And She Told Two Friends …

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At the risk of sounding like a total dork (believe me, I know it wouldn’t be the first time), Eleanor Roosevelt is one of my heroes. If I were planning a dinner party of famous people I admire, living or dead, she would be sitting right next to my father or possibly Jimi Hendrix. I am quite certain Mrs. Roosevelt would provide some interesting table talk, and I’m guessing she wouldn’t miss a beat when my dad told an off-color joke. I think they would also be able to relate when it comes to Mrs. Roosevelt’s famous quote: “Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.” My dad didn’t have much use for gossips or busybodies either.

My two heroes (sorry, Jimi) came to mind recently when my husband told me some unfortunate news about an acquaintance of ours. I have no plans to repeat it because it’s not my story to tell. Frankly, knowing it makes me feel sad and a little dirty.

I’ve also learned firsthand that gossiping has a tendency to come back to bite you in the butt. I truly believe that if you spread the word about someone else’s misfortune and take even the remotest pleasure in his or her pain, you had better watch your back afterward. It’s called karma, and it’s a bitch.

My own admittedly lame justification for occasional gossip is that I only talk about mean people who do crappy things because they deserve it. I’m not sure what gives me the right to determine their fate, but that is how I rationalize my bad behavior. In my defense, I don’t shout anyone’s story from the rooftop. It typically goes no further than my husband’s ears because it doesn’t occur to me to tell anyone else.

Mrs. Roosevelt would be happy to know that, unlike me, her potential dinner companion (my dad, not Jimi) never spoke ill of anyone, even the people he disliked. I assume he figured their unpleasantness spoke for itself. Plus, he always had great stories and ideas to share, so there wasn’t much room in the conversation for idle chatter about others.

When it comes right down to it, gossip stems from boredom. And, honestly, if you can find enough time to be bored in the juggling act of work, marriage and parenting, I’d like to know your secret. I promise not to tell.

Weather Girl or Waitress?

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My childhood career role model: weather girl Marilyn Turner

My daughter, who turned 11 yesterday, has informed me that she wants to be a food critic. I love her reasoning: You get free food, you get to tell people how it is, and you get paid for it.

But I wonder if she’s thought this through.

For example, does she know that a food critic has to be knowledgeable about fine dining, gourmet cooking, food history, the restaurant scene, chefs’ backgrounds, etc.? Does she realize that decent writing skills are a prerequisite if she wants to be successful? Does she recognize that Food Network stars like Anthony Bourdain and his butter-loving nemesis, Paula Deen, weren’t just handed TV shows? And, finally, does she understand that no matter what she tells me she wants to be when she grows up, she is absolutely, positively going to college? (I think I’ve successfully drilled that last part into her brain.)

I ask her these questions because I lacked a professional female role model at her age. I was all set in the “how to be a good mom” department. My aunt, who raised me, was an amazing mother. But most women I knew didn’t work outside the home, which meant I didn’t know any female doctors, lawyers or accountants.

In search of some guidance, I turned to my perpetual babysitter, the television (don’t judge my aunt; it was the ’70s, after all). On the evening news, I saw blond and beautiful Marilyn Turner, the WXYZ-TV Detroit weather girl. I watched her smile and “forecast” the weather (i.e., read the teleprompter), and I was hooked. I drew a map on my chalkboard and I practiced … a lot. Let’s face it: You sometimes find odd ways to amuse yourself when you grow up without siblings your age.

In the mornings, my TV babysitter presented me with an alternative career goal. While watching Rita Bell, host of “Prize Movie,” give away countless dinners for two at the Roostertail, I decided that being a waitress at the glamorous waterfront restaurant might be right for me.

How I ended up an editor is a whole other story, complete with lots of twists and turns, and I’m not sure I ever shared these childhood career goals with anyone in my family. I lived in my head a lot as a kid — also a product of being a virtual only child. But these early notions of what I might like to do as an adult are why I ask my daughter pointed questions about her career aspirations. I know they will change over the years — mine sure did — and the end goal, of course, is finding something she’s good at and loves to do. Whether she ends up a food critic or a brain surgeon, I hope I can offer her a little guidance along the way.

Chasing the Dragon: A Runner’s Story

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My husband and I after our first marathon, Chicago 2011

A wise and talented writer once told me, “I hate writing, but I love having written.” I think Dorothy Parker coined the actual phrase, but in any case there are definitely times when I would apply it to running. Some days I procrastinate for hours because I just can’t bear the thought of putting foot to pavement. And when I finally do drag myself out the door, every step is tortuous, every breath labored. Even the halfway point seems unreachable, and I basically cannot wait for it to be over. Sometimes, like today, running downright sucks.

But other times it is a life-affirming, incomparable experience. All your negative thoughts and energy drift away, and you become perfectly in tune with your physical self. I’ve actually cried during runs…and not from pain. There is singular joy in letting go; it’s the high that keeps runners coming back for more. Those perfect moments are the dragon we can’t stop chasing.

Last year, at age 43, I ran my first marathon. I had only been running for about three years, but I had a few races under my belt, including two half marathons. I am by no means a fast runner (my finish time was 5:32.34), but that wasn’t the point for me. After suffering a foot injury 11 weeks into training, I just wanted to cross that finish line.

I took it mile by mile because I honestly didn’t know if I could do it. My longest training run before I got hurt had been 16 miles, and 26.2 seemed unfathomable. At mile 13, I was thrilled to have reached the halfway point. At mile 20, I started to think I might make it. But it wasn’t till those last 400 yards — when I could actually see the finish line — that I knew I would finish. The elation of crossing that finish line ranks up there with giving birth. Seriously. (Don’t tell my kids I said that.)

As runners, the thrill of finishing the race is our reward for all the tedious hours we spend training. Sometimes we hate running, but we love having done it. So even though today’s huff-and-puff fest of a three-mile run felt like a complete waste of time, I know for a fact that I’ll be back on the trail tomorrow or the next day…or maybe both. I can’t help myself.

Spring Break: Embrace the Chaos

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Spring break officially begins just a few hours from now. That means for the next 10 days, my two children will be invading my work space, my daytime haven of solitude, my “me” time. Truth is, I couldn’t be happier.

Go ahead, say I’m crazy. You wouldn’t be the first. I know plenty of moms who cherish those hours alone during the week, and I get it. They love the quiet, they savor the freedom. They relish in the downtime from the insanity of their daily lives.

Not me. I was the mom who bawled her eyes out the first time she dropped her 3-year-old son off at preschool. I was the mom who sobbed for hours when he got on the bus for his first trip to kindergarten. And today, when my almost 13-year-old not-so-little boy heads off to the bus stop by himself, I am the mom who aches just a little each time he steps out the door.

I’m sure this makes me sound clingy, borderline neurotic and in need of my own life. To be honest, it’s not like I spend the entire day pining away for my long-lost little ones. I work. I do housework. I run errands. I do all the things other moms do.

But every so often, as I sit at my desk in my quiet house, with my sleeping Yorkie curled up in my lap, I crave the sound of my children’s voices, their laughter, their movements throughout the house. And I recognize, painfully, that someday they will be gone for good, off living their own lives and raising their own kids. When that day comes, our house will be eternally quiet.

So as they constantly interrupt my train of thought and add extra hours to my workdays for the next week and a half, I will remind myself to savor their company. I will try to tolerate the arguing. I will attempt to overlook the door slamming. I will make every effort to embrace the chaos because I know someday I will miss it madly.

From Barry to The Bishop: One Groupie’s Journey

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Ohhhhhh, Mandy!

My first concert was Barry Manilow. It was 1978 and my college-age babysitter Mary took me to see him at Pine Knob Music Theatre in Clarkston, Michigan. I was 10 years old, apparently too young to know or care how utterly uncool Barry is by most people’s standards. To make matters worse, I had a huge crush on him. I distinctly remember running down the hill on the lawn at Pine Knob singing, “I am stuck on Barry Manilow, but he ain’t stuck on me,” (to the tune of the “I am stuck on Band-Aid” commercial, which some of you 40-something readers may recall).

While my love for Barry waned, at least slightly, my love for music never did. My sister was into disco, so I became a huge Donna Summer fan. My brother was a rock-and-roller, so he balanced things out with some Hendrix and Zeppelin. He is also responsible for my love of The Doors, which reached its height in my 20s, but apparently began much earlier. I’m told that my aunt and uncle took preschool-age me to church with them one Sunday and apparently got a big surprise. When everyone else stood up to sing a hymn, I burst into a resounding version of the chorus of “Light My Fire.”

Since I believe in full disclosure, I must also admit that I had a brief obsession with Shaun Cassidy in the late 1970s (as did pretty much every other tween-age girl at the time). His poster was on my wall and I played his eponymous first album relentlessly. I may cringe at the sound of a Justin Bieber song today, but I can’t judge too harshly given my love for Shaun. (I am happy to report that my 10-year-old daughter has an iPod full of Adele, The Beatles and Death Cab for Cutie.)

The musical accompaniment to my junior high and high school years was predominantly punk rock, new wave and alternative in nature, and my angst was only outweighed by the ridiculousness of my haircuts. I have a shoebox full of concert stubs and photos, but I’ll save those stories for another day.

Fast forward to age 44: I’m married to a guy who loves music almost as much as I do, and we have two talented musicians for children. My husband plays bass, my daughter plays trumpet, and my son, the musical phenom, plays guitar, alto saxophone, piano and ukulele. My husband’s band, The Bishop, plays gigs around town and in Chicago on a regular basis. So even though I’m a working mom who’s expected to behave maturely on a daily basis, I still get to indulge my groupie side every now and again.

It’s been a long journey from Barry to The Bishop. Thanks, Mr. Manilow, for lighting my fire (apologies to Mr. Morrison).

My Failed Facebook Dry-Out

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Our dog, Rosebud, the unsuspecting victim of Facebook identity theft

I gave up social media for Lent this year, and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that it didn’t last. Let’s face it: I am a Facebook junkie. I like to “check in.” I like to “like” things. When I go a day without updating my status, people text me to make sure I’m OK. That last part probably sounds like an exaggeration, but sadly it is true.

Inspired by my husband, who gives up alcohol every year for Lent, I decided to try some clean living of my own. For 46 days (actually 40 because Sundays don’t count during Lent), I would give up Bejeweled Blitz (I am embarrassed to admit how much time I spent matching and detonating jewels); checking in (how would anyone know about the fun places I visited?); and updating my status (almost unthinkable for someone who has as much to say as I do).

Since I am not Catholic, I figured I would make my own rules and start Lent early. On Feb. 8, I announced my intentions publicly (via status update, of course). My friends wished me well and offered words of encouragement. One went so far as to send me a sympathy card the first week (no, I’m not making that up).

Somehow this perpetual Facebooker managed to quit cold turkey. For an entire week I did not take a single peek at my page or anyone else’s.

All was well until I realized that an email address I desperately needed was only available to me on Facebook. I knew I’d be cheating if I ventured back to the dark side and, although I may not be Catholic, I am prone to overwhelming guilt. So I signed on, got the email and admitted my lapse in a status update. I also said a quick hello because Lent hadn’t officially started and the temptation to let my 416 friends know how much I missed them was more than I could bear (even if most of them probably had no idea I had left Facebook in the first place).

Hoping it would be an isolated slip-up, I climbed back on the wagon. Again, I lasted about a week. This time I felt the overwhelming need to brag about my options guru husband, who had made an appearance on Fox Business News. It was a really big day for him, and he is not one to boast about his accomplishments. Someone had to do it for him, right?

By the time Fat Tuesday rolled around I knew I was in serious trouble. Giving up Bejeweled Blitz was nothing. It was going without the social interaction that was doing me in. So I deleted the Facebook app from my iPhone, and I deactivated my account.

I did pretty well initially. I logged in on two separate Sundays (the Catholic Church says they don’t count, remember?), but I deactivated my account before Monday, when Lent resumes.

Then I was faced with the mother of all tests of my addiction: My daughter, a fifth grader, won an essay contest. As her mom, I would have been proud of this regardless. But as a professional editor and on-again, off-again writer, I was thrilled. I had to let my friends know. I just had to. So I signed on to my dog’s account (yes, my Yorkshire Terrier, Rosebud, has her own Facebook page), and I sang my daughter’s praises. Rosebud only has 38 friends on Facebook, but, hey, it was something.

It was a Friday, not a Sunday, and I was on Facebook posing as my dog. I knew I had reached a true low point, so I gave up and reactivated my own account. Lent, for me, was officially over two weeks early.

Am I embarrassed that I couldn’t last the full 40 days? A little. But I’m proud too. Although I’m a miserable failure at making Lenten sacrifices (again, I’m not even Catholic), I did accomplish what I had set out to do during my Facebook sabbatical: I started this blog.

After months of thinking and talking about it, of agonizing over putting myself out there and writing again, I did it. And I’m pretty proud of myself, broken Lenten promise or not.

I’m not sure where this journey is going to take me, but I’ll be sure to keep everyone posted in my Facebook status updates. Oh, and for the record, my husband is still happily on the wagon.

Momless Wonder

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Jeanne Marie Hern Harkness (RIP 3/26/27 - 4/28/70)

Yesterday would have been my mother’s 85th birthday. She died at 43, just six weeks after being diagnosed with leukemia. She left behind an adoring husband, a 15-year-old daughter, a 12-year-old son and me, an oblivious toddler. I was 2½ when she died, so I haven’t a single real memory of her. I don’t recall the sound of her voice, her mannerisms, her laughter, her scent, the feel of her skin. These are memories I would give just about anything to have.

Yet, in my mind, being so young was a blessing. I moved into a new home, found love with a new family and basically didn’t skip a beat. That is a whole other story…

Today I am thinking about the beautiful woman who gave me life. When I was a child, I used to lie in the grass and look for her in the clouds. Today I look at the beautiful face of her granddaughter and I see her there. I know she is with me; she always has been. And as I watch my own daughter grow up and recognize the impact my presence has in her life, I sit back in wonder, momless wonder.

So not a ‘Girl’

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A likeminded friend told me I should blog about being so not a “girl.” It takes an “un-girl” to know one, so here goes.

Let’s get something straight right away: I am stereotypically girly in many ways. I love pedicures. I hate spiders. Hallmark commercials make me cry. And I have been an on-again, off-again fan of “General Hospital” since I was 5.

But here are some of the things that make me an “un-girl”:

  1. I hate talking on the phone — to the point where it’s almost a phobia. I will do just about anything to avoid picking up the phone. I am the queen of call screening. Text me, email me, but please don’t call me (unless it’s an emergency, of course).
  2. I don’t “play dumb” to make men (or anyone) feel smarter, and I think doing so is offensive and borderline reprehensible. This doesn’t always win me a lot of points.
  3. I have opinions. Lots of them. And I’m not afraid to share them.
  4. I don’t feel the need to compete with other people. I never have. I am genuinely happy when good things happen to anyone, male or female. If someone I know accomplishes something, I am right there, cheering her on.
  5. I don’t try to make myself look better by knocking other people down. This, coupled with the fact that I speak my mind, is one of the primary reasons I’ve never lasted long in a clique. I believe in being honest but not hurtful. And, for god’s sake, if you have something to say, say it to the person’s face, not behind her back.
  6. I don’t get jealous when my friends make new friends or spend time with other friends. This goes back to the non-competitive thing. If you love your friend, why would you be angry at her for spending time with someone else whose company she enjoys?
  7. I don’t envy other people’s belongings. Period. True happiness comes from almost losing everything and then realizing the things that really matter can’t be taken away.
  8. I’m not big on the whole “girls-only” thing. That’s not to say I don’t like to spend time with my female friends. It’s just that my husband is my go-to person for most things (aside from shopping and mani-pedis). We share a lot of interests and enjoy each other’s company. When we go out or travel, it’s usually together.
  9. On a related note, I don’t “husband bash.” My husband is my best friend, and he makes me happy. Is he perfect? No. Does he almost always leave his socks on the floor? Yes. But after 15 years of marriage, I’ve learned to pick my battles. I’ve also learned that, overall, he’s just not really bash-worthy.
  10. I always, always, always try to see the good in people. Sometimes it’s not easy. But prejudging someone doesn’t work for me. In fact, if Sally So-and-So tells me she can’t stand someone, I will go out of my way to give that person a chance. And I may end up writing off Sally in the process.

It’s not easy being an un-girl. We usually don’t fit in, and we often wouldn’t want to. The good news is that there are a lot of us out there, and we somehow manage to find and appreciate each other. We revel in each other’s victories, and we’ve always got each other’s backs.

Remembering John

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A few decades ago, at this time in the afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day, I would have been well into my third hour of drinking. My best friend and favorite drinking buddy, John, would have been right by my side, bellying up to the bar at the Tipperary Pub in Detroit.

“The Tip,” as we fondly referred to it, was where we did some of our finest drinking and studying (yes, studying) during our college years. John was the perfect accomplice in my “I don’t want or need a boyfriend” early 20s because a) everyone thought he was my boyfriend, so no one bothered me, and b) he was gay, so there was no chance of romance complicating things. The fact that he was just as wild and crazy as me certainly helped our friendship to blossom. We were inseparable, and we had the time of our lives.

So, here’s to the memory of a true friend, who would have followed me anywhere — to the Irish pub or the punk club. An entire day of drinking is well out of reach for me these days, but I’ll be raising a glass to you later, Johnny Boy. Sláinte!

Leaving Normal (Well, Detroit)

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I left Michigan two months before my 26th birthday. At 18 I had set a deadline for myself of moving away from the Detroit area by 25, and time was running out. So, I did what any reckless 20-something would do: I quit my job, sold my car and moved to Chicago.

Of course it would have made a lot more sense to find a job first, but that didn’t happen as quickly as I would have liked. Plus, if I had waited till the right job came along, I would have missed out on a whole lot of adventures – including brief stints as a telephone operator at Playboy and manager of a Michigan Avenue boutique. At the latter, I learned that (some) women in fur coats with big pocketbooks will buy just about anything labeled “art.” At the former, I learned that (some) men think women dressed as bunnies answer the phone at Playboy’s corporate office, and they behave accordingly.

Also, if I had taken the responsible path, I most likely would not have spent so many evenings exploring the music scene with my partner in crime (a childhood friend who had moved to Chicago before me). During one such outing, I met the man who would eventually become my husband and the father of my two children.

This is the part where my 20-something self would most certainly recoil in terror … or at least shock. Husband? Children? Now, how in the heck did that happen?

Sometimes a wrong turn takes you in exactly the right direction. And that, among other things, is what this blog is about.