Archive for March, 2010

My mother was a dinner party diva.  She loved to entertain guests.  She was always inviting people over–especially priests.  Priests usually know and tell jokes, their jokes weren’t that good, so I doubt that’s why they were invited, but it made them seem to be as good company as other dinner guests.

My mother was extremely Catholic for most of her life, maybe she invited priests out of some sense of religious obligation, or maybe she thought it was the sort of thing that would make The Pope like you, if you should ever happen to meet him at Sears or Penney’s.  I suspect she just felt sorry for a bunch of single guys who had to eat their own cooking.  If their cuisine was as dull as their clothing, they were probably very thankful.

She was much better at dinner parties, than I.  Since I often assisted her, I should be expert.   Under her tutelage, I became and especially good food-taster, a particularly efficient cheese grater, and I learned to cook.

My mother could cook almost anything.  I’m not biased, she really could cook–Mexican, Italian, Chinese, German, Irish, and on Christmas, occasionally, flaming plum puddings–as fabulous as anything from Dickens.  Her extraordinary kitchen prowess is particularly remarkable because she was first generation in America, raised poor and struggling, but somehow developed the cooking skills of a continental.  In addition to a pretty solid culinary background, she endowed me with her love of sharing food and home.

For years, a household motto here was “We’d rather have a bad guest, than an uncomfortable guest“  That was our way of saying, make yourself at home, help yourself, put your feet up, speak up if you need something.  (We dropped that motto a couple of years ago, after having a truly awful house guest–one so insufferable, I stopped just short of breaking the “Mi Casa es su Casa“ plaque.)

I’m not a great hostess, I like the preparation and the details, but I have trouble sitting down, if something is amiss–and there is always something.  Fortunately, Beloved Soul-mate is gracious enough to compensate for my preoccupations.   Over the years, he’s realized I count on him to make sure that our guests are greeted, welcomed and properly beveraged.  It works well, and he’s a natural; and though as hostess, I rarely sit down to enjoy everything, I find it all very enjoyable.

It makes no sense.  Many hours planning & preparing, a few hours with friends, more hours cleaning up, how did Mom make it seem so easy?   Even in her old age, she could outdo me in many things–obviously, her brain was more highly developed than mine–it was certainly better organized.

Beloved Soul-mate, got a Blackberry-like device a few years back.  I would have liked something like that, but I never needed one when Mom was around.  She’d visit a few weeks each year and during those weeks, her head was my personal organizer.  Instead of writing a shopping list, I could just tell her what I needed and count on her to remind me if I forgot something at the store.  I could give her a general overview of my week, and know she’d be sure to remind me of appointments, not only that but she was a store of information.  She was always good for a recipe or a tip on anything from parenting to first-aid.

Mom’s not around anymore.  Too bad, she was so much nicer to have around than an electronic organizer.   When iPhone comes up with an app called “Deb’s Mom” I’m all over it.

When I moved to this community, it was surrounded by beautiful rolling hills.   This time of the year, they’d be coming  alive with golden rod and yarrow.  It was pastoral and idyllic.

The morning I woke up in a Las Vegas Hotel and grabbed a New York Times with my coffee, I should have known things were changing.  That morning, my city was cited as the fastest growing city in the country.  Reading this in The New York Times, couldn’t be good.

Like many other lovely places in suburbia, it was only a matter of time before new housing developments with picturesque names would begin appearing.   The names would employ nouns like hills, ranch, deer, fox, or eagle–an ironic acknowledgment to the things that had been eliminated and replaced by tract homes.

My younger son & I were driving near one such new development.   The developers had yet to grade & level the rolling hills around it. Passing one of those hills, my son asked, “Mom, do you think we could climb  that mountain?”

I wasn’t sure if the query was asking, whether we would be able or whether I was willing, but I assessed it and decided it would be very fun and very doable.
“Absolutely” I responded.

For this Arizona-born girl, what I was looking at, wasn’t a mountain–it was just a hill.  In my mile-high smugness, I thought I could walk it on a coffee break–maybe a 20-minutes to the top.  It would be a good lesson for the boy.

Having agreed to take him to the top, I was full of good intentions.  I bought a couple of fabric pennants and a tree stake with which to make a flag.  I thought we’d take that hill, take a few pictures and have mother/son bonding as our reward.  Weeks went by, and I kept putting it off.

This week, I decided he’d waited long enough.  I was feeling good about indulging his belief that we were hiking a “mountain”.  It was a small thing to me, but it would be a big thing to him.  I assumed after we’d hiked it, he’d realize how small that big mountain really was.

Since some time had passed since he’d originally suggested the idea,  I thought I’d surprise him with the ready-made adventure.  Told him we were going for a hike.  Enlisted my older son, not to hike, but to document it with the camera.  Baseball practice was at 4:00 p.m.  An hour and a half was surely enough time to make the trek and be back in time to suit-up for the diamond.

So you might guess where this would be going.   Having procrastinated about getting the boy to the top of that hill, it occurred to me that this mountain was very much like other things we face–things that loom large and uncertain,  because we don’t know what they will require.   Surely, the boy would learn something important.

I was convinced, that once we’d reached the top, he’d realize how sometimes things that seem huge are really quite small.   In my head, that was how it would play out.  Small mountain, big lesson.

Since it wasn’t a real hike,  I opted for Crocs instead of hiking boots.  He opted for skate shoes.  We grabbed our flag, a mallet, and we were off to take the hill.   I hadn’t even bothered to check out the access, but we were lucky to find a good spot to park both the car and our photographer.

We quickly realized hiking up would first require hiking down.   From the highway, the ravine around the hill had not been visible.  Intrepid and committed, we started down a slope.  Only at the bottom did we discover the marsh, which, like a castle moat, was preventing access.  Back up the slope we went, to look for another point of access.  We found a steep little rock path, that lead to a narrow where the marsh seemed cross-able.  A large mass of fallen dried reeds seemed like a good-enough foot bridge.  My dear son, who was already regretting the adventure, tried to convince me we didn’t have to do this.  He suggested we could pass this one up–but what would be learned by that?

I told him it was going to be great, if he’d only follow me.  I assured him it would be easy.   The first step on the dried reeds was sure & solid.  The second one was a surprise.  My foot sunk deep into the boggy mud.  As I tried to lift my foot, I realized my shoe wasn’t coming.  Efforts to free the shoe with the flagpole were fruitless.  I took another step to reach into the mud to retrieve the right shoe and almost lost the left one too.

My young son was no longer convinced this would be easy or worthwhile.  Once I’d retrieved my shoes, we looked for another place to cross, it was only marginally more successful, but we succeeded.

We were on our way–a way which first required navigating a band of barrel cacti.  Lots of loose granite and steep grade made this, the easy part, much more challenging than I’d anticipated.

In my head, after the marsh & cactus, it would be easy–except there was no part that was easy.   That little rolling hill was steep.  We were making our way through wild flowers and nettles; hoping to avoid rattlers.

Every 10 vertical feet, my dear son, would suggest again, that we could bag this silly notion.  I kept assuring him, we were almost to the top.  Fifteen feet from the top, he was still suggesting we could make our way back to the car and possibly even make baseball practice on time.

We didn’t, we continued to the top, where the view was amazing!  I was exhilarated, as we stuck our brightly colored pennant flag atop some boulders and waved to my other son so he could capture the moment for us.  He was stoked too, but his enthusiasm for the moment was short lived, as he paused to pick stickers out of his socks and began to anticipate the rewind down the hill.  It was a steep climb up, it was likely that at least one of us  would at slide down some portion of that hill.

The trek down was easy, despite my unplanned slide, which left me with a scraped up calf and stickers in a place I would have preferred not to have them.   Fortunately, I managed not to slide through the cactus band.  We missed baseball practice, but certainly, more was gained from the hike.

I had been cocky and over-confident until that little hill nearly kicked my butt–I have stickers there to prove it, but we did what we set out to do.  Only when we reached the car, and I looked up to see our barely visible flag, did I realize how big that mountain was.

Loafers, mules, pumps, clogs, boots, sandals, oxfords–I’ve worn them all.  From plastic to exotic leathers, from discount to designer–I’ve stepped out in just about everything–sweet abundance of shoes.

The things one could write about women & their shoes are endless, and why not?  Each and every day, they are the vehicle which carries us to meet whatever challenges the day brings.

At the most basic level they are essential.  On a more esoteric level, they are an extension  of ourselves.   They are what we stand on.  They can make us feel graceful, or make us feel inept at walking.  Some empower, some embarrass.

When I was a girl, there was a common belief a person’s shoes could tell you about them–the implication being shoes would expose a person’s upbringing.  This was probably more true then, when most people didn’t have a closet full of shoes.  I don’t know if the same could be said today, but shoes still convey information.  They tell the world who we think we are, and sometimes they tell us who we are.

Some time ago, I was in negotiations with my teen son, regarding shoes he wanted.  The shoes he wanted cost four times what a comparable pair from another store would; the only difference was the way they would make him feel.

I understand.  I remember how shoes can transform us.  I remember when a new pair of shoes, was enough to convince me that I could run faster or jump higher.  I remember the magic of shoes.

Once upon a time, I had a pair or red leather Mary Janes.   They made me feel special.  On linoleum, they had a little squeak.  Maybe that little squeal was trying to tell me life would never again be as carefree.  I only know, they made me love being a girl.

In high school, almost everyone wore a particular brand of athletic shoe–everyone but me.  I wore look-alikes my mother purchased from the discount store.  I don’t think they fooled anyone, but for a time, they fooled me into believing I fit-in.

I didn’t have them long, before they were stolen.  I might have been angry, if I hadn’t felt so bad for the girl desperate enough to steal such pathetic shoes.  It’s been years, but I still remember the lesson those shoes taught me.

I’ll never forget the lovely silk shoes I wore the day I wed.  As an excited bride, those shoes filled me with romantic idealism and made me feel like a princess.  They made me feel lucky.  Exquisite they were, a short walk in those shoes and my life was forever transformed–for better or worse–mostly better.

I wish I’d been wearing those shoes when I went to visit my new husband’s family.  Instead, I wore a favorite pair of boots.  They were good boots, built to last, but their leather had become creased and worn.  I remember feeling,  that I was sized up, as being no better than those worn boots.  If only those boots, could have spoken for both of us, they probably would have said, “Ignore them, they can’t tell by looking, what we’re made of.“

As I write this, I am wearing a pair of very over-priced “flip-flops”.  Third pair of them I’ve owned.  I bought the first pair, because they were a brand that appeals to me.  After I bought them, I later discovered they were uncommonly comfortable.  They were a little splurge, but worth every penny.  It’s has nothing to do with the status logo, which tells people I spent too much on them;  it is simply they way they feel on my feet.  When I put them on I know I am part of a privileged class.  Not because of that brand, but because my feet don’t hurt the way they did when I waitressed my way through college.    Without saying a word, they remind me that I’ve been very blessed in this  life.

There’s more . . having once been embarrassed, by not having  the same shoes as my peers, these shoes remind me how hypocritical it seems not to buy my son the expensive shoes he desires.  Unlike my mother, I can afford to buy name-brand shoes for my son.  What I can’t afford,  is to allow him to believe, he is more acceptable  because of what he wears.   I want him to understand it’s the person in the shoes that matters.

I’ve learned a few things from my own shoes.  I’d like my son to wear shoes that will help him know what my shoes have taught me—even in the most fabulous pair, I am so much more than my shoes.

Not even on a whim or a dare, would you  walk down an aisle to say “I do”, if you had any idea that one day marital optimism, might be replaced with hurt  or anger.  You would most certainly turn and walk away, if you had any indication that someone you could love so much, might devastate your heart.

You might be reluctant to have children, if you had any idea what kind of heartbreak they are capable of causing.  Maybe you would have opted out, if you had considered that your own might come with personality defects, mental illness, addictions, unanticipated health problems or even untimely death.

Perhaps you would have clipped coupons, washed Ziplocs or saved soap if you could have anticipated stock-market crashes, layoffs or housing market downturns.

There isn’t a one of us that would eagerly take on a challenge if we had knowledge of how quickly things could change for the worse.

Whenever people around me find themselves in unexpectedly difficult situations, I am saddened.  The part of me I refuse to acknowledge, is relieved– maybe even happy, that I’m not in their situation.

There are many things that can change our lives in an instant, most of them catch us blind.

It’s part of the human experience.  It’s life.  It’s unpredictable.  It’s unfair.

Nevertheless, people in difficult situations usually summon the strength to cope with what seems impossible.   Seeing this humbles me.  I marvel at ordinary people being stronger than seems human.  Most remarkable,  NONE of us expects to be in situations that require everything we have just to navigate each 24-hour period, but many have and many of us will.

Coping with crisis is lonely.  There is rarely anyone near who can fully understand, but in each case, only the situation is unique.  The pain is not.  This is almost impossible to realize when one finds their self grappling with pain almost too big to withstand, but the truth is someone else has felt pain of the same magnitude.  This was the idea behind de blog’s category bended roads.

Think of it this way:  One day you’re driving on a pleasant enough road, the journey is in progress and you’re on your way.  Without warning, the territory begins to change, and you find that the road you thought you knew has bent and taken you in a direction that wasn’t on the map.
Nothing is familiar.
You’ve never been down this road before.
You are lost.
You can ask for directions, but this area is unfamiliar to even the locals.  Trapped in something like a maze, you try to find a way out.

Bended roads:  places you hoped you’d never visit.

Deb’s Note: The first of the bended roads features is coming soon.  If you’re lucky, you won’t be able to relate, because it be about stuff you’ve never experienced.   Even if you are lucky, I’m hoping these features will help the unlucky, to realize there are others who have been there.  More importantly, I hope these pieces will help the lucky few to better understand those places.

Over the past few months, I didn’t have the luxury of reading for pure enjoyment, because the time ordinarily spent, was taken up with other reading.   In an attempt to reestablish my reading-for-pleasure habit, I combed my bookshelf for an easy read.  First book chosen,  was about the psychology of happiness.  Not bad.  Not great.  Not very engrossing.  It was informative, mostly asserting that some people are happier than others.  (242 pages to tell me this?)  I’d already come to that conclusion, and since I’m pretty happy, it wasn’t very helpful.

After putting that book aside, I spied another title that seemed a sure-thing–Extraordinary Sex Now.
I chose this book with same kind of discrimination, I employ with almost every other book I buy–in other words, none.  About 70% of the titles I read are thrift store-born whims.  This particular book seemed a better-than-average value.  $1.50 for extraordinary sex???  How could I possibly go wrong?????

Just finished it.  It was about as helpful as the book on happiness–mostly an extraordinary waste of time.  Apologies to the author, but this book is about having what I would consider ordinary sex.  By ordinary, I mean sex, in which dysfunction does not play a hindering role.  It was closer to duller sessions of marriage counseling, than it was to inspiration for extraordinary intimacy.

The book suggested that my partner and I would more-or-less fit in one of four animal categories; lion, otter, bear, or bee.  Near as I can tell, I’m a lion.  No, I think I’m an otter.  Wait, maybe I’m an otter with lion traits–or a lion with otter tendencies.  It was easier to figure out what I wasn’t, than what I was, and it started me thinking about another animal-type that I’m not—the Cougar.

The Cougarrific lifestyle has become very trendy.  I’m not in the dating scene, but even if I were, I think it’s safe to say I have NO cougar tendencies.   I have a couple of girlfriends who are seeing younger men.  If it works for them, I’m all for it, but in general, I’m not a fan of the older woman/younger man dynamic.

Call me old-fashioned, but to me, it smacks of mother/son.  Women can’t help but nurture, which is great, but when it turns parental, it seems like dysfunction.  This isn’t always true, but I’ve seen many examples of the older woman/younger man relationship falling into that pattern.  To me a guy who partners with someone who “mothers” him, just doesn’t seem very manly.

I think in most cases, the Cougar “thing” is usually about Stella getting her groove back.  It’s about having a good time and feeling desired.  In those instances, I’d say it’s more a therapeutic stop-gap, than a real partnership.

A guy friend suggested to me, that the trend was the response of more liberated and less inhibited mature women who weren’t ready to stop living.  Some of these women, upon finding themselves available at later ages, also discover the men in their own age group are settling down.  It seems that after a certain age, many men begin starting to enjoy nesting & resting, more than going for the gusto; and too many of them seem to prefer weekends with the remote to weekends in remote locales.

In an era when women are enjoying more freedom, more economic independence and are better able to keep themselves feeling attractive, fit, and vital; the desire to be desired and fulfilled is larger than it was for previous generations.  Not only that, but today’s woman is more sexual than ever, causing many to crave physically fulfilling relationships.   Who wouldn’t?

Still, even when I was  much younger, I wanted  a man of a certain maturity–a man, not a guy who was still trying to become one.  I remember too well, the insecurities and unsure qualities of  20-something guys.  Been there.  Done that.  No thanks.  For me, there isn’t anything more attractive than a man with his own well-defined sense of self.

That aside, there are other reasons it wouldn’t work for me.  Trying to imagine it, I’m seeing how even a casual  dinner date might be problematic.

Sitting across a table listening to the conversation of a man who has been through some stuff, seems like a more interesting evening, than having to listen to the idealism of a man with limited life-experience.  Even if dinner wasn’t tediously boring, there would be the matter of the check.  It’s been years since I’ve picked up my own tab–except with girlfriends.  If I were with a younger man, I might have to.  I might be old enough to be a Cougar, but I might also be too old to want to remember how to calculate a tip.  Even if I felt differently, if we couldn’t get through dinner, there probably wouldn’t be much chance of things going further.

So to all the Cougar gals—-girrrrrl, your boyfriend looks good.  Rrrrrl!  There is nothing as visually delightful as the unspoiled beauty of youth, but it’s nothing compared to the assured, seasoned attractiveness men acquire with time.   So, while you may catch me watching one of those young bucks walking past, for this lioness, there’s still something about an old stag.

_____________________________

1.  Scandling, Sandra R. (1998) Extraordinary Sex Now: A Couples Guide to Intimacy
Doubleday.

Deb’s note: Our country was built with the foundational ideal that happiness is worth pursuing.  Though I can’t recommend the book mentioned above, if you’re committed to being happy,  I encourage you to read Dennis Prager’s book “Happiness is a Serious Problem”.  It’s cheap, easy to read, readily available, AND it’s chock full of life-changing goodness!

Hamburgers.

Hot dogs.

Pizza.

Spaghetti.

Tacos, nachos, ramen,  and egg rolls, these foods are nearly as American as apple pie.

Truly, what could be more American???

The pot on the stove, which contains beef simmering in Guinness Stout,  provides an answer.

Cooking corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s day feels like a very Irish thing to do,  and today, I AM Irish. I am every bit as Irish as that deliciously savory brisket.

Impressed? You might be, unless you are one of the few who realizes that corned beef is no more Irish, than hot dogs are American.

Irish immigrants to America,would have preferred salty Irish-bacon with their cabbage, but in their new country, there was none to be found.  For this reason, they substituted corned beef–a traditionally prepared food of Jewish Americans. That is how, ironically,this Kosher meat, became traditional fare for a Catholic holy day.  Knowing this, you may add corned beef to the list above of foreign-born foods, that Americans have incorporated into our cultural composite.

Only in America!

AMERICA!

It’s a great nation, but even great nations have failings.  When the Irish began immigrating to America during the potato famine, they hoped to find freedom and economic opportunity in their new country.  Sadly, instead, they often encountered unmerited prejudice and contempt. This didn’t stop them from becoming citizens or working to build and become part of this country.

As they joined and changed the American mix, the small-minded who had forgotten their own foreign-born roots, had no choice but to accept, and eventually embrace, the newest Americans. Those Irish immigrants were becoming part of  us.  As they became Americans, their food and culture became part of American tradition.

Other new immigrants faced similar hostilities. The Italians, the Japanese, the Germans, and others were also targets of unfair racial bias.  Undeterred, they became Americans. It didn’t happen easily or immediately, but they became us.  It is exactly what the founding fathers imagined and intended.

That‘s rich.

That’s civil righteous!

It’s America, and it’s a great country!

America is a nation like no other nation, because of its people.

E Pluribus Unum.  Out of many, one.

Somewhere in school they taught this. For those who have yet to grasp the subtle nuances of the Latin, let me paraphrase.   It means that on St. Patrick’s Day, we are all Irish; on Cinco de Mayo, we are all Mexican.  It means we eat pizza, hamburgers, and egg rolls, as if they were born in the U.S.A.  It means we forget these  foods came here with people from other countries, because those people are no longer foreigners, they are us.

With this in mind, may I suggest, tonight is a night to celebrate?  In fact, as part of the celebration, forget the pinching and opt for kissing. Don’t waste time looking for a Blarney Stone, or someone wearing a t-shirt with a “Kiss Me” directive,  just kiss somebody.  Anybody. Kiss someone who is Asian, Black or Hispanic.  Kiss anyone American,  because tonight, every American is Irish.

Here is a kiss for you!   Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Deb’s Note: If you are one of the unfortunate souls who has contempt for this country, it is only a matter of time before my love of country will annoy you.  Now, you’ve been warned.  Gloating about what a great country we live in?  wrapping myself in the Declaration of Independence or the constitution?  It isn’t the first time, it won’t be the last.   Kiss me I’m an American!

Jose Carlos is celebrating his birthday this week.  His mother was telling me the plans she had made for the celebration.  I squatted down to ask my wee friend about his birthday.  He doesn’t speak English, so I asked, “¿Cuántos años tiene?”
It’s the Spanish equivalent of “How old are you, but translates as “How many years do you have?”

Little Jose Carlos shows five fingers, and tells me that on Monday he will have six years.

¿Cuántos años tiene, Usted? How many years do you have?

I have decades plus change.   Those years have left with me residue of experiences and volumes of memories–all kinds.  It’s a lot, but it’s not much.

If I had this much experience in any career field, I would be considered an authority.  If I were called to testify about things I’d learned, I’d be an expert witness.  If I had been involved in a club or organization that long, no doubt they’d name me historian.

Except this is life.  Having so many years behind me, hardly makes me an expert.  In fact,  even with so many years,  I’m more like a precocious trainee, blundering through with the little I know.

As I celebrated my own birthday this past week, I decided to answer the question I’d asked Jose Carlos.  In fact, I’ve decided to replace the question, “How old are you?” with the Spanish version “How many years do you have”.

Instead of looking back and counting years gone by, I’m looking to the years ahead.    If I had as many ahead of me as behind, I could look forward to reaching a very respectable old age.  Though I’m still on the enviable side of middle age, the reality is what we refer to as “middle-age” is usually well past the middle.

Knowing  this makes the question even more pressing.
How many years do you have?
Do you have 30 behind you and 50 ahead?
Do you have 40 behind you and 40 ahead?
Do you have 50 behind you and an undetermined number ahead?

As an algebraic equation,  AGE + years left = LIFE; might be written:

A + Y =  L

To solve this problem, it would be necessary to define the product.  In this case the product, would be the sum total of life.
My husband, beloved soul mate and math maven, couldn’t solve the equation without more information–there are too many variables.
Even knowing the quantity that represents my age and the product I’d like to achieve at the end of age, there is no way of determining the number of years that I have left.

It’s what math guys would call an unknown.  There is simply no way to determine the number.  Knowing this, I’ve resolved to concentrate on what I’d like to add in the years ahead.

From now on, instead of allowing candles, on an over-decorated cake, to quantify my life, I’m going to focus on the years ahead.  Blowing out the candles, I’ll make a wish.  With any luck, when the equation is completed, the quantity won’t be nearly as remarkable as their quality.

My skin is brown.  Some people would call me mixed-race.  Mixed-race?   That meaningless term makes me cringe.  In this country a person of mixed ethnicity is an American.  Mixed race??!!??  A triathlon is a mixed race.

I am  SO proud of my ethnic roots, but I’m just another citizen of the world.  My race is, now and has almost always been, a non-issue to me.  However, every now and then my race has been an issue to someone.

Having brown skin gives me an “in” most white people don’t have.  In discussions of race, I’m an insider.  This gives me a special clearance.  I’m allowed to say things that white people are afraid to say.  Next week, I’ll share views on racism, today I’m sharing experience.

Recently, I was talking to a friend who was in terrible pain over a break-up.  His despair had turned him inside out.  I searched for  consoling words.  As he bared his injured heart, it caused me remember a break-up from my past.

I was in college when I fell in love with a nice guy.  I assume he had a soft spot in his head for brown-skinned girls, because his previous girlfriend was one.  That summer, things got serious.  He started dropping hints about us having a future together.  He asked me to travel to Colorado, to meet his parents.  Just before the trip, we walked through the mall, looking at rings–engagement rings.

A couple of days later, we were Colorado-bound.  We spent a week with his folks.  They had a beautiful summer cabin near Pike’s Peak.  They seemed to be lovely, decent people.  They were affluent, but humble and easy going.

There have been times when I felt that somebody’s mother was disapproving, but this time, I felt accepted.  His mother had some paralysis and required assistance with many tasks.  I got to know her well, as I helped her dress and comb her hair each morning.   We got along well.

By my thinking, the the trip was a success.

Right after our return, my would-be fiance said we needed to talk.  As we sat on the couch, he explained his mother didn’t want him to marry a Mexican.  She had told him that if he were to marry me, her grandchildren would be {gasp} minorities.   That was it.  It was over.

My skin was browner that day, than it’s been before or since.  That day I was too brown to be loved.   I was too brown to marry.  I was too  brown to be good enough.  I was just too brown.

Everything was amplified.  I felt browner.

The browner I felt, the smaller they looked.

It took me a long time to get over that–a very long time.  It was painful.  My brown skin and everything inside it hurt.
In my head, I heard the message, “not good enough”.

Not good enough . . not good enough . . not good enough . . not good enough . . . .

I got it.  Damn right!   I really got it.

They weren’t good enough for  me.

It’s never felt better to be brown, than when I realized my skin color saved me from having branches on that family tree.  Thank God, the world doesn’t need any more of “their kind“.

There were some very poignant responses to Dirty Little Secrets (3/9/10)  Though some chose to comment publicly, others sent responses privately.   I said before, I know too many victims.  This week, that number was increased.

For victims and those close to them, the piece was a reminder of old & painful incidents. Many are still keeping painful secrets.

With that in mind, I invite all readers to name any violators they know. Those inclined to do so, may use the contact tab to send the first name of anyone who has made someone else keep their dirty little secret.   I will only print first names.  Each name will be added to a list here.  I’ve named this list The Does’ list of John Does.

It is purely symbolic, but perhaps naming them, will be a first step for victims to find the voice needed to tell those secrets.   Everything will be confidential except the names.  I will not publish anything that will expose victims.  They’ve already been exposed to too much.

If you don’t allow yourself to fail, you may never allow yourself to succeed.

Last week, I shared how I was inspired me to step out of my comfort zone and  into the batting cages.  Here is the rest of the story.

I was grown-up before I saw all my grade school report cards en masse.  Every teacher commented  that I was “prim”, or something like that.  Their remarks suggested I was afraid to “get dirty” or avoided “playing“.  Anybody who knew me then, or knows me now, will tell you “prim” isn’t an adjective to describe me.  As for playing & getting dirty, they’re specialties of mine.

So why those comments?  One word:  Kickball.

The first time I was confronted by that  rolling red ball, I tried to kick it, but it rolled under my leg, as I missed.   I don’t remember the second or third time, but I began to fear the kickball and every other recess game.

I wasn’t prim, I was terrified.  I didn’t want to fail, so I sought activities that came naturally, art, music, drama–anything that didn’t require a test of  body mechanics.

In junior high and high school, a certain amount of sport participation is required,  and I found a couple of  things I did well–like hurdles & high jump, but mostly it was more of the same.  My junior year in high school, some of my best girlfriends played Jayvee basketball.  I had fun watching them, but not as much fun as they had.

Freshman year at college, some dorm pals needed a player for their football team.  Mazzarelli  (aka The Mad Italian), convinced me to play.   I didn’t really understand the game, but they explained “first and ten”, and told me what  to do.  They laughed at me, nicknamed me “Limbs” and were grateful for my blundering contribution.  I was part of a team, and we had a blast.

That’s it, the complete dossier of my sports experience.  I did a great job keeping space between me and all things athletic.  I never allowed myself the chance to fail, and in that, I never allowed myself the chance to succeed.

Failure doesn’t scare me anymore.  Despite plenty of failures & mistakes, I have very few regrets, but I still regret that Jayvee basketball team.  I should have played.  It was a long time ago, but I still wish I had.  I’ve told Embee, CeeCee, MarMart and Little Fox, I wish I’d tried.  It’s my only fond memory of them, I’m not in.

That was my then.

This was my “now”.

I’d phoned the batting cages to ask when they were slowest, and was informed that weekends are always packed.    Dang, I was hoping for as few witnesses as possible, but crowd or no crowd, I was committed.

Threw on the most athletic clothes I own, yoga pants.   I haven’t had athletic footwear since the early ‘90’s, but I had to put something on my feet.   I have cute boat shoes, sporty flip-flops, shoes for camping, shoes for snow, high heels, and Crocs.   I’m most comfortable in sandals, so I grabbed my favorite Ralph Lauren flips, and a pair of Crocs just in case.

Despite having spent plenty, to keep my kids in stuff like batting gloves, bats and helmets, they were no help outfitting me.  Consequently, upon arrival at The Bullpen Baseball Academy, I was relying on the owner Jay Sundahl to equip me.   I presented myself to the always-enthusiastic proprietor, and explained I’d never done anything like this before.   He was clearly amused, but also kind and helpful.  In a few minutes, I was stepping into the number one cage, holding a bat and wearing a Bullpen logo helmet.

Jay wanted me to succeed, so he instructed the guy manning the pitching machine to feed me some slow ones.   I stood there waiting.  The first pitches were breaking too low.  I realized the impossibility of hitting them and shouted to the man behind the mechanism, “It’s too slow”  A slight tweak, and the balls started breaking closer to home.  Perfect.

I wasn’t afraid.  I stepped up to the plate, and recalling Missy Watson’s advice, I took a few deep breaths.  I tried to concentrate on keeping my eye on the ball and following through.

When I’d imagined this moment, I was making contact, but that’s not exactly how it happened.  The first ten pitches taunted me.  I made contact with a couple, but barely.  I told myself  I was sure I could do this.   (At that point, I wasn’t sure–certainly not as sure as I’d been 15 minutes earlier. )  As the third set of balls began to launch, I was ready.

Over the next few minutes, my whiff rate was going down; my contact ratio up.  It was a rush.  I was hitting them and  was beginning to “get it”.  Laughing at a couple of foul tips which went over my head and behind me, I started to get a feel for swinging too late.  Hitting solid but not well, I began to know where I needed to stand to have the ball find the sweet spot.  I shouted back to Jay, “This is a blast!”

Then it happened.  I hit a couple that were good . . then a couple more.

In my head, I heard Missy Watson’s advice to “swing away”.  I also heard that “thwack “sound, with one big difference.   This time that sound was coming off my bat.   Hey, that would have been a hard-to-stop grounder.  Wow, that one would have run right down the alley between first and second.   They weren’t all great, they didn’t have to be.  They were good enough to make me feel amazing.

Is this how it feels to be Missy Watson?  I doubt it.  She’s been doing this so long, she probably doesn’t think twice about solid base hits.

I hit until I was afraid I might hurt myself.  I took a short break, then I hit some more.  At the end of an hour, I was transformed.

I thanked Jay for the best time I’d had in years.  Always a coach, he was complimentary to this rookie.  I tried to pay him for my time in the cage, but with an amused smile he announced it “on the house“.

It was a learning experience.

• I learned, no matter how sporty, flip-flops won’t pass as athletic footwear.  Crocs might, but only because they have closed toes.

• I learned the necessity of  batting gloves; and that $14.99 spent on them is money well-spent.

• The most important thing  I learned is  I could have been, the thing I thought I wasn’t.

That hour changed my life.
Now, I know I can and will do things I never dreamed possible.  For my entire adult life, I’ve wondered “what if “–what if anyone had encouraged me to play sports.  That hour, answered my question.  Would I have ever have been a girl-jock on par with Missy Watson?  Probably not, but with training, I could have been good enough to play on her team.

Bullpen Baseball Academy, I’ll be back!

Deb’s Note: Big thanks to my friends for their encouragement, to Jay Sundahl for not laughing, and to M. Watson for inspiring me.