Tina Fey - Schmeena Fey

The young Tina

It cracks me up when I see that “inspirational” list of folks who are now famous yet had humble beginnings.  The point of it, I think, is that you, too, can be rich and famous - just follow your dreams, work hard and soon you will be lifted to the heights of wealth and celebrity.  You may recognize it: the list usually starts with the statement, “At age 23, Tina Fey worked at a YMCA.”  And then goes on to list well-known, successful personalities and how they started out.

Well, here I am at the age of…well…let’s just say I’m more than double the age of that wide-eyed Tina Fey and just recently landed a full-time position at our local YMCA — and it is my DREAM job!  I will be co-coordinating the youth running programs for the county, which I have been doing part-time for the last two years.  I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.  You see, my professional background is in elementary education and my favorite pass-time and social outlet is running.  Although I am passionate about working for and with children, I found the bureaucracy and stress in the education system stifling as a family member and partner (my husband being a dedicated educator - one of us has to stay sane for the kids).  And I’m simply not fast or talented enough to make a profession out of training for and running races.

Never had I imagined, when I was a young and inexperienced 23 year-old, that there was a job description that included running, inspiring young people to love running and nature, educating girls to love themselves the way they are, promoting healthy habits, sharing an office with like-minded and fun people, and working for an organization that puts the well-being of our community above all else.  Yep, dream job.

I work with so many cause-driven, passionate people who would give you their own lunch if you were hungry.  In fact, I’ve seen them do it.  Our CEO was a grand success in the grocery business before retiring early. He was lured out of retirement by the Y values of caring, honesty, respect and responsibility. He found the cause-driven philosophy so compelling that he now works in a 100-year old building that offers showers to the homeless and scholarships for children’s swim lessons to struggling families, among many other wonderful things.

Yes, I am fortunate.  I have a stable family life with a professional spouse and have very few worries.  We live within our means - call us simple if you will, but we don’t need a whole lot. 

Working a modest job doesn’t always mean you have failed, or that you have settled for something less.  Sometimes it means that you have simply found your place in the world. You see, not all people measure their life’s success by dollars or name recognition.  There are folks that don't aspire to have their name in lights or to own multiple vacation homes. There are plenty of folks out there who wouldn’t give up their modest jobs for all the luxuries and privilege that Tina Fey and her cohorts have, because they know they are making a difference in their own, small world.  I know, because I work with a big bunch of them.  And I’ll bet you wouldn’t recognize a single one of their names.

My very first live concert was The Village People.
Do you think that was an omen?
Everybody sing it now, "Y-M-C-A!"

Fear and Love...and Family

Uncle Mike was beloved by his many nieces and nephews, yet there was always a little bit of fear when he walked into the room.  I can relate, as I was his baby sister by 8 years and several inches.

He was a fascinating big brother.  Strong, well-liked by his peers and unpredictable, he was fun to watch, but you also had to watch your back.  The younger siblings never knew when the threat of a “whirly” would finally come to pass (picture head in toilet - FLUSH - instant soaking wet bee-hive hairdo).  Food fights were not uncommon. One time I remember hair full of sticky raw egg, and a face full of cupcake frosting on another occasion.  We had to hide our personal candy stash from him - he never pretended to eat it, he simply ate.  We had one locking door in the house - the bathroom.  If you were chased, you had to have enough of a lead to slam and lock the door before he reached it.  Otherwise you braced yourself against the sink with both feet pressing on the door while his arm, caught in the door, flailed wildly in search of its human target.

When we all grew up, if you can call it that, his teasing shifted to the next generation.  Every niece and nephew was christened by having their infant bodies pressed to the ceiling by his long, strong arms while the mother (one of Mike’s sisters) pleaded for him to stop.  Only baby Noah had the distinction of stopping the ceiling fan with his small skull.

When Gramma bought the oldest nieces their first barbie dolls for Christmas, it didn’t take long for Mike to behead them and proceed with a game of keep-away with another uncle.  Doll heads bounced over the support beams in the rec room to the sound of screaming 5 year-olds.

My favorite memory of Mike with my little Delaney was when he convinced her that if she allowed him to draw all over her face in sharpie, then he would let her do the same to him.  I’ll never forget his devilish laughter as she chased him, face thoroughly decorated in thick black lines, yelling, “Not FAIR!  It’s MY turn!!”  He placed the marker up high, out of anyone else’s reach and that was that.  It was days before that marker completely faded away.

Ella was only a toddler when she learned where to find her shoes when Mike was around.  He always took her black patten leather shoes, filled them with ice and hid them in the freezer.  At first we would actually LOOK for them around the house, but it wasn’t long before we knew where to find them and she would have to put the stiff, frozen shoes on her tiny feet.

He was also wonderful with all of the kids.  He took them sailing, rowing, skiing and mountain climbing.  He wanted them to be adventurous and free, like him.  If one of them showed fear he would push them even further until they realized that there was nothing to fear.  Or if there was, to be very, very careful.

I am sad that we lost Mike when my girls were still young.  The older cousins had more time to learn from him and appreciate what he had to share.  And to conquer their fears.  My fear, when he died, was that he would be forgotten.  Thankfully he lives on in his nieces, nephews and other loved ones, in their adventurous spirits and priceless memories.

Happy Birthday, Big Brother.  Wish you were here.

(at top - picture of Mike with the prize octopus he caught scuba-diving in front of our childhood home.  A scared young Sharon sits safely up in the kitchen window)

How the Other Half Lives

Despite the wind storm this morning, I packed up the dogs and headed into the trails.  The landscape was still muted in shades of blue and grey, with bits of color emerging with each passing minute as the winter sun reluctantly pushed above the horizon.  The trees were celebrating the wind in a wild dance, much like the mosh-pit at a night club, thrashing and swaying in unison with the gusty, blustery rhythm.

We weren’t the only ones using poor judgment, willing to risk a branch to the noggin to get some fresh air and much needed exercise.  I had one or two conversations with the regular early morning folks, hollering over the roar of the swirling wind.  I was glad  we risked it - it’s not often that you get to see white caps on the duck pond…..well, practically, anyway.

There were plenty of branches down, alright.  Mostly small to medium evergreens with an old rotten tree down in the deeper forest.  We were hopping and sidestepping, but thankfully the debris was already under us and not striking from above.

These are the days that I want to be a dog.  Or at least be a guest in my one of my dog’s brains.  With their superior sniffers, these pups seem to find every freshly downed branch and inspect it with their rubbery black noses.  There are older branches, brought down in the last storm, that they simply ignore.  It’s the ones that have just tumbled from above that they find most interesting.

I like to think that they are assembling a picture with the scents they find on these bits of nature.  Up there, in the tops of the cedar trees and the cottonwood branches, live the mysterious tree dwelling wildlife.  The owls and eagles, who fly like birds, but their breath smells of meat.  The squirrels and chipmunks that taunt the dogs with their fluffy tails and then scamper up out of reach.  The raccoons, seen only in the dark of night.  Although the dogs have seen these creatures and chased them from time to time, the high-rise tree residents remain a mystery to them.

Each sniff of a downed branch gives the pup another detail of life in the sky.  This cedar branch - sniff - this was a perch of a mama owl who sat, watched and waited for her rodent prey to carelessly come out into the open to be her owlet’s breakfast.  That cottonwood twig - sniff - that was the top rung of the ladder to the entrance of the squirrel family’s den, it may even have a tuft of fur snagged in its craggy splinters.  The hunk of moss - sniff - a pillow for a slumbering chipmunk infant, now shivering while it’s chipmunk parents scramble to reconstruct their home.

I suppose it’s a bit like we humans, who seem to enjoy watching television shows about hoarders or the rich and famous.  We’re just trying to catch a glimpse of how others live.  Maybe to make us feel better about our superior lives, or to dream about what it might be like to live in a mansion with servants.  The creatures are likely more interesting.

Unfortunately I can’t be a dog for the day, or borrow their fantastic sense of smell.  I have tried -  I picked up one of the newly fallen bits, and even took a whiff myself, but all I can tell is the kind of tree it fell from.  Since I am merely human, I’ll just have to continue to imagine why the odor of those branches is so irresistible to my canine companions.

Purging Demons: Skinning Cats (and the time I pantsed my gym teacher)

Last night I was jolted awake by a disturbing dream about skinning a live cat.  Since I’m the type that will save big hairy spiders rather than squish them, I was wondering aloud at the breakfast table why I would have such horrible images in my head.  My daughter reminded me, “I’ll bet that comes from your jerk PE teacher in junior high.”  She had heard the story before, or at least part of it.

I attended junior high school in the late 1970s.  Junior high was basically what we now call middle school, but with grades 7 through 9.  Title IX was new (1972) bringing equality for girls and boys in sports and physical education, but there were clearly plenty of male chauvinistic attitudes and behaviors ingrained in the “old school” teachers of the day. 

Reigning over my junior high was the gym teacher, Mr. T, a muscle bound yet pot-bellied has-been athlete who tried to extend his glory days by surrounding himself with young athletes.  From the polyester shorts and tube socks to the sports jersey and slightly greased back flat-top hairdo, he was a type.

When not coaching football or barking out directions to a PE class, he could be seen sauntering up and down the hallway flanked by a couple of broad-shouldered ninth grade boys who shadowed him like bodyguards or henchmen.  There would often be a uniformed cheerleader close behind to complete his hallway posse.  Proximity meant popularity.  He favored the football players and humiliated the scrawny, but always with humor.  Most kids wanted to be on his good side so readily joined in his banter, no matter how demeaning.

It was considered a compliment to the girls if he flirted with you — yes, FLIRTED with your 12-, 13- or 14- year-old self.  The boys watched and learned.  They yearned to be one of his side-kicks.  He was their hero.  He was, on the surface, well-liked.  If he teased you in class, or mentioned the short length of your skirt, your unwritten popularity score would climb.

One day during passing time I entered the gym, crossing the striped shiny floor to get to the girls locker room.  There Mr T was, surrounded by the usual chuckling adolescent male primates…I mean classmates.  He muttered something to them and then hollered, “Hey Stone!  Get over here and hold this for me!”  The boys guffawed in anticipation, each trying to out-laugh the other to gain the favor of their middle-aged hero.  I entered their circle and the teacher put my hands on a preserved, dead, pregnant cat.  “Here, hold this cat while I skin it for my biology class,”  he said loudly enough for everyone in the gym to hear.  He only kept me there long enough to watch my skin turn green and tears fill my eyes.  Long enough to get a good laugh out of his groupies and send me on my way. This “joke” traumatized my pubescent self, and was a perfect example of his use of degrading humor to hold power over us.

In my ninth grade year Mr. T started a game with myself and a few of my girl friends.  During PE he would sneak up behind one of us and give a light tug on the corner of our shorts to make us jump - a pretend attempt at “pantsing”.  We would gasp and laugh, and in return would tug on his shorts when his back was turned. Shorts never came down more than an inch or so, but we would yank ‘em up fast in a game of tit-for-tat. 

One day there was a murmur of commotion at one end of the hall as our FIRST crap-food vending machine was being installed in the entryway to the school.  A crowd of awkward teens and tweens were admiring the shiny new machine while Mr T stood in the back, arms folded across his puffed-out chest - trying to make it more prominent than his ample belly, with the usual football player poised on each side.

My friends and I approached from behind to try to see what was so exciting.  What we saw was our opportunity.  There he was.  His back to us.  The usual polyester shorts.  The three of us decided to play the game, this time with ALL THREE of us tugging at once.  We tiptoed up so as to not alert the boy henchmen of our approach.  One, two, three….TUG x 3!  Three tugs - all at once.  As I bent over, the next thing I saw, the only thing I could see, were two pale, round, fleshy cheeks speckled with black wiry hairs and a greyish-white jock strap.  We jumped back and squealed, frozen in shock.  That is, until Mr. T, one hand clutching his shorts and pointing with the other, yelled, “TO THE OFFICE!  THE THREE OF YOU!”

We sat all alone, D, K and I, in the small conference room awaiting our punishment.  Visions of angry, disappointed parents, school suspensions and at least a swat or two (yes, there was a paddle in the office) filled our anxious thoughts.  Mr. T finally came in, still red in the face (from anger? or embarrassment?),  probably after he made sure that NOBODY saw what happened except maybe his young goons. He sat across from us in the big bad principal’s chair and blew out a frustrated sigh.  He did his best to scare the crap out of us (heck, we were already terrified) but we soon figured out that this incident would be kept a secret.  He didn’t come out and say so, but we figured out that if he told our parents or the principal, he would have to explain himself.  He would have to tell how this inappropriate game came about and he was at least smart enough to steer clear of that sh*t show.  We were sworn to secrecy in order to avoid punishment.

This all happened so long ago that I’m not quite sure which of these events took place first.  In my memory the cat skinning came first and I got him back with the pantsing.  But the reality is probably the reverse - the cat-skinning was perhaps his revenge.

Either way, this is all in the past and I’m happy to send it back there.  Maybe Mr. T was less evil in reality than how he lives in my memories and more a victim of the times, a product of a chauvinistic generation. I’m just glad that my daughters are flabbergasted by these stories. Happy that they cannot even imagine such a scenario in their schools. 

Now that I’ve written about this demon of middle school, I will consider it purged. The images will no longer haunt my dreams.  I shall take a deep breath and blow them away!  Good riddance, Mr T.

Some Things Just Take Time

Our family has suffered quite a bit of loss this spring.  Between the fog of grief that obscures the view of the outside world, and the mountain of tasks, both physical and legal, that comes with putting an end to someone’s existence on our planet, we have had little time for “normal”.  You know, like mowing the lawn.  And making a dinner beyond heating refried beans in the microwave to throw on a tortilla.

We finally cleared a few monstrous hurdles last week, and to celebrate our return to normal we decided to dig in the dirt!   Finding ourselves in late-May without a single bloom in our flower pots, Ella and I were determined to bring some new life to our sunny deck that becomes our living room in the summer months.

Ella has always been the champion of the under-dog.  When she was tiny she would rescue mosquitoes and flies from spiderwebs (and then, of course, feel terribly guilty that the spider would be hungry).  After a rain storm we would all walk the neighborhood and save hundreds of earthworms that had been flooded out of their earthen homes and stranded on the pavement.  I know I started the worm-saving tradition, but it is a job that Ella takes very seriously, often chasing a Robin away from a fat, writhing earthworm then tossing the slippery fellow into the bushes for safety.

This devotion to the weak and vulnerable carries over to Ella’s gardening.  Well, gardening is an overstatement as we merely fill pots and containers on our deck with pretty flowering plants and tomato-bearing greenery.  So when we head to the plant nursery we pass up the colorful displays of bloom-laden plants and healthy green starters.  We stroll past the rows of bright petunias, tall geraniums and delicate ground cover and head to the racks way in the back marked CLEARANCE.

I am the sort of shopper that always has to check the bargain racks before paying full price for anything.  But once I brought Ella with me to the nursery and she discovered the botanical version of The Island of Misfit Toys, she was hooked.  While I’m looking for a "score", say a plant thats blooms have faded but the rest is healthy with potential for a season full of color, Ella is looking for the sorriest, most pathetic looking green being (sometimes not so green) that no one, ever, would take home.  THAT is the plant she wants to save - the one that nobody else wants.

She showed me a couple of wilted, and even somewhat crispy, plants that I was convinced were a waste of a whole dollar.  She pointed to a spot of green on one that would be the start of its come-back to life and I let her place it in our cart.  The other had no such bright spot, but I also could not say no to this pathetic little fella.  She found a half-dozen bougainvillea and insisted we needed one more to keep our

The Pathetic Poppy

existing fussy plant company.  I gave in and she inspected each to find the ugliest, most pitiful in the bunch.  She did.

So we loaded our cart with my nearly good-looking rows of flower starts and her hopeful little misfits and checked out at the store register.  One fellow shopper commented that they’d better give us Ella’s chosen poppy plant for free, because it has no hope.  They DIDN’T give it for free, but we’ll show ‘em - that plant may be the prettiest one on the porch soon.  Maybe.

We plopped all of our new plant residents into their pots and Ella carefully watered her under-dog projects.  Now only time will tell.  Today we may not have a gorgeous floral display around us as we sip our tea and watch the birds, but in time we will enjoy every little bloom and will celebrate any life that appears in Ella’s pots.  And they will be worth the wait. Some things just take time.

We kept the tag for this one so we'll know what it is supposed to look like!

Pet or Pest? (the difference is only one letter)

About a month ago we found ourselves with a new pet mouse.  Not the kind you get from a store that runs on a squeaky wheel inside a cage.  We have the wild kind.

Lucky for us, we have a cat named Roger that practices catch and release when hunting.  He catches the critter outdoors, in their natural habitat, and brings them into our home.  He keeps them alive, not out of any merciful motivations, as he still murders them once he has them trapped between four walls.  

Our first thought was that he was bringing them in to teach his dim-witted runt sister, Lyra, that the cute little creatures are for killing and eating.  She may have learned a bit from him, as she now brings in moths and then tackles them as they flutter around.  But I have a feeling she would simply snuggle a mouse if she had the chance.

It is more likely that he is showing off his hunting prowess to his human subjects. Without fail he announces the catch with a loud yowl as he pops through the cat-door.  This guarantees we stop what we are doing and take notice of his awesomeness.  However, as soon as we hear that signature hollow “Me-OW-ow-ow!”, my daughters and I jump to action.  Thankfully nobody in our house is the type to jump on a chair and squeal "EEK" if we see a rodent, like in the old TV shows.  We hop into rescue mode.  

If we see feathers, we throw a shirt or towel on his head.  If we’re lucky he backs away while the bird stays tangled in the fabric, soon to be returned to the outdoors.  Mice are a little more difficult to catch, but we have made many-a-live catch, removing the rodent from his jaws and out to the greenbelt at the end of the block.  The mouse hunt often takes two of us, several containers and plenty of lively hoots and hollers as we chase the brown tail along the floorboards.

About a month ago we noticed Roger poised in front of the stove with ears and eyes aimed at the gap beneath, tuned to every sound and movement.  That usually means that there is food under there - the living, breathing kind.  Our guess was correct, he brought in a mouse when we were sleeping and lost the little fellow in the kitchen before he could dine on its flesh.  

Since then we have seen very few signs that the mouse is here, except for Roger’s obsession with staring at various appliances and cupboards.  No torn food packaging or nibbles on the fruit in the bowl on the counter.   

Once in a while we will hear a scuffle and squeak under the sink when the cat finally has the mouse cornered.  We all come running and the girls grab and toss Roger outside while we try to safely grab the mouse…with no luck.  One day Ella and I had the little guy trapped between us, behind the microwave.  We each held a plastic popcorn container and a lid.  I dropped a banana behind the oven and flushed the brown fur-ball out toward Ella’s side.  For a moment she had him in the container, but soon he launched out over her head and ran down her back to the safety of the gap under the stove. 

We usually know approximately where the mouse is based on where Roger chooses to hang out.  We purchased a humane trap to place near the stove, as that seems to be a favorite haunt, and loaded it with cheese.  But I’m beginning to think it is a myth that mice love cheese.  We found out that OUR mouse loves chocolate flavored energy gels - specifically the GU brand.  The neglected gel drawer was finally opened this weekend. Inside we found that of the variety of 30-40 GUs, Hammergels and Shotblocks, our friend not only opened, but licked clean the chocolate GUs, sampled other flavors of GU but did not eat much and did NOT touch a single Hammergel or Shotblock. We were quite surprised by the picky nature of our little friend.  And if you ask me, he has rather good taste!

We have strangely become attached to this mouse.  After cleaning out the energy gel drawer, my husband re-stocked it.  Not with energy gels, but with three tiny bowls: one full of water and the other two with different types of food. We wouldn’t want him to get hungry or thirsty while out-witting our cat, of course.

I think that, due to the mouse’s discriminating taste and his clear preference for the GU brand,  the GU company ought to sponsor this mouse and make him a spokesmodel.  I mean, there are tigers, camels, ducks and even a very popular lizard that represent many companies.  Why not a cute little mouse?  Heck, look what a grand job Mickey does for Disney!  

Our only job now is to reload the humane trap with chocolate GU, catch that little fella, outfit him in a GU t-shirt and get ourselves a sponsorship.  He’s gonna be rich and famous, and all because of our cat.  Thanks Roger!

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy

Dear Mr. Smoker Guy, driving down the street in your itty-bitty Fiat that is oh-so fuel efficient while puffing clouds of tar and nicotine out of your cracked driver’s window.  

Please help me understand something that has been a mystery to me since the beginning of my time on this earth.  Why is it that when you are done inhaling all of the tobacco and are left with the tar-stained stub, that you find it acceptable to toss this trash from the window of your environmentally friendly car? This butt of the cigarette rolls a few feet on the pavement and lays to rest, where it sits for days and days, flattened by hundreds of tires.  Rain will probably eventually wash your butt to the gutter of the road where it will tumble down into the storm drain out of sight.   Once there it will travel to the nearest body of water to become poisonous animal food, or just decorate the shore of our lovely beaches and foul the water with nicotine residue.

Of course, you are not the only one to do this, so maybe you think that it’s okay, because…you know, why not?  You see butts fly from the windows of crusty old Chevys, gas-guzzling Hummers and even modest mini-vans.  So, what’s one more?  

Someone once told me that butts are biodegradable so it is okay to toss them where ever you please because they will, at some point months or years from now, disintegrate and become part of the soil.  In that case, maybe I should have thrown my banana peel, apple core and orange rind out my window today during my trip home from work!  Hmmm.  That gives me an idea.  I am not planning to plant a garden this year, so why don’t I start throwing my compost out onto the street with yours?

Maybe because you are a tax payer you believe that you deserve to throw your stinky trash onto the street because you pay good money to the city government to keep our town shiny and attractive?  Those bureaucrats probably have nothing better to spend money on anyway.  Heck, who needs streetlights, safe crosswalks and pot-hole free roads?

Or, could it be that you just don’t give a rip?  You don’t need to consider litter laws or a healthy environment because you will be dead soon from lung cancer and for all you care the world can fester in garbage without you?

Whatever the reason, I’m glad you stared me down through your rear-view mirror when I gave a short toot of my horn as your smoldering butt rolled into my path this morning.  Maybe for one second you thought about the consequence of your action, or maybe you didn’t.  I know I will sleep better tonight if I believe you’ll think twice next time you hold a butt in your hand.