And....They're Off!

Summer camps are over, and dusk creeps in earlier each evening.   Children are becoming restless with the relaxed pace of summer, and the first hint of Halloween costumes are creeping out of their retail resting places. Even in an evergreen state like California the change of season is palpable.

The waning of summer is a bittersweet time for parents.  In spite of the many joys of family togetherness even the most loving parent can be excused for looking forward to the promise of peace that the school year brings.

Teens try to escape while parent calms them.
Photo: goffvw.com

But, before you can step into that promised land you must brave back to school shopping (BTS.)  BTS is an annual late August outbreak carried by adults, but expressed in marked behavioral changes in teenagers.

Teen looks for brain.
Photo: Suburbsanity.com

The most frequent symptom of BTS in teens is eye rolling.  You’re most likely to see this behavior emerge when you tell your teen that you will accompany them on their pre-school shopping trip.  The condition should generally lessen or even resolve when money is applied.  If your teens’ eye rolling deteriorates into facial contortions or mumbling, try to ease their discomfort by fanning them vigorously with your store credit cards.

Homeopathic cures for BTS are available in your own wallet.
Photo: Fortunewatch.com

BTS is highly contagious.  Even if you make it to the mall symptom-free, be aware that just being in proximity of an adult while shopping is enough to transmit BTS to your teen at any moment.  A common complication of BTS can occur if your teen is spotted at the mall by peers in the “cum parente” position; it can precipitate a crisis that can be alleviated only by jeans costing over one hundred dollars.

Cum Parente teens recover in a support group.
Photo: Therockwallnews.com

Unlike most bugs, BTS can cross species, travelling easily from shoppers to sales associates.  With their finely tuned animal instincts, sales associates can sense the weakness of the back to school shopper.  Aggressive salespeople will engage in stalking behaviors, cutting you out of the pack by introducing themselves, starting rooms for you and then providing the right sizes for the most inappropriate and most expensive items. Your only hope for escape is to hover around the sales racks until they spot more likely prey.

BTS parent seeks refuge in remote area.
Photo: Luux.com

Once teens contract BTS their recovery is doubtful, at least for the duration of the mall trip.  The best course of action is to treat yourself.  Starbucks, the cookie counter and the pedi parlor are all proven therapeutic treatments for adult BTS.  And hold on to the fact that BTS is a seasonal disease, which should wane along with the final days of summer.

Temporary relief from BTS is available.
Photo: Lifewithwendy.com

Bloopage

I have been unable to exercise recently, and as a result have gained almost five pounds.  Now, five pounds doesn’t sound like an awful lot, unless it’s THE five pounds that create new bloopage.

Weighing one leg at a time can help.
Photo: Since1910.com

Oh come on.  You know what I mean by bloopage.  It’s the stuff that bloops over your belt, or other constrained areas on your body.  The first bloopage experience can be traumatic.  Mine came early in life. When I married, it was in a dropped waist, see-through bodice that required me to wear thigh high stockings.  “Oh gahd!” I screamed in the tranquil boutique where I was trying on the stockings for the first time. “My thighs!  They look like nuclear mushrooms!”  After my girlfriend finished snorting white wine out of her nostrils, she packed me up in the car and drove me to the gym.

This calls for extreme measures.
Photo: Kitchik.com

Over the years I have found that the gym can be a distressing experience if you don’t have the right attitude.  I strongly suggest hiring a personal trainer if you can swing it.  It’s not that you really need a personal trainer to make it through a robust workout.  But let’s face it, the right trainer can distract you from noticing all of the beautiful, hard-bodies that are working out around you.  Who cares if they are running faster, lifting more weight or clearly more coordinated? You have “Hans” massaging that pesky cramp out of your calves.

What workout?
Photo: Goldsgymma.com

Hans not in the budget?  Consider a sport, like swimming.  Then people can lift you with one arm!  That’s right, one arm!  Imagine how much weight you would have to lose in the gym for that to happen!

This would never happen at the gym.
Photo: Greenwebsitedesign.co.uk

If exercise seems inconvenient, try optical illusions.  You simply buy bigger, ill fitting clothes, and then wait for people to say things like “Oh my, look at the weight you’ve lost...your clothes are hanging on you!”  You can also stand next to large objects that create the illusion that you are small, like the Lincoln Memorial or that guy that plays in all the giant movies.  Also helpful (giving credit to R.S. here) have all photographs taken from above.  Or from a distance.  In the fog.  At night.  Finally, shave off five pounds quickly by only looking at yourself in the mirrors they use at department stores.

Wow! What's your secret?
Photo: freewebs.com

You look tiny!
Photo: dentonrc.com

The truth is, that my bloopage makes me yearn for my mother’s Europe (well, before the Nazi’s anyway) when being “soft” was a sign of a wealthy home with plenty of food and increased your desirability.  Big thighs? Big dowry.  My darling mother used to call larger people “healthy” and urge food on us the way one might urge on a horse at the Kentucky Derby. Chicken fat was a condiment.  Cake was a breakfast choice.  Food was love.

Cake as a food group.
Photo: recipebinder.uk.org

I wish for those days when I was fearless and brave with bread and cookies.  Unfortunately, wishful thinking is just another strategy that won’t work.  See you at the gym.

This works too.
Art:  Clevelandseniors.com

There are consequences to ignoring bloopage...
Photo: Movieboy.com

Running away from bloopage.
Photo: Webmd.com

Sliding Along

Photo: mbc.net

In the 1998 movie Sliding Doors, the life path of the lead character (played by Gwyneth Paltrow) is determined by her success or failure in slipping through the closing doors of a train.  In this tiny life moment, sharply different futures are defined for her and those around her.  If she makes the train, she arrives home early to find a cheating boyfriend and begin a life alone.  If she misses the train, well, she never knows about his infidelity and experiences a very different future.

Now what?
Photo: Pajiba.com

The movie is described as a comedy-drama (just like my life) and makes the point that our futures are sometimes determined not by the big decisions that we agonize over, but those little daily choices we make.

Choice or Darwinism?
Phot: Chowlowgolf.com

I’m not saying that big decisions, like choosing to stand under a tree during a lightening storm won’t have consequences.  But direct consequences (glowing in the dark? developing super powers? death?) can be predicted in circumstances like that.  How about your decision to wear red lipstick, choose to make a left instead of a right, or stop for a cup of coffee on your way to work? Could those little choices change the course of your life?

How did fate bring them together?
Photo: Starangefunkidz.com

I met my husband because I covered another worker’s bathroom break at a trade show booth.  I wasn’t supposed to be at the booth, or even at the show, watching him and his three partners make their way down the center of the busy aisle.  The coalescence of my presence in the hall, my co-worker’s bladder, my early morning choice of a bright red blouse and the serendipitous presence of the boys sealed my fate.

Not an actual historic photo.
Photo: iCheezburger.com

It’s not just relationships, of course.  We found our house on a spontaneous drive to the beach.  Escaping the heavy beach traffic we detoured down a rural road, hoping that it would go somewhere.  Turns out it went straight to our new home.  We bought it that same day, over twenty years ago. Now I own a tractor. Didn’t see that one coming.

Sigh.
Photo: Icity-data.com

I watched “Sliding Doors” many years ago, and let me tell you, I was paralyzed with inaction after seeing it.  It still leaps to my mind sometimes, when I make decisions about which route to take, or where to vacation.  Only letting go and embracing the lovely interplay between fate and freedom unfreezes me.  Don’t be scared—watch the movie—you’ll appreciate the minor moments of your life in a whole new way.

You might need one of these after this movie.
Photo: Scientificamerican.com

Have any small decisions made big differences in your life?  

Walk the Walk

My daughter swims.  Oh, both my daughters swim; they learned to swim as they learned to walk.  It’s fun for me, a landlubber who sometimes thrashed her way out to the raft at Farmer Jim’s swimming hole to see the girls glide through the water so effortlessly.  It’s not that much fun though, to get up at 5am to drive my younger daughter to summer swim practice on the campus of UC Santa Cruz by 6am.

I am not a morning person.
Art:  Sodahead.com

Three times a week this summer that is exactly what I do.  And as my young athlete jumps out of the car and rushes to the pool I’m left standing in the foggy hills of Santa Cruz holding a cup of cold coffee and my car keys. 

Now what?

 I was tickled when another mother agreed to take a walk last week while our kids were swimming.  I thought she looked fit, and I exercise fairly often, so I thought we would have a nice brisk walk through the wide paved roads of the university campus, which wind their way across 2000 beautiful acres overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

My idea of a walk.
Photo:www.Glenlake.org

“Oh look, there’s a path,” she cried as we stepped out of the parking lot.  I was just formulating my observations about the steepness and narrowness of the route as she stepped onto it, already moving vigorously up what seemed to be an endless series of switchbacks and hills.  Soon I was gasping too hard to protest, and saved my strength to pull myself up the trail.  How could the laws of physics be suspended, I wondered, so that we walk up, up, up?  Where was the down?

Her idea of a walk.
Photo:Tsittours.com

I wasn’t until an hour later that we realized we were lost.  Luckily my walking partner was as good with her iPhone as she was at striding uphill.  I suggested (begged) that she call a cab with the iPhone, but she pulled up a map instead, and set out again, determined to be at the car by the end of swim practice. 

UCSC and environs.
Photo:Aquafornia.com

She did stop once, when a deer stepped out into our path. “How beautiful” she sighed, barely winded.  “Maybe it’s an evil deer” I wheezed spitefully.  “They can be very mean you know. “  She laughed, but slowed her approach a bit.

Teeming with dangerous animals.
Photo: UCSC

There's one now.
Photo: UCSC

By the time she was done with me I was staggering more than walking.  And at the afternoon swim practice that day?  I guess I should have gone to the gym down the street.  But thinking about my new walking partner and the hills waiting for me in Santa Cruz the next morning, I rested instead, choosing my challenges with care.

Enough to wake you right up.

Nun of your concern

What's a picture like this doing on a nice Jewish girl's blog?  Well, I stumbled upon this 17th Century Nun's Prayer, and thought that people of all faiths (or no faith) might enjoy it.  So, instead of writing for you this week, I'm posting the words of this wonderful, and slightly wicked nun.

Painting: Henrietta Browne

Lord.

Thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will
someday be old.

Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every
subject and every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out
everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy.
With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but thou
knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless detail: give me wings to get to
the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of
rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace
to enjoy the tales of other's pain but help me to endure them with patience. I
dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessening
cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me
the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a saint - some of them are so
hard to live with -- but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the
devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places and talents
in unexpected people. And give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

Amen.

Oh Brother.

Today I confided in my brother that I was disappointed in my daughter’s choice of boyfriend.  “I’m coming up there, and I’m going to let him know that if he steps out of line I am going to kick his ass” was the immediate reply.  Coming from a small, rough steel town my reply wasn’t exactly politically correct...  “Don’t you think her father should kick his ass instead?”  “No,” he replied with absolute moral certainty.  “He’s too close.  I should definitely do the ass kicking.”

Perversely, the thought of my brother kicking anyone’s ass made me nostalgic.  After my father died, ass kicking became my brother’s modus operandi.  I was a rather wild teen who generated plenty of opportunities for my 2-years-older brother to exercise his newfound sense of responsibility.  He lurked in the background of my teenage relationships, grading the quality of my choices and taking action when he considered my judgment flawed.

Unfortunately, my judgment seemed to be flawed a lot.  My brother was creative in the ways that he scared off my boyfriends.  In addition to the classic ass kicking, his techniques ranged from the sideways glance fraught with threat (enough, most times, to do the job) to direct interrogation techniques, to the time he threw a boyfriend over our front porch and into the bushes for attempting a first kiss.  Standing on the porch with my brother, watching the now “ex-boyfriend” run off down the street I felt angry, but also completely and utterly safe.

It is truly miraculous that I found a man of whom my brother mostly approved.  But I did, and I suppose that I owe a great deal to the, um, “non-verbal guidance” that my brother provided over those teenage years.

My brother’s ass kicking days are likely done.  He’s an attorney and a businessman, a gentle father and a sweet and loving husband.  But for a moment he reminded me that he will always be my big brother, and will always take care of me and keep me safe.

Dog Gone Good

I am blessed with two very, very good dogs.  I live with an elegant German Short Haired Pointer named Milo and a swayback chunk of Chocolate Labrador named Dina.  Sometimes when I am working, I look down at my Labrador, her massive head resting trustingly (stupidly?) on the wheels of my office chair and think “I want another dog.”  Then I remember Chester.

Dog from hell.

I should have known better.  But on those days that I ate my lunch at the mall, I had to walk right past the pet store.  It was an old school pet shop, a breed of retail establishment that I fervently hope will die out.  Puppy mill puppies sat dejectedly in small wire kennels, looking hopefully at the people walking in to buy fish food, fashion collars or other pet perks.  All of the dogs there claimed a pedigree, and they had the papers to prove it.  But their flaws told a deeper truth, and you could see the kind of miserable existence they may have had through their too-close-set eyes, their improperly cropped ears or the wagging stumps of tail, cut too short.

The Springer Spaniel was near the front. You could see him from the mall concourse, and over the weeks I started to look away as he grew larger and larger in the tiny cage, turning and shifting to find a comfortable spot to rest.  I knew he must be a puppy mill product, and I resolved not to support that brutal practice by purchasing one of their dogs.  But it wouldn’t hurt to let him stretch his legs, would it?

Could you resist?

The next thing I know the pet shop owner and I were chasing the little liver spotted puppy down the aisles.  We ran with flailing arms, me in a dress and heels, dodging the pet toys and pooper scoopers that were tumbling off the shelves, swept away by the long handled fishnet in the puppy’s mouth.

Best friend gone bad.

My husband never stood a chance when I opened the car door several hours later and our cute new puppy tumbled out of the car and into his arms.  We would name him Chester, we decided.  He looked like a Chester. We didn’t know then that he would later be referred to as “Evil Chester,” "Chester the Molester" or sometimes “The #$@% Dog.”

No, not interested in this....

Much better.

Evil Chester has many tails to tell (sorry,) but suffice to say that he was the worst dog ever known.  Our handsome friend filched dozens of dinners from the kitchen counter and lifted lunches from contractors with endless creative zeal.  He used his warped doggy intelligence to terrorize the vet’s office and developed perplexing health problems that would trouble him (and us) all of our lives together, including the diabetes that blinded him and required twice-daily injections.  He was the star at doggy training and hell raiser at home, chewing our child’s prized toys and biting family members whenever they deserved it.  He would stare into space with his post traumatic doggy eyes and growl quietly at phantom breeders we would never know.

Still, we cried the day Chester blindly made his way down to the creek and lay down for the last time.  And other than accidentally running him over one time (it was only once!) we were comforted by knowing that we treated him with love in spite of his shortcomings.  Here are the lessons he left behind:

I hoped this book would help, but Chester ate it.

If you must have a purebred dog learn from our mistake and don’t go to a pet store. Pick your breed and your breeder carefully.  Check this web site for loads of valuable information about working with a breeder: www.buyingapuppy.com

Be careful of shady or disreputable breeders.

 Please, please consider a shelter or rescue dog.  The best dogs we have ever had (notably, not Chester) have been shelter dogs.   Here is a great site to walk you through choosing the right dog from your local shelter:  www.clickandtreat.com/pickadog.htm

Shelter dogs can be shy or uncomfortable at first.

But they tend to relax after awhile.  

Not every dog is a good dog, but you must be a good friend to every dog you live with. So think hard, and put your head in front of your heart.  Otherwise, you never know, you might end up with a Chester and lots of stories that won’t be funny until many, many years from now.

Chester tortured, I mean followed us everywhere, even after blindness.

They could have done without a dog entirely.

But I can't...

My Fear Factor

I just hate spiders.  And that’s really too bad, since I live in the middle of the woods and a lot of spiders live here too.  People always try to persuade me otherwise, but I know that spiders hate me right back.  I am the person they choose to dangle above in bed, and it is my car that always has a spider on the door handle.  If I summon the courage to smoosh a spider I am the person at whom the spider will make its last brave, desperate lunge before expiring.

My neighbor.
Photo: Livescience.com

It turns out that spiders are widely feared (though some of us show it more than others.) Livescience.com suggests that arachnophobia, our fear of spiders, is innate and may develop in the womb.  Gallup confirms that many of us carry this fear through life.  Our fear of spiders ranks 5^th in a 2001 poll of people’s phobias; a little less frightening than being enclosed in a small space but a little scarier than needles and shots. (“Most feared” on the poll are snakes, public speaking and heights.)

We would choose this over spiders and public speaking.
Photo: Residencialorandino.com

I have a long history of ridiculous behavior when it comes to spiders.  For example, a friend and I once abandoned her ‘68 Camaro on a rural road because of a spider dangling from the visor.  On a ski trip, a friend and I emptied an entire can of her hairspray (yes, hairspray—it was the 80s after all) into a sink bowl to kill an unsuspecting but ultimately well groomed spider.  So it should not surprise anyone that last week, when I saw not a mere spider, but it’s bigger badder cousin--a four-inch scorpion-- in our garage storage closet I did not react calmly.  I looked down towards my bare feet to see what was moving and suddenly the toilet paper I was there to get seemed utterly unimportant.  This creature was nothing like the tiny scorpions we sometimes encountered on our trips to Mexico.  It was fat and angry, its tail curling up in the classic “I’m going to f#&# you up” position.

Could probably survive hairspray.
Photo: Dimackey.com

Four inches is large for a scorpion, but they can be as long as eight inches, big enough to eat small mice and snakes.  Luckily, four inches was considerably smaller than the sole of my husband’s muddy work boot, which I mentally noted as I brought it down repeatedly upon said scorpion while screaming like a banshee. (I might have let it go but I really needed that toilet paper.)  Good thing I was accurate—according to EHow “a scorpion can easily grab on to a shoelace, sock or pant leg and hitch a ride to gain access to...your ankle or leg.” It makes spiders suddenly seem to be nothing more than innocuous inconveniences.

The source of my trauma.
Photo: Thefrisky.com

Scorpions are endemic to California, so knowing a little about them might be useful:

Very few scorpion stings are dangerous to adult humans, except in the cases of allergic reaction, or when the human runs screaming into traffic.

Ice can lessen the pain of a scorpion sting, but watch the victim for difficulty breathing or swelling that does not subside over time.  Difficulty breathing after fleeing does not count.

Children who are stung should always see a doctor as a precautionary measure. 

The best scorpion reduction strategy is to keep your grass short, and clear loose stones, bricks, logs and trash away from your foundation before it becomes an insect convention center.

Weather stripping or otherwise sealing the house will help to keep scorpions outside. 

Scorpions live here.
Photo: Fineartamerica.com

Scorpions come from the sky too (OK, I was really shook.) Prune back trees that overhang you home.

Place firewood that you bring in directly on the fire, not in that cool log carrier you bought from Eddie Bauer.

Scorpions are largely nocturnal.  Get your toilet paper out of the storage closet during the daytime.

Don’t keep scorpions as pets.  Get a pet that will not try to sting and eat you.

Move. (Unfortunately, Antarctica which is the only continent without scorpions.)

No scorpions, but penguins can be pesky here.
Photo: Coolantarctica.com

Both chemical and natural pesticides are available if your scorpion problems are not solved through the above measures.  Of course it is worth noting some people welcome scorpions, and eat them after removing their poisonous tails. I’m going to go ahead and skim over that, but if you are a person that does not like to waste you can find recipes on the web.

Skimming over.
Photo: Wikipedia.org

I thought I might never go into that closet again.  But then I read a story in Huffington Post this week detailing how a Tampa-area woman found a 7-foot alligator in her bathroom, and I though I might get over it after all.

Scarier than the scorpion.
Photo: MSNBC.com

Getting ready to enter the storage closet.
Photo: Geekologie.com

Where all the toilet paper went.
Photo:  Freerepublic.com