Messy French Bun

Apparently, the messy French bun is currently the height of French chic and will soon be trickling it's way over here. It is lovely. And easy to do. But, it must be for the young or lithe. Because I tried it. And, while my hair looked lovely, the over all effect was Mrs. Clause. Back to the "messy housewife bun" it is.

As Fall Becomes Winter

It will happen soon. Within hours. The Thanksgiving turkey will be eaten, and then...the PDCs (public displays of Christmas - thanks Rebecca) will begin in earnest. The browns, greys and oranges of fall will be replaced by red, green, silver and gold. So here, is my last look at the season I wait all year for, and that somehow, this year only managed to last a week.

I used to hate oak trees. I was young and foolish.

A walk in the woods, worthy of a four thousand calorie turkey dinner.

There is a spider web between these two reeds.
You may need to click to see a bigger picture.

The first rain breaking up over our back fence.

The red on this plant is actually new growth, not very "Fall" at all. But it is a lovely color.

I Blame thirtysomething. Or, Men are the New Women? (Redux)

I have been thinking about the modern male quite a bit this week, and I can come to only one conclusion. I love the one I’ve got and I’m going to keep him. Everyone else is on their own.

First, came the home improvements.

Despite the decade and our upbringings, my husband and I have a traditional marriage. He earns all the money and I do all the housework. That is fine with me. I got married at 35. I worked plenty. I know what I’m missing and I don’t miss it.
One of the realities of being single so long is that I learned to do a lot of things for myself. My sister and I used to joke that if we had a pick-up truck we wouldn’t need a man for anything. We'd laugh. Then we’d go back to crying in our Ben and Jerry’s because we did not have a man.

"If we had a pick-up truck we wouldn’t need a man for anything."

That was then. Now, I am the female half of a traditional marriage. The problem is, my husband is not handy. Or maybe he just wasn’t single long enough. Either way, I am the only member of this family who knows how to use a power drill. I’m self taught and, despite all of my tool-man bashing when I was single, I am not very good. I would not mind having a man take over the power tools.

This week I had to get out the old power drill to baby-proof the kitchen cabinets. At first I was a bit puffed up. Look at me. I’m handy. I can use a drill. But, by the time I was flat on my back (on a floor which I sweep and mop) with my head under the sink (which I keep stocked and organized) dropping screws in my eyes trying to attach spring loaded plastic latches (which I researched and purchased) I was a little annoyed.

At that moment, right or wrong, (and I admit it was a bit unfair) I began to see the division of labor a little differently. It was no longer, “He earns all the money; I do all the housework”. It was, “He earns all the money; I do everything else. Except mow the lawn, and that is only because he can afford to pay a guy.”

Then came thirtysomething. In the mail, I mean. The original came twenty years ago.
For those of you who weren’t around in 1987, thritysomething was a bit of pop-culture phenomenon. A TV show about the angst and loves of seven friends in their thirties. What was note worthy about it at the time was all of the emoting (some called it whining) that went on, especially by the men. Honestly, at the time, I didn’t really notice. I was only 18. My life was full of angst and whining and I knew very few actual “men”. It was released on DVD recently and I was feeling nostalgic so I gave it a re-watch. What I found interesting is that the male whining is not note worthy any longer.

"It is unfair, but true, that a man who is sensitive about our feelings is attractive. A man who is too sensitive about his own feelings is just oogy."

Men “in touch with their feelings” are all over the place, at least in popular culture. This was supposed to be a good thing, right? Back in the day when men drank and smoked and didn’t talk much, (think Robert Mitchum) women said they wanted a sensitive man. But did they really? Did they want their man to stop drinking, stop smoking, and start talking? Or did they just want him to start listening and maybe hit the hamper with the dirty socks once in awhile? Saying you want a sensitive man is too vague. Let’s face it. It is unfair, but true, that a man who is sensitive about your feelings is attractive. A man who is too sensitive about his own feelings is just oogy.

Finally, I read Men in the ‘mirdle’, an article from the Chicago Tribune.

I quote: “When it comes to underwear, men are the new women. Guys are experimenting with color and styles. In fact, bucking a dismal retail trend, men's underwear sales are up. And -- get this -- men are starting to discover ‘body shapers’ to smooth their love handles, lift their posteriors and knock off a few pounds without dieting. In short, men are discovering the benefits of the male equivalent of Spanx.”
No, no, no, no. My fore-mothers did not want this. They wanted the vote. They wanted equal pay for equal work. They did not want to use power tools. Well, okay, maybe they did. But they certainly didn’t want to listen to their husband whine because his girdle was too tight.

I have forgiven my husband for not being handy with a drill. He is great with the kids, and he can, on occasion, out of necessity use a broom or bake a pizza. No. Even that is unfair. He’s awesome. He does a lot more than just earn the money. He just doesn’t do it with power tools.

Our arrangement works for us. So, I will keep doing the minor home improvements and the laundry. As long as he doesn’t whine when I shrink his mirdle.

[If some of this sounds familiar, it is because this is the original from which an earlier post was an excerpt. I apologize to all who have slogged through both. But, thank you.]

Busy Mom, Defined

A woman who can reheat the same cup of coffee five times before lunch and never get to drink it.

A woman with banana mashed into her yoga mat.

A woman who can shower, dress, and put on make-up before her kids get up, but won't realize until she sees her reflection in the sliding door at the super-market that she has not combed her hair.

Turkey and Pie, the Children's Book Edition

This what the children and I have been reading to get in the mood for the big day. They are both great fun. The boys just love them!

Run, Turkey, Run! by Diane Mayr

and...

I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Pie by Alison Jackson

Fall

It is now fully Fall.

I know in some parts of the world, it is already snowing. In some parts of the world it is almost summer, for that matter. But here, Fall has finally fallen.

The leaves are vibrant red, yellow, orange. They are at the peak of their crunchiness.

I can see my breath. I need a coat every morning, and even some afternoons.

Hot tea, not iced.

It is dark at dinner time.

Bed time stories are about turkeys and leaves.

There are flannel sheets on the bed at night.

Jonah's Thanksgiving pageant is today. He has been practicing his "turkey dance" and the cutest lyrics I have ever heard to Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

I can smell turkey in the oven. And how warm it gets in the house on Thanksgiving with all of the family gathered there. I hear football in the other room. And the children running around. I'm full, and sleepy, and warm. And, by afternoon there is a November sun lighting up the red and yellow and orange leaves and shining through my window. Perfection.

Eulogy

My grandmother, Bernadine "Bunny" Thielen died four years ago today. The following is a copy of the eulogy I had the privilege of delivering at her funeral. I miss you Grandma.

1924 - 2005

On Tuesday, November 15, my grandmother, Bunny, woke up to tell her daughters and her nurse that she’d had a dream about my grandfather. “We have a date tomorrow night,” she told them. The next day, shortly before noon, surrounded by her children, she left here. She had to go get ready for her date.

I don’t know if it is appropriate to start a eulogy by saying that she kept a clean house. But she did.

She was a good cook.

She was a meticulous seamstress.

She ran a frugal household, but was still a generous hostess.

In this day and age, these may not sound like compliments, but they are. She took great pride in them. Homemaker, wife, mother -- that was her career, though I am sure she never thought of it in those terms. To her, it was just her life, and she lived it.

As a girl in Nebraska, she was a cheerleader who dreamed of becoming a nurse. After high school, she moved, with her parents and brothers and sisters, out here to California. She planned to go to City College, but World War II changed her plans.

Aged 16

Grandma always talked about the war like it was fun. And, I suppose for her it was. The town was crawling with boys in uniform. She liked those boys, mostly because she loved to dance. She didn’t have a favorite or a steady boy. She told me she didn’t see the point in dating just one boy until she was engaged. If she stuck with only one guy, she’d have to sit too many out.

The war also brought her a husband. My grandfather, Ray, was an eighteen year old Army lieutenant from Waukegan. They met on a Saturday morning in December of 1942. She told me she remembers thinking he was obnoxious, and he didn’t dance. But somehow, he had talked her into going to lunch with him that day…and then dinner later that night. By Wednesday night, a mere five days later, he had proposed. She says she still thought he was obnoxious, and he never would be much of a dancer, but three weeks later, on her nineteenth birthday, she married him anyway. It sounds crazy, but they were crazy about each other, and they made it work, for over 57 years. The right partner was more important than the dancing.

Wedding Day, 1943 (They are on the left)

They spent the next twenty years in the Army. I say “they” were in the Army, because that is how they thought about it. They were a team. One day he came home early from work to tell her he had new orders. He had to leave immediately. That meant she had to pack up the house, the four kids, the dog—their whole lives—and move. She had to do this by herself. And she had to do it in three days. Years later when she retold the story, there was no sense of self pity. Bunny never had time for self pity. She was simply proud of her contribution.

The Army also provided this small town girl from Nebraska the chance to travel. She lived on Army posts in Germany, Okinawa, and six different states. Of course there were three separate postings to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, so it wasn’t all glamorous.

While stationed in Germany

After the Army, Bunny went to work so Ray could go to law school. They did that as a team too.

Later, when her kids were older, she golfed, and traveled. She spoiled her grandkids. Then her great-grandkids.

She always loved a party. Holidays, weddings, picnics, family over for a visit and a swim, you name it. She was a fun-loving and gracious hostess.


In 2000, 57 ½ years to the day after their wedding, her husband passed away. She was saddened, but not destroyed. They had a good life together. She had no regrets.

Her own health had started to deteriorate even before my grandfather died, yet she remained as social as ever. Her house was still a hub of activity. And it wasn’t just because she had a pool.

I spent a lot of time with her in the last year. She had good days and bad days. But she handled her illness with grace and courage. She thoroughly enjoyed all her visitors, to the end.

If you had asked Bunny who she was, she would have told you, in her own way, that she was the wife of one man, the mother of five children, the grandmother of nine, the great-grandmother of nine more, the sister to ten siblings, and Aunt Bunny to everybody else. I can add that she was friend to pretty much everyone who ever met her. Don’t be too put off by the fact that her life seems so defined by the lives of others. She wouldn’t be. She was all of those things, but still very much, Bunny.

Bunny and her "immediate" family. I'm not kidding.

I have one more thing to pass on before I close.

Her one regret. She told me that if she could have done anything differently in her life, she would have cleaned less and played more, while her children were young. They were only young once. That is true of all of us.

Every single one of us is younger right this minute than we ever will be again. We’re also probably thinner, better looking, and have more hair. So, go have a good time.

And in the next few days and weeks and years, when you think of her and you miss her, do something Bunny would do.

• Get your hair done, with the back combing and everything.
• Squeeze every last bit a toothpaste out of that tube, even if you have to use your rolling pin to do it.
• Make apricot jam.
• Dust something that no one can see.
• Sew something. Then rip it out and sew it again.
• Make an in-law feel like family.
• Give to charity.
• Invite and unexpected visitor to dinner.
• Be the life of the party.
• Play with your kids.
• Dance.

But don’t worry about Bunny. She made it to her date on time. Wearing her dancing shoes. Because, in heaven, even my grandpa can jitterbug.