Parting Words

One of my daughter’s friends lost her mother unexpectedly over the weekend.  The loss is compounded by so many other voids:  this girl lived with her mother and grandmother, and was hundreds of miles away at boarding school when she learned of her mother’s death.  The worst part was that the daughter had regretted leaving her mother to return to school, an eerily prescient discontent that certainly haunts me, if not her.

As a parent, my heart goes out to her, but since I don’t know her personally, for now I will keep my distance.  She has enough to digest without having to respond to condolences from a stranger.  Later, I will send her something: a card, a small gift, a cartoon or picture; some kind of ‘real’ mail that mothers like to send to absent children.

But nothing I can do or send can make the situation better.  Her world is now permanently changed.

Most of all, I wish I could send her her mother’s love, her words, her hopes and aspirations for her daughter.  I didn’t know this woman, but as a mom, I would imagine her list would include remarks like these:

1. Do your best.
2. Don’t give up.
3. Try harder.
4. Be nice to people, but don’t be a doormat.  Never be afraid to stand up for yourself.
5. When you make a mistake, acknowledge it, learn from it and move on.
6. Help others and don’t be afraid to ask for help yourself.
7. Eat your vegetables, get enough sleep, and exercise.
8. Hold on to your dreams, no matter how unrealistic they seem to others.  They will keep you going as you endure disappointment, loss, and frustration.
9. Value your life.  Even though you may think “how can I make a difference?”, never doubt that you can, and will.
10. Find others to love who can love and will love you back.
11. Remember that my love is eternal and will always be there for you, even when I’m not.

 

The list seems so inadequate.  But to not respond to this girl’s loss would be cowardly.  So, to her, and to anyone who has lost a loved one recently, I wish you peace.

Jack in the Box

I’ll admit it; I love Jack.  Fortunately, my husband understands.

For those of you who do not live on the West Coast, Jack in the Box is a fast-food chain.  Generally, I avoid fast food.  But this chain is different.

They have Jack.

About 15 years ago, in a stroke of marketing genius, the company revived its mascot, Jack, and launched a series of TV ads that brought droll humor to what was a wasteland of our-burger-is-better-than-your-burger advertising fare.  Picture a Madison avenue ad-man with a clown head like a giant ping-pong ball donning a happy face smile and you have Jack.  Jack wears impeccable suits, heads a successful company, is a devoted family man and is almost always smiling.  You don’t see him needing a haircut or a shave and I seriously doubt he has morning-breath.

Now, give him a script filled with boardroom scenarios, sight-gags, and black-outs and you have branding genius.  What’s not to love? 

My current favorite ad takes place on the UCLA campus.  Jack is touting his $3.49 meal. He proceeds to show you the burger, the tacos, the soft drink.  Yep, plenty of food for a modest price.

Then he adds, “It’ll fill you up, and let you save money for the important things (cue the toga party pulling a float with the world’s largest Jello shot)…like school supplies.”

He delivers the line with perfect seriousness, and his signature smile.  Who can resist?  It’s National-Lampoon-meets-Jon-Stewart funny.

The actor who voices Jack is, rightfully enough, Dick Pettig, the VP of the advertising agency holding the Jack in the Box account.  Which only adds to the allure.  Pettig even got to ride on the Rose Bowl float in 2008, as Jack.  When the next major ad campaign pictured a hospitalized Jack in the ICU, I actually feared that this man might have had a heart attack and Jack would be gone.  Stupid, yes, but that’s how strong an identity this character has for me.  Since the website got over 4 million hits during that time, it seems I wasn’t alone.

My husband tolerates my crush with detached amusement.  Given to unexpected barbs and sly asides himself, he enjoys the ads, too.  So while other fast-food chains promote their physical size (Carl’s) or friendliness (McDonalds), I stick with the guy with the wise-ass sense of humor.

Life imitates art?  You don’t know Jack.

Recipes for Disaster: Southern California Rain

The winter rains have finally arrived in Southern California. 

For those who don’t live here, or have moved here within the last eight years, rain is not considered a big deal.  We who have lived here longer know that this is a state for which water is a precious commodity, and with mountains and canyons devastated by rampant wildfires, winter rains are to be both celebrated and feared.

Non-residents either envy or scorn us for our lack of seasons.  To those who watch the Rose Bowl, the weather is always perfect in January.  Why should we complain about “liquid sunshine”?  But we do have seasons:  it’s just that they don’t necessarily follow each other in any particular order.  Our seasons are fire, flood, drought and earthquake.  Unfortunately, when they progress from drought to fire to flood, disaster ensues.

Of course, much of the damage could be averted.   We could deny building on hillsides that afford spectacular views or decline converting low-lying marshland into much more profitable, and taxable, housing.  We could take the time and money to properly grade and surface our roads and rebuild our sewers.  Drivers could slow down on the freeways for everyone’s safety, instead of speeding up to get out of the precipitation.

But this is not what we choose.  Instead, we still continue to play the odds, avoid the hard choices, defer to the priorities of developers, unions, politicians, and hope that what technology and engineering we have employed will compensate for our lack of self-control and apathy.

However, nature has its own agenda.  So, periodically, we are visited with drenching cold rains.  For the parched vegetation, and the local ski resorts, it is a godsend; for the hillside homeowner, or those living in the flood basins, rain is a nightmare.  The networks pull out their anchors for “storm watch” news, miles of K-rails are installed and hundreds fill sand bags.  Then, the wait begins.  Will a crisis be averted or will there be biblical wreckage? 

The ingredients are all there:  just add water.

I Got a Graduate Degree for This?

Recently, several girl friends and female acquaintances have been questioning their careers.

Mind you, they are all extremely grateful to have jobs.  Especially when the media is a constant barrage of bad news on the employment front.  But, for the most part, there is an entire generation of college-educated women who are looking at their “careers” and asking themselves a troubling question.

I got a graduate degree for this?

Now, mid-life dissatisfaction and alienation among men has been well-documented.  Hell, Jack Lemmon even won an Oscar for the part in “Save the Tiger”.  But women, well, this is the first generation that has had enough college-educated women in the workplace for a long enough period for the phenomena to exist. 

The bulk of their dissatisfaction stem from that which, in my mind, qualifies as “under-employment.” 

According to Wikipedia, the “under-employed” are a) workers who are not fully occupied (I can hear the jokes about government workers now!), b) part-time workers who could and would like to work full-time, and c) workers with high skill levels in low-wage jobs that do not require such abilities.

Quite frankly, I think definition (c) doesn’t begin to do justice to the term.  To me, “under-employed” stands for the gals who, having obtained a college degree, or two, now post items like this on FaceBook:

“Just finished putting the finishing touches on our new “Manscaping: Brows-to-Brazilians” diagrams. Do you think this is the career choice my mother had in mind for me when I finished my Business Degree? Examining the hair growth of male genitalia?”

No, hon, I don’t.  But you’ve inspired a writer somewhere in Hollywood to start a new script. 

Recently, several girl friends and female acquaintances have been questioning their careers.

 

Mind you, they are all extremely grateful to have jobs.  Especially when the media is a constant barrage of bad news on the employment front.  But, for the most part, there is an entire generation of college-educated women who are looking at their “careers” and asking themselves a troubling question.

 

I got a graduate degree for this?

 

Now, mid-life dissatisfaction and alienation among men has been well-documented.  Hell, Jack Lemmon even won an Oscar for the part in “Save the Tiger”.  But women, well, this is the first generation that has had enough college-educated women in the workplace for a long enough period for the phenomena to exist. 

 

The bulk of their dissatisfaction stem from that which, in my mind, qualifies as “under-employment.” 

 

According to Wikipedia, the “under-employed” are a) workers who are not fully occupied (I can hear the jokes about government workers now!), b) part-time workers who could and would like to work full-time, and c) workers with high skill levels in low-wage jobs that do not require such abilities.

 

Quite frankly, I think definition (c) doesn’t begin to do justice to the term.  To me, “under-employed” stands for the gals who, having obtained a college degree, or two, now post items like this on FaceBook:

 

“Just finished putting the finishing touches on our new “Manscaping: Brows-to-Brazilians” diagrams. Do you think this is the career choice my mother had in mind for me when I finished my Business Degree? Examining the hair growth of male genitalia?”

 

No, hon, I don’t.  But you’ve inspired a writer somewhere in Hollywood to start a new script.

You’re No Bunny ’til Somebunny Loves You

Like most small children, my daughter had wanted a furry pet.  There was only one problem; my husband is deathly allergic to cats and most dogs.

So when, in kindergarten, she brought home the class bunny for the weekend to “visit”, resulting in no swollen eyes or rampant sneezing fits, we told her she could have a rabbit as a pet.

I then realized I didn’t know the first thing about rabbits.

Fortunately, we live in a city, and quickly found not one, but two rabbit rescue groups.  I took my daughter to one of their facilities and there, in a cage, hunched a young black and white “lop”.  The name on the cage said “Charlie”.  He had a torn ear.  She put her nose up to his through the cage.

It was love at first sight.

Thus, we became the owners of a “house rabbit”.  Volunteers came to our home and walked us through all the areas that would need bunny-proofing.  They found a temporary home for him, while we waited for delivery of his cage (a rabbit condo, really.)  We learned what greens to buy and took note that rabbits have very delicate spines and don’t particularly like to be held or carried.  Then, soon after, they delivered to us a quivering, long-eared, black spotted lagomorph – our new pet.

Charlie learned to use a litter box, investigated every person who came and went through the house, and would jump on the couch to be petted while we watched television.  He even learned not to chew on the furniture or electric cords, although we never could get him not to chew the rubber buttons off the remotes!  For years, he slept under our bed at night.

That first meeting was eight years ago.  Charlie is now almost nine, which is ancient for a rabbit.  In the past year, he has lost his spunk, and, more recently, a substantial amount of weight.  It won’t be long until my husband and I find him dead or, as is more likely, feel compelled to have him euthanized, more to put us out of our pain, than him out of his.

But I cannot let go just yet.  Thus, after weeks of watching him eat, only to lose weight (and ruin the rugs in my family room), I took him to the veterinarian for a diagnosis.  Four hundred dollars to confirm what I already suspected:  he’s just old. 

I brought him home, deciding that, for now, I would continue to feed him, clean up after him, and wait for him to show no interest in food or our affection.  Only then will I be ready to let go of the small furry animal that for over half my daughter’s life has been a pure expression of gentleness and love.

When You Care Enough to Send the Very Best

Having just sent the umpteenth package to my daughter away at school, I am now considering proposing that the USPS have a “parent discount” for postage on forgotten/replacement/previously-rejected-but-now-requested items sent to out-of-state offspring.

The first mailing was her retainer. But given that we’d been up at 3:00 a.m. to get her to LAX for a 6:00 a.m. flight, that was more than forgiveable. Little did I know that I was about to become a regular at my local Post Office.

There was the monthly prescription medication which must be sent, as the insurance/pharmacy dialog is already confused enough, without adding an out-of-state accent to the mix. But then came Halloween paraphenalia. “Care packages” with gluten-free goodies not obtainable in a small New England town. Lip balms for skin unaccustomed to snowy weather (“but Mom, the Arbonne ones work the best”). The taped version of Homer’s “The Odyssey”, initially spurned for lack of a tape player (“Guess what, Mom, my roommate has one.”) You get the idea.

The latest? Her tennis shoes. She’d brought them home to LA to play over the winter break and left them in the closet. With reports of record cold, and the school having outdoor courts now buried under a foot of snow, playing tennis was not on her mind when we again made the pre-dawn trek to the airport. But once she returned…surprise! Yes, Virginia, there is an indoor tennis court nearby! And the team wants you to come work out with them. What? No shoes? “Hey mom, can you send…”

So, once again, I found myself chatting with my local post-guy. I told him I felt like I was personally subsidizing the USPS, and wanted a discount. He just laughed and told me I must miss her very much.

How did he know?