What Did You Come For?

Tales from the ground, looking up at an election.

First, the media was long-ago comprised of educated and trained journalists informing the public in a manner that both enlighted and protected, not against opposite points of view, but against the overuse or abuse of government power. The media is now comprised of vapid, attention-deprived gossips with no interest in enlightenment or protection of the public, except as it relates to their own interests. They've become utterly useless in the public's preparation for an election.

Next, the election process is flawed, cumbersome, a bit tedious. Most candidates are either overly coiffed and look like they smell of cheap aftershave and Folgers or they are frumpy and rumpled and look like they smell like their last sandwich and Chai tea. Their qualifications are 'too entrenched', 'not entrenched but greasy-looking' or 'will get run-over by a mack truck on the first day in office'. They represent a system that appears to be intrinsically ignorant of the needy people, steered by the greedy people, and working only for the seedy people. Not what the forefathers had in mind, exactly.

Given all this, it may seem pointless to vote. Apathy may appeal, almost as a form of protest. In any case, one voice above the din of rampant malfeasence cannot be heard. This is how we talk ourselves into it, isn't it? I certainly have my doubts at 4 a.m. on election morning when I'm dragging myself to a polling place to set up for a long day as an election judge.

And then as the day gets underway in comes 91-year-old Ziskind, hobbling, cane in one hand, kleenex in the other, 50-something son trailing behind. He announces himself loudly and proudly, reminds me I never know how to pronounce his name (I do) takes hold of his ballot with the kleenex hand, stands at the booth, sometimes leaning precariously to one side or the other, and casts his ballot. Every single election. No matter the season, no matter the candidates. No matter. He is there every election. When he leaves he waves his kleenex good-bye, reminds me to remember him (I do) and scuttles off, good son trailing behind.

He never smiles at me.

I think he's still mad at me.

One year, I asked him how he managed to get to us in such terrible weather. Innocent enough, I thought - just making idle chat - remarking on his good health, I thought - a compliment, of sorts. That's why I was so taken aback when he answered me so sharply, as if I were some flaming idiot with sparks of stupidity flying off me and singing him, "Not to vote? Not vote? For what did I come? For my vote!" The 't' in that word had a 3-dimensional quality.

Why? Inherent in that clipped, deeply accented answer was the real one, a longer one, more painful. It said, without saying, that when a man had sacrificed as much as he had to achieve the privilege of voting, the notion of treating it like a tentative coffee date to be cast off due to inclement weather was so insulting he couldn't help himself but to punctuate with spittle.

So my question, a uniquely American one in its pomp and ridiculousness, was a rather elegant display of my in-bred ignorance. Because for those whose vote does not come by way of birthright, there is a question, but a different one altogether. On election day the question is - if a concentration camp doesn't stop you, and death-inducing poverty and famine don't stop you, if the takeover of your country by a military coup doesn't stop you, if oceans and barbed wire and sewers as gateways don't stop you - if you cannot be stopped no matter what pain you must endure to arrive in this country -will the cold or the snow stop you? What did you come for? Not to vote?

Not me. I remember Ziskind. And in so doing, I also remember the personal sacrifice made by others so that I could vote.

My father came to this country more than fifty years ago to escape a dictatorship in his home country where, to this day, the dictator's party still holds all executive, legislative and judicial power at all federal, provinicial and municipal levels. All the power. One party. No change. Why? Because the vote is pointless there and the people vote simply to please the dictator. Fifty years, no change in power. No vote.

My father left his home as young man and never went back. He could have stayed, kept his head down, worked, lived. He could have given up, been apathetic. Instead, he chose a different path. He came here. It was hard for him, scary, and included more than one confrontation with imminent death. He swam past all that, literally, to get here, to marry here, to have a daughter. Here.

I haven't seen my father in many years for reasons too long to tell. When last I saw him he was tall, strong, handsome, a real man's man. Now, because time is a rigid collector, I know he is older, greyer, perhaps stooped. Maybe he walks with a cane. Whatever else may be, my father has my heart for many reasons and not the least of them is this - he gave me a life and a chance to vote.

I take neither for granted.

And I vote.

Do you?

What did you come for?

The Many, The Ridiculous, The Random

I may have said this to you already because I find myself repeating it often, but my daughter recently suggested I check out the 'for dummies' section at the book store. She meant it so sincerely I couldn't even effuse outrage.

The absurdity of an anti-choice ad airing during the Super Bowl, a game where grown men go around simulating war by throwing around a stuffed dead pig and beating the crap out of each other in tight pants and shoulder pads, being labled a 'celebration of life' is apparently not apparent. Really?

On that same subject, I wonder if they'll air those ads for the men and women in uniform watching the game from foreign countries where they are employed killing other people by the hundreds, sometimes thousands, in the name of freedom and justice. Woo hoo. Celebration of life!

CBS is comprised of several tiers of executive morons.

Speaking of morons, is anyone else becoming extremely tired of opposite-party congressmen and women flatly refusing to positively acknowledge the President of the United States when he (or she... someday) says something that everyone agrees is reasonable? It's ignorant, rude, childish, and undignified and that's true whether or not I'm ideologically aligned with the party sitting on its collective rump. I just don't like it, period.

Further, I think clapping like a trained seal after every other sentence the President utters is equally stupid and unnecessary. Is this your most evolved way of expressing support and agreement? Because I'm thinking you could show up to work a few more days out of the year. Maybe be there when some of these issues are being debated and not making the nightly news clip. I hired you to work, not to nod enthusiastically when your head cheerleader shows up. You're embarrassing me. Stop it.

On the issue of embarrassing, am I the only one also embarrased by our national impatience - the fervor of which has begun to mimic the expression of a three year old stomping her feet, sticky fingers clenched, curls matted to a red-faced pout, insisting she wants her snack RIGHT NOW? I say again, and will repeat many times, read a 5th grade social studies book! Read about how long it took for us to establish our freedom, how hard we worked, what we sacrificed, and how we held together - even when we were falling apart. For the love of apple pie, please give everyone a chance to be better and while you're waiting, you be better too. We can solve some of these difficulties, we can use ideas from all points on the circle, and we can agree to disagree without disavowing the other person's patriotism. Grow up, show some patience, and if you can't go sit on your time-out chair and be quiet.

If you ask me how the market's doing you'll get a variety of answers depending on how brain-freezingly-rabid I'm feeling that day. While I'm still rational, I'll tell you the market is really fine. It's just expanded to include a wider array of not-so-traditional sales and transfers. Kind of like how McDonald's now serves burgers and burritos and you can ask for Louisiana hot sauce on the side. You can look at it like it's a problem, or you can have a burrito with some hot sauce and enjoy that for what it is.

Speaking of McDonald's - poignant kid moment: my babies at the counter with their little Christmas gift certificates in their hands looking at the menu in a whole new light - 'what can I afford?' When all was said and done, everybody walked away with an assortment of bad fried food, certificates still in their booklets and big smiles on their faces. If only we could all handle the big decisions that way.

I want everyone to know that I'm making progress, albeit slogging, slow, interrupted progress towards achievement of my resolved goals. This is a vast improvement over years past when I just gave up and ate whatever I wanted and stopped reading, writing or making phone calls in the second week of January. I give it about another 3-5 days. Being awesome is exhausting.

This gal I hardly knew in high school is one of my favorite FB reads because she's got an incredible wit, a warm spirit and a sardonic sense of humor I can totally relate to. A life lesson - get to know as many people as you can - you just never know what you're missing.

Did you say missing? TIME magazine urged me for weeks to renew my subscription and I held off and held off thinking I could renew via my children's school fundraiser (which is how I originated my subscription). Turns out the fundraising catalog didn't have TIME magazine anymore so I finally gave in to the publisher's relentless (and somewhat pining) campaign to make me renew. That was in November. Guess what's missing. So I've been thinking...they should get the 'renew your subscription' team to work on the 'filling your subscription' part. They should pummel me with magazines the way they did with 'CHECK THIS BOX AND GET A DUFFLE BAG!!' offers. I should get a heartfelt letter about how the attached magazine is how I stay connected with the world. And the editor should come hug me and kiss me when he gives me my magazine personally because by the way he was doting on me when he was trying to get me to renew I think we're dating and the separation is killing me.

I've had a bottle of champagne and two gift certificates to a swanky downtown restaurant in my office since Christmastime. A colleague gave them to me as a holiday gift. I just can't seem to think of any reason why I'd take my butt all the way downtown in the freezing cold with bad to poor parking choices and limited menu options (because I can't afford anything there that wouldn't be covered by the gift certificates) as a form of pleasure. This and the twelve million gray hairs in my bangs are the final nails in the coffin where my urban and edgy youth rests quietly. Now if I could just pry those nails open so I could sneak in there and get a nap where no one could find me...

I heard my mother the other day in a way I haven't heard her in a while, not because she hasn't been there, but because I haven't been listening. It was a really sweet moment for me and I'm not sure she got it, but I'm glad I had it. Because two minutes later she had me wanting to run screaming through the streets. Oddly, that feeling was comforting too, in a 'comfy socks' kind of way.

Hope you feel that way when you visit here. It's my great aspiration in life to be someone's comfy sock.

What Should It Be?

In keeping with my Number 1 New Year's resolution, I've begun writing my book. Here's what it's about:

Parenting. I'm an expert on this subject as I've both been parented and parented myself. Except the more I stop to think about this subject the more I realize I don't know doodle about parenting and my mother is nuts. The kids are always arguing with one another, except when they're crying or subdued in front of the t.v. My mother is alternately driving me bananas or not speaking to me. And me? I'm so overwhelmed with the urge to run screaming into the streets that I've literally begun to map out a route where the fewest people I know will see me as I flap madly from the house and away my roles as parent and daughter. Maybe this is the wrong topic.

Maybe marriage. Marriage is good. I know alot about marriage having observed many and been part of one for more than 10 years now. I have plenty to say on this subject, in fact. Marriage is meaningful, spiritual; it serves as a model upon which larger mergers can be based. On some days, it even serves a broader purpose, explaining things like the lack of peace between Israel and Palestine. Because the truth is no matter how much you love someone they can only chew plastic in your ear so many times before you are driven completely mad. So how can we expect countries that already don't get along to sit next to each other on the world's couch and watch t.v. in peace?? We can't. They each need their own space and their own tv's. Except there's no cable in the bedroom! So you see, peace is impossible! On second thought, maybe marriage isn't the subject for me after all.

However, it's given me the idea that maybe global politics is the right thing. I've toyed with this thought before but have always assumed there were people way smarter than me expounding on the topic and I'd have a hard time competing. The last fifteen of my adult years have driven me to the other end of the thought spectrum on this subject. Now I believe only morons are involved in the global political scene, otherwise we would've knocked out a few more deliverables by now. We've shifted pollution from venue to venue without solution, we've allowed millions and millions of people to starve or be sick to death without batting a global lash and we still can't get potable water to the whole world when something like 80% of the world is water? Yeah. Some real sharpies in charge of the ship. What a mess! I swear some days the only way to handle the thing would be to send everyone to their collective rooms and clean the whole damn world by myself. But then they'd just mess it all back up again and make me even more furious. (I've seen this play out before, smaller scale.) I'm getting heated just thinking about it. Can you title a book 'All of You are Idiots'? Mabye not.

I have to think about something that makes me happy so the book can be cheerful and uplifting. Something catchy. With a beat. So you can dance to it.

I know! The book'll be about being a Chicagoan. No, I'm mad at Chicago now because of the Olympics. So I'll write about patriotism. I'm a patriot! No, I'm mad at patriots because the good ones are either dead or too quiet and the false ones are idiots getting paid to be on Fox News. I'll write about dieting. If there's one thing I can make light of it's dieting! Except I'm on one now so that'd make me a hypocrite. And if there's one thing I can't stand it's a hypocrite. Uhhh, cooking? No. That'll make me hungry. What the heck do people write books about? Maybe I'm not meant to write after all. I don't have a damn good thing to say about anything. I'm the author-equivalent to eggplant for crissakes! I just lay there like an oddly-shaped purple mass and don't say a damn thing. How am I supposed to do something I've resolved to do when starting it is so mind-numbingly impossible?

You see, this is the problem. I write all the time. I just don't write about anything. I'm the Seinfeld premise in written form. I write about nothing.

And there it is. I'm going to write a book about nothing.

Wish me luck.

On this day 65 years ago

Ever seen the movie 'Amistad'? There's a scene in that movie where a man headed into a trial before the supreme court explains to another character why he isn't nervous, despite all odds being well stacked against him. He reassures his own attorney, in fact, telling him not to worry because he, the defendant, is 'invoking [his] ancestors'. It's a powerful scene, wherein one man's cultural and spiritual beliefs come face to face with the intellect of the other to teach both men a lesson about what is really valuable in a life.

I'm telling you all that because today is my mother's 65th birthday. And while those two bits of information don't seem connected, they are, inexorably. My mom, you see, is the one person I know who has her culture, her spirit and her intellect very well measured and in tact. I admire that very much and aspire to her long-achieved place in this enlightened stance.

It hasn't always been easy, the travel to this place. But you'll never know another person with a greater patience than my mother. I try, terribly hard to be a compassionate person and hope that my overage in that department makes up for my near complete lack of patience. I often mistake my mother's patience with slowness; I think many people do. Instead, it's more likely true that my mother knows in a bone-deep place that a well-traveled path must be savored and sensed rather than simply traversed briskly with cell phone in one hand and spilling coffee in the other. I still need to learn that.

Where I follow her example as closely I can is in the living of a life where the spirit guides. My mother's spirit is present in all things she does and all she touches. Her spirit is intensely, deeply warm, connected to God on an intuitive level that neither religion nor lack thereof can sour. Her hands are always soft and when they touch you you can feel her humanity and tenderness, but also her strength and self-possession. You can only get that sense from someone whose spirit is sound and hers is and always has been.

With that patient sensibility and solid spiritual center my mother has weathered storms of immeasurable proportion with trips and falls that might have landed another person down for the count. Not she, Victoria the brave. She has climbed mountains of every kind, scaled ignorances, overcome prejudices, triumphed over mediocrity and low expectations. She has learned a foreign language as an adult, often being mistaken for a native speaker. She has received two university degrees - the first in her generation to receive even one. She raised a child on her own and employed two 'villages' to help - among them those who wished to compete rather than cooperate. By her sheer will, they were linked, joined forces and I am the result (a fine one wouldn't you say?). She is a staunch believer in the 'pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again' method of survival. It has served her well, not just for survival but for success in all things she has endeavored to do. She makes me proud and more proud every day.

I'm a terrible, terrible daughter more often than I'd like to admit. I won't give details here lest you think even less of me by the particulars than you might already by the admission. But I hope I compensate for my tantrums and tirades with an abiding, profound and unimpeachable love and devotion to this amazing person who I define in less than adequate terms this way:

- learner and lover of learning for self and for others, so that sins may be forgiven, because truly it is through knowledge that we learn we are all sinners and must all lend in order to receive forgiveness

- keeper of the Italian tradition for all those who came before (the invocation of ancestors not limited in scope), stayer of the Cuban tradition for those who did not remain, and explorer of the traditions that bring joy and excitement to every life around the world

- adventurer insofar as reality is always an adventure for a dreamer, an idealist, a romantic

- traveler, in every sense, a lifelong exerciser away from the ill-exposed beginnings from whence she came

- teacher, whose most valuable lesson to me and to others is that acceptance is possible for everyone and the world is indeed a very big place; all of us have gifts to share

- woman, who some may never understand and others have resolved never to try again (some things are simply better left mysterious)

- mother, who in the simplest of matters is expert (or so she says) and in the most complex, wise; a nurturer born of good nurture herself, whether she knows it or not, and whose completion occurs when the cycle repeats, a mantle I carry most seriously upon my shoulders.

In simplest terms I love my mother because she is the latest in a line of those whose purpose and mission in life was to bring me forward. That, until I brought forward my own children, who now live only because those before her lived and because she gave me life. With no other evidence of her magic and beauty I could say quite honestly there's never been and will never be anyone more important to me than her. I hope she knows. And that on this day and all that follow she is loved not just by me but by all who know her, openly, generously and with great conviction, as she loves.

This is the One

This is the one wish for you I have on Christmas.

I wish you could see my Sam, the faithful, the fierce, so noble and good. I wish you could see him in his brand-new jammies, eager and excited, waiting patiently to be given the 'ok to open' signal. The imposition of restraint on Christmas morning, a tried and true parental inside joke, is wasted on this boy. He is possessed, with good measure and even better sentiment, of a rightness that makes his center impossible to challenge. He is what prevails when goodness is tested. In fact, he is the enduring goodness that awaits us all. I wish you could feel that. I'm sure it would give you the confidence it gives me that all is right with the world, no matter the troubles of the day.

I wish you could see my Sara tripping down the stairs, bounding through the halls, then tiptoeing into our bedroom, long before the sun comes up, to reassure her densely sleeping parents that Santa, indeed, did come. Had only we known... My Sara, so alive and giggly and noticeable; so shy, intimidated - so like me - she reflects the most hidden pieces of me. I wish those pieces were as beautiful, as graceful and delicate in me as they are in her. I wish you could know her, as I do, to be the magic that speaks only in the shimmer of stars and the twinkle of lights lost in a horizon. She is the vibe in the room, the excitement in the crowd, the ear-to-ear grin that erupts for no good reason at all. I wish you could see that. I'm sure it would give you the joy that must be the meaning and purpose of all life.

I wish you could experience the spirit and joy of my Lucy, so much the young lady, squealing with delight when she receives the long-awaited gift on Christmas morn', from Santa, of course. Would it be a shame to take pleasure in whatever baby-like qualities remain? No matter, I do. Though even as they fade, there is a bloom about her that is unflolding, softly, sweetly, not without thorns but lovely in anticipation. She reaches out to receive a life where the hint of who she is will be revealed in finest splendor for all the world to enjoy. This, under the gaze of a generous and doting sun, washed by the wishes of those who love her - adore her - and rooted in the strength of character she's possessed long before this change could stall or stray her. I wish you could be with me to see it all, and I wish it would give you the fullness of heart it gives me.

So this is the one wish: I wish you the confidence to dream and dream big, it is a beautiful world; the joy to live, really live, with a broad smile about the whole thing; and the reason, whatever it may be, to open your heart and fill it with all that is here, and all that will come. And may God bless you and keep you now and always. Merry Christmas.

The Holiday Random Post

Who knows when I'll get back to this, so all the random holiday thoughts I can muster are here to ornament your memories of the season.

I totally love red christmas balls. Can't say that around my son without infecting the house with giggles and snickers. Ah, the nine year old boy's sense of humor...

I wish I could be a million sparkles shining down on everyone I love during this season. Instead, I'm a million wishes in a dollar store gift bag.

People who work at the dollar store during a down economy should be given TARP money for all they suffer at the hands of overwrought customers trying to tie together a million-dollar look for under three bucks. God bless them one and all.

Cleaning house day for the holidays ought to be a federal holiday. A gal can't work and do that at the same time.

My hot chocolate is always either too sweet or too bland or too hot to drink until it's too cold. Is it too much to ask for the ability to make a dang good cup of hot chocolate?

On that note, mini marshmellows simply don't do it for me. I prefer one big fluffy marshmellow melting all across the top of the cup. Which never happens for me because I can never get the temperature right.

I let my husband pick out the Christmas tree this year and he, of course, picked the least expensive tree in a variety of pine that I loathe. Sadly, the tree is gorgeous and now I'm forced to tell him that all the time.

Lucky for me, he won't remember it three days after it's down and I'll make sure to remind him next year that I hated it.

Why is it that no matter how much I try not to meet new people or make new friends my Christmas list becomes exponentially larger every year? I suppose it doesn't help that my extended family keeps having babies in twos.

As an added bonus during the craze, my body apparently experiencing global warming. I'm freezing all the time. Except when I'm boiling hot. This could explain the hot chocolate debacle. Or be a sign of things to come. Yeesh.

That said, at my ripe old age I still have no idea what to get for my mother. It's the bane of my holiday season. Aside from the temperature problem, that is.

My babies still believe in Santa. Or pretend to for my benefit. Either way, I love it. Gives me hope that innocence still has a place in the world. It's upstairs tucked into bed.

When it's all said and done the tire, the mire and high-wire act one must perform to participate in the celebrations of the season should leave one spent and flushed but thoroughly pleased. If that works out for you, let me know?

Funny how my homemade gifts still require the use of technology that to generations before mine would have seemed alien in concept, much less application. So, by 1920s standards, I'm as cutting edge as a space shuttle vacation on Mars!

Also, is it me, or has anyone else noticed that just about everything on Star Trek is now normal, every day stuff? That's just wackadoodle.

The nearer we draw to the end of the year, the more I'm compelled to reflect and remark upon the sheer thrill of surviving it all, not just me, but everyone I know. I'm also compelled to wonder how in creation we'll keep it up. But then, that's the fun of it, isn't it?

The smile being the best accessory to any outfit, I'm wondering if my jeans could get on board and just suck in my hips for me when I grin from ear to ear. Their lack of cooperation making for less-than-favorable reaction from the full-length mirror. While I wait, the waist-high wall mirror will have to suffice.

I love, love, love the smell of Christmas candles in every variety. Except that gawd-awful spiced cake thing I got a couple of years ago at an outlet store. Smells like spiced foot. I swear I've thrown it out eleven times and every year it resurfaces.

I blame my mother.

It's got nothing to do with her. It's just simpler to keep all the blame in one column. Sorry Mami.

And while we're on the subject of sorry, let me insert a blanket 'sorry' here for all the folks I'd love to love more often, especially during holidays, with more attention and more time, but simply can't. I'm starting to think that guilt manifests itself in me physically as hair, which is why I look like a female version of that hairy character in the Harry Potter movies. Something to think about come resolution time. Must get a guilt-cut.

As for resolutions, I'll have more to say (natch) but for now, this: I resolve to keep at it. To keep trying, to keep my head up, to keep smiling, to keep expecting the best and bracing for whatever comes with the best cheer I can gather and the most strength I can find, offering the best care and most love I can give, until I'm thoroughly spent, flushed, and pleased. When that happens, I'll order a nice cup of hot chocolate from someone who knows what they're doing, and rest.

Insert Title Here (I can't think of one)

First, in case I never get back to it, Happy Holidays to everyone!

I'm sure my uber-Christian brothers and sisters at Fox cringe when they hear that, even from this distance. (They are far, right?) It's only because their little X-Mas Elf ears affect their hearing. Not news to the rest of us but apparently, over at Fox News, they haven't heard yet that the world - nay even our country - is not entirely made up of people who believe Christ is the son of God... GASP! Avert your eyes Sean, Bill, Glenn. It's ugly.

I will say in defense of the 'Save Christmas Patrol' on FNC, I have the same reaction when I find out some people are not Cubs fans. That boggles.

Next, I've so so so much work in front of me in every direction, just thinking about it makes me tired. Do you feel that way? I used to look at tons of work and purposely ignore it and go have fun. The youthful me was such an optimist. "I'll have time later." The current me knows there is no time later that isn't filled with something.

Also, along those lines is it me or is 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' offensive? Men need a song now to tell them to relax during the holidays? Please.

On another 'is it me?' front - British accents are usually very pleasant. Except during holiday season (attack of the flying tea bags!) when they seem snooty to me. Right?

Went to the office holiday party (is that Greta Van Susteren coming at me?) and all the babes in the office were hanging all over my husband. Husband soaked it up with a big smile most of the night. Mock jealous rage ensued. Couldn't help a smug smile on the way out with my party-hit of a man.

Went to my kids' holiday concert (watch for flying 'no-spin' gear) and was completely renewed in my faith that no matter the troubles anywhere, all is right with the world. Beautiful children, with hopeful voices, learning to overcome nervousness and worry with hard work and dedication; learning that no matter how different they all are when they come together it is beautiful; finding ways to share each other through a universal language; millions of ways to enjoy that evening and the lilt of loveliness in the air was only one of them.

Went to a friends' holiday celebration (look out! they've launched the Rove!!) last night. She had been having lavish holiday parties for years and then started taking each year's down a notch on the extravagance scale as the economic faint of the last few years took hold. Finally, last night, she did a pot-luck. I think she was a little worried about how it would turn out. It was fantastic! The luxury of old was replaced by an abundance of beautiful dishes carefully crafted by those wanting to impress with their offerings - they all did, generous amounts of wine, the good, the mediocre and the 'who cares, it's wine', and people, all different kinds, shapes and struggles, just happy to be together. It was beyond delicious all the 'way round and I was so pleased for her that it truly was an evening of celebration.
Last, just curious. Why is it that when we see people wear elf outfits for holiday events (did you see that Hannity mug fly by?) we think it's cute and it makes us smile - but when I go out in my little elf hat and shoes, everyone steers clear of me? Is that fair? Or balanced? Don't answer that.