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Happy Birthday TW - EAT THESE CHICKEN NUGGETS!

11/22/2019

TW shows off his birthday Edible Arrangement.

For Timothy’s Birthday I asked him what kind of special lunch he might like. He said “Nothing.” He wants to buy a cafeteria lunch. “Nothing?” I said a little bewildered. Then I go into full-on bribery mode. “How about a Happy Meal or a Pizza? A whole Pizza and a churro from Pollo Loco. I'll bring chicken nuggets! You love chicken nuggets. EAT THESE CHICKEN NUGGETS!”

“No, I don’t want to sit by you, I’ll just buy lunch.” He said.

I expected some distance or ‘pushing away’ in Junior High or even 6th grade. Last year, when my first born was in kindergarten I had lunch with him almost every Friday. Now, I have been cast aside. As a first grader, he prefers to buy is own lunch, as oppose to having me pack it. He no longer welcomes lunch with mom and dad, he wants to sit with his classmates.

I am not taking it personal, I am just trying to get a rational reason for this change. Yes, kids need space to bloom and grow. But why this and why now.

I want to grab his shoulders and shake him “Timothy, give me a logical explanation and I promise to drop this ‘not wanting to have lunch with mom’ issue forever.”

But of course, I don’t. At this age they are not good at providing rational excuses. (See Exhibit A: Richard dropping a glass on the floor, after I had told him if he dropped the glass on the floor it would break. Why would he do that? who knows! Maybe he was trying to verify my information. Maybe he was checking to see if gravity was still working.)

Luckily, Tim was once a five-year-old boy. He remembers no longer wanting a packed lunch half way through 1st grade.
“What would you usually pack him?” he asked me.
“Well, it would depend, like a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, or a hot dog or ….”

“He has that at home,” Tim said. “He gets his milk and turns the corner and OMFG it’s like Christmas, it could be a corn dog or chicken nuggets or anything else.”
“Oh, it’s the anticipation of the unknown, I can understand that," I said.

And it clicks. I no longer pack TW’s lunch for the same reason Tim has never wanted a pack lunch for his work. Big Tim uses lunch time to destress. Not packing his lunch makes it so he has to walk away from work and take a little mental break. Little Tim might need the same thing, sitting with his friends at lunch gives him the mental decompression he probably wouldn’t get visiting his mom, who is more likely than not going to pepper him with “What have you learned so far” questions.

I take solace in knowing that I have at least another year with my Kindergartener before he starts opting out of sitting with mom for the luxury of a styrofoam tray and a sad looking corndog.

And to Timothy’s new found independence, I say “here’s your two bucks, enjoy your lackluster school cafeteria lunch, I’ll see you when you get out of school and we can avoid the kiss goodbye until further notice.”

Happy Birthday Son!

Thoughts on 43….

9/1/2019

Birthday greetings from my brother.

A friend calls me up to wish me a happy birthday.

“So what year is this?” she asked.
“Forty-three.” I really confused her. She thought I was going to turn 39. Technically, I am. But I have always lived in a world where lying about your age wasn’t an occasional little lie, it was to be expected.

My mother would fib about her age so much, that as a young child someone asked me how old she was and I responded with “40.” She was mortified. But how was I suppose to know her real age, every year her birthday cake had a question mark candle on top. To my young eyes she looked about 40. (Note: she was not even close to forty, hence her dismay.)
I started my career at a very young age, and quickly learned not to bring up my age.

At my first “mandatory fun time” happy hour, I got asked why I wasn’t drinking. I could have said I’m on antibiotics … I have to run a marathon tomorrow … I’m working the steps … It’s against my religion … I’m pregnant. Anything would have been better than my truthful response: “I’m not of age.” The rest of the “happy hour” was tipsy adults coming up with ways to pick on me for my age.

So like my mother, I also started lying about my age. Except, I was adding years to the count.
As a kid you want to be older then there is a pivot. You find yourself older, but want to seem younger.

Not me! I think I was born an old soul. I’ve always had to stand on my tippy toes to age up. Now, I am relishing my chronological age catching up to my mental age. Welcome to 40ish! I am wrapping myself in a warm blanket of middle age. I enjoy discussing doctor’s visits and new ailments that pop up and are here to stay. In fact, any time I catch up with a friend at least 10 minutes has to be devoted to such details.

Recently, I started adding more years to my age as a test. I would get carded by a young man who, in an alternate universe, could be my son. “Look at me at 47 and still getting carded.” It was a test to see if they could do the math or even look at the DOB. But I think when you are 19, everyone else is just ancient. 37, 43, 56, it all falls under the category of “ma’am.”

I have even managed to push my age to senior citizen status. In a recent outing with my mommy friends, I asked the young man selling movie tickets if they had senior discounts. I got $3 off my ticket! My friends tried hard to not burst into crazy laughter, so as to not foil my ruse.

Life does get better after middle age! There are discounts at the end!

I am taking a tip from the 30 Rock character Jenna Maroney who pretends to be 56 “in hopes of escaping the curse of the middle-aged actress.” She looks good for 56.

I get compliments anytime I say I’m 45. “You look good.” So why not lie about my age. And if you say you’re 55, you get $3 off at Harkins Theaters.

Whatever works for you

8/8/2019

Disclaimer: Stock photo from ShutterStock, the actual Zoe may vary.

With the kids in school, I now have time to redirect my attention to more projects. There are long to-do lists that have been neglected over the past three years. There are more freelance assignments to do. And more importantly, I have articles, essays and blogs I have forsaken to write.

I am a master craftsman of the written word. I can write 500 words standing on my head. I have never had an issue producing any amount of copy in any tight deadline. Journalism school trained me well.

But when it comes to writing not tied to a deadline or that I am not getting paid for, it is incredibly hard to stay on task. Especially, since working from home. How can I possibly work on this essay, when there are dishes to be washed and meatloafs to be cooked!

I recently meet with a writing coach (Yes, there are coaches for everything.) Amy Silverman doesn’t particularly like the term, I know in order to work on my own projects I need external motivation. I would never use a gym membership, but I do show up to my yoga class. I picked her brain on how she blocks out time to do her writing passion projects vs the projects paying the bills.

Her overarching advice: do what works for you.
Instagram and Pinterest lure you to a cliff when people with much more ambitious projects (and far too much time) pitch “Get organized with my super complicated template!” You adopt their diet, training schedule, organization style… and in a day or two, you fail. The sense of defeat is weighted when you just spent $80 on a Marie Kondo box because you are trying to fold like her … as it turns out you have a personality more suited for hangers.

Know yourself well enough to know what works for you. And then double down your efforts.

I have decided on my “writing days” to don a cocktail dress. Why write in a cocktail dress, you might ask? It’s impractical. It is impractical to make a stew in a cocktail dress. You can’t scrub floors in a cocktail dress. Because although fashionable, one might get very odd looks at Walmart in a cocktail dress.

I know what distracts me, so the dress keeps me tethered to the computer. It works for me. And who says you have to have an occasion to dress up! Writing is so critical to me, that it does merit cocktail attire.

The dog ate my shoe. Happy Anniversary!

7/13/2019

Oh! The Carnage!

The morning starts with the dog eating my shoe. Except, I didn’t catch it. Richard caught it. “MOM! The dog is EATING YOUR SHOE!” How did this happen? The dog hasn’t eaten my shoes in months. It was a daily exasperation, but we worked hard to break the bad habit.

Then I realize it’s the Kenneth Coles with the wrap around laces. Why did this happen?

When the dog eats my shoe, I tell myself; I really didn’t need those shoes. They were out of fashion, the heal was too tall, they were worn out anyway. But these were really, really nice shoes.

When Tim comes home, I tell him about the debacle, and ask him to talk me off the ledge.
“It’s a tall heal, tell me I shouldn’t be wearing them,” I said.

“You shouldn’t be wearing them,” he said.

“Do you even know what shoes I am talking about?”

“Yes," he said. "They are the shoes you wore with the Mad Men dress when we went to the Buttes for your birthday.”

"You still remember what shoes I wore!" I looked at him incredulously. And laughed hysterically. This event happened a whole life ago, pre-kid. Who even remembers events from B.C. (before child)

It’s good to know that after so many years and kids, he can still remember those kinds of details.

It kept me smiling for the rest of the weekend. I might as well have been a school girl, whose crush casually makes a “nice shoes” comment and it sets her flying to the moon.

The boys were intrigued by my laughter and Tim told them the story about the fancy restaurant. They want to get dressed up and go there too. "Maybe for Mom's birthday."

Fancy shoes and fancy restaurants make for good stories. But that's not real life. Real life isn’t just about the highlight reals and date nights. Real life is the dog eating the fancy shoes. It’s about the commutes. And sick kids. And loading dishwashers. And calming your wife down over an eaten shoe.

Happy Anniversary Tim. (Fucking dog ate my shoes.)

Extremism in the defense of rescue dogs is no vice.

7/9/2019

My husband’s colleague recently bought a dog. You read that right. He “bought” a dog. He didn’t adopt or rescue. He went to a breeder, wrote a big check and walked out with a clean-slate dog.

If you know anything about me, you know my dog is a rescue. He’s an asshole, too. But mostly, we highlight the fact he was adopted. Most of the dogs in my past have either been rescues or “gifted.” (And by gifted I mean, some random dog does it with my aunt’s dog and now I get to have a dog too.)

I like getting dog compliments. “He’s such a good dog.” But I beam with pride when someone notices the difference between Oso then and now “He’s gotten so much better.” Yes, my fixer-upper of a dog took a lot of work. It was worth it. And there is something to be said about the process of the work, not just the finished results. (My friends go to the gym as a stress release - I yell commands to my dog.) And if you think dogs are intrinsically loyal, there’s nothing more loyal than a rescued dog. (Not like those snowflake dogs born into privilege.)

It’s through my own experiences and beliefs that I continuously advocate for adoption. If someone comments, “What I nice Boxer, I wish we could get one.” Our quick answer is - call Boxer Luv Rescue. If someone is thinking about getting a dog, I try to steer them towards adoption by discussing the benefits of getting a previously-owned dog.

Tim has been working his colleague for months. Recently, he told me. “X is getting his dog from a breeder.” I understand why families would rather have a puppy from the start. You don’t have to overcome the emotional baggage. You can shape them in your family’s image. We had lost this debate.

[Said in a VERY sarcastic voice] So of course, the only reasonable thing to do is to unfriend this guy from Facebook. Ask Tim to never speak to him at work. Find ways to belittle him in person for his family’s decision. And look for opportunities to troll him online. After all, he must be a horrible human being for not agreeing with our stance.

This dog argument is really about everything else in life. You can advocate for your beliefs but ultimately, one must respect people’s choices. (Even though in this respect, I am right and he’s wrong and everyone should adopt a dog.)

'The time has come' or End-of-Life

6/19/2019

Right as I was getting ready for bed it happened - BRRRRRRR!!!! My first thought was “something is wrong with the Air Conditioner.” I hoped maybe Tim had moved some large piece of furniture outside. But, as always, I was right it. It was the AC unit. I knew this was coming, so I had emotionally prepared for the anguish of not having air conditioning during the hot summer days and also the extraordinary expense that comes with AC repair.
You know you are a grown-up when you understand things like “end-of-life cycle.” End-of-life is this phenomenon where everything comes to an end and there’s specific timelines for how long things last. Your food has an expiration date. Your water heater has an EOL.
For example your phone has a two to three-year before it stops working, becomes obsolete, or you crash it into a million little pieces. Currently the lifecycle of humans in the US is about 85 years according to recent mortality figures. But when referring to people and not object you call it a lifespan. It's much more dignified.
Regardless most things are built to last for a finite amount of time. (Unless you’re a nuclear waste, but eventually it hits its half-life too.)
The house we currently live in was built in 2006. Meaning, in 2006 everything was shiny and new. Since Richard was born we have replaced: the refrigerator, the dishwasher (twice), the microwave (twice - ask my mom how she exploded our last one), the water heater (preventatively) and different components of our pool. As I look around and see what’s left to replace - it’s the big one. It’s the AC unit. According to the Internet sources the AC unit in Arizona should last anywhere from 10 to 14 years. And our unit is straight at 13 years.

The time has come," the Linskeys said,
"To talk of other things
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax
Of cabagges and kings
And while the house is boiling hot
And whatever Oso thinks
Kaloo Kalay no work today
We're hot cabbages ... waiting for the AC repair guy to arrive"

Self Identification starts ... at Kindergarten?

5/28/2019

In an era where political pundits talk about “race politics” or “gender politics” it’s important to ask about the genesis of these identities . When do these identifications start? To me, the answer seems obvious —school registration forms.

A friend calls me up: 1.) Ecstatic because her child has gotten early acceptance into kindergarten. 2.) She is thoroughly confused by the registration form. She is stumped on the question of her kid’s ethnicity and race.

A little background information about my friend. She comes from a country that was formerly part of the USSR block. I will refrain from naming it to protect her identity and to avoid Borat jokes. Her husband is US born with parents from Latin America.

So how do these parents label their child’s identity? Having to place the child in a neat little box, when their background is so rich and complex. The conversation devolves into a game of attrition, figuring out which boxes the child does not fit into and then picking the best option from what’s left.

But having to go through this exercise can be confusing, especially to somebody who is not from a country that so adamantly tracks race. Why this obsession with classification? It’s a discussion I am always interested in having because even in the Hispanic community, there is no homogenous consensus. I also enjoy using information acquired during my African American studies class to discuss such notions as the “one drop rule.” One drop of African American ancestry makes you Black in this country. If you follow the logic, then if my children marry white girls and my grandkids marry white girls, their kids should still be labeled Hispanic because of this one drop rule. (Assuming we still have the current race-ethnicity boxes in the future.)

It’s bewildering that in an age where a new generation seeks to redefine their sexual identities and political identities and quite possibly their racial identities, they are still being forced to start by checking one of a very limited list of choices.

Which leads me to state Richard’s box for race is White his ethnicity is Hispanic. And this is my way of announcing Richard is an official kindergartner. He passed his early entrance exam entrance exam. He will be joining his brother at our neighborhood public school come July.

Apocalypse D O G

2/21/2019

I don’t do marathons. I don’t do 5Ks. I don’t even do “fun runs.” It’s just not in my nature, but I’m happy to donate towards your campaign. Go ahead, have a good time walking. I’ll be enjoying my hammock.

But the other day my family and I participated in the Boxer Luv Rescue Fun Run. It is the organization’s biggest fundraiser and we adopted our dog, Oso, from them... so exceptions were made.

It was the capstone of a year’s worth of really, really hard work training our dog. Saturday classes, in-home training, trainer supervised walks, and training the kids on how to train Oso. We could finally take our jerk-of-a-dog out in public. We also wanted to show him off to his former foster families. He was in excellent shape, with a bright shiny coat. (Footnote: I felt vindicated in our struggle when I learned his previous foster family called him LB for “little bastard,” but I digress.)

Oso was a spectacular walker. He really is in great shape.

I came home and realized Oso could have walked a 5k! a 10K! Oso would be happy to just keep walking and walking and walking.

I have concluded my dog would be the perfect Apocalypse Dog! You know, how when the apocalypse comes, it’s just going to be people walking around, looking like Will Smith. Scavenging around with their dogs. That could be our dog! Oso, you could be apocalypse dog! He would be fine walking through the rubble of civilization non-stop. He’s already very adapt at rummaging through trash. And, as the boys would say “he can rip bad guys up like a ham.”

Hopefully, the apocalypse won’t be here anytime soon. At least, I don’t think it will. I am concerned about Oso stockpiling jugs of water and barely wheat … aren’t dog’s suppose to have a sixth-sense about these things?

It's OK to fail

2/1/2019

Recently, I read an article highlighting the epidemic of stress on teenagers. With modern technology and high expectations, teens are becoming anxious and developing mental health disorders. It said in our society failure is no longer accepted.

It used to be. We valued failure because it helped us learn from our mistakes. But now, it seems, failure is no longer allowed. A failing grade in math means you will forever be doomed to a mediocre life, possibly even homelessness. (Footnote: I once was on the cusp of failing Honors Algebra One. I hope I am an example that you can triumph after a D. And I would also like the record to show: I dropped honors algebra for regular algebra which was a whole lot easier.)
As with anything else, I blame this phenomenon on “The Facebook.” Social media allows us to share every triumph and witness every failure. We are the curators of our own social media story. Therefore, we tend to show the successes and not necessarily the epic fails.
Everyone is more apt to post a picture of their last vacation than a picture of their gross sink… that hasn’t been cleaned in six weeks because, com' on, let’s face it, when you have a job, two kids, a dog and a 45 minute commute one way each day, the last thing on your priority list is a spotless bathroom. Now, let me be clear: I am not advocating for more pictures of dirty clothes hampers looking like Mt. Clothesmore. I don’t want to see that; nobody wants to see that. There really is no reason to share any sort of dirty laundry on social media.

But sharing a failure is valuable, every now and then. Especially when other people can learn from it. It’s important to remember on Facebook, people are mostly showing you their good side with none of their bad baggage. The Facebook is ultimately the longest first date ever.

So it’s in the spirit of learning from failure that I present to you my chicken and dumplings. It’s important to learn from failure. It’s also important to turn the crockpot off before you go to bed.

To keep or not to keep, that is the question with college text books

11/25/2018

I just got done packing up the books in my bookcase, because I need to move my bookcase, because I am finally getting new carpet, because I needed new carpeting, because I have two little boys, and that’s why I can never have nice things.

The task of disassembling and then reassembling the “walk-in filing cabinet” that is my office was daunting. Then I started looking at it as an opportunity. An opportunity to declutter. Anyone who knows me, knows I am partial to nicknacks. My friend has described my decorating style as “old lady,” which is apt when you start counting the doilies.

I am also biased towards to books. There’s my favorite authors - Wharton, Steinbeck, Palahniuk - who’s books get reread and boast underlines and notes in the margins. There’s the books I only read once, but liked enough to keep. There’s the books I only read once but can’t seem to resale because the author signed it. There’s the books gifted to me, which I haven’t read yet. And, let’s be honest, there’s the books I never intend to read, like the complete works of William Wordsworth. It has been on my shelf since my formative years as an attempt at intellectualism.

But most of the bookshelf real estate hogs are the reference books and anthologies. Anyone with a liberal education may remember Norton Anthologies. Do college students still have to buy those books? If you took a course on English lit, or feminist lit, or post-emancipation African American lit .... your professor put a Norton Anthology on the reading list. Then selected specific poems, shorts stories or plays as part of the syllabus.
In my educational travels, I managed to collect a few of these. I never sold them because I was told it was important to keep them as a reference. If you want to be a writer, you have to be a reader. Books are part of your craft, you don’t sell your foundation back to the bookstore for pennies on the dollar.

My professors’ words keep ringing in my ear as I held up the anthologies and debated between the keep and donate pile. Timothy was on a step stool, getting annoyed I was taking too long to make a decision and ask for the next book. Maybe I should keep them for him …. Maybe one day he would appreciate these anthologies when he is older....

What am I talking about! He has the internet!
Sure there was an Information Super Highway when I was in college, but it was mostly there for IRC and figuring out the lyrics to Cure songs. The interwebs has come a long way baby. Sure there’s a lot of junk and memes, but hidden in there are obscure poems from Langston Hughes, short stories by Kate Chopin, even Lord Byron.

The anthologies are going in the donate pile, with the hopes they will inspire and entertain the next reader. When my bookshelf gets put back together, it will have more real estate for new books and the future clay pot my kids will undoubtedly present me for Mother’s Day.
Because at the root of letting go, is the opportunity to make space for the future you.

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