Friendly Reminder

How this works --

1. I write a post.

I enter full blown creative mania. I spend hours agonizing over it -- searching for the perfect picture; referencing the grammar site open on my browser;  checking the thesaurus for a better adjective; and making sure it all looks professional and designerly.

2. I wait for comments.

I don't pretend to write this blog for me. If I wrote this blog for me I would never go to all the trouble mentioned in point number one. I probably wouldn't blog at all. I would be perfectly satisfied reading other people's blogs and fantasizing about what an awesome writer I could be someday. I write this blog for you. More specifically, I write this blog for attention from you.

Many of you have professed to read my blog; even chastised my infrequent postings. And yet here I sit eagerly hitting the refresh button on my comments page only to be disappointed.

I don't expect verbosity or lavish praise. One word (a calling card) is all I ask.

Words such as:

Fabulousness

Touching...

Brilliantastic.

Hilarious!!!!

(punctuation optional)


Even the occasional:

Bah!

BOO.

Mehh...

or

;(

would be perfectly acceptable.

The only wrong answer is no answer.

CC

Fox in the City

A few months ago I was out shopping with a friend. We were driving around Berlin at night, in a borrowed car, tracking down items for a church function the next day. The excursion stopped being fun a few hours earlier, and we were still trying to find a warehouse store that neither of us had been to. Our conversation was wandering, and the whole episode was getting tedious.

I was also suffering from low blood sugar. Susie (who I fondly refer to as 'tits on a stick') had "filled-up on dried nuts & fruit" before we met up and was still (her words) "stuffed." I on the other hand always look stuffed so my confessed hunger didn't seem to register any concern. With a friend of average (or preferably over-average) weight I would have pressed the issue. But how could I tell this waif that I, her beefy friend, was starving?

Bottom line; I was homesick -- craving familiarity and convenience in the form of a Walmart or Target and a friend who knew me well enough to drive-thru. 

I tried to distract myself by taking in the city -- the gleaming displays in store windows; old architecture glowing in the sparkle of electric light; the revealed interiors of brightly lit apartments that in daylight are masked by the glare of sun on glass. And then a red fox.

It crept from the shadows of a parked car, peered into the on-coming traffic then paused a second before it turned and was gone.

All of my thoughts melted away in that intensely focused moment. I felt a jolt of affirmation.  If I had been anywhere else in the world, I would have missed it.

CC

Read This

If you haven't read Lynne Truss's (she says to put the apostrophe there but I'm still not sure) witty, helpful and anything but boring book--you must. She will call you out on every punctuation slip-up you have ever made, yet still allow you to feel good about yourself by providing examples of truly ridiculous grammatical idiocy to ease the guilt of your own (less obtuse) offenses.  Anyone who can take me to school while making me laugh, and propagate my intellectual superiority myth, is a genius.

The only drawback is that now Lynn is in my head. She is standing over my shoulder with a raised eyebrow, tsking disappointedly every time I misuse the comma.

I'm trying, Lynn. I'm really trying.


CC

Moving On

I have never lived in any home longer than five years.

When I was little my mom was poor, single and very young. We floated around a lot living with relatives or in rented rooms. Things stabilized somewhat after she remarried but we continued to bounce around. I went to four different elementary schools and three different high schools. I have lived in four different  states and moved out of the country twice. I never know how to answer the question Where are you from? because there is no short answer and any abbreviated version feels like a lie.

I was raised to be a gypsy.

Moving is like pushing a giant reset button on your life. With it comes the chance to make a hundred new first impressions, to re-invent and to stand out - to bask in the attention of being 'the new kid'. There is an adrenaline rush in newness. New house, new school, new friends, new stuff. Then comes the honeymoon phase. That time of discovery where life is like a long vacation, nothing is tarnished by unpleasant history and everything is full of potential.

It can all be so intoxicating-- addictive even. Once you're hooked you need it to feel normal.

My name is Chantel and I am a recovering moving-junkie.

In the past when life started feeling too mundane, too under or overwhelming, I wanted to move and if I didn't get my fix I would go through major moving withdrawal. I would scheme and dream and lash out at whatever or whomever I saw as getting in the way. Any smack of unhappiness, any 'failure to thrive' I blamed on a lack of atmosphere.

My most recent move was a big one-- the type I used to dream about. Berlin! A metropolitan city in Europe. The move to end all moves. And even though I love it here, (and I am thankful everyday for the opportunity) I realize now that no physical move will ever be the answer because you can't move away from yourself.

You take it all with you. Every bad habit, character-flaw, insecurity and regret. You might as well have packed them in with your toiletries.

So the setting has changed but I am still me. I eat too much, yell at my kids and waste too much time on the computer. My house is still messy. I am still more than a little selfish and I still don't have a college degree. I am easily overwhelmed, I still don't follow through, and my husband and I still squabble over the same old things.

I am still me. I am me in a brand new all white apartment in an amazing and beautiful city-- but I am still just me. And I expect that this move and this place will have a profound effect, but it won't fundamentally change me. Nothing can do that.

Except me.

CC

Catching Up

Had a beautiful baby.

Had an aneurism.

Had a lot of help.

Had some brain surgery.

Had a lot more help.

Husband had a crazy idea to move us to Berlin...

and here we are.

It's been a good year.

CC

Eight More Weeks

This is my least favorite time of gestating. There are the varicose veins, the aching back, the heartburn, the swelling and the general malaise of discomfort.

Sex is an embarrassment. Exhaustion is permanent. And all of it is going to get worse before it gets better.

At this point attempts at self beautification are as productive as polishing a turd. My best efforts produce little results. An hour of primping and I look like a manatee wearing lipstick and a wig.

Even my usually sensitive husband can't bring himself to lie to make me feel better. His attempts to mollify my insecurities seem like thinly veiled insults of their own.

Everyone looks different when they're pregnant.

Don't worry its only temporary.

Hon, really. What can you expect?

I expect a little dignity. Now where'd I put my Tucks.

CC

Metamorphosis

I warned you all this day in my pregnancy would come. You didn't believe me. Apologies accepted.

Occupational Hazard

The pharmacist at my local grocery store is hot. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced that Viggo Mortensen isn't moonlighting between films at the South Jordan Harmon's. I'm not typically the swoony type but this man's overt attractiveness kicks in my baser instincts and I can't walk past the Drop-Off counter without an outfit check and a breath mint.

Being incredibly, incredibly, good looking isn't usually something one could categorize as a liability, but medical grade hotness may be an occupational hazard for a pharmacist.

Consider that human sexuality is driven by evolutionary forces. Health and vitality are key elements of attraction. Are you going to sultrily walk up to Dr. Adonis' counter with a prescription for Vagistat? Would you flirtatiously toss your hair while confidently inquiring the difference in effectivity between the generic and name brand hemorrhoidal creams? How many times do you think you can you claim with false pretense that its all "for a friend"? With your name on the prescription, you are bound to be discovered for the sickly liar that you are.

That's why (until I have to fill a prescription for nymphomania) I'm going to Target. The pharmacist there wears dorky glasses, talks to me about his Lego collection, and never, never makes me blush.

CC

Wishes

Spring is here and the dandelions have taken our neighborhood by storm. Of course my children love to pick them and blow the fluffy seed tufts into the air. Inevitably, they will bring me one.

"Make a wish Mommy!"

I take the stem and blow away the fluff.

"What did you wish for?"

"You know I always wish for the same thing..."

"What?" they ask me coyly. As if they don't know the answer.

"That all my kids' dreams will come true."

Satisfied that our ritual is still in place, they run away smiling.

My wish for my children is that they will have the confidence to pursue their passions. That in spite of the nay-sayers and the 'practical' people they will still have the courage to say, "I want to be an artist/actress/author/photographer/filmmaker/musician when I grow up." That when faced with the high-school guidance counselors' doom and gloom statistics on anyone without an engineering or law degree my children will clearly see themselves as the exception.

I want them to dream big and boldly, without limitations or fear. I want them to know that the only thing capable of keeping them from achieving their dreams is their willingness to pursue them. I don't want them to be content relegating their talents to hobbies, or their passions to the weekend. I want their passions to be their life.

We live in a community which seems to draw successful and creative people who have pursued their dreams. Authors and performers, professors and artists, who didn't see providing for a family and pursuing their talents as mutually exclusive. They followed the desires of their hearts.

In a world where success is gaged in terms of wages and investment portfolios, I wish for my children the clarity to define their success by more intangible means. I wish for them personal development, fulfilling relationships, spiritual strength, and realized potential. I wish for them to never have to look back and say, "if only I had tried..."

CC

The Tooth Fairy (or Why I'll Never Win The Mother Of The Year Award)

We forgot to follow through on our oldest child's first lost tooth. He woke us up the next morning carrying the little tooth in his hand, and crestfallen exclaimed, "Mom, she didn't come."

Oops.

Ethan's Letter to the Tooth Fairy:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

I lost my first tooth today. I'll put my tooth under my pillow. My tooth has no cavities or fillings.

My tooth came out because at school I twisted my tooth...and when I got home I let my mom pull it out.

I think I should have 3$ for my tooth.

Ethan

Tooth Fairy's Reply:

Dearest Ethan,

Thank you for the lovely note and beautiful tooth! I am so ashamed that I am late, late, late. In fact it hasn't happened since...well, ask your Grandmother Joan.

I was so busy last night that I had to risk being seen this morning and make this final drop while you were in the shower. You see the hurricane over the Indian Ocean blew me off course and left me scrambling to catch up. Terrible, just terrible!

Considering that this is your first Tooth Fairy experience, and no doubt a disappointing one, I am leaving you $10. I hope you will find that to be adequate compensation given the unfortunate circumstances.

Best Wishes,

The Tooth Fairy

Yeah, that would be us buying down the guilt.

CC

Broke

Disclaimer: This post is a reflection of how I am feeling at the moment and is subject to drastic and sudden change. Particularly after I have consumed enough rocky road ice cream to induce gestational diabetes.

 

I'll admit it. I'm a light-weight when it comes to stress. It doesn't take much to render me dysfunctional. In fact, I'm rarely fully functional. I'm sure our current financial circumstances are meant to teach me a few lessons on endurance and rising to the occasion and relying on the Lord and simplifying my life and finding out what's really important and blah-biddy-blah-blah...I'm over it. 

I know there are people who have had it much, much worse and gone through life with much, much less but today I don't care. I want my old life back. So, knowingly assuming the risk of sounding whiny, and high maintenance, and patently ungrateful, I am posting this list of demands for my happiness.

1. Cable.

2. A savings account with a balance of more than $2.48.

3. Regular pedicures.

4. Buying new baby clothes and feeling no guilt.

5. Not having to ask for help. 

6. Private school.

7. A husband with hope.

8. A real vacation.

9. Paying more than the minimums.

10. A 'frivolous' shopping spree with a receipt over $20.

11. Doing hair just for the 'fun money'.

12. A mom who is more stable than me.

13. Being able to afford the dentist.

14. Having the option to spoil the kids.

15. Friends who don't worry about us.

 16. A desire to pray.

CC

Another Edie

More than anything, I want to be creative. Not great casserole recipe, scrap-book, or baby-making creative. Those things are too practical, too useful. Nope, I want to make art for art's sake and get lost in the creative process. I want to look at something I've created and feel accomplished. I want to be recognized publicly (and not posthumously) by other creative experts for having exhibited some measurable level of creative genius.

The problem is I'm just OK. I'm an OK singer, an OK writer, an OK designer. I have no real outstanding gifts. I'm just generally decent at a few things. I know enough to recognize real creativity when I see it and I can't fool myself, I don't have the 'it'.

I do, on the other hand, have a lot of the stereotypical temperaments of a creative person. I'm impassioned, unorganized, emotional, impetuous, and messy. Shouldn't these flaws come with some consolation prize? Shouldn't I be able to look at my health-code-violation of a bedroom and at least have the solace of some attained creative super-achievement?

I've seen "Grey Gardens." I know there is a danger in the unrealizable dream. I'm afraid of ending up like the Beales. An old woman living in squalor, wearing panty-hose over my shorts and sporting a jaunty skirt-cape, spending my days feeding bread to the raccoons in my attic and manically rehearsing my dramatic routines.

Take away the estate in East Hampton and the lost millions; the Beales are a lot like me. More than anything they wanted to be creative. And they were OK at it too. 

CC

The Confessions of Mrs. Sprat

It all started with my friend's observation a few months ago.

"Wow, Greg has lost a lot of weight. He looks really hot...Are you worried?"

Am I worried!?

Well I wasn't until right then. Up until then, I was busy being proud of my man and enjoying his new hunky physique. Until then, I relished the second looks he was getting from other women. Perhaps it was naivete or an overly healthy self image but it had never occurred to me to be worried.

So now I'm worried. I'm worried that we might be a Jack Sprat couple. I'm worried that when people look at us they wonder what he is doing with me. I'm worried that my new found insecurities will make me even less attractive.

Most of all, I'm worried that her very question implies that I should be worried.

CC

Thumb Suckers

Monday afternoon, in my car on the way to swim lessons I happened to glance out the passenger side window just in time to see two sleazy looking men looking back at me from a boxy old, primer grey Isuzu pick-up. Just as I was about to give a nervously friendly wave, the driver shouted something in my direction, threw his head back, and they sped off laughing.

If I were a more naive person I would have given him the benefit of the doubt and assumed that he said "Some hitch!" in reference to the tow package on the back of my van, or maybe "Bum itch!" suggesting vigorous back-side scratching as an explanation for his erratic behavior. Call me superficial, but I am a girl who judges a book by its cover, and based on their heavy gage body piercings, death metal bumper stickers and matching construction orange t-shirts, I knew better.

Of course I began to self-blame. Did I cut him off...was I driving too slowly...did he find me singing "Cats! The Musical" and he couldn't abide a corny yet admittedly catchy show tune?

Honestly, how pathetic and guilt spongey could I be? I quickly gave myself a good scolding, and formulated a more acceptable explanation. Clearly those men are misogynistic creeps who resort to random acts of verbal bullying to feel powerful and (being the tender and soft hearted woman that I am) I should pity the bleakness of their sad little lives.

Sighing with relief, brimming with righteous indignation and a healthy dose of moral superiority, I hoped that they happened to look back at me in their rear view mirror at the exact moment my lips were mouthing some words which may or may not have been "Thumb Suckers."

CC

Living Will

When I am old I will be fabulous; Old Dame fabulous with poise, and grace, and a sarcastic wit. I will be mysterious, or at least mystifying. I will have bobbed silver hair, with one pure white piece in front that sets off my eyes. When I am old I will have soft crepey skin, and wrinkles that make me look wise. I will have energy that belies my years and hands that will betray them and I will show off my old hands with nails that are long and always polished.

When I am old I will command a room with my presence, and my warmth will envelop it. Young women will want to be like me when they are old, and young men will wish they had known me when I was young.

When I am old I will wear high heel shoes and complain about them. I will carry an elaborate cane which I wouldn't need if I didn't wear high heels. I will have lots of costume jewelry, and I will regularly wear too much of it at once in order to look grand.

When I am old I will curse. Mostly, I will curse softly under my breath, but sometimes I will curse loudly so as to shock people.

When I am old my children will still seek my advice and my grandchildren will follow it.

When I am old I will have framed pictures of me when I was young and beautiful. When people see those pictures they will say, "God, you were beautiful!" and I will smile proudly at them and say, "Thank you," because by then, I will know it is true.

When I am old I will have a very small dog named Patsy or Kipper. I will take this very small dog with me everywhere I go in a great big purse and I will feed it from my plate and it will hate everyone else but me.

When I am old I will live alone but not be lonely. I will have friends who are old and we will go to lunch and to the matinee and we will talk too loudly during intermission about our constipation. I will be a terrible gossip, but I will not have a reputation for being a gossip so my friends will still confide in me.

When I am old I will have to have a 'procedure.' Just a small procedure, but one that makes people worry so that I know they still love me. Once its all over, everything will be fine and afterwards, I will talk about my small procedure vaguely, so as not to be too morbid. 

 When I am old, I will be old, and not wish to be young again. I will drive a fancy car very slowly, and I will wear large sunglasses over my bifocals, and sometimes I will forget to take the sunglasses off.

When I am old I will be vain. I will wear too bright a shade of lipstick and carry a gold compact with a magnifying mirror in my purse. I will reapply my lipstick all day long so that people will see that I am still vain.

When I am old I will be eccentric but not crazy. I will sing and dance around my house and talk out loud to myself. I will read good books and go to the museum, and to the symphony where I will make noise with the candy I keep in my purse.

When I am old I will have money. I will spend that money on my grandchildren and when one of them has a big fight with their parents they will come and live with me, but not stay too long. 

When I am old I will be inspiring because I will have lived a full life and people will see that I am still living it. 

When I am old I will sing songs to my grand children that no one remembers, and some time my grandchildren will hear those songs somewhere else and think of me.

When I am old I will paint my toenails red. I will wear the same perfume every day and my granddaughters will never be able to wear that perfume because no one wants to smell like an old lady.

When I am old I will have a house that my children will not want to sell when I die. I will take ill in that house, and I will have a nurse named Peggy or Ginger and she will change my diapers, and call me 'Sug'. When I go, I will go quietly, but only after my children have said goodbye. I will not be afraid to die, but my children will be afraid to lose me. They will cry a lot at my funeral, and afterwards, they will go back to my house that they do not want to sell, and look at my pictures and laugh and tell each other my stories and say, "God, she was beautiful," because I was. 

CC

Written Apologies

To the Little Girl on the Playground ,

I'm sorry that I called you a liar when you told me that your grandpa was your biological father. And now that I am old enough to know what that means...I'm even more sorry that your mom is your sister and your brother is your uncle.

To the mean girl in P.E. ,

I'm sorry I let you shame me into never wearing my favorite shoes again. My mom paid $3.99 for those bad boys and I don't care what you say...electric blue, vinyl low tops are bitchin'


To Michael C. ,

I'm sorry that I treated you like a scrawny weakling and rolled my eyes in disgust when you couldn't lift all 120 lbs of my dead weight in that dance sequence we did together. I am now willing to accept some personal responsibility for our failure...I guess I could have jumped a little.


To Rhonda D. ,

I'm sorry we would call you a "fashion leper" almost to your face. I can't say you deserved it...but I do hope you have come to realize that the grape purple, polk-a-dot, ruffled chiffon blouse with matching beret was a bit much.

CC

The Reluctant Blogger

Hmmm....I'm not entirely sure about this whole blog thing. I think that the name itself has been turning me off. I mean honestly, "blog"? It sounds like a Tolkein character, or the sound that comes out right before you're going to be sick. And then there are all the blog word derivatives: 'blogger', 'blogroll,' and my personal unfavorite, 'tumblelog', which conjures up the image of a rolling piece of poo. Was web-log really so hard to say? Did we really need a 'short-form' of a two syllable word?

So now I find myself in the position of a reluctant blogger. Why bother you ask? Why add another tasting of mediocrity to the soup of uninteresting over-share which makes up the (cringe) blogosphere?

It has recently come to my attention that a lot of people much hipper than me have been blogging it up for some time now. What I saw as tacky self aggrandizement is apparently a fashionable form of personal self expression. Besides, no one wants to be last to the party.

CC