Finding My Inner Scout

You can find me in the tent.

I am at one of those parental crossroads. My soon-to-be 7-year-old son wants to join Boy Scouts.

At first, I was smitten with the idea of him in a cute hat and neckerchief fashioning derby cars from chunks of pine wood. Who can resist such cuteness?

So we went to two informational meetings and I was surprised at what I saw. The mom side of me was not keen on the boys I saw running amok (hello 4th graders –  you are old enough to sit down and hush it for five minutes). But what I wasn’t expecting was my apparent instinct to bolt when things became too contrived.

As I was watching the Webelos (a name that brings rampant chuckling in our house) get some badges for mysterious things like Marble Math and Aquanuts, the whole thing struck me as curious: you pay to join, pay to do activities, all in the quest of a badge. And when kids see other kids with more badges, they too want to do the expensive thing to get their “flair.” There were some kids there with so much badge bling that they had a separate vest to sport their looks.

I dunno. And then I recall that when I was a kid that well, er, the Boy Scout kids were the super-nerds. Not the smart guys that went on to own mega corporations, but the slightly funky guys who had social issues. I am hoping that the social cool/lame distinction is still a few years off for my son.

We walked away from the meeting and my son was torn. He thought the kids were “too rowdy” but the thought of camping, fishing and other wee guy things was too strong. He wants to be a Wolf.

So, now I am heading to REI to look at tents for a camping trip late in October that I am sure will be an adventure in my ineptitude as a scout mommy. Maybe that is the hardest part of all of this: when he joins Boy Scouts, so do I. When I was a Brownie back in the early 80′s our troop disbanded due to an alcoholic troop leader. I am pretty much a cynic.  And as such I just don’t know if I am cut out for sewing on patches and singing kumbaya around the campfire with other folks. Time will only tell.

Brace Face. Metal Mouth. Tinsel Teeth.

It is weird to look into the mirror and wonder what may be looking back in a few months.

For years, dentists would say, “when you getting that fixed?’ But there was never a good time to have braces and surgery. Looking back I should have had this all done when I was 14 during summer break, but alas my mom was not keen on the idea when she heard what they wanted to do.

Apparently I have a crazy jaw. I can’t eat like normal folks and have learned over the years to adapt and make it work. Oh, and if I yawn? My jaw gets stuck wide open and I have to call 911 to pop it back into place. Do you have any idea how annoying that is? I basically have TMJ and a bunch of other malocclusion stuff. Whatever.

All I know is that I have braces as an adult which is less than ideal is oh so many ways. And in January, surgeons will break my lower and upper jaw and realign everything allowing me to eat, breathe and continue living.

The details are fascinating albeit gory. I will spare you details (no, it is not like Face Off), but let’s just say as the months creep closer to January I am wondering what I was thinking. If it wasn’t for the pesky “you have five years to live without this surgery” warning from the docs I wouldn’t be doing this.

So, wired jaws, mushy foods and lots of Jamba Juice are in my future. It will be surreal to see my face change. Hopefully the “Big Book of British Smiles” is not in my future.

Nine Years Later

Nine years ago today I awoke to a phone call. I rolled over, sort of annoyed that anyone was calling before 9am since I am a notoriously cranky morning person. I had moved back home with my mom and siblings after being laid off in San Francisco during the now infamous dot com days. It was my boyfriend (now husband) and photojournalist on the phone.

Him: “Turn on the TV.”

His voice had urgency so I knew I needed to wake up. Me: ” What’s going on?” I then looked for the remote and turn the channel to the NBC affiliate.

Him: “I am okay. I am going to New York.”

Me, still groggy: “Looks like just a really bad fire.  Why does the station want you to go to New York for just a fire?”

Him: “It was a plane. They are thinking terrorist.”

Me: “Whoa, another plane just the hit the tower!”

Him: “No, that is the video from the first.”

Me: “No, another one just hit live on TV! Be safe!”

Him: “I gotta go.”

I spent the rest of the morning glued to the TV. It was horrendous hearing stories of lost loved ones and imagining the terror and fear of those trapped in the towers. Hearing and seeing people fall from the towers and wondering if it was by choice or false step that made them tumble. And as the daughter of a firefighter, it was wrenching to see and hear of so many first responders simply disappearing into a pyroclastic cloud of metal, heat and dust. I watched paper work flutter to the ground and wondered if the work represented there was from people who no longer were alive.

That evening I had to pull myself away and get something to eat. I drove to the local market and it was so eerie to be in a market, with muzak playing calmly overhead. There wasn’t more than 20 people in the store. Everyone was glazed over and the place was silent. Not a noise or voice broke the silence.

Today, I awoke next to my husband almost to the moment as when I awoke nine years ago. I looked at the clock and felt grateful to be alive, thankful for people like my dad, and sorrow for the many people that never had the chance to see this day. Moments later our seven year old son climbed into bed with us and proceeded to snuggle in. Precious.

Just a few hours later, we were off to celebrate a friends birthday party. Part of me still felt it odd to be celebrating something like a child’s birthday. September 11 still feels too sacred. On the way, there was one woman waving a flag over the freeway overpass with a sign that said, “Never Forget.”  And I never will.

Fashion Flashback

I was at Target today and was surprised at the return of the mid ’80′s. Back in the day, acid wash,  pegging your jeans and oversized sweaters ruled. It appears they are back.

Suddenly I Hear Hair Bands...

I snapped this pic and then cruised the new food aisles and lo and behold a woman with a perm and these very pants dyed purple (remember that gem?) complete with slouch boots stood before me buying Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It was scary on many, many, levels.

The Power Moms

You can spy them from a mile away. Every school has them, but they take on different persona’s and outfits. At our elementary school the uniform of choice is work out wear to reinforce that they have the luxury of working out midday, hair coiffed in a way that suggests that no effort was made when we all know it was, minimal make-up, fancy purse and a minivan. These are the Power Moms.

And so it begins.

Every year our school hosts a “Welcome Back Day” where parents walk through a seemingly endless line of enrollment form queue’s only to be greeted with a request for “suggested” financial donations to the school. This is testing ground for the Power Moms. Here, they run the queue’s and seek out their potential brethren. The outfits here are always perfect, down to the manicured toes and matching lipstick.

These are more than just PTA and soccer moms. They are high-powered female executives who left mighty careers to raise their kids. And they bring that same energy and efficiency to the school yard.

A few days later on the first day of school, after the kids are settled and the tears are wiped away, all the parents gather in the cafeteria for coffee, sweets and judging folks from afar. Okay, I made that last part up.

I dread and look forward to this event. I instantly revert to my high school nerd self, watching in awe as the pretty cheerleader-type laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder with such ease. Instead, I guard the cookie plate and pretend to look relaxed. I wonder how these women find the time to get so dolled up at 6am and I wonder if they were indeed high school cheerleaders. I was in the marching band. And I apparently am still marching to a different beat.

This year, one of the Power Moms waved to me. Then she realized I wasn’t who she thought I was. Awkward. It is weird how I want to hang out with these women. Wait, that is not entirely true. Part of it is pure amazement that such people exist and pull it off so easily. I am sure they are nice and lovely folks too. And there is some jealousy. I would love to work out at 10am and then “do lunch.”  Heck, I would settle for just the “do lunch.”

If this year is anything like last year, I can expect some uncomfortable planning meetings for school events, re-introducing myself three or four times, guarding more cookie plates, and being assigned the less than desired volunteer jobs. At least there are cookies.

Summer Yummy

Back to school

Wow. Back to school sure is more gastrointestinal-ly challenging than when I was a kid.

Nothing says "school time" like stress!

Stock up now on Tums!

My New Favorite App

I am not Ansel Adams.  Historically, I have a pattern of taking shaky pictures that have no “texture” as my photojournalist husband would say.

I stumbled across Camera+ in the app store and I am smitten. This app is fun and makes even my goofy pictures look like they were intentionally cool. I haven’t even scratched the surface of this app yet but you can zoom, change color tones, and post right to Twitter and Facebook.  I have a feeling I will be using my iphone camera much more!

Before

After

Fire hose

Milk can

Thoughts from the Waiting Room

Let me start by saying that everything turned out okay. The tumor was not cancerous and my sister is now home, eating a burrito and drooling over Taylor Lautner like every good 17-year-old girl should. And for that, I couldn’t be happier.

The journey last week was a rough one, but it is over. After spending several days lurking around a hospital, I realized there are some things that hospitals can do to make their patient experiences more positive.

• Get techy. My sis was rushed to the ED and subsequent surgical suites, so it wasn’t like there was time to pack gingerly. Hospitals should have charging ports in patient rooms and waiting areas so patients and their families can stay connected with all their electronic gadgetry.

My sis wasn’t able to talk much that first night, just text, and she soon ran out of juice. Luckily, I had my iPhone charger the second night and was able to charge her iPod and phone. But it required me venturing over to the bed next to her where the elderly lady was gasping for air non-stop. Really? Just one plug in the room for patient use? Baffling.

• Pass the time. Hours in a surgical waiting room are hours that one will never get back. Death Cab for Cutie lyrics kept running through my head, “There’s no comfort in the waiting room. Just nervous paces bracing for bad news.” I perused the reading materials next to the faux bromeliad and was seriously disappointed: hospital marketing material, a Glamour magazine from 2004 and CIO Monthly.

I worked in a hospital for nearly five years doing PR and marketing and this to me was unacceptable. Sure, I peppered many a waiting room with hospital literature in my day, but to be on the receiving end was aggravating as can be. Surely, someone can come around occasionally and put out some new reading material and dust the faux greenery?

• Get comfy. I get it. A hospital is not a Hyatt. But would it be possible to arrange the seats in the waiting room so that they actually face the television and allow one to lay down?

By day two, a weird camaraderie had formed in the waiting room. “What you in for?” and “How long have you been here?” were tossed around as informal greetings. People compared notes on doctors, diagnoses, local eateries and vending machine selections.

But hardly anyone watched TV until a few folks took matters into their own hands and dragged around the furniture. And to change the channel? One had to boost another up against the wall, Spider Man-style.

There was a young guy in the corner. Maybe 21 years old. He slept the entire time I was there, nudged awkwardly against an armrail and wall. He looked miserable and stressed. He managed to get a sheet from somewhere and used half as a pillow and half as a drape to mask the light from the nearby atrium. If the hospital had more accessible and comfy furniture that poor guy and others could have actually rested while waiting for word on their loved ones.

• Know thy patient. At one point a nurse came in and told my sister she had to remove her tongue post before surgery. My sister said she didn’t have one. The nurse insisted she did.

Okay. If the patient and her family say she doesn’t have a pierced tongue, then believe us. It was a small thing, but annoying.

My sister shared a room with a woman who looked like she was 200 years old. In the ortho unit. Neither my sister nor this woman had any ortho work, but the hospital was short on beds. I understand that. I really do. But when assigning patient beds, nurses and docs need to consider their patients. Does pairing a dying woman with a scared teenager make sense for the patients?

Again, all is well in my world and I can’t wait to pamper my sis this summer before she runs off to college and changes the world. She is so talented and full of life, and in addition to being so proud of her, I can’t wait to see her make a difference. Because I know she will.

The Run: Done

Every year on my birthday I create a list of things I would like to do for that upcoming year. When I turned 21, I had 21 tasks to accomplish. When I hit 30, thirty new tasks came to light, etc. I am now chronicling my attempt to complete my list. Wish me luck.

Back in March I was lamenting about my efforts in running and shoe buying.  Who knew running would be so hard? I am still stuck with the fancy shoes that just gather dust here in the hall.

So, last week I received an email from the local sporty shoe store talking up a 5k that was to be held on June 6th. I almost junk mailed the thing, feeling grubby that my shoe issues were not yet resolved and that I have made zippo progress towards this item on The List.

Then I happened to be in the area and on a total whim went and signed up for the race. With one week to go. With zippo training. Seemed like a great idea.

Today I woke up earlier than I ever care to on a Sunday, and joined 299 others for the big day. After some pinning of bibs and wee stretching, I was off.

And I didn’t suck. I kept my stride and finished in roughly the top 25. I almost wore my beloved Keen’s as they are the most comfortable shoe I have, but I went with my old funky shoes that were demoted months ago to garden-cleaning status.

And now, my feet still hurt, but hey I did it. There is another 5k in a few weeks and who knows, maybe I will be all crazed by then and want to do it all again. Hmm.