This Lump of Clay

Two things are mostly responsible for this post: First, an abundance of time has given me the opportunity to read. I love reading! I was explaining to my daughter how I used to go to bed with stacks of books around me. True story. I've been boasting to my daughter- I've read 6 books in 7 days...how's your reading going? For her, its a little competition to get her to pay attention & focus on her reading. For me, its a great opportunity for my mind to uncurl from the fetal position and stretch heavenward. Hurray for thinking!

The second impetus behind this entry is a quote I heard on NPR. Its not available in print, yet, so I won't quote it exactly or give the exact source just yet (I promise to update!). But the quote went something like this, "We are all born in a place on this earth, and from that springs what we are made of. Are you made of stony clay or soft, pliable clay?"

And the wheels haven't stopped turning since. I know who I am, and where I come from- both spiritually and physically. But I the thought of what I am made of, what materials would define me and my earthly existence, has made me dig deep and give pause.

From New Jersey, and perhaps from my English & Irish ancestors, I am a vital loam. I remember the first time I read that word- loam. I had never heard of it before. It is a type of soil which contains sand, silt and clay in specific proportions. Loam is ideal for agriculture because it provides much needed nutrients and yet is able to drain away excess water. It is a care-giver to plant life. New Jersey is, after all, the Garden State. We have beautiful soil which grows, quite possibly, some of the best tomatoes and corn in the world. Grass is green and rich this time of year. The air is humid and soft. The land provides life and abundance.

There is a part of me which is an amalgam of my current life and my Basque heritage. The Basque people are greatly misunderstood (that's another conversation entirely). They come from a mountainous region between Spain and France. The land was thought to be too steep and inhospitable to the French and the Spanish, but it suited the stubborn Basque people. They loved the tough earth which could be tilled with great efforts. They loved the stony paths and the lush mountainsides where their sheep grazed under careful watch. Wars were fought, lost and won, on either side of the Basque territories- never within. The rugged and beautiful landscape was used only as a pathway between the 2 areas by invading forces. The Basque people, coupled with their land, were that formidable, that indomitable. The land was strong, resilient, yet few understood its inherent hardiness.

The clay I am made of is rich & generous, meant to nourish others. There is a congenital flinty component to my makeup which serves as a ward & protection. As I put these words to form, I feel better- as if knowing what I am formed of, I might better understand how and what I can endure, what I can offer. Now ask yourself, what clay are you made of...?

A Little Goes A Long Way

This week has been a bit busy. My entire family has gathered from NJ & FL to join my daughter & I for Easter. The house is noisy, chaotic and full of people. In short- it's wonderful. Naturally, since I have company, I fell ill. Totally lame and kind of my own fault for not taking care of myself before I got seriously sick, but no big deal. I went to my trustworthy doctor, got a physical and a year's supply of various medicines for my sinuses.

I dropped my prescriptions off at our local Costco pharmacy without any fuss. The next day, between airport runs, I went back to pick up my meds. To my surprise, the cashier said my prescriptions had been flagged and said I needed to have a consult with the pharmacist before purchase. A little strange, but not a big deal. I went up to the consultation window, and a small, flustered woman in a white smock appeared on the other side of the counter. Nervously, she began to explain to me 2 of the prescriptions had an instant and fatal reaction when taken together. I listened carefully, since I was extremely stunned. I had recently taken the same 2 scripts together...and thought I was going to die. Turns out, it wasn't all in my head.

As the harried pharmacist finished explaining, she nervously gathered a pile of papers and offered me a print-out with all of the scientific facts. I thanked her heartily and asked a few questions. I bantered with her, and to my delight she began to smile. Then came the shocker. The pharmacist told me, "I'm really glad you are taking this news so well. I was very worried you would get upset and not be understanding." I laughed...until I realized she was serious. My response was quick, "Ma'am, you- literally- just saved my life. I would have taken those medications and my heart would have stopped. Then I would be dead. How in the world could I possibly yell at you? I should hug you." She smiled more broadly, "You are just SO CUTE!"

I've been called many things in my life, and "cute" is not one of them. I wasn't being cute. I was being honest and grateful. Surely this woman must be over-sensitive to people. Why would people yell at her? I thanked her again and stood in line to pay for my items. While waiting, my mom and I started people watching. We saw a number of people grumpily trudge by, shove other people's shopping carts and brow beat the staff over trivial matters.

In just a few short minutes, I realized the pharmacist was not at all over-sensitive. Summarily, people were just not kind. Over the last few days my mind has gone back to that incident over and over again. I am not always the happiest person around. I know for a fact I drift off into my own little world and start to scowl over my thoughts. Yet a little eye contact, a smile and a thank you goes a long way.

People should never feel like they are going to be berated. Especially someone who is trying to make lives better. How much effort does it really require to smile? If I honestly ask myself...the answer comes easily. I think we get to be in such a hurry (guilty!) and are so weighed down by our own issues/burdens we forget to reach out our hands to others (guilty again!). Kindness, or even simple courtesy are being lost in the din of our treadmill lives. I don't want that.

Because the pharmacist prevented my heart from imploding, I have decided to be nicer. It really shouldn't take such an incident. I am ashamed. But I'll come clean, and will try to be better. I can stop for that pain-in-the-rear-pedestrian that is not in the right of way. I can let a car in front of me in traffic. I can certainly say please and thank you to cashiers or random strangers. And I can certainly teach my daughter how to do these things as well. A little kindness truly does go a long way. As the saying goes, "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."

3 Years, 3 Letters

My mother is visiting us from New Jersey. Its a real treat to have my mom here. She's been busy heading up the "Bucking Up" brigade and has been keeping the house spit spot. My mom is obsessed with cleaning- she actually enjoys it (seriously!), so I let her have her fun. My laundry basket is emptied every day, and ever night clean, folded clothes magically appear. We spend the days doing silly things. I introduced my mother to Downton Abby...and now she is determined to watch every last episode.

As you may or may not know, my daughter is my sister's birth daughter/my niece, but I took her in almost 3 years to the day. I've blogged about some of our tough times and some of our accomplishments. We are very open in our family, and we speak of how great it is to have more than one "mom" in our lives. I refer to her as my daughter, and people who do not know me closely are never the wiser. It's just not that big of a deal. We are a family, and that is that.

My daughter, however, calls me "Tia." Tia is the Spanish word for aunt. At my age, I kind of decided that I will never be called mother...and that's OK. I do not feel like less of a woman in any way. To get to my story, the other day, I was upstairs trying to unclog a bathtub drain and my mom was downstairs with my daughter. I called down to Chloe and asked her to bring me up something (I cannot even remember what it was). No response. If any of you have a 12 year old, this is typical.

I called down a second time, then a third. Finally, I could hear my mother say to Chloe, "Chloe- your aunt is calling you. Please answer her." The angry and swift response both shocked and tickled me, "Abuela, she is NOT my Aunt. She IS MY MOM!" I could feel the silence coming from my mother. I was completely floored and just moved. Seconds later, Chloe came bounding up the steps with whatever object I had been asking for.

On April 9th, it will be 3 years since we started our little adventure. That's how we refer to our home life- as Our Adventure. I'm pretty sure I've aged significantly in those 3 years. I joke that I will now need Botox for my wrinkles (I'm only half kidding). I have laughed every day, cried many times, and raised my voice just every so often. I've watched Chloe go from what I call "Baby Chloe" to "Young Woman Chloe." As with most adventures, not every day is smooth sailing. But the outcome, the end result is always worth the time and effort invested. The day my daughter called me "Mom," is a day I will remember. Its a short word- just 3 tiny letters, 1 syllable. Yet for me that word's meaning is so grand and so sacred.

Good Cop/Bad Cop...or Single, Deranged Mom

It is a scientific fact some species of animals eat their young. Some days, I wish I were that species. I am probably not the greatest mom in the world (not for lack for trying), but I can say I love my little one tween much beyond words or sometimes even actions. Here I shall comment on a difficult phase we're going through (on top of puberty- as if that weren't bad enough). My kid has sticky fingers and a horrific attitude.

First- I confide while asking readers to not judge. Chloe came from a broken home & suffered much at a young age, before coming to live with me. I've hesitated even saying anything to close friends because I am afraid the walls will go up, fingers will be pointed, and my kid's life will be over before it begins. But its not like that. All children having survived through what she has, are bound to have little social issues here & there. We do therapy, we do church, we do strict mom/tia (that's me!).

Here's where it gets tricky. No matter what happens- good, bad and ugly- I am always forced to be the "bad cop." I am and always will be the disciplinarian. There simply is not anyone else there. I make sure I provide abundant positive reinforcement & even incentive programs to help keep her scholastics on-task. We have fun and spend time together, so she knows she is important to me. To be fair, I give her my expectations and corresponding consequences well in advance, with fun boards around the house to serve as reminders. My threats are NEVER idle. You can ask anyone. I stick to my guns. Yet once every few months, we have an "incident" of her taking money from a wallet which does not belong to her.

Its so stinking frustrating. I'm well educated, I've run the gamut of psychological q & a's with her. I've been shouting angry, sobbing sad, and now...just kind of dispirited and left scratching my head. Is there a "bad cop" I can hire through some social services? Maybe mix things up a bit. I'm joking, and of course, I have a plan of action in place and new and more stringent consequences set up for the repeat offender.

And as I type and mull through the day's events, my reactions, her tears- as well as her inability to understand the consequences of her actions, I come to the conclusion that Moms freaking rock. Single moms are going straight to heaven (except for me, because I have a swearing problem yet to be resolved). I will choose to be BOTH good cop and bad cop, and take my meds so I'm not angry, delusional, Deranged Cop.

Feel free to hit me up in the comments if you have any suggestions for me! Single mom far from family is a lonely gig, so I'm always open to advice. :)

Bb's Top 5 Valentine's Day Movie Picks

This year, I thought I'd go out on a limb and bring everyone my top 5 Valentine's Day Movie picks. You know, since I love this Holiday more than any other holiday (read: sarcasm). I know its deeply rooted in tradition (read: Hallmark) and emotion (read: a free dinner or flowers). So to prove once and for all that I am a romantic at heart, I present to you my top-rated love stories:

#5: Battlestar Galactica
OK...this is a television series, and not really a movie, but come on- what doesn't say love like intergalactic battle for the human race? For those of you not in the know, this is a timeless epic about life after habitable worlds are destroyed. Humans must find the mystical "Earth," while battling evil/not-so-evil alien lifeforms (Cylons!). You had me at "Intergalactic."Sigh. Or maybe Sigh-Fy...?


#4: Finding Nemo
Don't scoff because this is a Disney movie. Finding Nemo is one of the few "kids" movies I can watch ad nauseum. Sure, its animated, but the humor is spot on. And funny is the new, new sexy. Especially since becoming a parent, I appreciate the relationship between the neurotic parent, his friend, and his child. I'm a single parent too. Some days I feel like I'm swimming around all by myself, trying to navigate my way to P. Sherman 42 Wallaby Way. Then along comes a day when I meet the SLC version of Bruce the Shark or the loveable, amnesiac Dori. This movie highlights the fact that some days, we simply get swallowed by a whale. But we also learn, we're all in this together. Just keep swimming!


#3: Hot Fuzz
If you haven't yet seen this British gem, then please rent it immediately. It is a timeless tale of overcoming social obstacles and stereotypes in order to form lasting friendships. A too-good cop gets "promoted" to a sleepy English village and is forced to partner with the hapless but hug-able Police Constable Butterman. There are plenty of car chases, swan chases, Shakespeare, and shoot outs to fill my empty heart. And if you don't like this movie, well jog on!

#2: Hero

This is my idea of a tear-jerker. Jet Li stars as the movie's protagonist, Nameless. Sure, its in Mandrin and you might have to read subtitles (or listen to the dubbed version), but this is a visually striking love story. OK, maybe not a story about romantic love, but love & sacrifice for the greater good. The cast is the Hong Kong equivalent of super A-list stars. The actors are so fluid in their moves, their Shaolin-style fighting is virtually a dance. The scenes are layered in color to represent various emotions, using the backdrop of remote China as its canvas. When I watch this movie, I feel as though I am viewing art. Plus-- its a freaking Kung-Fu movie folks. It doesn't get much better than that. Kung-Fu, people! Kung-Fu.
 

#1: Man on Fire
What do you get when you mix Denzel Washington, people trafficking, and an adorable little girl (the now grown-up- and lovely- Miss Dakota Fanning)? A freaking great movie based on a true story. This tale takes place in Mexico City. It is a place I love and hold dear, but also a place which serves as a cautionary tale of corruption and vices. Is this movie formulaic? Maybe a bit. But talk about a true love story. We even get Christopher Walken as the voice of reason (weird, right?). Oh boy. I'm getting all misty thinking about the revenge Denzel exacts on crooked cops and wayward politicians. I'm have to go grab a box of tissues right now & watch some explosions.

And there you have it. The Top 5 Love Stories according to yours truly. What? Did you honestly think you would find a chick flick on my list? Puh-lease. But seriously- these movies are top notch and worth a watch. I actually own all of these movies, so you are also welcome to watch them with me. I'll even serve popcorn. But no funny stuff. This is Valentine's Day- a day reserved for TRUE love. You know, like the love between a Ninja and his sword. Wait...that didn't come out right...

Going Home

Home has such a depth of meaning for most people. Its not where you live, but where you are. It is where you lay your head at night, and where you surround yourself with family or loved ones. At different points in our lives home may be a childhood bedroom with a twin bed, a dorm room with stacks of books, a small apartment which used to be a garage.

There are a multitude of images which the word home evokes for each individual. A quick Google search of the term, "Going Home," just spit out 339 million results. There are songs, poems, pictures. All about going home.

I chose to go home this Christmas, taking my daughter and my 2 dogs. To my childhood home, where my parents still live. It was an event preceded with much trepidation and anxiety. Our family was coming together, in its tiny entirety, for the first time in 5 years. It was a wonderful time. A true blessing. But I think we all know it could have gone either way- good or bad. We were blessed. The visit was beyond lovely. The whole time I was home, I kept hearing the Jenny Bruce song, Home,
in my head:

Mirror of life
Pillar of light
Blood of my heart
oceans of fate,
rolling and deep
could not keep us apart

I know they say you can't never go home again.
But all the world be calm
Going home...
you will walk into the light
there's fire burning warm and bright
open up the door to a room where they're waiting for you
and you feel so at ease you will know you're at home

all that I am
fruit of the tree
falling from grace
you are the sun, moon and the stars
no one can ever take your place

I know they say you can't never go home again
But all the world be calm
Going home...
you will walk into the light
there's fire burning warm and bright
open up the door to a room where they're waiting for you
and you feel so at ease you will know you're at home

Inside, faith is gonna find you
somewhere no one knows the word goodbye.


At 2 a.m., one blustery and dark morning, I took dog out. There I stood on my parents lawn, in the still black of the night, in my bare feet and pajamas. That song was running through my head, as were a multitude of other thoughts. Thoughts about the whys, the hows, the what comes next for me....and I looked up.

There in the still sky, shining as if just for me, was Orion's Belt. I was a kid who liked to think a lot, and always looked to the heavens. Orion's Belt was what I would look at every night before coming in, and again every morning before heading off to early morning seminary. After nearly 20 years of creating my own home where ever I am, I looked to the skies and saw a constant.

Like the hand of an angel, those stars instantly calmed my soul. Yes, came the answer. You can always go home. Faith will always find me, and home will always be where no one knows the word goodbye.

A Piece of Cake

My daughter requested a German Chocolate Cake for her birthday this year. Being handy in the kitchen (not bragging), I obliged. And in the process of making that confounded cake, I experienced an epiphany.

In preparation for making this cake, I did my homework. Since baking is not my forte, I researched everything from the etymology of German Chocolate Cake, to recipes, to people's reactions to said recipes. I carefully selected the best and began my prep work. I pulled out all the stops- we're talking cake flour, sifting, chocolate squares, whipping egg whites. Everything. The actual cake batter took me nearly an hour to complete. I was happy as a lark when I gently placed the cake pans in the oven, timer set.

When the cake was finally baked, I knew, right away, there was going to be trouble. The cake had not risen as much as it should have, and upon quick inspection, I noted the cake was FIRMLY stuck in the pans. How could this be?? I coated & floured the pans and followed every instruction to the letter. I hopped on line, furiously googling, "How To Get A Cake Un-Stuck From A Pan." No success with suggested methodologies. Finally, I caved. I knew there was only one way that cake was coming out of the pan: by brute force. And it wouldn't be pretty.

Using a rubber scraper, I scraped both pans out onto the counter. It was the saddest site I think I've seen (kitchen-wise). I picked up a piece of the cake and tasted: it was heavenly. I just stood there shaking my head. I re-read the recipe. I had done everything as explained. UGH!!! The birthday cake was dead.

I sucked up my pride, tossed the awesome tasting but now-just-a-pile-of-crumb cake out. I headed to the pantry, fingers crossed. Sure enough, there was a German Chocolate Cake mix on a shelf. With some doctoring, I had the new cake into the oven in about 4 minutes. I've still got home made frosting, and it will taste just fine. Plus, I'm not sure my kid's 12-year-old palate is sophisticated enough to even spot the difference.

Moral of the story: Sometimes we do things right, like we should. We labor, we are obedient, we take the time, we follow the instructions. But that alone does not guarantee success. Sometimes, we still take a few stripes, waste some valuable resources in attempts to do good. Our efforts are met with opposition and even failure. The trick is to not just throw in the proverbial towel and walk away. The trick is to have a back-up plan and the tenacity to use it. Even if we fail the first time around, all is not lost. We have gained valuable experience (for example, I learned that Wilton makes a substance that guarantees the release of cakes from pans). We have gained wisdom, patience. But that is not all. We need to take the next step: Be willing to try again. If we stop at each failure, how will we ever progress? Whether it is our culinary skills, our personal belief system, or our very own salvation, we must have the ferocity, humility and character to persist.

So yeah, I made a cake mix for Chloe's birthday. Because, this girl will have her cake, and eat it too.