witticism

Honor Thy Mother? Why?

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As a quasi-historian, I find myself obsessed with why questions to things I’ve just routinely accepted.  As an elementary-school-aged child, my teachers made us make a Mother’s Day gift and a card.  In Sunday school we did the same, including giving our moms a carnation.  I just did it; I never asked why.  I was programmed to do.  Thanks to my dad, I did it well until I went off to college and forgot one year to send my mom a card.  Obvi, not one of my best moments, for which I carried the proverbial Catholic guilt.

So today, as I stood at the card display, I wondered.  Why am I choosing one for my mom?   Hallmark holiday? Why are my own kids carrying on this tradition?  Hallmark holiday? Why do I keep all of the cards and knick-knack gifts my kids made me through their formative years?  Why?

Based on my research, Mother’s Day origin can be traced to the Ancient Greeks and Romans–a practice continued for centuries.  In America, women’s peace groups proposed a “Mother’s Friendship Day,” for the purpose of uniting families divided by the Civil War.  Mrs. Ann Jarvis spearheaded the movement.  Other women’s groups followed, including Julia Ward Howe’s, who led a “Mother’s Day for Peace” anti-war observance.  Yet, it was Anna Jarvis who campaigned for an official Mother’s Day in 1908 in remembrance of her mother, Ann.  She chose the carnation because it was her mother’s favorite flower.

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In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the second Sunday in May,  officially Mother’s Day.  However, Jarvis’ euphoria in her accomplishment lasted only 9 years.  She became overtly concerned with the commercialism of Mother’s Day.  In fact, she spent the rest of her life protesting against what she deemed the abuse of her holiday.  Spending all of her inheritance and being arrested for disturbing the peace against the commercialization in 1948, she opposed the buying of cards, instead of writing personal notes.  Florists jacked up the price of carnations.  “I wish I would have never started the day; it’s out of control.”

Since it’s inception, Mother’s Day has become the most popular day to dine out and over a $5 billion dollar industry for florists, jewelers, and greeting card shops.  Anna, you’re right; it’s a commercialized holiday.  But in reality, my 92-year-old mom not only carried me in utero, put up with my shenanigans for 68 years, disciplined me, loved me when I didn’t love myself, and picked me up when I was down,  but she still advises me in my darkest hours.

So I bought a card.  I brought it home.  I wrote a brief note and stuffed into the envelope a gift card from her favorite store.  Just as I was about to seal the envelope, I looked at the card again.

Damn, Sue!  Why didn’t you have your glasses on when you bought this card?  From Your Son?  Mom would think I’d lost it!  I went back to the card store, selected another, wrote message, and posted it today.  Sorry Anna Jarvis.  I spent double my allowance on a greeting card.  Yet, I’m so grateful to still have a mom with whom to talk and visit occasionally.  And Anna, I really don’t care how much carnations cost–it’s my pleasure to buy them to honor my mother.  Priceless.

 

 

 

 

 

You Saved My Life. No, You Saved Mine

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14041809-Three-arrow-road-signs-with-the-words-Win-Lose-and-Tie-to-represent-results-of-a-game-or-competition-Stock-Photo.jpgWhile in my early 20’s, I took a graduate school course in educational philosophy and discovered I was an existentialist–make every decision as if it is your last decision.  I embraced that idea, and thus, I never looked back with “would have, could have, or should have.”  Further, I don’t suffer from “buyer’s remorse.”  Once I make a reasoned decision, I don’t dwell on it.  It’s the proverbial water over the dam, regardless of the outcome.

In 1983, I made the biggest decision of my life to date.  I gave up my dream job, I forsook my rising political career, I left my family, and I followed my spouse to his fledgling company 2,500 miles across country.  Now, my decision was not painless; I found myself far away from friends and my career.  Admittedly, for a while, I suffered from depression.  I had no job and no friends; my spouse worked 10-12 hours a day.  I had no reason to get out of bed until noon.  I didn’t shower for days at a time.  My dog didn’t care I smelled in our tiny condo, and my spouse was too tired to care.

I slipped further into the depression abyss and wild thoughts danced through my mind.  My local Ohio celebrity status was reduced to zero.  No one in Scottsdale, Arizona, knew my name.  Until….

I ventured to the condo complex pool.  A much younger woman than I sat alone among the snowbird, winter visitors.  We conversed; Julie, too, had moved from a small town in North Dakota to follow her spouse.  She, too, had no friends, nor family.  She, too, was a nobody like me.

Julie and I became fast friends; we shared secrets; we shared advice.  She nannied for me when my eldest was born.  When she and her family moved back to North Dakota 26 years ago,  I missed her.  I’d often wished we could at least chat about her sub zero weather as I picked lemons.

Last week, Julie and her husband came to Phoenix.  When they arrived at my front door, she and I hugged and cried, “Sue, you saved my life.”

“No, Julie, you saved mine.”

Tie game.

 

 

 

 

Spider in my Ear

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While this comes as no surprise to those who know me well, I’ve proudly raised two very articulate daughters.  Oranges don’t fall far from the proverbial orange tree.  As an older mother, I had no tolerance for baby talk.  Yes, I put up with “Dada,” and “Mama,” but when I spoke to each of them it wasn’t in baby talk.  My kids went to the restroom, not the potty.  I expected them to rise to some semblance of my vocabulary, not me drop down to theirs.

Of course, as they matured and their vocabulary grew, so did their argumentative skills.  Yes, on many occasions, I rued I’d taught them to be so forthright.  But my most devastating moment occurred when my youngest was sixteen months old.  She had had a very sleepless night, ran a low grade fever, and was so lethargic she didn’t even want to watch Sesame Street.  As she laid in my lap, she rubbed her ear.  “Does your ear hurt, princess?”

“No.  I want juice.”

Juice, it was.  But juice didn’t solve the ear problem, as she rubbed her lobe.  Stupid Sue.  Get up off the sofa and call the pediatrician.  She’s running a fever; she has an ear infection.

Thankfully, the office wasn’t jammed with sick kiddos, and we were quickly ushered into an exam room.  The group practice doc that day was the “Patch Adams” of the pediatrician group.  He danced around the room, swinging his stethoscope, and took my kid’s temperature–a shade past 100 degrees.  “I need to look in your ears with my fancy light, cutie pie.”

“No!”

“Cutie pie, this won’t hurt; I promise.  What’s wrong with your ear?”

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Emphatic, loud, clear answer:  “‘Pider in my ear.”

I was horrified.  The doc looked at me like I was an unfit mother.  My dreams of winning the Mother of the Year award waltzed away.  The diagnosis–ear infection.  Cured with an antibiotic.  Yet, twenty-six years later, I still don’t know what prompted her response.  Suggestions?

 

Swimming with Spiders

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Phoenix summers are not for the faint-hearted.  The stifling heat, skin-burning pavement, fiery hot winds are brutal to visitors.  As they exit the jetway at Sky Harbor, they quickly realize they’ve arrived in a place Satan vacates in July.

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When my eldest, Annie, was also my only child, I established a summer routine.  We’d don our swim suits around 11:00 AM, play in the backyard pool for an hour, change into dry clothes, eat lunch, watch a video, and then she’d toddle off to nap time, while I worked on my dissertation.

Unlike high humidity states, wet towels and swim wear were draped on patio chairs; they dried instantly and were easily accessible for the next pool frolic.  On Tuesday morning, I gathered up the swim suits from the patio, pulled up Annie’s suit, and put on my two-piece.  (Yes, I realize I never did/have/will cause men to ogle at my body in a two-piece.  I simply prefer them to those tight one-piecers that hurt in all the wrong places.) And just like every other morning, we frolicked in the pool.

Fortunately, the bathroom had an outside door from the pool.  I helped Annie strip off her wet suit and pull on her shorts and t-shirt.  She ran off to find a Barbie doll as I began my disrobe routine.

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When I tossed my wet bra on the floor, I saw it.  Right there.  In the bra cup.  A big bug.  On closer examination, not an insect…a spider.  And not just any spider.  A FEMALE BLACK WIDOW!

 

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OMG!  It appeared to be alive.  I swished my bra in the toilet and flushed the arachnid away.  Oh, sweet baby Jesus, did I just spend an hour in chlorinated water with a spider on my chest?  Am I like the princess and the pea?

Thankfully, I just laughed off this encounter and didn’t bother to research said spider species.  Had I knew then, what I know now, I would have died from my own imagination.

Female Black Widows, unlike males or juveniles, have a red hourglass shape on the underside of their abdomens.  Unlike males or offspring young, female venom is 15 times more toxic than venom of a prairie rattlesnake!  (Be still my heart.)  While death from a Black Widow bite is extremely rare, human victims are nauseated, experience  muscle aches, and may have difficulty breathing.

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In retrospect, I will never know why Wilhelmina, the Widow, didn’t bite me.  Perhaps, she took pity on my flat chest; she saw first-hand I needed to make up with cotton what God had forgotten.  Perhaps, she was weary of sweating in the relentless sun, spinning a web, and yearning for a splash in the pool.  Or perhaps, she had mated with Wesley the Widow, ate him for breakfast, and wanted to chill.

Regardless of your motivation or lack thereof, I want to belatedly thank you, Wilhelmina,  for sparing me of poison, vomit, pain, and gasps.

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Coming next week:  Spider in my ear….

 

 

 

 

 

How to Catch Flies

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Over three years ago, I began to blog with the intent of publishing a book of the most humorous ones.  My plan began to unravel this past summer; my mood changed.  I found myself engulfed in a humorless world filled with we vs. they. Even though, I’ve experienced the darkest side of life over the past six years, I was ill-prepared for the diabolical firestorm currently overtaking America.  My humor was suppressed–buried.

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Admittedly, I didn’t get much sense until about 40 or so years ago.  I paid attention to the debacle of the Viet Nam War, Nixon freezing my $6,000 teacher’s salary for two years, and Watergate.  Certainly, I found no humor in these events, but I managed.  When the Twin Towers fell, I was outraged.  Several nights following, I was in a crowded Mexican restaurant.  th-3

The waiter had just brought our dinners, when a mariachi band appeared on the balcony above and played God Bless America.  Every patron dropped their utensils, rose and sang in unison.  Tears ran down my cheeks as I sang; yet I wasn’t overtly sad.  The American patriotic spirit didn’t die in New York City; I had hope.

When the presidential election campaigns kicked into high gear this summer, so did the we vs. they mantra.  Civility and decorum vanished.  Extremism was rampant. Suddenly, it became socially acceptable to mock the disabled, use despicable racist terms, and blame the press for inaccurate reporting.  Following the election, the we vs. they went viral.  Somewhat cogent folks jumped on this out-of-control roller coaster and without serious thought and consideration demolished long-standing laws with the stroke of a pen.  A classic example of throwing the proverbial baby out with the bath water–health care, public education, environmental safeguards.  Budgets of long-standing programs, such as the Center for Disease Control, medical research, the arts, and Planned Parenthood were slashed. Further this divisiveness was stoked with “alternative facts,” late night tweeting, erroneous wiretapping claims, and a cloak of darkness on Russian ties.

True, I didn’t get much sense till about 40 years ago, but in those 40 years, I never witnessed the outward hate and derision I see now.  In the past few months, I’ve lost long-time friends–not to death–but to their down-right argumentative, combative attitudes.  Intelligent, reasonable, civil discourse is fine.  Friendly confrontation has its place, but I have no desire to debate with blatant ignorance.

The world has shrunk.  Like it or not, we are all citizens of the same planet.  We must cooperate, communicate, collaborate, and even compromise.  As my grandmother frequently reminded, “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”  It’s about all of us–not some of us.

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