The Amazing Stay-at-Home Mom With A Brain

2005-07-14T09:14:00.000-04:00

On Irish Catholicism

Only in an Irish Catholic household do you:

- See more statuary and holy pictures than are contained in St. Peter's Basilica, but hear such gems as "Sweet Jesus Christ on a cracker!", "Christ on skates" and "God in garters!" on a daily basis.

- Have to go to Mass every Sunday and have to listen to your parents whoop it up all night every Saturday night.

- Have a mother who will surely burn the house down some day lighting holy candles at the same time she scorns all fundamentalist Chrstians as an "ignorant and superstitious bunch".

- Live with people who don't see why the doctrine of Transubstantiation, the Virgin Birth, the Mystery of the Trinity, Banshees, the Sidhe, Cuchulain's Hound and the Green Man are necessarily mutually exclusive concepts.

- Understand that it is a mortal sin for a young unmarried girl to let a boy go beyond a chaste kiss but only if he's another Catholic, whom you would lead into danger of losing his immortal soul -- those Prot boyos are fair game and you can learn a lot, and there's always Confession after.

- Have an uncle who blesses you with holy water every time you walk in his house, and who has a stack of betting slips, unpaid traffic tickets, medical bills and court summonses neatly stacked under his statue of the Infant of Prague

- Have an aunt who turns the statue of the Infant of Prague to face the wall when prayers go unanswered, "until little Himself learns to mind His manners"

- Happen to be related to half the Police Department and Fire Department, and bless yourself every time you hear a siren not just because the nuns taught you that but because one of your cousins is probably driving the rig.

2005-06-23T12:38:00.000-04:00

Baseball is important to me for many reasons.

Some of my earliest, fondest memories center around baseball. It has consistently, throughout my life, been the one thing I can depend on to pretty much be what it is, what it appears to be and what it promises to be. This has nothing to do with winning or losing, promises of another type entirely. I am talking about baseball's basic promise: it Is. Strikes and other nonsense notwithstanding, Baseball Is.

I remember as a very tiny child, listening to my parents and our friends and relatives discussing the Rocky Colavito trade. I had the sense something happened to someone we knew personally. Those adults, who would later try to drag me to church and civic organizations and teach me manners and compassion, had already accomplished that in part. They were together, mourning a loss, and determined that one individual's or group's bad behavior (in this case the evil manager Frank "Trader" Lane) would not determine their overall outlook or their opinion of the institution. "Ah well," they would say, "I'm still gonna wait and see what happens. It's a long season."

And, from their perches on the sunwarmed concrete steps of the back porch, they would take a pull of their Stroh's longneck, a puff of their Lucky Strikes, and start discussing the Tribe's chances for '66. When you are exhausted from a long day's work at the steel mill, the railroad or the firehouse (or from washing all the work clothes twice -- there was no "extra rinse" cycle in those days -- and hanging baskets of soggy, heavy cotton clothes out to dry -- in those days women didn't need weight training for 'toning') -- when you are exhausted and sore and losing hope for the world's state, it is a good thing to sit on one's porch on a summer night and talk baseball.

If you minded your manners and got good grades in school, the nuns would tuck a pair of Indians tickets -- box seats! -- into your report card. The Tribe gave them to the Diocese, and the Diocese gave them to us. They were printed paper tickets, red or orange, and they were a Sign from Above that good work is rewarded -- maybe not immediately or as specified, but 'if you do A, then B is a reasonable expectation' -- another lesson baseball taught me early. You would bug your dad every day from school's closing to game day. Then, when the big day came, you would climb into the passenger seat of the '59 Oldsmobile, Da at the wheel, and wave as solemnly to the neighborhood kids as if you were a head of state being chauffered. You'd go down to the game, and the Indians would of course not win, but your old man would buy you Sno-Kones and hot dogs and peanuts and lemonade, and he would drink several waxed paper cup beers, and you would get to watch the names you heard on the radio actually working in the field, and it would be wonderful. It was like proof the saints existed or something. Duke Sims, Leon Wagner, and the heartbreaking Sudden Sam McDowell, all there in living color, just as you had heard of them on the radio and watched them on the old black and white Philco with the foil on the antenna. It was as close to proof of the existence of something greater as some of us got, and there you were at your Dad's side, taking it all in.

Summer evenings, when my Dad worked overtime or night shifts or was out with the boys, my mother and I would listen to baseball on the radio. Ma was always busy with something -- painting a porch, repairing cabinets, stripping varnish from woodwork -- and baseball was her background noise. It was usually the Indians, but she wasn't averse to listening to a Reds game if we could pick one up -- growing up in rural Indiana, she was a bigtime Reds fan too. So Ma would work, and baseball would be on the radio, and I would "help" by getting in her way, or I would sit at my worktable playing with clay or dolls or beads and listen to the Indians and to Herb Score. Wounded by a wild ball at the height of his career, Score went on to become one of Cleveland baseball's most beloved voices. So, right there, I learned multitasking, the virtue of keeping one's mind engaged while working, and, from Score, that a career-ending injury can be the start of something else.

All my life, baseball has been there. It was the only 'date' on which I really felt comfortable during my adolescence because I knew and understood what was going on, there was something to talk about, and we were in a public place and out in the sun. Movies and other indoors entertainments were not as enjoyable -- I had to make small talk, had to fend off groping, and had to pray I didn't make a complete klutz of myself, such as one does at dances and miniature golf. If I got a boy to take me to a baseball game, though, he was on MY territory, baby, and confidence was mine.

When later in life I went through some troubles, I could always count on listening to a baseball game to make me feel better. It was a combination of happy childhood memories, the orderly predictability of nine innings and 27 outs in most cases, and enough flexibility that it didn't always happen that way, thus keeping it interesting. When I was a divorced single parent, there was nothing unaffordable, immoral or challenging about sitting at my wobbly wooden kitchen table, swigging a beer and listening to the '86 Indians take a worse trouncing than even I had taken in my personal life. And there was always the remarkable Tom Candiotti to remind you that even in the worst of times, there is something to look forward to.

Through all the ups and downs of my life, baseball has been a constant. I do not admire the way it has become a money sport, and I do not like the crybabies. But I have a feeling that just as music survived disco, the Church survived Vatican II and fashion survived the '80's, baseball will endure.

It HAS to, for Christ's sake. I am not going to die, happy or otherwise, unless Cleveland wins a Series in my lifetime, and nobody wants a 118-year-old grouch hanging around.

2004-02-21T19:13:00.000-05:00

Of Candidates, Charisma and Dating The Democratic Vote

All right.

If we're going to talk about charisma in terms of viability, issues and substantive matters aside (which, eventually and unfortunately, they always seem to be in this, the country's biggest popularity contest), this is the opinion of one woman.

Edwards is the cute, jeans-and-a-blazer guy who shows up at the door right on the dot of 8, makes polite conversation with your folks, opens the car door for you-(it's a late model Chevy), takes you to Steak and Shake and then an action comedy, won't let you pay for a thing, brings you home promptly at 12, tries to steal a kiss, and you may or may not let him. You also may or may not give him That Final Vote Of Approval.

Kerry is the guy who shows up a little late, on his bike, and is vague about whether you were supposed to actually go out. Before deciding whether the walk to town is worth it, you sit down in the kitchen for a lemonade. He starts talking about the things that interest him, and you notice a detached yet passionate affection in him for the things in which he believes. He talks, you listen, and although he may not be saying things that are witty or clever, you are hanging on his every word, because he is sincere. You try to get him to smile by making a few lame jokes, and he smiles politely, kindly even, but you can tell he really doesn't get it. Still, he is every bit a nice guy, if only you could break down a little of that New England reserve. You linger in the kitchen, talking more, and you can't remember the last time you heard some of these words used conversationally. Is this guy for real or what? And yet you sense not only that he is very real, but that underlying his rather formal, wonky exterior is a fellow capable of great passion. There is a certain sadness in his eyes too -- if only you could know him a little better. You look at the clock and discover that not only is it too late to go anywhere, but it is time for him to leave. Rats! You walk him out to the garden path; he picks up his bicycle and says something about being able to see the stars to the third magnitude when weather conditions are a certain way. You realize he isn't flirting with you -- he is genuinely interested in the stars. You walk along to the end of the path, and, as he goes to get on his bike, you wait on tiptoe, eyes half-closed, for -- what? You are startled from your reverie by the sound of bike wheels crunching on gravel. "Bye," he says, kindly but a little puzzled, hoping that your standing there with your eyes half-closed doesn't mean you aren't feeling well. "We'll be seeing you", he says, waves and rides off into the night, his lanky Jimmy Stewart frame wobbling a bit until he rights the bike. You watch him disappear down the lane, sigh and walk back to the house. As you sit staring out the kitchen window at fireflies over the garden, you realize that you may not understand, but you want to know more. This guy, unusual though he is, maybe even a little weird -- THIS guy is going to get The Final Vote Of Approval. If you have to walk to the poll to cast it.

*****************************************

This has nothing to do with the issues; it's a charisma thing. It is also a work of fiction; I have never dated anybody from New England OR with a late model Chevy. But, in the words of the late Mike Royko, I was just sayin'.... It's the little stuff that makes the election decisions, unfortunately. Howard Dean's media-synergized meltdown is probably the most textbook example of this to come along since Thomas Eagleton.

2003-05-04T19:47:00.000-04:00

[Repost of 2002 Mother's Day story. -- Ed.]

reflections on mother's day

I saw an angel the other day. Really.

I was standing at the sink drying dishes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. So beautiful! Tumbling from the heavens, its robes a streak of white, its long, graceful limbs unfurling, golden hair flying, it landed in my backyard.

It really did take me a full second to realize that it was my daughter, turning a cartwheel.

I saw a ghost the other day too. A friendly one, one I really have missed.

My father, fresh from Navy boot camp, before all the horro of war had hurt him so, was turning the corner of our street, walking along with a pretty girl on his arm. His jaunty walk, his tall, handsome self, that crooked Tyrone Power grin -- I was so happy to see --

--that it was my son, walking home from school in his Junior Navy ROTC dress blues.

Motherhood is not alway fun. It is no ticket to glory, fame, wealth or even necessarily recognition. Sometimes I wonder how God decided to hand the job of raising these two beautiful people to me, little me -- surely the least patient, most selfish, most grossly inexperienced person for the job. I was so certain I'd be terrible at it, in fact, that on neither occasion did I seek the position -- I was pulled from the ranks and conscripted. Both of my kids were total surprises. But I can only conclude that God knew what he was doing, because I have learned more from my children than they will ever learn from me, and they certainly belong in the world.

Ah, and the things I have seen. Visions that, had I never been a mother, would never have presented themselves.

Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Don't make me answer that. I have already learned that God is the only good judge of what's best for me.

But, oh, the joy that has been in the journey. I can only look down the road ahead with happy anticipation and the hope that, maybe someday, many years from now, one of my grandchildren will see their grandmother in a girl jumping rope in "hot pepper time" on a chalked up sidewalk. They may not know it, but I'll be there.

2003-05-04T19:44:00.000-04:00

the mighty hunters

Our silly cats bring me "bounty" all the time. They are quite good at
dumping the goods live in the living room just so I can eat fresh. We have
chased sparrows, mice, lizards and a variety of charming things throughout
the house.

But they will not touch a spider. You could have a spider the size of a
hamster, shimmying and cha-cha'ing through the living room, jingly anklets on
each hairy leg, stopping every so often to snap its pincers and shout
"Cha-cha-CHA!", then making a loud Bronx cheer through its nasty little
aperture, and these cats would sit there in a concerned little semicircle
and stare at it gravely, not moving.

"Dude! Did you see that?"

"Yeah, man; I saw that."

"Shit, man; what'll we do?"

"Dude! I dunno. Looks pretty grim."

"Yeah, I know. You wanna take a poke at it?"

"F*** no, man -- you wanna try?"

"I ain't touchin' it, man -- my cousin Lenny ate one of those bad boys and
he fell out for like, three days. That is some powerful shit they got in
those things."

"Man, look at her freakin' out. Dude, you think she'll still remember to
feed us the canned food? I kinda could go for some Tuna 'n' Egg...."

Meanwhile I will be screaming, shrieking, verging on hysterics. My husband
will come charging in, expecting Ali Baba and at least twenty-seven or so
of the thieves. When he sees the source of my angst, he disgustedly gets a
dustpan or cardboard and ushers the repulsive thing on board, where it sits,
leering and mockingly winking its eight bright little eyes at me.

"In Germany," he will helpfully inform me, "it is bad luck to kill a
spider."

"In Germany," I will say, "they also change their underwear once a week.
This is America, pal."

He will shrug, smile, and open the door, where he tosses the gruesome thing
outside with a little shake of the dustpan. "Go on, little fellow; nobody
will hurt you!" he says cheerfully.

I give him my own version of a Bronx cheer, resolving to spill perfume on
the folded stack of hockey jerseys in the basement on the counter. Totally
accidentally, you understand.

From beneath the open window, a faint jingle of tiny anklets is heard....

2002-10-31T00:46:00.000-05:00

I may have finally flipped. The evidence is certainly there. Still, when they come to collect me, they'll probably deem me harmless enough.

Tonight my daughter and a friend browbeat me into taking them to a Hallowe'en store. You know the kind -- a vacant space in a mall, turned into a costume and prop store for the Hallowe'en season. It took them two hours and a promise of their doing dinner dishes for me to even consider such a thing on the night before Hallowe'en. I do not like malls, I do not like wasting money on something I could have made better at home, and I do not like stores filled with shrieking, running kids. However, the girls will only be thirteen once, and the Hallowe'en magic will only work for another time or two before they are talking of it as something they used to do "when we were kids". Somehow from the jaded vantage point of seventeen or eighteen, five years ago is an entire generation.

Well, we went to the store, and it was, as I expected, a vision of retail bedlam, combining all the worst features of a discount store, a holiday shop and an arcade, including noise, mess and bad music. Still, I decided to make the best of it. Did you know that you can have fun wherever you are? I didn't believe it either until I tried it a few times, and now I insist on it.

There were all sorts of wacky props, accessories, masks and cheaply constructed costumes. Most of the things were expensive, gaudy and ill-fitting, made of flimsy materials in garish colors. That's Hallowe'en. You want tasteful in beige, go to Saks. Some ensembles had distinctively sinister overtones, some were merely grotesque, and many were humorous, cute, intended to be funny, sexy or very glamorous, all gauzy and spangly. One Elvira costume seemed to require the addition of Elvira to look anything like the picture on the package. There were more sequin tiaras than you could shake a plastic wand with a battery operated star at. Everywhere was an exaggerated pantomime of the profitability of selling to people the opportunity to be something they're not. I was reminded of Natalie Merchant's song, "Carnival".

The girls decided that they would be some variation on a "Dark Angel" theme and had found some large black wings with spangles. The costumes proved to be too expensive in their entirety, so we decided to go home and chop up a few old black skirts of mine and add some old stockings and some thrift shop boots. I walked over to the rack marked "Angels" to replace the gowns while the girls stood in line.

That's when I saw what may yet prove my undoing. I saw, quite simply, my wings.

These were the wings that invisibly attached themselves to me for the years of my own childhood between four and fourteen, the wings that carried me away, that conferred super-powers such as flying and time travel, that reminded me that I was not a mere being of clay but that my soul had wings and that I would live forever, that I could watch the world from great heights and travel to wonderful places whenever I wished it.

In this case, the wings were truly beautiful. Made of some delicate, evanescent, almost transparent fabric stretched over wire frames, they were at least three feet long and have a span that I would guess to be about five feet. They were a beautiful pale sky blue color with pale pink and lavender markings (a color I once heard called sky-blue-pink), they attached to the shoulders by means of delicate elastic straps through which one slides the arms, much as when putting on a life jacket, and they were trimmed with a dusting of silver glitter in a lacy pattern. Far from being gaudy, they were beautiful. How they came to be in such a place is somewhat mysterious; they didn't even look like they belonged there. There wasn't another pair in sight.

I grabbed them and headed for the cash register. I didn't even look at the price until we were ready to be checked out. Fifteen dollars. Generally, I would refuse such an expenditure as wasteful nonsense. As inadequate as the phrase is to describe it, something came over me. I unhesitatingly plunked down the fifteen and some change and was delighted to do it. The girls were between astonishment that I would be so frivolous and delight that I had found something so beautiful. It's what I love about thirteen-year-old girls. They will tell you that something is too expensive or the wrong color for you, but they will never, ever tell you it's silly. Silly is where they live. Delightfully so.

I tried to sneak in the door past my husband, who cast a baleful glance and said: "Tell me those are not for you." I don't lie very well. "Oh, God; those ARE for you. How silly. Don't you think that's a little ridiculous? What a waste of money. Why did you..."

In a rare moment without an acerbic comeback, I employed what seemed the most logical way to deal with our differences. I poked my tongue out at him and scampered up the stairs with my prize to where the girls were waiting to giggle over our loot.

Everyone is in bed now, so no one can laugh at me. So, I took the wings from their cellophane covering and tried them on.

They're beautiful. They are the perfect size. Just perfect, like they were made for me. They fit comfortably. I love them. I caught a look in the full-length mirror at the foot of our stairs and I burst into delighted giggles. They are lovely. I look funny, but not in a bad way. I wouldn't be surprised if they are functional. I covered my mouth with both hands and tee-hee-hee'd like a four year old. I am thrilled.

Silly? I'll tell you what is silly. Never having fun, always being proper, never wasting one penny on anything frivolous, closing oneself off to possibilities, folding wishes and dreams and putting them in the drawers and closets in mothballs. I have found that wishes and dreams do not keep. All too often when we go to retrieve them, they have disintegrated. Sometimes we cannot even remember what they look like.

I have wings. I am going to wear them tomorrow. If I were forty years younger, I would insist on sleeping with them on. I'm not sure what I'll wear with them, but the girls and I will find something.

And maybe late tomorrow night, I will stand in the back yard (NOT on the third-floor balcony, I'm a lunatic but I'm not ALL the way round the bend yet. Yet.), and I will ....just see.

If I see you on my way past, I'll wave so you know it's me. I might be too far up for you to tell. :)

Hugs to all, and Happy All Hallows Eve,

2002-10-18T00:18:00.000-04:00

city poem

There's poetry in a city;
it escapes us while we find
things needed to survive.

Concrete warriors, angels and gods
tower over ribbons of yet more concrete
grey, sulphur, ash and asphalt,
clanking metal, screeching tires,
sparkling glass and occasional crash
to the music of horns, engines and shouted greetings,
an occasional curse or raucous laughter
and footsteps, still many footsteps
in an age of transportation.

On the slate-grey lake a freighter mourns,
lonely for a tug
to pull her down the river
her gravel burden to be borne
round the snaked curves of the Cuyahoga,
a labored spilling on the docks.

Wind slices down a corridor of steel and stone
and metal bones;
we clutch our collars closer
and hurry faster
as if to outrun the falling temperature.

Cathedral bells admonish us in song
to mind our manners
say our prayers
eat our lunch and catch our buses
and to watch the skies
for further developments.

There is something of a lullabye
in a city
to one who was born there,
a rhythm never found
in peaceful mountains or beside a pond
or in the grand green suburbs.

A city child sleeps better to a siren's wail
than to any gentle tune;
it tells of someone brave enough
to rescue the burning
and catch the burglars
and keep us safe
until the bells
sing morning songs again.

- October 2002

2002-09-11T21:06:00.000-04:00

from a year's vantage point

I had a lot of complaints this morning. The dog next door barked most of the night, what time my husband wasn't snoring. I am surrounded by teenagers. I feel old. I feel unattractive because I feel old. I like some people better than they like me, or at least my mind would have me believe so. The freezer is too damn full and guess who gets to clean it. I never finished school. My daughter took up soccer, which is turning into a part-time job for me (and folks around here have been put on notice: Use "soccer" and "mom" in the same sentence within my earshot and see what happens to you. Just see).

Then I remembered what day it was. More bad feelings, more ill will. Happy anniversary and thanks a lot, terrorists, for giving my children such an occasion to commemorate.

Dropping to my knees beside the bed provided more complaints. Did you know that past a certain age, your knee cartilege is no longer made of elastic? That your hips can hurt? Oh, great, I thought, we're off to a flying start.

Then I remembered why I was on my knees to begin with and it hit me.

The dog next door belongs to the woman next door, who is a police officer. Today she will probably feel some apprehension as she starts her shift. If anything is going to happen, it is going to happen to her first, or at least she will be very much on the front line. She doesn't seem to be complaining, though -- I just saw her walk to her car after giving the dog a pat goodbye.

I am not a police officer. I don't have to worry about such things. I don't have to walk into God knows what today and be prepared for the worst. I am protected.

My husband went to work this morning. I know where he is, I know what he's doing, and I am fairly secure in saying that he will be coming home safely this evening.

I don't have to look at an empty chair, feel the emptiness on the other side of the bed, drink my morning coffee alone, explain to my children that we cannot understand the evil ways of humans and that Dad is with God right now. I was not on the receiving end of a phone call that told me he was never coming home again.

The worst thing I am probably going to have to do today is call the bill collectors and do a little arguing. Oh, and defrost the freezer, and haul the trash cans to the curb.

I will not have to climb flights of stairs in a building that is collapsing around my ears, rescue as many as I can, and listen to the agonized pleas for help as the last sound I hear. I will not have to sit at a desk in a dispatch office and listen to men I know, friends of mine, dying as we speak. I will not have to figure out where the terrifying noise in my building is coming from, what to do about it or how much longer I have to live. No matter how I complain about it, I have the opportunity to get older.

My job is pretty easy.

I look out the window and I see that our neighbors have the lawn service over again, and the noise and smells combined are infuriating to me. I, however, do not have to look out my apartment window onto the streets of Manhattan and wonder if my home will be the next target. I do not have to watch life as I know it disintegrate before my eyes as thousands meet their painful and terrifying deaths. All I see is a dumb-looking truck and some chemical containers. All I smell is some lawn fertilizer. Not jet fuel. Not smoke. Not concrete dust or heated metal. Just some lawn chemicals from a dumb-looking truck.

I spend some time talking with a friend. I remember that my first thoughts last year after determining that my family was safe and accounted for was that my friend and his family might somehow be involved. It's irrational, because they live hundreds of miles from New York City. However, when we love people, our hearts and not our minds think first when tragedy strikes. But this afternoon, I was talking to him, and didn't have to wonder if I would ever see him again. No reason for the thought to cross my mind this afternoon. All in all, it wasn't even such a bad day.

None of the horrible events of a year ago that I have described even came close to being my reality. The closest, in fact, that I ever came to actual involvement was switching on the TV to hear Peter Jennings describe Flight 93 as "approaching Cleveland". I heard the plane engines. Then they got a little less loud. Then fainter. They were on their way to a field in Pennsylvania. And yet I complain.

God, remind me that I have no real problems, that I have much to be grateful for, and that my life and the lives of those I love, including everyone reading this, are a blessing. And never let me forget how much work I have left to do.

God bless you and keep you all in His peace and love,

Celia

2002-09-01T15:52:00.000-04:00

the bad guy

Well, tonight I got the role that everyone envies and no-one wants -- I got to play The Bad Guy.

I went to the discount store to buy a karaoke CD for my daughter and four of her friends, for her 13th birthday sleepover. I know this sounds like self-inflicted punishment, but believe me, listening to them howling over the Destiny's Child CD into the karaoke mike was getting a taddy bit stale. Plus it is relatively quiet at the discount store, and if I encounter a mouthy, obstreperous, obnoxious child, I can give the parent a conspiratory grin and get the Hell away from the little blighter. When I encounter such a child around here, I am stuck, since it is my own flesh and blood, behaving in a fashion that proves neatly that the apple indeed does not fall too far from the tree.

I came roaring into the driveway in pretty good spirits, doing a little karaoke howl-along of my own to Bowie's "Afraid of Americans". The neighbors are afraid of ME when I sing it. I jumped out of the car and immediately knew something was up. First, I smelled cigarette smoke, and none of the neighbors smoke and neither do we. Second, the house was awfully quiet for a houseful of teenage girls. Third, I could see arms and legs flailing as people flew up and down stairs past windows. Hmm. So far, no good.

Of course, at least one of the girls had been smoking cigarettes. My impulse was to explode and throw everyone out, but my brain works a little better these days. Not much, though, because I roared: "EVERYBODY GET OUTTA THAT GODDAMN BASEMENT AND GET IN THIS KITCHEN ON THE DOUBLE!!!!!" Really, it sounded like a line froma Cagney movie -- one where they allow swearing, I guess.

They got. On the double. I sound like a cross between a drill sergeant and a banshee when I really yell, which is blessedly seldom these days. And let me tell you, brother, I was roaring.

I went upstairs to where my husband lay fast asleep. I was furious with him too. '"THE GIRLS ARE SMOKING CIGARETTES IN THE BASEMENT! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON AROUND HERE? WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?"

"Well, tell them to stop," said he, and rolled over. I made a mental note to deal with him later, and believe me thee, his reckoning is coming in the morning.

Back to the kitchen I went. Nobody knew anything. Nobody was going to say anything. My daughter has been taught well -- there's nothing more despised than an informer (unless of course, her brother is the transgressor).

I said: "ALL RIGHT. WHOEVER DID THIS IS GOING TO TELL ME RIGHT NOW OR I WANT EVERYBODY TO GET IN THE CAR NOW -- YOU'RE GOING HOME. PARENTS _WILL_ BE CALLED."

They didn't doubt me for a second. If there had been any holdouts, the uproar from above had dispelled their doubts that I was kicking ass and taking names.

The culprit, seeing that a) she was going to ruin everyone's fun and b) the people who wished to have more fun were going to turn her in, came forth. I said: "M., get your stuff. You're going home."

Naturally, at this point the girls are gathered around her as if she were a sister going to the guillotine. It was a messy scene of weeping, tearful protestations of love and support, and hugging between sniffles. I wondered if they really did believe that I dismember unruly children for sport. Nasty rumor, that, and you know how it is once these things get started.

I drove M. home after being certain there was somone there -- an older sister. On the way, she asked me: "Am I ever allowed to talk to [your daughter] again? Oh, please, please please give me one more chance, Mrs. B. -- please let me come back I won't do it any more."

I pulled the car into her driveway. "M., despite what you've heard I'm not the Wicked Witch of the West Side. Of course you are welcome in our home, and we don't judge people based on mistakes. But it is important for you to know, tonight, that this is a mistake. It's the only way you'll learn from it. So, for tonight, I am sorry, but the party is over. You can call [my daughter] tomorrow and talk about this."

She is talking to a lady who hopes she has learned from her mistakes, you see. Just maybe.

Now I have to tell the parents. In a way, I don't want to tell them anything. Inside me there is a thirteen year old girl who could tell you a thing or two about stealing altar wine and nicking a Stroh's or two from the old man. I know that M. probably stole those cigarettes from her parents, and I know that, irrationally, they are going to want to blast her for doing what they do. But I'm sorry. _I_ would want to know.

When I arrived back home, I received quite a surprise. Far from seeing me as the Devil incarnate, those girls were relieved. "You have no IDEA, Mom -- I am SO glad you did that. She needed that, " said my daughter. "My mother would have done the same thing," put in S. Little K., who is a child of unfortunate circumstances and has heard the counseling lingo, said: "Sometimes, Mrs. B., you just have to set boundaries." (K.'s mother shall be treated of in a separate piece, she who got smashed, dented my car and made a pass at my husband, he who was too dumb to know it, and thank God, because she is also a Full-Breasted Wonder. K.'s mother doesn't know how close she came to being treated at Deaconess Hospital that day, but I am Living a Different Way Today. Yeah. I still wanted to slug her, but at least I know better now. Occasionally, I _still_ want to slug her. Just for fun. She looks like she'd be no use at all in a fight, and she has it coming. But anyway.) Dear H., my favorite friend of my daughter's, said quietly: "We understand. It's okay."

We had a little impromptu talk in the kitchen, and it was pretty much along the lines of why it's important not to let friends make dangerous choices and why sometimes we have to get tough. The girls were concerned that I would bar M., and I made it clear that we don't treat people that way here. But we do not brook nonsense, either. "I'm not _a_ bitch, I'm _The_Bitch," I said, which brought unexpected comic relief. I didn't hit too much on the evils of smoking; they've heard it all a million times at school and home anyway. The emphasis was on trust, on taking care of friends and on setting limits.

I let them talk to M. briefly on the phone. It didn't hurt her or them to realize just how miserable she was or how much fun she was missing. Sometimes it needs to sting. I've certainly been there.

Now the girls are playing the karaoke disc for the twentieth time. I got dragged downstairs and forced to sing "Drops of Jupiter" and "Hey Baby", both of which are better left to Train and No Doubt, respectively, but they think I can sing. Arah thinks I'm her Performing Pet Mom sometimes. More importantly, they wanted me down there. That made me feel good.

See, it's scary stuff being the Bad Guy. Nobody wants to be hated or feared. I confess to being really nervous as to how all this would go and whether they'd resent me. But I think we did just fine. They like me, but more importantly, they respect me. It's not really a matter of being the Bad Guy as being responsible and protective. This isn't about punishment; its about love.

On the other hand, I know somebody who is not getting his bacon and eggs in the morning however he pleads. And he can forget my buckwheat pancakes, too.

I'd hate to ruin my reputation.

2002-08-18T20:32:00.000-04:00

the cherry tree

My husband has been out in the front yard for the last half hour chopping branches off my weeping Japanese cherry tree. I know this because I just now looked out the window and spotted him, too late to prevent the damage. No longer weeping, the Japanese cherry is now prostrate with grief.

I am so glad I am sober today.

Just looking at him, I see him carefully, tidily stacking the branches beside the scene. It is indeed a scene, and I would not be surprised if someone came from the Holden Arboretum to draw a chalk outline and take forensic photographs. He is dusting off his khakis, separating branches into tidy piles of graduating size and no doubt humming a little tune to himself. I cannot tell if he is actually humming, because the air conditioner is running and I cannot hear him with the windows closed. This also means that he cannot hear me, which is at this juncture a great blessing to us both. If he is humming a little tune, it is a happy one, because he has Done Well. He is Doing Yardwork. He is a Good Boy.

About twice a summer, he Does Yardwork. In his lexicon, this involves assembling all kinds of cutting equipment, donning the proper khakis and butchering the living bejesus out of every green thing in the yard.

I am trained as a horticulturist. We have specimen trees and shrubs in our yard that one does not often see, carefully collected by me over the years and successfully cultivated in a climate where many of the species do not normally thrive. I am good at Growing Things.

He is trained as an architect. He likes clean, spare lines, order, form following function, uncluttered backgrounds. Plants are to soften corners of buildings or serve as vertical accents; otherwise they are cluttering the landscape. He is good at Cutting Things.

When he did this to my Corylus avellana ( a curly-branched hazel tree, quite a specimen and very slow growing) several years back, before I got sober, I will not tell you the things I said and did. I will tell you that I felt so bad afterward that I went to confession that week. I will also share with you that the priest all but roared at me to apologize to him immediately on going home or all the Hail Mary's in the Rosary would be of no avail as penance.

This time, I am calm. "People are more important than things" has always been a mantra of mine. It is hard for me to extend this to plants, but I can see that this is what I will have to do if I am to rise above this and handle it like a grownup. I am grateful for my sobriety; through God's grace I have been restored to a state of mind that will allow me to handle this kindly.

So, I am going to count to ten, wipe my face with a cool washcloth and take him a Popsicle.

It will even be safe for him to eat it this time.

2002-07-19T09:19:00.000-04:00

at the craft store

I was at the craft supply store the other day picking up some headpins and some faceted amethyst beads. Normally, I order from a company in Albuquerque, but necessity being the mother of a whole shower of bastards, I had to take what was close, quick and available.

While I was checking out, the clerk noted the amethysts which were, I admit, a cut above the usual craft store material.

"These are pretty. Ya know, ya could use these and it would look like real."

"Oh," I said "Those are real. They're amethysts."

"No, I mean real jewelry."

"Real jewelry?"

"Yeah, I mean, you could use these and nobody would ever guess ya made it yourself. Just like it came from a store. "

I didn't bother explaining to the dear girl that I am currently dedicating my entre life's energies, my very chi, to making sure that as many people on the planet as possible know I made it myself. And not even from a kit!

It's just as well I didn't. She would have wanted to know what Chi-Chi's had to do with it anyway.

::chuckle::

SHAMELESS PLUG: To view the above-mentioned jewelry, go to: www.bluecatmoon.com

2002-07-19T09:12:00.000-04:00

Ten Bucks

For every woman who's ever been sure she's right and had a man vehemently disagree about a provable fact:

1. Be very, very sure you're right.

2. Bet him ten bucks.

Women don't usually do this. Men do it all the time. What's more, they pay up if they're wrong. Why didn't I think of this sooner?

Tonight, we were standing in the Dairy Queen when I said: "They don't have frozen yogurt here." I know this for a fact. I have asked them before, at that same store, and the answer has been "No," and the menu hasn't changed. So, here we have Part 1 of the above formula.

"Yes they do," says he.

"They don't, then," says I.

"Oh yes they do. How much do you wanna bet?"

"Umm....."

"I bet you ten bucks they do. "

Here is where I usually say something like: "Ah, maybe they do and maybe they don't. It's no big deal." I don't like to argue in public, and I don't like to risk ten bucks, which I would also pay if I lost, because say what you will about me, I'm a gentleman. But something purely evil occurred to me: "I know I am right, everybody in this store heard him say this, and I know he has ten bucks. Besides, he's the one offering." So, enter Part 2 of the formula. To his surprise (and, actually, to mine), I found myself slapping my palm in his in a tight handshake and saying: "You're on, guy. Ten bucks."

So, we got to the counter, and asked the pretty little gal behind it if the Dairy Queen has frozen yogurt, and the answer, of course, is "No". Whereupon there are scattered groans from some of the guys in the place as the women start laughing. And also whereupon I am reluctantly handed a crisp Al Hamilton, mine to squander as I please.

So bet him ten bucks, or five, or whatever. But only if you're sure you're right -- as sure as you're sure of your name. This is not the sort of thing that comes off well if you're wrong. A guy looks cute when he loses a bet to his wife; a woman looks like a ninny. Trust me; I've seen it happen. I've been, shall we say, an interested party. And besides, you don't want to lose ten bucks, which you MUST PAY if you lose. No "cute-ing" your way out of it; that is a shoddy trick, right up there with crying your way out of a traffic ticket. If you cannot lose like a gentleman, don't bet.

But if you lose, remember this: Next time, be REALLY sure you KNOW you're right and double the ante. He will know you won't back out and will put up the cash. Cha-ching. (Of course, if you lose again, you might want to concede your crown as Ms. Right and find another form of amusement.)

It's fun. Next week, we are going to an Indians game, where I will treat him to a hot dog and a Coke, which, sadly, will probably run about ten bucks (you didn't think I'd be mean enough to keep the money, did you?). But there is a method to my madness. Name the winning pitcher of the third game of the 1948 World Series. What was the date of Bob Feller's first no-hitter? Think you know? Well, if you're going to the ballgame with me, you might want to look it up.

It could cost you ten bucks!

2002-07-02T09:28:00.000-04:00

Ever have problems? Stress at work? Foreclosure on your home or business? Love someone who doesn't love you? Owe money right and left? Find more grey hairs?

I have a cure!

Put seven catboxes full of clumping litter, used, in your basement, put a hose through the window, turn it on full blast and let the water rise to a level of about eight inches. Voila! Your troubles are forgotten!

Our basement storeroom, where we isolate our cats' litter boxes, flooded last weekend after a thunderstorm. I was totally unprepared for the effect that a basement full of water would have, since it was unexpected. The problem was not a leaky foundation, but a gap in the floorboards of our front porch that allowed water to come cascading into the litterbox room via the basement ceiling.

I went downstairs, unaware, to scoop the boxes. I opened the door to the box room, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? You'll never guess what went floating by (music from "Jaws" here). It was, definitively, the worst mess I have ever seen in a private home in my entire life. (Our sixth grade class visited Xenia, OH after the tornado, but that doesn't count. Quite.)

"Oh, NO!" I yelled (well, that's not exactly what I said, but those who know me get the idea and the rest of you don't need to know). "Ai yi yi!" (well, that I _did_ yell, because when I lived in Houston I used to work with a lot of Mexican folks, and that's not all THEY taught me to say either, but anyway. I'm a profanity polyglot, but again, not here, not now.)

I got a rake (ever hear about muckraking? well, let me tell you, muck I raked, from here to eternity). I got a snowshovel. I got my waders, a garbage bag to cover my clothing, and rubber gloves. I got a dustpan, a bottle of bleach, a bag of sand and a box of Spic and Span. I wasn't sure what on Earth I was going to do, but by God, I was ready to do it.

After I had been merrily at work for about a half hour, humming a happy tune (oh, come on now -- you KNOW I'm kidding), my husband came home from work. Standing in the doorway of the flooded box room, witnessing this scene of filth and desperation, he said: "Hi. What are you doing?"

Again, I will spare you what I really said. Suffice it to say he got the general tone of the message: "Thank you for asking. I'm a little busy right now, and we have a wee taddy bit of a mess on our hands. Would you be so kind as to lend a hand? If not, would you please go upstairs so I can finish this? Thank you so much."

One thing I will say for my husband, however. Although he may not apply his considerable intelligence as quickly as a hothead like me would like, those wheels grind exceeding fine, and he is a godsend when there is a Really Bad Situation. Not a complainer by nature, he rolls up his sleeves and pitches in, which is what he did then and there. God love him.

So there we were, ankle deep in wet clumping litter (clumping litter + water = concrete), ordure of the first division, and some very nervous cats hanging about.

Enter The Teenagers. My son and six of his closest friends came clomping in the back door.

"Whaddya .....OH, my GOD." Each teen voiced a similar pronouncement.

And filed out the front door as silently as melting snow.

Well, that produced another string of enthusiastic pronouncements from Yours Truly, something along the lines of: "Gee, honey, you'd think the kids would have helped, wouldn't you? Those little rascals!"

To make an excruciatingly long and painful story short, we got the cat dirt, litter and all other mysterious substances cleaned up. It took three hours, the entire gallon of bleach, every ounce of strength, energy and patience we had, and ruined the good broom (which prompted my good husband to say: "Don't worry, Sweetheart -- a spray of WD40'll dry her out and she should start right up for you." I love a comedian.). We were tired, cranky and utterly without appetite, although we had not eaten all day. We fell asleep in front of the TV at about 10:00 p.m. that night. We sealed the porch next day to prevent a repeat, and God willing, it shall not be repeated.

But if you ever want to forget your troubles, I guarantee that this will work. You wouldn't think cat dirt would present an opportunity for personal growth, but at least my husband and I can say we have truly been through some, er, stuff together and survived.

2002-06-28T12:50:00.000-04:00

Trading Bartolo Colon to Montreal???? WHAT is Indians General Manager Mark Shapiro THINKING?

Some possibilities:

"Hey, we'll never be able to hang onto this guy anyway; let's sell him off for a bunch of AAA maybes and the uneven Stevens. What a great idea! That way, we won't waste Bartolo's defensive prowess on non-existent leads -- we'll be working short on offense AND defense for the next four years or so. Boy, I love a challenge! I'll bet the fans are really gonna be tickled at my progressive thinking. 'What a scamp!', they'll all say!"

"Who needs a future Hall-of-Famer when we could get Lee Stevens? I scoff at the foolishness of it!"

"I don't give a hoot in Hades about anything but making a killing and getting out of here."

"Frank Lane -- my idol."

"A solid team like Montreal is going to be around a lot of years. It's a seller's market for them, and they will need some real incentive to deal any of their guys -- better give it all we've got!"

I am disgusted, saddened, irked, and totally baffled. What is going on here? Is there a curse that specifies that we are not allowed to build a Series-winning team? I thought that was the Colavito trade. What is this, "The Colavito Trade -- Part II"? "Son of Frank Lane?" Are we throwing this extra coat on it to make sure it sticks? WHAT in the God-made HELL is going on here???????

*sigh* And Jim Thome was playing golf with Grady Little last week. SURE, it's platonic..................

I like Jim. But I wouldn't blame him if he did leave. It's going to be two years BARE MINIMUM before we have a team that could even be a Cinderella contender.

*sigh*

stay tuned ....I need to go take a load of crying towels out of the dryer.......

2002-06-26T12:28:00.000-04:00

From the Cleveland Plain Dealer, June 26, 2002:

Diamond in the rough: Boston outfielder Manny Ramirez lost a $15,000 earring on a headfirst slide into third base during his rehab for Class AAA Pawtucket, R.I. Upon his return to the Red Sox yesterday, he was asked if he found the earring.

"Don't worry about it," said Ramirez. "I've got money. I can buy another one."

Ramirez is making $20 million a year.
***************************************************

For once, even I'm speechless. (Okay, okay, I can hear it in the peanut gallery: "Her, speechless? Priceless." Wise guys.)

-- gracie

2002-06-25T23:37:00.000-04:00

Notes While The Spouse Is Out Of Town

Orange juice -- straight from the carton. Yeah, baby.

Pizza and Raisinets -- it's what's for dinner.

What vacuum cleaner? The rug look dirty to you? You talkin' to me?

There will be no channel surfing allowed. If God had meant for me to watch thirty things at once, he would have given me eyes like a fly.

Men look absolutely romantic from hundreds of miles away. You take the worst under-the-covers farter, who shaves three times a week, hogs the sports page, never puts gas in the car, snores like a tornado, can belch the National Anthem, sings along with Led Zeppelin on Old Fart Radio, clips his toenails onto the floor and cannot once for chrissakes pay the paperboy and put him 1800 miles away and what do you call him? Sweetheart.

Kids know who's boss. It's the person who drives. Take away one indulgent parent and his ever-available taxi wheels, leave one tough babe with a set of car keys, and what do you have? People who will clear their dirty dishes, take out the trash and turn that damn thing down on demand. Machiavelli may not have been a nice guy, but he knew what he was about.

Did you know that the newspaper has a front page AND a sports section and that neither arrives pleated in eighths like Rand McNally's?

If the infield fly situation should occur, it will be damned nice not having anyone explain it to me. Ditto another flare-up in Palestine, a stationary front over Toledo or an idiot light on the dashboard.

The gas gauge -- it's not just for sissies anymore.

I can hang up on telemarketers without being told how mean I am. I can even say horrible, funny things to them and my kids think I'm, like, The Phone Goddess, dude.

Bedtime -- it's whatever you want it to be.

2002-06-25T17:18:00.000-04:00

Concerning a Creature Possessed

We have a mean cat, Thomas. When we got him at the Animal Protective League eleven years ago, we didn't realize that he wasn't in that cage waiting to be put to sleep because some cruel owner had dumped him there. He was on Death Row because he had run out of appeals and his lawyer told him he was on his own. This ill-tempered wretch came into this house growling and hissing and will probably continue to do so until we take his mangy corpse out to be buried under the silver maple. Some days I think that will be sooner than later. Some days I don't even want to wait for him to die first.

Naturally, he just love-love-LOVES me and curls up in my lap like a kitten, drooling and purring and "making biscuits" all over the place. He follows me from room to room. He comes running when he hears my car in the drive. He sleeps curled up on my old sweater when I am not home. However, we are not looking at a sweet and loyal animal who adores his mistress. We are looking at a shrewd con artist who knows what side his bread is buttered on.

Thomas is a horrid pet. If he were a human being, he would wear “You Suck” T-shirts and belong to a street gang. When my kids were small, they were terrified of him. Once he nipped at our son and I lost my temper and drop-booted him (with a slippered foot, granted, but I'm sure it didn't tickle). He sauntered back over and rubbed against me. When our daughter was two, I scolded her to sit down in the bathtub and Thomas, excited, jumped up and bit me in the knee. When my in-laws came to dinner a year or so ago, he walked straight to the middle of the room and urinated on the carpet. When there is a domestic disagreement, he goes to the one raising their voice the loudest and most angrily and jumps in their lap, purring.

Once, a paving machine came down our street and Thomas refused to budge. With the machine at full throttle and bearing down on him, Thomas steadfastly sat in the middle of the blacktop, unmoving and unmoved. The kindly equipment operator stopped the machine and had me come get him. There are days I wish he would have kept going. Hell, there are days I wish I had been driving the steamroller. A neighbor rescued Thomas from the roof one time. If you can guess what Thomas did to him on the way down, you are getting the idea of my story.

And yet, Thomas lives on; yea, is even nurtured by our family. I can't really explain that without going into a whole bunch of amateur psychology. One theory is that we have seen Pet Sematary one time too many. Thomas is bad enough alive and in mortal form. We don’t need him coming back to haunt us as a kitty zombie. It has also been speculated that the only thing softer than my heart is my head. I handed the onerous task of "getting rid of Thomas" to Friend Spouse when I went to see my mother in Key Largo last year. I pulled out of our driveway feeling terribly guilty and yet relieved. When I came back twelve days later, Thomas, who had gained weight and was looking radiant, came bounding out to greet me.

Denzel Washington starred in a 1998 movie called "Fallen", a thriller about a Death Row killer, about to be executed, who is possessed by the Devil. The Devil, released from the murderer's body, keeps being passed back and forth through casual human contact like a malevolent case of the cooties. It is Denzel’s job to trap and expunge the evil spirit. At one point in the movie, the Devil passes into the body of a cat, the vector of his evil spirit. That cat is Thomas. If Denzel would ever like to do a sequel, my agent can talk to his agent. I have a feeling, though, that this would be box office poison -- one of those films where the audiences run screaming from the theaters.

There is no explanation for why we keep this cat, at least none that is flattering to our family. I have an idea that to us he represents that unlovable side each of us has and that we fear that to do away with Thomas would be to eliminate some outlet of our own unacceptable feelings. Thomas is the "sin eater" for our tribe, as it were, and while he is among us and culpable, we are guiltless of our own malevolent thoughts. Either that, or I am too soft-hearted and lazy. I think the latter explanation is rather the more likely, although I have to confess to a sort of inner jubilance toward any creature possessed of the gall to pee on the carpet in front of the in-laws. Hey, I wasn't going to do it....

2002-06-25T00:21:00.000-04:00

I wrote this poem in the dead of winter when we were moaning that we wanted it to be summer again. Now that summer is here and we are moaning about the heat, I thought we'd drag it out and have a little look. Uncanny, no?

"I Wish We Could Want What We Have"

Here's to absent lightning bugs
and summer storms
(and garden slugs?).

To Popsicles and starry nights
and front porch swings
(mosquito bites?).

Cursing snow, we, sullen, frown
at icicles
(and eiderdown?)

And wretched wind and endless grey,
and February
(creme brulee?).

Whoever, missing summer breezes,
disremembers pollen sneezes?

The same who, under August sun
Will, wistful, speak of winter fun.

;-)

(by celia b 03/04/2002)

2002-06-24T19:27:00.000-04:00

(Written 5/16/02)

I manage a Fantasy League baseball team on Yahoo. Until last night, we were Number One out of eleven teams in the league. For the uninitiated, a Fantasy League gives its teams the pick of all the players in both the American and National Leagues. There is an autodraft initially, but after that the "owner/managers" can hire and fire team members according to performance and who's available. Statistics for each team depend on the day-to-day real life performance of the players in actual ballgames. I'm having a lot of fun with this and was thinking to myself, "What if this were a real team?" I just thought some of you might think this is funny.

-- gracie

Well, there was a tense silence in the locker room late last night.

"Anybody wanna explain to me why I am paying you guys at least as much as any other group of players in either major league and what I'm gettin' outta ya is squat????"

Diffident silence from the bench.

"Finally, Vladimir [Guerrera, one of the hottest players until he joined "my" team -- go figure], you do something this week. Jeez, 1 for 4 at bats. Jesus Christ, I'm thinkin' of raisin' your salary!!!!!"

Scattered snickers and an outright chuckle from Rafael Palmeiro.

"Who did that? Hey, Iron Man, Mr. Viagra [Palmeiro has recently done commercials for Viagra -- no, I'm not joking] , you wanna stand up and tell me what the Hell is so funny? Maybe you oughta rub some-a that shit on yer bat, wise guy. O fer 4 last night, for Chrissake, and he laughs at somebody who actually got a hit."

Palmeiro turns beet red and searches the clubhouse floor for gum wrappers, dust specks, etc.

"I hate to tell you bums this, but there are gonna be some changes made. Ellis [Burks], here, he had somebody stickin' hot needles in his ass this week [Burks was undergoing acupuncture for a hamstring injury], for Chrissakes, and he went out last night and brought in a run and two RBI's. Maybe I oughta have the trainers stick hot needles in all your sorry asses until I'm seeing some .300 hitting."

"Well, [Pitcher Juan] Cruz bombed BAD the other night," began [Kenny] Lofton. "That sure didn't help the stats any. That guy is settin' records for Chicago he's so bad."

"Lissen, hot shot, if I wanted your management expertise, I woulda stuck a shirt on you that said 'Manager' and cut your salary. Anyway, to address that, Juan knows what he needs to do and we are working on it."

Sotto voce whisper from Vina: "She sheetcanned him, man."

"YOU have no room to talk, Fernando. If I were you, I wouldn't be cracking wise within my earshot.. All right, you guys, I'm tellin' yaz. You bastards go out there tonight and play ball like you was the Nine Apostles, you understand? And I don't want any goddam cryin' and whinin' about pulled this and strained that, either. Any of you pu... [transmission inaudible] ever hear of goddam Ty Cobb or Bob Feller layin' around whinin' with a groin injury, for Chrissakes? Now get out there and make me proud! I hate to talk to you guys this way, but I mean business, man. I love ya like sons and brothers, but if yaz don't start rackin' up some stats, I wouldn't be buying any local property if I was you. A'right, then. G'wan."

Diaz pipes up: "Jus' one more thing, okay?"

"Yeah, Einar?"

"You gone to be makin' more cookies this weekend? Those were good, man!"

"You guys will get what you deserve when you deserve it. Now don't forget to take extra Kleenex and warm undershirts tonight -- it's supposed to be chilly. Also, rinse out your cereal bowls -- whaddya, think I'm the maid?"

"Yes Ma'am. Happy Mother's Day, Ma'am."

::ruffling Magglio Ordonez' hair:: "I only yell because I love you guys. Now go out there and play ball."

2002-06-24T19:06:00.000-04:00

I call my very German husband "The Sermonator". It is his mission to instruct, remind, correct and enlighten me. In other words, my husband nags me.

You know, this is what happens when we marry somebody hoping they will straighten us out. At least it is for me. Probably serves me right, and I certainly could have done worse. Nagging is better than a lot of stuff; a fairly benign trait up there with farting and thinking it's funny and insisting you listen. Well, maybe a little worse. My ignore button is, however, fully functional in J's "nag mode" situations. I can finish an entire sports section, the funnies and half a pot of coffee and have him believing I'm hanging on his every word. The only problem is the occasional pop quiz later.

"Did you pick up the whatchamagizzard?"

"Um; no...." ::stalling in hopes of gleaning further information from the inevitable ensuing instructive remarks:: "Um, was I supposed to?"

"Were you supposed to? Were you supposed to???? Sweetheart, I told you that you had to pick up the whatchamagizzard because if [daughter]'s school gets out early Friday and if I have to go to Pittsburgh on Wednesday and if Craig calls from the insurance company about the rider to the 1506 policy, then there's a possibility that somebody might, on either Tuesday or next Saturday, have to go and get....Are you listening?"

"Um, of course."

"You weren't listening; you were looking at the stupid MLB standings."

"I can do two things at once."

Yeah. Like I can manage even one thing at once without getting distracted. There are only two activities I can think of which even come near to commanding my undivided attention, one of which is a close baseball game. Since he is neither naked nor wearing a Tribe uniform, his chances are very poor indeed. But I bluff valiantly. Mollified, he starts up again.

"Well, anyway, that has to get done, and while you're out, maybe you could pick up some of that vollkornbrot from the little German bakery at the West Side Market. You never make your own noodles any more -- I really like those. The cat looks like she needs some medicine -- when did you last pill her? Are there clean towels? Who's picking up Michael from work? Why don't you ever pull the weeds out of that back garden any more -- are you saving it? It looks bad. I need my skates sharpened, but not at Fritsche's, because they never do the extra deep cut....."

Poor soul. He is hopelessly, irretrievably and utterly lost, tucked somewhere between Ellis Burks's hamstring injury, the going price of sterling wire, and the possibility that ex- Calgary Flame Todd Harkins still remembers me; traversing the convoluted, pitted sulci of my brain. He will not surface again until he calls me, frantic, to tell me the whatchamagizzard people called and they had to cancel the order because no-one (aka the Bad Wife; ah, I have many names) picked it up.

I'd start a list, but I'd probably lose that too. One of these days I will learn to listen to him. Either that, or he will be the only man in the lot whose epitaph reads: "See what happens? And while you're here...." LOL

2002-06-24T18:56:00.000-04:00

I am having a shot at managing a fantasy baseball team this summer. While I haven't exactly produced the next Arizona Diamondbacks, I have had fun. I have also gained a woman's perspective on all this:

Why Fantasy Baseball Is Like Dating -- A Woman's Point Of View

You have hundreds of men to choose from.

Of all these hundreds, there are only a few worth pursuing.

Just because a guy looks good doesn't mean he's good for anything.

If they don't do what you want, you dump them.

If they stink, you dump them.

If they are good for nothing, can't perform and seem to spend most of their time laying around, you dump them.

Once you dump them, you may regret it, especially if your best friend picks them up.

However, once your best friend dumps them, all of a sudden they don't look so good anymore.

Just because you get one spectacular, hell-on-wheels, ring-tailed dazzler of a night out of a guy doesn't mean he'll be any good in the long run.

The ones you want are unavailable.

The ones you don't are yours for the asking.

You may get a spectacular performance out of the most unlikely of candidates.

If they perform well consistently, hang on to them.

Never mind what they say; watch what they do.

Never mind what anybody else says about them -- you're the best judge of what you need.

People who try to fix you up with someone have ulterior motives -- beware.

It's a long season, so have all the fun you can.

-- gracie

2002-06-22T09:26:00.000-04:00

Our house is surrounded by roses. Outside my house right now, there are literally thousands of roses in bloom. There are red climbing roses, pale dawn pink climbing roses, a lovely peach/apricot English shrub rose, a pale pink English rose, an old fashioned French garden damask rose in a greenish ivory (it doesn't sound so hot, but you shuld see and smell it), a few brightly colored tea roses in unusual hues, and a climbing sweetheart rose named Cecile Brunner (I think it was the name that attracted me) which ensconces our entire front porch in tiny, fragrant pink blooms. There is a fuschia rose that blooms even in shade that trails along our back entry. Possibly my favorite is the one I am looking at right now, a German hybrid shrub rose I planted on a western wall for maximum effect, since its blossoms are a gorgeous technicolor sunset mixture of bright orange, coral and pale gold. In the tree lawn, where the City of Cleveland decrees that nothing but city-issued maple trees may be planted, a huge Meiland shrub rose has hundreds of tiny, defiantly bright scarlet blossoms threading in and out of a gawky pussy willow tree to a height of twelve feet. The English, German and climbing roses all have attained heights of eight to twelve feet as well. There is even a Chinese multicolored rose, flaunting its Dragon Moon lanterns of fuchsia, orange, primrose, pink and pale lavender.

People literally stop, walk up our walkway (if they can get past all the wild columbines and through the strawberry patch) and ask me what kind of roses these are, how I grow them, where I got them, and, sometimes, why in the world we have so many. I have seen elderly people stop and sniff a stray blossom and say to me: "My mother used to have roses when I was a child....". I have seen babies point from strollers and shriek with glee, I have heard little kids shout at the sight with outright amazement, and I have seen more than one young man snitch a bloom or two on the way to see his sweetheart. All of these things make me so happy I cannot tell.

Our yard was not always so. At one point, it was bare of any roses at all, and my first attempt at rose planting, a tea rose, hung on for one sickly summer and died before the first frost. As with any skill I have ever mastered, I had to read a book to find out what to do. One book led to another. At one point, I was exchanging one stack of fifteen books or so for another at the library. The woman asked if I was teaching. "No," I laughed, "I'm learning."

The first years were not marked by great success. There were tea roses attacked by every variety of fungus, there were shrubs that died, and there were great gaping holes in the yard. Trellises broke. Winter killed some. Animals dug out others. For a few years, it looked as if I had taken a perfectly nice yard and ruined it.

But then, one year, a few of the English shrub roses, which started as nothing more than forlorn rooted twigs from a mail-order catalog, began to flourish. A tea rose died, but a pretty floribunda rose filled in where it had been. The climber which had for three years been a tangle of gangly, barren canes sprung forth in glorious bloom. The yard was on its way to becoming the beautiful bower of roses it is today.

When I was a young woman, I drank a lot. As the years passed, I became a physically mature woman who still drank a lot. There was always talk of unfulfilled potential, of "isn't that a shame?", of what a waste it was and how impoverished the husband, the children, the home were. Occasionally, it was postulated that I must be terribly unhappy to drink so much. Whether I drank because I was unhappy or was unhappy because I drank (and it was mostly the latter) was a moot point. The fact was, I appeared to all outside concerns to be, as I once bitterly joked about myself, "a senseless waste of human life." Such self-pitying comments were frequent and increased in acidulousness with the passing years.

So there I was, a drunk with a yard full of apparently dead roses. I cannot say how sorry the neighbors felt for my husband and children, but I am sure they pitied them. Repeatedly, I tried to "do something" about my drinking. I carried home armloads of books. I attended literally hundreds of meetings. I watered those roses with tears of bitter, angry frustration. I did everything but become willing to stop drinking.

Two years ago, I took my last drink. I became willing through the grace of God. With the help of my friends, I became a useful human being once again. It was at about that time (and I do not think it was entirely coincidence, but that's for another story) that the Cecile Brunner rose and the New Dawn rose turned my front porch into a bower of roses. I would sit on the porch with my coffee and my books and smell the lovely roses. Something about that environment made me feel blessed, protected and nurtured, something I needed very badly in the raw days of new sobriety. From the outer environment I found inner strength. Safe in my little enclave, I was free to meditate and pray and re-form my heart. It was recovery in the finest sense of the word, a regaining of what was once possessed.

Today, looking out at this amazing profusion of color and fragrance, I can't help but draw a few parallels. That miserable wretch of a drunken woman and those pathetic bundles of forlorn twigs. That yard full of mudholes and that soul full of gouges. That beaten, scarred body and those withered, lifeless shrubs. There didn't appear to be much hope, and there certainly wasn't much promise. To the outside world it was a very grim tableau indeed.

And yet, I never quit trying. Whether it was the roses or my own stubborn fight to remain alive "long enough to find a cure," as I once put it, I just wasn't willing to pack it all in. I think stubbornness aided by self-delusion were sometimes the only reasons I hung on as long as I did. Certainly there seemed to be no rational, empirical reason for me to continue to struggle.

I guess, if there is a moral, it is this: Never, ever, EVER give up. Where there's life, there's hope. God can do things that we can only dream of doing on our own. Without God's sunlight and rain, the roses would never have lived. Without God's grace and mercy, I would not be here today. And I can't resist a little joke here. It took an awful, awful lot of manure to get those roses to grow. Things are not always as they seem. And for that, I am truly thankful.

Love,

Celia

To see photos of the roses, visit: Gracie's Roses.

2002-06-16T14:51:00.000-04:00

deviled eggs indeed

Well, today I made deviled eggs, all right. Probably, correctly titled, consigned-to-the-nethermost-corner-of-Hell-for-all-eternity eggs.

I hate working with hardboiled eggs. But since today is Father's Day, and since my husband's favorite food is deviled eggs, I decided to do the right thing and make a batch.

So there I was, at the kitchen sink, with slippery boiled eggs popping out of my hands. The shells, which slip off in one deft motion for my mother-in-law and my sisters-in-law, were sticking as if epoxied, despite all the steps I followed about the temperature, the timing, etc. Other women make perfect deviled eggs with ease and I cannot. Resentment Number One. The eggs were beginning to look as if they would need to be filled with Bondo to even resemble anything ovoid, and of course tiny pieces of shell remained on each one. It occurred to me that other husbands would be grateful to get an apple pie, but no! my husband has to dislike apple pie and be fond of deviled eggs. Resentment Number Two. Grown men, I reasoned, have cried and begged for my apple pie and this guy won't touch it, and I love making apple pie. Deviled eggs are the bane of my culinary career and of course nothing else will do for this one but deviled eggs, deviled eggs, deviled eggs. He never requested them, mind you, but when you are building up a really good resentment, it is best not to sully the issue with the facts.

I tried in vain to shell the eggs. The eggs shredded. I pried gently. They popped out of my hands. I coaxed. The shells refused to part. I wailed softly. The eggs held their ground. Repeatedly, the door slammed, the phone rang, and if we had a dog, I have no doubt but it would have been barking. I got more and more and more irritated. Finally I was somewhere between Seethe and Explode when one of the nasty little eggs popped from my clumsy hand as if I were bobbling a baseball. That was IT.

Infuriated, I grabbed it, rared back, wound up, and let fly with a satisfying: "You son of a BITCH!" I don't recall if I had my right leg behind my ear Bob Feller style, but I may have. The egg took a bad hop on the dining room rug, landed and exploded into many, many more pieces than the sum of its parts. The cats came galloping into the room to participate. There was egg on the rug, the furniture, the wall and the fan. I stood open-mouthed, unable to believe what I had done. "Jeez," I whispered. "Maybe I really am crazy." Well, no use crying over splattered eggs, so I got the sweeper and the sponge and got busy.

At this point, my daughter came in from the front porch swing to see what the noise had been. She took one look at me on my hands and knees cleaning up egg fragments and correctly deduced what had happened. She started to laugh. First a suppressed snicker, then a giggle, then great hysterical bent-from-the-waist whoops. I had a moment of clarity and saw this all as if from above. I joined her. In very short order, the two of us were helplessly doubled over laughing, tears pouring down our cheeks, guffawing, smacking each other on the back.

Of course, at this moment my husband walked in the door. Egg fragments, greedy cats, hysterical women and a bucket of hot suds were arrayed before him. He went straight back outside without a word. If there is one thing my husband has learned in his long association with me, it is that if you have to ask, you don't want to know.

We finally got the deviled eggs made somehow. They were fairly decent if a little lopsided, and I have no doubt my husband will eat them quite happily. But as for the thought process that went into the making, I have learned one thing. If make deviled eggs you must, and if making deviled eggs is the one task you dislike above all others, it wouldn't hurt to say a little prayer for patience first. On the other hand, maybe that's why they call them "deviled".

2002-06-16T12:48:00.000-04:00

For all the dads:

This is for all the dads. You always see all kinds of cute columns on Mother's Day about all the moms. This is only right and just, since moms deserve practically cosmic recognition. But it seems to me the only articles I see about men lately, either on the internet or in the paper, are about their capacities to consume beer and ogle women. Granted, these are capabilities of the gender, but they don't necessarily summarize everything about men. Certainly, they are not the whole story. I have a lurking suspicion that if some of these "cute" articles were written about women, there would be a backlash almost as vituperative as if they were written about any other race, creed, ethnicity or sexual orientation. It seems that the only group we are allowed to insult with impunity and call it "humor" these days is men. Usually upper middle class married working men.

Am I missing something? Is there something inherently wrong with this group? What is it that meakes them immune to the sort of "humor" that other groups decry as bigoted and insulting? I'm just playing Devil's advocate, mind you, but sometimes somebody has to.

Admittedly, I have a conflict of interest going here. I am married to an upper middle class working man, so perhaps my view is biased. My friends warned me. They told me I would take a lot of flak marrying an upper middle class working man. In some circles these days, it's just not "done". I could expect stares on the street and whispers in restaurants. I would be left out of a lot of social gatherings, notably the meetings of the She-Woman Man-Haters Club. It is one thing to marry a man, but to have the poor judgment to admit to enjoying it is anathema in some milieus these days.

This started out to be about Father's Day, didn't it? Well, if you're still with me at this point, congratulations. Read on.

This is for all the fathers. Not the "good" fathers or the "great" fathers, but all fathers. If you are a father and have admitted it and are willing to work with the facts, you have earned a place in the proceeding pantheon.

This is for the fathers who weren't quite sure what they were getting themselves into, for the fathers to whom fatherhood came as a total surprise and for the fathers who went through endless months of ovulation predictors, temperature taking and awkward situations involving gravity in order to have a child or children. You are all honored here.

This is for the fathers who had no idea what to do with a colicky baby, a dirty diaper or a teething tantrum and soldiered on anyway so that the mother could pursue a career, a shopping day or an hour's peace and quiet. You have our deepest gratitude, though we may not have shown it at the time. You have told us you love us in quite an important way.

This is for the fathers who work twelve-hour days so that their wives can stay home with the kids, then get criticized for not spending time with the wife and kids. You may feel that you can't win, but you already have. You know what is valuable, and your self-sacrifice is an example that no textbook could impart. We are grateful to you also. You are trading your fun for their well-being, and there are few sacrifices more important, mature or selfless. We're sorry for when we're critical -- we're not thinking this through.

This is for the fathers who have missed the crucial inning, the big play, the hat trick, the game-winning basket in overtime so that you could answer a child's cry for help, separate fighting siblings, tend to a skinned knee, pick up someone whose driver might have been drinking or simply answer, for the forty-third time, why you can only see stars at night. You may have missed the Big Play, but you get the Big Picture just fine. We are grateful.

This is for the fathers who tried to answer the Question About Sex, even when it would have been easier to hand this off to the mom. We assure you, what you may have lacked in delicacy you made up for in technical correctness, and we are impressed that you even tried. Give yourself ten extra points if the questioning child was a girl. "Ask your mother" is an okay answer on this one, but you have gone above and beyond.

This is for the fathers who lost their tempers, shouted at the kids, made them cry and now feel like hell about it. Don't. Moms do it too. Maybe the kids cried harder because you were louder, but you are human and should forget about this right now, as long as you apologized. You did apologize, right?

This is for the fathers whose contact with their kids is limited to some words spoken down a long-distance telephone line every couple of months. You may not have our sympathy, but you have our empathy, and you are encouraged to try again -- it is never too late to do the right thing, although we will warn you that the window of a child's forgiveness, wide though it is, does close almost entirely at some time around the age of thirteen and may be difficult to pry open after that. We who have seen that window close from the inside know this. Still, maybe you didn't have a very good example to learn from. You can always try to break the pattern. And it is never too late to say "I love you".

This is for the fathers who read "Goodnight Moon" fifty-three nights running (and were severely admonished if they skipped a word), desperately tried to clean up the broken figurine and concoct an alibi before The Mom came home, found SIlly Putty stuck to some important drawings in their briefcase, fed everybody cereal for dinner three nights running (it's okay; read the box -- all the good stuff is in there, and it's better than burgers and fries), tried in vain to teach a four-year-old to fly a kite (try again when they're about seven -- it's OK), shut a kid's fingers in a cupboard or stepped on a tiny foot and now feel like a monster (you didn't do it on purpose, did you?), let everybody watch a scary movie and then had to sit up with the squalling ones, heard their own careless words echoed in a tiny voice from the back seat saying "Athhole!" when cut off in traffic, or fell asleep in front of the TV to awaken to the crash of furniture, the sound of breaking glass or the wail of a hungry, dirty infant: We love you! You tried! We couldn't ask for more. And in case we forgot to tell you, we really, really appreciate you. You are half of the most important team in the formative years of a human being. And when they go off to college, your efforts will be repaid. Not just in knowing you have raised a decent human being, but because we are going to get out the china and candles and gourmet treats and treat you like we promised we would when we got married all those years ago. You deserve it.

With love,

Celia

2002-05-14T00:28:00.000-04:00

For anyone who's paying attention, I made my First Communion on this date in 1967 at St. Colman Church in Cleveland, Ohio. It was a sunny day. Aunt Julie Ryan told me: "May you always be as good and as innocent as you are today." I haven't been, but you gotta love Aunt Julie.

Today's baseball notes:

The good news is, I finally got the Pedro Martinez Bobblehead Doll, one of a series of MLB dolls, in this morning's box of Post Raisin Bran. The bad news is, he keeps knocking all the other dolls' heads off.

Clevelanders are howling for the head of Cleveland Indians Manager Charlie Manuel after the recent sweep of the Tribe by Kansas City, one of many unexpected (but, IMNSHO, richly deserved) losses. Listen, people. If these guys get to the level of major league play, they shouldn't need to be pushed, scolded, coaxed and begged to play decent baseball. At the level at which these guys are playing, a manager's job should all but do itself. The greatest part Charlie can realistically be expected to play in this is deciding whom to plug in and where, with possibly a little constructive encouragement where needed. No, he didn't throw a s*** fit deluxe over the questionable foul ball call the other day, but let's look at this: When, honestly, have you ever seen an umpire reverse his decision based on the arguments of a team manager? The best we could have hoped for was for Charlie to get hot, the ump to eject him and a fire to get lit under the Tribe. If we're going to play the why, why why game, why was the ball toddling along the foul line when it should have been deep into the outfield? Quit blaming Charlie.

2002-05-13T14:06:00.000-04:00

I saw an angel the other day. Really.

I was standing at the sink drying dishes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. So beautiful! Tumbling from the heavens, its robes a streak of white, its long, graceful limbs unfurling, golden hair flying, it landed in my backyard.

It really did take me a full second to realize that it was my daughter, turning a cartwheel.

I saw a ghost the other day too. A friendly one, one I really have missed.

My father, fresh from Navy boot camp, before all the horro of war had hurt him so, was turning the corner of our street, walking along with a pretty girl on his arm. His jaunty walk, his tall, handsome self, that crooked Tyrone Power grin -- I was so happy to see --

--that it was my son, walking home from school in his Junior Navy ROTC dress blues.

Motherhood is not alway fun. It is no ticket to glory, fame, wealth or even necessarily recognition. Sometimes I wonder how God decided to hand the job of raising these two beautiful people to me, little me -- surely the least patient, most selfish, most grossly inexperienced person for the job. I was so certain I'd be terrible at it, in fact, that on neither occasion did I seek the position -- I was pulled from the ranks and conscripted. Both of my kids were total surprises. But I can only conclude that God knew what he was doing, because I have learned more from my children than they will ever learn from me, and they certainly belong in the world.

Ah, and the things I have seen. Visions that, had I never been a mother, would never have presented themselves.

Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Don't make me answer that. I have already learned that God is the only good judge of what's best for me.

But, oh, the joy that has been in the journey. I can only look down the road ahead with happy anticipation and the hope that, maybe someday, many years from now, one of my grandchildren will see their grandmother in a girl jumping rope in "hot pepper time" on a chalked up sidewalk. They may not know it, but I'll be there.