Pour Me Some Whine

Life sometimes has a way of getting away from you, and it’s only when you stop and really consider things that you realize just what’s happening here.

Last night was a normal night by almost anyone’s standards except mine; having been entrenched in writing/ghostwriting books for the last two and a half years, having a night that I didn’t leave work to go to a second job or to come home to write was rare. But I’m at the end of Book No. 3 and am ready to take the summer off – so I kicked it off last night by taking a nice two-mile walk with some very good friends.

Sounds normal, right?

As I got to thinking about it later last night, the obscurity of it all really began to hit me: I have lived in North Liberty for right at a year (effective June 5) and the three ladies I walked with all live within 3 blocks of me.

And I’ve known all of them for nearly 20 years each, with exactly none of the relationships starting in North Liberty or Johnson County or even eastern Iowa.

There was Cara, my friend/neighbor/cousin who has been a part of my life for all of hers (she’s younger – sigh) who, thanks the the circumstances of life, lives in the apartment across the hall from mine. She’s been my cousin all her life and my friend for almost as long, despite the fact that when you’re young a five-year age difference can seem monumental. We were close as kids because our family as a whole is close, but as we got older we got closer because of who we are individually, outside of the family.

Then there was Meredith, who job-shadowed me when I was still quite young in my journalism career and she was just quiet young – starting high school and trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life. She re-enetered my life a few (OK, more than a few) years later after college when she and her now-husband joined the staff of the newspaper at which she once shadowed me in Fort Dodge. Interestingly enough, she and Scott then left for job in St. Joseph, Mo., (coincidentally where I spent a good chunk of my high school years) only to come to The Gazette in Cedar Rapids about two or three years before I left. They found a house in North Liberty right away, so when I moved here it was my time to follow her.

Finally there was Meg, a woman who came into my life back in February 1992 when she came to the Fort Dodge newspaper and I was 6 months pregnant. We didn’t get along at all at first – she seemed to storm into the newsroom with what I first thought was cockiness but now see as confidence (there IS a difference) that I thought too brazen (but I think I also secretly envied). Somehow we became close friends and, as most of my Fort Dodge coworkers did, she left – for the East. First Delaware, then New York. We saw each other a handful of times but talked several times a year, always picking up conversations and though we’d just talked the night before. She was out east for 16 years and decided it was time to come home. She’s starting her own consulting business and could go anywhere – so she came to North Liberty.

None of these other women knew each other before a few weeks ago, and Meredith just met everyone last night. But it didn’t stop us from walking and talking and carrying on like we were all lifelong friends.

Interesting how life works sometimes.

I think Queen Latifah is on to something.

As she’s preparing to release her new line of clothing and accessories, the “Queen Collection,” on Home Shopping Network she’s taking advantage of a publicity opportunity and coming out against bad language.

What bad language, you ask?

For many of us, it’s worse than any four-letter word that caused many mouths to be washed out with soap. Oh, no – this is worse because it’s the combination of two four-letter words.

“Plus-size.”

“(Plus-size) is a word we need to bury at this point,” Latifah said in a recent interview. Her line will be for women of all sizes, she said. She particularly took issue with the way stores treat “larger girls,” sending them to their own section of the store to find what they need.

Wait – I said “sending them.” What I meant was, “sending us.”

If you’re reading this blog you likely either know me or have at least seen a picture – and you know, then, that “petite” is not something that has ever been used to describe me. I am – and always have been – among “the large girls.” I don’t consider myself “obese” or “huge” and I get in trouble when I use the three-letter F-word (“fat”) in the presence of many of my friends and family. But the fact remains, I’m not small. I stand just under 6 feet tall and have shoulders broad enough to make many high school linebackers jealous. I have big feet and my hands are the right size to palm a basketball (and if the muscle coordination were there, I could do it!).

There have been times I’ve been quite thin – but was always, still, “a large girl.”

So I’m right there with Queen Latifah in lobbying against the continued use of “plus-size” when it comes to clothing. Why can’t all women’s clothing be in the same area? If I go shopping with my friends-of-a-smaller-size, why must we split up? The same is true at the other end – why are petites relegated to their own section, usually right in the middle of it all?

We want to do so much to get rid of body image issues – Dove has for several years had an ad campaign highlighting “real women” – and yet these types of issues still exist. I’ve gotten to where I don’t even like to go shopping for clothes because before I even look at the first rack I’m already isolated as a “big girl.”

And as though having our own section wasn’t enough, have you ever paid attention to where that section is? You would be hard-pressed to find a size 16 pair of jeans in the front of the store. You want those, you’re going to the back – often just past the maternity clothes.

Yes, there are specialty stores designed for large girls, small girls, young girls, social girls and the like – but you know what you’re getting when you go in. When I go to a retailer that serves everyone, I think we should all be treated the same.

OK, disclaimer here – I’ve never won a Pulitzer. I have, however, been part of a staff that was once considered for a Pulitzer. That’s still cool, right? It just made the headline sound better …

Today is National Teacher Appreciation Day and it took a Facebook shout out from my friend Kevin Fullerton to all of his teachers to make me realize that I’ve never really ever said “thank you” to all of the teachers who helped shape me into who I am today.

I grew up the daughter of a man who got bored easily, so we moved around. A lot. I went to two elementary schools, two middle schools and two high schools, meeting different kinds of teachers and viewing different teaching styles along the way. I still remember a great many of those teachers and the important life lessons they taught me, well beyond the things that came out of the books we read and the worksheets we completed.

To those teachers I say, thank you. You will never know the impact you truly had.

* Mr. Bowman – my kindergarten teacher at Wilshire Park Elementary School in Minneapolis. One day you gave us all a piece of bubble gum and told us to chew it while we walked around the outer perimeter of the school lot, picking up colorful rocks, interesting leaves and funny looking twigs. We spread the gum out on a small piece of cardboard and arranged our “treasures” into a collage. Thank you for teaching me to appreciate the beauty in my surroundings.

* My second-grade teacher at Gladys Wood Elementary in Anchorage, Alaska. I don’t even remember your name because you were my teacher for a week before you went on a ski vacation in the mountains and were killed in an avalanche. I remember your long brown hair, your gentle smile and how you held my hand when you introduced me to the class. Thank you for teaching me to understand everyone has an impact in your life, regardless how short the duration.

* Mrs. Boring – my orchestra teacher at Gladys Wood, from second through seventh grade. You worked with Nellie, Carole, Jim and I tirelessly from the scratchy, ear-piercing shrills of the first time we drew our bows across our violas until you were confident we could play whatever we wanted. When my family moved from Anchorage to a small town in east central Missouri, you surprised me by securing an invitation for me to audition with the Kansas City Youth Philharmonic for their presentation of “The Messiah.” I didn’t go because I didn’t know anyone and was too shy, and still regret it to this day, 30 years later. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to choose my own direction and for giving me the first of what would become several “what if” moments.

*Mrs. Hoffman – a long-term substitute teacher for my fourth-grade class at Gladys Wood. One of the final assignments you had us do was a research paper on one of our favorite subjects that we then had to read to the class. I don’t remember the topic of my paper, but I do remember that when I’d finished reading it aloud and was returning to my seat you stopped me, bent over and whispered in my ear, “You should really consider a writing career.” Thank you for planting a seed that grew into a 20-year journalism career, the writing and publication of three books and now a new kind of writing.

* Mrs. Gorman – my typing/shorthand/business education teacher at East Buchanan High School in Gower, Mo. Everyone took your classes thinking they would be the “easy A” class and we were all surprised to not only enjoy the class and learn something about business, but to get to know each other, as well. Thank you for getting me out of my comfort zone and helping me to meet new people wherever I go.

* Mr. Cullen – my chemistry teacher at Carroll High School in Carroll, Iowa. I was horrible at chemistry, no matter how much you tried to help me – which was a lot. Rather than yell or get mad when I didn’t get something, you would continue working with me until you were confident I knew how to find the answer. Thank you for teaching me persistence.

* Laura Widmer – my college advisor, college instructor, and friend at Northwest Missouri State University. You taught me so much about journalism but just as much about enjoying whatever life throws at you. One of the first assignments you gave us in basic reporting was to take a quarter and give it to someone who was willing to talk to us (I think I remember that right). You taught me that every person has a story, something that makes them unique and interesting, and the key is finding the right questions to get that story out. There hasn’t been a day since I left Northwest that I haven’t used what you’ve taught me. Thank you.

There’s a lot to be said about riding the bus. If you try hard enough, you might even think of something good.

OK, it’s not really all that bad. Having to catch a bus in the morning and after work – to take me to my car so I can drive the final 7 miles of my 8-mile commute – has kept me on track, I’ve gotten to work on time or even early most days, I get home at the same time … there are some good things.

Most of the people are even friendly. Being the sort of person to strike up a conversation with darned near everyone, it’s nice that no one seems to mind and, in fact, most will join in. A few mornings we’ve had a group of 4 or 5 people chatting while waiting for the bus to arrive.

But it’s those few – those sour, surly, grumpy, grouchy few – who make the whole ride seem less enjoyable.

To the old man who nudged me out of the way so he could board (even though I really was there first): Keep your elbows to yourself. Chivalry is not so far gone that you need to be rude. I might have even given you my seat if you hadn’t been such a crotchety ol’ guy.

To the large obnoxious man yelling on his cell phone: Get your own damned paper. We don’t want to hear you yell at whichever poor soul pissed you off today, and we sure aren’t going to make your life easier while you do it. Hang up the phone, put it in your pocket and get your own paper.

To the cute little blonde who feels entitled to the first place on the bus every afternoon? Oh, nevermind. You wouldn’t understand. Entitlement is something you think you were born with.

To the 2/3 of the bus riders who spend the trip to your car fiddling with your phone: Beware. Today is the day you say “hi.” Even if I have to sit and stare at you until you look up.

I’ll do it, too.

“Stay out of it, Mom.”

The words, from my daughter, are not new to me. She’s told me on more than one occasion that she can handle herself, she can take care of the situation at hand. She may need to bend my ear or cry on my shoulder, but she doesn’t need me to fight her battles.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to.

When we were kids, about 9 and 7, my little brother and I were walking home from school when a couple of bullies from his class started pushing my brother around. Without thinking I pushed them back, knocking one of them to the ground. The other said something, I don’t remember what, and they took off.

Rather than being grateful, though, my brother was furious.

“What’d you do that for?” he yelled at me. Now, he said, things would be worse because his Big Sister had to stick up for him.

I don’t remember whether anything was better or worse, and quite honestly that’s the only time I can remember John having any issues with bullies at all. But I do remember his reaction.

It’s real similar as a Mom. I see and hear about things that happening to my kids and instinctively I want to step in. When they were little they relied on me to protect them from the little boy throwing toys in the sandbox or hitting the kids in line at Chuck E. Cheese. Now that they’re teenagers they’re relying on me to mind my own business.

It ain’t easy.

Sometimes I think the only reason the person who decided we should make New Year’s resolutions did so was so that we would appreciate all the things in life that we do do well.

Think about it: Say you make a list of 10 resolutions you want to accomplish throughout the year, and by New Year’s Eve you’ve succeeded at two. Initially you feel like a real loser (Really? I couldn’t even remember to put the toilet paper on the spindle past March?) but eventually you look at all that you have accomplished: you mowed your lawn once a week in the summer, you were one of the first to get your sidewalk cleared in the winter and you did something at work darned near every day you were there.

Voila! Instant gratification.

Knowing this, I vow every October that this will be the year I don’t make resolutions. Then we get to the few days after Christmas and yet still before New Year’s and I think, “Oh, crap. I need to make resolutions!”

So, in an effort to share my losing streak with the general public, here are my resolutions for 2011:

1. The weight thing. Duh. That’s been on my list – and usually in the No. 1 spot – since I was 8. Seriously.

2. Less sarcasm, more charm. Because, you know, everyone who knows me will take me seriously when my comments aren’t dripping with sarcasm. (Damn! That one lasted less than 30 seconds.)

3. Try something new each month. OK, now we’re getting down to business. I did this last year and am pretty sure I managed to accomplish it – if you count getting mono in January as trying something new. (I’d never had mono before.) This year I’m going to be looking for healthier options.

4. Be a better friend. Life gets busy and so, as a result, do we. Before you know it, months have passed since you’ve spent any real quality time with a good friend. Quality time doesn’t have to be heading out for a night out or for a day filled with shopping – an hour and a cup of coffee is just as good.

5. Breathe more. No, not the “I’m-breathing-therefore-I’m-living” kind of breathing. Breathe to do more than survive – breathe to thrive. It’s kind of like taking time to stop and smell the roses, but there aren’t a lot of roses growing around my neighborhood and if there were they’d be filled with bees – so I’m going with “Breathe.” Close your eyes, deep breath in, aaaaand exhale. Repeat as needed.