Birthdays are not all about presents. But...

I recently celebrated a Major Birthday Milestone. I'm not one to cry over spilt birthdays, and in fact, I attempt to derive as much enjoyment as possible from the things that traditionally go along with birthdays: presents, attention, presents, cards, people saying nice things to me, and presents.
 
Well, as it turns out, I had the best 50th birthday in the history of 50th birthdays. Many people celebrated with me, made noise with me, toasted and appreciated me--and some even gave me presents. Birthdays should not be all about presents when a person is 50 years old--but when said 50-year-old's love language is presents, chances are there will be some unwrapping going on. And there was.


But first: You know what else I love about my birthday? I love it when people write or say nice things to me or about me. My crazy group of Vagina Dialogue peeps wrote me a "screenplay" called "Ten Things About Eve" in which they said things that I am too embarrassed to repeat here because they just totally hyperbolized my good qualities. They also gave me some nipple bling, but since this is a family-friendly blog, we'll just leave that alone.

Even though I actually posted my birthday wish list on this blog, I told Mr. Peevie that the one thing that I really really wanted for my birthday was a hand-crafted card produced by my friend Queen, who's blog nickname I am officially changing to The Producer. I got it--and it was everything I had hoped it would be. Any card that references the music of Hildegaard von Bingen is destined for the Handcrafted Card Hall of Fame.

The actual highlight of the celebration of the anniversary of my auspicious birth came from Mr. Peevie, who always distinguishes himself in the Department of Presents. Mr. P came up with a gift that makes me feel sorry for every man, woman and child who is not married to him. Here it is:

O.M.G. Have you ever seen anything so beauteous? Such an artisanal masterpiece? Such a mother-lode of awesome?


This gift knocked my socks off. Mr. Peevie bought me my accessory of choice, a purse. But What a Purse! Mr. P. heard an interview on NPR about two years ago with Caitlin Phillips of Rebound Designs. He bookmarked it.


As my significant birthday approached, Mr. P. contacted the creative and talented Ms. Phillips and custom ordered this recherché handbag. He specified not only the title of the book to use--my favorite writing resource book, The Chicago Manual of Style--but the particular edition (14th). He also selected the fabric for the lining as well as the handle.


Now that is love, no matter what your love language is. Everywhere my bag and I go, we attract the admiration of others--and I tell the story of the best gift a girl could get for her birthday: love in the form of research, thoughtfulness, and effort; love that feels like being known by the lover.


[Adjectival props go to my frabjous friend, J-Ro, who gave me an autographed copy of Better Than Great: A Plentitudinous Compendium of Wallopingly Fresh Superlatives by Arthur Plotnik. Thanks for giving me a gift that fits my heart and soul--although I may have overdon it a bit in this post.]

A Tender, Private Moment. Not.

I'll get right to the point. It's hard to find the time and privacy for sex when there are what seems like dozens of kids running around at all hours of the day and night. The other night we thought we had dispatched them securely, and Mr. Peevie and I retired to our boudoir and locked the door. It was after 10 p.m.--what should be a safe hour for conjugal activities. But no.

Minutes after I climbed between the sheets (and started watching a M*A*S*H rerun), a knock came on the door. I got up, unlocked the door, and opened it to find C. Peevie. He looked at me, and an expression of horror began to gather on his face.

"You...," he started, "you...you...had the...door locked?!"

"Yes," I said. "What do you want?"

"Well, I just came up to get money," he said, taking a step back as though I was contagious, "but YOU HAD THE DOOR LOCKED and now I want to THROW UP" He collapsed in a heap on the hallway floor, moaning loudly. "You had the door locked," he groaned, "AAARRRGGHH!"

C. Peevie's moans got the attention of A. Peevie, who wandered out of his bedroom to find out what the hoopla was about. C. Peevie obliged.

"Mom and Dad had. The. Door. Locked!" he said, tossing in a groan for good measure. "AAARRRGGHH!"

A. Peevie let out his own horrified noise, and also collapsed on the hallway floor. "ACK!" he said. "Ack, ack!"

"I just came up for some money," C. Peevie moaned. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to have your DOOR LOCKED?!"

"That's just stupid," I said. "I'll get you some money. Next time, could you ask for money before 10 p.m.?"

"Ack, ack!" A. Peevie groaned lugubriously. "I want some money, too!"

By this time, the cacophony of lament had attracted M. Peevie's attention, and she wandered into the hallway.

"What's going on?" she said, watching A. Peevie and C. Peevie writhing on the floor, weeping and gnashing their teeth.

"Aarrgghh!" said C. Peevie. "I have to have my brain scrubbed!"

"Ack! Ack!" said A. Peevie. "Mom and Dad had their DOOR LOCKED!"

M. Peevie is only ten, but is no slacker when it comes to interpreting innuendo. She dropped like a bag of rocks, and clutched her stomach.

"AAIIIEEE!" she keened. "Aaaiiieeee! Door...locked! Gross!"

I stood at the door and looked down at my three spawn, none of whom had been immaculately conceived. I decided to take a hard-line approach.

"Yes," I said firmly. "We had the door locked because we were going to HAVE SEX."

"AAARRRGGHH! Ack, ack! AAIIIEEE!" they groaned/moaned/keened.

"And now," I said, "I am going to LOCK MY DOOR again. I think you know what that means--so please disperse."

They dispersed--but not without another five minutes of anguished caterwauling and requests for money.

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?

10 Shopping Days Left

I'm so glad I started blogging again just in time to post my birthday wish list.

And this is a big birthday, my friends--the Big 5-0--so please be sure to give your shopping the thought and attention it deserves.

1. Diet Coke, of course.
2. Dakota, by Kathleen Norris. I know it's old, but I haven't read it yet, and she's one of my favorite authors.
3. My left eyebrow, a portion of which is missing in action due to one of my many mental illnesses, trichotillomania.
4. Our soldiers to come home from Afghanistan and Iraq.
5. Some good tequila.
6. Soft pj's, no buttons.
7. A job for my friend Vicki
8. Music for my I-Pod:Plain White T's Rhythm of Love;
9. Martini glasses. Maybe something along the lines of this, or this. Or--surprise me!
10. Innocent, by Scott Turow--also one of my favorite authors.  
11. A Pandora bracelet. I made a wish list but I couldn't get it to open.
12. [I cannot figure out how to put in a new paragraph without numbering it]. So now you have all you need to show me some love.
14. But the simplest way to show me some birthday love, as always, is to leave me comments on my blog.
15. 
    
16. Go!

Me and the Department of Public Health

I just got off the phone with the Department of Public Health. The conversation went like this:

Woman with a Heavy Asian Accent: Hi, this is mumble mumble from mumble mumble. I need to ask you some questions about C. Peevie. He was seen in the ER recently and was diagnosed with varicella?

Me: Yes, he had chicken pox. Wait a minute, who is this?

WHAA: This is mumble mumble from the Department of Public Health. We have to make a report when we get notified that someone has had chicken pox. Can I ask you some questions?

Me: Um, OK.

WHAA: Mumble mumble varicella mumble mumble General Hospital mumble.

Me: Yes, that's correct. He was seen in the ER at Lutheran General Hospital.

WHAA: Does he still have fever? Does he still have spots? Did he go back to school?

Me: No, he hasn't had any fever for about a week. Yes, he has spots, but they are scabbed over. And yes, he went back to school yesterday.

WHAA: Does anyone else at the school have chicken pox?

Me: How would I know?

WHAA: What school does he go to?

Me: Jones.

WHAA: Do you have the phone number?

Me: No, but I'm sure you could look it up.

WHAA: So you don't know if anyone else at the school has chicken pox?

Me: No.

WHAA: Do you know where he was exposed to chicken pox? Do any of his friends have it?

Me: No, I don't know where he got it from, and as far as I know, his friends do not have it.

WHAA: Did your son hang out with his friends after he got chicken pox? Where did he go? What did he do?

Me: Yes, we took him to several restaurants and had him cough on the salad bar; and then we went to a day care center and had him hug all the children and rub his arms all over the stuffed animals.

WHAA: What?

Me: No, he did not go out after he was diagnosed. But the day before he was diagnosed, he went to church.

WHAA: Does anyone at church show symptoms?

Me: I don't know.

The WHAA asked me a bunch more questions about our household and vaccination status, and then said

WHAA: OK, thank you. We'll call you back if we have more questions for our report.

Me: OK! Because clearly, this conversation will go a long way to stopping the spread of disease and keeping the Public safe and healthy.

Here's what the Department of Public Health should have asked:

When did he start showing symptoms?
When did he get diagnosed?
Where did he go and who did he have contact with in the three days prior to showing symptoms and before getting diagnosed? And then she should have tried to obtain contact information for those people and places.

That would give them information that they could actually use to protect public health.

But, hey, what do I know?

Twelve THOUSAND dollars

Mr. Peevie and I are trying to impress on C. Peevie the importance of getting good grades in high school. He's a good student, but not as good as he has the potential to be.

My colleague Shawty was telling me that her son ShawtySpawn had qualified for a significant scholarship at the private liberal arts college he would be attending in the fall. They received a letter from the financial aid office charting the relationship between grade point average and scholarship amount, and she showed it to me.

"If his grade point average had been .2 higher," she said, "he would have qualified for $4,000 more per year."

"Can I have a copy of that letter?" I asked. "I want to show it to C. Peevie."

So I brought the letter home to use as an object lesson to motivate my gifted but distractable #1 son to kick his academics into high gear.

"Look at this, C. Peevie," I said, thrusting the letter in his face. "This is from my friend Shawty at work. Her son is getting a scholarship, which is great. But if his GPA had been .2 higher, he would have qualified for $4,000 more per year."

I paused for dramatic effect.

"Four thousand dollars per year," I said. "That's twelve THOUSAND dollars."

I waited for the significance to sink in. C. Peevie waited for the part of my brain that does math to catch up.

It didn't catch up.

"Is he only going to school for three years, then?" C. "Smarty-Pants" Peevie asked innocently. It took me a full minute to get it.

"Sixteen THOUSAND dollars!" I corrected myself, but it was too late. "Crap."

"You just ruined your entire point," C. Peevie laughed.

Mr. Peevie was sitting nearby, shaking his head, as he often does when I attempt to do math.

"Did you even go to college?" he asked.

Well, I did, but you don't learn simple multiplication in college. Apparently I was absent that day in third grade.

Drama in Real Life: The Blizzard of Aught-Ten

It was a blustery, blizzardy day--as the weather prognosticators had warned us it would be.

The night before, when the country club unilaterally cancelled its brunch seating, we were all, "Oh, yeah, right! A blizzard! Bet we don't get more than an inch or two of accumulation. Babies!" We had the flat-screen tuned to the weather channel all evening, and the reports were ominous--but we still refused to believe that we'd be home-bound.

"Where do they think we are, Mississippi?" we cracked. "This is Illinois! We can handle a little old blizzard."

We stayed up late on Saturday night, playing ping-pong, drinking cheap wine, and de-bloating from our earlier 12-course feast.  We decided to replace our country club brunch with a homemade brunch of French toast, scrambled eggs with ham, and home fries. Alternatively, if it did look like a major storm would hinder our travel, we'd skip breakfast, and get out of town early.  Either way, we weren't worried.  We drive a Toyota mini-van, and that seven-seater-chick-magnet has four-wheel drive!

Sunday morning dawned clear and bright.  Not.

No, it really was blowing out there. Snow whipped sideways across the second green, and a red squirrel who dared to leave his nest pulled his tail around himself and hurried to his next appointment. 

When we told the kids that safety trumped breakfast, and we'd be leaving right after saying goodbye to our sweet blond cousins, tears welled up in M. Peevie's eyes and dripped into her Lucky Charms. "Please, Mommy," she said, "Can't we just have French toast with RK and T-Bone, and then leave?"

I wrapped my arms around my sad baby girl and told her no. "I know you're sad, honey, but we need to leave now before the weather gets even worse." The tears continued to fall, and she tried one more time to change our minds.

"Oh, there's nothing to cry about," MIL said briskly. "I'm sure you'll get over it." As lovely and generous as she is, true empathy is not one of her strong points. I resisted the urge to deliver a sharp correction, and instead I upped my own empathy. M. Peevie pushed my hand away, though, preferring a moment of wallowing in her grief.

We packed up the Christmas gifts and the dirty laundry and the gameboys, hugged the cousins, and headed out into the capital-E-Elements. Very little new snow was falling, but the fierce wind swept up the layer of snow from the ground and slammed it across the fields like a manic modernist hurling white paint against a giant canvas. I drove slowly, so as not to outrun my 15 feet of visibility.

"Are you scared?" I asked Mr. Peevie, who has been known to back-seat drive when I'm behind the wheel and not keeping strictly to the two-second rule.

"Nope," he said. I was surprised, but I believed him. Apparently I could pull out the defensive driving when the situation particularly called for it.  Who knew.

Suddenly 15 feet of visibility completely disappeared, and I was driving into a white wall. I slowed to a stop on the two-lane road, wondering if we'd get rear-ended before I was able to drive again. When a few feet of road re-appeared, I started to drive again, slowly, hoping everyone else on the road was navigating as carefully as I was.

"Mom," came a voice from somewhere behind me. "Mom? I can't see anything. How do you know where you're driving?"

"Stop talking, guys," Mr. Peevie said over his shoulder. "Mommy's trying to concentrate." The white wall went up again, and I slid to a stop. We held our breath for 30 seconds, maybe a minute, and when the opague wall lifted, I saw that I had somehow started to cross the yellow line.

"This is an accident waiting to happen," I said to Mr. Peevie. "I think we should go back to your parents' house and wait it out."  We drove, stopped, and drove while the white sheets alternately blasted across our windshield and lifted to give us five or ten feet of visibility. We turned around in a farmyard driveway--briefly considering inviting ourselves in--and headed back to Grandmom and Granddad's house.

Drive. Stop. Drive. Stop. Drive. Breathe. Finally we pulled into the driveway and piled out of the car and into the house. The grandparents were so happy to have their house filled with the joyful noise of grandchildren for one extra day! Or that's what we told ourselves, anyway.

I looked out the floor-to-ceiling great room windows across the golf course, rendered white with sideways snow; and settled down for a long winter's nap. Literally.

That's what I call a silver lining!

The next morning dawned clear and bright--for realz. The blizzard adventure of aught-ten closed its doors behind us as we headed north, back to home, school, work and--oh, joy!--four inches of snow waiting to be shoveled from the walk and steps.