Happy Mother's Day

Aside from briefly working at a department store, the only job that I can recall my mom having is as an aide in a psychiatric unit.  About 15 years ago, she went back to school to earn her RN and gets paid boat loads more for doing the same work. When I still was too young to leave unsupervised, my mom would occasionally bring me to work with her to pick up her paycheck or for a quick meeting.

Surprisingly, it was actually perfectly safe. My mom worked on a voluntary unit, which meant the patients were there because they wanted to be and not because they were forced to. Her co-workers doted over me, buying me snacks from the vending machines and giving me markers and paper to color with. If my mom had a staff meeting, I was allowed to play in one of the vacant rooms and use the intercom to sing and chat with the nurses at the front desk. One of my favorite stories they shared with me was the young girl visiting the unit that answered, "...God?" when her name was called over the intercom.

As a girl, I was wildly embarrassed about being there and proud of her all at the same time. There was a certain amount of stigma to get over. It was hardly like my mom worked for a dentist or as a checker at the grocery store, like a 'normal' mom would.

As an adult, many people have told me that they could not imagine working in such a profession. I am sure that my mom has heard this dozens of times herself. However, she is so extraordinarily loving, patient, firm and skilled that people under the hardest and most stressful conditions respond to her.

Several years ago, the two of us were at a restaurant during my mom's visit when a woman approached our table. She said that although she didn't expect to be remembered, she wanted to thank my mom for supporting her during a difficult time and that she would always remember her kindness. I was incredibly touched by this gesture, and I know my mom was as well. What makes this moment even more extraordinary is that my mom hasn't worked in California for over 25 years.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for continuing to inspire me and others around you. Happy Mother's Day!

Horsing Around

When we were little girls, my best friend Christine and I were horse crazy. We both collected model horses - Breyer horses were our favorites, and played with them for hours.

We read horse books; Marguerite Henry's Misty of Chincoteague, C.W. Anderson's wonderfully illustrated Billy & Blaze series, and every book written about Alec and his horse 'the Black' in The Black Stallion series by Walter Farley.

We spent school days playing 'horse' on the playground with our friends, and summers riding our imaginary horses in Christine's yard. Her front yard had a gravestone in the middle of the lawn, but no one was actually buried there. It was perfect for jumping our imaginary horses over.

Christine lived near the bluffs of the beach and just the impression of a horse's hoof in the dirt made us sigh with longing. Occasionally, we'd strike gold and see an actual horse and it's rider on the beach. We'd shyly approach and ask to pet their horse - only to then boldly ask, "Can I ride your horse?" The answer was always no.

Even though I knew we could never afford it, I was constantly asking my mom for a horse. My mom always gave me the same answer; she might figure out a way to save enough money to buy one, but the cost of keeping one was another matter.

Horses aren't for the coupon clipper budget. If we could have afforded it, we could buy four horses with the money it would cost to care for just one. Boarding, feed, tack, and farrier costs are just the beginning. For such big animals, horses are unbelievably fragile. Known for hoof, leg and gastric problems (colic or boredom issues such as cribbing), one visit from the vet could quickly add up to thousands of dollars.

Then Christine's mom, Marilynn, had a stroke of brilliance. She decided to lease a horse for Christine. Not just for cars, a lease is a horse-lover's dream: all of the fun with a fraction of the cost. I can still remember the car ride with them out to the stables to meet the owner and see the horse. The mare's name was Trillium, after a pretty white flower that was similar to the white star on her forehead. Trillium was a seal brown, so dark she was almost black. I was absolutely in love.

The car ride home was when the deal only got sweeter. Marilynn offered to let me ride Trillium as well. Christine and I divvied up the week: I got riding privileges every Tuesday and Thursday after school by myself, and we shared Saturdays. I could scarcely believe my luck.

This period of time in my life contains some of my sweetest memories. I will always be grateful to Christine for her friendship and her mom Marilynn for her love and generosity.

Dr. Feelgood

"Vince Neil of Motley Crue plays tonight at the casino. Is it more lame that I want to go or that I won't because it's on a Thursday night?"

This was a tweet that I wrote several weeks ago. My Twitter account is linked to my Facebook page, and out of all the things I've written, this has by far caused the greatest reaction. The final verdict was yes, I was more lame for not wanting to go out on a Thursday evening. At that point, I had no choice but to go - however the trickier part was finding a cohort.

Husband was never into hair metal, and when pressed said he would go "...if you really want me to." He was visibly relieved when my friend Jaqson agreed to accompany me. I could find no better chaperone and was thrilled to have her come along to the show.

In 1983, Jaqson and her mom took me and our friend Dierdre to see Aerosmith - my very first concert, down in Los Angeles. We went to junior high school together and for two years of our lives spent every Friday night at the Rollercade. She painstakingly drew band logos on the white boots of my skates: Judas Priest, AC/DC, Van Halen, Motley Crue, to name a few. What I would give to still have those skates, not only for posterity but because they totally kicked ass.

In those days, my concert attire usually consisted of a tiny concert tee, skin tight pants and included such accessories as a rhinestone cat collar worn on my wrist. When I was feeling especially classy, I'd use a bike chain and lock for a belt.

The clothes, lifestyle and music worried my mother greatly. Statements such as "Mom, they're saying 'Shout At The Devil', not 'with' the devil..." did little to comfort her.

So, even though it was one of the shortest concerts that I've been to, coming in at just over 75 minutes long, and even if it wasn't the whole band - it was worth it. Nostalgia can be sweet like that.

I'm With The Band

Boy started taking drum lessons when he was 7 years old. In what is clearly a mark of our good parenting, one of the first songs he learned was AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long.

I blame it all on musical genes -  not mine but Husband's, who has traveled all over the country to see his favorite bands play. Musical ability and appreciation runs in his family, big time.

A year ago, Boy and Girl decided to form a band; she would sing and he would play the drums. At their age, you're in a band because you say you are - so I didn't think anything would come of it. I was mistaken. In November, 2010 Boy invited two friends to join them and it became Official. Last October, their band auditioned with 8 other bands in their age division and made the finals.

Although they didn't place for one of the cash prizes, I was completely unprepared for the emotional roller coaster of seeing my kids on stage playing to a sold out show. It blew my mind to see my daughter perform with such confidence and poise. Playing up a whole age group, my son rocked it hard and played better than some of the boys who were four years older than him.

There is no way I would have had the guts to do anything like that at their age, let alone now. Rock on - your mom is so very proud! \m/ \m/

Holiday Party

Last night we were at Husband's holiday work party. I got a quick glimpse of a short, Asian man wearing a white jacket and sporting some impressive sideburns near the bar.

I thought he was an Elvis impersonator and excitedly thought, "This party is about to get interesting!" Turned out he was one of the waiters.

Paradigm Shift

While I was waiting at an intersection mid-day, I watched a grade school-aged girl ride her bike through the crosswalk with her dad.

As my eyes followed her across the street, I wondered if she was home-schooled,  maybe - since it was the middle of the afternoon on a school day. In the lovely notion I've held, I imagine that all home-schooled children spend their days happily baking cookies beside their mothers, while learning fractions as they measure out chocolate morsels.

She must have felt my eyes watching her, because then she stuck her tongue out at me. And I was all, WTF?! OH. NO. YOU. DIDN'T!

Bedazzled

I got my first pair of glasses when I was 10-years old. I remember driving home and noticing that trees had individual leaves. The novelty was short lived. I was embarrassed and hated wearing them. I thought they made me look ugly and I was forever 'forgetting' them at home.
 
The truth was that I needed them terribly and couldn't see anything without them. If my teacher wrote something on the board to copy, I would look at the person writing across from me. Outright copying was out of the question - my vision was too bad for that, so I would carefully watch the way the top of their pencil moved as they formed letters. It would have been easier to just wear glasses for the amount of trouble I went through, but there was no convincing me otherwise.

Each of the students in my class had a job or responsibility. Through a cruel twist of fate, I ended up being the projector monitor. My job was to set up the projector for any movies or slides that the class watched. While I silently cried at the back of the room, I remember the kids yelling, "Focus! Focus!" and the teacher gently asking me if I truly could not see well enough to focus the projector. After that, the jig was up and I wore my glasses during class.

At 13-years old, I got contact lenses. This was a huge boost to my confidence and I was thrilled to get them. The compromise was that I had to wear gas-permeable, or hard, contact lenses since I was so young and my eyes were still developing. As I got older, my friends who wore soft contact lenses struggled with eye infections and torn lenses. I decided it wasn't worth the hassle of switching and stayed with hard contact lenses, which I still wear to this day. Recently, when I tried to make an appointment with my optometrist, I was disappointed to learn that he no longer saw gas permeable patients and I was referred to a different eye doctor.

After a having my eyes dialated and a thorough exam, I was sent into the office to pick out a new pair of frames; the only problem was that I couldn't see anything. I ended up selecting a pair that I thought only contained a small jewel on the side of the frames.
Once my vision returned to normal, I realized that my frames had many jewels within a decorative square with designer initials stamped on it. They are completely heinous and nothing I would have picked with undilated vision. They remind me of something after it's been decorated by a girl with one of those kits where you accent everything you own with sequins and jewels.

When the light catches the frames just right in the evening, Husband will softly whisper, "Bedazzled..."