Unemployment - The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

I’ve been unemployed for four months now and keep telling myself to enjoy it, but that’s just not completely possible. Here’s the bad things about not working:

Duh! We can’t pay our monthly bills on one income. And we blew though our rainy day fund (that we had for 10 years) a couple of years ago when some other s*#@* happened. So we’re in debt and will have to figure out how to get back on track. I think the retirement funds are history.

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May Greetings

Greetings, I’m the Writing Mamas website guest editor for the month of May. At the February salon, someone asked me how long I’d been a Writing Mama. I said about 3 years. Then I started reading a book I’d bought when the author, Tucker Malarkey, came to speak to the group. She’d signed it in 2006! So 2010 started my fifth year with Writing Mamas. How time does fly when you’re in the company of wonderful interesting women.

I’ve been writing for several years and feel like I’m still finding my way. I’m most comfortable writing personal essays but have also tried short stories. I have a novel I keep committing to but not progressing much with. I’ve got a story to tell but what’s on the page doesn’t match what’s in my head.

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Jumping For Joy!

My 13-year-old son Nick is taking weekly trampoline lessons. His good buddy Anthony goes too. Driving the boys to the cold spacious warehouse building in a risky part of Oakland takes about a half hour. Class is 90 minutes and then another half hour to drive home. Yet I keep turning down offers from Anthony’s mother to alternate driving duties.
I like watching Nick jump with abandon and try new moves each week. Nick has never embraced physical activity so it’s great to see him finding pleasure in the trampoline. Doing mid air somersaults is a thrill for both of us. Continue… »

My Dad and Harding Golf Course

It felt odd and a bit sad that my dad wasn’t at Harding Park Golf Course to watch the President’s Cup tournament last October. Now 83, my dad’s been hanging out at Harding for more than 70 years. He and Ken Venturi golfed there as teenagers, forging a life long friendship. While Ken went on to fame and fortune, my dad joined the South San Francisco Fire Department, fathered eight children, and played at Harding two to three times a week. Sometimes he’d take me with him to walk the course. We never rode a golf cart—why waste the money?

We’d scavenge for golf balls inadvertently hit outside of Harding. My dad knew all the spots around Lake Merced where overshot balls landed. I scrambled down slopes, grabbing under trees and bushes. In less time than it takes to play nine holes, I’d fill a bucket.

For years after he retired, Dad worked as a starter at Harding. He loved the early morning drive through the foggy streets and the razzing with the golfers lucky enough to get one of the early start times. He was anxious when computerized cash registers replaced the old-fashioned ones, but he got the hang of the new-fangled equipment pretty quickly. He was able to change with the times.

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Doggy Does Facebook

I’m not sure if my family’s Facebook habit is getting out of hand or if our doggy love has gone over the deep end. But Kashi, our oh-so-adorable white fluff ball of a dog, has more friends on Facebook than I do. He hit the 200 mark weeks ago. I don’t even look at the count anymore—why make myself feel like a reject? I’ve been on Facebook way longer than he has. His profile picture is awfully darn cute. He is irresistible while I, apparently, can be easily resisted.

Not only that, but his friends actually pay attention to what he’s doing and comment on it. I’ll post something I think is pretty interesting or important or worth a chuckle and I get zip comments. Kashi posts something pithy like “Wish I had a chewy treat right now” and ten friends pipe in with what they’ d like to give him.

Don’t even get me started on how many girlfriends he has. “Wanna play with me this weekend?” his bud Indigo asks. And some cute little mutt who goes by the name Poppy Fluff Flower pretended they were married for awhile to keep other bitches away. Kashi’s pleading dark eyes shine a light into the vulnerability behind his machismo.

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A Different Kind of Tour

I completed the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in San Francisco on July 11th and 12th. I walked 13.1 miles on Saturday and another 13.1 on Sunday for a marathon total of 26.2 miles. I could not have designed a better tour of San Francisco. The itinerary, the tour group and the tour guides were inspired and unique.

I walked with Debbie, my dear friend from high school. She is a 10-year breast cancer survivor. Yep, 10 life-affirming years. Debbie was a lucky talisman for so many walkers who found such hope from meeting someone who has not only survived, but thrived. And this gal can throw out so much love and support in the briefest of conversations. Continue… »

Sleep-Away Camp Awakens Mom

Day 5 of Nick’s 14 days at overnight summer camp. I miss my 12-year old terribly. The other parents were so excited when we waved good-bye to the busload of campers. Not me. I’m lethargic and can’t find my zest. I rummage around different stores looking for interesting cards to send him. I hit the jackpot when I find one with a cover from a Rumplestiltskin picture book. Nick’s favorite childhood story. I want to find enough energy to get some things done around the house while he’s gone. Can’t I at least be productive? The house is too quiet. I’m sad.

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Once a BFF, Always a BFF

My friend Deb called me last October.  I hadn’t seen her in about seven years.  Our 35^th high school reunion was coming up and she wondered if I’d want to go with her.  I was thrilled to hear her voice although I’d been hurt and confused during the past several years, wondering why she’d let our friendship wither.  I’d long considered her one of my closest friends, but calls and cards had gone unanswered for a few years before I’d stopped contacting her. 

Toughest to digest was that our friendship moved from the slow lane to the exit ramp when she was diagnosed with breast cancer at age forty-four.  I so wanted to support her through her treatments but she did not need me.  She had her husband, her sisters and other friends who lived closer.  I heard enough to know she’d survived, but her not needing or wanting my support forced me to realize our friendship had eroded more than I’d been willing to admit.  A few years later, my holiday card was returned with a red stamp of No Forwarding Address.  I took this as the final signal that I should let the relationship go.

The high school reunion was a blast.  Deb spent the weekend at my house.  We gabbed for hours.  She made no mention of her silence over the years and I’d decided beforehand that I would welcome her back, no questions asked.  I honestly don’t think the years of silence were anything personal – probably more to do with living one-hundred miles away, raising two teenagers and finding time with a husband who worked long hours.  I can’t say I felt no resentment but mostly I was glad to have her back.

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A Nursing Home Holiday Filled with Family, Memories and Tears

My father-in-law, Glyn, moved to a nursing home in early December. We came bearing gifts on Christmas day – my husband, me, our 10-year old son, along with my husband’s brother and his 11-year old daughter.

Glyn sat in the dining room. A first for him as he had been taking all his meals in his room. He ate his prime rib with gusto as we hovered around the table. Conversation was sparse. I had thought that this visit to the nursing home would be sad but it felt okay.

Holding a gift box and tearing the wrapping paper off was difficult for Glyn. My husband helped him open a large box filled with a heavy black jacket. I wondered if he’d ever get the chance to wear it.

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From One Generation to the Next and the Next

My father-in-law will move from a skilled nursing facility to an assisted living apartment this week.

My husband and I are a bit frantic about figuring out what furniture and belongings from his large three-bedroom home will fit best in the new, tiny apartment, and about getting his nicotine stained and smelly condominium ready to rent out.

And we try not to panic over where the money to pay for all of this will come from.

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