Secret Foam

         Only people who have lived with me know my secret.  And now, it’s only my husband and toddler son who are subjected to my dark side.  Well, not dark, but my white, foamy side.  

I am a messy toothbrusher.

I am not one of those people who can wander from room to room while brushing their teeth.  I need to be standing, perched over the sink, hoping any droppings make their way into my sink basin and not onto my orange slippers.  It’s one of the only things I do without multitasking.

I was taught to use a pea-sized ration of toothpaste.  I do that.  My husband insists I need to brush with my mouth closed.  I try to do that.  But still, I foam.  First at the corners of my mouth.  Then a trickle starts, working its way down to my chin.  And then, the dam breaks, and the bristles of my toothbrush can no longer contain my tri-colored Aquafresh.  My toothbrush has transformed into an uncontrollable stick of foam.  My hand is covered, and the trail continues down my wrist towards my elbow.  A river of spit and toothpaste that won’t stop until I use one hand to scoop up and rinse off the white goo from the other.

My messiness is nothing I’m proud of.  And it worries me.  How will I properly teach my young son to brush his teeth?  Will this be our first example of, “Go ask your father”?

A Wise Person Once Said

I don’t remember much from my college philosophy courses.  However, I do remember my professor telling our class that the sign of a truly wise person is acknowledging what one doesn’t know.  

I don’t know if I’d consider myself wise, but there are many things I don’t know, can’t figure out, and don’t understand.

As a disclaimer, let me just say that there are a myriad list of technological devices and feats that I can’t begin to fathom.  This list reflects the smaller, more everyday bits of life that have me puzzled.

1. Garbage bags.  Why do people spend money on things intended for the trash?  I mean a lot of things eventually wind up in the trash, but that’s a garbage bag’s whole purpose.  That’s it.  Now, I recognize the need for garbage bags; however, I use the plastic and paper bags that every store gladly provides its customers.  These freebie bags don’t always fit perfectly inside my trash cans, but it’s close enough.
2. Shirts/no shirts.  Who decided that it was okay for a man to walk around without a shirt but not okay for a woman?  Quite frankly, I don’t enjoy looking at people’s chests.  Male or female.  If my chest needs to be covered while I go for a walk in my neighborhood, so should my male neighbors.
3. Food delivery.  Why are pizza and Chinese food so easily delivered?  They are hot foods, after all.  There’s a whole time issue with delivery because they taste better hot.  Why aren’t submarine sandwiches delivered?  Something cool would, in my mind, be easier to deliver.  And, let’s take it a step further.  If we’re going to make special insulated carrying-cases to keep our pizzas hot upon delivery, why isn’t there a coffee delivery service?  There’s a fortune of money to be made there, for someone industrious enough to realize that tired people will pay to have coffee delivered to their homes each morning.
4. Squeeze bottles.  Whether it’s body lotion, shampoo, or ketchup it’s a relatively new occurrence to create the bottle with the opening at the bottom.  But it makes sense.  It’s a science lesson, after all.  We have gravity pulling things down.  So, inside my shower, are bottles turned upside down in my attempt to use the remaining last bit.  Why are Ketchup bottles just recently embracing this phenomenon?
5. War-Crime-Violence as entertainment.  There are television shows and video games that make me want to scream.  Call me old-fashioned, but war is not entertainment.  Hospital emergency rooms are not entertainment.  Crime scenes are not entertainment.  Yet, that’s what people are watching.  And playing.  If I want to see that, I can watch the news.
6. Over-priced children’s clothing.  Adult clothing comes in all styles and price ranges.  Similarly, so does clothing for little people.  I am a somewhat frugal clothes shopper - I rarely spend more than $20 for a shirt/sweater/blouse.  And because of my self-imposed spending limits, I don’t spend $20 on a piece of clothing for my son.  I’m not a miser, I’m simply being practical.  My toddler-aged son is continuously growing.  His clothes have a relatively short window of opportunity to be worn.  And when they’re worn, they’re likely to be decorated with sidewalk chalk, watercolors, or chocolate pudding.

The quest for wisdom and knowledge continues.

Make a Wish

Make a Wish

Up until a few weeks ago, the Make-a-Wish Foundation was just that, a foundation.  An organization I respected.  An organization I sent $5 or $10 to every time a letter came in the mail requesting a donation.  I believed in their premise - granting wishes to children suffering from life-threatening conditions.  And I believe in karma, so I put forth good vibes, try to do good deeds, and donate a little money.

A few weeks ago, the new school year began.  And Heather (her name has been changed for this blog) became one of my students.  On the surface, Heather looks and behaves like a typical fourth grade student - does her homework, chats with her friends, doesn’t like running in P.E.  

But Heather isn’t like every other child.  Heather is being granted her wish, and she will be missing a week of school.  Suddenly, this foundation isn’t just a foundation.  It’s a part of Heather’s life, and it’s a part of my life, because Heather is in my life.

I recently read a bit on the Make-A-Wish Foundation website.  I share with you their guiding principle: “We grant the wishes of children with life-threatening medical conditions to enrich the human experience with hope, strength, and joy.”

I read and re-read that statement.  Yes, this organization does some very special work.  However, the latter part of this statement seems to be something we can all do - “enrich the human experience with hope, strength, and joy.”  

I can, on a daily basis, do something that will enrich someone’s life.  Whether it’s a compliment on a pretty necklace, giving a hug and a kiss to a child who is missing her mother, or calling a friend to tell them “I’m thinking of you.”  

  I can do these things, and everyone can do these things.  Reading that statement, learning more about this foundation, just left me wishing every human being could read that statement.  If every human being spent their day thinking of enriching the human experience in some way (however small, however seemingly insignificant) we really could change our world for the better.

Woman with a Book

I am “Woman with a Book.”  

For much of my childhood, I was either called a “bookworm,” or “teacher’s pet,” or both.  Were those monikers true?  Depends on your definition of those terms.  I honestly don’t want to be compared to a worm, and I’m certainly no one’s pet.  But I did read.  A lot.  I often skipped the recess games of Dodgeball or Kickball so I could sit on the bench and escape into the world that Beverly Cleary had created.  And I did study.  A lot.  And got really good grades, and tried to please my teachers.

That was then.

I am, by no means, an art connoisseur.  I see a piece of art and sometimes something resonates with me.  There is an attraction I cannot explain.  I like it.  I feel a connection to it.  For me, great work leaves a lasting impression.  Picasso’s Woman with a Book did that to me the first time I viewed it at the Norton Simon Museum.

This was a painting of me.  The me that most people don’t know, or don’t take the time to find out about.  Here was a woman, a sensual woman - hair down, breasts exposed- and she had been reading.  Yet, something she read made her stop, and think, and wonder.  But still, in the quiet of the room, seated on her comfortable reading chair, she was there in all her bright colors and sexuality.

Humans are so quick to judge.  Quiet girl, with a book.  You already have preconceived ideas about me.  But you don’t know me.  You don’t know that I once danced on a table in a crowded restaurant.  You don’t know that I went parasailing.  You don’t know that I took a belly-dancing class.

I am not just a woman with a book - end of story.  I am Picasso’s Woman with a Book - beginning of a story.

Welcome

Every front door should have a door mat.  

A welcome mat is a sign.  You’re leaving the outside world, about to enter the inside.  Things will be more calm, more peaceful, more clean.  You use the welcome mat to wipe the dirt off your shoes, wipe the grime from your rubber soles, wipe the frustration away.  You are home now.  You have reached your safe haven.

I’m guessing that the welcome mat was a practical solution to a common inconvenience  - “How do you stop mud and dirt from coming into your house?”  You wipe the bottom of your shoes off.  However, if you have gone out shopping for welcome mats, you know they go beyond your basic, bargain-priced welcome mat to luxurious welcome mats that cost more than I spend at the market each week.  

So what does it say about a dwelling if there is no welcome mat?  Do the occupants not care about tracking dirt through the house?  Do the residents immediately take off their shoes and find such a mat useless and thus a waste of money?  Do these residents just not care about details, about the message that a welcome mat sends to those visiting one’s house?

Then there is the flip side.  People who use welcome mats much the way they utilize the frame around their car’s license plate - to get a message across.  There are people who change their doormats to match the seasons and match the holidays.  There are people who use their doormats to advertise their family’s name and number of children.

For whatever the reason, these houses utilize a welcome mat with a message.  While on my neighborhood walks, I have found several welcome mats that caught my attention.  Here’s my list of recently-spotted, noteworthy welcome mats:

1. Welcome to the jungle.
2. Wipe your paws.
3. Buzz off.
4. Keep it green.
5. Got dirt?
6. Nice underwear

The welcome mat - practical, clean, and funny.  You can’t say that about too many things.  

A Date With Pinkie

“We’re walking through a tunnel of trees.”

That’s what I heard a father say to his son.  And that’s exactly how I felt as I began the walk from the parking lot into the Huntington Library.

I was first introduced to the Huntington by someone I dated.  And maybe it was the person I was with, but I really didn’t appreciate the place as much as I do now.  For now, when I come to the Huntington, I take a deep breath.  I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and exhale slowly.  Suddenly, I’m in another world.  The high-speed freeway, the big rigs merging dangerously close - none of that is relevant now.  For now there’s quiet and open spaces and greenery.  

Being the people-watcher I am, I find fascination all around me.  Not just in the collections housed here, but in the people who come to the Huntington.  People who choose to visit wearing high heels and mini skirts.  In tennis shoes and big floppy hats.  In ripped jeans and motorcycle boots.  Pushed in strollers and pushed in wheelchairs.

Truthfully, though, I come to see her.  Pinkie.  After navigating the maze through opulent dining rooms and sitting rooms, I find her, waiting for me.  She is floating.  Ready to take off and soar into the clouds.  Her white dress flutters, her pink sash and ribbons dance in the breeze.  Her brown hair escapes from her bonnet.  Her steady gaze never wavers.  Pinkie first captured my attention when I was a young girl.  So much so, that a reproduction of Pinkie hangs in my living room.  I’ve grown accustomed to her there; I forget to pay attention to her, to give her the kind of attention she deserves.  But at the Huntington, in all her grand splendor, I sit and gaze and marvel at my Pinkie.

I stroll through the rose garden and find myself lacking in adjectives to describe their scents and hues.  I smile at their names - “Hot Cocoa” and “Queen Nefertiti.”

I rest under an “umbrella” tree - how else do I describe the far-reaching tree, with the oval-shaped leaves, that shelters me from the warm sun.

Here, there is a suspension of time and place, an opportunity for me to think, imagine, and remember.  I find peace and contentment here.  And I wonder why I don’t return more often.  Because of traffic, and schedules, and “to-do” lists - all the things that make a trip here necessary in the first place.

Minnie and Me

I don’t know exactly how old Minnie is.  I know that we got her before we moved into our current home.  And we’re living in our home for six years.

Did I mention Minnie is a houseplant?

I am a firm believer in naming plants and talking to them.  And I am honest enough to admit that as the years have gone by and my life has become fuller, I name fewer plants and talk to them less frequently.

But Minnie is different.  She’s been with us for a long time.  Before we had two cars.  Before we lived in a home with multiple bathrooms.  Before we became parents.

I can remember my husband working late nights, me alone in our apartment.  As I cleaned, I talked to Minnie about my day.  I shared with her what I had done and what I still had to do.  I complained to her when my husband left his dirty clothes on the floor instead of inside the laundry basket.  Minnie listened to my rants of frustration when I just couldn’t comprehend why another piece of home theater equipment was purchased by my husband.  Minnie was there for me.

I don’t talk to Minnie as much as I used to.  But I smile at her, look at her with fondness, affection, and gratitude.  Minnie has stuck by me all this time.  She’s been there.  She knows my secrets and she’ll keep them for me.  Always.

What would Minnie say if she could talk?  (Maybe I’ve watched too many snippets of Toy Story with my son that I am now imagining my plant thinking and talking).  Does she feel like she’s been a part of our journey?  A witness to a family evolving and growing?  What would she say of the arguments she’s witnessed, the laughter she’s heard, the bouncy balls my son has hurled at her leaves?

In our first apartment, Minnie used to reside in our bedroom.  Although Minnie now has a place of prominence in our dining room, she is still nestled in the same blue plastic pot with the scalloped edges that I bought at the 99 Cent Store, all those years ago.  She is queen of the black, circular side table from Ikea.  She sits beneath a copy of Van Gogh’s Cafe de Nuit;  her leaves stretching up towards Van Gogh’s vibrant yellow and reaching for the light shining through our dining room window.  

Not all plants “make it.”  Benji is one such plant.  Short for “Ficus Benjamina.”  He was about 3 feet tall when we bought him.  And he grew for several years.  But he didn’t like our new house.  Gradually, Benji lost his leaves and his life.  And yet, I still remember Benji’s name and the story behind it.

Minnie is another Ficus Benjamina.  But unlike Benji, she’s still thriving.  And it somehow seems unjust that I can’t remember why she shares her name with a famous mouse.  (We’re not Disneyland enthusiasts.)   

What does it say about Minnie that she’s still with us?  That she’s a “tough chick” as I like to think of myself (sometimes).  That she’s stubborn, persistent, and once she finds a place she likes she’s in no hurry to go anywhere (me, most of the time).  That she’s dedicated and loyal to her family (me, all the time).

Minnie and I - we’re in it for the long haul.