Unreasonable

I am a passionate person.  I say passionate because it sounds way better than "jerk face" or "crazy" or "bitchy".  As in: "I am not a crazy, jerk-faced bitch, I am just passionate! (damn it)".  I told someone the other day "I feel EVERYTHING".  There are worse issues to have.

So, when I woke up this morning and saw that the Blackhawks had won***, I was (unreasonably?) happy.  I mean, I know; it's just a game and in the grand scheme of things it means nothing; but living in Blackhawks country during the playoffs when your team is on fire is really, really fun.  Because I am such a sap and my heart is just millimeters beneath the surface, I get choked up seeing the buses pass by with "GO HAWKS" on their marquees.  I crank up the TV during the ridiculously loud National Anthem and cheer and whistle along.  I clap and yell at the refs and whoop and curse.  In those moments, I am one of the herd and I love it.  It is so unlike (most of) the rest of my life when I am in that weird 10% that goes against the grain of seemingly every situation.  

*** it ended at one a.m. after starting the THIRD overtime.  I get up early.  I stayed up for the first OT, then went to bed hoping for the best.

BLACKHAWKS WIN!

This morning I also found a prom invitation for my middle son.  My Charles got invited to...the "Special", district-wide prom.

I wanted to scream.  

After reading the handout that came along with the invite, I wanted to scream some more.  This is an actual excerpt:  We encourage the students to enter independently to make it as much like a REGULAR prom as possible (emphasis mine).

WHAT?!?  So...it's a prom but not a regular prom.  Ohkaaayyy...

I just don't get it.  Will someone please explain to me why my kid can't just go (or not go!) to the ACTUAL PROM like everyone else?  Seriously?!?!?  Why is this even a thing?  

Like most things like this, I am sure that it was started out of love and concern and wanting something nice for our (different) kids; but as with everything else, separate is NOT equal.  Separate classes are not equal.  Separate schools are not equal.  No matter how inclusive and welcoming you think your school is, these types of classes and events only shine a spotlight square on differences and it is not a flattering glow.  

Let's be real.  The prom is a rite of passage, but the event is not equal for everyone, anyway.  Not everyone has a date.  Not everyone can afford a tux rental or a $600 dress, hair stylist, manicure, pedicure, limousine and on and on.  Not everyone has a gaggle of friends to hang out with and eat dinner with and (ZOMG!!! iamsowasted) party with afterwards.  Not everyone wants to, either.  For some, it's too mainstream, too bourgeois, too everythingtheyhateabouthighschool, and that is fine.  Some of us went to our senior proms with boyfriends they should have broken up with months before so that they could dance with the ex-boyfriend they should have gone with, instead.  

I mean, I have heard.

So, here I am again, in that seeming minority of people that thinks these things are a horrible idea.  And I am sure to get crapped on for crapping on it.  Let's think about it this way, though.  Is a "whites only" prom a good idea?  Or is it totally backwards?  Seriously?  How about proms that keep out kids because of their sexual orientation?  Effing REALLY?!?  No?  Not a great idea, you say?  Yeah, this is the same.  It is EXACTLY THE SAME THING.  Many people just don't see it, yet.  Am I unreasonable?  Maybe.  Maybe I would have more friends if I just kept my mouth shut and went along to get along.  Maybe... and, maybe my middle son will go to his Junior or Senior prom and maybe he won't. 

Just like everyone else.

Christmas Post

I am sitting in my cosy little house, listening to Christmas music through the Roku.  Things sure have changed since I was a kid...even since my kids were born in the last 18 years.

First of all, Roku?  It sounds like a character in Pokemon; something else that did not exist when I was a kid.  Since I fired up the desktop, I have heard Tony Bennett, The Beach Boys, Idina Menzel and George Michael and I have not had to load my cd player and set it on "shuffle" (remember how cool that was?!?).  All I had to do was pick a Christmas station through my TV.  

Christmases when I was a kid have all become a tinsel-covered blur in my memory.  I remember fat, crazy looking trees at my maternal grandparents house (in sharp contrast to the perfectly shaped fake tree in my other grandparents home), bowls of nuts that you had to crack yourself and bodies; lots and lots of sweaty kids and overheated adults.  The oven and stove going all day long makes for an unpleasantly humid living room, especially when packed with dozens of relatives.

And I totally loved it!

Christmas was a day of many big meals and many stops.  Godawfully (for my parents) early present opening and Santa gift discovering (Santa did not wrap his presents in my childhood home and he still doesn't in my adult home.  That Santa wrapped other kid's gifts started nagging at my already suspicious mind somewhere around the age of six), brunch at my aunt's, super-early dinner (that we were always late for) at my great-aunt's, then, finally stuffed and crabby (if you were a parent) and excited (if you were me), we arrived at my maternal grandparents house.  It's not that the rest of the day wasn't fun; it's just that their house was the MOST fun.  It's where all my cousins and my grandmother's seventeen desserts were waiting for us.  I'm not kidding when I say seventeen.  There were years that I counted and if there were less than ten, my grandmother would be fretting that we might run out.

Adding to the heat and the mayhem, my grandfather would be blinding us all with his movie camera.  Those movies would get broken out on Easter, Thanksgiving, or a later Christmas when the merriment had died down.  I have so many memories of lying on the floor with my chin propped on my hands, surrounded by nearly everyone I loved, laughing at those old movies.

So much stayed the same and so much changed as I got older.  My teen-aged self did not appreciate the Christmas Eve service that took me away from my (totally super-fun) boyfriend's family party.  I did NOT want to get up early to see what Santa brought for my younger sister and brother.  All I wanted was a leather jacket, to sleep late and some freedom.

So many pictures of me smirking or rolling my eyes during these years.

When I moved away at twenty, I was not quite prepared for spending holidays without my relatives.  That first Thanksgiving was pretty sad.  My (different) boyfriend's family was wonderful and welcoming but their traditions were so different from the ones I had grown up with.  I learned pretty quickly that if I wanted any kind of taste of home, I would have to learn how to make it myself and then, it would never, ever taste how I remembered it.  
That year, I did go home for Christmas, but things had already changed in my absence.  I had only been gone for six or seven months, but I had a new cousin, my room was no longer mine and it was clear that being an adult at Christmas was not as fun as being a kid.  By the time New Year's day 1991 came around, I was more than ready to get back to L.A.

Those years were some of the best of my life so far, but the time between Thanksgiving and New Years was always very trying.  My new boyfriend (now husband!  :) ) and our friends became each other's family.  We made the best of things, probably partied a little too much and complained about the lack of holiday spirit that seemed to permeate L.A.

Now, we have our own family and for many years, Christmas has been fun again.  There is nothing like seeing your little ones light up when they see what Santa has left.  It is warm and wonderful and maybe not as chaotic and busy as the holidays of my youth, but it is still wonderful because we are together.  We have our own traditions.  I have learned that the old cliche "Home is where the heart is" is true.  My heart is here with my family and it is also with my extended family and all the friends that made my holidays of the past memorable.  Being away from them has its moments of sadness, but more, it fills me with joy that I have so much to be thankful for and so many people to miss.  It is a luxury to have had them in my life.

Now, I have my own teenagers who roll their eyes and sleep too late and occasionally, make it harder to be filled with Christmas cheer; but they also surprise me with their generosity and warmth towards each other and us.  Santa's bounty is somehow anti-climactic at 11 am, but it is no less appreciated.  The pressure of staying up until 2 am and getting up before prying little eyes is off.  We make each other laugh and they are old enough to reminisce with us.  Things have changed again and I am embracing it; living in the moment, cherishing this time.

So, to my family and friends near and far:  Much love today.  I will be thinking of you while embracing my dear husband and big boys.  

Merry Christmas!

Hypothetical

I have written ad nauseum about losing a good friend (ex-boyfriend) of mine.  I probably wrote five or six (or more) different posts on different blogs about it over the years, and much, much more than that in various diaries and such.

Here is an excerpt from one of my favorite posts:

My favorite song to listen to when I am depressed is "Smoke" by Ben Folds Five.  You can feel the despair in the way he bangs the piano keys and in the catch of his voice.  

But, the lyrics...therein lies the magic.
"Here's a secret...no one will ever know the reasons for the tears"

That line says it all.

It's hard to lose someone that you love, but I have found that it's the sadness that no one understands that is the hardest to deal with.  

For example:  if your cat/dog/significant other dies, everyone knows why you are sad.  If your high school boyfriend that you hadn't seen in three years dies, people are sympathetic, but only to a point.  When it's been a year and you are still talking about it, people wonder what's wrong with you.  When it's been almost twenty, they just think you are crazy.

"They were broken up!" they say to themselves.  They think they know the whole story.  But they don't.

This year marked twenty two years since he passed.  It also marked the fact that he has now spent more time dead than he ever did alive.  

I've spent many hours contemplating his death.  Even so many years later, I still find myself reaching for him telepathically.  I know that this will sound weird, but of all those that I have loved and lost, he has kept in touch the best.  It's complicated; just like it was when he was here.

I imagine that it's hard for my husband to understand this relationship.  I say I imagine because we haven't talked about it much.  Mostly, I am afraid to bring it up, for fear of sounding like a crazy person.  Of course, I am much more prone to jealousy than he is, so maybe I am just that:  crazy.  

The dead have a way of only showing their good side, though.  I forget how angry he made me and remember how much he made me laugh.  I forget that his skin was not always flawless; in the beyond, he glows with color and health.  Dying before your twenty first birthday helps, too.  I mean, it's pretty much downhill for your looks somewhere around twenty eight, so he had the privilege(?) of dying before he started balding or developing a beer belly.

I'm not saying any of this is logical.  What I am saying is that it's a tough act to follow.  

The guy I was with when it happened understood this and was, in turn, totally jealous of a corpse and actually angered by my grief.  Those were fun conversations.  Seriously?  I need to explain why I am crying?  Or worse, hide the fact that I am sad?  Geez.  

I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of the end for us, even though we stayed together for another eighteen months.  I was lost in wishing I had done things differently; regretting that I hadn't called my friend after what would be our last fight.  Too much grief and too many unresolved and un-resolvable feelings messed me up.  

I can barely remember the girl I was when I met my husband in 1992.  I was still grieving KD and I had just lost my maternal grandfather, whom I adored.  I was lost.  I remember arming myself with sarcasm and hiding my vulnerability behind a thin wall of bravado.  "You are dating someone else?  Who cares?!?"  (ha).  I'm not sure how quickly he realized that I was mostly bluster.  I'm really not sure what there was of substance for him to be attracted to, but there must have been something. I think in my sadness I had become something of a ghost, myself.  Maybe he was a bit lost,too.  Maybe we rescued each other.  

In any case, this year marks twenty years that my husband and I have been together.  Twenty years!  In that time, both of our lives have been touched by plenty of grief.  We've lost five grandparents and three parents.  We've worried and struggled and have become a family of five along the way.  

Somehow, midst all the pain, we've managed to become more, rather than less.  The sorrow has colored us in, rather than diminishing us.  We've become stronger as a couple and grateful for what is, rather than wishing for what isn't.  It hasn't been an easy lesson, but I am grateful for it.  

I am glad that I have learned that there is more to life than "counting my abs and lovers", something I used to say about my hypothetical single life.

As for my long gone friend, I will always miss him.  I just will.  There is not much I can do about that.  But as I have grown in wisdom, I have learned to feel lucky for what was and what still is.  Life is a gift.  It may be poorly wrapped at times.  It may be smaller than what we were hoping for, but if we hold it up to the light, we will see its beauty and it will be a joy to behold.

Boxes: Labled and Otherwise

A TED talk I watched today (Here's the link) really got me thinking about the boxes we put ourselves and others in and how we label those boxes.  

We label things out of necessity, otherwise everything we owned would be put into a giant junk drawer/closet/garage, never to be found again.  So, labels serve a purpose...for things.

Labels are good for people if, and only if, the person you are labeling identifies with the label and you may use it only if they feel positively about it.  For example, you could label me fat, but unless you want to make me cry, please don't.  Label me funny and you will be right...and if I cry it will be because I am a total sap, not because you've hurt my feelings.  

Positivity in labeling is VERY tricky in the world of disabilities.  That is a post (or seven) for another day.  All I will say here is PLEASE follow the lead of the individuals with disabilities and their advocates; always.  Words matter.  

I found it interesting when Ash spoke about how angry it made her to be asked whether she was a boy or a girl.  I wondered why she chose to dress in a way that made it ambiguous if it was such an issue.  I mean why?  If you want people to know you are a woman you should have long hair and wear pink and not camouflage, right?

I'm kidding, ...sort of.  The problem, of course, is the boxes that we put people into.  The ??? box does not work for us.  We need to name it.  We need to know.  Does a gay man go in the pink box or the blue box?  What about a woman?  What if she is straight but HATES the color pink? What if she had cancer and her hair has not grown back?  What if she is happily married, but HATES long, sweaty hair?  What if she is a lesbian but (horrors!) looks straight?  What if they are trans-gendered?!?!? Boom. Heads explode.  

And to answer my own question about how Ash dressed:  Maybe she was comfortable that way.  Maybe she wanted a fight (I can relate to that).  Or maybe, it was a little of both.  Or, maybe she just didn't feel that she had to put herself in the "girl" box.  She is a girl/woman, she is gay, she dresses in jeans and button downs and her hair is short.  Geez, that's a long label.  It doesn't fit and that bothers us.  In turn, it bothers(ed) Ash (she seems cool with it now) that it bothers others.  

This is getting to be like a movie that involves time travel.  I'm going to leave the "chicken or the egg" conundrum for another day as well.

This talk also made me pause and think about how my occasionally (okay, often) militant approach to issues might have backfired.  It is something I have been thinking about; trying to figure out a way to get my REALLY IMPORTANT POINT across without resorting to shouting, or my absolute favorite: sarcasm.

It's really, really hard.  

I don't think I realized I was doing it, or rather, realized how it sounded until I encountered some other shouty people with whom I mostly agreed.  The substance of what they were saying had merit, but the delivery system was flawed, to say the least.  

NOONELISTENSWHENYOUSHOUTATTHEM!!!

Wait, what?  No one listens when you shout at them.

They might hear you for a few seconds before it becomes BLARRRGH!  and they tune you out; maybe forever.  

So, you need to pick your battles, your forum and recognize that you are not the only one fighting.

Lastly, this talk got me thinking about my own labels.  It's funny, because when I think of labels for myself, none really come up, other than ME.  Finally, I am me, after years of trying to figure myself out.

I have short hair, which I love.  I am a mom.  I am a terrible dresser.  I have blue eyes that I think are nice. I am married to the best guy I have ever known.   I identify as being straight, but I love K.D. Lang and think Salma Hayek is hot.  What does that mean?  I means I have ears and eyes; not much more.

It's not that I don't think labels can be useful.  They can.  They can help navigate grocery aisles, or libraries, or help you find a file.  I'm just not so sure how great they are when used to identify an actual, living breathing human and not some caricature.  Labels don't tell the whole story, just a little, tiny piece of it and only the piece that your mind can perceive.  No matter how many labels you put on me, you'll never never know ME, unless you put them away.

Escape

In March 2004, I found a flier at my gym advertising marathon training.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had written "run a marathon" on my sub-conscious "before I die" list.

I think it was there because it seemed really, really hard; almost impossible.  If I can do THAT, I reasoned, I could do just about anything.  It wasn't that I had never run before; I had.  When I was seventeen and going through my first, painful breakup, I ran as means to deal with my feelings.  I ran a lot.  I ran in the dark and came home so exhausted that my brain didn't have room for making me feel terrible.  I slept, ran, went to school...repeat, for months.  I lost about twenty pounds that I really didn't need to lose at the time.  Lots of running and eating one meal a day will do that to you.

That spring, I came out of my funk, wiser, more driven and with a hard body to boot.  How I envy that girl.  17 years later, plus three kids, running was not quite as easy as it had been in those days.  My youngest was not quite four and my oldest was seven and a half.  I was coming out of the constantly-sleep-deprived phase of parenting and smack in the middle of school-homework-IEP hell.  I was starting to feel like maybe I needed to get a job; but really, I wanted to get a life beyond being "Mommy".

My husband, who has always been my loudest cheerleader, read the flier I brought home and said "do it!".  No whining about giving up the next six months of Saturday mornings to take care of the kids while I ran (like I would have done if the shoe was on the other foot), no complaining about not having any free time of his own, he gave the thumbs up with no hesitation.  

He wins husband of the decade for that.

My training was taking place a thirty minute drive away from home.  We would run at 7 am every Saturday until the weather got warmer, then we would run at 6.  6 am runs meant going to bed early on Friday and getting up at 4:30 on Saturday.  It is a testament to how desperate I was, that I was willing to get out of bed in the middle of the night to do it.

As the runs got longer and longer on the weekend, I realized that marathon training was the perfect metaphor for being frustrated with parenting, with things that were out of my control, with life in general:  I wanted to run far away.  Since I couldn't run away from the crap in my life without losing the wonderful parts (my husband and kids), running for hours, thirty minutes from home became my salvation.  

I did wind up completing the Chicago marathon (read about it here), along with a 28 mile warm up run a month before.  I have honestly never felt prouder of an accomplishment than I do of that.  Yeah, I traveled alone around Europe on very little money and I moved far away from my hometown at a young age; but those accomplishments were achieved before I had any real fear.  The world of being a parent and the world of being a single, young adult looks very different and there is a good bit of fear involved.  As much as I think that that teenager could learn from this 43 year old; I think this 43 year old could learn a lot from that fearless teen.  

I don't want to be shaken out of stagnation by a health emergency or any more death.  Too often it is a cataclysmic life event that makes us (me) think about what really matters.  Why?  Why can't I learn from my own glorious triumphs and bitter failures?  Why do I not seek out my own greatness because of the fear of failure?  Why am I so afraid of being poor that I can not figure out how to have money?  Why is it easier to stay still, rather than move in a positive direction?

I think I have just answered my own question.  It's not.  It's not easier to stagnate.  It's awful and soul crushing.  It makes the fear bigger.  

Who am I?  Am I the middling house wife whose biggest accomplishment on any given day is doing all the laundry and dishes?  Or, am I Adventurous Amy? 

Holy Wolverine on a Motorcycle: I Love Hugh Jackman!

Today was the perfect, rainy day for a movie, so I took my younger two boys and a friend to see "The Wolverine".

I'm not gonna lie.  I LOVE the fact that I can go and watch Hugh Jackman in his sideburns and his white t-shirt and his claws on the big screen and not feel like a huge perv because it's an action/superhero movie and my boys, like most boys, love that crap.  Love it.

But for me?  It's porn.  Totally legal, awesome, PG-13 rated, all American porn.

If you asked me about the story, my answers would range from "What?" to "I don't care."

I think it took place in Japan, mostly.

Don't get me wrong.  I think Hugh Jackman is super hot in a tux singing show tunes and dancing, too.

 

Or, sweaty and riding a horse in the Outback.

Or, toothless and pulling a ship with a fat chain around his neck, while still freaking singing his lungs out.

Hot, hot, HOTTT!

But, the sideburned, leather jacket and jeans wearing, ass kicking, angry, claw having Wolverine is my favorite.

 

Hell, I don't even care if the gay rumors are true.  He can be RichardfreakingSimmons gay for all I care, as long as he keeps playing Wolverine.  

It's not like I'd actually have a shot in any case.  Or, that I would even consider committing adultery with anyone...even if Hugh Jackman did beg me to jump on the back of his motorcycle.  (You know that, right, Honey?!?)



Okay, let's not exaggerate...I'd totally jump on.  But, it would be a one time thing, I swear.  

And then, the next time he wins an Oscar/Grammy/Tony/GoldenGlobe he'd look straight into the camera and say "this one's for you" and mean me.

Going to sleep with a smile on my face, now.  :D

The Lord's Chips...and Prom Dresses

It's prom planning time again.  Slutty dresses, flashy limos, ill fitting tuxes and carnations abound.  It's also the time of year for assholes to decide that some couples are more suited to their version of the prom than others.  Same sex couples do not fit into their version of the "traditional" prom.

I'm assuming that by traditional, they also mean underage drinking and date rape; both pretty common at the prom.

I was never a girly girl and I never gave too much thought to my prom until it was nearly upon me.  I remember wishing that my ex-boyfriend would ask me to go.  Actually, I am downplaying that.  He was the only one I really wanted to go with.  I had a boyfriend and he was dating someone else, but I was beginning to realize that when I thought of my high school days in the future, his face would be the one that would come to mind first and this has proven to be true.

When I think back on it, I wish I had had the courage to break up with my (very nice but exceedingly dull) boyfriend of the time and had boldly made my case to the ex. At the time, though, that idea seemed tantamount to us each leaving someone at the altar and I didn't have the stomach for the drama.  Of course, I realize now that this is silly.  Neither one of us stayed with those prom dates for long after graduation.  I should have just gone with my heart. 

The handsome ex and me.

Anyway, back to the present day and the assholes that try and exclude people because their date is not of the opposite sex.  Can I please remind them that it is 2013?  That we legally are not allowed to discriminate against anyone because of their sexual orientation?  

I'm glad to see that most schools are onboard with this, though there are always the backward holdouts.  They're usually the same ones that wish we could go back to the 50's when everything was perfect...if you were white.

Many things have changed for the better.  I've seen lots of prom kings and queens lately that don't fit the traditional Football Captain / Cheerleading Captain model.  Plenty of schools are recognizing kids with disabilities with these honors, when in the past, they wouldn't have even gone to the prom at all.  That is progress.  When the kids recognize that times have changed, why can't the adults?