The Mushroom Factor

I live in a house that was built in 1900. From 1900 to 1975 it was a rental, and had, I am sure, some very interesting tenants in it. We are the first actual owners on the deed, and as a result have needed to fix a never-ending list of problems with electricity, plumbing, walls, plaster ceilings, old ugly wallpaper, asbestos-wrapped pipe insulation, water seepage from under the basement, rebuilding a front porch, adding a family room, rebuilding the kitchen, twice. The list goes on forever.

There is one fact that I have discovered while renovating and repairing this great old house. That is that any given project will take approximately three times the expected amount of time to finish, and will cost up to ten times more money than estimated. This has been referred to as The Mushroom Factor, and is evidently a known part of owning an old house. Take, for instance, my dining room light fixture.

We had only been in the house for a couple of years when we decided to have our first fancy dinner party. Actually, my husband thought I was nuts right off the bat (did I mention I was pregnant?), so it was I who gathered my strength, planned a menu, and got the place cleaned and ready for company. As I was setting the dining room table the morning of the event, one of the light bulbs in the hanging fixture over my head went out. Okay, I thought, this is no big deal. I'll get a light bulb, climb on a chair, and fix it.

Well, the first thing I had to do was run to the hardware store and get some light bulbs, as we were out of the ones that matched the fixture. Then we had to move the table and most of what was on it to reach the light. As my husband (face it, we do need them for the menial chores) was changing the bulb, a bit of plaster plunked down from the ceiling onto the table. As a result, I climbed onto the table and tried to clear away any problem plaster that would potentially wreck my perfect table setting.

There was only one small glitch. The plaster in the ceiling surrounding the base of the light fixture was wet. Not soaking wet so you could see it from a hundred yards away, but damp enough to point to a problem leak somewhere on the second floor. At that point I took everything off of my table and pulled down all of the remaining soggy plaster. Then I went upstairs to see what was going on. I now had a three-foot in diameter hole in the dining room ceiling, and a similar amount of soggy plaster on the table.

It didn't take much searching on the second floor to discover that the drain pipe from the bathtub had a leak. To get to this leak it looked like we would have to pull up the tub, break through the concrete base under it, and figure out which section of pipe was about to be dripping on my party. So I called a plumber. He arrived quickly, but refused to touch anything wet until the electricity under it had been disconnected, so I called my electrician. By now it was after lunch time, and getting dangerously close to the appointed dinner hour.

It took the electrician only a moment to disconnect everything, and happily the plumber found the leaky joint without having to break up the entire bathroom floor. Before he left, I had the electrician hook up the light fixture once more. The ceiling, however, was still in the middle of my dining room table.

Believe it or not, the party was not cancelled. I still had the dinner guests arrive as scheduled. However, the style of the evening changed considerably. We had a lovely buffet set up on a couple of card tables in the living room, and we all ate on our laps. It's a good thing we have understanding friends, but then, most of them live in old houses, too.

There is, I guess, a moral to this story, and it comes in the form of a quiz:

Question: How many people does it take to change a light bulb in an old house?

Answer: The two owners, a plumber and assistant, an electrician, and eventually a plasterer and painter to complete the repairs on the ceiling. Mercifully, I have completely forgotten how much this all cost us.

By the way, I wouldn't trade my old house for anything. As of this November, we have been in it for 35 years. We have rebuilt most of it at some time or other, but the best things we have built are 35 years worth of memories.

Mom, you would like this

In about five minutes it would have been my mother's 91st birthday. I have thought about her a lot this week, as I do every year in late September. She and I spent a lot of our lives trying to figure each other out, and disagreeing a majority of the time. This does not, however, mean we didn't love each other.

As I got older, and she got more mellow, we came together in pretty spectacular fashion. A strong friendship developed, and we had tremendous fun delving into artistic endeavors and intellectual discussions. One chat in particular that I remember had to do with the brain structures that could lead to a sense of humor, and how they could possibly develop. Yeah, deep stuff like that.

I am sure that everyone on this planet has a slightly different behavior style with his or her parents, and that in itself is quite wonderful. We have an infinite ability to adapt, it seems, and to develop a relationship that works best for us. For me this is probably best exemplified in the fact that I finally learned never to discuss politics or religion with my Dad!

Evidently neither did Mom. She admitted to me and my sister, after he had passed, that she had voted Democratic, or even Independent, in a number of presidential races, without ever mentioning it to anyone. Especially not the staunch Republican she was married to!

I am now in the eldest generation of Moms in the family, along with my sister and sis-in-law, and we are all quite similar in our parenting styles. There are four Moms in the next generation, and more to come. I wonder if they will find some new literature that they will swear by in the rearing of their children. For my mother it was Dr. Spock (no, not the guy from Star Trek), and for me and my generation it was Hiam Ginott, Rudolf Dreikurs, and many others. We were smart enough to pick out the parts we agreed with in various theories, and toss out the rest with the disposable diapers.

There do seem to be a few universal truths that go along with being a mom, and as my kids are now into their thirties, I think I might just have enough experience to share a few of them with you:

1. No matter how old you or your children get, a part of you will always treat them like they are about to enter first grade.

2. No matter how much experience you have in any particular area, your children will still look it up on the internet after you have given your best advice.

3. There is always a day in your child's life where you will look at him or her and silently think, "I can't believe you are going to wear that!"

4. A child's hair grows more rapidly than that of adults. Therefore, when children decide to either to a) shave their heads, or b) dye their hair bright purple, it will grow out faster. It is important to remember this when viewing the new style for the first time.

5. Any daughter's skirt that is deemed an appropriate length by her mom will inevitably be hiked up a minimum of six inches the second that daughter is out of sight of the house. This is accomplished by rolling up the waistband so the daughter looks like she is wearing an inner tube under her sweater.

6. If a child arrives home after school with a black eye and a smile, it is best not to ask any questions. They will most likely be answered anyway by the principal when the office calls.

7. Any child who promises to forever and ever look after the needs of a pet is lying. This is not a purposeful thing, it just works out that way.

8. Most children will not take a) their special blanket, or b) their pacifier to college when they leave home for the dorms. This may be a difficult decision, but the odds are in favor of separation, anxiety or not.

9. Every child will have at least one serious relationship with a partner that you hate. Not mildly dislike, but hate. It is imperative that you keep your mouth shut or you may find yourself a mother-in-law to the creep.

10. If you learn to trust your children, they will become trustworthy. If you are constantly suspicious of their motives, they will go out of their way to prove you right. If you are not trustworthy, they will behave like you no matter what stern lectures they are given. If children know you can be trusted, you will find them telling you plenty of things you would probably be much happier not knowing.

11. In spite of all of your efforts, it is probable that your kids will grow up to be smart, kind, funny, hard-working and appreciative adults. You have official permission to ignore the amount of therapy needed for them to get that way. This therapy can either be for you or for them, or both, for that matter.

I am convinced that there isn't a more rewarding job in the world than being a mom. Maybe being a grandmom, but I haven't tried that one yet. For right now I have an endless supply of love available to both of my kids, and an ever stronger appreciation for the hard work my Mom did to help me and my brother and sister reach adulthood intact. Happy Birthday, Mom, and I miss you.

Eyebrows, love 'em or shave 'em off

I was looking at a political ad this afternoon. Yes, it is that season, and I am already sick of the ads for various politicians, or against various politicians who are all evidently spawn of the devil. Negative ads make me furious. That, however, is not the point I am here to make. In this particular ad there is a likable enough gentleman who wants very much to be the next governor of our state. I have no problem with that, at least none that I know of yet.

My problem is that the whole time he was talking I couldn't take my eyes off of his eyebrows. They didn't match. One was sort of tapered and rather long, from the edge of his nose out to the side of his forehead, where one would think eyebrows would go. The other one looked sort of like someone had pinned a piece of carpeting to his face. No taper, no particular shape, just a lump of an eyebrow. I am certain he had some very important political-type things to say in his ad, but all I remember is those eyebrows.

I don't know when I started noticing eyebrows, but it must have been a very long time ago. Back in the late 1960's and early 1970's I went to art school in Chicago, and had an instructor whose eyebrows almost defied description. They sat on top of an astonishing amount of electric-blue eyeshadow, which of course made them stand out more than the usual amount, but she had decided that whatever brows she had been given by Mother Nature simply wouldn't do, and had shaved them off. The jet black, painted on variety that she had replaced the originals with had an arch that rivaled St. Louis, and were a full half-inch above the natural brow bone. This gave her the look of a startled circus clown. Not what she was going for, I am certain.

That was one of many fashion eras during which many women thought they could improve on the looks that nature had bestowed upon them, and a lot of eyebrows were shaved in the mad dash to paint incredibly skinny curves where nice, natural brows once adorned nice, natural faces. That is not to say that Mother Nature doesn't ever screw up. I have seen perfectly lovely girls with eyebrows a grizzly would be proud of.

Many years ago I worked as a representative for a well-known brand of cosmetics, and was one of those gals you see in department stores doing makeup on willing customers. It was a fun job, except for the lingering allergy to all perfume. One afternoon a mom came to me with an entirely miserable-faced young girl of about 13. The kid was adorable, but had a definite problem. She had what is kindly referred to as a "unibrow," one long hedge of en eyebrow, with no discernible break in the middle.

The poor kid was distraught, and that's where I came in. Up until that point her mother had been convinced that she was way too young to pluck her eyebrows. Happily, Mom asked me for my opinion. I gently explained that the hair would not grow back in twice as thick (old wives' tale), and that the resulting uptick in her daughter's self-confidence would be more than worth a couple of minutes of discomfort. I sat the teen in my magic chair, and in a short moment had cleaned up the mess. I gave her instructions on upkeep, and sent off a grinning youngster and very relieved mom.

A friend that I recently worked with sits at the opposite end of the spectrum. She has no eyebrows. I haven't a clue how they disappeared, but there is no sign of any hair growth above her eyes. The hair on her head seems fine, and is definitely her own, so the missing eyebrows are a mystery. I don't think she has eyelashes, either, so some sort of physical disorder has robbed her of her brows. That is not the problem. The problem is with me. I am too chicken to say quietly to her, "could you let me take just a moment and show you how to draw very natural looking eyebrows on your face?"

She has drawn her brows in a single wide line, one line for each brow, and it really is distracting. She is an attractive person with a wonderful personality, yet it drives me crazy knowing she could look so much better with just a minute of cosmetic education, and an education I am well qualified to provide. But, again, I am a coward. I am so afraid of hurting her feelings in some way that I guess I prefer for her to remain imperfect. Silly me.

As certain as I am that a sizable segment of the population needs instruction on eyebrow shaping and maintenance, I am just as certain that my intervention is probably unnecessary. In some cases it most likely would be entirely unwelcome. Therefore, I will keep my opinions of eyebrows to myself, and my offended aesthetic sense well hidden. If the worst thing my probable choice for governor has to deal with is an imbalance in his brow structure, this state might be in pretty good shape.

Victoria, keep your secret to yourself!

I watched a horrifying Victoria's Secret ad a little while ago, and I am still mad. Picture, if you will, a group of underwear-clad lovelies talking about loving their bodies. They are all painfully thin, with ribs showing and gaunt faces. No one who truly loves their body would starve it down to boniness. While some other companies are making a valiant effort to come to terms with the bodies of real women, Victoria's Secret is steadfast in their insistence that beauty only exists in a size zero. Sadly, there are still a great number of women who have been trained throughout their lifetimes to believe this.

In this country it starts very young. I have read that a significant number of 9-year-olds report that they have already been on some kind of diet. There is still an alarming number of girls who suffer from bulimia and/or anorexia. The last statistic I read said that 20% will find their disease to be fatal.

For some reason we women have been well-trained to look for self-satisfaction in our exterior, when in reality it is the interior that should be well-crafted, finely honed, and educated to respect and even like itself.

Now I will switch to the first person. Me. I am a not-so-thin woman, who wears sizes 14 to 18, depending what part of my body is being covered. I spent many years of my life as a size 5, so I have been in both places and have developed a pretty good sense of what it's like to live in both worlds. As a size 5, the primary thing I discovered is that individuals of the opposite sex think it is open season on your figure. They also assume that a large part of your brain must be missing.

I vividly remember appearing as a model back then in a fashion and hair styling competition, with a gorgeously crafted hairdo and a slinky halter-top black jumpsuit. The other girls in the show were introduced by their names, then some complementary statement about their style. When I hit the stage, the only comment the announcer could come up with was that I was wearing the "new bra-less look." I am sure the judges couldn't have survived without that information.

I spent a large part of my life hearing about what a great body I had (as a swimmer and a dancer I was pretty athletic), but very little attention was given to the rest of me. Now that I am well into my sixties, the tables have definitely turned. Actually, they started turning when I was in my thirties. I have been very active politically and socially from my late teens to the present, and when I finally started to gain recognition for my writing, I started to realize how held back I had been by the standards of beauty of the times. Nobody had expected me to have the teeniest bit of intellect.

We have come a long way since the 60's, and women are finding their way into new and better lifestyles. The understanding is out there that we should love, honor and obey our bodies. Loving them means looking in the mirror at a few saggy items, scars, and an extra roll here or there, and being happy that this body has done well by you, taken you through some tough times as well as joyous ones. It deserves respect.

Honoring our bodies means keeping them active, feeding them properly with great, fresh food. It also means not kicking yourself around the block when you eat a jelly donut. Obeying your body means understanding what it needs and following through on achieving that goal. That body is the best judge of what is good for it, and when you feel a strong desire for an activity, an escape (Calgon is acceptable here), or a splurge, go get it! Even chocolate and red wine are allowable, just not as the mainstay of your nutritional intake.

I still see far too many women who believe in the artificial standards, however. They complain constantly about their weight, while forgetting to look at the rest of their unique selves. I know I have found that when my brain is well-fed with interesting information, I tend to automatically take better care of the rest of me. This is the teaching moment: We need to stop worrying about what the advertising media and their Photoshop and airbrushed and starved role-models seem to be dictating as a reachable goal. Friends, it is not going to happen!

Having given my lecture for the day, I will jump back into the advertising world with one two-part question: When the hell are they going to wise up and start looking at the beautiful women who populate this country, in all shapes and sizes? And when are they going to decide to appeal to our intelligence? I will never buy underwear from Victoria's Secret. I don't care what her secret is.

Keep on keepin' on

I went to a birthday party today. Not for long, just to stop in for a bit and say "hello." Then a quiet ride home by myself through the country, giving me time for reflection. The birthday was a wonderful occasion, as it was a first birthday, a birthday number one for a charming young man who is the offspring of two of my daughter's friends. Many of her friends now have children, most of them less than two years old.

My family welcomed a new arrival this week, a little girl who joins a generation of little girls (with one little boy, also a year old, as the notable exception). I have a large number of great-nieces and one great nephew, most from a few months (or days!) to two years old. I am surrounded by babies.

As I mulled this over during the drive this afternoon, I started to think how incredibly hopeful these new babies can, and should, make us feel. As the media is busy loading us up with its version of the modern world, it amazes me that we still choose to bring new little people into it. If all we did was listen to the TV News, we would be convinced that our sole purpose on earth is to bludgeon, batter, belittle or betray each other, waging wars of words or ideas or weapons, hoping for some kind of meaningful "win."

Most of what we hear going on around us is interpreted by some pundit or other to be problematic. The economy is in a shambles, we are all addicted to sex, drugs, alcohol, or some X-rated internet site. Our marriages are said to be crummy, our family relationships falling apart, our generation gaps wider, and our chances for true communication slimmer than ever. This is far too pervasive for even Dr. Phil to fix.

Then why, I wonder, are we continuing to reproduce?

Maybe, just maybe, it is because we choose not to listen to the "experts," and instead to look around us and trust our instincts. Within my immediate world, and I am sure the surroundings of most people on this planet, I see diversity, acceptance, kindness, caring, humor, and a sense of responsibility toward the well-being of others. This is not a generational thing; it is a human thing.

As humans we tend, no matter what color, nationality, religious beliefs, abilities or disabilities we carry around with us, to want the same things. We want safety, a sense of belonging, someone in our lives who gives a damn about us, and the chance to prove that each of us can make a difference in the lives of others. Whether it is displayed in the truck full of food headed in the direction of those who might otherwise go hungry, or in the curious touch of one infant reaching out to understand another, we recognize our capacity to change things for the better.

Of course, the TV will continue to blare juicy details of the tiny number of humans who choose to behave badly, but we are wise enough to know they are in the extreme minority. Our behavior, the acts of a vast majority of the inhabitants of this planet, says we are better than that. We are giving ourselves a chance to continue to try to get things right.

So we keep on having babies.

Can you come out and play?

In the last few weeks I have discovered that there are two very distinct types of people in this world, or at least in the northeastern section of the United States. There are people who look for opportunities to play, and those who avoid opening up to the game.

It's not like there is a specific game involved; it is just a convenient way to describe the openness of some people to an opportunity to connect in a spontaneous and humorous way to someone they do not know. Here are a few qualifying questions so you can see if you are ready for the game:

Do you smile at people on the street even if you do not know them?

Do you talk to salespeople, cab drivers, and restaurant servers? More than telling them what you want or where you would like to go?

If you overhear a story, or part of one, on an elevator or another public place, do you finish it in your head? Do you try out more than one ending?

When you go to the zoo, do you have discussions with some of the animals? Do they listen? Better yet, do they answer? If you have never gone to the zoo, you need not read past this point.

Do you ever have conversations with inanimate objects? Again, do they answer?

I am not suggesting that you need to behave in a way that would end with you wrapped up in a nice white sheet and carted off someplace. I just want to discover those who qualify to join in with spontaneous activities, and occasionally take them to another level.

For instance, I was in Burlington, Vermont a few days ago, sitting on a huge rock in the center of town, watching the many shoppers, diners and tourists who were enjoying a sunny afternoon on the outdoor mall. Sitting quietly by myself, I took notice of the folks who noticed me, and the vast majority who didn't. Not that I am ordinarily all that noticeable, but I did have a cast on my right leg, and it was painted to the hilt with flowers, birds, ants, a caterpillar and a goldfish pond. It was definitely noticeable.

Most of the people walking by did not look anywhere near my direction. They were focused on whatever they had to do, and nothing was to get in their way. There were also street musicians out in the sun, and these folks took no notice of them, either. Sad, as a couple of the musicians were really talented.

Then there was the group who looked, stared even, then looked away as though any real connection was terrifying. They were also kind of sad, and definitely not ready for a game.

The group that took a moment or two to ask about the cast, who had painted it, how did I hurt myself, was I going to keep it and how much longer did I have to wear it, they were almost ready to jump in. There was one girl, however, who got the game going.

She had a cast on her left leg, and it was purple. She was walking with a cane, and came right by my rock. She looked directly at me, and I looked directly at her. We both grinned, and the game was on. I jumped up and started to walk on her right, so that our casts were on the outside legs. Arm in arm, we limped our way down the next block, laughing and exchanging stories of our general clumsiness and how it had led to broken bones.

People backed away from the center of the street to let us through, and many of them looked like they wanted to join the parade. We both made it very clear that something had to be in a cast for them to be full members of our marching squad. We were absolutely in sync, not only in step with our opposite legged limping, but also in attitude and ability to stick to the same story, though we were making it up as we went.

Soon we got to the store where she planned to stop, and we bid each other goodbye, still giggling at our joint predicament. I have to mention here that we had very little in common. She was about 25, I am 64. She was much taller than I am, and had broken both bones in her lower left leg jumping over her dog as he decided to stand up. I stepped on a foot that was asleep, and snapped an outside bone on the right.

She was dressed conservatively, while I was in cropped jeans and a brightly printed t-shirt. It did not matter, as we were both delighted to find someone to play with.

A good friend of mine, who I had guessed was open to games, proved to me last night that she was more than ready. She and her husband and son joined my spouse and me at a local restaurant, sitting outdoors under a tent while it rained down around us. We were there not only for the food, which was excellent, but also to support another friend who was in a German band that was serenading us, quite loudly, while we ate and yelled across the table at each other.

The rain had stopped by the time we were done, and we headed out for the parking lot just as the band struck up with the familiar waltzing rhythms of "Edelweiss." I looked at her, she looked at me, and we immediately jumped into each other's arms and began to waltz our way to the car, under the confused gazes of our husbands and her son, though he looked like he might be ready to take part. By the way, my leg was still in the cast.

We now understand that each of us is open to play, and I look forward to our next gathering, as the gloves are off, the door has been opened, and the game is underway. It should be a blast.

How do you get to be in the game? All that is needed is openness, spontaneity, and a fearless desire to connect with others. When an opportunity to play presents itself, you need to leap in with both feet. It is almost certain that someone will be there to join you, giving you a joyful moment and a delightful memory. Play on!

A Few Simple Questions

I have just been on a lovely vacation in the mountains of Upstate New York, relaxing and enjoying the incredible scenery. Places like that are fraught with one particular type of danger - they give you too much time to think. With all of that pondering time available to me, I tend to dwell on what seem to be universal questions without answers. Here are a few of the more vexing ones:

Why do people go on vacation to relax, and then spend every waking moment on some activity or other?

Why does the man who goes into spasms of delight over a 52" screen "Home Theater" television set feel it is equally important to purchase a 2" by 4" screen telephone to watch the same movies?

Why does anyone wear 5" heel, pointed-toe shoes? I studied ballet as a kid, and I know how much it hurts to walk on my toes.

I know I will sound old here, but what the heck does anyone see in Justin Bieber?

Does painting an "accent wall" in your living room mean that no one will notice the rest of the walls? Does that mean you don't need to paint them?

Why does it always cloud over on the nights when the news tells you to look for a special phenomenon in the sky? I missed all of the possible Northern Lights last week, and I will stay angry for a while.

Why are we so darned afraid of things we just don't understand? Wouldn't a little bit more education help here? And while we are on the subject of education:

Why do schools depend so heavily on standardized tests when there is no such thing as a standardized student?

Why do members of every generation think their children have lousy taste in music? Clothing? Art?

What ever happened to teaching manners?

Why is it illegal for me to damage the Mercedes (Lexus, Hummer, BMW, Cadillac) parked in the last Handicapped parking spot when as a result I have no place to park (I do have the required state tag)? All I want to do is write "not handicapped!!!" with a key on the driver's side door.

And finally:

Why do doctors not have to study nutrition in Medical School when everybody knows "you are what you eat"?

This list is to be continued as the author thinks some more.