Becoming Visible

Once again, Mother's Day is here, and I admit to feeling a little...conflicted. As a mom, I am grateful for my daughter, think of her as a best friend and feel truly blessed to know her. As a step-mom, things are a bit more complicated.

I have three step-daughters. Two only recently entered the picture, in that I was married to their Dad several years before meeting them. The third I've known almost as long as I've known my husband. Except for one of them, one time, I've never been acknowledged on Mother's Day.

I get it, though, and don't blame them a bit for ignoring me on this Hallmark holiday. I'm guessing Mother's Day causes equal confusion for step-daughters, who are put in a potentially awkward position vis a vis Mom/Step-Mom. After all, how would I feel if my daughter paid the same respect and attention to her stepmother as she does to me this day? I might feel a little...jealous, or threatened. I suppose it's different if you're helping to raise young children, or your step-children live with you. Then the step-mom role is bit more defined, more involved, more "card-worthy."

In my case, all three were adults or near-adults when we met, so these are fully-formed young women with their own lives and ideas. All three are quite close to their respective moms, and as far as I can see, rely on and cherish that relationship. Which is as it should be.

Which leads to the conflict or confusion of this day. Where does that leave me? Am I supposed to be more like a special "aunt" or is "friend" possible? I don't always know what's right. I do know, "stuck in the middle" is a familiar feeling, as conflicts arise between father and daughter or husband and ex-wife. Most times, that is a "lose-lose" deal for me, so the best strategy is to listen, give advice only if asked (and even then very cautiously), and try to be supportive without being judgemental. So, it's like walking a tightrope, blind-folded.

My relationship with my step-daughters is a one-step forward, one-step sideways, one-step back kind of thing. I feel like we tip-toe around each other a bit. As the years go by, and these relationships mature, I am hopeful that genuine feeling can grow between us. I think that will happen if we can view each other as individuals in our own right - not "my father's wife" or "my husband's daughter" but as unique women with experiences, opinions, feelings and fears that are worthwhile and deserving of respect.

I am very fortunate to have that kind of relationship with my own daughter, and it's very gratifying. There's real respect there, and trust, and a sense that we can rely on each other for emotional support. I think a similar relationship with my step-daughters is possible. I don't want to infringe on the special bond they have with their own moms. I just want to have a more meaningful relationship with each of them.

In the blockbuster movie, Avatar, the Na'vi people of Pandora greet each other by saying "I see you," meaning they look beyond the surface and acknowledge each other's inner being. Corny, I suppose, but it sort of captures what I'm thinking about today.

Meanwhile, I got a chuckle from the Mother's Day card my daughter sent. The hand-drawn message from my two grand-daughters tugs at my heart. Flowers from my husband adorn the dining room table. I reflect on the blessings in my life, and realize that includes my three step-daughters. I remember that every relationship is a two-way street, and pledge to do my best in the future.

So to all you step-mom's out there, Happy Mother's Day. "I see you."

Stuck on a Big Red Bulls-Eye

They say the first step to healing addiction is to admit you have a problem. So here goes...

My name is Laurie, and I am a Target addict.

It started innocently enough. Occasional visits to buy clothes for the grand-kids or stock up on storage bins. Soon, the need escalated. I would madly rifle the Sunday paper for the Target sale circular. Find any excuse to pop-in "just to see what's new." When the cashiers started greeting me by name, I knew I had a problem.

But can you blame me? The comforting "whoosh" of the automatic doors; those cute red plastic carts; those delightful dollar bins; the sassy bulldog mascot, dazzling commercials, and surprisingly chic discount fashion. These guys are good! That giant red bulls-eye sign? Well, I finally realized the Target is ME!

I'm not a church-goer. I'm not a joiner of reading clubs. I don't do group-think. But at Target, I feel like I belong. Yes, I know the store is cleverly designed to pull me deep into Small Electrics, but wandering the aisles is a mini-vacation, a break from dull routine. As I cannily scan the endcaps for the best "Clearance" merch or daydream of mountain streams in the Camping aisle (I've never actually been camping but that's the addiction talking) I believe anything is possible, even CHEEZ-IT's for $2.94!!

Anyway, I know this has to stop. So I've embarked on my own 12 Step Program to rid myself of this terrible Target compulsion (with apologies to AA, I'm a bit impatient, so it's actually 5 Steps):

1. Admit I have a problem. (See above.)
2. Believe that a Power greater than myself can restore my sanity (Thanks, Suze Orman!)
3. Make amends for the errors of my ways. (Hmm, this is tough. Should I return my purchases? Cut up my charge cards? I know, I'll make a donation to Toys for Tots! I'll just run to Target and buy something....DOH!! See how insidious this addiction is?)
4. Learn how to live a new life with a new code of behavior. (Made good progress here. Vowed to shop Wal-mart occasionally even though I think it's ruining small-town America and I hate those goofy greeters.)
5. Help others who suffer from the same compulsion. (Note: People in the checkout lane can get downright nasty when told they are addicted and need a Sponsor.)

You'll be happy to know I'm now completely free of my previous obsession. I realize that there is much more to Life than whiling away the hours in Target. Forget about "Expect More. Pay Less." I'm all about "Live more. Shop less." I'm all about Art! Music! PBS! (Okay, American Idol).

Life is short, time is precious and ...oops, hold on, I just got friend-ed on Facebook. Gotta run!

The Masquerade

It wasn’t the kind of thing she normally went in for. Not with this crowd. This crowd really wasn’t her thing. Her people were far more interesting, certainly. Artistic types. Playwrights. Musicians. These people were, well, country club people. Not her sort at all.

But the invitation couldn’t be refused. She’d wanted to, truthfully. Make some excuse, plead family obligations. But Big Ed said no, they had to attend. They’d known the Birthday Girl too long, he said, and you don’t turn 50 everyday. They had to make an appearance. They would duck out early at least.

What a bother, this whole costume thing. She had to admit that S. looked charming, the “biergarten maid” outfit showing off her curves and gap-toothed smile to full effect. The men seemed to love it. Lucky she herself had access to the theater’s wardrobe. The “contessa” was a brilliant choice. Black lace always suited her glacial blonde-ness. She couldn’t help comparing her own elegance to the camp and frivolity around her. That ridiculous cowboy and cowgirl. The silly man dressed as a nun. At least the couple doing Frida and Diego showed some wit. She doubts half the guests even recognize who they are.

Lord, don’t tell me there’s a speech. What’s Birthday Girl going on about? Oh, yes, her family. She’s always talking about her family. Like they’re so special. Newsflash: we all have family issues. Does she ever hear me bitching about my family? Now, there’s a family to bitch about. But I have the decency not to focus on myself all the time. Sometimes, girlfriend, it’s just not all about you.

She gives Birthday Girl a hug, compliments her speech. So heartfelt, she says. Very touching. Wonderful party! Big Ed catches her eye and does an eye-roll. Checking her watch, the contessa sees it is too early for polite leave-taking. The music starts again, and as Birthday Girl gets up to dance with her husband, the contessa drinks her third cup of coffee and watches.

What does she see in him? He’s so…too much. He thinks he’s so great. Smug. With his country club friends. She’s changed, since she married him. With the big house and the trips to Europe. Insufferable, really. So damn ‘supportive’ when I was off the wagon. So earnest. Thank god I bailed doing that speech at the wedding. That’s what gave me the relapse – I just couldn’t face standing up there the next day. The fact that I showed up at all was a huge sacrifice on my part.

The table around her is littered with half-empty glasses, crumbs, and the obligatory disposable camera. Someone is pointing it at her now. She declines to smile. How did she get seated here? Ah, these are the co-workers, she realizes, so she‘s relegated to former associate status. That’s rich, she thinks. She should have known, that first day Birthday Girl walked into the office and the boss volunteered her as welcoming committee, there would be…something, between them.

I was just a peon then. She was the new ‘star.’ Galling, really, considering she had no real experience. I had to pay my dues. It took me years to work up to the title they just handed her on day one. Who showed her the ropes, who told her where the bodies were buried? I sweat blood for that place. I put their needs before everything, even my family. But I had to go when I saw they would never give me the respect I deserved. I’m much better off now. I’ve made so much progress. My boss loves me.

Finally, time to leave. The countess grasps Birthday Girl’s hands, looks deeply into her eyes. Thank you so much for inviting us, she says, we wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Let’s do lunch soon, she offers. She turns, and leaves the gathering, sweeping her black lace skirts behind her, breathing a barely-concealed sigh of relief. She never looks back. As she slides into the front seat next to Big Ed, she says: The things we do for friends.

The Rewards of Really Bad Behavior

A small article tucked away in the Local section of today’s Philadelphia Inquirer caught my eye. It seems 39-year old Anthony Miller of Lancaster was so desperate to get away from his bossy wife that going to jail seemed like a rosier alternative. Talk of divorce only triggered threats of suicide from a wife described, perhaps kindly, as “overbearing.”

Mr. Miller decided to escape – by robbing a bank. During the heist, he surprised tellers by checking on their efforts to call the cops. Sure enough, he was apprehended, pled guilty, was sentenced to three to six years and skipped off to prison, if not exactly happier, at least considerably less henpecked. He and his harridan are now divorced, sans slit wrists. True story!

Some may say this was the act of a truly desperate man. I say, how creative! That’s what I call “thinking outside the box”, though poor Mr. Miller is now literally boxed-in for the foreseeable future. Yes, one man’s felony is another’s innovative problem-solving. We all know the old “squeaky wheel” adage. And all around us, we see examples of people, hell, entire countries (can you say North Korea?) being rewarded for really bad behavior.

So, taking a cue from Mr. Miller’s brilliant example, I’ve compiled a handy list of ways the average non-felon can use this high risk-high reward approach to solving everyday problems:

• Housework. No sane person likes housework. It’s not so bad occasionally, but the conundrum is, no matter how often or how well done the task, eventually it will ALWAYS need to be done again. And again. It’s like the NBA season – endless, and full of sweaty socks. The Miller Alternative? Set a fire. Not a large one, mind you, but a smallish one you can easily control. The goal is to have some visible damage without depriving your family of shelter or oxygen. When neighbors stop by or your mother-in-law visits, wave a hand toward the scorch marks and complain that you can’t properly clean house until the insurance adjuster arrives. This should buy you two, maybe three, blissful housework-free months.

• Homework. Students today are way too busy to do homework – all that texting and time in the shower, I guess. Look to that wily octogenarian Kim Jong-Il for guidance. Say the kid next door walks past your house. Or a cookie-selling Girl Scout rings the doorbell. Take them hostage and lock them in your bedroom closet. Then, announce to your parents that unless they let you buy your homework off the Internet like everybody else, your “guest” will do hard labor making your bed and scrubbing your toilet (another silver lining!). If they don’t cave, your parents may be persuaded to send in a VIP peacemaker. I doubt Bill Clinton would be available, but I’ll bet Al Gore would consider mediating. He might even agree to do your homework for you.

• Unhappy Marriage. Mr. Miller has already demonstrated one clever solution by going to jail. But ladies, if you’re not quite up for communal showers and stripes make you look fat, try this: join the convent. You’ll get free food, shelter and rosary beads. The vows can be tricky, but really, who needs talking or sex? After all, change the N to F and what do you get? FUN! Once in the nunnery, I don’t recommend bad behavior – you may get away with it in this life, but you might catch hell in the next.
  

As you can see, really bad behavior need not go unrewarded. It just takes some imagination to turn your bad deeds into your best assets. Good luck, and remember what Mae West said: “When I’m good, I’m really good. But when I’m bad, I’m better.”

What's So Grand About Grand-parenting?

It’s happened again. The stuffed animals flung into a corner and found days afterwards. One tiny sock surfacing in a load of otherwise grown-up laundry. The Hello Kitty toothbrushes languishing in the guest bathroom. Little reminders of two little visitors who take over my life and then vanish.

I adore my grand-daughters, don’t get me wrong. They are two bright, funny, surprising, loving and challenging little girls who regularly say “I love you” and squeal my name with delight (no better ego boost) at the start of every visit. I cherish all the traditional grandma moments – the nightly bedtime rituals, the silly jokes at the dinner table, endless rounds of Simon Says, the cuddles and confidences. I love all that stuff.

It’s the leaving I struggle with, the aftermath of their sunny presence. How badly I miss them when they are gone. It’s embarrassing really. I’m a relatively young and (dare I say) “hip” grandmother, I have a full life, a secure identity, a busy schedule with work and friends and travel and interests beyond baking cookies and here I am wandering around the house like my puppy just died. What’s going on here?

I think back to my single-mom days when my only child left for college and I found myself, for the first time in 18 years, coming home to an empty house with no one to cook for and no pressing responsibilities. Did I mope, did I sigh? Did I feel sorry for myself? Sure, for a day or two. But in short order the overwhelming emotion was exhilaration, as in “Hey, I can do anything I want! Cereal for dinner? You got it. Meet a gal-pal for drinks and a few laughs? No need to rush home. Read magazines and munch popcorn all evening? Go for it.” Then, I reveled in a new-found freedom that, having married at 19, given birth at 20, and divorced at 33, tasted sweet and not at all bitter. If anything, I felt a teensy bit guilty for enjoying my independence so much.

So, is this hollow ache from the grandkids’ departure karmic payback? Or just a sign that I’m slipping into maudlin sentiment that will find me tearing up at Hallmark commercials and cooing at random babies I encounter in the Acme? At least I’m not alone. My friend Sylvia confides that, after her three grandchildren leave, she feels so bereft her husband warns that future visits may have to be curtailed to avoid the moody hangover. Luckily, unlike Sylvia, my husband is not yet retired so is not around the house to catch me stuck in “woe is me” mode.

I ponder the change in my attitude. Clearly, I’ve traveled some distance from my 30s, when the prospect of freedom and the solitude of a quiet apartment felt like an unexpected gift. Back then, as I celebrated the synchronous independence of my college-bound daughter and my liberated self, I began to see how change that feels painful at first can reveal itself to be a blessing. Now I ask myself if I can apply the same lesson to the Grammie in me.

My thoughts stray to another friend, a dear woman who is several years older and not in the best health. At 60-something, she’s married off two daughters in the past few years and pines for grandchildren in the worst way. Her prayers were answered recently when her youngest got pregnant. Alas, a miscarriage shattered those hopes. In time, perhaps, her wish for a grandchild will be granted. For now, she’s heartbroken.

I wander the empty rooms echoing with the phantom shouts and laughter of my dearly-missed grand-daughters, and I realize I am blessed. Being a grandparent is a grand gift indeed, despite the pangs of separation. I reserve the right to mope for a few hours, and maybe even gush over babies in the grocery store occasionally. I won’t wallow, but I will count the days to the next visit.

The Hello Kitty toothbrushes are ready, and waiting.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love SPAM

SPAM. Everyone hates it. It clogs up your inbox and threatens to do nasty things to your hard-drive. But there is at least one aspect of this modern plague that is under-appreciated, a shiny silver lining in the mushroom cloud of Internet nefariousness.

It’s the names. Spam spews forth an unlimited supply of perfect pitch names for fictional characters.

In among the tawdry offers for penis extenders and bizarre investments (You too can own a Galapagos island!) are enough wildly inventive yet oddly appropriate identities to populate a tale of 20 cities.

For any struggling writer, its name nirvana.* Hans Whitlock. Jo Everett. Winfred Carey. Marcelo Coley. Neva McCabe. Araceli Velasquez. Lakisha Meier. Robyn Dick (or is it Dick Robyn?). I challenge any name-challenged writer to glibly dream up so many plausible names for so many imaginary characters so quickly.

You see, inventing character names has always stumped me. I’ll be daydreaming at my computer, trying to come up with story ideas. Invariably, I get stuck on my characters’ names. I’m constantly considering and rejecting them, mostly because my story ideas depend on real people in my real life, and I can’t quite recast them without getting all hung up on their fictional identities.

I don’t know how other writers do this. Turning to spam is surely a sign of laziness, not to mention a serious lack of creativity. But for me, raiding my junk mail cache is just plain fun. Junk mail names feel livelier. More real. I could see myself meeting any one of these folks for a beer.

Which gets me wondering, what would these spamsters look like? Some are obvious. “Jack McGee” would be late fifties, ruddy complexion, thinning brown hair, wearing a short sleeve shirt and tie, carrying a salesman’s case. Or Carlene Zappata: Long black hair, red fingernails, a gum-snapping, eye-batting coquette who works at the Winn-Dixie. Others don’t conjure up so easily. Araceli Velasquez? Not even sure which gender that is. Calin Mainetti? No clue. That’s what makes trolling spam so rewarding. Mysterious strangers show up in my inbox, defying easy categorization.

Spam is so productive, naming-wise, that I can’t help but muse: why not go further? Why not let these shadowy non-persons take on a little more responsibility, story-wise? Why not let them lead me, struggling author, into inventing, not just a character’s name, but the whole story? Let them carry their weight, do their bit, redeem their sorry spam-ish ways. I see it working something like this:

The kid walked up the worn wooden steps to the second floor, and pushed open an unmarked steel door. The smell of sweat and sawdust hit him, and in the murky half-light, he spied a short stocky man in a tee shirt. Leaning against a pillar, the man’s posture was relaxed, but the taut muscles in his crossed arms betrayed a coiled menace. The kid ambled over, feigning bravado.
“You Marcel Wheeler?” the kid asked , his voice cracking slightly with nerves and teenage hormones.
“Who wants to know?” growled the man.
“Name’s Jamar Merrit. I wanna be a fighter. Wheeler’s ‘sposed to be the best trainer in town. You him?”
“That’s my name. My friends call me Marty. But you can call me Mr. Wheeler. Let’s see whatcha got, kid.”

See? Nothing to it. Once you have the names, the story just flows! Had I tried this without benefit of spam, I’d still be scratching my head over names, never mind pesky details like plot or protagonists.

Try it yourself. Let the spam wash over you. Feel the names. Are they speaking to you? You must admit, they are a pretty colorful bunch! Spam is an unfortunate fact of life but I say, stop whining about it and do something constructive. If using spam helps you populate your first novel and just happens to lead to a book contract, so be it.

Just be careful not to click on any attachments. I’d hate for your hard drive to blow up.

*All names are taken directly from spam messages and therefore presumed fictional. The author apologizes to any living person coincidentally named herein, unless of course you are in fact a spammer, in which case, shame on you.