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This sadly neglected blog is probably that thing I’ve done, of which my parents are the most proud. My dad especially. The blog is a staple on every computer-ish gadget in our home (and there are lots of computer-ish gadgets in our home). He loves to ask me about the blog, suggest ideas for the blog, tell people they should read the blog, hand people his iPhone if they express a modicum of interest in my blog…. Now, my mom is most certainly responsible for any writing skills that I do possess but my father might be surprised to learn that he’s responsible for my fascination with punctuation. Specifically, the exclamation point.
Sid Shoemaker is an incredible man. My gratitude and admiration for him have only grown as I’ve matured. To know my father is to like him. Deep down in your gut. You can’t help it. He’s the happiest, most open, most authentic, most hardworking man I will ever know. You feel happy when you’re near him. Extraordinary common sense mixed with a presence and peace and humor that radiates through every moment of his life. He is simply the best father, the best husband, and the best friend that you will ever have the pleasure of spending your day with. And for about 6 years in my adolescence, my dad’s primary purpose in life was to torture me mercilessly.
I rarely fought with my mother, but my father and I would frequently go ten rounds over the little things. For example, he was very frustrated that I often wore two or… five shirts in one day. He also seemed to think that the floor was an unreasonable storage place for them. He was often frustrated when I bought two-dollar cans of beans instead of the 64-cent variety as well as my habit of turning on every single light. He always wanted to know where I was (if only he knew that all those boys were just closeted and harmless. Or straight and a little scared of me). He wasn’t a fan of my messy cooking, my exploding bookbag, or my habit of running his car into things like bricks walls.
At least twice a month for about two years, we would both end up furious and yelling. His face and neck would tint cherry red, starting near the hairline and moving outwards. His eyebrows would lift, and his mustache would somehow get smaller. Usually these episodes ended with me in tears, slamming the nearest door. Ten minutes later, as I lay in my room, bemoaning the impossible miseries of being a middle-class white girl with a loving family, the sound of my father whistling would float through the air-vents.
It pissed me off so much.
Sid Shoemaker is the most stubbornly cheerful man I have ever met. And it’s because he chooses to be that way. See, I used to think that whistling was a habit for my dad: a mindless activity that just sort of floated out of him, specifically designed by God to annoy the living daylights out of me. Then I grew out of my gross-teenager-phase and Dylan grew into his. And that’s when I really saw my Dad clearly. He’d be that lovely color of cherry red, Dylan would slam the door. And then Dad would look at me and throw his arms above his head like an angry Jewish matriarch. Or a Catholic man with three spoiled kids. And then he’d literally shake it off. Take a deep breath. And start whistling. At first, the whistling is kind of… scary and intense. Something is deeply incongruous about the airiness of the whistling and the angry shuddering of his mustache, but after about three minutes, it’s like nothing ever happened. The man REFUSES to sacrifice a moment of his life to negativity. And he is genuinely confused by those who can’t just… whistle their way to happiness.
See, when you choose punctuation for a sentence: you aren’t really changing the sentence. The sentence still means exactly the same thing it did before BUT you have decided the tone. You don’t change the story but you can change your experience through punctuation. Sid Shoemaker chooses an exclamation point every day of his life and if I am half as happy as my father when I’m 50… That’s more than okay too.
Happy Birthday Dad. For your present, you’ll have the chance to turn me into the Pulitzer Prize winner you’re convinced that I am: 15 coupons from me to you! That’s right! A twist on the ol’ throwback. You present me with a coupon, and I owe you and my other 2.3 adoring fans a post within 7 days. You can even make theme requests. Let the fun begin. Of note: I was going to give Sid ten coupons, but seeing as I thought his birthday was today (and I have the pop-tarts to prove it!) and his birthday was actually two days ago, and Sid therefore didn’t get a phone call from his favorite daughter ON HIS BIRTHDAY, I felt like he deserved a bonus. And a hug. I owe him a hug.)
After the final no there comes a yes
And on that yes the future world depends.
No was the night. Yes is this present sun.
If the rejected things, the things denied,
Slid over the western cataract, yet one,
One only, one thing that was firm, even
No greater than a cricket’s horn, no more
Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech
Of the self that must sustain itself on speech,
One thing remaining, infallible, would be
Enough. Ah! douce campagna of that thing!
Ah! douce campagna, honey in the heart,
Green in the body, out of a petty phrase,
Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed:
The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps,
The aureole above the humming house…
It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.
I have always been hyper-aware of beauty. In myself, in others. That sensation of awkward self-consciousness, that longing for the poise and power of gorgeous women has never left me. I still occasionally find myself staring at a striking woman, trying to soak up the secrets of her easy loveliness, because beauty, as the holy grail of happiness, remains maddeningly just beyond my grasp. I obsess, and I’ve watched women and men of all degrees of attractiveness obsess. We diet, pluck, weigh, shape, scrutinize, buy, squeeze, pinch, and despair. Like the grass green mirage just over the fence, my loud, built-for-farming person will never be waifish, shy, delicate, or comfortably blonde (there are other varieties of beauty, of course, but there is the inevitable yearning towards my polar opposite).
Frustrated and angry, I tried very hard for a very long time, to banish the value of aesthetics altogether. For me, beauty became a dirty word designed to sell me products via a sizeable dollop of low self-esteem and unattainable physical standards. Inextricably linked, my relationship with food fluctuated wildly between overindulgence and resentment. Tired of fighting with my own diet, my own body, I dismissed all other considerations in favor of function and I railed, and continue to rail (such a charming habit, I know) against a society that knowingly pumps harmful chemicals into their foods and sells little girls this concept of beauty.
But this autumn, with a boatload of leisure time, my days took a surprising but irresistible u-turn back towards food and fashion. Vouge and veggies have begun their slow creep into my life, putting my closet and my kitchen in a joyous state of mad flux. At first it felt antithetical, silly, maybe even shameful: a confusing betrayal of my gawky inner bookworm and the part of me that really believes my culture attacks the basic goodness that dwells inside of me and people I love. Yet there I was, spending two hours in the morning getting dressed and enjoying my breakfast. I kept going because, for the first time in years I felt comfortable with my body, in front of my mirror, and inside of my fridge. It was the sort of pleasant bliss I always imagined models were experiencing in perfume ads, (the tame ones that take place in fields of flowers, as opposed to the risqué ones that take place without basic items of clothing) and so I kept up the routine.
It wasn’t until recently that I realized what I was doing. I was reclaiming beauty for myself.
I know that society and the American food industry are sending me some screwy shit, but denying the innate value of beauty and conscious nutrition will never work: as a human and an artist, it’s something I’ll always crave. Spending all my energy denying that definition provided me by McDonalds and magazines is exhausting. And, If I’m being really honest, fighting it so vehemently also means that I’ve accepted that reality. Rather than closing my eyes and stuffing my fingers in my ears (or binging on 100 calorie cookies instead of an apple or really rich dark chocolate), I’ve started filling that space with an intentionally crafted beauty that I define for myself. It’s not difficult, but it does take time. Thinking through menus, recipes, and my shopping list. Lunch under a yellow tree in Forest Park, garnishing my breakfast plate with fresh strawberries, adding lime to my water, putting Pandora on while I prepare lunch or sort through my sock drawer, accessorizing, figuring out exactly which pair of pants will make me feel beautiful and confident all day long, taking a moment to notice the sun shining across the sidewalk while I’m walking instead of driving, allowing myself the moment to be still and discover what is in front of me.
It’s become clear to me: no matter where I am, I want to put in that extra effort, allow for extra time, in my life. Beautiful smears of ketchup style! I want my life to be beautiful. I want to taste, and feel, smell and sound and look at it. The value of beauty is deeper than I wanted to give it credit for: expensive or simple, baroque or bare bones, when something is savored, it explodes with rewards. Real beauty is transformative, utilizing the most stirring human experience to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Beauty is the difference between a really big building and a Basilica. Between cards from the dollar section and Papyrus or Ked sneakers and Toms. It’s the difference between instant oatmeal and steel cut oats drizzled with peanut butter, then topped with figs. Such things require effort but
what a joy to live a life that feels worthy of my efforts to create it!
Not merely to go through the motions, but to invest, to really paint and enjoy the moments of my life. Listening to what my body and heart are asking for, then giving it to them like a carefully wrapped present.
After ten plus year of obsession, I am still certain that beauty is the key to my happiness, but I’ve realized that true beauty and societal beauty are not only different, but quite possibly diametrically opposed. I don’t trust beauty that is marketed alongside sex. I don’t trust beauty that harkens to homogeneity. I don’t trust beauty that is difficult or costly to come by. Beauty’s a luxury, but I am convinced that it is within the grasp of every conscious being. And like good scene-work, it relies on action over appearance, and requires an investment in others. And finally I have the power: a choice about how my body experiences the world and how the world perceives me.
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Come with me, I’ll say someday, and our life can look just like this.
Yesterday at Church, just as the traditional post-communion restlessness began rocketing through my feet and visions of pancakes danced in my head, the priest took his moment to remind us that November 2nd is
A HOLY DAY OF OBLIGATION.
The room darkened, my stomach dropped, the entire congregation shrank by roughly .86 inches. For you non-Catholics out there: HOLY DAYS OF OBLIGATION are the worst. It’s double duty and we’ll do virtually anything to avoid it. Standardized tests? Manual labor? Painful medical procedures? Sign us up. Immediately, I began to mentally fill my November 2nd with pressing and unavoidable commitments. This ritual dread is part of growing up Catholic, like manufacturing more substantial sins for your first confession or pretending you have to pee before that endless mid-mass kneeling bonanza.
It was yesterday that this dawned on me: The Catholic Church sucks at marketing. Telling someone they’re obliged to do anything is a surefire way to make them resent, disengage, and inevitably wriggle out of it. Shouldn’t our faith, and the opportunity to actively practice it, be a gift instead of an OBLIGATION?
I know that religion isn’t always fun or exciting but I am convinced that my God, and whatever deity blesses your life, is full of joy and there is simply nothing joyful about OBLIGATION. If I were running this shindig (and apparently, I can’t, because ovaries make me unfit for religious leadership) I would refer to these days as HOLY DAYS OF OPPORTUNITY! BONUS DAYS OF SPIRITUAL GROWTH! SUPPLEMENTAL SPIRITUAL INCOME! THE JACKPOT OF EXTRA CHANCES! (It’s possible that teeth-baring optimism is what actually makes me unfit for religious leadership…)
How do we reframe our obligation to make it our opportunity?
I have a secret. I’ve been keeping it for a couple weeks.
(I’ve stopped consuming meat and dairy.)
NOW WAIT A MINUTE! Before you you start doing your impersonation of Wildflower, the hippy vegan who makes her own underwear out of daisies and eats mostly hemp grown from her own compote soil, give me a hot minute to explain! (Oh? That’s MY favorite improv stock character? Well this is awkward…)
I’ve been tired lately. Like, not-enough-energy-to-make-it-through-the-day kind of lethargy. And I’m twenty three. With plenty of time on my hands, hours of web pages and documentaries, and a minor vanity-check, I arrived at veganism’s chic, shrouded, controversial green door. I thought, “30 days? What the vegan hay! I’ll try it!” After a single week, my energy DID double. And the bizarre twist? I feel the exact opposite of deprived. I have never eaten so much freaking food, and I’m having the time of my life playing in my kitchen, discovering new fruits and vegetables. (Can we talk about fresh peaches?! How about BEETS?!)
Now, out for brunch with friends? Yes! to that delicious blue-cheese-and-onion-scone. My roommate’s amazing-apple-crisp-with-butter-in-the-crust? I’ll go to town all over that crumbly goodness. And if my Greek Aunt and Uncle want to make me gloriously cheesy, creamy, meaty food: I will devour whatever is placed in front of me. That’s about one non-vegan meal per week.
What fascinates me is how self-conscious I am. It’s complex and a little on the hilarious/crazy side. I’ll beat around the bush for miiiiiles, “Well I’ve been avoiding cheese. Yogurt too I guess. Mostly, I try not to eat red meat. Or chicken. No fish, really. Yeah. Anything with a face. Well… most of the time. Like, almost never. Well. Never. It’s just that I’ve been enjoying fruits and vegetables so much… Well Yeah, I guueeeess you could say I was vegan.” Then there’s the pretend-to-be-hungover-instead-of-admitting-I-really-don’t-want-that-cupcake maneuver OR the unbelievably bizarre blurt confession:
- Friend from College: How’s your family doing?
- Awkward Vegan Jess: Really well. Family vacation recently. I pretended to be married to my brother. BYTHEWAY! I’M A VEGAN. BUT I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. I DON’T WANT TO BE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE…. So. What’s new with you?
My conclusion? Self-consciousness is karmic payback for the judgies.
When my very first friend, first went vegan: I was convinced it was an eating disorder (Dear Author of “Skinny Bitch”, there MUST be a better way to market this lifestyle). Then I focused on the impractical difficulty of veganism (Wait… Sarah didn’t starve to death while being vegan on a bus?), then I thought it was annoyingly conscientious (How odd that my hometown was featured 3 times on Food Inc…).
I suppose I have to assume, via cosmic logic, all that negativity will be coming back my way now. But eff all that: I’m loving everything about this choice. I’ve achieved three years of New Year’s Resolutions, I can finally cook! I hate the feeling of being sold on something, so I’ll refrain from gushing about my clear skin, energy to burn, loose clothing, or extraordinarily regular bowel movements (besides, my dad would be horrified if I talked about poop on my blog).
What I insist on sharing is this, an incredible TED Talk by Brene Brown about authenticity and the power/difficulty of being vulnerable. The question I’ve inevitably arrived at: Why am I so hesitant to share my excitement? Why the fear of being upfront about something prevalent in my life? What have I got to lose? And why, on God’s green-delicious-earth, have I been wasting my time judging other people’s happiness?
What’s your secret pleasure? Call someone this week and gush about it.
It’s been a while since I’ve updated but I swear I’m writing constantly. What’s on my mind and in my word documents?
I’m working at the in-house restaurant of a retirement home. And I love it. Using incredible tact in my interview, my future boss asked, “Do you see yourself being able to interact well with an aging clientele?” And I burst out, “Oh yes! I love old people!”
I think old people are shockingly beautiful. If you stand in the dining room and are able to, for even just a moment, remove your aggressively-bred-anti-aging-lens, you will encounter a room full of people so achingly distinct, so carefully shaped and formed by life, who are maneuvering through constant change and struggle. It’s art! Visual, theatrical, bold, messy, breathing art. To use a comparison made thousands of times before, it’s not unlike watching babies grow, discovering their new bodies and their world. But old folks seem more tangible to me. They have power and experience to express and utilize. Open your eyes! You’ll see it painted on their faces, written into their actions. Open your ears! They’ll relate their history and tell you what comes next (even if you don’t want them to). Open your hands! They’ll grab them and hold them close.
Lately, I keep finding myself inside of subtly magic moments. Like discovering that sweet little Dr. F is actually a psychologist who was trained by none other than Sigmund Freud. Or in the moments when Mrs. P tells her guests that I’m her favorite as I walk away, thinking that I can’t hear her. Or the night I received two marriage proposals from separate residents. Or that time I shuttled 4 walkers (at once!) down a hallway, while wearing a tuxedo, as live big-band music floated through the room. I come home everyday with a plethora of new stories.
The residents themselves have lifetimes of amazing stories. And I’m opening my eyes to a gift of exceptional worth: I’ve been given a front row seat to the most fundamental human experience there is. Aging and dying are things we will all experience eventually, every single person we love will experience them. You are actually going through them right now. It’s the singular, utterly inescapable, transcendent adventure.
A few weeks of experience and a few hours of research have revealed a few key things:
I look forward to work every day. Ranging from the hilarious to the heartbreaking, each resident shares a common thread of beauty and startling familiarity. I look at my new friends and see myself reflected back, both powerfully original and the everyman: a desire to be wanted, anxiety about finding the right answers, embarrassment in mistakes, pleasure in simple joys, questions about the future, reflection about what’s passed, frustration, heartache, and a deep love of good desserts (old people always say Yes! to dessert). It’s the same in any language and at any age. The heartbeat of their story sounds the same as mine, and I feel compelled to tell it. So here’s what I want, a present if you will: an opinion, a perspective, an experience. I want stories. Yours or your loved one’s. Talk to me about the most amazing old person you know, or ask if they’ll talk to me.
It’ll be like Christmas. We’ll put twinkly lights on every walker.
According to Wikipedia, 80 percent of Americans claim to be above-average drivers (Psssst! It’s funny, because at least 30 percent of them are automatically wrong).
I’m not one of those people. If I could give up driving forever, I’d do it in a heartbeat (please don’t suggest that I bike everywhere).
I had my first car accident at 15, as a hopeful driver with a modest learner’s permit. The time was 6:50 in the morning. I was on my way to an early-bird Catholic Morality Class (more on the many joys and quirks of being raised Catholic are forthcoming). My sleepy papa sat in the passenger seat next to me. I scanned the street: no parked cars. It was then I decided to impress Sid Shoemaker with my mad backing-up skills. And I did! Impress upon him that he was mad to let me get into a piece of steel that can back-up. I smacked right into our neighbors mailbox on that telling weekday morning. A mailbox that was apparently built with diamonds and industrial-grade concrete: they took my father to small claims court and tried to squeeze 2000 dollars out of us.
Okay. Him.
When I was a kid, there was a movie that played pretty regularly on the Disney channel. It was about a couple of kids who decided their Mom was a drag. Naturally, they headed over to the magical mommy farmer’s market to swap her out. Unfortunately for those brats, the other moms turned out to be a little too zany and (spoiler alert) they inevitably choose their original Mom. I couldn’t help playing that game, just a teeny-tiny-bit, whenever I watched the movie; but I could never quite dream up anyone better than my amazing Mama.
Today is her birthday. We’ve never been a “present family” – don’t get me wrong, my parents buy me lots of neato things, but I’m not allowed to reciprocate. I vividly remember trying: it was Christmas, I got in trouble. I couldn’t possibly explain how much I love my mother, but as a present, I’d like to try.
My mom is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Her natural kindness shines out of every classically beautiful feature. We have, in absolute seriousness, been mistaken for sisters. My mom is also brilliant, in the functional, common-sense way too. She’ll never understand why I don’t “get” long-division but she taught me how to write. And procrastinate effectively (there’s lots of laughter and tears at 3 AM).
She gave me a nearly perfect head of hair and just enough of her stunning bone structure to complement the friendly, warm roundness of my father’s face. She chose my dad. In developing my character and work ethic, she compiled an epic childhood chore list that I hated and rarely completed, but that ended up allowing me to, literally, make my living. It’s also given me lifelong bragging rights (when I was yoooour aaaaage I had to scrub toilets AND wash walls with vinegar water!) She trained me to keep my personal finances impeccably and gave me a pavlovian “NO!” response to the words “credit card”.
My mom prays for me every day, I can feel it. Her insights into every conversation are startlingly insightful. She naturally gravitates towards the person in the room that is most likely to be left out and opens them up with gentle warmth: if I ever learn how to listen properly it will be from my mother. She takes such pleasure in being in the presence of fun. She never seeks the spotlight, never shows off her goodness. She cries every time I participate in a religious sacrament but she made it through both of my graduations with dry eyes.
She was always five minutes late to my activities, but she never missed them. Ever. She hates the term “facebook-stalking” and is genuinely offended when I use it (it isn’t stalking if it happens to appear on her facebook wall). She’s an extremely busy woman, but has an uncanny knack for answering the phone when I’m crying and knows exactly what opening with “I’m okaaaaaay…” means. She never let me watch The Rugrats, Grease, or Titanic. She always let me stay awake to read.
I know my mom really worries about being a good parent. Even now. But I can’t imagine being happier with the person my Mom shaped me to be. On her birthday, I’d like to thank her for all the gifts she’s given me, because if I spend 15 dollars on a candle for her, I’ll get yelled at for wasting money.
Today I got to drive a scooter.
Today I got to drive a geriatric scooter.
Today I got to drive a geriatric scooter while wearing a tux.
Today I got to drive a geriatric scooter while wearing a tux and was embarrassed when I accidently threw it into reverse, and almost crashed into a geriatric person.
I love my job.
