Author Archives: klynne

I carry notebooks with me all the time. All kinds of notebooks, including a stack of beautiful notebooks I bought when they were mis-marked. A hugely drastic mistake that was pointed out to the store clerk, who pointed out to me that they couldn’t override the mis-marked price on the store computers, and so I left the store with an armful of notebooks. I start everyday with the best intentions to write down “life” in my notebooks; journaling, memorializing life. I imagine myself at lunch writing down the sights, thoughts, sounds I had experienced that morning, like taking photographs at random times of random people and random places. Some pictures are in black and white, some are in color, and they are all placed strategically on the page to chronicle the beauty in the everyday. I want to be that person always carrying my beautiful, worn out notebook and a purse full of pens and pencils always observing and writing; writing and observing. But, at the end of the day, all the pages in all the notebooks are blank, and my beautiful, mis-marked notebooks are just as pristine as the day I cleared the shelf of all the notebooks when the store clerk told me they would, they had to, honor the mis-marked price.

They say we all have book in us, and my book is always playing in head…but it never makes it to the pages of my many notebooks.  I watch the people in my life; loved ones, strangers, and their interaction with me, others, themselves, and think, “Aw, that person should be part of my novel”.   But, the pages are still blank. And time goes by and another page of my book plays in my head; but the pages in my notebook remain blank.  

I have memories of my children. In my mind the pages are well worn, with annotations in the margins that have been added as all of our lives have progressed. The words have become more ingrained and embellishments may or may not have been added.  I repeat the stories to anyone that cares to listen with the same enthusiasm, cadence and timing as someone reciting a George Carlin comedy routine or the dialogue from Monty Python.  But, the pages of my notebooks remain pristine.  My childrens’ baby books living in some obscure corner of my mind.   

I have bought bags to carry my notebooks in, and have bought pens and pencils to carry in those bags along with the notebooks.  The pens have been left behind at stores or businesses.  The pencils scattered around the house once the tip has dulled and a sharpener can’t be found. The bags are worn out.  The notebooks remain spotless.

Who knows, maybe it’s better this way.  Maybe it’s best to allow the sharpness of the sorrows of the past be blunted by the erosion of time. Maybe it’s better to chronicle on the pages the cliched, gentle kiss of a butterfly rather than the harsh sting of a bee.  Maybe we need the opportunity to extract the humor, the happiness and the sweetness out of a pungent pile of reality.  Maybe, when we are ready, we can produce a moral out of a tragedy, a lesson out of peril, a tribute out of adversity.  The half-empty glass seems to fill as time goes by; maybe the result of the tears and the sweat of the truth. Maybe it’s better to keep the pages filed away into arbitrary cerebral folders with obscure labels, far from the stark whiteness of the physical notebook page.

Maybe, just maybe, it is better this way…or maybe not.  

I was talking to a co-worker the other day about how we are missing out on so much because we never give ourselves permission to do things.  We reward ourselves when we clean the house, finish a work project, complete a grueling bike ride…but we don’t give ourselves permission to do something or buy something we want to or want without some self-imposed obstacle.  So we miss out on purchasing the wonderful little bauble we’ve been coveting until the house gets cleaned, or we don’t go canoeing on Lady Bird Lake   with the kids until our work project gets done.  The bike ride can be a reward or torture depending on how you’re feeling that day, but a margarita after the ride is a wonderful way to rehydrate.  Maybe by rewarding ourselves we are more efficient, more productive…but are we being fair…to ourselves.

So tonight I’m going to give myself permission.  Tonight I give myself permission to be lazy.  I am going to sit on my bed, in the middle of my messy bedroom, which is in the middle of my messy house.  I am going to be lazy, and I’m going to watch T.V. and drink champagne out of a Scooby Doo glass…and I won’t feel guilty.  I’m going to eat strawberries out of a champagne flute with two huge scoops of Cool Whip, and I am going to desperately miss my kids while embracing my alone time.  I’m going to cook my soup on a pot on the stove because something exploded in the microwave, and I’ll kick the container out of the way that the dog pulled on the floor when she was looking for a snack.  I’m going to watch House Hunters, and Law & Order until the Golden Girls come on, and cyber window shop…and I still won’t feel guilty.

Tomorrow morning I’ll get up and ride my bike to the gym and swim, then come home and clean out the microwave and pick up the garbage.  I’ll mop the floors and do the laundry and clean the car.  And if I accomplish all the task on my list, I may go to the store and buy that bauble I’ve been coveting.  But in the meantime I’ll give myself permission to be lazy….and I won’t feel one bit guilty…well, maybe a little….but who cares…I’m drinking champagne out of a Scooby Doo glass…..

Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world. – Marilyn Monroe Shoes…I love shoes…  I’m not going to blame this on gender…which would be easy to do… I’m going to blame this one on genetics.  I come from a family of shoe lovers, and for better or for worse I am passing it on to the next generation of shoe lovers…and I don’t think we’re alone.  

Now some people will tell you that shoes are a necessity…I’ll tell you that too…but they are more than that.  You know how Shakespeare said that eyes are the windows into a person’s soul…well, I kind of feel the same way about shoes, shoes are the windows into a person’s soul…no pun intended.       Shoes help us express who we are.

Of course an argument can be made that, “Well yeah, shoes help us express who we are…but so do clothes, and hair style, and jewelry.”  And hey, I’m not going to argue with that.  But shoes add that something else…and by looking at a person’s feet we have an idea, although vague, of the people whose feet are in these shoes.  And if you happen to be dressed in something a little nondescript, and you add a quirky booty, or something with a stand out color…you then make the whole thing “pop”…and apparently popping is a good thing.  Actually popping is a good thing…who doesn’t like to pop…when we pop, or our walls pop, or our front yard pops, we’re/it’s saying “Look at me!!!”  Shoes….help us pop!!

Now you might be saying, “Okay, I can get this, but I don’t agree that gender has nothing to do with this, after all, Imelda Marcos had over 3000 pairs of shoes in her collection.”   Again, I don’t disagree, but lets go back to necessity, we need more shoes.  Men can usually get by with some dress shoes, some casual shoes, maybe some athletic shoes, sandals….   We need, okay “need” might be a little extreme, but still we need more shoes.  We might have a pair of boots, but they might be brown boots and we need a pair of black boots, along with booties in multiple colors, as well as some with heels, some with no heels, and some with a wedge.  And we haven’t even touched on material yet…suede, leather, canvas….man made uppers…and I could go on….

So now, here’s the real beauty…say that you might have indulged a little too much last week….maybe you’re a little bloated, maybe you’re a lot bloated…guess what…you can still fit perfectly into a new pair of shoes.  At this point who care how you look in your jeans….and pardon me for getting political here, its the shoe, stupid.  Like they say, if the shoe fits wear it!!  Or actually, let’s change that up a bit, if the shoe fits, work it!!!

“Power is the great aphrodisiac.”  Henry Kissinger

The first time I ever flew on an airplane my grandfather let me sit in the window seat.  I remember looking at the world in a totally different way as we flew way above the ground.  And every flight after that I always sat in the window seat. No matter how much turbulence there was or whatever excitement there may have been in the cabin, I always sat, fixated on what was going on out the window…in my queendom.  Whether it was trying to figure out my bearings over the land, contemplating scenarios in the clouds, or imagining what was going on in the homes of the cluster of lights far off in the distance…having the window seat could free your mind and your imagination to a world of possibilities.  And then I had kids.

Kids like window seats, and the other kids like aisle seats, and we mothers and fathers often find ourselves in the middle seats…the seats where the tray tables end up with all the cups, and peanut wrappers, and everything else that was brought on the plane with you,  and the window seat is no longer available.  But still when the opportunity is arises, I will lean forward, and squeeze in close to my little one so I can still take a quick glimpse out the window to check on my queendom below.

During the most recent holiday, my kids and I took a quick trip to Seattle.  Our travel plans changed at the last minute and we were assigned two middle seats and one aisle seat.  Once again I ended up in the middle seat, seated between two strangers.  My fellow passengers seemed nice enough, and we settled into our seats and all was well…until my window passenger closed her blind. How can you do that…why do you get a window seat only to close the blind.  And then it hit me. My fellow passenger, although I am sure a very nice person, had cut off my view to my queendom…and she could.  She was awarded the prize of the window seat, and with that seat, for the next three and a half hours, she controlled whether or not I could see out that window…she had a power that I did not possess and I was at her mercy.  Now there are those folks who recline themselves into your lap or kick the back of your chair…but these folks, well you can kick the back of their chairs or recline your seats into their laps…respectively, but there is nothing you can do when someone cuts off your access to the outside world.  Your imagination is idled…everything becomes stifled and you are just another passenger on a plane.

So as we flew high above the ground that day I stared at the back of my window seat passenger as she pulled the window shade down, and realized that for that day, for that flight I had to abdicate my queendom to a stranger…a person who I had never seen before that day and will probably never see again.  This stranger had, for that day, a power that I did not possess.  But I will be back, mark my words, I will be back. And once again I will look out my window and see marshmallow people in the clouds, snow on the mountain peaks, and imagine families sitting down for dinner in their far off homes, and once again I will be queen of all I see…if only in my mind.

“I don’t see how an article of clothing can be indecent.  A person, yes”  ~Robert
A. Heinlein

The other day I posted on Facebook, “I have this love/hate relationship with body shapers, and honestly right now I don’t know if I’m loving or hating.”  And one of my friends responded….”sounds like good material for a blog.”  So here it is…..

Okay, first a little history…what are body shapers.    When I speak of body shapers, I am talking about the uber tight undergarments we wear under our clothes to give us a smooth, blemish free, muffin top free look.  And for better or for worse, it appears that body shapers have become a necessary part of our daily lives.  Okay, I’ll back track here…a necessary part of our daily lives for those of us that desire a smooth, blemish free, muffin top free look…  For me, rather than shoving my expanding assets into a tight fighting body shaper on a daily basis, I normally will cover up with loose-fitting tunics and leggings.  But…on those days when more than loose tunics and leggings are required, I will squirm my way into one of these tight-fitting garments and bitch about it the rest of the day.  Now, as much as I hate to wear body shapers…I don’t think I could live without them.  They do help me mask that extra 5 or 10 pounds…however, once I get over 10 pounds, I can pretty much forget the masking and try for a little damage control. 

So now lets discuss this love/hate relationship.  My love…the ability to still manage to fit into some of my favorite clothes, and look “okay” in them. My hate…I just basically hate them…they are unyielding, they are controlling, and incredibly restrictive…kinda like some of the men I have dated.  But…they do make me look good…not necessarily like some of the men I have dated.   And again,  backtracking, …let’s not really say “good,” maybe just better.  But should I bitch…is it fair of me to bitch?  Sure…why not bitch….while at the same time looking absolutely fabulous because I’m wearing my body shaper.    

Now I could tell you this revolution…this body shaping revolution is just another attack on women…however,  body shapers are made for men too, so we can all look buff together. 

So do I love them or hate them….a little bit of both.  What about you, love them or hate them????? 

“Who in their infinite wisdom decreed that Little League uniforms be white? Certainly not a mother.”  Erma Bombeck

When I was younger…much, my dad used to play softball.  He would play in a summer league and I have some wonderful memories…not so much about the games, but the smell of the parks, running around the bleachers, and the best part…after the games, on those beautiful summer nights, we would go to the root beer stand for a frosty mug of root beer, or go the watermelon stand for cool slices of watermelon.  I always looked forward to those nights.   

Soooooo…you would think when my son wanted to play tee-ball I would have been excited…not so.  I dreaded those t-ball years….I figured we would put in our obligatory year or two of t-ball and little league and then move on to the next thing that captured my little guy’s attention.  But…….when I saw those precious little 5 year olds in their precious little uniforms with their precious little tee-ball bats, I was hooked…but not nearly as hooked as my little tee-ball player. 

Now, 7 years later I always look forward to the beginning of little league baseball season…I still love the smell of the park, but I don’t run around on the bleachers as much…and I pay a lot more attention to the games since my little humans are playing…always hoping they get a good hit, and are not the last batter and potentially the last out in a very close championship game, holding my breath when a pop-up is hit their way in the outfield, and praying they jump out of the way in time if a line drive goes straight down the middle when they are pitching.  But you know the real reason I love little league baseball…it doesn’t change.    You can go to practically any little league park today, and it’s like stepping into a Norman Rockwell picture…it’s nostalgic.  The uniforms the players wear are the same, the banners affixed to the outfield fences are still there cheering on the players or promoting a local restaurant,  and you can get hot dogs, peanuts and bubble gum in the concession booth.  One local field actually has a short order cook that makes some of the best hamburgers in town.  And the kids that play…so many of them dream about becoming the next A-Rod, Jeter, Pujols… and still, Ruth, Berra, Mantle, Jackson.  These dreams that these players of today have are no different from the dreams the little league players of the 1940’s, 1950’s, 1960’s had.  These dreams are pure, and in the world today, that’s refreshing.  

So now on game day, I once again look forward to the game.  I look forward to munching on some bubble gum, watching my guys play ball, chatting with the other ball moms…but most of all, I look forward to sneaking back to a simpler place, if only for a little while.  

And with that I say, “Play Ball!!!”

“Rose-colored glasses are never made in bifocals. Nobody wants to read the small print in dreams”  Ann Landers

Okay, so I say this a lot these days…”Getting old sucks!!!”    And it does, kind of.  I do think  many of the clichés and sayings about age are true, “With age comes wisdom,” “Youth is wasted on the young.”  I mean it would amazing to be 20 years old and have the knowledge that comes with 50 years of life’s experiences.  But that’s not how it works…     And, to a certain extent I have embraced aging…after all these many years I am going to “love” my gray hair (maybe)…and I am not ready to, nor do a think I ever will (but I will never say never) be ready for surgery, injections or any thing like that to make me look like an older young version of myself…if that makes any sense.  I’ve earned these wrinkles on my face…along with the stretch marks on my belly…and when I look at these war scars I can proudly say, “Damn, I look old.”   But although I have embraced it, that does not mean that I’m prepared to go down without a fight.     I’ve started to live a healthier lifestyle including drinking more wine….they say wine has health benefits.  And it seems as if, when we get older, there are certain correlative events that go on…for instance…often as our hair lightens up, our complexion does as well…complimenting one another in a profoundly beautiful way.  But this is what has me so confused…as we age, our metabolism slows down while our willpower completely abandons us; our trips to the bathroom become more urgent while we start to move much slower; and our eye sight becomes worse, necessitating glasses, while at the same time our memory begins to fade, making it difficult to remember where we put our glasses.  And as far as I’m concerned, if I can’t see, I might as well eat a cookie.

So yeah, I think getting old sucks…and I was especially thinking that I was driving to the store tonight to buy the three pack of reading glasses for $14.99.  Does getting old beat the alternative…you bet!!!

And with that I say…”Damn…I forgot what I was going to say!!!”

Labor Day is a glorious holiday because your child will be going back to school
the next day.  It would have been called Independence Day, but that name was
already taken.  ~Bill Dodds

Today when we got to Little Bit’s school the front lawn was full of people taking pictures of their kids to memorialize the first day of school 2012.  Big Guy asked what everyone was doing….

M (Me/Mom…either works)  “They are taking their first day of school pictures.”…

BG   “Oh, why don’t you ever do that?”

Okay, the reason I write this is because I try to take their pictures, every year, I try to take their pictures…but as much of a tradition it is for me to take their pictures, it is just as much of a tradition for them to avoid the camera.  So, here are some of my first day of school pictures through the years….

2009

First day of School 2009

First Day of School 2009

2011…there is no 2010…I guess I was just too tired that year.

First Day of School 2011

First Day of School 2011

And then this year…2012

First Day of School 2012

And you know what…I don’t think I would want it any other way…because when they are all grown, and when I will look back at the pictures of them growing up, I will know that any smiling face in front of the school would just not have been as sincere as an outstretched palm.

And with that I say…”I hope everyone had a great first day of school!!!”

“Do not ask questions of fairy tales”  Jewish Proverb

The other day I went shopping to find a multiple ball, acrylic display case for the growing collection of baseballs my oldest son keeps on the shelf in his room.  We need a new way to display the balls, because if any roll on the floor, then Crazy Lacey gets it, and her new favorite toy will be the Manny Ramirez autographed baseball…that I personally chased Manny Ramirez down to get.  I had no luck with the display case, but there was this cool, distressed wood sign that said, “It’s never too late for Happily Ever After.”  I stood there for a second imagining what happily ever after might be like.  Happily ever after happens in fairy tales…right? 

Okay, so happily ever after…  There was another sign at the store that said…”Once in a while right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale.”  So, here was another piece of the puzzle…a sign suggesting that “love” will provide us that fairy tale…hmmmmmm.  Love is a beautiful, wonderful, amazing thing…the thing that fairy tales are made from, so maybe that is our key to happily ever after…or is it?  I can not tell you how many times I have sobbed, somewhat uncontrollably when some cartoon princess falls in love with her cartoon prince, and they live happily ever after…while their cartoon dwarfs, cartoon wildlife animals, or cartoon everyday household items happily sing in the background.   So is love what creates our happily ever after?

And if it is love, love of what…someone else, something else, ourselves…chocolate????  Oh, does it really matter….  If you were to ask me to describe myself, I’ll tell you that I am a blissfully ignorant person.  Things haven’t always gone my way…life hasn’t always been perfect, but honestly, I refuse to give up on my happily ever after.   Will love be a part of it…absolutely.  Not like the love of another person necessarily…because quite honestly, when my happily ever after is contingent upon another person, then I’m kinda screwed.  But, it’s kinda like this...”You don’t have to go looking for love when it’s where you come from.”  ~Werner Erhard.  And that’s pretty much it…live a life of Love.

So, if you don’t have to look for love, if it is where you are, and if love makes your fairy tale, and happily ever after happens in fairy tales, then I guess I have my happily ever after…and I’ll be honest…it’s not a bad gig. 

And with that I say, “Pardon me while I enjoy my happily ever after…”