Merry Christmas!

      Yesterday, I asked my son about his favorite part of Christmas.  He told me it was getting presents.  (He is five-and-a-half years old, after all).  When I asked him what else he likes, he told me giving presents. 

So, on this Christmas day, I would like to give my readers virtual gifts.  I would give you boxes of joy, packages of contentment, bags of good health, and bundles of love.  I thank you for checking in each week and reading my blog.

Merry Christmas!

Protocol for a Pisces Princess

   When my husband and I were dating, he referred to me as his “Pisces Princess.”  We were delighted to be out on a date and hear Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character in Jerry Maguire also refer to his wife as his "Pisces Princess."  

   Unfortunately, I have lived my life not as a princess but as a worker.  A wife, a teacher, a mother, a writer.  Not a princess.  Now, I’m realizing that I can do my jobs with a princess flair.  Which doesn’t mean I need to be wearing a gown I can’t sit in or a tiara worth more than my car.  It just means I should be treating myself better, more reverentially, more specially.  Here are my seven guidelines for living like a Pisces Princess (or a Capricorn or Cancer Countess, an Aquarius or Aries Angel, a Sagittarius or Scorpio Superstar, a Libra or Leo Lady, a Taurus Treasure, a Gemini Gem,or a Virgo Valentine).

1. Wear something pretty (that others may notice and admire).  Whether it be earrings, nail polish, or a pendant.  Something you see on yourself that makes you smile.  This does not have to be an item that is extravagantly priced.  No one needs to know the cost but you.  It just needs to be something that makes you stop and think,  “It’s so pretty.  And I’m wearing it.  And that makes me happy.”  
2. Wear something pretty just for you.  A cute nightie, red underwear, or a purple bra.  They don’t need to be purchased and worn in the hopes of enticing someone else.  They should be purchased and worn for me, just because I am a Pisces Princess.
3. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you are only allowed to say two types of statements - facts (my hair is brown, my eyes are brown) or compliments (your hair has a cute flip today).  No self-deprecating comments, no “Do-these-pants-make-my-butt-look big?” remarks.
4. You can choose your own company.  It’s absolutely okay to decline a breakfast/lunch/dinner date (romantic or otherwise) because you need some “you-time.”  A soak in the bathtub.  Thirty minutes to read your novel.  A cup of anything without being interrupted by anyone else.
5. Splurge on things that make you happy.  Splurges don’t have to be overly-indulgent and cause you to worry about how you’ll make rent this month.  A splurge is simply spending money on something you want, but don’t necessarily need.  A splurge can be a butterfly-patterned shower curtain, a pedicure in the winter when no one will see that your toenails look like little bits of cotton candy, buying the hardcover instead of waiting for the paperback, or a car wash even though there’s a chance of rain in three days.
6. Do something that scares you, but that you still really want to do.  Often times, it’s just fear of the unknown that stops us from experiencing something new.  We won’t be harmed, we’re not in danger, we’re just out of our comfort zone.  And that’s okay.  So, maybe it’s finally getting your ears pierced or getting a tattoo, eating alone in a restaurant, singing karaoke in front of a large crowd, riding a motorcycle, or traveling solo.
7. Accept compliments.  I am too quick to dismiss compliments.  I always feel I must clarify, “Oh, that sweater is older than my son” or “I got those earrings on sale.”    Instead, compliments should be graciously accepted with a sincere “thank you.”  

Happy's Anniversary

                                                       Our new car on its first trip to Cambria

   Recently, my husband and I acknowledged the tenth anniversary of one of our cars.  We didn’t celebrate with a dinner out or a slice of cake.  We simply talked about the fact that ten years have passed (already!) since we signed the papers and drove our new car home.

   Ten years, lots of memories.  One trip to the Grand Canyon and multiple trips to Cambria, my favorite vacation spot.  This is the car my husband drove to the hospital and three days later drove home with our infant son accompanying us.  

   Ten years, two car accidents.  One major, one minor, neither my fault; thankfully, no injuries.  

   The purchase of our car was the first time in our relationship that my husband and I paid for, and got, exactly what we wanted.  We knew the make and model we wanted.  We requested our preferred color and our desire for a moonroof.  

   Never before, had we been such discriminating customers.  When we became engaged, finances and store stock dictated what type of ring we purchased.  When we moved into our first apartment, we chose from the units available at the time.  And while I loved our apartment, I detested its sliding shower door.  

   Our car was ours.  We named it “Happy,” although our son knows it simply as the “blue car.”  And it is simply a blue car.  It’s a material object that if, need be, could be replaced.  I know it’s just a “thing.”  But, it is a thing that represents so much more to us.  For two young people, our car was an important sign.  Our car signified improved finances, a shared commitment, and strong discipline.  (We paid off our car earlier than anticipated).

   In regards to wedding anniversaries, a traditional gift for ten years is tin.  Tin represents qualities that a marriage requires:  a marriage needs to be flexible and durable, so that it can change and move and bend without being broken.  

   Certainly, our blue car needs to be durable, and to an extent, it has needed to be flexible; we now use the same car in different ways.  My husband and I don’t have date nights any more.  Over night trips to Laguna Beach don’t happen either.  Instead, we have daily trips to kindergarten and weekly trips to the public library.  

   And we’re looking forward to the next ten years and the new batch of memories we’ll make!

The MOON Magazine

Aloha Readers!

One of my essays has just been published in the December issue of The MOON Magazine.  Here's the link:

http://moonmagazine.org/essays-memoirs-non-fiction/

Delicious Affection

   I am not a pie person.  Given a choice for a sweet dessert, I will always select the chocolatey, fudgy option.  And I certainly wouldn’t say I’m a “foodie.”  Yet pies and foods are an important part of the way I show affection to my loved ones.  

   I never made a conscious decision about the nicknames or terms of endearment I would use when referring to my son and husband.  However, over time certain names have made it to my daily rotation, and I’ve realized that many of them are food-related.

   My son, Ryan, is my only child and thus receives Mommy’s full attention and affection.  Objectively, he is a good boy -- he does not climb over the booths at a local restaurant, doesn’t run and scream down the hall in a museum, has never attempted to draw on our walls or eat the dirt from our houseplants.  He is a curious child, an avid reader; he is musical and playful.  He is my “angel pie” and my “sweet pea.”

   Ryan is also known in our home by two rather unconventional nicknames.  One is “tushie pop;” a name I don’t know how I invented or why.  I just know that my son’s bottom is soft, and a baby’s bare bottom, when clean and poop-free, is a sweet place to kiss.

      Ryan’s other nickname is “farfalle.”  Technically, farfalle are bow-shaped pasta noodles.  Yet, when talking with my mom about my son’s latest adventures, I often begin the conversation with “Farfalle just ...”

   My husband, on the other hand, is another story.  I rarely call him “Paul.”  Paul is the name anyone can use:  his parents, his boss, his customers.  In our home, my husband is “honey pie” as in “Honey pie, did you reschedule your dentist appointment?”  Early in our relationship, we never had a conversation about nicknames; they just happened to evolve.  

   It’s interesting to stop and consider the ways we show and express love and affection to those closest to us.  Often times, there is no logic or set reasoning to explain a certain nickname or special good-night ritual.  But, as with love, logic doesn’t always factor into the equation.  Love just is.  

Thankful for the Memories

(My brother - 12 years old, my sister - 3 months old, and me - 3 years old) 

   Technically I know I am a middle child.  I just feel like an only child.  To this day, I tend to behave like the stereotypical middle child.  I try not to be the one who makes waves, who adds to a difficult situation, however small it may be.  For instance, I am usually quick to oblige and agree to the restaurant where my husband wants to eat.  

   As a child, I was the peace-keeper, the diplomat, the one who tried to smooth things over.  When asked about hamburgers, my brother would mention one fast food restaurant, my sister would mention another with equal urgency, and I would bite my tongue and defer to my mom, claiming that I would be happy with either one.  Truth is, I wasn’t always happy with any of them.  

   I never felt as strong or assertive as my two siblings.  My brother was older, and in my eyes, wiser and cooler.  He was in high school while I was in elementary school.  His life was eons away from mine.  He couldn’t understand my desire to do extra homework; he was always trying to get out of his homework.  I couldn’t understand his excitement at summer vacation; I would miss school too much.   

   Somehow, the connection my older brother and younger sister shared skipped right over me.  They were so alike; even their walk -- the way their feet protruded at a certain angle.  I didn’t fit in.  My brother had a temper than frightened me; I remember him punching walls.  My sister had an anger I didn’t understand-- how could this sweet, little girl bite me or hit me?  

   I have been told that I’m not always adept at handling conflict.  I agree.  I can handle unpleasant situations for only so long, until, like a pot of water that isn’t being watched carefully, I boil over.  And then it’s done.  

   That is how my relationship with my siblings unraveled.  My brother expressed nothing but displeasure at my wedding.  I remember his refusal to pose for a picture, his verbal disapproval of our choice of chapel and cake-and-champagne reception.  My big brother wasn’t there with support and love.  At my wedding, he was more like a work acquaintance -- in attendance because he had been invited and felt obligated to attend.

   My sister and I took wildly different paths after high school.  From where I sit, her road was easier:  a well-paying job, an apartment, a car.  She married, had two children, moved to the suburbs, bought a mini-van, began driving to baseball practices and weekly birthday parties.

   Our decisions were different, but to her, my differences were wrong.  I chose to wait on motherhood, instead concentrating on my teaching career and saving money with my husband to build the “nest” we coveted for when our “egg” arrived.

   There were arguments, there were tears, there was finger-pointing and blame, and then there was nothing.  

   This rift with my siblings scares me.  In moments of weakness, I fear I must have done something to drive away these two people.  And what if I do it again, but this time, to my husband?  I question myself, wondering what is wrong with me.  In moments of strength, I can say that nothing is wrong with me.  I am me.  And there is nothing wrong with my sister and brother.  They are who they are.  

   My son is growing up an only child, and without the close relationship with his cousins I had dearly hoped for.  They are merely faces on the wall in dated pictures.  

   But unlike my son, I do have beautiful memories of my siblings.  I remember my sister and I walking around in our pink cardigan sweaters, the closest replicas we had so that we could pretend to be “Pink Ladies” from the movie Grease.  I remember us playing store, making our own credit card for an establishment we named, “The Odd Box.”  I remember my brother keeping me safe during the night, when I was convinced clowns were coming in from around the edges of my window and were going to get me.  I don’t remember him ever teasing me about those clowns, instead he’d let me wake him up, and climb into bed next to him.  My protector.

   Maybe some sibling relationships only work when you’re all living together, and you’re forced to make it work.  Maybe as three stubborn adults, it’s easier to let things go and to not work as hard to keep it together.  I have no nice, neat explanation for the why’s or the how’s.  

   I only have these words that sum up how I feel:  

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

- W. S. Merwin

Have a Good Day!

   “Have a great day.”  

   “Thanks, you too.”

   “Have a good one.”

   “You too.”

   They are pleasantries, exchanged with co-workers, acquaintances, strangers you happen to make eye-contact with while waiting in line.  Do they mean anything?  Do they put good vibes out in the universe?  Do they buoy us up, make us happier?

   Of course, it’s much more pleasant to the ear to hear “Have a great day” than “Have a lousy day.”  But, why do we feel compelled to say it, and then reciprocate it?

   Has too much cynicism invaded my soul that I’m even questioning this innocuous greeting?  I don’t think so.  I just think a lot, wonder a lot, question a lot.  I think it’s harmless, a genial habit; I just wonder if that exchange has any long-reaching effects.

   People are becoming increasingly alienated from each other.  We drive around in our own little bubbles.  We walk around with ear buds protruding from our ears, talking to or listening to something that others can’t hear.  Outside of the car, we’re still within our own personal bubble.  There are fewer human connections being made; yet, we’re wishing people a good day.  People we don’t know.

   Do we mean it?  Do we just say it because we think it’s the right thing to do?  Or, is there a larger purpose?

   I can’t change the world.  Change, as in end all senseless killing, make sure all children are safe, well-fed, housed, and loved.  I can make changes, though.  Small changes.

   Maybe it’s like putting together a two-thousand piece puzzle.  You dump all the pieces out of the box, and it can be overwhelming.  Where do we start?  Well, the border; start with the pieces with flat sides.  Maybe your puzzle has a red and white hot air balloon.  Move on to the balloon.  You complete the puzzle little by little, piece by piece.  And maybe that’s how human kindness spreads.

   I take my cafe mocha from the harried barista, offer a “thank you,” and wish her a good day.  Maybe she pauses a minute, maybe the beginnings of a smile escape from the corners of her mouth.  Maybe later she’ll notice someone in line that looks despondent, maybe she’ll linger when she hands over the cappuccino, make eye contact, and wish that patron a nice day.

   Maybe that’s how it starts.

   If not, then there was no harm done.  I’ve tried.  And like I always told my students, all you can do is try your best.