Hello, Karma

I can't say that I have a favorite song now. But as a little girl I did. Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head. I know it's an unusual kid pick and that it dates me, but still, it was my all time favorite and I knew all the words. So when I heard it yesterday, I ran into the living room to see where this blast from my past was coming from. It just so happened that it was playing on one of the kiddy channels and my five year old daughter was already center stage.

"This is the greatest song EVER!" she remarked as she twirled around, tittering to a stop in an almost arabesque-like pose. "How do you know it already?" she asked, astonished. "Well, that was my favorite song when I was your age" I said. "I thought so" she stated serendipitously "I'm the same as you".

It was a warm and fuzzy moment. Then, like a needle screeching across a record, it was interrupted. If we are the same, I thought to myself, I'm in for it. I should have named her Karma.

Just to clarify, I'm an optimist. So why does Karma have such a bitter taste when it rolls off my tongue? After all, I've done my share of good deeds. But still, it's the seedier traits that are seeming to take root - and at an early age.

She's already started to lie, a craft I perfected during my teenage years. I got my first taste of it just days earlier when I was frantically looking for my wedding ring. "Jacqueline, have you seen Mommy's ring?" "Well, maybe" she replied. She's learning, I thought. Just months earlier she had answered, "It's not in my ballerina jewelry box", blowing it all together. A rookie mistake.

The scheming has begun also. "OK, when she's not looking we'll sneak a cupcake and hide it under the bed, OK Salem?" she whispers in her brother's ear "Yeah, hide it." "Shhhhh...just talk normal, here she comes."

Is it possible that I'm using up my bad Karma first? That must be it. Whew, I was worried there for a moment. I'm sure by the time she's sixteen my Karmic retribution will have been exacted - leaving only the good. Karma Hello. It's kind of catchy!

See, I told you I was an optimist.

t.b.d.

A couple of days ago I was shopping alone-an anomaly that occurs about as often as a lunar eclipse in my world-when I decided that I should check out the juniors department at Nordstroms. I was having no luck finding just the right thing in the womens, so I casually sauntered into the jungle called juniors, and with as much confidence as I could muster, selected a few items to try on. Only after I had played my own version of 'Name That Tune' trying in vain to determine if I knew the song that was blasting in this albatross [I didn't] did I turn to look at the outfit I had so carefully selected. "HOLY CRAP! I look like Cyndi Lauper and Betsy Johnson rolled into one."

On the way out I decided to try on some jeans in the middle section of the store. When a friendly Nordbot came to my aid to start a fitting room I questioned her about the lower case letters (t.b.d.) above the section we were in. In an almost inaudible whisper she said, "to be determined." Though spoken softly, these words hit me with a force akin to an open handed thud to the forehead. "Oh", I manged to say, "like not juniors but not womens?" "Exactly!" she said. What I thought was this............Why don't they just call it what it is......PURGATORY!


I'm not so naive to think that I can still shop in juniors, yet sometimes I will still face a bit of humiliation and save fifteen bucks on a tank that looks the same as the higher priced version who lives in the more civilized neighborhood of the womens dept.


Another similar experience happened just a couple of weeks ago at a store called Hollister. I believe it to be the bastard child of Abercrombie & Fitch. Anyhow, I was navigating my way through the dank, dark store with my two kids in tow when a young sales-dude (he was by no means yet a man) asked me if I was from Georgetown.


"No-why-do I look familiar?"
"Oh, woww....it's just that you look just like my friend's mom."


Ok. I get it.

It's not 'to be determined'.......it's more like.....It has been determined.


Ok, Ok, I get it.

Sans Mom

According to my second favorite news source (E! News holding the #1 position-embarrassingly enough) Yahoo News reports that a new reality show is in production. It seems we as a society just can't quench our desire to lurk into the lives of total strangers. The reality shows fill a void the soap operas can't, adding a new dimension-the This could happen to you element. And there is very little grey area within the world of reality TV. People's lives are either a train wreck or fabulous beyond your wildest dreams. Strangely enough, I'm more apt to tune in to those who's lives are in ruin or have some element of tragedy coursing throughout. I guess on some unconscious level I gain a sense of satisfaction when I see just what a curse all that fame, fortune and beauty can be.


I'm betting that this is precisely what the producers of this new series are hoping to hone in on. The show chronicles the lives of the men and children left to survive on their own when the entire population of women leave. Yes, they send all of the women off (to a resort) and watch to see what happens when men are left to deal with the children entirely sans mamma!


I've never left my children alone with the husband for more than 3 or 4 days, but feel that that's ample time to gain at least a glimpse of what will take place in the show, and in reality, it makes for a better comedy than any other genre.

I'm fortunate, The Husband has always played a very active parenting role. In fact, he took on night duty when our first was only weeks old, since I was going back to work and had to be up by 5:00am. He also dressed and hauled both children to daycare each morning without any assistance from Moi. So I really never doubted his abilities when I did have to leave them alone for more than a couple of days. I was confident that things would be just fine, and they were.

As a teacher, I could always tell when Mom was out of town. Little girls would show up to class with twist ties in place of ponytail holders or clothespins in lieu of barrettes. And while this may not have been in the best interest of fashion, it seemed practical. Ahhh.....good ol' male practicality...entire industries have been built on this quality.


So, on the day I picked my kids up from daycare and my son was wearing his footed pajamas backwards, I just reminded myself (and the caregivers) that Daddy dresses them in the morning and on his behalf, added that it was probably still dark when he did. And again, when I received my daughter's school pictures and hardly recognized her due to the lack of attention The Husband gave her hair in their morning routine (it wasn't that big of a deal, all things considered, she had been dressed, fed and properly kissed goodbye) I shrugged it off and tucked the pictures away in desk drawer. And so what if my house reeked of bacon and my children's new favorite food was now hot dogs cooked in the fireplace when I returned from a weekend away.


The reality of it is, they can survive on their own. They may appear a little less coiffed and the house may have a slightly less appealing aroma than when you left, but, for all practical purposes, things will be just fine.


I'm betting that this new show doesn't make it. Not because it's not a tantalizing topic, but because it's just not tragic enough. Besides, He's usually in charge of the remote control and I'm guessing that he'll just flip right by this one.


That's reality.

Part Time Model

He flashed her one of his killer smiles, his upper lip slightly higher on one side, exposing an almost imperceptible chip in his perfectly aligned front teeth. Then, with a subtleness that would leave her wondering if it had really happened, he winked one long lashed eye, before turning to grasp the hand of the woman he had come in with.

Flirting wasn't part of his vocabulary, at least not yet. There was no ulterior motive behind his actions, after all, he would never leave the woman he was with. It was charm. Not that he possessed, but that possessed him. He was born with it and it exuded him like an expensive perfume - just enough to scintillate the senses but never overpowering. A lingering sensation that he was altogether unaware of.

She hadn't noticed the woman following them as she held his hand tight, weaving their way around the racks of clothing and into the shoe department.

"What's your name?" she asked in a syrupy kind of voice as she sidled up beside the two of them.

"I'm Salem" he responded offering a hand in greeting as he gazed up to her with eyes of molten chocolate.

"He's just so cute!" she exclaimed.

"Thank you " she answered with a tight lipped smile, as if she were responsible for it all.

"Would you consider letting him model in our fashion show?"

And so, this is how he (my mini man of two) became a part-time (or possible one time) model.

We shall see how the story ends. It's this Saturday at Nordstrom if you care to see him strut his stuff.

Charm may only get you so far in life, but so far, it's getting me 15% off in the children's department this Saturday morning!

Lucky Duck

He was anticipating my return, waiting at the door with an expression I couldn't quite decipher. Pride? Excitement? Yes and yes.

"Look Hun...won't these look great here?!

The these that he was referring to are two mounted ducks and the here he directs my stunned gaze to is the front wall of our formal living room.

"Ok...well...maybe...but....", I stammer, trying not to verbally paint myself into a corner.

The ducks had met with their untimely death last fall during a weekend of coastal hunting. They had been recovered, cleaned and stuffed by an expert taxidermist and they now sat perched on pieces of driftwood; their cold glass eyes staring at me without feeling.

"Don't you think maybe they might look more...uh...ummm...appropriate at your office or even the deer lease?" I ask trying to sound encouraging without being too pushy.

"No, they would never last there. It's too hot and dusty."

"But they're already DEAD sweetie- they can't suffer anymore," I say in my most empathetic voice.

I could tell by his deflated body language that was disappointed, maybe even a little hurt by my recommendation. This discussion was taking on the tune of a bad country song with a title something like...My Wife Is Gone But My Ducks Ain't...or...This Ain't Duckin' Fair! I didn't feel good about moving in for the kill when he seemed so vulnerable, but it had to be done. I had to finish the job. Like a hunter putting a wounded animal out of its' misery.

"I really, really, REALLY don't want those hanging in here-they just don't go with the rest of the decor." There, I had administered the lethal dose that would put this discussion to rest with all the swiftness and precision of a sharp shooter. A twinge of guilt bubbled up inside me. I am no friend of PETA. I don't condemn hunting, fishing or circus trainers. I'm more than a little proud to carry a leather handbag and adore the supple, hand-tooled leather on a pair of Michael Kors peep-toe pumps. But these unfortunate fowl with their fixed expressions do nothing to stimulate my artistic senses. Especially here, in the formal living area of my abode.

In my dream house, I would have a special room built just for him. He could do as he pleased there in his sanctuary of testosterone. I imagine that there would be pieces and parts of once living creatures crowding the walls. Trophies brought back from great hunting expeditions, lit by flashing red neon. A pool table centered under a Budweiser-Clydesdale themed light fixture and a urinal in the corner for convenience sake. Vintage Smokey and the Bandit posters will give a visual to the Jerry Reed theme song on continuous play blasting from the coin-operated jukebox on the opposing wall. And a 10 inch thick security door installed to contain the smell of a deep fryer, preventing this and other offensive odors from permeating the rest of the house.

But at the moment, this dream house is a pipe dream. So we do what we must to ensure the future of our 22,995 (but who's counting) days of marriage. We compromise. Our feathered friends will reside at his office and I will keep the title of Interior Decorator. In return for his sacrifice, he is granted unlimited excursions to his make-shift sanctuary of testosterone. He may take his weekly sojourns to Dodge City with his buddies at his leisure. All the while, collecting more relics to one-day adorn the walls of his sanctuary.

The sport of compromise must be practiced and concessions have to be made for a relationship to endure. In this aspect, I am one lucky duck.

Slippin' Away

Oh no, it's happening again. She shakes her head and refocuses on the task at hand. Just finish making the bed, pick up the dirty socks in the corner and oh yeah, don' t forget to set out the chicken to thaw. Bed, socks, chicken...bed, socks, chicken...bed socks, chicken, She repeats out loud to herself. But the voices come again. This time louder and even more saccharine. There's an animal in trouble...We just got a letter....We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship...La,la,la la...la,la,la,la..Elmo's World..." Like an experienced diabetic who recognizes the onset of an impending sugar crash, she self diagnoses. A quick check to make sure the TV is off and the children are occupied with crayons and hot wheels reassures her diagnosis. Yep, auditory hallucinations. A sure sign that she is beginning to slip.

In the beginning she thought she might really be loosing it. Terms like clinical and certifiable popped into her head. During the first few weeks of her newborns life she had kept the bedside monitor on the highest setting. She would be Johnny-on-the-Spot if she so much as heard a whimper or unusual interval of breathing; not to mention the stocking-masked cat burglars that where surely out there, ready to snatch the adorable baby and hold her for ransom or sell her on the black market.

She finally came to her senses and begin to trust her 'motherly instincts'. She had read the books during pregnancy, but never really believed that she herself would develop these instincts. She needed proof, something tangible, to reassures her that she was capable of keeping her newborn safe outside the womb. She had yet to realize that the tingly, electrical charge that surged through her body (making her milk come in) was the physical manifestation.

She had asked her own mother, just days after the birth, "I feel so scattered and forgetful, when will I get back to feeling like myself? When will the postpartum symptoms go away?" "You won't ever feel like yourself again-not completely. This is the new you. You get used to it." her mother answered. Now, a mere four years as her new self, she was beginning to accept and recognize the life she was living.

Even the most rewarding and sought after careers have their drawbacks, occupational hazards, and creative burnout, recognized, diagnosed and treated by mental health gurus without stigma or fear of demotion. Major coorperations budget millions to study the direct correlation of productivity and the emotional balance of their employees. Hours, days, even weeks are set aside as necessary 'days-off' to ensure the mental and emotional fitness of a valued employee.

She left the shower running and grabbed a towel as she sprinted across the tile floor. She was sure that the "MOMMMMMY...!!!" cry for help she had heard was real. She envisioned a bloody lip or overturn piece of furniture. But as she stood there wide eyed and dripping, all she observed were two pair of deep-set eyes, without a trace of pain or suffering, smiling up at her.

All was quite on the home-front so she returned to rinse the shampoo from her hair. Great, now I've got the visual hallucinations to accompany me on my little trip into dementia! She thought.

She quickly scribbled a mental prescription for herself as she finished her morning routine: One day of self-directed therapy to be taken ASAP. No Harvard educated psychoanalyst needed. She knew the correct dosage required to bring her back to "sane". She fancied herself sitting at a linen draped table, chilled glass of chardonnay in hand. She would finish the chapter she was reading and lay the book to rest so that she could make astute observations of other patrons. Listening in on the details of last night's date or who was sleeping with who at the office.

No, too extravagant. She could feel the phantom pains of the severed emotional umbilical cord. She mentally scratched out the Rx and wrote out a new one: Physical therapy in the form of Retail Aerobics followed by a Cool Down of Cinematic Appreciation.

She could already feel the lunacy subsiding and the 'normal' drifting back into focus as she planned her upcoming day of treatment.

Miss Preconceptions

This started out as an admission, but has festered into something more like a confession. A way to absolve myself mentally and spiritually of impure thoughts. I consider myself an open-minded, accepting individual. No, "I pride myself", would be more accurate. Hell, I was a sociology major with a minor in psychology. How much more dare I say? I like to read and watch about other cultures, lifestyles, belief systems; a mental, cultural anthropologist of sorts, digging away to uncover the truths of humanbeing'ness'. What factors in to the who we are and how we interact on a daily basis makes us us. Yes, that's what keeps the gerbils spinning in this rattle-trap, third voice mind of mine. It's almost a sport. I challange myself with the, "I know what and why you're thinking" imagined sixth sense. A spirituality of sorts. Really, and most probably, it's just a basic voyeuristic obssesion I have that provides the stimulation needed to sustain myself. Me. An average being.

But-it doesn't matter (I'm begining to discover) how much worldy experience you've attained, no amount of education (be it formal or organic) people are prone to develop stereotypes. Even if you [they] are trained not to. Sometimes my dad would say, "We've bought you too much education." when I would come home from school spouting my ideas and new-found worldliness. I was testing the waters; checking to see if I could still touch the bottom before removing the floaties and remain buoyant in my pool of new found philosophies of life. My superfluvious state of mind churning away (believing my rationalizations were more solid than gasious thanks to note cards and rote memorization). He would say something like, "Well, that may work for them, but it's not how it is here." As a parent, he could see my ideas for what they were, sanctimonious attempts at relating to others with no real-world experience to back it up. A mirage I was staggering towards, just in my line of sight, but never reachable. I dismissed his opinions as closed-minded and resumed my life as an observer and student of others.

Four nights ago, I premade my coffee and set it to brew at exactly 7:00am. I also set the alarm clock for 7:00am (a function I had hoped to express from memory after many, too many mornings waking at 5:00am). But it was the eminate news I was needing. The others' point of view uninterupted by cries and diaper changes, food for thought for the gerbils I had created, spinning tirelessly in my melon. The voyeur craving subject matter (and some time alone-an oxymoron-Planned Liesure).

I sipped in silence, as the rest of my family lay in slumber. My caffiene giving me the jolt needed to comprhend the images and auditory production considered newsworthy. I would satiate the gerbils and they could take the day off as I went through the remainder of my day, swim class, the video store, scheduling well checks and so on... But then, a human interest story stops the gerbils in mid spin. A woman, Michelle and her husband, Jim Bob, have just given birth to their seventeenth child. Jim Bob, I say to myself, Hmff...I bet they're from the South ; I bet they have missing teeth and their children are raggamuffins".

My GOSH! Was it the double first name or the number 17 that triggered it?
I am more educated than that. STOP IT RIGHT NOW MARCY! You can not make sweeping generalizations based on a few. I couldn't stand the fact that I let this aphorism take hold and give me this feeling of superiority as I sat there, smuggly clenching my mug. Afterall, I was in no place to judge. Have I forgot to mention that my coffee was made with store bought water?

A mere three days before, we had to shut it off. Thanks to a leaky hot water heater. My ever observent four year old had noticed the melting wall above the closet door, oohing and aahing with amazement at the bubbly paint. "It's BEE-U-TI-FUL!!!" she exclaimed in a breathy voice. "How did you do that?"

After one day of cold-water-only baths, and washing dishes in lazy suds, the leak became irrational. It now spewed like a geyser even with the hot water shut off. At this point we had no choice but to turn off all of the water.

The Husband took at as a personal challange to remove the unreliable, fifty-gallon monstrosity himself; reasoning that it would reduce the amount the plumber would charge on Moday (if that day ever came). Armed with a Curious George flashlight, he twisted, bangged and cussed the contraption free and hoisted it down the attic stairs.

"Put FLASHLIGHT on the list for the next trip to Home Depot" he grunted, in a slightly emasculated snarl. "But you look so cute with that one... and there's a whistle on the end in case you get into trouble up there" I quipped. He responded with a look of seriousness and slight contempt.

Over the next two and 3/4 days we took the kids to 'Adventure Bathe' Thanks to the kindness of The Husband's big family. We took turns polar-speed-bathing while one kept vigil up in the attic, holding the make-shift bucket (trashcan) that would catch the eventual spews. I began to feel like a squatter, a second-class citizen in my own home. I wore my hair in ponytail and spared the makeup-the longer I could forego the artic bath-the better- I decided.

By the third day I broke a self emposed fashion rule and bought a hat. I know women who can wear a hat and come off as smashing...I, am not one of those women. One girflriend of mine can plop a pink Mercedec Benz emblem cap on, thread her silky blonde hair through the back of it, and look as if she's just finished an effortless private tennis lesson at the club. Others can sport a woven sun hat with a sheer sundress and appear to have wondered out of a lemonade commercial. Something like a Monet painting. I, on the otherhand, look like a disguise gone bad. My pinheadedness (the term coined by a past hairdresser) accentuated and my anemic ponytail framed in its' lifeless state for all those who view from behind. More of a Picasso.

The seventeen children sat, quietly, groomed to perfection, not a dried-up booger smear or dirty knee in sight through the entire interview. They were from the South, Arkansas, to be exact. My precept had been regionally accurate but was by no means precise. The family seemed to be more than comfortable with their station in life. The children were well rounded, gracious, articulate and accomplished, I learned, as I sat watching them as they all, (except for the newborn) played their violins. They were clean, happy, well-attended to children.
The gerbils began to spin again, slowly at first, easing me into the cognition of my daily life. The third person voice waggeled her admonishing finger at me, "Don't judge others!" it seemed to say.

Lessons in humbleness never seem to be convienient, otherwise they would lack the force needed to impact or sway stereotypes- especially those that remain unacknowledged.
On a side note, Michelle, the Super Fertile Mama... she should've worn a hat.

Kindergarten Readiness

Let me just say that the sentiments expressed in this entry may not necessarily reflect those of all educators out there, but, come on, let's be real...they probably do. So with a clear conscious I'll begin.


A girlfriend of mine asked me if, in my opinion as a former teacher, her child was ready for Kindergarten. "Oh, most definitely." I answered. You see, some schools give parents a little handout-a quick little checklist-to run through before they enroll their child in Kindergarten. Specific social, physical, emotional and cognitive areas are addressed. Things like: Does your child know his name? Can he count to 10? Does he know colors and shapes? Does he play well with others? This checklist is for you Mom. Trust me when I tell you that the teacher will know by the end of 'Meet the Teacher Night' if your child is Kindergarten Ready. Basically, if he doesn't throw fecal matter or come to greet her brandishing a switchblade, he is ready. (The parent's of fecal throwing and knife wielding children don't show up to the school until the 2nd or 3rd week of instruction.) Those other things like 'getting along well with others' and the ability to 'identify geometrical shapes' will fall into place at some point during the year. Besides, kids at this age are little geniuses. Some may have been exposed to more educational concepts than others; and any good teacher worth her chalk will tell you that children learn in different ways and at different rates; but essentially, they are all going to learn-and bucketfuls- at this age.

The real question your Kindergarten teacher wants to ask is....Are YOU Kindergarten Ready? As a mom, a parent, a co-educator of this young person, ready to embark on your journey into the world of public school?


If there was a crash course out there for parents in Parent Kindergarten Readiness the world of education would be a much more pleasant place. The curriculum would look something like this:

Avoiding Drama Drop-off : In this course the caregiver/parent will learn to bring his/her child to the assigned area at the correct time on an ongoing basis. The caregiver/parent will receive instruction on entrusting her offspring to the person assigned to educate said child with a kiss goodbye and will not linger at the door or play peek-a-boo in the window with mascara streaming down their face. The caregiver/parent will also be instructed on the merits of being truthful with his/her child (not pulling the old-'I'm just going to the restroom and I'll be right back' scam) sneaking away like a thief in the night. Avoiding these pitfalls, will save anxiety for all parties involved.


Teacher Appreciation Appropriateness : This course is designed to bring the parent to an understanding of who a teacher really is. The parent will be coached on the fine art of acceptable genres of appreciation. I realize that most Kinder teachers convey a cartoon-like effervescence-smiley, bright eyed and equipped with catchy little quips like, 'criss-cross applesauce' or 'one, two, three, eyes on me!' But trust me, she wears this persona like a rubber glove and is all too relieved to peel it off at the end of the day gleefully disposing of it in the nearest garbage receptacle, so that she may partake at Happy Hour exuding a more mature dialect. Your teacher is a real person-no matter how she seems in the classroom. She doesn't need to be reminded that she teaches letter identification by wearing ABC block earrings. When you feel it is the appropriate occasion to give your teacher a gift, do so with an open mind and an open heart. Do this as often as you feel it is warranted. No need to feel like you must appreciate her only on the week of April 7th -11th (the official Teacher Appreciation Week).


Appropriate tokens of gratitude can range from the most simplistic to the extravagant, but all of the following are acceptable:


1. A note of praise to her principal stating that you are satisfied or even happy with the level of education your child is receiving in her classroom. (You may even carbon copy it for the teacher since the original note may never be shared with her.)


2. A verbal 'Thank You for helping my child open his cheese stick everyday at lunch."


3. A gift card to the movies.


4. A gift card to Starbucks.


5. A gift card to anywhere.


Do not try to empathize with the teacher by giving her a book entitled, "Chicken Soup for the Teacher's Soul" or anything as kitschy as a bookmark illustrated by Mary Englebreit.

Once, a student gave me a can of hairspray and a brush. I honestly cherished this gift because the youngster had really taken into consideration my needs and showed real compassion for me. (Her mom was also a Kindergarten teacher).


If you do feel that your teacher is in dire need of additional clothing or accessories, save yourself a trip to Hobby Lobby or Gifts Etc. to shell out $30 for an embroidered t-shirt or necklace made out of No.2 pencils. The term "School Marm" went out circa 1932. Give her a target gift card or simply leave a bottle of wine, tucked into a basket of fresh fruit at her doorstep. (Don't bring the wine to school or they will have you arrested.)


A teacher will not [read as] should not, favor your child if you follow these simple guidelines, but, it can't hurt either.

Cavewoman Mentality

There was a time in the not-so-distant past, when I could tell you the ages of my children in months and weeks. Coincidentally, or maybe as a direct result of this new found mental capacity, I completely lost track of my own age. After age 29, my brain seems to have taken a little hiatus from me-think and that portion of the cerebrum was overtaken with them-think.

An adaption of sorts, probably developed as some type of survival/coping mechanism by cavewomen shortly after they squatted and bore their first little cave dweller. I imagine that the early cave mom had to keep track of her offspring's' development in much the same way we do today...About how many loin clothes does he wet per day?...Can he drag a carcass using alternating feet?...Does he scribble on the cave wall using a dominant hand?...Approximately how many grunts is he using?....

This, along with the daily routine of tidying up the cave, making sure her child doesn't wander off the edge of a cliff, and picking the nits from cave husbands' head after a long days' hunt would leave no time for vanity.

Besides, according to Piaget, we get over self-preoccupation during our childhood. He surmises that by age 7 we are over the Me Stage (the preoperational stage ) and are no longer as egocentric as we were from the ages of 2 through 7.

But then, just the other day I'm reading my friends' blog (Sugar Mama), and she's answering this chain email that asks all sorts of random questions. The purpose- to glean some insight into the kind of person you are-you know-likes, dislikes etc. I had answered the same email from a friend months earlier and was not surprised that many of our answers were similar. I like to think that I'm like her because she's funny, smart, successful and not in the least bit vain. OK, I'll admit that she has a leg up on me here. This is a woman who considers Chapstick makeup, whereas I apply only for medicinal purposes. Anyway, our answers to question #16 - What's the least favorite thing about yourself? totally caught me off guard.

I didn't even have to blink to answer this one. I put, Thinking I know what others are thinking about me. She had answered, Worrying what others think about me. I had been so proud of my statement because I had carefully side-stepped the stereotypical female responses dealing with issues of outward appearance-ie weight, hair and skin and breast size (the excessive, the bad and the lack of- in that order). I was a higher level thinker and my answer to question#16 would be proof to any doubter who came across my cyber-profile. How on God's Green Earth could our answers to this question be so aligned?

The answer is simple. In fact, it's held secure by a nondescript magnet on the surface of my mom's refrigerator. A plain white 4x6 index card, neatly fonted gives Piaget a run for his money. It states:

When we are 20 we worry about what others think of us.
At 40 we don't care about what others think of us.
At 60 we find they haven't been thinking of us at all. -Ann Landers.

Maybe my #16 answer was not as original as I had thought it to be. Maybe, it's just an age thing. A kind of adult psychological stage of development that we weren't exposed to in college. Or maybe Ann Landers is a descendant of Piaget (along with Heloise and Dear Abby) and she took it upon herself to extend his theory (modernizing it and making it more relevant to us in our post-collegiate years).

I can't wait till 60 when I have this epiphany that no one has been thinking about me. In the meantime, Ill just muddle through my 20's- er 30's trying to check the right box and making sure my cave children don't wander off a cliff.

Analyze This

"It's muddy out here. Did you wear some shoes you can get muddy?" The Husband asks. "Yep, I'm good." I say, glancing down at my boots. "Oh, you've got your Ropers on." He detects the slight change in my accent. He had coined the term- Plainview Marcy- years ago, long before he would earn the title of The Husband.

It's amazing how others who know you well can see things about you-things you yourself don't. We think we know ourselves, we believe we have an accurate picture of how we look, act and sound. Then, we hear ourselves on an answering machine or catch a glimpse of ourselves in a reflection and realize the picture we have painted for ourselves is a little -off- . Sometimes we don't even recognize the image staring back at us.

My hometown is small. Its' simple name derived from topography. Life there is simple as well. Streets are laid out alphabetically and in numerical order. Church bells still chime from the steeples and parts of old downtown are paved with brick. There are systems in place to provide structure for its' citizens. You know folks because they know you and your family. You know what church they belong to and they know who your grandparents are. There is really no need for the yellow pages; you know who to go to if you need a tire changed or a specific nut and bolt. People recognize you and speak to you with a sincere interest in your life away from there. You are part of the landscape that makes up the town.

The Husband had explained his theory on Plainview Marcy to me after we had gone to visit my hometown. "You act a little different, more small-town" he had said. "Your accent gets thicker too." he added, with a little smile that said he had me figured out. I was sure he was mistaken. I most certainly didn't act differently based on who I was around or the location I was in. This was ridiculous. In the least, his theory seemed to point out a weakness or minor flaw, a lack of self-awareness. At the most a borderline personality disorder, which immediately triggered my defenses. I was, however, curious to discover if his observations held any merit, so I began to pay closer attention to my words and actions. And, over the years, I've decided that he may just be right about this.

After all, where and how you are raised must play into who you are and how you behave based on your beliefs. It's absurd to think that it doesn't. We are not hard-wired at birth-our beliefs and morals are shaped and molded during our formative years and we act on them, not fully aware of the possibilities that exist elsewhere. Just look into the eyes of any parent sending their child off to college for the first time. It's there. The hope that their child will make good choices, that the other 'possibilities' out there will not seem so attractive. And the values and morals that they were raised with are firmly rooted. But humans are reactionary creatures. We succumb to forces, sometimes without awareness. We react to situations in order to blend into the environment and we create personas based on the feedback of others. Could this be what The Husband had alluded to in its most simplistic form? Was I really just a Country Mouse playing dress-up in City Mouse's wardrobe?

The 'phenomenon' that I had so defensively denied is no longer. The source of change exposed rendering the term phenomenon inaccurate. Anytime I am exposed to bits or pieces of my hometown, a real change occurs. It's now just another rung on the wobbly ladder of Self-Awareness. I'm no longer offended by his observations and I never should have been to start with. It should have dawned on me the day he told me Andy Griffith was his all-time favorite show. Plainview Marcy was enduring, an asset really. She was a being on the verge of extinction. An affect of small-town Texas that had been buried under years of metropolitan-relocation. I perceived myself as a City Girl, able to hail a cab and secure a job by parlaying a more sophisticated urban dialect. The West Texas drawl all but vanished from my accent, substituting phrases like 'oh most definitely' for 'I reckon' and 'yellow' for 'yella'.

The Husband had pushed the envelope so to speak and forced me to preform a kind of pseudo-socio-scientific experiment on myself, observing changes in my mannerisms, behavior and speech patterns. In the end proving his theory true.

I no longer question this theory, Plainview Marcy exists. She is the proverbial Cinderella, but instead of a glass slipper to spark her transformation into a white-gloved princess, a pair of brown ropers (worn slick on the bottom from many a Saturday night Presbyterian church dance) provide the source. Her court is not regal, they are just hometown folks with good manners and a vested interest in her well being, providing an accurate reflection of her true self.