Father's Day

I'm always touched when really bad people show a glimmer of a soul.  In this case, Glenn Allen Jeffries, a fugitive from drug and assault charges, saved his 11 month-old daughter from their burning home.  Perhaps also relevant to his character, he served time more than ten years ago for shooting, dismembering with an axe, and burnng the torso of John Keane (for reasons I cannot find, although one could argue there really isn't a good reason for such behavior).  He and his father were convicted, each pointing the finger at the other.  Dad got 30 years, son only 10 for third-degree murder.  Not germaine but intriguing to me is that Dad, at the time of the crime, was living in a cave.

Anyway, Glenn Allen was released early from prison in 2002.  Since then, he's run afoul of the law and ended up on the lam.  He was staying with his wife and baby daughter when their wood-burning stove set the house ablaze.  Glenn Allen saved his baby girl and, along with his wife, made it out safely.  After being assured that his daughter would survive and although burned himself, he ran.  The baby's burns were so severe that she needed to be airlifted from the Pittsburgh area to the Shriner's Hospital for Children in Cincinnati, a five-hour drive away.

Despite being the kind of guy who, following some home butchery, can pick up a torso and shove it into a wood burning stove (not the same stove that turns up later in the story), he's a daddy who loves his baby girl.  After saving her life and then fleeing, he couldn't bear to be away from her.  Knowing he was wanted (and presumably bright enough to realize cops would be watching the hospital, though perhaps no level of brightness should be presumed), he still made his way to Cincinnati and visited his little girl.  There he was captured. 

Perhaps not enough to be Father of the Year, but at least he deserves a card.

PSA

If you can't remember the last time you changed the toothbrushes, do it today.  You might be thinking, "Hmmm, good point.  But why should I change his toothbrush?  Can't a grown man be responsible for the basics of his own personal care?"  The short answer is, "No."

Turkey on Your Birthday

As my birthday neared (after which I could still be considered middle-aged but just barely), I was getting my hair colored and cut, so I could face the world with a dazzling smile.  I'd been sporting a coif reminiscent of a dowdier Laura Bush (I know) but was updating to what I term a Full Pelosi.  That was when I saw it.  The turkey wattle.  Now, I'd been noticing that my dear husband has been hanging low around the jawline for a while.  I felt a little bad for him, because I knew he'd be upset if he realized, though I couldn't care less.  Since I'm younger than he (by nearly 1000 days), I also felt a little smug, proud of my taut mandibular.  That was then.

As I sat before the salon mirror, I could have gasped.  Normally before I catch my reflection, I arrange my face and stretch my neck.  At a quarter profile and without my glasses, I look like I have for the past twenty years (I thought).  Once you're wattled, though, that's pretty much that.  This is how old I now am:  after my horrible discovery I (no lie) thought, "Oh well, maybe I can get a quick nap before she needs to wash out my color."

Later, while in line at Kohl's, I studied the woman checking out in front of me.  She was probably 80, with bleached blonde hair, lots of make-up, a newsboy cap, and leather pants.  Leather pants!  I snickered to myself, because a) at least I'm not that old, and b) what a get-up.  Then it hit me that she got up in the morning and made a bit of an effort.  Though my hair was freshly done and I do wear eye make-up every day, I pretty much have thrown in the towel.  From then on, I've been trying to keep that towel picked up.

I've always liked this quote by Isaac Mizrahi that I clipped from a magazine in 1998.  He said:

I don't care.  I don't judge.  Like, I was at a dinner one night and somebody said, "Look at her," and I said, "She's having fun, what's wrong with her?"  She looked a mess, but she was having a lot of fun, and she thought she looked great.  And I wasn't having a lot of fun, and I thought I looked great too.  So there was something she was doing that I was doing wrong.  And this guy said to me, "We are men of taste."  And I thought, "Not me, honey."

Fancy Seeing You Here!

Having taught high school social studies for ten years before my older daughter was born, I often run into former students.  Even if I don't remember the name, I almost always feel a familiarity for the face.  I see these kids everywhere:  one was a server at our favorite restaurant, one worked at Walmart, another at Pier One, another is now a teacher at my daughters' school.  One girl (woman) even got my attention at a red light, rolling down her car window to give me a shout out (which is one of those trendy terms that I might not be using quite appropriately).  Now normally when I run into a student, they give me the whole, "Hey, Mrs. Howland! I loved your class!" kind of deal (okay, not always the "loved your class" part, but there's always definite enthusiasm).  But not last week.

I'm at the gynecologist's, ready and in-position for a Pap smear. The doctor calls the assistant in, and I recognize her as a former student, though I don't remember her name.  Let's call her Suzi Slackjaw.  I chirp, "Did you go to Lincoln High School?"  She flatly replies, "Yeah, you were my teacher."  "Chilly" is a word that could be used. "Uncomfortable" works on many levels.  Needless to say (and I say it anyway), it's humiliating enough to be greeted with less than apathy when you're fully dressed and standing up.  Splayed and covered in paper, it's quite the vexation.  Moral of the story:  Be nice to everyone you see on the way up, because they could end up seeing way more of you than you ever imagined.

On the other hand, Bruce (last name not remembered) who works at Pier One was happy to see me, reminding us all it's always better to be a customer than a patient.

Honey, I Wrecked the Kids

My sister has ruined two of her three children.  I know this for a fact because she's told me so.  And the only reason the third one hasn't been wrecked yet is because, as the youngest, there hasn't been enough time.   I have wrecked my kids as well, and it can all be traced to the game Hot Potato.

This past Christmas while I was volunteering for the holiday party in my fifth-grader's classroom, I had to direct the kids in a holiday game based on the whole Hot Potato idea, where an object is passed around the circle until time is called and whoever is left holding the object is out.  At eleven years of age, almost none of these kids knew how to play, including my own.  This is why:  when the girls were little, I would have their birthday parties at home, which always included a craft, games, and cake.  Because parties are supposed to be happy and because I couldn't bear to make a kid sad (and, let's face it, because it's annoying when kids cry), I'd always plan games where everyone was a winner .  And that meant no games of Hot Potato.

Fast forward five years filled with trophies given for showing up and games where everyone's a winner, and you get a bunch of kids afraid to fail because they didn't learn to fail when the stakes were low.  Or you get a bunch of kids thinking they're good at lots of things that they're not.  Or sometimes both.   As the old saying goes, "My bad."

The Last Last Supper

I finally solved the riddle of my continuing struggle with weight (a struggle of the 20-lb. variety):  I have Last Supper Syndrome.  The scales (get it?....) fell from my eyes as this miserable month nears its end.  I had decided that I'd use the last week of February to jump start the old weight-loss jalopy by being Queen of the Spartans until March 1, when I'd hew to a healthy and calorically reduced regimen.  Then I thought it might be better to just wait until March 1 (fortuitously on a Monday) and start then, enjoying a personal Mardi Gras beforehand (which I guess would actually include not just a Fat Tuesday, but a Fat Wednesday through Sunday as well).  This is when the scales (get it?....) actually fell.  Since I've been vowing to start a diet at the beginning of each month for the past, oh, ten years (and that's 120 different vows, all made like they're the first one) and since I've succeeded about three times (for my 25th high school reunion, for a summer vacation I knew would involve being photographed, and another time I can't actually come up with but I'm giving myself credit for anyway), the Big Diet thing probably wasn't going to happen.  In and of itself, that's probably not such a big deal.  What is a big deal and is directly related to my big ass is the 120 Last Suppers. 

You don't have to be Judas or the apostle Paul to have enjoyed a last supper, that smorgasbord of leftovers and snacks, drinks and desserts that is ritually consumed the night before.  Under certain circumstances, the Last Supper might include the Last Lunch, the Last Breakfast, the Last Supper before the Last Supper, and so on (circumstances to be decided by whim).  And this is what's killing me (not really, because I'm sure I'll drink myself to death before I eat myself there).  So I've hereby vowed to not have a Last Supper again.  I'd also like to get back to my four basic rules that I used to live by:

a)  Don't eat in the car in case, God forbid, there's an accident.  You don't want to be found dead with french fries in your mouth.

b)  Spaghetti costs a dollar a pound.  Shove the leftovers down the garbage disposal instead of down your throat.

c)  You are not a garbage can and any food left on your children's plates is garbage.

d)  Never leave the house in sweatpants.

For the past few years, I've thrown these rules by the wayside.  I think I need them again.  And I'm wrestling with myself to start right now and not wait until March 1st.  I'm also trying to remember that what's (probably) more important is that I'm a woman with a heart as big as this ass.

To Stalk or Not to Stalk

My friend who broke up with me (let's call her Michaela) has a birthday coming up.  I haven't seen her for two years now, though she lives only fifteen minutes away.  (For details on my being dumped, please see http://suchpotential.blogspot.com/2009/10/breaking-up-is-hard-to-do.html) Michaela made it pretty clear to me that she's just not that interested, but we used to be such good friends and then the kind of friends who don't see each other often but can pick up where they left off (in my head, anyway), and it's not like we had any sort of falling out.  Over the past few months, I've posted a few comments on her Facebook page (which went unremarked).  When I found an old email she'd written to me (which I'd saved because I thought it particularly insightful), I forwarded it to her with an "it's been too long" note.  She did respond, with a kind but dismissive reply.  (And now reading what I've just written, even I think I'm a little pathetic.)  Still, I'm thinking about sending her a birthday card (which I've done every year but the last one).  Yes or no?