Vivid Living

So I’m at the Starbucks tucked inside Barnes and Noble the other day, killing an hour in-between appointments. It’s about Noon. “I recognize you,” says Jeannie Ritter, Colorado’s First Lady.  “And I recognize you,” I reply.  I remind the First Lady of my name, that her daughter and my stepson are friendly, and of the few times we’ve met.

“Tell me what you’re doing these days,” she asks me, genuinely interested in spite of the fact the efficient-looking executive assistant standing beside her clearly wants to keep her boss on schedule.  I understand, I’ve been there, too. But Jeannie is all talk today so I begin to tell her about the kids, my writing, and my new endeavor beginning an MFA program in creative nonfiction writing. “Good for you. Good for you,” she says, and means it.

We talk for a moment about her next adventure once Governor Ritter leaves office. “I’m thinking about it,” she says, warmly.

We say goodbye and I sit down to tweak a speech I’m writing which happens to also be about seizing adventures. Minutes pass, maybe twenty. I’m lost in thought, concentrating deeply, oblivious to the fact that the First Lady has just sauntered over to my table.

“Sit up straight!” she whispers just loud enough for others to hear.

“You’ll be a hunch-back old woman if you’re not careful,” she warns, those earnest blue eyes of hers fixing my gaze.  I can tell she cares.

I’m a bit embarrassed, of course, but the First Lady happens to be right.  I thank her for the reminder – and I am thankful since slouching is a bad habit.

“Bye Jeannie, thanks again,” I say as she dashes back to her assistant and to do what First Ladies do.

* * *

Three days have passed since my rendezvous with the First Lady. And still I find myself smiling over our little chat about adventures, the importance of parental modeling, and naturally, her admonishment. I’m stepping into my new world today at Goucher College (while still holding up the old world, too) and plan to take the First Lady’s advice to heart. She might have only meant it in the physical sense, but to me, her message is all about standing tall and proud, refusing to slump.

In the midst of writing a keynote speech for a Fortune 500 CEO today, I decided to reward myself.  My treat? A new pair of slippers. It was 3:30 pm and I’d been working on the speech since early morning. I was tired and needed a perk. Actually, I HAD TO HAVE THE SLIPPERS IMMEDIATELY. Call it the “I need it now” gene, which also showed itself the other evening after dinner as I nuzzled Steve. “Hi honey. I love you. Can you please get me some Espresso Chocolate Chip ice cream?”

I am a longtime slipper lover.  And I’ve got to credit my grandmother, Myrtie, for this fix. She’s now wheelchair-bound in the final stages of Alzheimer’s but in my mind’s eye I still picture her waltzing around her spacious English Tudor-style house in New Jersey, singing a tune and wearing any one of her soft padded slippers. She had a whole collection: light blue, carnation pink, butter yellow, and my personal favorite, gold lame. Her feet were two sizes smaller than mine yet I loved her and her slippers so much that I wore them anyways. It hardly mattered to me that my heels hung over the back edge.

I no longer have any more of my grandmother’s slippers so now I have to buy my own. I’m not interested in fancy beading or feathers; I want soft material that bathes my feet. And when they wear down so that the soles no longer spring, out they go, to good will or garbage heaven depending upon future usability.

Back to my slipper run to T.J. Maxx. If I didn’t need slippers so urgently, I might have passed. Nothing really suited my taste but I settled on an ivory pair of Isotoners that were actually a bit big. “These can work,” I rationalized.

Yet…when I returned home and picked up the mail, I had a fabulous surprise: the therapeutic alignment slippers I had ordered while watching an infomercial on television one sleepless night had arrived. I could barely contain my excitement as I tore the bag apart.  They’re perfect – creamy in color and texture with just the right bounce. By the way, I don’t have feet problems; I was drawn to these slippers because of how comfortable the commercial made them out to be. Okay, I’m highly gullible at midnight, but if you’d like to try them for yourself, visit Dream Products.

I may keep both pairs of slippers or I may return the Isotoners. I’m not sure yet. But I’m convinced that I was meant to have a new pair of slippers today. Which is more about finding comfort and allowing myself this small reward than the actual slippers.

I’m all for little, instantaneous indulgences.

Here’s how a typical morning goes:

Where are my keys?

Where is my cell phone?

What day do the library books need to be returned again?

Why can’t I remember…?

The other day my friend Cindy called to ask me the name of the baker who created the one-of-a-kind cake for my wedding not even two years ago. The one shaped like our house with custom rooms for the four children between us.

“Oh shoot, what was his name again?” I said aloud. “B something. Barbar? Barbat? ”

“You have C.R.S.!” Cindy told me. “I’ve got it, too,” she said.

C.R.S. stands for Can’t Remember Sh*T!

Call Julie, I said with resignation, ”She’s got C.R.S. too but she’ll probably remember.” Which she did.

Hmmm. This C.R.S. is a slippery slope.  I’m not exactly a  ninny and I’ve had some incredible career experiences along the way.

Still, gone are the days when I could spit out phone numbers for neighbors or the birthdays of third cousins.  As far as I can remember, my “brain drain” began in my 20’s, once I began to shed all the knowledge acquired from my $100K education at Northwestern University, which today would be more than double that amount. One particularly fond moment – which I still remember because I recently wrote about it – happened when I forgot to drop the garbage in the bin while living in Hoboken, NJ more than 20+ years ago.  I was so lost in my thoughts that I boarded the bus into Manhattan with that bag of foul garbage.

This brings up a salient point about life and memory. It occurs to me that I’m still in the “meaty” years. By which I mean, life is thick with the demands of children, teenagers, marriage, SAT’s, college, careers, writing, grocery shopping, laundry, bills, sports and so much else.  Often times I feel like a multi-tasking madwoman who juggles it all even as the balls drop around me.  It won’t always be this way. The older boys are steps from independence and the twins will grow up. Someday, this sizzle will simmer down and then, perhaps, the sharpness of my memory will return.

I hope I’m right. For now, I’m stocking up on blueberries.

Now why the heck did I put the hot dogs in the cupboard with the dinner plates?

Can any of you relate?

Last weekend I traveled back in time.  I went roller discoing with my daughter’s Girl Scout troop.

The last time I did this was 1980 when Donna Summer belted out Last Dance. I was an athletic, 14-year-old freshman who used too much pink blush to disguise her adolescent insecurities. A group of friends had gone to an indoor rink in Orange, CT and somehow I found myself cozying up to a very cute, not-so-innocent sophomore named Jimmy. I was boy crazy but had never dated.  “Do you want to go out?” Jimmy asked me while taking my hand. “Sure,” I said, beginning to exit the rink and walk toward the door.  “No,” he smiled, a flash of surprise flickering across his silky blue eyes.  “DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT?” I was standing right beside him and couldn’t understand why he was speaking so loud.  “YES, I DO!” I answered, matching his volume as I tried to lead him once again toward the door.

I had no clue the guy was asking me to be his girlfriend until we were back in school the following Monday and suddenly he sought me out.  This was before the age of cell phones, texting and e-mail. Duh!

I can’t tell you what music played the other evening but I can tell you three things:

1) Your center of gravity is wholly different at 43 than 14.  Let’s just say that every time my daughter and her 8-year-old friends yanked my arm for support I felt an immediate snap in my back.

2)I’m not as light on my feet as I think I am.  I wanted to defy gravity, allowing the innocence of the past to carry me. But my legs felt like tree trunks.

3 Being the oldest person on the rink by at least two decades gave me a shot of youthful energy but it also made me feel, well…old and out of place.

I was so relieved to send the Girl Scouts home to be tucked into their cozy beds, and happier still to sip my chamomile tea and drift off to sleep aside my husband. It’s good to be 43, smarter and weighted by life experience. I think I’ll leave the roller discoing for the younger set: I like where I am.

We’re having a bee problem: yellowjackets are swarming our house.  They’ve infiltrated the kitchen and hallway, and built a small army in my daughter’s room.  Rebecca refuses to sleep there. I can’t blame her.  Just the other day we pulled back the bedding and discovered the queen bee staking new territory amidst her floral blue sheets.

Seems like wild things are everywhere.  A Denver friend tells me, “we’ve got squirrels in our home.  Isn’t it just the way things happen that their house is on the market?

My friend, Sarah, too, says a pesky mouse is fluttering about their New York City apartment.  A mouse that apparently likes physics as it moves into the open when her husband reads Disturbing the Universe.

Bedbugs, too.  Infestations and exterminations and the pests of life.

Do we coexist with these creatures? What kind of nuisances are we willing to accept?

Perhaps we shrug them off, make a beeline for the movies, and reel in the real Where the Wild Things Are.

I feel like a slacker for not blogging this week although I do have a good excuse.  A sick household.  First, my daughter, Rebecca, came home from school on Monday with a fever, and then, POW, Steve got swine flu the next day.  I don’t think our daughter had “the thing,” but Steve’s been knocked out hard for days, in bed, with fever, chills, nausea, a ferocious cough, heavy chest and total exhaustion. “This is the worst I’ve ever felt from the flu,” he’s told me repeatedly. I believe him.  It’s day six and he’s still lying horizontal in bed. 

And now…Casey, Rebecca’s twin, is running a fever, too. 

So far, my 16-year-old stepson, Dylan, and I are the only ones to have escaped the wrath of illness this week.  Dylan, of course, is mostly hidden in his basement quarters, otherwise known as the media cave. Now that Ryan, 18, is away at college, Dylan’s quite happy to rule the underworld with days-old socks, pungent sneakers and empty Gatorade bottles strewn haplessly about.  He, however, doesn’t notice this mess as his vision is reserved for watching ESPN and Madden’s NFL video on the 51-inch flat screen television.  Naturally, “D” surfaces for pancakes and pizza and anything that begins with letter “C.”  You know, cookies, cake, croissants and candy. I’ve been sleeping upstairs in the guest room on a cardboard mattress that sticks to the springs when I change body positions.

The week hasn’t been all bad. Steve was offered and accepted a position as director of communications and community relations for the Adams County 50 School District.  He’s thrilled about the opportunity to help this upwardly moving district tell its story and more broadly, to contribute to the national debate on education reform. Congratulations Steve, this is your Act 2! 

The technology gaffe I blogged about last week has continued to reopen contact with long-ago friends and colleagues. Imagine…I’m now Linked In with my first husband’s oncologists. 

All this illness in our house has me thinking about the flip side of the flu – good health.  I treasure mine, and I can already see the teachable moments of gratitude this week of poor health will allow for our children. 

Armed with Tamiflu and a healthy perspective, I’m taking care of my crew while guarding myself, too. If the going gets really rough, I figure I can always camp out with Dylan.

THE UNDERWORLD

 A few days ago while at work, a friendly young man came to set up a printer.  This was James’ second visit.  The previous afternoon he analyzed the problem: “the thing’s busted,” he tells me, his arms crossing his chest in apology.  Eager to please, James actually installed the new printer without my knowing it.  He strode into the conference room where I sat helping a colleague fold campaign pamphlets for a large mailing. “You’re good to go Nancy,” he announces with puckish pride.

Because the simplest technology intimidates me, I decided to head back to my office with James to test the printer myself.  Sure enough, it stalled.  As he began to tinker with the settings, I felt I should make polite conversation. “Where are you from?” I asked, curious about his accent. 

“Scotland,” he answers. I tried to picture him in a plaid kilt but couldn’t.

A relative newcomer to Denver, I wanted to know what brought him here.  “A woman,” he says heavily, his eyes darting down at the floor.  Obviously, James had “a story” and he told it to me quickly.  “My family disowned me because I left our small village of Ardrossan.  It’s a cardinal sin to leave a place like that but I wanted more. I met a woman here in the U.S. and we were married for eight years before she dumped me on my 40^th birthday.”

Gulp!

 “Are you sure your parents have disowned you?” I asked in a soft voice. It seemed incredulous to me.

“I called my mum to tell her we separated and she said, I told you so.”

Hmmm.  Not your everyday corporate chatter.

I looked at James and felt a rush of sorrow for this young man who left his family and homeland to make a new life here in Colorado.  Things didn’t work according to his plan (it happens, we all know), so he now stands alone. I cannot begin to understand parents turning their backs on children who want to claim a different life.  What if my parents shunned me after I left the East Coast for Denver three years ago? The answer would unleash a whole lot of “I wouldn’t have’s”…starting with I wouldn’t have met my husband and found a life partner whom I love and adore and who loves and adores me and my young children. I can’t imagine not living near these gorgeous mountains any easier than I can visualize staying stuck in New York, which is the way it felt.

Here’s what I really think: with all the random, awful things that can and will crop up in life, why allow space for misunderstandings to divide those that we love?  Every family has its darkness and no doubt, some situations shouldn’t be trespassed upon. But for the most part, I think choosing differently frees us.

“James, you be the big one here,” I encouraged him in motherly fashion.  “Life is too short to waste living regretfully.”

He’s thinking about making a surprise visit to see his family over Christmas. He hasn’t seen them in 10 years.   “If my mum sees me in person, she’ll have a harder time turning me away,” says James.

I hope he makes the trip.

Regardless, I’m glad he gave me his direct line for technical support. I’ll need it.

My new job is shaking things up a bit in our household. Working from home has been a godsend to me these past several years for the obvious reason:  flexibility and control over my schedule.   As a single mom until recently, it meant the world to my children (and me) that I was there to pick them up from school and volunteer in their classrooms mid-day.  My twins have wanted to sit alongside me while doing homework and to be able to hear and watch and help me cook dinner.  And I’ve loved these rituals, too.  The safety of their world fell apart after their dad died in 2004 but my steady presence bolstered their security, confidence and sense of belonging.

I still want to do all that I used to, but I can’t since now I have to be elsewhere.  Because I remarried a year ago  and have a willing partner, Steve picks the kids up from school on my work days.  Last week my son, Casey, accidentally tripped over the garbage can and dropped part of his lunch inside (don’t ask) and the teacher called Steve not me.  This is a first.  It’s also a first to have a partner stock up on groceries and make dinner twice weekly. I should clarify that Steve’s current job is getting a job, so that’s why he’s around to make dinner and for school emergencies like spilt lunches.

All this, of course, is good news, particularly the part about my having a steady, long-term assignment.  And yet, it’s been surprisingly hard for me to give up the old ways.  When I see Steve in the kitchen, there’s a part of me that feels he’s “invading my turf.”  No, he’s not pining to replace the marvelous Ina Garten and her Barefoot Contessa empire, and no, I don’t feel displaced. It’s just that letting go of these roles that framed my identity for eight years is taking some getting used to. 

But I’m learning.  I’m learning that I can still be a steady presence for my twins without needing to be physically present all the time.  I’m learning that I really like working offsite even if my daughter, Rebecca, self-combusts because I can’t attend her school picnic.  She’s a survivor and it’s actually essential for her to see her mother meeting other responsibilities. I’m learning to trust that my twins are in a fantastic place: they’re happy and well-adjusted and for the first time in their young lives they actually have a dad to “show off” at school.  Speaking of my new hubby, I’m learning that it’s really okay if he buys tomatoes that aren’t quite ripe.  I’m learning that marriage is a partnership in every way. 

What new waters are you dipping your toes into?