Generation Exhausted

The lost episodes of Way Back When

Way back in the olden days - say, 1980-something - it was a real treat to have a movie camera. Or, shortly thereafter, a video camera. Not like now, when every other person seems to have a DVR, when even digital still cameras can take short video shots, and recording every single second of every event seems to be the in thing to do.

Aside: For the record, I do not now, nor have I ever, owned a video recording device. Always wanted one. Never got one.

Anyway. Having the ability to record those special events, those Little League games, those school plays, was not always taken for granted. If you were lucky enough to own, or be able to borrow, a camera, you tended to record a few moments for posterity and then, to save tape, or battery power, or whatever, you put the camera away and enjoyed the rest of time passing as it passed.

But oh, those moments! A minute at bat, two minutes at the microphone, 90 seconds of someone unwrapping a Christmas present. Little glimpses that, you hoped, would leave the future you, and those to come, with a better picture of what it was like to be there and then.

For more than fifteen years, there have been dozens of such glimpses of my life missing in action. For some people, a divorce leaves blank spaces in the family photo albums.  The glimpses - footage of me and my brother riding dirt bikes, my elementary school stage appearance as Daughter #43 in the King and I, the last Christmas my grandmother was alive, etc. - went astray after my father's second divorce.

Last week, his ex-wife gave them all back. The tapes - "found" after all these years - are now being sorted and viewed and prepared to burn onto DVD. He brought one over the other day for me to have a look at, and try to date. Near as I can figure, it was 1981, the year I turned 10.

There I am, in a green baseball shirt, swinging at pitches that were too high and too low. There's my brother, his legs shorter than his arms are now, running like a demon for first base. There's a Christmas gathering, my dad unwrapping the mug that says "Richard" that I picked out all by myself.

There's me. Smiling, laughing. Big teeth, and bangs growing out. Being nice to my brother.

In the current issue of Psychology Today, there's a short article about the value of nostalgia. (sorry, that particular article isn't online) The article talks about how thinking about a nice moment in your past, reminiscing about a good time can instantly lift your spirits and improve your outlook, or something like that.

And you know, it did. Not that I've been down, or feeling disheartened or anything extreme. But the mild, end-of-the-school-year-frazzled that was creeping up on me, crept away for a little while, and has stayed away ever since. I'm looking forward to seeing the rest.

Middle watched too, and was struck by how much - according to her - she looks like me then. She, with her snazzy baseball shorts and sliding pads, got a giggle out of the white polyester pants we used to have to wear.

They're just glimpses - moments in time that can be added to the ones I store in my head already. Those memories, not visually recorded, are just as vivid, and I pass them on to my kids when the opportunity arises.

Like the one I thought of tonight, when we went to see the annual fireworks over the Detroit River. I recalled an earlier Fireworks Night - good gravy, was it really 30 years ago? My mom and her cousin had brought me and my cousin's daughter down to watch them. Little Brother was a baby and had been left at home. They bought us those punchy balloons; you remember, the big balloons with the elastic handle, and they had rice or something in them, and made a rattling noise when you bounced them from the elastic? There were three - one for each of us, and one to bring home to Little Brother.

I don't remember where exactly we were, just that it was after, and we were walking. Maybe to get the bus, or to the car. But we were punching the balloons, and one hit a brick wall of a building.

And it broke.

And without missing a beat, I, in all my four-year-old rationale, said, "That one was Little Brother's."

On tape, or in my mind's eye, these moments are there. Little glimpses that will leave - I hope - the future me, and my kids, and those who come after, a better picture of what it was like to be there then. And lift my spirits and improve my outlook when need be.

I thought it was bad when they used to follow me into the bathroom

Much ink - and just as much bandwidth - has been devoted to the topic of a mother's lack of privacy. The children, they are everywhere - and when they aren't, they're just close enough that they can hear their name uttered in a whisper, and come running to see what you're saying about them.

Although they can't seem to hear the words "pick up your socks" when you're shouting it in their ear, but that's a different story.

You will notice from my comments of late, that my children, blessings of my heart that they are, have followed me here. At first, it was only Oldest, and then, only sporadically. Now I see that Middle - who has passed Mommy's blog address around to all her friends - has also discovered the comment button.

In fact - I have been informed that since all her friends now read my blog, I can't ever mention her, or anything having to do with her, or even the fact that I AM HER MOTHER, in this space again. Ever.

Oops.

How indicative of the inner conflict a typical teen must experience.

Her to her friends: My mom's really cool. She has a blog. Go read it.

Her to me: My friends all read your blog. Stop writing in it.

Not that I've ever written anything here that I wouldn't want my children to read. I've long acknowledged that the Internet is a public forum, and that by putting my words out here, they're here for all the world to see.  But when it's late at night, and it's just me and the screen, the kids' remarks popping up in the comments section leave me wanting to say, "Do you mind? GO PLAY or something."

Sigh.

I love you, my darling girls. I'm glad you feel welcome here, and that you're interested in what your old Mom is writing. Comment away, but follow the ruleswe've discussed. And don't hassle me in public. This is public. Got that?

Way out in left field

Final exams for Oldest and Middle are OVER, and no one had a nervous breakdown. It was touch and go there, for a while. There was whining, there was complaining, there was fatigue, there was stress.

What's that? No no, the girls were fine - it's me I was worried about. Most of their exams were at 8:45 in the morning. Every. Damn. Day. And guess who got to get out of bed and drive?

However, Oldest has discovered that Mommy will drag her sorry carcass from between the sheets more willingly for a promised Large Double Milk at Tim's. There is an irony in the fact that I used to bribe these same children to pee on the potty with the promise of Gummy Bears, and now they're coaxing me from my slumber with coffee in a paper cup.

However, that is done. Elementary school is out mid-week next week, and then it's two long months of sitting by the pool, and watching 90210 reruns.

Except - baseball. Whatever else there may be, there will be baseball. Because this year, you see, we're getting our money's worth. Also known as "playing in tournaments every other frigging weekend."

Also, She of the Wounded Knee is healing. After a month of intensive physiotherapy, we're hoping for an excellent prognosis when we return to the orthopedist this week. This final week of school also includes one dental appointment, one orthodontist appointment, one eye doctor appointment and a partridge in a pear tree. The partridge and the pears are for me, my reward for being the only one not scheduled to receive medical care this week. And guess who gets to get out of bed and drive?

So it may be July before I can sleep in again. As long as it's not a tournament weekend.

Up here in Canada...

Well, very few of you played my little game (Dream For A Dollar) last week, but thanks to those who did.  I always like to hear from readers, as the question of "who visits here" is one I often ask myself. I'm not a whiz at deciphering Typepad's meagre stats, so it's hard to know sometimes. Currently, wondering who is using the MySpace.com search engine to find me has got me scratching my head. Anyone?

However, I guess it's appropriate to respond, sometimes, to comments. I've never promised to do that consistently (though I've ALWAYS checked out your blogs), and I'm not promising now. However, Kira has set the example.

You see, the lovely and talented Kira sent me an email in reply to MY comment on her blog. Because Kira is a better person than I am. So I will start by replying to Kira's reply.

Kira wanted to know if all was well in Canada. Because, as she pointed out, she's sure I have full knowledge of ALL of Canada.

Well, Kira, that may be closer to the truth than you think. Because the reality is that, as I've written before, Canada is just one big small town. Seriously. More on that in a minute.

Meanwhile, how are things in Canada? Well, we caught us some bad guys, and now the Prime Minister is safe from beheading. Or something like that.

We lost us a Stanley Cup.

In Ontario, we bought some land.

Somebody's going to jail.

We went back to court. (Finally!)

Closer to home, I'm being interviewed for a CBC radio program tomorrow. And yes, it's RADIO - I checked. Three times.

And the small town thing? I live in a metropolitan area with a population in excess of 1/4 million people. Our good friends came to watch the baseball game with us on Saturday. Turns out, she knows one of the other mothers from her previous job, plus the other mother sang at the wedding of my youngest daughter's best friend's voice coach. One big happy happy, that's us Canucks.

So Kira, while all may not be well, it's at least interesting.

Second answer goes out to good friend Jenn who doesn't blog, but is a loyal reader. Embiggen = make bigger.

Third answer aimed at Kim: With a million dollars-  or ten million - I still wouldn't move. I'd buy a condo in Florida and winter there, but this is home, and something bigger would require me to pay some of that hard-earned lucky million to someone to clean.

Fourth answer to all who wondered: No, I didn't win a dime. Played my birthday and everything. Maybe next week. Which would be good, because I saw a bookstore for sale and I can't imagine a more ideal existence - running a bookstore and writing novels.

I can dream, can't I?

All right already, here I am

You know you've been preoccupied when your teenager tells you, "Geez Mom, you haven't blogged for DAYS."

It's exam week for them, and production week for me, and all around, things are gogogogo busy. And apparently tomorrow it's going to be a hundred and ohmigod degrees outside, so the action will all be by the pool. Especially since the air conditioners aren't in yet. (have you SEEN the cost of electricity? For the first time in history, it may actually end up being cheaper for me to wander around an air-conditioned WalMart than it will be to cool the house. Which I used to do when Oldest was a baby)

I got an assignment I was waiting for today, which is good - puts something on the calendar for the few weeks. And I'm still waiting to hear something from the agent that's had my full since February. I've followed up and followed up, and I haven't heard a word. I'm still hoping I do -I really like what I've seen of this agent, and would love the chance to work with her. Besides the fact that I'd like to have an agent, I mean. But I think this week will also see me sending out the next batch of agent queries; I'd laid off for a while because I was hoping for this one to go somewhere, but the practical thing is to keep getting it out there.

It's hard for me to be practical about anything.  The writer in me can imagine so many impractical (yet plausible) situations and stories, create more-than-real characters and envision Cinderella endings at every turn. Being practical just goes against the grain.

And I have to get back to the current WIP. I've held off because there's been so much to do, and I could easily lose hours working on this far-from-practical story. The laptop has really helped; being able to change my surroundings seems to spark a creative burst of energy.

So, much ado about nothing on the old blog tonight. But I leave you with this cartoon that I came across by chance today. Click the cartoon to embiggen.

Blatant promotion for someone who's not myself

While you're waiting to win the lottery - or for me to post again (better odds on that one) go check out Mir's new project!

Dream for a dollar

With the exit of West Wing, Charmed, et al, as well as the summer hiatus for most other shows, I've been wondering just what, exactly, I'm going to watch on TV this summer. ('cause, ya know, spending my time WRITING A FREAKIN' NOVEL would make too much sense)

So last night, Middle and I sat down to watch Windfall, NBC's new summer offering. I made her watch it with me because the premise is the sort of thing that sparks all kinds of intelligent, thought-provoking discussion about morals, money, etc. (I once generously told my mother that if I were to win a million dollars, I'd hire her to be my maid)

And I liked the pilot. I hope it gets picked up - sure, there's a lot of formulaic cliches in it, but it's interesting to consider what money means and does to people. There are worse things I could talk about with my teenager.

I'd missed the first 20 minutes, which kind of sets the stage for the whole thing, so I did what people do these days, and I googled it to find out more. That's when I saw what the winning numbers were (on the show)

9-12-19-71

My birthday. September twelfth, nineteen hundred and seventy-one.

Is that freaky, or what?

Of course, 71 isn't an option in our lotteries here, but it sent a shiver up my spine, nonetheless.

So, given that Middle said, quite seriously, "You know, a million dollars isn't really a lot of money anymore," let's raise the stakes on that age-old question:

What would YOU do with TWO million dollars? Blog your answer, and put your link in the comments here!

The daily dirt

Erma Bombeck (the funniest lady EVER) (I mean, besides Joshilyn) once wrote that the best way to get around to some serious housecleaning was to invite everyone you know to a party at your place. That way, she reasoned, you'd be FORCED to rally the troops kids and get the work done before everyone arrived.

So, I scheduled a photo shoot in my backyard for later this week, and have spent much of the last two days weeding, planting, mulching and tidying. It works.

I have also learned that the ginko plant I was given as a gift will grow to 80 feet tall. And that rose cuttings are best attempted in July. Or in early spring or late fall, depending on which online article you read. Had it not been for Google, I would have known none of this.

I am an amateur when it comes to plants and flowers. My methods run somewhere along the line of "dig a hole, stick the plant in, water it, and hope for the best." I've been surprisingly successful.

It's all a matter of mindset. You see, the things I really want to grow? Don't. And the things I wish would die once and for all? Don't. So I just have to change what I want, and all's well.

However, the roses are in bloom, the mulch is fresh, and the lawn is mowed. What more could a girl ask for as summer beckons?

Except maybe a sure-fire method for getting ALL the dirt out from under my fingernails. Perhaps Google has some suggestions...

The Dollar Store Express

Conversations from this afternoon:

3:15 p.m.

Oldest: Mom, can you drive A. and I to the Dollar Store later? We have to get some things for a school project. Yes, it has to be today.

3:45 p.m.

Youngest: Mom, can you drive B. and I to the Dollar Store later? We have to get some things for a project. Yes, it has to be today.

3:50 p.m.

Middle: Since you're taking them to the Dollar Store, can I come too?

4:00 p.m.

Middle: Can I bring a friend?

4:01 p.m.

I collapse into a weeping puddle as my evening of "no one has to go anywhere, we can all stay home!" evaporates before my eyes.

And while we're on the topic of driving - at what point did "anything under a dollar per litre" become a gasoline price to get excited about?

Sat-ur-day...in the park...

OK, so I can't sing.  But hopefully I've now left you with an ear worm, and though you may curse me for it, you'll remember me, and come back again.

Every year in these parts, the city features "Art in the Park" on this, the first weekend in June, where artists of all kinds come from all places and show off their stuff in a local park. The running local joke is, no matter what the forecast says, if it's Art In The Park weekend, it's going to rain.

And today was no exception. However, between thundershowers, we did manage to get over there and cruise the booths. Neat stuff. Muddy ground. The first thing I did when I got home was wash my feet. My flip-flops may never recover.

Proving once again that large cities are smaller than you think, we weren't there ten minutes when we ran into my father-in-law. And then some other people we knew. And then, since the booths are set up around the perimeter of the park, we encountered that phenomeno that Busy Mom has blogged about before, although she mentioned it in reference to the supermarket.

You know, how you run into someone who's traversing in the opposite direction as you.

Us: Hi there, how are ya?

Someone we know: Great, how about you?

Us: Well, great to run into you. See ya!

Someone we know: Yeah, nice to see you, bye!

And then 30 minutes later, on your second circuit around, you run into them again. I mean, what's the etiquette? Are you supposed to say hello all over again? Simply nod in acknowledgment of the fact that you're going to keep passing each other? I mean, the greeting and the catching up, over and over and over again could last all day! Or do you just put your head down the second time, and hope they do the same, and pass one another without a word?

There should be a guidebook that covers these things.