Free Stuff

Yesterday my family headed over the the 2008 Global Green Expo at Liberty State Park to learn all about conservation, organic farming, recycling and the many, many things we can all do to make the world a better place.  I thought it would be a great way to introduce these things to my kids... and learn a few things myself.  And I guess it did some of that. 

Benjamin learned about composting; though he was more excited about the "pet worms" he was allowed to take home.  The girls nibbled some organic snacks, checked out the horseshoe crabs, and slathered on samples of chemical free lotions scented with essential oils.  We stopped into the Children for Children (www.childrenforchildren.org) tent and decorated our own reusable shopping bags and helped paint a community mural.  

But then there was the "expo mentality".   All the free stuff they give out so that you'll stop at every booth.  And, for some reason, we all seem to get caught up in collecting it all.  Because it's free.  

At any other expo I suppose it would seem perfectly normal to grab whatever beach ball, refrigerator magnet and mouse pad  that was offered.  But this was supposed to be about limiting waste and clutter and garbage that will end up in landfills.  I mean, really, do we really need another plastic frisbee (even if it was made from recycled bottles)?  It was a little alarming watching people loaded down with shopping bags, grabbing stacks of coloring books and coasters and plastic water bottles and starlight mints.  And yet I also found myself thinking "we could always use more pens in the office".

That said, it was nice to go to an event where organic veggie and chicken wraps were offered.  But we had to laugh when we saw the line for hot dogs and Philly cheese steaks.  Ahhh... ain't that America...

Shen's baby naming

Shen tore open her new baby doll today.  "It's a boy," she announced as she changed the doll from one pink outfit into another. "And her name is Mala."

She then proceeded to give Tatum's doll, the one with the permanent "O" for a mouth (for her attached pacifier), a name, too.  "She's Abba. And she's a girl."

Once again proving (to me) that my kids are awesome.

A poem I like

There's a poem I read in a high school yearbook, that I always loved.  Maybe it's a song.  I don't even know.  It's probably famous.  As a matter of fact I'm sure of it, since I found the parts I couldn't remember in an internet search.  It was one of those things that I always wanted to dedicate to someone when I was younger.  It goes like this...

I love you not only for what you are

but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not only for what you have made of yourself

but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me that you bring out;

I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart

and passing over all the foolish, weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there,

and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.

I love you because you are helping me to make of the lumber of my life 

not a tavern but a temple

out of the works of my every day

not a reproach but a song.

I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me good

and more than any fate could have done to make me happy.

You have done it without a touch

without a word

without a sign.

You have done it by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what being a friend means after all.

I think of this poem often now.  I'll be flipping through the mail or walking through the aisle at Stop and Shop and suddenly the words will pop into my mind and I'll start to cry.  Just a little.  Just for a moment.  And not because I'm sad.  It's because I'm so overwhelmed with gratitude that I have me this friend and get to spend every day with him.  

And then I pull myself together because it feels a little ridiculous to just start crying spontaneously in the post office or the mall.

I get teased often about this crush that I have on my husband.  My girlfriends often tell me that I love my husband more than anyone they know.  And he and I have talked about it, too.  In the end, we've both agreed that it's perhaps a bit unfair to let my friends have this impression. After all, I'm sure they all love their husbands very much.  We've come to the conclusion that partly it's love and partly it's emotional instability.  On a bad day, I can sing a very different song (or more accurately, spit venom).  It's just that he's the only one who hears it.

But still.  Those good days happen often enough.

Car Therapy

I was in a foul mood earlier; snapping at my husband for no particular reason and irritated by the crumbs on the floor and the random clutter of homeless objects collecting on the kitchen counter.  I can't stand having a "to do" list hanging over my head on a beautiful day, which today is, so I suppose that explains the bitchy behavior as I left to go to Whole Foods.

It's amazing to me, though, how that quickly that funk can evaporate when the right song comes on the radio.  DJ's seem to be at their best on the first hot days of spring - they know we're ripe for nostalgia.  So I decompressed to old U2, Journey and Jeff Buckley and rolled down the windows.  Now I had the breeze and the bright greens and pinks of everything blooming all around me.  And once that shift starts to happen, it just has it's own velocity.  Suddenly, I'm aware of the moments I'm witnessing all around me.  Kids skipping alongside moms and babysitters on their way to the park.  Dog tails wagging next to people who look like theirs would be wagging, too, if they had tails.  Red, red cardinals flying against a backdrop of bright blues and greens.  A couple of girls catching up over a long lunch outside.

And before long, I'm remembering other springs, and other days like this one.  And I think of playing hooky and calling in sick.  Falling in love and finding excuse after excuse to stay just a little longer.  The radio always has a way of picking up and running with this.  Classic rock or even the corny pop stuff from the 80's.  And John  Mayer gets to me, even though he bugs the crap out of me lately.  A 15 minute drive and my eyes welled up at least 3 times.

By the time I finished my shopping, my mood had turned completely.  Spring fever's got a hold on me but good, and it seems to have everyone around me in the same happy trance.  So the ride home is really something to savor now.  I pull my hair out of it's ponytail because I can't stand the thought of even the slightest restrictions (well, I keep my seat belt on, but that's about all I can take).  All the windows down now and the radio at full volume.  Santana's playing and he's just perfect.  I'm sure I was speeding, but it seemed the only way to drive at the time.  I felt 17... and kind of like a hottie actually.

And then, just for a moment, I remember that I'm a 38 year old woman driving a Honda Odyssey with three car seats in back.  I look in the mirror.  I don't think I look old.  And, I don't really care all that much.  It just feels good - the music and the wind in my hair and having my soul stirred  and awakened that way.  But I remembered yet another thing I used to make fun of when I was young - "older" people trying to act young.  And I'm trying to remember now what I thought was so ridiculous.  

You know what?  Who cares?  It feels good to feel young... at any age.  

Don't Judge Me

This isn't it.  This is merely the prelude to the earth-shattering genius  that will eventually become evident here.  I haven't sorted those details out yet, but when I do, it's gonna be HUGE!

So don't even begin deliberating yet.  I'm just clearing my head... making my entrance... giving the opening band a chance to play.

It's all just brewing...

When stupidity finds confidence..

I remember many times when I was younger thinking I could do anything... could fool anyone... could get away with whatever I wanted.  And most of those times I was under the influence of one thing or another.  

One beautiful September day in the early 90's, I remember trying mushrooms with several friends who were mushroom "veterans".  They had promised to walk me through the whole experience and were fully equipped with the perfect snacks an beverages for such an occasion.  So we set up our blankets and backpacks on a quiet stretch on Jones Beach and began chewing some foul-tasting fungus... with Cool-Ranch Doritos to mask the flavor.

It was a rough start.  Things started to warp pretty quickly.  Before long, I was laying flat on my back melting into the sand overwhelmed by the clouds, which were enormous and appeared to be breathing.  They were covered in an elaborate network of colorful veins that pulsed to the same rhythm as the breathing.  It was too much.  I became claustrophobic and started to panic. 

Luckily, the veterans came to my aid.  They helped sit me up, gave me some cold water and talked me through the images.  And soon I was feeling a little clearer.  This was phase two.  I was beginning to feel quite good now.  Everything was vivid and technicolor, but now I was on board and in on the whole thing.  Empowered even.  And as a matter of fact, I was ready to take a walk and interact and just enjoy my day.  Besides, I really needed to pee.  So I ventured over to the boardwalk to see what the rest of civilization was doing in their mundane, pastel little lives.

Well, the rest of civilization also had to pee.  So I waited in line.  And as I waited, I stood there thinking my profound amazing thoughts and appreciating all the brilliant details and colors that only I could see.  And then I paused to take a little pride in just how "normal" I could be in the midst of my mushroom trip.  No one would ever guess.  After all, I'm just this sweet-looking young girl at the beach.  Not freaking out or laughing uncontrollably or hyperventilating.  Well, not now anyway.  "I'm totally composed," I remember thinking with pride.

But my happy train of though was interrupted by the woman standing in line in front of me.  She had cleared her throat rather loudly and was staring at me.  What was her problem?  What was she all out of sorts about on such an spectacular day at the beach?  She looked pretty normal.  She had a pretty silk shirt on, I noticed.  And then I noticed a hand on the sleeve of her shirt.  Fingers just rubbing along the silkiness of the sleeve.  A dainty little wrist.  My friendship bracelet.... my bracelet... wait, my bracelet.  My hand.  Me.  Fondling a perfect stranger in line for the ladies room at the Jones Beach boardwalk while.

Seconds earlier, I thought I was enlightened.  Go figure.

My own little neverland

Tonight, with a pounding headache and the very last of my energy, I trudged over to the dryer to pull out the clothes before they crinkled into an unrecognizable, unfoldable mess.  There's nothing fun about remembering clothes in the dryer just as you're about to relax.

Or is there?

I opened the dryer to find a little puff of fairy dust shimmering all around me.  Or maybe it was dragon dust... I don't know which of my kids it came from.  But for a moment, it really felt magical to have the air around me glimmering and sparkling.  And I have to say, that I've had a good number of magical moments like these since I've had kids.  They just breathe newness and intrigue into everything.

Ok, so sometimes it's a sticky, old lozenge or, worse yet, silly putty, but I'm up for surprises.  I love the surprises.  I love having my chores interrupted by fairy dust!

Damage Control

I don't care what they say, I still won't shop at Walmart.  

I don't believe they've turned over a new leaf.  I guess I have to be happy that they've jumped on the "green" bandwagon, but really, does anyone really believe that it's something more than an image revamp?  Ok, so the impact is still there.  The message will still get out (but not without a gigantic Walmart trademark whenever possible).   And it must mean that the documentaries and the boycotts are creating some positive shifts, but those ad campaigns of theirs are so manipulative.  It reminds me of that thing I read about a couple of years ago about the tobacco companies... spending a few hundred thousand dollars on some charitable campaign or research, I can't remember which, and then spending millions and millions publicizing that "good deed".

Sorry, Walmart, you're going to have to do better than that... and then keep doing it...

Slow Mo(tiva)tion

I can't sleep.  Every now and then I'm just overwhelmed by the feeling that if I could just conquer these demons, fight the good fight, say what needs to be said, learn to say "no" more often, learn to say "yes" more often, eat more green vegetables, kick the sugar habit, laugh at fear, take more long walks, watch more good movies and less crappy TV, do more yoga, spend more time dancing, cook exotic meals, paint, let my kids lead the way, learn guitar, pick up and just go, and just maybe finish some of the damn things that I start... I'd be a freakin' legend.  

Really.   I think it's possible.

I could use a drink

Or maybe not a drink, because I'm not really good at drinking.  Maybe a cupcake.

Maybe some real sleep with absolutely no reason to wake up at any particular time.

Maybe some time to wander in the city with no schedule and no particular place to be.

Maybe just a few days to paint and listen to music and maybe have lunch with a girlfriend.

Maybe a few hours uninterrupted.

Maybe some time to completely forget about the dishes in the sink and the laundry that needs to be done.

A good movie could be a start.

A massage would be nice.

A haircut even.

Or just enough to shower, put on make-up and find an outfit I really like.

No, no... I don't want to be that girl.  Give me the painting and the music and the wandering in the city.  Screw the make-up.

And I'll take that drink.

Sean Penn is one of my Angels

Which is funny, since I think I've heard him describe heaven as a place with drugs and hookers.

And yet he's popped up at various points in my life and moved and inspired me, gave advice, recommended books, made me angry, made me cry, laugh... reminded me to be alive in new or forgotten ways.

I watched "Into the Wild" last night and he did it again.  Newly kinetic parts of me today driving me to live in all different directions.  Don't get me wrong.  He's not the only one.  Not even the biggest one.  Or close.  My husband and children rock my world.  But Sean Penn is inspiration I'm willing to share.  Everyone has some kind of access to him and should take advantage of at least some of what he's putting out there for us.

I first saw him when I was 15 years old in Franklin, Tennessee.  I had heard that a movie was being shot nearby and it sounded much more exciting than the Green Hills Mall, so I went.  It was the set of "At Close Range" - the first movie set, the first celebrity I'd seen close up.  Well, I once saw Andy Warhol cross the street, and Susan Lucci lived in my town growing up... my dad says we once saw Bette Davis walk into a liquor store when I was tiny... but they were just sightings.  I got to stand around a giggle with my girlfriend for this one.  Christopher Walken was there, too, but as a culturally bankrupt Tiger Beat reading Duran Duran fan, I had no idea who he was.  Chris Penn was in Footloose, so I knew him.  But Sean, he was with Madonna.  He was the one.

And he seemed pretty unfriendly.  And he sent someone over to ask us to leave.  "You're distracting the actors," they told us.

Ten years later,  I sat outside a little Italian place by my apartment in Greenwich Village with my best friend, Beth, sharing a pasta dish because we were poor and having a glass of red wine because we weren't that poor.  A few guys and a transparently thin blonde girl sat at the table next to us. They were behind Beth, so she couldn't see them.  But apparently she could feel one of them push his chair too close to hers, because she very pointedly adjusted her seat and cleared her throat to make sure that he knew he was imposing on her personal space.  And just as I was saying, "You've got to check out hair on the guy across from me," the gentleman behind her turned to see who was giving him a little shove.  It was Tim Robbins.  And Sean was the guy with the hair.  That pompador from "Dead Man Walking".  Gary Oldman and some other guy I didn't recognize were also at the table.  And the skinny blonde.  

We eavesdropped, but it was hard to hear.  They were talking about their "dream" girls.  I think Tim Robbins said Raquel Welsh (which happens to be the first poster he has in "Shawshank Redemption").  The guy we couldn't recognize said Anna Nicole Smith.  And then there was something about mushroom trips?... or maybe it was mushroom sauce.  I don't know.  

I passed Sean on the street a few days later and stuck my tongue out at him.

And about a week after that, I was sitting outside at one of the mediocre cafes on MacDougall Street reading a book and waiting for my vanilla milkshake to arrive.  And for some reason I knew he was nearby.  I turned around to look, and there he was across the street.  And as soon as I saw him, he saw me.  We smiled the smiles of people who keep running into each other.  I waved him over, and to my surprise, he came and sat across from me.  

He was coming from (or going to) a birthday party for one of Tim Robbin's kids.  My milkshake arrived and I offered him some.  He said it looked good, but declined.  He asked my name, and then asked how I spelled it.  I asked him about books he liked and he told me to read Charles Bukowski.  I asked him how old he was (34 or 35, I forget which) and what I had to look forward to.  His expression told me to anticipate some suffering but that I would survive.  I asked about his children and the look on his face when he spoke of them made me want to lean over and kiss him.  But I didn't.  Instead, I reminded him that he'd acted like a jerk when I'd seen him 10 years earlier and he apologized.  "I was kind of in a bad way at the time."

He advised me not to have a child with someone I wasn't planning to spend my life with, which I'd been considering.  He laughed when I asked about Madonna.  He was, you know, nice.

I saw him a couple of times after that.  Once I was walking with a guy I hardly knew, who was going on and on about celebrities in Manhattan, and was mortified to look up and see him just a few feet away and easily within earshot.  He'd just had his hair cut and looked more himself again and I told him so.  Another time, just walking down the street to our respective apartments.  He had a friend with him, I think his name was Joe, and it was weird.  So I left.

I half expected to see him again at 35, but it never happened.  But there are the movies, and the appearances on The Colbert Report and that actor's studio show.  I did read some Bukowski. Loved the raw and unapologetic writing.  But toxic.  I picked up Tales of Ordinary Madness while I was pregnant and had to put it down.  I was afraid I'd have angry children.  I see things in the news... was happy to see him win awards, sad when he and Robin almost split.  Sadder still when his brother died.

And he's way over there somewhere.  Living his life.  Doing his thing.  And I'm way over here. And I'm 99.99% sure that I still would have married the right guy and had these gorgeous children and been happy and fulfilled regardless; but sometimes when I see one of his movies, I think maybe he helped me along.