Family

Pole Dancing on the DC Metro

I don’t know if I’ve seen Yoda this excited since he was anticipating his first ride on the ‘train’ at the Riverbanks Zoo.

From the moment he found out that we would be riding the Metro, he was practically vibrating.  This was icing on the cake for our visit to DC.

When we got on the red line toward the Chinatown, Yoda was overjoyed to find out that he could stand in the aisle and hang on to the support pole.  The swaying and inertia was great source of entertainment for him, us and 30 or so other passengers, as we were treated to a 20 minute pole dance.

When we finally stepped up into the light of day on the Mall after that long, vertical rise from the subway depths, Yoda squealed with delight.  “We’re in Washington, DeeeeeCeeeee!”.   Again, our kid is not the Disney Magic Kingdom type.

We briefly toured the National Portrait Gallery.  It had been recommended that we see the ‘electric wall’, that Yoda would get a kick out if, so we felt a bit obligated to seek it out. Don’t go see it if you are prone to seizures.

Next order of business was to find the Spy Museum.

After a couple of prerequisite wrong turns, we found it – taking up an entire block.

We toured the museum.  I’d tell you about it, but then I’d have to kill you.  I’ll just tease you a bit and let you know that Yoda loved crawling through the air shaft and the gift store.

The Spy Museum is located in the Chinatown area.  Neither Bashert nor I in all the visits made up here have ever been to Chinatown, so we took this opportunity.

We ate at a place recommended by the DC for Kids guide, The New Big Wong.  What happened to the Old Big Wong, we didn’t want to know.

This could have been a real gastronomic adventure, but we were tired, hungry and feeling very American by this point.  Lo Mien and Sesame Chicken it was, albeit it was true, freshly cooked Chinese Lo Mien and Sesame Chicken.

I was fascinated by the Chinese family that came in and was seated next to us.  They ordered what we were afraid to.  When the dishes came there was a plate full of what looked like still moving squid and another with vegetables I couldn’t quite identify.

When we finished our meal and I mean finished, we walked about Chinatown for a bit.

Lots of restaurants.  Lots of trinket booths.  Beautiful colours and ornamentation.

Yoda and I were transfixed by one restaurant that had a viewing window where we could watch some dim sum being made.  It was also pretty cool that they had the ducks with the heads still on and complete squid soaking in water.  This was the real deal.

Bashert stood back from that one.

After being on the road for several hours that morning, spending time at Echo Park and then making this trip into the city, we were pretty beat.  It was time to head back to Bashert’s cousin’s house where we are being hosted.

The ride back was filled with chatter and Yoda seeing if he could hear conversations around him with his new spy phone.  Bashert and I felt a bit more like the ‘going’ portion of Norman Rockwell’s painting, Coming and Going.

Day one of our DeeeeeCeeeee visit was complete.

Dinner for Three in Colonial Williamsburg

We have left after two days and a half days in Colonial Williamsburg, VA.

A rousing good time was had by all, especially if we are to judge by the fit of pique that Yoda threw last night.  He was so exhausted he was literally screaming into his pillow.

Ah, good times.

It is a family tradition to recap our favorite thing about our vacations.

From this leg of our week’s journey, Yoda declared, “Everything!”; my favorite was my birthday luncheon in the tavern and Bashert chose yesterday’s recital of the Declaration of Independence.

I think a close second for all of us was the dinner we had a Shield’s Tavern on our final night.

We had very late reservations at 7:15 – okay, late for us.

We normally eat dinner around 5 since I have to go to work immediately after, but that’s neither here nor there for this story.

The program we had attended lasted from 5 to 5:30 and we were stuck with almost two hours of roaming around to do after all the shops had closed down.  Bashert convinced me to go ask if there had been any cancellations.

Luckily there had and we made it in to dine about 6pm.

As it had been in the tavern on Monday, the atmosphere was really fun.  The waitress wasn’t near as saucy, but we were seated in the VIP room, so I guess they needed to be a bit more mindful of their manners.

The food was wonderful.  We each ate more than we thought we could, even Yoda finished all his macaroni with butter sauce and found room for ice cream.

We were entertained by a duo that sang a couple of ballads and a fun rendition of
Yankee Doodle”.  We even had a dandy come in and give Yoda a lesson in what it was like to attend school during this time period, as well as, the proper way to bring a drink to your lips rather than tipping the head back.

It was all well worth the heart attack I nearly suffered when the bill arrived.

On our stroll back to the hotel, Yoda brandished his pistol and practiced his proper greeting with his brand new tricornered hat.

A lucky couple walking toward the colonial city was treated to his most elegant and flourished bow.  Yoda said the gentleman saluted him in return.

Bashert & I were glad that we had extended our visit for an extra day.

And that we had chosen the right magic kingdom.

You Say Its Your Birthday; Its My Birthday Too

Today was the magic day.

I hit 50.

Its a tired cliché to say it all went so quickly. Its rather like the vacation we are on now.  You plan and save and it all seems so far away and then voilà there you are.

I can honestly say nothing has gone according to any plan I ever had.  If it had, I would be single, living alone in a small neat house, surrounded by books and antiques.  There would be maybe a couple of cats for company.  And I would have lots of money.

As it turns out, I am happily ‘married’ to the most passionate side of my soul, have two spectacular children, three cats and one dog.  Our house is small, but decidedly not neat and the antiques are in short supply.  Money, well…I do have books.

There are many things I would have rather not gone through to get to this point in my life. Really – many things, but as the other really exhausted cliché goes, I wouldn’t be the person I am now except for those experiences. (Sometimes, I would like to have known that person – the one without the other stuff, but I don’t want to be visited by three creepy guys in the night on Christmas Eve just to see what might have been.)

But here I am, pudgy waisted, greying of hair and happier than any solitary life would have ever provided.  I have 50 years of life and wonderment to reflect on.

Bashert gave me a book of memories and letters from friends and family.  It is wonderful.  Its a treasure for me and those who read this and contributed will be getting thank you notes…eventually.

Bashert gave me a special memory today to put in a new edition. Get your mind out of the gutter, its not that type of memory (at least not yet – day’s not over).

We had been touring Colonial Williamsburg all morning.  We were tired and hot. Yoda had reached his limit and was getting a bit, shall we say vocally high pitched about something he could not have.  So we thought it best to come out of the midday heat and get some refreshments.

We stopped into Chownings Tavern for lunch.

Our waitress was quite delightful and quite the salesperson.  Before you knew it we were all quenching our thirst on some of the tavern’s homemade root beer and dining on the recommended house specialty sandwich (which I will not reveal because I am now going to rot for eternity because I broke the one kosher law I have kept since 1999, but man, was that sandwich worth it!).

We saved room for dessert, but before it arrived at the table, Yoda had to visit the ‘necessity’.  So up the stairs we went, with me explaining the entire way up that he was lucky it was in the house as the lavatories were outside back then, blah, blah, blah.

When we returned, a man appeared at the table side and proceeded to ask who it was who had the birthday.  Yes, they do this even in 18th century Williamsburg.

I was treated to a rousing rendition of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” followed by a lovely tin whistle serenade of “Brian Boru’s March”.

They even brought out my piece of apple pie with a huge mulberry candle in the middle of it.  They let me keep the candle. Yoda asked if we can use it on his cake in a couple of weeks.  Cool.

The waitress then took our picture with our ‘shutterbox’, making sure to move all 21st century items out of the way first.  Except the visitor tags we were wearing and the San Diego Zoo baseball cap I was wearing and well..we have a great shot of the three of us to remember the occasion.

It’s a memory I will cherish. I’m smiling even as I write this.

Thank you, my love.

Here’s to the next 50 years. May the memories keep coming and may I remember at least half of them.

Huzzah!

Happy Anniversary

Bashert came into my life in 1995.  Sixteen years ago.

We met in college.

She was a young, brash, redheaded powerhouse who weaved her way into my weary world and breathed in new life.  I was an older ghost who brought calm to her turbulent soul.

We both admit it was a rocky start.  She thought I was weird and I thought she had issues.  We were both right.

I barely spoke above a whisper and kept to myself.  The result of years of imposed social separation and post traumatic stress.

Bashert didn’t know the meaning of personal space or the word no.

She kept after me, challenging me and pushing me back into the light.  Some days I resented the hell out of her and some days I was grateful there was someone who actually could see me.

When we went on a school trip to D.C., I brought a crossword puzzle book to occupy myself on the long ride. She would have none of it.  She kept up a nonstop conversation over those 500 or so miles.  I had never met anyone quite like her.

Bashert became my first friend in 11 years.

We did the things friends do.  I gave her rides in my car and she would buy me dinner. We took some classes together (She hated painting – my major track; I hated clay – her major track).  We went to the movies and laughed, boy did we laugh.

Our friendship grew and developed over the next two years.

We had picked up the habit of parking in the downstairs parking lot and talking into the deep of the night.  I think this is where the shift began.

In the spring of ’97 came the letter.

The letter that changed both of our lives forever.

She gave it to me and then ran.  She said she didn’t want an answer.

As I read the letter, I couldn’t believe my eyes or heart.  I couldn’t sleep that night.  I called her at 4 in the morning.  She picked up the phone before the first ring.  We talked until daylight and time to go to school.

I answered the letter.

She laughs and says that we were dating long before I really was aware of it.  I told you before I can be a bit dim witted about some things.

Apparently, I had been dating a professor and didn’t know that either.  Guess I should have known something was up when the prof got so angry when she saw me with Bashert.  Who knew?

Our courtship was full of laughter and silly things – talking crows, shadow puppets, playing hooky to the lake.

It felt incredible to play again.  Bashert had brought joy back into my life, something that had been missing for a very long time.

We’ve been together as a couple now for 14 years.  We had a commitment ceremony in 2002 with 50 of our closest friends.  Our daughter gave us to each other.

There have been some some wonderful times, including the addition of a beautiful little boy and some tough times, but the sense that we were always meant to be together still pervades our relationship. That’s what bashert means – meant to be.

Someday we will have another wedding, with our friends and the authority of the state, but until then we shall remain as we are – fully committed and true to each other, married in soul and heart.

Happy anniversary, MaLea.

Who Is She Today?

One might think that my daughter suffered from dissociative disorder, with all the personalities that spilled forth when she was a child.

One never knew at any given time who might pop out.

The woman who always checked us out at the grocery store was known to ask who she was that day.

Once it happened, there were generally clues, such as dress or demeanor as to who had appeared, but length of time the other personality made reside was always a guess.

In the morning she may have been Dorothy complete with gingham dress and ruby slippers, but by the afternoon she may have transformed into Laura Ingalls, with bonnet and pre-braces (the polite way of saying bucked toothed Melissa Gilbert).

Her personalities ran the gamut from Shira, Princess of Power to Atreyu, the Warrior of The Neverending Story.

Atreyu was actually pretty impressive. AURYN was an old peace sign on a leather string. Her costume was a one piece jumper that she could unbutton to show AURYN. She used an wide suede watchband of mine from the 70’s as Atreyu’s armband. Falkor, the luckdragon was a stuffed dog with floppy ears.

Once when I had to send her to her room she went in as a rather pissed off NeNé, but when I went to check on her a bit later, I found Sleeping Beauty asleep in her reading chair.

I think by far her best personality was Arielle, the mermaid.  My mom or sister, not sure which anymore, made her a mermaid outfit that she eventually wore slap out.  When she donned the magic costume, she also added her well worn Blankie as her long hair.

I would pin it under her chin and she would toss it back in the manner of Cher.  Arielle would then mount the rock jutting from the ocean and sing the most heartfelt rendition of “Part of Your World” one had ever heard.  I would wait with bated breath for the moment when she would rise up with the music crescendo.  I could see the waves crashing all around her.

She always put on a fabulous show.

NeNé began to integrate around age 6.  The other personalities made less and less appearances until I noticed they came no more.  Being someone different was now regulated to Halloween, theme days at school and costume parties.

I still have the little mermaid and Atreyu’s outfits.  I keep them stored with the last thin remnant of Blankie.  Every now and then I run across them when cleaning out closets.

All the organization gurus say that I should get rid of them, but I wouldn’t trade that closet space for anything.

As soon as I see those costumes, I am transported to the days of NeNé’s multiple personalities and the magic they created.  Sometimes I can even hear Falkor’s hearty laugh or the ocean crashing around me.  Magic indeed.  That was one psychiatric diagnosis I could live with.

Happy birthday, Munchkin.

Dancing with my Children

I have two kids, sixteen years apart. Yes, 16 years. Both of their odometers turn over within the next three weeks. Neneé will be 24 on Tuesday and Yoda 8 the second week of August. (We have lots of spring/summer birthdays.)

There are vast differences between the two in addition to their ages, genders and family circumstances, but one thing remains the same – how I feel when we dance together.

Dancing with my children is a delight I will never tire of.

I danced with my children before they could do anything more that eat, sleep and eliminate.  With each month they grew, the rhythm and movements took on more shared emotions.

We went from comforting motion that put them to sleep and soothed my frayed nerves, to dips and swings that brought forth joyous giggles and belly laughs.

Mostly we dance in the living room, but we have danced in super markets, elevators and down sidewalks.

My daughter and I danced to everything from Glenn Miller to the Footloose soundtrack. One that stands out for me is Johnny Nash’s classic I Can See Clearly Now.  We would twirl and jump around to that beat over and over again.  I still have smiling visions of her beboppin’ about the living room, wearing her pink dress with the puffy sleeves.

My son and I get funky with everything in our 78 single collection to the most recent Lady GaGa. Last night we were doing our version of some saucy dance to Bette Midler’s cover of Rosemary Clooney’s Mambo Italiano, complete with dip at the end.

I’ve held both of my kids tightly, crying while dancing to Nilsson’s Can’t Live Without You.

One funny thing about dancing with them – they’ve never been embarrassed by it. I may on occasion be the meanest mom in the world, but each have grabbed me and waltzed me down the grocery aisle on their own volition.

Even when I not allowed to kiss my 8 year old in public anymore, I can count on him to accompany me in an impromptu, made up disco dance in the store.  The boy has rhythm for sure.

My daughter and I have a mending relationship right now, so I was caught off guard and thrilled when she pulled me into a dance in the aisle of Trader Joe’s one visit. My heart beats a little faster even now with the joy that she remembers.

Dancing with my children means love to me.  Its a shared and cherished experience that touches the deepest part of my heart even when we are just being plain silly.

So be kind and don’t think me crazy when I am out and begin to hum along with the satellite music, doing a little jig with a distant smile on my face.  I’m just dancing with my children.

Tattoo You

I took a Psychology class a couple of semesters ago.  Cultural Diversity.  Thought it would be amusing to see the official take on my life.

For our final project we had to select a cultural phenomenon with which we were unfamiliar to research, have an experience of then write a paper and give a presentation.

I chose tattooing.

Tats, as I’m told the insiders call them, seem to be everywhere these days. I wanted to see if there had been any real change in the acceptance of tattooing in the mainstream.

Growing up in the 60’ and 70’s nice people just didn’t get tattoos, at least nice people who lived in white bread, middle class suburbia and hadn’t served in the military didn’t.

No, tattoos were for the hard core military, convicts, bikers and ladies of the night.

To this day, despite or maybe in addition to the fact that several of her grandchildren now have tattoos (including my own daughter), my Mom refers to them as trashy – the tattoos, not the grandchildren.

Trashy Babs

When the kids in my neighborhood played, the ones with the lick and stick tattoos were the bad guys, the ones who had guns and smoked.  Told you, middle class America in the 60’s.

As I grew up and gained a little worldly experience and knowledge, I found cultures outside my own that used skin marking as a means of artistic expression and to scare the wits out of their enemies.  (Check out the movie, The Piano there’s some good Maori tattooing going on there.)

But with my upbringing, these really didn’t have any real impact on my life – tattoos still remained other world.

I truly wondered why it was that any modern person in their right mind would submit to a torturous procedure that I viewed as coming from rather seedy depths.  Nuts.

For my research, I read various and sundry dry research articles that mostly found that tattooing was gaining some ground of acceptance in society as a whole, but this was still dependent on what types of tattooing was done – cute or not so cute.

One little tidbit from a large, southeastern university survey done in 2007 found that while many women may find visible tattoos on men attractive (as the ‘bad boy’), almost half of the men said that they seldom found a tattoo attractive on a woman.

Hmmmm…

Kinda speaks for itself, doesn't it?

I interviewed a couple of tattoo artists for my paper.  They were both very amenable to my clumsy questions.  I did find it interesting that the artist that had been in the business for all his life didn’t have any visible tattoos and the younger one said that he though his tattoos would restrict him in some of his career hopes. (Found out later that artist one actually has beaucoup tats, but just not down his arms.)

I also interviewed some folks I know who have tattoos.  That was interesting, too.  There was a common theme between them as well.

All three people got tattoos for the personal and permanent expression of feelings, relationships or circumstances.  None said they regretted it or would change them, but each said that they’ve either received flack or covered up to prevent commotion.

It was all the same familiar stuff I had read in the research papers.  It was a ‘yes, but’ kind of thing going on.

I wrangled my way into observing a tattoo being done.

My niece said I could come and watch hers being created if I didn’t ask stupid questions, such as “Does it hurt?”  Turns out that’s a stupid question because its obvious that it hurts like hell in certain areas.

Ow.

The conclusion of my paper research was pretty much summed up by a phrase from one of the papers I read:

“people still view tattoos as a badge of dislocated, ostracized & disenfranchised community – a signifying practice that purposely embraced and promulgated images of other-ness”  – (Atkinson, Michael. “Tattooing and Civilizing Processes: Body Modification as Self-Control” Canadian Review of Sociology & Anthropology  41.2 (2004):125-146.Print.)

In other words, tattooing was still seen as coming from the wrong side of the tracks and done so on purpose.

There was some shift in the mainstream outlook and there is a new subculture of diverse ages, genders, races and socioeconomic levels that finds it completely acceptable as a means of self expression, but the tolerance shown was more or less dependent upon in what company one keeps, where the tattoo is located and what type it is. (Wow, that’s a pompous quote pretty much straight from my paper.)

My own conclusion was a bit p.c.  I said that I had learned that people will tattoo just about anything on themselves (and they do) for a myriad of reasons.  I also said that I had developed a broader ability to look beyond my own cultural upbringing and not judge those who have tattoos.  But in reality, it is still very difficult even with my own kid. I was raised to be a tattoo snob.

My last question to the class was and now you is – what are our nursing homes going to look like in 50 years with all this tattooing going on?  Think about it; it ain’t pretty.

Public Domain, artisit/subject unknown

Nom de Plume

I seem to have an issue with revealing true names here.  Except for my Aunts Tricia and Gloria and myself, I don’t think I referenced anyone’s real name.  And Tricia doesn’t count because only her immediate family calls her that.

My partner, Bashert on the other hand has no qualms at all about not protecting the innocent on her blog. (Bashert’s not her real name – she actually has a beautiful name to be debuted at a later date – but the meaning of bashert fits our lives completely.)

Maybe for me its still the private part of me not wanting to quite put it all out there yet.

Or it could be that I still succumb to our family trait of inventing alternate names for people. I’m not talking diminutives or family words for things.

If Bashert and I can’t remember someone’s name or haven’t been introduced to someone yet, we come up with a mnemonic to use for ourselves as reference points.

Some are just practical observation, others are based on observation and behaviors or circumstance.

We used have a woman who lived in our townhouse complex who drove this beat up, powder-blue, Volvo station wagon.  We could hear the thing coming a mile away, so she became “Volvo Lady”.

We used to have another set of neighbors, who were from China.  The husband spoke English to a point, except when he got excited.  He and his wife had a second baby and when we asked what they had he replied, “It’s a Larry.”  So, from then on out the poor baby was called “The Larry”.

We’ve had a couple of site managers involved with our complex who haven’t been exactly stellar in carrying out their managerial duties. One guy who wouldn’t answer his phone unless it was to tell you not to call, was dubbed “The Nazi”.  His blonde Arian appearance may have had something to do with that one as well.

The second manager expected a tip every time he did any kind of service.  He was knighted as “Master Bates”.

There was a woman in a class I was taking, that had to be one of the whitest people I had ever seen and I’m not talking in the cultural sense, no she was just this side of albino.  So, obviously she became “White Lady”.  I didn’t say we were too inventive.

The nurse who had such an issue with my partner and I when our son was born became “Nurse Ratchet”.

The technician who tortured Bashert with the mammography machine was the “Mammogram Nazi”.  (Nazi becomes a good universal.)

My Dad’s mother who was quite large, became “Great Big Grandma” or “Great Big” after my nephew as a small boy got confused with the relationship great-grandmother.   At the same time my mother, his grandmother hence forth became “Little Grandma”.  He still calls her Little.

One of my daughter’s less savory boyfriends – “The Troll”.

Then there was the embarrassing incident with Bashert and I that involved “The Guy on the Ladder”. Again, not inventive, but practical.

The name calling is not always confined to people.

When we were in college, Bashert had the entire Art Department calling the sculpture lab “downstairs”.  The sculpture labs were down the hill across campus from the the 2D labs – made sense.  I think its still called that to this day.

When I was going through my horrid, nasty nine year divorce, my mother kept a file at her house with all pertinent information labeled as “Roosevelt”.  My ex (referred to in writing as AH – you figure that one out) left on D-Day.

One of my favorites was invented by Mom. She refers to that American treasure, Wal-Mart as the SOD.  Shop of the Damned.  Go ahead, deny that one.

So, until the day when I choose or have permission to let the world know what their true identities are we shall remain known as Bashert (my beautiful, meant to be partner), Yoda (our son) and Neneé (our daughter) and our cast of yet unnamed others.

And be on the watch – you never know when you may be called a name.