Thank You!

Thank you for the calls, emails, and kind thoughts.

Dad is out of today's today and will be just fine.

I know he will because my brother told me so.

And he's never been wrong.

The best part of this adventure was getting to talk to dad last night while he was looped on drugs.

My father has been sober since 1978, so this was pretty much my only shot at hearing him giggle like a buzzed up teenager, flirting with nurses and all that naughty stuff.

Dad's heart -- which, in his 9th ward New Orleans accent rhymes with quart -- is going to be just fine.

I know it.

But you can be nice to me anyway.

I Could Stare at this for Hours

Holding it In, Letting it Out

I held it in fine. All morning. Just fine, like today was a regular ordinary just be a mother and professor day.

Except for blurting it out to Roberto.

But he had to know why my cellphone was out, ready.

Ready for good news, of course.

That the surgery was fine, quick, nothing.

Nothing at all.

The phone didn't ring, and we meandered through our conversation.

I had an apology to make, and I needed him to hear it.

Then I checked the phone.
One missed call.
One voice message.

I played it on my cellphone's newly-discovered speakerphone, so confident it would be sunshine and butterflies.

But it wasn't.

I buried my face in my hands.

One deep breath.

He patted my back.

Let's go, I'll follow you to campus.

I switched to autopilot, made my way to campus.
He followed me about half-way.
I was fine. Really.

A student was outside my door.

You aren't waiting for me, are you?

She nodded.

Yes? No. No, I can't talk. My dad is... I... I just can't talk.

I walked to my hall, into Peggy's office, put my head between my knees and sobbed.

Charlotte tried to comfort me, then slid away to give me privacy.

I think I scared the crap out of them both.

One deep breath, I was better.

I told Peggy, she got it.

Melissa (and I don't mind if she talks about me in third person. It's actually kind of hot) doesn't like surprises.

I raise my eyebrows, move my dress up so she is patting my knee instead of the silky black material.

Peggy whipped her hand back, tossed her head back and laughed.

She offered to cover my class, which was nice, because I don't care much about the Roosevelt Corollary, the Tampico Incident, the Hay-Bunau-Varilla-Treaty.

Not today.

Today I just care about my dad, and his heart.

Just Like Mommy

Zoe is wiping a water and ice spill on the floor using her big toe and Zack's superman cape.

He doesn't care, he doesn't notice.

He's trying to read a can of Dora the Explorer soup.

Letter by letter, image by image. Engrossed.

He wants to know if Dora is really in the can of soup.

I am afraid that any answer would be a wrong answer, so I furrow my brow and act like I'm scrubbing something off the bottom of the sink.

Zoe wants her own can of soup.

Zack is willing to share his.

I find two exactly matching mugs (which, by the way, I am still proud of) and 2 exactly the same napkins, then heat the soup.

They engage in an overly-perky conversation about how great school was today.

I unpack their lunchboxes.

Hers is empty except for the blue freezer pack.

His has a half-empty, taped up package of cheetos; a half-empty, taped-up chewy granola bar; a half-empty ziploc baggy with soggy looking animal crackers.

Every day he asks to saves things.

Zack hates to waste food, time, paper, love.

I declare the soup ready, spoon it into mugs and parade the kids to the table.

Zoe drinks hers immediately, slurping enthusiastically.

Zack demands ice.

I get it for him then lean over him, watching him stir, explaining how ice becomes water.

Once the ice disappears, he looks up at me.

Oh! Crackers! I stomp my foot and fetch a fresh sleeve of saltines, then dramatically bcount out equal amounts for each child.

Zoe immediately takes a huge bite out the top cracker on her stack.

Zack lines them up, square soldiers ready for execution, then counts them.

Mommy! This is only FIVE!

Oh. Ooops. Do you remember me promising them six?
That's right. I did that to shut the fight up about who got which of the exactly- the -same, perfectly-matching souvenier mugs from my parent's first trip to Spain.


Mommy, was yesterday Sunday?

Zack is big into time, dates, numbers, codes.

I explain Memorial Day. Again.

By the time I look up, Zoe's face is flushed with a soup buzz.

Please, can I have more? She looks sweet and happy and hungry.

I open the second can of Dora the Explorer soup, and fetch a container of mandarin orange slices for dessert.

Zack barely finishes half of his cracker-filled lukewarm soup.

I give him dessert anyway.

He devours three bowls of oranges; Zoe eats none.

Zack asks me -- again -- to explain Memorial Day, and I -- again -- steer the conversation to quizzing him on math.

Zoe interrupts us, directing our attention to the TV.

It's her favorite commercial - the Swivel Sweeper.

I think she inherited my love for watching other people clean.

Happiness, Big and Small

Today I taped a new picture to my office desk lamp, right at eye level just left of my monitor.

It is rather spartan as Zoe-art goes, simplistic and direct.

An empty pink beach chair in front of a turbulent indigo sea.

Across the top, in the sky, my artist-philosopher daughter wrote "Life is the Bubble!"

She gets it.

In such a deep way, Zoe just gets the transitory, illusory, concrete dazzlingly beautiful truth about life.

Life, love, happiness, children - all bubbles, big and small.

On Memorial Day

Prologue: I have a love-hate thing for the priveledge and burden of being a History Professor teaching US Foreign Policy/Diplomatic History during a time of war.

Over the past years I have had the great priveledge to be professor and confidante to some amazing Army, Air Force, Marine and Navy veterans, a few of whom have confided stories to me I cannot use in lecture until this whole thing is long long over and resolved.

Memorial Day is a day of stories, heroes, survivors, sacrifice and -- I hope -- peace.

Now go grill something!

********************************
(from TIME)

"Americans may differ on how best to honor those who have given their lives in this war.

Should the fight be redoubled as a tribute to the fallen? Or does our obligation to the dead mean ending the war that took their lives as soon as possible?

After the Civil War, Major General John Logan proclaimed the first Memorial Day for the dead on both sides: "We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders."

That's the reason we have a Memorial Day: to honor those who died in uniform in an appropriate way, not with hasty escalations or withdrawals but in simple gratitude for their sacrifice.

Memorial What?

I spent my morning in a Memorial Day haze, finishing a writing assignment that was due April 2. This is my own "personal worst" and I feel pretty guilty, so I got up @ 5am to get it done.

In my office, during writing breaks, I worked up the guts to organize my 21 years of journals.

I found the one I'd been dreading, the one that suddenly ended on March 12, 1994.

It is the only journal that is mostly empty.

The entries are sparse, almost colorless, and very very un-Melissa.

Then nothing.

Not a word, not a page for 9 months.

The next journal -- the one that started on December 10, 1994, after I was married and teaching college -- begins with a self-admonition, a proclamation of starvation, being too fat, self-loathing.

I closed that book and got back to my writing project. Back to reality, to the wonderful things I now have.

Today is not the day to walk in darkness, not unnecessarily, and certainly not alone.

*********************

Happy Memorial Day.

Make it a memorable one.

Zoe, Zack, Memorial Day

After and Before

My Garden's Secrets Unfolding

Gardens are secrets unfolding.

At least mine is.

I find the silence to be fantastic company.



The pictures hardly contain the admiration that has been welling up in me for my Don Juan red rose bush fearlessly and shamelessly weaving itself around my Buddha quote and exploding in blooms.

It's a show off, cocky plant which gets all the attention in the garden.


Saturday, while watering, I looked behind it, exploring to find out which of my unenthusiastically scattered seeds had taken root.

I was expecting seedlings and found something much much more interesting.

Don Juan has a secret friend. Two of them, actually.

I think they compete for his attention and he loves every minute of it.




Behind Don Juan thrives two long stems of some twin plants which found themselves equally shaded and protected by thorny twisty rose vines.

Weeds? Friends? Company?

Hard to say.

I will not judge them. Actually, I think it's kinda funny.

Maybe they give each other shade. Have a summer worth talking about.

Depite my garden-fairy's admontion that I should tolerate no weeds, I will let that threesome hang out together.


********
EDITORIAL: I refuse to call them weeds. I refuse to kill them.

I will notcommit or condone needless violence in any case, but especially here, against some really funny CIA-like interlopers.

I was not trained to kill, I do not even kill flies or ants.

If gardening turns out to be a bloodsport, I'll quit the plants and become that crazy old lady who decorates her yard with statues of frogs balancing on balls doing yoga.


*******
Spring IS in the air!

Now check out THIS rose and its friend.



I just found out that plant with the big fat leaves is squash.


And it's pregnant.

I couldn't be happier.

Seriously. I have a vague recollection of buying seeds for corn, squash and morning glories, but I didn't do a great job
"planting" them. I shook them out over the soil, told them to behave themselves, and watered them while thinking about other things. Garden Darwinism.

What a nice surprise to see these two plants from very different species hanging out nestled together, laying low, basking in the sun.

Unlike the climbing rose and her secret pole weed, these two make no secret of the their symbiotic happiness.

Look carefully -- to the bottom left of the picture.

Another secret unfolds... they've adopted a baby Morning Glory vine.

Sweet.

I Figured Him Out

Today I figured him out.

How he moves me, directs my attention, cheers me on.

It starts something like this.

Imagine me, yoga pants, ponytail, reading.

Up he walks, fuzzy Elmo footy pj's on at noon because he loves them so very much.

"Mommy, let's play blocks."

I sigh. I can't say no, but I don't feel like yes.

He reaches his hand toward me and nods his head.

I have to take his hand and get up, let him lead me to the chosen construction site.

We might be starting with blocks, but I have to be mentally prepared for more. A railroad to supply the blocks, racecars to bring people to admire the Wonder we will create.

At first he sits across from me, silent except for "Like this.... over here.... no, not that..."

Once it is clear that I will not do the caffeinated-mommy thing where I keep popping up and leave the project, he sits back on his heels and talks to me.

Stories about his teachers, his favorite foods, what Ashton wore on Thursday, and how to spell "Dylan." He rehearses me on the alphabet, quizzes me about song lyrics, and makes funny faces.

I know this time is sacred. I let him lead.

Always, always, when he is done with his stories and show, he pauses, admires my new village or port city or whatever, and pats me on the head.

"Good job Mommy. It's beautiful."

Then he karate chops it.

And we laugh.

V is for Vector

Today's word is VECTOR.

Look it up.

Imagine it.

Use it in a sentence.

Think about it.

I Love Pens

I have a new favorite mug.

I haven't used it yet -- it is far too cool and beautiful and funny to touch.

It is a 1903 Parker Pen Ad.

A barefoot woman with pre-Rafaelite hair wearing a gauzy red dress which covers her legs opaguely and barely warms her bosom is flying in the sky, riding a long fountain pen.

The wind has blown her skirt up toward her knees and she has a huge smile on her face.

The sky behind her is blue, and the white clouds are saturated with the orange that always precludes the reds and purples of sunset.

The caption below her reads "Because it is a Good Pen. Parker Pen."

I am glad for her. And her pen.

Here are some other ads for your viewing pleasure -- Enjoy.
And keep thinking ...

Big Questions, Asked but Not Answered

The best part of a conference or convention -- for me -- is the conversations outside.

The ones at airports, in hallways, in the hotel, and on busses.

I talked to professors, graduate students and random-tag-alongs about dissertations, research, ethics and good stuff like that.

The best part was the free rolling exchange of questions.

A graduate student about to take comps and embark on a research project relating tothe strategy of upselling was posed with a rapid fire interrogation of research questions --

Are you looking at upselling or loyalty?

Loyalty? Well then, what does loyalty LOOK like? Driving the same old Ford for 15 years and cursing it? Buying a new Ford each year?

How much of loyalty is laziness?

How hard do you REALLY have to work to keep customers?

In fact, shouldn't you be measuring what the minimum service/product a customer will tolerate without leaving RATHER than asking how hard you have to work to keep them?

Can customers be bi-loyal? I mean, I spend as much money at Chick-fil-a as I do at Dominos. I am equally loyal, and my patronage to each does not diminish my satisfaction with the other.

I have a mac at home and a Toshiba in my laptop case and a Dell at work. I write enough to satisfy all of them.

Is loyalty earned? Given? Lost? Misplaced?

Are clients more loyal because of high quality relationships?
Or high quality products?

Wow.

Asking all those questions almost makes ME want to go to graduate school again.

Almost, but not quite.

Great Day!

What a fantastic day.

Georgia has NOT invaded Tallahassee, my keys were found AND I'll have a new wonderful phone tomorrow.

Can things GET better???






My key

I Blame Georgia

Until just about this weekend I didn't believe in global warming.

Or maybe I didn't care.

I tivo'd "An Inconvenient Truth" about a month ago, and have neither watched it nor deleted it.

But now that Georgia is literally throwing flaming trees at Florida causing us to walk around in Los Angeles-like smog without all the benefits of half-naked starlets drinking Starbucks in BMWs..... I *think* we have a problem.

The plot thickens.

On Friday, somewhere on I-75, I took a bunch of kid-generated trash out of the car, grabbed my cellphone, then juggled things so that I could hold Zoe's hand.

Most likely, I switched the cellphone into the trash-bearing hand, then -- distracted by trying to keep a small child from being run over by Disney-crazed tourists -- tossed the phone into the trashcan.

Because of this (terrorist?) attack from Georgia, I am unable to drive back and root through the trashcans of podunk counties, hunting for the cellphone my dad bought in 1999 and I inherited last year after murdering my beloved phone.

So today when you can't call me, blame Georgia.

Did I mention I lost my keys, too?
The same day as the cellphone?
It's TRUE!

I have NO idea how Georgia could be involved in this, but certainly it cannot be a coincidence.

Cheer Up?

He walked right into my office and didn't smile.

I don't know how good of a look he got at my face and my expression, considering that my monitor is strategically placed so that I can peer over it at the door without giving evidence of a smile or wince.

He threw his hands up over head.

What's WRONG with you?

Despite the cup of coffee I'm nurturing, and even though I have written about five pages of a report in the last hour, I couldn't find the energy to even smile.

So I didn't.

I just sat back. And shrugged. I'm a bit frustrated with myself, too ~

I don't know. Maybe it's the kids. I'm just.... tired. Or something.

Well you'd better get better.

Yes. OK.

I agreed, forgiving him (and everyone else) for confusing my non-exuberence with negativity.

After agreeing to our our meeting for today, he lobbed one last threat... a terrifying image that I will not soon be able to erase from my panicked mind.

Cheer up. You could be Dean.

No sir.

I promise to be cheery.

And to wear a dress tomorrow instead of these old jeans.

I will smile.

I will fix my lipgloss on an hourly basis.

I'll play music, laugh, and scent my office with berries and vanilla.

All I ask is for this one thing.

Please, please.

Don't let them make me be the Dean!

Absent Minded Assistant-Professor

So today I had a very very important meeting.

It was with my Dean, regarding some "big stuff" like ... oh... tenure.

And I forgot.

Or rather, I'd prefer "mis-remembered."

I didn't even go to campus.
I went to Target.
And then I sat in my backyard, writing.
Then I watched Officer and a Gentleman (hello, I might've named my son Zack, but I don't find Richard Gere even one teeeeeny bit sexy, sorry ~)

And of course, I spent a solid hour sweating out some kickboxing crazy moves.

Thank G*d the Dean has time for me tomorrow.

I think he kinda is relieved to see that I'm ALREADY, even before tenure, showing a proclivity toward becoming an absent minded professor.

And that should TOTALLY count for something.

Right?

Amazing Melody

Her name may or may not be Melody, but the rest of this is true.

She has done a few very difficult things in the past weeks.

And she did them the right way.

With honesty, kindness.

Sooner, rather than later.

There was no cheating, no lying, nothing at all to be ashamed of.

Which, of course, does not guarantee that everyone will love and respect her right now.

Next year, maybe.

Five years from now, probably.

Ten years from now -- most definitely.

Meanwhile, dear Melody, it is summer and you are young and (rightfully) single.

Enjoy yourself my friend -- and the work of art that your life is becoming.

All in this Together

If I'd have brought Zack into the doctor's office sooner, maybe he wouldn't have had a sinus infection. And an eye infection.

But I just didn't do it. I figured it was allergies, that they would miraculously resolve themselves, and that would be it.

Which is exactly how I confessed the entire situation to my pediatrician, adding, "Give me a 20 year old who doesn't know what he wants to do in life... give me someone who doesn't understand why nations go to war or how US foreign policy affects immigration, I can handle that.... runny nose confound me.... I feel like such a rotten mother!"

The wise doctor stood tall, nodded his head patiently, stroked his red-turning-gray moustache, then broke out into a bright smile.

"I don't understand plumbing. How toilets work. All that stuff. That doesn't make me a bad guy. I just pay someone to handle that."

I laughed.

"Thank you, Doctor..."

His blue eyes twinkled at Zack, then, as he he handed me three separate prescriptions for my little guy, the pediatrician continued, "You're welcome.... Doctor.... We're all in this together, right?"

I live in Tallahassee where kissing Doctors is as big a faux pas as confusing camellias and magnolias.

If this particular pediatrician were less American, I would've given him a nice warm squeezy Cuban hug along with a 2 kisses, one on each side, right between his wirey grey-red sideburns and even greyer eyebrows.

El Siete de Mayo - A Personal Holiday

I absolutely cannot believe that I am the only person in the world who recognizes profoundly private holidays.

Today is the anniversary of a dark night many years ago when I should not have driven. The night I might've just could've -- and at the time believed I should've -- died alone, somewhere on a dark road from Georgia.

Today also marks a hot Sunday morning that I made a big decision about my life, what I would not longer do, what I would no longer accept, who I would become.

And so here I am.

I do not write enough, work out enough, clean the house enough.

I am too loud, too brash, too bold and too direct.

I am not as peaceful as I wish to be, but here I am.

Still here.

Full of stories to tell.

And that, today, I celebrate -- alone.

Evidence of a Day Well Spent

1) Pictures with the kids
2) Writing
3) Poor old Mr. Frog got a makeover, Melissa-style ~

Fake Money & Things that Go SNIP

Today, I tried. I really did.

First of all, I gave up the idea of minting my own cash for the Foreign Policy class.

It's for an experiential exercise to help the students better understand the role of the IMF and World Bank in International Relations. So, I had this great idea of creating my own money with maybe the US Maine blowing up on the $1 bill, the Monroe Doctrine on the $5 bill, Colin Powell on the $10, and my secret crush, General Marshall (The Marshall Plan) on the $20.

I had it all imagined, and then I just couldn't do it.

I started to get a little self-conscious about the cash circulating around and other less creative people making fun of it.

So I went to Wal-Mart to buy fake money. Guess what? They don't sell it.

Target? No fake money.

Walgreens? Nope.

CVS? Nothing.

So basically I spent all morning cracking up salesclerks and random people by ranting about the mysterious lack of fake cash in my particular suburb.... it went something like this:

"What's more fun than fake money? What's the point of buying a princess dress for a little girl if you don't give her a wad of cash too? what kind of parenting is THAT?"

I gave up.

Came home.

And just as the sun peaked and the temperature hit 90 degrees, a little voice inside me commanded me to seize the scissors and do some yard work.

Yes, scissors.

I have no trimmer, no weed-whacker, nothing mechanical.

Just scissors to cut paper with.

They looked bold, sharp, ready.
We were a great team.

There was a lot of cutting to do, but I didn't quit.

I got blisters on the tops of my hands, scratches on my legs, but I kept going.

There was something deeply satisfying in whacking, pulling, and breaking off off dead, useless branches, overgrown vines and bully-ish hedges.

I didn't just whack.

I talked to my victimes.

Pretend-nice talk.

"OK, I'm sure this isn't a surprise (SNIP) I've been thinking about it... and you and I...we aren't going anywhere (SNIP)... now look at that nice windchime over there (SNIP) it's so friendly and happy (SNIP) and you are NOTHING....I will be so damn (SNIP) happy to stuff you into a bag and toss you into the (SNIP) trash can and get a fresh start with NOTHING rather (SNIP) than keeping your miserable self around here (SNIP) a moment longer."

All and all, despite my blisters and the sun, I had a really really good time.

Happy Wednesday~

Pictures, Again

Two Things a Woman Should Never Cut Off

(in progress ---)

Today's Secret

As I was driving to work listening to NPR, they announced an upcoming program which really really excited me.

Title?

"The Secret Life of a Carbon Atom"

I shivered with excitement.

Zoe Teaches Me History

Yesterday was a record-setting bad day.

I woke up angry at myself, and allowed that anger to seep into every bit of my day.

So let's not talk about yesterday, OK?

This morning was especially great.

While getting Zoe ready for school, I noticed her eyes were sparkling.

What's so great?

Today we're having a puppet show.... and yesterday we saw a play!

Oh? About what?

Cuba! Mom, Columbus came from CUBA to America.

From Cuba? Well, he....

She waved at me impatiently...

And they told us all about the great Cuban Explorers.

Like Maria Soldani.

I stood up and clapped, then sat back down, properly.

Wow, that's awesome they teach you history. Do you still want to be a history professor?

No. I'm going to be a biologist. Have you seen my white headband?

And off she went, into her own future, secure in her grasp of the past.