I have seen the underwear of the biggest country music superstar of all time. I even know what kind and size he wears. I should clarify by telling you that at the time I swept my peepers over the tightie-whities and t-shirts of this mega-star, they were hermetically sealed in a package and lying in a Target shopping cart. While shopping this afternoon, I ran into this man who dominated the charts for a decade. Yes, literally “ran” into him. I was returning to my cart and backed into him, turned and said, “Excuse me, I’m so sorry…HOLY CRAP! I mean, hello, my name is Jackie. I graduated high school with (your ex-wife).” He smiled that wide smile that America loves, his ice blue eyes sparkling, and said, “Hi…I’m Garth.”
Yep. I live in the same relatively small town that counts Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood as residents. His ex-wife Sandy and I graduated the same year from our high school they have neighboring properties in our town and by all accounts have a very amicable relationship. I confess that I am easily embarrassingly star-struck and the idea of meeting celebrities just makes jittery and emit noises similar to Spongebob Squarepants.
Since I moved back in with my dad, I have actually hoped to run into some people from high school or other folks I used to know and it has not happened once. I admit being mildly disappointed about it. But today certainly made up for it! Mr. Brooks welcomed my introduction and appeared to endure my verbal diarrhea with graciousness. We chatted about high school stuff and he told me his eldest daughter has dated the son of one my classmates for several years. He fawned over the Pie, who strangely sat quietly in the cart and stared, and then he said would send my regards to Sandy.
As we parted company, and Garth made his purchase, I realized that I had made polite conversation with and shaken the hand of a real live, no-doubt-about supermegastar, but today he was just a dude who needed new underpants. Very cool.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Birthday Wishes
Today is my birthday. This particular milestone marks the last year of my mid-forties. It was a pretty good day, I guess. I’m okay with having another birthday, really, I am. But I wish it were still socially acceptable to have a big deal made about the day of my birth. I am an only child AND I am adopted, so every birthday of my childhood was a celebration of epic proportions. But as I have aged, I find that not many people like celebrating birthdays – theirs or anyone else’s. It reminds them of their own mortality. So, as I blow out my (nonexistent) birthday candles, I wish…
…people could embrace their special day and truly celebrate being alive. So many humans are suffering, starving and struggling, but most of us are more afraid of noticing a new line around the eyes or another gray hair than of losing our home in a natural disaster!
…that everyone could relax and enjoy accolades from friends, family and co-workers regardless of expense, time or medium. I was thrilled that I had nearly 40 Facebook messages wishing me a happy birthday. Where else could I get that kind of recognition? Gotta love the Facebook!
… it was not an embarrassment to have plowed through an entire box of Rice Krispie Treats in a day, but it is and I have to live with that.
… my daughter could sit still and quietly for 10 minutes. Not just for my birthday, but ANY day!
…my old friends knew how much I really miss them and my current friends knew how much I love them.
…my bathroom had a whirlpool tub in it.
… I could parlay my love of words into a lucrative income-generating vehicle.
… I could bring myself to lather, rinse and repeat.
… I liked to eat tomatoes. I don’t, but I really want to – they look so pretty and appetizing on the outside, but something just ain’t right on the inside. Hard to explain.
… the Dancing With The Stars results show was just half an hour.
… I was more patient and better at juggling the needs of my daughter and father.
… had the time to develop an idea I have for a book that I think could be really awesome.
… lived closer to people I love dearly and miss desperately.
… Charlie Sheen would get his shit together.
… for President Obama to be re-elected in order to fulfill his destiny as THE preeminent President of the 21st century.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
The Average Person
Most of the people I know would consider themselves average. A generally accepted definition of “average” is something not out of the ordinary. Is that really so bad? I am a student of words and believe that a word can carry many responsibilities and inferences based on how it used, the tone of voice used when spoken and the context. In our current society, we expect everyone to excel beyond our wildest dreams – our favorite teams to pound their opponents into the turf, our favorite shows to win every award for which they are nominated, our children to talk at 9 months, read at 16 months, solve algebraic equations at age 3 and win the Nobel prize by the age of 5.
There’s too much pressure to be excellent. I used to harbor a deep-seated fear of my own mediocrity, but over the years, I have embraced the fact that I am not a stunningly beautiful woman, nor am I a wart-laden, socially inept ogre with a unibrow. I’m average looking. And I can live with that. In fact, there are times I long to be average – just another one of the teeming masses. I am what they call a “plus-size gal” and would give a kidney to be an “average” size. I’d like to be part of the average American family – with two parents, a house, 2 car garage, adorable children and a purebred dog. But instead I am a single mother of a toddler who works full time to barely make ends meet. And if the truth were to be told, I would venture to guess that there are more like me that would like to admit! I think there can be found a certain joy in being average.
If I push myself to achieve excellence all the time, I will push myself right into an early grave! Sure, there are times that I must be above average – parenting, my work, my writing – but sometimes, it’s OK to be just average. Do I want to spend an extra 15 minutes hand washing the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher because I want them to look excellent as they sit in my kitchen cabinet? Nope. Do I want to lose valuable play time with the Pie because I desire outstandingly shiny floors? Um…uh-uh. Do I agree to lose important sleep time in exchange for a spectacularly ironed shirt? Hell, no!
These days, every institution – from schools, corporations, lemonade stands – touts their goals of excellence. If all those entities are so excellent, where’s the balance? Where’s the enterprise? I remember when Avis started advertising that they try harder…there was no need to lie and say they were number one or the best. They knew they had things to work on and admitted it. I respect that. Ito me, it takes great courage to embrace ordinariness. I don’t mean to withdraw into oblivion, but to tread surely in a forward motion. You know what they say: The tall nail is the first to get hammered.
Being a perfectionist can practically paralyze you into believing that nothing is ever good enough. But when it really matters, some things just have to remain average. What a burden it must be to feel you have to be perfect all the time – perfectly groomed, perfectly articulate and perfectly charming. But that’s a little intimidating to average people who are just trying to make it through the day without shiny floors and ironed shirts!
There’s too much pressure to be excellent. I used to harbor a deep-seated fear of my own mediocrity, but over the years, I have embraced the fact that I am not a stunningly beautiful woman, nor am I a wart-laden, socially inept ogre with a unibrow. I’m average looking. And I can live with that. In fact, there are times I long to be average – just another one of the teeming masses. I am what they call a “plus-size gal” and would give a kidney to be an “average” size. I’d like to be part of the average American family – with two parents, a house, 2 car garage, adorable children and a purebred dog. But instead I am a single mother of a toddler who works full time to barely make ends meet. And if the truth were to be told, I would venture to guess that there are more like me that would like to admit! I think there can be found a certain joy in being average.
If I push myself to achieve excellence all the time, I will push myself right into an early grave! Sure, there are times that I must be above average – parenting, my work, my writing – but sometimes, it’s OK to be just average. Do I want to spend an extra 15 minutes hand washing the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher because I want them to look excellent as they sit in my kitchen cabinet? Nope. Do I want to lose valuable play time with the Pie because I desire outstandingly shiny floors? Um…uh-uh. Do I agree to lose important sleep time in exchange for a spectacularly ironed shirt? Hell, no!
These days, every institution – from schools, corporations, lemonade stands – touts their goals of excellence. If all those entities are so excellent, where’s the balance? Where’s the enterprise? I remember when Avis started advertising that they try harder…there was no need to lie and say they were number one or the best. They knew they had things to work on and admitted it. I respect that. Ito me, it takes great courage to embrace ordinariness. I don’t mean to withdraw into oblivion, but to tread surely in a forward motion. You know what they say: The tall nail is the first to get hammered.
Being a perfectionist can practically paralyze you into believing that nothing is ever good enough. But when it really matters, some things just have to remain average. What a burden it must be to feel you have to be perfect all the time – perfectly groomed, perfectly articulate and perfectly charming. But that’s a little intimidating to average people who are just trying to make it through the day without shiny floors and ironed shirts!
Friday, April 29, 2011
Baby Cried the Day the Circus Came to Town
There are only about eight fewer things I love doing more than planning an event and my daughter’s birthday (her 4th) was more than an event, it was an extravaganza! In serious planning mode since January, I considered every detail and set a course to produce the Greatest Show on Earth … or At Least Our Little Corner of It!!!
Our circus guests dined on hot dogs, nachos, cotton candy and peanuts; they made their own circus party hats, posed in a photo booth, played games like Pin the Nose on the Clown and Elephant Ring Toss. The children ran around the grounds with innocent abandon while the adults looked on and wished they had a fraction of the energy on display.
There were prizes and candy, cake and ice cream, presents and friends. The only thing missing?
Pictures.
Don’t misunderstand, I took my camera to the park for the circus extravaganza and even managed to take about 568 pictures. However, when I got home to check out my awe-inspiring photography, the wind left my multi-colored big top tent. Upon entry into its dedicated slot, the memory card made a noise similar to that of a farting wildebeest and displayed a blank window on my screen. All my pictures were gone. My wild keening was heard about 11 blocks away and when I could finally breathe normally again, I attempted a recovery mission.
I downloaded an application, went through all the steps prepared myself to weep with joy as I expectantly gazed at the screen waiting for the lost photos to magically reappear.
Yeah, not so much.
The recovery mission was a failure and I have absolutely no pictures from my daughter’s 4th birthday party. It’s a good thing I have an excellent memory because I can recall those special moments later on in life.
Now where did I put my gingko-biloba?
Our circus guests dined on hot dogs, nachos, cotton candy and peanuts; they made their own circus party hats, posed in a photo booth, played games like Pin the Nose on the Clown and Elephant Ring Toss. The children ran around the grounds with innocent abandon while the adults looked on and wished they had a fraction of the energy on display.
There were prizes and candy, cake and ice cream, presents and friends. The only thing missing?
Pictures.
Don’t misunderstand, I took my camera to the park for the circus extravaganza and even managed to take about 568 pictures. However, when I got home to check out my awe-inspiring photography, the wind left my multi-colored big top tent. Upon entry into its dedicated slot, the memory card made a noise similar to that of a farting wildebeest and displayed a blank window on my screen. All my pictures were gone. My wild keening was heard about 11 blocks away and when I could finally breathe normally again, I attempted a recovery mission.
I downloaded an application, went through all the steps prepared myself to weep with joy as I expectantly gazed at the screen waiting for the lost photos to magically reappear.
Yeah, not so much.
The recovery mission was a failure and I have absolutely no pictures from my daughter’s 4th birthday party. It’s a good thing I have an excellent memory because I can recall those special moments later on in life.
Now where did I put my gingko-biloba?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
A Bitter Pill and A Better Pie
I’ve had to make only a handful of really difficult decisions in my lifetime. But none proved greater than the decision to become my father’s full-time family caregiver. Dad is 82 and lost my mother 18 years ago. He lost a second wife almost three years ago. Over the past few years, he had grown more and more dependent upon me for a variety of tasks: laundry, computer help, grocery shopping and light bulb changing among others.
It dawned on me after nearly five months of unemployment that something was going to have to give one way or the other. Dad needed more of my time and I needed more of his financial assistance to make my ends meet. The conversation occurred somewhat naturally and we began to seriously discuss the option of me and the Pie moving in with him. I won’t lie; it was an emotional topic – for both of us.
Dad doesn’t like thinking about his mortality, nor do I, but the fact is that he is going to die. Neither of us knows when that will happen, and he refuses to entertain the idea of a nursing home. Truth is, I don’t want a stranger caring for him anyway.
So I had a lot to think about. How would I adjust to not having my own life? How would he adjust to the changes occurring under his own roof? How would the Pie adjust to the new environment? How can three generations separated by 40 years each live peacefully in the same house? I still don’t have answers to those questions, but what I do have is a plan.
I know, I know….God laughs when we plan, but there is no other way I can handle this situation without a well thought out plan and monkey ass load of lists.
It has now been a month since the Pie and I moved in and I believe the transition proved to be hardest on me. I bear the burden of preparing meals, laundering all the clothes, cleaning the entire house, yard work, transporting my charges to their respective appointments, shopping, staying on top of what prescriptions need filling, and fixing things. Lots of things. Light bulbs, stopped up toilets, leaky faucets, Barbie doll legs, Littlest Pet shop toys, fishing poles, shoes, air filters, TV connections and recliners have all needed my attention in some fashion.
Then there’s the things that I am always picking up: shoes, papers, blankets, clothes, toys, chewed up toys, dropped food, towels…and poop. LOTS of poop!! And not just the kind that once belonged to the emotionally disturbed dog!
My daughter adores her grandfather and enjoys her new big bed and pretty bedroom. Dad beams every time the Pie walks in the room and has laughed more in the past 47 days than in all of his 82 years. It just seems like we all have our own medicine to take, but I sometimes wish mine were easier to swallow.
It dawned on me after nearly five months of unemployment that something was going to have to give one way or the other. Dad needed more of my time and I needed more of his financial assistance to make my ends meet. The conversation occurred somewhat naturally and we began to seriously discuss the option of me and the Pie moving in with him. I won’t lie; it was an emotional topic – for both of us.
Dad doesn’t like thinking about his mortality, nor do I, but the fact is that he is going to die. Neither of us knows when that will happen, and he refuses to entertain the idea of a nursing home. Truth is, I don’t want a stranger caring for him anyway.
So I had a lot to think about. How would I adjust to not having my own life? How would he adjust to the changes occurring under his own roof? How would the Pie adjust to the new environment? How can three generations separated by 40 years each live peacefully in the same house? I still don’t have answers to those questions, but what I do have is a plan.
I know, I know….God laughs when we plan, but there is no other way I can handle this situation without a well thought out plan and monkey ass load of lists.
It has now been a month since the Pie and I moved in and I believe the transition proved to be hardest on me. I bear the burden of preparing meals, laundering all the clothes, cleaning the entire house, yard work, transporting my charges to their respective appointments, shopping, staying on top of what prescriptions need filling, and fixing things. Lots of things. Light bulbs, stopped up toilets, leaky faucets, Barbie doll legs, Littlest Pet shop toys, fishing poles, shoes, air filters, TV connections and recliners have all needed my attention in some fashion.
Then there’s the things that I am always picking up: shoes, papers, blankets, clothes, toys, chewed up toys, dropped food, towels…and poop. LOTS of poop!! And not just the kind that once belonged to the emotionally disturbed dog!
My daughter adores her grandfather and enjoys her new big bed and pretty bedroom. Dad beams every time the Pie walks in the room and has laughed more in the past 47 days than in all of his 82 years. It just seems like we all have our own medicine to take, but I sometimes wish mine were easier to swallow.
Monday, February 14, 2011
What's Love Got to Do With It?
My preschooler is quite inquisitive and curious about the world. She asks why people are mean, or why she can’t have a third cupcake and really wants to know the truth. It’s a challenge for me to be honest, yet age-appropriate sometimes. But when she asked me about Valentine’s Day, I told her simply, “It’s a day to tell people you love them.” Oh, the wisdom sequestered in her brain…she replied, “But I do that every day!” My response? I commenced to ask her what she thought about love:
Me: What is love?
Pie: It’s when you really, really, really, really love someone.
Me: But what does love mean?
Pie: It means you love them really a lot.
Me: (Trying a different approach) Who invented love?
Pie: You…and me!
Me: How did we do that?
Pie: You loved me when I came out of your tummy.
Me: When did you love me?
Pie: All the time.
Me: Why do we love people?
Pie: ‘Cause they are nice.
Me: Do we love mean people?
Pie: No, but Jesus does.
Me: Who do you love?
Pie: Lots of people?
Me: Like who?
Pie: Weeellll, you… and Mini (the dog). And Mimi and Poppy. And Papa. And Aunt Susie and Pickle Juice, Aunt Stephie and Uncle JimPa….and Parker!
Me: Anybody else?
Pie: Miss Krista and Miss Wendy. And Autumn.
Me: Is that it?
Pie: For now…I might love other people some day. That OK Mama?
Me: Yes, that’s OK.
Pie: Can I go outside and play?
So, the message is clear…love the nice people and let Jesus sort out the rest.
Me: What is love?
Pie: It’s when you really, really, really, really love someone.
Me: But what does love mean?
Pie: It means you love them really a lot.
Me: (Trying a different approach) Who invented love?
Pie: You…and me!
Me: How did we do that?
Pie: You loved me when I came out of your tummy.
Me: When did you love me?
Pie: All the time.
Me: Why do we love people?
Pie: ‘Cause they are nice.
Me: Do we love mean people?
Pie: No, but Jesus does.
Me: Who do you love?
Pie: Lots of people?
Me: Like who?
Pie: Weeellll, you… and Mini (the dog). And Mimi and Poppy. And Papa. And Aunt Susie and Pickle Juice, Aunt Stephie and Uncle JimPa….and Parker!
Me: Anybody else?
Pie: Miss Krista and Miss Wendy. And Autumn.
Me: Is that it?
Pie: For now…I might love other people some day. That OK Mama?
Me: Yes, that’s OK.
Pie: Can I go outside and play?
So, the message is clear…love the nice people and let Jesus sort out the rest.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Real Mickey Mouse Clubhouse of Beverly Hills
There are television shows I follow nearly religiously; some I catch every now and then. My daughter is the same. The Pie will want to watch nothing but the same show over and over again for a while then move on to something new. Recently, her obsession became The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. My newest guilty pleasure is the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
I did not follow any of the other Real Housewives franchises, so I am a virgin in that regard. My voyeuristic personality simply could not resist tuning in to this cycle, however – primarily for my interest in the Housewife America loves to hate: Camille. But I will get to her in due time.
Tonight, I watched another installment of the Housewives, followed by the 723rd viewing of a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse show and I could not help but draw certain correlations between the two shows. There are six main characters in each series and it occurred to me that each Housewife has her own animated Disney doppelganger!
Mickey Mouse is obviously the calm, mature and learned Lisa who takes care of her little friends and teaches them life lessons. Just as Mickey solves a problem, Lisa calmly assesses a situation and finds the most suitable resolution. Lisa has a fantastic sense of humor and Mickey giggles a lot at the silly exploits of his buddies.
Minnie Mouse is Kyle, the emotional compass of the group. Kyle is sensitive, family-oriented, and very strong. Minnie matches Kyle’s emotional fervor in her love for Mickey, her close friendship with Daisy and her mothering nature with all the other friends in the clubhouse. She just wants everyone to get along – same with Kyle.
Kyle’s sister Kim is most like Donald Duck to me. She complains a lot and it’s hard to understand what she says. Notice that Bravo uses the superimposed translations more often with Kim than any other Housewife. She mumbles and like Donald’s tirades, I often have to think about what I thought was just said!
Then there’s Daisy Duck, the smart, savvy gal that tolerates all the juvenile antics of the clubhouse pals. She matches Adrienne with every step. They are both calm, analytical and strong. Daisy has her own career as a secret spy while her man Donald walks around without pants. Adrienne maintains a phenomenally successful family business despite the interference of her plastic surgeon husband, who probably walks around pantsless, too! Adrienne has no tolerance for bullshit or childish behavior, but still manages to remain friends with the crazy ladies.
Dear, sweet Taylor is our real-life Pluto. They both lovingly follow the others around, don’t have much to say and take up space in the clubhouse. Occasionally, they get their feature shows, but they are primarily supporting players who don’t add much depth to the proceedings.
And finally, little Camille is the Beverly Hills resident Goofy. They each vie for attention, put themselves before others, live in their own little self-absorbed worlds and constantly screw things up for everyone else. It’s usually Goofy at the center of a problem, just like Camille – who stirs the pot every chance she gets. They both laugh it off and smile winningly and expect everyone to find it endearing. Between the two, it’s neck-and-neck on who I loathe more, but Camille is beginning to take the lead because she just won’t shut the hell up!
Yes, I feel a modicum of embarrassment in admitting that I watch these shows. However, each show has some redeeming value. They teach morals, problem-solving and involve a little fantasy. What’s wrong with that?
I did not follow any of the other Real Housewives franchises, so I am a virgin in that regard. My voyeuristic personality simply could not resist tuning in to this cycle, however – primarily for my interest in the Housewife America loves to hate: Camille. But I will get to her in due time.
Tonight, I watched another installment of the Housewives, followed by the 723rd viewing of a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse show and I could not help but draw certain correlations between the two shows. There are six main characters in each series and it occurred to me that each Housewife has her own animated Disney doppelganger!
Mickey Mouse is obviously the calm, mature and learned Lisa who takes care of her little friends and teaches them life lessons. Just as Mickey solves a problem, Lisa calmly assesses a situation and finds the most suitable resolution. Lisa has a fantastic sense of humor and Mickey giggles a lot at the silly exploits of his buddies.
Minnie Mouse is Kyle, the emotional compass of the group. Kyle is sensitive, family-oriented, and very strong. Minnie matches Kyle’s emotional fervor in her love for Mickey, her close friendship with Daisy and her mothering nature with all the other friends in the clubhouse. She just wants everyone to get along – same with Kyle.
Kyle’s sister Kim is most like Donald Duck to me. She complains a lot and it’s hard to understand what she says. Notice that Bravo uses the superimposed translations more often with Kim than any other Housewife. She mumbles and like Donald’s tirades, I often have to think about what I thought was just said!
Then there’s Daisy Duck, the smart, savvy gal that tolerates all the juvenile antics of the clubhouse pals. She matches Adrienne with every step. They are both calm, analytical and strong. Daisy has her own career as a secret spy while her man Donald walks around without pants. Adrienne maintains a phenomenally successful family business despite the interference of her plastic surgeon husband, who probably walks around pantsless, too! Adrienne has no tolerance for bullshit or childish behavior, but still manages to remain friends with the crazy ladies.
Dear, sweet Taylor is our real-life Pluto. They both lovingly follow the others around, don’t have much to say and take up space in the clubhouse. Occasionally, they get their feature shows, but they are primarily supporting players who don’t add much depth to the proceedings.
And finally, little Camille is the Beverly Hills resident Goofy. They each vie for attention, put themselves before others, live in their own little self-absorbed worlds and constantly screw things up for everyone else. It’s usually Goofy at the center of a problem, just like Camille – who stirs the pot every chance she gets. They both laugh it off and smile winningly and expect everyone to find it endearing. Between the two, it’s neck-and-neck on who I loathe more, but Camille is beginning to take the lead because she just won’t shut the hell up!
Yes, I feel a modicum of embarrassment in admitting that I watch these shows. However, each show has some redeeming value. They teach morals, problem-solving and involve a little fantasy. What’s wrong with that?
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