Woolly Mutts

Retread Tuesday

While visiting with some friends today a past blog post was brought into the conversation.  Since a few of those present are new readers of the blog, and because I am feeling incredibly lazy today, I've decided to re-post an oldie, but goodie.  For your rainy day enjoyment (I hope) Naked Barbies....again. (Originally posted 1/31/10)

Tales of Naked Barbies.

I am a feminist.  Not the burn-my-bra sort of feminist, but rather the sort that would like to see women have the choices necessary to reach whatever potential they wish to achieve.  Being the mother of a daughter, I strove to try and lead her away from stereo types of what society tells us women should be and toward ways of thinking that would offer her a broader, choice filled life.  Yes, well,  lets just say it was society 1, forward thinking mother zip, zero, nada.  Not that she did not turn out just fine in the end, because she did.  The road we took to get there was just a little less feminist mom and little more cheerleading, Hooters, and a basement full of naked Barbies.

Ah, Barbie, you and I never could quite see eye to eye.  Even as a child I chose other dolls over your pose-able, bend-able, comb-able self and as a mother I REALLY didn't want you a part of my daughter's life.  They could dress you up in every fashion and uniform out there; give you glasses and a fake job at NASA, but beneath it all you were still the 12 inch waisted, pointed boobed, bimbo with great hair and an unhealthy tan. (Take that Malibu Barbie!)  You even kicked Ken to the curb, and after all the years he was loyal to your perky arse.  I told him he should have joined the military. But, despite our negative history, there you were, all packaged in pink at my daughter's third birthday party and her eyes shone like diamonds as she attempted to pry you from your over packaged and insanely secure box.  On that day I knew I was fighting a losing battle.

As the years past the Barbie population grew....and grew....and grew.  There were Barbie houses and cars and teensy little 4 inch heels (that's Barbie metric) to match every fashionable Barbie outfit.  The basement play room became Barbie central and I tried to look the other way until one day I glanced over to discover that the floor was littered with Barbies AND they were all naked.  It looked like the Barbie Apocalypse down there.  Some were even bald (egad!).  When asked, my daughter sort of shook her head and said she got tired of getting them all dressed.  Poor Barbie, exposed and broken by the burden of fashion.  Let there be light. (cue heavenly choir)

At that point  we had a basement of naked Barbies, a defined lack of interest in clothing them, and a brother that had had just about enough of bringing his friends to play and getting razzed about the mass nakedness in the basement.  Something must be done.....and you know....for the life of me I can't remember what exactly was done.  Maybe they ended up at the curb in a garbage bag (oh sweet revenge) or handed out to other friends, but in the end the basement play room become a naked Barbie free zone.  That is not to say no more Barbies entered the family, but they met with a better, more fashionable life than their predecessors.

So, the other night I turn on BBC America to watch the hilarious Graham Norton and what do I spy on the desk behind him??????   NAKED BARBIES.

Not a grand photo, but the best I could find.  Look over his right shoulder and there they are. This pic is just a small representation of the display.  I bet the table is 4 feet long and covered with naked Barbies.  Hysterical.  Absolutely brilliant.

Take that Barbie, you unrealistic b*t#h.  No girl can live up to the body proportions, not to mention jet setting lifestyle you exemplify, but you won't see us proper women standing, en masse in our birthday suits on a British talk show with our hair all a shambles.  Eat a sandwich, for heavens sake, and get real.

Mother's Day 2010

My favorite motherhood years were when my children were teenagers.  I know....I see those shocked faces, but I really have always enjoyed teenagers.  Babies, I'm not so great at, but give me a room full of 15 year olds and I'm thrilled.  I adore them.

It took me awhile to find a picture of my children together during those years.  I think this was Kysa's 8th grade formal and Karl's prom.  I'm pretty sure Karl had a migraine and was less than thrilled to be photographed which might have something to do with his sister's raised fist.  My memory does not serve well in this instance.  When ever a camera came out Kysa smiled and posed, and Karl disappeared.

Anyway...teenagers.  During those years I made it clear that I had an open door policy.  Any time they wanted to be at our house was ok with me.  They probably thought I was trying to be cool, when in truth I was keeping an eye on who they were hanging out with and what they were doing.   There were cheer-leading practices and sleep overs; round the kitchen table poker games and bonfires in the yard.  I still sort of miss that steady stream of young people coming and going.

As a teen Karl had one particular friend who I shall call T, for trouble. Even though I'm not giving his real name, anyone who knows this person will recognize him as I tell this tale.  I hope he will not take offense.  T was, and probably still is, a little larger than life.  He is a little loud, a little crazy, and so funny.  Hilariously funny.  If there was going to be some sort of incident that will leave a legacy of story telling, T was most likely in the middle of it.  He hung upside down from a chin up bar we have in our yard during Karl's graduation party and gave every one a lovely view of his posterior.  He, and others(to be fair), were skinny dipping in our pool at the end of our wedding party.  I could go on and on, but you now what?  I never really minded.  It was just T being T and we all loved him.  It was sort of impossible not to.

Yesterday morning I opened my email box to find an email from T.  To be honest, I almost didn't open it because I was afraid it was spam.  I had no idea that he even knew my email address.  When I finally did open it, here is what I found.

Sweet, huh?  I don't care if he sent it to every other mother on the planet, I was incredibly touched that I was one of them.  Pretty much made my day.  Feel free to use the link to make some one else's Mother's Day a little brighter.

And to T, thanks for being such a sweetie and thinking of me on Mother's Day.  You always were my favorite. :-) 

Happy Mother's Day to all you lovely mothers out there.  Celebrate; you've earned it.  Motherhood is the toughest, and best job you'll ever have.

You're gonna miss this.

"You're gonna miss this
you're gonna want this back
you're gonna wish these days
hadn't gone by so fast.

These are some good times
so take a good look around.
You may not know it now
but you're gonna miss this."


Since we returned from our week in Nashville I've been making it a habit to hit the button on the radio tuned to the country music station.  After experiencing the devotion country music fans have for their music and musicians I decided there must be more to it than my original assessment.  I'll admit that I'm still not what I would call a "fan", but there is no denying that they have a gift for music that gets right to the heart of emotion.  One of my favorites is the song containing the lyrics above, "You're Gonna Miss This", by Trace Adkins (who I actually met in Nashville).  Video here. 

Every time I hear this song I wonder what it is about the human animal that struggles to live in the moment? Why do we always want what will come next more than what is happening now? There is no question that with age comes a certain wisdom and it truly has taken me to age 50 to realize how much I missed hurrying on to the next thing in life. 

The picture above is one of my dearest of my children.  I remember them so clearly that day, so blond and sweet.  Karl had just been given his first wrist watch and he was so proud of it.  Kysa wasn't quite 3 and always hurrying to keep up with Karl.  I also remember that I thought I would NEVER get her potty trained and that shopping for school supplies with Karl was just torture as he could never decide exactly what he wanted.  Those were some good times, and while I don't want them back, I do wish that I had appreciated them for the gifts they were at the time.  I would like back just a few more bed time stories in the rocking chair, a few more sweet baby hugs and kisses, a few more hours at the table after school hearing about their days.  Those were some good times and they are gone so fast.  I had no idea.  None at all.

Today my children have grown into two of the loveliest people I know.  They are both kind and thoughtful and generous of spirit.  Karl is nearing his goal of becoming a fireman and Kysa is less than 3 months from giving birth to our first grand-baby. I wish I was able to give them the gift of "now".  The knowledge that this moment will.not.come.again.  The ability to walk more slowly through life and absorb the joy, and the sorrow, as it happens. 

Cause Trace got it right, you're gonna miss this.

The way to a Mother's heart.

Summer makes me nostalgic. 

Each time I see this aged gate I smile and remember the summer when my ten year old son and his best buddy came struggling though the back yard carrying it between them.  It was in exactly the same condition that it is now and was found somewhere upstream in the creek bed.  Upon spying it they just knew I would love it and find a home for it in one of the gardens. And of course they were right. 

Earlier this week  I thought it was missing, perhaps stolen, and was broken hearted. To my relief it was found lying in some tall grass.  I moved it farther from the street and to a place I could keep a better eye on it.  A little piece of tangible love needs to be well cared for.

My most embarrassing moment....or the day the Tamagotchie died.

Over the last several months I've become a devoted listener of Sage Tyrtle over at Quirky Nomads.  At the close of each broadcast she asks a question and then encourages listeners to call or email in their answer.  Yesterday's question was; "what was your most embarrassing moment"?  The day that I wanted the floor to open up and suck me in is recapped in the following story of ironic humor.

  My kids were 9 and 11 and when my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  Inoperable and fairly advanced, the doctors suggested chemo, but still only gave him six months to live.  The very talented Doctor of Oncology was big on family involvement and called twice monthly family meetings to discuss my father's condition.  He was a proponent of the "no surprises" method of healthcare and I thanked him for it early and often.  Mine were the only children in the family and were always encouraged to come.  Karl, the oldest, was generally able to stay focused during the meetings, and often interjected questions.  Kysa, my beautiful ADD child, could barely sit still.  For this reason I allowed her to bring along something to occupy her during the sessions, and her choice was always her Tamagotchie. 

For those of you unfamiliar, a Tamagotchie is a virtual pet and they were all the rage during that time.  You had to monitor it's every function.  If it was hungry it would beep and you would push the little button to feed it.  After eating, it pooped.  (I'm not making this stuff up.) It could get sick and need injections, it needed play time and nap time and babysitting if you were going to leave it alone.  I drew the line on the babysitting part, but somehow we managed to keep it alive.  Oh yes, did I mention the dying part?  Yeah, the thing could die if you didn't care for it correctly.  As I recall, there was a little meter that kept you informed if you were being a lousy Tamagotchie Mom.  Brilliant little invention.

True to the prognosis of the doctors, my father's cancer could not be stopped and he passed away almost six months to the day of his diagnosis.  His funeral was held on the hottest day of summer.  I remember that I wore a navy suit with pantyhose.  I must have been nuts.  Anyway, the plan was to have the visitation and viewing before the funeral, making for a really long and emotional day for everyone involved, including my kids.  Somehow we all managed to sweat (there was air conditioning, but it was no where near enough to deal with the mass of people in such a small space) our way through the visitation and take our seats in the family area for the funeral.  As we took our seats I noticed that my daughter had the Tamagotchie in her hand and I whispered to her to put it away until after the service, which she did.

All went well until near the end of the service when Kysa's little white purse began to vibrate.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see she and Karl fumbling with the bag to get it open and calm whatever distress the Tamagotchie was in.  And then, during my father's funeral, the Tamagotchie died.  I kid you not.  It vibrated, it beeped, it played the hallelujah chorus at the top volume of it's little Tamagotchie voice and it expired.  The service stopped and every eye in the place turned to us.  Kysa was madly pushing every button when Karl grabbed it and sat on it.  This muted the volume enough so that it was only audible to the those of us close, but I swear it went on playing "king of kings, and lord of lords" until that little Tamagotchie had walked all the way from Northern Illinois to Tamagotchie heaven.  I remembering smiling and indicating that everything was fine and the service began again, this time moving along to the final prayer with some haste, just in case the lunatics in the family section did something else inappropriate.  I looked at the kids and the kids looked at me and the worst possible thing happened: we started to laugh.  That nervous horrible laughter that can't be controlled.  We, as silently as possible, shook with laughter until tears ran down our cheeks.  I remember thinking that the only person that could have truly appreciated the irony of this situation was the man in the casket.  At the end of the service Karl pulled out the Tamagotchie and we all looked disbelievingly at the screen to see a beautiful angel serenely floating right above the words, "to begin again, push here". 

So that's the story of the day the Tamagotchie died.  Coincidence or Divine humor.  You decide.