Category: Blogging

  • Dear Dave Grohl

    522343_506793776000458_45621637_nFirst, let me say this: you are one of my favorite rock stars.

    You’re talented. With that guitar/drum/piano playing thing, hell, you could record an album all by yourself. Oh, wait, you did. See what I mean. Tal. En. Ted.

    I love your music. No, let me rephrase. I freaking love your music. I don’t have a single running playlist that doesn’t include at least one Foo Fighters song. Your tempos and my cadence are a match made in heaven. That I run to “Walk” puts an “I’ve got a secret” smile on my face that makes the other runners jealous. Ok, they aren’t jealous. They look at me and think I’m nuts.

    You would probably get my little inside joke, though, ‘cause you’re hilarious! Most of your videos have me laughing out loud. I love a guy who isn’t afraid to put on some braces, a wig with ponytails, and a dress for his art.

    You’re resilient.  That whole Kurt Cobain thing could have really messed you up, but you got on with your life. And Nirvana? Hello! Way to entirely change the face of music in your own time. Good job, dude!

    You are practically a rock god. And that’s my problem.

    My son adores you. In fact, my son is the reason I know who you are at all. Because I don’t want to be listening to Jackson Brown and the Beatles in the nursing home, I’m up for hearing anything my son brings my way. And he brought you.

    In addition to loving your music, my son sees himself in you. You play drums; my son plays drums. You play guitar; my son plays guitar. You care more about the music than the rock star trappings. My son cares more about the music than being a rock star.

    You are, in short, my son’s hero, so I’d like you to do something for me. I know I’m about to sound like a narrow-minded suburban mom with a stick up my ass. Well, let me set you straight right now. I am a very broad-minded suburban mom with a stick up my ass. So here goes.

    Please stop making jokes about how you dropped out of high school.

    My son and I saw you on Chelsea Lately the other night. You were, in fact, the only reason we watched at all. The conversation went like this:

    Chelsea: (after some preliminary chat) And you dropped out of high school!

    You: Yeah! (that’s when you and Chelsea high-fived, even though Chelsea graduated from Livingston High School in 1993.)

    Then you addressed the audience, saying, “Stay in school and don’t do drugs or you’ll end up like me!”

    Dave, that is exactly what my son wants to do . . .end up like you. Never mind that you started playing in bands at 13. Never mind that you quit school to join Scream on their European tour at 17. Never mind that my son hasn’t played in a band yet. All he wants to do is play music; he has no interest in homework when he can pass the tests without studying or doing the “stupid busy work.” He has no interest in high school at all.

    Dropping out of high school was the right thing for you to do. Your mom told you so. Dropping out of high school is not the right thing for my son.

    When my son was younger, he wouldn’t eat vegetables. I told him, “I bet if Dave Grohl told you to eat your vegetables, you would.” “Mom,” he said, “I would eat my plate if Dave Grohl told me to.”

    So, Dave, back off the drop out jokes. Whether you want to be or not, you are a role model.

    Thanks!

    Janice

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 10

    Photo: HLNTV
    Photo: HLNTV

    The scene: my bedroom. I’m getting dressed while my daughter watches.

    Daughter: You’re fat, Mommy.

    Me: I am NOT fat!

    Daughter: Well, you’re not fat like that lady on TV.

    Me: What lady?

    Daughter: You know . . .the one who got run over by a forklift.

    Me: What are you talking about!?

    Daughter: Oh, you know . . .Honey Boo Boo’s mom.

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 9

    http://www.csb-cde.ca.gov/luckytouch.htm

    The setting: a Chinese restaurant. We’ve finished eating, cracked our cookies and are sharing our fortunes.

    Daughter: Oh, no! It says, “Welcome the change coming into your life!”

    Me: That sounds ok. What change are you afraid of welcoming?

    Daughter: Puberty!

  • Welcoming thanks

    Welcoming thanks

    It’s half way through November and it’s happening again. People all around me are grateful. I have friends who post daily what they are grateful for, everything from goofy co-workers to post-workout meals to husbands returning from out of town trips. One friend is even expressing her gratitude in haiku, but she’s an English professor, so don’t hate.

    I asked my grateful friends why they are making these daily gratitudinal adjustments. They said things like, “Gratitude frees me to be a more hopeful, kinder person.” The haiku-writing professor likes being reminded, “to appreciate what I have. I like the daily Facebook project because doing it every day makes me notice the little things. They kind of turn out to be the big things, so I enjoy that irony.”

    This professor predicted that I would find all this gratitude annoying. She is right, which is also annoying.

    We owe our current focus on thankfulness to the positive psychology movement. Sometime around 2000, researchers found that feeling grateful had a strong and direct correlation to happiness. According to my extensive research on Wikipedia,

    Grateful people are happier, less depressed, less stressed, and more satisfied with their lives and social relationships[19][22][23] Grateful people also have higher levels of control of their environments, personal growth, purpose in life, and self acceptance.[24] Grateful people have more positive ways of coping with the difficulties they experience in life, being more likely to seek support from other people, reinterpreted and grow from the experience, and spend more time planning how to deal with the problem.[25]

    That all sounds good, and like all things good, it gets perverted.

    Corporations get hold of gratitude research and suddenly you’re getting phone calls during dinner thanking you for buying a new dishwasher. Turns out that you’re 70 percent more likely to buy from that dishwasher dealer again if you’re thanked than if you aren’t. My favorite corporate perversion of gratitude is the tech support person who thanks me for calling to report my problem then asks how she can give me excellent service. I’ve never said, “Hm. Well, how about making a product that always works so I don’t ever have to make you grateful again?” I’d be grateful for that.

    I’ve frequently been accused of over-intellectualizing and seeing conspiracy around every corner. This is why I keep Professors among my friends. Not one has ever accused me of over-intellectualizing. In fact, I’m quite the lightweight in intellectual terms. So, I know none of them will roll their eyes when I opine that gratitude is the new opiate of the masses.

    Constantly being exhorted to be grateful for what we have here and now smacks a little too much of the same philosophy that keeps all disadvantaged peoples happy where they are. Add to the “be happy with what you have” message another one promising reward in the future for contentment today and you’ve got a pretty good recipe for enslaving whole groups of people.

    Saying “Thank you” implies that something has been given and while I firmly believe that we should be thankful for our blessings, gifts, or whatever you want to call them, the focus is still on what we have. Gratitude gurus and others selling gratitude keep us caught in the goodies game by having us chasing after more and more gratitude. Now we have to ask not just have we been grateful, but have we been grateful enough. The more grateful we are, the more we will have to be grateful for. It is an infinite loop of gratitude.

    And it makes me feel that we’re missing something. When I was a kid, my mother taught me that the proper response to “Thank you”, is “You’re welcome.” But we’re so driven to thanks, that hardly anyone says “You’re welcome” anymore.

    These days, the answer to “Thank you” is “Thank you.” I noticed it first in radio interviews, where the host thanks the guest for appearing and the guest thanks the host for hosting. They sign off the same way, thanking each other until every reason for the two of them existing in the same space at the same time—even though it is their jobs to do so—has been thoroughly thanked.

    I know my “welcomes” are fewer and I’m betting yours are, too. Listen to yourself the next time you pay for something. The clerk thanks you as she hands back your change; you thank the clerk as you accept it. Hell, I even say “Thank you” instead of “Goodbye” when ending a phone call sometimes.

    But what difference does it make if we say “You’re welcome” when we are thanked or if we respond to thanks with more thanks. Aren’t we still spreading the love?

    “Thank you” is all about getting goodies, even if, as is the case with getting change back, they are goodies that are yours to begin with. “You’re welcome,” in comparison, is about giving. When we say, “you’re welcome” we acknowledge thanks but avow that there is no indebtedness, nothing to pay back, no need for gratitude at all. “You’re welcome,” opens our lives to a more authentic feeling of bounty. I don’t just give to you; I welcome you to take from what I have.

    Every year, family and friends gather at my house for Thanksgiving. I’ve done it so many years that it no longer causes any anxiety. In fact, it’s Monday and I haven’t even bought the turkey yet.

    I’ve had anywhere from ten to more than twenty people at my tables, because it usually takes more than one. Not too long ago, I had planned for twenty-two guests. Thanksgiving morning, my niece called begging to bring one more person, an exchange student from Sweden, to the feast.

    Much as I love the baking, cooking and decorating for Thanksgiving, I love the gathering. Of course, the exchange student came because, for me, it’s the welcoming that matters when we’re giving thanks.

  • Writer’s Block

    Write a sentence.

    Let the dog out.

    Pour a cup of tea.

    Let the dog in.

     

    Delete a sentence

    Read email.

    Check Facebook.

     

    Write a sentence.

    Scrub the floor.

    Wash my face.

    Pour a cup of tea.

     

    Write a paragraph.

    Do backbends seated in my swivel chair.

    Pull my hair by the roots.

    Delete a sentence

     

    Let the dog out.

    Write a sentence.

    Brush my teeth.

    Write a sentence

    Let the dog in.

     

    Write a sentence

    I had hoped for something longer today. This will have to do.

     

  • Where do babies come from?

    Where do babies come from?

    Photo: Zimbio.com

    Nicole Kidman, Edie Falco and Sharon Stone did it. Sandra Bullock, Charlize Theron and Katherine Heigl did it. Barbara Walters and Diane Keaton did it. I know someone who was with Meg Ryan when she did it.

    It isn’t only women who do it. Tony Shaloub and even Ozzy Osbourne did it.

    And I did it, too.

    Nine years ago, on September 15, I, with my husband, adopted a baby girl from China. I’ve written about adoption before; it was an angry—some might say “snide”—response to the idiocy many people express about adoption and to those on all sides of the adoption triangle.

    But adoption hasn’t only exposed me to idiocy. It has brought me an overabundance of joy. My daughter is beautiful, smart, funny, loving, generous, and kind. We adoptive parents like to joke that it’s ok for us to brag about our children ‘cause it’s not like we’re patting our own genetic code on the back. But I will gladly tell you that my son, who came from my womb, is handsome, smart, funny, loving (in a teenage boy kind of way), generous and kind.

    Adoption has changed my vocabulary. My daughter isn’t adopted, she was adopted. As soon as the papers were signed, she became my daughter. I don’t usually say my son come from my womb, as I did above, though I prefer that description. I refer to him as my “biological son” if anyone asks and people frequently ask when they see him and his sister together. He has some smart-ass comments he keeps for people who ask if she was adopted, but he has a smart-ass comment for just about everything. Calling my son “biological” seems to imply, to me at least, that my daughter is somehow not made of the same stuff. Calling him my “natural” child is equally strange for me. Is my daughter then “unnatural?”

    Adoption has changed the way many people see me. Because I’ve adopted, many people think I’m brave. They consider the things I’ve done—traveling to China, adopting “someone else’s child”—to be scary things.

    Becoming a parent was scary. Deciding to try to get pregnant was scary, in a jumping off a cliff and hoping for a soft landing sort of way.

    With adoption, there was no fear. We took one red-tape filled step at a time, confident that there was a child for us at the end of the journey. Traveling to China? With an eight-year old boy? Immediately following lifting of the SARS travel ban? Didn’t faze me. Trying to get pregnant is a tentative sort of venture. Who knows how it will end? Adoption is a deliberate process. Every form filled out, every interview, every trip to a consulate, state or county official says, “We will have a child.”

    Adoption has brought me close to people I might never have bothered to know. I don’t usually go out of my way to befriend people whose politics and principles are so different from my own. My adoption community includes people with dramatically different politics and principles.

    When I was pregnant with my son, a good friend was as well. We had a bump bonding moment in the ladies’ room at a restaurant in Bloomington, Indiana. She showed me her distended belly button and I showed her mine. I can’t imagine showing my belly button to my adoption community friends. Most of them have never met me in person.

    But though our world is mainly virtual, our friendship is very real. We’ve been through the typical things long time friends weather like divorces, illnesses, teenagers. But only my adoption friends can provide comfort when I’ve just held my daughter while she sobs for her real mother.  Only they can assure me that I’ve handled it well, that I’ve done what a real mother does.

    People tell me they couldn’t do what I’ve done; that they could never love a child that wasn’t their own. There’s a witty reply: I love her as my own because she is my own, just as her brother is my own.

    When my son was born, he was placed in my arms and I had no idea what to do with him. I fell in love with him but it wasn’t an overnight thing.

    On September 14, a Chinese woman placed Lin Chun Mei in my arms. On September 15, she became my daughter, Abigail Mei. The next day, pushing her stroller toward the elevator at the White Swan Hotel in Guangdong Province, I knew she was my own, that my love for her was no different than my love for my son.

    Before I went to China, I learned a single phrase in Mandarin. When I met my daughter, I told her, “Wo shi ni de mama. Wo shi yung yuan ni de mama.”

    I am your mama. I will always be your mama.

    The Princess of Snide
  • A month of many moustaches

    I’m torn. November used to just be the month of turkey, cranberries and raking leaves. Now, though, November seems to have developed a split personality and both of those personalities are calling me.

    November is National Adoption Month.  My family was built through adoption; many of you know I’ve written about the idiotic things people say about adoption and adoptees. I promise I’ll write more about adoption this month, and not everything will be snide. Really. I can do it. You’ll just have to trust me.

    November is also Movember, a month devoted to raising awareness of prostate cancer and male mental health issues. I have my own mental health issues to deal with, so I’ll stick to prostate cancer for this post.

    I first heard of Movember through a magnificent™ Canadian blogger, Le Clown. “Movember” combines the words moustache and November, because participants raise awareness of prostate cancer by growing moustaches.

    Because I learned of Movember through a Canadian, I assumed it was started by Canadians. Turns out Movember is an Australian brainchild. Now, though, Movember is a worldwide movement. While I don’t have a prostate, I do have a few men in my life, including my husband.

    Like all cancers, prostate cancer is best treated in the early stages, but prostate cancer screening is controversial. My husband’s doctor uses PSA tests; your doctor might not. I asked my husband about his adventures in prostate cancer screening solely as an example.

    Me: Why did you have to have that biopsy of your prostate?

    Him: Because my PSA was high.

    Me: That’s all?

    Him: No, my prostate was enlarged . . .

    Me:  He knew that from, you know, sticking his finger . . .

    Him: Yes! God! Stop!

    Me: Ok, so ewwwww. That’s all? He just put his finger in and knew?

    Him: Will you stop!? No! I couldn’t pee.

    Me: What do you mean you couldn’t pee? I hear you pee in the middle of the night all the time. Are you saying you sleep pee?

    Him: No, but you might have noticed peeing takes about a week. Since drinking water is also recommended for my health, each glass of water extends my time in the bathroom by another day. (He does, indeed, take an inordinate amount of time peeing.)

    Me: Ok. So you needed the biopsy. What was that like?

    Him: It was like someone put a tiny AK47 in me and sprayed the inside of my ass with bullets.

    Me: (hysterical laughing) Ok. Did you have to ask for the screening?

    Him: No. It was just part of my yearly exam.

    All with my husband’s end ended well but he and I have reached the age when humiliating exams need to be undertaken on a yearly basis. He gets a finger in his butt and I get a mammogram. I try to convince him that having your boobs squashed flat in three different positions on both sides is far more of a trial than having one itty bitty finger inserted in his down there. He’s not buying it.

    There are many ways to make a statement this Movember:

    •  grow a mustache and let everyone know why

    •  donate to Movember or your favorite cancer foundation

    and, if you have a prostate,

    •  talk to your doctor about prostate cancer screening.

  • Room with a view

    Room with a view

    Sometimes, words fail. Sometimes, it feels like everything fails. And then, sometimes, it takes so little to start to turn it around.

    My office window is behind me as I write, so I keep the blinds drawn to cut the glare. This morning it’s gray and drizzly. I cursed the darkness, thinking, I need to get more light in here, and imagining a trip to Ikea. Then I remembered the blinds; they are closed so often I don’t even think of them. I opened the blinds to a scene from the garden I’ve neglected for months.

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 6

    Occasionally, I rebel against the mashed potato and un-sauced meat diet that keeps my family fed. Then, I go to the hot food and salad bars at Whole Foods and pile a mish-mash of green things into a box to eat while the heathens make their daily sacrifice to the Gods of Meat.

    Recently, my son looked inquiringly at my plate. “Whatcha got there?” he asked. Because hope truly does spring eternal, I jumped at the chance to introduce him to foods without hooves.

    “Well,” I said, “This is cole slaw, that’s tofu and this is broccoli.”

    He didn’t turn away, so I continued on a tour of my dinner plate.

    “This is quinoa salad and that, with the yogurt, is falafel.”

    He looked at me and said,  “Now you’re just making up words.”