Wednesday, July 5, 2017

The Costumes

How did you do it, she asked. How did you ever get dinner on the table with a baby?
I don't remember, she answered back. I know I did but I don't remember.

In the midst of an overhaul of closets in a bedroom that the great and magnificent Oz of an air conditioner has deemed less worthy of the cool air that the rest of the house enjoys, I found my sweaty self sitting on the floor in the middle of a disaster I created.

I was having a bit of a problem finding my mojo for this bad idea.

On a pile at a time I told myself. One foot in front of the other and one ridiculous pile at a time, right? Isn't that how all hard things start? I began to sort. Yearbooks from this kid, posters from that kid, a pile to donate, a pile for the garbage, the biggest pile reserved for I Have No Idea. It was a slow process and after many hours it might have looked to an observer that I had accomplished nothing, but a plan was starting to take hold. The closet got painted, the chaos go its marching orders via black, plastic bags and the end of the day and my ambitious plan was coming together.

In the midst of this mayhem there was an actual plastic tub - the premiere organizational tool that has its own aisles in Target and the preferred method of storage for a million Martha Stewart wannabees. Where did this beauty come from? Who thought to put anything in here protected from the dust that layered everything else? I opened it up and the inside contents were reserved for one thing - the dance costumes that the third and last inhabitant of that room had stored. One by one I pulled them out, held them up, sighed, smiled, felt my eyes fill with tears. Each costume carried it own memory - tap, ballet, hip hop, solos, group dances. I remembered every dance that each costume was for. At the bottom of the tub were the head pieces that went along with the tutus, the sparkling, wow-them-from-the-stage earrings, the box of stage makeup that had long dried up, dozens of hair clips and bobby pins.

Years of memories carefully stored in a single plastic tub.

Like her siblings and their interests, I remembered everything about these first solo flights of bravery. Sitting on the bleachers for a track meet - the last being the state competition that the girls 4x400 qualified for, on the sidelines of cross-country meets at the crack of dawn- the ending being the senior banquet where the one who hated public speaking the most eloquently thanked everyone who helped him across every finish line, or the final recital where years of training ended on a stage with a bow and a wipe of tears. I remembered them. I remembered me watching them.

As a witness to these events over the years, my posture was always the same. Leaning forward, feet propped up, elbows on knees, fingertips resting on my lips, the same mantra on repeat over and over. C'mon kiddo, you got this. C'mon kiddo, you got this. C'mon kiddo.... I always knew that mantra was for the benefit of my jangling nerves and not theirs.

In a closet full of the accumulated messes of three kids who had all taken their turn passing through the biggest bedroom in the house before heading off on their own, the best had saved itself for last. I wiped out the bottom of the tub and folded each costume and headpiece and put them back inside. I ran my hands over the sides of the lid to make sure it was snapped on tight so any lingering dreams that preferred to remain with the tulle and the sequins wouldn't fly away.


How did you do it, she asked. How did you ever get dinner on the table with a baby?
I don't remember, she answered back. I know I did but I don't remember. Ask me about the good stuff. I remember all of that.

Sunday, June 4, 2017


Though I have been doing my best least to let this blog fade quietly into the sunset, it would seem that the universe clearly had other thoughts about that idea.

So where have I been?

A perfect storm of changes happened within a short spring season and I continued a long established pattern of using as much energy as I could to fight every one of them even though I knew going in that the outcome would never claim me as the winner.

After nine long months of not having a boss (or at least a readily available one) that changed mid-March and it has been good. I like him a lot but there is the dance of "what are his expectations of me" that I am still figuring out. A week after he started my work buddy left. He and I worked on the same things in different capacities and so my paper moving daily work changed to what are we supposed to do with this contract, how do we book student travel, how to do we pay for this $20K bill. I used to refer to Richard as my "work husband" for many reasons. He and I talked and problem solved all day long and all of it was conversations about money with a couple of recipes and current events thrown in - not unlike my real husband. His leaving left a void in many ways and my work life got inundated with more responsibilities and emails. Oh my the emails.

A few weeks after that, our wee bird left the home nest for a grand adventure and we did our best to make that happen for her in the most positive of ways. She is an adventurer. I am not and would find that kind of move intimidating so the challenge was to remind myself that she is not me and must do what she thinks is best for her. It was easier said than done when my own baggage was bulging and begging to be unpacked. Six weeks later it is clear that our wee bird is happy and thriving and made the right decision.

Our nest had fluctuated for years with the comings and goings of kids after college. I loved when they came back and loved when they got to start off on their own. The difference this time is that there are no more kids to move back. We have reached the end of the line in daily parenting and getting used to that has been harder than I thought. Our house got terribly boring and quiet with only the drumbeat of Russian interference and impeachment in the background which has not been exactly helpful in staying upbeat.

In the midst of all that was our last Listen To Your Mother show. The work of doing the show kicks into gear after the first of the year and by spring is a daily juggling of details. With everything else in a state of flux this gave me the chance once again to throw myself into something bigger than myself. I got to meet a dozen new writers who quelled their public speaking fears and stood on stage and told their stories. The friendships made and bonding before, during and after the experience has has been invaluable.

And with a final bow on the stage of a historic theatre, all the changes that I was in the middle of for months ended on a Sunday afternoon.

I know that I am a person that always needs a project and what to do next is the big question. I have some ideas that are simmering so I will wait and see what bubbles to the top. In the meantime, I finally painted the banister that was installed fifteen years ago but that I could never make a commitment to as far as color. I went white and lord have the mercy...why didn't I do that at least a decade ago? I painted the hallway and convinced my very skeptical husband that a birch branch was the perfect handrail.

None of this has filled my empty house, satisfied a new boss, or provided the direction to a new path to wander down, but it is one foot in front of the other and that is a start.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

It's My Party & I'll Cry If I Want To

Is she going to make it tonight?
I'm pretty sure.
How sure?
Pretty sure.
Everyone is coming.
She's going to make it on will and determination.


I recently had a big birthday - a 60th birthday to be exact. Any birthday that ends in a zero is a big deal, whether you're ten (double digits!!), 20, 30, 40, 50. But sixty? Sixty is knocking on Medicare's door. It is not, nor will it ever be, the new anything. In the last few years we have gone to many parties for friends turning sixty and on the way to each one I have said the same thing to Mark, "How do we know this many people getting old?" Ahem.

Was I dreading it? A little. I find many birthdays to be depressing - either for lack of celebration or a lack in achieving the goals of my life that get measured every year on March 6th. But this year I decided that I was going to march into March with my anti-aging-creamed-face and frequently dyed hair held high, owning every bit of my sixty years. The self-esteem was a gift from a lot of women I know as well as the observance of others I admire - be they writers, artists, business women, or a presidential candidate. Women whose style, compassion and humanity has only gotten bigger as age and the accompanying wisdom emboldened them to live a life of their own making regardless of public opinion.

Two years ago for my birthday the kids gifted me with a promise of family photos that never materialized due to conflicting schedules but this year we made it happen. On a cloudy, cool Sunday afternoon we went to the nearby art museum with the most amazing photographer we have come to love for her talent and kindness. She did not disappoint. I will never know how it was that she made us look so good on a dreary day when we were freezing but, oh my, did she ever. When we finished we came back to the house for dinner and cake to celebrate. Before we started my neighbor stopped by to bring me an etched wine glass and a bottle of wine and the day ended with a scrapbook of letters from family and friends that the kids had solicited to wish me a happy birthday.

I cried when I opened it.

The next day was my real birthday and the start of another week of work. Last year that passed without any acknowledgement but this year everyone knew it was my birthday because in a conversation with a coworker it turns out his wife and I share the same birth date. I had finished eating my lunch at my desk when someone called my name. I turned around and there were all of my coworkers, our graduate students, and our work-study students singing happy birthday to me.

I cried.

At the end of the week was our Listen To Your Mother auditions which is one of my favorite labors of love. Our show is about an hour's drive away and so I was up and out the door early on Friday and Saturday. Our second day was cold and snowy and I came home wiped out from driving, from stress, from holding space for the stories of motherhood. Some neighbors were meeting at the restaurant a short walk away and had asked Mark and I to join them. I badly wanted to stay home and expressed that a time or ten to Mark but it was agreed that this would be ONE drink and then I would get to come home and go to bed. Let me say that my attire matched my mood - so casual that I easily could have worn it to bed if I was too tired to change when I got home which was the point. I would not recommend this look. Ever.

That one drink was really a surprise party and I walked into a room in the restaurant in my half-clothes-half-pajamas, where nearly all of my family had come from Chicago, including my mom who hasn't felt well for weeks, my cousin, my grade school friend, my neighbors, some of my old coworkers, writer friends, a friend I had just spent the morning with, a friend I had been thinking about and texted an hour before the party, friends from when my kids were in grade school.

I started crying.

If there weren't a roomful of people looking at me I would have sobbed but I am Margaret's daughter and she wouldn't have that so I hugged her, hugged everyone, marveled at the ability of Mark and our kids to pull this off without me having a clue, and had a night that will forever be in the highlight reel of my life. As a friend said later, "That room was full of love." It really was and I will never forget it.


On the morning of her birthday I picked up Vicki and took her to the doctor. On the way home she told me about the conversation she would soon be having with her kids to tell them that they had reached the end of the line for treatment options. Her voice cracked, my eyes filled with tears. When we got in the house she flopped on the couch and before I left to go to work I brought her some pain pills and a glass of water. Leaving her alone with so many thoughts that must have been swirling and worrying still makes me sad but she said she was going to rest so she would be ready for that night. That night when a hastily planned party for her birthday would take place that everyone she ever met came to celebrate. The very sick woman I had left earlier in the day rallied and looked as beautiful as ever. For most that would be the last time they would see her, and over and over she said how happy she was that we all came to her party, how good it was to have normal conversations that weren't centered on her health, how lucky she was.

Vicki's birthday celebrations would end on that cold January night - 49 in all. I think of her often and on every birthday of mine - the big ones, the even and odd numbered ones, even the ones that don't get acknowledged - I remember that night, and in a restaurant full of the dearest people in my life I knew she was there.

And all those tears for all the celebrations I was fortunate to have in the span of just a week belonged to what was and what will be, and for that I will always owe her my deepest gratitude.

Monday, February 20, 2017

When Numbers Lie

When Mallory became more serious about dancing, she auditioned and made the competitive dance team in the studio she had been at for years. I was ecstatic for her and clueless as to how much money this would end up costing. There were the monthly dance class fees which were significantly higher due to the number of classes added as a requirement of being on the team, fees for the competition, fees for each dance in the competition, costumes for each dance. It piled up fast.

The team would occasionally do fundraisers to offset the cost - usually a car wash or selling candy. It didn't amount to much but it was something. Whenever a competition was coming up the parents were required to go to informational meetings. I was at one such meeting with a friend when the usual fee payments were being discussed. When that was over the studio turned it over to the father of one of the girls on the team to give a brief explanation of a fundraising opportunity.

He was not brief.

He came with a large tablet and a Sharpie to explain this scheme opportunity. It involved getting cable through a 3rd party who would then give a cut to the team. He drew a pyramid with stick people and houses and cable lines and piles of money and said, "Do you see this? People lie. Numbers don't." And when somebody asked for something specific about the money he would say, "I'm not sure what you mean. Can't you see this? People lie. Numbers don't." What never made sense was why you would go to a 3rd party for cable when you could just call up Time-Warner and get what you wanted, but he kept selling and sweating as he worked the room. My friend leaned over and whispered, "Are you following this because I have no idea what he's talking about." "He's talking about us being a bunch of liars," I said. His wife sat in the front row, smiling and nodding, and I wondered if she felt like she was watching the death of her salesman husband. Finally the studio director cut it off but not before he pointed his Sharpie at his tablet and said, "You can't deny this is an amazing opportunity. Remember, folks. People lie. Numbers don't."


A few months ago the server for my blog sent me a notice that they had made some updates. From my end it looked a little different but it only took me a few minutes to get the hang of some of the minor changes.

When I write something new I will check the numbers for a few days after to see how things look. If I've gone a long time without writing and see that my numbers are depressingly low it motivates me to write again. Ever since this update, though, my daily numbers are crazy and I don't know if the changes cast a wide net of undiscovered new readers or Russian hackers are trying to steal my literary thunder.

One thing I do know after six years of blogging is that the same thing holds true for me as when I was in high school. I'm not that popular and despite what I've been lead to believe these numbers are lying to me like Pinocchio.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

One Suitcase

Several years ago my husband hired someone over the phone for a position in his lab. The person had been recommended to him and because he was a resident of India the typical interview process was not going to work in this case. They had a couple of conversations, a visa was issued, Mark found him a furnished apartment near the campus, and we filled a few boxes with pots and cooking utensils and sheets and towels and washcloths. After months of planning his day of arrival came and Mark picked him up at the airport and brought him back to the house for dinner.

He came in, shook my hand and set down his suitcase. One suitcase. I looked at Mark. Was that all he had to start a new life alone thousands of miles from home?  One suitcase?

Through the years of his career there have been many immigrants that have worked for my husband. Russian, Ukrainian, Japanese, Chinese, Iranian. This is his life and through marriage it has become mine. I have eaten foods I couldn't pronounce and toasted with drinks that burned my throat all the way down. I follow Mark's lead and it is generous, deeply generous. When his Japanese student was leaving the Easter dinner we had for a houseful of people, he came to me in the kitchen to thank me and then stood there. There was a long awkward silence between us until he said, "Dr. Fisher said you'd give me some leftovers."

There have been missteps along the way. Sometimes people don't work out for many reasons and that is a heavy burden - being responsible for any employee, and more so when they are far from home. There have also been cultural missteps. When we had a lab party at the house we thought shish kabobs would be a safe bet and the chicken ones were. The beef ones sat untouched. I have nodded and smiled through many conversations because distraction led me to lose pace with an unfamiliar accent. Time after time, though, I have watched my husband throw himself into the world of these students, post-docs, technicians, and colleagues with gusto, and you cannot be around that without wanting to embrace it yourself.

When a visiting professor from India came and worked for six months in Mark's lab we both fell head over heels for him. He was so much fun and when his time was nearing an end his wife and kids arrived for a whirlwind tour of America - New York and Disneyworld and then off to Los Angeles. Before they left they had us over for dinner and his wife said to me, "I want you to know that my family will never forget the kindness of your husband. Never."

Since last fall I have been working at a university and am exposed to international students on a daily basis.  My job is handling the finances for our student organizations - 300 in total that requires a lot of juggling. It also requires me to always be cognizant that for many of our students English is not their first language and conversations and emails have to be thought out carefully in consideration of that.

I recently had a meeting with a Middle Eastern student who was planning a large event for her organization and needed some advice. Event planning is not part of my job but I have done enough of it in my personal life that I was happy to help her and she wrote down everything I said.

Ask around and see where people like to go for happy hour. Narrow it down to three places.
Be aware of your group's ability to get to your event. Should it be within walking distance of the campus? Near a bus line?
Always talk to a manager. Underline that. Always talk to a manager.
Don't be afraid to ask for a discount.
Make sure that the staff knows that nobody can order alcohol unless they are paying for it themselves.
See if they'll give you iced tea and lemonade for free.
Tell them how many people you'll be having, pick a few appetizers, and tell them you need a ballpark figure. After you have that call or email me and we'll see if it will work within your budget.

When I had finished she looked down at her notes and then at me with her big, beautiful, brown eyes and said, "I have a question. What is this thing called ballpark figure?" And I laughed so hard because I thought I was so measured and careful in my explanation and yet....

"It means estimate. Cross that out and put estimate in there."

"No, no, no," she said. "I like this ballpark figure. It's American."

Yes, my dear, it is American, but you are very much like me because I, too, travel through this life with a suitcase of the hopes and dreams my family handed to me to set my course in the world, and were it not for the kindness of others along the way I'm not sure either of us would make it very far.

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

If & When

For the duration of our many years together, Mark and I have had conversations that go something like this...

If we ever have kids.
When the baby comes home.
If we decide to get a dog.
When we go to the shelter to look at dogs.
If we replace the car.
When we pick up the new car.
If we bite the bullet and buy a house.
When we close on the house.
If something I write gets published someday.
When my book hits the market.
If this research takes off.
When the Nobel Prize gets awarded.

We're if and wheners from way back but never more so than when it comes to money.  Somewhere, someplace there is a pile of money that has our name on it if only we could find it. Now that the kids are done with college we are thinking about improvements we'd like to make on the house. We added it up one day and Mark says a mere $100K should cover it, give or take a few grand. We consider this number calmly as if it's hidden in the bushes somewhere and when we go out in the spring and poke around we'll uncover it and can start with the contractors and demo. We pretend spend lottery money we've never won because we never play. Publishers Clearing House could pay us $5000 a week. That would work but the trade-off is Family Circle coming every month and that's a commitment that would eventually take up space in our recycling container. I dream that some day some HR department will take a good, hard look at the unjustness of my salary, call me in and cut me a check on the spot for $500,000 to make amends.

If only.

When that happens.

We were driving to the grocery store the other day when Mark was talking about a workplace issue - a state university where the carrying of guns are soon to be allowed on campus. What could possibly go wrong with that idea? This has been vehemently opposed by the faculty with good reason. Failed test? Lemme get my .45 and show Professor Not Grading On A Big Enough Curve a righteous scare. As this has been an ongoing conversation between us for months, I was only half listening when Mark relayed a story on the subject.

"So we're sitting in a meeting when we're going over it again.
"Un huh."
"How many times do you have to say something's a bad idea before anybody listens?"
"I'm thinking four years."
"And there's a few idiots that think it's okay so you know what I said?"
"What did you say?"
"I said what is this place turning into? Gotham University?"
"What? You said that? Gotham University? As in Gotham City? That's hilarious. Was this in a big meeting?"
"Kind of."
"Was everyone laughing? That's a perfect response."
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?'
"Well, that's when I woke up."
"Woke up from what?"
"My dream."
"Your dream???  This whole conversation is about a dream?"
"Yeah. I said that in the beginning."
"You did?"
"Oh. I might not have been listening to that part."
"I said it was a dream."
"That stinks. Such a great line and it only happened in a dream."
"You're telling me."
"I bet if you stayed asleep the crowd would have gone wild. Like jump to their feet wild."
"If only I didn't wake up."

On the corner of If & When, the accolades, standing ovations and mountains of money are all hidden and just beyond our grasp, but hope springs eternal so by the time April gets here....

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Drawing Names

As the kids got older they started buying Christmas presents with their own money. Not only did they buy for Mark and I, they'd also buy gifts for each other. They went on to get real jobs and one got a husband, and while we would always buy gifts for them I thought that the rest of the gift giving needed to be reined in. That's when our Secret Santa started and for many years it has been the highlight of the season for me.

Because Maggie and Nate usually travel to see his parents for Christmas, Secret Santa has been held before they left town.  It is an exuberant celebration, usually after a Sunday dinner that includes real napkins and lit candles seeing as how it is a special occasion. Like the exchanging of gifts, the name picking done weeks beforehand is equally exuberant.  The two married couples in the group cannot pick their spouse, you obviously can't pick your own name, and a toss back is allowed if you had the same name as last year's pick.

You would think that the drawing of six names would not be so difficult but draft day is one long drawn out affair - sometimes taking a dozen tries before it is settled.

Last year our celebration was on a Sunday morning as my nephew and his girlfriend were spending the night on their way to Illinois.  Doing Secret Santa in front of them would have been awkward and so the timing of our annual tradition got moved.

Maybe that's why things went awry. Or maybe it was because I didn't light any candles.

We gathered in the living room and like years before there was much excitement on Secret Santa Sunday. Who had whom? What did they get? Did they go off the list or go rogue? Was there going to be a shocker gift? The kind that makes the giftee squeal and jump and yell "HOW DID YOU KNOW I WANTED THIS????"

As the passing and opening and thanking went along we were down to two people - Maggie and Mallory. My son-in-law stood up, faked a move towards Maggie and then walked over to Mallory with his gift. Before he got to her I stood up and said, "NO NO NO NO NO NO. THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!!! I HAVE MALLORY!!  YOU CANNOT HAVE HER! SOMETHING'S WRONG HERE, PEOPLE. PEOPLE, DO YOU HEAR ME?? WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM." We all looked at each other and then at Maggie, who by then realized she had no gift from Secret Santa to open, and I wanted to fall on the floor and have the kind of meltdown my kids often had on Christmas day when they were toddlers. But I kept my tartan together and clenched a smile so tight I thought my porcelain covered molars were going to shatter in my mouth.

Maggie, stoic and six months along (the Mary so to speak) said, "It's okay. I don't need anything anyways."  To which I replied, "Well if this were about needs we wouldn't even be doing this because none of us needs anything," which is exactly the kind of Christmas downer you would expect from someone who had suddenly misplaced her ho.

As is our habit around here when shit hits the fan, we couldn't let it go.  No, we had to pick this cluster apart and analyze it to death. Both my son-in-law and I swore we had the right name. Could Mallory's name have been put in twice by mistake? Were we thinking of draw #8 or #9 instead of the final draw? Who the heck knew but by then the only person without a gift kept saying it was okay over and over until she started to cry which made me cry. Will, in an effort to lighten the mood, said, "You guys, just think, next year we'll be doing Secret Santa with a baby." Then he started crying and with that the Secret Santa train made its final descent.

After Maggie and Nate had gathered their things (which didn't take long considering...) and left, I stood up and said, "I don't care what anybody has to do this afternoon. I don't care if you are sick of shopping, sick of lines, sick of spending money, and sick of mall parking lots. I don't care if you have other plans, a football game to watch or Elf for the twentieth time. Everybody is going out and getting Maggie a present TODAY so that when those guys come back for dinner tonight with the cousins there will be gifts for her to open. Anybody got any questions?"

And there were no questions because the remaining Secret Santas were terrified of me.

We scattered to all points retail and that night when the blessed mother and her husband arrived on their donkey there were four gifts for her to open which really embarrassed her but we didn't care. We had made it right.

This year nobody screwed up thanks to Will (the official chair of Secret Santa and finder of There were squeals and surprises, and a few rogue gifts.

And there was a baby.