My Latest Published Article

Exploring the enigmatic Marilyn Monroe and her role as a modern-day muse for "Fibonacci Fine Arts Digest."

Check it out! 

Marilyn Monroe: Inspiration or Imitated?

Boyfriends (Husbands) Just Don't Understand

I'm not trying to beat a dead horse here, or reinvent the "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" schtick, but sometimes I feel like D.J. Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince, except with male counterparts instead of parents. Here's my brief rundown of things that dudes just don't get.

When I tell you I like to get flowers and that I want some, I really mean it. Really. (Like, when should I expect the delivery man?)

My ass DOES look awesome in these jeans - and I want to hear it from your lips.

I do not want you to placate me right this minute. I want you to "get" that this argument requires follow-up.

All girls like to be told they're pretty, or hot, or beautiful - even if we say we want you to love us for our brains or our "sweet spirit."

When it's obvious that I've put some extra time into my appearance, you'd damn well better acknowledge it.

I do not like - in any way - being put in the position where I have to act like your mom.

I want to feel appreciated - even if it's simply for taking the garbage out after I just had a manicure.

I hear you when you tell me what you like/dislike/love/hate/hope for/feel anxious about/makes you laugh/makes you sad/want in bed...

After hearing what you've told me, I actually choreograph life events to cater to those very specific tastes/wants/needs that you have.

I want you to do the same thing for me.

I want you to love my friends and my kids and my family. I already love yours (and your animals).

Sometimes I need you to do something that you don't like just because it will make me happy. And I need you to fake it so hard that I don't feel one ounce of resentment or martyrdom from you before, during or after the event.

I like to be surprised (by things like candlelight and wine, flowers, a weekend getaway - use your imagination for fuck's sake!).

I care about how you're feeling all the time. I want to feel like you care about how I'm feeling too.

If I'm going to be late, I always let you know. I expect you to do the same - and when you don't, you'll probably need some protective gear before entering the house on your return.

I want to go out on real, bona fide, cheesy, getting-to-know-you, trying-to-impress-you dates. Still. Forever. I don't care if we've been together for 50 years - I still want to go on a date.

If I plan a date I want you to be overcome with my creativity/thoughtfulness/romantic spirit/efforts/how hot I look...(no matter what the date entails - I planned this FOR YOU!)

I want to feel like you respect me, my opinion, my smarts & my hutzpah!

If I'm not around when our favorite show airs, I want you to wait until I get back to watch it - even if I'm doing 25 to life.

Never fuck with my DVR shows - NEVER.

I believe there are certain boundaries that should never be crossed in a relationship that entails physical intimacy (let's keep the bathroom door closed, snookums!).

I do not want to hear about any gross thing that your body is currently doing. Believe me, my body could kick your body's ass in a gross-out contest and I would NEVER subject you to its innermost workings.

Laughing at my jokes matters. Word!

I try to do little things every day that show you how much you matter to me.

I'm not keeping track, per se, but, yeah...I probably am. (So don't be a repeat offender.)

I don't want to break up with you. I don't want to start over. I don't want to miss you. I just want you to hear what I say, care about how I'm feeling, and do something about it.

And, finally, I want you to pour me another glass of wine. STAT!

Voice Male

As many of you know, my daughter Gabi is now my son Tyler...and I am working on a collection based on my experience with this transition...here is a piece I'm working on...

I don’t recognize her voice on the other end of the phone anymore. And I can’t even talk about it without dissolving into a blubbering mess. I know it’s because it isn’t her voice anymore. My little Gabi-roo isn’t on the other side of the conversation. It’s Tyler’s voice. I have a voicemail from the day she got her T prescription and I swear I’m never getting rid of it. It is a last token of the daughter who is no more.

I was sharing this at a recent girls’ night out and before I could really drive home my pain and disillusionment at this new development, I was interrupted.

“If it makes you feel any better, my son’s voice is completely different too,” my friend Jana shared. “And,” she added with a little laugh, “I won’t let him change the message on his voicemail because it’s still his little-boy voice.”

It had never before occurred to me that moms of sons always go through this. This shedding of the childhood skin as they grow into the armor of adulthood. There is something comforting in that, and something that makes me irritated that I have no exclusive or even unique claim on this little bit of transition trauma.

For all intents and purposes this phenomenon is absolutely, 100% normal. All little boys’ voices give way to manly baritones and you don’t see mothers donning black veils and wailing at the cruel injustice that has erased the last vestiges of the child they’ve known for so many years.

Somehow, I thought my sorrow was something new. I claimed it as evidence – tangible proof – of how hard this whole thing really is. But Jana’s innocent comment, sharing the same experience with her own child, completely deflated my case.

I felt a little bit better when I discovered I wasn’t alone in my difficult adjustment to Gabi’s (I mean Tyler’s) new voice. Apparently when my grandma saw Tyler for the first time after starting T, both she and my mom started crying and just couldn’t stop. Which isn’t really front-page news for those two but, nonetheless, when Tyler told me about it I was completely dumbfounded – and he was annoyed.

And then I started thinking about my grandmother. She has probably seen more drastic changes in the world around her than I could ever imagine seeing. In her lifetime men have walked on the moon, television went from black-and-white to color to 3-fricking-D, and everyone started carrying around tiny computers in their pockets. And, for an 80-something lady (even though she insists she’s only 25), she rolls with the punches like a pro. I had to explain to Gabi that Grandma’s crying wasn’t a judgment, a dismissal or a sign of non-acceptance. In fact, it was probably the exact opposite.

Not only is this a lady who was born before the Great Depression, but the obvious changes from nearly six months on T were a visual – and auditory – shock. I’m not even sure the whole thing really made any sense to her until she saw and heard Gabi looking and sounding like Tyler. Thank God I’ve been able to watch it happen. I’ve had the advantage of being shocked in regular doses as my daughter becomes my son. But I still get choked up every time that unfamiliar voice greets me on the other end of the phone.

How in the hell have mothers dealt with this dramatic change for, basically, ever? How come no one has started a support group? Where are the guides for how to deal with your child’s changing voice? There should be some kind of 30-day chip, or (even better!) a nice bottle of wine for those of us who’ve faced this trial and come out the other side, if not unscathed, then a little bit wiser and whole lot less blubbery. Obviously, according to my friend, the process is jarring whether you were expecting it or not – so how come no one else is boo-hooing about the loss of their baby’s pure, innocent, original voice?

Then it dawned on me. Compared to every other mother out there I’m a giant pussy.

 

Nostalgia Is for Suckers! (or how I became that creepy person staring at your kids)

I've noticed a weird phenomenon lately.


I'm obsessed with young families.

Like, REALLY obsessed.

Last nite I was at an outdoor concert and the early summer night was perfect. The crowd was cool and totally manageable (I'm SO old!). There were beer and wine for sale. Granted, the wine came from a (Franzia) box, but $4 is the best deal you're going to get in Utah for a pour of vino, so I politely looked the other way.

Yet in the midst of all the awesome people-watching, cheap wine sipping, and amazing music, I found myself greedily staring at all the people with young children in tow. I couldn't take my eyes off them.

Savannah pictures a utopian city where there are no children. A city where, like a bar anywhere in America, you must be 21 to enter.

This is her version of paradise.

"But you'd miss out on so much joy," I said.

Her solution was some kind of day-pass to a city that allows children where you could go to a park or other public venue to get your kid fix (if you're into that sort of thing).

There are things kids bring to the party that even the world's most amazing party planner could never replicate.

They bring fresh eyes.

They take everything literally. (Literally.)

They bring silly mistakes, goofy faces, unbridled laughter, heartbreaking tears.

Children bring joy.

As I watched hippie parents with tattooed calves and flowing dresses dance with their exuberant offspring I thought, "That is something I'll never have again."

Realizing that something so beautiful, so full of hope and potential - and so grounded in the present moment - was no longer in my purview, hit me like a punch straight to the gut. 

It's no secret that I've fallen hopelessly in love with my newest niece. To an extent that my kids joke about her being my first grandchild. But I just realized I'm also in love with the newness of my brother's family.

It's perfect.

And by perfect, I mean complete.

The pastor at my former church once preached a sermon about the word "perfect." One of the things I loved about him was his geeky, scholarly nature. Along with a sermon you often got the bonus of an intricate history or language lesson.

"Perfect doesn't mean without flaw," he said. "It means the thing is complete."

For some reason that's always stuck with me. I love the idea of perfection as completion. As something becoming the most it can be. Its best self.

That's how I feel about these young, beautiful families. From my perspective they are complete.

And I miss that feeling you only have when your children are young. It's amazing how relaxing it can be to have no idea what's coming next - but that anything is possible. And even though you may have a faint inkling that this moment is somehow exceptional, you'll never know its perfection until you view it from a distance.

Some may say I'm in the throes of empty nest syndrome, and maybe they're right. But I feel like it's more a case of my eyes, heart, soul, and mind being truly open.

My new neighbors recently had a baby. A baby they were not, in fact, expecting. And the news filled me with joy. A situation that - if it happened to me - would be entirely devastating, seemed like the most awesome thing ever.

Of course I always wonder how you can be growing that new life - that veritable parasite - within your body and not realize it's there. My kids both kicked my ass pretty much from the moment they were conceived, so I can't imagine what it's like to have no idea they've taken up residence in your womb.

As soon as I heard the news all I wanted to do was meet the little bugger. I went out and bought a baby gift - for people I don't even know. But I couldn't help myself. I was excited. When I delivered the gift (which was actually my first meeting with the baby momma) I profusely offered myself as a source of help and comfort. I probably freaked her out. If she's ever watched a Lifetime movie, she's most likely already called the cops to lay the foundation for her accusation against me when her bonus bundle of joy goes missing.

My overwhelming reaction seemed a bit much - even to me.

Then I found myself playing the part of creepy park stalker last night at the concert. As I gazed enviously at the families around me, I so easily slipped back in time to when I brought my own children to community events like this.

And I realized that even though my present experience was fantastic, there was something about sharing live music in an open-air venue with your bright-eyed bambinos that made it magical.

Children are like magic.

Because everything is new to them, everything is born anew for us - through their wide eyes and utterly amazed expressions. They are the world's most amazing illusionists.

I remember when Savannah was three years old. It was the fucking dead of winter, but the sun was shining and the sky had never been more blue. My enthusiastic toddler - who is a sun-worshiper to this day - was so excited to see the sun that she bolted full-throttle out the front door in nothing but her bare feet and an old t-shirt of mine she was wearing as a nightgown.

Before I even had time to react, she stopped dead on the sidewalk with the biggest look of disbelief and betrayal on her face.

"Has this ever happened before?"

She had never known that the sun could be shining as brightly as 10 shiny things and it could still be as cold as hell outside.

That's what I love about siphoning off a little bit of the world view from a first-timer.

And I guess that's what I must need right now. When I was pregnant with Savannah I craved red meat for the first time in my life. It turned out I was anemic. I needed what that iron-rich slab of flesh could deliver.

Now I need whatever nutrient it is that my niece, my neighbors' surprise baby, and the random, dancing families in the park produce.

If I were a vampire, I think I'd subsist off the innocence of youth - with all of its clean slates and first chances. 

Christmas Socks

Our family has a long tradition of holiday socks - and not just for Christmas. I have given my children socks for Halloween, Easter, Fourth of July, St. Patty's Day - you name it, I've found a sock for it.

But, of course, Christmas socks seem to be the most memorable.

And not just the outrageously themed ones. My kids actually love the useful, "I-really-need-a-new-pair" socks that they always tend to find under the tree. Just so you know, their sock joy has only increased since they've become legal adults who might be expected to provide their own socks without the aid of their dear, old mum.

Last year I got the best Christmas present a mother could ever hope for - evidence that my kids truly do pay attention to me and the silly, little traditions I have tried to create for them. And it was carefully wrapped in a box and came with a bow.

Each of them - unbeknownst to the other - had chosen the most wonderfully festive socks they could find.

And I was delighted!!

I have been sporting my holiday footwear while wrapping presents, sipping some egg nog and enjoying every bad holiday movie I can find the time to squeeze in.

Here's to my fantastic kidlets, their awesome senses of humor and the sweet, sweet knowledge that things (some more random than others) do sink in.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

Rock, Paper, Jesus! (an oldie but a goodie...)

I totally wanted to give you a new post tonite, but as it's now tomorrow and I haven't even begun to settle my head for a long winter's (or even one night's) nap, I decided to cheat. This is a favorite from 2009. The kiddos in question are now 10 and 13 - and their delightful take on a classic game and the power of Jesus is just as awesome today as it was then.

And, right now Jesus is the only play I have left, and I'm awfully glad that He's always glad to answer.

Since Christmas is the day we observe the birth of Jesus, then I thought it would be appropriate to commit at least one entry to Him that has nothing at all to do with the holiday.

Marius, my little friend who many of you may remember from Halloween (I'm not really Spiderman, either), is a seemingly unending source of quality blog fodder.

The other day he and his brother, Darien, were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. Marius is the kind of kid who always likes to win--and will bend the rules as needed to ensure his victory. Sometimes this passionate quest for glory ends in smiles and laughter, and other times it ends with violence and tears.

On the auspicious occasion of the game in question, Marius' determination to win was as vibrant as ever. After several turns of winning and several more of losing, he decided he had had enough.

Terri was half-way listening to the interminable rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors, when she heard something she didn't expect.

Darien and Marius were saying, in unison, "Rock...Paper..." and when it was time to reveal their weapon of choice and see who came out the victor, she heard Marius say (without a hint of mischief, if you can believe it!) "JESUS!"

When she asked him what he had said (just to make sure she had heard correctly--she had) and why he had said it, he told her "Jesus beats everything!"

Darien thought it was unfair, but Terri (Christian woman that she is) couldn't help her firstborn out this time--she had to agree with Marius' insightful (if devious) observation.

So many parts of me love this incident. I think of how many times in my life I've been playing a futile game and needed to cry out, "Jesus!" Foolishly enough, I have to admit that I probably don't pull that card as often as I should. But, every time I do--even after months (or years) of ignoring His willingness and eagerness to answer my call--I always win.

(Here's a pic of those rascals - from Christmas 2013)

...If the Fates Allow...

"Christmas crept in...like a creeping Christmas thing: dragging garland, ribbon, and sleigh bells, oozing eggnog, reeking of pine, and threatening festive doom like a cold sore under the mistletoe."

This  beautifully disturbing descriptive picture of the holidays has long been one of my favorites. I, for years, came dragging into the spirit of the season - but before I knew it I fell in love.

Giddy, ridiculous, over-the-top love with the "Most Wonderful Time of the Year."

But that doesn't mean it's an easy time for me. Or for many others.

This year the promise of a triumphant, joyous season has been cut deep by a devastatingly sad event. An undeniable tragedy. And one from which I am struggling to extract myself.

This isn't the first tragedy to enter my sphere this time of year. And, I suppose it's all the joy to the world and good will toward men and God bless us everyone that makes such a loss - right now -  seem all the more pulverizing.

And, while this should be a triumphant return to the long-lost blog, I believe that the life of one lost, beautiful, gentle, soft-spoken, bright-eyed girl is worth recognition. And in the midst of the joy and hope I have for the coming year, I have to honor grief and mourning and that desperate missing of someone for whom you never expected to be without.

At least not yet.

My daughter/son (more on that later) lost a best friend, a love, a 'shooting star' in a moment of despair so deep I can't even fathom it's depth. And now her world is forever changed. It will never turn again in quite the same way. It WILL turn. But there is a hole in the fabric of everything that wasn't there before a sad, desperate girl carved it out.

It will take weeks, months, years - a lifetime - to move through all the passages that will follow. But I know that there is strength enough to make the journey. 

Tonite we gathered our little family together - sometimes you just need to be able to see one other, look into your loved ones' eyes and make that connection that calms your heart and reigns in your worst fears.

I paraded my preliminary, and somewhat half-hearted attempts at Christmas decor for my gathered loin-fruit. And they loved it. And we were drawn together and comforted by it.

Happily, I once again laud the spirit of the season, the magic in the air, and the power of family, tradition, and glittery lights to buoy the human spirit.

Even in the worst of times.

And, I know that even though our measly display isn't perfect or all that spectacular, it's about family and love and fun and frivolity - it makes us happy. And I hope it makes her beautiful smile shine as well.