Hello and welcome! An introduction for you: I'm a mom, wife, friend, animal-lover, and lacrosse parent who also happens to write, edit and manage a publishing company for a living. So why not start a blog, I thought? And here ya go...

August 27, 2009

Wearing Pants Instead of Pearls


My friend Lori gave me a great compliment one time: "In my next life," she told me, "I'm coming back as a dog in your house." I'm flattered, but it got me thinking: What if you did get to come back and live a different life? I know what I'd come back as, but it's not a dog. I'd come during the 1950s. Only, it wouldn't be as me. It'd be as a corporate-level, white man in the 1950s.

That's right. Gotta be male; gotta be white; gotta be in that decade. Why? I'd have it made.

After hearing rave reviews about a show on AMC called "Mad Men," I decided to try an episode as it was beginning its third season this year. I guess I've had my head in the sand because I hadn't even heard of it until this year but the show has already won an Emmy for Best Drama. Clearly, it's good, and clearly, it hasn't been hurting for fans, sans me.

So the hubby and I tuned in, thinking maybe we could just pick up who is who and what's happened already. Not so much. The show was looking pretty awesome...the characters, the dynamics, the raciness...but we were lost because obviously much has happened with the characters before now. So on the recommendation of a cousin, we went back to the beginning and have been watching the first season on DVD. Wow. I love this show. It's set in 1960 and surrounds the lives of men who work in the advertising industry on Madison Avenue. Hence the slang term "Mad Men," a term they coined for themselves.

And while the drama of it is spectacular, what I have realized is that living during that time as a white man would have been heaven. Living as a black man or--heaven forbid--a woman would've stunk.

Sure, men had to be the sole bread winners but I've never minded working so that's hardly a drawback. Speaking of work, downsides: a suit and tie daily and every flippin' body smoking constantly. Upsides: being an esteemed member of a clearly male dominated environment, a personal secretary to do all the grunt work, and daily booze consumption.

If Take Two of my life were during the '50s, my office would be like everyone else's: sporting a tumbler of preferred alcohol and a set of glasses. I'd look forward to meetings that boasted cocktails to better ease through them (who couldn't use that today, huh?). My secretary would handle the grunt office work, my personal errands and even hang up my coat and hat, even though I walk right by the coat rack myself. After a tough day of meetings and boozing at the office, maybe I'd go out with the guys and not bother calling home to say where I was, or I'd come on home to dinner on the table, prepared and set up by a cute wife in a dress, heels and pearls, who would then clean up the kitchen afterwards while I relaxed. She wouldn't question a thing I do or where I've been. Yes, what a life.

The worst thing to come back as? The wife in this scenario. Check this out: a page from an actual 1954 Home Economics school book detailing how to be a Good Wife.

HOW TO BE A GOOD WIFE
Home Economics High School Text Book, 1954

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal, on time. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal are part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so that you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the home just before your husband arrives, gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. Then run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too.

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair, and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad he is home.

Some don'ts: Don't greet him with problems or complaints. Don't complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared with what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or to other places of entertainment. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to be home and relax.

The Goal: Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.


Now, that's some good stuff there. I actually laugh out loud reading those.

Yeah, living life, round 2? 1950s here I come, as long as I'm wearing pants instead of pearls.

August 21, 2009

The (Smelly) Test of Love


I am a huge fan of animals: dogs, cats, squirrels, etc. Animals of the fur-wearing, snuggle-with-you, devote-their-undying-loyalty-to-you variety. In fact, I would challenge anyone who claimed to love animals--particularly dogs--more than me. But if there was any animal that might make me rethink my stance, it'd be the Beagle currently living like a king in my residence.

Last night was yet another Teddy adventure. Dog behavior issues are always so much more fun at 1:45 a.m., aren't they?

After a round of bladder infections (his, not mine) in which Teddy learned that barking in the middle of the night from his previously-beloved crate brought us steppin' and fetchin' to do his bidding (namely, let him out of the crate and into the yard, then a stop at the watering hole multiple times a night), my husband and I have determined that Pavlov was no fool. Though the physical need to go outside 4-5 times throughout the night is long gone, Teddy has been continuing to bark his displeasure at being in the crate for an entire six hours all throughout the night. After our vet (the best in the world, if you live in the ATL area, you must go to see him: Dr. Sam Adams of Creekside Animal Hospital) gave the all clear on any physical malady, we knew that the barking in the night and wanting to be let in and out, in and out, in and out was simply a behavior problem: one that needed correcting before we lost our minds along with all the sleep.

We moved his crate to the farthest possible point from our bedroom. Each evening, we make sure Teddy has been out one last time before he heads to the crate for the night. We close the door of the room he's in and head off to a peaceful, non-barking night of sleep. It was going pretty well for a week or so.

Then last night, with my hubby laid up with a bad back, I was zonked and ready to crawl into bed at 9:45 for some reading and then shut eye. Though 9:45 was a bit early for Teddy to hit the hay, I knew that many a morning, I've been up at 6:45 and Teddy hasn't exactly been dying to get outside so I know he can last longer than 6-7 hours in the crate. So in he went at 9:45.

Fast forward four whole hours and I'm awakened from a dead sleep by the incessant barking I've become all too familiar with. It's loud enough that I hear him through a closed door, up a level in the house, to the opposite quadrant of the abode from where he is... I stumbled downstairs and opened the door to a scene straight out of a horror flick. Apparently, when I put Teddy into his crate four hours earlier, either he went in with a shiv, bobby pin or toothpick strapped to his inner back leg like the criminal he is, or I didn't latch the crate door properly. I'm going with the shiv/leg/criminal theory. I should have expected as much. The bandanna around his head, the sneer and glower that said What the Hell?! and the way he flipped me a bird when being put up at such an early hour were indicators.

Alas, Teddy sprung himself from the pen and was running around barking up a storm at the aforementioned 1:45 a.m. Unfortunately, it must've been about 1:15 that he apparently decided nature's call was urgent and he made the room his own personal backyard, if you know what I'm saying. The good news is that the room has a wood floor. That made clean up much easier than if it'd been carpet. The bad news is that the room has a wood floor. Add to that the fact that Teddy doesn't have the sense God gave a Yorkie and he had proceeded to run around the room, oblivious to what he was tracking through and, thus, all over the room.

Truly, a nightmare. Fitting, since it was the middle of the night. A roll of paper towels, a thorough mopping, a heavy dose of Febreeze, a fair amount of swearing, and one appropriately positioned fan later, and the T was back ensconced in his crate--after he'd been patted down for various lock-picking paraphernalia, the hoodlum--and I was back in bed.

I love animals but sometimes the test of true love can be mighty smelly.

August 18, 2009

I'd Walk to You if I Had No Other Way


I haven't written in awhile. I've just been feeling very "blah" lately. Likely because of the loss of a child recently from within my circle of friends. Trying to return to normal (whatever that is) after such a loss ain't easy, and in trying to get out of the funk, writing just hasn't been the salve it usually is for me.

Or maybe I'm just a slacker. That could be it.

Regardless, here's the catch up: Chase officially began middle school. This is his second week in and for the first time ever, he's still coming home reporting that he likes it. Maybe it's the changing of the classrooms for each subject, the lockers, the added freedom and independence he's now given, the concept of "dressing out" for PE (altho I remember that as a nightmare, myself). But whatever it is, I'm glad. He's come home each day having completed most of his homework already (nice for me) and also reports that apparently homeroom these days is a time allotted for catching up on homework you didn't complete the previous night. Gee, I remember homeroom being for that same reason although it wasn't listed that way officially. It's just what happened--frantic scribbling on papers as you kept one eye on the clock, willing it to slow the hell down. All we had in homeroom was 10 minutes--enough to count you here or not here--and then you were dashing to the first period of the day. Now, Chase gets 30 minutes or so. Lord, I could've written an entire paper in 30 minutes; what a luxury!

Chase did say something pretty cool the other day, something that makes me realize that middle school or no, he's still little and still encompasses the sweetness that I'm afraid will disappear as the middle school years progress. We were in the car listening to my ipod and the song "Hey There, Delilah" came on. Chase loves this song and loves to hear songs he knows the words to because he belts them out, largely out of tune, but it's still cute. He came to the part that says: "1,000 miles seems pretty far but they've got planes and trains and cars, I'd walk to you if I had no other way." And Chase looked at me and said: "If I was 1,000 miles away, I'd walk that far to get to you, too."

What a heart melter. What's that, you say? You'd like a new bike, skates, Rita's Italian Ice? Lets go get it for you right now! He could've asked me for the world after that sweet comment and I'd have gone to the ends of the earth to get it for him. Even if I had to walk to get there.

August 11, 2009

The Meaning Behind the Markers


I love
cemeteries. Always have. Sort of an odd thing to love, I know. But I guess it's the history of them, the silent tales told by names and dates etched in stone and flanked by flowers typically fake but still indicative of someone's love for the person below. Cemeteries are quiet places as well and in today's times, I welcome the solitude.

Most particularly, I enjoy strolling through very old cemeteries--those with markers that aren't simply rectangle boxes short in stature but rather, mini monuments to the deceased. Markers that are centuries old are usually tall structures, often ornate, and indicative of the person or surviving family's wealth or social standing. Sometimes there are fences marking off the section, with elaborate landscaping. There are all sorts of things I infer about the person from the style and detail of their marker and gravesite. And then there are the really, really old cemeteries like in Boston and Savannah, Ga. The ancient markers in those are again rectangle, usually, but they are huge slabs of concrete that spell out paragraph after paragraph about the people they each represent: a mini biography of the dearly departed. Savannah has some super cool ones that are so old, many of the stones so weathered, the etchings are barely discernible and you have to jump from word to word, filling in the blanks with what makes sense.

I enjoy reading all these markers, envisioning what the person must have been like in their time. I calculate how long he lived, how much longer he lived than his spouse (if that marker is beside his own), how many children they perhaps had (often obvious by looking at neighboring gravesites). How did he/she dress, what did they eat, what did the area around them look like then as opposed to now? Did they live and die during wartime, famine, an epidemic? Did they themselves perish due to an epidemic that no longer or rarely exists today such as Yellow Fever, Scarlett Fever, Spotted Fever, Polio, Small Pox, etc. What that must have been like when a town was infected with such a silent killer. I would bet folks hovered indoors, trying to stay away from whatever caused these deadly diseases, and what must it have been like to learn that someone in your family was showing symptoms. I'm fascinated that vaccinations were discovered after people realized someone who had experienced one of these illnesses and survived could then treat others without becoming sick again.

Walking among cemeteries, taking in the names of people long gone and speculating about their lives is a way of honoring their memories even though I didn't know them personally. But what gets to me most in cemeteries far and wide, recent or old, are those tiny plots with small markers noting the children who lived too few days or none at all. Sometimes you see them with matching birth and death dates. Some have full names, others might simply say "Baby" before their family name. It's more disheartening to calculate the time lived in these cases, realizing it's a matter of months, a year, maybe three. How devastating for the family members who endured the tragedy of losing a child before they'd even entered school. And I always think: I just can't imagine it. How did the parents cope, how did they move on with their own lives after watching a toddler die before he knew so much of what life has to offer. And then, like all the other markers, I move on past.

Now, however, I've seen firsthand what losing a child so young does to you. There is so much more that goes on behind the dates etched in stone. My close friend's niece battled leukemia for almost a year and finally succumbed to the tremendously aggressive disease last Sunday, just one week shy of her second birthday. Sobbing with grief so deep it shakes you to the core...watching her parents say their goodbyes and then figure out how to move on is tragic and heartbreaking beyond words.

And I realize that as much as I thought I understood, while pausing at the smallest of grave markers in cemeteries, how horrible it must have been for the family and friends to endure such a loss, I really didn't know the half of it. Now I do.

August 6, 2009

Running Toward the Weekend


It's Thursday and I can't decide if I should be running toward the weekend or away from it. Are you crazy, you're thinking? Towards it! Always run towards the weekend. Any fool knows that. Yeah, yeah. But here's the thing: after this weekend we start school again. And yes, I do mean we because the crud they throw at kids these days could not possibly be done by them without parental assistance. So if I feel like I'm facing projects, posters, protractors and all sorts of other unappealing P words that have to do with daily homework. I smell the fumes of Sharpies in my near future and I don't like it one bit. You'd think that having completed some 18 years of schooling myself would buy me a reprieve from book reports, but turns out, it doesn't.

Not only is it school cranking back up, Chase will begin 6th grade. Middle school and the drama and headaches that will entail. I could cry. It means he's growing up, no longer a child. And this is tough stuff for a mother with just one child. I'm sure it's tough for moms everywhere, but particularly hard when you get to experience all the cool parts of raising a child only once. Because once it's done, it's done. No second, third, fourth child coming up behind him to re-live the fun stuff only kids appreciate. Am sure I'll survive this like everything else. In the meantime, I'll try to focus on the things he'll be doing in the middle school years that are new that we haven't experienced yet.

Lord, let some of them be good.

For now, it's one last weekend blast of the summer before we're back to reality. Here's me and my mini-me from our trip to Florida for our family reunion:

MeChase

August 3, 2009

The Nocturnal Beagle


Critters of the night: Owls, rats, opossums (um, gross), foxes, flying squirrels...beagles. Who knew? But it's true. Lately, our beagle Teddy is akin to a baby who has his days and nights mixed up and it's really encroaching on our beauty sleep.

We adopted Teddy (aka T-Bear, the T, T-Bones, or my personal favorite: Bones) when he was almost four years old. He'd been a laboratory dog, sadly. Although we choose to look at it like he was doing his duty for his country and his dog cohorts the world over because he was in the Auburn University laboratory as a test subject for a now popular and effective flea and tick treatment--the kind you put on the back of the neck and is absorbed into the skin. Once Teddy's patience understandably wore out for the repeated surgeries he endured to have his skin biopsied, they gave him an honorable discharge into the capable hands of a Beagle rescue who worked to re-socialize him and turn him back into the adorable, affable, lovable, spoiled guy who's lived with us for the past nearly five years.

IMG_4590

Since we've had him, he's spent the overnight snoozing hours in his crate in his very own "bedroom" (my hubby's office). Why? Couple reasons: one, the dog snores like a freight train. I'm not even exaggerating. He could wake the dead, snoring so loudly that I swear the walls bow in with every intake of breath. And two, he is absurdly co-dependent on my light-sleeper husband and needs to be as close as humanly possible to him at all times. Like a second skin. So for John to get any sleep at all, we have to make it so the T cannot sleep with us. Thus, he is removed to his crate in another room completely.

Before you get all "I can't believe you cage that sweet pup up" on me, know that Teddy was raised in a crate and he loves it. It's "his space." When the crate was in our downstairs family room, he would go in there voluntarily for naps. He hides bones in there, toys in there, etc. It's not a negative place to him at all so this system worked well. For about...how many years did I say we've had him? About five? Then this system worked well for about four years and 11 months. It all took a turn for the worse when Teddy decided that he didn't want to sleep in his crate at night. Not for more than an hour or so, anyway. Instead, he wants to make frequent trips to the back yard throughout the night, a few stops at the watering hole, and oh yeah, while he's always preferred to sleep in our room with us, he's decided to become adamant about it. And there's no ignoring all this because he barks from the crate when he's ready for an out-of-crate excursion. And he barks as loudly as he snores.

At first, we determined he had a bladder infection, which explained the frequent back yard needs and slugging down more water than the winner of a peanut-eating contest. Once that was cleared up, we thought we'd ease right back to the routine. Not so much. I think the T has decided he likes that barking in the middle of the night fetches one of us to spring him from the crate. And he's enjoying his control much too much.

So last night was one of the worst nights--filled with four out-of-crate-experiences between midnight and 3 a.m. and more expletives uttered from my husband, at increasing volume with each bark, than I've heard since the last Ga Tech loss to UGA.

So we're dragging a$$ this fine Monday morning, needless to say. And trying to figure out how to remedy this little situation. Thank God the T can catch up on his beauty sleep today just behind my husband's office chair. Lord knows he's got to get good and rested for tonight's round-the-clock soiree.

TeddyPillow