What Dad Really Gave Me

Posted on June 15, 2014 | Leave a comment

Although I don’t have children of my own, I’ve heard sage advice that when it comes to your children, you should spend half as much money and twice as much time.  My dad never had much in the way of money, but he always made sure I had plenty of his time.

This is the dad who took me fishing and we caught a catfish so big we had to call on other nearby fisherman to help us retrieve it out of the river. The dad who spent a weekend helping me craft a model of the planet Saturn out of plaster, house paint and a coat hanger for science class. The dad who spent countless hours teaching me how to perfect my free throw. The dad who made and decorated a homemade kite with me, named it “The Swearingen Special” and took me out on the perfect windy day to fly it.  The dad who challenged me to save my babysitting money and matched me dollar for dollar until I could afford the ten-speed bicycle of my dreams. The dad who helped me build a bird feeder and paint it orange.  The dad who gave me my first butterfly net and helped me collect butterflies for years to come. The dad who was sincerely impressed with me for spelling the word “yogurt” during an after-dinner Scrabble game.  The dad who took me camping, patiently setting up the tent and making me a foil dinner over a crackling fire in the park just across the street from our house.  The dad who helped me build a hutch for my pet bunny, Eddie Rabbit. The dad who convinced me that whatever I do in life, I should do it passionately and with joy.
This is the dad who was willing to give me all of the time he had, until his time ran out.  This is the dad I still miss every day.

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Jimmy Crack Corn

Posted on June 9, 2014 | 1 comment

One of the more beautiful things about getting older is that you really stop worrying about what other people think. Maybe it comes from wisdom, or maybe it comes from fatigue.  Realistically, it probably comes from a little of both.  These days, I have to confess that I don’t care much at all about what y’all think.  And that right there takes me right to the edge of bliss.  Truly, it does.  It’s delightful to see others get there, too, to see them get that taste of freedom.  Because when you bask in the glow of not giving a rat’s ass, your true self can really shine through.  And nothing is lovelier than you being authentically you.  Nothing, I tell you.

This weekend was an historic weekend in the State of Wisconsin.  After months of eager anticipation, the ban on gay marriage was lifted.  We weren’t even the last state to do it, though there were days I wondered if we would be.  And it’s about damn time. Because really, and I promise you will not convince me otherwise so don’t even try, love is love.  This day was long overdue.

So on Friday when the judge’s ruling was announced, two men I love very much – like so much I would lay down my life for them – made a mad, crazy dash to the courthouse and were the first same sex couple to get a Wisconsin marriage license.  They then stood right there at the courthouse, with their very good friend officiating, said their vows and made the whole dang thing official.  They became the first gay couple to be legally wed in Wisconsin, and since then the whole story has gone viral.  (Seroiusly, I feel like I am going to have to have my people call their people going forward if I want to get together for dinner.)  Their picture on the front page of our local newspaper on Saturday says it all.  The picture, which I think is stunning, captures the joy of the occasion and the sorrow of the long and twisted road it took to get there.  I saw the picture in my Facebook feed on Saturday morning, and I could not hold back my tears.  Even though I was on the other side of the state visiting with my lifelong friend Mindy, I could feel the arc of justice and love reverberating all the way to me.

On Saturday afternoon, Mindy and I decided to take a little jaunt down the road and we did a surprise “pop-in” visit to my friend Vance on his southwestern Wisconsin prairie estate.  He had no idea we were coming or that I was even on that side of the state.  So when we pulled up next to him on the long, windy road leading to his cabin “down in the holler,” he was plenty surprised.  He was busy cutting invasive plants out of his carefully tended natural prairie, and yelled at us to give him another 20 minutes before the impending rain arrived.  We happily obliged, and sat on the front porch of his cabin drinking beers and listening to the thunder in the distance.

Vance didn’t beat the rainstorm back to the cabin so by the time he got to us he was soaking wet.  This wasn’t some gentle little drizzle, it was rain coming down in sideways sheets.  He went inside to get changed into some dry clothes, and by the time he did so Mindy and I weren’t far behind.  It was a monsoon out there.

About 30 seconds into our indoor exchange, where I finally had a chance to formally introduce Mindy to Vance for the first time, Vance realized that the door to his shed was open and that this sideways rain was going to ruin all of his chicken feed.  He quickly announced a plan to take his clothes off and run outside to shut the shed door.  Now we thought he meant he was going to put his wet clothes back on to achieve this feat, but no, that is not what he meant.  In short order, we saw this beautiful friend of mine running toward his shed in only his underwear.  A couple minutes after that, we saw him running back in the other direction toward the cabin, now only in a pair of very wet underwear.  As you can imagine, disbelief and considerable laughter ensued.  That man is nuts, I thought, and I love every fiber of his being.  He doesn’t care if a woman he just met 30 seconds ago sees him running through his yard in his blue cotton briefs.

And so, this was the theme of the weekend, a weekend for the record books, and perhaps one of my favorite weekends of all time.  It was a weekend I decided I would name Jimmy Crack Corn, because really and truly, I don’t care.  From the big decisions, like being the first gay couple to marry in your state and having your love declared on the front page of the Saturday edition of the newspaper – to the small decisions, like doing whatever you need to do to save your chicken feed, you might as well just be you. Brilliant, passionate, loving, caution-to-the-wind throwing, life-embracing you.  It is the best and most beautiful thing that anyone could ever be.

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The Grill of My Dreams

Posted on May 28, 2014 | 1 comment

We Midwesterners have endured an extraordinarily long, cold, bleak – and did I mention long – winter this year.  So long, that forecasters have now declared that we are having a “compressed” spring which I believe essentially means we are moving straight from winter into summer.  I choose to live here in the heartland and proudly so, so I hate to be one to gripe and complain about the weather. After all, it’s part of the deal. And yet, this year it was hard to avoid complaint. Collectively, I think we are officially over it. I know I am.

So it was on the heels of this particularly harsh winter that I declared 2014 would be “The Year of the Patio.” I promptly set up a Pinterest board, pinning all kinds of ideas I was sure I would never be able to execute.  I called upon my brother-in-law to help me with my quest to find new patio furniture.  After considerable research on his part (that’s how he rolls), we set out for a day-long adventure that resulted in absolute success – at a 20% discount, no less.  (That is also how he rolls.)  I contacted the landscaper and told him to give me something with strong visual appeal and exceedingly low maintenance requirements on my part.  (He delivered on both counts.)  I spent several weeks in search of all of the perfect flower pots and lanterns and doo-dads to give the patio just the right amount of Jen flair.  And today, on this very day, I think my patio has achieved near perfection by my standards.  If we only get 14 weeks between Memorial Day and Labor Day (a depressing thought if I think about it too much), I am going to enjoy every possible minute I can out there.  Until a mosquito bites me. Then all bets are off.

I am a firm believer that every project in your home needs an inspiration piece. Maybe it’s a vase or a framed print or a pillow.  But something must center you and be the guide for your design.  In the case of my patio, it is my grill that takes center stage.  A grill, you ask?  Why yes, a grill.  For I have the most lovely, whimsical, fun, and yet utilitarian grill I have ever seen.  I am not a material girl, and I don’t get too excited about “stuff.” But I am telling you, I love this grill like it is a person.  I mean, really.  It is a charcoal grill with a propane start.  It has a built-in thermometer gauge.  It has a special side container to hold the charcoal.  It has all the bells and whistles!

In 2005, I moved into this lovely little house of mine and almost immediately started prepping for the party to end all parties – a co-ed wedding shower for my sister and her husband-to-be.  Plans were well underway when my sister emailed me an advertisement for a lime green Weber grill, exclusively available at Crate and Barrel.  Now mind you, I have an affinity for all things lime green and this grill was clearly something special. But as a new homeowner, I took one look at the price tag and could not justify it.  I sent my sister a polite “thanks for the heads up” and assured her it just wasn’t in the stars for me at the time.

I love you, grill.

About a week later, my sister’s now-husband David and I were out on the town for an evening of fun while my sister was working.  It was a crisp June Friday night, and I remember it quite distinctly because we were at the Lakefront Festival of the Arts.  As we were parting ways, David was kind of fidgety and asked that I call him when I got home safely. Now, he is a thoughtful guy, but even so this was a little out of character.  I shrugged it off and made my way home.  When I got home, it was pitch black and I had to gingerly climb the back stairs and then fumble around for the light switch in the kitchen so I could properly see to set my stuff down.  There – set up right in the middle of my kitchen – was this grill.  I remember first feeling shock and disbelief.  It was singularly the kindest, most thoughtful, most generous thing anyone had ever done for me, before or since.  I actually fell to my knees and cried from sheer gratitude.

That’s why I love the spirit of my sister and brother-in-law more than words can really say.  They took one look at this grill and decided I needed it.  It didn’t matter that it wasn’t Christmas or my birthday.  It didn’t matter that it had a $400 price tag.  What mattered was that it is okay to be ridiculously, over-the-top, crazy generous with the people you love every once in a while.  What mattered was that it felt right to do something really, really nice for the sister who had experienced a rough couple of years and was just finding her way out of it.  What mattered was that life is about celebrating, and this grill would be the center of celebrations – large and small – for years to come.

So here it is…my beautiful patio in all its glory, inspired by a grill.  Cocktails and grilled meats, anyone?

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Dark and Stormy

Posted on May 18, 2014 | Leave a comment

Every head turned to look as he entered, strode up to the bar and ordered a “Dark and Stormy.”  She knew from that moment it was going to be a disaster. 

Patty was sitting at the hotel bar trying to nonchalantly drink her Cosmopolitan, pretending to be engrossed at the content on her smart phone.  It had been a long, lonely, death-by-powerpoint kind of day at the conference she was attending on evidence-based dentistry.  Patty had a strict rule that if her employer was going to send her to a conference, the least she could do was attend every session.  Days like these, her integrity really got in the way of her happiness. 

Patty looked up from her phone to watch the exchange between this man and the bartender.  She assessed the bartender to be equal parts bored and annoyed.  “I’ve never heard of a Dark and Stormy,” he said.  The man didn’t just reply, he replied with a sarcastic, sing-songy tone. “Welllll…..first you fill half of the glass with Harp, and the top half of the glass is filled with Guinness.”  The bartender sighed and rolled his eyes.  “The rest of the world calls that a Black and Tan.”  The man paid no attention to the bartender’s snarkiness.  He took a seat right next to Patty and threw down a hundred dollar bill.  Patty assumed, correctly so, that this would only further the bartender’s annoyance.    

Patty took another good look at this man.  It was clear that he was arrogant, maybe even the president of his own fan club.  But it wasn’t clear if he had the kind of arrogance that was masquerading insecurity, or if it was the kind of arrogance that was just plain arrogance.  He was handsome, but more so from his swagger than good looks.  He was dressed better than most people in a hotel bar should be and smelled vaguely like patchouli.  The man looked at Patty, and gave her a wink and a smile.  “A wink? Are you kidding me?” she thought.  She felt blood rush to her cheeks, and as a reflex she turned back to the content on her phone.  She didn’t have the chutzpah to get up and move, although the thought did cross her mind. 

The man was unphased by Patty’s indifference and continued on.  “I’m Max,” he said, extending his hand to Patty. “That’s short for Maximilian.”  Patty tried to feign a smile and looked at  his perfectly manicured hand before reluctantly shaking it.  She instinctively knew this man was trouble, but she couldn’t get away.  It was as if her feet were made of concrete blocks. 

Max looked Patty up and down in a way that made her simultaneously uncomfortable and secretly delighted.  “You look bored,” he said. “Let’s spice things up.”  Max motioned for Patty to follow him as he made his way to a cocktail table off in the corner. Everything in Patty was screaming, “No, no, no!” but for some reason she didn’t hesitate to follow him.  

Max took a sip of his beer and flashed his perfect smile at Patty.  He sorted through the crumpled up change the disinterested bartender had given him and slid a $50 bill toward her.  “I’ll give you this $50 bill if you walk over to that lady in the red dress and tell her you like her ear lobes.”  Patty had never been presented with such a challenge in her life. She looked at Max quizzically and responded.  “What?  Are you kidding me?  Why on earth would I do that?”  Max smiled and nodded before responding.  “It’s fun to mess with people a little bit. No harm in spending our night giving out strange compliments, right?”

Patty felt her heart start to palpitate a little and something came over her.  “Game on,” she said, as she stood up and straightened out her plain gray pantsuit. She took a deep breath, tousled her hair and walked right over to the lady in the red dress, who was sitting with a couple of friends.  “Excuse me,” Patty quipped, “I know this may sound strange, but I’ve been noticing you and…I just wanted to say…I think you have really nice ear lobes.”  The lady looked a little shocked, and then she and her friends shared a throw-back-your-head kind of laugh.  The lady in the red dress cocked her head, looked at Patty curiously, and said, “Thanks…I think?”

Patty made her way back to Max who was proudly holding up the $50 bill for her to retrieve.  “Good girl,” he said. Knowing she had fully earned it, Patty grabbed the $50 bill.  She took her seat and gulped down the remainder of her Cosmopolitan.  She felt a little crazy, and more alive than ever.  

Max and Patty spent the next hour or so presenting each other with compliment challenges.  This little exercise had to be done with a fair amount of discretion, so as to not scare away the patrons or draw the attention of the bartender who was already unimpressed with Max’s antics.  Odd compliments were doled out to strangers, one by one.  “I’ve never seen shoelaces complement shoes so perfectly.”  “You kind of smell like cinnamon toast.”  “Your hair is the exact same color as my cat.”  “The way you drink water reminds me of a swan I once saw in Central Park.”  “I like how your eyes don’t have any crusty stuff in them.”  

Fearing the bartender was onto them, and also a little bored, Max motioned for Patty to follow him out into the hotel lobby.  “Okay,” he said.  “Let’s make a new plan.”  Max surveyed the landscape and pointed in the direction of the Oak Ballroom.  “Look – over there.  It’s a banquet.  Let’s crash it.” 

Patty had been having fun, but she wasn’t so sure about this plan.  She hesitated and just as she did, felt a rumble in her tummy.  “Oh, all right,” she said.  She and Max walked confidently into the ballroom and got in line for the buffet.  They had no idea what group was meeting. While Patty was doing her best to blend in and hope no one noticed her, Max struck up a conversation with the guy in line behind her.  Patty could not believe this guy.  He was fearless. 

Max and Patty sat down at a table with three older, balding white guys.  Must be an insurance seminar, she thought, as she tried to flash them a little bit of a flirtatious smile to keep them at ease with her presence.  They sat in quiet solitude gorging themselves on prime rib, twice baked potatoes, buttery green beans, salad, rolls and cheesecake.  It was a feast, and Patty had to admit that she was perfectly pleased with it.  Max excused himself from the table and left Patty alone with the three older men inquisitively staring at her.  For the second time in a day, she had to pretend to be intently staring at the content on her phone.  She knew this trick was only going to get her so far.  

Max was gone for an uncomfortable length of time, so Patty also excused herself and made her way out to the lobby. Max was comfortably seated in one of the overstuffed chairs with his feet propped up on the coffee table in front of him.  He looked at her, and then at his watch.  “What took you so long?” he asked playfully.  Patty went over and gave him a little shove.  “I am going to kill you, Max!  Don’t do that to me again.”  

Max grabbed Patty’s hand and walked her right out the doors of the hotel.  They stood just outside the doors and this time Max pulled a $100 bill out of his wallet.  He gave a nod to the Mercedes Benz sitting in the front of the hotel, its owners presumably checking into the hotel. “Looks like the owners left the keys in that car.  I’ll give you this $100 bill, if you take that car and move it into a parking spot around the corner.”  Patty couldn’t explain it, but she wanted to prove to Max she was as fearless as he was.  She gave a quick look around and saw no hotel workers or patrons.  She got in the car and, just as Max had instructed, moved it into a parking spot just around the corner.  As she put the car into park, the door flung open and scared the bejeezus out of poor Patty.  It was just Max, though, and he commanded her. “Get out of the car!  We need to make a run for it!”

Max took long, fast strides and got he and Patty safely back in the hotel through a side door.  They ran up several flights of stairs and stopped to catch their breath at the 4th floor landing.  Breathless, with her heart pounding, Patty could not believe herself.  Here she was, in a city she had never been, with a man she had never known, doing things she would have never thought possible.  In a matter of hours, she could barely recognize the former shadow of herself – a mom, a wife, and a dentist from upstate New York.  Now, she was bordering being a criminal and loving every adrenaline-filled minute of it.  She gave no thought to the chaos that was probably ensuing downstairs as a hotel customer came to believe his car had been stolen.  

Max bargained with Patty.  “Just in case someone saw you, you had better come to my room.”  Patty knew he was right, and she knew he was wrong, too.  But if she had any sensibilities left, Patty quickly discarded them and followed suit. She followed Max right into his room, and watched him strip down to his boxer briefs and pour each of them a stiff drink from the mini bar.  It took not a single word, only a nod and a smile, for Max to convince Patty to strip down to her skivvies, too. He took her in his arms and spent the next three hours fulfilling Patty in a way she wasn’t sure had been done in the 38 previous years of her life.  Exhilarated and spent, Patty fell asleep nestled in Max’s chest. 

When Patty awoke at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, she sat up in a straight panic. The room was dark and she was disoriented.  It took her a moment, but she quickly remembered all of the crazy things she had done the night prior.  She felt next to her in the bed and it was empty.  She got up to turn on the bathroom light, and realized that Max and all of his belongings were gone.  The only remnants left in the room providing evidence of Max’s one-time presence were his empty cocktail glass and a used towel on the bathroom floor.  Patty realized she didn’t know a single thing about this man who had provided her with the most dangerously delicious night of her life, and now he had left her without a trace. Disheartened, sad and ashamed of her gullible nature, Patty made her way back to her own room.  

Quickly returning to her true form, Patty showered, put on her sensible black slacks and prepared for another day of conference sessions on oral cancer detection and implant prosthetics.  She made her way downstairs and searched high and low for signs of Max, to no avail.  Dutiful as ever, Patty attended each conference session scheduled for the day and even stayed for the closing plenary session.  Each time the door to the conference room opened, her heart raced in anticipation of Max’s arrival; each time she was sadly disappointed.

Patty returned to her humble home in upstate New York that night and was warmly welcomed home by her husband and two little girls.  They were accustomed to Patty’s predictable ways and never seemed to long for anything more.  In time, Patty found her way back into her regular life and only felt the occasional pang of guilt and loss when Max and his crazy, unpredictable antics would flash through her mind.  

Months later, Patty was making grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup on a rainy Saturday afternoon when her smart phone chimed.  She picked up the phone to read the text message before her:  “You stir soup with the precision of an Amish woman making butter.”  Patty’s heart practically leaped out of her chest.  She looked out the window and saw Max leaned up against his car – the same Mercedes Benz he had convinced Patty to move at the hotel so many months prior.  He gave her a confident, knowing nod and flashed that smile of his that always equated trouble.  She looked back sorrowfully at her husband and children playing Chutes and Ladders in the next room.  Not knowing how he had found her, but knowing she was not capable of making any other choice, Patty walked out the door and smiled back at Max. “The tires on your car are the most perfectly round tires I’ve ever seen.”













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Not a Mom

Posted on May 11, 2014 | Leave a comment

As much as other women identify themselves as Mom, I identify myself as Not a Mom. Lest we forget, Not a Mom is important too.

To be fair, I’ve had my struggles with my Not a Mom title at times. Throughout my twenties and well into my thirties, I was deeply ambivalent about the prospect of motherhood.  Naturally, there was the subtle but pervasive expectation of those around me.  Practically days following my wedding, inquiries of plans to have children arose.  On top of that, I had coupled myself with someone who was certain he wanted children. Soon after, my friends all started having children.  And while I love children, most especially when they are not mine, I wasn’t sure I was equipped to give all of myself – and then some – to another tiny little human being. And you know how they say that not taking action is actually a form of taking action?  I think that’s just what I did.  I kept delaying the decision until there was no decision to be made.

I used to spend a lot of time, though, thinking about the prospect of adding children into my life.  I had always thought that if I were going to have children, I would prefer to take on a foster-to-adopt scenario. I guess it appealed to the Social Worker in me.  My thought process was that if I adopted a child who came from some set of terrible circumstances, I could give it an amazing life it probably never would have otherwise had.  Conversely, I thought, if I had my own child, it would come out perfect and all I could do was ruin it. You can see why the only decision I could make about motherhood was to not make one.  It’s probably best that things turned out as they did.

But I need to point out that by being Not a Mom, I can make unique contributions to the world.  I am able to work as many long hours and with as much ballsiness as a man, all the while incorporating the softer and more compassionate world view of a woman into my work.  I can grab onto and fiercely protect the image of an independent woman, and furthermore role model this capacity for other women around me who have struggled to find their own way. I am able to fulfill my need to nurture by taking care of animals, my employees, my friends and my family in my own enduring and loving ways.  Because I am Not a Mom, I will always have the time and the resources to spend time with the people who love me and need me the most – even at a moment’s notice, and even in some spectacular ways. Last but certainly not least, I will always work the week between Christmas and New Year’s, every year, so people with children can be at home with their families (and who, at the end of said week, will admit they couldn’t wait to come back to work). You can even count on good old Not a Mom to stay late and finish that important project when you have to leave because little Johnny threw up in gym class.

So for all you moms out there, please know that you have my utmost respect.  You are doing what I am not sure I could ever do.  You are patient, loving, giving teachers of our youth, and your sacrifice is making this world a better place.  As for me, I am on a different path, and I am doing what you probably aren’t sure you could ever do.  Today, while you are doted on with flowers, breakfast in bed and hand-made cards, I’m going to spend the day celebrating Not a Mom’s Day.  I think I will take a walk by the lake, do a little shopping, see a movie or maybe even take a long, decadent, uninterrupted nap. That’s what you get to do when you are Not a Mom.  It’s beautiful in its own way.

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Baby Carrots and Nail Clippers

Posted on May 3, 2014 | 1 comment

A co-worker enters our meeting room where we will take up residence and hash out important matters for the next two hours.  In one hand, she has a bag of peanut M&Ms.  In the other hand, she has a Costco-sized bag of almonds.  Others may see this and immediately think to themselves, “Snacks!  And she plans to share!  It’s my lucky day!” I, on the other hand, do not share this joyful sentiment.  Instead, I immediately feel a tightening in my chest and a clenching of my jaw.  I let out what feels like a loud, involuntary sigh, and although I can’t see it, I imagine I have a grimace on my face.  I have an immediate and enduring response that I want to flee the situation.  This two hour meeting has just turned into my version of a private hell.

For years I have known that I have a high sensitivity to noise.  It’s not just any noise, though.  The noises that are most bothersome to me are those that are subtle and repetitive.  I remember sitting in a room with my boss on a hot, humid August day last summer.  The air conditioning was running full blast – a fact for which we were all thankful. My boss was talking about items of great importance, no doubt.  And all I could hear was the click…click…click…of the blinds hitting against the window pane from the forced air of the air conditioning. I could barely concentrate on what she was saying to me.  It’s the kind of thing that most people don’t even hear, and yet it is enough to drive me mad.

Then one day a little less than a year ago, I was out to dinner with a friend.  On her own, she brought up her own sensitivity to noise, but she had a name for it:  Misophonia.  She went on to explain that this is a neurological disorder that affects up to 4% of the population, and in literal terms means a hatred of sound. We spent the next hour venting about all the sounds we hate and laughed ourselves silly because anyone listening in our conversation would either think we had lost our marbles or that we were snarky little bitches. I would argue that neither are true; others may say that both are true.  Either way, it was incredibly validating to find one of my people.  I’ve since found many more – I can spot Misophonia in someone else a mile away.

The unfortunate news is that the only remedy for my problem requires other people to change their behavior. I have learned to just let people at work know about my noise sensitivity and I usually do it with bold, unrelenting humor.  I guess I have this luxury, because I’m the boss. Over time, and enough jokes made about how I will cut a bitch who brings an apple to a meeting, the crunchy food consumption seems to have dwindled in our workplace.  Go figure. Now I need to find a way to deal with all of the pen clickers in the world.

When my fellow Misophonic friend and I got together recently, we made a list of foods that are acceptable in a meeting.  The list included yogurt, applesauce, string cheese, cuties, bananas, and our favorite food of all: “How about if you just eat your fucking snacks when you are by yourself?”

So the next time you are headed to a meeting with a snack in tow, you may want to stop yourself and think about people like me.  While I don’t believe there has been a Misophonia legal defense made just yet, I do believe the day will come.  Someone, somewhere, will crinkle a bag, clip their nails, eat some pretzels, slurp some soup or gulp their water in just the wrong way and all hell will break loose.  My advice?  Don’t take any chances.  Really.  Please.  On behalf of myself and everyone else with Misophonia, I am begging you. Leave your baby carrots at home.

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A Basket Full of Love

Posted on April 19, 2014 | Leave a comment

I love Easter, and it started right here. Right here with one-year-old Baby Jenny, her proud papa, and a bunny named Thumper.  You know you have parents who want to give you the world when they gift you with a live bunny for Easter.  I love the look on my face in this picture.  It is a look of pure, unadulterated joy and intrigue, mixed with maybe even a little bit of disbelief. Family legend is that Thumper peed on Dad’s lap when the flash of the camera went off to capture this photo. Thinking about the chaos that ensued one second after this picture was taken makes it even funnier.

People talk a lot about Christmas spirit, and that’s all well and good.  But in my family, Easter spirit was a pretty big deal too.  Easter was always a time of laughter and love, of togetherness and affection.  It represented an appreciation for doing the same old thing, year after year, and knowing that sometimes that is precisely all you need.

The Easter festivities always began in the same way on the evening of Good Friday.  Pot after pot of eggs would be boiled, leaving each and every kitchen window covered in unrelenting steam.  Never ones to scale things back, our family would set out to color a good six or seven dozen eggs.  The air in the old farmhouse will fill with the smells of sulfur and vinegar, smells that repelled and attracted us simultaneously.  I distinctly remember sitting at our old rickety kitchen table, newspapers laid out and every mismatched coffee mug in the house filled with a different color of dye.  And there we would sit, for hours, talking and laughing and doing pretty much the same thing we did every year prior.  There was the compulsory “watermelon egg” and the never-ending pursuit for Dad to perfect his “two-tone egg.”  The last two dozen eggs were probably colored in disinterested haste, but even that was part of the tradition.

Easter Sunday always brought about a new set of delights.  We girls would don our Easter outfits, usually something pink and frilly and a little on the scratchy side.  Leaving the house practically in the dark of the night, we would head to church for the sunrise service.  We loved the sunrise service because instead of a traditional communion, we got donuts and pastries.  From there we would head to “the big city” to visit our Uncle Alan and Aunt Pat, where our cousins and grandparents would be waiting for us in eager anticipation.

Now one thing I can say about Aunt Pat, she knew how to do it up right when it came to Easter.  Long before our arrival, the adults in the family would hide dozens and dozens of plastic eggs out in the expansive yard. When we “country cousins” arrived, the annual Easter egg hunt could begin.  We would run through the yard with our Easter baskets, breathlessly exclaiming another round of excitement for each egg found. When the last of the eggs had been retrieved, the family would gather round to see what was inside them.  Many of course held jelly beans and malted milk balls, and a few held shiny coins.  Others held tiny slips of paper commanding us to do one thing or another, and our favorites were those that included these explicit instructions: “Go get $1 from Grandpa Swearingen.”  Year after year, Grandpa would make a long, drawn out scene of shock and dismay at having to part with his $1 bill, and year after year, we grandkids would belly laugh at his feigned misfortune and fussing.  It was the family joke that never got tired.

There’s a reason we all love tradition.  The customs we create as a family ground us and give us something to hang onto when times get tough.  I look back at my childhood, and I know it wasn’t always easy.  There were hardships and worries that sometimes came in tidal waves.  But when I think of my childhood, I really don’t think about the hard times much at all.  What I think about is Easter:  doing the same things over and over, and loving it every time.  Sometimes, it seems, knowing exactly what to expect is the most exciting thing of all.

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The Best Laid Plans

Posted on April 12, 2014 | 1 comment

I believe it was Oprah or some other famous person who tells us what to think who proclaimed, “Love is in the details.”  It has become my mantra over the years and has been a driving force behind my work, my gift-giving, and most importantly, my party-throwing.  To make things perfect, I just need a good theme to latch onto.  A theme, I tell you!  A theme will always make things better.

Many years ago, my friend Colleen and I went to The American Club in Kohler for an overnight spa excursion.  While we were there, she shared the news with me that she was going to be having a baby.  I remember how excited we were, and we sat in that hotel room in our post-massage glow and talked and talked and talked and talked.  In fact, if memory serves, we were so invested in our talking that we may have economized our time by taking a bubble bath together in the huge jacuzzi tub.  Which sounds kind of weird when you write it in a blog posted on the world wide web, but it seemed perfectly normal to us at the time.

Having worked at two different jobs together, Colleen and I had a lot of history and knew a lot of the same people.  I knew I wanted to throw her a baby shower, but it would have to be a different kind of party to include both men and women.  I picked a Friday night in September, and invited a whole bunch of people – many of whom Colleen hadn’t seen in years and she had no idea I was inviting.  I still remember the little ditty I put in the invitation, too.  It went something like this:

The days are dwindling
The time has drawn near
Soon we’ll be looking 
At a new baby Dier.

Your attendance is needed
A baby gift is not
But if it makes you feel better
Bring a book for the tot!

As the day of the party approached, I attended to every possible detail to make the party perfect.  I purchased a lovely little bookshelf so everyone could place their favorite children’s book in it for Baby Dier. I purchased my own favorite book of all time, Free to Be You and Me.  I hired Colleen’s brother-in-law Tony to do the catering and picked a fantastic array of delectable treats for the evening.  To make it a little extra special, I ordered a specialty cake from Hartter’s Bakery – a delicious, double chocolate cake with a layer of raspberry filling.  This was going to be one special night.

The day of the party arrived, and I took the day off of work to attend to every last detail.  The house was immaculately cleaned and the backyard was prepped for a bonfire, because my house was really too small to comfortably fit the 25 people who had said they were coming.  Feeling confident, I looked around and surveyed the situation.  Final assessment? I was perfectly pleased with myself.

About 30 minutes prior to arrival of the first guests, there was a clap of thunder so loud it frightened the dog and then the skies opened up. Although Wisconsin is not known for having a monsoon season, we had one that night.  It didn’t just rain, it rained sideways.  It rained so hard you could not see five feet in front of you. I quickly sprang into action to bring tables and chairs inside and put them in places they didn’t really belong and didn’t really fit.  It was going to be a cozy evening.

Colleen and her husband arrived, and soon after guests braved the unrelenting storm to come, too.  Surprise after surprise was unveiled. Your brother-in-law is catering!  Your co-workers from the homeless shelter you worked at ten years ago are here!  Your baby is getting books, all kinds of them!  Yaaay!

I took a break from the festivities to go to the kitchen and get things rolling.  I wanted people to eat and I had to get that started.  As I turned the corner and entered the kitchen, I could not believe the horror before my eyes.  My 105-pound dog Jethro – a dog I liked to say was of the “big dumb yellow variety” – had seized the opportunity to lick the frosting off two full edges of my beautiful, expensive, decadent perfect Hartter’s cake. Dumbfounded, I stood and stared at it and for a moment I froze. Shortly after that, I panicked.  Then I think I might have screamed.  I quickly narrowed my choices in that moment down to only two:  I could laugh, or I could cry. Truthfully, I probably did a little of both.

As tends to be true in life, everything about that night turned out to be perfectly imperfect.  People who had not been together for years laughed and told stories and gave warm hugs to one another. Although we were short on seating space in that tiny house, we were not short on love. While Jethro was in some serious trouble that night, his shenanigans helped make a memory that would last.  And in case anyone is wondering: yes, we still ate the cake.

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The Story I Never Told

Posted on April 5, 2014 | Leave a comment

I remember it now as vividly as if it only happened yesterday.  It was a sunny, brisk April morning eleven long and short years ago.  I woke up at my usual time and immediately thought something was off – my then-husband was already up and out of the house.  I didn’t recall him saying he had an early morning meeting, but I quickly shook it off and got ready for work in my usual way.  On the way out the door, I shooed the cat out of the way and patted the dog on the head.  I went out to the garage, got in my car and saw a gold manila envelope on the car seat.  When I opened up the envelope and looked at the contents, everything changed in the flash of a single moment – life as I knew it would never be the same.

Without a single utterance or warning of any sort, my husband had left divorce papers on my car seat.

I really don’t even have words to describe the moments that followed. Shock, disbelief, panic, and rage were all hurling at me with the force of a Mac truck.   I felt a hurt so deep, so searing, that I thought I might not make it through the day.  Truthfully, I’m still not sure how I did.  I ran inside to try calling him at work. Of course he did not pick up.  I paced and I sobbed and I screamed.  I had no recourse, and in that moment, no way to know what was happening.  I have had some days in my life, days that were truly, deeply terrible. Days of loss and grief, of confusion and pain. But I’ve never had a day, before or since, that shook me to the core like this fateful day.

In the days that followed, I searched for answers but got very few.  After thirteen years in a relationship that was almost entirely devoid of conflict, it appeared that my cool, calm and usually collected husband had gone off the deep end.  There was an evening about ten days after the divorce-papers-on-the-car-seat incident when he really lost his mind.  One sassy question from me along the lines of, “Why do you have to be like that?” unleashed thirteen years of suppressed rage.  After a massive blow up, the likes I had never seen in this otherwise almost passionless relationship, the evening ended with him laying on the bed in our spare bedroom sobbing a deep, guttural sob – a sob I could not in good conscience ignore. Balancing my own sense of safety with all of my other sensibilities, I went upstairs and laid on the bed with him – consoling him, crying with him, caressing his hair – and promising him that even though we were in the middle of a mess right now, we would both be okay on the other side of it.  It was my last act of affection toward him, and it came from a genuine place.  It was also the last night I ever spent in that house.

If there was a victim in this story, it would make sense to conclude it was me.  He made it so easy – too easy – so I let him take the blame.  Friends and family stood by my side and made speculations about the how and the why of it all, none of which put him in a favorable light.  A few months after our divorce was final, he was engaged to a co-worker of his and all of the unanswered questions seemed to have answers. It was easy and convenient to end the story there, so I did just that.

But time has a way of simultaneously gnawing away at the hard exterior shell and softening the edges to reveal the truth. What I didn’t say at the time, and really haven’t said to many until this very moment, is that I hold myself 100% responsible for the demise of my marriage.  I’m not letting him off the hook entirely, because I actually believe that both people in a relationship have 100% of the responsibility for it.  But this is the story I never told.

When I was 22 years old, I met a perfectly lovely man and willed myself to love him.  Because he met everyone else’s approval, I fell deeply in love with the idea of being in love with him. The deeper I got into the relationship, the more unstable my state of mental health became.  Over time, I developed a full-blown panic disorder, with my body protesting (sometimes violently so) the choices I was making.  I ignored all of this and did what I “wanted” anyway.  Now this is not to say that he was a bad guy – quite the contrary, actually.  He is a good man, with a good heart.  For a variety of reasons, though, he just wasn’t good for me. I knew it, and I married him anyway. Thereafter I invested myself in every part of my life except my marriage. I distracted myself with work and school and social opportunities.  I gave the best and most important parts of me to everyone else.  In the context of our relationship, I was moody and demanding and kind of lazy – all the while being funny and charismatic and hard-working in every other aspect of my life.  He desperately wanted children and I held back, knowing the relationship was not strong enough to handle it.  Over time, I became little more than a roommate – and kind of a pain in the ass roommate at that.  It eventually got to a point where even I really didn’t like me.  The long and the short of it is, he got the worst of me.  And he got it for thirteen long years.

So the bottom line and the story I’ve never told is this:  he did what I never would have had the courage to do.  He examined what really had become of our relationship – not what we portrayed to the outside world – and recognized that not only was it not working, it really wasn’t even salvageable.  He may not have chosen the most compassionate way to end the relationship, but he ended it with good reason and the only way he knew how.  In the end, he gave us both a chance at happiness.  And while he left me with many gifts in all our years together, that was the most loving gift of all.  Today, almost exactly eleven years later, my heart is grateful and my life is full.  I hope the same is true for him.

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The Gift of Wisdom

Posted on March 26, 2014 | 2 comments

As of 3:42 p.m. today, I will be 45 years old.  I suppose that I have accumulated some wisdom along the way. If only I could have shared that wisdom with my younger self.  But without all the mistakes and missteps I have made, I would not be exactly as I am today.  And truth be told, I think who I am today is pretty all right. Nevertheless, given the chance, here is what I would tell my younger self:

5-year-old Jen:  In a few months, you are going to start going to school. You will continue to go to school for a very long time.  Most of the time, you are going to love it.  Sometimes, you will not like it as much, but that’s okay –  in schooling endurance is everything.  It is important to be a life-long learner.  It is also important to seek knowledge and truth in everything that you do.  What is more important than knowledge and truth, however, is having the skills to find them. School is also where you will learn one of the most important keys to a happy life:  how to make and keep good friends.  Go learn and occasionally fail and have fun. School will represent some of the happiest times of your life.
 
10-year-old Jen:  Oh, Jen.  You are only ten years old, but you already have the weight of the world on your shoulders.  You should be giggling and frolicking and living without a care in the world, but for now that is just not you.  My challenge to you is this:  trust that the world will always be right, just sometimes in a complicated way.  Learn to lighten up and find the simple joys in life.  In a few months, you are going to have a baby sister and you will have to show her the way.  What you don’t know yet, though you will soon enough, is that sometimes your baby sister will show you the way.  Your world is about to open up in a brilliant and lovely new way.  Embrace it.
 
15-year-old Jen:  I’ll give you this:  Fifteen is hard.  Thirteen and fourteen weren’t so great either.  It’s hard to straddle the jagged line between being a kid and an adult.  I promise that you are going to come out on the other side of it, and magnificently so.  But first, there will be some significant challenges ahead.  Those challenges are going to hurt like hell but they are going to soften your sharp edges.  They are going to make you compassionate toward other suffering souls.  And they are going to later give you clarity about your life’s work, which will be work that defines the very essence of who you are.  Hang in there.  You won’t always see it, but you will be better than fine on the other side.  You will also be a much kinder soul.
 
20-year-old Jen:  You know this already – college is one of the best times of your life so far.  It will continue to be a cherished memory and a highlight for the rest of your days, so make the very best of it.  You are learning all the things you need to know to make it in this complicated world on your own – a scary proposition.  Most of the things you are learning can’t be found in a book.  You are learning how to help other people, how to lead, and how to mend a broken heart.  You are also learning that you are capable of making big mistakes, but equally capable of recovering from them and not repeating them.  Take it easy on the “Shots of Fun” but not too easy – you only get one chance in your life to legitimately act this foolishly. Enjoy it.
 
25-year-old Jen:  You think you have the world by the tail right now, but here’s a little something for you to think about:  you don’t.  What might make you a better version of you would be a little more humility. You are capable of great things, but you have a lot to do to prove yourself before that can happen.  You have your work cut out for you.  If you make the right choices, pick the right mentors, and follow your heart you will get there in due time.  Be vigilant in your pursuit of excellence.
 
30 year old Jen:  I am proud of you for finishing your graduate degree. This degree is really just a piece of paper, but it’s a piece of paper that will open up all kinds of opportunities for you.  Your career is about to really begin now.  As usual, you have your ideas of how things will transpire and you think you are in control. I must caution you, that is not the case.  You will have a tendency to get really upset when things don’t go as you’ve planned.  Let that go – the worry and the angst aren’t worth it.  The universe will always take care of you and deliver you exactly where you need to be.  Trust that, and appreciate the lessons along the way.
 
35-year-old Jen:  So your life just got turned upside down, and you feel like a hot mess.  The truth is, you are a hot mess.  The other truth is, you created it.  Yet another truth is, you needed it.  You are going to head into a dark place, and you are going to take a good, long, painstaking look at your ugliest self.  When you are done with that, you are going to make a vow of responsibility for your own happiness.  You will find joy in places and in ways you didn’t know possible.  You are going to travel, make new friends, and find true success in your life’s work.  The passion inside of you is going to open up, and you will find your authentic self.  Hang in there….at the end of this bumpy ride you will arrive at a most spectacular place.
 
40-year-old Jen:  I think you are really starting to get it, and that warms my heart.  You are learning to let go and to have faith.  You are not so afraid of change.  You have confidence in yourself as a leader, and you’ve learned how to lift up those around you.  You laugh more, fret less.  You care about your impact on the world.  You still have worries and doubts, but that only makes you human.  You have a new set of career opportunities before you that are going to challenge you in ways you may not be fully prepared for – hold on tight, and sharpen those diplomacy skills.  Above all else, keep working on achieving balance.  You’ll be needing it more than ever before.
 
What I will tell myself today:  Your life is imperfectly perfect.  You are doing work every day that inspires you and lights you up.  You are surrounded by people who believe in you, and a couple of haters who keep you humble.  You are armed with the strength to make it through adversity of any sort.  You have a beautiful home and two terrible cats to love.  You are not wealthy by any means, but you have everything you could ever want.  Above all else, you have the best possible family and friends, and this continues to be a source of joy you are not even entirely sure you deserve.  You have it all, my dear Jennifer.  Tend to all of it with loving care, because the gratitude you have found will continue to bless you a million times over.  Now go get a pedicure and eat some cake – you deserve it.

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