Bring me a "higher love" (Steve Winwood)

If you’re a fan of popular music, a small sampling may lead you to believe that: love is in the air (Tom Jones); love is all around us (The Troggs); love stinks (J. Geils Band); and love hurts (Nazareth). Is love all these things, and a lot more? Maybe, maybe not. Of course, there are probably thousands of songs about love, each with its own take. But for now, four is enough (kids and songs). Let’s break it down.

               Love is definitely in the air. Not just on Valentine’s Day, but every day. It’s floating around, hovering over high schools, mini-marts (perhaps my favorite place to show my love), retirement homes, factories and prisons. It’s on Main St. of small towns like mine, it’s lingering still at the intersection of Haight & Ashbury (though not as free as it once was), it’s pounding the pavement on Wall St. and probably even rearing its fair head in war zones all over the world. After all, enemy combatants need lovin’ too. But like air, you can’t see it. Sometimes, romantic love for someone else is just dormant—giving you more time to fall in love with yourself, which is precisely when others will notice that you are lovable.  

Love really is all around us. The dictionary says that love is “a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person; a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, a child, or friend; sexual passion or desire.” Of course, this last one refers to the physical act of wanting to get with someone. Like, when my dog attaches himself to the leg of the cable guy and won’t let go, as if to say, “Let me love you!”

 The dictionary doesn’t say anything about loving objects. It’s all about people and feelings. So if we are to believe the dictionary, we can’t really love things. We can’t really love our cars, or our phones, or food, regardless of the sexy noises we make when we drive, talk, or eat. I do think animals can feel love for one another. Take my dog (the same one who loves the cable guy) and my cat, Pickles. They love each other. I don’t know anyone who would put their nose where those two do without a deep and abiding affection for one another.

Love does not stink. Love coming to a tragic end stinks; loving the wrong person stinks; loving someone who doesn’t love you back certainly stinks. All those feelings resulting from those situations definitely stink, but love itself? No way. How could it? It’s the emotions that you mistakenly label as love that stink: obsession, dependence, desperation. It’s what humans do with love that stinks: treat it carelessly, abuse it, abandon it, let it fade away, stifle it, submerge it, suffocate it, allow other things to eclipse it. This last one is a biggy. It happens all the time in relationships. Two people get up each morning and only see the same person who was there yesterday. Seeing this same person, but only going as deeply as seeing a face, he or she also sees the same mistakes, the same shortcomings, the same disappointing habits as the day before.
The father of a friend of mine, during a recent e-mail discussion about relationships, said, “If you married a wonderful person, you need to be able to recognize that fact every day as a new thing, and not as boring old patterns of behavior; you have to see them as they are today, not how your mind pictures them based upon your preconceptions of who they are. Don’t let your brain cut off new data about your partner.”
What I took away from that is, loving is seeing one another with fresh eyes, not just every day, but several times a day, and fanning the embers into a flame, remembering to stoke and to stroke, even when you feel the pull of the autopilot switch.

Therefore, love is remembering; he was someone before he met you. He had highs and lows and dreams and disappointments and comebacks and setbacks; job offers and perfect games and sublime moments alone in nature. He experienced moments with lovers that left him daydreaming for the entire next day. He felt he would live forever, and it was before you ever came along. And that is what attracted you to him.

Love is remembering; she was someone before she met you. She had a brain and goals and aspirations and a job she loved and promotions and the respect of people who knew her. She had moments where she stared at the phone for hours and then it rang and it was him and it was perfect. She was swept off her feet and dumped on her ass and pulled up by the strength of her own soul. She left a trail of broken hearts in a wake of her own tears. She was powerful, and it was before you ever came along. And that is what attracted you to her.

If you only see the person who buys the groceries, who mows the lawn, who pissed you off last Saturday, who can’t remember appointments, who spends too much on clothes, who watches too much football, or who takes too long getting home or getting ready, you are treating it carelessly, abusing it, abandoning it, letting it fade away, stifling it, submerging it, suffocating it, and allowing other things to eclipse it. 

So whether you are “a prisoner of love” (Perry Como), think love is “a many splendored thing” (Four Aces), or even if “you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling,” (Righteous Bros.) “stop, in the name of love” (Supremes), and remember that “all you need is love” (Beatles).

Top Ten Time: Things That Really Bug Me

A great thing about being a writer is that I can cleverly disguise things as humorous rants in my blog, or my column, which would otherwise be tricky to tell people to their face. Did I just blow my cover? Oh, rats.

So without further ado, here’s my Top Ten Things That Really Bug Me:

10. People who get offended when I forget something. I come from a long line of short-term memory deficient people. I am a mass-murderer of Post-its, the evidence of which is all over my house, stuck on mirrors, computer monitors, and doors, bossing me around to do various things, like “water at 11”; “take hamburger out” and “wipe.” So whether you are one of  my kids, a fancy doctor, a receptionist for a fancy doctor, my husband (never!) or a sanitation engineer, don’t act like I invented not remembering something.

When I forget crap, it’s because I’m busy concentrating, and by concentrating, I mean thinking about more important stuff, like how many mouths I’m feeding at the next meal, how I’m going to get those mouths fed and pull off being in four places at one time (board meeting, snack shack, soccer game and basketball meeting), or my newest strategy for finally becoming a world-class body builder.

And people expect me to remember that they need more deodorant? Or that I promised someone six months ago they could clean my teeth at 1:45 yesterday? Puh-lease.

9. Other people’s messes. Leave it the way you found it. Found it clean and tidy? Leave it the same way. Found it messy? Don’t add to the mess. Why should every person clean as they go, as often as they can? Because if they don’t it becomes someone else’s job. Unless you are hemorrhaging or late for practice (nothing tops that), when you leave a mess behind you might as well also leave a note that says, “Hi. Clean up my crap. I couldn’t be bothered.”

So whether it’s shoes, dishes or toxic waste (you listening, corporate ‘Merica?), clean up after yourself. If you make gobs of profits each year but can’t find the money to do it safely, without disturbing another person’s clean air, water or way of life, you’re twice as terrible as those who do it out of laziness. Shame on you.

8. Lotion or shampoo containers that don’t allow you to unscrew the top in order to retrieve every last drop. I am not okay throwing a half-inch of conditioner away in a bottle that cost me $22. (Just kidding, honey. I would never spend $22 on a bottle of conditioner. I’m exaggerating for effect.)

7. Loud, sustained noises when I’m trying to hear myself think.

6. School projects that require construction. Teachers, are you telling me that kids understand the historical ramifications of ancient Rome because they constructed the coliseum over the weekend? “Just use things you find around your house,” you say? Sure, my kid is going to bring a scale model of the coliseum made from popsicle sticks, duct tape and dryer lint and plop it down next to the one made from a shopping spree at Michael’s. It becomes a competition, which doesn’t help my kid appreciate a day in the life of an average Roman citizen. I don’t care if you play Roman charades! Just please don’t make me spend a bunch of money on stuff in the name of learning and burn my fingers with hot glue. For those teachers who offer options, for the many types of learners, and budgets, thank you.

5,4,3,2,and 1: This one gets the final five spots on my Top Ten List of Things That Bug Me because it’s that important: Ignorance. More specifically, people who are outraged at a commercial depicting people singing “America the Beautiful” in various languages. This website, http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indigenous_languages_of_the_Americas, explains what people were speaking before immigrants (ancestors of ignoramuses, by the way) came to the Americas and not only refused to learn the home turf language, but killed the Americans and took their property.

So the next time I see you, the only thing I want to hear you say is “M’Chucksas” (“hello” in Sierra Nevada Miwok), sucker. 

The Year of Living Dangerously

Second marriages are tricky. According to the Internet, arguably the world’s most reliable source of accurate statistics and funny cat videos, second marriages have a divorce rate of 67%—making them even harder to pull off successfully than first marriages (50% divorce rate),  but a little less tricky to pull off than third marriages, which boast a whopping 73% divorce rate.

Unless you’ve experienced a second marriage, ideally with step-parenting duties, you can’t fully appreciate this statistic. But for us veterans, it’s totally clear: A second marriage requires laser-like focus, and by focus I mean double Martinis; it also requires a sense of humor. And by humor, I mean a perverse ability to stare tragedy in the face and say, “I own you. Just kidding. You own me. Now let’s go have a beer.”

On our second anniversary, my husband informed that he longed to go back to Kauai, where we honeymooned. I agreed with him, and suggested that we shoot for our five-year anniversary.

“No way. Eight. We’re going back for our eighth anniversary.”

“Huh? Why eight?”

“Eight’s the big one. Neither of us made it to eight the first time.”

By golly, my husband was right. Our first marriages ended at seven-ish. We had yet to reach eight years as husband and wife—with anyone.

“Makes sense to me. Eight it is. We’ve got this,” I said cheerily.

Fast forward five years to this past summer, when we celebrated our seventh anniversary. We spent it in a neighboring county, in a small town known for its plentiful supply of wine tasting establishments within walking distance of a decent hotel. Off we sped toward our destination on the morning of our anniversary. It was only an hour drive, but halfway there, I grew restless. I just couldn’t wait. I spied a rural, picturesque turnout. So what if it happened to also sell gas and from the looks of it, double as a meth support group hub.

Me: Pull over.

Husband: Huh?

Me: I can’t wait.

Husband: Here?

Me: Yes. I need to give it to you now so we can enjoy the drive.

Husband: Sweet!

Me: Here’s your present.

I handed him an envelope. It was a CD I put together of cool songs that remind me of us. I explained that I wanted to listen to it on the drive.

Me: Want to exchange cards now, too?

Husband: Suuuuure.

So we handed each other our cards, and smiled at the 50-something year old guy at the air/water station next to us, filling up the tires of his 1979 Pontiac Trans Am, the one with the bumper sticker that read, “Free mustache rides.”

 That’s when my husband dropped the seven-year truth bomb.

 “I’m really nervous.”

“Pre-wedding-night jitters?” I said coyly, batting my eyelashes, thinking we were about to do a little role-playing.

“No. As of today, the pressure is really on.”

“Huh?”

“To make it to eight! We’ve got to make it through the next year!”

“Oh, right. I forgot,” I lied, not caring one bit about the silly number, but aware of the fact that my husband is a math guy. “We really need to be on our best behavior. We can’t take our eye off the ball!”

“We’ve got to stay diligent, babe. Think twice before going to the mall,” my husband said.

“Think twice before switching to football on a quiet Sunday morning when the children are all gone, hun,” I said.

“Think twice before leaving all the lights burning all over the house, sweetheart,” he said.

“Think twice before—.” Wait a second. What were we doing? 

We were playing right into the statistics’ hands, that’s what!

So there we sat, listening to a bad-ass biker chick pound on the door of the men’s room hollering for Earl to poop or get off the pot, reading our cards, realizing how important it was for us to let the little things go, and enjoying the homemade CD.

Later that night, at a quiet, candlelit table, I thought about how compatible we actually were. Like our small wedding in a city park, today’s card exchange wasn’t about the venue, it was about us, and the decision we made to willingly take on the already fully-formed and not always pretty portions of each other’s lives, which included children and aging parents and parenting schedules and mid-life insecurities and a host of other opportunities to grow as human beings. As I gazed lovingly at my husband as he licked the side of his wine glass to catch a stray drop sliding downward, I didn’t even flinch. I recalled how my husband refrained from chastising me earlier in the day for not once remembering which way to turn, up the street or down the street, when we exited a wine bar—which numbered in the double digits. No snarky comments, just a tug on the back of my collar and we were back on track.

And that’s why some second marriages do beat the odds—because the participants realize there are so many big things staring the players in the face they have no choice but to let the little things go, and definitely not scoff at mini-marts as romantic destinations.

Kauai, here we come!

Serbian Christmas, Deconstructed

On Tuesday, January 7, to the delight of some and dismay of others, the full, half- and quarter- breed (slivers of Serbs, or SOSs) descendants of Serbian immigrants to Amador County celebrated the other Christmas Day, complete with shotgun (blanks) announcements of the impending arrival at local Serbian “open house” parties, singing, the sipping of refined Serbian beverages, and for some, church.

Personally, I had a short run of about six years when I accompanied my elderly great aunt (Tete), a Total Serb (TS), to Christmas Eve service during the last several years of her life. My Tete’s sister, my Baba (grandmother), on the other hand, had no use for church. I never bothered to find out why. Personally, I suspect it was like a few other things in her life, from her pot roast to her lemon pies to her 62-year marriage to my Djedo: we didn’t always understand how things worked; they just did.

On Serbian Christmas, if you were anywhere in the vicinity of North Main and downtown Jackson in the early afternoon, you likely saw a long line of cars snaking along, stopping every so often to blast off a few black powder blanks. Of course, blanks can hurt people too, which is why you may have heard someone yelling, “Cesti ti Bozic!” which is Serbian for, “Knock it off you crazy Serb!”

After a few stops that usually serve to both entertain and annoy passers-by, the procession came to a rest at a handful (okay, two) of open houses parties hosted by local SOSs, for local and visiting Serbs, plus a whole lot of Serbian wanna-bes who are looking for any excuse to skip work. On the doorsteps of these homes was a spattering of coins, left during the night by the local Serbian Santa, promoting a long-standing Serbian tradition of giving, and thievery.

I was lucky enough to be born to the son of a TS, and my quarter-Serb status gained my entry to some of these open house parties, back when my grandparents and their friends were still in their swinging 50s, and I was a mere teenager. I picked up on the fact that the old folks could still rock it. I may have also picked up a screwdriver now and then, but who’s carding? Turns out, nobody was back then.

The shooting rituals that take place can be traced back to the old country, when one household would shoot off guns, alerting another household, on the next hillside, that they were either ready to receive guests, or offing their cousin for stealing the Yule Log. Of course, now we have cell phones to do this job, but how fun is that? Bottom line, neighbors of Serbs are among the most patient and forgiving people in the world.

For the record, I don’t own a gun, but on Serb Christmas I’ve got no problem borrowing one and shooting a few blanks. Who doesn’t? (Well, a few people I know, including my husband, but he gives me a long leash on Serb Christmas. As evidenced a few years ago when he politely suggested that perhaps it wasn’t exactly on his list of favorite things to look across the room and see the arm of a slobbering SOS (or was that an SOB?) draped across my shoulders like a blanket. It was harmless, I assure you, until an hour later when the same SOB accidentally caught my son’s cheekbone with his fist during a little three-teenage-boys-on-one-grown-man wrestling match.) Yes, Serbian Christmas is just one of those magical times when it makes sense to let it all hang out. Or, it makes no sense at all, but people still do. With a little help from Brother Slivo, one (liquid) shot at a time, grievances can be aired, repaired or deepened; if it’s the latter, just remember that it isn’t a knife fight you’re going to.

The point is this: The cultural traditions that we kids and grandkids of Total Serbs choose to partake in mean something to us. They connect us to another dimension of our loved ones—their long gone, but not forgotten big personalities— which often matched their big Serb feet. Even the quieter among them may have blossomed on that one day a year. I’ve seen the grainy reel-to-reel films, in which faithful, churchgoing Total Serbs of yore could occasionally be seen with a hand on the wrong -ich’s butt at the last house party of the evening, or within the hallowed walls of the old Wells Fargo Club. The cultural traditions, cherry-picked as they may be, remind us that one day a year, we are one, be it TS, SOS or even SOB.

In fact, I suspect that some of the Total Serbs that we SOSs were raised by and among may have over-indulged in the midnight coin-throwing, gun-toting rituals they witnessed as children for the same reason we do—because it makes us feel closer to our own, long-dead loved ones. We don’t all go to church on Serbian Christmas, but that makes us no less Serbian (and for most you can’t be any less), and no less connected to our ancestors. There’s nothing new about a flock whose members aren’t always headed in the same direction. Sometimes they even bump into each other and fall down.

I guess it’s finally time to take down those decorations, but not before a final “Cesti ti Bozic” (Merry Christmas) and a song from the Serbs who know the words to the traditional Serbian song thanking the host of an open house party. My husband, who was there in spirit, caught up to us later when he got off work.

Merry Xmasochism

Every year, about this time, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Just hearing the words, “Christmas list” makes my skin crawl. With four kids to shop for, things can get a little dicey, and by dicey, I mean brimming with self-inflicted pain. The first hurdle is deciding on our per-kid budget; this number serves as both a shining beacon and a source of intense disagreement, not to mention a fair amount of makeup sex.

Once we have the per-kid budget set, we pencil in the budget of the relatives who prefer to give us money to do the shopping for them. This assures two things: The children get everything they want, and we get migraines. The internal conflict results from the double-edged sword nature of this arrangement. We’re very lucky to have generous relatives. So what if we do the shopping for them? Easy, right? After all, they do so much for us, all year long. At least, that’s what I say every year when they hand me the money. Then, on December 24, at around second-bottle o’clock, I change my tune. That’s the time when we pull out our tattered list of gifts and gift-givers, which by now looks like a Cowboys defense, littered with numbers and arrows and cross-outs, and begin our final tally of who is getting what from whom. This usually takes place in our custom-designed wrap room (closet), where I’m sitting on the floor, in my pajamas, sobbing. Just kidding. I don’t wear pajamas.

“This is the last year I’m going to do this! Why do I agree to this? Why can’t I just say NO!”

“Because the kids get lots of great stuff that they really want and doesn’t that feel good?”

“Right. I keep forgetting. But I’m going to need another glass of wine, STAT.”

So what happens between the time well-intentioned relatives hand me the money and my Xmess Eve meltdown? A number of things, starting with the timing of the envelope hand-off. If I receive it too soon in advance of the hellidays, I haven’t had any time to get really stressed out, which means I can’t be trusted to make any decisions, about anything. For example, here’s how it goes down on December 1:

Anonymous relative #1: “I’ve got the kids’ money for you.”

Me: “Cool.”

Here’s how it goes down on December 24, in my closet, I mean, custom wrap room:

Me: “F-word!” Hiccup.

Husband: “There, there. It’s going to be fine. Pass me your glass.”

The other thing that throws a monkey wrench into the theoretically perfect plan for child satisfaction is the logistics, which includes the math. We spend hours upon hours crunching the numbers.

“$20 for that?”

“But it’s 14.8%” I plead, showing my husband the fine print on the bottle of Zinfandel I’m holding in the wine aisle of the grocery store. “Please?”

“Fine. Put it in the basket.”

What causes the most stress is making not only the children happy, but the gift givers. We want them to feel good about the things we are buying with the money they gave us.  Who gets to give the big ticket item? Why is it never us? Then, we try to match up the importance of the giver’s gift to each child. After all, we can’t very well allow aunty to give one of them a new bedspread and another one a flat screen TV, can we? I don’t care if they cost about the same, that’s not fair to the kid or aunty! It’s either got to be all business or all fun, from the same person, for all four. Doesn’t it? And some years, I try to round down the tax, or suggest we absorb it.

 “Why would we do that?”

“Because they don’t have jobs and shouldn’t have to pay taxes?”

We all know what happens next: the head tilt, one eyebrow raised.

Speaking of numbers, I never understand them. This confuses my husband, which can make for a little tension. I start re-adding the totals on my original shopping list with the amounts and cross-outs and arithmetic and by now a little blood and probably some wine. For some reason, I always think we’ve missed something. Sometimes we have. I usually find that in the back of the closet in March.

In the final analysis, when the big morning rolls around, and the kids open their presents, relatives sitting nearby, it’s all worth it. That is, until this:

Relative: “Oh, wow! What’s that?”

Kid: “It’s a PlayStation! It plays video games!”

Relative: “Who gave you that?”

Kid: “You did.”

And another Chrismuchtoorushed is on the books.