What it means to be beautiful

as published in The Orange County Register on September 14, 2013:

“I hope my teacher’s pretty.”

These are the words my first grader says as we walk up the hill on the first day of school.

I restrain my outrage by visualizing the Barbie-torching party we will be having when she gets home, as surely I can blame such shallow thinking on Mattel. No daughter of mine would slap “pretty” at the top of her wish list when considering an instructor’s merits!

Then I remember: Mrs. Heffernan. My fourth grade teacher was so pretty. Perfectly symmetrical features, bright blue eyes, she masterfully pulled off the prescribed hot pink lipstick and blonde perm of 1987. She also rocked the bib dress – you know the one, with the plunging floral fabric-backed collar accented with a bow at the waist, topped off with a pair of Sam & Libby’s flats with an equally perky bow.

Oh how I loved her.

But was that why? Because she was pretty? I do remember also loving how Mrs. Heffernan would read to us from James and the Giant Peach every day after lunch. And she’d even let us take turns massaging her shoulders while she read. So she must have been smart, too.

Over the years, I had many other teachers who I now remember as beautiful. Ms. Garrick – a rotund Rasta with a loose lip and a deep love for Toni Morrison. She was the first teacher who told me I should keep writing.

At 6’2 with blonde fuzzy hair, Mrs. Jones looked a bit like Big Bird. She had an infectious laugh and introduced me to Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare. We still exchange Christmas cards.

Pat Boothe was the teacher who mentored me the first year I taught middle school English. She was a dramaturg and a hippie and by the world’s standards not supermodel material. But two weeks after the school year ended when Pat Boothe suddenly and tragically passed away, the students who loved her enough to pay their respects overflowed out of the large church building that held her funeral and  into the streets. She was beautiful.

When we arrive at the blacktop of my daughter’s school, we see that she will have not one but two teachers this year in first grade. They are both very pretty and kind, and they greet each child with warm smiles and handshakes as they move down the line of their awaiting class. One wears a ball cap with what appears to be a wig underneath. I presume this is the reason there are two.

I marvel at the inner strength and love for children – including my own – that will pull this teacher out of bed and into the classroom during what will be one of the most challenging years of her life.

And I feel lucky that this year my daughter will learn what it means to be beautiful.

The Road Trip

as published at The Orange County Register on August 24, 2013:

“Alex, wake up! There are zebras everywhere.”

“Tell them we ran out of Skittles.”

“I did, but they already left the construction site.”

“I don’t like country music either.”

“When are we going to be on ‘Duck Dynasty’ again?”

We go on like this for hours, my daughter and I, submersed in our nonsense talk. On another journey in another location, a desert wanderer may rely on a mirage of an oasis to keep him going. But on hour 17 of driving up the California coast, my daughter keeps me awake at the wheel by chattering about whatever stream of ridiculousness we can conjure.

From the beginning, this summer’s road trip met heavy opposition. When I first presented the idea of driving to my brother’s wedding reception in Washington state, my husband was as encouraging as Judge Judy.

“I can’t take another week off work,” he protested.

“Then I’ll drive the kids myself.”

“22 hours?”

“We’ll break it over 5 days – I’ll take them to see Hearst Castle, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Redwood Forest, it’ll be great!”

“These days, it’d be cheaper to fly,” he argued.

“Yeah right, well… let me check… okay, you’re right. It is cheaper to fly. But then we’d miss out on Hearst Castle, Fisherman’s Wharf, and the Redwood Forest!”

“Without an extra driver, what’ll you do when you get tired?”

“I never get tired.”

I lied. The A/C’s blasting, my eyes are burning, and I’ve pounded two bags of trail mix just to stay in motion. But if we’d copped out and turned to Alaska Airlines, I’d miss out on all this quality time waking up my 13-year-old navigator to banter about jazzercise, stained glass, and Bisquick.

I’d expected my three youngers in the rear to keep our car alive with the kind of squabbling my brothers and I used to indulge in on our road trips, but the invention of iEverything has silenced our back row. While I appreciate their iComas, I have to holler every 15 minutes for them to yank off their earphones and look at the waterfall/cliff/lion seal view they’re sacrificing for their pixelated world. I doubt they’ll ever remember we even went on this trip.

I think back to the annual road trips I used to take with my mom at the wheel (while my dad worked). Cross-country from Memphis to California she’d plow with all eight of us kids strapped into our conversion van. My mom would plot those trips for weeks, mapping out all the exciting landmarks we’d encounter. We’d break the drive over a week, and along the way we’d see the Alamo, the Grand Canyon, the desert! But all I remember is waking up in the passenger seat to find my mom at the wheel with two Red Vines protruding from her ears, and a row of M&M’s balancing between her upper lip and nose as she made monkey faces in the rearview mirror.

“What are you doing?” I’d ask.

“Staying awake.”

The Bridal Shower

as published at The Orange County Register on August 10, 2013:

I’m scanning the aisles of Target with four pages of printed wish list, matching bar code to object. According to her registry, my future sister-in-law’s kitchen will contain a sea of silver and white. I love silver and white, and as I survey the lovely silver and white chafing dishes, napkin holders, and salt and pepper shakers my new sister-in-law has registered for, I wonder if my kitchen will ever have a shot at being so shiny and pretty.

She also wants a salad spinner. Where were those when I got married? I don’t recall ever registering for one, but from the blurb on the box, it looks like a salad spinner is just what I need-- considering all that lettuce throttling I’ve been doing since 1998.

I also never got a popcorn popper, quesadilla maker, or fabric steamer, but it appears my new sister-in-law will. I’m not sure where I’d stow these things, but I just know they’d make my life wonderful.

I picture my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s world. I can see her in her silver and white Williams and Sonoma-esque kitchen where she’ll spend a quiet afternoon popping buttery popcorn and lifting the lid of her quesadilla maker to release cheesy golden brown discs, all whilst a crisp head of romaine spins itself dry. She’ll probably be wearing a freshly steamed apron and stilettos and listening to Michael Buble, and while I know my hungry hulk of a brother would never request a dinner of popcorn, quesadillas, and dry-spun lettuce, he’ll tell my sister-in-law it’s all wonderful because everything’s wonderful when you’re a newlywed.

Right there in aisle 37b of Target, I break down: I want to get married!

The problem is, I am. For 15 years last Thursday. And despite all our attempts to plan something special, in the rush and run around that has become our day-to-day, all I got for my 15^th anniversary was a leaky dishwasher, a jammed shower door, and a broken kitchen faucet that squirts you in the chest when you attempt to pull the sprayer from its dock. Which brings us to the age-old question:

Why don’t you get a bridal shower after you’ve figured out what you actually need to be a bride?

The romantic part of me really wants to buy my brother’s soon-to-be a popcorn popper, or a salad spinner, or a fabric steamer to make all those extra moments of their lives special.

But the seasoned wife in me ends up purchasing them a stainless steel spatula and a sturdy mixing bowl, because over the years, I have learned a few things. A good spatula can flip a quesadilla and dislodge a jammed shower door, and a mixing bowl will be there for you during any kind of leak. And when marriage brings you those moments that aren’t so shiny and pretty, it’s the tools you actually use rather than those you don’t that make all the difference.