Calling is Cold

I've put off a home improvement project for over a month because I hate cold-calling. Sure, I told myself it was because I was 'busy' or that I was waiting for a call back from the one and only person that I did call (in August), but really it was fear. Fear of the phone. Phone-phobia. True story - the worst year of my life was the year I worked for a PR firm in San Francisco. Not the firm's fault, just the fact that PR people live on the phone. I came home every night and cried.

So what else do I put off for dread of the phone? Doctor's appointments, catching up with friends, siblings and friends of siblings - basically, if a task must be done on the phone, I've procrastinated on getting the job done.  The advent of texting, Evite, online calendars and patient portals vastly improved my life. Even Rob and I communicate mainly via email and Google calendar (at least during the day).

Why does a disembodied voice make my blood run cold? Well, it's hereditary. My parents are loathe to call any of us because "we might be busy," which I understand to mean, "you might answer the phone and not want to talk to us."  I get it, NOT because it's at all true (in the case of talking to my parents, anyway), but because that's how I feel when calling the plumber, electrician, tree service, etc. God forbid that they might want to take my money - that would require our spending time on the phone negotiating dates and times and job parameters.

So the '80's track lighting in the family room will undoubtedly linger into the 2020's, certain appointments (mammogram, anyone?) have been on the list for several years, and I really owe several brothers a phone call, but I thought it better to write this blog instead. The phone sits next to the computer, glaring at me, but - at least for now - it can't call anyone by itself. Ha!

Mad as a Hatter

The Drama club at our elementary school used to be called MADD Hatters. I think it's just "Drama Club" now, but my son still calls it by the old name. As I redid the week's calendar to include "MADD Hatters" meeting, I reflected briefly on just how applicable the title is not only to drama club but the 21st - century whirlwind that is our life.

**Disclaimer: any hint of complaint to follow qualifies merely as a champagne problem.  Not to be confused with real issues of chronic illness, or trying to get to school through an obstacle course of Mafia hit men.**

My first-world issue: I don't have time to THINK.  In my Reader's Digest, which I skimmed briefly while searching the backyard for our runaway cat, I read that the habits of geniuses include keeping a partner or mate to manage distractions for them. Geniuses keep a rigid schedule, protect their productive mental time from the slings and arrows of gossip, current events, or household necessities, and employ the significant other to arrange calendars, meals, clothing, and children.

No wonder I can't even write a blog post!  I am that significant other - not the genius but the manager for a whole house of budding genii. I can drive to baseball, answer an algebra II question, cook dinner, and re-make the bed, but there are no brilliant thoughts emerging from the mental fog in my head - only crickets, getting louder as late summer progresses to fall.

I'd feel more resigned to my mental state if parts of my body were not also making a last curtain call: the eyes need new glasses (bifocals - already?!), the left rotator cuff is on a tear (literally), the face is breaking out (thirty years after puberty, people), and the grey hairs proliferate.

But I do have all of my teeth, and there are no Mafia or otherwise armed men blocking my kid's path to school. Despite my lack of brilliance I still plan to get my Masters in December, and my family loves me despite my being as mad as a hatter (the play this year is ironically "Alice in Wonderland". They should take the old name back.)

Leave it!

I'm mind-boggled this morning, frustrated by my master's thesis and how to strike the right note of personal and professional. The phrase that leaps to mind when I'm stymied? Not a literary exhortation, but the favorite phrase of my dog-walking friend, "Leave it!"  This admonition works for dogs who stray off the path, who sniff too far afield, and also to my hamster-on-a-wheel brain, when I can't seem to let go of an issue. It's truly an all-purpose stricture.

In our house, "Leave it" can apply to cats or kids equally. They act much the same, lying in wait to torture the unsuspecting other, butts wiggling in delight (that only applies to cats), then pouncing hard to elicit snarls and hisses from the target.  Jack** was particularly guilty of this yesterday, when poor Rex had just had a bath and was angry at the world, slinking around and shaking his wet legs in irritation.  Aden and I warned Jack to stay away, that Rex  was aggrieved and ready to snap, but Jack fixated all the more on his rival, earning boxed ears and scratches for his pains.

That happens with the kids, too. When William was ticked off at the world two days ago because he couldn't manage a standing back flip, I warned Daniel to stay away. Did he listen? Absolutely not - Daniel made a beeline for his aggravated sibling and I had to break them up before the verbal slings and arrows turned to blows.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't novels say things like, "He knew well enough to stay away when his brother was angry, wary of the fists and fury." I feel like I've read such statements many times before, but rarely seen such avoidance in real life.  I've rarely read the words "Leave it!" either, but that has become my most useful tool, likely to appear anywhere from blog entries to masters' theses.

**Jack is a somewhat foolish feline, recently earning the nickname 'Ryan Lochte of cats.'

Nothing good after midnight

The news reports about four US swimmers being held up at gunpoint in Rio shocked us at first, and now have morphed into a huge bummer and object lesson for my kids. As my dad used to say, nothing good happens after midnight.  After Rio officials' first embarrassed and genial response, inconsistencies in the swimmers' stories led them to remove two young men from their plane flight home to the US and keep them for further questioning. The loudest voice and brightest profile in the situation belongs to Ryan Lochte, who eluded further questioning by flying home ahead of his friends. The fourth young man is at large in Rio, perhaps wishing that he never went drinking and dancing with Lochte and company.

I don't know what occurred, don't know if the inconsistencies in the swimmers' accounts occurred because of natural variances due to post-traumatic stress or if they somehow elaborated and exaggerated the true events to cover up their own questionable antics. I do know that it's rarely productive to drink until 4 or 5 am, whether you are representing your country at an international event or just pursuing an all-nighter at home. At the age of 32, you would think that Lochte, at least, would realize such a thing.

Every time I hear the story on TV or see it in the newspaper, my father's words echo in my head. Perhaps it's his fault that my college nickname was "Cinderella" because I always went home - well, at midnight. (It made for short nights when parties started at 11:00),

Parents always hope that kids internalize their warnings and hard-won wisdom. For example, trueisms offered while driving tend to linger.  We now have a teen driver in our midst, which is alarming on many fronts. When Aden drove to her art class yesterday she did well, with the notable exception of breezing right past the stop sign in front of our house. When I yelled, "honey, honey - you have to stop!!" she did, at least find the brake, and we came to a halt in the middle of the busy intersection.  My dad reminds me that I did the same at her age. 

So we let kids go, try to pass on what knowledge we have, cross our fingers and pray. Perhaps someday our internalized voices will prevent them from making a misstep, and get them home safe to their beds. And at other times, they'll stay out late drinking, and pay the consequences for their follies. We can be thankful that the drinking and the driving didn't happen on the same night in Rio.

Olympic Gleanings

We kicked off the Olympics by watching an intersquad scrimmage of the UCLA water polo team. That the game took place at the US Olympic Training Center gave it special resonance and luster, which it scarcely needed due to the high level of play and obvious tremendous conditioning of the athletes. The coach spoke to Colorado Water Polo athletes and parents after the game, encouraging the young players to decide on their goals and work hard to pursue them. He said that the UCLA players and the Olympians had all started as youngsters with dreams, just like our kids.

Though the speech was inspiring and motivating, I could not help but think that the Olympians are NOT just like us our or children - they are genetic freaks of the best kind. No normal human can swim as fast as Michael Phelps or Ryan Murphy, or Katie Ledecky. The commentators put their wins down to hard work, a feel for the water, good coaching, technique; all of those factors certainly contribute, but there is a genetic component that can't be overlooked. Many of the athletes have relatives in MLB, or the NFL, or previous Olympics. Not all, certainly, but consistently enough that I know it's a factor.

Even if our kids win the genetic lottery (which in my case is most unlikely!), the sacrifices made to get to the Olympic level are monumental. Gymnasts who forego school, social lives, growth, even puberty, and others who withstand shoulder surgeries, cortisone shots, long periods of pain - they pay a price for their excellence.  And, too, they are not immune from struggle and disappointment, falls from grace that are extra long because their former heights were stratospheric.

Missy Franklin comes to mind when I think of loss. From America's sweetheart to a mere footnote in these games, she's a class act all the way, even while finally giving way to tears in the pool after her best event - where she did not final. She's created no drama, supported all of her teammates to the best of her ability, and quietly tried to mask her pain in smiles of goodwill. As much as we admired here in 2012 for her swimming prowess and joie de vivre, we now admire her for her grace in difficult times.

So when Aden watched yet another medalist go to kiss his mother in the stands, remarking "Sorry, Mom, but I'll never be in the Olympics," I can only respond that my genes aren't sufficient, and we both might be a little grateful. Acknowledging that the heights aren't accessible for mere mortals, we can return to watching with greater appreciation and admiration.