A Few of My Favorite Things

I’m house hunting. It’s not my first time, but this time is different. This time, it’s all about me. (Well, it’s about my dog, Annie, and me. But I’m confident that she’d be happy if we lived in a cardboard box, as long as I was home a lot.)

 

Also different this time: I “staged” my house for sale, first by myself and then with a professional stager hired by my Realtor. Staging basically means “going neutral” in terms of a color scheme, and packing away or covering anything remotely interesting. OK, that last part is somewhat of an exaggeration, but only a bit. 

My bedroom? “A lot of personality,” advised my Realtor. I was initially taken aback, but a Google search for “home staging” backs her up. “They need to see your home, not your stuff,” writes Matthew Finlanson, host of HGTV’s The Stagers. He says that “taking yourself out of the picture makes it easier for buyers to imagine themselves, and their stuff, in your space.”

Whateva. Their stuff. My stuff. It’s all just stuff. Like most Americans, I have way too much of it. Armed with Hefty bags, boxes and packing tape, I jumped on the “staging” bandwagon with the precision of a surgeon with no emotional connection to his patient. Every Sunday night for weeks, I filled my garbage and recycling bins to capacity and made regular runs to Goodwill. 

But a funny thing happened as I removed the Obama magnets from the fridge, packed away the framed construction paper self-portrait of my son in middle school, and transformed my meditation altar into a decorative shelf. I realized that I like my home like I like my friends -- with plenty of personality. And much of that personality comes from the things that surround me.

Before

After

 

Sure, they’re just things, and I was overdue for some weeding. But I don’t see the harm in appreciating those items that made the cut (even if some are stored in boxes until my house meets its new inhabitants). There’s pleasure and comfort in surrounding yourself with objects that you love, whether it’s because they’re especially useful, richly sentimental or just pleasing to look at. 

My home is filled with original art I’ve collected from my travels during the last 30 years. Among the most special are my oldest pieces: the onyx chess set from Tijuana, Mexico, that I lugged on the plane with my carry-on luggage after an internship at the LA Times; the Mayan parade batik from my honeymoon in Mexico (the marriage didn’t last, but the artwork endures); and the Montreal watercolor that my late father bought me from a street artist during a rare vacation together.

 I think, or hope anyway, that I’ve passed on to my son the idea that art makes the best souvenir. He’s off to a great start with a set of New York City skyline photographs from a family East Coast trip; a handmade sword he picked out from the factory in Toledo, Spain; and an official reproduction of his favorite painting, Goya’s The Third of May 1808, from the Prado in Madrid.

  Reproductions are fine, but there’s something particularly powerful about purchasing a piece directly from the artist whose hands created it. My mother and I do this about every other fall, at the St. James Art Fair in Louisville. I met the metalworker who designed my wall clock with the twisty second hand; the woodworker who carved my  desk clock with a swinging pendulum; the glass artist who blew life into my window vase; and clay artists who formed numerous pieces of pottery I use very day.

Sometimes, you don’t even have to leave home to find a cherished item. One of my favorite wall paintings is a print of Girl Reading by Lexington, KY, artist Linda Horvay, a friend and fellow church member.

Soon, that girl will be reading in a new home. I’ll be packing all my treasures with care, where they will decorate a new stage, worthy of the next act (or two or three) of my life.

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Anyone notice that this post is dated about 13 months since my last one? It’s hard to believe that it has been more than a year. As the months passed by, I had what I thought were some pretty good ideas. I started several posts. But I just didn’t make it to the “publish” button. Maybe my lofty standards got in the way of progress (a recurring theme in my life), or maybe I just wasted too much time watching back-to-back Big Bang Theory reruns on TBS. That’s the tricky thing about a hobby such as blogging. You want enough discipline to keep it interesting, but not so much that it becomes another “have-to-do” in a “have-to-do” filled life.

Anyway, I hope to be writing a bit more regularly. “Once a week would be ideal,” my good friend Bridget helpfully suggested. That’s not going to happen, but I will do my best to shoot for once a month. And I will take her advice to experiment with some shorter posts. Thanks to Bridget and all of my friends for their continued encouragement. It’s good to be back.

Growing up, UUCL style

From right: Alex, Graham and Miles at Camp Lackadogma

One of my favorite church services each year is the Religious Exploration celebration, which includes a farewell to – and from – the high school seniors, who are introduced by their parents.

That is, it was a favorite until this year. Because this year, this morning to be exact, my son was doing the farewell and I was doing the introducing.

We’ve come full circle. Fourteen years ago, it was 4-year-old Alex and his barrage of questions about God, religion and spirituality that led us to the Unitarian Universalist Church of Lexington. We didn’t find absolute answers to those questions, of course, but I can’t imagine a better place to explore them. And we found so much more.

As Alex prepares to graduate and leave for college, he takes with him a host of rich memories and valuable lessons from this dynamic community in which he has been privileged to have grown up.

Odd wise man

In fact, any reminiscence of his childhood would be incomplete without UUCL: The chalice lightings; Joys and Concerns; speeches and productions and performances (including parts as Jesus and a wise man with the giant gold lame' turban); overnight youth cons; the beloved retreat Camp Lackadogma; and themed Service Auctions.

The "nice young couple"

Even this year’s church directory photo shoot was memorable, when the apparently sight-impaired Olan Mills salesman taking us through the proofs referred to us as a “nice young couple” before Alex’s outburst of laughter let him know that something was amiss.

UUCL taught him about diversity and fairness and justice and social action and environmental responsibility. In short, he learned what it means to embody his childhood definition of Unitarian Universalism: “Loving Hearts, Open Minds, Helping Hands.”

He learned the beauty and comfort of tradition and ritual: the flower communion in which individual flowers of differing shapes, colors and varieties create a congregational bouquet; the water ceremony that signifies reconnecting after our summer travel; and “Silent Night” in a candlelight circle on Christmas Eve.

He explored his personal spirituality in the Coming of Age program and learned how to be a responsible sexual being in Our Whole Lives.

He learned the satisfaction of service by organizing the Crop Walk, being a teen mentor for new Coming of Agers and helping Sharon run the Service Auction kitchen. Occasionally, he even learned how to – and how not to – deal with controversial issues that have far-reaching implications.

Although his parents divorced when he was 10, Alex learned that successful relationships can thrive, sometimes  for multiple decades. A heartfelt thank you to some of the many loving examples: Bob and Ruth; Gil and Jan; Wayne and Shirley; Judy and Judy; Dick and Donna; Alan and Judy; Roz and Herm; and Joe and Elise.

Woodstock Service Auction '12

At UUCL, Alex has crossed paths with more interesting, talented, dedicated and downright quirky people than most middle class white kids from Lexington, KY, could dream of. He’s a better person for it. We often say that UUCL is the only game in town for one reason: because it is.

He’s made great friends, including some intergenerational ones. I’m not sure how many 18-year-olds have a dozen 70- and 80-year-olds among their Facebook friends. A fringe benefit to that: he’s encouraged to keep his Facebook posts clean.

Like my actual home, my “church home” will be a bit empty come August. I’ll miss sharing a hymnal and singing (off key, both of us) our favorite songs “Gather the Spirit” and “Enter Rejoice and Come In.”

But I take solace in the fact that Alex will be taking along a childhood full of memories from UUCL. I hope he hears the congregation singing the very tune that carried his youthful self to RE classes each Sunday:

Go now in peace; go now in peace.

May the spirit of love surround you;
Everywhere, everywhere, you may go.

It Takes A Grandmother

On Dec. 15 last year, my son got accepted to his dream school, Yale. If this is news to you, you must not know my mother. Or know anyone who knows her. Or have spent any time in Lexington in the last few months.

Dotty is a walking “Ask Me About My Grandson” bumper sticker. Except that there is no need to ask. She will tell you anyway. Family, friends, co-workers, acquaintances, strangers at Starbucks, you name it.

Among her early round of calls announcing the college news was to our longtime dentist’s office, where she left a voicemail message that “my grandson, and your patient, just got accepted to Yale.” I wonder what the receptionist thought when she retrieved that one. So he needs a cleaning before he leaves?

It’s all a bit embarrassing. I’ve found myself wishing that she were more like the mother of Big Bang Theory’s Leonard Hofstadter. If you’re not a fan of the show (and you’re missing out), Leonard is an experimental physicist at Caltech, but is eclipsed by his brother, a Harvard law professor; and his sister, a cutting-edge medical researcher working with gibbons to cure diabetes.

"You must be very proud,” Leonard’s friend, Howard, says to Leonard’s mom during one of my favorite episodes.

"Why?” she deadpans. “They're not my accomplishments.”

Alex’s many accomplishments are certainly his own. But he’d be the first to tell you that he has had many advantages. And that his grandmother is chief among them.

Alex’s dad and I moved to Lexington, where my parents lived, about three years before Alex was born. We’ve been here ever since. So my mother has had a pivotal role in the making of the young adult he has become. 

Alex is her only grandchild. She was there the night he was born at Central Baptist Hospital. She saw him about every other day when he was an infant, taking her turn at the rocking and feeding and bathing and soothing. Then, he was a toddler. You know those grandmothers who can sit for entire afternoons with a cup of tea, watching their grandchildren play? Dotty was not one of those grandmothers. She was on the floor with him, building block villages and Play-Doh masterpieces. One of Alex’s favorite toys as a preschooler was his toy kitchen, and they’d frequently play “restaurant,” with Grandma placing her order for hamburgers and fries or eggs over easy.

At every stage, she read to him for hours at a time. First, Boynton board books, Good Night Moon and Where the Wild Things Are. Later, chapter books such as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, when the whole family gathered for the chapter where Charlie found the golden ticket. And the first Harry Potter book, the last book that he relied on us to read for him.

She watched Barney and Arthur and Winnie the Pooh. She tackled wooden puzzles and floor puzzles. She played Candy Land, Chutes and Ladders, Sorry, and Trouble, and helped Alex learn to lose with grace (or at least to fake it). “Good game. Congratulations,” he’d force himself to say, faking a smile and fighting back tears. Note: he still hates to lose, as does his mother.

Grandma was/is a permanent part of the support crew at birthdays, plays, concerts and school events. She is there for all of it. She is generous with her time, and generous with her modest resources. She works full-time in retail at age 76 (yes, you read that right) and has a hefty “Alex” line in her monthly budget.  She shops more for him than she does for herself. She’s decorated three bedrooms, several playrooms and a gaming room/office. On his 16^th birthday she bought him a 2008 Mazda, a decade newer than her own car. Whatever he’s doing she’s there with a check, for camps, trips, lessons, equipment, you name it. This month’s contributions: his cap and gown purchase and prom tuxedo rental.

As grateful as I am for all of that, I’m most grateful for something else. She has kept my dad’s memory alive so that Alex could grow up with him, too, even though he died two years before Alex was born.  In fact, his birth helped ease my mother’s grief in a very real way.

A year after my dad’s death, my mother was still replaying in excruciating detail the five hours between his heart attack and his death, reliving interactions with the EMTs, the cardiologists, the hospital chaplain. After Alex was born, she replaced those hospital faces with his. And suddenly, that terrible memory started to fade.

For the last 18 years, as Alex has been busy growing up, he and Grandma have been making memories of their own. We’re looking forward to May 26, when Alex graduates from high school and then less than three months later, when he starts his freshman year at Yale. It’s a busy time, so lest I forget to say it then, let me say it now: Congratulations, Mom.

If You Can Read This, I’m Thanking Some Teachers

My son is a high school senior, and like many parents at this juncture, I’ve been the proud parent at numerous awards programs over the years.

The best one yet? The one where I was most proud? That would be the one where he didn’t win a thing.

We spent Sunday afternoon at the Fayette County Public Schools’ annual FAME Awards, which recognize exceptional teachers, counselors and coaches. The winners are nominated by seniors, who are invited to write an essay about the educator who has been most influential to their success.

There were 86 honorees and 104 nominators (some multiples), and the students read snippets of their essays. From my son, Alex, we heard about Beth McKenzie, the Paul Laurence Dunbar High School teacher who taught him AP US Government and nurtured his love of national politics. She was the one who encouraged him to run for student council president, and is the adviser now helping ensure that neither he nor others regret that decision. She teaches him the value of hard work through example. And most of all, she has been instrumental in helping him grow from an introverted sophomore to a self-assured senior headed to Yale in the fall.

Alex and Beth McKenzie, after the ceremony

 

As Ms. McKenzie stood on the stage to receive her accolades, I got to thinking about how at that moment she represented every good teacher – and there have been many – that Alex has had from kindergarten to 12th grade in Fayette County. I was thinking too, about how I have never regretted my decision to stick with public school despite its detractors.

 

And there were detractors. Those who said that he’d never get the personalized attention he would at a private school. That he wouldn’t be challenged. Or worse yet, that he might not survive the hallways of middle school.

Hogwash. All of it.

Alex’s passage through Fayette County Public Schools has been, well, pretty much ideal. In 13 years, I can recall only one or two school employees who didn’t exhibit knowledge, dedication, compassion and responsiveness. That goes for Julius Marks Elementary (kindergarten through 2nd grade), JR Ewan Elementary (grades 3-5), Winburn Middle School (6-8) and PL Dunbar (9-12).

Full disclosure: Alex has the one-two punch of intelligence and self-motivation, and has been in an accelerated magnet program since third grade. I’m grateful that there were such options, and that those options existed within the public school system.

I’m grateful, too, for the many educators (underappreciated and underpaid) who fueled his interest in literature, math, history and politics, or rather, for learning in general. The French writer Anatole France had it right when he said, “Nine-tenths of education is encouragement.”

So it makes sense that as Alex and I look back at the teachers in his past, the most memorable are those who did just that. Such as Betsy Biddle, the 2nd grade assistant teacher at Julius Marks Elementary who led a reading discussion group with Alex and two other advanced readers. She accomplished what I considered impossible: she got Alex to love reading even more than he already did. Her care and attention included mailing him handwritten cards of encouragement throughout that year and afterward. I don’t think it’s overstating to say that his academic success was born at that table in the back of the classroom. The year after, he broke JR Ewan’s Accelerated Reader school record with 736 points. (A record, he reminds me, will forever stand because the school no longer exists.)

Homecoming Queen Crowning Practice

In middle school, there was English with Chad Peavler, who turned him on to To Kill a Mockingbird; math with Devin Onkst, where he learned the quadratic formula song to the theme of Pop Goes the Weasel; and US History with Theresa Buczek, who took him to the national level of the National History Day competition.

At PL Dunbar, the quality of teaching is unparalleled. Among those teachers: Beverly Smith, who runs the Math, Science and Technology Center like it’s her baby (a super smart, well-cared for, baby); Paula Azzarito, who turned Alex’s favorite subject into his favorite classes: AP World History and AP US History; Kara Patterson, whose always sunny disposition is infectious even at a daily 7:25 a.m. calculus class; and Ben Zimmerman, who is so organized and so thorough that no second of AP Spanish is wasted.

Alex told me the story recently about how, in freshman English, he made an exceptionally good point and the teacher remarked, “You must have had a great teacher in the past.”

The truth is, he’s had a lot of great teachers. And we’re both very grateful.

Sometimes the Movie is Better Than the Book

I've been riveted by the tributes to Steve Jobs, dead this week at 56. Without question, the world lost a visionary who changed our lives.
But beyond all the news coverage of the tragic passing of the Apple Inc. co-founder who led the mobile computing revolution, all the pontificating on the loss of his unsurpassed intuition and innovation, I found the greatest sadness in the reason he authorized his biography.

"I wanted my kids to know me," Jobs reportedly told the biographer, Walter Isaacson.

No matter how long I live, it's unlikely that I'll do anything infinitesimally as impactful as Jobs. But I'm equally sure of something else: My son won't need to read a book to know me. I'd like to think that he could write it.

Alex is 17, and for the last seven years since I divorced his dad, we've strengthened our bond. He's responsible for his part now, but I set the stage in the early years. And it wasn't always easy.

At 10, Alex was an academically gifted kid more interested in science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z than spending time with his mother. And me, well, I would have had trouble feigning interest in those activities even if I hadn't been struggling with the end of a 16-year-marriage and everything that accompanied it.

So I did the one thing I could: I showed up. I was there, to set limits on the science fiction and video games and Dragon Ball Z. Then, for the basketball games (awful), the soccer games (even worse) and the piano recitals. Next came the academic team quick recall competitions, the 5th grade production of The Emperor's New Clothes, and a one-year stint in the marching band (enough fodder there for several blog posts of their own). Today, it's all about student government leadership activities, lab projects, volunteer tutoring, and college applications. Those are his interesting pursuits. Firmly in my "snooze" category: Taylor Swift, science fiction (sadly, he didn't outgrow that one), Kentucky basketball (don't stone me, and don't bother reminding me that I'm an alum), and political history. I try to show up even for those. Alex returns the favor by supporting my flavor-of-the-month self-improvement efforts (October's special: Emotional Brain Training!), and feigning a passing interest in Buddhism, meditation, Melissa Etheridge, and djembe drumming.

Lunch today, post senior portrait session.

In the end, it's true what many people say: good parenting (or really, a relationship of any kind) doesn't happen if you don't show up. Even if it's the last place you'd like to be. Because a funny thing happens when you show up regularly with anyone. You get to know something about each other. Maybe, if you're lucky, enough to fill a book.

My guess is that Alex could fill a book with my life story so far - the good, the bad, and quite a bit of the in-between. I know that I could do the same for him. Nowadays, we gather our research during hectic we-put-it-off-too-long-and-Grandma-is-coming cleanups and our efficient weeknight lunchmaking assembly line. We make runs for frozen yogurt, pad thai chicken, or palak paneer with garlic naan.  Alex monitors our DVR with the precision of an air traffic controller so that we can spend time with our friends: Jon Stewart, Alex Trebek, House, and our current fave, Dexter. (Yes, we bond over a serial killer. Don't judge.) We spoil our beloved dog, Annie. And we make fun of each other's taste in music.

And because we're human, we gather some of that research while arguing, usually over priorities and timing - when my impatience and high standards collide with an overflowing recycling bin, not-frequent-enough walks for the aforementioned Annie, or Alex's general procrastination. And because he's a teenager, and because I have my own friends and interests, when it comes to companions, we're clearly not always each other's first choice.

Europe train station, weird American tourist pose.

What comes to mind here is that overused platitude I usually avoid: "It's all good." Like people say, it's the ordinary moments that end up meaning the most.

For the sake of Steve Jobs' kids, I hope his biography contains some of those moments. We'll know soon. Publication has been moved up to Oct. 24, and the book is currently topping Amazon's pre-order bestseller list.

I also hope, even though he's not alive to savor it, that the book contains a couple of personal accolades for Jobs from his children. Parents are supposed to love and support their kids, but it's nice to get a little something back once in a while, no matter how it's delivered.

"Some of my friends hate their parents," Alex told me recently. "I don't get that."

All Work and No Play is No Fun

More than 30 years later, I have vivid memories of my first job, as a waitress in a popular family-owned restaurant that specialized in Texas hot wieners. There was a lot to love about that job – the predictable cadence of the different shifts and sections, chatting with the regulars, the cups filled with quarters at the end of the night.

And there was Ruben. The dishwasher from the Dominican Republic was 4-foot-barely-anything, with a huge grin of misshapen teeth. He was a dedicated family man with a house full of kids, who also was dedicated to banter with the teen waitresses.

As I neared the dishwasher, Ruben would drop the sprayer. He’d lift the front of his apron with one hand, and with the other, hold up his fist, flex his arm and brag: “It’s like theees, Lee-sah. Like theees.” Then, that toothy grin.

Ruben impression for my ex boss,
Jody, at a team outing. Seriously.

Yes, he was talking about what you think he was talking about. And yes, it probably sounds a bit creepy. But I found it hilarious. Both then as a naive 16-year-old, and now, as a 47-year-old human resources professional well versed in sexual harassment.

My work colleagues have come a long way since Ruben, but they still make me laugh. And when that stops, I know that it’s time to brush up the resume and move on. Because you spend too much time and emotional energy at work not to have some fun.

My closest colleagues and I have the combination of personal knowledge and trust that is the foundation for a lot of laughs. Barely a day goes by without some good-natured ribbing, some of it fit for print, and some of it, well, not. I’ve been appreciating that even more lately, as I transition to a new team.

Ozzy, back row, third from right

Happy Hour body spelling

I’m grateful that I'll be with the same organization. I've had a lot of fun over the last seven years. I dressed up as Ozzy Osbourne (complete with both arms covered with fake tattoos) for a skit at a summer picnic. I told a new employee that every Friday was “Bring Your Dog to Work Day” and that our vice president liked to be called “Bubbles.” And predictably, some of the fun has been at my expense.

No recollection here. None whatsoever.

It’s been as simple as returning from the restroom to see that a massively overgrown zucchini someone brought in to share from their garden had replaced my computer mouse. I knew Jason had been there.

Jason also was the coworker who, soon after he got word that I passed the four-hour (and very difficult) senior HR certification exam, decided to leave me a voice mail message while I was celebrating with my study team. Ever the master of the disguised voice, he said he was calling from the certification institute to notify me of “a colossal error” and that he regretted to inform me that I hadn’t passed after all. I was listening on my cell phone and had to pull the car over to avoid having an accident. That was late June six years ago, and I still can recall the sick feeling in my stomach until I got to the very end of the long message and he said, “Ha. It’s Jason!”

My favorite prank involved not Jason, but my current team, with an assist from our vice president’s administrative assistant. It was in our old building, where we’d constantly pass huge pallets of materials with signs saying, “Hold for John Doe.” I remarked more than once: “I’ll know I’ve made it when someday there is a sign with my name on it.”

One day, upon my return from vacation, I turned the corner and there was a pallet of toilet paper with the sign, “Hold for Liz Caras.” I laughed for days, and still have the framed photo of that day on my desk.

One of the other teams within my organization recently interviewed a job candidate, and she asked the group, “Do people have fun around here?” Great question. They said yes. They offered her the job and she accepted.

I’m looking forward to having some fun with my new colleague when she starts in October. But I’ll have to get creative. Overgrown zucchinis will surely be out of season.

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Requisite Weight Loss Update

Where have I been since my last update in May and my do over? As Inigo Montoya says in one of my favorite movies, “There is too much. Let me sum up.”

So, briefly, in a stream of consciousness reminiscent of Terry McMillan’s How Stella Got Her Groove Back (Because if anyone were ever trying to get her groove back it would be me), here goes: Was on a bit of a roll with the diet and exercise regimen, worked out with the trainer but got into trouble on my own when I forgot that I was grossly out of shape and started jogging. Ouch! Lateral shin splints on both legs and a calf muscle tear on one. Then, frustration and a back slide made worse by my son being away for five weeks at summer program (missed him terribly). Soon snapped out of it. Rejoined HMR diet program with the aid of a scholarship (thanks Mom! And Happy Birthday!), renewed meditation commitment with a weekend retreat, back with therapist I love, back with trainer but taking it slowly and letting calves heal. Even sucked it up and endured a water fitness class with a couple of women old enough to be my grandmother. On a roll, but ever mindful that it’s a journey and I’m in it for the long haul. No such thing as perfection and all or nothing makes no sense. Down 16 pounds in one month. Shooting for at least more 12 this month and every month after until I’m happy where I am. I’ll check back at the 6-month mark, just after my 48th (yikes) birthday. Thanks to all for you continued support.

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I’m recovering from some oral surgery and had to lay low for a couple of days. I share with you, dear readers, one of my couch projects. You, too, can create your own magazine cover here: http://www.oprah.com/omagyourself.

And yes, I was prescribed some pain pills.

Momzilla’s Email: The Bright Side

Miss Manners Bourne, left, and Withers

Chances are, you’ve read about the British woman who sent a scathing email to her future stepdaughter-in-law, chastising her bad manners after a weekend visit.

The email went viral after the recipient, 29-year-old Heidi Withers, forwarded it to friends. The story dominated the British media for the last few days and made its way to the United States. In both places, it has evoked strong criticism, much of it directed at mother-in-law to be Carolyn Bourne, a prominent horticulturalist.

My overwhelming thought after reading the news stories and the entire missive? I would have loved to have gotten such an e-mail. Sure, Bourne comes off as snooty, judgmental, and downright insensitive to Withers’ diabetes and the financial situation of her parents. And a mean-spirited diatribe against bad manners seems like, well, bad manners.

Still, after meeting my in-laws to be, I wish they had scripted such a message. I wish they had the courage to address me directly, to tell me exactly where I stood, to put in writing what they thought of me. More than anything, it would have been honest. And to me, honesty is at the heart of family – whether you’re born into it or marry into it. It would have put the issues on the table and precipitated an open discussion. Ideally, we would have reached a compromise, or if not, agreed to disagree and minimize our interactions.

But that’s not the way it went down for the 16 years of marriage before my 2004 divorce. My in-laws proffered criticism about me to their son, made me the scapegoat for his failures, and generally used emotional blackmail to manipulate situations to their liking. Some of their antics over the years make Carolyn Bourne look like a sensitive, open-minded woman. But I won’t share those juicy details since they’re still around, are still grandparents to my son and two nephews, and are still parents to the sister-in-law I adore and my ex-husband.

Suffice it to say that I opted to keep the peace, and consequently, endured 16 years of fake smiles, superficial conversations, and a whole lot of stress, for me individually and for my marriage. Perhaps worst of all, because of their secret vitriol, I never knew when they were being genuine – when to trust anything they said or did. My fears were validated soon after the separation, when they remarked, “We never liked her anyway.”

I haven’t seen or spoken to them since my divorce. I wish them no ill will, but removing them from my life was a gift I gave myself at a time I especially needed such a gift.

If I could do it over again, I’d like to think I would handle it differently. Famous last words, I know. The best I can do now is to vow to do better when my son brings home the woman he plans to marry. My guess is that I’ll love her instantly, but if it takes more work, sign me up. Whatever happens, I’m going to model the kind of honesty that I will expect from her. And most importantly, if I have a beef or two, I pray that I’ll have the good sense to step away from the keyboard.

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Happy 1st Birthday Lizerella!!

July 4 marks the one year anniversary of this blog. A heartfelt thanks to all of you for reading. Hugs to my sister and seven close girlfriends (four at work and three outside), without whose support I wouldn’t have continued. I also want to give a shout-out to my best college friend, a professional editor who always makes time to volunteer advice.

I’ve had a wonderful time, and am looking forward to another year together.

The Gospel According to JC

JC at my 1988 wedding.

At the end of each workday, after he got dinner started, my father settled into a kitchen chair for a few moments of quiet contemplation, sipping Ouzo on the rocks. He would occasionally write his thoughts on 3 1/2 by 5-inch index cards, one thought per card, in cursive blue or black ink.

Over time, he built a three-inch stack of cards. These he stashed in a dresser drawer. They were sandwiched between pieces of cardboard and secured with rubber bands – seemingly so he could slip into the “chapters” additional thoughts as they arose.

The cards aren't dated, but a few refer to the year 1992, suggesting that some were written shortly before he passed away. James Caras died of a heart attack in February of that year; he was 62.

My mom, my sister and I found the stack – 217 cards in all – after his funeral. Some cards contain just a few words; others fill one side and spill onto the back. The
first card: The Gospel According to JC.

JC’s chapters include musings on his family, his work, his personal beliefs. Many are poignant, some funny, some R-rated and one or two, frankly, a little disturbing. My favorite chapter is “Comments I Might Make to a Son.” He never had a son (just my sister and me) but I have one. That 17-year-old has many of my dad’s positive traits, and to say that they would have loved each other is a supreme understatement.

Over the years, I’ve toyed with the idea of doing something with the cards. But nothing felt quite right. And then, when my dad came to mind because of Father’s Day this weekend, I figured that the cards had been sheltered in my desk long enough.

Like the person who wrote them, they’re not perfect. My dad was a smart, gentle man and a loving, dedicated father. But he didn't suffer fools lightly, sometimes blew up in anger at the inconsequential, and had difficulty making peace with the people and situations he felt betrayed by.

The stack’s second card provides a glimpse into the sharper edges that few outside the family saw: Why am I writing this? For posterity? Who cares. For publication? Hardly! For catharsis? Bullshit!

With that being said, I present a sampling of the gospel’s entries. It wasn’t easy to choose. First, I ruled out his critiques of the American political system, the American education system (my dad was a high school guidance director), the Greek Orthodox Church and organized religion in general. (Enough each for a blog post their own). I settled on those that made me think, made me smile, or made me chuckle. I chose the ones that might resonate still for my mom, my sister, my son, myself, and for you dear reader, because this gift is too special to keep to ourselves.

So here goes. Personal philosophy:
• What is the perfect man? One who listens to and follows his own heart.
• Intimidation is a kind of death. When you permit yourself to be intimidated into doing something you feel you should not, a small part of your uniquely beautiful being dies.
• Never make an idle threat, voice a meaningless comment or extend an undeserved compliment – unless you are a politician or a clergyman.
• Better to be thought a bastard than a jerk.
• It is your right to have and maintain all your hang-ups. You do not have the right to lay them on anyone else.
• There are those who see a bed of roses and behold beauty. There are others who see the same bed and can only imagine hidden rattlesnakes. Decide which you wish to be.
• The world is full of people who would not dare take a fat bite of life for fear the taste would be bitter. Don’t be one of them. If the taste is bitter, spit it out and bite again.
• May God protect me from doctors, lawyers and garage mechanics. All others I can deal with myself.

Friends, family and enemies:
• Respect, like love and friendship, is a two-way street. Give it only when you get it.
• Be sure you always know who your friends are and who your acquaintances are. Make many acquaintances. Limit your friends to a significant few.
• There will never be a shortage of “friends” who are willing to hold your coat while you slug it out. Piss on your coat and to hell with your gutless friends.
• React toward your relatives as you would toward your friends. If one looms an asshole, dump him. You really don’t need him at your funeral.
• Never try to “out piss” a skunk. You are not in his league. Better to bide your time, pick your place and then very methodically cut his head off.
• When you are being attacked by “big guns” and all you have is a pea-shooter – aim for the balls.

Wisdom with age:
• I have always loved without restriction or hesitation. Unfortunately, I have hated with the same intensity.
• Any decision that I permitted to be made for me, I lived to regret. I cannot think of a single exception.
• I have always been a keen observer of life. I would have liked it better to have been more of an active participant.
• During the first twenty years of my life, I was convinced that reincarnation was bunk. During the second twenty years of my life, I was convinced that reincarnation was fact. Now, I just don’t give a damn.
• Regrets? Yes, many. The one biggest regret is that I didn’t tell more people to “go fuck themselves.”

If you’re lucky enough that your father is living, get his “gospel” while you can still ask questions. I’d sure have a few for mine.

Dad and Baby Lizerella, 1964.

Mostly, though, I’d thank him for the cards, which include one about my sister and me: Both my daughters please me. I have never regretted having fathered them into this world. They have filled my heart with joy.

Right back at you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

A New Kind of Kind

It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are the more gentle and quiet we become towards the defects of others.
- Joseph Addison

My son’s first word wasn’t mama or dada. It was “niiiice.”

That was the word we used as we taught him to be gentle with our cats, Louie and Lauren. “Niiice” we said as we discouraged him from pouncing on them as they slept. “Niiice” again as we demonstrated how to stroke, not grab, their velvety coats.

Those lessons of kindness and gentleness were extended to all living beings throughout his childhood. And it appears that they’ve stuck. The 17-year-old he’s become is more sensitive and caring than I could have hoped for.

But now, I’m wondering whether his father and I taught him to be as kind and gentle with himself. At 47, it’s a lesson that I’m just beginning to learn for myself.

The most impactful reading I’ve done lately on a variety of subjects (Buddhism, spirituality, meditation, weight loss) has taught me that many of us never learn how to be niiice to ourselves. On the contrary, we often are downright harsh, in our self-talk and our actions. And when we are, it’s all that much harder to treat ourselves with care and to project positive thoughts and actions onto others.

We need an additional version of the Golden Rule, something like “Treat Yourself the Way You Treat Others.” Think about it. How many of us do a better job caring for others than ourselves? Are less judgmental with others? More patient? More forgiving?

I’m working hard on changing that for myself. As the Buddhist saying goes, “You can explore the universe looking for somebody who is more deserving of your love and affection than you are yourself, and you will not find that person anywhere.”

And unless you can give yourself what you deserve, you will not be able to give it to anyone else either. So simple, yet so elusive. I don’t remember being taught that concept. In fact, the lessons ingrained in my mind are more along the lines of “Put others first.” Thinking of yourself first was, well, selfish.

Not a bad lesson for an elementary school student. The problem is, the lesson never matured as I did. The result? I can be really tough on myself. Super critical. I rarely live up to my own expectations because they often can be summed up in one word: perfection. And if I can’t be perfect, then why bother trying?

That is certainly the case with me and my nearly 20-year weight battle. I’m angry and disappointed at myself for being overweight, and when I’m angry and disappointed, I can’t muster the energy to change it.

I’m trying to take the advice of the authors of two of the most recently popular weight loss books. “Only kindness makes sense,” says Geneen Roth, in her bestseller Woman, Food and God. “Anything else is excruciating.”

Through Marianne Williamson’s A Course in Weight Loss, I’m trying to learn what she calls the “discipline of love.”

“Love is merciful, gentle, understanding, patient, forgiving, and kind,” she says. “So you must be toward yourself as you go through this process.”

Those qualities come in handy in other endeavors as well. If I keep them in mind during meditation, I have a richer, deeper practice. Otherwise, I’m obsessing about perfect posture, aggressively following my breath, and before I know it, I’m making a grocery list and planning my next vacation.

The same is true for my djembe drumming hobby. The more critical and impatient I am with myself, particularly on challenging patterns, the worse I play. And the less I enjoy playing.

Whether it’s weight loss, meditation, drumming or life in general, I am working to remember that I’m human, and therefore, not perfect. Not even close. So I’m trying give myself a break. I’m trying to like myself, despite some things that I’d like to change. I’m trying to be more forgiving when I do something that I’d rather I hadn’t, or when I have an off moment, or day – or week. Because I know now that seeing, accepting, caring for and loving yourself is as perfect as it gets.

Beginning Again

It’s been nearly three months since I aired my plus-size laundry in public, sharing plans to finally lick my two-decades-long weight loss struggle. I promised to check-in after a couple of months or after the first 15-pound weight loss.

The months? Check. The weight loss? Not so much.

I was encouraged for a while, buoyed by the freedom of publicly acknowledging my struggle. I was blown away by the heartfelt messages of support (Thanks to all of you). Then, partly because of the public acknowledgment and the heartfelt messages, I panicked. And soon, I was back to my old ways. In the March post, I confessed to being a few Blizzards and Chinese buffets away from 300 pounds. When I weighed in for the weight loss challenge at work on the morning of May 10, it would be more accurate to say that I was a couple of Tic Tacs away.

So, I borrowed a trusted lesson from my meditation practice: I began again. In other words, I exercised the prerogative that you never outgrow and gave myself a do-over. It’s been only two weeks, but I feel like I’m on my way.

Some steps in that direction:
1. I entered the aforementioned weight loss challenge at work, on a team with three female colleagues. Highest team weight loss percentage wins the contest, which runs from May 10 to Aug. 9. There are prizes, but we’re in it for the motivation. (OK, and the glory.)
2. I got a physical exam, even though I knew there would be a scale and needles involved.
3. I’m eating better. More vegetables, fruits, lean protein, whole grains and good fats. Less bad fat and cholesterol (see #2), white flour, sugar and preservatives. I’m not weighing and measuring, or counting calories. Just aiming for generally healthy meals, and moderation when they’re not.
4. I’m treating my night eating issue like the addiction it’s become – remaining ever vigilant and taking one day at a time.
5. I joined a gym – one that I have to drive by on the way home from work – and am shooting for five workouts a week.
6. I signed up with a trainer who will work with me two times a week and direct the remaining three workouts. I’m hoping that the small fortune I invested will help keep me motivated.
7. I’ve recommitted to a regular meditation practice for several reasons, including the fact that I want a fighting chance at numbers 1 through 6.

So, I’m getting busy with the business of beginning again. I’ll check back soon after the Aug. 9 end to the weight loss challenge. I’m hoping for the best for me – and for the trainer, who I’ll call “Jackie” in honor of the beloved Jack LaLanne. I’m changing her name in the likely event that I’ll want to say mean things about her in the future.

An actual portion of our first meeting, as I detailed the 11 p.m. snacking habit I’ve been battling:
Jackie: “What are you doing up at 11 p.m.?”
Me: “I’m eating.”

It looks like she’ll have to earn every cent of that small fortune.