My sick Valentine

It's Valentine's Day, 1970 and I'm in third grade at McKay Elementary School in Chicago's Marquette Park neighborhood.
I wake up that day feeling queasy. I'm sure I didn't know the meaning of that word when I was 7, but it's how I remember the feeling today. My dad worked nights, so mornings were typically very quiet in our wee little two-bedroom apartment as my parents slept late. My mom typically got up at last minute to see me out the door. I avoid telling her that I threw up just a bit that morning. Instead, I remind her that I'm —rather she's— responsible for bringing the pop to the school Valentine's Day party.
"You look pale. Do you feel alright?" she asked.
I told her I had a bit of a stomach ache, but thought it would go away. I was a sickly kid so she probably believed me. There was no way I was going to miss the school Valentine party. There were rumors that one boy, a very ostracized boy with the odd name of Arunus (really!), was going to be giving out whole boxes of candy to each student. He needed to buy some love.

Because I had vision problems I had recently been moved to the front row of the classroom so I could see the blackboard better. Always a mediocre student, it was thought my vision was keeping me from high achievement. But really I was just a daydreamer and a "social butterfly" according to my report card. I remember my mom explaining to me that being a social butterfly wasn't a bad thing so that became ingrained in my personality. Forever. Valentine's Day was a big deal for the third-grade me. This was in the pre-politically correct days. You handed out your store-bought and hand-signed Valentines only to the kids you liked. Numbers were important to me: There were 32 kids in my class and I wanted a card from each one. Including Arunus. 
 
Sitting in my front row seat my stomach begins to roil. I start watching the clock. I  just need to make it to 2:00 for the class party. I had to be there to pass out my own Valentines. Some kids would just toss their Valentines on every kid's desk then sit down. Others, like me, would make a BFD out of it. Girls who were especially bitchy would stop by a desk, rifle through the envelopes, and ceremoniously bestow one upon your desk. And, if they weren't going to give you one, they'd stop anyway, rifle through their cards, and then move on without leaving one. At least that had been my experience in second grade. My third grade teacher may have nipped this behavior, but I wouldn't find out.

Somewhere around the first hour of school I start to get dizzy. I know I'm about to throw up, but I try to will it away. I'm sitting in the front of the classroom by a door and a very large garbage can. I cook up a plan to quietly throw up in the garbage can while the teacher is not looking. Or, I think I can dash out the door and make it to the girl's room. But my stomach doesn't wait for my scheming and I lose it all over my desk. Before I'm even escorted to the nurse's office, the janitor is there spreading the pink sawdusty stuff all over the mess.

I will have to go home. My mom picks me up and drops off a couple of 8-packs of bottled Pepsi for the party I will now miss.

I won't remember the rest of my sick day. I'm sure it was filled with ginger ale, Saltines, trips to the bathroom, and watching soap operas that were unintelligible to me. But I will remember that when I returned to school, my teacher have me my Valentines. I only got 19 and missed out on the full-sized candy bars Arunus passed out — my popularity already waning. In an instant I go from "social butterfly" to "girl who threw up in school on Valentine's Day."

Thanks Dad

Dad and I on my wedding day, 1999.

Last night I had one of those great dreams that everyone who has lost a much-loved parent longs for: the visitation dream.
I was at a boisterous party among a great circle of friends. My parents' friends were there too. And I saw my dad's best friend, Joe (also passed away) walk into the party and say "look who I found." It was my dad. He looked just the same as he did on my wedding day. Robust, happy.
"Dad! I'm so happy you are here. I've missed you. How long can you stay?" I begged.
He looked at me with his twinkling green eyes and gave me a wide smile. He said:
"It never ends, you know. The love you have never ends."

In reality he never would have said something so overtly philosophical. But he would have lived it. He lived his life like the love would never end. There would always be room to add one more friend to his wide net. Always time to help fix a car, paint a house, listen to a weepy phone call, buy a drink, share a boat ride, make a hospital visit, babysit a grandchild, play a round of golf, shoulder a good cry, be a pall bearer.

There was infinite time to share joy and sorrow.

As my own circle of friends and family grows over the years, and I struggle to juggle it all, I think of my dad. I remember the hundreds of people who spoke to my family at his memorial service. Through their tears and grief, they spoke of how my dad was there for them when they needed this or that — everything from helping a nephew get his first job to saving a drowning friend after a boating accident. There were many, many funny stories — a lot involving fast cars, boats and alcohol — and it was clear he was an entertaining guy to have around. He was much loved.

The gene pool didn't bestow me with his mechanical abilities or his green eyes. But I did get his easy smile and broad shoulders. And best of all, I was on the receiving end of his enormous capacity to love and be loved.

Just when I needed a reminder of why I have cast my own wide net,  he provided one.

That love you have never ends.

Snow blind

Every tooth in my head is throbbing. To top it off, I've got a migraine, surely brought on by the two hefty pours of red wine last night. Wine imbibed to kill the pain of my teeth and to numb my senses to my mother-in-law who is visiting. The dog is pawing at my neck. I have to face the day.

I get dressed slowly trying not to move my head too much. I pad out to the kitchen and startle my mother-in-law. She cries out and freaks out the dog.

I fumble in the medicine cabinet for migraine pills. She politely asks after my jaw. I whine about my pain then look out the window. It's snowing again. I cry out as if this was a personal outrage.

"Dammit again?! It's snowing again!?"

"Oh, that's not even the worst of it. It's only 13 degrees. This snow will stop around noon, then start up again tonight. But it won't be that bad. Only 2 to 4 inches," she reports.

"I cannot wait to move away from here," I say.

"What's that?" she asks. She didn't hear me. Probably for the best.

The dog doesn't enjoy the snow but she loves being outside. She is like me in this. As we walk a litany begins in my head. My teeth hurt...my head hurts...K. left me alone with his mother yesterday and today while he conducted church business...it's all so ridiculously unfair....I want to leave this place...today.

I try to let each falling snowflake wash away my resentment. Why can't I see the purity and beauty  in the snow? I see hazardous, blinding white.

When you're pissed off and resentful and in pain, every movement becomes fraught. Simple things like taking off your winter gear feed my resentment and pain. So by the time I head back to the kitchen in my stocking feet again, I'm near seething. I pour a cup of coffee and see that my mother in law has brought us some lemon Paczkis. Not my typical breakfast, but I can't deal with anything else.

I sit at the kitchen table and eat the sugary breakfast and I take out my phone. I go to travelocity.com and search for one-way flights to Austin, April 10. Determined that if I don't make these plans to leave this town today, I never will. K. can figure out whether or not he wants to come along. I can't stay here a minute longer without making a final plan to escape.

My mother in law walks in and I thank her for the Paczki. She sees I'm eating it with a fork and knife and asks after my mouth again. She is a retired nurse and has a direct way of asking people about their medical problems. I lament again and tell her I've run out of pain killers.

"I'm just not used to living in pain," I whine.

"People who don't live with pain don't understand how it drains you. It takes away from everything you do. It colors your life," she says.

She gives me good advice to call my doctor and ask for a temporary refill. And if I can't get ahold of him, call the pharmacy and see if they will fill a one day supply.

"That's a great idea," I tell her. "I'm going to do just that."

My pain dissipates a bit for having shared it. The snow has stopped falling and my warm kitchen smells of coffee. My satisfied dog is sleeping at my feet. I lick the last bit of lemon filling off my finger.

I abandon travelocity.com. I look up Dr. N.'s number instead.

Scouting report

It's Saturday morning and I'm just finishing up some online banking for the my friend's alderman campaign fund. Wallet in hand, I pass my front door when I hear a knock. Because I'm working on a political campaign, I don't hesitate to open the door hoping to generate good Karma when I may soon be knocking on my neighbor's doors.

I open the door to an an adorable girl of 8 or so. Over her pink puffy coat she is wearing her Girl Scout vest. The badges and pins immediately take me back to my own happy days as a GS. She seems startled that I opened the door so quickly. She blinks up at me and I hear her dad:
"Go ahead, ask her."

"Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies," she shyly asks.
I look over to her dad who looks very young himself. He is holding the girls bedazzled scooter.
I tell the girl sure, I'd love to buy some cookies.
"Wow, door-to-door, the old-school way. Cool!" I say, taking up her order sheet.
"Hum, what's good? What's your favorite?" I ask her.
She enthusiastically answers, "Samoas!" and her face lights up and all the sudden she just a little girl who loves cookies.
Dad chimes in "Thin Mints too. Everybody wants those."

As I look over the sheet I see that the Girl Scouts have added a few new features including energy bars and boxes on the order sheet to mark off if you'd like to donate boxes of cookies.

"Tell her how to order and when you'll be here to drop them off," dad prompts her again.
He looks like a blue-collar dad. He's wearing a short jacket, the kind my own blue-collar dad used to wear when he was puttering about in the garage on a cold winter day. But he is taking the time to go door-to-door with his daughter. I can't recall my own dad ever doing that. And as a mom, I know I've never done this when my son had to sell anything for field trips and band fundraisers.

The dad says: "Give her a pen, honey."
I ask "Are they still $5 a box?"
"Sheesh. I remember when I was a Scout. I think they were $1.75 a box, maybe even less," I say.
I look in my wallet and I have one five dollar bill. Rare for me, as I almost never have cash.

"Yeah, the girls will hardly see any of this money," the dad complains. He starts talking about how the GS establishment makes a fortune off this. I sympathize with him and nod in agreement.

When my son had fundraisers and would ask me to bring the order sheets to work and to my friends, I'd say no. "I'll just write your school a check for $50 outright. That way the school gets the money directly." But he didn't care about that. He wanted whatever prizes there were for top sellers. I would counter with "but I can BUY you that prize and give the money to the school and still come out ahead. The school gets more money and you get a prize no matter what." His dad circulated the sales sheet instead. My son was satisfied with got whatever trinket those sales were worth. I wrote the check to the school. My son was hardly involved at all. And neither was I.

I say to the Scout in my cheerleader voice: "Well, you'll get a badge for this, right? That's the best part!"
I hand the girl the cash and her dad reminds her to say thank you.
Satisfied she has completed this task, she scoots off on her bedazzled scooter that her dad dutifully handed her.

I don't recall ever having purchased Girl Scout cookies from a stranger. In fact, I can't remember the last time I purchased a box from an actual Girl Scout. But I buy them every year when someone posts a sheet at the office or a friend makes a facebook plea.

I get it that you can't let your girls go door-to-door selling things anymore. But it is perfectly fine to go with your dad. Sure the dad may really be making sales, and all the proceeds won't make it back to the troop. But spending a day in the neighborhood with your dad is better than a thousand boxes of Samoas.

It takes a village

It's a week before Christmas and I'm having a lie-down in my room, pooped from all the pre-holiday prep.  My husband and his teen daughter come in, and I can hear snippets of their conversation.
"I can't get the panorama feature to work," stepdaughter M. says.
"Is that an iPhone feature?" her father asks.
"No it's Instagram," she says. "I want to get this all in one picture."
He suggests she step on a chair to take the picture.
I'm smiling to myself in the other room. I know what she is trying to photograph, and my heart lifts.

She has been my stepdaughter since she was just shy of her third birthday. Since our family is blended, holidays are always extra stressful. The logistics of sharing children with their other parents and everyone's extended family over the course of two days has always been a nightmare. But her father, my husband, has done his very best. He has tried to create traditions for her that don't necessarily involved her getting every single thing on her Christmas wish list. One thing he did was buy her those little lighted holiday houses. Ever the frugal man, he didn't buy those overpriced Dept. 57 numbers. He mostly got these houses at the local hardware store, sometimes after the holiday. He and M. selected them together and over the years they've accumulated. And when she had her own room in our larger home, they sat out all year on a desk, and served as nightlights when she came for her appointed weekends.
When we downsized, and she lost her room, the houses were taken out only at Christmas.

Every year I'd threaten not to put the lighted ceramic village. The village takes up a lot of decorating real estate, and time. Last year, I came up with the idea to put them on top of the wall that divides our kitchen from our dining area. M. didn't seem to notice them last year. So this year, when I heard she was trying to take pictures of them, it made the work to erect the village worth it.

I haven't been the world's best step parent. I always had the philosophy of staying out of the way. "She's here to spend time with her dad, not me," and "She already has a mother, and I don't want to compete with that," were my refrains.

Consequently, M. and I are not close. We get along just fine, but the distance between us has always been clear. But she's 17 now. And, like most girls her age, she has issues with her mom. She's anxious to strike out on her own and head off to college far away from the small town where she lives. I feel for her.

In that small act of her wanting to take a picture of something from her childhood with her father, and by extension me, and share it with her friends, made me decide to change my refrain. And for the rest of that pre-Christmas weekend, things were different between her and me.



She showed me a photo app while we were waiting for ice cream. I shared an off-color comment about a South Park character and made her laugh. We took goofy photos of her dad. Together we selected sushi rolls for dinner. She helped me pick out cologne for my son, her step brother. She shared a brownie recipe with me. We went shopping at stores she likes and she showed me some gift ideas for her father to buy her instead of his usual gift cards. And as we shopped I realized we had more in common than our like for trendy clothes, South Park and sushi. How could I have missed this: We both love the same man; why aren't we best friends?

I'm not going to push the best friends part. But as she heads off to adulthood, I'm going to make certain that if she's interested in being my friend, I'll be ready to order up plenty of California rolls and gab about boys and clothes all night.

And I'll always find a place in our home for the lighted village.

Betty's Piece of Ass

As I was unpacking the holiday decorations, I came across the this (at right): A plush Santa’s butt ornament. Now who the hell would give us that and why would I save it?

(I suspected my mom, but a Facebook posting query revealed it was not. I still don’t know where it came from.)

I set the ornament on the coffee table, took a photo of it, and left the room. Within a few minutes the ornament was gone. Betty our dog had snagged it and put it in her bed.

“Aw, how cute! She’s decorating her bunk!” I said.

So there the offending stuffed Santa butt sat for a week. Occasionally I’d find it in another place in our bedroom, the room where Betty also sleeps, indicating she played with it.

Last night around midnight I was awakened by Betty rustling in the room. She’s been doing that lately: getting up to get a drink from her bowl and playing with toys briefly before trying to get back into our bed. Groggy, I just let her play. I dozed off but was awakened again by three strange, low mechanical tones. The sounds were flat and almost sounded like a bark. I thought to myself, “Was that Betty? Is she bark/talking?” I was half asleep, so a talking dog seemed possible.

Now I can barely see in broad daylight, my vision is so poor. In the dark, I’m blind without my glasses; I can’t even read the alarm clock that is six inches from my face. I peered down at her and could make out her whole body wiggling around and going to town on some toy.
“Betty, drop it and come back to bed,” I whispered. She would not even turn around. I put my head back down and shut my eyes. That’s when I heard the sound of organized notes from a musical toy, but not exactly a song. “What the fuck is that?!” I said. None of Betty’s toys make that noise. I wouldn’t purchase anything like that for this very reason: I don’t want to be awakened by nocturnal dog play.

I peered again into Betty’s bunk and I saw her with the Santa’s butt toy deep into her mouth so that only the boots and legs were sticking out of her muzzle. Then I heard the unmistakable notes of “Deck the Halls” rendered by fart noises. Truly the most horrible sound. And, very uncharacteristically, Betty refused to drop the offending toy. I pulled and pulled it from her, and the farting tune just kept going. She tried to run away with it and I knew I was going to have to chase her and perhaps bribe her with a treat to drop it. But I sat up too fast, and my vertigo sent me reeling and stumbling to the floor, scaring Betty into dropping the godforsaken toy from her mouth.

I scooped it up and shoved it in the nightstand. Betty sat by the nightstand whining for a while.
“Go back to sleep Betty. Christmas isn’t for another few weeks.”

A Fair Plan

I maintain that men don’t make plans. Unless it involves a sporting event or golf, they just don’t have the wherewithal to organize a planned event with more than one other person. I’m not even sure my husband ever made plans for a date with me prior to our marriage. Pretty sure I made all the decisions in that social arena too.
So when I overheard my husband and the husband of one of my girlfriends making plans to go to The Sandwich Fair, I thought it was impossibly adorable. I had to butt in and invite myself and his wife along. It took a lot of self control to stop myself from following up on these plans. I sat back and waited for the most part, though I did float a casual “so, are we really going to the fair Saturday with the J.’s?” Far as I know, my husband answered.
Imagine my surprised thrill when my husband and I received this email from J. who had cc’d his wife, S.

“8:00am - Pick up B’s (fair opens at 8am, we can go earlier if you prefer to be first in line; or later if necessary since I believe L. & S. have similar weekend sleep-in habits)

8:30am - Arrive fairground

8:40am - Walk through livestock barns to inspect the beauty of various farm animals

9:00am - stop for elephant ear

9:30am – stop for lemon shake-up

10:00am – stop for corn dog

10:30am – consider snack of cotton candy, homemade fudge, or fresh caramel covered popcorn

11:00am – start thinking about lunch

11:30am – eat at Fay’s barbeque for lunch

12:30pm – check out who won all the blue –ribbons for home-baked deserts

1:00pm – play the mouse game

1:30pm – complain about stomachache

2:00pm – consider heading back to Batavia


Of course, these points of interest are all open for modification if it doesn’t meet everyone’s expectations for enjoyable fair outing.”

Immediately I responded to J., indicating that this was perhaps my most favorite itinerary of all times.
Alas, it was slightly too good to be true.
“Did you see J.’s email today?” I ask my husband.
“Yes, but it’s not going to work,” he responds.
“Why? Too much eating?”
“No, I have to pick up my daughter Saturday afternoon,” he says. “We can still go, we’ll just need to take two cars so I can head directly to Hampshire from the fair.”

Unreasonably, I was upset. J.’s plan was so sweet, I didn’t want to deviate from it at all. I pouted and an argument ensued. Why can’t we communicate our plans more effectively I whined. But we can still go to the fair, he retorted.

We planned to meet them at the fair and text when we got there. We got a late start. After we made a stop at the bank, K. tells me which roads he plans to take. I stop listening almost instantly, knowing that my way of getting there will be faster. No. Matter. What. K. is famous for his shortcuts that always end up taking an extra 5 to 30 minutes to get to the destination. I am silent and he makes a relationship mistake by asking: “Is that OK with you?”

“Well.... I was just assuming we’d take 88 and get off at 47,” I say.
“OK, I hadn’t thought of that,” he says.
A few miles into the trip we pass under 47. There is no exit and I realize I’ve goofed. My arrogance is palpable; I apologize profusely.
“I knew there wasn’t an exit at 47,” K. says.
“What? Why didn’t you say something.”
“Don’t worry about it. Nothing we can do about it now,” he says.
I continue to press him on why he didn’t speak up. He urges me to drop it.
“It’s a gorgeous day for a drive,” he cheerfully says.

Rarely do I enjoy living in Illinois. But on a sunny September morning, the drying corn and soybean fields of gold and green rising to meet a perfect blue sky make me feel like the Midwest is the heartland of dreams.

We arrive at the fairgrounds an hour late. I get a decent cup of coffee inside the gates and we get in touch with the J.’s.
“Meet us at Horse Barn #1,” S. says.
I tell K. and he gets out the fairground map. I points to the barn on the map and traces out a route to it with his finger. He looks to me for approval.
“Uh, I suck at maps. I trust you to get us there,” I sheepishly say.
I get another call from S.
“The building is labeled Poultry, even though it’s horse barn #1 on the map,” S. says.
We wander around the grounds, a bit lost, but heading in the right direction. An antique farm implement display distracts us and we get even more lost. K. consults the map and sniffs the air. This is the right direction he says. I follow and within minutes we spot the barn and S.
They have already scouted out the breakfast options: Fresh mini-donuts, elephant ears, and red velvet funnel cakes. We get one order of each.

We loosely follow J.'s itinerary. K. and J.'s boyish enthusiasm for everything at the fair is contagious. Soon I've forgotten I was an arrogant idiot just a hour before. I've forgotten than I have a stressful job, that K. is unemployed, that my son has no money, that I've just blown my diet.

After looking at the award-winning home economics projects, and the photography contest winners, and the antique jukeboxes for sale, and the goats, cows, rabbits and chickens, nothing really matters except getting across the fairgrounds to the Fay's Barbecue tent.

The sun shines on us all day.
Men can make plans. Really good plans.