Brown Eyed Girl's Open Salon Blog

I Bear Witness

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 13:03:32 -0400

The economic slump has given me a rare opportunity, or in the words of the media moguls of oft-swiped Visa, an opportunity that is ‘priceless’.

My daughter moved back home after completing her undergrad to go to law school. The cost and location of her selected institution greatly influenced her choice. Live at home and attend a second tier law school with a partial scholarship, or attend a higher ranked legal tower and go in debt several hundred thousand dollars. She decided to sleep in her own bed.

I am fully aware this is ‘borrowed time’ that most parents don’t get. I bear witness to her daily life as she forages from girl to womanhood, from college co-ed to learned lady, from child to competent adult.

The trade-offs for her are on a constants teeter-totter on the scales of justice. She loses privacy, sleeping in (due to the early baying of our 3-dog–night canines), and the ability to have a bad day/night without someone noticing. The benefits are that she basically has 24-hour concierge service, financial assistance and rewards, and, well, dual staffed 24-hour concierge service.

If I’m honest, there aren’t many minutes in any given day that we share. Her commute, time in class, hours studying, and daily work-out routine limit actual face time. But, there are ‘shadows in the mists’. I smell the scent of her Bumble to Bumble shampoo in the upstairs hallway (and wish I could afford to buy that brand), I see her empty Vitamin Water Zero GoGo bottles in the recycling (and groan because that means I have to again find where they are on sale 10 for 10 dollars and lug them home), and a sweated Lululemon bra hanging on the line to dry after an intense work-out (in a size and color that remind me that gravity and time are no friends of mine). And I smile.

But close proximity brings to light certain life events that might be held close to the chest if that were an option.

For me, it would be the purchasing of items made by Lancome and Estee Lauder that promise ‘diminished lines and wrinkles”, and the need to add Beano to the grocery cart.

For my daughter, it was bear hunting.

Not that she had to wear forest camo and add the lore of wounded rabbit to her skill set. She had only to walk into my bedroom, which I’m sure was more difficult.

“Mom, have you seen Mr. Bear?”

I blink. A slow shuttering, snap and refresh, snap and refocus.

Every parent’s painful awakening of the fragility of this child she offers to the world-- The threshold crossing from the loss of first love six or seven years before.

My daughter’s voyage was like that of most young girls. Girl meets boy. Boy is not worthy to even be in the same oxygen zone as girl but still keeps at it for about a year. Boy realizes eventually karma will come around and smack his sorry ass so he tries to escape with a bit of dignity and couth, and utters words he ridiculously thinks he created (plagiarism of the heart) and says, ‘It’s not you, it’s me”, and offers a token parting gift from cupid’s claw machine, a stuffed bear he was given as a child. And offers, what appears to be an original parting line from the Cruella Deville school of “Do Be Cruel” of softly murmured (okay I’m only guessing that part), “As long as you have him, you’ll know I still love you.”

Atlas, I do not want to betray the degree of pain and tears that followed. My daughter is a passionate and loyal young soul. She cannot watch the National SPCA commercials, and hear the National Anthem’s vocal rising, or watch her favorite characters suffer in an episode of GLEE without eyes filling. Let’s just say, there was suffering.

Her heartbreak seasoned my reflection on her relationship with the bear’s original owner. In reality, I had loved him also. The love born of watching a young boy grow to manhood, watching the strong, tender, and talented moments. The love you use as your circle to cast out and cover, the one you hope will protect and comfort. You open your arms in hope to share and hold onto this moment, however long it is to be, yet all of us who grew up with the early Disney morality bases want to believe there is a forever. That there must be a forever. And while we can take the pain ourselves, and haven’t we all? It is the hardest thing to watch a child suffer from the loss of what surely should be the easiest thing to give.

Yet we find as we grow older, love is surely the hardest thing to give, and take, and hold on to, and return, and share, and turn away from if faced with a metaphoric Sophie’s Choice. Love is surely the hardest thing to define, to explain, to influence, to defend, to accept, to walk-away-from. To forget. It doesn’t get easier with practice.

So my daughter came looking for Mr. Bear.

She recognized the significance of a childhood object of need and love and wished to return him to his rightful heritage. They had ‘communicated’. I swallowed questions I had no right to ask. When did she accept the real truth in that proclamation and when did it really stop to matter? I retrieved him from the trunk where I had placed him, next to a sailor dress my mom had bought for my daughter’s second birthday, underneath a pair of size 3 yellow leather shoes that everyone said were pretty but not very practical, and on top of a box with a silver bracelet that only fits a small wrist for four seasons.

Mr. Bear’s fur is a bit darker than I remember. I imagine that is the blend of tears from the distant past, and more recent past. Normally, I would try to make a joke.

I wanted to ask her to tell him that if he wants full custody now, there is the small matter of back bear support that must be paid up front. She could write up the legal contract for that surely.

But I don’t.

I could tell her that if this were a movie, (Hopefully Ashley Judd or Catherine Zeta Jones would be playing my part) when she tried to hand the bear back to him, he would tell her he couldn’t accept it, because that would make it all a lie as he had never stopped loving her.

But I don’t.

I don’t because as parents we do all that we can to prevent our children from being hurt. I don’t because maybe a girl who grew up watching the Discovery and History channels might not even think of the potential of happy endings, no matter how far-fetched. I don’t because I raised my daughter to be smarter, and braver, and hopefully kinder than I.

But I don’t watch as she drives away with the small white Gund in the front seat, knowing it is the last time. And I say a small prayer, hoping she never notices the now empty spot in the trunk where Mr. Bear used to live and wishing she had him back.

Brown Eyed Girl

Twenty-One

Sat, 2 Feb 2013 11:02:03 -0500

When you were one month old.

I looked at your sweet face and thought

'please let me raise her to remember

to look at sunsets

and moons

as if a choir was singing a hallelujah chorus.

Let her grow strong in heart and spirit,

yet weak to the sound of laughter,

the smell of honeysuckle,

and the softness of puppy breath.'

When you were three,

I rubbed the curve of your cheek and prayed-

'let me always remember the bubble of her giggle,

the power of her brown gaze,

and the voice that querie, "Hold You Me!"

We made stories of Pilarline, played in boxes,

and savored old and almost new moons.

When you were six,

I watched you turn for the bus and I hoped

you would find a passion for words,

and comfort in searching--

not getting lost in the pursuit

or taking yourself off course

in deep dark waters.

When you were ten,

I watched you twizzle on the ice

and I dreamed

you would not find this world

too hard or too cold,

that you would always find music

to accompany your dance.

When you were sixteen,

I stood as you drove away,

shifting automatically the gears of change

and I wondered if at my age you would remember

the pink stuffed bear,

a macho dog

and a black and white cat named after a Power Ranger.

When you were eighteen, you laughed with him

and I tried to align the advice I had proffered,

to love with abandon?

to keep one part as an anchor?

Did I tell your the truth--that we never know

we just do--

and hopefully

finger crossed on blue moons,

that just maybe

John and Paul were right.

And now, at twenty-one

You have found joy in sunrises

and the gentleness of a western wind,

You seek the scent of sunshine on climbed rocks

And Gerber Daisies--

another chorus of the same verse.

You find warmth on the ice

and dance in differentiation.

You remember the theme--

more important true, then the path to venue.

You have not forgotten the feel of the pink tuffs,

or the dog I didn't name,

or Zack's eighteenth star.

You love with hope and with faith,

stepping off the ledge into whatever awaits.

And though to you the journey seems long--

It is not complete.

I want to see your hair turn gray,

and hear your daughter giggle at your songs,

watch as your husband holds your hand

as you dance back down the aisle.

And all of us asking

at all the right times--

"Hold you me."

Hold you me.

Styicks and Steelers Can Break My Bones but Brady...

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 13:01:08 -0500

On this historic weekend, with the underdog Ravens besting Tom Brady and the Patriots and President Obama holding court to his 2^nd inauguration with one hand on two Bibles—Lincoln’s and Martin Luther King Jr’s, I finally accepted the harsh fact that we will never be a country undivided, nor ever, sadly, a world united no matter how many Coke commercials we listened to in the 80s. And like most epiphanies that come in the form of former classes in kindergarten, chicken soup for the soul, or specific Bruce Springsteen lyrics, mine started on a road trip from Baltimore to Pittsburg.

Like other countries and regions in the world, Baltimore comes with some heavy baggage and sensitivities that include stolen property given to another region. This gets chest thumps from any “Hon” readers who remember that morning in the early 80s when we awoke to be told that our beloved Colts had been hustled out of town overnight in several tractor trailers loaded with equipment that symbolically annihilated the concept of a horseshow ever representing good luck again in the land of Pleasant Living. That the Colts went to Cleveland to be renamed the Browns was of little consequence to us. They were our team, our name, our blood. No matter how many times we were told to just accept it and move on, we couldn’t. We wouldn’t. When that Browns team moved on to Indianapolis and again took on the moniker of Colts, most in the land thought we would have “gotten over it” by then. They thought we would have forgiven and /or forgotten the thrill of the seeing that horseshoe on the skyline, much like the bat symbol in Gotham City, and those crisp blue and white uniforms on a brisk fall day. We hadn’t. We wouldn’t.

We did eventually get another football team in Baltimore. We were not allowed to take our name back, however, because that was in use. We had to come up with something new, something unique in case it was ever stolen again in the night, it would have little meaning or connection. And with the hard echoes of Edgar Allen Poe’s nevermore whispering softly in our minds, we embraced the Ravens to fly high for our city.

It was initially a shock that we generated such animosity from rival teams. The most notable was the visceral hatred from the Steeler Nation. And why? Because we looked different and had something new to crow about? Because we followed a different religion—we worshipped at the church that preached Purple and Black, and not Gold and Black?

And like most opponents we didn’t try to find resolve, or try to find compromise. We just hated them right back. Called ‘foul’ for every cheap shot, called ‘vulgar’ on every misdeed. And of course, there is no ‘off season’. We are never ‘not in session’.

For my road trip, I debated pulling off my Raven’s magnet from the rear of the Murano. Should I just get in and out with no controversy, no excuse for bashing? Should I just let it fly, proud and bold? On the route, from I-95, to I-695, to I-70, to Rt. 68, to Rt. 40 north, I passed 87 churches that were visible from the highway (and one partially constructed Noah’s Ark). Steeples of all denominations and constructed of various materials; all sweeping skyward to capture the attention of and to praise either one or more Gods. Buildings inhabited at various times during the week by members who might accept the beliefs of the other 86, or not. Members who are pro-choice, pro-life, for gay marriage, against gay marriage, for female members of the clergy, against female members on the alter, some asking for tolerance, others saying the time for tolerance has passed.

In Frederick, there is a road that runs south, I-270, that is the super highway to the beltway that circles Washington like a metaphoric band of wagons. And Washington has two divided houses that have disciples all across the land as well as the plethora of folks who keep two jerseys hanging in their closets and wear whichever one brings the best pay-off for them. It seems like in Washington, we just keep paying for tickets for PSLs we can never sit in or hope to see a game. They just keep sending us the score at intervals and we don’t even know if their game has a half-time show.

At a Getty station in Uniontown, a thick man wearing a Steeler jacket and hat looked over at my Raven emblem on the tailgate as we both pump gas at 3.39 a gallon. Before he got back in his step-up he looked me straight in the eye and flipped me the middle finger bird. I could have called him out, told him his team didn’t even make the play-offs. Asked him why he couldn’t cheer on a team that has been doubted by a whole legion of sports experts at 9 points down for the last two games. Asked him how he could support Brady when he falls down when he brushes past a referee and stuck his leg up in a seeming cheap shot at Ed Reed. But I don’t. I just nod my head.

It’s just football I tell myself as I head toward the Eat-N-Park.

Until it isn’t.

Hard to Bear

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 19:08:31 -0400

Hard to Bear

Recently, I have come to realize that a possible contributing factor for my two offspring remaining single (with a capital Sing) may be my tendency to “Make Inquires”.

I will not make excuses. I abhor those reality shows on TV with the weeks of endless bickering, sniveling, and Kleenex wadding moms tiptoe around a dance coach, a cheerleading consultant, or mid wife. I am more of a Liam Nielson ‘Taken” charge type of gal. I would rather get a helicopter and a team of dogs to conduct a search for a lost pet then trust a squadron of mini-vans driving up and down the macadam with moms whistling off key from powered windows.

An unfortunate side effect of making inquiries is that eventually those closest to you tend to stop offering snippets of information. My daughter, as the oldest, was the lead-off batter so to speak. She dated a young man for a year and right before her 19th birthday, they broke up. I immediately began ‘making inquiries’ and discovered that the young man was basically an assclown to her at the end. The usual, “it’s not you, it’s me” mixed in with “I want you to keep this Gund bear I’ve had since I was a baby, because as long as you have it, you’ll know that I still love you.” So his parting gift, a twenty-three year old mildewed polar, who had seen two decades of sweats, pukes, and pissings, was to be her talisman in the recovering weeks ahead.

Okay. If I’m honest, I did get a bit of the “no-one puts baby in the corner” mantra. But, this was my baby, and her hurt and disillusionment were hard to watch passively. She, or course, would hear no words against the bearer of such sad partings, so I was muted. Or so it seemed.

My inquiries however uncovered some useful information. The young lad had an unusual fear of insects. Within a few months he and his male roommates were said to have encountered a bombardment of crickets, spiders, and flies that had come to roost in the bachelor digs. It was quite the infestation. I also heard he made it on the “Do Not Fly” list which is particularly difficult when trying to make connections in a German airport.” He may or may not have received a photo of the bear wearing a belt around its neck—secondhand information is never totally reliable.

Eventually, my daughter began dating another young man. She told me only that his name was “Rick”, that he drove a black truck, and that he lived in a town a few miles from her own apartment. Within 10 minutes I had his complete name, vehicle and driver information (Oh Rick likes to drive fast!) and photos of the house he had purchased the previous year. Rick was quite a handsome young man and he had several mood candles in his bedroom, most burned very low and seemingly often. (I can’t remember if I mentioned I was Criminal Intelligence Officer for 15 years, but never-the less it is not important).

Rick. Rick. Rick. A few inquiries later revealed that Rick was quite the ladies man. He also rented a house in Sea Isle every summer with 10 other young men. So it seemed young Rick wanted to play Jersey Shore with my daughter. My daughter actually turned him down--she is not one to want to use a toilet that is aimed at by a fleet of drunken men, and also because she has some pretty high standards. But I didn’t know that for sure because she tends to toy with my emotions of stark raving and lunatical (yes it is a word, or would be if Shakespeare were still alive) and told me initially that it was hard to get a place at the beach on short notice.

The details would be boring, but bottom line here was Rick got transferred to Texas in two weeks. He forfeited his summer lease and rented out his candlelit bedroom to another co-worker.

My daughter does not “date” much now. She tells me she “plays it out in her head first and just saves people a lot of trouble.” Smart Plan, I think. Cuts down on the riff-raff. But now that she is approaching twenty-four, I fear I may in some small way have created a minefield of sorts for her dating life. Although this does not seem a huge problem to me as one who likes challenges and the whole seek and destroy, well…seek and incapacitate….hell….seek and disarm, has its subtle attractions, but it seems young males today are not quite interested in this type of foreplay. I worry that her skills of dealing with the wily male will get stale and rusty.

My son, fourteen months her junior, has never had a long- term relationship. He tells me he is too busy at the moment in pursuing life goals and the rigorous demands of study in a medical field. He is fortunate to have several good female friends though and one in particular that he spends time quality time with. Her father takes him to football games, and he attends their family outings and New Year’s Eve parties to help alleviate stresses that impact young life. When I make inquiries, he just looks at me and says, “What…” in a quiet voice.

So now I must put my skills in a backward motion, or backward mapping if one comes from the educational world. I must find a few acceptable candidates that might be “dating material”. This is a difficult task as there may be “word on the street” so to speak, that there are complications. Or, “it’s complicated” as so many statuses are today. All because I make inquiries. Ask questions. Take names.

And maybe because I know where that old Gund bear currently resides-- wrapped tightly in a cotton-like shroud, sealed in a plastic bag, and buried deep in a lead barrel underneath the hemlock tree in the back yard. Just in case…..

My Kingdom for a Z-Pack

Fri, 6 Apr 2012 09:04:17 -0400

                                
   When I awoke at 2 am last Tuesday, gasping in pain, my first thought was not of a double shot of Vodka and lemonade, or a heating pad turned to volcanic.  No, instead of any beverage, neat or on the rocks, my ravaged brain counted the hours until 8 when Patient First opened for business.
 This might seem odd as I do, in fact and theory, have a primary doctor housed in a beautifully appointed medical suite located a scant fifteen minutes from my house.   But on the conservative sliding scale so to speak, her position is at such a lower deviation mark that by comparison, Rick Santorum is closer to being dubbed a liberal.  Her favorite medical phrase is “We’ll have to keep an eye on this.”
 And so typically, I triage my own medical maladies.  If I encounter strep throat, a pulled muscle, or swollen joints, I set my GPS for Patient First.  I envision if I ever have an arrow shot through my shoulder, (with quills protruding), been scorched by a flame thrower, or been mauled by a Grizzly I could expect a more proactive approach to medical care rendered from her office—meaning I would get an RX for something more radical than an Advil.
 To be sure my Tuesday adventure tested the limits of human suffering.  Patient First Form:  Rate Pain 1-10 with 10 being the most substantial? 97.
  My Patient First doctor eventually advised me that I had Pleurisy and ‘Blood in my Urine’ (per a ‘cup, pee, thank-you-ma’am’ sample), and prescribed 5mg of Vicodin, every 4 hours, and the daunting prognosis that I must see my ‘regular’ doctor within 48 hours.
 So I, who have to clarify the Do you drink alcohol? Yes  If yes, the number of drinks per week? 5 or 6 ‘per year’, and who does not medicate with much stronger than Ny-Quil, went to see my regular doctor while on the highs of said Hydrocodon.
And I got the ‘Raised Eyebrows’.
  I assured her I was not driving myself, but she remained silent as she listened to my lungs through what I have always considered an updated version of a can-on-string.
  I mentioned this to her by inquiring if we should start a bunch of 5-K races to raise money to develop a better listening-thingee for doctors and nurses.  I mean look at how much ear buds have changed?
  She still remained silent, although to prove my point, I think I could hear HER breathing harder, when she was supposed to be listening to ME.
 “I don’t think you have pleurisy.  I can hear your right lung scraping against your rib when you take a deep breath.”
  I mentally fist pumped the air—that is almost as good as an arrow shot by a Grizzly.
  Actually, I really fist pumped the air, because Dr. D said, “You know you are only supposed to take one tablet every 4 hours.”
  I nodded and brought by hand down to my side.
 “I want to repeat your urinalysis tests to see if we get the same results,” she continued.
  “But why would there be blood in my urine?  It seems like there might be blood on my rib….but…”
  Dr. D smiled her ‘thank God you never applied to medical school, or even CNA school” smile.
  “No they are unrelated events in all probability.  Blood in the urine can be caused by several things, rough sex, certain kinds of thong underwear and” ( I didn’t hear the third thing because I was trying to imagine what kind of thong underwear could cause injury).
 “I want you to stop taking the Vicodin and take Aleve only.  Aleve because you can take it twice a day as it is a 12 hour pill.”
   “Okay, but…instead of the S & M stuff and wearing studded panties, doesn’t it seem more likely that I have a kidney infection and because of inflammation it is pressing my kidneys into my lung and into my rib?” I paused and she let me.  “I mean shouldn’t I have an antibiotic or something?”
  She wrote on my chart for my thick folder and looked up at me.  “We need to wait three days for the culture to come back and then we’ll see.  Aleve for now; nothing else.”
  After paying my twenty dollar co-pay, I met my husband at our car.  “What did she say?”
  I sighed.  “She said I need to go to the zoo or find an archery range if I want to feel better.”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 