Yearly Archives: 2012

Revisiting Junior Parents Weekend

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Today marks the beginning of Junior Parents Weekend at the University of Notre Dame.

That three-day period when parents and their students come together with other parents and students for various activities, to meet the professors, visit campus, and affirm that their hard-earned dollars are being put to good use.

But I’m missing it.

My Favorite Domer turned thumbs-down on this event a long time ago. He’s too busy for such orchestrated activities, he said. His friends’ parents aren’t coming. He didn’t want me to spend money for tickets and clothing and transportation and lodging — when I’m already on campus monthly.

‘Are you sure?’ I wondered.

Yes, he said. It’s not like we’ll have quality time together, with all the planned activities. And you know how hard those large-group gatherings are.

I certainly do.

Some folks excel in a cocktail party setting. They mix and mingle, kiss everybody within grabbing distance, and make small talk like they’ve known those people forever.

I’ve never been like that.

‘Shy’ would have described me as a kid. Or ‘Wallflower.’

Today, I prefer ‘Introverted.’

Nothing wrong with that. Introverts (and many writers fall into that category) choose our companions and friends after they’ve been tested and found true.

When the invitation came in the mail, I assumed we’d go. Despite the certain cold weather, the itchy new clothing, and the uncomfortable socializing.

I never expected Domer wouldn’t want to attend.

The schedule of events was full, to say the least:

  • An Opening Gala, complete with music, dancing, and fancy food.
  • Hall Luncheon to meet my son’s friends and see his quad in its “natural” state.
  • Saturday Mass at the Joyce Center (nobody does Mass the way ND does Mass!)
  • President’s Dinner.
  • Closing Brunch on Sunday, with tearful good-byes all around.

‘Are you certain?’ I kept asking.

His reply continued in the affirmative.

Some parents would have signed up and coerced their kid to tag along. Not me.

ND is his school, his home. Right or wrong, the decision on attending these festivities would be his.

And he said No.

A big part of me is sad. Sad at not seeing him this weekend. Sad at not being on campus, even at this dismal time of year. Sad at not being part of the students’ enthusiasm, their intelligence, their wit.

You see, I love ND as much as is possible for someone who didn’t go there!

But growing up means assuming responsibility for our choices. The world (and our own family) might not approve. But we each must listen to that quiet, inner Voice which leads us in the direction that’s right for us.

Sometimes we call that Voice, ‘conscience.’ Other times, it’s ‘compass.’

Domer is blessed with a strong one, and I couldn’t be prouder.

A Tricky Test for Tuesday

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Look at this picture, then let me ask you a question — Which one’s the shampoo?

Garnier shampoo & conditioner

Are you sure? Look again.

Now imagine taking this scarlet duo into the shower. Add a bit of water to your eyes, dim the lights (to simulate your shower curtain or door), and take off your glasses.

Not so easy-peasy, is it?

Let’s try another pair. Which one is the shampoo?

Herbal Essence shampoo & conditioner

That’s obvious, you say. Why, even the bottles are shaped differently.

Okay, smartie. Try these, then:

John Frieda shampoo & conditioner

Getting a littler harder, isn’t it? Remember, you’ve got water in your eyes and the lighting is weak.

One more, then I’ll make my point:

Dove shampoo & conditioner

No, I’m not trying to trick you. I really did use one bottle of shampoo and its coordinating bottle of conditioner for each photo!

You know, I never gave much thought to the difficulties “old” people encountered when they turned 40 and started needing reading glasses.We’ve all heard the jokes about the guy who mistakenly used hemorrhoid cream instead of toothpaste.

But “old” people aren’t the only ones who use glasses for close up seeing.

And young people don’t corner the market when it comes to shampoo and conditioner.

Why can’t manufacturers help out a little, instead of making these duos identical?

A few weeks ago, I guessed wrong and put the John Frieda conditioner on before shampooing. Not a pretty thing, I’m telling you. Who wants to stand in the shower, get all pruney, and double-shampoo?

The only reason I buy matching shampoo and conditioner in the first place is their sales pitch — you get the best results when you use products from the same line together. Who knows if that’s true? And who wants to find out by mixing ingredients from one company with those of another, ON THEIR HEAD?

Maybe the manufacturers are concerned with making a fashion statement in my bathroom.

Maybe they just like having matched bottles on the supermarket shelves.

Maybe it’s cheaper to make matching bottles for this stuff.

I don’t think so.

I think it’s a concerted effort to make me feel older than I am and to ensure I use all the hot water trying to figure this stuff out.

What do you think?

(By the way, the shampoo is on the left in each photo. Did you guess correctly?)

One Day I’ll Get My Wings

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For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to fly.

Not so much in a machine, mind you, but to fly. On my own accord.

When I was a kid, my sister and I would drape rain slickers — fastened at the neck by one button, our arms hanging free — across our backs, then race down our swing set slide, flapping like mad. The plan was, once we neared the bottom of the slide, to give a mighty leap and take off into the air!

Needless to say, that didn’t happen.

But I never quit hoping.

My parents, I’m sure, figured I’d outgrow this “nonsense.” Unlike me, they never wanted to be in the air, even in a plane.

When I became an adult, I casually entered a contest in which the prize was a flight around town in a hot air balloon.

My parents thought I’d gone mad.

“What if it crashes?” they fretted. “What if it tangles up in power lines?”

I come from a long line of worriers, you see. Anything and everything has the potential for being life-threatening. Dangerous. Scary. Better off avoided.

But I wasn’t concerned.

I never win contests.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

Imagine my surprise when the phone rang to inform me I’d won!

My Favorite Domer was just a little kid, and part of me wondered what would happen to him if the unthinkable occurred and my balloon did crash. The other part of me, however, looked into his little eyes and knew I had to model brave behavior — for him.

He had to see that Mommy didn’t let fear hold her back. That sometimes, you’ve just got to suck it up, turn a deaf ear to the naysayers, and live your dream.

My heart was tripping the day of the balloon ride. But the sky was cloudless and blue, the temperature was warm, and there was a perfect light breeze.

I watched the couple who were my pilots ready their (our) balloon for flight. Before I knew it, we were off!

What freedom! What glory!

Floating over the corn and soybean fields of central Illinois, high over the country roads, cars, and buildings.

It was truly as the balloonists’ say, “Mother Nature has taken you into the skies and returned you gently to Earth.”

Too soon, it was over. Besides my memory, I’m left with an empty bottle of champagne, autographed by my pilots and used in their “christening” ceremony for my virgin flight.

Would I go again? In a heartbeat!

As I’ve gotten older and people in my parents’ generation are dying around me, I’m reminded of something the nuns used to tell us in Catechism class:

One day, we, too, will die.

As a child, that didn’t worry me too much.

After all, I reasoned, when I die, I’ll probably get wings.

And wings will help me soar.

On my own!

Won’t THAT be cool?!

How do you tame the Social Media Monster?

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Are you, like me, sometimes overwhelmed by the proliferation of social media and the expectation that we ALL participate — in everything?

The arguments are persuasive:

  • Writers need a platform, a following, to show agents they’re able to promote their manuscript
  • Businesses need to connect with potential buyers and generate “buzz” about their services or products
  • Nobody in the entire world can possibly connect with as many people in real life as is possible online

But all that connecting can be exhausting, especially for writers (who tend to be introverts anyway and often find it easier to hole up and just write).

And perhaps it’s lots worse on those writers who, like me, can’t write full time right now because they must work at a paying job. Or those with small children. Or aging parents. Or…whatever.

We can all find excuses for NOT connecting online. Yet the reality is, there are only 24 hours in a day and, if you listen to the “experts,” we need to be sleeping 8 of them. That leaves 16 hours. For those who work, subtract 8 more (or 10 if you have a long commute), bringing your total “free” time to 6 hours.

Six hours to do basic personal maintenance (like bathing), run errands (banking, grocery shopping), taxi the kids to and from lessons and sleepovers, kiss the spouse, walk the dog, cook meals, and clean the house.

That doesn’t include time for yourself — to read, soak in a spa, exercise, paint, take up piano, or write.

What’s the answer?

If you look at the history of social media, you’ll find that blogging started in 1997. Facebook debuted in February, 2004, Twitter in March, 2006, and Google Plus in June, 2011. More than 845 million people are on Facebook and at Twitter’s five-year mark, some 350 billion “tweets” are delivered each day. In addition, countless webinars are now available, on everything from how to make your small business successful to how to plot that story lurking in your head.

No wonder we feel deluged!

Some people address this problem by periodically scheduling a vacation from online activities. They fold up the laptop, turn off the i-pad and phone, and unplug from the busyness.

That’s a good idea. We all need to recharge occasionally.

Other people set a timer. When their hour (or however much time they’ve allotted) is up, that’s it. No looking back. No cheating.

Do our online friends miss us when we don’t show up? I’d like to think so because I miss them when they’re absent for a time. But, if we announce that we’re taking a sabbatical, at least we’re letting everyone know we’ll be out of touch.

My suggestion (and it’s more a “Memo” to me rather than something you need!): Remember why you started down the social media path in the first place. Enjoy your time connecting. But don’t feel you have to be connected 24/7!

How have you tamed the social media monster??

Blessing of the Throats

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“Through the intercession of St. Blaise, bishop and martyr, may God deliver you from ailments of the throat and from every other evil. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” (Blessing of St. Blaise).

Many Catholics today will attend Mass and participate in the traditional Blessing of the Throats, in honor of St. Blaise, a third century physician and bishop.

According to legend, Blaise was born in Armenia into a noble family and raised as a Christian. When a new round of persecution began, Blaise fled to the hills to escape. There, he befriended the wild animals — wolves, lions, and bears. One day a group of hunters recognized him and captured him, intending to turn him in to the governor for trial. On the way, a woman brought him her son, who had a fish bone caught in his throat. Blaise prayed over the boy, and the bone dislodged, saving him from certain death.

When the governor attempted to get Blaise to sacrifice to pagan idols, Blaise refused. First he was beaten, then tortured, and finally beheaded.

The Feast of St. Blaise is celebrated around the world. Some Eastern Churches consider his feast a holy day; Germans and Slavs, in particular, hold him in special honor.

The Blessing of the Throats is a sacramental of the Church. Like Rosaries or genuflecting, sacramentals are Church-instituted objects or actions that work through the power and prayers of the Church to drive away the evil spirit.

Traditionally, the Blessing of the Throats will be performed at the conclusion of Mass.

The priest (often with several lay assistants) takes two blessed unlit candles, usually tied in a V-shape with a red ribbon, and lays them at the throat of each congregant, reciting the words of the blessing at the top of this post.

A simple and quick ceremony, but one that’s effective, particularly at this time of year when respiratory illnesses are rampant!

Blaise is the patron saint of wild animals and of those with throat maladies. When we seek his intercession, we should remember to ask for God’s protection not just against physical throat disorders (sore throats and colds, for example), but also for spiritual help (avoiding profanity, gossip, etc.) As St. James told us, “If a man who does not control his tongue imagines that he is devout, he is self-deceived; his worship is pointless.” (1:26)

The Blessing of the Throats is one ritual I try not to miss. How about you?

Rejected, Again

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A couple of months ago I entered a short story I’d written into The Missouri Review’s contest, hopeful I’d win (or at least place).

The rejection letter came this week.

They had a lot of entrants, they said, and the quality was “extraordinarily high.” They wished me well on my writing journey.

Nice.

It would have been nicer to win — $5,000 plus publication would have made my day!

But at least I tried. I put my work out there, and someone (or perhaps many someones!) read it.

And I realized something about myself — before, early in my foray into creative writing, rejection hit me hard. I brooded about it for days, reading and re-reading the letter or postcard, wondering how I could have secured a better outcome. I saved my rejection letters in a file, too, mentally criticizing how some secretary had misfolded the letter. Or how somebody had worded the form response. Or how somebody hadn’t even taken the time to actually sign the letter.

No more.

Sure, rejection stinks. It stings, too.

But only for a moment.

These days I’m handling it better. More realistically. More maturely.

I’m not fixating on the rejection. Or the feelings at being rejected.

Rejection is what it is.

Somebody’s opinion of something I wrote. Period.

Maybe it wasn’t the best “something” I could ever create. Maybe, when lined up next to something somebody else created, it didn’t measure up.

Okay.

I still shared something of myself with a portion of the world. Not everybody who reads what I write is going to like it (shoot, sometimes I re-read something I wrote and I don’t like it!).

Writing isn’t math. You can’t just add two plus two and get four. As a creative outlet, writing is more like art or music.

Some people will “get” it and like it; others won’t.

Does that make our writing any less worthwhile?

Of course not.

If you haven’t been rejected lately, you haven’t been submitting (unless you’ve got a perfect batting record!). And if you haven’t been submitting, how can you expect to get published??

A Full Planner

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Don’t get me wrong — I love my mom to pieces, but for the foreseeable future, it looks like I’m going to be hauling her back and forth between doctor’s offices.

And I’m NOT happy about that.

The human body, as we all know, has gazillions of different parts. Any of those parts can malfunction at any time. All of those parts periodically need examination by a member of the medical profession.

Therein lies the problem.

Rather than making an appointment for a “complete physical,” local doctors seem to want to “piece-meal” a person’s care. You know, check heart on one day, do lab testing on one day, check female parts on another day, etc. As of today, we’ve got nearly ten medical appointments scheduled in the coming two months. What’s up with that?

What if auto mechanics decided they’d work on our car’s transmission on Monday, brakes on Tuesday, muffler on Wednesday, and so on?

It doesn’t make sense, and we’d never stand for it!

Nor do we let our accountant do the expenses portion of our taxes on one day and the income portion the following week.

Brighter minds than mine should have long ago developed a plan for performing medical check-ups on humans.

Take Mayo Clinic, for example. There, a patient in for a physical exam will check in the day before the exam; they receive a note card with their appointments all listed, one following the other, for the next day.

You might be poked and prodded from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., but hey, at the end of the day, it’s ALL done. Who wouldn’t like that? Talk about efficient!

My poor Mom, on the other hand, who still isn’t driving, must depend on me to chauffeur her back and forth to an appointment here, the lab there, eye doctor here, dentist there.

Inconvenient? Sure, for me and for her.

But doctors don’t worry about how their patients are going to get to an appointment. Nor do they care how many people are inconvenienced.

You know, it’s easy to feel put upon when you work out of your house. Nobody seems to believe you’re working if you’re not dressed to the nines and commuting to and from an office downtown.

Same goes for writing.

I’ve long tried to schedule everything (like taxiing my mom and running errands) on one day or maybe two; that way, I have the rest of the week open for my work and my writing.

But the medical profession, I believe, is out to thwart that.

And I’m really NOT happy about it!

Any thoughts or advice you care to share?

A Rose is a Rose…or Maybe Not

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Red rose (image via http://www.freestockphotos.biz)

I’ve got a question — Does it matter to you what an author’s name is?

I mean, does Mary carry more clout than Ashley? Does Cheyenne sound younger than Dianne? And does it matter?

The reason I ask is that my first name appears on the nation’s Top 100 Baby Name Lists from the 1940s through the 1970s.

That’s a l-o-n-g time for a name to be popular.

And while I’ve written countless news stories under my name, I sometimes wonder if “Debbie” sounds writerly enough.

Perhaps because there were so many of us Debbies in my high school class, I’ve come to think of my name as a montage of the girls I once knew. Some were cheerleaders; some were “popular”; some were musicians; some were funny.

None were writers — except me, of course. And I was more of a closet writer, insecure about my talent and afraid to be considered “weird.”

High school is like that. We try so hard to fit in, yet when the annual yearbook-signing ritual arrived, we Debbies donned new personas in an attempt to stand out. We became Debby, or Debi, or Debee, or Debra.

Some even used their middle names, though Ann in one form or another is just about as popular as Debbie is.

Maybe it’s just a regional thing. After all, I hardly knew any Debbies in college, and I haven’t come across a new Debbie in ages.

We all know baby names are cyclical. Old-time names like Ava and Ella and Abigail are once again popular with new parents, while names like Lisa and Wendy and Laurie can’t be found anywhere.

Does a name date an author in an agent’s mind? Should it?

All the writing books and magazines I’ve read stress the importance of getting characters’ names right. You don’t want to put an Ariel, for instance, in the 1950s, or a Chrystal in the 1880s. It might have happened, but if so, it was a rarity, and you don’t want to flag your ignorance in front of agents.

But what about the author’s name? Does a Chloe sound too young to pen a serious novel? Does Jane sound too old to be alive for the long haul?

Maybe I’m stressing for nothing. Maybe nobody cares but me.

And maybe I could end the whole shebang by choosing a pen-name for myself, much the way I’d do for my characters.

What do you think? Do you judge a writer by his name? Do you even care?

Back to Campus Again

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Ever since Thanksgiving, I’ve been fighting a cold (upper respiratory something) that’s offered me a range of delights from stuffy nose to runny nose, sore throat, cough, sinus pressure, and pain.

It’s been a nuisance.

But I’ve learned something about myself. Something I guess I’ve known all along but never really admitted.

Especially to myself.

I’m not a spitter.

You remember that scene in “Titanic” when Rose insists that Jack teach her “to spit like a man”?

I never had a Jack Dawson to teach me that.

So I can’t just hock it back and open my mouth to release it.

The mucus, I mean.

It won’t come out.

The nasty stuff drains down the back of my throat in a marble-sized ball, then slithers away like some kind of raw oyster, never to be seen again.

It’s not that I haven’t tried.

Spitting. Expectorating.

But the agony of choking something up and trying to release it is more than my poor body can endure.

My eyes tear up. My nose stops up. And I fear I’m going to throw up.

Something that’s on par with spitting.

Ain’t gonna happen.

Not in my lifetime.

I don’t do vomit.

Period.

I can count on one hand the number of times in my life that I’ve thrown up. Most were after anesthesia. Or the flu.

Imagine my dismay when, the night before Domer and I were to leave to return him to campus after Christmas Break, he came down with a horrid stomach virus.

The poor kid was “blowing and going” from both ends for a solid four hours.

I was ready to haul him to the hospital. He wouldn’t consider it.

“Vomiting is a sensory experience,” he told me. “You see it coming up, you hear it, and you taste it. Again. Then, you smell it and you touch it when you clean it all up.”

Right, I thought, as my own stomach knotted up.

Nothing like too much imagery 😉

Needless to say, we postponed our trip a day.

And, while he wasn’t exactly “well” then, we had to travel if he was going to start the semester on time.

So why, when I was doing the right thing for the right reasons, did I feel like “The meanest mom in the world”?

I mean, look at the likes of Susan Smith, who sent her two young sons to their deaths while strapped in their carseats. Or Andrea Yates, who drowned five of her kids in their Houston bathtub.

Now that’s mean.

Not hauling a kid back to a college he loves!

Watching While Time Flies

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My son, AKA My Favorite Domer, was home over Christmas, and once again I was struck by how fast he’s growing up.

It’s not just that he towers over me (though he does!). It’s not just that his voice is deeper, or his features more angular than rounded.

It’s his grownup demeanor — his sense of responsibility, his assuming ownership of his day-to-day activities, his maturity.

I’m thrilled, of course, that he’s finding his way. Making what I hope will be lifelong friends. Focusing on his future by tending to his present studies. Not procrastinating when it comes to undesirable tasks like term papers, when he’d rather be playing video games.

We were at Mass, and I caught myself looking at his hands, remembering the baby fingernails I used to trim. Those pudgy fingers now have lengthened into slender, artist/musician’s hands, set off by his Notre Dame class ring.

I looked at his sneaker-clad feet and was transported back to his infancy. When I took him in his carrier to my obstetrician’s office, everybody wanted to hold and kiss those soft little feet with the tiny, perfect toes.

I looked at his profile, the Roman nose of his Italian ancestors, the twinkling eyes and dark coloring of his Irish forebears. How fascinating to see the family traits come together in a unique way!

Now, all this looking happened in the space of just a few seconds. No young man wants his mom staring at him in public.

But after he goes to bed at night and is deep in sleep, I tiptoe to his door and stare.

Drink him right in. That’s a parent’s prerogative, you know.

It reminds me how fast time flies, from infant carriers and diapers, to Legos and school projects, to senior pictures and high school graduation.

Sure those young child days sometimes seem to last forever, especially when you are casually turned into a taxi service, a place for them to dump fears and worries, even a grocery store or fast food outlet. But those days just FLY by, really. Blink and before you know it, they’re grown and out of your house.

So may I make a suggestion — Enjoy every second with your precious offspring. When the going gets difficult (and it does, for all of us!), remember, This, too shall pass.

Does anything make a mom’s heart burst with love the way watching her sleeping “baby” does?

I think not.