Food for Thought

Names have power. It is one thing to drive past a homeless person panhandling in the street. It is quite another thing to drive past Ted.

I’ve been serving our homeless community for a while now, getting to know the people behind the signs. Their stories. Their preferences. Their names.

It’s no longer possible to simply drive down the streets. I search them now, my eyes constantly darting down alleys, around corners, into nooks and shadows. It’s a fine habit most days. But when you’re dressed up and moments away from indulging yourself, it can be problematic. I was heading to a fancy affair at the university. As we cruised down Asher, I spotted Mark, trudging along behind his shabby cart in the parking lot he calls home. I’m off duty, I reminded myself. This is okay.

Two minutes later, a figure came into view on the median at the intersection of where we were and where we were going. I knew two things instantly. It would be Ted. And we would catch that red light. That damn, infernal, interminable red light. Something inside began to unravel, threads silently snapped. One foot in a land of wretched excess, the other in a land of poverty and pain. I am going to eat tenderloin; Ted is going to eat from a dumpster.

This is not okay.

When the party was over, there were mounds of food left untouched, open bottles of wine left unpoured. Enough to fill every hungry belly in town. Enough to quench every thirst. But I know how these things work. We don’t live in a world of Enough. There are only the worlds of Too Much and Not Enough.

I went to bed that night feeling full. Feeling drunk. And feeling like a failure.

Yesterday, I went to another party at the university, the retirement party of my favorite professor. The best lesson he taught me was to just say what needs to be said. He was talking specifically about writing, and my chronic abuse of metaphor, but the lesson applies to life as well. When the staff appeared at the end of the party, I said what needed to be said.

“What are you going to do with all this food?”

He answered as I knew he would, “Throw it away.”

Dr. Anderson and I began scurrying around, piling plastic plates and filling clean trash bags. Every last roast beef roll up was rescued, every juicy wedge of melon. The staff stood back and watched, their eyes filled with equal parts disbelief and approval. It’s possible I am the first guest they’ve ever seen dump an entire chafing dish of Spinach Artichoke Dip in a trash bag. I hope I’m not the last.

I loaded my car full of food and ice cold bottled water (They were even going to throw away the bottled water!) and aimed for the closest camp. On the edge of a parking lot, I threw a little party, for Curt and Donna and Jane and Richard and Andy and Morris and Mike and David.

And Ted.

When I went to bed last night, I did not feel like a failure at all.

Sock It To Me

You don't have to open your front door to know fall has finally arrived. Just open your Facebook. We're all so busy talking about the crisp autumn air that we've completely forgotten to Instragram our breakfast. After a long, hot summer, everyone is giddy at the prospect of shaking the moth balls off our cashmere and brushing up on our favorite scarf knots.

Well, maybe not everyone.

For some, the chill in the air might not be welcome at all. It might be dreaded. Across the United States—in alleyways, under bridges, deep in the woods—nearly 600,000 men, women, and children are living outdoors. Just the other night, I was part of a crowd of 2,000 financially fortunate Little Rockers leaving Robinson Auditorium after a comedy show, all smiling our way to dinner or drinks or home. But when we got to our car, a homeless man was sleeping on the sidewalk, right there in the middle of the city, in his home of cardboard and Kroger sacks. I rode home thinking, what could he have bought with the money we all spent on an hour of laughter? What could we have given him?

Then I saw this video.

And I decided to use the Internet to do something awesome. Starting with socks.

In honor of Socktober, my family is holding a Sock Drive, just like my mom used to when I was a kid. I'm asking for your help. Can you contribute a pair of socks? If so, leave a comment below so I can contact you with collection information. Locations will also be posted on my Facebook page.

Let's stop talking about the weather and do something about it. Please give.

I Remember Mama

In some families, sibling rivalry can be a real bother. (See: Cain and Abel.) In ours, it's pretty benign. We've never fought over men or competed in careers. We don't care who makes the most money or even who mom and dad like best at any given time. The sibling rivalry in our family revolves around just one small, yet critical matter: Who can give the gift that makes mom cry.

My sister, with the unfair advantage of incredible talent and generosity, usually wins. But not this year. This year, Mother's Day is mine.

This year, I have a secret weapon:

Once upon a time, Laura Brown was my teacher in an official capacity. She gave me things to read and things to write. She gave me guidance in the kindest of ways, with a gentle nudge or probing question, jotted in the margin of my paper in tiny lavender script. After the semester came to an end, I graduated from student to friend, but Laura continued to teach me. When I carelessly tossed a "funny" comment on my Facebook wall that got a cheap laugh at my mother's expense, Laura was there to gently nudge me again. "Honor your mother," she wrote in a private message."Be grateful that you still have her."

Just in time for Mother's Day, Laura came through for me again. Her new book, Everything That Makes You Mom: A Bouquet of Memories, is her best writing assignment yet. On each page, Laura shares a simple memory of her own mom doing one of a thousand simple mom things: shopping, visiting, playing, caring. Like a good teacher, Laura then offers a selection of writing prompts designed to stir our own mom memories and some space for us to share them. In the end, the gift we give our mother isn't a book, but the knowledge that we have been listening, we have been paying attention, we do remember.

Thank you, Laura, for a beautiful book that will make my mom cry.

And thank you, Mom, for a lifetime of memories that no single book can contain.

Love is a Battlefield

I was pretty holed up inside my own head as I cruised along Cantrell to retrieve my son from school. The day had been intense—over two hours in a high-rise conference room coaxing old memories out of their comfortable shadows. I've never been deposed before, never been asked to transform dusty memories into legal testimony in an ugly custody case. If you've never been commanded to do it, count yourself lucky; it's miserable work.

"Do you recall, in 2004, when So-and-so did such-and-such?"

Ma'am, I don't recall what color underwear I put on this morning.

I did my very best to answer the questions, one more intimate than the last, as honestly as possible, the weight of the task bearing down on me relentlessly. I didn't fully appreciate the enormity of it all going in, the pressure of having actual lives depend on my fading memory, but it became painfully clear. Hours later, I still can't shake the throb between my eyes.  Like I need help deepening that groove, thank you very much. It's not fair, really, to put such a burden on a person, to ask someone to shoulder the weight of your mistakes, forcing them to hold the dust pan as shards of your broken past are swept out of the darkest corners.

The lawyers dredged up every lurid detail they could think of—sex, money, the most personal of personal habits. 

"Were you aware that So-and-so did this-and-that?"

A shiver went down my spine as scenes of my own sordid past bubbled up in my memory. What if the spotlight was shining down on it? How would I be reflected in the mistakes of my youth? How would you?

It seemed they wouldn't stop until they asked every question they could think of.

Except one.

"What do you think is best for the children?"

As I allowed my car to roll along on autopilot, I slowly became conscious of a familiar voice on the radio: Pat Benatar, belting out an anthem from my youth. I haven't heard the song in years, but the events of the day gave it new meaning:

You're begging me to go
Then making me stay
Why do you hurt me so bad
It would help me to know
Do I stand in your way
Or am I the best thing you've had

Believe me
Believe me
I can't tell you why
But I'm trapped by your love
And I'm chained to your side


Love is a battlefield




Yes, yes it is.

My A Game

When I started teaching at my current school, I was a little nervous about the open space floor plan. We don't have walls. We don't have doors. We may as well have microphones, because everything we say is broadcast to at least three other classrooms. My principal described it as teaching in a fishbowl, and that's how it felt at first. I was intensely aware of everything I said, especially if I said it in my mean teacher voice.

Over time, I've stopped focusing so much on what I say, and instead, started paying attention to what I hear: the teacher next door. In an open space school, I'm not just a teacher; I also get to be a student. All day long, I have the opportunity to learn from a master. I'll admit, she sets the bar so high, sometimes it's a real challenge even trying to keep up. But it's the trying that's making me better. Every day, I have to bring my A Game. I'll still never be as good as she is, but every day, I'm better than I was before.

Here are a few of the new and improved things I did this Christmas.




Classroom Project




Presents for Mom and Dad




Presents for the kids~handmade, personalized capes. Yeah, I would have done that on my own.

Where the Sidewalk Mends

When school was over today, instead of their usual playground fun, my son and a couple of his friends got down to work. On their hands and knees, they clawed at the gravel like dogs burying a bone. Pebbles rained down into holes in the sidewalk, patching the path till the surface was smooth—more or less. I asked them why they were working so hard instead of playing.

"So nobody's wheelchair gets stuck in there."

It's Grandparents' Week at our school and the grandparents we've seen run the gamut. Some are smoking hot grannies, owning the halls in tight jeans and high heels. But others are very, very old, making their way to their grandbaby's classroom only with the help of a wheelchair—and three sweet little boys.

Good Hair Day

I wasn't in my classroom five minutes this morning before my students' behavior had me in tears. In this case, it was a very good way to start the day.

One of my little princesses was having a hair emergency. This is more common than you might think among four-year-old girls. It's important that one look one's best for a full day of nose picking and Barbie playing. And this little girl did not have what she deemed an adequate hairstyle for her agenda. When Dad brought her to the classroom, it was evident that she had made her dissatisfaction clear on the drive to school. Apparently, very clear.

I wanted her to be happy, so I did my best to find a ponytail holder to solve her problem, but I struck out. I needed to move on with our day, so she was going to have to wait.

But not for long.

Another little girl in our class, let's just call her My Favorite, was paying attention. Without being asked, she took the ponytail out of her own hair and used the holder to take care of her friend. Gently, she smoothed her friend's hair into place and, without a word, returned to her seat.





I wish I could teach them half as much as they teach me.

A Penny $32.60 Saved

Author Kyran Pittman isn't just a talented writer, she's also a genius couponer. And what's more, she's generous enough to share her secrets. After every major score, she rushes to Facebook and shows us all exactly how to join her in the game. Sometimes, if you're really lucky, she even comes to your house and hand delivers a detailed game plan.



a detailed game plan


Like a good straight A student, I followed her instructions obediently. As directed in Step #1, I went to Walgreens and purchased four of the six specially marked items.









Already, I'm doing pretty well, since cereal is up to about $20.00 a box these days. Scoring my favorite brand for $2.50 is a great way to start. But it's only the start, because Walgreens then gave me back $5.00 in a lovely little thing called Register Rewards.

Following Step #2 in the plan, I combined a handful of store coupons, graciously supplied by my mentor, with my Register Rewards to buy this—









Yes, you are reading that right—all those school supplies cost me .47 cents. Which is especially awesome, because I would have paid $47.00 for that KISS notebook. But wait! There's more! They gave me back another $2.00 in Register Rewards, which I used to buy these treats for my boy—





That smile was my best Reward of all.


(What are you just sitting there for? Get thee to Walgreens!)

Big Love

I thought you should be the first to know.

I have a new boyfriend. And it's serious.

Don't worry. My husband knows all about us. In fact, he introduced us. And he completely understands my attraction.

Meet Paulo.





He's beautiful, no?

You must understand, this is no casual affair. It's destiny. Our new house has forty pairs of shutters, you see.

FORTY!

I spent three weeks painting the first pair by hand one day.



muthashuttas


At that rate, it was painfully clear that the house would be finished just in time for us to move into assisted living. So my husband invited Paulo home for a threesome.

It was love at first spray.



Me and Paulo, getting it on


It didn't surprise me much to discover that Paulo, in the end, turned out to be quite high maintenance. All the great beauties are.





But I don't mind taking good care of him. He's totally worth it. I have a feeling we're going to be very happy together.




Den, before



Den, happily ever after

Smoke and Mirrors

Remember when I told you how much I love the new paint color I chose for my office? Well, I'm not so sold on the paint I chose for the dining room. The color is so safe it hardly even counts as a color. Because I'm too lazy and cheap to just pick another color and paint again, I'm trying to make it work by adding so many extra colors to the space that people become too confused to notice the walls. Smart, right?

So I found this fabric remnant at an estate sale today. I think it may have come from circus folk.





I decided to use it to cover these bland old dining room chairs of ours.





The first step in this process was to gently pop the seats out. Once that was done, my next step was to break my stapler. Because breaking an essential tool is ALWAYS step 2 in my DIY instructions.





After trying every tool I could think of to fix the jammed stapler, I came back to my old standby—cussing. Why I don't try it sooner I don't know, because it always works like a charm.





Voilà!

Boring walls? Where?

Don't Try This At Home

Remember that old ad campaign, Take the Nestea® Plunge?





The premise is that if you're lucky enough to have a cold, quenching glass of Nestea Iced Tea in your hand, even the harshest environment magically transforms into cool, refreshing water.

My husband decided to try the plunge in our pool a couple of days ago.



Our pool, a couple of days ago


Unfortunately, he wasn't lucky enough to have the tea. In which case, even the harshest environment just stays harsh, and instead of getting refreshed, you get a broken shoulder.

Oh sure, you can all lavish sympathy all over him—poooooor baby—but I'm the one you should be feeling sorry for. All he has to worry about is a lousy six to eight week recovery period, constant pain, almost complete loss of the use of his dominant hand, and an awkward, hot, uncomfortable sling for two months.

Whatever. The garbage isn't going to take itself out for two months.

Man. This really sucks for me.

The Office

With the exception of the kitchen and dining room, which fell victim to the tragic wallpaper plague of the '70s, every wall in our new house is white. And not hip, modern white, either. Dingy, old lady white.

Like this—




We've lived here nine months. While some women piss away nine months making people, I used my time to make something really important—my first paint decision.



Morning Fog—Blue and Gray's Beautiful Love Child

I was so happy to finally have a can of paint in my hand that I sprinted to the checkout before that temptress Martha Stewart could lure me back down the aisle with her siren song of samples. I was halfway home before I realized that I might need some way to actually apply my beautiful new color to the walls. Details. I figured I must have some crusty old brush lying around a closet floor somewhere, maybe a roller that didn't have too many chunky bits.

And then I found this—


♫ Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! ♫

I'd forgotten all about it. My husband's sweet nephew drew my name for the Christmas gift exchange. He knows me well enough to understand what my idea of a perfect present is. He also knows me well enough to anticipate that I'd be too cheap and/or flaky to remember to buy this kind of stuff myself.

Thanks for a great present, Joe. I love my new office. And now that the old lady white is gone, I swear my husband looks ten years younger in there.

. . . and justice for all.

Even though my HUGE teacher paychecks just keep rolling in all summer long, I still like to supplement with a little extra income when I can. Summer nanny gigs are the perfect solution, mainly because I'm way too lazy to get a real job, but also because it keeps my only child out of my ass for a few hours a day. (I mean that in the nicest way possible.) For me, it's a part-time job; for him, it's a part-time brother.

Because I'm such a quick study, it's only taken me two weeks to get to the heart of the strange dynamic between my child and my charge. They aren't so much acting like friends; they're acting, well, like brothers. After two solid weeks of bickering and pissing contests, I've got them figured out. They don't give a hot damn about happiness or fun. They are completely unimpressed by even the most ambitious attempts at entertainment. The ONLY thing they are interested in, in fact, are obsessed with, is justice. I could lock them in a room full of snakes and rotting meat and all they'd care about is that they each got equally poisonous snakes and exactly the same portion of rotting meat.

"His meat is stinkier than mine!" I can hear them complain.

"He got more maggots than me! No fair!"

But now, I've got their number. I know where it's at. Screw fun, they just want fair. So today, we baked cookies. And not just any cookies—peanut butter cookies. We made chocolate chips last week, and it didn't go well. The randomness of the chips led to anarchy and near mutiny. But with peanut butter, I had some control. I explained to the boys that each and every one of these cookies belonged to both of them. They were going to work together, side by side, equally. They took equal turns with the beater, and got equal licking rights.


Notice my son, reaching for the other child's beater. Punk.


Next, I rolled the balls and handed them to the boys, one at a time, to roll in sugar. Even Steven. I had one boy press in all the vertical fork prints and the other, the horizontal. What could be more fair? There was only a brief uprising when vertical boy yelled, "Hey, he's smashing MY cookies!" Old habits die hard.





They'll probably continue to fight like brothers for the rest of the day, but who cares. I intend to eat the entire batch of cookies and be drunk by supper.

Ebb and Flow

Our pool holds approximately 22,000 gallons. On a good day. But she's almost fifty years old now and she's starting to have a hard time holding her water. I'm coming up on fifty myself; I can empathize.



Original owners' inscription beneath diving board

Now don't confuse empathy with acceptance, because I'm here to tell you that I was not exactly feeling understanding when we discovered that the old girl had sprung a leak. Concerned doesn't quite cover it. Worried, maybe. Disconcerted.





As the gallons continued to mysteriously dribble out for weeks on end, concern turned to anxiety. The pool guy just kept scratching his head, unable to determine where our fault line was hiding. He was taking the kind of wait and see attitude only one whose name is in no way associated with the water bill can take.





By the time the pool was half empty, anxiety had morphed into full on obsession, a lie-awake-at-night frenzy of panic and fear. Our girl was silently bleeding out, and the doctor couldn't save her.

This was terrible. This was catastrophic! Could this be any worse?



The answer to that question was waiting for me in today's paper.



Photo by STEPHEN B. THORNTON

Exactly a year ago today, it wasn't receding water, but rising water that gripped the hearts and minds of every person in Arkansas and her surrounding states. Heavy rains inundated the Caddo and Little Missouri rivers, causing them to swell and rage, consuming the Albert Pike Recreational Area where men, women, and children slept. Best friends Candace Smith and Kerri Basinger were there, camping with their families. The flood took both of their husbands and four of their children, ages two, five, six, and eight. The water claimed twenty lives that night.


The pool guy will find our leaks and patch them. We'll lower a hose in the empty hole in our yard and let the water flow. It will all be made right with the simple act of signing a name on a check. My mother always says, "If money can fix it, it ain't a problem."

As usual, she's right.

Tonight, I get to curl up in bed with my husband on one side and child on the other. How is it possible that I needed reminding that nothing else really matters?

If a lingering worry does creep up tonight, I'll shoo it away, and replace it with a prayer for the families of the Albert Pike flood.

The Blindside

It happens every year.

Just like the last shopping day before Christmas, or the psycho killer showing up the second the hot girl takes off her shirt, it always catches me by surprise. I know damn well it's coming, but then, every time, it blindsides me.

The last days of school.

You're right if you think the teacher is counting the minutes until that last kid is ushered away, heading off for a summer with mom or dad or the nanny. A summer with anyone but me. I am counting the minutes, and each one is a little harder than the last. Each one pushes me just a little closer to the brink.

I never know what exactly will be the tipping point, what will throw open the valve and unleash the tears I've been pushing back for days. Yesterday it was my little Latina child. She was working on her Pre-K Memory Book, documenting for posterity all the things she liked best about school. When we got to the teacher page, I prompted her to come up with an adjective to describe me. But she didn't quite understand the concept.

So I said, "What do you like about me?"

She looked me in the eye and said, "You heart. I love you heart." And then, a split second before I curled up and died, she added, "And you hair."



This is one of the other children I have to say goodbye to. Look at that face, and tell me how.



Tomorrow is the last day.

Send me luck. Or vodka.

Pretty in Pink

Friends were coming over for the official pool season opener. As I got ready, I wondered what might be the perfect thing to wear to a pool party where I had absolutely no intention of getting anywhere near the pool. The ingenious idea I came up with was jeans and a shirt. Because I'm creative like that.

It wasn't until after the first guests arrived that the answer came to me.


~The lovely Sofia, modeling pool party perfection.


Elegant, easy, summery, comfortable, forgiving (not that Sofia needs forgiving). Perfect.

I want one in every color.

The Eye of the Beholder

Due to an unfortunate playpen accident when I was an infant, I have the ugliest baby toe in America.

No, I'm serious.

It's repulsive.

Really.

You do not want to see this.



Okay, if you just have to.





You were warned.

So today, I'm having a picnic with the four-year-olds I teach. In the chaos of the moment, I forgot about my hideous appendage and kicked off my shoes in the grass. And that's when something truly amazing happened.

I felt someone caressing The Toe.

I looked down and saw that the hand touching my repugnant growth was one that belonged to my little Hispanic student. We'll call her Maria. Although Maria started the year speaking exclusively Spanish, her English is now nearly perfect.

And it was in that perfect English that she said words I never dreamed I'd hear, "You toe ees so preetty."

She was stroking my freshly painted toenail, a shiny sliver of salmon glistening atop my meaty, red pork chop. But she didn't see what I see. All she saw was the shimmering preety pink.

Why can't we all be four?

200 mgs Perspective: repeat as needed

Cindy Crawford has her mole. Angelina Jolie has her lips. Me? My trademark is phlegm. What can I say? All the good ones were taken.

For as long as I can remember, I've had a disgusting, rattly, wet cough and perpetual runny nose. I'm Hansel, but instead of crumbs, I leave a trail of dirty Kleenex. My husband is one lucky son of a bitch.

Well I finally got sick of being sick and went to the doctor. After putting it off several decades, you really wouldn't think I had any right to get impatient, but after about an hour in the waiting room, I did. After about an hour and a half in the waiting room, I started looking for the hidden camera. This is a big practice, with eight doctors and a legion of nurses, all holed up behind locked glass doors. I could see into the their mysterious land, but for some reason, they weren't letting me in. Over and over again, smiling nurses would come to the portal and call a name. But never my name, just the names of the other patients, the lucky patients. This happened no less than forty times. Without a shred of exaggeration, thirty patients who came in after me were taken back, treated, and released. While I waited. I am not making this up. I tried my best to keep my sense of humor, asking the receptionists if I'd done something to piss them off, or if I'd score some free drugs for my trouble. But all they could do was apologize and scratch their heads. An hour and forty-five minutes into my wait, I finally had the good sense to get up and walk out. I was only going to my car to see if my book was there, but they didn't know that, so it had a nice dramatic effect. So much so, in fact, that a receptionist chased me out and told me it was finally my turn. If only I'd gone for the book sooner.




Once inside, I was escorted to another room to continue waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Just as my blood pressure was topping out, I began to hear sounds penetrating the wall between me and the adjacent exam room. In the span of fifteen minutes, some poor invisible soul vomited more than I have in my entire lifetime. Loud, violent, horrific, gut-wrenching, intestine-ripping vomiting. I tried to figure out which one of those earlier "lucky" patients it might be. But I couldn't imagine who. Nobody out there even looked sick to me; they all just looked chosen, better off than me.

And right about then, sitting quietly in a chair for two hours didn't seem so terrible after all.

About Face

I sat for a long time this morning, considering the face in the mirror, surveying the damage like a landlord deciding whether or not to return the security deposit. When did all these spots get here? Brown and red, small and not so small. And lines. Long ones between the brows from years of reading with expression, small ones framing the lips from hours of shushing noisy children. Above the face, errant grays, below it, gathering jowls. I see my mother. Oh Sweet Jesus, right there, on the left cheek, my Grandmother.

Happy birthday?

Some people are gracious about aging, mature, grown up. They see their wrinkles as the reward of years of laughter and love. Their spots and splotches are badges of honor from time well spent.

I'm not one of those people. I just see middle-age. And I liked youth better.

I am 46 today. I can almost feel myself cresting the peak, beginning the steady descent. Let's just hope Frank Sinatra was right—the best is yet to come.

As I scrutinize this tired face, my son's voice intrudes on my self-pity. He is laughing and chattering like only children do. Beyond him, the familiar sounds of my husband, fixing lunches and pouring egg nog into my coffee, just the way I like it.

I'd trade this old face for a young one in a second. But not if it meant returning to a life before them. I may even take a new wrinkle or two, if that's what it took to keep them.



Happy birthday indeed.

A Friend in Need

My friend Melanie has it going on. She is blissfully married to the man of her dreams, has two healthy, successful sons, is partner in a flourishing law practice, has amazing friends and is still smoking hot well into her forties. If she weren't so damn fun to be around, a girl could really hate her.

I know it sounds like Melanie has it all, but sadly, she is still one critical level shy of climbing all the way to the pinnacle of happiness.




Melanie's Hierarchy of Needs



Thank God she has devoted friends like me who are there to throw her a rope and help pull her up to the summit. And last night, we made time in our busy lives to do just that.






Knowing that true self-actualization can only be reached by going the distance alone, we stepped aside and let Melanie negotiate the final steps of the ascent.






She gave it her all, from the comprehensive Google search of fall cocktail recipes to the thorough scouring of liquor store shelves, but I fear I must report that Melanie's efforts were not successful. Her attempt to grasp the perfect fall cocktail turned up instead something that she herself best described as tasting "like ass."

And so, Melanie will continue to seek perfection, in life, and in cocktails. And her friends, loyal to the end, will stand by her side, drinking tirelessly until at last her quest is fulfilled. Because that is what true friends do, people. That is what true friends do.
.
.