Sink, swim or hold on!

Back in the '80s, before the real estate market crash that marked the end of that decade, I worked for a mortgage company. Business was good, and we were rewarded well by the company's owner.

One of the bigger rewards we once received was a day off work ... and on the owner's boat. On a day we should be processing loans, the entire office (it was a small office) would get to don bathing suits and hang out at the reservoir, on a boat, sipping beer in the sunshine.

I didn't want to go. I really did not want to go.

I didn't want to go because despite having been born in Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes, I didn't know how to swim. Which would have been okay if it were to be just a slow row around the reservoir, but one of the planned events was a contest of who could survive the longest on the inflatable "bullet" attached to the boat by a rope and pulled around the reservoir at top speeds. An activity in which my participation meant certain drowning. Assurances from the only coworker who knew of my fear telling me again and again "You'll have on a life jacket!" were of no comfort. I still didn't want to go.

But I did, of course. It was a "reward" and I was expected to accept it.

When it came time for the bullet contest, my coworkers took turns hopping on the bullet, whooping and hollering about what fun, what fun! As they straddled the bullet, they gave our boss -- the man behind the wheel and the gas pedal -- the thumbs up and off they went, skidding across the water at top speeds. Another thumbs up meant "faster, faster." Each would go through the same routine, seeing who could go the fastest, who could go the longest. Each would fly off the bullet and into the water when the speed became too much for them to bear.

Then it was my turn. I could barely breathe. Only the coworker with whom I'd shared my fear knew the terror I faced as she helped me onto the deathmobile. I straddled the inflatable, grabbed onto the handles on each side, then gave a weak thumbs up. The boat slowly moved away from the bullet until the rope was taut. I gave another thumbs up, then quickly grabbed the handle again. As the boat gained speed, I began scooting across the water. Another thumbs up then quick hand grab and I went faster. I did it again ... and again ... and again, each time quickly flashing my thumb then returning to the handle. Each time going faster and faster.

As I flew and bounced and soared across the water, I kept my hands gripped around the handles and my eyes fixed on my coworkers as they laughed and smacked each other on the back and gave me a thumbs up in return. Faster and faster I went, holding on tighter and tighter, praying harder and harder that the insane fun would end soon because I was not having any fun.

Finally the boat slowed and they began reeling me in. "What's the deal?" I wondered. Maybe my coworker had told them of my fear and they decided enough was enough.

As the bullet reached the boat, everyone cheered and shouted congratulations to me. I was the winner! I had gone the fastest, the longest ... and never fell off the bullet! Yay, Lisa! They slapped me on the back, helped me off the bullet, handed me a beer. Woo-hoo for me!

My coworkers couldn't believe my cojones, my nerves of steel, my ability to hold on. What they didn't know was that I held on because there was absolutely no way in hell I was going to fall in that water. I didn't know how to swim, I didn't trust the life jacket to save me. And I surely was not willing to die during a workday spent at the reservoir drinking beer and riding bullets when I had three babies at home who needed me for many, many more years to come.

I held on for my life -- and looked like a success to everyone else -- because there was no other option.

Which is exactly what I've been doing all my adult years: I hold on with a steel-plated grip because I have no other option.

In every facet of my life, I've survived, made it through, didn't drown. But it's definitely not because of any special ability, powers or knowledge. In fact, it's precisely because I don't have any special ability, powers or knowledge that I'm surviving from one day to the next. I cling so tightly because there's nothing else I can do. I don't have a Plan B. I don't have a safety net to protect me from failure -- financial, physical or otherwise. And despite taking swimming lessons at the age of 40, I still don't really know how to swim.

But I do have one helluva grip.

And I continue to hold on.

Today's question:

Time to brag: What's one thing you do really well?

My answer: I make excellent chocolate chip cookies!

Time marches on

Today is Jim's birthday ... the 29th birthday of his that we've celebrated together.

Like many long-time wives, I spend far more time complaining about my husband than I do complimenting him. So today, for his birthday, I'd like to do something a little different.

My top 10 reasons why I love my husband:

1. He makes the bed every morning and helps with the dinner dishes every night.

2. He loves independent and subtitled films as much as I do.

3. Bubby's the cheese on his pizza, too, even though he'd never put it that way (and said I sounded really weird when I wrote that post).

4. He has unflagging faith in my ability to make a living as a freelance writer, even to the point of encouraging me to not apply for jobs and not accept ones I'm offered -- despite our dwindling savings.

5. He sings loud and proud and can sound just like Johnny Cash, Jeff Keith, Randy Travis, Brent Smith, Bobby Darin and Vusi Mahlasela from the South African township of Mamelodi ... to name just a few.

6. He willingly buys tampons for me when I ask -- and gladly purchased the Black Forest cakes for the "period parties" we threw when each of the girls had their first period.

7. The more grey he gets, the more handsome he becomes. 

8. He loves Lyla, Isabel and Abby even though he tries to pretend Mickey is the one and only animal for him.

9. He's given me shots, changed my catheter bag and literally carried me to the doctor when I couldn't walk. And would do it again in a heartbeat, if need be.

10. He's my forever partner in parenting, grandparenting ... and home repair.

Happy birthday, Jim. I kinda think you are the cheese on my pizza, too!

Today's question:

What was your best birthday celebration ever?

My answer: The year Megan scared the hell out of me surprised me on my birthday by flying home to be at the house when I got home from work. (And Jim kept the secret for months!)

Age of reason(ing)

I've always found it kind of odd when older women say they're one age, then it's found out they're actually older. I've read of this happening with celebrities and non-celebrities, where they've insisted for years that they're this old, then the truth came out upon the woman's death that they're that old, shocking adoring fans or family.

Tsk, tsk, I would think to myself. Is it really that important to pretend you're younger? Is one's vanity so paramount that they resort to lying to themselves and to others -- sometimes for years -- about their age?

Well, after a conversation Jim and I had the other night, I'm rethinking my tsk-tsking.

We were discussing my age -- for reasons related to my desire to join a group that had an age requirement -- when Jim said, "But you're XX, and that's close enough."

No, I clarified to my darling-yet-sometimes-forgetful honey, I'm actually XX, a year older than he thought.

"Lisa," he said slowly, as if addressing a child, "it's 2010. You were born in XXXX. You are going to be XX in June."

I thought about it, used my fingers to count out the years, cocked my head to the side like the dog does when he's perplexed, and let it sink in that he was right. I'm younger than I thought. I'm younger than I'd been telling people.

Wow! How wonderful to regain my youth so easily, so quickly, so much more inexpensively than by slathering on face creams and soaking up industrial-strength-for-resistant-gray hair color!

Hallelujah! I'm young again! Well, at least younger.

It led me to reconsider the women I'd bashed in the past for lying about their age. Maybe they weren't vain beauty queens trying to retain a smidgen of their youth. Maybe they weren't lying. Maybe they very innocently and honestly thought they were a certain age. Then each time they considered it or were questioned about it, that age remained the same ... for years ... possibly even dropped by a year or two or ten (hey, what's 10 years when you're 80, 90 years old?). They weren't cunning, conniving and conceited; they were just like me.

I read once that the mind can retain only a certain amount of information, so less important info is dropped -- forgotten -- in favor of newer, more important information. Maybe that's what the deal is with age: It's just not that important. Unless you're looking to reach legal drinking age, join AARP or fill out your retirement papers, age really doesn't matter. It's one of those bits of information the brain no longer needs.

So instead of internally bashing myself for seemingly becoming one of those women who lie about their age in the name of vanity or -- worse yet -- becoming so old I'm losing my memory and can't remember even the most basic of things, I've decided it's not that at all. It's actually that I've lived so long and I've learned so much that my brain is full. Yep, I've reached maximum brain capacity so the minutiae of my life must be dropped, deleted, purged in order for new and useful tidbits to be retained.

I'm not becoming a forgetful old woman after all. Nope, I'm young enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, I like myself!

(Now, if I start forgetting how old my children are, that's when I need to start worrying!)

Today's question:

Everyone has an age that they see themselves in their mind's eye, regardless of what they're seeing in the mirror. At what age do you usually think of yourself as still being?

My answer: I always think of myself as still being 27. Maybe it's because it's my favorite number, or maybe because it's the age I was when a major life event happened that changed my perception of myself -- kind of a "before" and "after" mark. So yeah, it's 27 for me. (Which is really kind of weird, now that I think of it, because my oldest daughter is 27!)

Becoming Mama

On Sunday morning, Valentine's Day, the phone rang and it was Megan (I love caller ID!). Awww, I thought, she's calling to wish me Happy Valentine's Day.

I pick up the phone and here's what she says: "I'm just calling to let you know that I'm becoming my mother." All said with a slight smile ... and an obvious tinge of disdain.

"Oh, really?" I asked cautiously. Could it be that she's beating the hell out of Bubby with a hanger? Feeding him crushed glass for breakfast? Zipping up his tummy in his sleeper or dislocating his elbow as she put on his clothes? All things I did to the girls, of course, warranting the tinge of disdain in her voice.

(Okay, yeah, I really did do the last two but it was so totally by accident ... and left me horrified at the time, guilt-ridden for years ... and afraid of dressing my children during cold-weather months when the clothing is bulky, tight and zipper laden.)

"I'm making pink heart pancakes for Valentine's Day breakfast," Megan replied.

Oh, THAT horrible kind of thing that I did on a regular basis. It's crystal clear now and I can so understand her disdain and fear of becoming her mother.

Ha, ha, ha. We laughed about it. And we laughed about the ways we're both a little concerned about becoming our mothers.

Which is fairly common, of course. I remember my mom telling me and my sisters, "If I ever become like my mother, you better tell me." It's something I now say to my own girls after doing the spider hands gesture or the "If I Were A Rich Man" jig. (Not that I don't love ya, Mom! But you know how it is ... !)

Nothing new there. We've all read it, heard it, said it countless times before.

The thing that I find interesting about every woman's fear of becoming her mother, though, is that there's also the desire to do everything just like grandma. Books, blogs, newscasts and more mention doing this and that "just like Grandma" or following the sage advice that "Grandma used to always say ...".

Our grandmas are the wise women of the clan; our mothers are those wacky women rife with idiosyncricies that we'd rather die than imitate.

But I'm both. I'm a grandma ... and I'm a mother.

So which is it?

And at what point do our crazy mothers become our venerated sage-meisters, the women we want to cook like, clean like, love like? And not just on a personal level, but on a societal level, as a collective?

I don't get it. And I don't know whether to just bite my tongue and bide my time until I reach the sage-meister stage of life. This part of motherhood vs. grandmahood has me flummoxed.

You go ahead and ponder that and let me know your thoughts. In the meantime, the homemade heart-shaped muffin I was warming in the microwave just dinged and I'm ready to dig in to my leftover Valentine's Day breakfast.*

Today's question:

What's one way you're like your mother? And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

My answer: When I'm in a group of strangers or people I don't know very well, I talk ... way too much. And say stupid things. My mom is a talker, which is fine and good and ensures there are never any uncomfortable silences at any point ... ever. But I'm generally a much more introverted person who appreciates silence a whole lot more than I appreciate babbling just to fill conversational gaps, so I internally kick myself each and every time I do it. Which means, I guess, that, for me, it's a bad thing.

*I didn't really make heart-shaped muffins for Valentine's Day breakfast -- but only because I realized at the last minute that I didn't have any cupcake/muffin liners and the festive suggestion from Grandma Lizzie wouldn't work without liners. There's always next year!

Rediscovered loves

My question of the day yesterday asked what is something you love, love, love. It brought to mind some of the things I used to love, then forgot about, then rediscovered. Here are a few of those things:

Walgreens brand Alpha Hydroxy Face Cream -- I used this stuff years ago when I first started worrying about the dreaded wrinkles. It was cheap ($5.99 for 4 ounces), it was readily available. Day in, day out, I used the cream. Then I started making the big bucks. And spending the big bucks on more expensive face creams, from L'Oreal to Arbonne (which Andrea sold for a while). I liked the fancy-schmancy creams and forgot about my first love. Then money started getting tight again and I longed for the Alpha Hydroxy -- but could no longer find it anywhere. I've looked for it for a few years now, always lamenting the $20+ I had to shell out for an itsy bitsy container of some brand-name dewrinkler. Until just the other day. Brianna and I were at Walgreen's and the heavens opened and angels sang and a light shone upon a bottom shelf in the skin care aisle where two lonely containers of my beloved Alpha Hydroxy sat ... still priced at only $5.99 a jar. I bought both -- and considered asking the clerk if she had more in the back so I could stock up. L'Oreal: You're no longer welcome in my house! (Well, at least as long as these two jars last.)

Icees -- When I was about 12 years old, I lived in a small town (the now growing town my mom and sister still live in ... separately). There was a 7-Eleven on the route I walked each day with my BFF on our way to school. We stopped there nearly every day for penny candies (that really were about $.02). My friend's sister, the older-by-a-year, much-cooler Jeanne, stopped there, too. For Icees. My friend and I splurged occasionally, but Jeanne bought lots of the luscious carbonated red goodness, slurping them up regularly -- and saving the little points you cut out of the cup that could be redeemed for prizes. And she actually did redeem them for prizes. I was so jealous, not only of the prizes she got after purchasing and mailing in the points from 362 Icees, but because she could afford them so often. I forgot about Icees until about a year ago -- when Jim realized they sell Icees at the movie theater. Now we get an Icee every time we go see a movie. Mmmmm ... so much more satisfying (to me) than popcorn.

The smell of cut lumber -- Jim and I recently had to do a little lumber cutting around the house, trimming up old (old) doors that wouldn't close correctly because the house had settled over the years and the antique doors stuck here and there. I held the door still on the impromptu "saw horse" on the patio while Jim trimmed from the bottom ... and I was suddenly floored by the glorious scent wafting from the sawdust. I don't know if it brought me back to childhood and watching my dad create some funky wooden road sign with a rooster at the top, a hen below the rooster, then seven chicks below that, all with the label "Roger's Roost" (we were a family of seven kids) or if it brought back memories of when Jim and I remodeled our old house, doing most of the work ourselves and being incredibly proud of our work ... especially considering neither of us had ever worked any sort of construction in the past. Either way, I had forgotten how wonderful wood smells when cut. Now if I could only find a "Cut Lumber" scented candle (and, no, the "Pine" scent doesn't cut it!).

Story of the Day from StoryPeople -- I discovered the magic of storyteller and artist Brian Andreas during a family spring break trip to a small tourist town more than 10 years ago. I fell in love instantly. I bought a print. I later ordered prints for each of the girls for Christmas. I signed up for the e-mailed Story of the Day. Those stories made my day, made me smile, made my heart squish up in wondrous ways. I bought a print for our new house (actually, it was purchased for the folks we bought the new house from ... then when I saw the absolutely disgusting mess they left for us to clean, I kept the print for myself) and I love this print. It looks like this:

And it says this:

There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other's cooking & say it was good.

Did it squish up your heart?

But then my e-mail box was filled to the brim each day and I had to cut what I didn't have time for. StoryPeople was one of those cuts.

I have a little more time now, and a little more need for some serious heart squishing (in the good ways), so I recently signed back up for the StoryPeople story of the day ... and became a fan of StoryPeople on Facebook. I love this stuff. Once again, it makes my day.

Flannel nightgowns -- From the time I was about 15 until I was nearly 30, I wore flannel nightgowns. They were comfortable ... and comforting. Then I started feeling like an old lady and decided I needed more hip, cute, fancy, appealing nightwear. During a bout in the hospital, I received a silky pajama set from my little Girl Scouts (Daisies and Brownies!) and decided THAT'S the kind of luxurious jammies I need to wear. So I purchased another silky set from Victoria's Secret (not the kind Jim would have liked, but the kind I liked, that could be worn around the kids!). Then, for some reason I can't recall, I moved to the capri sweats and tank top kind of jammies ... then flannel pants and T-shirt jammies. And I'm sick of them. So this past weekend I decided to go ahead and be the old lady I am, and I ordered a flannel nightgown from JCPenney. Weird thing is that the only flannel nightgown I could find was a "nightshirt" -- for men! What kind of man would wear such a thing? I would kick Jim out of bed, possibly even out of the house, if he ever dared to wear a nightshirt -- flannel or any other kind. We're not THAT old! But I can't wait to put one on myself.

So there you have it: my rediscovered loves of late.

Today's question:

What long-lost love you have recently rediscovered?

The Saturday Post

My good friend Debbie had her retirement party last night. Shew ... 25 years at the same job! She's part of a dying breed, I believe, as people just don't do that anymore. Huge, huge kudos to Debbie for sticking it out!

This song is for her. Although her daughter did a bang-up karaoke job of it last night, I want to dedicate this version to her.

So here's to you, Debbie. (And don't you dare touch that to-do list yet! Take a break -- you more than earned it ... and probably need it after all those chocolate cake shots last night!)

(SORRY... THIS VIDEO LOST IN BLOG MAKEOVER)

Today's question:

What's the longest you've ever worked at one job?

I worked at the newspaper for a little over eight years. Before that, it was four years at the job where I met Debbie. I'm obviously not much of a long-term career person.

Charmed, I'm sure

On Saturday, Jim and I had to go to Walmart, one of my least favorite places in the world. I can't stand the bungled mess of a parking lot or the even more-bungled aisles. And the carts scare me: All the disinfectant wipes in the world can't get rid of the copious amounts of germs on them, and I'm finding as I get older, copious amounts of germs creep me out.

But Walmart is closer to my house than Target, and the place does have some pretty good deals. Still, it was a shopping excursion I wasn't looking forward to.

As we walked the 2.3 miles from where we had to park, I saw a penny (heads up!) and picked it up. Then Jim found one within a foot of that. He picked his up, too (even though it was heads down). With two good luck pennies in our pockets, I figured it would be a successful and survivable trip into hell.

It wasn't. Which isn't surprising, as I think it'll take a whole lot more than good luck charms to make Walmart a place I enjoy visiting.

But those unhelpful pennies reminded me of something I hadn't thought about in years: rabbit's feet, the go-to good-luck producers of the past.

Decades ago, rabbit foot keychains were everywhere. It was quite common to see a pink, green, purple or yellow foot dangling from a gal's purse or a guy's blue jeans, announcing to the world what a lucky chap or chapette they were -- or hoped to be.

I never had a rabbit's foot when I was a kid, but many of my friends did. I was partial to the non-Technicolor ones, the rabbit's feet that looked like the real thing. They were the creme de la creme of good luck charms, in my opinion, and my friend who was special enough to have one often let me hold her precious white rabbit's foot. I'd stroke the soft fur, hold it up to my cheek, feel around the tip of the foot for that little bunny toenail I knew was there.

I coveted that keychain and wished I were the kind of kid who could steal from a friend with a clear conscience. But I figured that even if I did manage to pocket the paw with no problems, the luck associated with the charm would disappear if I acquired it under less than scrupulous circumstances.

Now that I'm older and could afford a rabbit's foot if I really really wanted one, I no longer want one ... and haven't for about 35 years. They're actually kind of a gross little trinket to give a kid. I imagine many a bunny limped around with only one paw or, worse yet, had their tootsies removed just before being skinned and thrown into the pot for some hillbilly's wabbit stew.

So is that why rabbit's feet are no longer popular? Did PETA step in and educate the country on the true horrors associated with them?

And what has replaced them? Do kids even believe in good luck charms anymore? Is there a new version of the rabbit's foot, maybe a kinder, gentler charm?

I'm pretty sure kids aren't picking up pennies they find on the ground, happily picking it up and grinning at their good fortune as they stick it in their pocket, because even a kid -- maybe especially a kid -- knows that a penny doesn't get you very far nowadays.

Not even at Walmart.

Today's question:

What personal item do you have that you consider a good luck charm?

The Saturday Post

As I get older, I definitely notice myself getting more and more stupid an ever-so-slight decline in my mental capabilities. Especially my memory.

So when I received an e-mail that mentioned Test My Brain, I forgot about it for a couple months then rediscovered it yesterday I had to quiz the ol' noggin with a few cool cognitive tests.

According to the site, "Test My Brain is a website dedicated to internet-based experiments and science education. ... By participating in these experiments, you can learn a bit about your personality and individual aptitudes.   All of our experiments are designed to provide personalized feedback that is specific to you.  By making research relevant and helpful to individuals like you, we aim to make psychology and brain research more accessible and, ultimately, to promote awareness of scientific research.

As Test My Brain grows and evolves, we hope to continually expand our educational content, presenting the latest in brain research as well as results and what we've learned from these experiments."

Last night, I took the "Keeping Things in Mind" test (15 minutes) and the "Can You Name That Face" celebrity face-recognition test (5 minutes). Below are screen shots of my scores. Check them out (you may need to enlarge the screen to see the type ... maybe??), then visit Test My Brain to find out how you fare. And if you're oh-so daring, share your results here.

"Keeping Things in Mind" scores:

 

And the "Can You Name That Face" score:

I guess I'm not quite as cognitively impaired as I thought (although it did make clear that I really DO suck at anything with numbers). Give it a whirl, then share your scores.

Today's questions from "If... (Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to name the best purchase you've ever made, which one would you choose?

I would have to say ... Jim's vasectomy. HA! I'm totally kidding (maybe). No, I'd have to say the house we owned prior to the one we live in now because it was one heck of a deal that led to our ability to buy our current home (and provided many, many good memories ... although I don't think those were related to the purchase).