The First Embarrassing Moment (of many)

First grade. Think back and remember what a fresh start it was. Everyone was equal. We were all evenly confused with our disrupted half-day kindergarten schedules. And we were introduced to classmates most of whom we'd continue on the next twelve years with. Our slates were clean. There were no cliques--except maybe a couple of kids here and there who were neighbors or cousins. The only caste I remember forming pretty clearly were the troublemakers. My class had about twenty five kids in it, and I'd say four of them practiced questionable ethics. Maybe it was their home life. Who knows? But I was always a rule follower. Back then you were praised for listening and doing as you were told. I never felt a need to question authority or break the rules.

Mrs. Dante was my first grade teacher and she still ranks in my memory as one of my favorites. Kind, compassionate and gentle. Her son was in my class and I always thought it must have been so fun to come to work with your mom because you were her work. But I'm sure that wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

After lunch recess there were about five minutes when we students could go to the bathroom or catch up with friends before settling down for our afternoon lessons in our classroom. Though the school I attended from first through fifth grade was demolished just after I left it, I can still picture it like I was just there yesterday. There was a small boys bathroom around the corner from the lunch room, and just down the hall from my class room. There were two stalls (with doors--unlike in high school) and two urinals. There was a platform under the urinals in order to accommodate little boys so we could comfortably access the urinals. I've always suffered from "stage fright" when using a urinal if there was no barrier separating it from the next one, which was the case in my elementary school bathroom.

I had to pee so bad, so I hopped up on the riser to stood in front of the urinal ready to conduct business. Jimmy Miller had been in the bathroom when I entered. He was bigger than any of the rest of us boys in our class, and though not particularly prone to violence, he did like to push kids around from time to time. I'd never been victimized by him, and I wasn't particularly concerned about it. All I wanted to do was feel the sweet relief of an empty bladder. But as I stood there waiting for the coast to be clear, Jimmy kept yammering away, talking to me. He even came up and stood at the urinal next to me--facing me--carrying on a conversation I have no better recollection of now than I did then. He kept talking and talking and talking. And though I wasn't particularly concerned that he was "looking" at me for any reason, he was doing so while his lips flapped on and on. I knew time was of the essence and the bell was about to sound. When that occurred we were all to be in our seats in the classroom. I realized my attempt to get my little job done was fruitless, and acted cool like I thought, "Oh, well, I don't really have to go anyway."

"You didn't even go," he said. So glad he was paying such close attention to my bodily functions. But I played it like a pro, brushing it off as if I always came to the urinal to just see if I needed to go, never expecting a result each and every time. So normal. He shrugged and we walked down the hallway to our classroom. I took my seat, my mind scrambling for options. I couldn't possibly raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom because we'd just been given time to do so, plus I had a witness who knew I "really didn't have to go." He'd know the truth about my stage fright, and probably feel the need to share it with my first grade equivalent of Facebook: Teresa Thompson.

As class got underway, I couldn't focus on anything Mrs. Dante was saying. Just on the fact that I couldn't even shift in my seat for fear of releasing Hoover Dam. I considered forcing myself to vomit--something I'd never done before, but I'd seen it multiple after school specials and it appeared to work as a viable diversion. But even tensing up my stomach to perform such a task, would result in a pressurization that would break every seal I had firmly in place. Then realizing a new activity was about to take place, there was no time for any of my plans. The situation was hopeless, and that dip in my confidence was just enough to weaken my tensed up muscles enough to allow the flood gates to open. And they did. I was a first grader, sitting at my desk, peeing my pants. I couldn't regain containment and had no other choice but to let it run its course. It was one of those pees that went on so long, I actually got bored. I didn't make one false move. I didn't look down or around. I kept my focus on Mrs. Dante as she talked about something like the alphabet. Maybe this could still work, I thought. Everything will evaporate. I have plenty of time before the 3 o'clock bells rings.

Then it happened. Someone clearly not paying attention to the lesson at hand, turned around to look at me. It was Teresa Thompson. She had a pink face with pale freckles and strawberry blond--almost orange hair. She pointed at me and mouthed something like "What's that?", talking about the puddle pooling under my desk. I put a confused look on my face. And then looked under my desk like I would have no idea what to expect. When I saw it, I got a knowing look on my face and straightened up to look back at Teresa. I leaned forward a bit and mouthed casually, "There is a leak in the roof." I pointed above me to the fictional hole and even patted my hair like water had been dripping down on it for a while. A perfectly logical and iron clad explanation. I was home free. This was a true caper, and I'd pulled it off--until other students starting smelling urine and and began connecting the dots to my urine pool.

Mrs. Dante was very kind to me, helping me out of my seat and asking me to go the bathroom to see what could be wrung out, while she went to the office to call my mother and have her bring some new undies and pants for me. My mom had to close our store, go home and get my clothes and come to school to humiliate me--so at least she got something for her troubles.

"What happened? You know better than that?" she's said, obviously a little perturbed. After I told her of Jimmy Miller's chatter and how it prevented me from doing my business she offered some wise words. "Next time use the stall." True words to live by. She waited for me while I changed into dryer and non-urine smelling clothes because I figured she was going to get me released for the rest of the day and take me back to the store with her to let me eat candy and relax after such an order. When I met up with her, she took the "soiled" clothes and put them in a plastic bag and gave me a big smile the a peck on the cheek. "See you at the store after school."

So I had to face my classmates taunting for the rest of the day, or so I thought. When I re-entered the classroom there was quite a commotion in the back corner where we kept our class pet: a hamster. When I got to the group, I tapped Teresa "Associated Press" Thompson on the back and asked what was going on.

"They found a turd. A BIG one. Definitely not a hamster turd."

I had been out-bodily functioned by some daredevil in my class, but I didn't care. What I'd done had never been brought up again--even through the rest of the years in school. But the mystery turd grew from a weird incident to folklore. My headline faded away as quickly as it had been written. Anonymity was definitely the life for me.

Bully for Me

Last week, after finishing the first draft of my novel, I started writing about a bullying experience with a kid from high school. (To be clear, I was the one being bullied...I know...shocker!) Tonight, I just finished the fifth version and sent it to a writer friend for her input. I was so excited to send it off and get her esteemed opinion. But as soon as I hit "send," I could feel my heart beating heavily. The knot in my stomach that evokes this experience--reserved now for job interviews and intimidating meetings with leadership at work--made an unwelcome return performance. My hands were cold and shaking. And the sounds of my world were drowned out with a ringing in my ears. It was I was back in high school again.

The idea to write about it hit me like a bolt of lightening last week and I began working on it feverishly as if to reach back in time and offer some help to my former self. I worked on it for hours for a week solid, finally getting to a draft--my fifth--that would be presentable to another reader's eyes. I have thought about this bullying story for years and even considered putting pen to paper to express it. I think I was too ashamed. Still after 25 years when putting myself back there, I get a little sad and sometimes a little weepy for that poor kid who shared my name and my life. The lesson learned was that truth is the basis for any well-told story and in telling the truth, revealing oneself is a must. It's not always easy to do, but something I'll get comfortable with.

It started out as a blog I planned to publish in keeping with the promise to myself of posting weekly. But as it poured out of me--an unintentional, but timely topic--I knew I wanted to get feedback on it. But that didn't make sense. My blog was an unedited, first draft of thoughts and experiences. Then it hit me to check the yearly deadline for the Writer's Digest Competition which I discovered with relief was May 3. I'd entered a piece in the essay/personal memoir category in 2006 and received honorable mention, placing 18th. It felt good to receive acknowledgment that I was't spinning my wheels and actually had a modicum of talent. The certificate I received hangs proudly in my office--where I do most of my writing--just under a personally typed letter I received from the hilarious and oh-so-idolized Mr. David Sedaris. I look at the certificate often, always tickled by the honor they are paying so formally to my piece titled "Cousin Fucker", which sit loudly in the middle of the certificate.


The very kind and talented Mr. Sedaris' reply to a letter I'd written him about "Me Talk Pretty One Day.


My profane certificate. I guess it makes me certifiable.

85 Days Later

I guess I would remiss in writing a blog about writing to not pronounce the completion of the first (and very rough draft) of the novel I started writing as I accepted the challenge presented by National Novel Writing Month. Like my decision to commit to going to a personal trainer twice week beginning in October. I've written a couple of terrible novels in my life, beginning at 13, but this is the first time I went about it in a very different way: by picking subject matter at the very last minute, not giving myself time to second guess it. One of the tenets of NaNoWriMo is to write...simply for fun. So I took it to heart and dived passionately into a new world, full of characters I'd never met before. And they welcomed me. I also decided not to write it chronologically, rather jumping around to scenes that sounded interesting to write. Jumping around kept me on my toes and helped formulate a story that was dynamic and hopefully interesting to read. It needs a good, long edit before it's ready to be reviewed by those who have already volunteered, but I'm excited to get it to that point.

Stay tuned for more updates, my four loyal followers!

i[wanted-to-love]Pad

After saving the money, and waiting a year, I finally bought an iPad on Tuesday. And I returned it two days later. Although my Apple Store return experience was as easy--though less joyful--as purchasing something, I thought owning an iPad would be a transformative experience, but I just "didn't get it." Steve Jobs told me I needed an one! And no one wanted to believe him more than I did. I believed it when I converted to Mac. I believed it when I got my iPhone. But the iPad...I'm befuddled. There wasn't anything I could do on my phone or laptop that I could do any easier/better/faster/more magically on the iPad.

Maybe today's purchasing market is more mobile than I am. And for that reason I can understand having one. But my iPhone fits in my pocket, and in spite of the rumors it does make/receive calls. My MacBook Pro is brilliant for receiving all my writing projects--like this blog.

I'm glad I tried it. But unless the iPad vacuums or tells my fortune accurately (aside for losing ~$1k on hype) then I'm out.

Of course there is always iPad 2.0. I mean, you never know.

The Dime Store of Broken Dreams

My parents owned a "variety store" when I was third grade--maybe after and possible before, but I know for certain I remember going there in third grade. After school my sister and I would walk from elementary school ten minutes to the block-long business district known to everyone then as "uptown" to spend time there until Mom closed up shop at five and took us home. Sometimes my friend Marie would offer me a ride on her banana-seated bike, in which case my nine-year-old laziness would force me to blow off my sister's accompaniment.

Our store was called Remington Variety. It sold all kinds of stuff from office supplies to toys (a personal favorite) to housewares, and paint. It was there where I got my big singing break--or took my opportunity, really. One Saturday afternoon while my father literally "minded the store" to give Mom a break to do fun things like clean the house, do laundry and grocery shopping. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to squeeze in a couple of shots of Jack or a nervous breakdown. It was a slow day (you could almost smell the bankruptcy), so I thought if I swung into action I could bring customers into the store and keep them there, enraptured by my vocal stylings and purchasing the wares we peddled at reasonable prices.

There was a little-known intercom system (except to me--even then all things electronic caught my interest) from the back office to the front of the store or showroom, as I called it. I didn't feel the need for rehearsal. I had put of on plenty of shows with my sisters for my grandma, though as a back-up singer (the youngest), not as the lead. This is what they called in showbiz as a "make or break moment." I hopped on the little stool by the intercom master control center (on/off switch), grabbed the CB-radio-shaped microphone and pressed the button before bursting into my rendition of "Delta Dawn" by Miss Helen Reddy. Over and over. Like a flawless track on a perpetual loop. It's moments like this I recall with great curiosity, fondness, and even pride. Somewhere along the line I stopped indulging the little voice inside and its whispers of encouragement and daring.

I was in the middle of my third repeat when I heard the unmistakable tap of my dad's hard-souled shoes, heading my way--FAST. He rushed into the office and said, "You know that thing is on?" I just stared at him blankly, hoping I wouldn't have to answer that question and that he'd leave so I could continue my in-store entertainment. But this show didn't go on. Apparently my talents were too esoteric for the likes of that hick town. A dream crushed. A true calling burned to the ground. Another boring afternoon sniffing the wares in the paint room (where one of my illegal stashes of Wacky Wafers and Marathon bars were kept.) I hadn't known so much humiliation since the day I nearly choked on root beer-flavored Wonka Bottle Cap during the Spring Fling Sale.

We lived on the opposite edge of town in the old Bible Baptist Church my folks had purchased and converted into a house. Our part of town was newer and didn't even have sidewalks. It was fun to be "uptown" (which at some point in the passing of time has changed to "downtown"); to be in the thick of the what little hustle and bustle a town the size of Mayberry could generate. Running across the street to the post office or going next door to the cafe for "a breaded tenderloin and a milkshake, please" or running to the drug store to get Mom and me little bottles of Coke, each costing "two dimes and a nickel."

It went out business after a couple of years. Not long ago at a family gathering I asked, "Do you think it was because of all the candy I stole?"

"Yes,” my mom replied. "I'm certain it is."

(Thar she blows! The green storefront back in the day wasn't green and was nestled between Brookings Shoe Store on the right and The Remington Cafe on the left.)

We Walk the Same Line

I rarely buy complete albums in this day of iTunes and digital music. But, I've been waiting YEARS for an album to be available via iTunes (and incredibly lazy for not just buying the CD that sat on my Amazon wish list since 2002). I got the cassette of "Amplified Heart" when I worked at the now-defunct music chain Coconuts in the mid/late 90's and fell in love with it from the second i pressed the little indented arrow on the play button. It quickly became the soundtrack of my life. I listened to it constantly. When I was happy, when I was sad, when I was bored, or when I was busy. I still have the cassette. I could never get rid of it. I hadn't checked iTunes intermittently and when I did so in late 2010 it was there! And based on the comments posted by fellow impatient fans, it had only recently landed on iTunes. I bought it immediately, listened to the album while I synced it to my iPhone.

Though I love all the songs--which is quite rare for me--one song in particular always resonated deeply with me. "We Walk the Same Line" is a song about love or friendship when one can't go on, the other one picks up the slack because their fates are one. I remember listening to the cassette on my Sony Walkman-knock off while on plane to Miami to see a close friend who had recently endured a lot of hardships. The song acted like a roadmap for me once I saw him. "If you lose your faith, babe, you have mine. And if you're lost I'm right behind cuz we walk the same line." Beautiful lyrics--and so meaningful to me. Of course--single at the time--I applied the psychology of the song to all my close friendships. It made happy, knowing if I were lost, I'd be found by Mark or Kathy or Tina or Retta. And likewise, I'd find them were they ever lost.

But as I recently listened to this beloved song when I purchased it digitally, it hit me like a ton of bricks how appropriate it is for my life now as my husband deals with a serious illness and do my best to care for him--physically and emotionally. "When it's dark, baby, there's a light I'll shine. If you're lost I'm right behind, cause we walk the same line." The lyrics now have morphed into the soundtrack of my life now...15 years later. And whenever I listen to it, it relaxes me and makes me happy, like it's telling the story of kenan and me, and a metaphorically detailed events and feelings we've both experienced over the last year and half. It sort of slipped on me like a favorite old glove you'd misplaced and finally found. And when you put it on it instantly reminded you of all the adventures you'd had while wearing it--good and bad. It wasn't just a glove. It was part of you, your history.

My favorite line has coincidently always been "And we can't run and we can't cheat, cause babe when we meet what we're afraid of, we find out what we're made of." I knew kenan had the "stuff" to handle his diagnosis because he'd dealt with it before as a child and more than that, it's just the kind of person he is. And though I really didn't think I was going to crumble, I had my doubts that I'd be able "shine that light" as brightly as I wanted or it needed. But in living an unreal life as we are, finding out what you're made of is par for the course and something to be celebrated. I'm happy to say overall I'm good with what I've made of. Sometimes I wonder if I have enough faith to give, but I guess that's only normal. It's not about quantity. Giving is giving. And usually, even when I think I've given it all, more magically appears for me to parse out.

So in honor the impending Valentine's Day, I'm going to play the song here and post the lyrics below. It's a beautiful song. My words can't speak volumes enough about these words. Or how I feel about my beloved, crazy handsome, and just crazy husband. I love you very much. Keep these lyrics in mind. I hope they give a little of the same comfort and reassurance they offer me.

It can't be left unsaid that many of you reading this walk the same line with us, shining plenty of light and giving faith. We know what you're made of, and we love you and appreciate it so!

Lyrics to "We Walk the Same Line" by Everything but the Girl

If you lose your faith, babe, you can have mine,

and if you're lost I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

Now I don't have to tell you

how slow the night can go,

I know you're watched for the light.

And I bet you could tell me

how slowly four follows three,

and you're most forlorn just before dawn.

So if you lose your faith babe,

you can have mine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

When it's dark baby,

there's a light I'll shine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

And I don't need reminding

how loud the phone can ring

when you're waiting for news.

And that big old moon

lights every corner of the room.

Your back aches from lying

and your head aches from crying.

So if you lose your faith babe,

you can have mine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

When it's dark baby,

there's a light I'll shine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

And if these troubles

should vanish like rain at midday,

well I've no doubt there'll be more.

And we can't run and we can't cheat,

cause babe when we meet

what we're afraid of,

we find out what we're made of.

So if you lose your faith babe,

you can have mine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

When it's dark baby,

there's a light I'll shine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

Blizzard

Growing up in the Midwest, there comes a time during a blizzard when you realize you've prepped all you can, you stop caring how/when you'll be able to get out of your abode, and you just enjoy life slowing down a bit. The City of Chicago is all but shut down. Most people I know had a "snow day" today, work is canceled. Every school is closed. It's unprecedented in the almost-twenty years I've lived in the Windy City.

Our official snowfall is around 20 inches, but it's supposed to quit sometimes this afternoon. I have taken so many pictures. It's mesmerizing. And it's reminiscent of childhood when during heavy evening snowfalls, your stomach would get a little tingly at the thought of a school cancellation the following day. If you were lucky, they'd announce the cancellation the night before (not my school, of course).

Yesterday around 3 PM...



This morning around 9 AM...


I have to face the fact I won't be able to dig the car out until June or later. In addition, I don't think I'll be able to get to it until sometime in late April...