, we didn’t hear much about that, did we?  Just a couple spots on public radio...a fleeting attempt for the non-profits to grab a couple of our guilt-drenched dollars before year end. They even set up a website (www.givingtuesday.org) to try and grab those point-n-clickers. But, honestly, we’re all exhausted. It’s been another long year and we feel (justified or not) that we’ve already given ‘enough’, right? We just.do.not.have.time to do anything more than fill up this holiday season with our already lengthening list of “to do” items.

Sigh.

I wish I had an answer. A solution for the yearafteryearafteryear same old struggles. I wish the “Jesus is the reason for the season” slogans did anything for me at all. Or at least didn’t send me into yet another tirade about hypocritical “Christians”...

When I was about 12, I dug through my parents closet looking for my hidden away Christmas gifts. That year, I succeeded in finding them, and later when they were all wrapped and under the tree, I knew what every single thing was. Really, it completely ruined the whole thing for me. I’ll never forget the empty feeling I had that Christmas. 

I don’t have the answers. I don’t know the correct ending to it all. But I know this: There ain’t a purchase made that’s gonna bring any of us true happiness this holiday season.

So, I’ll leave you with this...

May we all find a way to fill up with something, anything, that gives us meaning this holiday season.

Peace.

Who Loves Their Kid Most?

The Stillwater High School Yearbook has a name.  It’s called the Kabekonian, or more specifically.... Kabekonian & Arts Magazine Stylus. Hello pretentious! Something came in the mail the other day from Kabekonian, and I put it in Hannah’s mailbox, because I try to involve myself as little as possible in the whole yearbook situation.  It irritates me that the cost is so extremely high, and my kids know we won’t even discuss the purchase of one until their senior year. I can’t see a good reason why the price should be $80 and I am sorry my kids won’t have the opportunity to laugh at old photos from all four of their high school years, but that’s just how it’s going to be.

Last night, Hannah gave the letter back to me, stating that it was “for parents to purchase full page ads or something”.  Hmm... what could this mean? Well, I’ll tell you what it meant...  The letter was an offer to take out an “ad” for your own child, stating heartfelt, gushing sentiment for all to see in the overpriced yearbook. The flyer was complete with examples of potential “ads” and of course, a price list.  And the tiny, need-a-magnifying-glass-to-read-cheapest-ad costs $50.  Or, choose one of increasingly large and increasingly expensive sized ads up to the half page ad (complete with room for a baby photo AND the senior photo). The half page ad=$180 (100 word limit). While you’re at it, feel free to add monogramming and icons to the year book, too.  Really, you’re just a few check boxes away from a $300 yearbook.  Sorry, I mean $300 Kabekonian. 

And these ads!  I’ve seen them before... These ads are all the rage out here in suburbia, folks.  They have them at the dance recitals, too.  And at the “end of the year” banquet program for some of the other sports and activities, too.

So, let’s get this straight.  It isn’t ENOUGH that we as parents have paid for kids to participate in the activities, purchased clothing, supplies, costumes, food, activity fees, hotel rooms and who knows what else that we’ve likely forgotten or blocked out.  It isn’t enough that we’ve provided healthy meals for top performance at the athletic events. It isn’t enough that we’ve taken time off work to attend the events and the conferences and the recitals and we’ve paid to attend the banquets and we are overpaying for the yearbook and the all night party and onandonandonandonandon.  It isn’t enough that we’ve driven MILES, all over the state, and possibly neighboring states, to cheer and support and love and hug and wipe tears & snot and say encouraging things to often ungrateful teenagers.

No.  It’s not enough.  Now, we must declare our love for all to see.

Never mind the private card. Never mind the text message of encouragement when we couldn’t get out of that meeting.  Never mind the photo we sent because we were simply “thinking of” our child.

Not good enough, folks.  

Because you just know that every single parent (myself included) looked at that piece of propaganda, with which the school district rapes us of our hard earned dollars, and thought only one thing... Will my kid feel bad if they see that other parents took out an ad and I didn’t?  And there they have us.  But no!  I’m one stubborn bitch if I’m anything.  They’re not getting me that easily...

Hannah was sitting in the living room, dutifully filling out one of her college applications.  I said, Hannah, I hope you won’t feel that I love you any less when I don’t take out a half page ad for $180 declaring it in the Kabekonian.  She said, “Are you kidding me? People actually do that?”.  I then went on to make fun of the whole thing, and ultimately ended up feeling even more guilty, because I knew that deep down inside, she might actually WISH that I had taken out the ad.  What if she was just playing along to protect my feelings?! So, then I back peddled with talk about how we’re going on that trip to San Francisco together over spring break, in a fleeting attempt to justify the fact that I didn’t take out the ad and may or may not have hurt her feelings and crushed her spirit, creating the necessity for additional years in therapy someday to try and deal with the multitude of childhood traumas I’ve been a part of creating for her.  

Guilt.  It’s on the menu every damn night out here in Suburbia.

But, I’m still not putting in an ad.  

The Politics of Love

Marriage is tough. I ought to know, as I have a notch of failure on my belt and in my heart. And while you could argue my divorce story is a “made for TV” movie in many ways (husband wakes up one day and informs wife he doesn’t love her anymore, leaving wife, family, friends and community members dazed and confused...wife picks up life and starts completely over...), I surely have to take responsibility for my own short comings and failures in that marriage.

But, I got the chance to try again.  And, try again I have.  I’m married for the second time to a man who also knows the failure of divorce.  We have a renewed commitment and resolve to doing things better this time. And we’ve got those notches to remind us that we are perfectly capable of fucking it all up. But, why did we bother doing it again, anyway?

I mean, nobody HAS to get married, right? Yet, there is just something about making that public commitment that we all crave. I heard someone say on the radio recently that marriage engages a community of people into the commitment in a way that two people just can’t do on their own. It makes sense...sure, sometimes we want to believe that we can stand together on a cliff overlooking the ocean proclaiming our love to each other privately and it’ll just be good enough, but we want more, don’t we? I’ve heard my pastor husband preach at many weddings about the commitment that everyone in the room/tent/yard is also making to the couple being married...to support them, to love them, to recognize their commitment to each other and to respect it. 

This year, Minnesota will vote on whether we should limit the freedom to engage in this public commitment to heterosexual men and women. No matter if they’ve been married a half dozen times previously, if they’ve molested their own children, if they’ve cheated on their spouse and given him/her an STD, if they’ve diminished and disrespected the honor and commitment of marriage in countless ways that would surely mean they should NEVER be allowed to marry again. Nope. All they have to be is heterosexual.  Oh, and a US citizen, I suppose.

And as time goes on and we inch closer to the election, I go round and round in my head, trying to understand how in the world we could be voting on something that would LIMIT freedom. I want to find just the right words to convince everyone how ridiculous this is. I want to proclaim how true conservative/Republican values feature LESS government in people’s lives, so regardless of your party affiliation, you should clearly be voting this hurtful amendment down.  

But, I’d be fooling myself if I didn’t admit that for me, it really comes down to the friends and family that I love. Friends and family members who happen to be gay. And there is one person in particular who comes to mind...every time.

His story isn’t mine to tell, but here I am telling it. Or my version, anyway. And I wonder if it will come as news to Chad that his 6th grade teacher has been taught more by HIM about love, courage, respect and hope than I ever could have hoped to teach others.

My first year out of college, I taught 5th/6th grade and Chad was in my first class. He was really a great kid to have in class, with his interest in history, his creative spirit and his good behavior. After all, I was just a 22-year-old, idealistic new teacher, fresh and green out of college, who may not have been as prepared as I thought I was for suburban elementary kids who were getting to the age where the opposite sex was clearly more interesting than what the teacher was trying to say. Which brings me back to Chad.

I knew he was gay. Maybe it was just a good guess. I can give you a long list of reasons why I knew, which would include a bunch of stereotypes, but none of that really matters now. Sexual preference didn’t get discussed in elementary classrooms and in the end, he was another kid in my class with a caring mom who always came to conferences and a dad who I knew existed, but was off on the fringes somewhere, not as involved in his kid’s life as any of us would have preferred. Little did I know, Chad was already beginning to notice more and more how different he was from the other boys.  And almost as quickly as those feelings surfaced, they were suppressed in ways even Chad couldn’t completely understand. There wasn’t room to even consider your own potential homosexuality in suburban White Bear Lake in 1991.

My teaching career was short, and Chad was one of a couple of students who kept in touch with me. I remember him writing to me a time or two when he was in high school, and he even thanked me for giving him an appreciation and love for writing.  I didn’t know exactly what was going on in his life, but I now know that he was busy trying to please his parents, attending his Catholic church (where he was beginning to develop quite a strong faith) and working to be what the world wanted/expected from him, as a young man. Because Chad was a good boy, who would grow into a good man.

Chad went on to college, and I vaguely knew that he was studying biology, but I was pretty wrapped up in my three kids during that time.  However, when his wedding invitation arrived, it gave me pause. So, he’s not gay, then? It never occurred to me that years and years of expectation and pressure that are so much a part of growing up, most of us don’t even notice them, had worn away at Chad like shoreline is worn away by the waves. So, of course he met a girl and was going to marry her.  That’s what boys do.  Especially Catholic boys.  But, none of that occurred to me at the time.  I just figured I must have had it all wrong...

It was a nice wedding. And I went back to my life and Chad headed on for whatever his would hold, too.

Turns out our marriages were unraveling at about the same time... teacher and student.  Much of that time is a bit of a blur for me, but I’ll never forget the day that Chad emailed me and said he had something important to tell me. His marriage had ended, ironically when his wife left him for another woman. But, it’s funny how things tend to twist and turn and in the end, Chad was finally able to come to terms with the fact that he was gay. I was honored that I had an important enough place in Chad’s life for me to be one of the people he felt he needed to “come out” to. I didn’t have the guts to tell him I had always known until we met for drinks a little while later.  

And suddenly, there we were...student and teacher, on equal footing. We shared war stories of online dating. We lamented broken marriages, failed expectations and shattered dreams. Neither of us had a fucking clue about what the future would hold, but we both knew that we had love in our hearts and wanted to find someone special to share that love. Nothing hetero or homo about it, folks. Just plain love. 

A lot of the arguments I’ve heard around limiting freedom to marry surround religion and religious views. For example, “according to the bible, homosexuality is wrong and a sin”. Ok. Let’s start proof-texting from the bible then, shall we? I will find a passage that states gluttony is a sin (yes, that’s in the bible, too).  Should we then prevent fat people from marrying, as they are clearly not following God’s plan with their shameless overeating? You think this is ridiculous?  It’s the SAME DAMN CONCEPT, people.  Or how about a passage condemning greed over material possessions, which last time I checked, appears to be the current foundation of our country. 

But I think my favorite ridiculous argument is the ignorant and completely irrational statement that gay people have actually made a choice to be gay, and could simply make a difference choice (feel free to insert “if they would only follow God” as needed)...

Right.  

You think that Chad made the CHOICE to be a gay man, which ultimately resulted in the loss of employment in his position as a youth director at a Catholic Church? (a job in which he was well respected by students and parents alike and a job he loved) He was fired immediately when they found out he was gay.

Or that Chad made the CHOICE to be a gay man, which meant that rather than bringing a girlfriend home to meet his conservative, suburban, homophobic father, he told his dad he was gay, and faced years of estrangement and painful relationships.  

I’ll tell you one thing, I wouldn’t choose to do that. But I don’t have to, do I?  Because I’m one of the lucky ones, who just so happened to have been born with a sexual preference that is a mainstream societal norm.

The thing is, my gay friends and family are among the most faithful, spiritual and loving people I know. And Chad is an amazing example of that. Chad seeks not only to be understood, but to understand. Chad has shown courage and integrity in the face of all kinds of adversity, his entire life.

So, when Chad decided to marry his partner this past summer, I was honored to not only be present, but to be a part of the ceremony. And on an absolutely perfect summer evening in June, in the front yard of Chad’s father’s home, they were married. Is the marriage recognized by the state? Nope. They had to go elsewhere for that recognition. Did everyone at the ceremony feel that homosexuality is ok? Nope. But, they had chosen to attend anyway, in the spirit of love for Chad and Troy. 

I have never attended a wedding where I was struck more by the presence of a courage, determination and even a sacrifice to simply be one’s own self. And I do not remember being at a wedding where the love of a father has so clearly overcome all kinds of adversity. And as I watched my daughter try to explain to her little brother why these two men had to go to a different state to “get married again” (he couldn’t even comprehend why such a thing would be necessary), I was struck with a sudden hope for the world.

This hurtful amendment will either pass or it will fail. And until our state gets its shit together, gay couples won’t be entitled to the same rights and privileges that I share with my husband. Privileges surrounding health care, visitation rights in medical facilities and tax benefits, among countless other things. I will vote and fight to change that fact for as long as I live.

However, if there’s one thing I know, we can’t vote to control love. Love transcends power and money and it most fucking definitely transcends politics. 

Thank you, Chad, for helping me to know that for certain.

Rummage Sale

I used to be quite the school volunteer.  I’ve done my time working unifix cubes with 1st grades, leading a student book club, teaching Omnibus small groups on topics like Ancient Egypt (yes, we walked like Egyptians..) and timing the 4th graders at their track and field day.

But, you know how it goes.  Next thing you know, you’re divorced, and your charmed life as a stay-at-home mom comes to an abrupt end.  Suddenly, you’re in the work force, crossing your fingers as your run out the door in the morning that your kids don’t miss the bus, forcing you to have to drive back and get them, which will mean missing nearly half the workday by the time you transport them to the multicultural “alternative” school program that seemed like a terrific idea back when you were in your old life, but suddenly is a huge fucking inconvenience and one more glaring example of the countless ways in which you’ve completely fallen down from everything you hoped for and wanted for your kids. #anotherparentfailure

I digress.

I didn’t really have as much time to volunteer.  Ok, I didn’t have any.  Well, I had a little, and I did attempt to do a couple of things when I was first working, but shit, I only had those 5 vacation days for the whole year.  And let me tell you, they get used up in a hurry!  So, I pretty quickly became yet another working mom, resenting the at-home moms not only for the time they had to volunteer, but also the time they had to get proper exercise, grocery shop and cook nutritional meals for their family, still have the energy to read somebody a bedtime story at night and possibly even have sex with their husbands.  And I suddenly understood why copies of Working Mother Magazine were in all the waiting rooms at the pediatrician’s office.  After a long, disappointing day of being barely appreciated and definitely underpaid at work, while waiting for your kid to get a throat culture, an article with a title like “Studies Show Taking Time For Yourself Has Positive Impact On Kids’ GPA”, while surely complete bullshit, can really make a gal feel better. (NOTE: As an at-home mom, I resented these magazines, vehement and entitled over how hard I worked and feeling the complete lack of respect that society had for my important work.  I always fantasized about starting a magazine called At-Home Mom Magazine, but justified not having the time in that I was working too hard being one...).

And now, here I am, with my three bio children in high school, my two bonus children in elementary school and enough guilt to power the space shuttle around the moon four times over not having done more volunteer work.  I mean, shit, I went into real estate so that I could be flexible, right?  But, by the time I’m done driving them to (and attending) their multitude of sporting events, social activities, music lessons and jobs, I’ve eaten up a pretty good chunk of the week. 

So, when the high school music department rummage sale came a callin’, it seemed it was time for me to step it up.  I had conflicts the last couple years and therefore didn’t really know what to expect, having never attended the event.  But, after their 5th reminder email, I finally clicked the link for “volunteer opportunities”, figuring I’m covering two of my kids with the one volunteer day. Dizzy and overwhelmed by the extensive list of duties and confused by job descriptions I didn’t understand, I simply emailed the coordinator, and said to plug me in on Saturday and I’d help wherever.  Big mistake.

I arrived late (a smattering of justification over the fact that I had to run a work errand on the way still lingering...self-serving, bullshit-excuses, working mother that I am).  I walked into the high school gym, which was filled with “rummage sale donations” that had been dropped off the day before.  The idea is that people donate items, we sell them, and all the proceeds go to the music program.  I checked in at the desk and was immediately sent to “pricing”.  If you think it means pricing the items, you’d be sort of right.  Only it’s worse.  You are given a “general” guideline of what things should cost, and then you have to add up the items and haggle with the fucking public at the table, eventually agreeing on the price and sending them to check out, which is surely the most sought after, candy-ass, easy volunteer job that there is.  Just try and stop me from grabbing that one next year.  Oh, and did I mention that we are raising money for a program whose families I can only assume are among the most wealthy in the district?After all, we’re paying beaucoup bucks for expensive instruments, private lessons, special concert clothing and trips all over the country.  So, I’m standing there with the moms in their red Stillwater sweatshirts (aka “Pony Gear”) and their Miss Me jeans, who drove up in their SUVs with no concern of any kind about the fact that it’s costing hundreds of dollars a week just to keep the thing gassed up. And I’m wearing the only red shirt I own, which happens to make me a little over dressed for the occasion.  One of the ladies gives me a compliment on my shirt (I vaguely remember that this is what suburban moms do, compliment each other on their outfits and jewelry) and I stammered out that it was the only thing I had that is red.  I then added that I was wearing red underwear, which was clearly taking things a little too far, because two ladies chuckled uncomfortably and one actually raised her hand to her mouth and sputtered out something that sounded like “oh, my!”.  Seriously ladies, try getting out a little more.

And then came the customers.  There were a few students purchasing items, as well as a couple of the volunteers.  But, mostly it was a bunch of people who clearly have MUCH LESS than the people they are purchasing these items from.  Let’s see if we have this straight:

1. Wealthy people vote NO in school referendums, requiring music departments to hold rummage sales to pay for things like school instruments and sheet music.
2. The same wealthy people then help out at the rummage sales, overpricing their personal garbage and selling it to people less fortunate. People who would surely benefit from having an affordable and more accessible music program in their school district.
3. So, the less fortunate are actually funding the music program by purchasing used microwaves, stuffed animals and old Longaberger baskets (which were originally purchased at wealthy person “home parties”) so that the wealthy people can keep their taxes lower.

Am I the only one in the high school gym that can see this is messed up?

And you want me to haggle with these customers over prices?  Oh, HELL to the NO.  Here’s how it went down:  If somebody rolled up with a stroller and a kid that looked like they probably regularly have to wait at daycare longer than they should because dad and mom both work two jobs, I added up the items, using the LOWEST suggested pricing and then usually rounded it down.  Meanwhile, behind me, the women were exhausted from the effort of haggling with customers over prices.  Seriously, ladies?  I was curious about these women, so I inched my way closer, wondering about their side conversations.  One mentioned that she’s leaving tomorrow morning for Jamaica for a mission trip with her family.  I considered mentioning the radio spot I heard recently about how gay people in Jamaica basically have to lie and hide their sexual orientation, or face certain torture and potential death.  But, then I realized that she’s probably heading there to stop just those types of sinful behaviors and turn the good (but could be better) people of Jamaica to the word of the Lord.  And then we’ll be talking about the Minnesota Marriage Amendment that’s on the ballot this election, and next thing I know, I’ll be insulting everyone in the place just in time for my children to arrive and volunteer, hanging their heads in “I don’t fit in here” shame.  

Next came the teachers, all asking for the “teacher discount”.  What is this, Walmart?  It’s a fucking rummage sale.  A rummage sale to support THREE OF YOUR FELLOW TEACHERS and their music program.  It’s a fundraiser!  I then began to hear their own stories, of how they have a budget of $0 for their classroom books and use all their own money to supply the room.  I know this is true.  I used to be a teacher.  And again with the irony, as they purchase used books from people who voted against raising more money for the schools so they can put said books in their classrooms and make it a better learning environment for the kids of the people who voted NO to the referendum.

Bored, irritated and frankly a bit frightened, I started to wander around the gym.  The entire place was a monument to suburban excess.  Discarded “Lucky” brand jeans that cost well over a hundred dollars, barely even worn.  Thousands upon thousands of unused craft items, most still in the package.  Home decor items galore - glittery fall leaves, table mirrors, items so useless and banal that we couldn’t even identify their use at the check out table.  I wondered briefly what the vast majority of the rest of the world, who live in extreme poverty, would think walking into a sale like this.  

As I drove home later, past a sea of conservative political yard signs, claiming the need for lowered taxes (even though Washington County is among the lowest taxed counties in the COUNTRY) and reminding me that legal gay marriage would somehow harm my own heterosexual marriage (ignorance abounds in Suburbia), I recalled a story I heard some years ago.  My mom knew a lady who stated she would never hold another rummage sale.  The woman said it was shameful for her to do so, because she didn’t need the money, and surely her items should be GIVEN to people who had so much less than her.  

I think I forgot that story when I agreed to sign up for this volunteer opportunity.

And next year, I think I’ll help do vision screening instead.

Small Town Love

When I was 8, we moved from California to Wisconsin.  This seemed like a great idea to my gypsy parents.  I think we had already moved nearly 12 times in my short life and you see, they wanted more family support in dealing with my then baby sister’s medical problems (my mom is from Minnesota). They also wanted to raise us in a less, shall we say, ‘chaotic’ environment (in 1977 Woodacre, CA, there was marijuana, and who knows what else, aplenty...our own backyard garden notwithstanding).  I didn’t really understand what “chaotic environment” meant, I was used to hearing things like “Don’t eat the green brownies, Gina” and I sure as hell didn’t want to be dragged off to some Laura Ingalls Wilderesque town in middle America!  So, I ran away.  Well, I did the 8-year-old version of running away, which involved taking a couple of friends and “hiding” under a bridge near the horse stable where my pony was kept (yes, I was one of those little girls who had a pony, ok?).  I’m sure it took about three minutes for them to find me, and off we went, to Wisconsin and my indefinite future as a small town girl.  

My mom reminds me that I said during that time, “I don’t like Grantsburg and I don’t like the G!” And you know, I didn’t. I mean, sure, I made friends eventually (once they stopped teasing me about my “accent”). But, seriously, who thinks it’s a good idea to move to 40 acres of wilderness (with a quarter of a mile long driveway and no plan for snow removal), in a cabin that had only ever been used seasonally, with two kids (one of them quite sick) and two parents, one of whom grew up in a fancy house in Philadelphia and went to ‘prep school’ and the other of whom hadn’t lived in the midwest since she was a kid?? Well, I’ll tell you who. Hippies.  And while you could argue that my parents were not exactly the full-on “drop out” hippies of the time, if you compare them to the vanilla, straight-laced, midwestern folk we encountered in Grantsburg, my parents may as well have named me “Sunshine”. Oh, wait...

Mostly, I hated being so damn conspicuous all the time. Burned into my memory is the feeling I had every time we walked into a local restaurant, everyone getting quiet (if they were talking to each other at all) and turning to look at us.  Oh, boy, did I ever hate that!!  And rest assured, if these people went back to a conversation of their own at all, they were going to be drowned out in a minute by my LOUD family.  They were sure to hear all kinds of embarrassing family secrets that my sister would blurt out, and how could you even get mad at her because it was “just the way she was”.  So, you just had to bear it.  My dad’s voice was just naturally louder than every single other man in the entire town of Grantsburg.  He couldn’t help it.  But for me, it was mortifying.

Sometimes, we would go to visit my aunt and uncle in Minneapolis, and as we got to that place on 35W where you can just start to see the Minneapolis skyline, my stomach would jump with anticipation.  In the city, nobody even gave a shit about my family!!  We weren’t the loudest!!  People seemed to have their own problems!!  I loved the anonymity, I loved peering through the 3rd floor skylight of my aunt and uncle’s house and watching the airplanes.  I dreamt that I’d live in a place like that someday.

But, we always went back home to Grantsburg.  We lived so far out of town, I couldn’t walk or ride bike to my friend’s houses and because we lived in the bug-infested woods, I was often walking around with an eye swollen shut from whatever insect-of-the-day had bitten me.  I dreamed of moving to town, and one day I got my wish!  We moved to town, but that had it’s own set of issues.  Now, I had to walk to school, and back then, it seemed like they didn’t cancel school unless it was more than 30 degrees below zero.  I’m not sure if that’s true, but I do have a distinct memory of walking to school with my eyelashes freezing together (my giant 80s hair was still in place, however, because far be it from me to wear a hat and mess up that spiral perm I saved all my babysitting money to get).  We also had neighbors in town, and so there was even more opportunity for embarrassment over my family, although considering what some of the rest of the neighborhood was up to, I probably shouldn’t have worried...

I took swimming lessons at the Grantsburg Pool and eventually went on to get my Lifeguard Certificate. This was a real highlight, because now that we lived in town, I could ride my bike to all my swim lessons and also have lots of fun all summer long at the pool. I finished at the top of my Life Saving class (I was a strong swimmer and LOVED the idea of being a lifeguard, instead of working for the crazy religious freaks who ran the A&W or babysitting & being driven home by creepy middle aged men).  But when it came time to hire the lifeguards, everybody else in the class got a job but me. All their parents were teachers and coaches, and my dad was a pot head. 

Fuck small town living. I made a plan.

I decided to get out and get out as soon as I possibly could. I wasn’t exactly a fabulous student. Nobody was, really. I finished 4th in my graduating class with only a 3.3 GPA.  Can you imagine? I had spent my entire life enduring the big “sit down” after my parents attended conferences, listening to the “all the teachers say you could be doing so much better and that you aren’t working up to your potential” lecture.  That, combined with some pretty uninspiring teachers (one English teacher spent more time sleeping than awake during class, and several people wrote their grades into his grade book while he sawed logs, completely unaware....our biology teacher used to leave our class alone regularly to stand on the hill outside and smoke), combined into what became a pretty complacent attitude.  However, the bar was set so low for graduation standards, I had managed to meet all the requirements halfway through my senior year.  I decided to leave and attend college early. But, the guidance counselor was confused.  Leave early? Why would I do that? Go to college? Why? You see, all the boys usually go into the military or a small college nearby and the girls usually attend a community college for office skills training...THIS WAS ACTUALLY SAID!!!!!  

So at this point, I really just wanted to stick it up the guidance counselor’s, and everyone else in the community’s ass, and so I decided I would apply to the largest college in the area...in the midwest even...the University of Minnesota. Oh, oh goodness.  Gina, surely you don’t want to go to a college so LARGE! But these people just didn’t understand.  I’d spent years and years feeling out of place in their dumb town.  Trying to fit in, but never really fitting in.  Getting into trouble and doing stupid things just because I was bored and unchallenged and probably depressed. Nobody, but nobody, was going to tell me what to do.

The guidance counselor tried to stop me, would have stopped me actually.  Years later when I was on a school board, I realized that he was probably under pressure to keep students enrolled to be sure the district could get funding from its already waning student population.  There was no doubt that MY best interests were his last concern.  And I will forever be grateful to my parents, for basically forcing him to sign the paperwork to let me go early to college.  And go early I did, in January of my senior year of high school.  My parents moved away from Grantsburg shortly after I left and I really never looked back for many, many years.  

It took a long time for me to grow up and get past it all.  I became very bitter about small town life and became almost angry when someone voiced romantic fantasies about what it might be like.  I remember once in college, when I went back to Grantsburg and bumped into one of my former teachers/beloved coach in town, he laughed in my face when he heard I was becoming a teacher (“YOU, a teacher?!”) he scoffed.  Dickhead.  I worked my ass off and got on the Dean’s List, for the express purpose of putting it in the small town newspaper in Grantsburg, (note: this is the same paper where they would actually publish news about who was hosting company from “out of town” on any given weekend...”Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Johnson entertained her sister-in-law and nephew who traveled from Forest Lake for the weekend”).  I was so happy that my name was in the Burnett County Sentinel, on the Dean’s List at the University of Minnesota.  I just kept on having something to prove.

Year and years later, with all kinds of water under the bridge and some pretty hard lessons learned, I have inadvertently, accidentally, at times begrudgingly, found my way back to small town Wisconsin in a variety of ways...

I married a guy who, when I met him, lived and worked in a “big” small town, propelling me back (at least somewhat) to a life of seeing someone you know every time you go out anywhere in town.

I reconnected with some of my girlfriends from high school, who have proven to be an amazing support and unconditional love beyond any female friendship I have ever had.

And, last spring, my husband and I bought a cabin in rural, Western Wisconsin!  We are just 10 miles from Luck, where I took my driving test on actual city streets, just like we did it back in the day in small town Wisconsin! Crazy stuff, people.

It’s been an interesting journey.  And I don’t know if I could have said it before this very day, but I have fallen in love with small town Wisconsin.

I love that when a tree falls on our power line on a Sunday morning at the cabin, I can find an electrician who answers his phone and would be happy to come over, but I’ll have to wait until he finishes the breakfast he’s having with his daughter. He doesn’t give two shits if he loses the business, because he is going to finish breakfast with his daughter and that’s that. I also love that he brought his daughter with him, and she helped bring him tools and tossed rocks into the lake and waited patiently while he worked.  And I love that he apologized for the Sunday rates, which were slightly less than the normal weekday rates I pay in the city.

I love that on my bike ride I smell fresh air and see the beauty in farms, woods, animals...beauty that I just couldn’t see when I was a snarky teenager.  And I love that everyone (except that asshole yesterday in the red mini cooper who almost ran me into the ditch), waves and smiles warmly at me when they pass me on the country roads.

I love that when I asked the lady at the meat market if the meat was organic, she said, “Well, I don’t know if it’s exactly organic, but I’ve been to the farms myself and the animals are wandering around, not stuck in pens” and when I said “Oh, they’re free range?” she said, “Well, there are so many words for things these days, but yes, they are walking around eating grass and they look very healthy”.  And then she tossed in a free bone for our dog Lola, with a big smile on her face.  I love that lady, dammit.

I love that when a contractor comes to give us an estimate on something, we do a lot of unnecessary and excessive chatting, and the conversation and entire interaction moves very slowly, as if he has nowhere else to be. Here in these small communities, the pace of life is. just. a. little. slower. I love that.

I love that after purchasing “local” maple syrup at a store in town, we drove by the very farm where it is produced on the way back to the cabin.

I love that when I go to the local nursery to buy mulch and I climb up onto the pile of landscape block to help the guy get the bags down, he just lets me.  He doesn’t say, “Oh, ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to get down, we’ll get that for you”, like they always do at the big box stores, where you just know they’ve had seven hours of lawyer-created safety videos jammed down their throats to the point where they can’t even let a lady help. And I’m perfectly capable of helping, you know.

Yes, I’m still a city snob and when I go to the cabin, I have to bring my good bread and my fresh, organic produce and my “just right” salsa and the wine I like.  Yes, I can’t really go out to dinner here as a vegetarian unless I was to subsist on grilled cheese and cheese curds (which, after a certain number of cocktails, I kind of do...).  

But you know, when someone in Wisconsin asks me where I’m from, they KNOW where I’m talking about when I say Grantsburg.  And suddenly, I’m one of them.  At last.