November 16, 2005

Cleaning Out My Closet

“Do you wear this outside the house, or is it ‘exercise-wear’?” my sister asked, holding up a stretchy T-shirt festooned with a picture of the Eiffel Tower and other French landmarks, all accented with gold sequins at intermittent intervals. I didn’t have the guts to confess that the shirt was not one I wore to the gym. In its heydey, I wore it to fancy restaurants and parties.

We were cleaning out my closet– something I hadn’t done in years. It’s an activity best conducted with a special person. She needs to be tactful enough to convince you that a five year old pair of pants is hideous, not fashionable, without pissing you off. At the same time, she should be stylish enough that you believe her when she says she’d never let a certain piece of clothing touch her body.

I needed her help. I tend to reason that most clothes are worth holding on to. If ponchos and gauchos are back, I can’t think of any trend that’s too ugly to make a comeback. Consequently, my closet is full of clothes dating back to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” days. I am drawn to colors and patterns. Also, it’s been well-documented that I walk the line between trashy and trendy, and often I need someone to tell me when I’ve gone too far.

My sister is always well-dressed, and has a knack for organization combined with enough OCD to allow her to be ruthless in discarding the unwearable, after which she hangs everything on matching hangers facing in the same direction in a complicated closet classification system.

She pulled a striped miniskirt from the closet and looked at it apprehensively.

“You know, Anne,” she said, “There’s just an age where you have to draw the line at skirts of a certain length.”

“Are you saying I’ve reached that age?” I asked meekly.

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

“Well, I’ll try it on and you tell me if it is too short,” I proposed.

I stripped off my jeans, put on the miniskirt, and posed. She laughed in disbelief.

“Have you worn that out of the house lately?” she asked.

I knew good and well that this was code for “Who’s been dressing you– Lil Kim?”

“Have you seen my legs?” I retorted. “I’m the queen of the baseball field when I wear this,” I said as I wiggled out of the skirt.

She took it from me delicately and tossed it in the “Donate” pile.

“Wait!” I shrieked. “That’s much more than a skirt that is too short. Bill picked it out for my birthday several years ago. All by himself. He gets all hot and bothered when I wear it.”

“Okay,” she relented. “It can go in the ‘For Romance Only’ pile,” she conceded, “but you have to swear you won’t wear it out of the bedroom.”

“I promise,” I agreed.

After she had left, and all my clothes (or what remained of them) were hanging neatly, categorized and subdivided by sleeve length and color, I thought about our conversation. I know the general rules of fashion here– white only between Easter and Labor Day (although the temperature may hover in the 80’s until November), no velvet after Valentine’s Day, and so forth.

But the rules about changing your look as you age are far murkier. When do you admit to yourself that you’re not getting any younger, and that perhaps you should be shopping at Banana Republic instead of Express? Until now, I’ve stayed away from Banana Republic. I could always find a fabulous top (preferably with beading or sequins) at Express that suited me just fine.

A couple of days ago, I went into Banana Republic, just to see what would happen. Most of the clothes were solids, but I didn’t let that scare me. And when I walked out, I had created an outfit, one that my sister would be proud of. I paired a solid cranberry blouse with a pair of solid gray pants. I put them on with my new shoes, threw on a bunch of necklaces, and wore the whole thing two days in a row. I didn’t look all soccer-momish, or matronly. I looked chic.

I’m sure my sister would have done it differently– she would have worn flats, not shiny dancing shoes, and her jewelry would have been subdued, and of course her hair would have been all one color, rather than the three I have going right now.

But I’m going to attribute those differences to personal style, not inappropriate fashion choices on my part. Am I finally growing up?

November 13, 2005

“A Blessing”

It’s been two and a half weeks since my mom died. I’ve had a little time to get used to the idea that she’s gone. However, the last thing I do at night and the first thing I do each morning is rehash the experience in my head, to convince myself that it truly happened. I’m afraid Bill thinks I have lost my mind.

I go over the details, endlessly. My mom called me on October 21, a Friday, to tell me that she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I was sitting here at my computer, writing, when the phone rang. My dad was on the line, too. They were optimistic– they knew she was facing major surgery and a year of chemo, but they were ready for the challenge.

The following Monday my sisters, my dad and I went to the doctor with my mom, where we all discussed her treatment and prognosis. Mom was admitted to the hospital Tuesday morning and the surgery went well. Wednesday she suffered a sudden pulmonary embolism and died.

To say that we were shocked would be an understatement. Hours earlier I had sent out an email to my mother’s friends, advising them that the surgery had been a success. Less than a day later I was making a call asking one of her friends to begin the grim task of notifying everyone that my mom was dead.

I suppose that with any death there are questions. Some are easier to answer than others. The hardest question I’m facing now is why she was taken from us without warning, with no time to say goodbye.

There’s no denying that my mom had a bad cancer. I know that caring for someone with cancer, or any other debilitating disease, is stressful and emotionally overwhelming.

Many people tell us that the fact she went quickly, and without suffering, was a blessing. Intellectually, I know that she departed this life in the way she wanted. She cared for her mother for many years, and didn’t value longevity over quality of life. It’s true that she didn’t suffer, and our memories of her are good ones– we’ll remember her laughing, or working in the garden, or opening birthday presents.

But who’s to say that way was best? If she had survived the surgery and begun chemo, and the year had been a hard one, as it surely would have, I have to think that the
experience would have brought our family closer, much in the way her untimely death has. Had it played out that way, the same people would be telling us that at least we had some extra time with her, to care for her, to tell her goodbye, and to make sure she knew we loved her. The extra months would have been “a blessing” as well.

In the last couple of weeks I’ve talked with many people who have lost close family members. Some had a sudden, stunning loss like ours. Others nursed a loved one for months, watching them slowly deteriorate.

These people understand the conundrum. They understand the value of getting to say goodbye, but don’t minimize the emotional toll of watching a parent or spouse suffer and die. They understand that labeling this particular manner of death “a blessing” is too easy.

You can’t have everything. We were spared the sight of watching her in pain. In exchange, we have no choice but to hope that she knew what was in our hearts. That she was a great mother. That she taught us well. That we’ll try to never forget to write a thank you note, or take flowers to someone who’s sick. That we’ll travel and hang out
with friends and family while we’re able to enjoy them.

The question of why she was taken so abruptly is one without an answer. As with anything, I suppose you must take what life gives you, and look for the good in your situation. So I choose to be thankful for the circumstances surrounding her death, and I have faith that the things that were left unsaid didn’t really need saying at all.

November 8, 2005

All About You

When you’ve been married a while, intimacy can get a little predictable. After kids enter the picture, it’s easy for romance to get shoved aside. Bill and I are determined not to let this happen to us.

I recently consulted a book that promised to add zest and excitement to our private life. The book provides a list of different things to try out in bed (or elsewhere). Additionally, it encourages you to schedule time together and to make sure you are both aware of the time and place of the rendezvous, because it’s hard to smooch and make googly eyes at each other if one of you is working late and the other is cleaning out the pantry. The combination of anticipation and new methods is supposed to make you both as horny as billy goats.

There was one chapter in particular that made a great impression on me. It stressed the fact that intimacy is togetherness, not just sex. The book was adamant about the fact that some encounters should not result in intercourse, but should be thoughtful gifts for your spouse, like time off from the kids, or a night with sole control of the remote.

Bill and I were determined to give the plan a try, and we agreed that I’d surprise Bill first. As I perused the list of crazy activities, I eliminated the ideas that required odd props (spurs) or extensive cleanup afterwards (chocolate sauce). I thought about staging a bubble bath extravaganza, because I dearly love a hot bath. However, the only bathtub in our house is the one the boys use every night, and to call it nasty and mangy would be an understatement. I didn’t think I’d be able to get the tub cleaned up and make myself irresistible all on the same night, so I picked a different idea.

On the chosen day, I left Bill a subtle sticky note in his closet (”Tonight’s the night!”) and a voicemail (”Hey honey - don’t be late tonight, or you’ll miss the big shindig!”)

At the appointed hour, we put the boys to bed and locked our door. I proceeded to parade around the bedroom in one of Bill’s buttondowns and a pair of black stilettos. I used the sexy pout I had perfected from my adventures in modeling, and this time Bill did not laugh. This outfit resulted in exactly the response the author predicted– Bill was soon snoring. I was very proud of myself and amazed at the book’s accuracy. I could hardly wait to see what was in store for me.

Several days later, I woke up and saw a note on my mirror. “Relax: tonight it’s all about you!” I checked my email later and Bill had sent me a message. It read: “This is your night….”

As I was cooking dinner, the phone rang. It was Bill.

“Have you gotten any messages today?” he asked coyly.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you on your way home?”

“I sure am, honey,” he said gleefully. “Let’s eat, get the kids bathed, and put them to bed, because you and I have a date at 9:00 sharp.”

“I heard,” I said. “But do you think I could take a raincheck? I’ve had a hellish day. The boys dug a huge muddy canal around the swing set, so everyone was covered with dirt and I have them all in the bathtub now. I’m not really feeling very sexy.”

Bill was silent a moment.

“Honey, I think you’re going to enjoy this surprise. Why don’t you reconsider?” he asked.

“I won’t rule it out completely, at least not yet,” I said sullenly, adding a cup of mushrooms to my pan and swirling them around. “I just want you to know what I’ve had to deal with today.”

Eventually everyone was fed and homeworked and put to bed. I returned to the kitchen to clean up. Suddenly Bill materialized and nuzzled my ear.

I jumped. “You scared me!” I shrieked.

He took a step back. “Honey, calm down,” he said pleadingly. “You’re ruining the mood.” He stepped up to me again and whispered in my ear. “You stay in here while I get things ready. I’ll call you when it’s time to be pampered.”

I sighed. It looked like my work for the night was far from done.

While I scrubbed pots, I could hear lots of splashing coming from the boys’ bathroom. Bill came back to the kitchen once to get the Comet, the Pine-Sol and a sponge. “I’m almost ready for you,” he winked.

I was resigned to getting through with the whole affair as quickly as possible so I could get some sleep. “Great,” I said, weakly, and I kissed him on the cheek.

As I was wiping the counters, he returned once more, his face flushed. “Are you ready?” he asked. “You’re going to love this!”

I wasn’t sure of that at all, but he grabbed my hand and I followed him. He led me to the bathroom, where he’d filled the tub with a large bubble bath.

“Get in,” he urged. Seeing my hesitation, he added, “don’t worry, I completely disinfected it for you, my love.”

My heart began to soften.

“You get in and soak,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone. This is all about you.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “It’s your night. Enjoy yourself. I’ll check on you and see if you need anything.”

I undressed and eased myself into the bubbles. It was exactly what I needed, and I closed my eyes and savored the warmth. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that Bill had placed a couple of scented candles by the tub. My fancy chenille robe was hanging on the back of the door. Best yet, he had placed my New Yorker nearby. I picked it up and was soon lost in an article about fish suppliers. It had been ages since I’d had a night to myself.

I was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Bill, holding a big fluffy towel.

“Are you ready to get out?” he asked with a smile.

“Ooh, not yet,” I said. “This is heaven. I think I’ll finish this article.”

He frowned. “But honey, I’m getting tired. I need to go to bed,” he said.

“That’s okay,” I said, not looking up from my magazine. “I can get out myself. I love you, honey. You were so sweet to make the bubble bath and light the candles and everything. This was a wonderful evening.”

He looked at me strangely. “But it’s not over yet,” he said.

“It’s not?” I asked.

“No, it’s not,” he said desperately.

I looked up at him. And then I realized it really wasn’t over yet.

So I got out of the tub, dried off, and we went into our room and made googly eyes at each other and smooched.

In marriage, it’s never “All About You.” It’s all about us. And that’s how it should be.

November 1, 2005

Embracing My Mom

When I was growing up, the thought that I might turn into my mother scared the hell out of me. It didn’t seem likely, though. Where she’s vague and unorganized, I am precise and scheduled. She’s conservative, I’m decidedly more liberal. She never attended an event without taking an impeccably wrapped hostess gift. I am lucky to remember to deliver a Bionicle to the birthday boy two weeks after the party.

I’ve done a lot of things differently than my mother would have. My mom tried hard to keep her feelings to herself, but often the decisions I made were so completely opposite from what she would have done that she could not help expressing her opinions.

I refused to join the Junior League even though she swore I’d become a social pariah if I passed up such a coveted invitation (she was only partially right).

I insisted on black lace bridesmaid dresses at my wedding when pastel taffeta was the norm. She deemed it morbid, not stylish, but accepted it when I let her plan every other aspect of the wedding.

I kept my maiden name until my tenth wedding anniversary, confusing a large portion of the Kingdom, who simply had never heard of this. Mom disapproved– she thought this went against the whole point of marriage.

I dyed my hair a spectrum of colors, from mahogany to copper to strawberry blonde, despite the fact that my mom frequently dropped subtle hints like, “I think your hair would look wonderful if you colored it a nice light blonde, but not platinum like that trashy Madonna or that other singer you like.”

I continued to practice law after having children. She worried that the boys would be irreparably damaged, but eventually she came around and saw that my way could work, too.

I got a tattoo when I was much closer to forty than thirty. She was not iffy on this one. She thought it was crazy and tacky.

Despite our differences, in some ways we were similar.

A couple of weeks ago, I went in Drew’s bedroom to get him up.

“Wake up, sweet potato!” I said enthusiastically, giving him a big hug.

He squirmed in my arms. “Why do you call me a sweet potato?” he asked. “I’m a boy, not a potato.”

“Because that’s what my mother called me,” I said. “Mothers call their children “sweet potato” to show that they love them. Or at least I do.”

“Lizzie called you that?” Drew asked.

“She did when I was little. All the time,” I said, remembering.

“Weird,” Drew said, and he ran into the kitchen to get breakfast.

Later that day I thought about other things we do in our house. Almost unconsciously, I do things certain ways because that’s how my mother did them. For example, she’d give my sisters and me a penny for each pine cone we gathered, to get them out of the yard. In the fall, we have hickory nuts covering our driveway like marbles, and I pay my boys a penny for each one they pick up.

I believe in teaching self-sufficiency in the Glamore house, and I realize now that my mom also thought that showing us how to do things for ourselves was important. I was jealous when I went over to a friend’s house in the second grade, and her mom made lunch for us. She had cut the crusts off grilled cheese sandwiches and then cut each half into triangles.

When I told my mom about the fancy lunch I’d had, she was unimpressed.

“I’ll show you how to do that,” she said, and she did, and that was the end of it. If I wanted crustless bread, I could make it that way myself.

So a couple of years ago, when Porter asked me to cut the crusts off his peanut butter sandwich, it never occurred to me to simply do it. Instead I handed him a knife and showed him how to do it, just like my mom had taught me. Then I demonstrated how he could turn the sandwich one way to cut it into triangles, or he could turn it another way and cut it into squares. It was his choice. He was thrilled.

We’ve also got a nickel jar in the kitchen like the one from my childhood, but due to inflation, now it costs a quarter if you forget to make up your bed, say “yes ma’am” or turn off the lights in your room. At Christmas and birthdays, presents are barely unwrapped before the stationery for thank you notes is out, and the boys are at the kitchen table, laboriously writing such gems as:

Der Lizzie thenk you fer the
remotecontrolcar I luv it
luv Drew War eegl!

I’ve also inherited my mom’s love of adventuresome cooking. I can’t pass a jar of capers without thinking of her. She taught my sisters and me the joys of eating complicated artichokes, steamed crab legs dipped in butter, and bulgogi, a Korean beef dish that she learned to make while my dad was in the Army. I’ve introduced these dishes to my boys, who (surprisingly) love them as much as we did.

Even if you try not to turn into your mom, no matter how different you are or how much you rebel, there are parts of your mother that stick with you like dog hair.

And now, I embrace that fact, because I can no longer embrace her. My mom died unexpectedly last week. She was sixty-four. I am still in shock, of course, and can hardly believe I am writing these words. Part of me thinks she might walk in my door any minute, with a red Solo cup of flowers from her garden.

This post can’t begin to sum up my mother. I haven’t mentioned her love of adventure (riding camels!) or her stomach curdling meatloaf. I’m sure I’ll write more about her in the future.

For now, it helps to know that Finn, Porter and Drew are reaping some of the priceless gifts she gave me.