The Traveling Sketchbook, or Serendipity

The Girlfriends gather once a year in South Haven for a weekend of getting-away-from-it-all which includes laughs, adult beverages, and a white elephant gift exchange. We enjoyed this annual event so much this year in January that we decided to make it a semi-annual event and do it again in September. 

We opened white elephant gifts while wearing fake facial hair, which made every gift and every conversation exponentially more hilarious. The gift exchange produced a collapsible, portable camping toilet; an awful "get-in-touch-with-your-feelings" card game from the 1950s, targeted to socially-challenged adolescents; and a sexy black lace dress with plunging neckline, which the recipient modeled. We photographed her and immediately sent the image to the husband in question. 

 
The most interesting gift of the night was an old sketchbook that Girlfriend Y-Tee had found decades earlier in an alternative school on Chicago's north side. No one claimed them or knew where they had come from, so she called dibs and brought them home. They had been sitting in a storage box in her basement for thirty years--and now one of them became part of Girlfriend Tradition. We wondered about the artist, and whether his career had taken an artistic trajectory.

"Let's try to find him!" we agreed, and I whipped out the trusty Internet. The name on the front cover of the sketchbook was David Enblom, so I googled "David Enblom artist." I got almost 40,000 results--but the first page of links was all our guy. The link led us to a website called MNArtists.org, and Mr. Enblom's homepage on that site listed his own website, which we quickly checked out. 

Mr. Enblom, it turns out, is a talented photographer, although his website was designed for minimum aesthetic appeal and maximum randomness. His landing page includes links to his photographs, his Facebook page, Beatles songs and lyrics, and a playable list of the Billboard #1 Pop Hits from 1941 to 1976. Glen Miller's Song of the Volga Boatmen is playing in the background at this very moment. 

I took photos of several sketches, attached them to an email, wrote "Found these in a sketchbook with your name on it. Are they yours?", and hit send. Thirteen hours later, Mr. Enblom replied enthusiastically, "Yes they are! Would love to see more!" 
 So we sent four more images, and told him that our friend had found his sketchbooks in an alternative high school in Chicago in the '80s. This launched a dialogue with Mr. Enblom, who thought his mom had tossed all of the sketchbooks in the trash. He asked to "borrow" them so he could copy the images, but G.YT was happy to reunite them with their creator. Mr. Enblom--can I call him David? I feel like he's practically one of the girlfriends by now--David lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, and has never lived in Chicago; so how did his sketchbooks end up in a north side high school? David started filling sketchbooks when he was in his early 20s, in 1971. He had switched from studying pre-med to art; you can see the influence of pre-med in his anatomy drawings. "I fell in love with art," David told me, "Dada, surrealism, fluxus." He believes that his girlfriend at the time brought the books to Chicago. She later married a guy who was involved in starting the Prologue school where the books eventually ended up, and where Y-Tee found them many years later.It was a big thrill, David said, when the sketchbooks arrived in the mail. He had assumed that they had all been thrown out and that he'd never see any of them again. Getting the books back "was like finding out you have a brother that you were separated from. I'm getting to know a part of myself--how many memories do you have from 40 years ago?"Many gifts came out of this little adventure. One of them is that David introduced us to The Sketchbook Project, which is a "global, crowd-sourced art project and interactive traveling exhibition of handmade books." There are already more than 28,000 sketchbooks in the exhibit--and you can join the fun. Order your very own sketchbook here for only $25--or check out the digital library of sketchbooks on the website.

Urban Anthropology

The Internet has not reached everyone in the United States yet. And when a citizen encounters The Web for the first time, it's like a toddler in a toy store.

Yesterday we visited with my dad's old buddy from WWII days, Sahib. (He and dad were in India together.) He's 95. He's a bit frail, but he makes good time zooming around the halls of the retirement village on his walker. He is mentally as sharp as a hangnail, remembering the distant past and yesterday with clarity and humor.

Sahib is a bit of a Luddite: he eschews cell phones and computers, and relies on his cradle phone from the 1980s and good old-fashioned snail mail to communicate with his 11 god-children and countless cousins, nieces, nephews, and friends.

He had kept in touch with most of his band of brothers from the war; but he'd lost track of one or two. He remembered my dad fondly, and told us stories spanning their 70-year friendship. 

"Al was in charge of scheduling shifts to man the radio 24 hours a day, seven days a week," Sahib told me. "He'd make sure the shifts were covered, every leave accommodated, and each man given an equal assignment--and he made it seem easy."

Sahib named the seven or eight men who served in the same [unit] with him (or some other army word), including my dad, who died this past June. "I might be the last one left," he said. "I know most of them have passed--but I'm not sure about Frank."

"Well, then," I said, whipping out my trusty I-Phone. "Maybe we can find out. What's his last name? Do you know where he lived?" I googled Frank with his last name and nickname, in Louisville, Kentucky, and up popped his phone number and address. I showed it to Sahib, who practically fell off his leather easy chair.

"Oh!" he said. "Oh my. Oh. My. God. Omigod."

Then he continued, eloquently: "How...who...what...? How do they get that in there? Who puts it in there?" I think he wasn't even sure what question to ask, or what exactly he meant by "in there." 

"They must have so many people getting that information and putting it in there," he observed, probably imagining thousands of re-purposed Lollipop Guild munchkins poring over phone books and madly typing in names and numbers. 

Then he got even more excited. "Am I in there? What happens if you put my name in?"--like it was a magic trick, and if I waved my hands I could make a king of hearts appear with his name on it.I googled Sahib's full name, and his White Pages information came up, along with 2.7 million additional hits. (Sahib was a smidge miffed at this affront; he said, "I thought I was an original!")

"Oh my God!" he said, over and over. "I can't believe this. Can you put in my brother's name? He was a cop who investigated an infamous triple homicide." Sure enough, the obituary for Sahib's brother popped up, mentioning the case and quoting the Sahib himself.

"What's this...this thing called?" he asked. "How much information is out there? Who puts it there?"

"It's called the Internet, Sahib," I said. "It's like an information library, but it's all electronic."

He asked more questions, as animated as a kid getting to know his brand new puppy; and when I told him about I-Pads, he hopped right on board. 

"I'm gonna get one of those things," he said. "And I'm gonna learn how to use it, too!" His slightly younger cousin has a laptop which sits, unused, in her apartment. Just like Sahib's cell phone, which, he said, he "never could figure out how to use."

We left him with the promise that we'd be back soon to play on the Internet some more with him; and I felt glee at having had the rare experience of introducing my friend to this brand new world of the Information Superhighway. I felt like an anthropologist visiting an undiscovered people group and introducing them to Doritos for the very first time.

A Huge Win

M. Peevie's softball team, the Hurricanes, were making a valiant effort to pull out a win in the last game of the season. They were down 3-1, and the Orange Crush were (was?) up to bat. 

Being down by only two runs was already sort of a victory. We had often found ourselves down by 30, 40, even 50 runs this season--so we could already taste the sweet, sweet honey of not being slaughtered.

But the girls really wanted to record an actual statistical win, not just a moral victory; and they were in ready position, gloves on the ground, chanting support for the pitcher, hoping to make a big play that would end the inning. 

The Orange Crush batter hit an infield fly, which soared up over the pitcher's head, making a high arc toward the short stop. It moved in slow motion; we held our breath. 

Just as the ball plopped into her glove, a fan from the other team yelled, "Drop it!"

She held onto the ball, and ended the inning. Phew. But now there was the matter of poor sportsmanship from the adult fans on the sidelines, which I could not let pass without a correction. I got out my brass knuckles and headed over to the group of Orange Crush parents and grandparents, ready to teach somebody a lesson.

"Did somebody over here yell out, 'Drop it!'? I asked pleasantly. I looked at the most likely culprits, what looked like a grandpa, plus two other adults sitting on the fan bench. I expected a conflict, because sometimes--you may not have noticed this--people are stupid. But instead:

"Yes, he did," the woman on the bench said, not disclosing which guy made the comment. "And we told him that it was not acceptable. It won't happen again. Sorry about that."

Oh. Well then. That was exactly right.

"Oh," I said, "Well, thank you for that. We appreciate it." I walked back to our bench and told the team, who had heard the heckle, that the guy had been corrected by his own people. End of story, time to concentrate on getting some hits.

But it wasn't the end of the story. A few minutes later, the grandpa walked over to our bench. He walked straight up to me and looked me in the eye. "It was me," he said. "I was the one who said, 'Drop it!'." I shouldn't have said it, it was wrong, and I'm very sorry."

Wow. 

I practically burst into tears. I grabbed his hand and shook it, and said, "It was really good of you to come over here and say that. It's very honorable, and I appreciate you doing that." He said again that he was sorry; he was caught up in the game; and he knew it was wrong. "We all do and say things that we shouldn't," I said, "but very few people step up to take responsibility. You are a good man."

The Hurricanes ended up losing that game after all. But a few of them got to see a beautiful example of an adult taking personal responsibility for his mistake--and that is a huge win.

A Noble Persuasion

The traveling handbag strikes again!


Awhile ago I posted a little post about a cute purse I was carrying that my friend admired, which I gave to her. She subsequently gave it away as well--and then that person also gave it away. Here is the purse, along with one of its temporary friends:

I recently learned that the traveling purse had been donated to the Denver Dress for Success affiliate, whose mission is to "promote the economic independence of disadvantaged women by providing professional attire, a network of support and the career development tools to help women thrive in work and in life."

How brilliant and beautiful!

Here's what DenverJ had to say about the purse and its journey:

I just got a call from Donna, the Denver Director of Dress for Success, who spoke at the meeting I attended. She was really touched by our story and wanted me to know that she has shared it with about 50 people so far, including her director. She reads it to new volunteers when they come in. So, the blessings of the purse continue!

I hope to get another email soon about the purse going on a job interview, and a DfS client getting a job and starting a whole new chapter of her life.

Meanwhile, I have started another purse on its own journey. I bought it for $1.50 at the same resale shop where I bought the original Traveling Purse, thinking that it would be perfect as a summery tote to carry my lunch and stuff to work.

One day, my tote and I were minding our own business in my cubicle when my colleague Rosaduñas stopped by to show off her beautifully pedicured toenails. They were a smooth, summery, bubblegum pink. They looked smart and tantalizing against her sun-tanned toesies--and then we noticed that they were the EXACT SAME COLOR as the pink tote purse stashed on my messy desktop.

I had just told Rosaduñas the story of the Traveling Purse that very morning, and when we held the purse up next to her polished toenails (well, down, really), we both knew that the purse would be going home with her that night.

I don't have any expectations about this new traveling purse. It might be a staying-home purse this time, sticking with Rosaduñas until it falls apart or she leaves it at the beach by accident.

But I like to dwell on the freedom that traveling purses represent: freedom from a shallow attachment to a material possession.

Of course this noble persuasion only applies to purses bought at a second-hand store, not for example, purses special ordered by one's husband for one's 50th birthday and hand-made from a copy of one's favorite writing reference book.

Ahem. Can you sense another purse-related blog post coming?

Happiness Is...

..sleeping until you wake up naturally, with no alarm clock.



...eating something sweet for breakfast.



...hiking on the Kal-Haven trail


...taking photos of bright blooms and butterflies on the Kal-Haven trail.


...a covered bridge.


...waving to a kayaker on the Black River.




...when the Black River kayaker interrupts his paddling rhythm in order to wave back.


...sharing a giant bag of pink and blue cotton candy.


...having dessert first.  At this place.

...reading a book on the beach.

...a perfect frisbee throw.


...grilling the perfect burger.  And then eating it.


...a whole day of no kid-bickering.  Not that I would know.  I'm just sayin'.

One Man's Trash

I accidentally broke my pledge.

It really was an accident, I swear. There was this flea market at school, and there was this bottle, and I thought it was beautiful, and I bought it without even thinking.

The church ladies had been setting up tables covered with old crap donated by other church ladies. They were carefully putting prices on lace tablecloths, vintage costume jewelry, and tiny plaster figurines.

The bottle caught my eye: cut glass, with a huge, hollow glass stopper, and a slightly-scratched-up metal label that read "I.W. Harper Bourbon." The cork--darkened, dried and cracked--wrapped around the glass neck of stopper, flanked by two dingy plastic rings. The bottle had no cracks or chips, but the glass under the label on the inside of the neck of the bottle itself was discolored with whimsical brown stains.

"I like this!" I told my friend NurseLady. "I think I might buy it."

"You should," she said. "It's pretty." So I plopped down my money and collected my new treasure. It wasn't until a half hour later that I realized that I'm supposed to be having a purchasing moratorium.

When I showed it to my friend Abba, she was underwhelmed. "You bought that nasty old thing?" she asked. "Why?"

"Because I think it's cool," I said.

"Let me see it," she said. She popped the stopper off and peered in. It was a teeny bit brown around the edges, and the cork had seen better days. "Ew," she said. "Just...ew. It's hideous. How much did you pay for it?"

"Ten dollars," I told her.

"TEN DOLLARS!" she screamed. "You are kidding me! A DOLLAR, maybe! But TEN! WHAT were you THINKING?"

"Um, I like it?" I said.

"You can't put anything in this, you know," she said.

"Why not?" I said. "It's clean."

"NO!" Abba screamed again. "You CANNOT put anything in this. It has someone else's disgusting yuck in there!"

"You just have no appreciation for beauty," I told her. "This bottle is an object of beauty."

Abba handed the bottle to LunchMom. "Mom," she said, "Look at this. Would you put anything in there?" LunchMom tilted her head and squinted at my new treasure. "Bleah," she said succinctly. "It's disgusting. Throw it out."

"E. Peevie bought it," Abba told her mom. "Guess how much she paid for it?"

"A dollar?" said LunchMom.

"TEN!" said Abba. "Ten DOLLARS! Can you believe it?"

"No way!" agreed LunchMom. "That thing belongs in the trash."

Well, I like it. I brought it home, and Mr. Peevie thinks it's cool, too. So it's going to have a place of honor on the bookshelf in The Green Room--the actual, literal green room.

C. Peevie picked it up and looked it over.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I bought it the other day," I said. "What do you think?"

"It's old," he said, "...and disgusting." What does he know? He's 14.

Whatever. I like it. I might fill it with colored water, a different color, depending on the season, or holiday, or time of year. I might fill it with marbles. I might keep it empty.

You know what they say: One man's trash is another (wo)man's treasure.

Top Ten Reasons I Love Halloween

Yay! My favorite holiday--next to my birthday, of course, which some people oddly do not consider an actual holiday. Here's why I love Halloween:

10. It falls during my favorite season, the days of scuffing through dry leaves, admiring beautiful autumn colors against the sky, and pulling on a sweater against a not-unwelcome chill in the air.

9. Haunted houses. I do love a manufactured scare now and then.

8. Pumpkin patches. I'm so glad that our world includes the color orange. A field with hundreds of pumpkins dotted around is a thing of beauty and happiness.

7. Candy. How can you not love a holiday that is all about the candy? I'm not saying it's good for my girlish figure or anything. I'm just saying, sometimes a person is only a Heath Bar away from a really good day. And it's probably not a coincidence that "heath" is only an "l" short of "health."

6. Jack-o-lanterns. See photos. Scooping out the seeds and pulp, cleaning and scraping the inside smooth. Choosing the perfect, not-too-difficult carving stencil. Poking, cutting, carving--until finally you have a glowing work of art! And when it's a family affair--all the better.

5. Toasted pumpkin seeds. Yum. Boil 'em in salted water--or not; dry 'em out in a low-heat oven--or not; toss 'em with oil and salt, and bake at 300 degrees until toasty. As I mentioned: Yum.

4. Parties. Before we had kids, Mr. Peevie and I had a costume party for adults. We fostered the competitive spirit, and our guests did not disappoint. We had Moses, Boy George, Julius and Esther Rosenberg, Diana Goddess of the Hunt, a member of the Lollipop Guild, the Sears Tower complete with flashing lights, Peter Pan, Pepe le Pew, Aladdin, Gumby, the National Debt, the Frugal Gourmet, Christopher Columbus and Queen Isabella, and many more honored guests at our annual gala.

One year the doorbell rang, and when I answered it, the American Gothic man and woman were standing on my stoop. I looked, and looked, and FINALLY I realized that it was Mr. Peevie's mom and dad--totally unexpected! They won first place in the costume contest.

3. Trick-or-treating. I mostly love my memories of trick-or-treating, in neighborhoods that seemed to be miles away from my own, with no adults supervising, walking for hours and ringing doorbells of houses of total strangers, and coming home with pillowcases bulging with full-size candy bars which we'd sort and hoard for weeks.

2. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! I'm pretty sure I have watched this every year since I was five years old. Poor Charlie Brown, getting rocks in his pillowcase. Poor Linus--waiting and hoping in vain for the Great Pumpkin. Oh! The deep, spiritual poignancy!

Even when the GP doesn't come, and Charlie Brown commiserates with Linus, Linus is outraged by Charlie Brown's insinuation that waiting for the Great Pumpkin is stupid. "Stupid? What do you mean, stupid? Just wait 'til next year, Charlie Brown. I'll find the pumpkin patch that is real sincere and I'll sit in that pumpkin patch until the Great Pumpkin appears."

What does it mean? I can't say for sure--but here is a really astute observation and analysis of the art and meaning of Charles Schulz's "depiction of the struggle between existentialism and religious determinism."

1. Kids' costumes. What a great opportunity for kids to use their imaginations and creativity. My kids love to play dress-up, but on Halloween, they really take it to the next level.

Some years I bought ready-made costumes from the store, but the best costumes are the ones made from things around the house, or pulled together from useful purchases and with minimal cost.
This year, A. Peevie's Luigi costume cost about $20--but most of that was for a t-shirt and a baseball cap that he will wear for the rest of the year. M. Peevie's costume, including her magnifying glass, cost about the same--and I'm pretty sure she'll get her money's worth out of wearing the hat as an everyday fashion accessory.

Random Notes From My Vacation

1. Across Minnesota, giant, white windmills, each with three long arms, dot the landscape. They caused me to wonder: How much energy do they harness? Are they efficient? Are they privately owned, or state-owned? Can the energy be stored? What is the energy used for? Why aren't there more windmills harnessing free energy across the miles of empty land?

As you might have predicted, I did a little research on the subject. This article is informative, though obviously biased in favor of the benefits of wind energy production. This older article from USA Today reports that a teeny .5% of all electricity generated in the U.S. in 2005 came from windmills, but that percentage is expected to keep rising. The U.S. Department of Energy reported in 2008 that "wind power could provide up to 20% of the nation's total electricity needs by 2030."

2. The sky looks different in Minnesota and South Dakota than it does in Chicago. Bigger; bluer; taller. The clouds look different, too. Sometimes they were white mountain ranges; sometimes they were ominous tidal waves; and once they looked exactly like Wisconsin State Fair cheese curds.
3. A business opportunity for you entrepreneurial Green Room readers: There are two restaurants near the northeast entrance to Badlands National Park. One is the Wagon Wheel Bar, which I described here; and the other is the restaurant at Cedar Pass Lodge, just past the entrance. The next nearest restaurants are in Wall, South Dakota, a slow 22 mile drive away. This place can definitely use another restaurant. If you can stand the loneliness, start writing up your business plan. I'm available (for a fee) to help you plan the menu--based on my hours and hours of experience in the area.

4. As the child of two extreeeeemely conservative, Christian parents, I grew up believing what they told me: whereas the Bible must be interpreted literally whenever possible, and whereas the Bible says the earth was created in six days, and whereas yada yada, therefore, the earth is not more than 10,000 years old in spite of what science, archeology, and geology have to say about it. I confess that I still hang on to the inclination toward literalness in Biblical interpretation, and it has taken me a long time to let go of my young earth predilection.

However. Being in the Badlands for four days did more to influence my belief about the age of the earth than did 12 years of public school, six years of college and graduate school, and 48 years of exposure to news stories, public exhibits, museums, and other sources of information on the topic. The layers of fossilized Badlands rock, with their varying colors and textures, shouted out to me, "Look at us! We're really, really old! Older than your dad thinks we are!"

I still believe that it's possible that God created the earth in six literal, 24-hour days; I just don't think it's likely that he did. God can do anything, even create brand-new things that look old. Adam is a good example--if you happen to believe in the creation story of Adam and Eve, which I do.

Yes, it's possible that God created the Badlands--and other old-looking geological formations -- with the appearance of age and changes over time. It's possible -- but why would He?

Where the Buffalo Roam

I'm back! Didja miss me? What's that, you say? You'd like to hear about our fast and furious trip to South Dakota and back? Well, you don't have to ask twice!

Here's the short version: Drive, drive, drive. Eat. Drive, drive drive. Arrive in beautiful, mostly deserted, downtown Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Eat. Swim. Sleep.

Eat. Swim. Drive, drive, drive. Eat buffalo jerky. Drive, drive, drive. Arrive in starkly beautiful Badlands, South Dakota. Have heart attack as kids walk too near the edge of sharp thousand-foot drop-offs. Eat at the rustic (to put it nicely) Wagon Wheel Bar in Interior, South Dakota, population 67. Hike the Badlands. Hike. Fall. Cry. Hike. Fall. Cry. Repeat. Sleep.

Biscuits and gravy at Cedar Pass Lodge. Drive, drive, drive. Watch buffalo making their home on the range. Try to get close to prairie dogs. Read sign saying, "Beware of prairie dog plague." Back slowly away from prairie dogs.

Drive, drive, drive. Shop for trinkets at the famous Wall Drug, the most famous gift shop in the West. Drive, drive, drive. Visit Mount Rushmore. Visit Mount Rushmore gift shop. Play on mountainside next to Mount Rushmore. Eat at DQ, because there's nothing like driving for 20 hours to eat at the same damn place you can eat at in Chicago. Drive. Visit Crazy Horse mountain. Drive, drive, drive. Climb the Badlands. Fall. Cry. Climb some more. Watch stunning lightning storm over the Badlands from motel balcony. Sleep.

Biscuits and gravy at Cedar Pass Lodge. Climb, fall, cry, repeat. Fossil talk with Ranger Joe. Climb, fall, cry, repeat. Lunch in Wall. More climbing the Badlands. Prairie walk with Ranger Joe. Visit Badlands gift shop. Climb, fall, cry, repeat. Watch Badlands evening slide presentation. Sleep.

Drive, drive, drive, drive, drive, drive. Sleep in own bed. Aaaahhhh.

Trip stats:

Total miles driven: 2,050.6
Total cost: approximately $2,000 (both families, for gas, food, lodging and sundries)
Total hours of driving: 35-40, including side trips
Total trip days: 5
Total pictures taken (E. Peevie only): 101
Total times pulled over for speeding: 2
Total number of speeding tickets: 1
Total number of times someone asked "Are we there yet?": 8,761

I'll leave you with this famous quote from M. Peevie: "How come South Dakota has all the cool stuff?"

More later. Because there is much to tell, of course.

NOTE: I don't know how to write on my photos, or put captions below them, so I'll just tell you here: in the mountain photo, the person on the top is C. Peevie, and the climber in the white shirt is A. Peevie.

Get Ready for Poem in your Pocket Day

Go here to enrich your life with poems and poetry-related ideas and activities.

Start thinking about what poem you'll put in your pocket for Poem in your Pocket Day on April 30. Will it be a classic that reminds you of your 8th grade English teacher? Or a sentimental favorite that you first read when your love was young?

Maybe the poem you put in your pocket will be a brand-new find, something that makes you think, hmmm, I should seek out poetry more often. Or maybe it will be a Psalm, or other poetic verses from the Bible, which of course is packed with poetry and all sorts of other literary forms.

I'll help my kids choose a poem to put in their pockets on PIYP day. It'll probably be something by Shel Silverstein, a perennial favorite among all Peevies, not just the short ones. (FYI, if you only click on one link in this post, click on the Shel Silverstein one, because it's fun.) Maybe this one, called Messy Room:

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

You are going to think I am terribly predictable and lame when you hear what poem I chose to put in my pocket on PIYP day. Too bad. I came across it by accident while cruising around on poets.org, and at first I was going to choose this one instead, because when I read it I thought, wow, this woman is my psychic twin! Only smarter and more literary.

But then I clicked to read about the author, Elizabeth Alexander, and I was reminded that she read a poem at Obama's inauguration--and I remembered liking it when I heard it; so that's my poem in my pocket: Praise Song for the Day. Here it is:

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.


Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

I would love to hear your PIYP selection.

Hair Today

I got my "hair did," as our young black foster child used to say. Here's what my hairdresser chopped off, ready to be stuffed in an envelope addressed to Locks of Love, or possibly Pantene's Beautiful Lengths program:


It's 10 inches long, and thick like a horse's tail. I found myself fighting the urge to swish flies off my own back. After my hairdresser had macheted the ponytail, my head felt 20 pounds lighter. Then he spent another 40 minutes cutting and snipping and measuring and re-snipping, until I thought I'd accidentally asked him to give me the Sinead O'Connor--but, no, I actually had hair left, just barely long enough to brush my shoulder.

Then I sat for highlights, and the customer in the chair next to me admired my thick, blunt-cut locks. Now if only my chins could stop trying to take over my neck and chest, I'd be all hot and smokin', at least from the shoulders on up.

I've been going to the same hairdresser for about 17 years. I've had my hair long, medium-length, butch, permed, straight-ironed, naturally wavy, layered, bobbed, and highlighted. I've had the Farrah Fawcett, the Katie Couric, the Jennifer Aniston, the Beyonce, the Matt LeBlanc, and the cute young professor on Numbers.

And now, here's what my New Hair looks like:

I am fully aware that I am not the most photogenic person in the world, and I tried my hardest to take a picture that would not frighten off Green Room readers left and right. Mr. Peevie walked in on me while I was flirting with the camera, looking back over my shoulder and flipping my flippy new do like America's Next Top Loser. He just looked at me.

"What?" I said, a trifle defensively. "I'm just trying to take a cute picture of my new hairdo, but I'm not the most photogenic person in the world."

"Ah," he said, and then he added helpfully, "Do you want me to take the photograph from the back?"

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, wins the prize for The. Most. Awesome. Inadvertent. Insult. Ever.

There was a giant pause while I tried in vain to remember why I married this man.

"Yes," I said. "Please do. Please take a photo of the back of my head. And be sure to not get any of my hideous face in the shot. Yes, yes, great idea. Just the back. Thanks."

Whatever. I totally feel like a new woman, ready to take on the world with my flippy new 'do.

Extreme Makeover: Basement Edition

My basement looked like a second hand shop and a Toys R Us had not one love child, but septuplet love children, all of whom got a nasty stomach virus and threw up.

The floor was covered with old toys and an eclectic variety of shoe sizes and styles, many of them singletons. The couches sported armrests four shades darker than the cushions. Dirty socks stood up in the corners and crawled down into the crotch of the loveseat. Legos and plastic Polly Pocket accessories decorated every surface. Tangled cords from an assortment of electronic game systems snaked around the legs of hand-me-down office furniture.

People had been known to venture into the basement and disappear for three days. Some would manage to claw their way out of the clutter like jungle adventurers just barely escaping from a pit of quicksand.

It was really becoming a liability issue.

My friend Dr. Paradigm Shift, a therapist who frequently shifts my paradigms, is also a card-carrying Neatie. She has such high-level organizing and de-cluttering skills that she could turn a Bolivian rain-forest into a PGA golf course in two days flat.

This dedicated warrior against the Evil Powers of Clutter selflessly volunteered to sacrifice an entire free day to attack the federal disaster zone known as my basement and turn it into a functional, habitable zone of leisure. When we walked downstairs, I could feel the basement laughing at me.

"Bwah-hah-hah," it was saying. "You will NEVER NEVER overcome my Powers of Messifying! I am the EMPEROR of CHAOS and DISARRAY!"

"Dr. Shift," I said. "Look at it. We're never going to get this done. Let's just go out for breakfast instead."

"It's not that bad," Dr. PS said seriously. "We can probably get this done before lunch." I just looked at her, because I had never known her to be so out of touch with reality. She's a therapist, for crying out loud.

"Dr. PS," I said gently, "I don't think you're really looking at it. There are about 12,000 different toys, games, puzzles and articles of clothing covering every available surface. You can't tell, but there's a ping-pong table over here"--I pointed to a four-foot high rectangle covered with cartons, board game boxes filled with everything but board game pieces, dress-up clothes and loose crayons and markers. "You're sweet and generous to want to help, but we're doomed! Let's just go shopping," I said.

"No, no, no," she insisted. "This isn't bad at all. Come on. Let's get the bins and get started." She grabbed a snow shovel and commenced filling a 60-gallon tub with Imaginext pirates. Meanwhile, I walked the perimeter, picking up one roller blade or elbow pad at a time and depositing it into the designated roller-blade-and-accessories-container. Dr. Shift and I had different styles of attacking the Wilderness of Massive Craploads of Crap. Apparently.

And then, before my very eyes, a miracle began to happen. Surfaces started to appear. Cleared spaces began materialize. It was like the basement was having an asthma attack, and then it sucked in on its inhaler, and started being able to breathe freely again.

In just under two hours, Dr. Paradigm Shift delivered an Extreme Makeover: Basement Edition. The ping-pong table appeared as the piles diminished; we folded it up and pushed it against the wall. The berber showed its woolly pile; the love seats invited us to enjoy their awning-striped comfort--free of puzzle-piece-pokeage and electronic-game-cord-trippage.

The toys and games were binned and shelved. The empty Sprite cans found the trash, while assorted crusty silverware and a two full loads of whites and lights were relocated to await their natural fate.

We had filled several bags with broken toys and junk, which we carried out to the garbage, and we had packed a dozen more boxes and bags with gently used toys and clothes. Dr. Shift went the extra mile for me, helping me pile everything into the minivan and drive it to the Salvation Army drop-off trailer.

Now, one month later, my extremely made-over basement remains cleared and habitable, a recreation mecca. It's a miracle on Moody Street.

Thanks, Dr. Shift. You are not only a shifter of paradigms, but you are a bringer of serenity through neatness.

Tiara of Awesomeness

I've been hanging out with the G.E.M.s (Great Edison Moms of kids in C. Peevie's class) since C. Peevie started kindergarten more than eight years ago. We came together with one thing in common: we all had a bright child in a small gifted public school.

Other than that, we were diverse in terms of our race, ethnicity, religion, income, education, zip code, marital status, age, number of kids, and occupation. We are black, white, Chinese, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Filipino, Christian, Jewish, non-religious, married, divorced, single, high-school-educated, college-educated, north-siders, south-siders, Sox fans, Cubs fans, 30-something, 40-something, 50-something, vegetarians, omnivores, teachers, writers, entrepreneurs, office workers, computer geeks, stay-at-home moms, nurses, and HR professionals with one kid, two kids, three kids, and more kids.

One mom, Professor Dred, was telling another how she got to know the group of moms over the years. "It took about three years before they realized that I'm just like them," said her insecure black self.

"No, Professor Dred," my know-it-all white self objected, "No way. I think you were always just another mom of an Edison kid to the rest of us."

"Oh, OK," she said, "Then maybe it took me three years to believe that you realized that I'm just like you." She went on to tell anecdotes about other Edison moms taking her daughter into their homes for an impromptu overnight stay because of inclement weather or personal circumstances; and I remembered that when I met her for the first time, she offered me a set of early readers for C. Peevie that her off-the-charts-smart daughter was long-since finished with.

We all love to laugh--oh, and we're all smart and good-looking, too. And some of us are crazy. One year K-Squared snagged a bunch of hot pink polyester bowling shirts at a flea market and brought them to our gathering. But how to decide who got one? The only fair way, we decided, was to have a Hot Pink Mama Contest. The only way to earn a shirt was to make whoopie in a Chicago Park District park. Not in the field house. Not in a car in the parking lot. In the park.

A shocking number of G.E.M.s have hot pink bowling shirts hanging in their closets. I am not at liberty to name names, because what happens in G.E.M.ville stays in G.E.M.ville.

We celebrate with an annual white elephant gift exchange: popular items this year included the Blagojevich affidavit (all 78 pages, which was handed around the room so that everyone could read her favorite quotes out loud), an out-dated-but-still-classic-looking desk globe, and a granite-weight crucifix candle the color of a toilet bowl stain.

No one tried to steal the crucifix candle--my own contribution to the gathering. I guess nobody in that group loves The Lord very much. Then again, perhaps they love him too much to love a really, really ugly wax representation of him.

One of our G.E.M.s, Madame Butterfly, brought a set of authentic lacquered Chinese chopsticks with a matching case, which all of us coveted. "Madame B.," I told her in a loud Archie Bunker voice, "You are apparently unclear on the concept of the American white elephant tradition. You are supposed to bring something lame from your house that you won't ever use--not a family heirloom!"

"Next time," Madame B. told me, "I'll bring a pair of used takeout chopsticks and a handful of dented beer caps." Now she's got it.

I am grateful for these G.E.M.s, grateful to be surrounded by women who bring hilarity, sensitivity, compassion, intelligence, kindness, and helpfulness into my life. Each one is a rare gem, and together, they are a tiara of pure awesomeness.

My Love Language

As you know from prior posts, I am unashamed to admit that my Love Language is gifts. I love presents--they make me feel loved and appreciated. They don't have to cost a lot of money, they don't have to be diamond-studded, they don't have to have a fancy logo. Just the idea that someone thinks enough of me to take the time to pick out something because they think I'll enjoy it is enough to bring a tear to my eye and a smile to my face.

My friend J-Ro (sorry; couldn't resist) does this for me frequently. She'll pick up a little box of chocolates, or a fancy bottle of lemonade, or some hand lotion, put it into a pretty gift bag with some tissue paper, and give me a gift for absolutely no reason! I know, right? We should all be such thoughtful friends. (Now that I think about it, what have I done for her lately? Oh, yeah, there was that time I promised to pick up her daughter from after-care and then TOTALLY FORGOT to do it.)

Eeeeenyway. Another person with really excellent gift-giving skills is...wait for it...of course you know; you're not surprised...it's Mr. Peevie!

On our first Christmas as young marrieds, Mr. Peevie gave me a pair of hiking boots that I still own and wear to this day. I had always wanted that style of boots--do you remember them? The big clunky brown ones with the red laces, like lumberjack boots?--and I probably wept when I saw them. I slept with one arm around them that Christmas night--seriously, I did.

He's given many perfect gifts in the years since then--sometimes for an occasion, sometimes for none. One time it was an entire outfit, including coordinated accessories, from Talbot's. Often it's something little but precisely right--like a book about language or a box of notecards.

(Just so you don't think that I'm a total schlub in the gift-giving department, you should know that I've come up with some memorable gifts for him as well: A visit to a taping of his favorite TV chef, The Frugal Gourmet; a Tissot Rock Watch that took me three months to save up for and which left him speechless; and romantic overnight stay at a downtown hotel. With me.)

Astonishingly, after two decades, Mr. P just keeps getting better and better at gift-giving. Last week he went to Las Vegas on "business," leaving me to handle three kids (one with the flu, one kid with sock bumps, and one with multiple, conflicting after-school commitments), my work, my own mysterious hip ailment, and the household on my own. I understand that millions of single parents do this all the time--but remember, I AM SPOILED! I am used to having a helpful, supportive, fully-engaged partner around to help in the daily struggles, chores, chauffeuring, refereeing, homework assisting, and general functioning of the household.

When he returned, I asked him how much he spent on gambling--not because I wanted to bust him, but merely because I was curious.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?" I asked, disbelieving. "Not even twenty bucks at craps?" He's done the research. He knows that the house has the smallest advantage at craps compared to all the other games, and he occasionally plays the safest bets.

"Nope, nothing," he reiterated.

"Not even ten bucks on the wheel?"

"Nope."

"Not even a quarter in a slot machine?" I pressed.

"No. Nothing. Nada," he said, simply. "I spent my gambling budget on presents for you and the kids."

And that right there, my friends, says it all. It is entirely possible that he is the only person in the entire history of Las Vegas to stay there for four days without spending even one lonely quarter on gambling.

"I just didn't feel like it," he said.

But he did feel like bringing home perfect presents for his little family--all of whom share my genetic disposition toward fondness for presents. He bought In-N-Out Burger t-shirts for the kids, plus little personalized mementos from the M&M store. Mr. Peevie consulted his colleague about a gift for me, and she suggested he buy me something that I wouldn't buy for myself. Mr. Peevie knows that I don't really go for jewely, and I'm currently in an "accessorizing with handbags" phase. So here's what he brought home for me:

Is that not the most perfect gift for a husband to bring his wife from Las Vegas? I practically wept. It's so adorable! It's so fashionable! It's so shiny!

I love that he was so obviously thinking of me, even when he was surrounded by so many distractions--shows, gambling, food, beverages, and women of ill repute. I love that he pays attention.

I'm not trying to make every other woman in the world jealous. Really, I'm not. I'm just grateful to be so loved and cared for.

Also, I consider these "Mr. Peevie posts" to be a kind of public service, like a primer for husbands and boyfriends, and for potential husbands and boyfriends.

I Love Going to the Dentist

What? you say, startled, disbelieving. You love going to the dentist?

Yes. I really do.

I not only have a low tolerance for pain, but I also have a microbe-sized tolerance for the fear of pain. And I don't like being lectured at, which used to happen every damn time I approached a DDS.

I'll admit it: I'm not the most dentally fastidious person you'll ever meet. (OK, fine. Fastidious is not an accurate descriptor for any part of my life. Moving on.) I brush once a day, and occasionally, twice. I hardly ever floss. Every time I went to the dentist, I'd get a lecture about how I needed to brush three times a day and floss at least once a day, and I'd hang my head in shame and confess my failure and promise (i.e., lie) that I'd do better.

Then the hygienist would start in with the scraping and the buzzing and the swearing about the placque build-up, like she's personally offended or something. I hate the scraping; it's not comfortable. In fact, it's dang uncomfortable. My hands would grip the armrests with white-knuckle anxiety, and I'd moan at the slightest hint that there would be a tiny bit of discomfort at some point in the near future.

I'm sure they loved me.

And the x-rays--they make me literally hoo-rawrk. Somebody gets near my back teeth with a hunk of white plastic, and my hyper-sensitive gag reflex kicks in full-swing. Getting a full set of x-rays was majorly traumatic for everyone involved.

And all this drama was even before the dentist pulls out any actual dental tools of torture! If x-rays and cleanings give me fits of blubbering dread, then you can imagine what happens when the DDS actually tries to stick a needle in my tender gums, or approaches me with that horrific instrument of television torture, the d-r-i-l-l! (Hey. I watched Alias. It did not help with my dentist anxiety.)

So I hated the going to the dentist because not only would I gag at the x-rays and death-grip during the cleaning, but any level of discomfort or pain would send me screaming into the waiting room. It was not good for business, or for my personal sanity.

And then I found a dentist with a magic no-more-fear-and-anxiety machine, and the willingness to use it. It's called nitrous oxide, and it has transformed my dental life.

One time the assistant had just finished up my x-rays and cleaned up the hurl, and she said, mistakenly, "OK, the hard part's over."

"Not for me," I said. "I hate cleanings. I fear them. My hands are numb from gripping the armrests after a cleaning. Hate, hate, hate."

"Really?" she said. And then she uttered the magic words that transformed my dental experiences forevermore. "Have you ever considered trying nitrous?"

I had no idea that you could get nitrous oxide just for cleanings. But for the biggest babies among us--and I proudly include myself in that sensitive crowd--nitrous is the savior of my dental health.

So now, I make my dentist appointments, and I even keep them. I even secretly look forward to them. I love nitrous so much that it's really, really good that it's a controlled substance. I'd like to have a cannister in my home, but then my children would be eating mustard for dinner and wearing shorts to school in the winter, and not only on gym days.

I love nitrous so much that I don't even mind that that the mask they use to administer it leaves my face looking like it has a nasty skin condition for several hours, until the collagen kicks in and the indentations smooth out.

I don't mind the scraping, or the buzzing, or the drilling. If I feel a little discomfort, I say, "Glurg," and they immediately adjust the nitrous, or the novocaine, or the crack, or whatever it is that they're injecting into my face, and I'm totally cool with it. There's no fear, no anxiety, no white-knuckle indentations on the armrests. It's all, like, excellent, man.

In case you live on the north side of Chicago, and you want to hook up with my dentist, her name is Dr. Tundi (rhymes with Cindy) Frank. She's located at 4200 West Peterson Avenue, and her phone number is (773) 481-1940.

Just as an aside--because apparently Dr. Frank does not have her own web site--this link will take you a hilarious page from a weird site called ilinius.com, which sounds like it was written in English, translated into Korean, then from Korean into Arabic, from Arabic into Chinese, and then back into English. It says, "Badly with the tooth?"

Yes, definitely call Dr. Frank if you're badly with the tooth. She'll take care of you. And if you have more than a tiny bit of anxiety, like I do, ask her to hook you up with the N.O. I am telling you, it's like having three glasses of Malbec in a row, with no teeth staining. You can even drive yourself home afterward.