My Seasonal Blog

A Letter to Leslie

2012-01-12T05:53:00.000-08:00

Dear Leslie,

We are merely friendly acquaintances, most often nothing more than passing and smiling "hellos." We are mothers of boys, something I could never have imagined in terms of wonderment and confusion. My boy and your youngest son played football together this past fall, our sons attend the same small school. I am at times a conflicted mom of a young athlete, not because of the severe, life-changing injury your oldest son Jack sustained over Christmas vacation, the one that severed his spinal cord after he was checked from behind. As a result of that hit, Jack sailed headfirst into the boards while playing a JV hockey game and he didn’t get up. He said to your husband, his dad, from the ice the words no parent ever wants to hear, he said, "I can't feel anything."

I was conflicted before that unspeakable accident; I've called out too-intense, inappropriate coaches and parents over the years because I cannot understand the need to verbally abuse a child in hopes of inspiring him or her into athletic greatness. I understand that this is a philosophical argument, and I am merely reacting to gut feelings that are viewed as unpopular given the context. I know excellence is achieved through training and self-discipline, but it also requires heart, brains, and luck. What happened to Jack could've happened to any of our kids while playing a demanding game that they love. Parents, friends, and relatives of young athletes everywhere collectively gasped in horror when the details of Jack’s injury were reported throughout our community.

There's, to my mind anyway, something wrong with the culture of youth sports and the way our kids are driven and rode like our very own little unfulfilled dream vehicles. They're our cherished children, and my kid loves sports. For that reason, I help my son find situations in which he can pursue his passion just like you. I love watching him play, win or lose, and just like you, I’ve learned to love and appreciate the beauty and intricacies of these games. Sometimes I'm too vocal during a tight game because I've crossed a boundary I've promised myself I'd never cross. Regardless of my own blurted out "Heys" and "Open your eyes ref," I hate hearing a coach or a parent scream "Hit someone!" It sounds too close to "Hurt someone!" I understand that some sports are rough and command intense physical contact; it just seems that somewhere along the line finesse, skill, and sportsmanship have been replaced with something that feels and looks mean, desensitized, and violent. This outspokenness of mine embarrasses my son; he wishes I'd keep my concerns to myself instead of hollering "Cool it!" way too loud. Growing up in a hockey-centric family, I'd long marveled at the tolerance for bullying and brutality that is sometimes collectively accepted in the name of winning a game years before Jack received the hit that has changed his and your life irrevocably. I cannot get him and you and the rest of your family out of my heart or off of my mind. I feel so sad for the kid who hit him. I don't blame the game of hockey, or football, or any game for that matter; it's the misplaced intensity and the beyond-appropriate aggression I find problematic.

When I try to place myself in your current position, I am overwhelmed with the enormity of what lies ahead for all of you. You can't let down, but know that there are battalions of parents all around you trying to absorb the shock and sadness for you so you can remain strong and focused. Collective helplessness helps no one; lean hard on friends and strangers. Delegate. It is not your job to reassure us and let us know that we are lightening your emotional load. I hope that our collective energy and empathy can somehow keep you buoyed.

I was on a flight to Mexico -- a well-deserved respite that suddenly felt frivolous in light of your situation -- when I read the headline that stated that Jack would never walk or skate again. I burst into tears in the middle of a sardine can jammed full of traveling strangers. Everyone pretended not to notice; something that is both polite and distressing. A few days earlier I was sitting in the orthodontist’s office while my son was being outfitted for his dreaded headgear when I picked up the newspaper and saw a picture of you on the front page that was taken while you were addressing the media on behalf of Jack and your family. Your strength, grace, and poise are inspiring to parents everywhere. To see the stunned determination, the deep sadness intermingled with optimism that was captured in that image of your pretty gamine face was to send me into my first spasm of wracking sobs in front of polite strangers. When I opened that paper to page four and saw the picture of Jack in a hospital bed wearing a neck and head-stabilizing halo, I saw with horror what no parent ever wants to have to see. But that’s your reality now, and we're making it ours too because in our onlookers’ helplessness we want to help alleviate something, anything.

I don't know why I'm writing you a public letter Leslie except that writing is how I try to make sense of the world; it’s how I reach out. I hope through writing, my way of speaking, that I can speak for others beyond myself. Hopefully I can somehow manage to say, though clumsily, that the Jablonski family is not alone. We’re in it with you for the long haul.

Yours,
Laurie

AMERICA'S FAVORITE PASTIME

2010-08-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

Will K, eleven years old and young for his grade with an August birthday, stands at five feet tall, weighs seventy-five pounds, and is on the pitcher's mound. His right hand clutches two seams of the dirt dusty baseball, his right hand meets his left hand that's buried in an over-sized glove, he raises his bony right knee, widens his cornflower blue eyes (I'm sorry, but they truly are cornflower blue), pulls his mitt and throwing hand into the center of his narrow chest, and goes into one of the most baffling graceful dances I've ever watched, a move they call the wind up.

"'Atta boy Scottie, swing at the good ones, really let it rip, keep your eye on the ball," – rattled Will K releases the ball and the voice continues to boom, "NICE PITCH KID! HOLY COW! Did you see that pitch Scottie, that kid has an arm! Now let one rip! Keep your eye on the ball! Easy swing! Easy! Atta boy."

In the three seconds it has taken Will K to release the ball from the wind up (only to have it bounce in the dirt in front of home plate), the first base coach has scream-shouted at least seven sentences at a volume that doesn't suit the situation. It's the first pitch of the game.

For a few seconds, between the umpire's calls of a strike or a ball, the voice is quiet. At the precise second that Will K has the courage to cock himself into the coil required for that spring-loaded wind up of his, the voice continues his monologue, throat fully opened, volume menacing, "Run! Run! You've gotta run, man! Don't look back! Just run, run, run! Atta boy! Atta boy! Now go! Do it again! Go for three! Don't look back!" He's sending his man Scottie to second base long before the pitch has left Will K's increasingly deflated right hand.

We, the parents on the first base sideline whisper amongst ourselves, "They're not supposed to steal before the ball leaves the pitcher's hand." "Didn't we get called "out" last week for sending a guy too early?"

The vociferous parent/first base coach is wearing white linen shorts, a polo shirt, and – sorry, I can't leave it out – hirachis. His build is sinewy, his height is average, a little on the short side, and he has a Matt Lauer haircut. His voice is thunderous. He also happens to be standing next to my son, who at the moment is the first baseman with his knees hyper-extended backward and his eyes diverted away in hopes of avoiding any sort of contact with the wailing coach blasting hot air onto his personal space.

It's six-thirty on an almost-uncomfortably warm evening in a public park in southwest Minneapolis; we're watching twelve-year-olds play six innings of baseball in a low-pressure park league game. The third base coach is ripping it up too, but I'm not keying in on him; it's the dude a foot away from my son that is screaming and yelling like it's Game 7 of the World Series that makes me uncomfortable.

The first inning springs eternal as the opposing team makes it through their batting order and then some, mostly on walks and steals, the first and third base coaches have not let up, not for a second, always timing their bellows with the pitcher's wind up. Maybe it's a coincidence.

From the second inning on it is if we are all character actors in an old episode of Rod Serling's "Twilight Zone":

"Hey coach, we got called an "out" for sending a guy before the ball left the pitcher's hand," I offer in hopes of calming the overly intense first base coach.

"Un-uh lady, high school rules, high school rules," he shouts dismissively. This brings his constant chatter upon the wind up a decibel higher. I actually enjoyed high school, so maybe he's reiterating that high school rules? "Run baby! You got it! You gotta run every time! Steal home! Hey ump, the catcher's blocking the plate!"

"This guy needs to calm down," we whisper amongst ourselves with equal amounts of smugness and concern; we would never debase ourselves with such attention seeking behavior, no one has ever been this whacked in front of our kids who play on a park league teams versus travelling or club teams. Inspired, Will K's dad hollers over to the first base screamer, "Hey, let's mellow out and let the kids play ball!"

"YOU WANNA GO?"

"Are you challenging me to a fight?" Will K's dad says, giggling while rising from his portable lawn chair. Will K's dad is tall and muscular and could easily take his challenger, but who the heck challenges someone to a fight while coaching first base? Who the heck challenges someone to a fight period? I find this scene so weird that I feel like I'm in a dream because reality has just left the field.

"YA, MAN, I'LL TAKE YOU ON ANY TIME! I'M JUST SUPPORTING MY TEAM AND YOUR PLAYERS! HEY KID! NICE PITCH!" he yells with increased anger and downright hatred to both father on the sidelines and son on the pitcher's mound.

Our boys are eyeballing us, their parents, from the field, our coaches stand up from the bench where they've been taking in the inning, spitting sunflower seeds, looking to the ump, who is all of maybe twenty years old, wondering if he's going to take control of the game and settle these guys down with a warning. We have never experienced anything quite like this in the many years since our sons started playing t-ball eight years ago.

Meanwhile, behind the backstop, a heavy-set mother from the other team is trying to mix-it up on the sidelines.

"Did someone in your crowd just yell something at our catcher? Did someone just yell at a child? What the hell's wrong with you people?"

Someone, a parent of one of our players, did indeed mutter "rookie mistake" as he watched a play at the plate. He may have said it with a little too much mustard on the remark because everyone's on edge by now.

"What the hell is wrong with you people?" Re-states confrontational mom to anyone who will engage in her vitriol.

"I don't know who you are, but I don't want to talk to you," Noah's mom Josie says walking away from this woman who seems to be bucking for a fight. In a lather, she moves onto the next parent of one of our players who's milling about behind the backstop, "Did someone over here just talk trash to one of our kids? Did one of you actually threaten a child?"

"Ya know, this is getting weird," says the unsuspecting parent milling about behind the backstop. "No one is threatening the kids. No one has any ill intent toward your players. Really," he continues with a look of exasperation

From that moment on, a flood of obscenities, hollered taunts and accusations are unleashed. A kid on the other team throws an elbow into my son as he crosses the bag on first base, "You are out of the game," the ump calls walking toward first base. "You know what you did."

"What did he do? What the @#$% did he do, ump? Let my team play ball!" roars the first base coach.

"This is f-ing insane!" hollers my husband the assistant coach from the bench.

"YOU ARE OUT OF THE GAME!" the ump screams to my husband who then proceeds to amble toward the sidewalk and walk away. I think maybe the ump knew that my husband wasn't going to pitch a fit over an ejection. I think he was trying to take the safest route in an attempt to exert his authority and take some semblance of control of the game. My husband enjoys swearing; oftentimes it doesn't mix well with coaching kids. It's the fourth inning.

"There is way too much yelling going on. Everyone settle down!" Broadcasts coach Karl who must now defend his team without his salty assistant coach.

"Hey buddy, we're rooting for BOTH teams! We're just really into it man. Get a grip, pal!" Roars the menacing presence at first base still within punching distance of my son.

Coach Karl calls "Time out!" to the ump while summonsing his team in from the field to meet him on the pitchers mound.

We didn't know it at the time for they were huddled, but Coach Karl asked the boys, a team calling themselves the Yankees, if they would like to walk off the field and go home because the situation was out of control and because this wasn't baseball. All of the boys said that they wanted to play on.

I wish this story ended here. I wish this scene didn't mimic the anger I watch every day on the news whether it comes from tea partiers, Arizonans, extremists in any form, or lovers of the Gulf coast (and really, for any one who's ever visited there, who isn't?). I don't know why people in general seem angrier, more on edge than they used to be, though there are several indicators as seen on the daily news, on reality TV, in the stands of any concert or sporting event. Bad behavior gets ink and screen time and their own shows; I'm feeding the monster right now.

At games end, the yelling coaches and yelling mom cross the field, one wielding a bat, and descend upon our fans like a goon squad in an action adventure movie while parents are instructing their children to get in the car, now. This is some of what I heard though my ears were ringing in that way they do when one is anxious and hyper-aware: "Hey rummy, I've been seeing you around for years. There's booze on your breath. You're always hammered, aren't you? Are you drunk right now, loser?" (In front of the children, in front the accused's son.) "You know what's wrong with you people? You're all old. Look at you, what a bunch of old !@@## parents!"

At this point a quiet mother from the other team approaches us and pulls Josie aside and says, "I'm so sorry. This happens every game. I don't know if they're drunk or on drugs or what, but we're taking our son off of their team." Chafing from the "old parent" comment and overhearing the previous exchange, I have my own immature "oh ya; prove it kid" moment and say to one of the opposing yellers, "I don't know what your problem is or why you think it's okay to carry on like this, but we hear you guys are out of control every game."

The confrontational mother is yelling at the back of Elizabeth of the white blouse, tasteful scarf, and espadrilles, Elizabeth of the quiet, thoughtful demeanor who asks often about the rules because she signs her son up for sports because of the community and team work aspect of it all. "What a bunch of *crude colloquialism for male sex organ* suckers!" Screamy mom unleashes onto Elizabeth's back.

At that moment soft-spoken, demure Elizabeth transforms into Wonder Woman, turning around in a flash, eyes ablaze, fists clenched, "THERE ARE CHILDREN HERE!" Reflexively I flip open my cell phone and dial 911 to call the police because I'm pretty sure someone is on the verge of getting hit. The sadness setting in is a sense of regret that our children were watching this whole thing, a tale that no one believes when I re-tell it, a tale with no explanation or moral. The next pang has to do with the wondering about what these people are like in their private lives if they were perfectly comfortable with such horrid behavior in a public place.

In the words of coach Karl, "There is way too much yelling going on. Everyone settle down!" In the words of Robert Plant on the live version of "Stairway to Heaven," "Doesn't anyone remember laughter?" Guess I am an old parent.

I Love Book Clubs (and how it relates to my memoir Petal Pusher)

2009-10-07T18:58:00.000-07:00

(Guest Blog on Book Talk)

One of the coolest parts about having a book published is that your friends will usually, as an act of charity or obligation, ask their book clubs to read your book and then ask you to visit the book club when they meet to discuss your book. (First of all, I don’t know why they call them book clubs, why can’t we be up front about this, and call them wine clubs?) ANYWAY, I freaking love having book clubs read and discuss my book.

After visiting in person or cyber-visiting, around sixty book clubs since PETAL PUSHER’S release, I love the many ways that my book has been read and interpreted based on the readers’ own life experiences. A woman in my mother’s book club consolingly placed her hand on my mom’s forearm and said, “I don’t know what I’d do if I had a daughter like that.” Instead of crying, I choose to laugh at this remark since my mom has that unconditional love thing going when it comes to her children, and Lord knows, I was not a first daughter for the faint of heart mother!

Once I answer the questions that every book club so far has asked me:

Yes, my sister divorced the guy she married in the book.

My mother thinks that I exaggerate in the book; my siblings tend to see events the same way I did.

My dad loves me though there are parts of my book he does not love.

I changed the names of people I’m no longer in touch with unless they’re considered “public domain.”

My bandmates are okay with the book (there’s a lot I did not include). I sent them both galley proofs of the manuscript before it went to press (as I did with my parents, siblings, and husband), and there were no disputes or up roars – though it’s always important to remind memoir readers that I experienced the events in the book differently than did a lot of the characters.

Then, it’s my turn to ask the book club members what they thought the book was about:

An older woman told me she thought it was about women figuring out how to deal with their bodies.

Someone else thought it was about women and friendship and how “business” can really corrode those friendships.

Another said she thought it was about dealing with disease.

A lot of people think it’s about growing up or following a dream to fruition.

Some folks think it’s about loving music and falling in love.

I think it’s about my relationship with my father.

The cool thing is, there are no right and wrong answers. It’s all about absorption and interpretation, and I love how different we all are.

DON'T STEAL

2009-05-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

I love my yoga instructor. She's wise, energetic, funny, and real. I've been attending her classes for almost eleven years. The coolest thing about her is that she's still learning; she's the rare teacher who is always evolving, updating, and bursting with enthusiasm to share her latest discoveries.
I'm sort of a crappy yoga student in that I pick and chose which lessons to embrace. Sometimes I don't give it my all. Sometimes I resist. I'm easily distracted. Sometimes I go through the motions while trapped in my own thoughts. Speaking of easily distracted, the pre-schoolers across the street are playing Duck, Duck, Goose on the front lawn. Their high pitched excited voices are so sweet. Did you know that Minnesotans call this game Duck, Duck, Grey Duck? ANYWAY...
Last week I did something for which I'm not proud; I responded to a hateful, destructive blog comment. I'm constantly urging my son to resist the urge to take the bait cast out by haters, and yet I did just that. I tell him that the best way to get to someone with bad intentions is to ignore them because responding only fuels their dark flame. In responding, they know they've got you where they want you. I'm not sure why on that day I failed to act with dignity in the face of desperation, but sometimes I let down my guard. I don't brim over with self confidence and admittedly, my skin is not nearly as thick as it needs to be. It's hard not to be pissed off at someone who projects all sorts of bad intentions and bad vibes onto your attempts to be open and connected. I know that the blogosphere is made for open debate and disparaging points of view. I know that anonymity bolsters ones courage to lash out.
But I'm still disappointed in myself that I jumped off the high road. This desperate soul doesn't even know me, yet clearly she's invested a lot of time and energy into hating me. That makes me sad, makes me feel less safe, gives me a bad feeling in my stomach. But these types of people are not new to me; it comes with the territory in which I have chosen to live. Silence and disconnection can make me prostrate with depression, so on occasion, I take a big gulp and take the chance of sharing. I know that there are more good people than there are bad out there. But still, I didn't need to dignify those misguided comments that were meant to hurt me. Folks can hate my writing all they want; it would probably do them good to avoid it at all costs if it gives them a violent reaction or a borderline personality disorder. But to have a complete stranger speculate that my child was not conceived with love, them's fightin' words. I would say something about mama bear, Sarah Palin sort of ruined that image for a lot of us.
Recently, our yoga instructor's daily theme was "don't steal." Sure, we all know that it's wrong to steal, that it's one of the commandments, duh. She patiently smiled at our patronizing nods. She continued, "Yes, we all learned not to steal back when we helped ourselves to gum at the grocery store and our mothers marched us back in and made us return our loot to the cashier with an apology." We all chuckled and nodded back knowingly. She continued, "But how about this; don't steal other people's confidence." Eureka. Think of how much better everything and everyone would be if we all consciously tried to abide by that idea. Desperately flawed as I am, I'm going to try to work harder on that one.

As Heard in the Emergency Room on Saturday Evening

2009-04-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

Nondescript woman on the phone behind the front desk in the ER: "Hello, this is Shelley, I did not know that I was scheduled to work tonight, therefore I didn't come in but I'm here now. I didn't make it til the end of the shift that I didn't know I had and they told me to just go home. Please call me and let me know if I'm still employed." Slam. Stomp off and out the automatic doors in a huff. Quite a show for the huddled groups of sick, injured, or faking-it patrons. And oh so very professional.

When did the ER turn into Super America? I wonder to myself.

Middle-aged husband injured playing a child's game. I don't blame him a bit. Sometimes you've got to push back against time.
"You look familiar, have we met?" says the orderly wheeling he and his very swollen foot into a holding area.
"Nah," my husband says.
I peek behind the curtain to assess our surroundings.

A baby is crying inconsolably behind the curtain in the next cubicle. Screeching. Sobbing. My nipples tighten.
Can you spontaneously lactate after a decade of inactivity? Is anyone with that baby? He/she can't stop crying.
Somebody do something.

"Someone save the baby," sings a very heavy ER worker walking down the hallway with a white styrofoam cup in her hand.
She's walking away from the baby's cubicle.

We sit and wait. And wait. A physician that oddly resembles the guitarist from Soul Asylum steps in, looks at my spouse's swollen block of a foot, and says, "We'll need an x-ray."

The baby's still crying. A doctor or nurse or employee in hospital scrubs, is talking loudly and condescendingly to a short silent man with copper bronze hair who's standing in the hallway trying to read the eye chart. "Can you read any of these letters?" shouts the employee to the paying customer. Maybe the silent man is mute. He shakes his head, and gestures wildly towards his eyes shaking his head and pleading. "You're a diabetic," the examiner discovers glancing at a chart, "when did you last have insulin?"

The baby ramps up into blood curdling shrieks. All this time, I've not heard a comforting adult voice behind that curtain. I envision a baby alone strapped into its car seat bucket, I want to do something.

Twenty minutes pass, a pretty woman with royal blue hair extensions wheels my husband in to X-ray.

Moaning, groaning, pure sounds of agony emitting from a suffering young woman who's hunched over, no doubled over. Breathless gasps, tears, breathing, ouch, oh, ouch, ohhhhhhh. I think she o.d.ed though I have no reason to assume this except that she looks like the girl I went to middle school with who o.d.ed on speed in the girls bathroom during the seventh grade dance.
She disappears behind the cloth wall sanctioning the next waiting station. "Someone please help me," she whimpers.

"I'm from Triage," says a woman in street clothes to another woman in hospital garb, "she has a long family history of severe hypochondria." The baby is till wailing on the other side and I'm starting to become de-sensitized to his/her pleas.

CONSIGNMENT REJECTION

2009-04-03T06:52:00.000-07:00

I was so proud of myself yesterday for finally taking in the loads of clean, gently used clothes to consign at the neighborhood thrift shop.
I had two shopping bags full of cool boys' clothes that my son refused to wear because they didn't say RAMONES or GOPHERS or TWINS.
"Uh, we only take clothing on hangers," she snapped through her wad of Juicy Fruit.
I wasn't in the most charming of moods as it was the end of the day, and I had accomplished very little, and now this whole undertaking was going sour.
"Oh, sorry, I'll take them home and put them on hangers," I flatly responded Roseanne-style, hoping passive-aggressively that she would see the folly in her controlling statement. "The last time I was here, you gave me back all of the hangers." Their process makes no sense, it's just a ploy to stand superior over we, the lowly consigners.
She didn't take all of my stuff. Not by a long shot. In fact she didn't take some of the stuff that a MUCH BETTER consignment shop had already taken (but had since gone out of business) -- and this particular shop is, most definitely, the last stop in consigning before donating to Goodwill.
"So you don't have any interest in boys' dress shirts?" I wondered, blushing, while gathering my jilted items.
"We do if they're IRONED," she spat with icy malice, "No one wants to iron."
I resisted the energy it would take for a bitch-on-bitch show down.
No kidding no one wants to iron, but I most certainly don't want to iron something I was hoping to get rid of that was slightly ruffled from the car ride from my house to her crappy store. Is it worth the fifty-cents? Well, philosophically somehow, yes.
Ridiculed, I slunk out and placed my not-good-enough fashion finds in the back seat. The sense of rejection washing over me was inconsistent with the situation, and the way I was letting it blacken my mood was silly. Why, I wonder, is it such an awful feeling when your clothing gets rejected by a consignment shop? Probably because you experience buyer's remorse all over again, or maybe it's the realization that something you know damn well to be very cool is not seen as such by someone with bland taste. I know thrift shoppers, and believe you me lady, you passed off some treasures. Oh well, your loss. I'll just never get back that chunk of time I wasted trying to procure the stuff for re-sale, and I never should've bought more stuff than we possibly have time/occasion to wear to begin with, which boils down to my Shopping Problem glaring smugly back at me. Oh well, Goodwill's much cooler anyway. Right?

Confessions of a Facebook Slut

2009-03-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

I'll forever refer to the winter of 2009 as "my lost winter". I gave it alway on facebook. I have no logical explanation. It's really not my style. I guess I can be obsessive about things. I do so enjoy avoiding the unfinished work on my desktop. "Are you on facebook?" "Oh, you've just gotta sign up for facebook!" "You can really do a lot of networking and marketing on facebook." After having every person who needed to take the time to let me know they hated me publicly share their disdain on myspace, I was gun shy. "But you control who gets to see your page," they assured me. "None of the scary people can get on without your permission." I think I gave in to techno peer pressure around Thanksgiving, and signed on -- though I had to have someone else figure it out for me.
And then, there all of you were...long lost step siblings, high school friends, college crushes, drinking buddies, old boyfriends, writers, musicians, executives, all of my ladies. As many of you know, it's quite a rush unearthing someone long lost and even more fun to have day-long rambling joke-offs with your funnier friends. To become reacquainted with charming people you've met but don't really know -- how oddly satisfying even though it doesn't mean anything. It is sort of like being slutty, no, it's totally slutty. Then there's all those people you don't really know but admire. Trying to friend those folks can take weeks. Once you start collecting notches of infamy on your laptop bed post, you consider irony. I spent entire days thinking of friending people no one in my crowd had thought of friending like say Ernest Borgnine ("Love you as Mermaidman") or the greatly under-appreciated Alicia Silverstone. It's like being a groupie, pop. culture obsessed weirdo, and social commentator all in one. Or so I told myself as the days, weeks, and months peeled away while the snow fell and the sub-zero winds blew. I wanted to be the first amongst my friends to "get" Pat Benatar. I learned which friends' friends lists to cherry pick in order to make my friend population grow.
Then my son's math grades started to fall, my husband gave himself a startling haircut, my cat threw up on a daily basis, my novel was ditched. I had to pull myself together, so I gave up facebook for Lent...not like a big "I joined the "I gave up facebook for Lent" Catholic statement group, more like, I like to utilize the opportunity Lent provides to shed something that's bad for me. I lasted maybe two weeks, making every excuse in the book ("Oh, I need to see if I have any messages from the colleges I'm speaking at, the friends with sick kids, that hip rock icon who relishes turning down my friend requests.....) Then!
Facebook took care of the problem for me by changing their format and layout and sucking the life and enjoyment out of their product. Thanks facebook.

Things Not to Say to Women Over 40

2009-03-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

Approximately once every four calendar months (though I guess it's happened twice so far this winter -- I'd better watch it), I go out with the girls, drink beer, stand in front whooping it up while watching a band, and sneak a smoke or two. I did it a couple of Saturdays ago to see one of my favorite cover bands. In between sets I stepped out into the tundra to smoke that forbidden cigarette.
I get overly excited on these occasions because I love to go out and whoop it up, so much so that I have to keep a tight reign on myself because I have lots of Responsibilities. ANYWAY, I was out having said forbidden fruit, the coveted American Spirit, when a sweet young thang addressed me directly with a smile, "Are you pregnant?"
Wa-Waaah. "No," I hissed, "I'm over forty."
Maybe because I was wearing a top gathered under my hard-working false advertising brassiere that billowed slightly every time the doors opened and closed. Maybe it's because I have a terrible habit of standing with my knees hyperextended backwards thus exaggerating my front side. Maybe it's because I've always had a --- gasp! -- tummy. But still.
Of course she felt like crap and started apologizing like crazy which made me feel bad for two reasons; one because I looked like a geriatric pregnant woman that was publicly smoking, and two because my pointed response was so, so, honest. But ladies, please, never, ever comment on another woman's mid-section (especially when she works out more than she cares to and avoids carbs more than she cares to). It's just a bad idea all around.

Hey Slacker Nannies; The Nanny Narc is Watching You!

2008-07-14T16:31:00.000-07:00

It's summertime in Minnesota (a miracle in itself this year) and like it or not, one of my summertime mom duties is to take my son and his friends to a public pool. Public pools have changed a lot since my day when there was nothing more than a pool and a diving board, and, if you went to the more affluent communities, a high dive. Today's public pool isn't complete without a tube slide and a body slide, and in the more affluent communities a zip line. Oh, I don't like the overcrowding or the chlorine and urine smells, but it's one of those things You Just Have to Do. I do like the fact that my son is now a proficient swimmer and he can run about the place autonomously with his pack of Lord of the Flies buddies (I'm joking, they're all very nice boys).

The sun poses a problem; my family's collective pallor is Addams Family white; we spend a small fortune on sunscreen. Oh, I used to be of the lay-on-the-mylar- towel-coated-in-baby-oil type of teen, and believe me, it shows in the form of brown spots that are not cute like freckles. And I'm not wild about throwing my fluorescent flesh out in the open air for public consumption for reasons having to do with pooching, puckering, and dimpling. Getting older at the public pool sucks.

With my newfound independence from watching my child like a hawk at the public pool, I was really looking forward to a little reading time. But next to me was an eleven-year-old boy with scarlet cheeks of hot embarrassment with his forehead in his hands. Poor fella I was thinking to myself because he was clearly too old to have a strange pasty mom ask if he was okay. Then she walked up and stood over him; this college age hot nanny with bronze skin, skeins of dark wavy hair, a pierced navel, and a string bikini. Her bangs were cut at an angle framing her flawless face that was punctuated by icy blue eyes. She was perfection.

"And don't move a muscle until I say you can," she hissed at this child with cool detachment. She is the reason that some kids grow up to be bullies and creeps I was thinking to myself aware that I might be guilty of envying her supple youth.

Clearly the kid had a lump in his throat and the redness of his cheeks developed a white circle in the middle. A sign of humilation. All he could do in self-defense was rake the heel of his foot down the stretched plastic loops that held his lounge chair together.

"That's it," she said with unchecked rage. She then went on to yank two very young children very hard by their wrists and throw them into the fray.

"We're leaving," she announced glaring at the mortified boy.

"But we just got here," one child wailed.

"Tough," she said with a mocking sing-song voice, "Your brother decided to ruin pool privileges for everyone."

The younger kids started to cry while the nanny crammed towels and sunscreen into her oversized beach bag.

"I'm sorry," the older boy whispered trying not to reveal the fact that he was on the verge of tears. "I didn't know I was supposed to ask permission to go on the slide. My mom and dad let me do it all the time."

Uh oh, that did it. She kicked the side of his beach chair and narrowed her eyes. "Get up. You're spending the whole day inside no TV, no video games."

This clearly scared the crap out of all of her charges because they all surrendered to her unnecessary cruelty and put on their t-shirts in unison.

I couldn't stand it another minute; really I couldn't.

"Um, excuse me?" I said unable to hold back.

She stopped mid bag stuff and looked me up and down with narrowed eyes that clearly noted my various flaws. After sizing me up, she smirked off of one side of her mouth with an expression that said "What could you possibly have to say to me old woman?"

"I'm pretty sure that their parents aren't paying you to be a monster to their kids," I stated, now fearing that I had worsened their collective fate.

I'm not sure what I thought this would achieve as she ignored me while rounding up her victims and stomping off with huffy claps on the pavement made by her Adidas flipflops.

With a lump in my stomach, I no longer felt like reading so I got up to walk around on the concrete slabs edging the main attraction. I took in moms, dads, kids, nannies, cell phones, People magazines, lots of cocoanut scented laughter. My son and his pals were standing in a long line laughing and talking too loud while trying to balance a three-person innertube. I waved to them and they responded by making goofy contortionist faces.

Feeling again like the world was right, I returned to my chair. A new nanny, a nanny of kids I knew and loved, plopped down next to me. I'd been introduced to her a week earlier at baseball camp drop-off.

"Hi Carrie," I said with a smile.

"Oh hi," she said plopping into the vacated chair next to me.

She then proceeded to pull out her cell and commence into a frenzy of mad texting. I ignored her and thought nothing of it, though I noted that I might want to learn how to text before my son is a teen.

Fifteen minutes lapsed and I notice that the first-grader in her charge had wandered out too deep.

"Uh, Oscar isn't a good enough swimmer to be off on his own in the deep end," I noted out loud.

Annoyed, she looked up from her phone and sighed and said impatiently, "I know, I've had him out here a couple of times already."

Making sure he wasn't going under, I said, "Well, two more steps and he might be in trouble."

"I told Josh to keep an eye on him," she tossed off without stopping her texting spree.

"Uh, Josh is in line at the tube slide," I announced.

"Damn him!" she said not exactly under her breath.

I snapped. "You know what? Josh is on summer vacation. School is hard for these boys, he should be able to have fun with his friends. I believe you are being paid to keep an eye on Oscar who is seconds away from drowning." I then leaped from my chair, jumped in the pool, and reeled an unfazed Oscar in to safer waters.

Hey all you nannies out there, I've been watching you. I'm the nanny narc and if I see you being disproportionately unkind or uncaring, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you in.

If you hate kids, I'd suggest another line of work. If you resent the fact that you have to work to earn spending money now that you're old enough to work, don't take it out on the kids. If you can't tear yourself away from the drama of your social life – I don't know, I had the same problem.

When I was your age (I can't believe I'm beginning a sentence with this phrase), I was left in charge of my siblings. They referred to me as The Meanest Babysitter in the World. But hey, they were siblings; that's to be expected right? There were lots of inner familial tensions that needed to be worked out in unsavory, borderline violent ways in our parents' absence. But we were in the privacy of our own house, and nobody got too hurt. Okay, so rabbit pellets aren't Cocoa Puffs. I got grounded for my cruelties

Later that evening at the baseball diamond, I broached the subject to my friend Jocelyn, Carrie's employer.

"New nanny's a dud," I said, kind of joking, kind of not.

Jocelyn looked on the verge of tears at my breezy assessment, her jaw set hard, her voice lowering, "What did she do. I need to know this stuff."
I recounted the day's events, aware of Jocelyn's pained and stressed expression. I even left out the part where Carrie left for what she said would be half an hour to switch cars with her mom. Carrie didn't return for an hour and a half, I watched the kids, and by the time she returned my son and I were delirious with sun exposure.

I felt like a jerk. I'm lucky that I don't have to miss out on summer days with my kid. I can write any time of the day or night (assuming I'm disciplined enough to actually do it every day or night). How awful Jocelyn felt upon hearing that the person she entrusted her kids to while she worked at a job she loved was sub par. It's not like I'm some perfect mom, but when I'm cranky or feel like yelling, going out in public with the kids in tow forces me to be civil and appropriately behaved in spite of a foul mood. These nannies didn't care who bore witness to their sloth and cruelty. I've certainly scowled at mean slapping or snarling parents at Target; I know life is filled with multiple stresses. So far I've never confronted a cruel parent for fear that they'll kick my ass.

But look at it this way; these kids are going to be the generation that's supposed to take care of us when we're old. If we treat them with disrespect and ennui, imagine what our twilight years could look like? Wait a minute, it's going to be the bad nannies' generation that will be stuck with the burden of caring for us. I can see it now, hot nanny#1 now middle aged and hating her job at an assisted living condo complex, "I told you to eat your damn pudding. Stop whining; there's not a thing I can do about your bed sores!" We might be screwed.

Kicking Our Own Asses, The Best of Zuzu's Petals CD...

2008-05-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

Kicking Our Own Asses, The Best of Zuzu's Petals on Rhino Handmade is now available for ordering

TRACKLISTING:

01. Babblin' Mules
02. Poor Little Rich Girl *
03. Categories
04. Cinderella’s Daydream
05. God Cries
06. White Trash Love
07. Psycho Tavern
08. Dork Magnet
09. Johanne
10. Jackals
11. Madrid
12. Brand New Key
13. Standing By The Sea
14. Do Not
15. Love Bullet
16. Remembering Why
17. Chatty Catty
18. Come True
19. Happy
20. Star Baby

* Previously unreleased

Zuzu's Petals "Cinderella's Daydream" Video - circa 1993

2008-05-18T20:00:00.000-07:00

Zuzu's Petals "Jackals" Video, circa 1993

2008-05-18T19:52:00.000-07:00

WCCO 10 O'Clock News: Lindeen Profile

2008-04-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

Thank You KG

2007-07-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

I have a basketball jones. It came to me while carrying a boy in my belly. I had so much testosterone surging through my system, I became unrecognizable to myself. It was a blessing; I found the Minnesota Timberwolves (amongst other male centric activities that I'll not go into here, slowly, slowly I'm getting boundaries and an unwelcome thicker skin))...ANYWAY,
I was there when The Kid started to blossom, that season when Malik Sealy blossomed late in his career (and sadly during the last year of his bright life)....I loved watching Kevin Garnett play basketball. I don't know much about stats, and game savvy, but I know he made me smile.
Boston, buckle up, your winters are about to look rosy. The positivity and passion and charm that Kevin Garnett brings to basketball will brighten even your grayest nor'easter days. And I admit that I was tempted to show up at every Timberwolves game I attended last season wearing a handmade FREE KG t-shirt because he was shackled to a dysfunctional family fathered by Kevin McHale. But it's hard to leave your family who loves you in spite of being messed up (what family isn't?). Looking into the sadness and frustration on KG's face the last couple of years, the years after his less principled siblings Sam and Latrell, left him high and dry to support the family on his own, led me to wish for a better situation for him.
I've been weirdly teary since I heard last night that he was leaving. Like a comfortable sweater, I got used to having Kevin around; I may've even took it for granted that he'd always be here for me on the coldest winter night. Now he's leaving for one of my favorite cites, and I'm going to miss seeing him smile, and boost his team mates, and execute with beauty and grace. Thanks Kevin, you ruled the roost with aplomb and I'm going to miss you, but you were in the center of a poorly run business, and I think happy days professionally are just around the corner for you. Have a blast! Love, Laurie
p.s. I can't believe I just wrote a sports blog.

What I'm Doing On My Summer Vacation

2007-07-19T19:08:00.001-07:00

Sitting in the grass at baseball diamonds.
Folding and putting away an endless stream of laundry.
Buying dresses that I have nowhere to wear.
Reading from my book wherever they'll have me:
In Madison, an assortment of the casserole makers from my old neighborhood sat in the front row while I read. I did not read aloud about my adult assessment of them because there they were, proud and loyal, grateful that my first novel (the early adolescent years set to thinly veiled fiction) was never published. Marco Pogo, Madison's premier live music afficionado and dancer, was there -- his presence is a badge of honor. My childhood neighbor who was sport enough to take me to our junior prom was there with a print-out of our prom picture (even though at the time I stood a foot taller and ditched him at the after-party at Devil's Lake).
In Edina, two young women in high school sat in the front row and asked permission (permission!) to take my picture on their cell phones.
Talking to radio personalities (Lori and Julia and Jill Spiegel at 107.1 are hoots and a half) and parents of ball players.
Reading up on perimenopause, anxiety, addiction, and trying to get through the Edith Wharton bio.
Fielding corrections by the rock and roll police ("Crazy Train" was an Ozzy song, not a Sabbath song; forgive me), the routing police (we were in Iowa to get to Seattle because we decided to avoid mountain driving; Northfield is not where I said it was in my book, forgive me), and the grammar police who all attended private colleges that they feel the need to mention (the charges too numerous to list, again, forgive me).
Gearing up for back to back weekends in the nations' water parks (see anxiety).
Giving myself permission to send up stream of consciousness, ill-formed blogs.
Trying to figure out what the Minnesota Twins need to do to stay on track.
Wondering why Kevin McHale still works for the Minnesota Timberwolves.
Wishing it would rain.
Hoping everyone's having a swell summer, even the haters.

I'm Sad About Bonnie

2007-05-04T08:28:00.001-07:00

I didn't really know Bonnie. She was the lady behind the checkcashing/stamp-selling counter at my favorite grocery store. Bonnie's counter sat across from the coffee window so she saw everyone who ordered coffee. Bonnie had these insane hot pink dragon lady finger nails, and a short dyed blond mop that looked like a wig. A couple of years ago she got a perm that looked slightly poodlish, but I complimented her anyway. Her face suggested a couple of trips around the block, and she favored peach cake make-up and had tired blue eyes. Bonnie cackled at everyone's jokes, knew everyone's name. Sometimes her work friend Marilyn joined her behind the counter and they'd call out to regulars they liked like carnival hawkers. "How's your little boy?" they'd call out. "Big!" I'd say, and they'd reminisce outloud to anyone within earshot about how large I was when with child. Bonnie's counter was her stage, her co-workers her family, the customers her audience.
In the dead of winter, I'd see Bonnie standing outside in subzero temperatures smoking a Virginia Slim in a thin red quilted coat. Bonnie had that subtle hardcore vibe that, for better or worse, I can relate to. She wore big costume jewelled pins, turtles with fake emerald spots on their back and the like. I wondered if she lived alone and watched tv when not working, which I had no business wondering. Everyone has a few Bonnies in their life. People they see more often than their closest friends because they work at the businesses you haunt almost daily. Bonnie weighed and stamped countless manuscripts and grant applications for me. "I think this one's lucky!" she'd say encouragingly adding an extra "priority" stamp on the front to make me feel important.
She was one of the first people I told about selling my first book, and she reacted the way I wanted everyone to; "Oh, I'm so proud of you!" she said with glee while calling over her co-workers to share our good news. Every subsequent visit solicited, "How's the book?" I explained it wouldn't be out for a year or two upon selling which never deterred Bonnie from asking "How's the book?" several times a week.
Last fall I asked how she was doing, and she said, "Not so good." She went on to tell me that "they'd" found cancer in her jaw and she would have to undergo chemo and radiation and hope that it hadn't spread. "I'm scared," she said. So honest, so not a thing we say to the people we should be saying such things to. "You're gonna be fine," I told her because I didn't know what else to say. After radiation she had a nice glossy ash blond wig, but Bonnie didn't look well. "How's the book?" she asked. Then she was gone for a while, and was back right before Christmas and she had a ropelike scar running from her jawline to below her collar. She was diminished to less than half her solid size, her eyes were lost, she shouldn't have been working. I walked up to her and hugged her hard and said "Merry Christmas" and didn't ask her how she was doing, but wanted to make sure she had lots of friends and family around her. "Oh ya..." she trailed off. I embraced her hard, and cried in my car.
Then I didn't see her. Finally in February I asked Marilyn how Bonnie was doing. "Oh honey, no one told you? She passed on three weeks ago. I can't believe I'm never going to see her again." Marilyn put on her game face because at their very fancy grocery store, you do not burden the customers, but Marilyn was struggling. They weren't supposed to talk about the time Sal, the most popular cashier in the joint, mysteriously quit or when Marcella had a stroke. I always tried to break them down and get the story; occasionally one of the ladies would quickly get me up to date under her breath. Bonnie always told me the scoop. Upon hearing about Bonnie's demise, I quickly went about my shopping and by the time I got to the coffee section late in the order of things, I started crying. I cried through paper goods, toiletries, candy, and frozen foods. When checking out, I told my cashier, "I'm sad about Bonnie." "Oh, I know. The poor dear," she said because that's about all they're supposed to say in order to keep up the appropriate customer/employee boundaries. Bonnie didn't have those boundaries, and I'm grateful. I need those daily check ins and small talk and sharing of trivial information and life changing with relative strangers. My book comes out next week and I wish I could tell Bonnie it was finally out.

Afternoon Callers

2007-04-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

I have been dragging my heels about blogging: The kind, patient lady who designs web sites for me keeps gently nudging me and saying, "Now would be a good time to blog."
So I find myself wanting to write about something I hate talking about: Yesterday afternoon our front doorbell rang. No big deal; it was a Saturday afternoon, perfect for a pick-up game of baseball in the park across the street. Yet, I hesitated. I hesitated because I looked like crap having been bedridden for a couple of days. But I thought the better of it and opened the door. The neighborhood boys don't seem to notice when you're looking like crap.
There stood the sweetest, freshest virginal nubile teenage girls. They smelled perfumed. They wore pastel eyeliner and freckles. They were darling.
"Hi," I said gruffly looking a lot like Baby Jane Hudson.
They tittered and said nothing. "What can I do for you?" I continued.
And they whispered in unison, "Is Paul there?"
Paul is my forty-seven-year-old married rock star husband.
"Who should I say is calling?" I asked, not knowing what else to say or do, not wanting to help or hurt them.
"Fans," they sputtered.

And this is the part where I'm not sure what to do because I'm bombarded with so many options; do I slam the door? Call the police? Tell them they're invading our privacy? Call a realtor? Go find Paul and make him deal with it? I don't react quickly or well to challenges so I stepped outside feeling like I looked like I had a colostomy bag hanging from my hip, and said, "You guys, it's not cool to come up to the house. This is where we live with our child. We should be able to be private here. It scares our son when he thinks that strangers know where we live."
I wish I could've invited them in for lemonade and been as kind as can be, and pulled out our family photo albums...no, actually, I don't. I know that however I react to this situation, I'll be perceived as a bitch. Just being in my position makes me a bitch whether I am or not. And I know I can be. For sure.
I'm grateful he has fans. I have a very nice life because of it. But that doesn't mean you get to come to the house to discuss the matter. I'll tell you sometime about the soccer dad who came to the front door with his terrified-looking daughter.