To TV or Not to TV...To Each Their Own

Had an interesting conversation with my 10-year-old today. It's amazing how often I come away from these brief interludes with real insight. Kids are pretty much as straight forward as they come--'till they hit 12 or so, and then they learn the much coveted-in-the-preteen-world skill of conversation avoidance--so I know I can trust what she says. I still have about 20 months before Sam hits the big 1-2, so I can pretty much rely on her to speak her mind (for the time being, anyway).

So this morning as she's shoveling down eggs while perusing the Lillian Vernon catalogue that arrived in yesterday's mail, she casually states, "My friends like you, but they think you're kind of mean."

I was astonished. Mean? Me? I thought I was the cool mom--or, if not the cool mom, at least the mom least likely to embarrass (well, not if you ask my other daughter, Nati. She says I'm mortifying--a word she learned from the "Harry Potter" books--because I always try to kiss her goodbye when I drop her off at school). Anyway, I of course had to have an explanation. I was, truth be told, a little hurt. I really like all of Sam's friends (a sweet group of girls with some of the biggest hearts around--already volunteering, raising money for charity, and generally trying to save the world at the tender ages of 10) and the idea they thought I was mean bothered me.

"Well, they think you're mean because you won't let me watch TV."

Ahhhhhh. Of course. In the world of the average 10-year-old, what happens on iCarly is at least as important as what is going on in social studies--in a way, I suppose, because Carly's adventures sort of are social studies. So when Sam's friends ask her is she's seen the latest show and she is forced to admit she hasn't, due to Mom's strict no-TV-during-the-week rule, well, I can see how that would be interpreted as "mean."

The TV-restriction isn't a punishment. It's not due to a belief that the world is going to hell-in-a-hand-basket or that shows today aren't the wholesome Brady Bunch-esque parables of my own childhood. I'm not even very religious, so it's not about shielding the girls from the "evils" of Hollywood.

The TV restriction came about this summer for one very reason: my children's reaction to television--which is to say, their non-reaction.

Unclear on what I mean? Here's a visual for you: A few months ago I walked into the family room where the girls were watching some show or the other on my husband's larger-than-ever-possibly-necessary-unless-you-run-a-sports-bar TV (65 inches--literally takes up most of the wall). I said "hello" to them pleasantly, naturally expecting a response.

Nothing.

I walked over to them. They did not turn my direction, acknowledge me in anyway--their eyes didn't even flicker in my direction. I waved my hand in front of their faces. No change of expression. Nati's mouth hung open (I swear I saw a bit of drool on her chin) and Sam sat twirling a loose strand of hair while she watched Zach and Cody enter into another ill-advised scheme.

I've seen this comatose-by-television condition before. Most strikingly several years ago when I went to visit a new friend who had two pre-teen sons. The boys were on the couch, staring blankly at the screen and eating chips. She tried in vain to get their attention so I could be introduced. The boys never even twitched. They communicated through their lack of response that not only was I not important as a guest, but that their mother was not worth the bother of answering. That still stands out in my mind--not just because of their rudeness (which not to put too fine a point on it, kids do need to respect adults--or at least pretend to) but because of the disregard with which they treated their mother. Obviously there was some other dynamic at work in that home, but still....TV played a big part in it.

So when I saw my girls unresponsive and blank-faced in front of the TV, I decided I was through with it. I let them watch 'till the end of the show (sheer dumb luck saves the day again) and then turned it off. They wailed like I'd killed the cat. I explained that they were going to play. Yes, play. With each other. Or, barring that, they were going to have friends over. For geesch's sake, we have a playroom, pool, and a huge slope in the back yard with a tree to climb on. Plus about a gazillion toys. Go play, I told them again. They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

And it wasn't like they were TV addicts--they didn't even watch that much TV in the first place. The girls were already limited to 2 hours of watching a day. The problem as I saw it was, though, that when they were bored or out of ideas, the first thing they would turn to to fill the empty time was the "boob tube" (a favorite phrase of my late dad's). I wanted more from them--and for them. They're smart, creative kids. but the TV took away their chance to be as inventive as I knew they could be.

It took about three days of grumbling, and then, suddenly, they stopped begging for TV. They found other things to do. Sam has become quite the rock collector (actually, too much of the rock collector--she has a huge tub under her bed filled with rocks of all kinds--including a few pieces of broken concrete--gleaned from the slope in our backyard). She's also discovered the joys of collecting caterpillars and keeping them in jars, where they turn into chrysalis and eventually butterflies (the last batch turned out to be fuzzy-antennaed moths). Nati loves to garden, like me. Give her a few empty pots, some potting soil, seeds or seedlings, and she's happy for hours.

Now, the girls TV watching is limited to weekends only. And a terrific thing has happened. They don't clamor for Saturday morning cartoons the moment they roll out of bed. They play Barbies or American Girl Dolls, or read books, or head outside (once as early as 6:15am; I had to drag them back in out of concern for sleeping neighbors) to run, jump and climb the tree. TV is quite literally an afterthought.

I know that my approach is not for everyone. Some moms and dads see TV as a great way for the kids to unwind. Or, they may need the TV to keep the kids occupied while they pay bills or make dinner or something equally important. And I'll be the first to admit, when my kids were younger and less able to look after themselves, Zaboomafu, Barney, and Between the Lions were my go-to babysitters when I needed a few minutes to breathe.

So am I mean? Sam and Nati don't think so...embarrassing, maybe ("Stop trying to kiss me, mom!") but ultimately they understand why the no-TV rule stands. So yeah, Sam misses the latest episode of iCarly. But in its place she gets butterflies to raise, rocks to collect, books to read...and adventures of her own.

Disney Half--Back on the Road to Runnin'

Note: This post was written immediately after the Disney Half Marathon on September 6th, but I neglected to post it in a timely manner. I thought I'd re-visit it and write it a little better, but life got in the way. So here it is, unedited and probably a little rough. xoxox

Yesterday, September 6th, was the (drumroll please!!) Disneyland 1/2 Marathon. I've been building up to it--although, interestingly, not actually training for it--for the last four months, ever since I reached deep into my wallet and pulled out my Mastercard to pay the (gasp!) $120 registration fee.

It would be my first race (loosely referred to as "race" since there is no way in God's green Earth I was even within wishing distance of placing a top spot--or even a spot in the top 100) since last September, when I ran the Disney Half Marathon. That little excursion re-injured the disks in my back that I had originally thrown out of whack in May (2008) and sent me directly into physical therapy. After a few months of exercises that looked like a piece of cake when done by my PT but were actually muscle-straining agony when performed by me, my back was as good as it was gonna be. That being said, it was still achy enough to wake me up a night once in a while and touching my toes was a thing of my past.

So naturally, I was afraid to try to run again. I'd gotten the original injury over-training for the 2008 San Diego Marathon (I just had to get under 4 hours--ha ha on me, since instead of doing it I was laying prostrate on my couch eating Vicodin by the double handfuls and calling my husband to help me to the bathroom whenever I had to pee). I was pretty sure I'd hung up my Avias for good. But after a while, whenever I'd sit at my desk, I'd look at the various race medals hung up on the wall next to me, and think, "Wow, I'd really like to do at least one more..."

So before I had time to think better of it, I signed up for the 2009 Disney Half. I'd already done it two prior years (2007 & 2008) and had tons of fun (despite the soul-searing heat of the 2007 race--90 degrees at the 6:00 am start). And once it sank in that I'd actually committed to do it, I started to worry.

Oddly, though, I didn't train much. The farthest I ran prior to the Disney Half this year was 6 miles--6 miles!! And I was planning to run 13.1?? What was I thinking??? Many of my friends hinted that I was a little crazy. My husband went so far as to call me certifiable. And to be honest, there were a couple weeks where I agreed with them. I was in no shape to run a half. I'd just eat the $120 and not do it--after all, I had the perfect excuse (my baaaaccckkkk...).

But then, my 10-year-old daughter's Girl Scout Troop Leader told me with a big, happy smile that the whole Troop had signed up to attend the Disney Half to hand out waters and cheer on the runners--all because of me! Well, obviously there was no getting out of it now. In the weeks before the event, I ran 3 - 4 days a week, 3 or 4 miles a day. Short runs, but endurance builders. Up a long hill, then a mile and a half at a slight but continual incline. My back protested, but not overly so. I'd worked so much on my core during PT that my stomach muscles were stronger than they'd been since I was in my 20s (of course, they're hidden by a layer of fat that was non-existence when I was younger, but if you push real hard, you can feel the six pack hidden under there). The core muscles support your back and take off much of the pressure. So note: if you have a back injury, strengthen your core.

But I was nervous. When my dear friend Janelle and I went to the Expo the Friday before the race to pick up our numbers, shirts and goodie bags, the chrysalis in my stomach released not one but several large-winged butterflies, and they were not happy. But that's not to say that I didn't feel the familiar pre-race rush. I love race expos--if you're a runner, and you've been, you know what I'm talking about. The charged up atmosphere of all those about to test both their physical and mental endurance...well, it's contagious. Anyway, mixed in with the adrenalin were those alarmed butterflies. I just didn't know if I would be capable...I comforted myself with the thought that there were several medic stations along the course, along with the thought that if I did collapse, somebody would stop and help me...right? Right?

The morning of the race was cloudy and cool--maybe a few degrees over what I consider ideal race temp (I like it around 58-60 degrees--the bod heats up quick). There was a cloud cover. At 6:02am, corral B got the gun, and we were off.

I'd made sure to tell everyone that my goal was just to finish, that I wasn't in it for a time, but secretly I had to finish it at 2:30 or less. I'd even picked up a timer bracelet at the Expo the day before. Not only had I picked up the 2:30 bracelet, but I also picked up a 2:15 bracelet. (A timing bracelet is a little paper bracelet that goes on your wrist. It has every mile listed and where you should be, time-wise, when you hit that mile. For example, if you are trying for a time of 2:15, you need to be at the first mile by 8:50 or something like that). Anyway, my fastest Half Marathon had been the Huntington Beach Half 2008 at 2:05:18. My "least best" was the 2:18 I'd done at the aforementioned incredibly hot 2007 Disney Half. In that race, had it not been for my BF Jackie, I would have succumbed to heat prostration and general discouragement.

So anyway, in spite of my protestations that I didn't care what time I'd get, I really, really, really wanted to get somewhere between 2:15 and 2:20. I even strategically placed myself next to the 2:15 pace group.

And guess what? Right up until mile 6 (when I got stuck in a 3-mile long line at the port-o-potty) I kept on pace with the 2:15 group. I was astonished...

And my final finishing time? According to the official race time on my chip, it was 2:19:21. I'd done it. A little part of me grumbled that if I hadn't had to pee so gosh darn bad, I would have come in 3 minutes sooner, but really, if I had skipped the potty, I would've been runnin' in wet shorts, if you get my meaning.

And I had alot of things going for me, don't forget. The weather cooperated--I didn't get sun until mile 10, and then it was on my back, rather than in my face like the poor souls who had the misfortune to be stuck in corral G (start time: 6:26 am). I had my tunes--just downloaded "Kings of Leon" and the "Best of 311" to keep my feet moving when my mind wanted to stop. Plus, most importantly, I had those girl scouts--along with their 10 x 6 banner that said "We Love You Kim!" How can you not run well when you have a huge banner dedicated just to you, accompanied by 8 smiling (if tired) faces?

So the 2009 Disney Half Marathon is now a memory that I am so, so glad I have. And now I have something else to look forward to...in the world of running, that is. I've already signed up for my next Half--the Carlsbad Half Marathon in January 2010. This time, I promise, I will train!! (maybe I can get back up in the 2:00 - 2:15 range--hey, you never know!--wink wink)

And as long as those girl scouts are there to cheer me on, I have no doubt that I will!

The Downside of Looking at the Upside...

One of the tritest phrases in the English language is “look for the silver lining.” As in “yes, the stock market wiped out our retirement savings, but the silver lining is that I still have my health so I can work until I’m 80.” Or, “True, my husband cheated on me, but the silver lining is that at least he didn’t cheat on my with someone like that woman from ‘Fatal Attraction.’” Or, a personal favorite that I actually heard with my own ears: “I know he stole the client from me and stabbed me in the back, but the silver lining is at least I’m assisting him on the account.” True story, from my days contracting at PR firms in San Diego. The girl who said it was a wide-eyed, sweet-souled junior account exec who by now has either saved her sanity (and that sweet soul) and abandoned the PR field altogether, or has in the intervening years shaken off the mantle of optimism and replaced it with clear-eyed, hard-edged realism (in other words, she has since thrown offending client-snatcher under the bus.)

Until very recently, I have been the master of looking for the silver lining. Always. In every single situation. When the walls crumbled around me, I’ve been the one to say, “Well, hey, yeah, I know life is caving in on us, but working together to rebuild it will bring us closer.” I’ve been that benighted-eyed optimist who refuses to let “stuff” get me down. The Annie of attitude. Perhaps even annoyingly so (one of my dearest friends, who loves me and knows me best, has said that on more than one occasion).

But over time. I’ve started to alter my perspective a bit. It’s been more than the economic meltdown (which to be fair, with the stock market nearing the 10,000 mark again, may be on the beginning of a recovery—of course, we’d sold much of our piddling remaining stock we had prior to the upswing, natch), or even my wild overindulgence in volunteering, which left me feeling slightly dizzy and almost hung-over with do-gooder-ness. It’s more been the dawning realization that my tendency to always look at the bright side of life was in part a way for me to hide my true feelings about a particular situation. I’ve realized that looking at the silver lining isn’t always the right thing to do. Sometimes seeing and acknowledging that a situation has gone awry is what you need to do.

By immediately jumping on the “let’s think positive” I’ve been denying myself the opportunity to feel the disappointment or frustration that was inside. I felt bad about being angry. As if anger was a nasty boil that needed to be lanced, less someone see me angry and –gasp!!—think bad of me.

I’m not advocating embracing anger and beating everyone over the head with it. That’s no way to solve any problem. That just alienates people and makes you look a little off-balance. But what I am saying is that it is okay to feel anger, or frustration, or disappointment, and not force yourself to gloss over your feelings, as if those emotions had no validity. Those emotions can give you clarity, whereas denying them will only give you ulcers.

I know of what I speak. The last month has been a trying one. In fact, the whole year has been—I can’t remember ever hoping so fervently that the year would just hurry up and end, as if by changing the calendar from 2009 to 2010 will magically change circumstances. I’ve told myself hundreds of times over the last months, “Look on the bright side!” and “Everything’ll work out.” And that ol’ chestnut, “Everything happens for a reason.” And of course the ever-wise “It’s all good.”

So if that was so “all good”, why did I end up one day collapsing on the kitchen floor, hugging my dog and crying hysterically, all because I broke a casserole dish? Obviously, my “out-of-the-blue” crying attack was more than the dish that had slipped from my hand. It was then I realized that faking it might fool some people—but not the people who knew me well. And I especially couldn’t fool myself, at least not for long. My poor dog. She’d probably thought I’d lost my mind.

I’m still the generally positive person I’ve always been, but I have been allowing myself to feel the emotions—disappointment, frustration—I’ve been holding at bay for so long. At least a little. I’ve found that these emotions have galvanized me to take the initiative to get myself into a better situation, rather than wait, look for the silver lining, and hope everything will get better. So I guess…I’m being positive about being …negative? Not really. But at least, at last, I’m being realistic.

An Obvious Lesson it Took Way to Long for Me to Get

Yesterday, I clicked the "follow" button for Tony Robbins on Twitter.

Tony Robbins, you say? Tony Robbins, the toothy, tall-haired self-help guru of the '90s? He of the ubiquitous life seminars, personal growth tapes and Personal Power workbooks? Yup. Him.

Years ago, his face, with its long-tooth, almost predatory smile, was inescapable--it peered out at passersby from bookshelves, billboards, and late night infomercials. Tony Robbins was part of the background landscape of my life, like the Mazda Miatas that zoomed around on the freeways and the self-consciously sarcastic TV shows like "Roseanne" that were so popular at the time. Back then, I always smirked at him. I was in my 20s in the 90s, Tony Robbin's heyday, and was pretty certain I already knew everything. I figured anyone who'd buy into the change-your-life schtick he was selling was a loser and I had no use for them anyway.

Now that I actually have some real life experience under my belt, I'm a gentler judge of character than I was back when I thought everything--relationships, career, the world--was all about me. I realize now that many people do find themselves stuck at various points in their lives. Learning techniques to move forward is far better than wallowing in inertia. Some people take community college courses. Others go to therapy. Still others find a guru, ala Tony Robbins (actually, I believe he goes by Anthony Robbins these days). And people like me, try to muddle through it on their own.

For about a year I've been muddling. The girls are older and don't need me as much, my frantic days of volunteering are mostly behind me (I have taken a sacred, cannot-under-pain-of-death-be-broken vow to never be the committee head of a silent auction/dinner dance again), and I can only have so many lunches with friends before feeling useless (not to mention bloated). I do have things going on--I'm co-authoring a cookbook, plus working on a spec article for Runner's World about youth running clubs--but I've still felt that I haven't moved forward with my life for a very long time.

I suspect, from the casual and sometimes intense conversations I've had with friends, that many people are in a similar situation. At least, I'm reassured, I'm not alone.

So what to do? That is the questions I've been wrestling with for the better part of a year. How to move forward. Then, last night, in a rare conversation with my husband (the man is so busy at work he rarely has time to eat dinner, let alone engage in long conversations with the likes of me) the answer--at least, what I think may be the answer--revealed itself.

Acknowledge your strengths, and build upon them. Let everything else go.

Seems obvious, I know. But let's delve into it a little deeper. I'll be the subject. My greatest strengths are writing and interacting (on both a social and professional level) with people. I'm also pretty good at art, public relations, and marketing. I make a fair pass at decorating and design, too. And therein lies the problem for me--and for most people in my situation, I suspect. I'm pretty good at alot of things--but don't really excel at any. The reason I don't excel in one particular area is because I haven't focused on developing any one talent. I've been all over the board--I've taken art classes, writing classes, I've made abortive attempts at re-starting the public relations consulting business I had when I was in my 20s, I started a less-than-successful mural painting business. And the result is that I haven't made any forward progress. I've been floundering around in a mess of my own creation.

And last night, Dave gently suggested I let it all go--and just pick one thing, one thing, to strengthen. And once I'd pick that one thing, I'd need to commit to it. So that's the decision I've made. And when I brainstormed by list of strengths, the top one was writing. And since I have already started (albeit a short way) down that path, I will (try to) let the other things fall to the wayside and put my effort into building my writing muscle. That's not to say I won't still paint the mural or two. But instead of scattering my efforts around in alot of places, I'm going to pull them in and focus on the main thing.

Sort of like Michael Jordan. I know--not exactly a right-on comparison, but it will do to underscore my point. Basketball legend. Tried baseball--not as good. Tried golf. Not his true thing either. So it was back to basketball, where arguably he should have stayed all along.

And as for Tony Robbins--ahem, Anthony Robbins--while you won't find me at any of his seminars any time soon, I have to admit that the daily affirmations that come across in his Twitter feed are pretty encouraging. And I guess when it comes down to it, when you're stuck in a rut, sometimes one of the most important tools to get yourself out of it is a belief in yourself--and a bit of encouragement from others.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

Yesterday afternoon my girls and I saw a commercial that sent all three of us into gales of laughter--albeit for very different reasons. The commercial I refer to is a real side-splitter, one of those rare "bids for attention" that actually succeeds in getting the viewer to watch the entire thing. It is a commercial for Staples. In it, a giddy father swoops along happily in a Staples store, two solemn-faced youngsters trailing him in silence. He laughingly waves pens and note pads and staplers in the faces of his kids before carelessly tossing the supplies into his cart. Then he does a little jig up the isle, positively glowing with joy. The cheerless children mope along, while the music in the background warbles, "It's the most wonderful tiiimmmmeeee of the year!"

Yes, school begins again. For us, it starts in less than two weeks--12 days to be exact. And while there is a part of me that is going to be doing a little celebrating of my own (altho I doubt I'll be dancing through the aisles at Staples like the dad in the commercial), I know that I am going to miss the girls desperately. We've gotten into a self-sufficient routine that is as comfortable as it is predictable. And as much as I like to fly by the seat of my pants (as evidenced by my lack of focus, commitment, or any other form of adult-esque maturity) I like that, during the summer, I know just what my day with my girls is going to be like.

This year, I find, I'm having a bit harder time with the idea that they will soon be headed back to the hallowed halls of learning. They're getting older--going into 5th and 3rd--and they just don't need me as much. Their growing independence comes out in little but undeniable ways--the other day before heading off to the beach, I started putting sunscreen on my oldest daughter. She said, "Mom, I can do it" and took the bottle right out of my hands. I was a little stung--after all, no one can put on sunscreen like a mom, right? I woefully predicted she'd miss a spot and end up with a burn, but she did a good job--the aloe vera gel stayed in the medicine cabinet that night. My youngest daughter has already grown impatient with my pursuit of her for hugs and kisses. She's a cuddler--but on her terms. 

But of course (and perhaps this is part of the reason I'm not looking forward to the advent of school in a week and a half) when it comes to homework, they are definitely not independent. Homework is a grueling two-hour-a-day test of my ability to actually help them understand what they're supposed to be doing. The show "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?" would laugh me out of the room--throughout Sam's fourth grade year, I proved more than once than I'm not even as smart as a 4th grader. 

My favorite (ahem) example of this is when I tried to help Sam with some pre-pre-algebra sort of stuff. I vaguely remembered the general principal from 6th or 7th grade 30 years before. I gamely tried to demonstrate how to beat an algebraic equation into submission using just my brain. I'll never forget that day--Sam and I were in the waiting area at my other daughter's gymnastics class, sitting at a table reserved for siblings with homework. There were four or five other kids there in various stages of homework frustration. And try as I might, I just couldn't help Sam with her math. At last in desperation, she asked a couple other moms who were hanging around for help with her homework (yes, having your daughter give up on you helping her with math is a singularly humiliating feeling). The other moms gave it their best shot, too--but in the end, I decided my answers had to be the right ones, and instructed Sam to write them down.

The next day when she arrived home from school, I could tell by her face she was struggling between tears and laughter. I suspected I knew why...and sure 'nuff, she pulled out her graded homework from the day before. Her answers --ahem, my answers--were wrong. Every single one. I found myself in the unique position of trying to explain to my kid why I didn't know how to do fourth grade math. I couldn't explain, so I directed her that next time she needed to know what x equalled, she could go ahead and ask her dad!

So now with school right around the corner, the kids are excited to see their friends again, worried about increasingly difficult homework, and hoping they get nice teachers. I am excited for them, and glad for myself that I'll be able to get back into a routine of my own. I have several article proposals out there that I'm waiting to hear back on (and one idea is, in my never-to-be-humble opinion, so good that I've already started my research--after all, how could the magazine possibly turn me down??) plus the cookbook Stargrazers that I'm co-authoring. I've got plenty to keep me busy. I'm also trying desperately to finish my writing website so when potential clients ask me if I have a website, I can answer them in the affirmative rather than hem and haw and generally look like a behind-the-times ass. And I just finished writing my one year plan for moving from the occasional freelance work to full-time freelance writer. So I definitely won't be bored when they trundle off to school.

But once the elation of seeing them off for another year wears off, and the strains of "It's the most wonderful tiiimmmmeeee of the year" fade away, I'll miss them. And our own special summer routine. 

The Houseplants Are Taking Over My Life....

I love flowers. A walk through a lovely garden lifts my spirits in a way only matched by a spontaneous hug from one of my girls. A vase of flowers on my battered kitchen table--whether it's a $1.99 handful of daffodils from Trader Joe's stuck in a water pitcher or a $100 bouquet dripping with roses, iris and gerberas--never fails to bring a smile to my face. Trees are a favorite, too--I actually cried when our contractor had to dig up three backyard trees to install our pool (leading my dear friend Larissa--www.larissamarantz.blogspot.com--to give me a touching book entitled "Our Tree Named Steve" which actually made me cry even more). 

But perhaps even more than flowers and trees, I have a special connection to houseplants.

I know, I know. The eye rolling starts here--go ahead. It won't make me feel bad. There are times I roll my eyes at myself. 

My home is stuffed with houseplants. With the except of the bathrooms, there is at least one, and more likely two, plants in every room of the house--and it's a fairly large house. The patio, too, is smothered by them. Dieffenbachia, being difficult to kill, (I may love plants, but a more than a few have fallen victim to my over-watering, overfeeding, and, well, over-tending) prevail throughout, but in the kitchen you'll find African violets (I'm especially proud of that one--I got it for a Mother's Day gift 8 years ago and it's still happy and blooming) and an orchid given to me four years ago for my birthday. Going from room to room, you'll also encounter spider plants, Mother-In-Law Tongue (also known as "Snake Plant"--wonder if that was intentional--tee hee), Peace Lily, Philodendrons, Bromeliads, and a 5 foot tall something-or-other (I've never been able to figure it out) that I've had with me for 13 years--it initially started as a cut from a neighbor's plant in a cup of water (she didn't know what it was, either) and it now takes over an entire corner of my bedroom--and shows no signs of slowing! In five years time, I may have to cut a hole in my roof to accommodate it's ambitious growth.

Houseplants are, to me, a bit like pets. They are totally, completely dependent on me. If I don't water them, they die. If I don't feed them, they grow listless and tired. If I don't care for them, their spirit fades. If I miss a Friday morning watering session, I'm wracked with guilt and can't sleep until every plant is watered. Every plant--including the ones on the patio outside. Two weekend ago I was jolted out of a warm, drifting-off-to-sleep doze when I suddenly remembered I'd forgotten to water the plants. I tossed and turned, telling myself they would survive until morning, but at last I got out of bed (it was nearly 1:00am--the cat, cradled in the crook of my bended legs, meowed in protest) and watered every single plant. Feeling vaguely stupid and more than a little worried about this apparent tendency toward OCD, I went from room to room with my watering can. Visions of myself as an old and weird lady (excessive plants, excessive housecats, weird smells) flashed before my eyes. 

This morning, in a sudden burst of industriousness, I decided to clean the leaves of all my houseplants. A spritzer bottle, a soft cloth...how long could it take to wipe away six months of accumulated dust from the leaves of my botanical babies? After half an hour of spritzing and wiping, I was distressed to realize I hadn't even made a dent in the number of plants to clean. So I decided to do something I've never done before, just to get a handle on the size of my leaf-wiping job. I decided to count my houseplants. And patio plants, natch. 

27 houseplants. 25 patio plants. 4 at my front door. 2 on the balcony. That's...58 potted plants...ooooohh, wow.

I may have officially crossed the line.

So what to do? Well, while the fact that I care for 58 potted plants every day gave me a bit of a turn (if I was the cat-lady, someone would turn me in to animal control), I have no plans to get rid of a single one. They make me happy. And in this world, if you find something that makes you happy, go with it. 

Now, that being said, if there ever comes a time when navigating my way through my house due to excessive greenery becomes a challenge, I officially give you permission to relieve me of a few of them. 

As long as you promise to find them a good home. 

Interested in houseplants? Here's a terrific website: www.houseplants-care.blogspot.com

A reunion from the didn't-go-to-that-school perspective

Wow! I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted a blog. I just returned home from a week-long trip to Omaha. I brought my computer, intending to use the downtime to write a blog post or two and check my FaceBook (can't live without my FaceBook!) but alas, my power cord lay on my bed at home where I'd left it in my frantic pack-myself-pack-the-kids rush. So I only had an operable computer for a couple hours (that Mac promise--5 hour battery life--is a buncha bunk!). Long enough to moan on FaceBook how much I already missed my friends, check my fave online news sources and '*plink!* there went the battery. I was computer-less for five days. 

So why, oh why, were we in Omaha? My mid-western born & bred hubby had his 30th high school reunion last weekend. His parents are still there, same house he grew up in, so we decided to extend the reunion weekend into a rare summer Omaha trip. Typically we go in the winter for one holiday or another, and he usually makes it back in the fall for one Cornhusker college football game (you can take the boy out of Nebraska, but ya can't take the Cornhusker out of the boy...eeeooowwww, that kinda sounds icky...but I digress). There's actually plenty to do in Omaha. Great museum, beautiful public garden, fun down town "old market" area...and unlike sunny Cali, the state has barely been touched by the recession and there is construction around every corner. Omaha's worth a visit if you're every traveling cross country. But again! I digress! I am supposed to be writing about what it was like to go to his reunion from the don't-know-a-soul spouse perspective. 

So his reunion was essentially broken into two main outings--the casual Friday night mixer and the more formal reception at the local country club (yes, they do have country clubs there--in my naivete and smugness when I first ventured to Omaha 11 years ago, I assumed all they had was corn stalks). Let me preface by saying I really didn't want to go to either--I am a firm believer that there is absolutely no need for spouses to attend a reunion. I mean, really, how can you possibly flirt with your former high school love (and possibly the possessor of your virginity) when your wife or hubby is standing right at your side? Or how can the ol' gang reminiscence about the hilarious things that happened at band camp when every inside joke needs to be explained to the spouse with the "I can't believe you did that" expression on their face. And I had already gone to one reunion with Dave, his 20th, and spent the evening chatting with other neglected spouses while Dave chatted up his exceedingly pretty and slim (and newly divorced) former high school girlfriend at the bar. 

But eventually, he won me over by promising that no way, no how, was he gonna leave me. Even with his assurances, I didn't really make up my mind to go until the week before. My thought was I'd hang at his parents' house with our daughters, watch a movie, read, whatever, while he and the guys from the football team joked about the time they almost got arrested for a dine-and-dash escapade. But I did end up agreeing to go, mostly because it seemed so darn important to him. 

Ha! It was important until we got to the Friday night mixer. Overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people at the restaurant/bar (his graduating class was 700--senior alone!!) and probably half that number was at the mixer, Dave seemed to forget I was there. Immediately he was swooped upon by a tall, blue-eyed former track teammate who was probably quite the hottie in his day and was still not bad to look at, despite a hairline that was rapidly making its escape to the back of his head. I stood there, the dutiful, smiling spouse, trying to join the conversation with what I hoped were witty sallies and well-placed questions. Then a few other guys joined them, and before I knew it, I was looking up at the broad back of someone who had unquestionably been a football player. 

At last Dave shouted over to me that he would get us a couple drinks at the bar, and went off with his friends. Approximately half an hour later, neither my drink or my husband were within my reach. I finally moseyed up to the bar and found the one vacant stood. I figured I could order my own darn drink. I chatted for a while with the bartender (and exceedingly good looking mid-western boy of about 22--a nice distraction) then decided to make the most of the situation. I spotted Dave in a far corner with his buddies, laughing uproariously, spilling their drinks, and clapping each other on the back. I decided not to join them, lest beer be split on the new dress I'd gotten for the occasion. I wandered around for a while, smiling pleasantly at people who couldn't figure out who the heck I was, sipping my wine, and casting about for others who, like me, were on their own. 

An hour later, a group of us (the Spouse Club, we called ourselves) had gathered at a back table; me, three other wives and two husbands, and had ourselves a grand old time. It was really fun, all things considered. Nebraskans (all those in this group with the exception of myself and one husband who was from Kansas City, were from Nebraska) are warm and genuinely nice people. Everyone seemed to take their abandonment with good cheer--with the exception of one woman who seemed to get more and more P.O.'d every time she glanced at her balding, somewhat portly husband across the room. He was talking animatedly to a dark-haired, middle-aged beauty who seemed overly interested (even to me) in whatever he was saying. At last that member of the Spouse Club was annoyed enough to go home, figuring her hubby could find a ride. Yikes...

See? That is why you don't bring spouses to reunions!

At 12:30, I was ready to go home, too, but Dave was still having the time of his life so I decided to call a cab and head back to the in-laws on my own. When I found him and said goodnight, he looked guilty and stricken at the same time. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late!" he said by way of excuse. 

On the way out--reason two you don't bring spouses to reunions--a pretty brunette who looked nowhere near old enough to have graduated in 1979, threw her arms around my husband and said, "I had such a crush on you in high school! I just loved you!" And when they finally pulled apart, I introduced myself with a big (if somewhat forced) smile on my face.

I'm not against a little flirting with a former flame--in fact, I think the ego boost is something we all need from time to time--but watching it happen was a little, ahem, uncomfortable. 

But apparently Dave was the hit of the night, because he told me in the car on the way home that two other women had confessed similar adolescent crushes on him. And to be fair, he still looks amazing. He's super fit, hasn't lost much--if any-- hair, and is virtually wrinkle-free (the turkey!). He was one of the best looking guys at there. So I can see why a couple of women felt compelled to tell him that they'd put his picture under their pillow when they were seventeen. 

The formal reunion was the next night, and upon bended knee Dave promised that we would stay shoulder-to-hip with me the whole time. Which he did--right up until another long-lost friend spirited him away to reminisce. After 20 or so minutes feeling rather like a horse's ass, someone else, not my hubby, brought me a glass of wine, told me I was a good sport, and went off to talk to someone else. Eventually I found two members of the Spouse Club from the night before (the crowd at the reunion was nearly as large as the one at the mixer) and talked with them while Dave and his friends caught up. 

But it was all to the good. When Dave rejoined me at dinner, and later for dancing, he was smiling as broadly as I'd ever seen. He really had a wonderful time. Promises were made all around to keep in touch, and several of his friends asked him if he was on FaceBook yet. So after six months of telling me I needed to get a life every time I checked my friends' status updates, he is opening his own FaceBook account--at the very least to see some of the pictures everyone took. 

And as for me, I doubt I will be attending his 40th with him. I stick by my conviction that reunions are for the ones invited, not the wife or husband they might feel compelled to bring along. That being said, if I hadn't gone, I would not have met the terrific spouses that shared that back table with me. I exchanged emails with a few, and perhaps we will become lifelong friends. So who knows? Maybe I will attend that 40th reunion with him after all--if only to reunite with the friends I made this weekend.