It's not as if I don't realize how unreasonable I'm being. I just want Marquette to become a more vital, job-accessible city, and not change one iota in the process.
So Indy and I were strolling along, rejoicing in the newly cool, dry air. As we approached Mattson Lower Harbor Park I tried unsuccessfully to ignore the scraped-clean earth boxed in by an ugly chain link fence locked with a seriously thick chain and heavy-duty padlock.
"Coming in 2011" the sign bragged about the soon to be built hotel. I stared over the fence and construction equipment, wondering how much longer I'd be able to view Lake Superior from that spot. Resentment is a tough lump to swallow and it leaves a bitter taste. I tried to keep in mind that this hotel would attract tourists and create jobs, but overriding that was the thought that a handful of rich guys were tearing up the lakefront in order to make themselves even richer.
As I walked away I knocked my hand against the orange plastic fence blocking off the lot next to the chain-link imprisoned area. The sudden "ow" and the tiny mark on my knuckle felt like a rebuke. You can't fight progress.
Over the years I've heard people grumble that developers are "turning Marquette into another Traverse City." I've never been to Traverse City, but that doesn't sound like the worst proposition in the world. More shops (maybe a Barnes and Noble to console us after the loss of B Dalton), more entertainment venues, more entertainment.
I can hear you already. Yes, that would mean more changes to the city I don't want changed. But here's a crazy thought: how about making use of existing buildings instead of constantly tearing up the landscape with newer, sleeker, less attractive constructions? The downtown area is small-town cozy and welcoming, yet buildings stand empty while white siding mini malls pop up like dandelions all over town.
And while I'm ranting, how about trying to attract more industry instead of building fancy condos most of the population can't afford?
I love Marquette. It's friendly, beautiful, and as comfortable as my favorite sweatshirt. It's not that I'm resistant to changes in my city, really. I'd just like to see them made for the good of many instead of a few.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Rocking out, Mom style
So I stayed up past my bedtime again, knowing full well that it would take at least two days to recover from such wild hedonism. And it did. It's actually been three days, and I'm not even sure I've completely recovered.
I went to the Wild Rover on Friday night with my friend Jan to watch this awesome band perform: Dan Daniels and the Southern Gents. I may be a tad prejudiced in my assessment. I happen to be the mother of Dan Daniels.
The Rover is a restaurant by day, bar by night. We got there around 9, when things were still in restaurant mode. In keeping with the night's theme of "So what if I feel like crap tomorrow," I ordered a little delicacy known as Irish nachos. That would be homemade potato chips languishing under a thick blanket of melted cheddar, garnished all over with tomato and green onion, all accompanied by a side of sour cream for dipping.
When I ordered the waiter asked me what kind of meat I wanted on my nachos. "None," I replied, feeling marginally virtuous. Those cheese slathered, deep fried taters may be glistening with grease and sparkling with salt, but by God they're meat free!
At 10 o'clock the lights were dimmed and the band took to the stage, which holds a banquet table when the Rover is in restaurant mode. Jan and I moved up front, the better to cheer the lads on and watch a roomful of adults - legally, anyway - get progressively, uh, happier.
I've seen Dan perform enough times now to not well up at the sight of him onstage, handsome, confident, joking with the audience and his bandmates. I've not, however, gotten over my amazement at his musical prowess, and that of the rest of the band. They play an eclectic mix of blues, '50s and '60s rock and their own compositions, all with lots of young-guy joy and energy.
But it's Dan who commands most of my attention, of course. I love watching him get what I call music face, that look of painful ecstasy that performers get when they're expressing the essence of their hearts and souls through their voice or instrument. I know when a song isn't going right when I see him scowl and bare his teeth in disgust. When he rises up on his toes, following the notes, or when he gives a lighthearted little kick a la Bo Diddley, I want to hold up a sign that reads, "That's my boy!"
Another band mom, Mary, mother of Matt, tapped my wrist on her way to the dance floor (location of a table for four during restaurant hours). "How often do we get a chance to dance to our own kids' music?" she called.
Good point. Before long Jan and I, along with Karleen, Dan's girlfriend, were out on the floor, too.
One gent, a stocky, thoroughly inebriated chap, stood in front of the stage throughout most of a set, expressing his appreciation for the music by shouting "Fuck you!" at random moments.
"Hey, hey, language!" Daniel chided him. "My mom's here!"
The evening was a blast from nachos to encore, a powerful rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun."
My favorite moment occurred at the band's first break. I walked up to Dan and he smiled down at me.
"I see you got front row seats," he said.
"Are you embarrassed?" I asked, half teasing, half wondering if I was overdoing my mother of the rock god routine.
"No, I'm really glad you're here," he said, with enough warm sincerity to melt cheddar cheese over potatoes.
"So can I hug you in public?" I asked, pushing the embarrassing-mother envelope a little further.
To my surprise, Dan answered, "Of course you can. You're my mom!"
I think, of all the unexpected events and surprising scenes that can occur in a bar on any given Friday night, a loving hug between a mom and her son has got to be one of the rarest. And without question, one of the best.
We left at 1:30 a.m. When I got home my left ear was ringing and my right ear was buzzing. My back and neck ached from sitting on a hard wooden stool. I tried not to think about the fact that I had to get up in five hours to get ready to attend a recovery-oriented activity.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll is the typical nightlife trifecta. The young folks can have it. I'll take Irish nachos and motherhood with my rock 'n' roll.
And maybe a little less amplifier.
I went to the Wild Rover on Friday night with my friend Jan to watch this awesome band perform: Dan Daniels and the Southern Gents. I may be a tad prejudiced in my assessment. I happen to be the mother of Dan Daniels.
The Rover is a restaurant by day, bar by night. We got there around 9, when things were still in restaurant mode. In keeping with the night's theme of "So what if I feel like crap tomorrow," I ordered a little delicacy known as Irish nachos. That would be homemade potato chips languishing under a thick blanket of melted cheddar, garnished all over with tomato and green onion, all accompanied by a side of sour cream for dipping.
When I ordered the waiter asked me what kind of meat I wanted on my nachos. "None," I replied, feeling marginally virtuous. Those cheese slathered, deep fried taters may be glistening with grease and sparkling with salt, but by God they're meat free!
At 10 o'clock the lights were dimmed and the band took to the stage, which holds a banquet table when the Rover is in restaurant mode. Jan and I moved up front, the better to cheer the lads on and watch a roomful of adults - legally, anyway - get progressively, uh, happier.
I've seen Dan perform enough times now to not well up at the sight of him onstage, handsome, confident, joking with the audience and his bandmates. I've not, however, gotten over my amazement at his musical prowess, and that of the rest of the band. They play an eclectic mix of blues, '50s and '60s rock and their own compositions, all with lots of young-guy joy and energy.
But it's Dan who commands most of my attention, of course. I love watching him get what I call music face, that look of painful ecstasy that performers get when they're expressing the essence of their hearts and souls through their voice or instrument. I know when a song isn't going right when I see him scowl and bare his teeth in disgust. When he rises up on his toes, following the notes, or when he gives a lighthearted little kick a la Bo Diddley, I want to hold up a sign that reads, "That's my boy!"
Another band mom, Mary, mother of Matt, tapped my wrist on her way to the dance floor (location of a table for four during restaurant hours). "How often do we get a chance to dance to our own kids' music?" she called.
Good point. Before long Jan and I, along with Karleen, Dan's girlfriend, were out on the floor, too.
One gent, a stocky, thoroughly inebriated chap, stood in front of the stage throughout most of a set, expressing his appreciation for the music by shouting "Fuck you!" at random moments.
"Hey, hey, language!" Daniel chided him. "My mom's here!"
The evening was a blast from nachos to encore, a powerful rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun."
My favorite moment occurred at the band's first break. I walked up to Dan and he smiled down at me.
"I see you got front row seats," he said.
"Are you embarrassed?" I asked, half teasing, half wondering if I was overdoing my mother of the rock god routine.
"No, I'm really glad you're here," he said, with enough warm sincerity to melt cheddar cheese over potatoes.
"So can I hug you in public?" I asked, pushing the embarrassing-mother envelope a little further.
To my surprise, Dan answered, "Of course you can. You're my mom!"
I think, of all the unexpected events and surprising scenes that can occur in a bar on any given Friday night, a loving hug between a mom and her son has got to be one of the rarest. And without question, one of the best.
We left at 1:30 a.m. When I got home my left ear was ringing and my right ear was buzzing. My back and neck ached from sitting on a hard wooden stool. I tried not to think about the fact that I had to get up in five hours to get ready to attend a recovery-oriented activity.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll is the typical nightlife trifecta. The young folks can have it. I'll take Irish nachos and motherhood with my rock 'n' roll.
And maybe a little less amplifier.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Happy Birth Day
My oldest daughter's birthday is less than a week away. The approach of each of my children's birthdays inevitably takes me back down Memory Lane to those long, long, long final days of my pregnancies. It's often said that the pain of childbirth is quickly forgotten. That's a big fat lie. You don't forget, you put it in perspective: Hours of insane pain results in a beautiful new baby. Definitely a fair exchange.
I was never one of those radiant pregnant women. I was tired, cranky, and frequently nauseated. But I was happy.
There's nothing to compare to the wonder of a first pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I got the news: at a pay phone in a mall in Kingsford. I was selling ads for the local paper and called the doctor's office on my lunch hour to get the results. Hearing one sentence from a nurse changed my day, changed my life. When I picked up the telephone receiver I was me. When I hung it up I was me plus one. Amazing.
I talked aloud to my baby from that day on. I had an acute sense of having someone else with me at all times. I felt like a walking miracle.
My joy was tempered by moments of unbridled panic. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's mother! I liked staying up late and sleeping in. I loved spending hours curled up with a good book. Could I wilingly turn myself over to the constant demands of caring for an infant? No, probably not. I was too damn selfish. This child was doomed.
My friends who already had children assured me that I'd do just fine. Nature kicks in, they told me. It wasn't a matter of the proper mindset; good old motherly instinct would kick in by the time I held my newborn in my waiting arms.
Comforted by my friends' wisdom, I quickly found something new to panic about. I was going to expel an entire human being from my body. It was going to hurt in ways I couldn't imagine, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I'd bought my ticket and boarded the ride. There was no turning back.
By mid June I'd quit my job and become a full-time pregnant lady. The brisk walks I'd taken through the neighborhood diminished in proportion to the rising, record-breaking temperatures. My husband's sisters and sister-in-law threw me a baby shower, where I was the awkward center of attention.
Then all that remained was the waiting. I spent countless hours lying on the sofa, my soccer ball-sized midsection forming a permanent dent in the middle cushion. I watched "Desperately Seeking Susan" approximately 792 times, grateful to have a story to focus on that was pretty much the opposite of everything happening with me. Susan was a free spirit, a guy magnet - and thin.
By the time my due date came and went my feet were so swollen I couldn't wear any of my shoes except my sandals. I imagined my baby lolling in comfort in my stretched out uterus. Why come out when you're in a temperature controlled cocoon that transports you everywhere and delivers all your meals?
When it was finally time to go to the hospital and meet the newest Pascoe, Ron and I were still debating names for a boy. In my heart, though, I was sure my baby was a girl. Jessica.
And after a lot of floor pacing and hours of back rubs from Ron, Jessica Lyn Pascoe met the world. Tiny, pink and perfect. Worth every minute, and then some.
I'd been told in childbirth class and read in books that new mothers feel awkward and unsure of themselves. Not me. I knew this little person. She was mine. There was no way I was going to make any major mistakes.
Ah, the bliss of the young and ignorant!
But Jess survived. More than survived. She grew up into an intelligent, beautiful, talented, whimsical, bighearted, hilarious young woman. Every time I see her, or any of my children, I feel a burst of pride, a little internal skyrocket. I put these people in the world (along with their dad), but they are their own creations, their own gifts to this life.
Happy birthday, Jess. Thanks for giving me the gift of motherhood.
I was never one of those radiant pregnant women. I was tired, cranky, and frequently nauseated. But I was happy.
There's nothing to compare to the wonder of a first pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I got the news: at a pay phone in a mall in Kingsford. I was selling ads for the local paper and called the doctor's office on my lunch hour to get the results. Hearing one sentence from a nurse changed my day, changed my life. When I picked up the telephone receiver I was me. When I hung it up I was me plus one. Amazing.
I talked aloud to my baby from that day on. I had an acute sense of having someone else with me at all times. I felt like a walking miracle.
My joy was tempered by moments of unbridled panic. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's mother! I liked staying up late and sleeping in. I loved spending hours curled up with a good book. Could I wilingly turn myself over to the constant demands of caring for an infant? No, probably not. I was too damn selfish. This child was doomed.
My friends who already had children assured me that I'd do just fine. Nature kicks in, they told me. It wasn't a matter of the proper mindset; good old motherly instinct would kick in by the time I held my newborn in my waiting arms.
Comforted by my friends' wisdom, I quickly found something new to panic about. I was going to expel an entire human being from my body. It was going to hurt in ways I couldn't imagine, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I'd bought my ticket and boarded the ride. There was no turning back.
By mid June I'd quit my job and become a full-time pregnant lady. The brisk walks I'd taken through the neighborhood diminished in proportion to the rising, record-breaking temperatures. My husband's sisters and sister-in-law threw me a baby shower, where I was the awkward center of attention.
Then all that remained was the waiting. I spent countless hours lying on the sofa, my soccer ball-sized midsection forming a permanent dent in the middle cushion. I watched "Desperately Seeking Susan" approximately 792 times, grateful to have a story to focus on that was pretty much the opposite of everything happening with me. Susan was a free spirit, a guy magnet - and thin.
By the time my due date came and went my feet were so swollen I couldn't wear any of my shoes except my sandals. I imagined my baby lolling in comfort in my stretched out uterus. Why come out when you're in a temperature controlled cocoon that transports you everywhere and delivers all your meals?
When it was finally time to go to the hospital and meet the newest Pascoe, Ron and I were still debating names for a boy. In my heart, though, I was sure my baby was a girl. Jessica.
And after a lot of floor pacing and hours of back rubs from Ron, Jessica Lyn Pascoe met the world. Tiny, pink and perfect. Worth every minute, and then some.
I'd been told in childbirth class and read in books that new mothers feel awkward and unsure of themselves. Not me. I knew this little person. She was mine. There was no way I was going to make any major mistakes.
Ah, the bliss of the young and ignorant!
But Jess survived. More than survived. She grew up into an intelligent, beautiful, talented, whimsical, bighearted, hilarious young woman. Every time I see her, or any of my children, I feel a burst of pride, a little internal skyrocket. I put these people in the world (along with their dad), but they are their own creations, their own gifts to this life.
Happy birthday, Jess. Thanks for giving me the gift of motherhood.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Digital scraps
This morning I left a voice mail for my friend Patty. We were planning to spend the afternoon precisely as we had the day before: lolling on the beach under a white-hot July sun, close enough to Lake Superior to keep ourselves comfortably wet and cool.
When she called back she was proud to report that she'd taken a new step forward in the ever-expanding world of technology: she'd learned to retrieve her cell phone voice mails!
"I deleted a bunch of them, but I kept the one you left me a couple of weeks ago when I didn't show up for breakfast. It was so sweet!"
"Well, that's nice. Thank you," I replied, wondering what I could possibly have said in that brief interlude between "At the tone, please record your message" and the point where time's up and you're disconnected in mid-sentence. Leaving messages is not my strong suit. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the spotlight and The Clock is ticking. Be informative! Be clever! Be brief! It's a lot of pressure for someone with too much emotional investment in being a wit.
I wonder if the digital age means the decline and eventual extinction of the treasure box. You know, that special drawer or container where you stash notes and cards from friends and loved ones. Not the Hallmark cards; the sticky notes and scribbled scraps you find on your kitchen table, nightstand, or desk at work, little messages that make you smile and make you want to save them for some later date when you'll be in need of a little dose of sweetness or smart-alecky humor.
My own digital treasure box is filling rapidly. I save texts from my friends and my kids until my phone informs me that the virtual filing cabinet is full. Something has to go. When this happens I scroll through my favorite messages with the solemn gravity of a Supreme Court judge.
"Moose ... moose," sent by my daughter Jess on Feb. 18. A hilarious message with a history if you're a Pascoe. Keep or delete? Let's see what else there is before we announce a ruling.
"Whts gud lilmama Mr. LeBlue." A cryptic message from an unknown sender that jolted me awake at 4:06 a.m May 24. An interesting bit of anonymous cyber-debris. Kind of like finding someone else's grocery list in your shopping cart.
"I'm a balloon guy. You know what I say? I say "gimme a balloon!" Sent by my son, Daniel, way back in August. Conveys no practical information but is one of our favorite George Carlin quotes.
"I am safe, mama! God is with me ... he's quite the backseat driver!" A message of reassurance sent last summer by my daughter Melissa, the newly-minted licensed driver.
Yes, this is what it's come to: ephemeral digital scribbles held in pocket-sized devices, available for rereading at the touch of a button.
It's kind of sad. Texts lack the intimacy of the handwritten note. You can't appreciate the particular slant of the author's handwriting, the wrinkled paper that softens a tiny bit more each time you unfold it. You don't have that happy miser feeling of lifting a lid or opening a drawer and seeing those little scraps of love and laughter, all meant for your eyes alone.
But when I need a little lift in my day all I need do is flip open my phone. There they are, arranged by time and date. Digital evidence that people want to chat with me, share with me, make me smile, let me know I'm loved.
The verdict is in: Save them all. They're only taking up 86 percent of available space. When the inbox reaches 96 percent full gud lilmama will have to go.
When she called back she was proud to report that she'd taken a new step forward in the ever-expanding world of technology: she'd learned to retrieve her cell phone voice mails!
"I deleted a bunch of them, but I kept the one you left me a couple of weeks ago when I didn't show up for breakfast. It was so sweet!"
"Well, that's nice. Thank you," I replied, wondering what I could possibly have said in that brief interlude between "At the tone, please record your message" and the point where time's up and you're disconnected in mid-sentence. Leaving messages is not my strong suit. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the spotlight and The Clock is ticking. Be informative! Be clever! Be brief! It's a lot of pressure for someone with too much emotional investment in being a wit.
I wonder if the digital age means the decline and eventual extinction of the treasure box. You know, that special drawer or container where you stash notes and cards from friends and loved ones. Not the Hallmark cards; the sticky notes and scribbled scraps you find on your kitchen table, nightstand, or desk at work, little messages that make you smile and make you want to save them for some later date when you'll be in need of a little dose of sweetness or smart-alecky humor.
My own digital treasure box is filling rapidly. I save texts from my friends and my kids until my phone informs me that the virtual filing cabinet is full. Something has to go. When this happens I scroll through my favorite messages with the solemn gravity of a Supreme Court judge.
"Moose ... moose," sent by my daughter Jess on Feb. 18. A hilarious message with a history if you're a Pascoe. Keep or delete? Let's see what else there is before we announce a ruling.
"Whts gud lilmama Mr. LeBlue." A cryptic message from an unknown sender that jolted me awake at 4:06 a.m May 24. An interesting bit of anonymous cyber-debris. Kind of like finding someone else's grocery list in your shopping cart.
"I'm a balloon guy. You know what I say? I say "gimme a balloon!" Sent by my son, Daniel, way back in August. Conveys no practical information but is one of our favorite George Carlin quotes.
"I am safe, mama! God is with me ... he's quite the backseat driver!" A message of reassurance sent last summer by my daughter Melissa, the newly-minted licensed driver.
Yes, this is what it's come to: ephemeral digital scribbles held in pocket-sized devices, available for rereading at the touch of a button.
It's kind of sad. Texts lack the intimacy of the handwritten note. You can't appreciate the particular slant of the author's handwriting, the wrinkled paper that softens a tiny bit more each time you unfold it. You don't have that happy miser feeling of lifting a lid or opening a drawer and seeing those little scraps of love and laughter, all meant for your eyes alone.
But when I need a little lift in my day all I need do is flip open my phone. There they are, arranged by time and date. Digital evidence that people want to chat with me, share with me, make me smile, let me know I'm loved.
The verdict is in: Save them all. They're only taking up 86 percent of available space. When the inbox reaches 96 percent full gud lilmama will have to go.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
So every weekday I roll out of bed around 6:30 a.m., leash up the dogs and stumble out to the back yard for the morning canine constitutional. And every, every blessed morning it happens: I feel something stringy and creepy brush my cheek. Auugh! I've walked through the spider web again!
Shuddering, I brush frantically at my hair and face, certain I can feel web matter sticking to my eyeball; unlikely, since I wear glasses. I turn around and see the rest of the web, an intricate, finespun work of art stretched across the far end of my clothesline post.
Every morning there is a single strand of web stretched from the post to the blackberry bushes. Every morning I walk through it.
If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, who is crazier here, me or the spider?
My money's on the arachnid. Her money, of course, is on me.
This is probably an excellent metaphor for life in general and my life in particular. Whenever I want or need to make a change in my life I tend to chase my tail for awhile, doing the same things over and over (with subtle variations), making myself insane when the results don't change before I exhaust myself, step back and evaluate what I'm doing and what actually needs to be done.
Is this an alcoholic thing or just a being a garden variety human thing? Could someone let me know? I must confess to a secret hope that it's an alcoholic thing. Then I can say, "See, I can't help it! It's an alcoholic thing!" To which my friends in recovery will say, "Yes, it is an alcoholic thing. And you are responsible for changing it." That's the trouble with living this sober life. I have to be a responsible adult. Ironically, that is also the gift of this sober life. That, and my kickass friends.
The solution to the web/face thing was surprisingly simple: DUCK! This morning I finally remembered to duck before I got webbed.
But here's the best part: I didn't need to duck. This time that thin filament of web had been strung higher. I could walk right under it and never touch it.
Now who's insane?
Don't answer that.
Shuddering, I brush frantically at my hair and face, certain I can feel web matter sticking to my eyeball; unlikely, since I wear glasses. I turn around and see the rest of the web, an intricate, finespun work of art stretched across the far end of my clothesline post.
Every morning there is a single strand of web stretched from the post to the blackberry bushes. Every morning I walk through it.
If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, who is crazier here, me or the spider?
My money's on the arachnid. Her money, of course, is on me.
This is probably an excellent metaphor for life in general and my life in particular. Whenever I want or need to make a change in my life I tend to chase my tail for awhile, doing the same things over and over (with subtle variations), making myself insane when the results don't change before I exhaust myself, step back and evaluate what I'm doing and what actually needs to be done.
Is this an alcoholic thing or just a being a garden variety human thing? Could someone let me know? I must confess to a secret hope that it's an alcoholic thing. Then I can say, "See, I can't help it! It's an alcoholic thing!" To which my friends in recovery will say, "Yes, it is an alcoholic thing. And you are responsible for changing it." That's the trouble with living this sober life. I have to be a responsible adult. Ironically, that is also the gift of this sober life. That, and my kickass friends.
The solution to the web/face thing was surprisingly simple: DUCK! This morning I finally remembered to duck before I got webbed.
But here's the best part: I didn't need to duck. This time that thin filament of web had been strung higher. I could walk right under it and never touch it.
Now who's insane?
Don't answer that.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Big Night
I am Deb, office worker, walker of dog, washer of dishes, mower of lawn, doer of laundry, hanger of curtains, hauler outer of trash! Leaper of tall buildings! All in a single day!
All right, fine, I am not a leaper of buildings, not even ones made of Legos.
But I am feeling pretty darned good about myself at the moment, as I really did accomplish all of those other things today. My acute awareness of how good I feel makes me realize that I haven't been feeling all that peppy over the past few days. I felt lazy. And surly. There was a reason, of course. A girly, hormonal reason. (Any guys who might have been reading this have just clicked over to Mafia Wars or CNN.) And maybe I was recovering from my big night out last weekend.
On Saturday I did something I hadn't done in years: I went to a bar. My friend Jan was fired up about a blues band playing in town and invited me to join her. "If you can stay awake that long," she said, not unkindly, knowing my propensity for nodding off around 10 most nights. The band was starting at 10. Yikes.
But you know, I was tired of being weekend on the sofa girl. Yes, I said bravely. Yes, I will abandon my traditional popcorn and "Law and Order" rerun in favor of a night out.
It felt strange, but not uncomfortable, to be out late in a bar on a Saturday night. The strangest part was the fact that Jan and I were old enough to be the mothers of three-quarters of the clientele. Not to mention the staff. The girls were for the most part uniformly pretty, wearing either short, wispy summer dresses or tight jeans and foot-killing high heels. The boys' fashions ran the gamut from camo hats and Carhartt T's to suits and fedoras. Most of the girls carried purses the size of saddle bags. Almost everyone carried cell phone and checked them often, the pale light of the screens cutting through the darkness of the room.
Jan and I nursed a couple of Cokes, enjoyed the music, chatted, and watched as young men and women who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone drink, progress from tipsy to hammered as the hours passed.
"I'M SO DRUNK! I'M SO DRUNK" a girl chanted like a mantra, her voice reaching its upper registers. Jan and I grinned at each other; yup, we used to be her. Another girl swayed alone on the dance floor, moving when the music played, but not moving to the music.
A small cluster of young women danced jubilantly, each of them wearing a glow in the dark bracelet, the kind with liquid inside that you snap to activate. The only other place I'd ever seen those was on little kids on the Fourth of July.
"There ought to be a law," I said loudly to Jan over the music, "If you're young enough to wear a glow bracelet you're too young to be out at a bar."
Not all of the people were drunk. In fact, most of the young people were noisily social, wandering through the room, exchanging hugs (girls) and fist bumps (guys). I felt not old, but removed. This was a kind of fun I'd never had. I drank to get drunk, period, right from the beginning. There were fun times, but it didn't take long before a night at the bars meant me getting so wasted that it wasn't fun anymore. Ask any of my friends who remember my crying jags, or the time I got thrown out of the Alibi because I passed out on a table and broke a glass.
This night was a different kind of fun, the tamer, manageable kind. I'm grateful for the indescribable amount of fun I've has since I've been sober. Let the kids have their day, God bless them and keep them safe. I've been there, and I'm happy to still be here. And pretty happy to say that I stayed awake till 2 a.m.!
All right, fine, I am not a leaper of buildings, not even ones made of Legos.
But I am feeling pretty darned good about myself at the moment, as I really did accomplish all of those other things today. My acute awareness of how good I feel makes me realize that I haven't been feeling all that peppy over the past few days. I felt lazy. And surly. There was a reason, of course. A girly, hormonal reason. (Any guys who might have been reading this have just clicked over to Mafia Wars or CNN.) And maybe I was recovering from my big night out last weekend.
On Saturday I did something I hadn't done in years: I went to a bar. My friend Jan was fired up about a blues band playing in town and invited me to join her. "If you can stay awake that long," she said, not unkindly, knowing my propensity for nodding off around 10 most nights. The band was starting at 10. Yikes.
But you know, I was tired of being weekend on the sofa girl. Yes, I said bravely. Yes, I will abandon my traditional popcorn and "Law and Order" rerun in favor of a night out.
It felt strange, but not uncomfortable, to be out late in a bar on a Saturday night. The strangest part was the fact that Jan and I were old enough to be the mothers of three-quarters of the clientele. Not to mention the staff. The girls were for the most part uniformly pretty, wearing either short, wispy summer dresses or tight jeans and foot-killing high heels. The boys' fashions ran the gamut from camo hats and Carhartt T's to suits and fedoras. Most of the girls carried purses the size of saddle bags. Almost everyone carried cell phone and checked them often, the pale light of the screens cutting through the darkness of the room.
Jan and I nursed a couple of Cokes, enjoyed the music, chatted, and watched as young men and women who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone drink, progress from tipsy to hammered as the hours passed.
"I'M SO DRUNK! I'M SO DRUNK" a girl chanted like a mantra, her voice reaching its upper registers. Jan and I grinned at each other; yup, we used to be her. Another girl swayed alone on the dance floor, moving when the music played, but not moving to the music.
A small cluster of young women danced jubilantly, each of them wearing a glow in the dark bracelet, the kind with liquid inside that you snap to activate. The only other place I'd ever seen those was on little kids on the Fourth of July.
"There ought to be a law," I said loudly to Jan over the music, "If you're young enough to wear a glow bracelet you're too young to be out at a bar."
Not all of the people were drunk. In fact, most of the young people were noisily social, wandering through the room, exchanging hugs (girls) and fist bumps (guys). I felt not old, but removed. This was a kind of fun I'd never had. I drank to get drunk, period, right from the beginning. There were fun times, but it didn't take long before a night at the bars meant me getting so wasted that it wasn't fun anymore. Ask any of my friends who remember my crying jags, or the time I got thrown out of the Alibi because I passed out on a table and broke a glass.
This night was a different kind of fun, the tamer, manageable kind. I'm grateful for the indescribable amount of fun I've has since I've been sober. Let the kids have their day, God bless them and keep them safe. I've been there, and I'm happy to still be here. And pretty happy to say that I stayed awake till 2 a.m.!
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sliding into summer
And so the long, lazy summer slide begins.
I usually reserve Sunday mornings for housecleaning. Nothing industrial, just your basic tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. I preface this burst of domesticity with several cups of coffee, the Sunday paper, and the gently thought-provoking "Sunday Morning" on CBS.
Yesterday I had the coffee, the paper, the show, but the cleaning was limited to washing a few dishes and giving the downstairs a cursory pass with the broom. Several passes, actually, as small clumps of sand and dust exert some strange magnetic force on my dogs and cats, drawing them ever nearer, and eventually straight through, even the tiniest accumulation of floor ick. Thus, I often sweep the same area several times, racing to get it into the dustpan before paws big and small trounce through.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the vacuum. I found myself not caring an awful lot whether or not my carpets were clean. I set aside the vacuum (for later, I dutifully promised myself) and sat down at the computer.
I blame summer. Even though Sunday's weather - overcast, rainy, downright chilly - didn't feel summery in the least, just knowing it's June seemed excuse enough to choose recreation over housework.
Summer encourages you to kick off your shoes, pull on a T-shirt and ditch those claustrophobic winter blues. Hey, summer says lazily, what's the rush? The housework will still be there tomorrow, but life is short and so am I. Come enjoy me while I last! Who are we to argue? Beach days, barbecues and trips to the ice cream stand are short-term pleasures for Yoopers. Carpe sunblock! Cast aside your to-do lists! Revel in the long days of sunshine, the tangy smell of cut grass, the muggy, starry nights. Better to celebrate with wild abandon than to look back and regret that you didn't. The broom, the rake, the paintbrush, they'll wait.
As if in cosmic agreement with my summer state of mind, by lunchtime the clouds had departed, the sun was beaming down and the temperature inched up to bearable.
And while you're out there reveling, pay attention. Flare your nostrils and breathe in the sweet damp scent of blossoming flowers. You'll look a little goofy, but it's worth it. Don't be afraid to get a little silly. Run down the bike path - not jog, run, like a joyful little kid. Wade into the lake and splash a little when you're walking along the shore. Skip a few rocks. Buy yourself an extra large ice cream cone and ignore the drips on your shirt.
Grab hold of summer and squeeze the bejeebers out of it. Kiss it full on the mouth. You're alive and it's beautiful outside. Fling aside boring grown-uphood and embrace Mother Nature's limited time offer. See you at the lake.
I usually reserve Sunday mornings for housecleaning. Nothing industrial, just your basic tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. I preface this burst of domesticity with several cups of coffee, the Sunday paper, and the gently thought-provoking "Sunday Morning" on CBS.
Yesterday I had the coffee, the paper, the show, but the cleaning was limited to washing a few dishes and giving the downstairs a cursory pass with the broom. Several passes, actually, as small clumps of sand and dust exert some strange magnetic force on my dogs and cats, drawing them ever nearer, and eventually straight through, even the tiniest accumulation of floor ick. Thus, I often sweep the same area several times, racing to get it into the dustpan before paws big and small trounce through.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the vacuum. I found myself not caring an awful lot whether or not my carpets were clean. I set aside the vacuum (for later, I dutifully promised myself) and sat down at the computer.
I blame summer. Even though Sunday's weather - overcast, rainy, downright chilly - didn't feel summery in the least, just knowing it's June seemed excuse enough to choose recreation over housework.
Summer encourages you to kick off your shoes, pull on a T-shirt and ditch those claustrophobic winter blues. Hey, summer says lazily, what's the rush? The housework will still be there tomorrow, but life is short and so am I. Come enjoy me while I last! Who are we to argue? Beach days, barbecues and trips to the ice cream stand are short-term pleasures for Yoopers. Carpe sunblock! Cast aside your to-do lists! Revel in the long days of sunshine, the tangy smell of cut grass, the muggy, starry nights. Better to celebrate with wild abandon than to look back and regret that you didn't. The broom, the rake, the paintbrush, they'll wait.
As if in cosmic agreement with my summer state of mind, by lunchtime the clouds had departed, the sun was beaming down and the temperature inched up to bearable.
And while you're out there reveling, pay attention. Flare your nostrils and breathe in the sweet damp scent of blossoming flowers. You'll look a little goofy, but it's worth it. Don't be afraid to get a little silly. Run down the bike path - not jog, run, like a joyful little kid. Wade into the lake and splash a little when you're walking along the shore. Skip a few rocks. Buy yourself an extra large ice cream cone and ignore the drips on your shirt.
Grab hold of summer and squeeze the bejeebers out of it. Kiss it full on the mouth. You're alive and it's beautiful outside. Fling aside boring grown-uphood and embrace Mother Nature's limited time offer. See you at the lake.
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