Not My Circus

"Not my circus, not my monkeys" is one of my favorite tropes.

Often described as a Polish proverb, to me, this saying acknowledges that drama exists in every person's life. And the drama from other people's lives can be very entertaining. But, at the end of the day, we can only responsible for directing our own circus. 

Which brings me to this week's 52 Lists Project writing prompt, which invites me to: 

"Make a list of the things you will try to ignore."

Now ignore is a tough word, because, by definition, it calls on me to pretend something isn't there. 

Perhaps a result of my commitment to honoring the inherent worth and dignity of every thing, but there are very few things one can actually ignore in the world. On the short list, MAYBE:

1. Paranormal claims, including sightings of the Loch Ness Monster and other mythical beings

2. Conspiracy theories espoused by people with documented and severe mental illness

3. "No-see-ums" and other pesky bugs that potentially annoy, but can't hurt me

4. Dogs barking and other animal noises that are an innate part of their species' behavior

5. Noises - usual and unusual - made by cars either driven by me or near me; I am masterful at simply turning up the volume on the radio

However, I think the spirit of the writing prompt is seeking a different kind of list. I believe this prompt is inviting me to consider making a list of things that distract me from my true north, from being my best self, so that I might try to become impervious to their meddling influence. 

At the top of this list is people and their drama that neither hurt me, nor offer me any discernible opportunity for growth, insight, or other benefit, including:

• Men at work who constantly undermine my success by redoing or challenging projects other men have called "done" 
• Anyone who's last name is "Kardashian" 
• Fights between friends of friends of friends
• Friends who do not have the self-awareness to get unstuck, and have neither requested nor seem receptive to loving feedback
• Co-workers' trials and tribulations with their friends and family
• Bad drivers
• Judgments made of my weight, my housekeeping, my style of dress, my car, my cooking, or any other immaterial aspect of who I am and how I present in the world that comes from a position (conscious or unconscious) of malice or jealousy

This is the list of things I will try to remain immune to, so I can keep my focus on achieving my goals and living my values. 

What is on YOUR list of things you will try to ignore? Of things you will strive to be impervious to?

The Soundtrack

BMG and I are in week four of a year-long project to write and reflect together, using the book 52 Lists as our guide. Each week we read a writing prompt, have a conversation about how we might approach the topic, and then we write.

The question this week is "What's the soundtrack of your life - right now?" 

Week three's prompt asked us to reflect on the "happiest moments in our lives." During our conversation about this week's prompt BMG claimed "It is unfair to make this the next prompt because we're already thinking about being happy, and therefore we're more likely to think of peppy songs."

My retort? "Don't take the easy way out."

The soundtrack of my life has NEVER included taking the easy way out. I grew up in a lower class family, without much measureable privilege. However, I've always been smart and a hard worker, and this is how I learned to make my mark on the world.

Reflecting on my life, right now, I can say that I'm at the mid-point in an erratic career, fairly newly wed, and trying to find balance - between my efforts to care for my health, to nurture my career, to strengthen my relationship with my husband and my family, and to make a meaningful contribution to my community.

When he isn't making me crazy, BMG, inspires me. Not because of his semi-charmed kinda life, but rather because he joyfully lives by the bumper sticker philosophy, 'No one ever said on their deathbed, 'I wish I had spent more time at the office.'"

With that said, here is my soundtrack:

Track 1 - Sunny Side of the Street, as performed by Ella Fitzgerald (my goal)


Track 2 - Fatso by The Story (part of my struggle)


Track 3 - All For You by Sister Hazel (I think of this as "our song," and it always reminds me of my inspiration, BMG)


Track 4 - Work That by Mary J. Blige (sometimes it feels like I'm pushing a rock uphill)


Track 5 - Working 9 to 5 by Dolly Pardon (I've decided to abandon my ambition to have a career in favor of having a life)


Track 6 - God is Trying to Tell You Something from the soundtrack to The Color Purple (I'm struggling between having fun and listening to the my call to community)


Track 7 - You Are the Universe by The Brand New Heavies (my goal)


Track 8 - Somewhere Over the Rainbow, as performed by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (when I reach balance, I hope it will feel like this song)

A Plea to My Liberal Friends in America

Please stop using the words "stupid," "crazy" and all of their colorful variations on social media platforms to label people whose behavior and words indicate they are racist, pro-gun, supporters of the Republican presidential candidate who shall not be named, anti-choice, anti-LGBT, and/or some other variation of evangelical Christian conservative. 

From where I sit, calling a DT voter an "idiot" is no different than calling a rape survivor a "slut" 

"Really?" you say. "How?" 

Because the labels only serve to confirm the worst feelings the person you are labeling has about themselves. Regardless of whether they are conscious of those bad feelings or not, the words serve to step on the self-esteem of another in order to lift your own sense of worth and belonging. The primary purpose of labels are to reinforce oppression. And DT supporters (and anti-choice activists and anti-LGBT activists and gun rights activists, yada yada) DO feel oppressed. 

And when people who feel they are being oppressed are organized, they fight back. Tea Party voters and the hundreds of permutations of their ilk, are well-funded and organized. The more we insult, the harder they deeper they feel about their cause and the harder they fight back. 

Think of the lessons American Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s. Imagine the protesters outside of Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, chanting "N****r go home!" to the members of Little Rock 9 as they bravely played their role in desegregating America's school. Did the civil right activists stop, think, and say, "Golly! You're right. We are n****rs and we should go home. We don't belong in a well-funded and high performing high school. Thanks for helping us see the light."? No, they got madder and louder and more organized until they won that phase of the battle for civil rights. 

Based on my experience as a community organizer and a thoughtful human being, I believe that every time someone posts a news article with a comment that belittles or expresses patronizing disappointment in the opposition, they are contributing to a mood in which the organized opposition gets madder and louder. 

Maybe using these labels helps to make you feel better. Maybe they also make your fellow liberals laugh. I'm sure you feel righteously superior to the "others" whom you are deriding. It's important to express your feelings. I'm a social worker. I get it. I'm as horrified as most of you are every time I read the news or skim through comments on yet another witty meme circulating in Facebook or Twitter.

But, in the grand political scheme, name calling is doing nothing to change the political tenor of our country. In fact, it's making things worse. 

So stop it. please. 

I Blame the DNC (or Right Candidate at the Wrong Time)

Who is to blame for the rise of the American presidential candidate who shall not be named? Republicans say it is President Obama. President Obama says it is the Republicans. Liberal talk show host Bill Maher blames the self-esteem movement. And everyone blames "the media."

Notably absent from the finger pointing is the Democratic National Committee.

And I think they have a lot to do with this.

How?

By choosing to put all of their support behind a presidential candidate who was "owed" the nomination after years of party activism and loyalty. Regardless of how qualified their chosen candidate is, their analysis of their chosen candidate's ability to unite the party was, in my opinion, flawed. Why? Because it did not appear to address:

• The political mood of the country: The high "Obama is to blame for everything is wrong in my life and the world" sentiment - from both sides of the political spectrum - should have been a clue to the party that they needed to move even closer to the center politically and culturally to capture the moderate and conservative vote. Translate this as a "we need a moderate white guy" if you wish. I'm not happy about it, and I accept that at this time, it is also likely true. 
• The likability of their chosen candidate: Regardless of whether Candidate Clinton's "unlikeability" is "fair," "legitimate," or "right," it has been palpable since the first Clinton presidency. Yes, sexism exists and its sucks. But, given all the other factors affecting the election, it should have been clear to the DNC that this presidential election was not the right time to make a socio-political statement about sexism in America. I believe the risks are too high.
• The potential opposition from inside and outside of the party: Given the political mood of the country and the likeability of their candidate, the party should have seen (a) the rise of a social liberal candidate from within the ranks who would divide the Democratic vote, and (b) the rise of Tea Party opposition who would take leadership or further erode the candidacy of the DNC's Chosen One. 

I believe Hillary Clinton is extraordinarily qualified to be President of the United States.  I don't need to debate whether she deserves the nomination or whether she is qualified. (And stop calling me a sexist for not supporting her with all of my heart and soul.).

Unfortunately, I also believe she's the right candidate at the wrong time. And, the rise of He Who Must Not Be Named (seriously, I can't even type his name without feeling sick) proves that a vocal majority of the opposition party agrees with me.

So DNC, consider this one very angry finger pointing in your direction for helping to create these politically scary times.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

Two of my neighbors are feeling the burn for Bernie Sanders. It feels like every other Facebook post from them is is proclaiming the revolution is upon us.

One of the many things that makes my neighbors great is that we can have a political conversation in which we disagree with one another. And I disagree mightily with the idea that Bernie Sanders is going to create a revolution.

I think electing Barack Obama was revolution enough for these United States. Eight years after his moderate governance, a presidency marked by enormous but understated success and peaceful, loving kindness towards our fellow humans, what I believe we're seeing is a pendulum swing towards the extreme and hateful right.

I don't need to go through the litany of disagreements with Donald Trump. Or Ted Cruz. Or [insert tea party candidate name here]. You only need to Google these politicans' names to find comparisons to Adolph Hitler, David Duke, Vladimir Putin, and other powerful hatemongers.

And this is where I think revolution is going to be born. In hundreds of battles against the loud, angry, racist, and hateful factions of our country and the peaceful, tolerant loving factions. And, as we're seeing, this is not a revolution that falls neatly along political lines, geographic boundaries, income, or religion. But I believe it will be a revolution.

I was recently reading a biography of Charles Manson. I returned the book to the library without finishing it. The backdrop from which the Manson family emerged, juxtaposed against the current political landscape was too upsetting to me. It feels like we're going to have a revolution on the scale of the civil rights struggle, with massive waves of civil disobedience and violence of a type we have not seen since the 1970s - in all corners of our nation. In fact, we're seeing it start with the Black Lives Matter movement, and the hundreds of rallies across the country in support of an end to the aggressive use of force, particularly against people of color, by public safety officers.

I can stand on the side of love, but love doesn't seem to touch the chuckleheads who decide to give toddlers the right to carry firearms, the fidiots who think that calling for justice for one racial category necessarily means that one is therefore against justice for people of all other races, the ignoramuses who think they have to vote for Trump because they want to "get that (black man) out of the White House." (Guess what? Whether Trump is elected or not, he's leaving in January because he CAN'T BE RE-ELECTED.)

So I'm pissed. I'm pissed because if I had a five year plan, it would NOT INCLUDE joining a revolution against racism and other forms of fear and hate.

I think Bernie Sanders was right when he said it was time for a revolution. But I predict we won't see it with his presidential candidacy. We *will* see it with a President Trump (I can't even type those two words without throwing up a little in my mouth).

With the primary election over in my state, I'm ready for the first battle in this revolution, which is putting everything I can muster behind whomever the Democratic candidate for president is. Who's with me? (Now, where did I put my beret?)

Worst Way to Die

Transfixed and horrified by the news of the death of 37 year-old Jeff Bush of Seffner, Florida this weekend, I have decided that death by sinkhole may, in fact, be the worst way to die.

Photo by ABC Action News-WFTS TV.

Liberty and justice for all

Settling down to a lunch of kielbasa and cauliflower yesterday (we really need to go to the grocery store), I thought to myself, "My love for sausage is proof that I am German."

I looked at the clunky leather shoes on my feet, worn on one of the hottest days of the year. "And my love for awkward footwear. Yep, that's proof that I am German."

"This body of mine, custom-made for a dirndl, no doubt I am a German."

But it is 4th of July here in the United States, the time when we celebrate the essence of being an American. So, what, I wondered, makes me an American?

I'm distrustful of patriotism in all forms. You'll never see me fly a national flag outside my home. I wear our nation's colors to the Independence Day BBQs that are prolific in my community because of fear of being labeled a traitor to the U.S., not because I want to "show my colors." I haven't recited the pledge of allegiance in years, in spite of having worked for a local government where the pledge kicked off every public meeting I had to attend. If you were to compare my unvarnished sociopolitical views to those of the vast majority of other Americans I'd clearly be labeled a commie liberal.

So, what is the proof that I am an American?

The pilgrims, who set foot on this land mass we now call the United States of America a mere 40 miles from where I sit typing, left Europe in search of religious freedom. In 1692, religious freedom was defined within the context of varying Christian denomination; religious tolerance is much more broadly defined now many communities in these United States can boast claim to sects of Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Wiccans, Christians, Mormons, Jains, and Animists in their midst. I am committed to exploring and protecting diverse religious and spiritual expression, and preserving the separation of church and state, restricting religious persecution where no one is being hurt by the religious expression of others. This, I believe, makes me an American.

I love voting. LOVE IT. Whether casting my ballot for local selectman or choosing the best name for Snooki's baby, I love to vote. I love having the freedom of choice associated with stepping into the ballot box. I feel great responsibility to at least know something about what I'm voting for, even if that means taking five minutes to skim the referendum guide mailed to my home in advance of town elections. And I feel enormous, righteous pride when I get my little sticker after I've cast a ballot. This, I believe, makes me an American.

What really makes me an American? I confessed being loathe to recite the pledge of allegiance. This is not because I don't believe the words, but rather because I feel too much like a mechanistic sheep incapable of independent thought when I say the words with tens, hundreds, or thousands of other people. And this, I believe, makes me an American. 


I have a deep and unwavering respect for liberty, or the power of choice, and freedom from obligation, control, interference and restriction. I know the words to the pledge of allegiance, and I want to say them when I want to say them - not because I have to say them. (I won't recite the Lord's Prayer, Apostle's Creed, or other responsive reading in church or temple for the same reason.) This extends beyond liberty of speech and thoughts, to liberty in action, lifestyle, and personal expression (provided they aren't restricting the liberty of another individual). 

And the steadfast belief in and protection of liberty is what defines justice for me. I deeply believe that every person should have the opportunity to pursue their choices.  This doesn't mean I have to adopt or even understand their choices. Mormonism and cross-dressing are both confusing mysteries to me. But I understand they are meaningful to other people. And because they don't hurt me, so I have an obligation to respect, and when necessary, protect the right of Mormons, cross-dressers, and others who are both like and unlike me to express themselves. This, I believe, is what makes me an American. 

The essence of my Americanism is less overt than my cultural heritage. You can't see it in what I wear or what I eat. But you can hear it in what I say, read it in what I write, and see it in my work and my treatment of other people.

On July 4th, you won't likely find me on the local parade route - wearing red, white and blue, saluting veterans and waving a flag. Look for me under a tree in my backyard, reading a book of speeches by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. If I'm not there I may be taking a walk on a nearby beach watching the waves roll in thinking about all of the people who have made their way to this country seeking the same freedoms I love and cherish to my core.

Happy Independence Day.

Now let us sing, sing, sing, sing!

On Saturday, December 3rd at noon at the Christian Science Plaza, the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus will attempt to break the World's Record for the Most Carolers Singing (Carols) Together (for at least 15 continuous minutes). The current record is 9,100 people, set in November 2010 in Adelaide, Australia.

So I'm going. I HAVE to go. I'm not a joiner as a general rule, but this is an extraordinary event. How many opportunities does a girl have to be part of a group trying to break a World's Record? And for something as fun as singing carols? Well, not carols plural. Just one carol. As I understand it the group will be singing "Joy to the World" for 15 minutes. Regardless, it is going to be fun!

In 2010 the BSO tried (and failed) to break the record in December 2010. This year, because I'll be there, they'll break the record.

I'd LOVE for my Boston friends to join me. Here's the scoop on being part of the fun. I'll be at P.F. Changs outside the Pru at 11:15 AM. No later than 11:25 - ideally before - I'll head across the street to become part of the caroling scrum at the Christian Science Plaza.

I have NO idea what to expect. A handful of questions run through my head. How will they count us? Will we get sheet music? How many people can fit at the Christian Science Plaza?

While there are many things I don't expect to know until I show up on Saturday, I would like to know if you plan to join me. Drop me a note in the comments section or on my Facebook page so we can work out our rendezvous plans. And afterwards, we can grab cocoa or a martini somewhere?

Happy holidays!

My ♥ Belongs to Wegmans

My hometown grocery store, love of my retail life, opened it's first store in Massachusetts today. (Unless you live under a social media rock you already know Wegmans opened in Northborough on October 16, 2011.)

What you may not know is that this store is 47 miles from my house. One way. The travel time is nearly 1.5 hours. One way.

I live within three miles of three other grocery stores. Go seven miles further and you find three more grocery stores. That's six grocery stores, that I'm aware of, within ten miles of my home.

And now, today, after having made the three-hour round trip journey, where I shopped and laughed for four hours, I cannot imagine shopping anywhere else.

I forgot to buy paper towels and plastic wrap at the hometown market today. Yet I cannot bring myself to drive the 1.5 miles to the nearest grocery store, park the car, and walk through the sad, fluorescently-lit aisles. I just can't. It depresses me.

94 miles round trip is a ridiculous and wasteful distance to travel to buy groceries, particularly when I can do the same household errand in 3. That's 1/3rd of a tank of gas versus 1/100th of a tank of gas. My conscience won't let me make the hometown market my one and only.

But my ♥ belongs to Wegmans.

Guess will be living without paper towels for a little while.

Celebrity Look-Alikes

Facebook memes often invite us to change our avatars to our celebrity look-alikes. I usually post a picture of Velma, the smarty-pants crime solver from "Scooby Doo."



In the last three months I've been told by colleagues that I remind them of celebrity chef Rachael Ray
,



and the smarty-pants crime fighter Garcia on the TV show "Criminal Minds."



I feel glad to (a) have celebrity avatar options, and (b) remind people of sassy smart gals.

How about you? Who is your celebrity avatar? Why?

Cynalytic

Are you one of those Facebook quiz junkies? I am. My Facebook profile is littered with the "answers" to questions like: "Who were you in a past life?" "What 80's television show are you," "What color are you," and "In what soap opera would your relationship star?" I also know my Myers Brigg type and my enneagram type, just to be on the safe side. I know my sun sign, moon sign and ascendant sign.

I am relentless in my pursuit of silly, unimportant, self-knowledge.

This fascination with all things quizzes has been aided and abetted by Facebook, but certainly didn't start there. I'm not a Cosmo girl, but I DID take the Cosmo quizzes. Does anyone else remember the game played by little girls wherein you draw a square and pick four types of houses and write them on one side of the square, four numbers that are written on another side of the square, four boys' names, and four cities? Add a spiral drawn in the middle and a complex counting system and voila! Future predicted? Yeah, I played that game. A lot.

Which is why, when my friend Alicia Staley posted a Facebook link to the "I Write Like" writing style analytic website, I sat down, cut and pasted a blog entry into the machine, and was compared to Margaret Atwood with one keystroke. In two more keystrokes I had revealed yet another nuance of my personality on Twitter and Facebook.

I KNOW human beings like you and me, bored at home, are making up Facebook quizzes. I know that I fall nearly in the middle of nearly every personality test I've ever taken, and I'm cynical that one analytic of one blog post can definitively say my writing style is like that of any other author, poet or journalist.

It is this cynicism about self-reflective analytic tools that led me to create a new compound word today - cynalytic. It is an adjective meaning cynical about the pursuit of personal understanding and improvement through the use of quizzes on Facebook, in Cosmopolitan magazine, or other places in print and on the Internet. Pronounced 'sin-a-lit-ick' you might use it like this, "I'm a little cynalytic about my results in the latest New Yorker magazine quiz. Did you take it, the one that allegedly determines the perfect New York home for you? My results show my ideal Manhattan home would be in Ossining."

I've made up lots of words before, only to find someone else has invented them before me. This new one, cynalytic, is nowhere to be found on the Internet. While it may not ever make the top ten list of made up words, I think it is going to catch on.

Patriotic Thaw

Create your own country? Who thinks they can create their own country? I don't have the kind of hubris or creativity that would let me consider seriously the idea of throwing in the towel in my native land and just starting my own republic.

This Independence Day I've been thinking much more gratefully about the events that led the European settlers to travel across an ocean to begin the process of starting the nation that is, for better or worse, my home country.

Like a good progressive Democrat, with a dash of hippie thrown in, I've spent much of my adulthood feeling more ashamed than proud of being an American. What contributes to this shame? The perception that we're the bullies on the international playground, we consume more than our share of the world's resources, we are xenophobes who don't respect differences among people, and we hoard more wealth than people of other nationalities. This ethos of shame has only been cemented by experiences like the time, during the presidency of the second Mr. Bush, a cranky European yelled at me for being a loud American while I was traveling on a French train.

I've been surprised, in the lead up to this Independence Day weekend, by feelings of patriotism popping up at unexpected times. Observing homeless vets begging for spare change from passers-by in downtown Boston, cruising past Adams National Park in nearby Quincy, MA on my to and from work, looking at the rather unimpressive Plymouth Rock on a weekend excursion, watching fireworks while mindlessly humming the lyrics to the "Star Spangled Banner," and stopping to watch local firemen hang a large American flag across an intersection the night before the big parade. In these and other activities what I'm feeling is a sense of timeless and single-minded hopefulness, expansive possibility, and chutzpah. The strength of character or depth of pain one needs to feel to travel by ship across an ocean, or by wagon across a prairie, to settle a new land inspires me. I yearn for the intellectual excitement and repartee of writing a brand new national constitution, one that could become the model for many young republics follow. I want to create something brand new that makes a positive difference in my life, and the lives of the people who come after me.

I am certain this patriotism is partly inspired by the work of President Barack Obama. I'm not a Pollyanna however, I work for a local government and I know firsthand our system of government has flaws. That's because our nation, like all nations, is run by human beings. I'm sure the Iroquois chieftains fought amongst themselves, and Mayan peoples engaged in nation building and underhanded political acts for their personal benefit. (Europeans wiped out many native peoples as the Americas were colonized, which is crappy. But said native peoples weren't any better than we are.)

What I do know, this July 4, 2010, is that the values and experiences - the hope, the possibility, the hardship - that have shaped this nation have different meaning to me today. When I look at our flag, with its 50 stars and 13 red and white stripes, I feel an appreciation for the chutzpah it takes to declare independence from a nation or set of ideals, and for the on-going struggle to sustain and adapt these new ideals in an evolving culture. With my eyes wide open to the realities of our nation's flaws and strengths, today I feel proud to be an American.

Say Yes to the Dress

"I am not getting a wedding dress. Instead I want a wedding bathing suit." So starts my niece, CMR, in reply to my mother who asked her if all of the women in her life could go with her to Kleinfeld's to pick out her wedding dress when she is ready to be married in 30 years or so.

To understand the genesis of this line of questioning posed to a 9-year old, one must go back in time 12 hours earlier to the Kohl's in Fayetteville, NY.

With CMR in the backseat, I was driving to my sister's house in rural NY to spend the night when I realized I had left my pajamas at my mother's house, now 15 miles away. I knew a pants-free sofa bed night with my other niece, the Divine Miss M, was unacceptable. So I told CMR we'd need to take a few minutes to stop so I could buy some pajama pants. So, at 8:47 PM we roll into the Kohl's parking lot and head in to buy a cheap pair of jammie pants.

After finding an acceptably soft pair of sleeping pants for under $15 we we were headed to the registers to check out when CMR was distracted by girlie dresses. This itself was odd. CMR is generally not a girlie girl. She makes fart noises in her armpits, wishes they dissected more things - really anything - at school, and claims she'd rather be friends with the kids everyone else calls 'nerds'. So the in-store detour from women's pajamas to party dresses for 'tweens was a surprise. I decided to roll with it (a) because there was nothing we HAD to be home for, and (b) I wanted to see what happened.

After 4 minutes of frenetic browsing she had two dresses over her shoulder - a flowy pink number with sequined flowers under the bodice, and a polyester white dress with an asymmetrical hem and lots of ruching. She turned to me and said, "Now can we try them on?"

"You want to try them on?" I replied, somewhat disbelieving. I've never known CMR to enjoy shopping for clothes, and she especially hates the trying on part.

"YES!" and she made a beeline for the dressing room. Aunt Clownface gamely followed, wondering what amazing thing would happen next.

She chattered with me like I was her best girlfriend as she slipped into the first dress. She curtsied, twirled, and primped in the mirror. But it wasn't the right dress - too big.

Next came the white dress, a polyester number with black straps and a built-in bolero jacket. The white dress transformed this tomboyish 9-year old, who entered the dressing room in faded lack yoga pants, kiddie-sized barn "muck boots," and a fleece jacket over a purple t-shirt with sequin butterflies on it.

She ogled herself in the mirror, gushed about how pretty she felt, and was inspired to play an extended air guitar set in the dress which ended with an impressive split.

She begged me to buy the dress for her.

We hadn't planned to stop at Kohl's, nor had we planned to buy a party dress. In fact, CMR has no parties on her size 8 agenda. But she loved the dress, and, more importantly, she loved herself in the dress. So we made a spit shake deal - she'd pay me half the cost ($22.40 marked down from $56) AND if her parents said "no" she'd have to return the dress.

All the way home, she said repeatedly "I hope they say yes to the dress! I hope they say yes to the dress! I hope they say yes to the dress."

We arrived home by 9:25 PM and CMR immediately asked if she could try on the dress for her parents. While she changed, under the supervision of her 6-year old sister, I explained the conditions of the spit shake to her mom and dad, and told them the story of the unexpected shopping trip.

Then, with a drum roll played out on my thighs, CMR was introduced to her parents in her fancy party dress. It was impossible to ignore her excitement, and they "said yes to the dress."

She wore the dress to mother's day brunch the next day. Everyone oohed and ahhed over CMR's fancy dress. Together, she and I relayed the story of the dress adventure to the gathered crowd. When we got to the part where CMR was praying her parents would "say yes to the dress," my mother interrupted and said, "CMR, when you get married, will you let EVERYONE come to Kleinfeld's with you to pick out your wedding dress?"

My sister smirked and said, "CMR doesn't want a wedding dress when she gets married. She has other plans. CMR, why don't you tell them your plans?"

"Well, I am not going to wear a wedding dress. I'm going to wear a wedding bathing suit."

All of the adults in the room cocked their heads quizzically.

"Go on CMR, tell them why," prodded her mother.

"Well, instead of having a wedding aisle, I'm going to have a Slip n- Slide. In my wedding bathing suit I'm going to SLIDE down the aisle, pop into my husband's arms, and then we'll kiss."

The adult heads remained cocked as my sister added, "This plan started out as a wedding via water slide."

"Yeah!" CMR continued enthusiastically. "I was going to go 'whoosh' down the water slide and at the end, in the pool, I would end up in my husband's arms and then we'd kiss and be married. My husband and I will have already built a beautiful house with an in-ground pool and that's where we'll have our party afterwards."

'nuff said.

*****

I loved hearing my niece, who has fully entered the confusing world of pre-teens, chatter on about her ideal wedding plans. I love that she has these dreams, and they are so characteristic of a nine-year old mentality. I've never had wedding dreams that I remember and listened to her with the curiosity of a loving anthropologist. I loved being a catalyst in the chain of events that triggered her plans being revealed to her family, and being part of the circle that gave her a dress that made her feel so special.

Being an aunt is great.

The perfect gift for your favorite paranoiac!

Does your mother sleep with a knife under her pillow to attack bad guys who might sneak into her home while she's sleeping?

Is your brother-in-law actively preparing his family to fight back in the event of a zombie apocalypse?

Does your partner maintain a list of things to worry about online?

If so your family is JUST like mine. And that's why I recommend that you consider purchasing the Zombie Table. This solid and attractive table features a small, circular table top almost impossibly cantilevered on a center leg resting on a reflective pedestal. The Danish modern style table will add to the decor in any home. And...when bad guy, zombies and bees strike, the table can be converted in two quick moves into a solid wooden shield and a bat that you can use to defend yourself and wound your enemies.

Consider buying one to give it to your mother to use as a bedside table so she can put away the knife and immediately reduce her risk of stabbing herself in the brain by 100%!

How about buying two for your brother-in-law to put by the front and back door to his home so he is ready should zombies ring the bell before they break in?

And increase the peace at home by buying one for your partner to strap to his scooter so he is ready for whatever perils the world has in store for him.

Tables are ready to be shipped immediately. Some assembly required, and the table comes with a helpful zombie fighting training video.

Search for "zombie table" online and get yours today.

Princess MCKTP

My niece MCKTP is a six years old. She has a wide smile, shy talent, and refreshing curiosity and honesty about the world. She is also adopted, living with two (and White) dedicated moms, and is African American. My sister, one of her parents, is committed to raising a daughter who is confident, smart, and loves how she looks. Her home has a healthy dose of Black Barbie, stories featuring Black characters in positive and healthy roles, and art depicting African Americans in ordinary and appropriate scenes.

For whatever reason - maybe living in a predominantly Caucasian family in a mostly Caucasian neighborhood, and being raised in a culture where books, toys and TV shows featuring African Americans and other racial and ethnic minorities in supporting roles far more than in lead roles - MCKTP has expressed a kind of dislike for African Americans for most of her little life. "I must make made choices because all Brown people make bad choices," she declared conclusively to her parents one day. She distastefully pushed the African American American Girl Doll away when she received it for her birthday a few months ago, and she adores her blonde haired, blue eyed cousins.

On a recent visit to see my family my sister and the Divine Miss MCKTP were enjoying hot cocoa and conversation at a local bookstore. I was chatting with the little princess about the new Disney Princess, Tiana.
"Is she beautiful?" I asked.
"Yes, Auntie Clownface" she replied assertively, squirming in her seat as she absent-mindedly sipped her cocoa.
"What does she look like?" I prompted her. "You know I haven't seen the movie yet."
"Well she has a sparkly green dress, and..." MCKTP stopped in mid-sentence as a light bulb started to glow brightly over her braided head, "Hey, she looks like me! Does that mean I can be beautiful too?!"
I looked at my sister, who was grinning from ear to ear, fighting back tears of joy and relief. "Of course you can be beautiful too! You ARE beautiful MCKTP!"

*****

I'm smart with an overly developed empathic gene. I've read Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye several times, and the film version of The Color Purple brings me to heart shaking tears. It wasn't, however, until this brief conversation with my niece that I really understood the pervasive power of popular culture, no, of American culture in general, on African American identity. This beautiful girl who is only 6 years old and surrounded by a family who has loved her since birth, listened carefully to social cues and came to the misguided conclusion that she was ugly and bad. And something as seemingly simple as one movie, one schlocky Disney movie, helped my niece reach the tipping point in her articulation of her beauty.