Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Thoughts of a Noble Savage

YIKES!!!  It’s the middle of February…20freakin’15!  The holidays are long past, and stored with pleasure (and relief) in my memory. 

However, more than 1/12 of 2015 has evaporated, and I have neglected my annual New Year’s Resolutions scrum.  Now ordinarily, I have a slavish commitment this marvelous ritual.  I, like everyone else, want to confirm my own legitimacy by transforming into sublime wonderfulness. 
But not this year.  For some reason, I have not been highly resolved to alter or remodel myself as in years gone by. Oh, the need is grossly apparent.  The desire is not.  Of course, I want to create my Designer Self and become a living proverb, but not enough to aggressively pursue nobility.  In my glaciated mind, I’d rather rely on natural selection – only the strongest traits will survive – with no effort on my part.  Besides, there is no logic in being enemies with myself in a heroic crusade to be flawless.  Couldn’t I just have a personality transplant and inhabit the identity of a more perfect being? Then I could be cryogenically frozen and spend eternity in beaming perfection, outshining my fellow beings in hubristic glory. 

Why must we be voltage-goosed into becoming unblemished paragons just because a new year has begun?  It makes no sense, really.  Can’t we just savor being creatures of impulse, with warts and irregular terrain?  Personally, I’d rather spend my time counting under-arm rings than flaws in my character.

I have been pondering this annual ritual of major change whose sole purpose is catapulting oneself into the aristocracy of angels.  And to what purpose?  That future generations will genuflect at my mythology?  I think not.

There is method in this mentality.

A while ago, I attended the viewing of a neighbor who had lived next door to us as I was growing up.  So many people from my old neighborhood were there.  One lady hugged me and called to her husband, “Honey, come see who’s here.  It’s little Joni Jacobson!” 

Well, the years were peeled back with such velocity, I actually experienced wind shear.  How long has it been since I was little Joni Jacobson?  I forgot I haven’t always looked like “Yoda, the Ancient One.”  It was surreal.  You know, there’s something catastrophic about adulthood. Sometimes I think that old age is wasted on the geriatric.  I have invested decades on refinement, soul embellishment, structure and beauty.  All because of resolutions that symbolize the deep perfection of life.  Where’s the wisdom in that?  And where is the me I used to be?  Lost in the swift passage of becoming transformed, that’s where.

Oh, I know the weak must bank on mercy, but, seriously, where is the joy in flawlessness? Isn’t it our very imperfections that stain us with character?  Shouldn’t we just put the things right we can put right today – not hobble ourselves with long-range visions of divinity?

Ah, the days of my youth, before time and good intentions genetically modified me into a revolting geriatric Gumby; before I became the sum total of all my insufficiencies; back when I was organically capable of only the most elementary reactions, and did not agonize about things that I could not change or control; back before I had a repository of spare tires around my midriff that mimic the circles around my eyes.

Those days are no more.  I am now the Universal Moral Fatwa, perched atop the summit of the Perfection Pyramid, in mortal fear of foot-tons of force from Biblical vengeance and liability, a beacon of the “Light and Fluffy,” as if I am the natural consequence of an explosion in a meringue factory.

That’s not real perfection. No way.  I think we should honor the true meaning of perfection, with all its flaws, instead of using the lack of it as ammunition.

Were all my resolutions realized, I would be transformed into a disrupted and poorly proportioned soul, not an ethereal being. 

 Ergo, in an act of defiant self-preservation, I’m having an elective perfection lobotomy.  I’m returning to those sunny days of malfeasance in adolescence and channeling my inner brat.  I’ll hie me to a yurt in some vast tundra where I can renounce my flawlessness without disruption, and with jerky little steps, regain my natural integrity and hang, like a chad in the wind, free of guilt and regret.

My resolutions?  I’ve got ‘em. They are as follows:
1.     I will explore and discover a means by which I can return to the asylum of my former wart some self
2.     I will endeavor not to let my personal magnetism get out of control.
3.     I will renounce any redeeming qualities that only have ceremonial significance.
4.     And I just may consider defying gravity with the Brazilian Butt Life.  The thought is inebriating!
5.     I renounce all moral pustules.
6.     I may become a Hasidic hedonist. 
7.     I will mold myself into the configuration of my memory foam imprint when I was young, to see beyond who I ought to be and remember who I am.
8.     I will joyfully resist the temptation to master my impulses.

This will, hopefully, trigger the brain circuitry to revolt and ruin the possibility of perfection with its inherent predatory tyranny forever.


Who knows, I may just live out my life smugly unsullied by oozing virtuosity.  A Noble Savage.  Maybe this is what perfection is really all about.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

A Christmas Reverie


I am un-Christmasing.

I am un-singing the carols, un-decorating the tree, and un-wreathing the door. 

I am going into solitary confinement, concealing myself in a gelatinous cocoon, double-fisting  Zoloft, and emerging in a few days as a born-again Pagan.

Un-Christmasing is a mammoth task, considering that for the past two months, I broke a sacred promise to myself from last year to minimize and simplify, and have been decking the halls, hanging the holly, hauling the credit card, and hurling harsh language – all in a psychotically-motivated effort to make Grandmother’s house look like a Thomas Kincaid painting when the family travels over the river and through the woods to get here.

Why do we women indulge in this annual masochistic ritual of what can only be regarded as the equivalent of bowel strangulation, like a band of conspirators, connoisseurs of human folly? It is truly an exercise for the mentally defective.

I suppose that as matriarchs, we try to preserve mindless traditions with awesomely brainless expectations, which is further evidence of diminished neuron function during the entire month of December.

Honestly, I’m at a loss to explain the phenomenon.  Nostalgia is the opiate of the masses.  It’s also exhausting.

So, in keeping with tradition, I am indulging in my post-holiday rant, a privilege I have earned from the frustrations and festivities of the past 60 days.

Last year, I made a vow and swore an oath, (actually, I swore many oaths) that this year would be different…I would be different.  I would not take on a hemorrhoidal task that would bring a vale of sherpas to their knees.  I would take a sabbatical from the insanity…and simplify.  I would observe the true meaning of Christmas, and resist the urge to indulge in the frenzied, annual, excessive Christmas decorating competition with friends and neighbors.  I would savor serenity, ensconce my mind in a protective Zen euphoria, assume the lotus position, and commune with my inner Mother Theresa.

However, right on schedule, the day after Halloween, as if pre-programmed by galloping dementia and a diabolical demon of depravity, I morphed into “The Noel Nazi,” “The Cherub of Cheer,” “The Ogress of Observations,” “The Deaconess of Decoration,” “The Empress of Entertainment Excess,” “The Matron of Merriment.”

I haplessly witnessed my own transformation from a mild-mannered Grandma into a teeth-gnashing, seasonally adjusted perversion of Lou Ferrigno. I became…THE HOLIDAY HULK! 

It’s like my wobbly-bosomed body has become the host for an alien life-form – “traditionus tyrannus!”

The holidays are snugly nestled between protracted idiocy and prolonged insanity, as if for a space of time, I’m plunged into the vortex of some surreal Middle Earth, and I become a constituent with fellow residents like Bilbo Baggins and a cadre of unusual suspects.  Bags ring my eyes like black-mascara funereal wreaths from too little sleep and too much Red Bull.  And welts as big as anvils threaten to drag my eyelids down to my neck wattles.  Not even mortician’s putty can conceal the carnage.

Why do I expose myself to the yawning mouth of a labyrinth from which, once entered, there is no escape?  Knowing, as I do, that I will eventually have to face the Minotaur? 

Perhaps it’s an attempt to self-mythologize, before time demands that I become surgically modified and prosthetically endowed. 

Of course, on November 1st, visions of myself as the seraphic, ethereal embodiment of beneficence,  Michaelangelo’s Sistine Chapel incarnate,  dance in my head.  By the afternoon of December 25th, my hair is matted by sleep deprivation, and my eyelashes look the legs of a dead spider.  I’m more “mold, Frankenstein and myrrh-der” than “angels we have heard on high.”

Then there are the inevitable curves that one does not anticipate:

  1.  “Stop peeking in the packages, Necie, and UN-SEE what you just saw!”
  2. “No, Carter, a Thesaurus if NOT a very literate dinosaur!”
  3. “Asher, it’s FIGGY PUDDING, not FRIGGIN’ PUDDING!”

Naturally, I prepared my annual Christmas Eve feast.  I counseled with the butcher about how I planned to cook the ($200!) tenderloin.  At those prices, I wanted to get it just right.  He just looked at me.  Then he informed me that if I proceed with my feloniously arsonistic culinary protocol, there would arise from my oven a great column of smoke and ash, to exceed any volcanic discharge of Mt. Vesuvius.  He asked, straight-faced, if I planned to cremate the beast and scatter the ashes.

OK.  Point made.  I do tend to over-cook things to the point of incineration.  I just have a fear of boccilinus gigantus, and prefer to have the children alive when Santa arrives.  Carpet bombing the roast seems like the best way to kill alien amoeba that could infect the tribe.  The butcher assured me that would not happen. 

On Christmas Eve, we sang the carols designed to invoke the Spirit of Christmas…comfort and joy, peace on earth, good will toward men.  But we sounded less like herald angels rockin’ Handel, and more like the “Farkel Family Singers” on steroids.   

Asher’s seismic activity had us laughing through “Silent Night,” (“Silent night!”  Really???!!!) a blasphemy of such proportion it nearly halted Santa mid-flight.  That child would test the patience of all the Saints and Angels.

Christmas morning was anything but a Currier and Ives rendition.  In a display of overly-muscular gift-opening, fragments of bows and wrapping paper ascended, like projectiles erupting from a missile launcher.  My place looked like the casualty of a targeted attack from grenades, Molotov cocktails,  and Isis.

Definitely not how Dickens envisioned it.

Well, too late came too early, and by 10:00 a.m., the adults were collapsed in recliners, hollow-eyed, grinning foolishly, uncomprehending, staring blankly, stuporous, unable to blink, while morsels of fruit cake drooled down our chins, muttering incoherent soliloquys to no one in particular.  We looked for all the world like a collection of mutant, manic-depressive Mr. Peepers impersonators in an opium den.

I think, by most standards, this Christmas was a triumph.

But I am starting my New Year’s Resolutions early.  Next year, I do solemnly swear to decorate less, simplify…focus on the TRUE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS…fa la la la la…blah…blah…blah…blah

Happy New Year!

 

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Circadian Arrhythmia

How can it be November already?  Didn’t  we just have August?  Time is passing with ruthless abandon, which coincides in the macabre realization that ruin is the destiny of all flesh.  

And speaking of the macabre, the nation has just been carpet bombed by the ubiquitous campaigns of candidates being willfully obtuse, aglow with cleanness and looking chipper, while trying to smite their opponents dead with a log.

We voters morphed into stuporous zombies, morbidly fascinated by the potential of disaster, as we’re wheeled into intensive care for the criminally skeptical.

Without pausing for a commercial break, the politicians and pundits, those spongy-minded severely foolish who populate the airwaves, are grandly sprinting toward the 2016 elections, positively radiating predictions and prognostications.

I think I’d rather be savaged by a rabid congressman with a flea collar and a medical history.

The whole campaign circus becomes ludicrous at some point.  I find myself out of rhythm and out of sorts.  But to be fair, it really is not about the elections.  I’m frequently saucer-eyed and confused even when not being assaulted by narcissistic candidates with flaring nostrils and gleaming teeth, oozing oily sincerity.

I think I’ve figured out why.  The universe just shifted its paradigm from Daylight Savings Time to “night-by-4:30 p.m., fuzzy-bunny-slippers-before-6:00-news” Standard Time.

That shift was violent – Big Bang colossal “I want my Mommy” kind of upheaval.  And the consequences are pronounced.  I violently dislike disruption.  Routine is difficult to establish.  I “sprang forward” in March, and nearly fell flat on my face.  And just when I have adjusted and stemmed the constant warming squirts of my adrenal fluid, I have to “fall back,” right on my doughy gluteal landing pad.

I like to think the universe is well-ordered, predicated on logical sequence.  But twice a year, it seems as if a coup d’etat  by some chaos demon with a mutant Ninja army of Pee Wee Herman cross-dressers have realigned the system and created planetary havoc by disrupting the precious circadian rhythm of the world’s inhabitants.

Of course, there are those who insist that predictability is the enemy of drama.  Such people lead lives of wretched despair.  I HATE DRAMA.  Predictability is not a transgression.  Leave drama to the Kardashians, the uselessly attractive, and the benignly idiosyncratic.

Oh, I know what ails me.  I suffer from chronic circadian arrhythmia, (aka circadian confusion, circadian chaos).   For a sizable portion of the calendar year, I resort to bizarre and erratic behavior. I become moronically obsessed with recalibrating my system and getting all my circadian in a row.  
Naturally, profound lack of human dignity is something I suffer in silent humiliation.  I feel all purply and Barney-like inside.  I’m half a Rorschach, one hand clapping, with all my participles dangling. 
My words collide with each other, and I fear strangers can see thought bubbles floating above my head.  I shamble through my day in an orgy of befuddlement, with a mind severely and arrestingly wrenched from its hinges.

There is no pattern to my sleep because I awake at 3:00 a.m. craving cheeseburgers and dirty diet coke.  I resort to reciting the periodic table of elements or conjugating irregular expletives just to soothe erratic brain waves. On top of all that, I’ve gone viral – I think I’m coming down with a cold.   

In short, I’ve become FECKLESS.

Short of indulging in reverse engineering, or conjuring the Oracle at Delphi, I’m not sure what the answer is.  I suppose, as I go through yet another period of adjustment, I should be guided by the first rule of medicine:  “First, do no harm.”  Yes, I rather like that.

Maybe that concept will restore order to the universe.  The more I think about it, the more I think it should be tattooed on the forehead of every politician in the country.  First, do no harm.  It might not change the world, but it could possibly eliminate a whole lot of drama!


Sunday, October 5, 2014

Reunions and Homecomings, Boomer to Millennial

There are certain rituals to autumn.  Of course, with cooler weather, one gets the nesting instinct, and is tempted to begin bottling fruit and making soup.  I have successfully resisted that particular urge, opting, instead, for pizza delivery.  It’s simpler and cleaner. 

Autumn is also the season of reunions and homecomings.  We seem to gather when the air is chilly and the apples are crisp.

As grandma to six millennials, I am deeply vested in everything that concerns them.  This includes a code of behavior.  It’s simply the stuff grandmas are made of.  Can’t help it. I am greater than the sum of their parts. 

And so it was ironic that my high school reunion and Abram’s first-ever date to high school homecoming were just one weekend apart.

Oh, the memories that have been made, and were about to be made.

There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much wisdom I wanted to impart, so much counsel I wanted to dispense, all accumulated since I was a was a sophomore. 

I wanted to share with him little essays on Time, Beauty, and The Meaning of Life.

I wanted to advise him to look beyond assumptions, that kindness is power, and to decorate his soul with goodness. 

All of which was well-intentioned, but apt to produce auditory hallucinations.  The kid would have become stuporous with boredom…just as I did when I was sixteen.

Well, I get that.  It’s just that I was still aglow in euphoric rapture following my reunion, encapsulated by memories that become more precious as time passes. 

Reminiscence has a particular texture, a patina, that is the result of time. 

Now I don’t want Abram to genuflect at the altar of adolescence, but I DO want him to savor these fleeting moments that are oh, so brief.

But this kid is a sophomore and an athlete.  So instead of erudite rhetoric and eloquent poetry, I opted for a paroxysm of blunt commandments, at times indelicate, and occasionally profane.  This is known as “bubba-izing”  the true meaning of life.

So here, in no particular order, are my rules for successfully getting through one’s first date.


GRANDMA’S MANIFESTO
PROLOGUE

Civilization is the mastery of violence, the triumph, constantly challenged, over the aggressive nature of the primate. 

Resist your own nature

Try not to imitate or perpetuate the conduct of the great ape.  (Great start, Joan.  Keep going.)

RULES FOR CIVILIZED SOCIAL BEHAVIOR:

1. Do NOT scratch any region that itches if the irritated terrain lies south of your belt buckle.

2. Do not scratch any area remotely near your underarm.
And, PLEASE, do not simulate flatulent emissions with your hand cupped over said armpit, tempting as this might be.

3. Do NOT insert fingers, digits, or foreign objects into any facial orifices, especially your nostrils.  The guys will guffaw, but the girls will gag. 

4. You may be the apex predator, you may be at the top of the food chain, but do not beat your brains out with your tongue trying to retrieve a morsel of food that has inadvertently found its way to the top of your head.  (This is why you are routinely provided with a white foldy thing we, in polite society, call a napkin.)

5. Remember, sweat has a shelf life.  I understand that perspiration has a certain “trophy” value, but there is a definite infamy to underarm rings. Shower after soccer practice and apply deodorant liberally before you call for your date.

6.  Do not engage in rigorous insult bombs with “da guys.” 

7. Do not resort to the “jaws of life” to extricate the last chicken wing from your partner. 

8. Don’t forget.  There is a specific neuronal wiring that distinguishes us from other animals.  Ergo, do not touch, squeeze, puncture or otherwise pop pustules.  LET IT GO!

9. As admirable a performance as it may be, refrain from belching the entire Olympus High fight song with your buddies.  I’ve witnessed this phenomenon, and I’m so proud of the “Burp Brigade,” but heed my word, this is NOT a chick turn-on.

These young men are the perfect synthesis of form and youthful good looks – just like we were when we were sophomores – before the clock altered our abdominal contours and disrupted our proportions and unity of space.

I know I sound like a refugee from feudal times, but I do know about amenities, and what chicks like.  If you observe my advice, you will always have the illusion that you’re in control of your world.
Remember, “carpe diem” (seize the day) all too soon becomes “carpe dentum” (seize the dentures). 

‘Nuff said.    

Sunday, September 14, 2014

How We Roll at West High

I asked Brodi to create a flyer I could take around to neighbors to let them know our circle would be filled with cars for a luncheon I was hosting for our West High Panthers reunion.

Here's what she came up with. I'm trying not to be offended.

Click on the picture for a larger version.



nuff said








Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Now and Then

Every now and then I get lulled into reverie.  That stands to reason.  It is, after all, nearly autumn, that singular season of nostalgia and recollections.  Of course, too much nostalgia can evoke too much sentimentality, and one is in danger of being overwhelmed.  One must proceed with caution.
This rush of memories, no doubt, is triggered by the fact that I am on the reunion planning committee.  Now that is an exercise in recall that un-calcifies recollections as we retrieve archival data.

Ah yes, reunions – that time-honored tradition when we all become born-again adolescents and once more defiantly reject the inconvenient truths reflected in our own mirrors.  (I personally feel that delinquency is wasted on the delinquent.)

Old names and faces emerge from the mists and corridors of time, and everyone is exactly as I remember them, refreshed and revitalized…regardless of the brutal process of atrophy and cellular breakdown by which time permanently alters all our landscapes…and our vanities.

“Those Were The Days” is our anthem, and we reminisce with old friends who recall the times when we had no need for techno-gadgets like a GPS – all roads led to State Street!

(Of course, a few of our more infamous alumni had cell numbers long before they had cell phones.  Did I mention we went to West High?)

No reunion is without its stories…and specters, that act as a Greek chorus.  Memories are like webs- it is impossible to touch one silk strand without causing the others to vibrate.  I suppose that’s what gives one the sense of the whole.

Gatherings allow us to rediscover who we were and who we are.  And each attendee views our common history through lenses that are somewhat autobiographical.  That makes sense.

To the casual observer, we may appear to be biological oddities, perhaps a little waddlesome, a little asymmetrical.  But the casual observer would be wrong.  Way wrong.  When old friends gather, when they reunite, Time ceases to have meaning…or power.  Casual observers lack lenses with benevolent distortion.

The geometry of our forms has been softened, and we note with melancholy the loss of the physical definition we had back then.  Now, by virtue of residing atop the food chain, some of us are circumferentially challenged around our equators.  Eh, who cares!

So much to celebrate.  Possibly some things to un-say, and  un-see.  It’s remarkable how our lives spill into each other’s. 

However, in spite of the ravages of time, we are not exactly primal man squinting at extinction.

No sirreee!

Without reminiscing, memory atrophies.  It’s crucial to remember the visions of pompadours and beehives that danced on our heads.

I’m not sure if I’m remembering or hallucinating.  But I recall that back then, as young girls, we were symmetrical creatures, crafted of just the perfect proportion of blood and bones and skin.  Heck, I
remember when we only had one chin!

Time was irrelevant.

Summer was a verb.

Then, we girls talked endlessly on the phone (rotary dial, of course) like Sandra Dee stunt doubles of make-up, mayhem, dating, and men.

Now, we carry smart phones and text of mortician’s putty, mayhem, CARBON-dating, and men…opause.

Through the years, we have become unified, we have become one:  the women, uniboobs; the men, unibrows.

We girls have sprouted facial fur prolific enough to render us contenders in the beard growing contests of yesteryear.

And the men are swaddled in their own nasal hair.

Ah, such is the capriciousness of rogue follicles.

We have been imbibing formaldahyde like fine wine in hopes of preserving what physical remnants we have left, and boost mortality, inhaling Aqua Net fumes and channeling our inner bouffants to stimulate memories of the by-gone years before we aged out of our feral tendencies; those long-ago times when “60 Minutes” was a full hour, and long before incessant reminders like carpet bombs to call a doctor for anything that lasts more than four.

And who can forget the music?  If music defines us, what does “Who put the ram in the ramma lamma ding dong?” say about our generation?  Back in the day, we listened to Mick Jagger wail his complaint “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” Now, we’re all too tired to care.

Brylcream and Ipana toothpaste were products that spoke to our vanities.  And we bought.  Now, we are demographically in the cross hairs of advertisers pitching hearing aids, medical alerts, and spot faders.  And we buy. 

Vanity is a constant.

My grandkids never tire of listening to me tell stories straight from the pages of history.  However, asking if Tutmoses was a member of my graduating class is enough to send me scurrying to my therapist for high-voltage anger management techniques.

But the beat goes on.  And it looks like we made it.  WE…refugees from the “pre-googleization” era, a collection of implants and transplants…WE. MADE. IT!

Reunions allow us to have an out-of-body experience.  For just a moment, we can forget that we’re casualties of predatory shrinkage and tissue ejection.  We can forget that due to gravitational pull and multiple planetary rotations, we have morphed into physiological punchlines, clich├ęs we used to mock.

We can forget that our medicine cabinets are stocked with controlled substances like Lipitor, digitalis and over-active bladder remedies.  And we can celebrate our latest, greatest discovery that Pythagoria is not an elimination malfunction we will eventually have to be medicated for.

Our angle of repose is, at present, more angle than repose.  But I don’t think that disqualifies us from the planet.  We have a lot of living to do.

An interloper, without prior acquaintance, who may inadvertently wander into this event, might see what he perceives as a collection of compact garden gnomes, comprised of volcanic debris and congealed gelatinous substances spun from life’s centrifuge.  He may even observe doughy thighs and trophy wrinkles like fault lines, metaphorical subterranean survivors of decades past.

Time is the great leveler…and healer.  Actually, so is hair.

While I rail at Time, rage at its tyrannical transformations, I guess it’s simply the human experience.
Indeed, Time has eroded our physical terrain…and, thankfully, our wanton hubris. Certain laws are immutable.  And liberating.

My personal blueprint for the evening of the reunion is to hermetically seal myself in Spanx and a burqa, nothing too revealing, (a humanitarian courtesy to my fellow classmates).  I will view old friends through truer prisms, see the beauty, and dance the night away. 

Memo to alumni:  Anyone planning to split your britches busting a move in frenzied break-dancing, I have only two words:  Don’t!

Relationships are living entities.  We are soul siblings – more alike than different.  We are imprinted with our own identity, individually and collectively. 

Yes, Time is immutable.  But time cannot blunt our senses.  We will occupy pleasant mirages, where things may be altered, but nothing has changed.

There is a universal tribal law which dictates that dignity and honor be accorded those who have been through fiery furnaces.  We have all been transformed by the heat.  But we simply emerge hotter now that we were then.

All memory conspires to a single story.


Now and then time collides with memory…and memory wins.  It always does.  It is, after all, the highest form of intellect. 

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Costa Rica

At Sunday dinner in the dead of winter, my lovable but maladjusted tribe decided an excursion to Coast Rica, where the sun is warm and the soft trade winds blow in gently from the ocean, would be just the remedy we needed for the winter doldrums.  As with everything our family does, we were playing with a full house, if not a full deck.

So, on the fourth of July, we assembled our posse of misdemeanors…everyone who shares the same genes, chromosomes and last name…and virtually stampeded to paradise.

This was a feat in itself.  In order to simplify and expedite our travel time, we swore a sacred oath of carry-ons only, and solemnly vowed that if #1 Matriarch got lost, everyone would try to find her.  

(These matters must be decided prior to departure and notarized legally before anyone packs a tooth brush!  It’s rather like a living will of retrieval sealed by a blood oath. Matriarchs can’t be too careful.)

Family.  Costa Rica.  What more does one need?  (Dramamine, Ambien, and a good supply of anti-anxiety meds come to mind.)      

We rented a van that could harbor 12 people plus luggage, “canned Ashtons,” bade farewell to solitude and any shred of privacy, and, grinning idiotically, we were off on our excellent adventure.

The roads in Costa Rica are narrow and very winding, and we would often round a corner just to find ourselves in the midst of a herd of bulls.  These animals are colossal, and inadvertently hitting one would cause a bovine holocaust.  The creatures seemed docile, in spite of their staggeringly large horns and other physical endowments that would most assuredly qualify them as serious contenders in the annual testicle festival, held each year in Wyoming.  I am not making this up.  I saw multiple billboards proclaiming this festival when I thought I was in Idaho last month.  Brodi informed me I was actually in Wyoming, which accounts for my confusion.  It caused me to wonder just who is eligible to compete in this celebration, and if there was discrimination based on gender.  Something to ponder.  Nowadays, such biases are politically incorrect and constitute unlawful discrimination.  There needs be equality in all things, especially testicle festivals.

Ah, but back to Costa Rica.  On our way to our first residence, it was exceedingly agreeable to be out in the open, warm woods of a new country…the open, unfamiliar, unnerving woods.  However, it was a dark and stormy night, and our GPS had directed us to a rough, uphill, unpaved road that was baffling, contradictory, and slightly spooky. 

At one point, we all disembarked from the van to prevent the vehicle from tipping over an embankment or sliding down a mud slick.  My keen peripheral vision detected movement of unknown origin in the nearby underbrush, but I was able to maintain enough composure not to revert to my usual bizarre and erratic behavior.  Instead, I tried to divert the kids’ attention to higher landscape, where we were less likely to see small furry animals and denizens of the dark.

Finally, in a hallelujah moment, we emerged from the woods and reached our destination.  In unrestrained jubilation, I perkily blurted out, “It’s like the Garden of Eden!”

And right on cue, a snake, yes, a green Biblical serpent, hung down from the roof, aloof, motionless, observant.  In fairness to serpents, this one seemed more curious than ominous.  Nevertheless, in the dark, all snakes are anacondas – hefty and hungry.

However, not wanting to alarm the children, (they can smell fear), I said it was a sign, an omen that we would not have to fear rodents…or small dogs…or horses…

It was our guard snake, our protector.  We all felt safer, except for one of us.  I kept one eye open and some fig leaves nearby, in case we had to evacuate quickly.  My daughters quipped that a couple of pine needles would amply cover my nakedness in any emergency.  I warned them not to make me get out my thong bikini, and they immediately ceased their mockery.  (Even my sons-in-law cowered at that threat.)

Costa Rica is beguiling.  And we all decided to practice our Espanol.

Fact:  “Donde esta el bano?” will not produce a burger and fries.  It only makes one appear to have bladder issues.

The ocean was 12 steps from our front door, and we swam, boogie boarded and body surfed.  I loved it.

We also did the zip line through the rain forest.  After my initial and slightly imbecilic inquiry of the guide – “Am I going to die?”  to which he replied, “I hope not.”  - I was absolutely exhilarated by the experience.

In broken Spanish, I gushed, “I. LOVE. IT!!!”  Our guide seemed somewhat taken aback, and rather perplexed he answered, “Gracias.  I love you, too.”

Dang!  Obviously, in Spanish, I am pronounally impaired.  I suffer from pronoun dysfunction. (Not enough blood flow to my pronouns.)  The side effect is acute humiliation, relieved by a son-in-law fluent in the language, who doesn’t seem to mind rectifying his mother-in-law’s impotent Spanish by explaining to the natives that she’s a shingle short.

Perhaps the true measure of a successful family vacation lies in the editorial comments of the clan members themselves. 

Upon hearing of a family in Houston whose members were all murdered except one, Erin said, “I would not want to be the only survivor.  If one goes, we all go.” 

Brodi replied, “Let’s always take our vacations together.”

This was at the END of the trip, after we had turned in the van, and I, as per tradition, had been “randomly selected” for extra security procedure.  (@&*$!!!)

Separate entities…one Soul.

So, in the vein of “all vacations, all together,” we headed to Cedar City for our annual trek to jolly old England and the Shakespeare Festival, where we swapped Espanol for iambic pentameter.

I suppose where family is concerned, it’s the journey that matters most.  We all must go into the woods.  But we must also go the distance. 


It’s best to go together.