dysfunctional bungalow

Happy Birthday Two You

2010-07-22T05:05:00.000-07:00

My son turns two today. I realize if he is a year older, that I too must have aged a year. But, I am enjoying a younger version of myself through him.

Time spent coloring is cut short by his toddler attention span. I long to finish my picture (I do) and hang it on the fridge next to his 53 colorful crayon portraits. I have spent more time in a bathing suit playing and splashing in the pool instead of bone dry in a cover up sitting self consciously in a chair. I play more than weed in the backyard. Gallons of bubbles have been blown from the front porch and dozens of messy cupcakes shared. I’ve never felt so excited for weekends, evenings, mornings, and vacations. Our summer project is covering the porch with sidewalk chalk and daily dancing sessions in the living room to the earthy music of homemade shoe box drums.

I just don’t recall a summer being this wonderful and packed with joy. I can’t wait to see what he has planned for fall.

Sticky Situation

2010-01-21T11:30:00.000-08:00

I took an entire day to clean my house on Monday. Cleaning ourselves free of sinister Sippy cups that claim to be spill proof, leak proof, and splatter proof. My 1 and a half year has proven none of them toddler proof.

After the house was spotless I unleashed our professional sampling of three new cups all with their great claims. One literally was Sippy proof, no drink would come out of it. To my OCD side this appealed to me greatly, but thinking about the Wayne County Department of Children’s Services I took it away. Unfortunately, the two others cups leaked like creeks after heavy rain storms. Sweet sticky apple juice once again stuck on the ceramic tile of the kitchen and bathroom, the dark walnut living room floors, and politely dotting the once all-beige carpet in the bedrooms.

These lying cups have brought out a weakness in me. An inability to just be laid back about letting my shoes stick to the kitchen floor slowing us all down for a half a second. Those dirty dots of sugary juice sprayed all over our home makes me feel like a failure and like I don’t have it all together. When I’m sticking to my own couch, I can’t even pretend that I am successfully balancing work and family life with a graceful ease as I am using a shoe horn to get myself unseated from the now fermented juice. Cleaning or always keeping the house clean gives the very false illusion that we could be on a magazine cover for Garage Sale Weekly. Although my heart melts at the thought of this perfection, it just isn’t true. Just try to come over and use the toilet without a plunger.

I have always felt the need to keep the house tidy for other people, and was literally blown away at how difficult it became when we came home from the hospital after delivering my son. My husband had to leave right away for work and we had family coming in town to see the baby so I didn’t miss a beat. I had been in the hospital giving birth of course and was kept extra time for preeclampsia. So there I was going on no sleep and ready to scrub down the shower. I had the bathroom window open hoping the fumes wouldn’t get to my new baby. I realize now I should have been using the time to rest and that our family was coming to help not to critique our shower. And it should have been clean enough after I was cleaning a week earlier while on “bed rest.”

So no matter how many articles I read on balancing work and family life, I just think it is a challenge. It’s a challenge to remember to take it easy on the cleaning. No matter how stuck I may feel I can’t be as stuck nor as sticky as the terribly confused creators of no-spill Sippy cups.

"Did You Just See That Coach Flaming Across The Mall Parking Lot?"

2010-01-08T07:27:00.000-08:00

Once, during the brief time between parking my car and walking into a Cincinnati mall, my purse caught on fire. I smelled smoke, looked around me assuming someone’s car was overheating in the humid summer weather and instead noticed a black plume of smoke coming out of my usually calm brown Coach bag. I have to admit my shock as I stopped, dropped the expensive handbag, and attempted to roll it across the parking lot. I found that an overly dramatic and attention-seeking book of matches had miraculously lit themselves to start my most unusual purse fire.

Don't Lose It Over Last Minute Shopping

2009-12-23T08:56:00.000-08:00

Waited until the last minute to do your Christmas shopping? Lucky for you the Dysfunctional Bungalow has some ideas for you, like:

• dysfunctions-guided-journal or

• Gift certificates for therapy.

I encourage you to explore the kinds of therapy options that are available. I have known types of therapy where you beat bats into pillows, group therapy where "the group" guides your life, giving you advice on dating and career (yes this borders on a cult, but whatever works), therapy where you throw dishes and any other no-longer-needed-breakables. For easiest clean up, I suggest throwing directly into a dumpster. Yes, you get a certain reputation as the “crazy dumpster lady,” but who wants to spend the afternoon cleaning up that kind of mess at your own house?

Living in the country lends itself to screaming therapy; otherwise you will get the police at your door. I once shared a house where “the screamers” met one Saturday a month. I would wait until they were in deep waves of pain screams to sneak into the kitchen and grab some tasty snacks they brought.

Just remember times are tough. Give a gift that will offer some relief for the jobless, foreclosed upon, and the sick without healthcare.

It has gotten so bad these folks are winding up on my doorstep. Last night I pulled into our snowy driveway to find a little girl sledding down it. I was glad to see that our lack of shoveling benefits someone. I introduce myself and we started to get to know each other. She tells me her name is Elizabeth and that our next door neighbor is babysitting her while her foster mother is working. She assures me driveway/alley sledding is safe as long as you look out for cars. She also informs me this will be a horrible Christmas. Elizabeth isn’t interested in sharing the details, which I can appreciate. I simply offer her a stack of our old dishes and lead her to our silver aluminum trash can to help her work it out.

Real or Artificial - Either Way I'm Afraid

2009-12-03T08:21:00.000-08:00

I fear Christmas trees. I realize it is like fearing lollipops, children’s birthday parties, frosted chocolate cupcakes, fuzzy bunny rabbits, or dishes of pudding. I am sure it is considered un-American, satanic, and the 73rd reason I will be going to hell. But to me Christmas trees are big and intimidating and overbearing and needy.

They start out naked and need lights and garland, and bows, and a tree topper, and popcorn, and sentimental ornaments you need to have some story about, ornaments that some kid made you with peeling glue and despite the fact it’s falling apart you love it more each year.

Everyone around me has these fabulously rich stories of growing up with Christmas, decorating the tree, rising early on Christmas morning to sparkling gifts magically placed under the tree, and I just can’t relate making me feel like a foreigner.

Recently, we got a tree and I have attempted to join in the magically delicious fun to decorate it and it never looks like the one’s I see in magazines. One year I imagined the tree as a person instead of a thing and hung vintage air fresheners with pictures of tantalizingly naked ladies on her. I gave her a tree skirt made of a fur stole. And I added some shiny, rhinestone costume jewelry to top it off. We had a party and I could tell from our guest’s reactions this is not how other people had decorated their trees in their homes and I would not be rewarded with gifts next to my furry tree skirt on Christmas morning.

Some of our friends had travelled to Spain during the Christmas season. They were so desperate for a tree they drove their rental car into a wooded area and illegally cut down a tree to take home. Very conspicuously they drove past suspicious eyes back to town with a freshly cut tree riding high in the back of their convertible.

I am uncomfortable with my very unpopular indifference toward trees when most people are willing to risk an unsavory encounter with the Spanish police for their passion for the Christmas tree.

Recipe for Comfort

2009-11-25T12:19:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is my most beloved holiday. No religion claims it. No sending of cards, buying of gifts, decorating a house, dressing up in costume to participate. The only requirement is to be thankful for something or someone and to eat. Thanksgiving is full of many of my favorite foods from side dishes to pie.

My most memorable Thanksgivings have been times where we have travelled to a bed and breakfast out of town. I love how full the houses were of “odds and ends type family members” like my husband and I who don’t always fit into a family’s big picture. I felt comforted there, probably like you are supposed to feel on holidays. I was reassured knowing that even if I’m alone on a holiday I can find a bed and breakfast on the west side of Michigan or the southwest side of Ohio who will welcome me. They may have some sheep that listen to Christmas carols and eat buttered toast, or a Shepard-mutt who demands a belly-rub at the door.

I think holidays should be about finding comfort for ourselves however unconventional the recipe might be. I hope this Thanksgiving tastes delicious and you sit down and enjoy as much as you want.

Gender-free Parenting

2009-11-16T12:44:00.000-08:00

My dad often comments on how great it is that both my husband and I are involved parents, which I appreciate. Usually my son is in daycare part-time and my husband cares for him the other days of the week.

My father is impressed by my husband’s ability to be both “mother” and “father.” I wonder on the days when I am alone with my son if I am successfully engaging in both roles or am I simply being defined as a mother. Mothering seems to be all encompassing to include any and all tasks and roles but no additional titles or accolades. But to co-parent (this is actually a term for parents parenting equally) is out of the norm and modern, and gives father’s a new title.

This is not to say I am not grateful for my parenting partner, because I am, but my expectations with the birth of our son were that we would share the workload. As we have done with our marriage, our home, our dog, and however many other things. Nothing is ever exactly split in half evenly of course, but things are certainly shared so it is comfortable and manageable for us both. Otherwise, having a baby would have been too overwhelming to me and too detached for my husband.

But, as I am reading this phrase co-parenting in magazine articles and on blogs more often, I realize this is a newer concept. As silly as it seems to give parenting the name co-parenting, I do appreciate it receiving the credit it deserves. I simply can’t grasp how one gender could be more tuned into parenting than another. This concept just seems outdated.

If our families are fortunate enough to have two caregivers available for a child, then unleash whatever you have to give. Two males, two females, one of each, whatever, just love the kid up. Just sing some songs off key. Just make up a silly game that involves jumping on one leg. Just start dancing that involves turning in circles. Just do anything that ends up with tickling. Isn’t that the bottom line? Your child doesn’t know if he or she is being mothered or fathered or grand mothered if they are feeling loved.

We wait for the sound of hiccups to tell us we’ve done a good job. When our boy is really, really giggling he gets the hiccups. This brings me a happy, settled satisfaction. What signs do you look for?

Perverse Payola - Bring It On

2009-10-06T10:21:00.000-07:00

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/technology/8291825.stm

Apparently, new rules are coming down for blogger's on how they deal with all the free loot companies give them to try and then make recommendations to their readers.

So far, these companies have missed Dysfunctional Bungalow in their marketing meetings. But I like to imagine the types of products that could be a fit for my 4 perversely, sophisticated followers.

Free therapy comes to mind...this seems like a natural way to promote local shrinks, therapists, support groups, and soft-core cults. Interventionists, hoarding specialists, rehabilitation programs, any 12-step program. Self help books, bats with pillows (to beat them with), dishes to be broken, phones to be screamed into and them slammed, bubble wrap, peanut shells to be crushed on a wooden bar room floor, any Wal-mart to relive your dysfunctional childhood or easily participate in creating a new one with a child you've never met.

So, marketing guru's, you may think this is a tricky and tiny audience to pin down, but just give it some thought, and send me the goods.

A future baked from scratch

2009-09-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

I shared two pieces of honey cake with my 14 month old son last weekend on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Seemed simple enough, I found a recipe that appealed to me, baked it with the usual mishaps (hand mixer started smoking, couldn’t find 3 ingredients I was sure I had), and then the cake was consumed on a lovely fall-like afternoon.

But this was different. Yes, the cake was especially delicious and Duncan could not get it into his mouth quickly enough, but this moment made me cry. I had accidentally started a positive family tradition where I had none prior to this moment. I had started a positive family tradition with food to top it all off.

Starting out being a parent I felt so inadequate because of my upbringing. But as I move and live through parenting, feeling my way around it, I am finding that I don’t need a schedule or a how-to book for creating traditions or even spur-of-the-moment-fun. This seems to occur naturally when fairly happy functional people who love each other are together.

Earlier I was convinced I was lacking the mommy-gene, but I seem to be finding my way around the honey cake crumbs and sticky-little-fingers just fine.

Fortune Teller

2009-09-17T10:23:00.000-07:00

The late Neil Postman, author, New York University professor, and prophet, predicted how and why people such as today’s members of the evangelical/fundamentalist movement and other right wingers would be living in a dream world cut off from reality. Postman is best known for his 1985 book about television, Amusing Ourselves to Death, in which he wrote

"Television is altering the meaning of ‘being informed’ by creating a species of information that might properly be called disinformation. Disinformation does not mean false information. . . . What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. . . . Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumble puppy."

New Marketing in Death and Mourning

2009-08-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why I had the presence of mind to start thinking of my funeral arrangements in such detail and well before the average age of death for a white female. But more and more I am feeling like it is an important task. Perhaps I am a little controlling. Yes, I also have some concerns about the lack of crowd I could draw. A positive is that I am planning some storytelling, a "best of" for entertainment purposes that could sway some in.

Now I am thinking of a raffle. People love believing they can win something even if it is associated with death. This darkish raffle could get some strangers to fill seats.

The reality is I have friends and family all over the country, their bank accounts are not what they expected due to the stock market, and people in general don't want to bother anyone or be bothered. This has to lead emptier, more lonesome, and sadder funerals.

Any ideas on how to fill funeral seats will be appreciated. A carnival themed funeral...who wouldn't want to mourn over an elephant ear on a Ferris wheel?

Tales from the grave

2009-07-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

I was giving Dan some additional instructions for my funeral the other day. I was including ANOTHER story that should be told about me after I am gone.

I got worried that I had so many stories I wanted people to hear, that maybe we needed to be better organized. It occurs to me the stories could be arranged by subject, that way people could come in to hear what they were most interested in without it taking up their entire day. The subjects might be things like post office, public transportation, dreams, mental health, celebrity sightings, the homeless, and travel disasters.

At this point it occurs to Dan he might forget a story or two and it would help if I write them down. Now these stories will have a home under the label eulogy, and I can relax again about my funeral plans.

Birth of a Family

2009-07-23T06:43:00.000-07:00

One year has passed since our son was born. We reviewed all the amazing skills he has mastered in a year like rolling over, laughing, crawling, drinking from a cup, eating bits of food with his tiny fingers. But this year seems like more than a list or items to check off.

We've lived an entire year as a family. As a mom, dad, and baby. We've lived in a house. We've grown, gotten shots, slept, cried, kicked our feet, spent money, fallen down, danced, sang, burned cookies, clapped, gone for walks, grew flowers, pinched the dog, baked pumpkin muffins, gone to the doctor, lounged on the porch, stained clothes, napped, fed the birds, wiped runny noses, worked, felt lonesome, thrown toys, been hungry, saved money, took baths, played, gotten bruised, felt overwhelmed, read books, played at the park, cuddled, gotten frustrated, felt mad, chewed on itty-bitty toes, worried, screamed, watched thunderstorms and snow fall, lost puzzle pieces, had out-of-town visitors, gone on trips, laughed, missed each other, gotten bored with each other, felt scared, done laundry.

Until now I have not lived as part of a functional everyday family. That is what I was most scared about when it came to being a mother. That is what I knew I didn't have the experience to do. No book could show me how to be "regular" when life went up and down as it naturally does.

I feel proud of my son being one. And I feel proud to be part of my regular-old-ho-hum family. Happy birthday to us.

Dream 2: Ridiculous Rationalization

2009-07-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

We had two new rescue dogs who insisted on biting Duncan. Dan and I decided the parental thing to do would be to keep the unruly dogs because they were clearly in need. The dogs had come to us for help.

Our rationalization was that we chose to have Duncan. Most likely these were unplanned pregnancies. If we gave them up, they had no where else to go but down.

Dream 1: Sense of Future Home

2009-07-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

Dan and I were gifted Jan and Michael's farm house and surrounding land making us feel lucky and loved like you imagine a well-cared for child feels on his or her best day.

To make the house our own we did some construction to the house. Opening up rooms...raising ceilings...hanging our own artwork. Allowing us the feeling that a firm security deposit was accepted. It was becoming part of our own self-made history and future.

We had land, animals, privacy, yet at the same time we had connections. A pond, growing food, lives, space for the creation of art to be imagined, made, admired. A sense of place, ourselves, needs outside of immediacy. This land in particular was brought on so purely by a relationship of love, it is startling and stunning.

Objects of Desire - A new series on designs we love

2009-06-10T14:11:00.001-07:00

Objects of Desire - A new series on designs we love

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dysfunctional bungalow: Objects of desire

2009-06-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

dysfunctional bungalow: Objects of desire

Objects of desire

2009-06-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

Usually I am the antithesis of a car lover. First time I attended the North American Auto Show I was utterly shocked that they only had cars. No rides, no cotton candy, no farm animals, no carnival games, not even a place to sit down. So I squeezed into a hatchback with some reading material for the rest of the afternoon. People would open and shut the back of the car amazed how I fit inside there assuming I was a prop of the auto company.

Yet, I have always loved the Mercedes and Saabs made in the 1970’s. Still enough gleam of chrome to sparkle, but somewhat understated as if to say “yes, I have a full bank account, but I don’t have to yell about it.” The interior is smooth leather making it simple and elegant. The car doesn’t look angry like it is out to destroy any traffic, pedestrians, or yellow lights that get in its way.

I am just imagining that if I owned this car and the comfortable bank account to go with it perhaps I could have the inner confidence to forgo the McMansion and enormous SUV’s.

The wealthy could print out little cards with their bank balance on it and hand it out door to door. This would be both more efficient and less polluting. They could read it to themselves over and over again like a mantra or shallow meditation until their fears subside.

Wardrobe Division

2009-06-08T11:09:00.000-07:00

A designer posed a question about color asking “why designers stick to wearing black and designing in color?” The answer on wearing black came quickly to me.

I didn’t feel I was given a choice to wear color. In my mother’s mind color (especially on the bottom) was reserved for the very smallest of frames. The same thinking went for print (especially on the bottom).

Bright color and look-at-me-prints were for the starving-blond-elite who have lived in old homes for as long as their families have been in this country (which is a long time), who have hair that won’t curl no matter how stormy the day, whose bottom won’t stand out in the brightest Lily Pulitzer fuchsia and green-frog-printed-capri-pant right after a Memorial Day picnic at their cottage up north or in the Hampton’s or the shore or wherever the thin and hairless go for the summer.

Wherever on the map, these clothes I was told plainly were not for me, not for us. And I have abided with a closet full of black pants, black capris, black yoga pants, dark denim jeans, one daring pair of guilt-ridden navy.

I went with a friend to a local Jewish temple picnic when I was looking for a place to join shortly after we moved here. She told me they were very open to couples of mixed religions. I guess I hadn’t prepared my self for what this could mean visually. I walk in to find a perfect-looking blond mother in her electric-Lily Pulitzer-shift dress with her two matching daughters at her side. “I have to leave” I told my friend. “This is clearly no place for me.” I walked away in my matching black top, capris, and black sandals catching no attention. Able to slip in and out like a burglar in the night.

Rolling Along, Training-Wheel Style

2009-05-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

I am noticing that the first year of life is all about firsts. Our son crawled for the first time the other day. Coincidentally, it was the same day I had a first of my own. I rode my bike to work.

My husband and I expressed some concern that he was not crawling yet. The pediatrician checked out his tiny arms and legs. His head and back and declared physically he was ready, but he needed the courage to do it.

So the day I found my extra courage to do something I knew physically I was capable of, but scared to do, he did the same.

Sure, this could be a fluke. Or maybe a reminder that he isn’t the only one in our family having some firsts and growth spurts. It sure it a whole lot easier to try something hard when someone else is stretching themselves right their along with you.

Sweet Idea

2009-05-13T12:47:00.000-07:00

If I owned my own restaurant I would give people self-esteem cookies at the end of the meal. Wouldn't that be better than fortune cookies? The fortune is never really a fortune. The cookie sucks. So your end of meal experience ends up being a disappointment. Who doesn’t need a boost of self-esteem wrapped in sugar? No one really wants to know what tomorrow will bring. They do want to know that they are better than they are. We all want to hear more compliments.

One street person downtown Detroit has the best pitch. She starts off with a compliment. She doesn’t tell you her story which is probably a downer; she tells me how fabulous I look. She asks me if I have tried a new mascara because my lashes are ready to knock her over. She notices my jewelry. And it all works. Before I know it I am smiling ear to ear feeling great about myself and handing over wads of cash. I know I will see her soon selling the next Sham wow or easy pay religion on late night infomercials because she is that good and I love her for it.

Just imagine opening a delicious treat and seeing "you are hot...you smell great...you bake great muffins....you're so organized...your subtraction is very accurate...you have great looking gums...well-groomed eyebrows....great posture...good work on the flossing...love your meatloaf...those abs are TIGHT...those look very real…great grammar...your are always so prompt."

The wheels of misplaced anger

2009-04-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

I always thought riding a bike to downtown Detroit for work would be dangerous because you ride through mostly shabby (not shabby chic) neighborhoods. So I meet a guy who does it and it ends up the danger is from the drivers. They yell at him. They throw things at him. They swerve towards him. They are angry about him riding his bike. He said Detroit isn’t as angry as other counties nearby.

It reminds me of the strangely aggressive and angry reaction I’ve noticed on several things. Like saying you are a vegetarian. “Do you want animals to overpopulate and starve to death? You want to make hunting illegal? Can I eat this cheeseburger in front of you? Are you a communist? So you never eat protein? Do you eat bugs?”

Or if you don’t order a drink when everyone else does, “What did you kill someone drinking and driving? You got liver cancer? Are you in some crazy church? Why don’t you just leave?”

Or when they find out you’re a Jew, “No Christmas…no tree…a Santa? What about bacon? You don’t believe in JESUS? Will they let you into heaven? No ham? No Easter bunny? Are you sure you didn’t kill Jesus? Do you have your own churches?

Nosey

2009-03-18T12:47:00.000-07:00

I worked an entire summer at a Jewish newspaper with the obituary writer who had a nasal deformity. He had this slender white growth coming out of his left nostril. It was repulsively distracting, yet incredibly curious to me. Not only didn’t he explain the gnarly growth, he never acknowledged it as if he didn’t know it was there.

I waited all summer and got nothing close to an explanation. I might have quit that job, but hung on figuring he would break in that steamy un-air-conditioned-musty-corner left to write obituaries on typewriters that were missing keys.

He was always a little uneasy about his position at the paper since his wife was Catholic. I used to see him nervously sneaking the Catholic Chronicle into his tattered back pack each week. Now I know I should have used that Catholic Chronicle as bait to blackmail him for the story on his nose. I guess I wasn’t cut out for investigative journalism.

A Pretend Life

2009-03-17T06:59:00.000-07:00

Like most kids I was big into the world of pretend and make believe. I had imaginary friends called Imogene, Penelope, and Wilt. Also, there was a man living in a high rise apartment building underneath my tongue.

But sometimes as an adult I find myself still playing pretend. That the dust I find on the floor is sand and we are sunning ourselves at the beach. For a while I pretended our dust bunnies were alive and I couldn’t kill them with a mop because it was obviously cruel.

Other days I ignore the cell phone and computer because I am having a pretend 1950’s day. It helps to have a lot of vintage clothes, jewelry, handbags and, magazines.

Make believe isn’t any easier now than it was as a kid. People give me a hard time and try to reason about the difference between dust and sand. People show me calendars, wave ringing phones in my face.

They used to try to sit on poor Imogene and suffocate Wilt to prove some unknown point. And all the architects in the world couldn’t convince me that you can’t build a beautiful high rise under a child’s tongue.

I'm so glad it's changed

2009-02-20T09:31:00.000-08:00

Parents often talk about how having a child changes them…the house is taken over by brightly- colored-bouncy seats, finding sweet potato on you sleeve (just happened), lack of sleep, becoming immune to smells of poop.

Last Saturday I was at our local grocery store sans make-up and in clothes that welcome baby food-spitting fights. Trips out are not as “successful” as they used to be. I am focused on enjoying my baby. This means a combination of swinging my head around (he likes my hair tickling his face), nibbling on his socked feet, singing, and dancing. I miss a few things on the list because we are belly laughing aisle after aisle.

We get to the frozen section and my husband remembers some of what we have forgotten and dashes off. He returns to my performance of Huey Lewis’, “Do you believe in love” to our son.

What struck me funny was that no surrounding shoppers had a reaction. They kept their heads down like nothing was happening. No call for help, tossing of produce, booing, giggles, humming, hip shakes, disapproving nods, 911calls. I would have a reaction to an adult woman knowing all the words to a Huey Lewis song, let alone someone believing she is in a karaoke bar instead of the ice cream section of her grocery store.

During the brief instrumental, I wonder for a minute if this isn’t how our neighbors parent, and then go on, “I used to have you in a photograph, I’m so glad it’s changed.”

Suck Away

2009-02-18T12:12:00.000-08:00

Being a parent has opened my world to a dizzying amount of input. One seemingly major issue is the pacifier. I first noticed it with a co-worker’s baby, someone asking “You aren’t going to use a pacifier are you?” I thought they had to be joking. Like they were saying, “You aren’t going to use a rusted-out-dagger to get that booger, are you?”

Our baby didn’t take to daggers, or pacifiers. So he is sucking his thumb. Parents gasp and look at me, tattling and pointing “He is sucking his thumb!” As if he just stole their ID or motorcycle. “Yeah, I know. Next week are going to start him on unfiltered Camels.”

Being a former thumb sucker, I don’t get the big deal. Are you supposed to be a non-sucker, or a finger-sucker, a penny-sucker? It isn’t illegal or costly. He enjoys it and no harm is being done to the environment or the stock market.

I remember my parents trying to wean me off the thumb and the blanket with extreme rigidity. I just wonder what harm I was causing. Did I look weak? Was it an embarrassment? Did they worry I would fall the wrong crowd? If that is the worst habit for stress management that you end up with, then I say suck away.

Practicality of Religion

2009-02-13T07:24:00.000-08:00

My grandmother died just shy of ninety-one. She was cremated the same as we did for my grandfather several years earlier. We had no funeral or memorial service for her. No gathering of family or loved ones in her honor. No traditional or untraditional function which could have served as a valid reason to take off work, to cry, to space out, to linger over old pictures and mementos, to receive hugs, and casseroles.

My family is out of town. Our traditions are sort of out of this universe. So I was left in the middle of my life to grieve the loss of someone who meant a lot to me. Of whom the memories are rich with texture and life. The recollections came quickly to my mind provoking warm salty tears running down my cheeks like a broken faucet. I considered wandering a random cemetery or hospital hoping not to look so odd.

I found that without an organized religion or tradition I simply didn’t have a place to be at this very vulnerable and lonely time. I realized weather or not I am comfortable with each and every aspect of a particular religion and its traditions, they serve a purpose. They give you something to do and someplace to be during a difficult time.

It is easy to disagree with the tiny details of a religion when you are not in a place of need. Comfort isn’t really in the tiny details, but the overall feeling of safety and togetherness.

Un Dia Nuevo

2009-02-11T10:52:00.000-08:00

I rode in your convertible with the top down at night. Music so loud I didn’t know music could get that loud in the open air. Music made up of female scratchy voices. Guitars being played so awkwardly it was painfully beautiful in a shy-don’t-notice-me kind of way I remembered from high school.

You spoke fast. You drove fast. Your tiny delicate parchment-paper-pale fingers danced along the leather steering wheel animating your words about planting flowers at a park, going dancing, moving with a group of 28 to Austin and did I want to join in? You were inviting me on our first nighttime car ride into such intimate permanent activities. I am just a curious passenger, wanting to fill in the holes of my imaginary crayola sketch of you, not expecting such a welcome, such energy like 18 packets of pop rocks in a puppy’s surprised mouth.

I watch your movement so natural with feminine fleshy parts easing out of your too-tight shirt and getting pushed out of equally small jeans. Bright fuchsia nail polish light your finger tips and toe nails like perfect stage lighting for your nightly performances.

You can't get an Rx for the good stuff

2009-01-30T08:59:00.000-08:00

What has helped cheer me up in last 24 hours: hearing unedited music, having our president think I should make as much money as the guy next to me, having someone stand up for me in a meeting full of bullies hiding behind polite hairstyles and lipstick, playing Scrabble on Face book with an old friend, listening to Pandora.com, Duncan’s first smile this morning, when he fell asleep in my arms last night.

Economic Traffic Reporting

2009-01-26T11:44:00.000-08:00

I listen to the traffic reports on a Detroit radio station. I hear about sofas blocking I-96 and a generator flipped into the median on the Southfield freeway facing north, a pink toilet with its lid open causing a major back up on I-696 west, pieces of particle board flying south on I-75 near the casino, rusty rabbit cage and a box of boy scout uniforms keeping cars off I-94 west.

The list goes on…refrigerators, rocking chairs, numerous sofas or just cushions, children’s play ground equipment, tools, periodicals, and too many mattresses to mention.

I imagine trucks lose their load and inexperienced movers lose pieces of their homes. I wish the traffic reporters could be a little more detailed about the items…the size of the mattress, the color and print of the sofa, does the fridge look to be in working condition, are the magazines in English or Arabic or Spanish, how used is the particle board. The garbage pickers could be the heroes for everyone sitting in traffic and maybe I could find that pink toilet I have always dreamed of.

I've Got Your Number

2009-01-13T11:03:00.000-08:00

I was updating my address book, getting organized for the New Year. As I am carefully categorizing each person’s cell phone number, address, kid’s names, I start imagining another column. Shouldn’t there be a space to make notes about these people in our lives. Little reminders that might make future social and family events a little easier to plan?

For instance, Uncle Bob gets frisky when around jazz and whisky. Aunt Charlotte has a somewhat shady past with the feline community. The neighbor Jimmy and helium tanks and kids are a bad situation. Or third cousin Benny, when he gets near a loose purple thread the party is over. Barney, an old roommate has a crazy fear of already-clipped-coupons. Great Aunt Wednesday goes comatose when she sees Jimmy Dean’s mole. Don’t bring up the Green party or Canadians with Hal in the ranch across the street. Never serve sherbet punch to Cousin Jerry’s wife who wear’s the fake silk scarves, or she’ll never shut up about almost meeting Jerry Lee Louis. Never eat Lynnette’s “famous” rendezvous shrimp salad. Don’t have any family gatherings over at Aunt Thelma’s next to the school or else legally speaking cousin Dewey can’t attend.

Finally Fashionable

2009-01-05T13:14:00.000-08:00

This is from, http://iwantigot.geekigirl.com/2008/09/25/crazy-lady-is-now-a-trend/Crazy Lady is now a trend.

I can't believe the fashion elite started following my crazy lady looks. I have long since been wearing two different shoes, two different earrings, and the daily two different socks.

Bring on the multiple necklaces of elephants and plastic beads paired with aluminum cowboy and bumble bee pins. I secretly feared I would have to wait until I was elderly to die my hair blue and accessorize with plastic fruit. My day has come and I am ready.

Rehabbing the Holidays

2008-12-23T12:19:00.000-08:00

One holiday season I considered going to rehab. Rehab seemed like the perfect place to hide. No one would expect anything out of me like gifts, parties, cards, smiling, visiting, showering, etc. A nice relaxing, low to no pressure holiday season.

The idea of it gave me a sigh of relief. When I explained my idea I was surprised by the looks of surprise and the immediate questions I got, "what are you going into rehab for?" I had not worked out the details and was annoyed friends were not more supportive about my plan.

That year, I obviously didn't want to make the long boring drive “home.” In the past I returned home not always feeling comfortable in the place listed under family in my address book. There would be the same annual questions that are not particularly difficult, yet somehow nearly impossible to accurately answer. I’m not sure good definite answers exist for those small talk questions, if they do, families all over would be left with only the generic crackle of television.

Ironic Holiday Greetings

2008-12-18T12:15:00.000-08:00

I sent off our holiday cards and packages today. Some of the cards I sent were from the basement of an estate sale I went to a couple years back. They must be from the early 50’s. In my mind I thought they were very ironic. Not 50’s cool, but 50’s manger scene with lots of angels and lambs and chubby cheeks and scenes of little towns with a ten flag minimum. I tried to only send these delicate, yellowed cards to friends who might get the holiday joke. That the Jewish/non Jewish family is sending these second-hand-super-religious cards is funny. But, I guess when you have to explain it…

Anyway, I like the idea that someday some strange girl might find something of mine (like my forever holiday stamps) that I lost, and actually. She might use it and be laughing at me. But at least someone will be thinking of me and my basement will be cleared out.

Little Addict Annie

2008-12-16T08:56:00.000-08:00

I don’t have to live in the house with dysfunction anymore. I don’t dial its phone number. I don’t go to that address. It is a slow process to shed what you think you loathe. So I have my secret stashes like any true addict. A trip to Wal-Mart for great prices and intense verbal and physical abuse in most aisles and my only protection is a rickety cart. Maybe that big yellow smiley face is a distant, vacant relative.

Deep down I am like little orphan Annie still imagining my real family waiting patiently for me. Except I know now that even if someone has great taste in books or art they can still suck at lots of other things because it’s our right as human beings.

Blood Sisters

2008-12-11T07:23:00.000-08:00

As an outsider I relate to the City of Detroit. To its underdog spirit. We each have been misunderstood, unloved, disliked, discounted, gritty, historic, bitter, lonely, funny, dramatic, dark, fearful, isolated, abandoned. Depth and backbone and intensity with architecture and stories and music and food so sensual you realize why people are devoted.

Detroit can be like having your own secret attic at your fingertips. Steam billowing up from the street, my husband says hell is beneath downtown Detroit like something off a movie set. The city looks its best at 5 o’clock in misty gray.

I never feel out of place. People don’t always look like me. The setting may not be what I have thought to be comfortable, yet in a deeper way I know this is me and I am accepted with my cracks, dents, dusty baggage and frizz.

It’s bumpy and confusing and loud and unfair and scary and broken, but it’s not lost. There is faith and warmth and a willingness to share with an outsider. Nothing can make you feel more at home. Even the deep potholes and grit are laced with glimmers of hope. This is where my soul has found comfort.

It’s like your favorite foods, favorite places to be kissed and cuddled, music, pajamas, who you fall in love with, and if you’re honest, these things aren’t the prettiest, but they feel right deep down in the center of your belly just like home.

It's Worth the Helmet Hair

2008-12-10T13:40:00.000-08:00

I believe in helmets. Helmets are the ultimate tool in the protection of our greatest resource. I’ve seriously considered wearing a helmet in day-to-day situations.

I’ve experienced intense verbally abusive situations giving me the urge to take cover in a doorway, place my head between my knees, and shout, “damn, why don’t I have my helmet?”

Having a helmet from birth would have given me the extra protection I needed. Like using sunscreen from an early age can help in your later years against harmful, damaging rays.

My husband knows a philosophy professor who drives around Ypsilanti wearing a crash helmet. People laugh at him. I envy his courage and insight. He is acting out my safety fantasy.

When I begin wearing my helmet, I will carry extra helmets around town to hand out to strangers having a rough patch. Detroiters often ask me for money. Instead I give them food. I could add a helmet to the granola bar or muffin.

One woman simply refused my offer of peanut butter crackers when she asked for money, “Honey, I’d much rather have a beer.” Maybe what she really needed was the protection of that helmet.

Embrace the rounDD’s

2008-12-03T13:17:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend I bought my first bras that were not minimizing. Just regular bras. No restrictions no holding back. No censorship. Of course this is not a braless 60’s type situation, just letting what is to be be.

I had been told I would look thinner if my boobs were not so big and therefore to wear these minimizer bras. I fooled no one…the world knows I have big tits and I ain’t skinny.

So for the past few days I have been living with my double D’s front and center. They have moved proudly to the front of the bus like they had been hiding in an attic all this time.

Restriction is tiresome and unatural. It rains and my hair flairs out in loud-mouthed curls. My laugh can and has filled a movie theatre.

I am a full and round person in every sense of the word and it is how I best experience the world. Holding myself in in one place, makes something else pop out extra loudly somewhere else. And who wants to get it in the eye with a crazy double D that just got out of hiding?

Really Bad Day

2008-10-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

Mr. Greenspan said that he had found “a flaw in the model that I perceived is the critical functioning structure that defines how the world works."

http://http//www.nytimes.com/2008/10/24/business/economy/24panel.html?hp

I don’t know what is worse, thinking that you really knew how the world works, or believing that you know this, tell the world, and then find you messed up. Exactly what do you tell yourself at the end of that bad day to make yourself feel better? I just don’t think a regular bubble bath, glass of wine, chat on the phone, long walk, good cry, will do it.

Who Could Mommy Be?

2008-10-23T10:36:00.000-07:00

I have a holiday gift idea for the dysfunctional child in your life. Who Could Mommy Be? Paper Dolls. This is how I picture mine:
Outfit #1 Ina Garten. I would "sit" in her sunny South Hampton kitchen (she wouldn’t be sitting because she is a paper doll) and she would be cooking me luscious meals and speaking calmly to me about how the best quality ingredients make the for the best tasting dishes.
Outfit #2 Or she could be a Detroit City council woman. Dressing in colorful African wraps….hair piled up confidently on her head….she speaks with passion…and exudes the warmth of a favorite sweater.
Outfit #3 Or just the women you see at the grocery in non descript clothes….soft and clean…no makeup…no hair color…no nail polish…no jewelry. Her breasts and stomach have met making a comfortable shelf for hugging.
For Christmas 2009, Who Could Daddy Be? Paper Dolls.

Baby Balls

2008-08-16T17:27:00.000-07:00

Let me be very clear...I love my new baby. Love spending time with him, watching him to the point it could be considered stalking, making him feel happy and loved. Just because you love something does not make it easy to clean. For example I love our shower, but mildew is a bitch.

Cleaning poop off a baby scrotum is no easy task. Obviously the scrotum is unlike ceramic tile or hardwood. I cannot use harsh-bristled-brushes or bleach on a scrotum. Poop embeds itself in the tiny wrinkles and I am left with a wimpy baby wipe to ever-so-gently clean up the goods.

Tiny can be taxing

2008-08-08T16:55:00.000-07:00

I had a baby July 22. The physical act of having the baby is challenging and exhausting. The act of living with and parenting a baby seems somehow more difficult than those seemingly endless contractions. I believe it is a torture tactic to have sleep interrupted over and over again. One day turns into several days and then weeks have gone by and I am still wearing my pajamas and am unclear the last time I have showered or eaten.

I am currently looking into a drug habit of any kind of uppers. This is the only way I see getting through this.

The saving grace is that my husband and I have a stunning and healthy baby. He already seems far more intelligent than we are. I am hoping that he will act as both a tax write-off and our accountant by next April.

Buck

2008-07-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

We came home one day to a lamp knocked over and large dust bunnies in the middle of the kitchen floor. After checking the house to ensure nothing was missing and no strangers were hiding behind the shower curtain, we tried to ignore it.

As we start dinner a flash of black fur races by. I turn to see a frozen-guilty-looking-squirrel that has come out from under the refrigerator bringing additional dust bunnies as his back up army. He seems honestly surprised to find me there. His tiny nose begins moving, probably smelling the sloppy joe’s I am making, perhaps hinting that he and his troop would like to stay for dinner. I silently point him out to Dan not wanting to say anything rude in front of him because he seems so jumpy and unpredictable, like a squirrel with a very bad coke habit.

I realize the only way to get rid of him was to stab him with a nearby paring knife, which means the loss of the utensil, but am willing to make the sacrifice in order to remove this intruder from our home. While raising the knife slowly over the squirrel like a scene from a horror movie, Dan grabs the broom and opens the front and back doors. Dan, the committed pacifist, has miraculously found a way to both eject the uninvited dinner guest while sparing the squirrels life. After some chasing and running back and forth, the squirrel flies out the door and I secure the locks just to be safe.

After our first encounter with the squirrel, we began to notice him running onto the porch as we leave the house, like he’s waiting for us to get out of his place. Since he does not have a key, he can only peek inside the windows or relax under the shade of the porch. His hesitation waned and he started sprinting onto the porch to settle into his favorite position, flat on his belly stretching out his arms and legs as if he were mimicking a tiny rug someone would make from squirrel skin.

Dan named him Buck. Buck enjoys the vegetable garden behind the house, especially the tomatoes. He sits on top of the grill, speedily nibbling through the shiny-red-cherry-tomatoes. I suppose he gets a whiff of charcoal and burgers and envisions a freshly grilled burger complete with fresh tomato topping. You can see Buck has that kind of sharp imagination. Instead of using the garbage disposal, we now pass leftovers onto Buck.

For Halloween, we had several small pumpkins on the front porch perfect for Buck’s petite build. Dan carved a jack o' lantern leaving all the seeds and pulp inside for Buck. Buck found his way inside the jack o' lantern stuffing his small squirrel mouth full of pumpkin and then falling asleep inside the pumpkin.

It is surprising how well things have turned out for Buck and me since I tried to stab him when we first met. Perhaps all those leftovers made up for my near violent attempt on his life or he might be a squirrel with a spiritual side that believes in forgiveness.

I once loved a Volvo

2008-07-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

I always wanted a Volvo. I started loving Volvo's in the 80's when they were boxy-shaped and looked so stable and safe. We purchased a Volvo wagon that was the color of a perfect cranberry at Thanksgiving with caramel-colored-leather interior. It was like a delicious-homemade cobbler on the cover of Martha Stewart Living.

The car came with features I never learned to use, yet I liked knowing they were there. The Volvo had tiny windshield wipers on the headlights. I couldn't locate a button with which to turn them on, but I believed when I needed them on a future rainy night, that the very button would magically appear. This miracle would happen because this car wanted to keep me safe.

What I fantasized about my dream car, turned out to be very similar to past relationships. This Volvo should have been left as a mediocre-one-night stand.

Instead, I kept with it, certain it was the love of my life. I just had to have faith in its ability to morph into what I needed it to be and ignored its lack of reliability, instead, relying on its looks, slick extras, and uppity reputation.

I fell in love with the way we looked together, rather than the shame I felt making another call to AAA for a tow, and the heart palpitations I felt with weekly trips to the mechanic after receiving another repair bill.

I would see other people driving around town with the same make Volvo. They appeared calm and able to focus on their driving. Meanwhile, I was trying to drive with my head tilted perfectly away from the dashboard with a minimum of one eye closed to block my view of the check engine light glaring at me. I made a habit to slam the car door shut as hard as I could. I imagined the car might truly feel the physical pain and begin to understand my anger and hurt. In defiance, the car switched on another mysterious light, filling up the dashboard like it was Christmas.

Like in past relationships, I stayed too long. I stayed with the fantasy instead of heeding the flashing red warning lights screaming at me that I am no auto mechanic or shrink or brain surgeon that can change anyone’s or anything’s DNA. This car let me down, left me stranded, and stood me up. I could have changed my hair, lost weight, and read more books, but the results would have been the same and I would be left with a negative balance in my emotional and fiscal savings account.

New guy

2008-07-10T13:43:00.000-07:00

We have a new guy at work. He sits behind me and is very quiet. Having him there reminds me of the last new guy who I miss. This new guy doesn't enjoy me shooting rubber bands into his cubicle or making fun of his political party. This guy does not seem as amused when I threaten to toss random items (one dirty sock) into his Jeep when he removes the doors in the summer. I am guessing part of it is this new guy doesn't have a Jeep and rides the bus.

At first the newest guy behind me made me think of one of the Gibb brothers. He is very young and has a long, full head of hair and a very full beard. I felt better thinking the guy behind me had a partially unbuttoned shirt showing off his crazy gold medallions. Bee Gee's music always makes me feel thoughtlessly happy. Like I imagine dumb people feel everyday...happy for no reason...happy because their head is filled with nothing other than pink cotton candy and it smells nice. That is the Bee Gee's to me. Like the perfect buzz that you only get once a year and it lasts for under four minutes, but you expect it every time you drink.

My buzz was taken away when old new guy suggested the newer guy looked more like the above picture of the Ben and Jerry guys...the one on the left. He was right. Then it occurred to me how totally unappetizing super-seriously-hairy people are when it comes to ice cream. It is about 90 degrees out today, but looking at this guy made ice cream seem utterly foul. Like all the warmth a hairy guy puts out would just melt that ice cream more quickly than I could enjoy it. Then I am left with brain freeze because I have to eat it too fast. And who would pay the extra money for Ben and Jerry's or Haggen Dazs if you are sitting near a heat wave of hair. You would start to settle for a McDonald's cone or something generic left in your freezer from the last tenant that is covered in thick freezer burn, much like the beard above.

Going to the other extreme, enjoying a cone with a freshly waxed companion would be like having dessert with a worm. I am certain worms don't enjoy their food because they are too busy surveying their surroundings to see if they are about to be stepped on. It would be like eating with someone on a crazy acid trip.

This is what I learned so far from the new guy. To be perfectly safe in the future, I will only eat ice cream alone so as to protect the valuable experience.

Bus Buffet

2007-10-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

I ride the bus. I ride the bus even though we have two cars in the driveway. This confuses some people. A neighbor who usually sees me walking to and from the bus stop saw me parking the car one day after running some errands. “You drive?” she asked looking legitimately surprised. “I figured they took your license for drinking or something.”

Driving to work would have kept me from some interesting experiences like contact with those asking for spare change for cups of coffee, or a chilidog. Instead of handing out cash I offer bus tickets or food. I happen to keep quite a selection of food on me at any given time – fruit, cereal, cheese, soup, and egg salad sandwiches.

One winter I had several stolen hams. A friend passed the hams on to us after taking more than his share at work. This was the annual holiday gift from his company and he took the hams in honor of his co-workers who had been laid off that year. I considered lugging the hams on the bus, hoping the next few hungry people are neither Muslim nor Jewish. Or I could set up a temporary carving station on the street corner and really get a good crowd going.

I now consider myself a bit of a celebrity. I have been approached with “you’re the bus lady right? Why don’t you gimmee some of them tickets to ride with? Which bus will take me to Mexican town? How do I get over to Receiving Hospital?” One woman found me and asked specifically for a homemade bran muffin I had given her the week before. “You bake real nice muffins, got any more in that bag?”

The Art of Obituaries

2007-10-05T07:04:00.000-07:00

My favorite part of the reading the paper are the obituaries. I like when the paper really gives the obituaries the space they deserve with several paragraphs, a picture, and even a family crest. I’ve asked Dan to create a Stewart – Steinberg family crest. I can picture the Dysfunctional Bungalow Crest flying proudly, yet faded and tattered.

For one summer in college I worked as an intern at a small Jewish newspaper in Cincinnati. A short stubby guy seated next to me was assigned the obituaries and he hated it. Personally, I was envious of his important task, but if I it brought up he could rant for 45 minutes about how the editor was overlooking his oozing talent for hard-core journalism.

I love the details in obituaries like: the sports teams of which the recently deceased were fans of, heirloom rose gardens, church pie contests, hand-sewn quilt collections donated to inner-city children, runner-up as River Raisin Queen, 1926. These are the fine points in life that can be overlooked until the end.

I should write my obituary now instead of leaving it up to a resentful newspaper writer who already feels undervalued and does not understand the art of an obituary. A few well-placed exaggerations like my nickname, "spark plug" and favorite hobbies like amateur-anesthesiology and sacred-ground-architecture would make it a must-read.

Friends would shake their heads with sincere regret and confusion, “I really didn’t know her…why didn’t I spend more time her? Here I paid full price on anesthesia at the hospital last week, and I could of gotten a deal from ole' spark plug.”