are you there, dog? It's me, kerensa

I used to sit on her La-Z-Boy, eating her black licorice (which I hated, but swore that I loved simply because she did), watching soaps with her, because this is what was part of our routine. As a five year old child, I knew to equate Patti Austin and James Ingram's "Baby Come to Me" with Holly and Robert Scorpio, I knew that Adam Chandler was a force to be reckoned with, and Tina and Cord were too hot to last. My grandma would doze in her chair, and I would sit with my crossword puzzle, awaiting the theme song of General Hospital, which started with a mournful siren and not the silly 90210-esque character montages of today. It was a time of simplicity...being a child, being in the 1980s, thinking one could escape merely by watching escapist television. I think it is this fact that allowed me to justify watching these soaps for decades after this. As a teenager, I taped them every day on our VHS and watched them while i did my homework, my heart hurting for the love I had

Friday, February 16, 2007 Halloween I am not sure of the exact appeal to Halloween. Perhaps it is the pagan in me, longing to come out. The girl who used to burn black candles and listen to eerie music. Really, the only religions that make even the slightest bit of sense to me are taoism and wicca, but I digress. Perhaps halloween is as exciting as it is because of the anonymity of costumes, the idea we can each metamorphise into another being. We grew up in a small town, atop a mountain, so the trick or treating was sparse and difficult. As young teenagers, my friends and I would traipse around the center of the mountain, hunting out the best goodies (full sized candybars) and I would stand by and disapprovingly watch as they "tricked" the less than generous houses. Back then, parents were trusting enough to send their strangely clad children out into the dark to knock on strangers doors. We would all heed the rules about no wrapperless candy, knowing that evil disgu

There are tiny moments. They are sporadic. There is sometimes music beating time with the moments, and silence to mark the others. She feels a lifetime in a moment, a mere minute in a year. This is the glory of youth. James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, in black and white glory, line her walls- a tribute to a past she has not known, nor will she ever. She reads On the Road and fancies herself a female Kerouac, she watches obscure movies at her tiny theater off Rural Rd. and fancies herself an amateur Siskel, but really what she is is young. She closes her mouth in horror as her friends spin brodies off the Salt River Project, and in silence, watches the Phi Sigs play basketball out her window. She makes it to class when she can, and absorbs what she can, but really what she is is young. She meets a boy at a campus party. He is lanky, she is lonely. they strike up a conversation, as it goes. She wants to be anywhere but here, anyone but this, but it sticks, and she is. She studies, she forge

There were times... many of them, that I questioned whether or not I was doing the right thing. The times when money was tight, bills were due, tires needed changing, or credit cards were high...I wondered if I had mistakenly taken the selfish route. I could have been "bringing in the bacon", along with a struggling Jake. I could've been putting in my nine to five, dressed in nylons and a chignon, alongside the majority of American women, earning my keep. But we saw her tiny face, pink and innocent, ready for everything the world was going to hand her, but so soft and needy, and there was no question that I would stay with her. She would not face it alone. There would be no daycare, no strangers, no missed moments. She would be one hundred percent mine. We gave up the idea of a house, of fancy cars, of restaurants and shopping sprees. And I spent each day, immersed in baby language and diapers, and meals for Jake. I took it for granted, knowing that as long as we were wil

I took the curtains off the sidelite windows yesterday, in preparation for our new storm door, and each time I pass it by, I am startled by how naked I suddenly feel. Our world has become one whose hatches are battened, toggles are buttoned and seams are sealed tight. Fifty years ago, it was customary to pop your head in your neighbor's door and let out a "yoohoo", and now the door has become deadlocked, barricaded and made of steel. I have mentioned before that I was raised on a mountain, where privacy was not only possible, but all too often the norm. In winter, the street was dark as pitch, because the inhabited homes were few and far between. My parents would go to sleep early, and I would be left in the quiet, longing for companionship and the noises of a suburb. Friends who lived below Taborton led, in my eyes, an easier life. They did not help split wood with a hatchet in November, or drag mattresses in front of the coal stove during power outages. When they wanted

First Written Friday, February 16, 2007 So apparently, according to my mother, I am an odd duck. I used to look forward to the first day of school with fervor. The smells of new shoe leather, the classroom and supplies. The feel of your new first day dress, and perfect September air. Everything was new, and fresh, and full of promise. Which teachers were to become your destiny? The ones who drove you crazy with their stupidity, or the ones who picked your brain and tested your limits? Would your friends be in your class, or in your lunch? What about the guy you had a crush on? I want to tell my children they will have great teachers, and terrible ones. They will make some amazing friends who will bring them nostalgia in adulthood, and they will have some friends who cause me to inwardly cringe. They will have fabulous days, and atrocious days, but the good days will outnumber the bad. There will be a lot of learning experiences that will be invaluable to them for their entire

Like kids in a candy store, they are furiously digging their grubby paws through the clearance bins, in search of an item, any item, that would make this dig pay off. They eagerly examine scrapbook stickers and notepads (although the monogram P and V are all that are left), until they find something random and I agree to add it to my basket. We are there to buy supplies for their Halloween costumes, and before you get overly impressed with my superwoman skills, I must admit this is the first year I am attempting homemade costumes. When my sister and I were growing up, my mother was that aforementioned supermom. She made us gourmet meals on a tight budget, managed a full time teaching job and still managed to be the mom who dug out her sewing machine periodically. When the kids in 7th grade were all buying Skidz pants (atrociously ugly), she actually made me a pair so I could fit in (though I never wore them- because I was a perpetually embarrassed preteen) My handmade costumes ranged f

They are immersed in a conversation only feet from where she sits, and it is a dialogue in her own language, but she is unable to comprehend. They are speaking of the depths of the latest foreign film they have seen, and of the new exhibit at the modern art museum. They speak of their trips overseas, and of obscure Indian Food restaurants, and of communes and underground music. She scrambles to pick up after one baby, who has littered the floor with a mosaic of rice and beans. Another child is showing her their bubble blowing abilities in soda. She searches her brain for a piece of titillating gossip, news or random trivia she could bring to this table, but she is at a loss. She could speak of the new way the babies say thank you, or of the upcoming school year. She could recite Stand By Me word for word, and give a recipe for macaroni and cheese she stole from Paula Deen. An invisible mirror is suddenly before her and she sees an overweight girl with hair that actually looks frayed al

Friday, February 16, 2007 If you have watched the movie Titanic, you know what I am talking about when I say Titanic Love. I saw this movie when it first came out, Christmas of 1997. I has just had my heart broken and a great friend brought me to see it, and let me cry in the theater while Jack froze to death in the water. Titanic Love is a love that is destined to fail, to sink if you will, but is so worth the pain, you would go through it a thousand times. Jack and Rose had two days together before she was selfish enough to steal the door out from under him and let him die, but in that time, they felt true passion and romance that rocked her world for the next 80 decades. For many, Titanic Love is a dream. The idea of a soul mate is a dream. For those who have experienced it, you know that there are some things that surpass words and time. Your life is made up of moments. Some are trivial and forgettable. Some are momentous, like childbirth, your wedding vows, graduation. And

Friday, February 16, 2007 Valentine's Day/ Snow Day This morning, we awoke to six inches of powdery snow, and a snow day, and so began a glorious Valentine's Day. Chocolate Chip pancakes for breakfast, and chilly romp outside, a crackling fire, and homemade Valentines have all continued to make this the sweet day tradition says it should be. Many believe that valentine's Day is merely a holiday perpetuated by mass corporations like Hallmark, capitalizing on peoples' needs for passion and romance. It trounces on the lonely and heartbroken, and empties the pockets of the desperate in love. But does it have to be that way? I spent four and a half hours making homemade valentines cards for the kids classes, complete with ribbon, and gold embossing, only to meet with a disdainful Jake, wondering why I wasn't buying the 99 cent cartoon character cards at Wal Mart. But don't those cards go against everything that Valentine's Day should stand for? If we so e

I awoke this morning, feeling clean and empty but nervous. Because I had not eaten in more than 24 hours, the butterflies were given free reign in my empty stomach. Appropriately, my dad drove me in to Albany Memorial, and after the standard check in procedures and insurance rigamarole, I was laid on a bed in a private room. To one side was a large flat panel TV and a number of machines. I was told to lie on my side, revealing all that I own, as my threadbare gown made no attempt at modesty. Electrodes were fastened to my chest, an IV was inserted in my hand, and oxygen put in my nose. I pictured the ocean to calm my nerves, and that particular strategy may have been too successful, the alarm blared to notify the nurse that my heartbeat was too slow. The doctor came in, briefly squeezed my shoulder and ordered the "cocktail" of versed to be pushed through. As I began to doze, I heard the song "Baby, Come to Me" on the radio, and I remarked that it always reminded me

I was thirteen when I found out she had cancer. Amazing, how it was 19 years ago, and I still recall so vividly where I was standing when my mother told me. It was, in a way, similar to the stories we hear of when John F. Kennedy was assassinated...everyone remembers minute details normally forgotten by day's end. My grandmother was what I consider to this day to be the quintessential grandparent. She bought us new coloring books for each visit, fed us ice cream past bedtime, and nestled us in her bosom when we needed comfort. Her house always smelled like food, whether it was stew or spaghetti, and my grandpa always smelled like smoke. He was a volunteer firefighter, and would often come home at night to kiss us, enveloped in a smoky heroism I relished. They lived in probably a mere 1200 square feet, but as a child, it was a palace, with its patterned carpet, and cushy la-Z-boys. When we spent the night, she made sure to use the sheets bought specifically for me, white with pink r

On Saturday night, a family friend came for dinner, and as I cooked for him, I was reminded why one finds such comfort in the kitchen. For the past several months, the kitchen has lost its appeal, because the other adult with whom I share meals is absent, and while my children are open to many kinds of food, their palates are certainly not advanced enough to appreciate good cuisine. My own childhood was filled with such flavor. My mother was a self-taught cook, never afraid of experimenting beyond the pages of Betty Crocker, and while there was occasionally a misstep or two (anything containing raisins or curry will always be a misstep for me), dinner was a consistently pleasurable time for our family. Each member had their self assigned seats, and we spoke of our days over steaming platters of artichokes, or clams with melted garlic butter. I have many memories that still bring me laughter- my sister stuffing peas into her tiny nose like pistol bullets, my mother serving me detestable

It began 9 years ago, in the blistering wet heat of Florida. While the world slept, I watched the clock ease its way through the late night. I learned the joys of ebay at midnights, and reruns of Friends at 2am, and infomercials where I was promised a double order plus free shipping and handling if I.Just.Call.Right.Now! I watched Rhiannon asleep, still a baby, with sporadic phantom boob suckling. I was startled by Jake's sleepwalking/sleeptalking/sleepbasketball playing. I took showers stealthily in hopes it would trigger drowsiness, but to no avail. I cannot exactly tell you what would run through my mind as those minutes and hours dragged on. In retrospect, I assume I was suffering from postpartum, and my mind was whirling like an out of control carousel. Jake and I were planning our wedding, though in all honesty, Jake took more of a bystander role. With a limited budget, I hunted down guest books and veils from novice auction sellers, and panicked about paying DJs and photogra

I flip old photo albums, and rifle through past love letters or letters written to me in my most homesick moments in college. I hear from a friend of a friend that their lives went on just fine without me. The old wound opens and what comes from its gaping mouth is a certain sense of grief. Over the course of our lifetimes, we meet so many people, and perhaps make many casual acquaintances, but a true and steadfast friend is a rarity. It could be the girl, who in 4th grade, had to hold her purple pleather pants up with both hands while trying to run the laps in gym class. Or the other girl who drunkenly made up (or helped to make up) your high school nickname. It could be the girl who sat with you during American history, who made you laugh till you peed a little. Perhaps the college roommate whom you fought with constantly, or the other college roommate whose parents sent you Halloween care packages. Or, it could be the boy who brought you a rose on Valentine's Day freshman year

It is not perfect, most certainly flawed, and yet has a certain undeniable charm about it. The walls don't quite meet in the corners, and the showerhead is at mid-chest level. The floors slant just enough so that the baby teeters and occasionally falls when walking. I try not to notice the bottoms of our feet, which are now covered in a dense grey dust, that I will find later takes more than three showers to remove. At night, the tiny black flies worm their way through the holes in the screens, and I fear that a raccoon or an errant chipmunk will discover that the rear door doesn't close completely, and will have their way with our meager camp food supply. But the view...the view is amazing. At night, the moon sends its brilliant shadow across the water and it truly looks like the lake is glowing from within, which at one time in history may have helped tired sailors to hear the Siren nymphs singing before they drowned. My sister and I stand, one night at midnight, to watch as

I stepped on the scale, and despite my justifications and excuses (heavy sweater, change and keys in the pocket, winter boots), the number before me was unfathomable. I have never been a petite person, one of the tallest in elementary school, one of the first to get boobs and hips, so much so that I escaped to a stall in middle school to change for gym class out of embarrassment. Most of my friends were smaller than I, fitting into the cute clothes in 5-7-9 that i could only admire from afar. I tried fad diets in high school, though let's face it- to be that size again would be heavenly. When I got to ASU, my pockets were empty, and the job market for an inexperienced eighteen year old left much to be desired. I began working at the movie theater, which meant crazy hours, unlimited free popcorn, and most importantly, an absurdly meager wage. At 4.40 an hour before taxes, I barely made enough to buy school supplies let alone feed myself, so I turned to what every college student sub

My mother and I recently had a conversation about success. It began with her telling me of a wall they are devoting to successful graduates in her school. She told me of a former student who now works for the FBI, another who went on to master not only law school, but music and scads of other professions, and yet another who works to find cures for disease. For each of them, she had awe and respect, and the tenderness in her voice was akin to that which she reveals only when she speaks of her most prized pupils. It brought about an interesting question- what is success? She mentioned that many nominations for the wall had come in, parents raving about their daughter who became a doctor, a family who proudly proclaimed their son had been a janitor for decades in the high school...My mother was solid in her belief that while they were admirable jobs, they were not the epitome of success, and therefore could not rival for those positions on the wall. She reasoned that while all parents a

So, you find a house after looking at three dozen, with three bored children in tow, and an exasperated husband, who says repeatedly that he does not want to have to do any "work" on a house. You look through strangers' closets, and in the darkest corners of their basements, which turn out to be creepier than they should, and you see glimpses into many lives much like your own. You notice the tacky wallpaper in the entry, the stray suspicious hairs on the bathroom floors, and the numerous piles of dog excrement littering the backyard. You make notes about the sizes of the bathrooms and bedrooms, yards and garages. You attempt to mentally arrange your own furniture in rooms normally inhabited by floral fabric loving old ladies, and try to picture your own children coming in the front doors after school. But all too often, you just don't feel "it", the overwhelming need to make this house your home, the feeling that all will be well once you get your things un

I am 31 going on 32 ( in just a few short weeks, 32 shopping days to be exact). This week, I got to be a ten year old again- albeit an incredibly stressed out and uber responsible one, but a ten year old all the same. Tuesday night was the pool party, complete with snocones, muscle floaties and bug bites galore. In celebration of the entire year, or perhaps nothing really in particular, a friend had the girl scouts out to her home, and the mothers (who declined to wear bathing suits, each believing they had a flaw to hide, and yet each knowing that of all groups, ours would be last to judge) sat in lawn chairs and discussed mother things like summer camp, teachers, and communicable diseases. The giggly gaggle of girl scouts, clad in vibrants tankinis, bikinis and skirted one pieces, flopped and splashed and dog paddled for hours, coming up only for air and slowly congealing pizza. I sat between the two groups, because as mother of little babies, one must be always on toes, always quick

As I have said before, I am a PTA mom (and proud of it). I believe that when one thinks of a suburban mom/housewife, they think of a woman with peaces n cream skin and perfectly manicured hands. They drive spotless minivans, and often feed Koolaid in actual Koolaid pitchers to their overly attractive tweens and their numerous friends after an apparently successful soccer game. After which, she high fives them and they scamper to the yard. She is the mom who, despite having cleaned all day until there is somehow an audible shine to her counters and floors, shakes her head laughingly as her enthusiastically muddy child comes in, followed by a large dog covered in what appears to be massive amounts of shit. This woman is happily married to a handsome alpha male named Dan/Rob/Rick, who seldom makes appearances aside from fleetingly in the sidelines. This is the woman who will giggle and swat Dan/Rob/Rick on the hand after he says damn, for she is pure as the driven snow. She hums as she gr

As I have spoken about before, I have an impending move on my plate. I will be going with my family to Raleigh, NC, to begin a new adventure. This is not the first time, though I hope it will be my last, that I have taken a leap of faith (in whatever I needed to at the time) and jumped head first into an unknown body of water (or lack thereof). At age 18, I had broken up with my high school sweetheart, both of my grandparents had died, and my parents got divorced, and the only logical thing there seemed left to be, was to move to Arizona. My mother rented a Grand Prix, and she and my sister and I hung my Class of 95 tassle on the rearview and drove...and drove...and drove...I stayed in Arizona for more than 4 years- with the first year and the last being incredibly difficult ones, and let's be honest, so were the middle two. Jake and I stuck Rhiannon in a moving van ( a 14 footer, I believe) and drove suddenly to Tampa, Fl, without jobs, without a home, without a plan. With the exc

There is a scent in the air tonight, and while it is a little chilly and damp, I recognize it as the smell of summer. When I was younger, my family and I lived on a lake high on a mountain top...miles from civilization. (cue the banjo from deliverance) The winters were harsh, sometimes we would be unable to drive down our road, so we would be forced to trudge through feet of snow for half a mile before getting to our house, only to realize the oil truck also couldn't get down the road, and thus we were without heat. There were several times that our cars skidded off of slick roads, and countless playdates lost because parents did NOT want to venture the roadtrip to drop off their child. As a very young kid, the toboganning and ice skating were enough to make winter bearable, as was the warmth of christmas. But as I got older, it became more and more difficult to accept the way of life the great Northeast had to offer (Hence, the trip to ASU for college) . I longed for summers, whic

With one child, the world is your proverbial oyster. You still own time and can blissfully waste minutes, ignorant to how quickly they will eventually come to pass. You find milestones in simple things, really... the first time they wear shoes, the first time they uncurl their tiny fists to wrap around your finger. You dress the child ever so carefully, donning adorable sunhats when the first days of spring peek around the corner, slathering sunscreen at the mere hint of a less than overcast day, tiny, perfect socks go on clean and shiny feet. You remember to bathe your child consistently, paying special attention to delicate parts and cradle caps and stork bites and chunky folds of pink marshmallow skin. You sing to them while you change them, and take care to Desitin those sweet, forgiving, ever- wet parts of theirs, and to buy the best diapers, the best wipes and the most expensive shampoo. You retain all words spoken to you by the pediatrician, and may even write them in a handly l

She stands before the tiny mirror attached to her door, and turns from side to side. Her hair is not quite as she planned, and the dress is not the one she imagined, but at this particular moment, while her hemline swishes like the spring breeze outside, it is all inconsequential. She bought the tickets the day they went on sale in the cafeteria, the money earned at her after school supermarket job dwindling with each preparation for this day. A dozen stores were ransacked, in search of the dress she envisioned, and had pictured herself in every day for the two years she had dated him. A deep passionate purple, off the shoulder, and just lovely. The one she ended up with was what one may call last ditch, at the last store, and more than a little disappointing- a bit of foreshadowing of her wedding. But she still feels young, and beautiful, and optimistic and nervous: all the required emotions of a girl at her prom. The neighbor girl who was paid to dress her hair has left, and her mot

Sometimes, it takes one mere note, a single line or verse, and you are immersed. Heartbreak, nostalgia, joy, hope...they all creep up like a serpent through your soul when an amazing song is on. And obviously, music is purely objective: beauty is in the eye of the beholder. A truly good song will haunt you, will raise the tiny hairs along the nape of your neck, your arms like static on a warm night. You may feel as though your heart is growing with the crescendos, beat by beat. I have been known to sob along with a particularly relevant song: Children by Robert Miles when Rhiannon was small, Nothing Else Matters by Metallica during a nasty breakup, Heaven by Beam and Yanou at the wedding of a childhood friend, Breathe Me by Sia at the finale of 6 Feet Under, etc... Tonight, I am listening to Love Story redone on cello and piano by Jon Schmidt. A song I am quick to change when on the radio by a droning Taylor Swift, whose lyrics are as cheesy as my infamous chimichangas, but when play