You might be a nerd if…

You might be a nerd if……

You have ever argued with a Star Trek fan about the superior virtues of Star Wars
You wish there was a real Mooby’s in your neighborhood
You can’t sleep for a week before the release of a new video game
You see Revenge of the Nerds as a documentary
You quote Darth Vader like the Bible. “I find your lack of faith disturbing…”
Your duct tape wallet is home made
You name your children Edison, Tesla, Xena, or Joss
You go into serious debt for your cosplay wardrobe for Comic Con
You have taken vacation time from work to drive past Skywalker Ranch
You are still hanging on to those Pokemon trading cards
Your DVR is full of Batman, Venture Brothers, and Gargoyles cartoons
You wish you knew a real ninja (but then you would never see him)
Lucky Charms mixed with Cheerios is your idea of a healthy dinner
You are planning an Aquabats themed wedding for you and the future Mrs. Nerd
Lord of the Rings changed your life
You go to McDonald’s for the Happy Meal toys
Your musical tastes are so offbeat they don’t sell any of your favorite bands on itunes
You have 32 T shirts and nothing with buttons in your closet
You can build a computer but not a grilled cheese sandwich
You own more than seven light sabers
You are still heatedly discussing the Fringe pilot and everyone else has left the room
You have a Firefly tattoo anywhere on your body

Finding Balance…

While on this fast, it’s been imperative that my mind be kept busy. Constantly. For the past hour I’ve been finding so many incredible food blogs (Weight-Watcher recipes) and filing them for later. I’m asking myself is this still obsession over food? Does this cause me to hunger or crave food even more? Well I found a way to curb both. Been watching Andrew Zimmern for 30 minutes- bordering nausea. I’m still hoarding recipes, but I don’t want to eat. Period. While I’m copying Enchilada Pockets from dashingdish.com, I ‘m watching this guy sample rat stir fry & spleen samiches. My stomach is growling and churning at the same time. Balance.

Someone like my grands

There is a new Adele song called Someone Like You. I hear it everywhere, a poignant song about someone who lost the love of her life and is telling this person she is happy for them, don’t worry about me, I’ll find someone like you and be happy again. (She’s totally lying.) If anyone has ever truly loved and lost someone, this song will strike a chord in you somewhere. They made a parody of it on Saturday Night Live where everyone starting crying hysterically whenever someone started singing it. Funny stuff, but really, there is a lot of pain in those lyrics.

My granddaughters and my niece’s daughter spent some time at our house Saturday. Their respective ages are 6, 7, and 9. I was playing a radio station in the car they enjoy (which means it drove me crazy) and Someone Like You came on. They all stopped their chatter about mermaids and Barbies mid-sentence and began crooning this lament in all its earnestness and pain. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. These precious little girls, whose knowlege of love currently extends to mommies, the color pink, and sparkly shoes, are singing word for word along with Adele, that “sometimes it lasts in love and sometimes it hurts instead.” It reminded me of the time my son was in kindergarten and his class sang Louie Armstrong’s ‘What a Wonderful World’ while all us weepy moms tried to smile so we wouldn’t scare our children by bawling our eyes out at the sweet, tender truth of it all.

Do I wish lost love and painful heartbreak on any of these darling girls of mine? Of course not. Is it likely to happen at least once in their lives? Most assuredly. Pain is part of the shading of love that makes life so brilliant and delicious and worth living. Do I wish them that? Hell yes.

When the song was over, they immediately continued their conversation, all three chattering loudly at once, while I drove on down the road with a lump in my throat. What a journey they have ahead, three smart young ladies with cornflower blue eyes and kind hearts. Any boy would be lucky to find Someone Like You.

T.O.B. (the other Brenda)

I have a friend whose birthday is today. She is turning 50. I met her when I was 5 years old and my family had just moved into the city from the outskirts of town. What a coincidence, we were both named Brenda! She lived on 16th Street, I lived on 17th. A thousand miles were logged walking to the next street over to play with my friend Brenda.

We went through many years of school together, the two Brendas. We were often in the same class. An interloper named Brenda Brown tried to enter the club in elementary school but she never really fit in with our Brenda-ness. There can be only two. Every single memory I have of Brenda is a good one. She was a sweet, kind, dear girl without a mean bone in her body. I guess in retrospect I was insanely jealous of her perfectness, because I have very uncomfortable foggy memories of being mean to her around 6th grade. My insecurities reared their ugliness by wanting to be better and smarter and prettier than The Other Brenda, and I have to say to this day I never surpassed her in any of those categories. She just rolled steadily along her confident path with a smile, not saying a cruel word to me even once.

I recall asking her once, when we were probably 12 years old at best, “If you could be anybody else in the whole world, who would you choose?” And without hesitation, she said she would want to be herself. 40 years later I still remember how that answer infuriated me, because of course it was the perfect answer. This girl has always had it goin’ on, I tell you.

Her family invited me to attend church with them. I believe I was in first grade when I started getting up every Sunday, getting myself dressed, and either waiting for them to pick me up in their big station wagon or walking to church and meeting them there, while my own family slept in. Until I started high school I went there, and got heavily involved in Awana too, learning bible verses and earning trophies for my great memory. (Now my memory is like lightning: one flash and it’s gone.) This above all is the gift that my dear friend Brenda has given me. Was I listening in Sunday School, or was I playing around? Was I hearing those long sermons every week or was I just squirming on the wooden pew with Brenda, playing with her younger siblings and looking around at the room, the people in the room, and the vaulted ceiling?

I don’t remember a single word of any sermon that stuck with me; no a-ha moment that suddenly awakened me to Christianity or filled me with the holy spirit. But this I know: my heart is full of an unshakable faith in God, though I don’t know when it happened or how. Just like I don’t question when I learned to breathe or walk, it just is. I am thankful for it and honor it and am in awe of it every single second of my life. I give thanks to Brenda and her family for having the grace to invite me along to church with them. I have a perfect life because they shared their gifts with me.

So my dearest, oldest, most loving friend a woman could ever ask for, your goodness shines brighter than the sun, and it always has. May you live your life knowing how loved you are and how special you are. I am TOB. You are the original.

Fly Away

It finally happened today. It was 6:30 in the morning and I needed to leave for work. My sleepy eyed son gave me a big squeezer hug that was so strong and full of love it made me cry. All the way to work. And any time I thought about it or mentioned it to anyone today. And now. And probably right before I head off to bed tonight, because I will have to remind myself that Matt isn’t coming home to watch late night TV with me and explain his latest bagel masterpiece. When his dad told me that he was sniffling as he watched Matt’s car drive up the hill to Adulthood this morning, I started crying again. He’s not dead for Pete’s sake; he’s just outgrown his boyhood life and wants more. New adventures, autonomy, risk. Challenges.

When Matthew was less than 24 hours old, we entered this house together, he and I, and we’ve been here ever since. There are pencil marks in the dining room against some moulding where we measured his growth, in inches first and then feet. I have his little knit hat in my sock drawer that a Kaiser nurse slipped on his head the minute he was born, and once in a while I reach for it by mistake. I always hug it and then put it back. Every once in a while Sophie will trot into the house with an action figure or an old GI Joe in her mouth, one that Matthew buried in the back yard during one of many battles he played by himself when he was 6 years old, Star Wars VS Ninja Turtles or Batman VS generic army guy from the 99 cent store.

The baby swing is long gone, of course, and the BMX bike he was afraid of (after a near castration, I will admit) is just a faint memory in old photo albums. Stored away for posterity are old school art projects and writing assignments that I saved as proof that I once had a little boy. Bowling and baseball trophies are randomly scattered around the shelves, leagues joined for fun, not fame. He once received an autographed picture from Eric Carle, author of some of his favorite books as a child, and I don’t know if he took that with him to his new home or not, but he always had it displayed in his bedroom.

Speaking of his bedroom, I haven’t gone in that empty hole yet. As Winnie the Pooh so wisely noted while waiting for a delayed letter in his mailbox, “The more I look the more he isn’t there.” I am incredibly happy for him. I am overjoyed that he felt ready to go out on his own, and I wasn’t having to eventually push him out of the house at the age of 40, his arms full of light sabers and comic books. It’s a good thing. When I married Gary, he already had two children, so from the day we met until 8 AM this morning, we have been parents with children in our home. You would think we would be sitting around naked eating ice cream out of the carton right now, but no. We are truly proud and happy for our baby boy. Heck, we are proud of ourselves. It took us til the third kid to have one leave under good and normal circumstances, without drama and pain.

So it’s a new chapter for us as well. We have much to learn and discover. Hello Gary, I am a woman, and your wife. Nice to meet you.

Wishin’?

I had a dream last night that I was pregnant. Someone came out to the house and hooked up a sonogram machine to my belly, and you could actually hear my baby cooing through the image on the screen. If I was an interpreter of dreams, would I suggest that I was wishing my soon-to-leave-the-nest son was still a baby? Or was I looking for another baby to replace the one I am losing to adulthood?

Two other theories, more likely, are that I want to explain my big belly away by getting to use pregnancy as an excuse (my ‘I’m still carrying baby weight’ got old by the time he was 12) or I really want to bring Oprah back to TV by being the first woman to get pregnant with no reproductive system intact. I think she would come back to TV for that interview….and maybe I could meet Dr. Oz!

4Q

My dear friend Pat passed away on July 5 of this year. Yesterday was her memorial service, held off until her family could make arrangements to get out-of-town and out-of-state relatives here. Also, two days from now is her 80th birthday, which is a great reason to celebrate and commemorate, so we said goodbye to her near what would have been a grand occasion under any circumstances.

Pat’s two older brothers were at the service, one looking very frail and the other still full of vibrant energy and good humor. I adored that they both referred to her as Patty. Our little sister Patty. I also loved that they both made the effort to be there, since they both live in California but nowhere near San Diego. The more frail brother, Fred, apologized for not being around more when ‘Patty’ was growing up; World War II got in the way, and he had to leave. Bill was more inclined to laugh about the antics of two rough and tumble boys and their unwitting little sister, and shared great stories about a dad who knew how to get their attention from the front seat of a moving car.

When I received the call from Pat’s daughter Sandy telling me through broken-hearted tears that her mother had died that afternoon, I immediately went to the computer and played Dance With My Father on itunes at least 20 times. Pat loved her daddy, and still missed him greatly though he’d been gone from her life for 50 years. All I could hear was that song, and all I could envision was a young Patty standing on her father’s wingtips, dancing and laughing and looking up at him with love and admiration. Pat was dancing with her father again. It was impossible to feel sad that she had left our world when that image was so vivid in my head.

It was also nearly impossible to feel sad yesterday at her memorial service. Her eldest son shared warm and hilarious stories about his mother. One I remembered hearing from Pat herself was regarding her firstborn’s love of Chinese food. Pat was so concerned that he only seemed to want Chinese food when he was a baby that she took him to her family doctor to see if this would harm him. “Pat,” the doctor explained to her patiently, peering at her over the top of his glasses, “what do you think Chinese babies eat?” Her youngest daughter shared a story about a tavern where Pat was well- known. One time when Sue came with her to the tavern, a man hollered across the room to her, “4Q!” and Pat laughed and yelled “4Q!” back at him. A stranger took offense to this type of language being directed at this cute old lady and wanted to spar with the offender. As it turns out, Pat’s favorite song on the jukebox there was Waltz Across Texas, which was located at, you guessed it, 4Q. She was a great old bird.

I recognized people Pat had told me about over the years, and I swear I could hear her clucking her tongue at some of the folks who attended, who were not even liked, much less loved, by her. If she had been sitting beside me, I would have seen her roll her eyes and heard her say, “oh BROTHER,” under her breath more than a few times. Then we would have laughed, because Pat could always laugh at the end of it all. I’m sure she was laughing out loud, perched on her heavenly barstool, when Greg shared yesterday that if it was true that God had many mansions in heaven, Pat had chosen the honkytonk wing.

One of the people I heard scandalous stories about approached me after the service and complimented me on a poem I had written for my dear friend a few months ago when she was still lucid and just sick, not dying. It was read by my husband during the service, just a simple ode to a lady who loved her children, made friends with everybody she met, and never complained about her lot in life. The woman told me, “I don’t have anyone in my life that would write a poem like that for me.” That was the saddest I felt all day.

Power to the People

San Diego experienced an across-the-boards power failure last week during a hot and otherwise uneventful September day. Most people, because of cell phones and twitter, knew immediately that the blackout was across the entire county and even parts of Orange County and Yuma, AZ. We knew to search out the flashlights and candles and be prepared for anything: danger, chaos, spoiled food.

But my parents, God bless them both, are not as savvy to tweeting and cell phones. They do own a DVD player, although they still have a VHS collection of movies from the 80’s and 90’s, just in case we go back to VCR technology one day.

So my papa is out mowing the lawn and out goes the electricity. My mom’s first thought is that Dad blew a fuse and caused the power in their house to go out. He pleads innocent to her charges. Their next thought is that the transformer in their mobile home park went down, and it would take a little time to fix. Mercy, it sure is hot without the AC.

Their third thought was ICE CREAM! and they ran to the freezer to grab the 4 big cups of Wendy’s frosties they had bought and stored in the freezer the day before. God forbid they melt and have to go buy more. No, it was ice cream, it was going to melt, and they were going to eat it. Final score, Dad 1, Mom 3 (plus a belly ache!)

About four hours later, sweaty and bored, wondering when that transformer is going to come back up, Mom thinks, “Hey, we have a transistor radio!” Is she thinking, “Maybe the problem is bigger than we realized? Is this Armageddon? Maybe terrorists are attacking!” (My first instinct, I am sad to admit.) No, she is thinking, “Lets listen to music on the radio while we are waiting for the power to come back up.”

And that is how they found out there were over a million people just like them, sitting in the dusky remnants of September 8th, in the middle of the biggest power outage any of us had ever experienced. Were they ever scared? Did they ever think evil aliens had invaded Earth? No, they were just full of ice cream and wanted to hear some tunes. I admire their optimism and their innocence. The worst thought between them was that their delicious ice cream was going to melt. I miss those days.

Nesty Habits

My son is 19. He has had a serious relationship with an adorable girl since he was 16 and she was 15. The fact that they are still together defies the odds, because at that age you are literally a kid in a candy store, and who would keep choosing the same candy at every opportunity? She moved to a beach community almost a year ago. My son got a job near her home and commutes to work in his trusty Saturn steed every day. He often stays overnight at her place, where she lives with her mother and a roommate friend of her mom. He explains that he can sleep longer there since his drive is only 10 minutes from her place as opposed to 40 from ours, and the cost of gas is so ridikk these days. Practical and in love- again, defying the odds of someone his age.

More and more lately, however, I have started to realize that when he is there and not here, a lot is different. First, the trash apparently will not empty itself, although the dogs would gladly help to shred it and strew it across the kitchen and dining room if given the opportunity. The second bathroom is often available now. The Lucky Charms don’t need replacing as often. I don’t laugh out loud as much as when he is here. I don’t hear long, detailed explanations of video game strategies and characters in books with medieval names who find space ships or talking animals on their journeys.

Of course the real change, the one that I first felt as a hollow thump in my chest, is that my last child, my boy, has been testing his wings in a tentative but steady attempt to see how strong they are. I’ve noticed of course that he’s been taller than me for years, and that people stopped mistaking his voice for mine over the phone since 6th grade, but when did he start buying his own pants and eating at restaurants I didn’t take him to? The first time I heard his girl call him Matty in utter adoration, I had to stop calling him this term of endearment that I had been using since the first day I held him in my arms. It sounded silly coming from his mother now, and embarrassing, like I was competing with her for his affection.

We have a nest that is becoming too big for us now. Daddy bird has a den that is his man cave already, and one of our former bedrooms has been a ‘computer room’ for many years. I refuse to take up sewing just so we can repurpose my child’s bedroom when he finally exits our home for good. I know that day is coming soon; he has indicated that options have become available to him that he will very likely take advantage of. So on the short list of things I have to start realizing, coming to grips with, and understanding, are these: stop making enough spaghetti to feed a large village, reintroduce myself to my husband and hope we still recognize each other, and accept that my baby bird has been quietly gathering bits of advice, learning by our successes and failures, and seeing how two grown ups in love act together, in preparation of building his own nest one day. I was giving him the tools to leave me since the day he was born. Now I ask you, what kind of mother is that?

The pink capes they wear

I am thinking of heroes this morning. I actually know quite a few of them, although their talents may go unsung to the general population. Most of the heroes I know are women, although it is not an exclusive Girls Only club. At Dictionary.com, ironically, the definition is, “a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.” I have a friend, a lovely, brave friend, who separated from her husband last year for many complicated reasons. Or maybe just one simple one: she needed to take responsibility for her own happiness, and risk everything to find it. She has faced many daunting challenges in her new life, some that made her cry every day for a week, some that made her perhaps wonder if she did the right thing, some that forced her to take a real look at who she is for better and worse, without judgment. In my eyes, a terrifying, exhausting, painful, and necessary journey.

I have another friend, related to me, who spent the last year trying to strengthen the roots of her family’s foundation by reuniting with her children’s father after some challenging, often bitter years. Her children were able to experience a ‘traditional’ household with mom, dad, and kids living together under one roof, making it work day by day. Although the experiment has failed, it was not without the invaluable lessons to her son and daughter that you give 100%, you try to work through the bad and look for the good, and although love doesn’t always conquer all, it’s worth the effort. Love is always worth the effort.

My mother is a hero. Married at 14 fresh out of 8th grade, and a divorced mother of three by the age 21, she hasn’t lived one easy day in her life. Her mother died young, her beloved daddy died before his time, and she lost her best friend, her sister, to heaven last year. She has always struggled to have a pain free body, but God has had other plans for her. The lesson she was given to learn in this life was to bear the burden of chronic and often debilitating pain while balancing grace and humor in equal parts. Never have I heard her complain about the life she was dealt, and never have I seen her take her pain and frustration out on anyone else. She carries it with her, but she has never asked anyone to carry it for her.

There are of course many other people I admire and respect who are not mentioned here today, but their time will come. I am blessed to know these strong women, and I am dazzled by their perseverance in always moving forward, come what may. I would not describe their lives as noble or filled with brave deeds as much as I would say my friends in their pink capes and kick-ass boots are determined to live their best lives in spite of the debris that gets thrown in their paths. Step over it, step around it, kick it to the curb, but keep on moving forward.