@ Home in the World

We are the mites who say "Meep"

I still have a few years before I'm due to forget what it's like to be a teenager. When I read stuff like this, it all comes flooding back.

The principal of a High School near here has banned the used of a made-up word, "Meep," on school grounds, claiming that it's disruptive. Apparently he was trying to head off a planned prank he read about on Facebook.  Is he doing his job keeping order and discipline, or is he overreaching? You get more information from the comments than the actual article, but the prank seems to have been targeted at a specific teacher whom the students have no respect for and some of the parents are a little afraid of.

Okay, that was a completely butchered sentence, but at least I can spell principal.

As an adult, and a presumed authority figure, I think I'm expected to side with the school. But I have never been a rules-driven person, and I find myself in sympathy with the kids. That's not to say that I thnk all rules are bad, but most don't apply to every situation, and some of them can be a arbitrary and 
ridiculous. On the surface, this looks like a guy misusing his authority because he doesn't have any real influence. An appropriate balance between authority and influence is probably what makes a good administrator, or teacher, or parent.

The consensus seems to be, that in banning a word, rather than addressing an action, the principal has made himself look like a foolish control freak.

Can you remember bonding with your peers over a really bad teacher or clueless administrator? I can remember a school-wide walk out (aided by a strategically pulled fire alarm) when we were all protesting.... Actually, I don't remember what we were protesting, the point is that we bonded, dammit! And when it seems like all the adults in your life are conspiring to keep life dull and uninspiring, you look to each other.

And say "Meep."

Diner

 
There's nothing like the smell of bacon and coffee when you come inside from the cold just after sun up. Though it's early, it seems as if half the town is already there, tucking into their eggs and toast.

The waitress, and old Al behind the counter, know you by name and probably know what you'll have, though they may try to sell you on a different kind of omelet or a new muffin they're trying out this week.

You sit at the worn, Formica, counter, give your order and spread the newspaper out before you, grabbing a headline or two as the coffee is poured. When you leave, you'll drop the paper in the basket by the door, left there so the next guy will get the news for free. It's tradition.

You nod and exchange a few words with the others at the counter. You know them, they are loggers, or lobstermen, or they have shop in town. They're headed to work after breakfast, so the meal must be filling.

If it's later in the morning, the patrons coming in will be couples, and groups of older women catching up. You'll know most people in the room by sight and some may stop to greet you as they head over to their tables.

The food is coming, placed in front of you with a satisfying plunk, and a gentle warning about the temperature of the plate. The waitress tours the room, coffee pot in hand, looking for a mug in need.

The din is louder now. Silverware clatters as it's cleared and set. Seats emptied, table wiped, then filled again. The papers in the basket have been broken up into sections, and one article or another has started conversation; taxes, or the town manager, or someone's grandchild in the school play. There may be two or four at your table, but you are really a party of forty-five. It's hard not to overhear, turn around, check in, ask a question, share a joke or condolence.

In spite of the warmth of the room, women hunch, fingers curled around the heavy, white, stoneware, sweater sleeves pulled up to their thumbs, clutching their mugs as a reliable source of heat. The coffee keeps flowing.

Breakfast never takes long. Patrons come and go; in and out like a life force pumping through the heart of town. Check paid, tip left, you're out the door and ready to start the day.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I wrote this because the image of the diner mug popped into my head and wouldn't leave. The scene is an amalgam of two diners in New Hampshire (one has people arriving via snowmobile in the winter), and a breakfast place here in town. Going out to breakfast is one of my favorite simple pleasures. For breakfast, I find that small town diners are better than regular restaurants or pancake chains. They may be the happiest places on Earth.

The dress and the bag

When I was a child, I used to play dress-up at my grandparents house.

My father's mother made all her own clothes and, this being the 70s, most of them were flowing, brightly colored, and polyester. My grandmother took many of them in for me, but there was one dress she never permanently altered, but pinned temporarily while I played princess in it.

The dress was simple, but beautiful. It was a grey irridescent silk in the style of the 40s, with a handful of tiny rhinestones scattered on the bodice. Cue the Big Band music. The shape of the dress would be very flattering on my grown-up body, and I sometimes regret that it was never rescued after she died. If it truly did fit, I'd not only be wearing something that I loved since childhood, I would be wearing a piece of history.

I once asked my grandmother why she pinned the dress for me instead of sewing it, and she told me that the dress was very special to her. It was the dress she had worn at a party with Eleanor Roosevelt.

Now Eleanor was a woman I admired very much, and so this explanation impressed me quite a bit. I wish that I had been old enough to ask for details, but if I had, I probably wouldn't still be playing dress-up.

As the years passed and my mother became more and more estranged from her in-laws, I saw less of those grandparents, but learned more about their background.

Among other things, they were very poor Germans living in Ohio. I have my grandfather's gold football pin that says Middletown '22. They came to New Jersey after my father was born for my grandfather's job. He worked for "Ma Bell" for his whole career, as so many men did in those days.

The more I learned, particularly about their socioeconomic status, the more it seemed unfathomable that my grandparents could have crossed paths with the Roosevelts. One day, I asked my mother about it.

Turns out my grandmother's brother was the bagman for FDR's campaign, charged with impressing the locals with the need for campaign donations. Emphasis, apparently, on the pressing.

Now, on my mother's side I can trace my lineage, DAR style, to Roger Williams and "Mad" Anthony Wayne. However it is this story, of a great uncle's involvement in the seedier side of old time politics, that fascinates me to no end.  I just wish I knew more.

... and the dream shall never die.

I am having a hard time imagining politics without the Kennedys. The family and their history have been a part of my political life since I was a small child.

My answer to that famous question of "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" is "Not born yet, don't hate me." But, you would think that I had been around when it occurred, so familiar am I with the story and the feeling of devastation at the loss.

Born Irish and raised Catholic, I had a few strands of the Kennedy family mystique woven into my own tapestry, as if our heritage were somehow elevated by their success. Many families I knew had a photo of President Kennedy up on their walls along with blessed portraits of the Pope and Jesus Christ. When I came along in the late 60s, people seemed to still be mourning Jack, and then mourning Bobby.

Maybe it wasn't just us Irish Catholics. It's easy to see how the nation, and Democrats in particular, might feel as if hope, also known as Camelot,  had been stolen from them. As imperfect as President Kennedy was, what came after him; the escalation of Viet Nam, the struggles for Civil Rights, and the scandal known as Watergate brought this country to its knees.

In the 7th and 8th grades, JFK's speeches were standard fare for those participating in Forensics competition. I still have much of that oratory rattling around in my head and can follow along with recordings of him like many people can sing along with a song they haven't heard in 20 years.

Of course we knew the Kennedys did not walk on water. The treatment of women in their personal lives did not always reflect the actions they took in fighting publicly for their rights.  My mother happened to be a friend of Mary Jo Kopechne, so my family was well aware of the Chappaquiddick incident.

With the legacy of his brothers resting on his shoulders, Ted Kennedy lost his way, as I have seen many, too many, youngest sons do. However, some say with the help of his wife Victoria Reggie, he fought his way back to purposeful service to his country and constituency.

When I moved up to Boston in the mid 80s, it was as close to the center of the political universe as I might get without going to Washington, D.C.. It was a city of history, legacy, ideals, and the Kennedys. A friend quickly recruited me in her efforts to resurrect the College Democrats, and I found myself holding signs, making phone calls, and stuffing envelopes for state-level candidates and eventually, for John Kerry's effort to succeed the respected Paul Tsongas.

It was at Kerry's victory party that I met Ted Kennedy.  He was kind and approachable and I was left with a sense of meeting history. My story is not nearly as interesting as those many whom Kennedy helped directly, but the experience was unforgettable nonetheless.

Years later, I volunteered for a Kennedy campaign, doing the usual things that lower-level campaign staffers do. I didn't even cross paths with him during the campaign, but my efforts garnered me an invitation to the victory party at the Kennedy compound in Hyannisport. I'll probably always regret not going.

I thought about going down to the JFK Library for the viewing; the family's legacy has meant that much to me and my view of the world. Unfortunately, neither of my children would have been able to stand the long lines, so I was grateful that my older son noticed the flags at half staff and asked about them.

His question gave me a chance to explain to him the story of the Kennedy family; the combination of privilege and service; the dictum that "for those to whom much is given, much is required." We don't seem to believe that as a nation anymore, and I wonder if churches still teach the concept in real-world terms.

Like a lot of other people, I am left wondering if the Kennedy legacy, and the old-style liberalism the family  embodied, ends here. That the Democratic party has moved more toward the center in recent years, is not an entirely bad thing, in my opinion. But, where are the strong voices of critique against greed, corporate welfare, and war profiteering going to come from now? Is there anyone left who understands that a modicum of security and stability for the lowest rungs on our socioeconomic ladder benefits society as a whole? Who truly fights for the little guy anymore?

In addition to their service, another think that distinguished the Kennedys was their great rhetoric. There have been many, many lines in speeches given during and before my time that have brought me to tears. In the past several days, many of Ted's speeches were revisited in the media; our memories restored through archived recordings. The lines that stick with me were delivered by Ted at a time of loss; the 1980 Democratic Convention. I hope they will still prove true as time goes on.

For me, a few hours ago, this campaign came to an end.

For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.

 

"Learning to Dance in the Rain"

An online friend of mine died this week.

She was an administrator of a local message board we have both participated in for over a decade, and I have met her in person maybe a dozen times. We had an interesting connection in that we both considered the town I currently live in and the New Haven, CT area to be home.

It's a strange consequence of a life lived online that I'm not exactly sure how to feel about all of this. I will miss her in a way, mourn her certainly, but mostly, my heart breaks for her family.

Evelyn battled cancer for 6 years; remarkably strong and relatively symptom-free until about two months ago. Over the years, in emails to a smaller group of board members, along with bragging about her grandchildren, she shared tales of her treatments; making the indignities of hospital visits and chemotherapy seem like a hilarious romp through the medical establishment. Her descriptions of bodily functions gone horribly awry were not for the squeamish, but they could make you laugh out loud in the right frame of mind. Humor, it seemed, was her way of fighting back. She was so full of life, it seemed that death might never come.

When it became clear, however, that Evelyn's journey was coming to an end, her husband joined our local message board and began posting updates. Sprinkled in between the reports of "resting comfortably" and family visits were the incredible words of love he had for her and pain at the thought of her not being there. It was those words that moved me the most. We should all be so lucky to experience such an uncommon love, connection, partnership.

As the days progressed, more people shared their prayers, remembrances, and condolences. It became clear that Evelyn had had an impact on far more people than just her family. She was a social worker and counselor at heart; more and more posters recalled a time when she had helped them through a difficult phase or reached out to someone who was struggling. Some of these were people she might not have befriended in real life, whether they knew it or not, yet she was generous enough to read their words and offer advice or a virtual shoulder. That Evelyn's obituary included the fanciful names of family pets among those who survived or predeceased her showed a Buddha-like respect for all sentient beings, and gave us all a final laugh.

Over the past six years, I frequently wondered if I could muster the strength and positive outlook in the face of what Evelyn was dealing with. She recently shared with her family her belief that "life isn't about waiting for the storm to be over, but about learning to dance in the rain."

In one of her last posts on the board, Evelyn left a link she knew I'd be interested in. She was always thinking of others, sharing, even to the end. In the past few days, I have come to believe that a lot of what Evelyn stood for were some of the very things I've been struggling with lately - love, courage, humor, patience, generosity of spirit, running headlong into the winds of a challenge, enjoying the life you have.

It may be that her attitude was her last gift to us, to her family, to anyone she crossed paths with. I will try to keep that spirit with me. Even in the rain.

Lady of Da Lake

I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but it was a great apartment. It was an old, brick, two family house, the landlord wasn’t big on maintenance, I also wasn’t thrilled with living in the city back then, but it was a great apartment.

 

The apartment saw me through numerous roommate and dating disasters until I moved out with my soon-to-be husband to the town where we now live.  When I lived in Newton, I could walk to work, I would walk to the supermarket; two of them, in fact. I was less than 20 minutes outside of Boston! I’d kill for that now.

 

I’d never lived in a neighborhood before, and boy, was this a neighborhood! I had never lived in an ethnic enclave, and though my downstairs neighbors were Russian, everyone else was Italian, very Italian.

 

The city of Newton is made up of little villages, all marked by little signs proclaiming “Newton Lower Falls, a village of Newton.” My neighborhood was “Nonantum, a village of Newton,” but nobody ever called it that. They called it “Da Lake.”  In fact when I would tell people I lived in Nonantum, they universally responded with a blank look. When I explained that it was between West Newton and Newtonville, they all said “Oh! You live in Da Lake!” And it was always “Da Lake,” not The Lake.

 

If you don’t already know, I’ll let you in on a little secret. There’s no lake there. In fact, there was a joke going around, probably from non-Lake residents, that Nonantum was an Indian word for “no-name-swamp.” A small area of marshy wetlands is supposedly all that’s left.

 

It actually means, “a place of rejoicing,” and that, the residents do. They are exuberantly proud of their heritage and every summer the yellow lines in the middle of the street would get painted red, white, and green late at night. The fire hydrants would get the same treatment. One night, while on one of my many insomniac excursions (it was a very safe neighborhood, and I was very lucky), I bumped into the guys doing the painting. It was a bit like coming across the elves making shoes, except that these were elves in track suits and a Trans Am. They were really very nice. We talked for a while and I left them to it. They were gone when I returned.

 

Shortly after the paint brigade, came the flags; enormous Italian and American flags hung over the street. Every other week, it seemed, but at least once a month, some parade or festival made its way up the street in the summer, usually ending in a party in the park behind our house. “Any excuse for a party,” one of my neighbors told me. There was the Fourth of July; some festival involving several men carrying a large statue of the Madonna on their shoulders while collecting money from the faithful; and Elvis Day.

 

As I recall, Elvis Day was in September, after Labor Day, and probably the last big neighborhood event until Christmas. It involved the grown son of the neighborhood boss, Fats Pellegrini, dressing up as Elvis, and riding up the street on the back of a flatbed truck crooning to the old ladies who had gotten all dolled up for the occasion. From their sidewalk lawn chairs, they swooned and screamed as if it were the real Elvis shaking his rhinestone cape at them. Fats himself led the procession, in his pink Cadillac convertible with FATS on the license plate (the article I linked to doesn’t use the ‘S’ for some reason). Elvis would meet up in that same park with other Elvis impersonators, and they would put on a “concert.” 

 

Living there was not without its problems. There was the aforementioned series of roommates; the utter lack of maintenance, including pipes under the kitchen sink composed mostly of duct tape; the otherwise lovely Russian neighbors who warmed their muffler-challenged car up at 5 AM; the biker bar across the street; and Vera.

 

Vera was not her real name, but we called her that even then. It was the perfect name for a nosy, pain-in-the-neck, neighbor. She had a beagle or basset hound that would bark terribly when left out in his doghouse for too long. Poor thing had no grass to hang out on and would really have preferred staying indoors. Every morning when the weather was warm, Vera would come out and hose off her car and parking space. She used that hose rather than scoop up dog poop or the pears that fell from her tree and smashed in the driveway, attracting bees. It seemed like an incredible waste of water.

 

In addition to living next door, she was also the landlord’s sister-in-law. She would complain every time we left the outside light on, or had too many cars in the shared driveway overnight. She did not like the boys staying over, until eventually “the boys” were my actual roommates (best in the series) and she had nothing left to say about it.  I had just escaped my mother’s micromanagement, and had no wish to be scrutinized in that way ever again.  Never having lived in a neighborhood, I didn’t understand how to get past her with politeness and charm.

 

For various reasons, I tried several times to move, but quickly found that on the money I was making, I really couldn’t afford anything in the area. We were paying $550 for a three bedroom apartment with attic storage, my share was under $200; astounding, even for 20 years ago.  In the four years I lived there, my rent was never raised.  By the time I got engaged, I was desperate to get out of there, but I’ve often wish that Piper and I had taken the apartment over and lived there for another 5 years.

 

By then I might have matured enough to appreciate the character, richness, and closeness of the neighborhood. I might have been able to afford the tiny Italian restaurant down the street. I might have had the guts to talk to the harmless old men hanging out in front of the Soccer Club, instead of avoiding their eyes. I might have learned a thing or two about good food, and how to shop in places that were smaller than the supermarket. And while I was young enough to enjoy it, I would have been less than twenty minutes outside of Boston.

 

Beware the Silver Foxes

 

Before we had kids and were therefore locked into the academic year schedule, our preferred time of year to take a vacation was late September. With most of the summer tourists returned to work and school, we didn’t face huge crowds that you often deal with at tourist destinations, but we found we were often the youngest people around by as much as 40 years.

 

For the most part, this wasn’t a problem. We weren’t huge socializers and were never really looking to meet people on vacation. Those times we did wind up speaking to others, we were certainly happy to listen to stories of those with a bit more life experience than we had.

 

On our summertime trip to Alaska, we noticed that there were two distinct groups on the Alaska Railroad - the elders, who were part of a tour and were travelling to meet a cruise ship, and the serious backcountry hikers, closer to our age and equipped with packs and sleeping bags, off to brave the bears at Denali. We didn’t exactly fit into either of those groups. We were staying in a cabin at our destination, and though we would be hiking, there would be no overnights in the woods, at least not on purpose.

 

At one point during our stay we encountered an older couple we decided we wanted to be when we grew up. They rose early in the morning and took in a full day’s hike with the proper equipment and supplies.  Their fitness and activity was impressive. We would be like that in 30 years we told ourselves. Pretty funny considering we weren’t much like that even back then.

 

When we were first married, and had little money to travel, I used to worry that the tour groups would be the only way I would get to see most of the rest of the world; elderly, cranky and not terribly mobile, shuffling around in a housedress and clutching my nitroglycerin pills. Never mind that we usually were travelling when I would say things like this.

 

See, in large groups, these elders could be overwhelming, and rude. After several encounters I named them the Silver Foxes after the bus tours. Never get between a Silver Fox and a souvenir T-shirt sale, trust me. You may get an elbow to the ribs.

 

Although not all of these people looked like they walked out a Far Side cartoon, their behavior might lead you to believe that they had.

 

Ugly American behavior is certainly not restricted to age, but my first notice of it ever, was a couple at a neighboring table in Canada where an older man with a distinct twang was complaining that his green salad was “too green.” He was, it turns out, expecting the wedge of iceberg lettuce, drowned in Thousand Island dressing and accompanied by a few slices of cucumber and some orange-looking cherry tomatoes.

 

Another time we found ourselves near some elders who took turns complaining about how awful their grandchildren were. That was a most depressing conversation, and we didn’t even have kids at the time.

 

Too many of my bad encounters involved bathrooms. There was that time on the ferry to Nova Scotia that I was waiting for an empty stall when maybe two dozen elderly women tried to cram themselves into the space where I was waiting. It was chaos, there was nowhere for all these women to stand let alone try to form an orderly line. Finally, a taller, Bea Arthur- type woman took charge. “Okay,” she said, looking directly at me, “everyone with a bladder problem goes to the head of the line.”  I left.

 

Later on the trip back, I was actually in the stall when there came a knock on the door. “Just a minute,” I called. Whoever was on the other side responded by pulling on the door to see if it would open. “Just a minute,” I called again. Another tug on the door. “There’s someone in here” I yelled. Another yank, and the door burst open, the force of the invader enough to loosen the latch.

 

“Hey!” I yelled, grabbing for my pants.

 

“Well,” the old woman said crossly, “you left the door unlocked!”

Bobby Jindal, WTF?

At first, I thought it would be easy to poke fun at Bobby Jindal. He started out with his “Oh yeah? Well I have a cool minority story, too” introduction, and moved quickly into an uber-folksy scold of the Democrats for their stimulus package. He may have been trying to update the standard Republican image of the condescending old, white man lecturing about the evils of government intervention (except in the bedroom), but he came out looking like an Indian Barney Fife struggling to get his gun out its holster.

 

I half expected him to flash that goofy grin and say “Silly Democrats, tax cuts are for the rich!”

 

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was not Bobby Jindal, or his odd delivery that was the problem. It was the message he delivered.

 

Maybe he deserves credit for being brave enough to come out after President “Yes we can!” and be Governor, “No we shouldn’t.” Unfortunately, that and his refusal to expand unemployment eligibility had effect of making him and most other Republicans appear tone deaf to the plight of the existing or soon-to-be unemployed. People are scared, terrified, dammit, and you have the nerve to come out and say that they shouldn’t be helped.

 

What’s amazed me in recent months is that nearly all the post-election chatter about why the Republicans lost has resulted in the conclusion “We weren’t conservative enough.”

 

Ok, never mind that scary Sarah Palin was, and continues to be, as conservative as it gets, and that voters in large numbers rejected her message of meanness. Insisting that you lost because you weren’t the polar opposite of the guy a majority of the country voted for is just deliberately obtuse.

 

Republicans are scolding themselves for abandoning their principles, but if we examine the “principled” response to the current situation, it’s easy to see why this isn’t working for them.

 

6% unemployment, and climbing? Tax cuts for the rich will jump start the economy.

 

Millions of uninsured?  You and your doctor should make decisions about healthcare. If you can’t afford it, there’s your decision.

 

Fraudulent, abusive, and just plain unsound practices in the financial sector?  Regulation? We don’t need no stinkin’ regulation!

 

Millions of single parent households living in poverty? Stop gay marriage!

 

 

See what I mean? Tone deaf. Obtuse.

 

The problem is that Republicans are so busy lecturing the country on what they should be angry about that they are not listening to what Americans really are angry about.

 

 

Note to Republicans: we tried it your way. That’s how we got into this mess. In the words of the strange, but currently popular saying: EPIC FAIL.

 

And cracking open your roll of tokens to deliver the same tired old message isn’t going to make it better.

Revels and Meditations 2

Continued from Part 1

The thing about my Guilford friends is that, now that I don't live down there anymore, I tend to see them only for the big events and, oddly, around times of transition in my life. I've long said that they made me who I am today, but I see now that's not entirely accurate. Rather, they accepted who I was then, and it was with them that I developed and honed my quirky sense of humor, my tendency to want to do things outside the mainstream. They encouraged a sense of adventure that I may have had before, but had never been properly channeled.

We didn't manage to get everyone together this time around, but I met up with two of the original group for dinner. It had been a good five years since I had seen one of them and almost as long for the other. Out with them, with no children, I felt almost young again, with the added benefit of years of hindsight and wisdom.

Dinner and dessert complete, we were not ready to part ways, for three of us, the evening without kids was a rare treat. Where to go in Connecticut at 10:00 at night? Mohegan Sun! (See! A sense of adventure.)

Um, yeah. I'm not much the gambling type. Foxwoods had not been built when I lived in CT and I didn't much like the sound of the project, but living in Massachusetts, I had no vote. Mohegan Sun came after Foxwoods and was reputed to be a bit higher in quality.

Perhaps I've been watching a bit too much Danny Ocean, I always thought that casinos were a place you dressed up to go to. I was disabused of that notion within the first few minutes of walking in the place. It's like entering an airport, when you first drive in. On this particular evening, completely packed, there was not a suit in the place save those on the employees. The lasting image is one I will always associate with gambling. A 300 pound person of indeterminable gender garbed in sweatpants and oxygen tubing plugging away at a slot machine in a smoke filled room. I did not see if s/he was smoking, but a wheelchair waited next to the slots. You had to know the player was on disability, probably gambling away a government check.

Beyond that, the place was interesting. Faux Native American decor that fluctuated between beautiful and tacky; a performance space in the middle of the gaming halls that on this evening featured Starship - or what was left of it; a shopping area featuring everything from Tiffany's to Yankee Candle; and a real concert hall that was letting out about the same time we showed up and was, on that evening, featuring someone named Chris Brown, of whom I've never heard but who is apparently a favorite among teenyboppers. Oh, and mechanical wolves, who pricked up their ears and stared at you as you walked by.

The bar was fun, the walls were modeled after crystal formations and the ceiling featured a starry sky. I had a Tiramisu martini, which was very good and at $12, should have been. If it were not for the smoke, I could have gotten quite a bit of exercise just walking around people watching, though frankly, many of them gave me the creeps.

I haven't stayed out until 2 AM in many, many, years. When we got back to my mother's (she was still up - I was afraid she was waiting up for me like the old days, but she swears she got sucked in to the original Sabrina on TV). My hair smelled so badly of smoke that I had to take a shower and really didn't make it to bed until about 3 AM. Yikes!

Sunday's entertainment was an afternoon at the Peabody Museum at Yale. Small, but interesting. Had the boys been a bit older, and Pumpkin more in control of himself,  I think I would have enjoyed it more. That's a story for another day.

I'm back home now and feeling more energized and less stressed than I have in a long time, maybe a few months.  I'm sure that part of it is that Christmas is over. Much of it, actually. I'm equally certain that some of it can be attributed to seeing my friends, and being regrounded (if that's a word) in some of our mutual outlooks and experiences. Both of my friends seemed less edgy than they normally do, maybe because we are all in our 40s and they are fairly comfortable with their paths.

I wish I could say the same for myself, but I'm trying. I like where I am, but not how I'm handling it. The only year I can think of that was more stressful was the first year I had both boys. I've been so stressed out at times that I've lain awake obsessing over how the stress was going to shorten my life. That's helpful. When I get this anxious, things don't stay in my head, and I forget crucial tasks and things that would normally be no problem to remember. I go into OCD mode, and constantly second guess whether I've turned off the toaster, or the stove. I leave my phone at home or my wallet in a shopping cart (someone, elf or angel, turned it in, cash and credit cards intact - thank you and Merry Christmas).

All of this, and the 10 pounds I have gained from stress eating and a lack of time to exercise, is scaring me and making me uncomfortable. I don't want my life to constantly be a race to get there, a rush to just get things done, with no time to enjoy either the process or the product. I'm worried about my health.

I don't, generally, make resolutions, but I often set goals or themes for the year. For 2009, I know I must reduce my stress level. I must have a better functioning work and home life; I need to somehow be less overwhelmed. I need to get more sleep.

I'll have to work on that.

Because I have to have a sense of humor about this

I did wonder if this was going to happen, but I really expected it from someone who knew me better, and I didn't expect them to be serious.

Last week at a golf tournament fundraiser (I don't play, I was just there to help out), an older gentleman came up to me and said:

"You know, you look a lot like Sarah Palin."

It's the bangs, and the glasses, and my tendency to pull my hair back when it gets too long.

All I really have to show is this example from my Soccer Mom profile. While we're at it, why don't you go read my profile to see how I might take such a comparison.

Note the Hermitage behind me. Unlike Sarah Palin, I've actually been to Russia.

What surprised me most of all was that everyone around me when the comment was made seemed to universally think this was a good thing. Ok, it's a golf course, of course they're all Republicans.

Twenty minutes later I ran into him again and he repeated the comment in front of a different group of people.

This time I was ready with a response:

"Yeah, and I'm a good shot too!"