Is that Rupaul?

Actual conversation, verbatim, that just happened between me and my husband:

Him: “Is that Rupaul?”

Me: “No, it’s Wendy Williams.”

Him: “Is it a real woman?”

Me: “Yes.”

 

Another Reason Why I Love My Aunts

I am no stranger to writing about how fantastic my aunts are; but, tonight I am especially enamored with two of them.

Right about now, two of my dad’s sisters are driving through Arizona on their way to the Grand Canyon. They have covered miles and miles during the last eight days in their eggplant-colored minivan.

One of my cousin’s built a platform for a mattress that he then installed in the back of their vehicle (they’ve been camping as they go, sleeping in the van). Over-sized Longerberger baskets stocked full of bread, peanutbutter, homemade jelly, Philadelphia cream cheese and coolers of diet coke are keeping them well fed, while, I am sure, a stack of New York Times crossword puzzles are keeping them entertained as one drives and the other recites the clues.

I’d give anything to watch an instant streaming video of the two driving along, laughing, bitching, smiling. Can you imagine the road-trip back and forth between two sisters who have been sisters for more than 50 years? (Not that either of them look a day over 30!) These women have lived through the thick of it…catholic school, teenage daughters, countless family dinners. They are both mothers of amazingly gifted and talented children. They both worked outside the home while keeping the inside of their household running at full tilt.

I love them and hope one day when I’m able and my sisters are able that I remember what these two aunts did so that I do the same.

Shoes Like This Can Change Your Life

As part of my therapy (long story that doesn’t fit here) I’ve been trying to indulge certain areas of my psyche that got left out in the cold for awhile.

Today, something I ordered just for this neglected part of my soul showed up in the mail. I made sure they were delivered to my work address so that I could see them as soon as they arrived. They were as beautiful and stunning and breath-taking in real life as they were in the tiny thumbnail eBay photo where I first fell in love with them.

What has me in such a twitter?

They are 4″ zebra print faux fur heels from Michael Kors with a double black buckle across the toe. If you love shoes like I do, then you know what I’m talking about. These are shoes that can change your life.

They are shoes that you plan an outfit around…they are shoes that you plan an entire evening around. They are the shoes that turn you into a woman who dares to wear 4″ heels.

I love them.

My Column for the Week

Warning: Kids in the Limelight May Be Soured

Published in the October 21 issue of The Tribune.

The Gap has a sign in their window that reads, “Your Kid Could Be Our Next Star.” “Ugh,” I thought when I saw it on my way in to shop for jeans. Is that even a selling point?

It should have said, “Your kid could be our next star with their very own chance to be exploited, eaten up, and then spit-out as soon as they are determined less than profitable by the very industry that gave them a pass. Don’t forget, they will be sure to receive everything from unfavorable criticism to downright nasty ridicule by the media, bloggers, comedians, and fans, along with cruel judgments from people who have never even met them. As a parent, you’ll get the added bonus of a fast buck, likely divorce, and your very own opportunistic opportunity to cry on the set of ‘The View’ with Joy Behar sitting beside you (or worse, confessing into Billy Bush’s mic on ‘Entertainment Tonight’). If all goes as planned, you’ll eventually be totally estranged from the very child that you wanted to make into a star.”

I guess there wasn’t enough room on the window for my truth in advertising soliloquy, but I thought about it the entire time I was trying on jeans.

There’s a lot of talk about how we value children, but it kind of feels hollow when you watch television. “Our kids come first,” comments sound like when I say that I want to go to the gym. I really want to do what’s right and work-out every day, but often times I flake and order carry-out on my way home instead. I talk a good game, but there is not a lot of substance. In the same way, we may say we value children, but there are still a whole lot of open casting calls awaiting the next Lindsey Lohan-kid or Gosselin-family.

Dropping Teeth Like a Poet Dropping Rhymes

My girl is losing her teeth, fast.

Tonight will be the second night in less than five days that the tooth fairy will have to make a stop at our humble abode. And the third time this month. I’m pretty sure we may be bankrupting our gracious tooth collector (hard times for are falling on everyone, even winged-ones with fairy dust and bags-o-teeth).

My daughter won’t have to worry about Halloween candy rotting her teeth this year as she hardly has any left.

Tomorrow morning will go much better than Monday morning when at first it had appeared the tooth fairy took the tooth but left no monies. My daughter woke up, checked under her pillow, and then immediately lost her crackers. You would have thought we had woke her up wearing a ski mask and carry a machete (not that she would have gotten the Mike Meyers reference, but a ski mask and a machete are inherently scary).

“The tooth fairy took my tooth and didn’t leave me anything,” she sobbed while my husband carried her into the living room. He was a bit in shock and handed her over to me.

“Sweetie, I think you may have just missed where the tooth fairy left your dollar. Did you look everywhere? Did you look inside your pillowcase?”

Her sniffles started to cease as we headed back to her room to re-search the premises for the missing dollar.

“Surely the tooth fairy wouldn’t stiff you,” I said.

“What’s stiff me mean?” she asked.

We flipped the pillow and found the dollar and the morning was saved, as was the tooth fairy’s reputation.  It was a close call though; if that dollar hadn’t showed, we were going to have to call my cousin to prosecute that freaking fairy flit. I still don’t trust her all the way…I mean, who hides the dollar inside the pillowcase?

Tonight, I’m going to make sure we don’t have a replay of Monday morning and go do the deed as soon as I’m done typing this. In fact, this post was my way of not forgetting tooth fairy duties (like i did on Sunday night).

Stories to Tell

We all have stories. Some of us are better at telling them than others. Some of us are better at writing them down than others.

Our stories are sad. They are funny. They are meaningful. They can be everything all at once. The one thing all stories have in common is that they belong fully and wholly to their beholders.

My family, by all extensions, has many stories…and I’m sure that they would each be told differently according to the person telling the story.

For example, when I was a teenager, I kicked a hole in the wall in our hallway. It was a good sized hole (approximately a size eight in womens shoes).  I could tell you the entire story here, what I was doing before I kicked the wall, what happened to make me kick the wall, and what happened afterward. I could tell it from my point of view now and it would be funny. I could tell it from my point of view then and it would be full of anger and…mostly anger, maybe some sorrow.

When I write a story–a column, a post, an email, whatever–I believe my best writing happens when I can include my own life experiences. My goal is to be honest and authentic…to share my experiences so that they resonate with the reader.

I believe the power of our stories can move mountains. They can make people laugh and cry all at once. They can open doors and hearts. Readers can be saved by the power of a story in the same way that writers can be saved by letting their stories be free to roam.

Tonight I had dinner (actually it was a table full of appetizers, much better than dinner) with two of my favorite friends. We only get to see each once every four to five weeks if we’re lucky; but, when we do, the stories go wild. Tonight we talked about a mind-blowing trip to Costa Rica, a mindful week spent at a writing conference, and a mind that’s been working overtime to move through crap that’s been lingering for years. Because our time is limited, we get straight to it. We move from person to person, asking directed and pointed questions. We want the thick of it, there is no time for small talk.

The thing about our stories is that we never know what they are going to be, but they all of their own way of helping out the other people at the table.

But that’s what stories are supposed to do. Help.

Today’s Tribune Article

Advice from My Dad

Published in the October 14, 2009 issue of The Tribune.

My dad drowned when I was 3 years old, leaving me very few personal memories of his overall demeanor. I can’t recall how he fixed his hair, what his voice sounded like, how he walked, or what his face looked like when he smiled. These details are missed, but they are not the whole kit-and-kaboodle.

There are many things he did leave me that have proven more valuable than knowing which side he parted his hair. He has left me tiny clues throughout my life to help see things from his point of view and reconsider or reengage whatever is calling for my attention. I have come around to understanding that this is our conversation, that these clues are merely a way for us to continue our father-daughter talks even if the discussion is taking place on different planes.

Our latest talk happened tonight.

Neither of My Dads Will Like This

My first dad graduated from UofL and, I’m sure hollered a few C-A-R-D-S, C-A-R-D-S, Go Cards GO! cheers in his time.

My second dad had season tickets and often took me to the games at Freedom Hall when I was younger.

Neither of them are going to be too happy with my topic for the day (although, I’m pretty sure they would both agree.)

It’s time for the UofL Basketball program to take a break…they are embarrassing themselves. Two players were charged with resisting arrest at an alumni party Saturday night at Kye’s.

It sounds like they may have had too much to drink and craziness ensued. I’m totally guessing that alcohol was involved here…but if it looks like a grey goose and walks like a grey goose…

Apparently, their most respectable and credible (that’s my sarcasm font if you’re wondering) coach will determine their disciplinary measures for the school.

Nice…maybe he’ll take them to Porcino’s. They can have some risotto and drinks while Rick tells them how they may want to reconsider their behavior in public forums, “You know guys, being that you’re NCAA ballers in the one-time heartland of basketball county, there’s a chance you’re going to get put under the local media microscope.”

Because really, getting caught is the issue for Rick, right? I mean, who is he to talk about appropriate behavior when representing his organization and community?

Maybe they could get a team AA meeting going after practices with orange igloo coolers full of gatorade instead of coffee earns. Or better yet, simply hire a guy who follows both the players and (especially) the coach around so they’re not the last to leave the party, if you know what I mean.

My Office Is Almost There

I’m typing–for the first time–from my new home office tonight.

It’s my perfect office—halfway complete. I’m in heaven. In fact, I’m having a difficult time leaving. It’s really past my bedtime and I should probably go upstairs and hang with my husband, but all I want to do is sit here and stair at my wall.

It’s not just any wall, it’s one entire wall dedicated to all my books. There are a few other knick-knacks up there as well (or are they what-nots? a note from my dad, an Underwood typerwriter from my other dad, pictures of writers I admire looking down on me to encourage me…Erica, Marilyn, Rebecca, Sue and Ayn).

My work area is also complete: printer, speakers, monitors, keyboard and mouse all connected to my laptop, ready and technologically willing.

The incomplete half is behind me, a few scattered piles of organized messes. The heaps include things like paperwork that I don’t know what to do with (too irrelevant to take up prime space, too important to trash), office supplies, stationery (or is it ary? I can never remember that one), and storage boxes of CDs. Ghosts of music past.

Now that I have my very own space, where I can shut the rest of the world out while I concentrate on my vocation, we can only expect my writing to get better, right?

Here’s to wishful dreaming.

Historic Times

This Sunday will be a historic day for me and my immediate family. The Gesenhues Sunday dinner will be eaten at my house.

We’ve had the pleasure of hosting other Gesenhues-inspired family events at at our house through the years.  But never a Sunday dinner.

What will I fix? Very little as Grandma Teddy will be cooking most all of the food at her house and then transporting it here. When she called to ask what I wanted her to bring, I asked her what she usually brought when Sunday dinner was at other Gesenhues homes. She started with this list:

• corn (specifically her cream corn which my daughter has claimed is magical; actually, she called Grandma magical for being able to make it. I agree with her, and not in a, “ahhh, my grandmother is such a great cook she’s magical,” Hallmark card kind of way, but in a she’s got to have some type of crazy magic up her cooking sleeve because she is the ONLY person on earth who can make corn like she does, even though my pastry-chef cooking cousin is getting close.)
• chicken dumplings
• mashed potatoes

I asked how many chicken breast to get and what ingredients were needed to fix her usual boneless fried chicken (boneless fried chicken is Grandma’s usual go with with the menu items she listed). She replied, “Why don’t you just let me do the chicken here and bring that too.”

It kinda felt like when my husband asks me what clothes he should pick out to dress either of the kids and I say, “just let me do it,” because it’s easier to simply do it myself than have to explain what clothes to get and where to find them. Either way, I wasn’t going to argue.

She did give me one assignment–a vegetable. I could probably get away with steaming something, but I’m thinking I may just throw caution (and the 1,000,000+ carbs) to the wind and make a brocolli casserole. Might as well go for gold (or cream-colored carbs).

It’s going to be a small dinner as many of the Gesenhues folk will be walking the links. And while I have to say they will be missed (I have to write that as many of them are reading), my evil twin is thrilled that there may just be more leftovers to stock in my fridge when everyone who made it is full.

So when Sunday night rolls around and everyone has left and Mad Men is getting ready to start, there is a very good chance I’ll be able to warm up a cereal bowl portion of magical cream corn.

Jealous Much?!