The Age of Weddings and Funerals

Every week for the last month it's been either a wedding or a funeral. I love both for almost the same reasons. They are the wonderful combination of intimate family traditions, religion, friendship, acquaintances, culture, and fashion, plus history - personal and regional. I had the opportunity to be part of a Buddhist funeral recently, my first. I had no idea that when I offered to help and was asked to keep track of and photograph the floral arrangements, that it was an official job that would be recognized in the printed memorial program. I felt extremely honored (and glad that I had worn dress pants and blouse with heels). The passing of my friend's father took me right to the center of my own world - the aging of my parents and the inevitable fact that this is right where I will be before long: planning a funeral that must be respectful and memorable and honor the man (or woman) who raised and loved me my whole life. It was wonderful to hear about the life of my friend's father, a man born in the United States to Japanese emigrants. He was a teenager during World War II. If you know the history of California, you are already saying, "oooh, nooo." Yes, he spent those years in internment camps. However the focus of his cousin who so eloquently spoke of her beloved "uncle" was not on the hardship of those years, but the "silver lining", which was the fact that he was able to develop his love of art and music during his time in the camps. He was able to turn his talents into a living for his family, and at this funeral there were his seven children and 21 grandchildren. What better legacy? 

The wedding I went to was an intimate affair (code word for small). Again I was honored to be a guest at a ceremony that celebrated life, this time the beginning of life together, and where the guest list was so carefully chosen. Life as a couple in the beginning seems at once so intensely serious, and so very trivial. It's such an easy thing to change your name. To throw a party. To ask for blessings. It's much more serious and difficult to stay in that union when things get sweaty and ugly: through lack of money, choosing paint colors and furniture you both can tolerate, crying babies and lack of sleep, and teenagers. But the beginning of a union is so joyful and lacy and full off pretty dresses and tulle and frosting and candy and bubbly drinks. You just have to smile and dance and rejoice that people still want to get married, to do the hard thing, or try their darnedest to do it. And some day, that wife will be escorted into that church/synagogue/temple by her son or her brother-in-law, in order to honor the life of her husband whom she has loved and shared a lifetime with. A dear relative will tell their story. Their legacy will be present and those present will feel honored to have known them.

I Fought With A Mop Today

Mops should not change. They should be easy to use, simple, and do their job effectively. My old mop died a rusty death so I decided to replace it with something different. Maybe those sad mop commercials got to me, I'm not sure. So I went with a wrap around model that advertised that it was good for tile. I threw out the old mop and now, two weeks later (I'm not hiding that I rarely mop), I opened the new  one. I had actually forgotten I had bought it, so it was like Christmas when I went to get it and saw a bright, shiny, still in the package mop. Let me back up for a second. I work about 10 hours a day, and usually (as noted above), cleaning is not a priority when I get home. I also have a handy husband and cleaners that come about every three weeks (who do a fabulous job on my floors). This week is fall break, so I have some extra hours in my day to contemplate the floor (and go barefoot long enough to notice how dirty my feet get). So the need to mop came upon me as a sudden, overwhelming... well, need. I popped the package open and found that the handle wasn't quite latched into the mop head gadget thingy. Looked easy enough, a slanted peg just needed to be popped into the other side. A half hour later, I was on the floor, sweaty, red-faced, and swearing loudly, with tools strewn about like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Three screwdrivers and a hammer, many loud expletives (my daughter was worried I'd injured myself), and I had finally conquered that mop. The plastic is a little cracked, but it is still useful. Not as effective as I had hoped, however, and I certainly didn't look anything like that relaxed, happy mopper in the commercial. Believe you me, I'll be promptly calling that 1-800 number to lodge a complaint with 3M as soon as I post this. By the way, I took this as a sign that the more infrequently I approach a mop, the better.

Living In a State With a Coastline

I love living near the ocean. It makes me feel so small and so big at the same time. The ocean, powerful and unstoppable, emphasizes the insignificance of my self. Every crab, every bird, every dolphin that I see feels a part of something bigger, something connected to everything and everyone. I have heard that the coast has a plethora of negatively charged ions which can calm us and make us feel energized and focused at the same time. A scientific way of saying "happy", at least for me. One of my goals is to have a small house near the ocean, near enough to walk. I can picture it, I can smell the salt and seaweed, and hear the waves. I sleep better by the ocean, I feel more alive by the ocean, I am closer to heaven by the ocean.

More Things I Hate About Getting Older

2. Doing things for your parents that you used to do for your children. Your very young, very small children. 

This sounds like a gift, a wonderful thing that you can do for the people who raised you. Isn't it a blessing to care for those who changed your diapers and took you to all your medical and dental appointments? It's not. I loathe that my parents are no longer the people I grew up with, or even those that I spent most of my adult life getting to know and admire. It's not really the physical doing that I object to. I can go to the store, drive to appointments, even clean up and wash for my parents. What I hate is that the people I do these things for are not the parents I have known most of my life. I miss with an ache in my core the days that I could call up my mom and make plans to come over and bring the kids swimming, knowing she'd have lunch for us and a movie for the kids to watch on the VCR for afterward while we'd spend our time gossiping and chatting about friends old and new, and happenings in our lives. I miss camping with them, my dad taking my son fishing and teaching my daughter to play chess. I miss him being smarter than me. Although at the rate I'm going he probably still is. I miss consulting him on our latest planned purchase, asking him to help out with planning the garden or painting a room. 

I've seen things a daughter should never see, I've said things I never thought I'd say. I've had to turn on my teacher voice and mother my parents and I don't like it, not one little eensy weensy bit.  But I do it anyway, with love, for these people who are my parents, and are still themselves inside somewhere. They always had a way of loving me unconditionally. They deserve the same.

Things I Hate About Getting Older # 9: I'm Here, But Why?

The title is not a cosmic pondering of my existence, but the polite way of asking, when I leave one room with purpose and enter another with purpose, "Why the hell did I come in here? I know it was for some reason but I can't f#@%!+g* remember!" Sometimes it works to retrace my steps, but more often than not I still can't remember why I am standing there, in that room, at that moment. 

I feel like my brain is a sieve, and things just can't help but slip through the holes. I believe they are gone forever, not lurking somewhere in the recesses of my brain waiting to be discovered. They are just floating somewhere in the cosmos. The number one thing I would change about myself is my poor memory. I only have bits and pieces of my past in my retrievable memory to begin with, and as I get older I go farther into the darkness. Or is it that there is more to forget because I've lived longer? Thank god for photos, friends, relatives, and spouses with good memories (one of the five reasons I keep him around). Oh, and annual Christmas letters highlighting the year in a page (or two if you get mine).

*warning: I have a terrible mouth when frustrated. And on Saturdays and Sundays. And when I stub my toe or drink more than two shots of tequila. I don't really fucking care if you are offended.

Signs of Fall When you are 48

This week I was able to enjoy two of my very favorite signs of fall. They involve all of the senses, and leave me with the anticipation of change, that summer is stepping out the back door and fall is ringing the doorbell. As a teacher of young students I have my students observe signs of the changes in the seasons. In the fall we look for leaves changing color, a cooler breeze in the air, those subtle signs that the earth is revolving and our world is magically making it's way back around again. There's always a bit of magic in the science of it, don't you think? 

My signs of fall don't involve any magic, however. I anticipate their return each fall like the swallows to Capistrano. The first involves the steaming of an espresso machine and the pouring of hot liquids, mixing of flavors (okay, maybe a little magic is involved), sipping and savoring. Just the perfect amount of milk, espresso, flavor, and foam to make a Pumpkin Spice Latte. As much as I enjoy coffee from other coffee vendors, no one does the Pumpkin Spice like Starbucks. The second appears on the shelves of my favorite grocers, Trader Joe's, each fall in the baking section. A box of pumpkin pancake & waffle mix can fill my home with the aroma of fall. Pumpkin waffles for breakfast this morning! Fall is here, I love it!!

http://www.traderjoes.com/

Wow, I Finally Did It!

I have finally entered the world of blogging, I can't believe it! After I tried about thirty urls that were not available, I had to settle with kicking and screaming, so let me explain... I am, very reluctantly (an understatement) leaving my 40s behind me. This is happening without my permission, and is out of my control. I don't like it one little bit. I soooo enjoyed entering my 40s. My children were of perfect ages, independent but not impertinent. My parents were independent. My life was MINE. My job, my house, even my animals, were all that I wanted. It was, as it should be, all about me. 

Sometime over the last 8 years this has changed. Even my body is betraying me - hot, cold, hot, cold. Just had your period? Surprise! Here it is again! Thought your child was at a sleepover? Surprise! The phone rings and it is the friendly neighborhood Sheriff. My answering machine is full of messages from my dad that go something like this... "Hi, this is dad. Just wondering when I'll see you." 10:00 a.m. Monday. Beep. "Hi, this is dad. Pick up the phone." 10:08 a.m. Monday. Beep. "Hi, this is (insert Dad's proper legal name as if I didn't know who it was) just want to talk to someone in the faammmiiillyyy." 10:30 a.m. Monday. Beeeeep.

Soooo. This is a place for me, and for you, you forty- or fifty-something wife-mom-daughter-employee-volunteer-friend-sister. Because it still IS ALL ABOUT US.