This Thing I Did In 8th Grade

When I was in third grade (I know I said I was going to write about something I did in 8th grade, but this is the necessary backstory), I went to a new school. The Catholic elementary school I attended for 1st and 2nd grades closed, much to my horror, because I was very happy at that school, so my parents sent me to the Catholic elementary school one town over. And -- frankly -- I was miserable at that school. It was awful for me. I got bullied incessantly all through 3rd grade. I had no idea what I did to deserve it, and I was too young to realize that being bullied is never the fault of the victim. The horrible bullying died down in 4th grade, and beyond, but I never really -- shall we say -- "fit in with the 'in' crowd." I  didn't care all that much, because I had a wonderful, marvelous, big, extended Italian family. That family provided me with all the support and companionship anyone could hope to have. And I did manage to make a few very close friends at school, even though the class I was in still contained a pretty big percentage of bullies. I managed to keep the bullies off my back -- and my friends' backs, to some degree -- by being willing to punch them, when necessary. Of course, nowadays I would have gotten suspended, but this was in the 70's, so... ya know... things were different. And the teachers in that school never did anything to help us victims of bullies, and the bullies didn't seem to be interested in my powerful words, so the power of the fist prevailed.

My day-to-day life in this particular Catholic school, combined with the support of my Italian family, served to have a certain effect on me. And the effect was this: I learned to not really give an "f" about what people thought of me. If I was happy with myself, that was enough. And -- of course -- my good friends in that school made my heart happy. I have also always had a very strong spiritual life, and Jesus has always hung with me, no matter what. Sometimes, certain people try to make me feel like Jesus is unhappy with me, but I have learned to ignore those people. My parents were EXCELLENT teachers of conscience formation -- I really have never known anyone who is better at that task -- so, I know when mean, judgy people just need to be blown off.

Anyway...

This is what happened when I was in the 8th grade...

My teacher decided that it would be a good idea to have a class debate about abortion rights. The anti-abortion-rights team was quickly populated, but ABSOLUTELY NOBODY wanted to be on the pro-abortion-rights team. So, me -- being who I am and not giving an "f" about what anybody would think of me -- volunteered to be on that team. And it ended up that I was the ONLY person on that team. Everybody looked at me in the most judgy way, but -- hey -- you cannot have a debate without both sides being represented, and I understood that, even if none of the other Catholic school 8th graders did.

So, I went to the library (because there was no internet in those days) and scoured the place for information on why people thought abortion should be legal (because nobody had ever told me why people thought abortion should be legal). My family was very Italian and very Catholic. Nobody in my family could be described, even vaguely, as an "anti-abortion activist," but my grandmother put the family philosophy very simply -- "It's okay to keep them from getting there (meaning: contraception is okay), but once they are there, you leave them alone." End of conversation. And I was cool with that. I also must say that NOBODY in my family had any objection to me supporting the pro-abortion-rights side in the debate. My family was pretty awesome about bipartisanship. Therefore, I researched the heck out of the subject (I was determined to win, after all), and I prepared, and I rehearsed, and I pretty much destroyed the anti-abortion-rights side in that debate. The arguments the other side used were lame-ass. Admittedly, they were a bunch of Catholic school 8th graders, so there's that.

After that debate, I was pretty much treated like a pariah by my classmates. But, everyone recovered quickly. My class was, actually, fairly good about not holding grudges, and there was kickball to be played.

I learned a lot of important things from that experience, and one of them was what it is like to be treated like a pariah for your opinions. Because -- in my Italian family -- nobody ever got treated like a pariah, even the hippie cousins who hitchhiked around the country and didn't have jobs and espoused communism. They were still welcomed with open arms for dinner and card games and all kinds of fun. My dad did tell me, though, that I was not allowed to be a hitchhiking, unemployed, hippie communist; but, he did say that my cousins were really "nice kids." My dad was probably the most awesome person, EVER.

Anyhow, to tell you the truth, I was pretty amused by everyone's reaction to me after that debate. As I said, I had learned, over the years, not to give an "f" about what people thought of me, as long as I had searched by conscience and believed in myself.

I'm not exactly sure what my point is in telling you this story. It just came to mind today, and I felt like telling it, so I did. ;-)

Pax.

This Thing I Did In 8th Grade

When I was in third grade (I know I said I was going to write about something I did in 8th grade, but this is the necessary backstory), I went to a new school. The Catholic elementary school I attended for 1st and 2nd grade closed, much to my horror, because I was very happy at that school, so my parents sent me to the Catholic elementary school one town over. And -- frankly -- I was miserable at that school. It was awful for me. I got bullied incessantly all through 3rd grade. I had no idea what I did to deserve it, and I was too young to realize that being bullied is never the fault of the victim. The horrible bullying died down in 4th grade, and beyond, but I never really -- shall we say -- "fit in with the 'in' crowd." I really didn't care all that much, because I had a wonderful, marvelous, big, extended Italian family. That family provided me with all the support and companionship anyone could hope to have. And I did manage to make a few very close friends at school, even though the class I was in still contained a pretty big percentage of bullies. I managed to keep the bullies off my back -- and my friends' backs, to some degree -- by being willing to punch them, when necessary. Of course, nowadays I would have gotten suspended, but this was in the 70's, so... ya know... things were different. And the teachers in that school never did anything to help us victims of bullies, and the bullies didn't seem to be interested in my powerful words, so power of the fist prevailed.

My day-to-day life in this particular Catholic school, combined with the support of my Italian family, served to have a certain effect on me. And the effect was this: I learned to not really give an "f" about what people thought of me. If I was happy with myself, that was enough. And -- of course -- my good friends in that school made my heart happy. I have also always had a very strong spiritual life, and Jesus has always hung with me, no matter what. Sometimes, certain people try to make me feel like Jesus is unhappy with me, but I have learned to ignore those people. My parents were EXCELLENT teachers of conscience formation -- I really have never known anyone who is better at that task -- so, I know when mean, judgy people just need to be blown off.

Anyway...

This is what happened when I was in the 8th grade...

My teacher decided that it would be a good idea to have a class debate about abortion rights. The anti-abortion-rights team was quickly populated, but ABSOLUTELY NOBODY wanted to be on the pro-abortion-rights team. So, me -- being who I am and not giving an "f" about what anybody would think of me -- volunteered to be on that team. And it ended up that I was the ONLY person on that team. Everybody looked at me in the most judgy way, but -- hey -- you cannot have a debate without both sides being represented, and I understood that, even if none of the other Catholic school 8th graders did.

So, I went to the library (because there was no internet in those days) and scoured the place for information on why people thought abortion should be legal (because nobody had ever told me why people thought abortion should be legal). My family was very Italian and very Catholic. Nobody in my family could be described, even vaguely, as an "anti-abortion activist," but my grandmother put the family philosophy very simply -- "It's okay to keep them from getting there (meaning: contraception is okay), but once they are there, you leave them alone." End of conversation. And I was cool with that. I also must say that NOBODY in my family had any objection to me supporting the pro-abortion-rights side in the debate. My family was pretty awesome about bipartisanship. Therefore, I researched the heck out of the subject (I was determined to win, after all), and I prepared, and I rehearsed, and I pretty much destroyed the anti-abortion-rights side in that debate. The arguments the other side used were lame-ass. Admittedly, they were a bunch of Catholic school 8th graders, so there's that.

After that debate, I was pretty much treated like a pariah by my classmates. But, everyone recovered quickly. My class was, actually, fairly good about not holding grudges, and there was kickball to be played.

I learned a lot of important things from that experience, and one of them was what it is like to be treated like a pariah for your opinions. Because -- in my Italian family -- nobody ever got treated like a pariah, even the hippie cousins who hitchhiked around the country and didn't have jobs and espoused communism. They were still welcomed with open arms for dinner and card games and all kinds of fun. My dad did tell me, though, that I was not allowed to be a hitchhiking, unemployed, hippie communist; but, he did say that my cousins were really "nice kids." My dad was probably the most awesome person, EVER.

Anyhow, to tell you the truth, I was pretty amused by everyone's reaction to me after that debate. As I said, I had learned, over the years, not to give an "f" about what people thought of me, as long as I had searched by conscience and believed in myself.

I'm not exactly sure what my point is in telling you this story. It just came to mind today, and I felt like telling it, so I did. ;-)

Pax.

The Homeschool Mom "Uniform" -- A New Twist

I was a homeschool mom for 13 years.  It was quite a bit of fun.  The only reason I stopped was because my youngest graduated from high school.  And no, I don't homeschool college.  Don't laugh, y'all.  There are some people who do.  But, that is not me.

Anyhow, for those of you who are (perhaps blissfully) unaware, there is a homeschool mom "uniform."  It's kind of a stereotype.  But, it's kind of true. 

And it is this:
     1. Denim Skirt -- midcalf or longer, non-form-fitting, often with an elastic waist.
     2. T-Shirt -- rather loose-fitting, often inscribed with a Catholic or Irish dance logo.
     3. Birkenstocks.

I do not mean to be poking fun at anybody here.  This is just the way it is.  Yes, it is a broad generalization.  A rather fair broad generalization, in my opinion.  And now somebody is going to call the ACLU on me.  ;-)

To tell you the truth, though, this "uniform" is rather practical.  It is well-suited for the, often simultaneous, tasks that homeschool moms must accomplish -- daily Mass, Latin lessons, nursing babies, cleaning up after toddlers, driving all over the county in a 12-seater van in order to properly socialize and enrich the kids, and cooking large vats of homegrown foods.  It can easily be worn both with or without a bra.  It is good for early pregnancy, post-partum, and menopause.  It doesn't matter what type of panties you put on under it.  You can even put shorts on under it, for those pick-up games of soccer your kids might talk you into.  It is also not very sexy, which can be a boon when you have seven children under the age of 10.  And it is complimented by all types of hairstyles -- long, short, and braids.

Anyway, upon looking at myself in the mirror today, I realized that I am wearing the homeschool mom "uniform," albeit with a little bit of a twist.  Perhaps it can be looked upon as the "uniform" for us retired homeschool moms.  Familiar enough to be comfortable, but also a bit edgy.  And non-comformist.  ALL homeschool moms are non-conformist.  That should be pretty clear when you read the paragraph above.  (And when you read the paragraph above, it should also be pretty clear that homeschool moms are NOT women to be messed with.  They are basically the same as femi-nazis, but with a slightly different worldview.)

So, I present to you -- the retired homeschool mom "uniform":
     1. Jersey Maxi Skirt -- from The Gap, rather form-fitting, navy blue and white striped, with a waistline that sits slightly below the navel.
     2. Harley Davidson t-shirt -- black, hip-length, a bit figure-hugging (but, not tight), emblazoned in gold lettering with the Harley-Davidson logo and various decorative designs.
     3. Nike flip-flops -- black, with gel soles. So comfy!
     4. A few (subtle) purple highlights in my brown hair.

A rather smooth fashion transition, don't you think, for us non-conformist, menopausal, retired, homeschool mom broads?  I think so.

Love, Respect, and -- Say, What???

Perhaps I am misunderstanding or misinterpreting something here. But, I have been seeing an idea floating around the interwebs to the effect that:

*Women need love and men need respect and this is the way to have a good relationship/marriage.*

Ahem...

SAY, WHAT???

This reminds me a bit of these lame-ass books I read years ago called "Fascinating Womanhood" and "Man Of Steel And Velvet," which basically advised men to do manly things like kill spiders and women to cry like little girls when their husbands were unfaithful to them (thus, playing upon the emotions of these dudes and bringing them back into line.)  I kind of tried to get into these ideas, as I was a Reagan conservative at the time, and all.  But, they also kind of made me gag.  Over the years, I have decided that these books and their ideas serve nobody, really.  You don't encourage women to act like little girls in order to gain the love of their husbands.  Women are also plenty capable of killing spiders, for land's sake.  And being a good, suportive husband does not require dudes to perform manly feats of daring-do.  My son, for example, is a very manly man.  And guess who was standing on the arm of the sofa when the GIANT lizard got into the family room?  And guess which woman with the biology degree caught said lizard -- with her bare hands, no less.  Yet, when I am at a loss and need advice about an important matter, guess which young man is always readily available with a sympathetic ear and solid horse sense?  "Manliness" and "womanliness" are not always so easily defined.

Anyway, these fascinating, steely, velvety ideas seem to be back, although somewhat repackaged.  Women need love and men need respect, you say?  I say bunk. They both need both.  Over a lifetime, they both need both.

Now, I have heard women speak disrespectfully of their husbands.  Truly disrespectfully.  And -- maybe -- that is what these "new" ideas are addressing.  It is very destructive to a marriage when a woman is consistently disrespectful of her husband in thought, word, and deed.  It is just plain mean.  And shows a lack of love.  But, I have also heard husbands speak disrespectfully of their wives, which is destructive.  And mean.  And shows a lack of love.  Love and respect are -- intricately and irrevocably -- tied together.

I guess, though, what people may be thinking of, when they speak husbandly love, are tenderness on the part of the husband toward his wife -- an emotional connection, understanding of her feelings, a sweet touch and expression, an intuitive knowledge of her needs in the moment. For example, if the wife is suffering severe barfiness and exhaustion every evening during her first trimester of pregnancy, a husband who knows -- without being asked -- to bring the TV into the bedroom, so he can both watch the game and rub his wife's back while she suffers for the sake of their child, could be said to be showing love. This husband realizes the need his wife has of being close to him, even if she is not particularly good company for a few months. He will recognize that watching the TV out in the living room while his wife is stuck in the bedroom every evening after dinner -- unable to achieve an upright position without upchucking -- is not the loving thing to do.

By the same token, when people think of a wife showing respect to her husband, they may mean that she actively shows an appreciation for the things he does for her and their family, for his abilities, for his strengths. If a husband is good at his job or at household repairs, for example, he probably would appreciate his wife praising him for those things. Such praise from the woman he loves would, naturally, give a man confidence and build his self-esteem.

Now, before I make my feminist self hurl by talking like this, I would like to point something out.

Even though women need love and men need respect, I believe it is equally true that women need respect and men need love. I have been married long enough -- and many of my friends have been married long enough -- that I know this. I know it for sure.

After a long day, during an illness, while grieving a loss -- heck, at any and all times -- men need "love" just as much as women do, in many of the same forms that women need it.  They enjoy tenderness and intuitive understanding just as much as any woman.

And women need respect as much as any man does. Women go through many phases in their lives -- phases which are often dramatically different from each other. This may sound -- or even be -- sexist, but many women bear children.  And this bearing of children and raising them and having them leave the nest means that a woman must redefine herself several times as she goes through life, in a way that is both professional and profoundly personal. Having the respect of her husband is vital to a woman -- to her self-confidence and sense of self-esteem -- as she goes through these phases. A husband who shows his wife that he respects her in her roles as a wife and mother, in her professional and creative endeavors, who actively supports her as she transitions from one major role to the next, gives her a truly priceless gift. The esteem with which a husband regards his wife's intelligence, opinions, and thought processes will profoundly impact the way she views herself. A husband's respect for his wife has just as much an impact on her self-confidence, self-esteem, and success as a wife's respect for her husband has on him.

Life is complicated, and sometimes (blessedly) messy. Let's not put each other into nice, neat little boxes too easily. Those boxes, which -- admittedly -- may seem to work at times, can end up being our self-imposed prisons, whether we are male or female, married or single, or some combination thereof.

Pax.

Of Ash Trays, Picnic Benches, and Horror Movies

With the passing of my mom, my sisters and I have naturally been doing some reminiscing as we look through her photographs and possessions.

In her china cabinet, I found two very old ash trays.  One was actually quite pretty -- made of what I believe is called "milk glass."  Now my mom had not smoked since about 1972, when she was diagnosed with Hodgkins' disease.  My mom really loved to smoke.  She started when she was 14 years old (1947).  She and her friends used to sneak down to the creek behind their Catholic high school to indulge themselves in this past-time.  Upon being diagnosed with a disease that was most often fatal in those days, though, the doctor unceremoniously told her, "Quit, or die."  Quit, she did.  And took up incessant gum-chewing instead.  Eventually, she gave that up, too.  Dental problems, you know.  Anyway, finding these ash trays, which nobody had used for AT LEAST 40 years, made me laugh.  Why?  Because my mother was anything but a pack rat.  My mother did not keep useless things.  She tossed old stuff with a vengeance.  Finding that she had kept these ashtrays was, therefore, quite intriguing to me.  Remembrances of a carefree, slightly rebellious youth, I suppose.

And hanging out with my sisters, remembering our childhood, brought back memories of incidents long-forgotten.  Like the time I purposely dropped a picnic bench on my foot to avoid getting in trouble with my mother.  I was probably about 8 years old.  My younger sister and I were playing in the back yard of our home, when I did something that made her extremely angry.  I don't remember what I did, but it was most likely mean and nasty.  My sister yelled and cried, announcing that she was "going to tell Mommy."  I was terrified of this.  This could not be allowed to happen.  My mother could be pretty fearsome when we got in trouble, and I wished to avoid her wrath at any cost.  "Don't tell her," I pleaded.  And then I got an idea.  "I'll do something to myself, and then we'll be even," I told my sibling.  This was agreeable to her.  So I took our picnic bench, which was made of solid wood, and tipped it onto the top of my foot.  Man, it hurt like hell.  But, my sister was satisfied that justice had been done, so it was worth it.  To me, anyway.  What I did not count on was an absolutely enormous bruise forming on the top of my foot, which of course was quite visible to my mother when she spotted it one evening as I was getting ready for bed.  She demanded to know what had happened, and the whole story ended up coming out.  I think I got a spanking.  So, in the end, I guess I got two punishments instead of one. 

As I looked through the house with my sisters, I also recalled all the great parties my parents gave.  My parents loved parties.  I remember New Year's Eves as a little girl, when us kids were put to bed and then all my parents' friends would come over.  There was wonderful food laid out on the dining room table -- stuffed veal pocket, lovely rolls, salads, salami and cheese, olives and pickles.  And in the kitchen were all the makings of any kind of "high ball" one might desire.  In the living room, swing dancing would be going on.  My dad was a kick-ass swing dancer.  Now, you might wonder how I know all about what went on at these parties if I had been put to bed.  But, I ask you, why in the world would I stay in bed?  I used to quietly sneak out of bed and down the hallway, where I would take up my post.  The end of the hallway provided a great vantage point to see all the action.  I would sit there, curled up in a tiny ball so as to make myself less visible, for what seemed like hours on end.  I also used to take up this secret hiding place in the hallway when my mother would watch horror movies on the TV in the living room late at night.  My mother absolutely loved horror movies, and I was quite curious as to what they were all about.  My most vivid memory is of a scene in which some woman was being buried alive by being covered with large stones by a bunch of mean men.  I really didn't understand why this woman didn't just whomp the asses of those mean men.  They didn't seem to be armed or anything.  To this day, one of the things that most pisses me off in movies and TV shows is when women get grabbed by men who really aren't that formidable- looking, and they just scream and flail around.  I guess they are waiting to be rescued by Ben McKenzie (See?  I found a way to talk about him.  Ha!)  Somebody needs to talk to these women, though, because Ben McKenzie just might not show up.  But, I digress.

In some ways, this past week has been really hard.  I have missed my dad greatly since he passed away about two years ago, and I am now missing my mom.  I am really blessed to have had them as parents.  They were really good people, and tried to teach their kids to be really good people.  But, they were also a lot of fun and a little bit edgy -- and that makes me smile.

Rest In Peace, Marilyn Argenti

Last week, I spoke about my mother.  I described how she had been struggling mightily after open heart surgery.  I am very sad to have to say that she passed away yesterday, during the early morning hours.  She will be greatly missed.

My mom was one hell of a woman.  She lived through many things that would have defeated a lot of people.  Her family struggled with poverty during the Great Depression.  She saw two brothers go off to World War II (thankfully, both returned home safely).  She had a failed engagement at a young age. Her first baby was stillborn and she had a subsequent miscarriage.  She told me that she had made her peace with being childless before finally becoming pregnant with me after about six years of marriage.  She dealt with having Hodgkins' disease in her thirties, while she and my dad were in the midst of building their own business.  She raised three daughters and had five grandchildren.  She nursed my dad through leukemia and was with him when he died.  And she lived (pretty independently) for three years after suffering a heart attack that -- according to her doctors -- would have killed most people.  My mother was tough.  Much tougher than I. 

In fact, she would often say as I was growing up, "You have to be a little bit tough in life."  And one of her favorite stories to illustrate this was of her oldest brother, who enlisted in the Army during the Second World War.   He wrote home to their mother and basically said, "I am going to join the paratroopers.  I hope I have your blessing.  But, if I don't, I'm going to join anyway."  Join he did, and he was part of the 101st Airborne when they invaded Normandy on D-Day.  (If you don't know what the 101st Airborne is, and if you don't know what D-Day is, and if you don't know what the Invasion of Normandy is -- then your education is sorely lacking and you had better find out. )  This uncle of mine told my father that he considered every day of his life after D-Day to be a "bonus".  That was how bad it was falling out of the sky in a parachute on that fateful occasion.  My mother liked to tell this story as an illustration of being "tough" because she considered her mother to be tough for being able to handle this.  After all, how many mothers these days are considered tough when they have to send their sons off to college -- where they have meal cards and sports facilities and counselors to talk to if they get home sick?  And -- just so you know -- I am in a glass house here.  I shed plenty of tears after dropping my son off at school.  My mom also considered her brother to be tough for volunteering for this job.  No shit, right?

Along with teaching me to be tough, my mom taught me to create an orderly and enjoyable home life.  A place of respite for the family to return to after a "day in the trenches".  No matter how hard things got -- in my father's job, in our family finances, with anybody's health, in the extended family, with Richard Nixon and his antics, with Jimmy Carter and his inane moving of Daylight Savings Time so that everyone's lights were on during the day instead of in the evening (anyone remember that?), with gas lines, with the sexual revolution -- my mother made sure we had a secure, dependable, and usually fun domestic life.  Each and every day she made most excellent meals, our clothes were always clean (ironed, even), and there was a routine to the housekeeping so that things were pretty darn spotless.  We had swimming lessons, music lessons, and great birthday parties.  She also sewed most of our clothes when we were growing up.  She even made us "belly tops" -- our term for halter tops or half shirts -- the ones that show your tummy off.  Take that, modesty police. ;-)

My mom was also an avid movie buff and reader of books.  The movies she liked?  Rosemary's Baby, The Exorcist, James Bond, the Mad Max series (she had a crush on Mel Gibson), and Woody Allen.  The books?  All the most popular fiction the library had to offer and Rose Kennedy's autobiography.  There is also a closet in her room full of what my husband calls "bodice rippers".  You know -- those paperbacks, whose covers are graced by illustrations of beautiful people with their clothes falling off.  My mother always insisted that it was a waste of money to buy books, especially if there was a good library in town.  But, she obviously made an exception for these romantic tales and anything by Ian Flemming.  My sisters and I are going to have to battle it out over these... Tee-hee. ;-)

My mom, as you can see, was quite a spirited lady.  And I'm sure St. Paul is now finding this out.  She always had a few issues with him.  And I'm sure he is hearing from her even as I type.

May you rest in peace, Mom.  See you on the other side.

Money

My parents never had much money, but they were good with what they did have.  And they passed their wise habits onto their kids.  They tried, anyway.  At one time, I worked in a loan department at a credit union.  Eye-opening experience.  And I have always been in charge of our household budget.  We could be tens of thousands of dollars in credit card debt or I could be running a money-laundering operation, and my husband would never know it.  He is an engineer, so his mind tends to be on more lofty things.  Hopefully, I am a person of good character. Also -- I really don't understand money laundering well enough to actually do it.  I suppose I could find a partner...

Anyway, for what it's worth, these are some things I have learned along the way about the green stuff.

"Live within your means," my dad always said.  It's hard to do this sometimes.  Especially if relatives, friends, and neighbors are not doing so, because you might start to feel deprived.  If everyone around you is going skiing -- even if they're putting it on their credit cards -- you might feel left out of the party.  Especially if you were invited to go along.  But, you might end up happier in the long run if you are able to pay off that credit card each month.  So, if you want to do something fun, go ahead.  But, only if all the rest of your bills are covered and you have enough actual cash on hand to pay for it.

I am not saying that all debt is bad.  It has been my experience that a mortgage is acceptable.  But, it should be a mortgage that you can actually afford to pay.  My dad always advocated home ownership.  But, not because your house could serve as a piggy-bank.  His reasoning was that rents go up over time, and end up being unaffordable to people as they age.  He told us kids that we should buy houses and get them paid off before retirement, so that we would have secure homes.  He had seen too many elderly people struggle to pay the rent, even on small apartments.  Now, will my house be paid off before my husband retires?  I am not sure.  But, I have worked to keep the payments modest so that we will (hopefully) be able to afford them, even as we get older.

A reasonable car loan is probably also not a terrible thing.  It all depends on where you live, and how much you have to drive.  I have driven klunkers before -- many times.  But, that only really worked out if I was just driving around my relatively small town and my parents were available to give me and the kids a ride home in the likely event that I broke down.  I had more than one experience of myself and my three little ones riding in the cab of a tow truck enroute to the auto repair shop.  Not incredibly fun.  So, if you have children and if you need to drive a fair amount and if you can afford it, get a decent car.  Even if you have to have a loan.  You don't have to drive the best of the best, though.  A modest car is usually the healthiest on the budget.  Also, you don't feel so crappy if it gets dinged in the parking lot.  Now, though, I must make a confession.  For a while, I drove a fire-engine-red Ford Mustang convertible.  I do not regret it.  And, someday, I hope to get another one.

Student loans.  A biggie these days.  The government-backed ones are pretty good deals.  But, I would stay away from those private loans.  When you start reading the fine print, they are damn scary.  And think about it.  What are your reasons for going to the college or university you want to go to?  Is there a more economical way to get the result you want from your education?  Think these things through carefully before making your decision.  It may very well be worth it to you to go to a more prestigious (a.k.a. expensive) school, but you'd better be sure before you take the dive.  Because you might be paying for it -- in both cash and lifestyle -- for a long time to come.

And those credit cards?  It is fine to have one or two.  Beyond that, I don't see the point.  And pay them off, each and every month.  You'll be glad you did.  This is something I learned when I worked in that loan department.  I used to run the credit checks.  Wow!  And I realized that, often, the people who looked richer were actually poorer, and vice-versa.

This is how I have, personally, used my credit card.  I only have one.  I put the gasoline on it.  I use it for things like airline reservations, hotel reservations, and internet shopping.  BUT, before I use it for any of those things, I make sure that I will have the actual money in the bank to pay it off at the end of the month. 

But, you might say, what if I have necessary expenses that I need to put on my credit cards that I will not be able to pay off each month?  If you are a young person, just starting out, this is what I would suggest you do before this situation occurs.  Because, once it occurs, it is a bitch.  My parents always advised us kids to live at home for a while after college, while we were working, so that we could build up a healthy amount of savings before striking out on our own.  I found that this financial "boost" my parents gave me has been of inestimable value in my life.  I would advise parents -- if they can -- to do this for their offspring.  In the long run, it will pay off for you.  Your kids won't become that of the "boomerang" variety and there will be much less chance of them calling you for financial help as the years progress.  Although, for this to work, parents must be VERY CLEAR that they expect their children to use this time at home in a fiscally responsible way -- appreciating it for the gift that it truly is.  A kid doesn't get to live at home, taking advantage of his parents' generosity, while simultaneously "living it up" -- with fancy vacations to Monte Carlo and shopping sprees to Neiman Marcus.  Hell, no.  And, dear young people, once you "fly the coop" of your familial home, make sure you have a solid understanding of what is "necessary" and what is "optional" concerning possessions.  Think about what you really NEED vs. what you WANT.  It is easy to confuse the two.  And it can be fun to get by with only the "bare necessities of life."  It can be a game, of sorts.  I know of a family in which the dad, for a period of years, earned a very modest income.  His wife was a SAHM, though.  They lived in a little apartment, with no furniture, except for camping cots on which they slept.  They were actually able to save some money, and they ended up buying a nice home for themselves.  But, it took a lot of discipline.  Instead of looking at it as an onerous task, though, they made an adventure out of it.  And their philosophy of delayed gratification went a long way toward helping them achieve financial security.

Concerning newlyweds?  My parents' financial philosophy proved to be quite wise.  This is something they repeated with regularity all during my childhood.  They believed that the young couple should pay all of their bills solely with the husband's salary.  Yes, young people.  Even if that means a "hot date" is the taco shop and Netflix and "going out for coffee" is a thermos of Folgers on the park bench.  Folgers is really not so bad if you use 8 HEAPING (vs. level) tablespoons to 12 cups of water, as my daughter has recently taught me.  ( To think I have been needlessly suffering all of these years...)  The other half of my parents' equation was this:  The wife should work full-time until a baby arrives.  And ALL of her salary should be dedicated to savings.  My parents never went in for the idea of a wife without kids not working, or only working part-time.  To go along with this, though, they always believed the husbandly half of the couple should do just as much housework as the wifely half.  And my father never failed in this regard.  Even as I was growing up with a SAHM, I saw my dad do plenty of household chores -- thoroughly and cheerfully.  Why did my parents advocate these things?  It was because they strongly believed in a mom being home with the kids.  And their experience was that the above practices would facilitate that.  If you are a young couple who aspires to have the mommy be at home, the above practices will put you in a position where that dream has a much better chance of becoming reality.  And you will lower the odds that you will end up putting your necessary expenses on credit cards after the new mom leaves the workforce.

Let me tell you, though, my father was NEVER a cheapskate.  And he told the three of us girls, repeatedly, of the importance of being a generous person.  Being frugal does not equal being cheap.  Since he was self-employed, he would look at his bank account at the end of each year and donate a good amount of that to charity.  If a friend visited from out-of-town, that friend would be treated to a very nice dinner -- either cooked by my mom with quality ingredients or at a restaurant, if he could afford it (even if it meant stretching the remaining dollars a bit that week).  My parents were also known for the parties they threw for special occasions -- with wonderful food and drink.  And they did this with great cheer, not resenting the expense.  But, never spending money they didn't actually have, either.  And how could they afford these things?  Because of the habits they practiced the other 95% of the time.  A pretty good trade-off, I would say.

But, when it comes down to it, the most important piece of financial advice I ever heard my father utter was this:

"IF YOU CAN FIX IT WITH MONEY, IT'S NOT A PROBLEM."

And when I see all of the troubles in the world that truly cannot be fixed with money -- spiritual suffering, mental illness, physical infirmities, broken marriages, strife between peoples -- I realize what a true statement that is.  So, whatever your financial situation, if your problems can be fixed with money, you are blessed.  I don't mean to sound all "high and mighty" here, either.  This is something I have had to remind myself of many times throughout my own life.  It can be hard to remember, when things get tough.  But, it is worth remembering.  Thanks, Dad...

The Making Of Beds

I have not spoken about this online before now, as I just didn't know what to say.  On December 7, my mom went in for elective heart surgery to replace her aortic valve.  Things have not gone well, and she is still in the hospital, with a long road ahead.  So, if you are a praying type of person, please keep her in yours.  Good thoughts and well-wishes are also much appreciated.

That leads me to my story. As I was making my way about my house this morning, doing what moms do -- laundry, dishes, tidying up -- I went into my daughter Bridget's room.  She has been gone for several days, having a lovely visit with friends out on the East Coast.  I began to make her bed, so it would look all nice and inviting for her when she returns.  Her bedspread is of an old-fashioned variety, like the kind my mother has always had on her own bed.  It is a white cotton, with raised patterns of flowers and a decorative fringe around the edges.  Bridget told me a couple of years ago that she had wanted a bedspread like this since she was a little girl -- one like her grandma's.  So, I got it for her as a Christmas gift that year.

And as I smoothed this bedspread out over my girlie's bed this morning, with the warm sun shining in through the big windows, I thought about my mom and the rituals she created around the making of beds when I was growing up.  Our bedding always consisted of the following:  white linens (fitted sheet, flat sheet, pillowcase) -- never any other color; one blanket during the summertime and two in the winter -- always the type of blanket with the satin edging; and a formal bedspread -- never a throw or comforter.  When we were small, my mother made all the beds every day.  EVERY DAY.  And when we were bigger, we were required to make our beds every day, in the way that she carefully taught us.  The fitted sheet was to be smoothed out and the flat sheet was tucked in with tidy square corners at the bottom of the mattress.  The top of the flat sheet was folded down over the top of the blanket(s).  The blanket(s) and flat sheet were tucked under the mattress all along the sides and bottom.  The bedspread was then laid over everything and folded down at the top.  The pillow was then plumped -- not a step to be skipped -- and laid at the top of the bed.  Lastly, the part of the bedspread that had been folded down was pulled over the top of the pillow and tucked in behind it.  Thus, all you could see was the pretty bedspread from the top of the bed to its foot.

Now, this bedmaking technique was required on Sundays -- no exceptions.  During the week and especially on Saturdays, though, a slight variation might be allowed.  This variation consisted in doing everything exactly as stated above, but the bedspread could be folded in thirds, neatly and precisely, at the foot of the bed.  My mother considered this the "less formal look," hence the "never on Sundays" rule. 

Each evening, also, had its ritual concerning the bedding.  Between 5:00 and 5:45, as my mom was preparing the dinner, one of us kids was assigned the task of "pulling down" the beds.  If the bedspread was covering the entire bed, it was pulled down and folded in thirds (as described in the above paragraph).  The blanket(s) and flat sheet might also be folded back -- neatly, always neatly.  And the pillow was again plumped.  Thus, all was arranged for a tired little (or big) person to go to sleep at the end of the day.

It is probably apparent to you that my mother has always been quite the homemaker.  And one of the things that makes me especially sad about her hospitalization is the fact that I know she is missing being at her house and doing all of the things she enjoyed doing there each day.  My mom has never considered any of these things to be onerous duties.  She has thoroughly enjoyed her role of making the home a clean, lovely place to be.  And, even though I have not emulated her entirely, her example has been of enormous value to me in creating my own home for my own family.  And the remembrance of my mom's ways has always given me a happy heart.  Nobody's growing up is a perfect thing -- and sometimes my mom's "extreme homemaking" could be irritating.  But, it was also heartwarming -- and a valuable skill not easy to learn or emulate.

Bullying And Family Life

Yesterday, I spoke about the need for kids to be allowed to stand up for themselves against bullies.  Today, I would like to speak of how our homes and family lives can be used to shield our children from bullying and its negative effects.

Young people, common wisdom holds, are very peer-oriented.  It is quite important to them to feel accepted by their confreres, to "fit in."  And this makes them especially vulnerable to bullying.  Bullies can make their targets virtual outcasts at school and in other social situations, as most kids -- even those who aren't doing the bullying -- feel unable to stand up to these mean people.  So, the victims of bullies are often victimized twice over -- by the bullies themselves, and by the otherwise nice kids who don't befriend or stick up for them out of their own fear of the bullies.  I had this experience myself in school. When I was bullied, the kids who actually liked me would often avoid me because they were afraid to become targets themselves.  So, not only did I feel abused by the mean kids, I also felt very alone.

And this is where a positive home and family life are so important for young people who are victims of  bullies.  Now, I realize that for some kids, a good home life is a near impossibility.  And that is an issue to be addressed separately.  For now, I am speaking to parents -- married, single, straight, or gay  -- who have the ability to create a haven in their homes for their kids.  Who can make their relationships with their kids into safe harbors against the storms of life, including bullying.  And I believe this to be a grave parental responsibility.  I know that we as parents have plenty of our own problems, and it can be tempting to play down the problems that our sometimes difficult teens are having.  Really, though, in the long run, if we can reach inside and dig out of ourselves whatever is necessary to help our kids, we are not only helping them -- we are helping ourselves.  I mean, let's face it.  Nothing makes your life more miserable than a miserable kid. (Yes. I guess I am appealing a little bit to our own adult selfishness here.  Please forgive.)

I know that in my own experience of growing up, nothing comforted me more in the face of the bullies at school than looking forward to Sunday dinner at my grandparents' house, where my cousin would be over.  We used to play "The Flying Nun" and my cousin always got to be the Mother Superior.  We would attempt to "fly" by jumping off of my nana and grandpa's front porch.  And if you don't know what "The Flying Nun" is, then Google it. #generationgap ;-)

And after a tough day in the presence of bullies, what could be lovelier than a meal with a dad who will truly listen - or - having your mom read aloud from that ridiculous hippie-era book, "Flowers for Algernon," that your stuck-in-the-60's English teacher insists upon assigning - or - sitting on the couch watching a movie with your siblings, while your parents make you popcorn?

You, as parents, may say to me, "My kids just aren't interested in doing these kinds of things with us." Well, I beg to differ. With a little finesse on your part, dear parents, most of your kids would be happy to hang with you, to accept this kind of comfort from you.  You just have to be a little bit clever about it. Ask yourselves what would have made you want to hang out with your own parents when you were young.

After all, isn't it really in the home, with our families, where we are truly meant to find our comfort and sense of belonging in this life?  I think so.  And it is our job as parents to teach our children this, to give them this gift.  For if our kids know that they actually do have a place in this world, a place that is secure, then it will be much easier for them to say -- "Who gives a flying f**k about these bullies, anyway?"

The OC, Chino, and Home

This post is not actually about The OC. But, The OC did inspire this post. Because in The OC -- which is a TV show, in case you didn't know -- the main character comes from Chino. I have never been to Chino; but, as it is portrayed in the show, it is exactly like my hometown: Redwood City, CA.

I grew up in Redwood City, as did my husband. We lived there for the first 9 years of our marriage. Our 3 kids were born there.

There are wealthy areas in Redwood City, and there are areas which are like Chino in The OC. My young little family lived in one of these not-so-wealthy areas. And it was the BEST thing we could have done for ourselves and our kids.

I am now going to speak of our lifestyle choices. Don't feel judged if they are not yours.

Upon marrying, we wanted to have kids right away. Hubby was 26 and I was 24. He was an engineer and I was a teacher. We both aspired to have me stay home with the babies, so we chose to live in a poorer area of town where we could afford a house. Thus, we moved into a 900 square foot, 2 bedroom, 1 bath house that glowed with an eerie orange light when the sun shone through the windows. This visual effect was caused by the orange and gold, early 1970's era, carpet, paint, and draperies.There was a drug-dealer living next door, but he was the friendly type. And we really didn't mind his parties, which lasted from sundown on Thursday nights to sundown on Sunday nights. But, only during warm weather.

This is the thing, though. Most of the people in that neighborhood were the best kind of people. Unspoiled, hard-working, generous, kind. Nobody had any extra money, so there were picnics in the park and frozen treats from the ice cream truck (on the days when there was a little extra cash). Such
fun birthday parties there were for the kids, with wading pools, squirt guns, hot dogs, and cake from the super market. No one could afford a bouncy house or a rented cartoon character. The kids 
themselves were the Power Rangers, and they did it better than any paid adults could have. There were no fancy pre-schools, but the recreation center down the street offered some lovely children's activities for a reasonable price; and I met some awesome friends there. Oh, and the park. A lot of us Redwood City mamas would bring our kids there each and every morning. Not an official play group,  but maybe better. No stress. No official duties. Just playing. And visiting. No gossip, either. Life was too basic to offer any fertile ground for gossip-worthy topics.

So, when I watched The OC today with my oldest daughter, and the setting was Theresa's engagement party in the family backyard in Chino -- complete with ice chests containing bottles of beer, sodas, tables with food under (very informal) tents, homemade flower arrangements, cinder block walls separating the neighbors' yards, well-worn paint on the house, old cars lining the streets -- well, it just brought me back. And I'm glad my kids spent most of their years as little children in a place like that. It gives them some perspective. If your furniture doesn't match, but you have a burger and a beer, well -- you are blessed.