#8-This week I set my hair on fire.

As a result, in 2012, I am resolving to try to think about myself less, and others more.

I didn’t go directly from the fire incident to that resolution.  Humor me and try to follow.

On Tuesday morning, like every morning, I showered.  Then I added a new mousse to my wet hair, and tried to turn on the hair dryer.   It didn’t turn on, so I hit that little red “reset” button, not uncommon.  It didn’t turn on “low” then, which I thought was a little odd, so I put it on “high” and it turned on and I aimed it at the top of my head.

Sparks and flames shot out!  I screamed, patted my head, and turned it off.  To be honest, images of Michael Jackson and his Pepsi commercial fire flashed through my mind.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=oAC4VwRIZpE&feature=endscreen

Then I irrationally thought, “wow, that new cheap mousse is really flammable – I wish I’d spent a little more and gotten stuff that doesn’t catch on fire!” 

I ran my fingers through my hair, and large gobs of it came out.  And the smell…eww.  Burned hair is icky.  The hairdryer went in the garbage.



New meaning to "meathead"



Nothing serious, really.  I got a bag of frozen pepperoni from the freezer, placed it on top of my head, and went about my routine.  My hairdresser later reported no discernible bald spot or scorched scalp.

OK, stay with me!

Yesterday, on Friday, my 90-something mother called with the “issue” du jour.  I must explain that this is a woman who never, in my opinion, was very busy or challenged.  And for the last 10 years or so, if she drove a half mile to the Hallmark card shop and back, that was enough of an activity schedule for the day.  Often there is an issue du jour, and it is very, very rarely anything very severe or unsolvable.

After she finished describing her issue, I reported on my week, which was in stark contrast, at least to me.  For starters, my kid had his wisdom teeth out, and now that he’s not high on drugs anymore and has quit blathering nonsense, and the bleeding has stopped, I’m dispensing meds and making mashed potatoes.  I went to the grocery store while his brother sat with him, and I’m cooking a big dinner because said brother arrived home for Christmas and presumably appreciates something other than ramen noodles.  I wrapped the remaining presents, and got a gift of homemade cookies and candy together for a friend to pick up.  Another friend came over and snaked the kitchen sink and removed the trap, because it was draining oh-so-slowly.  That was today, I told her.

Yesterday, I continued, I attended the holiday party my Rotary club puts on at a youth center for 60+ kids age 14-20 who are homeless.   I happen to have been in charge of it for the second year in a row.  Rotarians afterwards helped me load the decorations in the van, and they are now in my basement awaiting storage elsewhere for another year.

And I did a little business this week, straightened out my own IRA investments, and, by the way, my hair caught on fire.  With the exception of the hair thing, not really an unusual week.

Still with me?



The four offenders



This morning, teen with the wisdom teeth removed woke to find himself swollen. 

Duh.  Not black-and-blue, mind you, or yellow, like I was after mine were extracted (in a two-step process removing two teeth at a time and involving only Novocaine, but we won’t go into details now…yes, I’m still bitter.)  He’s just swollen a bit.  Not really bad at all, I said.

You would think he was the Elephant Man.  “I look AWFUL!” he wailed.  “OMG, I’m so glad I did this on Christmas vacation and no one has to SEE ME!”

This went on off-and-on for the better part of a morning, and at one point he proclaimed, “This is how ugly I would look if I was OBESE!”  It is now 3 p.m., and he just announced, “It is still so HUGE!  I can’t believe it!”

So, to get to my point:

That is when it occurred to me I am, indeed, caught in the Sandwich Generation.  Not just sandwiched between two generations who both need care and attention, but between two generations who are narcissistic.  Everything has to do with them, and it is blown way out of proportion.

Of course, it’s all relative. 

When even a car drive to the Hallmark store is no longer possible, then even littler things are a big deal.  When you are sure you are “sexy and I know it, I work out!” as the popular LMFAO song goes (LMFAO is a musical group, in case you aren’t hip enough to know), then being a little swollen is a tragedy of immeasurable proportions.

I didn’t tell him why I was doing it, but I made the youngest go on the web and make a $25 microloan at www.kiva.org to anyone he chose.  Elshad in Azerbaijan is on his way to buying more wholesale goods for his retail market, in part because of our $25 loan.  Maybe someday this will have an impact on the youngest’s view of how he fits into the world’s scheme of things, and it’s not at the bottom because of a little swelling.  Or whatever is his issue du jour.

The oldest isn’t going to change (for the better) at this stage of the game.

All I can do is change what I can control, right?  So I am resolving in 2012 to pay less attention to myself.  My issue du jour is nothing compared to a homeless teen parent or to Elshad and his family.

Maybe that way, somehow, somewhere in the ethernet, it all balances out and there will be harmony and peace and everyone’s needs will be met.

Happy New Year!

#7-Have myself a Merry LITTLE Christmas this year

WARNING:  Christmas season confessions to follow may disturb those who are highly religious in a Christian way or who have a Norman Rockwell/Ward Clever-picture perfect family life!

Presents not under a tree

The word LITTLE in “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is on what I am focusing this year.  So many pressures and expectations exist this time of year, to make others happy, to feel generous and charitable and spiritual and serene ourselves.  How about we just ramp that down a little?

Here is my first confession:  No Christmas tree this year.  My son and I are not dragging out the three heavy boxes of fake Christmas tree in the garage, nor are we venturing into the spider-laden crawl space under the steps to get the three boxes of ornaments and several wrapping-paper cardboard rolls that hold mini-lights.

At first I was horrified.  What kind of mom am I?  What kind of PERSON not to put the tree up?

We put up a couple strings of lights in the front window, added a wreath to the front door, plugged in the lighted garland on the banister, put the presents on the coffee table, and called it done.

Confession number two:  What a relief!

This “season” is way, way too big.  It’s not just the shopping emphasis.  The child mentioned above is, at this very moment, seeking seasonal fulfillment, or at least feeling the pressure of seasonal obligations, at a couple big box stores.

It’s that all the “trimmings” have gotten too large.  Decorating, parties, cards, volunteer projects …

OOPS!  Let me take that back.  It’s the volunteer projects that have brought me satisfaction.  I do a couple of those for homeless teens and for women incarcerated at the county jail, and I make a donation or two I normally might not make.  I have, in the past, rung bells, picked a family for whom to purchase gifts, and other typical charity efforts.

And I do enjoy shopping for a few special things for friends and family, finding things I believe they will enjoy – or laugh at!

Confession number three:  But when it comes to my family – small nuclear family that it is, two sons, one 20 and one 16 – I am stopping the “must dos” that I used to do when they were little.

I asked The Youngest this morning what family Christmas memories he had. 

“I remember one year,” he replied right away, “you and (The Oldest) and I were decorating the tree, dancing to N Sync.  And then I tripped and fell and I cried and ran to my room because I thought I ruined it.”

Oh, Joy.  I, of course, don’t remember that at all.



He also remembers some good things, including one of my personal favorites, which was driving the boys Christmas Eve along Duluth’s scenic Skyline Parkway, over to a neighborhood that has an impressive light display, and back along the Parkway, where we stop at a pull-out and look at the lights below in the Duluth harbor, on the bridge, and in the town.

One year, The Oldest told the Youngest, “Look!  There’s Santa out there!” and directed him to the black expanse that is Lake Superior in the dark.

“No,” I said, “I think that’s a freighter in the lake.”  The shipping season goes until mid-January here, and the ore and grain and coal carriers often park in the harbor, deck lights twinkling.

“MOM!” The Oldest shouted, and I quickly back-tracked.  “Wait!  He is RIGHT!  It’s NOT a freighter!”  The moment was saved.

The Youngest claims he remembers this, too. 



But what is up with the tendency to remember the bad stuff first?

I can remember the year The Oldest was about four, and I had carefully selected two Santa gifts:  a fairly pricey giant plastic crane that actually lifted plastic pipes, and a rubber Mamenchisaurus, an impressive long-necked dinosaur about which we had read.  Over and over and over.

After he had seen the two Santa gifts, which took maybe three minutes, at the most, he looked up and asked, “Is that it?”

Apparently Santa should not cheap out, even a 4-year-old. 

I still recall the year I was about 10 or 12 and my cousin broke a family-china dinner plate at dinner.  She cried.  So did my mother.  Over china, for goodness sake.  (I now use the 40-piece set I got on sale for $20.)

Christmas trees often bring out the worst in family gatherings.  In our house, trekking out in the cold and cutting and bringing in a fresh tree just wasn’t in the cards for this single mom with two young boys.  We’ve used the fake tree for 10 of 11 Christmases so far, so its global footprint and purchase price have been amortized.

Bella in front of last year's tree

But more years than not, there was a fight over who was helping the most, or who was not putting the ornaments on “right.”

One friend recently confessed that putting up the tree ignited a huge fight between him and his wife early in their marriage.  Each had an idea of how it should be, and the other one wasn’t right.

We laughed about this.  Now, decades later.

In couples I knew, especially those with little kids, “doing” Christmas with in-laws who didn’t celebrate the way one partner’s biological family did caused huge amounts of stress, as did dragging excited children through blizzards or along icy highways to get to the relatives, where the wound-up kids had major temper tantrums.  And maybe even broke the family china.

In divorced families, Christmas often is a rotten time.  You “share” the children and deal with ex-spouses in order to do so, when it’s so much easier when you don’t.  This often leaves one spouse alone.

Aloneness seems to be the worst punishment for a life apparently poorly lived or failure in character.  I am flying Christmas day to be with my elderly mother, so she “won’t be alone on Christmas.”  A good friend’s family has always had me, with or without the boys, to their house for a wonderful Christmas day dinner.  When I lived in the Twin Cities, I used to organize “orphan” holidays for people without families nearby.

Confession number four:  It is just one day, and it’s OK if it isn’t spiritually or otherwise fulfilling.  Whether you and your family go to church or not, whether you are Christian or not, whether you are alone or not, it is just one day.

If it’s a wonderful experience this year for you, please be tactful and remember that Christmas can be downright miserable for some.  For people who have had someone they loved die this year, or who have been divorced, or who have lost a job or have reduced income, or who have moved to a new community, or who are not in that picture-perfect blissfully happy family situation, or who are not practicing Christians, it is important to remember that Christmas isn’t fun.  When you think about it, that fits an awfully lot of people.

It is Just One Day.  You will get through it.  You are not required to have a merry Christmas every year.  Some years you will not.  If you are not Christian, you are “out” every year.  Always.

Confession number five:  The gifts are irrelevant.  (Blasphemy!)  Most people won’t remember the gifts they get.  Or give.  In my 54 Christmases, I honestly remember very few.  It truly is “the thought that counts.”

So I will try to do the things I have tried to create traditions:  a special Christmas Eve dinner and homemade cinnamon rolls for Christmas breakfast.   And a couple personal ones I won’t list here.

I still make the homemade toffee and a few types of cookies people seem to appreciate.  (Decorating cut-out cookies with the boys stopped after the year they started putting private parts on the gingerbread people.)

In a country where I have heard the “overweight or obese” percent of our population is 68, no one really needs this.  Instead, we should all go to the gym and work out together, or take a brisk walk.

But we take huge sensual satisfaction in eating.  For generations, women showed their love for family by nourishing them with good food.  Now, with international tastes and access to exotic spices and condiments and meat cuts, and it’s OK for men to cook, too, we have elevated it to a higher level.

King Arthur Flour, a 220-year-old company based in Vermont, says on TV ads that its mission is “bringing the joy of baking to the world.”  Comfort and joy, indeed.

The motto of Penzey’s, the spice store people, is:  “Love people.  Cook them tasty food.”



Grandma Mary's cinnamon roll recipe



In that spirit, I will press into service my mother’s cinnamon roll recipe again.  Hopefully, the aroma of cinnamon rolls baking will carry a message to my boys that their mom went out of her way to do something that took a little more work, because she loved them. 

More than the annual flannel shirt, more than the decorated tree, more than the Mamenchisaurus have said.

Because my love for them isn’t limited to Just One Day, I believe they will know that.  Even when Christmases change.  Or when the cinnamon rolls go away.



#6 – Internal Farmer’s Almanac predicts long, cold winter!

It’s only mid-December and not only is it beginning to look a lot like Christmas, it’s already been seriously cold.  Last week morning temps were below zero.  I have already worn my long underwear once, the window at the head of my bed is shut and locked, and the ultra-warm sheepskin boots have been pressed into service.



Sam, left, and Jay Miller at Trunk Bay, USVI, February '09

But that’s not the reason I’m predicting a long, cold winter.  It’s my internal Farmer’s Almanac:  my dreams.  I’ve already dreamt once of swimming and kayaking in the tropical waters off the U.S. Virgin Islands. 

Every winter, I have tropical swimming dreams.  They are lovely…warm, turquoise water…white sand beaches….then I wake up!

This year, the dreams are a couple months early.  This is not a good sign.

I have swum in the USVI – three times (highly recommend camping and snorkeling on St. John).  Never kayaked, though.  Not sure what that means.

I would like to blame early swimming dreams on the fact that I have begun swimming laps again.  Not turning into Michael Phelps, just trying to do what I did in my early 20s for exercise.  Exercise is torture for me if I’m on machines.  It has to be a game (racquetball, anyone?), a project (extreme gardening in zone 3-4 or hiking a trail) or something that does not make me feel like I am going to die (with lap swimming, you’re not too thirsty or hot).



Yes, I swam in Lake Superior in 2011!



I love to swim.  Don’t necessarily love laps, but love floating and diving on a sunny day.  It is one of the cheap pleasures of growing up in Michigan, where the glaciers dumped sandy-beached spring-fed lakes in every county but the one in which I grew up – a good reason to move away.  I met three high school friends in the UP last July, and in the hot seven hour drive home to Duluth, I stopped to swim three times – once in Lake Superior.  





Lake Superior in November is too cold even for labs!

Yes, I can and do swim in Lake Superior!  Here in Duluth, we have a lovely five-mile sand spit (can’t say “isthmus” without sounding either obscene or like I have a lisp).  After work, in the long daylight hours, the black lab and I go to the beach.  This year, we could swim together for three or four weeks.  Seemed just like Lake Michigan or Huron. 

Previous summers it has been only two weeks.  One year, Lucy, my border collie springer mix, and I swam for six weeks – heaven!  (That dog was the only dog I’ve had who just loved to swim for pleasure, not to retrieve, just to be buoyant and moving.  We were soul mates in that regard.)  A previous lab was so obsessed she would go in even if it was icy and would swim and fetch sticks ‘til she was shaking and  her lab lips turned blue.

Just for the record, there are spots on Superior that warm up, i.e. the surface water does, and the waves turn it over to make it swimmable.  The boys and I found one spot, Hurkett Cove outside Thunder Bay, that was so shallow and warm it had weeds and actually was icky swimming.  (More like a eutrophic lake than oligotrophic, look that up in your Funk ‘N Wagnalls!)  Hurkett Cove is best left for birding.

Next year will mark my 30^th in Minnesota.  I have never lived in southern climes.  I moved here from Alaska, where my friends said, “Minnesota?  That’s COLD!”

Southeast Alaska – Juneau, Ketchikan, Sitka, et al – is not cold.  It is a temperate rain forest, much like western Washington, only wetter.  Highs in the 70s, lows in the 20s.  Juneau had a ski hill.  I thought it was a great climate, though a little gray.  Rarely did anyone’s pipes freeze, and you didn’t have to plug your car in to get it to start, like you do in Fairbanks, where the McDonald’s had plug-ins in the parking lot.  (Now it’s just a sign of electric hybrid cars.)

Minnesota gets the cold arctic blasts, and it makes for a seriously cold winter.  Twenty above is fine, twenty, thirty or forty below is not.  People can and do die in that weather. 

My body is seriously attuned to the change of seasons.  It knows I should swim to cool off in the summer.  In the fall, I don’t care to eat salads and watermelon.  I am craving beef stew and chicken pot pies.  Like the squirrels, it’s time to bulk up.

The appetite difference is apparent in the summer when the air conditioning is on (yes, I do use it in Duluth…for a couple weeks only).  It gets above 80, I’m not that hungry.  The AC cools the house down, and I’m ravenous.

You might think that junk food and video games is the main reason for obesity in this country.  True, but the third reason is air conditioning.  People don’t eat as much or as heavily when they are hot (duh).  Congress used to complete its work and go home before AC was invented.  Now it is there year ‘round and look at what a mess we have!

So here I am, swimming indoors in the winter to work off what I would lose naturally in the summer if it wasn’t for AC.

“Go out in it!” people say about enjoying winter here.  That’s fine when it’s 20 above.  I enjoy a good snowshoe hike.  I don’t own snowmobiles or ice fishing gear, just not interested.  My kids downhill ski and love it, and we have a wonderful ski hill.  I don’t choose to hurl myself down a hill; falling on ice in the parking lot or coming out of the door is enough of a fear.

So I survive with sheepskin boots (generic brands work), polar fleece, microplush throws, several types of gloves, and flannel sheets topped by an electric blanket.  Oh, a sauna doesn’t hurt.  It can really soak the cold out of your bones.

My first pair of Uggs I bought about 25 years ago at a Nordstrom’s in Phoenix.  They were on sale for $29.  Can’t imagine why they didn’t sell well there, but I was sure glad they didn’t.  (At that point, they were functional, not fashionable.)  They changed my life during Minnesota winters.

Nearly three years ago, we saw a young woman in the St. Thomas, USVI, airport wearing them.  Really?  I came here to get away from them.

Polar fleece is the miracle fabric.  I look at historic pictures of inhabitants of Michigan’s Copper Country, where 200 inches of snow was plowed by horses and men during the copper rush in the late 1800s.  Scores of photos show people standing on top of huge snowpiles and of kids being taken to school in sleighs.  (http://digarch.lib.mtu.edu/showbib.aspx?bib_id=598018#)

“How did they do it without polar fleece?” I always find myself asking.  They had wool.  And no sheepskin boots.  Miserable.

Local tourism folks will hate me for this, but the winters here are oh so much more bearable if you can get out for a week and go way south.  Someplace where you can put the boots, hat, mittens, coat and scarf, sweaters and long pants and heavy socks away.  Where you can swim, lounge and live in a swimsuit for a few days.

Some years, I’ve been lucky enough to do it. 

But if that’s not possible, at least I will have my dreams.

#5-Travelers needed Santa on Concourse C

‘Twas a few weeks before Christmas, and airports are just a vortex of unhappiness these days.  Perhaps lack of customer service is one reason why.

I should say that in something like 40 years of travelling, I sadly have come to expect weather delays and screw-ups as the norm, not the exception.  Only once do I recall an airline making the inevitable inconvenience more than bearable, actually fun, playing trivia games at the gate, giving away door prizes, and joking with customers (Southwest Airlines, good job).

This morning I turned in a rental car at a regional airport to a key box, no human.  Then I went to rebook for a later trip at a counter with a real person.  I waited for her to get off the phone.  Then I asked, could she tell me how much I might have to pay to rent a car on these particular dates?

“Our computer usually pulls up higher prices.  Your best bet is to call the 800 number,” she told me.  “OK,” I said, “I will do that,” and I walked away toward her competitor.

“You’re welcome,” she said loudly.

I did not challenge her.  A “thank you,” of course, implied that she had done something for which I should thank her.  What I thought she did was tell me she didn’t really want my business.  What she should/could have said was, “Thank you for thinking of us – we would love to earn your business.  But the way to get the lowest rate is really…and I would love to do that for you here, but I can’t.” And so on.  Clearly, this car rental company should try harder.

The human at the next counter actually tried to pull up the quotes, but said no cars were available, and could I check the web?  “Thank you,” I said, like my mother had taught me.

Then at check-in for the airline, I asked why a boarding pass for the first leg of the trip only printed out, not passes for both legs.

“That’s not the (insert name of airline here, you can tell it’s not Southwest) Way,” she told me, and that I should ask at the gate check-in.

Interesting.  I did not know there was a Kool-aid type culture associated with this particular airline in terms of boarding pass policy, which I had experienced differently just three days ago.  Also, answers like this do not satisfy my inquiring mind.  However, because this was helpful information for the future, I said, “thank you.”

At the gate waiting to board the second leg, I observed a wiry man waiting in a seat near a woman in a wheelchair, behind whom her wheelchair attendant/pusher stood.  They woman and wiry man must have just gotten off the deplaning plane to be met by the attendant.

The wiry guy, a bit agitated, went up to the airline gate agent and asked if the second wheelchair was coming for him.  “I’m going to miss my flight.” 

The gate agent said, “We don’t do that, that’s the wheelchair people.”

He asked the wheelchair guy, who said that he knew one was ordered.  The attendant walked a few steps out to the hall and looked both ways to see if it was coming, and his hand made a gesture toward his walkie talkie, but at no time did he use it to call to see where the wheelchair was.  The man said they’d better start walking, he didn’t dare wait.  Neither the airline nor the wheelchair person apologized. 

The ordered wheelchair did show up several minutes later.

Is there no one who is happy, enthusiastic and interested in actually helping their customers?

Just as I am pondering this, to what should my wondering eyes should appear walking down Concourse C?

Santa Claus, carrying a camouflage pack!  I smiled when I saw him, in spite of myself!

Away to the hallway I made a mad dash, pulled out my cell phone and opened the camera flash.

“Santa!” I called him by name.  He paused for a photo.  Clearly, his handlers/elves were not present, as I caught him right in front of the Martini Lounge, not the best backdrop for his non-alcoholically jolly image. 

“Where are you going?”  He looked like a traveler, just lugging his pack.

“I’m going to meet some older people who need some help,” Santa replied, merrily.  I forgot to ask why he was flying commercial airlines, rather than the traditional sleigh thing.

Yes, misguided car rental worker, sanctimonious airline check in person, disinterested airline gate attendant and unempowered wheelchair pusher, there is a Santa Claus!  Right there on Concourse C, in front of the Martini Lounge!

We in the airport need him, too, not just the older people.

I was returning from a trip to help my 91-year-old mother adjust to an unwanted move to assisted living.  The woman in line in front of me at the first leg check-in was returning from her father’s funeral.  My seat-mate on the last leg was flying in to assist her sister, who is dying from pancreatic cancer.

Or…maybe we WERE the older people who needed him…just a glimpse, a reminder ?

Perhaps unhappy people performing jobs they do not like and are not good at are having to stay in them because there are so few other jobs.  Perhaps the travelling public expects more for their dollar, with less patience.  And we are squeezed in like sardines to planes whose smoke detectors go off by mistake, causing planes to return to the gate and screwing up your entire day’s schedule, making you arrive 10 hours late, with no apology from the airlines (which happened on my in-bound trip).

But somewhere in the North Pole, Concourse C or coming to a chimney near you, someone is still doing something nice for people who need help. 

Santa cares.  All is not lost.  He gave me to know I have nothing to dread. 

Merry Christmas, Airport Santa!  Carry on with your important work.