1. What did you think of 2009? It began on a positive note. I believed the country was headed toward change. I bought it. But here at the end of December, it doesn’t feel like much—if anything—has changed, besides the fact that like the President, my hair has gotten grayer.
Happy New Year everyone. Thanks for reading, and all best to all of you in 2010. Stay in touch.
Love,
Michele
All it takes is a brief look back to determine with absolute certainty that the 1980s were filled with a lot of big, bad hair.
The first was of Mike and me as Phil Donahue and Oprah Winfrey on Halloween, circa 1987. I remember we had only one ‘Mr. Microphone,’ (that yellow thing in his pocket) and fought over it all night saying things like, “Caller, you’re on the air!” I also remember doing a pretty decent pass as an African-American person. That was until an actual African-American friend showed up at the party and told me that my “blue eyes would never allow me to pass as a sistah!” There was no question, though, that Mike was the spittin’ image of Mr. Donahue.
There were others, but I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the picture at left, of three girls in their late 20s at a San Francisco comedy club. I’ve known the blonde woman since elementary school and she currently lives in Tucson, not too far from us. Her son and my daughter correspond more than we do, but we get together when we can. She’s one of those people that no matter how much time elapses, we can pretty much pick up where we left off.
An old friend, someone with whom I went to school, recently sent an unsolicited review of my first novel, A Line Between Friends, and I asked him to post a version of it on Amazon.com. He did. And when I went to the site to read it, I noticed there were two “new” copies of the book available from Amazon vendors for 1¢. One flippin’ cent. How can that be? Even I can’t get copies of my own books for under nine bucks!
There, I said it. It’s true. I may be the least exotic of the “conga line” of blonde-bombshells to come forward, but I am one. Regardless, I’m quite sure Extra, The Today Show or The National Enquirer won’t come a knockin,’ even though I’m convinced that my big boobs and Tiger Woods helped to pay an entire month of tuition of my daughter’s volleyball club.
Early in the week, we were stationed at a remote concession booth between holes 15 and 17. A character named “Ernie” was our concession boss, and he showed us the ropes. He put Mike in charge of making dogs and, a smart move, put me at the register. He had no idea how good at it I would be. Not only could I count quickly and make proper change, but I could also bark orders to my fellow concessioners, and put up with a large population of the progressively drunken gallery. Any time one of the big name players, Phil Mickelson, Vijay Singh, or Camilo “the Spider” Villegas, for example, headed down fairway 15, the lines grew as long as a par four fairway.
The Sunday volunteers got off very easy. But they, on the other hand, didn’t get the chance to see Tiger Woods. I did. And now that Accenture has become the first major sponsor to drop him as a spokesperson and he’s taking an indefinite break from golf, he may not be coming back to Tucson any time soon. So we got when the getting was good. But that’s probably over now too.
Aaaaaaargh! I found another solitary sock in my daughter’s bathroom this morning. I wonder, should I grab it and try to hunt down its mate? Or should I save time and simply add it to the ever-growing collection of strays in the Cozzens family’s box of socks?
A few years back someone suggested I keep big safety pins in the laundry room and actually pin pairs together before washing. It sounded like a good idea. But the problem is, both socks don’t make it to the laundry room. One ends up in the sofa, another on the bathroom floor. One is tucked inside a sneaker, the other walks off to the Great Sock Hiding Place, the location of which will always remain a mystery.
You don’t see THIS everyday in your morning crossword puzzle:
Sandy Point Resort is outside the town limits of Lac du Flambeau, but it does carry a “Flambeau” mailing address. The town itself is located in Vilas County and is comprised of approx. 128 square miles, 260 lakes, 65 miles of lakes, streams and rivers and 24,000 acres of wetlands. People population at the last census was 3000. I can’t say what the fish population is; however, I can report that according to the Lac du Flambeau Chamber of Commerce, the world’s largest sturgeon came out of Lake Pokegama and is currently housed in a Lac du Flambeau museum. This monster measured 7 feet, 1 inch, weighed 195 pounds and 40 inches around.He had recently sent my younger sister an email, telling her she was missed at the class reunion. I saw photos of him on Facebook from that reunion and recognized him immediately. (The same could not be said about the boys/men at my own thirtieth reunion last year). Some sweet faces never change. His was one of them.
The news came to me inadvertently through a friend, who said she was still reeling from the tragedy. She assumed I’d heard. I hadn’t. I’d been out of town and paid little attention to the news. So, when she told me that an old friend, a boy from the neighborhood with whom we went to elementary and high schools had put bullets in the heads of his two young sons, his wife and then one in his mouth, the reeling began for me.
“What?”
This news is impossible to comprehend or explain. The note he allegedly left has not been released. According to my sister, his best friend had no insight. All accounts say he was a good citizen, a neighbor, a coach, a buddy. There didn’t appear to be any financial woes or domestic squabbles. But unfortunately, there were firearms in the house. And clearly there were underlying demons within this man, which led to a fatal and awful SNAP.
I don’t know if what remains of his family can or will forgive him. I don’t even know if God can forgive such inexplicable violence. All I know is that when we were kids, when our whole lives were still ahead of us, I liked him. I liked him very much. And all of us who remember him fondly are left with the unanswered questions and the charge to keep on living in spite of this horrible, practically unspeakable incident in our shared history.
Are we supposed to make sense of it? Can we? Perhaps the only thing we can do is hold our loved ones a little closer, be grateful for all we have, and treat this as a lesson in perspective.
Meanwhile, “Mange,” rest in peace.
1. Kids
2. Wine
3. Worry
4. Heat
5. Heels
6. Over-exercise
7. Lack of Sleep
8. TV
9. Poor reading light
10. Did I already list kids?
Fell asleep with the TV on again and an open book on my chest. I don’t even remember what I was watching or reading when I got between the sheets. Anyway, something woke me up (a movie argument or a machine gun?) and a moment later, I saw a commercial for Robin Williams’ upcoming Special, “Weapons of Self Destruction.” Even though I forgot to take note of when the special aired, I immediately made a list.
See above.
Now, before I spend too much time in this hot flash worrying about my kids, lamenting that last glass of wine and all those miles I walked in Vegas wearing three-inch heels, I better go turn down the heat. It may be possible for me to get three more hours of sleep before I start the Monday mommy cycle all over again.
Take this job and shove it. I’m failing miserably in my role as a mother. Why? It’s not because I don’t have great kids. I do. They’re both healthy and beautiful and SHOULD be a parent’s dream.
So, why the whine?
It’s because I can’t take any credit for it. And because of this, I feel like a failure. And unfortunately, I’ve never considered failure an option.
Here’s my problem: I can’t find a way to NOT live vicariously through my children. Their grades are my grades. Their performances are my performances. Their pimples, their laughs, their farts, their failures, their successes, their joys AND their sorrows … they ALL affect me in a way I had never anticipated.
I guess I thought that in order to be a good mother—an involved mother—I had to give up my own ambitions and concentrate primarily on the health and wellbeing of my children. And how can anyone blame me? I got pregnant, right? They weren’t accidents. They were planned. I know we were lucky because the traditional methods worked and I got to have the moment of discovery and conveyance to their daddy. Twice. And during my pregnancies, I gave my body—my entire life—over to the growing fetuses within me. I ate well. I ate A LOT. I gave up wine. I did normal exercise until I fell and couldn’t get up. I delivered both children naturally. I even pulled out the second one myself. My doctor asked me, “Do you want to reach down and do this yourself?” Of course, I said “yes!” And every minute since bringing these children into my home, I dedicated myself to their existence.
Giving birth to them, as it turns out, was easy. No one told me how difficult raising them would be. No one talked about all the curve balls life has to offer. They didn’t tell me about bullies or bad grades—the unremarkable, even disappointing performances. They didn’t tell me about diseases or death. They didn’t tell me about the lies or the myriad of bullshit modern day existence would roll down my alley … all the while aiming for my pins of perfection.
And even if they did, hmmmm, did I listen? Wait, did I miss that class?
I want you all to listen and to know, I’m not just talking about me, and MY kids. I have friends who have faced and are facing far worse shit brought on during the course of parenthood than I’m facing. [[This isn’t just a completely self-serving rant.]] Some of the things I’ve learned in recent years—even in recent days—for example, have sent my mind reeling.
Know this: You have a child and you step into a world you simply cannot predict.
I NEVER thought I’d miss the days of diapers and car seats. NEVER. But if any young parents are out there reading this lapse into helpless, self-pitying puke of parenthood—ENJOY YOUR BABIES. When all they can do is fall down and skin their knees, when they are still under your control and you are still paying 100% attention and thinking of yourself as THEIR mom rather than YOURself, mark my words: life is a blessing. You are lucky to have them and you won’t regret it.
As for the rest of us? Get a grip. They’re not perfect and neither are we.
BTW: I realize I’m talking to myself.
The other day we went to our annual neighborhood watch block party. It’s an opportunity to have real conversations with the people with whom you share the roads and to whom you wave everyday as you drive in and out of the hood. Let’s face it. Suburban living—even in our rural desert oasis—is all about driving in and out of the hood.
In addition to talking about safety and the overdue asphalt sealing of the three main roads comprising our subdivision, we asked about one another’s kids. Who is now in junior high? High School? How’s your son handling his first year away at college? The conversations are mostly mundane and predictable. We answer things like: “She’s fine. Still playing soccer.” And “yes, he made the basketball team.” Or “she’s great—just got her acceptance letter from the U.” Occasionally, however, someone decides to be perfectly frank.
“How’s your son handling his first year away at college?”
“Well, he’s enjoying it a little too much.”
“Going off the deep end a bit, is he?”
“Oh yes! We had to have the ‘Come to Jesus Talk’ the other night.”
Come to Jesus? I wasn’t exactly sure what my neighbor meant by that, but his general meaning was quite clear. I have another friend who calls those heart-to-heart-parent-to-child talks, “the blue chair talks.” When her kids are called to the blue chair, it’s serious business.
My husband and I have these talks with our kids, too. We simply refer to the process as “reeling them in.” We’d like to give them a long leash, allow them privileges and reward them for good behavior, but the ole ‘give-‘em-an-inch-and-they-take-a-mile behavior comes into play ALL THE TIME.
This morning I had to have one of those Come to Jesus, Blue Chair, Reel ‘em In conversations with my teenager while driving her to school. Without going into all the details, the main subject was about her expectations and assumptions that she could make all the plans in the world about this party and that performance, this practice and that meeting, and leave it up to me to not only gather the times and locations, but also arrange my schedule to get her to and fro.
This kid has NO clue that I have a life beyond chauffeuring her all over town. I’ve seemingly become a non-person to her—something without value except how it can be of service to her.
Lately I’ve found myself counting the days until her sixteenth birthday and wondering what kind of car we’re going to get her so she can do the driving herself. Granted that leash extension may open up a whole new set of Come to Jesus criteria . . . but at least I’ll retain the power to not only take away her cell phone, but her car keys as well.
And yes, I realize, that even though these teenage years are taxing, they go by very quickly. My mother, who I miss dearly, went to Jesus over ten years ago. And I’d give just about anything to have her wake me up, make my breakfast, and drive me to cheerleading practice just one more time.
Meanwhile, if anyone has a trick to penetrate the teenage mind—something that gets through—please let me know. My gas tank is about empty.
I did a Tuesday show once in Wisconsin where my jewelry was on display. It was one of the rare shows that wasn’t juried, and as a result there wasn’t a lot of high-quality artisans selling their creations. I believe the venue was called Crazy Days, and my beautiful jewelry didn’t fit in.
Crazy Days are like Flea Markets. Shoppers come looking for a bargain. And even though my handmade, one-of-a-kind pieces were and are very reasonably priced, I had to endure watching overweight tourists waddle by while munching on soft pretzels and Minocqua Fudge. Some stopped in, bringing their lit smokes with them. Occasionally one would toss a bracelet back onto my display table and say something like, “Hrumph! I could make this for a dollar.”
I don’t think they could have even made the junk food staining their Green Bay Packer sweatshirts for a dollar. But hey, at least they took a moment to enter my street tent and give the products a look.
That’s more than I can say about one pair of old ladies with beehive hairdos, red lips and rhinestone glasses. Shuffling by with scowls on their faces, one of them spotted my sign advertising TURQUOISE JEWELRY FOR SALE.
“I HATE turquoise,” said one.
“Me too,” agreed the other. And then they waved their hands at me as if to tell me to get lost, and shuffled on, only to criticize the next vendor.
How could anyone hate turquoise?
Say it with me: SWA-RO’VF-SKI. Try it again. Take a deep breath, imagine you’re at the top of an Alp and let it go: SWA-RO’VF-SKI. I’ve been helping people pronounce this word—this brand name—ever since I started using Swarovski crystals in my jewelry designs.
I used to care about it being pronounced correctly the same way I used to care whether or not someone spelled my name with two Ls instead of one. I don’t care anymore. You can spell my name any way you want—as long as you remember it. And you can pronounce the name of these beautiful Austrian crystals any way you want as long as you take a minute to check out how nicely they go with the fine Hill Tribe Silver I describe in a previous blog.
Swarovski Crystal, also known as Austrian Crystal, is regarded as the finest quality, full-lead crystal available today. It is named for Daniel Swarovski, who was born in Bohemia (at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire) in 1862. Bohemia was a center for crystal and glass manufacturing and Swarovski’s family owned a crystal-cutting factory. Daniel served an apprenticeship in the factory and then at the age of 21, he developed a new cutting machine, which enabled him to cut crystal “to perfection.” He received a patent on the machine and in 1895, established the Swarovski Crystal company. Daniel's sons and grandsons carried on his work.
Today’s crystals have hundreds of identical facets in several directions (thus achieving the unmatched sparkle for which they’re known). Machines using high-tech computer programs and 3-D imaging cut them. The example at right uses Swarovski crystal wheels and crystal rondelles in a necklace called “Only God Is Perfect.”
My favorite crystals are the Aurora Borealis (another name for the Northern Lights, which I’ve been lucky enough to see in the Northwoods of Wisconsin). Aurora Borealis crystals came about in 1956. According to the Swarovski history, in this innovative process, crystals are coated with an almost imperceptible layer of metal, giving them a rainbow sparkle. Manfred Swarovski, Daniel’s grandson worked with Christian Dior to perfect this process.
Check out all my designs, many of which feature Swarovski Crystals at The Shop at Sandy Point Resort. FREE SHIPPING through the holidays.
Hill Tribe Silver is made by the Karen Tribe in northern Thailand. This fine silver is 97.5-99% genuine, which is a higher silver content than sterling silver (92.5%). It’s therefore easy to bend and shape into forms. Oxidation, hammer marks, and slight design variances are part of the allure of these distinctive pieces. They can be worn often and will not tarnish as quickly as sterling.
There are six principal tribes in Thailand and they are the best known of the Hill Tribes. While the street life of Bangkok has changed and grown to include expensive cars, department stores and condominiums, life in the more remote hill tribe villages hasn’t changed for centuries.
Until recently, Thailand was the only country in which it was possible for travelers to visit hill tribe villages, and is still the only country without travel restrictions.
Most Karen Hill Tribe Silver goes through an oxidation process. This causes the silver items to turn black. The silver is then polished leaving the black coloring only in the grooves. This allows tiny details and patterns to stand out. White Karen Hill Tribe Silver is a silver item that has not gone through the oxidation process before final polishing. As silver is the whitest of all metals, the item appears to be pure white.
Dream Life Designs’ Fine Silver Line includes Hill Tribe Silver pendants and toggle clasps, and incorporates, sterling, copper, Swarovski crystals, gemstones and Swarovski crystals. Each piece is one-of-a-kind. Check them out at http://www.sandypointproshop.com. They are available now with FREE SHIPPING through the holidays.
I may have had the PESO for two years? Help me, girls, to remember how long it's been since a weekend in Mexico had a group of six women tossing around a peso every time a bad joke escaped our lips. Wait, were they "bad" jokes or merely tasteless? (I can't remember that either). I do remember they were darn clever and I had the last one of the weekend so I got to keep the peso.
I saw a snowman on TV this morning. Looks like the rest of the country is having an early winter. Meanwhile, we desert dwellers are still sweating. The thermometer outside my kitchen window reads 98° at 2:00pm . . . and, mind you, it’s in the shade. It appears in the two months since we’ve been back from the Northwoods, we’re experiencing the summer we didn’t have. Whew.
Another thing I saw when looking out my kitchen window, which was probably the opposite of a snowman, was a roadrunner. We see (and hear) coyotes everyday but roadrunners are little bit more elusive. And I don’t think I’ve ever had one bouncing around my garden. Yesterday we saw a bobcat and last week we had a rattlesnake in the guesthouse and two black widows under the ramada. All we need is a tarantula on our doorstep and we will have batted for the cycle.
On October 13 each year, my sister, Gayle, catches up to me. She walks beside me, equal in age for two weeks. It’s a time when we are reminded that we have always led parallel lives. But have our lives turned out the same? It’s a question I’m exploring by using our history as the basis for two fictional characters, sisters named Jennifer (Jenny) and Catherine (Caylie).
Readers often suspect authors of writing autobiographical material and I make no excuses about pulling detail from my life and masquerading it as fiction. After all, I come from the school of “write what you know.” But after what started out as a comfortable stroll down memory lane, it soon felt like running the risk of offending the truth. I, for example, didn’t want my sister to come after me and say something like, “wait a minute! I never said or did that!”
Gayle hasn’t given me any rules where this story is concerned; however, she did make one request: “Can you make sure that ‘my’ character ends up extremely successful and very rich?”
I have the overwhelming desire to turn a cartwheel, to celebrate the completion of the chore of reading Atlas Shrugged. And there’s no mistaking it. Reading this 1168 page tome was a CHORE.
Why did I take it on? Number one: It was the October selection for my book club, a group of women I cherish. Number two: It’s been on my bookshelf gathering dust since 1992. (Do the math. That’s 17 years).
So, it took me 17 years to think about reading this monumental piece of literature, and six weeks to plow through it. Until yesterday, it took over my life.
Perhaps slightly changed by reading this rich story of American industrialists in a capitalism vs. communism struggle, regardless, I want my life back—my productive, happy life. Because I had both the hardbound version and the audio version, the story and the characters rarely left me. The good news is that I didn’t just sit on my arse and read. While listening, I was a productive member of society and created an entire jewelry line using precious metals and copper. I’m not sure, however, if it would have earned me an invitation to “Galt’s Gulch” (Rand’s version of Atlantis). In fact, I had a hard time sorting through all the larger-than-life characters to find someone to whom I could relate.
The heroes are all, perhaps, too perfect and the “looters” are all too pathetic. Dagny Taggert is a brilliant and beautiful engineer who runs a railroad. One of her many lovers is Hank Rearden, who creates a new, industry-changing metal. Another is Francisco d’Anconia, of the d’Anconia Copper family. And then, of course, there’s the most significant character of all, about whom we are asked from beginning and throughout the story, “Who is John Galt?” The king of the pathetic looters is James Taggert, Dagny’s moronic brother, who is one among a host of government-directed 'officials' who systematically take steps to destroy the country by imposing and acting upon a series of directives/acts.
The story is fascinating and the characters are incredibly well drawn, albeit highly unlikeable. First published in 1959, some aspects are dated, and yet, current political and governmental activities, particularly relating to corporate bailouts and economic stimulus plans, make Atlas Shrugged eerily prophetic and certainly worth discussing in intellectual circles.
Its biggest detriment is the length. Characters don’t dialog. Instead, they engage in proselytizing speeches that go on and on and on and on and on to the point of mind-numbing repetition. I think Rand could have easily gotten the same message/information/story across in half the number of pages.
Now that I’m finished I don’t regret the reading experience. As a writer, I can’t help but admire Rand’s accomplishment and her amazing focus. I could take a page from her book—so-to-speak—and get back to writing my own novel. So, I will therefore close Atlas Shrugged once and for all (I don’t anticipate reading it again) and before I get back to work, I will contemplate my role in society and what I have to offer.
First things first: Should I name the new jewelry line “Rearden Metals?” How about “Michele Shrugged?”
Whatever. Who is John Galt?
If I had started running with an iPod sooner, I’d be in much better shape right now. 
I do have a few Grateful Dead favorites on my play list, and even a few of Willow’s hip-hop and/or rap tunes; but my iPod overwhelmingly carries songs that make my daily running in this hot flippin’ desert not about the work out, but instead, about the music. To name a few artists, I’ve got Neil Young, Eric Clapton, The Band, Bonnie Raitt, Joni Mitchell, Phoebe Snow, Chris Isaak, Sting, and perhaps the most uplifting, Gloria Estefan, who covers a lot of standards on her album, “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me.” These songs make me want to throw out my arms and sing while I run. And sometimes I do. But only when I believe no one is watching.“What’s the homework situation?”
This is the first question I ask my girls everyday after school.
Is it just my kids or has the second half of the first quarter led all teachers to pile on the homework? During the past week, both our seventh grader and our freshman have spent every “free” moment at home stationed at their desks.
The freshman has about two hours of algebra per night, which is most likely because it’s a class with the lofty title, Honors Algebra II. She also has lots of work for her GATE classes, but I think she knew what she was getting into when she chose that program. That she runs x-country and plays club soccer, her lack of actual free time makes me amazed that she finds time to update all her Facebook friends on nearly every move she makes. BTW: since I inevitably reach REM sleep before she calls it a night, it’s fun to wake up in the morning and check out what she was up to the night before. It’s become more interesting than my email.
The seventh grader has had abundant homework in nearly every class but PE. After volleyball she heads straight to her desk and has been up past 10pm for the past several nights diligently working through her assignments. And this is a kid that almost always turns into a pumpkin at eight o’clock. Welcome to junior high.
Thankfully neither has had a meltdown yet, and both have been rewarded with good grades, along with praise and congratulations from their dad and me. I can say with absolute certainty that my parents weren’t even one-tenth as interested in my progress in school as I am in what’s happening with our girls’ education.
And yet I turned out okay.
So, I wonder, is my involvement with my kids’ progress in school a good thing? What’s more important—that they self-motivate to learn and please themselves or that they know I’m looking over their shoulders—both at their desks and by way of the Internet daily grade books?
Boy-oh-boy, it’s only the first quarter and I’ve already had enough of my recurring class in Mommy Micromanagement. Perhaps it’s time to get back to my own work. (If only I could remember how to self-motivate !) I seem to recall having written eight chapters of a new novel, which I had to set aside in May to help run the family business. Well, I’m away from the business now, having left it in the hands of a capable employee. So WTF am I doing?
Note to my own managers—you know who you are—I think I need a “mommy.”
