scattered PICtures

Are you old enough to remember the movie BIG? Do you remember the scene when Tom Hanks calls his mother (after he becomes big and runs away to the city), and she (Mercedes Ruehl, one of the best actresses of my time) says to him "If you're Josh,what song did I sing to you as a baby?"

And the song was Memories. So he sings it quietly so no one else around him will hear, with the following intonations...

Mem'ries....likethecornersofmymind

Scattered PICtures...

My best friend Kim and I did (well, sang) this all the time when we were young. I have files in Outlook Express, on my laptop, in my picture boxes in the closet labeled "scattered PICtures."

Because it makes me smile or giggle. Or it makes me misty. Or all three (at once).

Like these pictures do.

I have taken pictures of my feet since I was a kid. First, just because I was happy an adult would let me hold a camera, I took pics of everything. Years later, I took pics of my cute summer sandals. Now I take pics of m feet wherever, whenever, because I think it's indicative of stages in life. I need professional help (I don't mean a better photographer).

My family on ice.

Saturday was the dog's birthday. It breaks my heart to see my one year old pooch hobbling around on bad hips, so I spoiled her with a doggie cake. The lady who runs the dog and cat bakery (Paw Pleasers) became an instant friend.

Christmas List & GO CRENSHAW!!!

G = Grandma's getting it for me

P = Parents getting it for me

1. Demarini CF4 31 inches/20 ounces - G

2. A Good Fishing Pole - G

3. A Really Good Tackle Box For Fishing - P

4. Some Good Trout Bait That Works - G

5. A Lot Of Money To Help My Dog Lulu

6. A Larry English Chargers Uniform - P

7. Some New Nike Cross Trainers (Black/White) - P

Reading his list, I think to myself that life is simple when you're a 10 year old boy.

It's not for all kids. I hate this fact of life.

Tomorrow, my son's football team competes in a playoff game to get to a championship. It will be raining, we'll be cheering them on as we shiver from the wind coming off the ocean, but we won't be complaining. It's a privilege. It will also be my birthday, and of course my wish is for glory.

Not just for my son's team.

The story of Crenshaw High in South Central Los Angeles reads like a movie (several movies in fact, but that's another blog), but it's non-fiction. From the homeless student players to the losing record, to the gangs in the area. But they're one game away from a State Championship, thanks in part to their benefactor, Snoop Dogg. Go Crenshaw! I will be thinking of you, wishing championship bowl games, dreams fulfilled, and a peaceful world for all kids. I will be 39, and you will be #1.

Read more about Crenshaw in the Wall Street Journal here. I love this story.

Photo courtesy of Squidoo - holiday cards for pet lovers that help animal charities - buy some!

The Age of Hypocrisy Awareness

"Great, kid! Don't get cocky!" Han Solo to Luke Skywalker, Star Wars

Come to find out there is a developmental stage when kids start to question if their parents are living by the same rules which they profess.

I am living through such a stage.

The kid is 10 years old. Participating in the dichotomy of how things are (what I tell him about the world) and how he sees them (becoming his own critical, independent thinker) has been an enjoyable journey, until now.

The kid has started to call me on things.

You know how in Star Wars Luke Skywalker's idealism bounces off the smug Han Solo's occasionally clouded values? It's kind of like that.

My kid: "We can so beat that other team."

Me: "Don't be cocky, dude."

Later that day -

Me: "My home made refried beans rival those of any taco shop!"

My kid: "Don't get cocky, Mom."

When my child said to me last year "I can't follow a rule unless it makes sense to me," I suppressed my Cheshire Cat grin and resisted the urge to jump up and down in victory, feeling pretty good that I was succeeding in raising a non-conformist, or at the very least, another INTJ. But what if it doesn't make sense to him to clean his room, what if he "doesn't see the point" in feeding the dog? He may be developing an individual approach to data and circumstance, but he is a little guy. This forming-his-own-identity thing still needs some guidance.

Like when Skywalker says "I got one!" in a battle with Han Solo, and Han Solo delivers the now famous line about being cocky.

Another example:

Me: "You need to do your [baseball] hitting drills. When you set a goal, you need to do something each day towards that goal."

My kid: "Like you and your book? You only blog. Or play on Facebook and Twitter. I don't see you writing your book every day. Mom."

Alright, that's it. All of a sudden the kids are sippy-cup philosophers.

But really, they're just doing what I've taught them to do. Question they way things are when they don't seem balanced or fair. (Damn it).

Since my son began his streak of parental awareness, I've been up late at night, every night, with my ultra-fine point red Sharpie making notes in my book. I've made less excuses, and I have dark circles under my eyes to prove it. The lessons I'm imparting to the kids are unexpectedly jump-starting my own goals and refreshing my ideals, it's a developmental stage in parenthood, I think.

But I, trying to maintain authority while disguising fallibility, will never tell my son that. What are the chances that he already knows? What are the odds that I can make a good man out of the smart mouth kid without a getting a little bit of mud on my face?

Don't tell me.

Saving the Pooch

Doggie doc says hip dysplasia in both hips. Surgery anywhere from $2,500-$10,000. For our dog, Lulu.

Which presents the dilemma about ten to fifteen years sooner than I wanted to deal with it; how much is it worth to keep your companion living? Because I've never been the type of person who would put down an animal that could be saved. I've never been in this situation, before either - well, not exactly.

Terra, our last dog, was a pit bull/Rottweiler mix with hip dysplasia that caused mild, continuous discomfort. With Terra, the vet initially said surgery was likely, with 6 to 8 years of quality life thereafter, and then we'd have to make "the decision." Terra lived to be 10 years old and never required surgery. We medicated her and she frolicked, jumped like a rabbit, and chased us around the house for years until one day she just couldn't walk anymore.

But Lulu, oh, our Lulu...who started limping last month about the same age that Terra began to show signs of lameness, and this caused my heart to sink. It's two weeks before Lulu's surgical consult and I am doing things quite contradictory: detaching as I pull closer, being frugal about Christmas and December birthdays as I prepare to burn our savings on the family pet, and cursing our bad luck with animals while I enjoy the pleasure of Lulu's loyal, endearing company.

All those contradictions in action make me feel like I have a mental grip on the situation. I can weigh the emotional cost of losing a dog to the financial burden of keeping her around with practicality, because that is what adults do. I do this without anyone knowing what I am thinking.

Then, as if on cue, the dog walks up to me and gives me those eyes. Feed me. I don't want to be put down, I really love this family. I'd rather have a body that works and doesn't cause you any trouble. If the dog could talk, that's what she'd say.

Or an ASPCA commercial comes on, showing a neglected dog behind big white letters on the screen that say things like AM I GOING TO DIE TODAY? or WHY DID THEY ABANDON ME? And then not only do I want to save my pooch, but every other animal on the planet.

And the kids. The kids, who cry at the mere mention of a shortened life span for the dog. The kids, who cried every night for months at bedtime when we put Terra down. The kids, who ask me if I am going to decide to put the dog down, "because the vet said we could fix her, Mom!".

I make hundreds of decisions a week that are easy, simple, or only cerebral - whole wheat or white? PB & J in the lunches or tuna fish? Spinning class or yoga?

Then I have to make a decision that has no easy answer. And about this, I should not complain.

I suppose I am only asking...what is it going to take to save the pooch?

I hope I can save everyone else in the process.

End to a Family Feud

I didn't have brothers or sisters growing up. An only child, I didn't evolve with sibling rivalry and until now as a parent, had no idea what siblings do to each other, and so tired of it unrelenting, how parents will ignore the less offensive and violent squabbles.

When I met my husband, and we dated over a summer and got to know each other, he mentioned his brothers and slowly I got to know them, two younger ones, pretty well. Well enough for them to let me see their familial anger erupt with each other, yelling and screaming, infantile behavior, over....[drum roll please].....sharks and whales.

Also, Godzilla and Gamra. And lions and tigers. And bears, when you bring sports into it. My husband and his brothers fought over whose team was superior and going to the Series, or the Super Bowl. Fighting over which animals, teams, or fictitious creatures were better.

You know, brother stuff. Which I was entertained by and happy to leave alone, for the most part.

I had to get involved in the shark and orca, lion and tiger debate. I couldn't help it. That summer of hubby courting me and my introduction to brotherly "dynamics", we watched Shark Week and the arguing was so assesine, I called my voice mail, recorded them, and then played it back for them so they could see what dumb asses they sounded like. But the truth was, I enjoyed every minute of it. I laughed in ways I didn't think possible. I hoped I got to marry into the family because they were just as crazy as mine (in my family, we fight about politics and religion).

I've had a thing about lions all my life. Don't know why, I just find them majestic. Naturally, the guy who would become hubby preferred tigers (also, the Auburn Tigers, for reasons unknown to any of us). I insisted, as did his brothers, that lions were not called "The King of the Jungle" for nothing. Argument over. Not really.

But I was working at Sea World of San Diego at this time. Killer whales are kind of Sea World's thing. I believed then, and still believe now, that a killer whale - big brain, socially advanced with young to protect - would destroy a great white shark. Also, I had known animal behaviorists, biologists, trainers and caregivers of Orcas for years. So I asked the head of Animal Care myself, "Who would win, an orca or white shark?" And the answer I got was "Orca." It wasn't a wishy-washy answer, it didn't even come with a "Well, if the whale was sick or injured..."

The answer, from the trenches, was ... orca.

You can't argue with a guy who's been on the ocean for three decades. So that was the end of it. Not really.

But my hubby-to-be affirmed then, and still does now, that the brute strength, bite pressure, and longevity of the shark species give the great white an advantage in a duel with a killer whale.

I found it very heartening that his brothers always agreed with me. That was almost as good as the hilarity the brothers all provided. That fellowship and chance to get in silly arguments with siblings I so missed as a child was irresistible later in life, even against the guy I loved. His brothers accepted me and it was just fun to playfully disagree and verbally spar with my man, making him so red-in-the-face mad.

After almost 19 years with my hubby now, the debates still rage on. At holiday dinners, someone always mentions Godzilla, or Shark Week ("it's Shark Week because no one would watch Orca Week" hubby says), and hubby and his brothers all give their Mother reason to be proud. They, all much older now, will argue anytime, anywhere, even on special occasions, over things no one else gives a crap about.

I so would not change that about them. I have what I always missed. And science, my brothers-in-law, former colleagues, and now, National Geographic are all on my side.

This video just surfaced. I e-mailed it to my brothers-in-law and hubby. One of my b-i-l's replied within minutes, so enthusiastic to see the footage we've needed all these years to prove our point. Who surfaced after the underwater battle between two oceanic creatures, the fish or the mammal? Huh?

The argument is over. Really.

Behold the fiercest creature in the animal kingdom - not the orca, not the shark, but the Momma.

THE PLAYDATE MENU

Prior to Thanksgiving vacation, I vowed that the ONLY television we would watch would be Elf, Charlie Brown, and new Food Network Thanksgiving episodes. NO Disney Channel. NO Nickelodeon. No widdling away time in front of a television when we could be using our time off from school and activities to, just, be. Be with each other, not rushed from one place to the next, not scrambling to get homework, dinner, and bath done before 8:00 p.m. I wanted free unstructured time, and not in front of the television.

So I scheduled play dates for the kids, against my nature of seclusion. The kids could play while I baked, chopped, sauteed, and rendered fat from pork.

I have never doubted the existence of Guardian Angels, but I am starting more and more to believe in an "I'll show you!" Fairy. Some sprite that hangs around in anticipation for jest, whispers "IRONY" on the wind, and cracks up every time Samantha lays out some meticulous plan for this or that, despite making a plan not to have a plan at all.

Because I operate well under duress, and I seem to see things the most clearly that way. It makes perfect sense that I am pushed into the path of fate by my own take-it-all-on approach.

The television stayed mostly off and spared my sanity that way, but this of course created a new problem - the kids had to get their kicks somehow. My plan to limit the resistance to serenity went awry when the kids trashed the house and I had a minefield of toys, games, dress up clothes and otherwise useless plastic kiddie crap strewn everywhere in my home, even in the kitchen, where I almost tripped several times with full pots, hot pans, or sharp objects in my hands.

However, we accomplished the unstructured part pretty well, through a back door of sorts.

And that's what I get. That's what I get for talking a good game. I got what I intended by sacrificing something else, and it was always meant to be the way it was. Plans are an illusion.

Four pots over-boiling as I juggled the proverbial balls in the air; phone ringing, neighbor at the door, dollhouse jammed shut - I really did see my options clearly. My plans may have gone to hell, but at least I had choices....

1) Eliminate all household safety hazards and then quickly lock myself in my room.

No, I'll get a bad reputation as a careless woman and that would suck for my kids.

2) Get on my hands and knees and pray for mercy, despite which child may be watching.

Too dramatic.

3) Put all kids in the car and go for yogurt.

Don't have everyone's car seat. Wasn't meant to be.

4) Channel Nurse Ratched as a means of control.

Too mean. And that would come back to haunt me for sure.

5) Laugh...open myself up to this so-not-a-crisis, privileged, all-I-ever-wanted day.

And eat some fish sticks to make it absolutely perfect.

I don't know about all of the other parents of kids on vacation last week, but I used up every last chicken nugget (Mickey Mouse shaped, I love those), fish stick, baby carrot and frozen pizza I had in the back of my freezer.

And I set aside the cornbread, cranberries, and all-purpose flour for a while to make homemade tartar sauce and homemade cocktail sauce for the fish sticks, then dug out a family recipe to make holiday cookies with the girls.

I've since had to replenish our fish stick supply twice, and the homemade sauces are requested more often than I can keep up.

I may have inadvertently created a new holiday tradition. Don't talk, don't plan. Just, be.

And never forsake your fairies and angels.

HOMEMADE TARTAR SAUCE

1 cup mayonnaise

juice from 1/2 a lemon

2 tbsp. sweet relish

optional: minced gherkins and/or capers

Mix all ingredients together.

HOMEMADE COCKTAIL SAUCE

1 cup ketchup

juice from 1/2 a lemon

2 tsp. horseradish

Mix all ingredients together.

DUTCH NUTMEG COOKIES

My Mom's recipe.

1 cup butter

¼ tsp. baking soda

¼ tsp. salt

¼ tsp. ground cloves

½ tsp. nutmeg

1 tsp. cinnamon

1 cup sugar

½ cup chopped nuts (we prefer almonds)

2 cups sifted flour

¼ cup sour cream

Cream butter with first five ingredients until fluffy. Gradually add sugar until batter is fluffy.

Stir in nuts. Add flour alternately with sour cream. Mix well. Roll into logs and refrigerate overnight, or put in the freezer for about an hour. Cut into 1/8 inch slices and bake at 375º for approximately ten minutes.

Watch them closely – they burn easily!

WRITE OF PASSAGE

I was doing the usual mom of 3 thing around bedtime a few nights ago; issuing threats to lollygaggers, helping break up fights over toothbrushes, yawning, and flicking through the channels looking for something everyone could agree on.

One of the channels was showing THE OUTSIDERS. It took me just a few seconds to be 13 years old again, a 7th grader who'd just discovered literary angst through S.E. Hinton. "Mom!" (The time trip never lasts long.) "Mom! What are you watching?" They're so used to the sounds of the Food Network or ESPN this time of day, they didn't recognize the smooth voice of Matt Dillon or the sounds of shouting during a "rumble."

"Is that The Outsiders?" hubby asked. All of a sudden, the family was gathered around the television. I started my son on The Outsiders book a few months ago. He's outgrown Magic Tree House and Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and I felt 5th grade was a good time to introduce class struggles, social dynamics, tough (sorry, "tuff") hairstyles and cars, and everything else that comes with the book. Really, I was shuffling through a stack of books one day when he was rejecting every suggestion I had, and The Outsiders was the only book that didn't look like all the others, wasn't part of a repetitive series, and hadn't been transformed into a blockbuster movie that had every kid dressing in similar Halloween costumes. So he agreed to read it. My son and his teacher thereafter began a regular discourse about the book. (I didn't know that until the other night.)

When he shrugged his shoulders and said "Sure" when I offered it up, I felt triumphant, but not because he'd get his 30 minutes of reading done that day and the current battle was over. It was as if I was sneaking in a right of passage under an unrecognized author name and unassuming book cover. I was certain my son would begin talking about social injustice within the next day or so.

But he was quiet about the book until the movie came on. I tuned in during the part of the movie where the church burns down. It's further ahead in the book than he has read, and I had to explain a lot to not just my son but the other kids. When we got to the rumble part on the television screen, my son asked "Are those the soc's?" but pronounced soc's "socks." "It's pronounced so-shes, baby."

"Is that Darry? Is that Dally? Where is Johnny? Are they getting along now?" "Does anybody die in the fire?" "Why are they fighting?" they badgered.

Good questions, all. I think I had the same questions when I saw the book adapted to the silver screen.

When I was in 7th grade, I memorized Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost. I remembered and never forgot this quote from the book, said by Johnny: "There is still lots of good in the world. Tell Dally, I don't think he knows."

Other things I remember from 7th grade are carrying my beat-up paperback of The Outsiders with me from class to class, not even putting it in my backpack. And C. Thomas Howell. I remember waiting for the next Tiger Beat issues to come out on the news stands with 8x11 glossy shots of The Outsiders movie stars so I could tack them to my bedroom wall.

Watching the movie twenty-six years ago, I took notice of Rob Lowe's chest, Tom Cruise's muscles (he did have them), and Tommy Howell's sweet, shy demeanor. The movie, based on a great book, made us grade school girls boy crazy.

That night watching the movie with my own kids, the (once) young, fresh faces and well-timed bare-chest scenes of Hollywood's up-and-coming in the 1980s were just a backstory to me. A faint memory of teenage celebrity crushes. All I noticed, and all I thought about while mumbling movie quotes under my breath, were the Johnny Cade's and Dallas Winston's of the world.

There are still too many of them. And not enough Ponyboy's.

When Patrick Swayze ("Darry") had a scene with Tommy Howell and Rob Lowe, I became even more melancholy; he is the first "Outsider" to die. "That's the guy that plays Bodhi in Point Break, guys," I told the kids. My kids know that movie pretty well - we're big wave watchers, live and filmed.

Darry in The Outsiders > Sam Wheat in Ghost > Johnny in Dirty Dancing > Bodhi in Point Break, that seems like a lifetime...how many years in between The Outsiders and Point Break? Answer: 9.

Those were 9 years that I should have been reading Robert Frost. I did a lot of growing up from 1983-1991, and not. Nine years in between being a boy crazy 7th grader and a wide-eyed college student, counting down the days until I could legally walk into a bar and order an outrageous, flourescent drink with an umbrella. By the time the cast of The Outsiders had grown up, I was otherwise absorbed, but the undercurrents, themes, and lessons in The Outsiders were still somewhere in my mind during that time, I just didn't know it.

A few months ago my friend Jane who teaches writing at UCB posted an article about S.E. Hinton, and how The Outsiders was now 4 decades old.

It has taken me 26 years to really understand the book (and movie). It was near impossible to get it when I was 13 and loving Tommy Howell. I had to pass the book on and be a mother - I hate to admit that - to feel the misfortunes of, and be so sad and afraid for, the characters. To see how much there is to lose, which I had a surface understanding of then, but hope my kids realize on a deeper level now.

That is the beauty of The Outsiders. It takes gritty subject material and makes it conceivable, non-romanticized, and comprehensible for just about anybody. It was written by a teenager, not an adult trying to remember what it was like to be, or trying disingenuously to get inside the head of, a conflicted kid. With symbols and events you could apply to society today, the book takes on questions of belonging and issues of survival.

S.E. Hinton captured empathy and through dialogue that pulls you, nearly denied that anyone was a lost cause. She drew literary lines in society without using cliches. She gave us a poignant speech by a tragic character on why "fighting is useless, ain't no good" but also snuck in a juxtaposition of bad boy and good girl, that inevitable attraction, appropriately.

The Outsiders was so well written that in my 9 year gap of lucid thoughts, I almost missed some real characters in my search for stereotypes I had found in fiction.

Fiction?

With the combination of S.E. Hinton books and John Hughes movies, I practically had a users' manual for my teenage years.

Too bad I don't have one for parenthood. The next best thing I have is my collection of books and movies that got me through awkward stages, the books and movies that answered questions and replaced discussions I didn't want to have with my parents, the books and movies which reminded me of fictitious characters who felt the same way I did. So I pass the collection on (I do it for Johnny!).

As I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house...