M B's Open Salon Blog

2010, Grace to You and Peace.

Sat, 2 Jan 2010 23:01:50 -0500

I love the beach.

Last year, I was here for this same week. I had won a beach rental in a sweepstakes- sheer good fortune at a time when my need was great. A year ago, the world was bleak for me. My line of work was hit hard by the first wave of the economic downturn. Having lived on my own since I was 17, I was facing having to move in with my dad or live off of my savings (and then move in with my dad!) The uncertainty after the election, the economy, the environment, my own personal experiences. I was in apocalyptic mode.

I am very aware how different I feel this year. No pensive, meditative walks on the beach alone. My mom and I walked together. She came over for a few days. My mother and I have always had a good relationship, sprinkled with tension at times. She gets "a tone", "the voice". I react. Feel criticized. We bicker.

I have been consciously working hard to let go, to realize that things are not that important, to laugh. Life is short and I just have one mom.

Grand Canyon?

Not!

This was too weird!

After close examination, it appears this was the contents of this bird's stomach!

Everyone left yesterday, except for my youngest son. We walked together. He has spent more time alone this year because I have been working so hard. We have been hanging out and watching The Lord of the Rings. It is nice, just the two of us.

Today, I went out by myself. 30 mile hour winds. Cold, but I was windproof...

The sand was blowing and pummeling my body as I walked.

The wind had blown away the dry sand and exposed the embedded shells.

The patterns were beautiful.

Despite my bleak, apocalyptic outlook, in 2009, I did what I do every year. I got up every day, loved my kids, helped others and worked hard. I did my best to be in the moment, to be aware that things pass, to accept the difficulties of life, to be connected and present.

My ex-husband came through with payments on 7 years of back child support that kept me afloat until my work turned around. I have had the second best year of my career and had a blast with everything I was involved in. I am enormously grateful.

I know this too will pass.

Constant change. A fundamental truth. All is good.

Car Scrotums: The Decline of Civilization?

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 10:12:56 -0500

I had just finished making the rounds, dropping off client gifts, and was headed to the mall for some last minute Christmas shopping. I have really been in the Christmas spirit this year! The radio was tuned to holiday music and I was cruising along talking to a friend on the phone. And then I saw it.

"Oh My God!"

"What?"

"I think the car in front of me has a ball sack!"

Silence. "What did you say?"

"I am hanging up. I HAVE to take a picture. I will call you back."

I maneuvered my car closer while finding the camera controls on my Blackberry. They just outlawed texting while driving in my state, but they never said anything about taking photographs while driving.

Would you like a little closer look.....

WTF??? I am both repulsed and fascinated at the same time. This car in front of me has a scrotum hanging out from under it! What kind of person would make something like this, attach it to their vehicle and then drive it around a major metropolitan area? Who would do this? What ARE they thinking?

I tried to put it out of my mind. Think Christmas, _{car nuts ,}think Santa, _{ball sack,}think happy, _{car scrotum,}joy, peace, blah, blah, blah. I found a parking spot at the mall. I had a few small things to get; a watchband to fit my son's watch, some stocking stuffers at The Gap. I watched a baby sit on Santa's lap. People are laughing. It's all good.

I start to leave when I glanced in the window of Spencers. What did I see but:

I later found out they even come in gold and chrome!

These car balls are being MASS PRODUCED!!!

I'm sorry.

I am not a prude.

I really am not.

But what has happened to common decency? What if I had my 13 year old son in the car.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"What is that hanging out from that car?"

"Ummm. I am not quite sure."

"It looks like balls, mom."

"Ummm. Yes, it kind of does."

"Mom, is that a ball sack?"

"Ummm. Looks like it."

Pause....

"Can I get some for my car when I'm 16?"

What's next? Phallic hood ornaments? Breast shaped headlights?

When I was a kid, "The Fall of the Roman Empire" always sounded like such a profound, tragic event. Years later I learned that this "event" occurred over 500 years.

I have a feeling it started with "Chariot Nutz".

What is that on the floor? Is that my underwear?

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 00:12:25 -0500

I had a meeting this morning at a local coffee shop and bakery. It was a wrap-up/assessment of a charitable event that I co-chaired. Casual, just my co-chair and the director. We are all friends.

I was running late and threw on my sweatpants from the day before. I hoped I would have time to hit the gym when we finished our meeting. I have been a complete slug lately and have been trying to get back into workout mode.

We ordered. Granola and yogurt for me, and a big cup of coffee. I have a magnet that says, "Coffee is my only friend."

We chit-chatted and ate, then started on our assessment. What worked, what didn't work. Who was intolerable, who was fabulous. How much money did we make, did we meet our goals. Survey questions for the committee members, review the draft for the "thank you" advertisement.

All done.

My co-chair had to run, so I offered to gather up all of our dishes and put them in the bin. (I worked the graveyard shift at our local pancake house when I was 16 for my summer job. I can carry some plates!) I made my way to the center island where the bins were. They were gone. I looked all over. The place was filling up for lunch and people were milling around. I walked over to the counter where one of the employees was rearranging scones and muffins.

"Where are the bins to put my dishes?"

"Oh, we moved them over there." She pointed to a station on the other side of the restaurant.

I walked through the tables, precariously balancing our dishes, and put everything into the gray plastic bins. No tubs to separate silverware and glasses. No trash can! They were not making this easy. I just left everything. I turned around to make my way back across the restaurant. Looking forward, about 15 feet, I saw a black cloth on the floor. I was walking that way and got closer to the black fabric lying on the floor.

What is that?

I kept walking. Curious.

That looks like my underwear.

Closer.

What IS that???

Looking down, but still walking.

OH MY GOD, THAT IS MY UNDERWEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Walking fast, past my underwear.

HOW DID THAT GET THERE???

How did my underwear get on the floor of the restaurant??

(Not an actual photo. )

This is surreal. How did they get there?!? I am walking slowly. What should I do? I am scanning the restaurant. My mind is racing. Think... I threw my sweatpants on. I wore them yesterday. Was that the underwear I had on yesterday? I peeled everything off and jumped in the shower. Did I leave them in my pants? Oh my GOD! I must have left them in my pants, and then when I put them on this morning they must have been down in the leg. Walking around looking for the bin must have dislodged them where they fell out the leg onto the floor of the restaurant. What should I do? Should I pick them up? What if someone sees me. What if...

I looked to my left and an elderly woman had just stood up from her table of four companions, to walk over to look at my underwear.

I keep walking. S L O W L Y . . . .

She turns hurriedly and looks at her companions as she starts back towards them.

"What is it?" They ask.

"I think it's someone's underwear!" She says loudly, her mouth exaggerates the words to be heard over the din.

They all look stunned. I imagine hushed whispers of shame.

I keep walking. FASTER. FASTER. FASTER. Out the door to my car.

I get in. Shut the door. I am so embarrassed. What if someone saw the underwear fall out of my pants? Would anyone pick them up? I imagine someone running out to my car, holding them out with tongs. "Miss, are these yours?"

Now my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is kicking in. I have to go back. Those are my GAP satin panties. I love those underwear. I don't like to leave my possessions places. I have to go back. I picture my underwear lying on the floor. People staring. Walking around it. Someone telling the staff. People looking at it. "Is that underwear? EWWHHH!!" The employees arguing about who has to pick it up. My black GAP panties being thrown in a trash can with discarded food and beverages.

Embarrassment trumps OCD.

I drive away and frantically call my mother.

"MOM."

"What's wrong?"

"Oh my GOD you will never believe what just happened!!!!!!!!"

I tell the story. We are hysterically laughing. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

"Well, honey, they could have been stuck in your leg from the dryer. You know, static cling."

Strangely, I immediately felt better.

Yes, that was it.

Static cling.

NOT old workout underwear left in my sweats from the day before.

Static cling. THAT is what people would think!

Next time I go there, perhaps I will check the lost and found...

Pride and Progeny

Fri, 3 Jul 2009 01:07:31 -0400

This is my flag that I bought on 9/11.

I did not own a flag before that terrible day, although I have always had a patriotic streak.

My first memory of a 4^th of July was visiting my grandparents in Ft. Monroe, Virginia. I was six years old and it was my first trip away without my parents. I adored my grandparents and worshipped my aunt who was only six years older than I was. I remember we had a delicious meal of smoked pork chops, green beans and new potatoes. (I really remember that- it was so special!) We then set off to the bandstand for the 4^th of July festivities. My grandfather was a Lt. Colonel and was dressed in full uniform and my grandmother, the consummate military spouse, was immaculate. We started walking across the parade grounds and people were streaming from the barracks, everyone walking briskly to the main event. All of a sudden, the Star-Spangled Banner started playing. I was skipping along, and felt myself grabbed up and planted firmly with a harsh whisper, “Put your hand on your heart!” I looked around and everyone, EVERYONE, was stopped. Perfectly still, sharp salutes, hands over hearts. Silent. Reverent. I was in awe. A song, a simple song, had that effect on that many big people.

This is a sticker I have on my refrigerator:

How grateful I am that:

§ Our forefathers declared our Independence on July 4, 1776.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."

§ That men and women have fought and died, and continue to do, so for our unalienable rights.

Because of this:

§ Today, I am not wearing a burqua.

§ I was not stoned to death or beheaded in a soccer field for having pre-marital sex or for being an alcoholic and drug addict.

§ I was able to get not one, but two college degrees.

§ I have, sitting openly, on my bookshelf copies of Das Kapital, Mien Kampf, the Bible and the Quoran.

§ I voluntarily bought a flag on 9/11, and I display it proudly.

§ I get goosebumps singing The National Anthem at football games.

§ I can write about any topic, and not worry that I will be imprisoned.

§ I was allowed to have more than one child.

This guy is 21 now.

I remember his first 4th of July. He was 9 months old and I had just put him to bed when I heard fireworks. I plucked him out of bed, raced to the car and drove in the direction of the sounds. I pulled over to the side of the road, and crawled on top of my blue 240 DL Volvo. The hood was warm from the hot, Texas, July night. I leaned back with him on my chest and held his little body next to mine while we watched the fireworks. Now he is studying abroad in Japan and wants to be an expatriate :-) although Obama's win might have reclaimed him.

He is what I am most proud of.

This little guy is now 13 and off to camp. See how meticulously I cared for this outfit that it lasted 8 years between kids!!!

He is what I am most proud of.

I was a business major but took a history class in which I learned of the CIA involvement in Iran in 1954, of the US government involvement in Latin America dating back to the 1890's, the decimation of native Americans, etc. It was my first exposure to the REAL history of America, not the watered down version of high school. I was hooked and switched my undergraduate major to history. I read and read. I was shocked and disillusioned. I went through my "I hate America, America is terrible" phase.

As a student of history and of the world, today I believe that despite the past (and present) faults, failures and mistakes of American society, The United States of America, a country that is truly the most racially, religiously and ethnically diverse in the world, has the best possibility, over time, to continue to evolve in a way that will truly allow each and every person to develop to his or her potential; to attain the unalienable rights of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

(All three of us at an Obama rally, 10/2009)

That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. ~The Declaration of Independence

It appears that we did this again on November 4, 2008. This is what I am most proud of.

Happy 4th of July!!!

Letters from Camp...

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 17:06:31 -0400

I dropped my youngest son off at camp last Sunday.

He went 3 years ago to a 10 day "introductory session", but after that the only option is 28 days. 28 days!!! Without my kid!!! He has begged me to go the past 2 summers, but I thought it was just too long of a time. But now he is 13, and I am crazy busy, and he was going to be spending a lot of time alone at home, so I agreed.

When I was 13, a friend of mine hosted a "Camp Night" in the dead of winter. This is where a local camper has their friends over and the Camp brings a slide show, brochures, snacks, etc., in order to recruit new campers. I was so enamored by the slide show, the lake, the blob, the sports, the boats. I never knew people did things like this! I wanted to go to this camp more than anything. I took home the brochures. I begged my parents. One of the things I learned as a child was not to express my emotions or get my hopes up about anything (my nickname was Spock until I was 18), but I REALLY wanted to go this camp. My parents were divorced and we always struggled for money. One time we found a $20 bill on the porch of our apartment and we were so excited! We went to the local drug store to buy shampoo, toothpaste, etc. and the money was gone. Just like that. Spending the summer at this camp was not in the cards. I was so disappointed. It was one of the last times of my childhood that I remember letting myself feel that disappointed and let down.

I spent the summer of 1979 pulling a mower behind my bike cutting grass in the neighborhood, washing windows and cleaning my mom's office to be able to buy my own clothes. Ralph Lauren Polo and Izod were the brands I saved up for!

By the next summer (age 14), I was doing all this and working at Bonanza making chicken fried steak gravy and cutting the coleslaw for the salad bar. The next summer (age 15), I graduated to painting and also worked 20 hours a week at the medical center delivering trays to patients which I did during the school year too. The next summer (age 16), I worked the medical center job, cut grass, had my cleaning and painting company (B & Associates) AND worked the graveyard shift as a waitress at a pancake house. The next summer (age 17), I had my cleaning, grass cutting and painting business and actually hired 2 of my friends (finally some Associates!) to work for me, along with my work at the hospital. The next summer (age 18), I was living with my 30 year old boyfriend and was addicted to heroin. (Not to paint too dreary of a picture- I did get to go to a sleepover basketball camp and volleyball camp during 2 of those summers and had a great time.)

So far I have received 3 letters! They have to write 2 a week, so I got a bonus letter. Each day, I open my mailbox and am so excited when I see his handwriting. He is so sweet.

Dear Mom,

I miss you sooooooo much but I am having a blast! How is Obie? I miss him too. I am lying in my bunk and it is rest period. I wish you were here. I looooooooooove you!

Love, B

Rub Obie's tummy for me, okay?

This is Obie.

I look back on my summers of working and I am grateful for the character that I developed, the work ethic, the sense of responsibility. I learned how to support myself, how to hustle, how to manage money. These are all things I do today. Life is hard. Character is critical. But character can be built on many paths. I am grateful that my son is building character in a different way this summer. Being away from home, learning to live with and interact with different people, developing and mastering skills, challenging himself to learn new things and pushing himself physically, emotionally and mentally, will serve him well in life.

There was a sign as I was leaving camp that said, "Sailing is courage." That is pretty cool. As a parent, all I want is for my children to be at peace and comfortable with who they are.

I think he is already there.