“I can’t go to Art today without my platypus dressed!” Adam wailed with tears streaming down his cheeks.
This was the first I’d heard of his need for a clothed platypus. Â In fact, Adam had been awake for the better part of an hour and hadn’t mentioned a platypus, nor had I ever seen a platypus around the house.
Gingerly placing my coffee cup on the counter, I asked, “What platypus? What, on earth, are you talking about?”
Adam shook his fists with frustration as he yelled, “Mommy! I’m talking about the platypus we were supposed to dress up and bring to school today!!”
“Um, Dick, can you give me a hand here, please?” I implored my half-asleep, coffee-sipping husband.
Dick’s idea of help was to say, “Adam, it’s actually pronounced play-tee-puss -Â with a long “A” sound.”
Adam looked up at his father and began to sob. Â I could relate.
As I shot Dick a look, I put my laptop bag on the floor and crouched down to Adam’s level.
“Calm down, buddy. Â Daddy and I don’t understand what you need from us. Â Please try to explain it differently so we can help you.” Â I ruffled his bed head with my fingers as he took in huge, desperate gulps of air in an attempt to calm himself.
“Mommy…the teacher….said…I cannot go to Art today…if…if I don’t have my platypus dressed up.”
“Okay, but where is your platypus? Â I unpack your backpack every night and I haven’t seen anything that looks like a platypus.”
“That’s because he doesn’t have any clothes on yet, Mommy.”
I briefly attempted to process the kid logic that would have a wild animal rendered unrecognizable for its lack of clothing and then, failing to grasp any sense in it, moved onto searching the growing stack of school papers on my desk.
There, amidst an assortment of letter “T” worksheets I found what had once been a manila file folder cut crudely into the shape of a T. Â It had become folded in the mass of paperwork shipped home the previous Friday.
“Is this your platypus?” I asked, holding up the T-shaped, blank manila cut-out.
“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!”, shouted Adam jumping up and down.
Simultaneously, Dick located a crumpled piece of paper with detailed instructions for decorating the platypus with fabric and buttons. Â The due date on the instructions was yesterday.
I glanced at the clock – 7:40. Â If I leave the house by 7:45, I know I can get Adam there by 8:25 giving him 10 minutes to get to his classroom. Â If I leave at 7:55, I know I’ll drop him off at around 8:30 – just as the first bell is ringing indicating that Adam has only 5 minutes to get to class. Â But if I miss even one light or get stuck behind one big, slow truck, he’ll be late.
“Sweetie, I don’t think we have time to do this project. Â Can I write a note to the teacher and ask her for some more time? I didn’t realize you had homework mixed in with all those papers. Â I am so sorry”, I apologized emphatically, rubbing his back.
“Please, Mommy. Â Please, can you help me make clothing for my platypus? I really want to go to Art today and I really don’t want to be the only kid there without a platypus” Â Adam’s big blue eyes looked up at me, rimmed with tears of disappointment.
“It’s pronounced ‘play-tee-puss’”, Dick offered weakly.
“Not now, Dick!”
I glanced at the clock again. Â It was now or never…
“Adam, go have a seat at the chalkboard table. Â Daddy, please go get us my sewing basket from the laundry room. I’ll get the glue and the art supplies.”
An enormous smile lit up Adam’s face. Â ”Thanks, Mommy. Yay! Now I can go to Art today. Art is my favorite…”, he chattered drawing a happy face on his platypus with a pink marker.
For the next 20 minutes, I frantically cut scrap fabric into clothing shapes as Adam glued and decorated. Â Tabitha hovered nearby asking questions about the clothing I was creating – wanting to know why the platypus wasn’t wearing a dress, how I planned to accessorize the platypus and why we didn’t make the platypus wear something purple.
“Dick, I can only handle one nervous breakdown and one platypus at a time. Can you please step-in and stop the fashion interrogation? I don’t need Anna Wintour over here scrutinizing my designs, thank you very much!”
“8:00, honey! You’ve got to go now or you won’t make it,” Dick yelled from the adjacent room.
Adam and I wiped the excess glue from the last button and flung open the front door. Â Dick and Tabitha followed outside carrying our belongings.
I drove like a crazy person, bobbing and weaving with a fierceness only Mohammed Ali or the mother of a child late for school can comprehend. Â All my tricky maneuvers and excessive speeding meant we made it to school just in time. Â Ours was the last vehicle in the drop-off line. Â The Vice Principal was turning the key in the lock on the gate just as I pulled away.
As my racing pulse relaxed and I began to settle back into my seat for the drive to work, my cell phone rang. It was Dick.
“Did you get the boy to school on time?”
“Yep. Barely made it, but the boy and the platypus are safe & sound”, I chuckled.
“Actually sweetie, it’s pronounced ‘play-tee-puss’, Dick corrected. “In fact, this whole platypus pronunciation is really going to turn into a big problem. Â We can’t have an entire classroom of 5 & 6 year olds learning it wrong from the get-go. Â Someone’s got to nip this in the bud. Â I’m going to call the school and leave a message for Adam’s teacher…”
“Good idea. Â I’m sure all the teachers get off on parental involvement in their child’s education when they listen to voicemail messages from geek parents bitching about the mis-pronunciation of platypus.”
Dick snorted into the phone. “You know how these things bother me. If she’s going to teach them about the animal than she better have the pronunciation down, right?”
I took a sip of my coffee and muttered, “Absolutely. You go knock yourself out. I’ve done my time with the play-tee-puss today…”
*****
I could wrap-up my little play-tee-puss problem with a pep-talk about the power of a mother’s love. Â Or, I could talk about how the limited problem-solving contributions of an otherwise, occasionally helpful mate (Dick) are no match for my lightning quick reflexes and laser-sharp intellect. Â Of course, I could also mention that the platypus is most widely known as proof that God, in fact, does have a sense of humor. Â But let’s face it, the humble platypus was merely born a silly-looking creature with a reputation for mis-pronunciation of its name. Â It is we – as parents – who go around proving the existence of a sense of humor in our deity of choice. Â Deluded into voluntarily making silly-looking creatures (who will one day grow to mis-pronounce everything) and then spending the rest of our lives agonizing over our silly creatures – that’s irony at its best.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I’d wake up every morning and frantically assemble a platypus outfit for just one more smile like the one Adam gave me that morning.  And being a glutton for punishment is, my friends, pronounced “loon-ass-ee”.  Go look it up.
]]>Dick looks fine, clean-cut and handsome in his black tuxedo and electric-blue cummerbund. Â You can’t go wrong with a simple black tuxedo because it’s a timeless, classic fashion statement.
On the other hand, there was me. Â Like many teenage girls in the late 1980’s, I was not interested in timeless, classic fashion statements. Â Those were for my mom. Â I had just scrimped and saved most of my $88 weekly paychecks for 2 months to buy myself an evening of fun aboard a rockin’ party boat cruising Long Beach Harbor. Â For a girl raised on a steady diet of Dance Fever, Solid Gold and Dallas, it goes without saying that only the look I wanted to wear was one of glamour & glitz.
Being a 16-year old female in 1988 in search of a formal dress and with only two criteria for selecting said dress being 1) Â It must scream “glamour” and 2) It must scream it for under $80, naturally I was drawn to dresses made with the shiniest and most highly flammable synthetic materials of the day. Â If, like me, you were limited by experience, taste and budget you may have found yourself wearing the strapless electric-blue lame mini-dress I ended up wearing to my Winter Formal.
As an adult with an appreciation for the balance that is achieved with great design, I can tell you that the trick to pulling off a brilliant color with a bold texture is all in the execution of balance. Â By keeping the rest of the look understated hair & makeup aren’t in competition with the dress. Â But that’s the me of today. Â The me of yesteryear, without a fashion fairy godmother, a design aesthetic or a clue, embraced flashy & trashy over classy at every turn.
Accessorized with garish Sally Hansen stick-on red fingernails and some seriously rainbow-bright eyeshadow, one hardly notices my make-up when compared to the disaster that was my hair. Â Reddish-gold from too much Sun-In hair lightener and with a body wave that was on its last wave by the time we actually had our photos taken, my “look” was completed by gravity-defying bangs that were cemented in place by a generous application of my mom’s AquaNet hairspray.
My look screamed 1980’s for certain, but it also screamed “paid escort”. In more forgiving terms, my look spoke to the impulsivity and naivete of youth and of a vulnerability  - a desperate need for acceptance that I long ago swathed under layers of black fabric, and concealed by mineral foundation, mascara and sarcasm.
*****
Losing 40 pounds this year is a great accomplishment that deserves to be rewarded with new clothes that fit properly -at least until I’m down another 40 pounds.
As I strolled through the racks of my local department store, a navy pin-striped blazer caught my eye. Â The navy blue with grey pin stripe was cute at first glance, but as I reached for it, I noticed something oddly familiar about its cut. Â As I pulled the blazer off the hanger, it hit me – the tell-tale sponginess of shoulder pads.
It was as if I’d stumbled upon a used condom on a hanger. Â I shuddered with revulsion as I flung the hideously padded jacket over the rack. Â I mean, shoulder pads? Â Really? Â This has to be the one sign of “arm-ageddon” that no one saw coming.
“Isn’t that an adorable jacket?” a young sales girl remarked from the other side of the aisle. Â ”If you roll up the sleeves it’s a totally cool boyfriend jacket. Â A friend of mine bought it with one of the boyfriend tee shirts two aisles over and she paired it with a few of our plaid scarves for this really cute retro look.”
“Excuse me, but It has shoulder pads,” I said, still in disbelief.
“Oh, I know! They’re in all the jackets this season. I can’t believe how much they shape you. Â I think I look ten pounds thinner in mine.”
(Naturally, she was a stick-figure – size 2 at most.)
I rolled my eyes at her enthusiasm for the trend of volume in clothing.
“Maybe they make you look thin because you’re already thin. Â Besides, I’m 6′ tall. Â I don’t need to look like a linebacker. I bring natural volume to everything I wear in the form of bulk.”
The sales girl, apparently unequipped to counter my frank bitterness and clearly bored with trying to sell me on the hipness of shoulder pads, left me to assist another customer as I rounded the corner and to look for jeans.
To my horror pair after pair of acid-washed monstrosities – some of them “pegged”, some of them “bedazzled” – hung in row upon row of retro tackiness.
On the next aisle over I spotted what looked like fitted black pants on an end cap next to a mannequin. When I rounded the aisle, I noticed that the mannequin was dressed in an over-sized sweater with a chunky v-belt and black booties. What I thought were black pants were actually stirrup leggings.
“Isn’t it just SOOO Rihanna goes shopping at Fred Segal?” another plucky young sales girl commented.
“It’s an outfit I owned 20 years ago, actually. Â I even had one over-sized hoop earring with a key on it as an homage to Janet Jackson.”
The sales girl gave me a blank, smokey-eyed stare. Â I realized she had probably been a fetus in the late 1980’s and thus, had no clue who Janet Jackson was.
Changing the subject, I inquired, “Does this stuff really sell?”
“It sells incredibly well, actually. You wouldn’t believe how quickly those stirrup leggings are selling out,” she said folding sweaters on a nearby table.
“Who is buying this?” I asked incredulously as I pointed to a pile of folded neon pink leg warmers.
But the sales girl was gone – off assisting other female customers who were happily buying color-blocked over-sized shirts with shoulder pads, chunky belts and probably even those ridiculous leg warmers.
For a moment, I felt old. Â Really old.
Then I had a little epiphany; I felt sorry for the women who would choose to endure this 1988 flashback in an attempt to get it right the second time. Â So rather than try on all of those clothes in a vain attempt to make its resurrected trendiness fit into my life today, I turned my back and left it all behind – again. Â Goodbye 1988. Â Goodbye shoulder pads. Â Goodbye leggings. Â Been there and done that.
“Let them have it,” I thought, not really knowing yet who “they” are or understanding why they would want to be seen in public wearing acid-washed, bedazzled denim.
Yes; I’m older – that’s true. Â Yes; I don’t “get” the whims of fashion trends. Â Seems to me that some ideas are better off dead. Â As for me, I may not know who I am yet, but at least I know when to let trends dress my past and pad my future with the confidence that only years of experience (and a lot of bad fashion) can bring. Â To age gracefully is not, as I had always thought, to be a good sport about the process. Â Aging gracefully is about stepping out in public wearing the sexiest, most glamourous thing you will ever own – your self-confidence. Â You can never go wrong making that most timeless and classic fashion statement.
I won’t go into great detail here but gluten has been linked to the incidence of autoimmune diseases such as hypothyroidism, diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis, and many other diseases and disorders, although the extent of that linkage is still up for debate among scientists. Because of the uncertain nature about the role gluten plays in autoimmune disease, if any, the elimination of gluten from my diet was not a decision I reached lightly and it’s one I reserve the right to rescind or alter should additional, compelling evidence come to light pointing towards a smarter choice.  This is not a fad for me, nor is it a weight loss tool. Living gluten free is (along with a healthy diet, some meditation, and yes – exercise) one way to respect my body and my history and hopefully achieve a fuller, longer life with my family.
When people learn that I’ve chosen to go gluten-less, they automatically assume I have a disease. I don’t. What I do have is a family medical history that leaves me fearful and most of my doctors deeply concerned. The laundry list of illness in my family is frightening…
What’s worse for me is that these diseases aren’t part of my family’s distant past. I’m talking about my mother, brother, and grandmother dealing with these things today. I know genetics plays a role in everything, so I figure odds are fair that I’ll be afflicted with one or several of these diseases in my lifetime. In my mom’s case, she was struck down with colon cancer in her early forties. While she survived her encounter with the big C, the persistence with which it reoccurs every few years has her perpetually confronting her own mortality in ways us non-survivors of cancer cannot (and do not want to) comprehend. This confrontation, above all other impacts of her cancer, has left her deeply scarred. I’m 37 and I don’t want to be deeply scarred. I don’t want to make the sacrifices she’s had to make or deal with the agony of a life & death battle before I’ve ever really lived. I realize whether or not I get cancer isn’t exactly up to me. But if I have some power in this complex process that is genetic inheritance or even if I just buy myself some peace of mind for a few more years – isn’t that worth some bread and pasta? Is my life what I eat, or how I live?
*****
Svetlana and I were having some rare chick chat over drinks the other night when she mentioned she was hungry. I was starving too.
“Let’s order some nibbles?” I offered.
We grabbed the bar menu. I was drawn to the two 3 oz. fillet Mignon’s – a tasting portion if shared with a friend - served with garlic mashed potatoes on the side. They looked delicious. Svetlana agreed with me.
When the waiter came by to take our order I ordered the fillet as Svetlana urgently texted a missing friend who was supposed to have joined us. When it came time to decide between potatoes or “something else” on the side, I asked Svet if she was okay sharing potatoes with me.
“I’m fine with potatoes, but I don’t know about you. Shouldn’t we get something you can eat too?”, she asked.
“Huh?”
“Potatoes? Don’t they have gluten?”
I looked at her with what I’m sure was a puzzled expression. “Potatoes don’t have gluten in them. They have starch, but no gluten.”
Svet looked relieved. I finished relaying our order.
When our petite steaks arrived they were seated on a grilled garlic toast. I pushed my garlic toast aside as I cut into my steak. “You can have my toast if you want it,”  I said to Svet.
“You can’t have toast? Does that have gluten in it?”
“Um, yes. Toast is bread. Bread is usually made of wheat so I can’t have it.”
“You can’t eat wheat?”
“Yes; that’s right. It has gluten in it.”
“So, is gluten-free kind of like Atkins?” she asked.
“No, it’s not really a diet; it’s more of a lifestyle change. I’ve chosen not to eat anything with gluten in it for health reasons. Gluten is present in wheat, and thus most breads, pastas & cereals,” I explained.
With that, Svet nodded in understanding and the conversation shifted to another topic.
As I tucked into my juicy bite of steak I began to tell Svetlana about the last steak I had eaten, on Dick’s birthday. For his birthday I took him to an upscale restaurant where we shared a delicious chateu briand and a french onion soup that I’ve been craving ever since.
“…the worst part about the whole dinner was that I had to pull the fabulous, cheesy, crouton from the french onion soup and give it to Dick. I’m telling you it was pure torture!” I said dramatically.
“Um, why? Why did you give him your crouton?”
“Well, because it was bread.”
“Croutons are made of bread?” Svet asked with wide eyes.
“Are you joking? Are you being serious?” I asked her.
She was serious.
“Yes! Yes! Croutons are toasted bread.”
“Oh…”, her voice trailed off as the realization sunk in.
Later, as we mulled over desserts, Svetlana asked me out of the blue, “How about rice? Does that have gluten in it?”
“No. Rice is a grain. Gluten is a protein found in other types of grain like wheat or barley for instance,” I explained patiently.
“Rice is a grain?”
“Yes.”
And then I realized…
“Oh my god! Did you think rice was manufactured? Made with flour and eggs, with like, little Keebler Elves shaping tiny pellets of rice in a factory?”
She blushed ever so slightly and gave me an awkward smile.
“I guess I never gave it much thought,” she admitted.
For the record, I laughed at her. Not with her, but at her. And yes, we’re still friends.
*****
On the phone with my mom earlier this month, she inquired about my weight – like she does every time we talk. I told her I was down nearly 40 pounds since we last saw each other in May.
“Great job, sweetie!” she responded enthusiastically. “What are you doing to take the weight off? NutriSystem, Weight Watchers?”
“Well, I’ve just been focusing on eating smaller portions of healthier foods, getting in more regular exercise and, to try to stave off the autoimmune diseases which run in our family, I’ve given up gluten.”
“My friend Donna West did that gluten free dieting thing and she got diabetes anyway. It doesn’t work, you know. Barely 60 and her whole life is upside down with the diabetes. Such a shame,” she said, her voice trailing off with the word “shame”.
“I’m sorry to hear about Donna, but I’m quite a bit younger than she was when she changed her diet so I’m hoping for the best,” I explained.
“Yes, but think of all the lovely baked goods you’re missing out on. You’ll never bake cookies with the kids again on that silly diet.”
“It’s not a diet, mom; it’s a lifestyle change.”
“Well, whatever you wanna call it. I can’t see how eliminating fiber is going to keep you from getting diabetes.”
“Actually mom, it’s not the fiber that’s the concern – and eliminating gluten may not just prevent diabetes. It’s thought that the gluten protein that gives bread it’s elasticity is the cause of a state of chronic inflammation in certain people’s immune systems. The unfortunate complication with eliminating gluten from your diet is that you need to find other sources of fiber, so I’m doubling down on my veggies,” I explained.
“Hm. Well, mark my words: you’re going to get whatever you get as far as disease goes – that’s just life. No amount of not eating bread is going to prevent God’s wishes from being carried out.”
“Are you saying that God is going to give me a terrible autoimmune disease just to prove a point about his omnipotence?”
(silence)
“So how are those grandkids of mine?”
“Thanks for the support, mom…”
*****
Look, I’m the first to admit that my gluten-free lifestyle may be all for naught. But if I’ve lost some weight and made some smarter food choices as a result of being more informed about my health, than isn’t that a good thing? I think so.
So I’ll continue to read and educate myself (and everyone else, apparently) on this topic knowing that as a mother, a daughter, a friend, and a wife – my lot in life appears to be that of an educator – only with even less glory than my public school counterparts and for almost no pay. If it weren’t for the fact that I got a blog post at my dear friend’s expense, this whole inglorious side-career of ”educator” might not be worth all the effort. But then again, if I can bust just one person’s mistaken belief that, somewhere, rice is being manufactured from wheat in a factory full of elves, maybe I will have done my part for the greater good.
]]>“We once had a snake loose in the bathroom for 2 months while my husband was away on duty,” one friend told me in response to someone else’s spider encounter.
“Oh my god! What did you do? Did you trap it?” I asked in horror.
“Eff that! I moved out and lived with my sister in law until he got back and took care of it,” she replied.
We all nodded our heads in agreement with her remedy to the problem; a logical solution to a terrifying problem if you ask me.
“Well, if you think that’s bad,” our other friend chimed in, “let me tell you about the time I had to kill a bat that was trapped in my A/C unit.  Let’s just say it required a new $1500 condenser coil and the smell of rotting meat emanating from every air vent in my house made you want to vomit.  Truly, I still have nightmares, it was so awful.”
A hush fell over the group at the thought of bat rot permeating our own homes.Â
Someone said, “Jesus, bats? I’d never even thought of those. Now how am I going to sleep tonight…”
I chimed in with my own horror story.
“Well when I was in my early twenties, I was leaving for work one morning and as I backed out of the driveway, I felt a bump. Â When I got out to see what I’d run over, it was a lizard. Â Except, I’d only squished his back half and the front half of him was still alive, trying to crawl away.”
My friends eyes widened. “Ew! What did you do?”
“I was crying and I called Dick at work and asked him to come home.  He was super pissed that I called him over an injured lizard and he talked me into backing over the lizard again to end its suffering.”
“Did you do it?” they asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.
“I tried, but I couldn’t. Â So I stood there sobbing for a few minutes and then walked two doors down to my in-law’s house and asked my 16-year old future sister-in-law to kill him for me. Â She didn’t want to do it either so I bribed her. I told her I’d let her drive my car to her boyfriend’s house if she’d finish off the lizard for me. Â But by the time we’d worked out a deal and she came over to kill him, he was already dead. I felt awful and there was a horrible, bloody stain all over my driveway.”
“How awful…,” everyone agreed.
My friends and I completed our therapeutic sharing by engaging in a silent group hug.  We knew each other’s pain all too well – the lingering jumpiness at every little movement out of the corner of your eye; the hesitancy to turn the light on in a darkened room for fear you’ll hear or see something scurry into the shadows; the imagined presence of beady eyes encased in impact-resistant exoskeletons lurking around every corner.  We may be moving on, but we will never, ever forget.
*****
This year’s sub-tropical Florida summer has been long and brutal, producing ideal conditions for our plant beds to flourish with vibrantly green-hued flora & fauna. Apparently all that extra vegetation has created an ideal breeding ground for lizards, frogs and other assorted uglies. Every walk to our front door is like running a gauntlet through a reptile exhibit – lizards on the walls and the door and tiny frogs jumping over your feet with every other step.
As the children hold the front door open each morning, I usually have them pause to perform what I call the “critter check” to make sure no creepy-crawlies are clinging to it as it swings inward.  In my haste to leave one morning I neglected to do an adequate check of the door and a baby lizard, no longer than 2 or 3 inches, scampered inside and promptly disappeared under a table in my foyer.  As my eyes were distracted trying to follow the zipping lizard in my foyer, a second baby lizard slipped in through the open door and scurried up the wall adjacent to a planter. I screamed.
The kids began to squeal in response to my screams of “NO..NO…NO…NO!” as I flailed my arms in disgust.
Dick responded to the commotion, remaining un-phased as the children recounted the terrible events leading up to two baby lizards being on the loose in our home.
Glancing at the clock, I realized I couldn’t stay and watch the lizard extraction process. “I’ve got to go”, I said to Dick as I pushed the kids through the open door.  ”You’re the one who deals with pests so you get these things out of here!”
“I’m on it. I’ll get the broom.”
As I pulled out of the driveway I could see Dick sweeping in the direction of the open door. I breathed a sigh of relief.
*****
Later that week I was preparing dinner when I glimpsed something small and green darting across the floor of the children’s nearby play area.
“DICK!!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
“What is it?”
“Get in here RIGHT NOW. You didn’t get the lizards out of here, did you?”
Sheepishly, Dick admitted that he hadn’t been able to locate either lizard, let alone sweep them outside.
“So you were only pretending to sweep them out of here the other day? Why didn’t you say something to me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t want to sleep here if there were lizards on the loose.”
(Gotta give him credit for being right on this one…)
I was furious. “Well, get them outta here!  I’ve even found one of them for you.  He’s hiding behind the kid’s toy box.”
Dick pulled the toy box away from the wall a bit so he could see where our little reptile roommate was residing. Â He stood and scratched his head.
“Do you want me to get the broom again?” I asked.
“No. I think I’m going to try a different tactic. Â Get me a plastic cup or a bowl. I’ll put it over him and then gently slide it and him across the floor and outside.”
I returned seconds later with a Glad disposable plastic bowl and lid.
Carefully, Dick leaned over to place the bowl over the lizard.  The kids were silent with anticipation.  I stood on a chair several feet away with one eye closed trying not to hyperventilate.
Just as Dick was about to lower the bowl, the baby lizard zigged and Dick zagged and then…SNAP!
Dick sighed.
“What? What’s going on Daddy? Did you catch him?” the kids begged.
“I’m afraid the poor little guy perished.” Dick explained.
“But what happened?”, we all demanded to know.
“He started to run away as I was lowering the bowl and the edge of the bowl came down on his neck and, well, let’s just say it killed him.”
“EWWWWWWWWWW!” we all screamed.
As the children and I looked on, Dick retrieved what was left of the deceased critter and unceremoniously flushed him down the toilet – a burial at sea.
Naturally, the children we’re horrified that their Daddy had actually killed a poor, innocent baby lizard. Dick and I went on to explain that it had never been our intention to harm him, rather it was an unfortunate accident. That story worked –  for a few minutes.
*****
A few minutes later, as I chopped and then sauteed veggies on the stove, I noticed something moving near the philodendron I was watering in the kitchen sink. I put my spatula down and moved in for a closer look just as baby lizard #2 bolted from the planter into the garbage disposal…as it was running.
The sounds of mincing steel blades grinding up the baby lizard combined with my screams prompted the children to run over to see what was going on.
“Mommy, what happened??”
Dick emerged from another room with a “what-in-the-heck-is-going-on-now?” look on his face.
I pointed to the sink and said, “Baby lizard #2Â fell in there.”
His face went a bit pale as the realization sunk in.
“Seriously?”
“Yep. He was in the plant and he was trying to jump from the edge of the pot to other side of the sink and he, well, he fell and…and, um, now he’s down there. Â
Adam, never one to skip a beat these days asked, “Daddy, are you getting the baby lizard out?”
Me, not being so swift to catch on responded to Adam with, “No, Daddy can’t get him now.”
Dick shot my an annoyed look and leaned toward me, his voice in a low whisper. Â ”Are you dense? I was going to pretend I’d caught it and fake an escape outside. Now he’s on to me.”
Adam looked up at us with a hint of a tear in his eye. “Is the baby lizard dead?”
Dick rolled his eyes at me and nodded his head in Adam’s direction.
“Daddy, what happened to him? He’s just a baby!!! His mommy & daddy and brothers & sisters will all be looking for him!”
I made a pathetic attempt at addressing Adam’s concerns.
“Maybe it’s just his mommy & daddy looking for him now since we killed one of his brothers or sisters earlier.”
“Sam, that was so NOT helpful,” Dick quipped.
I leaned over and grabbed Adam & Tabitha in my arms and pulled them in close for a group hug. “It’s all over,” I said in a soothing voice as I rubbed their backs.Â
But even as I hugged them close I knew the memory of the baby lizard massacre would live on. The combination of the grinding noise of the garbage disposal as it made mincemeat out of one baby lizard and the sight of the limp, lifeless body of the other baby lizard circling the toilet bowl would leave a lifelong imprint. In the years to come, the children would reflect on this day as the day their parents slaughtered two innocent baby lizards. I imagined their horrific tale being recounted in a group therapy session with other suvivors of parental abuse would choke back cries of horror. Dick and I would not fare well in the re-telling of the tale. At least we could take some comfort in knowing that the group hug at the end of the session might help them move on. But I knew they would never, ever forget.
Â
]]>Look, I understand that you don’t want my kid to leave your kid’s birthday party empty-handed. It makes you look cheap in the eyes of the other parents. However, the problem with your logic is this: giving away crap also makes you look cheap. Your thoughtfulness about the feelings of my child would come across as a lot more sincere if all the “goodies” you provided didn’t speak to an overwhelming sense of obligation on your part. So, allow me to share these thoughts with you – to free you from this ridiculous burden:
I’m just going to throw away or recycle those shitty toys (after my kids are asleep of course). If you really don’t want to send my kid home from your kid’s party empty-handed please give him something the entire family can enjoy, like coffee beans (dark roast, please), alcohol or chocolate.
There. Feel better now?
No? Well, if you absolutely can’t resist the urge to gift and coffee, booze & chocolate for 25 is out of your budget, for godsake, please DO NOT send my kid home with any more of the following:
I acknowledge that my stance on “goodies” is harsh, and somewhat self-serving (particularly the request for booze & chocolate). I’m sympathetic to your situation. We’ve all been in your shoes – crippled by minimal planning time and budget.  I know that it’s easy to grab handfuls of those cheap crap toys in the dollar bins at Michael’s or Target and shove them in a cute bag tied with ribbon. However, I think (and I’m hoping you’ll agree with me) that it’s time to stand up to parental peer pressure and say, “Kids, in real life you don’t leave other people’s parties with gifts. The best gifts in life are not the ones you receive, but the ones you give from the heart – thoughtfully and with care & consideration for the recipient.”Â
For those of you who remain concerned about your reputation with other parents, allow me to sweeten the deal a little. You promise to keep these so-called “goodies” out of my kid’s hands and I won’t send your kid home from our next party with something like this.
]]>I certainly don’t mean to come off as unaware of my good fortune. Â I do recognize how lucky we are and how bad things could have gotten. Â But even before the economy started heading south I felt a sense of gloom about my long-term prospects in the corporate world. Â Perhaps it was the lack of options for us working parents with small children that got me started on the slippery slide into full-blown disillusionment. Or maybe it was hearing senior leadership refer to co-workers with the same smug disdain they usually reserved for our clients. Whatever it was that finally pushed me over the edge, there’s no doubt that I’m only one of many facing a state of jobful despair. There are scores of people like me simply collecting a paycheck and lacking passion for their job despite the fact that they love their work. Â What’s worse: I’ve realized that my disillusionment isn’t because I don’t feel hope or see potential for companies and their workers to succeed together, but rather, I’m disillusioned because I do. Â Call it my Jerry Maguire moment if you’d like but I can’t stop asking myself, “Isn’t there more to life than this?”
*****
It was in May, amidst this tough operating environment where workers give more and get less and with a larger climate of uncertainty looming over the American consumer, that my company’s new management team made an “important” announcement.
“Clearly, we can’t go into 2010 doing the same things in the same way,” they said.  ”It’s time we leverage our ingenuity, initiative and drive to achieve our goals.  In short, it’s time for some change.”
We all leaned forward, hands cupped to our ears in anticipation.
Saying that you want to change things always has the effect of generating excitement, unless it’s abused, in which case it’s just another in a series of empty promises, full of sound & fury but little meaning.
Largely, we all remained optimistic. Â New leadership and new vision at the top might actually bring about the change we knew we needed. Â Months went by…
And then, one sticky September day change arrived in the form of an email announcement with the subject reading:
“Let’s ‘Dress for Success’: A Corporate Pride Initiative”
(That thudding sound you just heard was the sound of a 400+ foreheads simultaneously banging their desks in frustration)
The email announcement went on to describe the importance of “wearing our corporate pride” and then laid out the plan (with full-color flyers and examples of well-dressed vs. inappropriately dressed workers) for shifting from a semi-casual dress code to a business casual dress code. Â Sadly, all of this was positioned as a visionary concept sure to pull us out of our dire economic straights and back into the black.
Oh wise corporate dynamos, what were you thinking? You went off into your plush corner office for several months while we all plowed ahead under what could best be described as minimal guidance and this is what you came back with? A new dress code? That is your big idea for fostering change, ingenuity, and drive?  You want us to change our company culture starting with our pants?  With the odds stacked against us and the going getting tougher and tougher, the tough – according to your logic – put on a sharper outfit?
And then came the realization: we are so, totally, SCREWED.
*****
I know I’m not alone in my feelings of worker disillusionment. Â Everywhere I go I talk to men and women who are working the jobs of 3 or more people and haven’t seen a raise or even a cost of living increase in more than 2 years. When I talk to these friends about what keeps them afloat, it’s always the same: a steady wage and their dreams. Â And those dreams are coming true for some of us – women in particular – who are smarter than Corporate America seems to think we are. Â Smart enough to know when to get out, at least.
According to US News & World Report between 1997 and 2004, the number of businesses owned by women grew by almost 20 percent, compared with only a 9 percent increase overall. Â While I’m sure our current economy has stifled this growth, I find this to be an astounding figure – a clear message in the form of a single-fingered salute; a message which says: “We will do better than this”.
Unfortunately, it’s a message many companies seem to be ignoring in the face of more recent economic turmoil. But economic conditions are cyclical and, indeed companies do need to change to retain their relevancy to both workers and consumers alike. But it’s women who are showing they have the will and the smarts necessary to realize potential.  So if economies are cyclical and change is a constant in the universe, and the pillars of the modern American workforce are burnt out, pissed off and planning their escape, then aren’t we about due for a perfect storm?
I think there’s a chance – albeit a slim one – that we can avoid a messy break-up with Corporate America by exercising better communication skills. Â After all, most of Corporate America is still run by men and we all know that men don’t understand 90% of what we’re saying. Â Perhaps we’ve been talking them to death (like we do…)? Â Maybe it’s time we lay it out in a way that even they can understand.
That got me thinking. What if I could write a “Dear John” letter to Corporate America and tell this thug of a mate, clearly and unambiguously what I want out of a relationship and why our current one just isn’t working for me? What if we all did? Â Would we really make the change we want to see in the world?
Dear Corporate America -
You may not know me very well, but I’ve been working for you for the better part of 20 years now. Â It’s because of our long-term relationship that IÂ am compelled to write this letter and let you know about the serious mistakes you’re making. These mistakes are so unforgivable that I may soon be forced to leave you and join the ranks of my bolder, more entrepreneurial sisters. But before I allow my emotions to carry me away, I’d like to point out your mistakes to you in a way that’s constructive so that, hopefully, you’ll do your part to turn this relationship around, or at least prevent your behavior from destroying all of your future relationships.
Following are the keys to making our relationship work. Â They’re pretty easy and there’s only four of them (to keep you from feeling too overwhelmed).
I need…
to be inspired – just a little bit – so that I don’t feel like I’m wasting my life on a venture that’s destined to fail while working for people whose cluelessness would engender my pity if I weren’t so damn angry.  I want to be made to see the potential in what I’m doing – and as a leader it’s your job to show it to me.  Make it clear and make it matter.
the right amount (and type) of challenges to stay intellectually engaged and empowered. Â I don’t want to do work that I suck at just to collect a paycheck. Â If I wanted to do that, I’d go back to working in food service. Â I want to be skilled and I want to learn new things so I can become a better me. Â You can and should want that for me as well.
to be treated like an adult. I “get” that not all of us act like adults all of the time (myself included), but I think I deserve the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s always better to treat people the way you want them to behave? Besides, when you invite me to be part of the solution instead of treating me as though I’m part of the problem, I’m far more interested in furthering our relationship.
to be compensated fairly for my achievements. We all sell-out, that’s the nature of working for someone else.  Consider compensating me fairly as a form of business insurance so that the next time I get restless about my decision to be a whore – the money doesn’t become the focus of my angst.
As a working mom, I’ve already got a leg up on you in terms of mental agility and a general willingness to embrace risk. Voluntarily turning one’s life upside down to raise children – now that’s some risk-taking!  The ability to maintain one’s sanity while juggling a job, a marriage, and  a 4 year old and a 5 year old who are all simultaneously screaming for your full-attention requires, shall we say a “generous” amount of talent, time & resource management.  These things come easily to me, but I’ve seen how you operate and it’s not pretty.  That means I’ve realized that I don’t need you to be successful.  If I can spend my days solving your problems, my problems and my family’s problems then I can certainly succeed in business on my own terms.
The ideas I’ve shared here are nothing new or terribly revolutionary.  You may be apt to dismiss me or label me as naive, but I know from my highlighted hair to my peep-toe pumps that good business is all about people  - and if there’s one thing we women are keenly aware of it’s people.  It is our sociability that feeds us and provides us with our amazing ability to relate to one another. That power coupled with our desire to do things right and make things better in this world is the reason more and more of us are leaving you and not looking back.
So unless you can turn this relationship around in short order, I see no choice but to move on before you leave me or force me out.  Either way, you should know that I’ll be walking away with more than a severance check and a reference.  I’ll be taking my amazing intellect, my innate understanding of people, and my mad PowerPoint skills with me.  I may not be the last woman you’ll ever have, but I’m certainly going to be one of the best.
Sincerely,
Sam
]]>Adam’s magnet school is about a 30-minute drive from our home and leaves us about 30-minutes northwest from our respective work locations. Â Essentially Dick and I lose about 2 hrs. a day driving to and from school. Â Certainly this change is costly in time, gas & patience but we feel the benefit of our sacrifice is an education for our son that is focused on constructive self-expression through the arts, a teaching staff that is very well-trained and accommodating of Adam’s learning style, and a diverse environment where he can grow up with friends of all different ethnic and socio-economic backgrounds.
But aside from the commute, the biggest shift in our daily routine is the school drop-off. Â What used to be a 20-minute process involving parking, cajoling, gathering Adam’s back-pack and other belongings, walking him inside and chatting with his teachers, has turned into a 10-minute process of lining up behind dozens of other parents, pulling up to a designated drop-off point (as directed by a traffic monitor) and then watching as my van door flies open and my son & his belongings are extracted by an anonymous school volunteer – all of this before I’ve even come to a complete stop. Â By my estimation, the last time Adam was extracted from anything so efficiently it was from my uterus in yet another surgical, highly impersonal process that required little involvement from me.
Even as my barely caffeinated brain tries to grasp the sudden absence of my kid, I find myself yelling plaintively at a freshly closed sliding door, “Have a great day Adam! I love you!”. Â Simultaneously, horns honk from behind me and I’m waved on by another traffic monitor whose frantic screams of “Keep it movin’!” as she waves her hands insistently toward the exit, finally succeeds in startling me back to reality.
*****
Adam’s magnet school is in a rather run-down working class neighborhood predominantly occupied by African-American and Latino families, many of whom raise chickens in their yard and have at least 1 car up on cinder-blocks in their driveway. Â It’s very different from our native suburban surroundings but not anything I’d call unsafe. Â In fact, the surroundings don’t really concern me at all since I grew up in similar circumstances – but I understand that other parents are less laid-back than we are. Â So to mitigate concerns about blue-collar knife-wielding pedophiles roaming the campus, the school takes great pains with security. Â In fact, the school is so locked down that it’s almost impenetrable. Â I jokingly call it “the fortress” as I’ve only made it as far as the cafeteria on one occasion – the first day of school. Â But that’s not for a lack of trying…
You see, in addition to the drop-off queue, “car riders” as kids like Adam are called, can be walked up to the main gate by a parent and passed off to a student volunteer who walks them to their class. Once I realized that I was never going to be allowed to penetrate the confines of the fortress without a Papal dispensation or a permission slip from the Principal, I decided to circumvent the impersonal vehicular drop-off process and use my cunning to get past the security patrol that consists of several larger 5th graders and a few volunteer moms with whistles. Â Surely I can smooth-talk and outwit an 11-year old?
Two weeks into the Kindergarten routine, I decided to give it a shot and see how far I could get into the fortress. Â One morning I arrived early – around 7:30 – and we began our trek from the distant church parking lot several blocks behind the school, through a fire-ant infested field and narrowly avoiding death in the Frogger-like parking lot. Â When we finally approached the school gate with the adjacent doors to the cafeteria I looked around. Â The coast was clear. Â I had a straight shot into the school’s central courtyard and Adam’s cluster of buildings just beyond. Easy-peasey.
As we slipped past a busy volunteer mom who was on child-extraction duty in the vehicle drop-off queue, our progress was suddenly impeded by a cheerful fat kid wearing a “School Safety Cadet” badge. Â With an earnest smile the pudgy boy placed his arm around Adam’s shoulder pulling him inside the fortress as he said to Adam, “Say bye to mommy,” and then to me, “I’ll take him from here, ‘mam.”
I pulled Adam towards me. Â ”No. Actually, I’m going to walk him to his classroom today,” I said nonchalantly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Â You’ll have to go to the front office and get a pass to come on campus ‘mam. Â In the meantime, I’ll get your son to his room…”
I tugged Adam back towards me again. “That won’t be necessary. I promised my son’s teacher I’d talk with her in person this morning about an important matter. I’ll just be a few moments…” Â I moved forward, pushing past the pudge as I tugged on Adam’s arm.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you onto the campus without a pass, ‘mam. I’m sure your son’s teacher will want you to follow our safety procedures and I’m sure you want to set a good example for your son about following the rules, right? Â The office is just down the walkway on the left.”
Before I could think about my next move, let alone mutter my next sneaky-twisty-super-smart response – POOF! – Adam was gone. I’d been foiled by a pudgy do-gooder.  Like a bouncer at an exclusive nightclub, this highly-trained 11-yr old had prevented me from setting foot inside.  Denied!
On the upside, I couldn’t help thinking that this must be a really good school if an 11-year old can make it into middle management while adults like me are still clawing our way out of organizational obscurity at our thankless jobs…
*****
Of course my curiosity is really piqued now. Â What are they doing in there? Â Curing cancer? Â Splitting atoms? Â And yes, I know I can go to the office and arrange to go on campus “legally” anytime I’d like. Â But it’s the sanctity with which the administration and volunteers hold their duties as school security officers that takes me aback. Â How do they recruit these people, keep them all trained, on message, on point, highly organized – including 11-year old boys – on what must be a shoestring budget, at best? Â My company (who even in it’s dire straights probably has access to more cash than your typical public school) can’t even organize a picnic without a committee and board approval, and even with all the red-tape, the potential for employee mishaps and misery is substantial.
I guess I’m pleased to see the school administration and volunteers taking such great care with my child’s safety; it’s definitely reassuring. But I also think it’s a little bizarre. Â I don’t remember being so locked down as a kid in Kindergarten. Â Do you? Â Is this how it is everywhere? Can this level of security be chalked up to the “Columbine effect”? Â Are most white people really as jumpy about sending their kid to a working-class, multi-ethnic neighborhood as they seem to be?
Whatever the reason, the change in our routine is profound and only as I sit here writing about it is it all finally starting to sink in. I have to admit that the only reason I wanted to come on campus that day was to watch Adam walking toward his classroom – like a big kid with his adorable peacock-feather bed-head, his new uniform and his “Cars” backpack slung across his shoulders. Â I just wanted to hold onto that image for another moment – a tiny boy navigating a very big world. Â In truth, I wanted to be a voyeur and get a glimpse at the next chapter in his life story.
If the past few weeks have taught me anything it’s that the hardest part of this big transition is in learning how to deal with it. Not so much our kids but for us! Â Up until now Dick and I have been documenting Adam’s transitions from our perspective. But now the writing burden has shifted to Adam and our new role is merely to teach him how to write his own story.
I think, if it were up to me, I’d be calling this new chapter in Adam’s life “The Fortress”; that’s what I’m calling it in my own story. But maybe in Adam’s story it will be called something even more exciting like, “Chapter 5: Curing Cancer & Splitting Atoms – All While Learning Phonics”. Â Whatever he decides to call it I, for one, am on the edge of my seat. Â No one told me what a page-turner this story would turn out to be.
]]>After several months of feeling mentally & creatively tapped by the competing demands of my work life and home life I nearly gave up on Raw Drip. Â As much as I love my little creative writing venture it was looking as though time for writing would end up the loser in my ongoing struggle to maintain balance in this crazy juggling act of a life.
Just as I was preparing to inform tech support (aka Dick) of my decision to shut down the Raw Drip website, a remarkable thing happened; your voices emerged with words of encouragement. Â You said things like, “Hey, what the hell happened to your blog?”, “I miss Raw Drip” and “Weren’t you the one who used to write about raw dick or something?”
“Yes; I did. Â Er, I mean, I am. Â Yes, I’m the one who wrote about Dick,” I would mumble feebly in reply.
With those mumbled words I realized that I was lost, disillusioned with life and my future, and way too busy to give a crap about anything other than surviving from weekend to weekend. Â Raw Drip was dead at just shy of 18 months old and I was killing it with neglect.
But when my husband joined your ranks this week by reminding me that my writing plays a critical role in nurturing my soul I gave Raw Drip’s neglect and soon-to-be demise second thoughts.  I knew I had to pick up my laptop, rinse out my coffee mug and ignore my chattering children for an afternoon.  It was time to rekindle my passion for writing and explore the new phases of my life…before I was overtaken by them.
What new phases of life, you ask? Â Well, let’s see…I’m teetering on the edge of my late 30’s (yikes!) and with the baby & toddler phases behind me I’ve found myself with all new challenges. Â From the cheeky 3rd old toddler he used to be, I now have a smart, expressive 5-yr old son who’s enduring the perils of Kindergarten. Â Then there’s my 4-yr old daughter whom Dick and I consider to be the “challenging kid” these days – newly prone to irrational outbursts and high-pitched screaming fits that can shatter glass and summon dogs from miles around. Â Finally there’s my husband, Dick, still the supportive father, husband, geek and Raw Drip tech support – only now with more gray hair and less patience. Â The players are basically the same, but the game keeps changing.
In my ongoing adventures of self-discovery I’d like to say I’ve used the past 8 weeks to evolve into a savvier, smarter, sexier version of myself  - but I haven’t.  I’m still a work-in-progress only now I’m re-committed to making progress.  Hopefully this public examination of my struggle will keep you reading and relating. Sure I’m still aiming to entertain, inform, intrigue and occasionally inspire you but I’m also trying to do that for myself.  And rather than do what I’ve always done – give up on my passions and pursuits for practical reasons – (no “martyr/mom” here, thank you) I’m going to tap that inner spring of tenacity that I usually reserve for my family & friends and try applying a little more of it to myself.
Anyway, my deepest thanks to you loyal Drips. Â Although small in numbers, you’ve expressed more passion for Raw Drip than I’ve had in recent memory and it’s your tenacious belief in my writing that inspires me to keep trying.
Best,
Sam
]]>As we all swapped fire drill stories later that evening, it occurred to me that my days and the kid’s days are not so dissimilar. Â Just as Adam and Tabitha endure the indignities of petty playground politics and feeling as though they are being victimized by “the system” (a system whose sole goal it seems is to keep them from having fun) I, too, endure a form of petty playground politics and feelings of helplessness only on a different scale. Â Instead of getting sandbox sand thrown in my face, I have the threat of a pink slip in my inbox.
I realize it’s not an original idea – the analog between work & school – but only now do I realize just how much the two environments really have in common. Â From the office vixen to the school slut. From the backstabbing middle management snitch to the tattling tot who turns you in for cheating on your test. Â Somehow, I’m living my own version of “Groundhog Day” reliving the same routine, day in and day out for going on (gulp) four decades…
*****
In every school there’s always a goodie-two-shoes, student council type kid who’s overly studious and irritatingly supportive of the administration and all their “rules”. Â In the workplace, that irritating kid is now the office manager and we are all forced to endure her aggressive adoption and firm adherence to even more “rules”.
Case in point: my company’s recent decision to abandon Styrofoam cups in the break room in favor of ceramic coffee mugs. Â Newsflash people: Â I manage to overcome my almost overwhelming desire to drink myself into oblivion each night and the next morning, I somehow overcome the most powerful urge to ditch my job and sleep in for a change. Â Instead, I go to work. Â I think this qualifies me as a responsible adult (well, mostly responsible). Â I’ll venture to say that, at least, I’m responsible enough to handle all the demands of borrowing a coffee mug.
But instead of assuming that we’re all responsible adults here, we’re all treated as children on the playground. Â You see, there are no less than 6(!) full-color posters featured on the door to the break room, on both refrigerators, over the sink, and two above the coffee maker all designed and displayed by our former Office Manager to communicate “the rules” about borrowing a coffee mug.
Maybe Dick is a bad influence on me.  Or maybe, after all these years spent following everyone else’s rules I’m finally ready to take a stand and rebel!  Whatever the cause of my new found resistance, I’m proud to say that I’ve grown a pair and have happily graffiti-ed (well, I like to think of it as “virtually altered”) one of the most annoying aforementioned posters – the coffee mug FAQ.  I shit you not.
Of course by doing this, I realize I’m now falling into the typical “problem kid” role, but I figure if I’m going to have to relive my school days for the rest of my life, I might as well have a little fun.
]]>In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy this hilarious little diversion I stumbled upon…
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