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Women Rule the World, but Men are in Control

IMG_2074It’s funny, but if you watch, seriously pay attention to TV shows, movies, and commercials, it’s the women who rule the roost. A roost that parallels real life. Men back off, and accept the knowledge and skill women seem to possess.

If she wants a certain car, there’s no debating. She’s simply in-the-know and her decision is the solid one. If a guy wants to help his girl with the new baby, he better-well embrace her standards and specifications. Otherwise, he’ll find himself being shoved aside, being told he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I mean, because really, she’s the expert, right?

Watch a man’s face, when confronted with a confident, knows-what-she-wants woman. He looks down, unsure of himself, feels like an idiot, and backs off. All the while the woman smiles her winning smile, crowding him out, taking over all the available space, having her way.

Yet. Change locations. Have men step out of the home-front, the personal life, and suddenly they are in control. In general, it’s a location overloaded with testosterone. A place where guys confidently fist-and-shoulder-bump one another. A guy’s hangout, where men become powerhouses. The top-dog. A guy’s guy. The master’s of the universe.

If women maintained their bossy role, the one they possess at home, and threw it out into the world at large, they might just rattle a few chains, turn things upside down, and not only would they rule the world, but they’d rule it with complete control.

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BOYS

IMG_1015So, there’s this kid, a nice kid, a boy, a boy’s boy, who isn’t afraid to show his feeling, you know, he’s wears his heart on his sleeve. And then there’s this other boy, an okay kid, in an okay kind of way, as long as he’s in control.

Heart boy is learning, growing, figuring out the road to follow, hoping upon hope it will lead him to a carefree, productive life. This boy full of heart, he has a mind of his own, creates his own destiny, and sees things in his own personal way. He’s him, just trying to find his own space, his own style.

Control boy, as okay as he is, worries what others think, lets the unknowns control his thoughts, behaves according to what’s cool, not to what’s not. His young heart snubs, ignores, and turns against heart boy whenever heart boy stands up for himself, doesn’t play follow-the-leader.

Heart boy is seeking friendship, true, loyal friendship, while control boy, who also seeks friends, looks for those who will follow, not someone who thinks for himself.

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Mars or Family? Which Would You Choose?

mars-one-colony-astronauts-2As I was driving to work, listening to the antics of Heidi and Frank, this question was posed on KLOS 95.5, a radio station in Los Angeles, CA.

Would you? Could you? Is an unexpected-fantasy-come-to-life more important than the fate of your stable family union?

Mars One Project, a nonprofit organization, has been taking applications from anyone interested in establishing a permanent settlement on Mars, 10 years from now. In other words, applicants could be the winner of a one-way ticket to the red planet, establishing a new world. 200,000 people applied. 1,058 have made the final cut. 24 people will eventually be sent.

Among the 1,058 chosen is a 38 year old man from Utah. Problem is, he forgot to mention his desire to travel far and away to his wife and four children.

A light-hearted discussion ensued between Heidi and Frank, about the pros and cons. As I was listening, thinking about if it was me, and the husband was Rudy, and our children would be affected by their dad taking off forever, and while Frank thought it wasn’t that big of a deal, that the guy is just following his dream, and what is he supposed to do, not go?, Heidi stated, “…divorce him…”, just as I made the same claim out loud to myself in the confines of my car. The wife would need to begin thinking about her future without a husband, or maybe with a new one, someone she hoped to grow old with, hold hands with, share the end of her life with. The guy basically told his wife and family they are not his priority, so why stick around with someone whose choice is another life, a different path?  Frank considered the fact that it wouldn’t even happen for another 10 years, and that he may not be among the twenty-four finalists. So why punish him for a dream?

Would  you? Could you?

Mars or Family? Which Would You Choose?

(By the way, the wife did, or is planning to, divorce her husband, stating she didn’t want to stand in the way of his dreams.)

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Who Am I?

I like neatness,

yet,

here I sit,

in a messy room.

And I am fine with that.

I like quiet,

yet,

here I sit,

surrounded by sound.

And I am fine with that.

I like friendship,

yet,

here I sit,

without a friend.

And I am fine with that.

I like dreaming,

yet,

here I sit,

feeling dreamless.

And I am fine with that.

I like teaching,

yet,

here I sit,

without any students.

And I am fine with that.

I like marriage,

yet,

here I sit,

without my husband.

And I am fine with that.

I like the present,

yet,

here I sit,

thinking about the future.

And I am fine with that.

I like writing,

and,

here I sit,

without much more to say.

Except.

I like love,

and,

here I sit,

knowing,

 love surrounds me.

And I am grateful for that.

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And, well, I Walk because That’s What I do.

IMG_2045Long ago I joined the gym, stayed for several years, then realized it was outdoor, not treadmill, walking that I preferred. So, I quit. Didn’t worry about the machines anymore. I mean, seriously, when I was somewhere around two years old, I’d walk. My mother told me so. She said I’d walk all over the place, up and down streets, without a word of complaint.

I’m older now, much older than two, and I still prefer to walk, generally as exercise, but, hey, take me somewhere where walking is involved, I’m game. I will walk, and walk, and walk. Well, until my feet are so sore I just wish I could sit, take a load off.

Like today, when I left the house, planning to walk through the hills behind our neighborhood, into the wild blue yonder, with the idea of pumping some heart, strengthening some muscles, I veered off my path, instead walking up the boulevard, up a steep incline, turning into the ticky-tacky row of houses, you know the ones that all look the same, and continued up, up, and away, and not in a beautiful balloon. I just walked and walked, up and up, until the street ended, right at a point where a locked bar stopped car traffic from entering, but not foot traffic, and I continued to walk, up, until I reached a herd of cows, grazing, resting, and enjoying their sunny California day.

My feet were feeling it, they. were. sore. But, I had no choice, or, well, I guess I did, I could have called Rudy to drive up and give me a lift, but no, I am a walker, and I simply turned around, walked back down, and continued my journey, returning to where I had come from.

Home.

Fresh, much needed, water-bottle in hand, I walked down the long hall, to my room, and plopped my fatigued self onto the bed, and breathed, deep, feeling the bulk of my phone inside my pocket, calculating the duration and the miles I embraced. 2:12:31 hours/minutes/seconds, 6.74 miles. Long time, long miles, and those miles sure wrenched my side and reddened my feet, but hey, I’m not complaining, I’m just saying, I walk. That’s what I do.

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28 years of….. Life.

f7804-img_1469

As Rudy and I celebrate our 28th wedding anniversary, I begin to reflect.

There was a tupperware party, a yellow VW Bug, and a kiss.

A phone call, Magic Mountain, holding hands, and a smooch.

Followed by a major make-out session.

Weekly phone calls.

Dates.

Youthful days.

Walking and talking inside the lobby of the Anaheim Hilton.

The love letter.

The hug.

The one bedroom apartment.

Commitment.

Engagement.

Vows.

A daughter.

Diapers.

Breasts.

And bottles.

An education.

Sleepless nights.

Graveyard shift.

A son.

A scratched nose.

Family photo.

A credential.

Another son.

The return of pinned cloth on a dry bottom.

More sleepless nights.

Exhausting days.

Arguing.

Crying.

Laughing.

Holding hands.

Talking.

Consoling.

Bonding.

Growing.

Aging.

Enjoying.

Altogether, loving.

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Will the REAL Santa please stand up?

“What are you looking at?” Rudy asked her angrily. He was in a mood. And not a good one.

Elizabeth continued to look at him. Her mouth hung open. She said not a word in answer to what seemed a ridiculous question.

Ten minutes before Rudy’s interruption, Elizabeth held up a receipt she had found while milling in my things. “Aren’t these the toys I got for Christmas? And Roberto’s, too?” she inquired.

She was 5 years old. And wise beyond her years.

Uh oh I thought.

“Um. Well,” I tried. “It’s just that it looks like everything we got.” Elizabeth had a knack for decoding and understanding written language. “Is DAD Santa?” she asked. She just wanted an honest answer. “Well,” I attempted again. I knew the value of telling the truth. I hated to take the magic away from her, but I also knew she trusted me to be honest with her. “Yes. Dad is Santa. We bought, wrapped, and surprised you and Roberto with your Christmas gifts.”

That’s when Rudy forced the bedroom door open. His angry face was nowhere near the image of white bearded Santa. He stormed back out. Elizabeth’s mouth continued to hang open.

I hugged her small frame.

A piece of innocence lost. For a little girl.

Roberto hung on to Santa until he was 10 years old. He refused to believe the other kids at school claiming, “Santa is fake!”. Roberto just knew Santa was real. There was no way he wasn’t. Yet, the more he heard kids shouting “fake!” the more he wondered if they were right and he was wrong.

“Mom, is Santa real?” he asked me one day. “What do you think?” I quizzed. “I still believe he is real, but a lot of kids are saying he’s not.” “Follow your heart,” I encouraged him.

Days, weeks, or months later, the kids and I were at the mall. Shopping for nothing in particular. Just an average day. Probably a day in the spring. “Humph. I didn’t get the makeup I wanted from the Easter Bunny,” Elizabeth began. “Well, I didn’t have time…. I mean, the Easter Bunny didn’t – ,” I started, trying to cover my mistake. “What!” Roberto yelled. “I knew it! There is no Santa, or the Easter Bunny, or even the Tooth-Fairy, is there?”

An open conversation ensued as we continued to walk around the mall. Like Elizabeth, Roberto appreciated being told the truth.

Another piece of innocence lost. For the middle child. Our oldest boy.

Years later, as I was relaxing reading on the bed in my room, Bradford slowly walked in. He was 6 or 7 years old.

“Mom, just tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me. Is Santa Claus real?” He was looking down at his hands, wringing them together. “You sure you want to know?” I asked, knowing he already knew the answer.

He looked at me. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Yes. I want to know.” “Santa is not real. He is the spirit of Christmas. The magic,” I said. I didn’t want him to lose the joy of the holiday. The excitement.

He ran out of my room, back to his own room. To cry. To let the tears wash away his sadness. Not long after, he ran back into my room, plopped his upper body onto my bed, legs dangling off the edge, and looked directly into my eyes. “Does that mean the Easter Bunny isn’t real either?!”

“Yeah, sorry. Not real,” is all I could think to say.

“Elizabeth and Roberto know?” he questioned. “Yep. They didn’t want to spoil it for you. Wanted you to enjoy the idea,” I told him. “So, now I will have to keep it a secret? So little kids can still have fun,” he quietly mumbled. “Uh huh,” I answered, knowing he didn’t want to be treated like a baby.

A piece of innocence lost. For the last child in our family.

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happy ending – a GBE2 prompt

IMG_1878he’s our son, our youngest, the athlete, the competitor, the boy who wants to be part of a team, especially a winning team, a kid who tries hard, but sometimes not hard enough

he played soccer, for what seems like forever, ran across the field, passed the ball, kicked the ball, head-bumped the ball, scored a goal, didn’t score a goal, he’d run fast, think quick, yell, cheer, challenge, and brood

he tried out for the high school soccer team, spent a month of his summer showing the coaches his stuff, put in his best effort, only to be told not this year, buddy, try again next time

when he wasn’t playing soccer he played little league baseball, in the outfield, at third, first, second, he wasn’t the best player, neither was he the worst, once or twice he suited up as catcher, and a few times his strong arm, his solid throw earned him a spot on the pitcher’s mount, where, oddly, he worried, felt displaced, didn’t like the attention, wasn’t successful, and his batting wasn’t always up to par, some of his fielding needed work, attitude needed changing

freshman year, he was granted a spot in the baseball class, not the team, just a class to work on his baseball skills, he worked hard, was disciplined, lifted weights, strengthened his body, mind, and soul

when it was time to try out, to officially play ball, he did his best, displayed his skills, didn’t let anything or anyone discourage his efforts

he waited,  a long drawn out week, of sleepless nights, concerned disappointments, intermixed with knowing he’d improved, had what it took, that his skills were solid, to the point, right on

he stood in front of the coaches office, scanned the names, looking for his

bradford

he grunted, he yelped, he high-fived

he earned his happy ending

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whoa! or woo!, which one are you?

liz's butt in jeansOkay, so you’re walking down the street, or along some path in the park, or maybe you’re at the mall, or the grocery story, or it could even be that you are working out at the gym, entering the movie theater, maybe you’re at work, or at your child’s day care and it’s in the afternoon and your walking back to your car, kid slung on your hip, or you’ve just walked outside your place of residence to grab the mail, or maybe you’ve knelt down to pick up the cell phone you just dropped, or….. well, let’s just say you are anywhere and a guy looks at you, a girl, a woman more like it, and he says WHOA!… as you walk by. Or, rather, instead, he says WOO! 

For some odd reason these expressions sparked some interest during a sit down dinner, or maybe it was just a casual conversation, with the ratio of men higher to the total women in attendance, when a light-hearted debate ensued trying to decipher the meaning of both seemingly quick assessments. No one really was able to define each compliment (it is? isn’t it?) but rather gave their – lot’s of laughter issued here – opinion. Most assumed whoa! was when a guy was likely responding to the girl, or woman, wearing something tight, like a skirt, any length above the knee, but that is snug on her round rear-end, and cinched in, making the waist small, the butt rounder. The hot girl. Whereas if a guy says woo! – the cute, or pretty girl – she’s still looking good but in a more comfortable way. Someone who’d be wearing jeans, perfectly fitted, not too tight, not too loose, with a basic t-shirt, or a pretty blouse and sandals or some other carefree type of shoe, with hair flowing loose, free from the binds of bands or pins.

Well, now, not that these expressions are even relevant, or as some might say, maybe they are just stupid sexist hoot-and-hollers that men make, but our conversation about them did produce a fun and lively conversation, and tons of laughter. So worth it!

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face matters

He looked at himself in the mirror. Just stared at his reflection, pondering the quarter-sized red rash on his right cheek. The other over-sized looks like a big mosquito bite rash, above the cheek rash, on the edge of his right eye caused him to lean in, close to the mirror, just to see what exactly was happening to his skin. “I don’t get it,” he said, irritated. “Why do I even have this mess on my face?”

“Just keep applying the cream the doctor gave you. It should take a day or two before you see it looking better,” his mom said calmly.

The next morning, as he was getting ready for his first day of seventh grade, he, again, simply stared at himself, shaking his head to and fro.

His mother was watching him, hoping her close-by presence wasn’t a distraction. She was curious about his behavior towards the sudden change to his lovely little face. She didn’t want to interfere with his concentration. Didn’t want to make him feel worse. The less she said the easier it will be for him to handle as he walked around the halls at school, trying to look cool.

“I feel like crying,” he stated out loud, as if to himself, yet looking in her unhidden direction. She could hear a slight choke in his voice. She kept quiet. No need to baby him. That will only make him actually begin to cry. Which will then cause him to announce, “I am not going to school.” She knew him so well. Knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. Let him work it out on his own.

As she watched him she began to think about people. People she has seen on the streets. In TV documentaries. Read about in autobiographies. People who have disabilities, and deformities. On a daily basis, for life. She considered it interesting that her son had become insecure with a minor it will be gone in just a few days rash while there are people who must come to terms with their appearance. Learn to master confidence, every day; anew. Prevail no matter how often strangers stop and stare at them. She is sure they must adapt daily, love who they are, and move on. As best they know how. She is also aware that this is not the time to bring up that subject with her son. They’ve had the conversation before. About people. They will again. Just not today. Today is his day to feel the anguish. His anguish. No matter what anyone thinks his problem is huge. For him.

Interestingly, her son is full of charisma. The kind of kid that others tend to gravitate towards without knowing why. On the one hand she is grateful he doesn’t fully realize the impact he has on others, yet it’s so odd he just doesn’t see it. He could do anything, everything. Be a trend setter. Others would follow. Yet, there he was, looking in the mirror so worried what his peers at the middle school would say about the large rash on his face. She gets it. His mother does. He is not used to seeing himself with facial marking, and there they were. Like any of us, when something is different, he overly wondered what others would say. What they would think.

She wanted to tell him it would be fine. That the others kids might notice, but won’t care. They like him for who he is, not for his looks. She wanted to tell him but she knew he’d just shoo her away, tell her she doesn’t get it. So there she stood quietly observing her son. Observed him while he gently placed a not too big not too small band-aid on his cheek, covering his problem. He fixed his hair just right. Looked in the floor-length mirror to make sure his outfit was a good choice for day-number-one.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be late on my first day,” he said as though nothing was wrong.

Later, in the afternoon, when he climbed into the car after school, she asked him how his day went.

“Fine.”

“Any problems with your face?” his mom asked.

“Well, not really. Lots of people asked what happened. I said it was just a rash.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. No one really even cared.”

She smiled. She thinks he is slowly learning how to handle situations. Situations that involve his appearance. Slowly. Yet, learning.