susan hayward photography

I'm Sick of Christmas

Today as I was backing out of the driveway to drive carpool, the car felt a little lopsided and clunky. My heart sank. There could be only one thing wrong: a flat tire. Sure enough, when I hopped out to check, the wheel's rim rested on the cement while the rubber tire lay squished underneath it. As Charlie Brown would say, "ARRGGH!" Just what I wanted to spend money on the week before Christmas.
(And yes, this is the same car that cost us a holy fortune in October. I think it's cursed.) 

Speaking of Christmas, I'm sick of it. I'm tired of stuffing myself with sugary sweets, I'm tired of wrapping presents, and I'm tired of the kids asking to open the presents already under the tree. But mostly I'm tired of Christmas songs on the radio, which no longer cheer me as they did on Thanksgiving weekend when I started listening to them.

There have been times when I've wanted to run screaming from the house upon hearing the first few chords of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," which is, let's face it, a song about a kid witnessing his mother cheating on his father with the dude that's supposed to be bringing him presents--only the kid doesn't realize what's really going on.  This makes me wonder--was the father wearing a Santa suit on Christmas Eve? Because if he wasn't in costume, wouldn't the kid recognize his father, if indeed it was his father skulking around the dark house? Wouldn't this recognition negate the need to sort out what his mother was doing under the mistletoe with some happy guy in the red suit? And why would it have been a "laugh" if his father had "only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night?" It wouldn't be funny at all. Quite the contrary. This is what years of therapy are made of. 

And so I've been thinking about all of this, how the true meaning of Christmas is buried beneath convoluted Christmas songs and flat tires, and I've decided I'm done. I'm ready to take the tree down and start making New Year's resolutions. So I say to you, Merry Christmas already. And Bah Humbug. 

In the Kitchen with Susan

 

For me, cooking is what I imagine a drug trip might be like. I daydream, I write. I listen to music. And quite often I forget about what’s in the oven until it smokes up the kitchen enough for the fire alarm to startle me out of my revery. I nibble on sugar as I cook, sip a little hot cocoa. Frequently, I hallucinate, imagining myself an Intellectual with Something to Say. Epiphanies abound. Pronouncements tumble from my lips and onto the page, leaving little grease marks in the margins. 

Just look at this latest kitchen masterpiece:

The chicken is sizzling in the skillet now, the kitchen heavy with the smell of garlic and onions roasting in the oven. I hear French music on the computer, which leads me to think of seventh grade French class. My teacher was the real thing: a tiny madame from France who never smiled, probably because she spent most of her days in a dilapidated junior high with dusty linoleum floors and walls the color of a sick person on the verge of vomiting.

In my memory, I always picture Madame at the front of the room, the hard line of her thin lips creased in a frown, screaming, “No elbows on zee desk!” I remember her wearing a wool dress that looked scratchy and stiff (although for all I know that might have been a memory from watching Tippi Hedren movies).

Madame taught us how to make the French “r” sound. She said something to the effect of “Zis is not Spanish!” There might have been a slam of a ruler here as she grew increasingly agitated by the thought of unkempt Spanish R’s rolling will-nilly through the room. “In France zee ‘r’ is gutteral,” she said, demonstrating by parting her red lips and making a choking sound deep in the back of her throat, as if working up to a growl or performing a ventriliquist act. 

Back in the kitchen, the oil spatters and sizzles.  I turn to the clock and realize there’s only 30 minutes left until I have to pick up Three because he has his cello today. Once when I forgot him, Three dragged the cello all the way home. When he finally made it to our front door, he fell down at my feet, his chest heaving. Extending one arm in my direction he gasped, “Help me!”  So I really must go, which is a pity, considering the sauce isn’t done yet and the chicken smells a little raw. No matter. The children won’t notice. Much. 

Alas, now as I read over my words, it appears my thoughts flounder at the shallow end of the pool rather than the deep. Perhaps this is why most of what I cook gets ruined. Though I’ve never experienced it, I wonder if this is what the day after a drug trip looks like. Not a gastronomic or literary masterpiece as I once thought, just a pink slice of dead bird smothered in over-salted sauce and a blinking computer screen spattered with olive oil. This is, I think, what you might call "crashing."  If not for the suitcase on the floor and the epiphanies floating lifeless in the backyard pool, I might have thought I never left home.  

Dear Mom

  

Dear Mom,

Today I watched a friend's child for a couple hours and learned a few things. First, she finds her father's toes frightening for some reason. Also, she told me "I like my mom better than anyone else in the whole world." I tackled the mom thing first. "You like your mommy best of all because you spend the most time with her," I told her. That made me realize that although I've railed against being a stay-at-home mom for the past twelve years, there's no one else I'd rather be liked by than my own children. Some friendships fade after some time. But a relationship with your kids lasts forever. Let's just cross our fingers that my kids will always love me, even when they can't stand to be seen with me.  

My friend's child thought about this for a minute, then said, "Yeah, but I still don't like my Dad's toes." This made me think of David Sedaris comparing his mother's toes to Fritos. It also made me think about your advice to get a pedicure, which I've never tried for fear of scaring the manicurist. After all, my feet have elicited such comments as, "Ew, gross!" and "What's wrong with your feet?" and "What is that?" (said with hand covering mouth as if in the early stages of vomiting, while pointing at my bunions, those large bulbous thingies next to my big toes.) I try to keep my feet at least partially hidden at all times. But I suppose if handling people's feet is your job, you must keep such comments to yourself. 

Luckily, I was able to cut her off at the next conversational pass, in which she was explaining why she refuses to kiss her mom goodbye, the woman she said a few minutes earlier was her favorite person in the whole world. "It's sooo embarrassing," this four year-old said in dramatic tones. 

On the way over, I had seen a dead bumblebee on the sidewalk and made a mental note to show it to her on the return trip to my house. It had rained all morning and the bee body was soaked, yet still fluffy, and the colors were brilliant. I told her that I had a surprise for her. But when she found out it was just a dead bug, she said something that sounded like, "Humph," and began chattering again. 

"No, look at it," I said, pointing with my shoe. She fell silent and leaned closer to the bee. I enjoyed the brief conversational reprieve, the smell of rain and worms, the sound of the birds singing in the trees. She had just started to tell me that someone in her family turned into a monster on a regular basis, which she attributed to some DNA cross wiring. As I am not a scientific person, I had no desire to get into the details of DNA, which are mostly a mystery to me, other than the fact that bunions can be inherited, along with an insatiable appetite for sweets. But also, I think we can inherit good things, like the ability to bake said sweets, and the emotional strength to withstand a lifetime of foot taunting. 

I showed her the bee's legs. "Look at how its legs are curled," I said. The bee lay on its back, its shiny legs curled under its dark face, like a dog begging for scraps. I rolled the bee over with my shoe (a part of me feared it wasn't actually dead, and given the opportunity would make a literal beeline for me) and the little girl drew back, placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered, "Oh." The bee looked almost cuddly with its fuzzy yellow and black stripes all puffed up. He was a little on the chubby side, too. But with that enormous black head, slightly ominous too. The closer we got to him, the more we could imagine him springing back to life. How could anything with colors like that be dead? I wondered aloud. 

It was a good afternoon, filled with baking brownies, listening to children's music about dinosaurs and doodle bugs, and painting pictures of trees with watercolors. You know, stuff you did with us when we were kids, and stuff my kids will no longer do with me. I had not realized how quiet the house had become without little ones, and how empty. I am surprised to find myself feeling this way, seeing as how I had ached to be alone when I was going bonkers with babies. But it turns out that being alone can get a little lonely. Who knew?    

It's night time as I write this. I have opened the window so I can hear the birds and, if I'm lucky, a bit of rain, too. But the rain has stopped and it's quiet, save the deep breathing of my husband next to me and an occasional sleep-muttering from the boys' room. And then the rain starts.  It begins so suddenly and thoroughly, that at first I think it must be the wind. Quite often canyon winds sweep through our neighborhood trees, sounding a lot like God shuffling an enormous deck of cards. Sometimes when the wind blows like this, I close my eyes and pretend that I'm out camping. There's a vague memory floating around in my head of being a little girl in Colorado on a family camp out and waking up in a green canvas tent. The morning air is crisp and cold and clean and somewhere nearby I can hear water gurgling over rocks. A breeze shimmies through the trees as I peek through the tent door. I think it sounds like the tissue paper Santa always puts in our gift boxes. I see you at the picnic table, pulling food out of a cooler for breakfast. You wear a sweatshirt zipped to the top with the hood pulled over your black wavy hair. Your dark eyes are frowzy at the edges when you look at me, and then they get all crinkly as you smile and say, "Morning, Susie." At that moment, I realize that I love you better than anyone else in the whole world. And at this moment, some thirty-three years later, I realize that I still do. 

Love,

Pumpkin

In the Middle of the Road

 

Dear Person Who Yelled at Me From Your Car (Which was a silver sedan, as I recall):

This morning as I was out jogging, minding my own business, you shrieked, "Get out of the middle of the road!" I did not have my ipod with me; I heard you perfectly fine. You did not need to yell. In fact, had you stopped, we could have had a nice conversation about WHY I was running in the middle of the road in the "storage lane" as they call it here in Utah. Perhaps you are not like me and do not have hip and joint pain and require a level surface upon which to run. The next time you drive down this particular road, notice how sloped the sides of the street are to allow for rain and snow to drip down into the gutter. That slope is murder on the legs, let me tell you. It makes your body work harder on one side, as if one leg were shorter. Also, with one leg doing more work, your hip starts to slip, causing throbbing pain.  So I run down the middle, where, as far as I recall from driver's education classes, cars are not allowed to linger. And I run against traffic so I can see what or who is coming. That's why I saw you coming. But I didn't expect the shrill cry of verbal phlegm launched from the safety of your speeding car. You startled me. No, you rattled me. After the initial shock, I began to fume, calling you things that I cannot repeat here. But that fuming fueled the rest of my run. Which happened to be in the middle of the next road. 

What I'm trying to say here is shame on you. Your behavior was right on par with the beer-bellied-Harley-driving-long-haired dude that yelled, "Run faster!" at me when I was jogging while seven months pregnant with my third child. Believe you me, it was really hard to resist flipping him off. But it's hard to outrun a motorcycle, especially when you're lugging around a child in your uterus. 

If you would like to discuss this matter further, you know where to find me. I'll be the one in the middle of the road.  

Sincerely, 

An Innocent Jogger with Bad Joints

P.S.

I also heard you call me an idiot as you drove off, which was a very cowardly thing to do.  I hope that was your cell phone I found in the middle of the road a few steps later, which I kicked down the storm drain. (Just kidding. I did see a cell phone, but I didn't kick it. Although I did wish it was yours. This prompted a long discussion with God and a few apologies on my part. He told me that you were there to teach me a lesson in patience. He also said that if you keep it up, you might mess up your final judgment, which I assume means that you will have to repeat seventh grade for the rest of the eternity.) 

Would You Believe I'm in The Witness Protection Program?

So many of you gave me some great suggestions and sympathy for the hair fiasco, and I say thank you. You are my tribe, and I plan on smoking a peace pipe in your honor tonight as I sit in my tepee, where my husband has banished me and Bellatrix. (Just kidding. I'm sitting in my office while my husband watches Seinfeld in the other room. But in many ways, this office is like my tepee. Also, I'm not smoking anything, though you might see some smoke coming out of my ears and flames flickering at my nostrils.) 

When I squirted the tube of liquid death all over my head (aka hair dye) I was supposed to end up with my real hair color, you see, or as close to it as I remember it being after years and years of coloring. This was supposed to transform me to the "college student Susan" from the early Nineties. But this is not me now, or then. I have never had black hair. And no matter what my husband says, this is BLACK, not dark brown. 

I started getting mad about it the other night. "Why can't you like me the way that I am?" I asked my husband, wagging my finger at him. He had no response to that. After all, I dyed my hair for him, not me. Whenever I told him that I was going to just let my hair go grey as it wanted to, he responded by pumping his fist in the air and saying, "Fight! Fight! Fight it, Babe!", as in, Try to look young as long as possible. Even if you're not twenty-two anymore. So I did try to fight. And I was defeated.

So thanks to all of you who could commiserate. My sister Laura told me to wash with certain shampoos to make it fade faster. And that has worked somewhat. Instead of deep black, my hair has settled comfortably into a murky grey-ish black. My other sister Mary assured me that I look just fine. Mary is overly optimistic, though, not to mention way nicer than I am. Also, she tells me that my hair has never been mousy brown, which is not true. (And I can tell you, if there was a box of hair dye labeled "mousy brown" I would have snatched it right up.) 

Other friends emailed me with tales of relatives who dyed their hair and then, when it grew out a bit ended up with a white streak through it, "kind of like a skunk." This made me glad that I don't have the skunk thing going on. YET. The same friend reminded me that it will grow out eventually. And when I'm a grandmother, grey hair is not only acceptable, it's a badge of honor. I wonder if I can be a foster grandmother at thirty-eight?  

But some friends have already gone grey, like Melanie, who told me she's been letting her hair do its grey thing since she was thirty. To her I say, Rock on, sister. I've seen recent pictures, and I can tell you she's beautiful.  

I'll admit that before I did this to my hair I was starting to look like Janice Joplin with my frizzy fried split ends and tired, limp locks. It was time for a hair cut, and I did manage to squeeze that into my day before I ruined everything. Yet, now that I no longer look like a hippie chick, my appearance has not improved. I still go to bed every night thinking that when I wake up, my hair will look much better. And when I stumble to the bathroom every morning and flick on the light, it's Bellatrix in the mirror, not me. I have to stifle a scream. Then I have to repent for the swear words that come to mind as I lean closer to myself and look for any change in hair hue.

The situation is intolerable. I do not drink, and never have. But this is one of those times when that little habit might have come in handy. As it is, I've been chugging mugs of stiff hot chocolate all week long. However, there's only so much chocolate I can consume without breaking out, so I've resolved to do something. I have decided to take my friend Michelle's advice and call a professional. When I told my husband this, he said, "Why?" 

I stared at him then. "Are you blind?" I asked, pointing to my hair. "I hate this." 

My husband looked at me and my hair, which for the fourth day in a row has been in a pony tail. "I like it," he said. There's no way this can be better than dark brown mixed with grey. I'm sorry, but I'm not that gullible. His statement was clearly a defensive move. Strike before being struck. Admit no fault and take no blame. 

If I had a green pepper at that moment, I would have launched it at his head. But as I usually do this when I'm pregnant, it might have sent him the wrong message. Instead of "I'm sorry, dear" he would have said, "When are you due?" As it was, I didn't say a thing, just trudged up the stairs muttering to myself. 

Bad Hair Day

My husband has been begging me to dye my hair for months now. I've been able to put him off with complaints of no time, no money, no wanna, but finally yesterday I gave in and did the deed. To save money, I bought some L'Oreal stuff at the grocery store, despite my record of two disastrous self-coloring jobs over the years, one of which occurred around Halloween, which was fortunate, considering I gave myself orange hair. It made for a good costume, but when the day after Halloween rolled around, the party was over and ghoulish was no longer in. 

I've had professionals color my hair since the Carrot Top Debacle, but I have to be honest here. I simply don't like getting my hair done. I despise sitting in front of a mirror for longer than ten minutes, and no matter where I go, my hair never looks like it did when I was in my early twenties, before my first child gave me grey hair. Had I known then how things would turn out now, I would have enjoyed my hair a lot more. I would not have complained that it was too frizzy, or too long, or too brown. If I had known that in my late thirties I would be battling coarse shoots of grey that look a little too much like cat whiskers, I would have built a shrine to my hair in all of my college apartments. I would have lit candles and prayed to the gods of mousy brown hair and thanked them for the color, however dull it may have seemed. At least when I looked in the mirror back then I recognized myself. Now, when I look in the mirror I see someone trying to battle the inevitable. 

So now my hair is not brown, as it was supposed to have been. It's what my husband calls "dark brown," but which I call "black." Not jet black, but black-ish. Today I spent hours washing it in various shampoos women on the internet advised me would surely lighten things up. But alas, when I emerged from the shower in a cloud of steam and wiped the mirror with my pruney fingers, my hair looked the same. That is to say, like Morticia Adams. My best bet, the internet women advised, is to wait it out for a couple of months until the color fades a bit and try again. Until then, I am to wear my hair in a pony tail and try not to scare anyone. On the up side, I could call this a mid-life crisis, a yearning to look like a Goth or a Mod. But somehow, when even my cat looks at me askance, as if checking to make sure she's sidling up to the right person, this doesn't make me feel better. 

Still Here

I'm sick again. And I'm trying to organize my garage, which has turned out to be more of a job than what I thought. The whole idea of re-doing the garage came from an article in The Family Handyman (one of my favorite mags) that claimed I could snaz up my garage in one day! 

That's a lie. 

Of course, the closer I look at the picture, the more obvious it is that the garage in the article does not include three thousand balls, twenty bikes, camping gear, boxes of clothes, a huge freezer, mountains of swimming noodles and bubble machines, and barrels of drinking water. So it's taking a little longer than I anticipated. I'm on week two and wondering why I ever started this in the first place. There is one bright spot, though. I might need to go to Ikea to get some boxes. And that should take all day, right?

Wish me luck. 

Women, Food and God

I saw an article about Geneen Roth's new book in this month's O Magazine, which, feeling too tightwaddy to buy, I skimmed while standing in line at the grocery store. I've heard about Geneen Roth, how she writes about emotional eating and overcoming food addiction. I've even thought about checking out her previous books from the library. But I never did. I just continued to check out book after book on this diet and that, all the while knowing that food and I were not coming to terms with each other. As far as I was concerned, there would never be a truce, and I would never be at peace. I thought controlling the food would in turn control me. But it has never been about the food. Not really anyway. 

A couple years ago, on the advice of The Weigh Down Diet book, I decided to stop eating when I was upset at the kids, which meant that I was eating bites instead of meals. I lost so much weight that even my running tights hung on my twiggy legs. For the first time in many years, I thought I was in control of the food. I was so wrong. The book had taught me that relying on food instead of God was a sin. But, funny thing is, instead of feeling satiated with solace, I felt full of guilt. I began to fear not only food but God, too. "Am I really hungry?" I began questioning when I wanted to buy some crackers at the health food store. "Is God watching right now?" I'd think as I looked up at the sky slowly crunching on said crackers. "Will I have to repent for this too?" I'd wonder to myself as I tried to determine if I was full or not. After awhile, it got to be too much. What with all the other things I did wrong in my life, I couldn't handle the notion that God was mad at me about how much I ate for dinner as well. So I gave it up.

But lately I've noticed my old pattern of eating to the point of pain creeping back. I've started checking out diet books from the library again, promising myself that I'll start eating better tomorrow, right after I make some more cookies. Don't get me wrong. I do not consider myself overweight, nor do I wish to return to my former bird-leg self. I would just like to stop thinking of food as my nasty, controlling Aunt Hildegard who frequently makes a mess of me and never offers to clean it up.  

So I bought Women, Food and God. Yep, you heard me. Susan of the Clan of Tightwaddery found it for $15 on BarnesandNoble.com and just went ahead and bought it before sampling it from the library (although I did shop around for the best price). I started reading it the day it arrived. There were so many things in there that I recognized in myself that I had to take a break. It freaked me out too much to read in one sitting. I could feel Aunt Hildegard cackling furiously. She was like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz, screaming "I'm melting!" as I poured water over her ghoulish figure. It took me all weekend to get up the nerve to continue reading, and even then I wasn't sure if I could finish. Finally I made a deal with myself. I would read it through once quickly, just to get a taste of it, then go back and read it again, taking notes while I did so. Kind of like getting seconds, but without the calories. I finished the first run through last night, and this week I will read it again. And perhaps even a third time. It's that good.  

Roth's approach is less about the wrath of God and more about the love of God. She advocates emotional awareness--the idea showing yourself kindness rather than berating yourself for gaining back the same ten pounds you lost and gained the year before. She tells us "that the great blessing of [our] lives is [our] relationship with food." Wrap your mind around that one. The last thing I've considered food was a blessing. Rather more of a curse. Roth continues: "…we are not going to fix [your] relationship with food; we are actually going to walk through the door of [your] eating problem and see what's behind it." 

You can see why my initial reaction was to close the book and calm myself with some chips. But if I want Aunt Hildegard to beat it for good, this is where I must begin. 

Here's a clip of Roth reading from her book:

P.S.

Just a warning. Roth drops a couple of "F" bombs in the book. Twice, I think. 

On the Acquisition of Things

I've been helping a friend clean out her parents' house this week. It hasn't exactly been fun. More like educational. Enlightening, even. I've discovered something I already knew (which would make it a re-discovery, but as it's late and I'm tired, just work with me on this, okay?). All this stuff we think we need to have turns out to be the least important thing when it comes to dying. You know those Christmas ornaments you thought would make such a difference to your holiday celebration? Total nonsense when your progeny opens the unmarked box and finds them rolling around in strands of curly garland and sticky candles shaped like snowmen. And those books that promised to make you smarter, happier, healthier, and more successful? Fodder for the fire, my friends.  

So I've been trying to wrap my brain around the idea of stuff and where it fits in my happiness plan. All these years I've thought that I want stuff, so I need a job to buy stuff, preferably a good one that pays a lot so I can buy good stuff. If I buy good stuff, I will be happier. Or so I thought until this week. Now that I see how useless stuff can be once you're gone from this world and living in a better place where hot chocolate flows freely and every day feels like Christmas because Jesus is right there, sitting in the booth next to you, I wonder if my priorities are out of whack. 

I borrowed Anne Morrow Lindburgh's book Gift from the Sea and read a bit about how this kind of shell I took a picture of, (I forget what it's called--argonaut?), once housed a small sea creature. When it was no longer suitable, he (or she, or it?) simply vacated the home and found another, taking nothing with him. I can picture this, especially when I imagine a female critter. She would leave at night so no one would see her as she fled, naked and nervous, through the dark alleys of the deep sea. She'd see the "for rent" sign on a white shell that had only one room, but this great pointy thing at the top that she could hang a metal star from, or a potted plant. So she signs the lease and moves in the next day. Then she commences to fill up the place with all sorts of knickknacks. There's the bit of red paper she found on the beach and used for a tablecloth, the handful of sand she brought back from a trip to Mexico, the t-shirt she bought at the Krusty Krab restaurant, and a self-help book entitled Going with the Flow When You're Swimming Against the Tide. She continues to acquire more and more things, all the while thinking that the more stuff she has, the more complete her life will feel to her. Then one day she discovers that her shell feels a little tight around the waist. She wonders if she's gained weight. But after spending an entire day moping around and feeling fat, she'll conclude that the shell has somehow shrunk. And then she'll move to a bigger place. 

So what does this mean? It means that I'm in the mood to get rid of everything that does not represent my life as it is right now, or the life that I would like to have. I want to get rid of all the things that no longer serve a purpose in my house. All the good intention purchases. All the thrift store finds that sit in my cupboards unused year after year. The clothes that no longer fit. The clothes that never fit in the first place. The decorations I want to throw in the fireplace because I'm so sick of hauling them out every year. The leftovers in the freezer that no one, not even the cat, will eat.  I'm talking about a whole-house purge here, and a ruthless one. Because one day I will die, and I from what I hear, you can't take a suitcase or even a carry-on with you on the journey.    

Early Morning Freak-Out

This morning the garage door started to open. As we were in bed at the time, you can imagine that it slightly freaked us out. Or, rather, it freaked me out because I was the only one who heard it. 

"Rick!" I said in a scream-whisper, "Someone's opening the garage door!" We both sprang out of bed to investigate. Rick grabbed a billy-club flashlight that is about a foot long, made of hard metal, and which requires something like six batteries. As we've never had that many fresh batteries at one time, we've never used it for light. But it makes a great weapon even without all the batteries. When I'm holding that thing, I imagine myself as a British police officer on patrol. I clutch my "billy club" (aka flashlight) in one hand while hitting it against the palm of my other hand. It makes a satisfying smack and inspires me to say things like, "Well, well, well. What have we here?"     

But this morning Rick had the flashlight, not me. Which was fine, because I wanted to be the one to call the police if he really did find someone and knocked them senseless. If I were to call the police, it would be my third attempt in my lifetime. I made the first call when we lived in student housing and heard a scratching at the door. When we looked through the peephole, no one was there. My fingers shook as I dialed the magic numbers. "Someone's trying to get into our apartment," I whispered into the phone. 

"Tell me what's happening," the voice on the line said. So I described the scratching noise, how it had continued despite my husband banging on the door with his fist and yelling in his mean-man voice, "Get the hell away from my house!" which struck me as funny, because we didn't live in a house. But I chose not to laugh, and I chose not to correct my husband, because I could see the veins bulging in his arm as he attacked the door, and his eyes had taken on a crazy red glow. Plus, the sinister scratching had briefly stopped. But then it started up again. 

"I want to keep you on the line," the police dispatcher said quietly, "keep talking." So I did. And that's when my husband got so frustrated that he finally opened the door. This was before the big flashlight, so he had no really good weapon, aside from his rage. But it turned out that he didn't need one. There, on the doormat, sat a mouse. Although it did have beady little eyes, they were not full of malice or even mischief. The mouse looked up at Rick, its whiskers twitching, the brown fur covering its body quivering. And then there were the eyes, unblinking and blank. I saw no intelligence there, no evil plot to enter our home and kidnap the baby. It occurred to me that if the mouse were in a comic strip, there would be an empty bubble above its head where words should have been.  

"Are you all right?" the dispatcher asked with worry. "What's happening now?" 

I realized that I had gone silent. Suppressing the urge to giggle, I said, "Uh, never mind." And then I hung up. I won't tell you how Rick killed the mouse. Or how he cleaned up the guts smashed into the doormat. Or that he later suspected it wasn't a mouse at all, but the neighbor's pet hamster. I won't describe these things because today's post was supposed to be about this morning. So let's get back to that.  

When Rick flung open the door from the house to the garage, no one was there. However, the outside door was about a quarter of the way up. Just enough for someone who had been hiding in the garage to make a quick getaway, I thought aloud. My husband pointed out that no one would take the risk of pressing the button to open the door a little, then pressing the button again to make it stop, counting on there being enough time to actually leave before someone discovered their presence. I had to admit he was right, which I hate doing. But it was early and my brain was still foggy, so the admission didn't bother me as much as it would have when I was fully awake.

I briefly considered the possibility that our cat had pressed the button. Yes, you heard me right. Our cat. But that would be silly, right? Because for one thing her arm isn't long enough to reach the door opener. And I don't think her aim is good enough to have made a series of leaps at the thing in hopes of flinging her body at it with enough force to depress the button. And surely she would have made some noise, at the very least a frustrated "me-ow" as she hit the wall. Also, I remembered that when I heard the door open, she was stretched out on my neck sleeping deeply and I had to shove her aside to get up. But it would have been fun to tell people we caught a cat burglar--literally.

So, with no explanation for what or who could have opened our garage door, we trudged upstairs back to bed. Or at least Rick did. I couldn't sleep, so I made my way back to the office to write about the incident. On the way, I found a plastic light saber on the floor. I should have picked that up as a weapon on the way to the garage, I thought to myself. But then I realized that a plastic light saber would have done nothing to protect my family against a thief or murderer. I mean, our light saber doesn't even light up or make a noise. And even though my boys have taught me some impressive moves that involve spinning and using a slicing action against your opponent, in the face of real danger it would have inspired nothing more than laughter. Unless, of course, you're a mouse.

 

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 5

This is the final installment of the Ukraine project. Thanks for reading!

Elections in Odessa, Ukraine, July 1994. These workers are sprucing up a building where voting would take place the next day. During the preceding weeks, candidates appealed to the new sense of Ukrainian independence by promising an improved, Communist-free life. There were expensive television campaign commercials--only flyers. 

 

I'm told that the Ukraine is different now, sixteen years later. Some people wondered who ordered Communism removed, who thought it was so bad that they had to do away with it completely. And that's understandable. It's like your parents kicking you out and leaving you to figure out how to pay your bills, find a job and an apartment, and where to find food, let alone cook it. That's what it felt like to me, anyway. An entire country in limbo, everyone shrugging and asking, "What do we do now?" 

Yet some were hopeful, like the person quoted in the last paragraph above. "It will get better," the positive thinkers said. And reportedly it is better. I hear there's more food in the stores and money in the banks. And the line between Eastern and Western fashion is more blurry now, as women wear Gucci and smell of expensive perfume as they shop in modern stores. As for the babooshki, I'm sure there are plenty of die-hard scarf-heads left. At least I hope so.  
   

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 4

 

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 3

More from the Ukraine project. 

  

Come back for more this weekend. I'll post the final two installments on Saturday and Sunday, so come back for more. Thanks for reading!

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 2

Note: the plural for old men is dedooshki, not dedooshkas. Oops.

 

 

Ukraine: Words and Pictures

I'm feeling nostalgic this week. And a little tired since my body doesn't know what time it is and why I'm waking up when it's dark outside and eating dinner when it looks too bright and inviting outside. Whose idea was daylight savings time anyway? (Benjamin Franklin? At least I think that's what they said on National Treasure.)

Anyho, so I've been thinking of traveling lately. But since I am stuck blessed to be home today, I am resorting to sifting through my files of days gone by living in Europe. (I still haven't had an English scone yet. Perhaps this would help my mood?) Instead of daydreaming I should be reading a novel for the parent/child book group my oldest and I joined, but I've always been the Push the Panic Button kind of student, so I'm taking a break…before I get started.

So here's a blast from the past, 1994 to be exact. Those of you who know me might remember that I served an LDS (aka Mormon, aka those two guys in suits wearing name tags and knocking on doors, only I'm a girl) mission to Kiev, Ukraine. At that time, the Ukraine was trying to figure out how to be Capitalist instead of Communist. It was a bumpy ride, especially if you were an American fond of hot showers, reliable electricity, grocery stores that stocked more than pickled beets, and public transportation that didn't involve smashing your body against strangers. Don't even get me started about standing in lines. Or the post office, where instead of the workers going "postal" the patrons could easily snap after waiting an hour only to be told that there were no more stamps to be had.  

But of course, there were good things, like borscht and black bread. And a nine-layer torte that a sweet old woman made for her own birthday celebration. And the chestnut trees lining the boulevard, blooming in great white flower cones that swayed in the breeze. And the lilacs with their intoxicating scent, perfuming the path to our apartment. And the open markets in the summer, women wrapped in scarves dropping a dollop of honey on the back of your hand, urging you to Eat, Eat! And of course there were the people, who could still laugh in spite of all the frustrations and uncertainties. These are some of the things that made all the cold showers worth it. And they are what prompted me to put some words and pictures of my experiences in the Ukraine together. So I could remember why I went there in the first place. And why I would gladly go back. 

So I'm inviting you to my memory party this week. Hope you enjoy yourselves. I know I will.

PS

If you can't read a picture, click on it to enlarge.

This is an excerpt from an inscription written in a book of poetry, given to me by my dear friend Maria. 

 She was right. My heart still feels hers, even though we are thousands of miles apart. 

 

Mouse Potato

I finally figured out why my jeans are getting tight. Too much time sitting at the computer. I suffer from an affliction Nora Ephron calls mouse potato in her book I Hate My Neck. I've become someone who spends way too much time on her tushie at the computer. I would like to go outside and run a marathon right now. But I'll probably end up surfing instead…on the net, that is. It's easier on my joints anyway. (Although it doesn't help in the jeans department.)

A Safe Place

  

You've probably heard about Chelsea King, the 17 year-old who went jogging by herself around Lake Hodges in Rancho Bernardo, California, and never came back. A convicted rapist was arrested in connection with her disappearance on Sunday, and Tuesday police found what they think is Chelsea's body. This story hits close to home for me. My family lives in the area, my niece and nephew went to Chelsea's high school, and if I'm not mistaken, my niece has jogged the trails at Lake Hodges a few times herself. When I spoke with my mother on the phone yesterday, she told me that the entire community is in shock. And now, they are in mourning. 

Thousands of people grieve not only for the loss of a girl with a bright future, but for the loss of a safe community. Rancho Bernardo is not a scary place. It's a suburb of San Diego, a tidy California village where people retire and families raise their kids. The schools are top notch. The roads are well paved,the lawns neatly groomed. It's where you can go to Denny's at midnight, confident that no one is going to mug you in the parking lot. And it's where you'd assume that your daughter would be safe going for a run after school. 

But looks can be deceiving. According to feminist.com, "One out of every six American women have been the victims of an attempted or completed rape in their lifetime." What's more disturbing is that over half of those assaults happen before a girl turns eighteen. Though some claim that a woman who ventures down a dark alley in a sketchy part of town is "just asking for it," turns out it's getting just as dangerous to talk a walk in a park. In the afternoon. Smack in the middle of Suburbia. 

Yesterday on the phone, my mother asked, "You don't still run by yourself, do you?" She sounded worried. I assured her that physically, I can't run very far anymore, if at all. But when I thought about it, I realized that I used to go on solo runs nearly every day, starting in college, when I'd head outside before the sun came up to get my three miles. And in more recent years, I've run from my house to the mouth of a canyon five miles away on a road that is not exactly deserted, but not exactly busy either. As we talked, I could hear my kids playing in the driveway, the steady rhythm of the basketball, the yelps of laughter. A car passed by, and I wondered who was driving, a stranger or a friend. I thought of the children who have gone missing, their stories appearing on the nightly news for weeks until the search is called off, or the bodies are found. I see pictures of missing children on the back page of advertisements that come in my mail box. They always smile in the photographs, looking so little and happy, completely unaware of how one day they will become a statistic. I thought of the few missing children who had, miraculously, been found alive, but broken in ways I do not want to imagine. I have always felt that this kind of thing could never happen to my children or to me, because we are protected from such horrors if only by virtue of where we live. But then again, that's what Chelsea King thought, too.

So I'm wondering what we can do about this alarming trend of violence towards children and teenagers, girls especially. My niece's friend Kendall Pearson Sallay, a San Jose State University student, has an answer. Sallay hopes to add girls-only self defense classes to the California physical education requirements for high school students. If you agree, you can sign her petition here. Personally, I think such skills should be taught in elementary all the way through to college. And if our schools do not teach it, as parents we should. Advising girls to protect themselves by staying in the neighborhood and avoiding the bad parts of town is not enough anymore. Because sometimes you just can't tell what will happen. Or where.

If you would like to learn more about how to protect your family from sexual assault, here's a link to the RAINN.ORG website. 

If you would like self-defense classes to be part of your school's curriculum, contact your state office of education. 

A Matter of Perspective

I was in the shower yesterday morning and thinking of how late it was, and how much my day so far had not gone as planned. It was nearly 10:00 and the house looked like a swamp. Dishes filled the sink, baskets of clean laundry blocked the path to my bed, and dirty socks covered the equally dirty carpet. I was supposed to have taken care of all these things by the time I took a shower. I had also planned to run errands and take a little trip to the local thrift shop before picking up the kids from school. 

But then Jake woke up with the sniffles. "I can't go to school," he told me with shoulders slumped and eyes red at the edges. 

Remembering how he had been complaining about school--about a few girls who have made a game of grabbing him and kissing him in particular--I wondered if he was only being dramatic. But then he snuffled again and could hear rivers of mucus flowing in his nasal passages. So, there you have it. By being excited for my day, I had jinxed it. With all of my plans scratched, I sent Jake to bed with advice to go back to sleep. And that's what I wanted to do, too. But I couldn't. So I took a shower instead.

As the water ran, my thoughts began. What a waste! I said to myself. I haven't gotten anything done! I continued. I just don't have enough time to do everything on my list, I complained. Then my friend Epiphany knocked on my brain. Epiphany said that I should stop thinking about what I had (or in this case, had not) accomplished, and ask myself what I had enjoyed that morning instead. So I did. I thought of how I had looked at some baby pictures of Paul sucking his thumb. That made me remember how when he wanted to say something, he'd remove his thumb with a sound similar to uncorking a wine bottle. He'd jabber about what happened to be on his mind, then re-cork himself. I also recalled how, underneath his thumb, you could always detect a slight upturn of his lips. As I washed my hair, I thought of how the night before my husband had remarked how vividly he could remember seeing that grinning, be-thumbed child in the rear view mirror as he drove around town. That memory of long ago, and the smile on my husband's face when he and I reminisced about it were surely things I had enjoyed. 

By this time, Epiphany was positively giddy as I added to my list of morning enjoyments: an unusual but tasty breakfast of steamed spinach mixed with a dollop of mayonnaise, a therapeutic stretching workout, and this nice warm shower. To top it off, when I turned off the water, God gave me a little gift, a bird singing in the tree outside my window. It sounded like a squeaky toy, or a child's bicycle horn, which made me think of riding bikes in the summer. And for a moment, I felt the joy of coasting down the hill on my vintage bicycle, ringing the silver bell attached to the handle bars, my children at my side, laughing and hollering as we raced to the imaginary finish line.

Suddenly, I felt that the morning had been productive. I was calm, and even happy. And yet, I felt a bit incomplete, a little selfish, even. That's when Epiphany suggested that it would be nice to make some enjoyment for someone else, too. So I excavated a book from under a pile of dirty clothes and read it to my sick child. As my son listened to stories of Laura Ingalls Wilder's first home in the Big Woods, the sun lit up the room, reminding me that winter will soon give way to spring. 

I never did get the laundry put away. But you know what? I really don't care. Because I've changed my perspective on these matters. I've decided that it's more important to see, hear, feel and taste what's around me. I no longer feel beholden to my to-do list, because you can't always plan your enjoyments. Sometimes you have to take them as they come. And come they will, if only you will let yourself notice them. 

Full Moon

Did you know that the moon was its brightest on Friday night? I did. After watching a bit of local news detailing the phenomenon my youngest bounded up the stairs and yelled, "Let's go look at the moon!" He fumbled in the closet and pulled out our box of binoculars, then ran out to the deck to have a look. His two older brothers did not follow. At thirteen and eleven years-old, things like the moon do not impress them. Funny how if someone shouts, "Look at this cat dancing on YouTube!" everyone will come running. It seems to me if it's on a screen, my kids think anything is more interesting than an actual, three-dimensional piece of reality right in front of them. It occurs to me that maybe I've hit upon a new way to feed my family. Instead of actually cooking, I could show my family a cooking video on the internet. "See kids," I'd say as they gathered round the computer, "You can almost taste it."  

But back to the moon. I happened to be in the kitchen making cookies at the moment my child ran to the deck, so was close at hand when he poked his head through the sliding glass door and said, "You gotta come see this thing." So I did. And lo, the moon did shine with rather more intensity than usual. It was so bright that I wondered if it was safe for my child to look directly into it. I recalled being told in kindergarten that looking into the sun could cause blindness--would staring at this moon do the same? My husband laughed when I asked him this question, though he looked doubtful for a split second. He got over his doubts pretty quick, though. The next thing I knew he had the telescope out on a tripod, focused right on that bright old moon. Let me tell you, looking through the telescope was like looking directly into the headlight of an oncoming car, when you're out in the country on a dark night--and a cold night at that. Or like twisting a light bulb into a lamp socket, not realizing that the lamp is switched on until it suddenly blinds you with a flash of light so strong that you instinctively close your eyes, and under the darkness of your eyelids you still see pops of white spots. Or like when you're deep into a book and your kid says, "Hey, Mom, look over here." And when you do, you're blinded by a camera flash as he snaps a picture of you and laughs as you walk around partially blind for the next five minutes. 

So anyway, the moon was bright. We could see splotches of dark on its surface, with divots here and there that reminded me of acne scars. At the base of the moon there was a small circle that looked like a stem had once been there. I thought it looked like a moldy, albino orange from outer space. I'm sure there's a more technical term to describe it, but to me it's more fun to think that God plucked an old orange off a tree and tossed it to earth for our amusement. Or maybe for his. I can imagine that watching us shiver in the winter night as we tried to comprehend how exactly something that luminous and huge could just hang over us like that, like a giant orb suspended in the sky, might be a nice way to pass an evening. 

When we were done, my husband dragged the tripod and telescope inside. I resumed my cookie making, only to glance over to see him peering through the telescope, which he had turned on me. "I'm trying to see what you would look like with a boob job," he said. This intrigued me. Wouldn't it be nice if the moon had special powers? What if I could be like a werewolf, but instead of going all hairy--because with how infrequently I shave, I'm already hairy enough--I would sprout C-cups? I could just imagine the sound my girls would make as they became women. It would sound like "tawang," or maybe "tawanda." I'd look down at my new and improved figure, lift my eyes to the moon and howl, as if to say, "Hey, thanks for the breasts!" It could happen, you know. Come to think of it, supposedly there is a man in the moon. And if I know men, they do like big breasts.  

Unfortunately, my husband couldn't find my chest in the lens, so he gave up. I'm okay with that. I worry that if he had figured out how to see me at my biggest and brightest, he also might have figured out how to film the transformation. And then you know what he would have done? Yep, he would have posted it on the BoobTube. 

The Pity Party

Thanks to Suzanne for sending me this comic in an email. It came at just the right time.

I think it's time to admit that this week has been a big pity party for me, thrown by myself, for myself.  

My freak-out session about the home video of me in my teenage years caused some of you to feel like I must think you are "obese." Let me just say that I was trying to describe how I felt about my body when I was a teenager. Whether I should be considered overweight or not was not the issue. My self-image was the biggest problem, not the number on the scales. Furthermore, I do not consider--nor ever have considered--any of my friends or family too large. I don't pay a lot of attention to what people wear or their dress size. How much you do or don't weigh doesn't mean anything to me--your actions do. Fortunately, I've been blessed with friends and family of integrity, intelligence, and extreme kindness. And so you are all beautiful to me.  

Perhaps you are thinking this is a bunch of hooey coming from a person who just the other day got all emotional over her fifteen year-old self. "Someone call a waaahhm-bulance, Susan's sad about her body again," you might say. And you'd be justified in doing so. It's time I shut up about this. Maybe I'm like the woman in the comic who sees a giant behind where there is none (although I wouldn't mind a distorted breast image of myself, weighted on the plus size). Maybe, in comparison to some, I should not be complaining about anything. But here's the thing: along with finding my perfect career, food and weight are also my life issues. I suppose you've already guessed this by now.

So here's an idea. Maybe I should stop trying to be perfect and spend more time enjoying myself. Maybe food is just food, not an "issue" and not a mortal enemy. It's occurred to me that it's not really the end of the world if I eat a piece of cake once in a while, as long as it's not an every day thing. I may fall off my healthy eating habits bandwagon quite often, but I know how to get back on. It's like my niece says, "I'd rather live in moderation than deprivation (especially in terms of food)." I second that motion. 

Thanks for reading. No need to call the Waahm-bulance. Susan's Pity Party is officially over. 

Going Bananas

So Sunday night we’re all sitting around at my sister’s house and somebody says, “Let’s watch that video of Susan eating the banana.” Inside I groaned. Outside, I said, “Let’s just not.” But apparently nobody heard the desperation in my voice. Or maybe they all thought I was joking. But I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. 

What’s the big deal? You may be asking yourself. The key word here is big. When my brother-in-law shot this video of me lying on the floor, watching television while slowly eating a banana, I was an overweight teenager. Every time I see myself in this video, I remember the sound of my thighs swishing as I walked when I wore my favorite silky black pants. I remember eating pie while watching Saturday Night live every weekend, hating myself with every bite. I remember curly fries from Arby’s and toffee peanuts for lunch every day, and the shame I felt as I gobbled them up in the car on the way back to school. I remember the wool skirt sewing project I slaved over for weeks, only to discover that it wouldn’t zip closed around my pudgy middle. “You can give it to your sister,” I recall my mother telling me as I tore the skirt off. In response I flung it across the room. I remember relatives coming to visit and telling my mother, “She’s got a sweet tooth, that one.” And I remember how smaller girls would glide through the halls like nimble fairies in the forest, while I lumbered behind, a cellulite monster threatening to destroy the social order. 

But there’s a happy ending to this story, although you could argue that it’s not really over. When I was sixteen, something inside of me shifted. I no longer wanted to feel and be large. I wanted to be healthy. I wanted to be fit. It was like my brain suddenly realized that it could change. So I ate healthier foods, and I exercised. Over the course of a summer, I lost thirty pounds or so. When school started again, a friend of mine said, “I was looking at you the other day and I thought ‘Where did half of Susan go?’” That was the best compliment anyone had ever given me. Finally, my own body did not embarrass me. Finally, I was skinny.

For the most part, I’ve managed to keep the weight off, give or take pregnancy and holiday pounds here and there. But when I watch this video, my heavy years come back to me. I become the big girl again, the one who can’t control her food intake. The one who doesn’t get asked on dates. The one who was told, “If you gain a few more pounds, you might be considered fat.” My brain shifts back about twenty-five years, and I’m sitting in front of the television, watching Saturday Night Live. I hear the clang of my fork against the plate as I shovel apple pie into my mouth. The Church Lady struts across the stage, purses her lips and asks, “Could it be Satan?”  I laugh out loud and take another bite of pie, barely registering that I’m doing so. As I scrape a fork across my plate to catch the last crumbs, my eyes fill with tears. I realize that I dislike every part of myself—even my toes.

This is not a happy place I’ve been all week since watching this video. Wallowing in memories of self-hate doesn’t exactly make for a field of mental posies. I think most of us would rather forget our teenage years. However, that's hard to do when someone films them. So I've decided that when my kids hit the awkward stage, I won't document their struggle. Unless, of course, they ask me to. But if they say, "Let's just not take that picture, Mom," I'll put the camera away. I think I'll understand how they will feel at that moment. And I will understand how they will feel in the future.

The Photoshop Diet

Yesterday I was feeling kind of soft and gushy. And I don't mean that metaphorically. So when my husband sent me this link of photoshop retouching examples, I started to feel better about my body. Did you know that Madonna looks downright haggard without the miracle of photoshop? And just as I thought, Demi Moore doesn't look that good just from eating her vegetables--it's quite possible surgery might have been involved. As for Katie Couric's extreme weight loss in a very short amount of time, all I can say is, "Sign me up for the photo retouching diet of the decade!"  

I had so much fun looking at all that retouching and what it can do a for a person that I decided to fix up a few of my own photos.

This is me when I was a high school senior and weighed seventy five pounds.

 

Here I am today, after having three children:

 

This is me in college, when I worked part-time as a Ronald McDonald model:

 

And here's my wedding picture. Rick and I have been shackled together for fifteen years now. 

I'm so pleased with myself in these pictures, I'm thinking of inventing Photoshop glasses. You could put them on in the morning so that when you look in the mirror, you see yourself retouched, looking perfect in every way. That big zit on your chin? Zapped! That chicken skin dangling from your belly? Smooth as a baby's bottom. And those cottage cheese thighs? Lactose free, sister. Ah, the possibilities make me giddy. But alas, I am not a scientific person, capable of inventing things like this. So for now, I'll just have to settle for being an average, ageing woman in person and a fit, trim, and taut goddess in photographs. You know, just like Katie and Kim and Madonna. 

 

The Perfect Gift

Last weekend I went on a Sister Date with, as you might have guessed, my sisters. As I'm the youngest, I often ask my sisters for advice on things like husbands, kids, my life's purpose, and what's supposed to be in fashion (not that I pay much attention to fashion. It's just nice to know what I won't be wearing this season.)

On this date, pregnancy was on my mind. It had occurred to me that Bellatrix had hinted that she wanted to come for a visit, but didn't actually ever show up in December. One day she rang the bell, and I warned my husband that he could snuggle up to me now or never again--at least not for the next week--because soon we would have a house guest. For some reason, pronouncements like this have an effect somewhat like narcotics on my husband. I didn't even have time to say, "Are you in the mood?" before he dashed to the bedroom, hollering to the kids, "We're having a meeting. Don't bother us for awhile." Then he closed the door and locked it, laughing to himself while he did so. 

The next day I gathered some candy, a few good books, tested the heating pad, made sure I was stocked up on ibuprofen, and waited. But Bellatrix didn't come. She didn't come the next day either. Or the next. And because I was so busy having a tizzy over Christmas, I forgot to think about her. 

So last week, when I realized she never showed, I wondered, if by some holiday medical miracle, I was pregnant. My initial reaction to this thought was "Oh, crap!" Don't get me wrong. I love my children. A lot. But I'm pushing forty, had my last baby eight years ago, and am seriously enjoying not having any bums to wipe, bottles to warm, or breasts to pull out in public to feed a hysterically hungry child. And don't get me started on how much I cherish sleeping longer than four hours at a stretch. 

But on the positive side, I was looking a bit plump in the midsection. It might be nice to attribute my gut to having a bun in the oven rather than admitting that I ate too much during December. And during my three pregnancies I did enjoy not having to suck it in. Pregnancy would explain my nausea and why I have more zits that my teenage son. Also, having another child would pretty much give me a purpose and a direction for the next five years while I waited for the kid to go to kindergarten already. That might be nice. For a week or two, anyway. Until the post partum depression set in.   

So I asked my sisters, "Could I be pregnant?" 

My sister L. said something like, "I don't think so. Didn't you guys have the operation?" Yep. When the last kid came out, my husband and I decided to ensure that we would not get pregnant again. A few snips later, a weekend on the couch with a bag of frozen peas, and we thought we were in the clear. 

My other sister M. said, "You never know." She was right. You always hear stories about people who get pregnant despite vasectomies and/or tubes tied in double knots. Granted, those stories are often in The National Enquirer, but they could be true. And it would be just my luck that, seven years after The Snipping, one lone sperm with a craving for eggs over easy slipped through the pipes and hooked up with one my girls. 

But then, a miracle happened. That morning, my sister M. had given me the perfect gift, a Bellatrix Lestrange t shirt. She thought I could wear it when Bellatrix visited--you know, to give the people living with me some explanation for my behavior. I held it up to myself and showed my husband. "I can see the resemblance," he said. For some reason, I wanted to throw a green pepper at his head, which is what I did when I was pregnant with our first child. Having no green peppers handy, I just said, "Thanks a lot," in my most sarcastic voice. 

 

Later that night, I discovered that I am not pregnant (whew). Bellatrix showed up, this time for real. Turns out the t shirt has magical powers. Just touching it will call Bellatrix to my house. And when I wear it, I want to curse everyone around me. Why, just last night I snapped at my youngest while I was making dinner. Recognizing my witchy voice, my husband stepped into the kitchen to deal with the situation. "Everyone just be quiet," he said, staring at me, his eyes wide with fear (or perhaps sarcasm, I couldn't tell which). "Don't make any sudden movements, and maybe she won't hurt us," he told the boys as he moved slowly toward the plate of chicken on the counter. Lucky for him we were still out of peppers. 

P.S.

I'm considering getting the complete Bellatrix outfit. It's not really my style, at least not during most of the month. But it would make a nice ensemble for those days when I'm feeling especially wenchy. It's kind of reminiscent of Wonder Woman, don't you think?  
 

 P.P.S.

I didn't take these pictures and I didn't get paid to endorse these products. I found the photos on a company's website when I Googled "Bellatrix t shirt." I think the company's called Hot Topic or something. 

'Twas the Sixth Day After Christmas

The other day I noticed that December is all about acquisition: calories and pounds from all the treats and meals out because you can’t handle the idea of cooking anything more than hot chocolate and maybe some popcorn; stuff, starting with decorations and ending with gifts; and things (like clothes and gadgets) that you buy for yourself but you really should be buying for other people. Or maybe that last one is just a personality defect of my own. Because I don’t usually shop for new things, I’m always amazed at what’s out there. I mean, did you know there are kitchen contraptions that can make quesadillas? And bags that will preserve your produce and bread and lunch meat much better than the refrigerator alone, and felt pads you can put on the bottom of your china cabinet so that you slide it across the room without asking for your husband’s help, who would probably ask why you wanted to move the china cabinet anyway? And pills that can help you shed those unwanted pounds in a mere weekend? And dresses that have support panels built in to tame that belly full of jelly (and cookies, and chocolates, and turkey, and stuffing, and pies and cakes).

Incidentally, I tried on one of those “slimming” dresses while I was Christmas shopping for someone else. After nearly dislocating a shoulder trying to put the thing on, I turned sideways to the mirror and discovered that my belly would require more than just a spandex panel to flatten it. Instead of three months pregnant, I looked more like I had a two month old fetus in there, curled up in a ball like my sleeping cat. The only things the dress appeared to have any effect on were my legs, which were smashed together, making it impossible to walk without looking like a toddler with both legs shoved through one pant leg. 

I remembered an incident years before, when I had just moved into the area. One of the first few Sundays at church, a woman asked me if I was pregnant. I was not. “No, just fat,” I replied. That reminded me of a similar experience a few years prior to that when a different woman, while staring at my stomach, asked the same question. Only she asked it slower, as if she were really trying to come up for an explanation for my protruding stomach: “Are you…,” pause here, while she tilted her head and really pondered my belly, which at that moment was encased in a pair of overall shorts. Granted, I had just eaten a hearty dinner of five pancakes, but still. The woman started her question again, “Are you…pregnant?” I could just see myself at church wearing this clingy dress with its insufficient support panel, my legs wrapped in spandex saran, waddling down the hall in heels. I work with children at church now. If grown-ups can ask me if I’m expecting, children would have no qualms with saying, “Is there a baby in your tummy?”   

At this thought, I turned my back to the mirror, wiggled and tugged and yanked and contorted until I could get out of that stupid dress. As I finally pulled it over my head,  my hair crackled with electricity and my shoulders popped. I wadded the dress up in a ball and threw it on the little bench in the dressing room, where the slippery material slithered off onto the floor. Though I said nothing out loud, in my mind, I yelled, “Nottafinga!” “Son of a Nutcracker!” and “Crap!”  (Lest you think I left the dress there in a sad little heap of cheap material (I concluded that was part of the problem, you see. The material would only look good on a mannequin, or maybe a Barbie doll), I did put it back on its hanger, and returned it to its proper place. But not without cursing again.)

But I digress. What I meant to say is that now that December is over, we can get down to the business of January, which is all about getting rid of stuff and starting over. So here it is, six days into the month and I’m still trying to decide what this year’s projects will be. Should I join a gym? Do a 21-day detox? De-clutter my house (again)? Reorganize the kids’ rooms? Start running again? Read a book each week? Stock my freezer with meals for a month? 

What’s that you say? The stockings are still hung by the chimney with care? And the tree is still sparkling and beautiful, yet taking up much needed space in the living room? And nobody has any clean clothes because I haven’t done the laundry in two weeks? Well, I guess that’s a good place to start. But I have to say, this feels an awful lot like December.

Book Case Solved

So it was the week of Thanksgiving and my sister and her family came for a visit. "Hey," I said to my brother-in-law, as casually as I could, "I've got this bookcase dilemma." I went on to tell him all about the double-sided, nine-foot book case I brought home from a library sale. My brother-in-law thought for a moment. Then he said, "Let's go take a look at it." 

We went out to the garage where the beast lay waiting. I explained my plan to slice the thing in half to use as a book case in the house. "But I'm too chicken to do it," I said. My brother in law walked from one end of the case to the other, stepped back, and thought some more. 

"I could cut it for you. It'd be easy. I'd have it done in thirty minutes," he said. And I didn't doubt that he meant it. 

This is the thing about my brother-in-law. He's never laughed at my kooky ideas (well, at least my home improvement ideas). Instead, he helps me with them. Like the time when I was twelve and ripped up the carpet in my bedroom because I preferred the wood floor below. Instead of scolding me, or telling me there was no way I could make it work, he told me how to refinish it. And the floor looked great when I was done. That little experience gave me confidence in my ideas. Let me rephrase that. My brother-in-law's confidence in my ideas gave me confidence in myself. 

But I'm older now. And I've grown kind of wussy. So when my bro-in-law offered to cut the bookcase, I took him up on the offer. It took a little longer than we thought it would, and it was slightly more tricky, but by golly, he did it. And it looks great in the house--just as I had imagined it. It's been hard, but I've managed to restrain myself from telling my skeptical husband, "I told you so!" 

Thanks to my brother-in-law, we now have our own library. You rock, bro!

 
All hail the mighty brother-in-law!

Done at Last (sort of)

So the bathroom's painted. It was done by last Saturday, but I had to buy accessories to spiffy it up. I still need to add some finishing touches, like pictures of my kids against colorful backgrounds which I will then find circular frames for. (Anyone know where I can find those?)

For now, this is kind of what it looks like. At least, this is the most of it that I could shoot, considering I don't have a wide angle lens. Just use your imagination.

Great Potential

Interesting dinner conversation last night. My husband told me about a co-worker whose husband won't go out of town without her for fear that she'll start a home improvement project. I couldn't help laughing hysterically. "Can you relate?" I asked my husband. He could.

Some years ago, when my husband was out of town for Thanksgiving weekend, the kids and I set to work tearing out a brick mantle that ran across an entire wall. We had a grand time, whacking away at the ugly old brick, ripping out the board that ran across the top of it. We created a wonderful cloud of dust--which landed on just about everything in the house, ourselves included. Our arms grew sore and strong from all the work. The only thing is, we didn't manage to finish it before my husband came home. It was supposed to be a nice surprise, a "hey honey, look what we did for you" kind of thing. Turns out tearing down a wall of brick and replacing the mantle takes longer than a week. In fact, it took me a year. 

So it shouldn't have been a big surprise when I brought home this nine foot, double sided bookcase I picked up at a library surplus sale.

 

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Plus, the price was right. And everyone at the sale was buying them up left and right. Granted, most of those people were from private schools with large libraries, but hey, I have a library in my house, don't I? The way I saw it there were only two problems: it was a little big, and would need to be sawed in half lengthwise, as I didn't have a place for a two-sided bookcase. The library guy stood waiting while I stewed over this possible purchase. He tapped his fingers on the top of the bookcase while a woman stood next to me, staring at the nine foot tall bookcase spanning the wall in front of us. She glanced at the bookcase I had my eye on. That's what made me say the fateful words. "I'll take it," I told the library man. At the checkout counter I almost changed my mind. But I buy things for their potential, not necessarily their present condition. And this bookcase had great potential.

But funny thing. Once I got it home (and that was an adventure in and of itself), I chickened out. With all the other furniture projects I brought home, I could manage to move them myself. But this behemoth is beyond my strength. I've been working out, but let's face it, nine feet is nine feet. Even the library guy nearly had a coronary as he helped me load it into the rental truck. And he was a big guy--twice the size of my husband. 

So now the bookcase sits in my garage, waiting for something to happen. I've tried, I really have. One day I got the saw out, then made the mistake of looking across the expanse of wood before me and just couldn't do it. I considered making the thing into cubbies for my kids, but when my son and I tried to move it, my son gave up. "I can't move this thing," he said, rubbing his shoulder. I couldn't get it down the stairs alone, so back into the garage it went. Tired of parking in the driveway, my husband eventually pushed it to the side of the garage so his car would fit again.

My husband is a patient man. And I am a creative gal, a free spirit if you will. But even I have to admit the bookcase was a mistake. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn't thinking, and that's the problem. But at least I didn't tear down the wall between the kitchen and the front room. At least not yet.  

Bellatrix is in the House

Bellatrix arrived yesterday morning. Unannounced, uninvited. Unexpected. Unwanted. I finished exercising, then headed for the bathroom as usual. And lo, there she was. “Crap!” I said to myself, aloud. ‘Crap, crap, crap.” Luckily the kids didn’t hear because we’ve asked them to stop using that word so much. It gets a little embarrassing when your eight year-old yells “What the crap!” out in public, say, in the women's restroom at Barnes and Noble, where you've forced him to go because your husband is not there to take him to the men's room, and where a ninety five year old woman is washing her hands at the sink. 

But if there’s one good thing about having a period in a houseful of men, it’s the fear factor. When my husband came home from work, he didn’t smell anything cooking, which meant that I hadn’t started dinner. Not that unusual, to be honest. Instead, he found me in the bedroom, shooting pictures of flowers, rubbing my back and moaning. At once, he offered to help me with dinner. He is well versed in period etiquette. Or maybe he just has a keen sense of personal survival. 

During dinner, our middle child absent mindedly picked up and slammed down his miniature skateboard on the table. My fallopian tubes felt about to burst and my uterus pulsated with alien energy. The constant clack-smack, clack-smack of the skateboard against the table grew louder, like I was in a bad dream and that very sound was what drove me to commit various crimes that, in my right mind, I'd never even consider. Or at least never admit considering. I took the skateboard and flung it across the room. Luckily my husband has excellent reflexes and swerved to the right as it whizzed past his head. Without even pausing, my husband looked at the boys and said, “Watch out. Mom’s not feeling well." 

My youngest put down the noodle he was holding between his fingers, peering through it like a penne pasta telescope. “Sick with what?” he asked, studying me for familiar symptoms.  

“Mommy sickness,” my husband told him. The two older boys nodded. The youngest thought this one over, shrugged his shoulders and picked up his noodle again. The boys can't figure out what to do with me when I’m like this. They know that something mysterious happens in my body every month, but they’re not sure what. And I don't think they want to know the details.

“Why don’t you go lay down?” my husband suggested.

“You know, I think I might,” I said, heading to the bedroom.

(This is what I feel like during this time of the month. Although, I don't eat a lot of greens when Bellatrix comes to visit. She prefers dessert to vegetables.)

And so there I was, alone in bed, a heating pad on my lower back and a hot sack of rice on my belly. Outside, everyone else worked on a project. As I was preoccupied with my "mommy owies," they decided to have man time, complete with power tools, nails, and a hammer. From what I could make out, they were constructing a rack for firewood. I heard the saw ripping its way through something, hopefully not a finger or an arm. The saw stopped and I heard my husband’s voice, then the sound of metal grinding on cement. This meant that someone had lost interest in the project and was riding his scooter up and down the driveway. Probably the youngest, who (hopefully) would not have been allowed to push the wood through the saw. He often wanders inside at times like these, seeks me out, and asks, "Reading time?" in his cutest voice. Often he'll be holding a Beverly Cleary classic or if he really wants to get me, a Roald Dahl. But not this time. The scootering sounds continued, the voices of all three kids mingled with my husband's. A truck started up somewhere, and from the garage I heard the saw again. I didn’t know what was going on down there exactly. And I didn’t really care.

But I did know what was going on inside of me. Smoke spewed from the haystacks of my girl factory as Bellatrix cackled her orders. Frankly, I was ready to close up shop and go home. But there's no stopping Bellatrix when she's in this mood. So I closed my eyes, telling myself to dream of good things like licorice whips and lollipops. Alas, my mind dropped into darkness within seconds, without any images of sugar or carbs. In less time than it takes to sing the chorus of "Flowin' Down the River" Bellatrix shook me awake and told me to go clean up the kitchen. Or maybe that was my youngest. 

Now as I write this, I imagine what I should have dreamed about. I see my face smashed into the leg of an old pair of pantyhose, pointing a squirt gun at a convenience store cashier. "Just give me the hot chocolate and no one gets hurt," I tell the kid behind the counter. "And throw in a maple bar while you're at it," I add. 

Later, I see myself in court, explaining my motive to the judge. "My son, he was playing with this little skate board thingy, slamming it against the table over and over and over, like this." I take a tiny skateboard from my pocket and demonstrate finger Ollies, repeatedly whacking the thing against the desk in front of me.  

The judge stares at me over her designer reading glasses. "Skate board thingy?" she says, her voice raspy like my fifth grade teacher, a smoker with ashtray breath and a Jersey accent. She raises her gavel as if to announce, "Guilty as charged." That's when I blurt out, "Bellatrix made me do it." I begin to cry, wonderfully dramatic, heaving sobs. "Plus, I had really bad cramps." The judge pauses, considering my sentence. "Temporary insanity," she rules, striking the base with her gavel. She stands, and points to the guard. "Get this woman a heating pad and a chick flick," she tells him. I smile and wipe the tears from my cheeks. She smiles back, digs something out of the voluminous pocket of her robe and throws it to me. I catch it in my handcuffed hands and look down. It's a package of instant hot chocolate--with marshmallows. 

   

Hello, my name is Susan and I'm a carboholic

This morning I have a carb hangover. For weeks I’ve abstained (mostly) from sugar and breads. Why would I do this to myself? Because when I eat those things, I can’t stop. I’m like an alcoholic. In Stephen King’s memoir on writing (at least I think that’s where I read it), he describes the alcoholic philosophy. When people asked how much he drank, he answered, “All of it.” He couldn’t understand how someone could pour themselves a glass of alcohol and not finish every last drop. Not only would he finish the glass, he would finish the entire bottle. It was all or nothing for him. When it comes to carbs, I can relate.   

So when my husband offered me a Brach’s caramel last week, I hesitated. I knew that if I ate just one, that could open the floodgates to yet another season of sugar-addiction that would inevitably end in a zit eruption, bloating, perhaps some gastro-intestinal distress, joint pain, and general crankiness that will end in a full-blown panic attack when faced with trivial decisions like what to make for dinner or what pair of overalls to wear with which t-shirt.

I was also aware that my resolve to give up carbs had been slowly deteriorating in small ways. Whereas in the beginning I had been able to feed my family French bread without actually partaking of it myself, lately I had gone to toasting slices of my “special” sprouted-grain bread after each meal, slathering ever more all-fruit jelly and butter on each slice, trying to convince myself that the cardboard bread I was eating tasted every bit as good as the artisan loaf my family had devoured with dinner. I found myself watching the kids eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with intense interest, salivating at the thought of the high-fructose corn syrup-laden grape jelly and smooth, sticky peanut butter in my own mouth. The worst was when my sister brought over little bags of Halloween treats for the kids. She gave us three bags exactly, which should have insured that I wouldn’t eat some myself. But it was like leaving a can of beer on the counter and expecting the family alcoholic to pass it by, unnoticed. Eventually, I sniffed it out. 

It was while cleaning the family room that I found one of the bags on the floor, its contents spilling out on the carpet. I picked it up, and a piece of candy corn fell out. When I peered inside, I smelled the sweet buttery scent of caramel popcorn. “Maybe just one piece,” I told Myself. “Yeah, right,” Myself said. “You know exactly what that means. One will turn into the whole bag.” I spied the candy corn on the floor. “What if I just ate one of those?” I asked Myself. I remembered last year, when I made a daily trek to the grocery store to buy eight pieces of candy corn to satisfy my craving. It seemed better than buying a whole bunch, because I knew that I’d eat the entire load if I did that. And I’d do it in less than an hour, no doubt. But right then, standing in my own house, having abstained from the temptation to eat sugar for weeks, I thought I deserved a reward for my efforts. So, even though you can practically see the germs on my carpet, I picked up the candy corn and popped it in my mouth. “Don’t do that!” Myself said. But I didn’t listen.

The sweetness exploded on my tongue. Little things in my brain—I’m not sure what they’re called—shot off tiny fireworks of pleasure. Sugar! Glorious sugar! my brain sang to myself. I missed you so!  I chewed slowly, attempting to prolong the experience. But candy corn is actually pretty small and can only last for so long. So I ate another piece. Then another. And before long I had fetched a bowl from the kitchen and emptied the whole bag into it, then proceeded to eat the whole thing all by myself. After a few minutes, all that remained were specks of caramel corn in the bottom of the bowl. “Can’t let that go to waste,” I said to myself. So I picked up the bowl and tossed back the crumbs into my mouth. And that was the beginning of my demise. 

Pretty soon I was eating large bags of yogurt raisins for lunch and nibbling on licorice while cooking dinner. Then it was bread with my soup and saltine crackers for snacks. But the worst was yesterday, when I made seven batches of granola laden with brown sugar and honey. I made the mistake of telling Myself to sample some of it, just to make sure it tasted all right. “Don’t lie to yourself,” Myself said. “You know as well as I do that you’re just going to nibble this all afternoon until you feel sick to your stomach.” This gave me pause. In fact I had planned on snacking on my granola while I made it. Throughout church that morning I had envisioned standing in the kitchen, the comforting smell of sweet things baking permeating the house, snacking on freshly made granola, which if we’re going to be honest, is really oatmeal cookie dough in disguise. In my vision I was smiling and happy, like a cow grazing in a pretty green pasture. “You be quiet,” I told Myself. Myself scowled, then retreated to the back bedroom, leaving me to my decadence. 

Sure enough, I didn’t stop with just one taste. I nibbled and noshed until my stomach cried for mercy. I was so full by the time dinner rolled around that I couldn’t even look at any food, granola or otherwise, let alone eat it. So I retreated to the back bedroom for a nap. When I opened the door, there was Myself, waiting for me. “I told you so,” Myself said smugly as I clutched my stomach and groaned. I lay on the floor and closed my eyes. My stomach felt distended, stretched beyond its capacity, filled with empty calories, which, at that moment, felt full of lead. “Just let me die in peace,” I begged Myself. Then I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

They say that, in moderation, carbs cannot kill you. But “They” don’t know me. I’d wager to say that if someone left an innocent little bag of candy on their kitchen counter, “They” could walk past with nary a thought. But not me. I’m a carboholic. Give me a whiff of one grain of sugar and pretty soon I’ll be ransacking my kids’ room looking for stray bits of candy in their sock drawers. If you don’t believe me, just ask Myself.

PS

I had thought to photograph some candy corn to accompany this post. But that would have been too dangerous. I'm sure you understand.     

The Influence of Women

Sometimes when I think about what exactly I've accomplished in the last thirty seven years, a few things come up: Two college degrees, a collection of books, a few car wrecks, two kitchen fires, a few years of post-partum insanity, a whole-hearted but unsuccessful attempt to become fluent in Russian, a smattering of years living abroad, some time spent teaching my religion as a missionary in a foreign land, a handful of published work, a pile of photographs in the basement, and acne that appears to be eternal. These are things that will disappear when I die (except maybe the acne). Most of them nobody cares about already, including myself (aside from the car wrecks, which I'm sure my mother still cares about, seeing as how one of the cars was hers. Sorry, Mom.). But there are a couple of things that will last beyond me: the people in my life, namely my husband and kids. 

Now don't get me wrong. I don't believe I've got a corner on the good karma market just because I have a good marriage and good children. I'm lucky to have these people in my life and quite often wonder why God liked me enough to send them my way. What I'm saying is that relationships last a lot longer than stuff. So maybe that's where the greatest potential for good is. And just maybe that's where my time and focus should be. (Moment of irony here. As I write this, my kids are playing the Wii in the next room. Can you say neglectful mother and misplaced priorities?)

In college I took a class on feminist history and spent four months incensed at the injustices inflicted on women. There was the inability to vote, the view of women as property, the banishment of women from certain occupations, the unequal pay when they did manage to get a job,and the oppression and devaluation of women who stay at home to raise children. I vowed to never marry and have children because those women who did so didn't seem to have much influence on the way things turned out. Or so I thought. Somehow, I thought that becoming a fashion photographer would have much more impact--as if the world would be a better place knowing that stirrup pants were out and Guess jeans were in.  

But as it turns out, a lucrative career has nothing to do with how much influence for good I can have. Take, for instance, my mother and my sisters, who are neither rich or famous. Yet through the years they have made me who I am through their example. My mother is a genius at sewing, yet I admire her more for her ability to make every occasion special with handmade cards, ribbon-tied candy bars, and heartfelt conversations. More than once I've called her for advice and she's told me a story about how she asked Heavenly Father for guidance and received it, prompting me to drop to my knees and pray, too. And then there's my sisters. There are qualities in my sisters I try to emulate--not because they've told me to, but because I want to be more like them. My sisters have the ability to love screaming two-year-olds, infinite patience and charity with special-education children and supernatural powers of organization. My sisters are the kind of women little kids who are lost at the mall would naturally gravitate to, knowing that they would somehow make everything right again. As the youngest little lost child in this family, I can tell you that they do make everything right again. More than once they have rescued me from the pit of despair and discouragement. In turn, hopefully I've done the same for them. And for others, too. 

There are women on my husband's side I also admire for their strength and faith. And there are women I see in the neighborhood who inspire me to be a better mother by how they nurture their own children. Even women I don't know give me hope in humanity by the way they treat others. I look up to these women not for what they have or what they look like, but for who they have become because of--or in spite of--their personal history. What better influence can you have than to make people want to be better just from watching you? Isn't that the power to change the world?   

So today as you go about your business, whatever that may be, consider the influence you have on those around you. Know that how you treat a person today will last far longer than a moment--it will last for generations. Consider the possibility that a kind word, a forgiving heart, and a well-timed hug can make a person believe in the possibility that everything really will be all right after all. And that, my friends, is more than a pair of Guess jeans could ever do.  

  See yourself as the Lord sees you, as daughters of God with limitless potential to influence the world for good. 

~(my summarization of a quotation by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Ensign, September 2009, p. 5.)

Special thanks to models Kayla and Lilly Rawle, two influences for good in the lives of many.

When It's Time to Change

Remember this? 

I've been singing this song a lot lately, mostly while sitting in front of the computer working in Photoshop. I don't really enjoy Photoshop. Sure, it can do cool things, and I love being able to retouch dust spots with the click of a mouse rather than with a sliver of a paint brush and some nasty black liquid called Spotone. (Note to self: Though effective, licking the brush in between dips in the liquid probably wasn't very healthy. Did you really know what was in that stuff?) Photography sure has changed from when I was in school. And if that sentence doesn't make me sound old, I don't know what does.  

Back in my day, we developed and printed our own black and white in the darkroom. Those were good times--slipping the piece of photo paper in the chemicals and swishing it back and forth, standing mesmerized by the rhythmic tapping of the paper against the plastic tray. Even though there were always tongs available to pick up the paper, I usually used my fingers (which could explain why my hands dried up when I left California and have yet to rehydrate, even though it's been more than a decade). The red safety lights glowed overhead while I watched the image magically appear. When it looked just right, I'd plop the print into the next tray, then the next, and so on until the last step, where water ran from a hose into the deepest tray to rinse everything off. Then it was time to step into the tubular black door and spin out into the light. That's when I'd blink to readjust my eyes, then study my print, looking for details in the shadows and highlights. The first print was never right, at least not for me. And so back into the tube for more work. As the door swooshed into the dark I'd inhale the smell of chemicals like a girl at the perfume counter. Developer and fixer became my new eau de toilette. Or maybe they were my drug of choice. Time lost its meaning when I stepped into that photo cave. Except for the metronomic ticking of the exposure timer sitting by the enlarger, I don't remember counting the minutes or the hours I spent printing photographs. Sometimes I'd spend all night in the darkroom, emerging somewhere around 2 am with a chemical stained shirt and a dopey grin on my face. I'd stagger home to sleep a few hours, then start the whole thing over again the next day. 

But things are different now. I have no darkroom as per se, just a dark basement where I sit in a purple room and retouch photographs. I still sometimes work until 2am, but I don't come out of my office smiling. In fact, I usually feel like kicking something. And since my cat can read my moods better than my husband (she has a better sense of smell), I usually kick my husband. Okay, not really. I just whine and moan. "Remember when we could just hand off color film to the lab and they would take care of the rest?" I ask him frequently. My dear patient husband nods and waits for the next familiar complaint. "Remember how we used to actually MOVE when we printed pictures--as in around the room, up and down, in and out?" Another nod, which I take as a go-ahead to complete my tirade. "I'm so sick of Photoshop!" I say, slapping the table to make my point. But really I know I have no case here. My husband spends all day shooting pictures and working on the computer. At least I have the option to go make dinner or do some laundy when I feel like my body is frozen in the Photoshopping position, which is to say leaning close to the computer (though curiously my computer screen is huge, I still feel the need to look at what I'm retouching from two inches away), my entire body tense and focused on a few dozen pixels at a time. If anyone is sick of Photoshopping, it should be my husband, not me. But as a woman ovulating, I reserve the right to frequent and lengthy pity parties thrown at random and with wild abandon. And as my husband, he must attend. But only with an invitation. 

But I digress. My point is, instead of emerging from my office happy, I stagger up the stairs with bleary eyes, a heavy heart, and stiff hips. I am just not having as much fun at this as I used to. So I've come to a conclusion. Instead of quitting photography altogether, I'm going to do more of what I want to do with it. Instead of trying to shoot pictures like the studio down the road, I am going to shoot the pictures that are bouncing around in my head. I am going to stop trying to be a "Portrait Photographer" and just be me. Some days that might mean shooting vegetables. Other days it may mean photographing lunch at a new restaurant. And still other days it may mean taking a family picture that I "saw" when I looked at a prime location on the way to the store. I might even put out a call on this blog for volunteer models, offering the option to buy the files at a discount. Or not. Whatever. I don't care anymore. I am just going to do my own thing in my own way. Because I gotta be me. Or, as Peter Brady says, "When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange." Right on, Peter. So that's what I'm doing--rearranging my business and my life to find more peace. This will not get me rich, I know. But it will make me--and my family--happy. 

So I have some new ideas. And some new prices. And some new policies. Also, I am going to separate my writing blog from my photography blog. So stay tuned. Or not. Whatever.  

Adult Acne

Lately I've been feeling old. My joints hurt, my eyes always look like I've pulled an all-nighter, and it's clear that no amount of exercise will bring my behind back where it belongs. 

But there's one thing that will always be young about me: my complexion. Ever since I can remember I've had zits. Big ones, little ones, red ones, black ones, Rudolph zits with white heads that glow in the night sky, and enough scars to warrant me a place in pockmarked hall of fame. But it wasn't supposed to be this way.

I assumed that once I entered adulthood the zits would make a run for it. When that didn't happen, I thought motherhood would cure me. When the clear dewey complexion I had envisioned turned out to be an even bigger minefield of acne, I held out for my thirties. Surely by then, my face would calm down and behave itself, right? 

Wrong. Forty lurks just around the corner and things do not look good. A couple weeks ago my chin erupted in a five-zit battle. Five! And just when I thought one was almost done, another popped up in its place. 

I tried various things, prayer being one of them. But I found out that God doesn't care much about my complexion. (More than once I wondered if the acne was a punishment for some trangression carelessly committed. One zit for each sin?) I locked myself in the bathroom and tried surgery. When that didn't work, I googled "adult acne products" and spent the next two days contemplating spending our life savings on various creams and elixirs promising to give me a new face and a new life to boot. 

Then I found a book at the library called Hollywood Beauty Secrets that recommended dabbing lemon juice on the zits. This was not the first time I've heard this. In fact, someone offered this suggestion on my blog months ago. So I'm giving it a try. Thus far, there have been no miracles. My zits, though not worse, are still with me. But I'm going to stick with this. Lemons are cheap. And it's not like I have a big date coming up. Plus, it's only been two days. However, if you know of any inexpensive and natural acne remedies, I'd love to try them. Because forty's coming up, and I'd rather have youthful eyes than youthful skin.

Monthly Misery: Bellatrix is in the House

This is a picture of Laura Ingalls Wilder. She looks a lot like Aunt Rose. Except Laura looks younger and more pleasant.

When I was a girl my sister and I referred to our menstrual cycles as Aunt Rose. If I said, "Oh, I can't go swimming today because Aunt Rose is visiting," my sister knew exactly what I was talking about and left me alone. If one of us was behaving badly, the other might say, "Is Aunt Rose coming soon?" and if the answer was yes, we steered clear until it looked like Aunt Rose had skipped town again.

I always envisioned Rose as a thin older woman in a high-collared dress with dozens of tiny buttons down the back, her hair swept up in a tight bun, a few ringlets jiggling by her ears. She came regularly, usually in the middle of the night, carrying only a small carpet bag filled with cotton and chocolate. I would wake to the sound of her high-heeled boots clicking on the wooden floor as she crept to my room. And though I enjoyed surprise visitors, she was not exactly a welcome guest. She never waited for an invitation; she just showed up whenever she wanted to. Also, she had this way of hitting me in the lower abdomen in such a way as to necessitate hours spent in the supine position, a heating pad roasting my fallopian tubes until they were numb. And she was messy.

But I was taught to respect my elders, and Aunt Rose was no exception. She was proof, after all, that I had become a woman, that everything was in order to make a baby or two someday. She was like my practice run for labor and delivery, jabbing at my uterus and bruising my lower back until they throbbed with pain so deep and constant that I would involuntarily moan--or curse--in public. To cope with the discomfort, I developed the habit of standing with my back arched and my hands at my hips, massaging my lower back as if I'd been bent over in the fields for the last ten hours when in reality I'd been sitting in front of the television for the last two. 

There was a year when Aunt Rose became cruel and vindictive, barging into my life twice a month, which meant I had one week between visits to recoup. I told my gynecologist this as I lay on her examination table, and she took the opportunity to give Rose a stern talking to. Rose slunk off, probably offended by my doctor's tone of voice, and only came back at her appointed times. Then she disappeared altogether, leaving me wondering where she had gone off to. I suspected it had something to do with how much I was exercising and how much weight I had recently lost, but nothing was ever tested to tell me or Auntie so. Yet I was so afraid that she would suddenly appear, leaving her crimson mark in her wake, that I refused to wear white pants or skirts for years. But then I realized that Rose was giving me the silent treatment. For anyone else I would have written a note of apology: I am so sorry to have hurt your feelings. I know you were just doing your job. Please come back!" But I was having too much fun without her. Any woman can tell you that it's far easier to live without Rose than to live with her. You can travel without worry, for one. And you can save a small fortune not having to buy tampons every month. And then there's the pain, or lack thereof. So that's why, when my mother asked, "Aren't you worried you're not having a period?", I could honestly answer no. That's also why I started telling everyone I never wanted to have children. If delivering babies was anything like cramps, I wanted nothing to do with it. My factory was closed and Big Boss Rose had retired.  

Alas, eventually Aunt Rose returned. Again, I suspect it had something to do with all of the exercising I was not doing and all of the body changes that come along with pregnancies, but I have no proof, just my woman's intuition. One night Rose just walked up to my front porch and threw the door open in her fury. Didn't even knock or say, "Hello Deary, I'm back." Didn't write me a letter asking if she could come for a visit. No, Aunt Rose just whacked me in the back with a two-by-four and punched me in the gut. Then she unpacked her bag--which was much larger than I remembered--and camped out for a week and a half on our front room couch. She threw her clothes all over the floor, ate all our food, and always screamed "Leave me alone!" to anyone who tried to talk to her. She cried all the time, accused my husband of calling her fat, and made me run to the store every day to buy her salty and/or sweet snacks. When she finally left, it took a week to clean up the mess. And though we put new locks on the door, she still came back.  

Recently, I've come to realize that Aunt Rose is not an appropriate name for this woman who invades my home and my body on a monthly basis. Aunt Rose is not to be trusted. She might even be considered a psychopath. That's why, when we saw the last Harry Potter movie with a character named Bellatrix that I decided to rename Rose. Bellatrix is a nasty witch with a cackle that makes you want to hide in the closet. She likes to cast spells on unsuspecting victims, probably because she dislikes her chosen career and feels jealous of other people's happiness. Also, she doesn't care much about keeping her house tidy and her hair combed. And definitely, she is not the motherly type. She's like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, except without the change of heart at the end. Bellatrix doesn't have a heart.

So I told Aunt Rose to scram. Or rather, Bellatrix did. I think my husband appreciates this new name that fully expresses the extent of my monthly transformation. It helps to have the movie to refer to, especially the scene where Bellatrix breaks out of prison during an especially violent storm that signals the revival of an evil wizard by the name of Voldemort. As the walls crumble and the waves smash against the structure, Bellatrix licks a tattoo on her arm and laughs like a maniac, revealing small, blackened teeth that look like they haven't had a professional cleaning in centuries. With eyes black and wild,hair shooting from her head like she's been electrocuted, wearing a tattered black and white striped gown--the "fat clothes" she keeps for just such occasions--she looks skyward. Her cackle goes on and on, becoming more shrill by the second until her image shrinks to a small photograph in a newspaper. "That's what it's like to have PMS," I tell my husband. "It's like something's trying to break out of me. And then my period comes and it's like I'm possessed." My husband readily agrees. And for some reason this makes me want to punch him. But perhaps that's Bellatrix talking and not me.  

As for my kids, they are slowly catching on that I no longer have a relative by the name of Rose. Rather, I have a chronic ailment that turns me into a witch. One night during Bellatrix's last visit, I was tucking my middle child in bed. It had been a long day of hard cramps and annoyances, two things I do not hide well when Bellatrix is in the house. As I pulled my son's blanket to his chin, I sighed. "What's wrong?" my son asked. 

"Just mommy owies," I told him. 

"Oh," he said, which is what all of my boys say in response to mommy owies, right before they visibly draw themselves in and make a quick exit--as if it were a contagious disease. 

I kissed my son's cheek and gave him a hug. "Don't worry," I said. "It'll pass in five to seven days." 

"That long?" my son asked incredulously, a hint of fear in his voice. I nodded. Then I clutched the seams of my tattered pajamas and cackled like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Bellatrix Lestrange, my friend the witch, otherwise known as me during five to seven days each month.

 

Jinxed Blogger

Here’s the thing: every subject I write about becomes my next life challenge. It’s kind of like a psychology student thinking he has every disorder he studies. When once he thought he was normal, after studying for a mid-term he knows for sure that he’s showing all the symptoms of bipolar disorder: namely chronic bouts of depression followed by euphoria, extreme irritability, and the inability to use or understand language. This phenomenon is completely real and quite common (not to mention it sounds like my experience of what motherhood can sometimes do to an otherwise sane woman). I know because I saw it on an episode of Frasier. Only I don’t think I manifest the symptoms of every problem I write about. I know I do. I also know that by proclaiming I’ve found the answer to said problems, I’ve doomed myself to repeat them.

I first noticed this when I wrote an essay published in Runner’s World about why I like to run. By the time I got the call from the editor, I was pregnant with our third child and hadn’t gone running for months, having surrendered to the laws of gravity. I carried my babies so low, my belly always rested on my thighs even when standing. This made it painful to walk, let alone sprint through suburbia. However, I didn’t mention this to the editor. After the article and the baby came out, it took a long time to find my inner runner again. She was hibernating—after all, neither one of was getting much sleep. And there were strong indications that her hormones were out of whack.

But that wasn’t the only time I jinxed myself. When my youngest was four, Writer’s Digest published an article I wrote about writing amid distractions, namely children. Within a month of publication, I stopped writing altogether, realizing that I turned rather wenchy when faced with deadlines and a real paycheck. It seemed easier to silence my mind rather than yell at my family. 

But I forgot about these things when I started blogging. I sat in my little purple office, answering the door when the muse knocked, walked into the house, and began to chatter. I clattered away on my keyboard, inviting everyone to sample a few morsels of my personal life, in particular things that worked to solve my many hang-ups. Only, instead of keeping my solutions strong and effective, writing about them broke their spell.

I wrote about following the French way of eating small portions, using good manners and all that. The day after posting I said to myself, “What was I thinking?” and grabbed a bag of chips, which I devoured standing at the kitchen counter. “After all, I’m not French—I’m American.” I then proceeded to gobble everything in sight, including cheap chocolate that tasted suspiciously like soft sweet cardboard.  

Then I did a piece on green smoothies. Shortly after, I had no desire to drink them any more, even though they make me feel great and clear up my complexion (which at this point looks like a topographic map. The Pyrenees traverse my chin and Mt. Saint Helens looks like she might erupt from the west border of my lips.).

Following this, a friend gave me a terrific recipe for chocolate chip cookies. Even though for years I’ve micro-managed my dessert intake like Cinderella’s evil stepmother, after photographing the cookies and posting the recipe, I decide to eat “just one.” Famous last words. Let’s just say that “just one” turned into about a dozen times saying “just one more.” I could forgive myself for this slip-up if it only happened once in a while. But the following day it happened again. And when the cookies ran out, there were brownies to replace them.

Next I wrote about body image, using a re-touched photograph to show how tainted and manipulated our perception of the perfect body has become. That’s when I noticed how heavy my body feels, how much my gut has expanded from all the treats, how tight my jeans are around the waist. I considered joining a health club. Then I remembered how much I dislike people watching me exercise. Plus, I don’t want to have to buy cute outfits or worry about body odor, or someone asking me “Are you OK?” when I breathe laboriously and appear to be drowning in great reservoirs of flop sweat. At the very least, I tell myself, I will run one hour each day to erase the many mistakes, like body repentance. But the next morning when my alarm went off, I rolled over, cradled my belly in my hands and rationalized that my body is like my home, which looks awkward and lonely when it’s perfectly clean. When we have people over, I want to say, “This is what our house would look like if we didn’t live here.” I fell back to sleep, savoring the idea that my enlarged belly looks cozy and lived-in, like a big overstuffed couch. If my stomach somehow miraculously flattened, I would have to say, “This is what my body would look like if it weren’t actually attached to me.” Even though this image lulled me to sleep, when I finally woke up for real, I leaped past the mirror on my way to the shower just so I didn’t have to see my naked, lumpy body. So much for a healthy self-image. 

And as for the infamous post about cleaning the toilet with a spirit of service rather than resentment, let’s just say that for the last two weeks I haven’t thought of Comet as anything more than a gaseous extraterrestrial body that streaks through the night sky. I do still love my husband, though. Only now I express my affection by baking him cookies.  

So what’s a blogger to do? How do I rid myself of this jinx? How do I stitch up everything these posts have undone? First off, I don’t think I’ll write about things I thought I had solved. Because really, I don’t have a clue. I’ve only managed to keep my little tricks a secret from myself. It’s just like when I used to walk into my kids’ rooms as they stirred from a nap and had to tell myself, “Don’t make eye contact” because the moment I did, they popped up, hair smashed against their heads and eyes wild like a cat ready to play. Likewise, the moment I wrote about my routines and philosophies of self-management, my Self woke up. “You’re not the boss of me!” my Self said, sticking her tongue out.  And I’m not. I’m just the girl who won’t make eye contact with herself or this thin eggshell of an ego will fall apart. So stay tuned. The doctor is no longer in the house. But the patient is.   

PS

Check back tomorrow at 4 pm for a fun I Spy picture. Gather the kids around to see if you can find all of the objects!