Falling Slowly

Irish singer Glen Hansard keeps showing up in my life. Not in creepy way. He's not knocking on my door, nor do I know him personally. He just keeps popping up. We've seen him in concert a few times, opening for Eddie Vedder's solo show and for Pearl Jam's 20th anniversary concert. He's probably best known for his song "Falling Slowly," featured in the movie "Once" (where he stars as an Irish busker...not a stretch). On St. Patrick's Day, I sat on the couch with a cup of coffee and watched the Sunday Morning show, like I always do. And there was Glen. Talking about his days as a busker, winning on Oscar (which he gave to his mom) for "Falling Slowly" and a Broadway musical version of "Once" that won a bunch of Tonys last year.

So, I looked up my favorite "Falling Slowly" clip where Glen Hansard and Eddie Vedder sing together at PJ 20 at Alpine Valley in Wisconsin. Hot Husband was right up front for that. (I was shopping around Lake Geneva for a coat, socks and waterproof clogs, because I was cold.)

As many times as I've watched that clip (and have kicked myself for not being there), I finally heard some words that I haven't been able to get out of my head all week:

"You have suffered enough and warred with yourself. It's time that you won."

How much have I warred with myself? A LOT. For anyone who is suffering--with or from anything--these words are healing. If you don't want to listen to the whole song (although it's awesome), skip to the 3:30 mark. I could write 40,000 words, and they wouldn't be as powerful as these 13. And Vedder's victory pose after singing them just makes them even better.

Five Reasons I love Hot Husband

1.       He’s like Paul Newman.

As many of you know, my husband Jim is extremely hot—so hot, in fact, that I refer to him simply as Hot Husband. He’s a lot of hot men rolled into one, with an extra helping of Paul Newman.

2.       He’s like Ray Charles’ friend.

Remember the movie “Ray” where Jamie Foxx plays the role of Ray Charles? There’s a scene where the audience is starting to turn mob-like while Ray is trying to perform. Then you see his friend, standing in the wings, gently turn down the stage lights. The crowd mellows, and Ray goes on to have a fantastic show. Afterward, Ray talks to his friend about what happened. I’ll paraphrase:

Ray: “Who told you to do that?

His friend: “Nobody told me to do it. I just saw that it needed to be done.”

Ray, quite pleased: “Huh, you just saw that it needed to be done. All right.”

That’s what marriage is: doing what needs to be done.

Before I met my husband, I knew that if I tossed my brown dress into the hamper at the end of the work day, it would still be sitting there until I washed it. It never ceases to amaze me now when I look in my closet and my brown dress is sitting there all tidy on the hanger. What on earth? is usually my first thought. My second thought is I keep forgetting I have a husband who takes care of stuff! This is awesome.  Every time for eight years now, I think that. I didn’t ask my husband to wash it. He washed it because it needed to be done.

3.       He’s like the Count.

When people ask him how many kids he has, he always says two.

He could say, “Well, I have one daughter and one stepson." No, he just says two—two children.

4.       He’s like Lou Gehrig.

"I would not have traded two minutes of joy and the grief with that man for two decades of anything with another." - Eleanor Gehrig

Except for a 30-minute window (5:15 to 5:45 p.m.) after I get home from work and before he leaves for work during the week, we see each other only on the weekends. When we do actually see each other, we protect that time and shut out the world. We’ve skipped a lot of family gatherings and dinners with friends, because we just simply want to see each other. And who knows how much time we’ll have? Only God knows.

Jim has guy friends who meet up for camping weekends and annual road trips across the country.  He never goes. “I don’t get the point in guys vacationing together,” he has said to me. “Go on vacation with your wife.” Lou Gehrig couldn’t have said it more eloquently.

5.       He’s like Mel Brooks.

“He makes me laugh a lot. I get excited when I hear his key in the door. It's like, 'Ooh! The party's going to start.' "

--Anne Bancroft

Jim makes me laugh like a loon. About everything. When I’m mad at him, he says, “You love me. You get excited when you hear my key in the door. Admit it.” And that makes me laugh. And I toss my hair over my shoulder like Mrs. Robinson, and all is right with the world.



Everything is connected to Marilu Henner

Marilu Henner, my guru

Everything is connected to everything.

I say that to myself all the time.

Ten years ago, I read the whole "everything is connected to everything" concept in a book by Marilu Henner. Yes, the same Marilu from the hit TV series "Taxi." Don't laugh. She's a fascinating fitness guru now and was explaining how the way you eat is connected to the way you feel.

Everything is connected to everything.

It's not revolutionary. It's a basic concept that's common sense, but I like how it works in almost every situation where I'm learning something new (because everything's connected to everything, always).

Recent example:

I'm an editor at a college. Almost every day, magazines from other colleges across the country arrive in my mailbox. Last week, I received one from Dickinson College with an article about my generation, the Gen X-ers. One of the alums featured was author Jennifer Haigh. She sounded interesting, so I tore out the profile of her and put it on my desk.

Minutes later, my phone rang. It was my teenage son asking me if I needed anything from the library. My son has never asked me this before. (He was checking out some movies for a no-cost date night with his girlfriend.) Without missing a beat, I said, "Get me 'Faith' by Jennifer Haigh."

He texted me a few minutes later: "Found the book."

I love books, but the only chance I have to read them is late at night when everyone else is asleep. I get through a couple pages and fall asleep with the book on my face. My husband then marks my page and puts the book atop the stack of others I've never finished.

I read "Faith" in two days. During the day, late at night, in the tub, during my lunch hour. Told from the point of view of a woman whose brother (a priest) is accused of molesting a child, it's a riveting family drama. While he's being investigated, she writes about how weird it is for her brother to wear regular clothes and have people call him Mr. instead of Father. He's forced to move from the rectory to an apartment complex (that has a playground). Under the care of a housekeeper at the rectory for decades, he now has to learn to grocery shop and cook for himself. Their uber-Catholic mom is ashamed but indignant at the implication her son could do anything wrong. Their younger brother--a former cop--is convinced the priest is guilty and goes to the child's house to investigate. That's when things REALLY get crazy.

And then yesterday the pope resigned. I'm not Catholic. What the pope does is his business. He can do what he wants. Because I'd just read "Faith," though, I wondered what the return to the outside world will be like for him. Maybe he has an older sister giving him a hard time about it. ("What? You quit your job?! Does Ma know?") Where will he go to worship now? Does he have to cook for himself? He's also the first pope to resign in 600 years, which makes him a pure rebel. I bet the HR office in the Vatican was like, "Ugh. Does anybody have a copy of those resignation forms from the Middle Ages? I need one. Yeah, Benedict just quit."

In case Benedict has to do his own grocery shopping now, I sure hope he eats right. Because....

"The way you eat is connected to the way you feel. And the way you feel shows in the way you look. The way you look influences the way people respond to you. The way people respond affects how you think of yourself. How you think of yourself is reflected in your behaviors."

--Marilu Henner

Everything is connected to everything.

Tommy the #@$%*ing Turtle



Tommy, wearing out his welcome with humans and cats



Do you know Tommy the Turtle? He's a plush puppet that comes home with your kindergartener, and you're supposed to document his adventures in a scrapbook. I've been dreading his arrival since September. I hate "momwork." Sure, it's a project that parents and kids are supposed to do together, but it's hardly a collaboration when one of you is still learning to read and write.

When I got home from work Friday afternoon, there he was. Really? This was Super Bowl weekend, and I'd planned to collapse on the couch for 48 hours to recover from bronchitis. I coughed in his face.

I flipped through the scrapbook and read about Tommy's past adventures--typed paragraphs of international travel accompanied by professional photos. Smiling children. Bicycle rides and cotton candy. Snuggled in backpacks, curled up with precious puppies. You've never seen a turtle having so much fun. It was like a Pottery Barn Kids catalog.

Wasn't Tommy tired of this jet-set lifestyle? Wasn't he ready for a staycation? Here's Tommy in bed! Look at Tommy taking cold medicine! Tommy loves him some herbal tea! 

My husband, however, was totally on board with showing this turtle the town on Saturday. We took Tommy to the grocery store. And the pet store (to look at turtles, duh). On Sunday, he even went to a classmate's birthday party.

"I see you've got Tommy this weekend," one of the dads said knowingly.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Yeah."

"We took him to Lego Land," the dad said.

"Huh."

We dropped Tommy on our way out of the party and almost left him in the slushy parking lot. I swear it wasn't on purpose.

As the weekend came to a close, I tried to get a photo of the turtle riding atop our cat. It didn't go well. Finally, we printed the photos and slapped them on the page. I included a couple sentences--handwritten instead of typed, because, hello, the Super Bowl was on.

I love staying with the Seips! They are so much fun!
Love ,Tommy

I'm glad Tommy's gone. He's kind of a jerk.

Editing and sewing, a common thread

In junior high, I took a home economics class at my mom’s insistence. I was terrible at it. The cooking part was tolerable, but the sewing classes were torture. Our assignment: Make a simple drawstring bag. Despite the repeated instructions from my teacher Mrs. Lavalle and the pitying glances of the girl sitting at the sewing machine next to me, I just didn’t get it. I was a writer, not a seamstress. How was I supposed to pull a drawstring through a bag I’d already sewn shut? The deadline was looming. Finally, I made a hole with a seam ripper, threaded the cord through and called it done. My grade came a couple days later: a “B-, unexplained broken stitches.”

Sewing, clearly, was not for me. Or so I thought. Twenty years later in an attempt to right some junior high wrongs, I bought a book titled “Sewing 101” and a cheap sewing machine. There were more than a few broken stitches, but I kept at it. Today, I have four sewing machines and serger in heavy rotation. 

Wool mittens are my specialty. All year, I scour the thrift stores looking for wool sweaters—the uglier, the better. I take them home and wash them until the fibers fuse together, which is a process called felting. Then I cut, sew and line with fleece. The sweaters remind me so much of people. Some wash up better than others. Others simply fall apart. Certain pairs are especially warm. Some need an extra row of stitches for strength. Some are thick, some are thin. Felted wool is forgiving. The thread disappears into the fibers, so there’s room for error in the seams. 

Some pairs I sell. Many I give away. To me, they represent warmth—literal warmth but also the heartwarming idea of rescuing something discarded and making it useful. At Christmas, my cousin Julie presented me with a garbage bag full of sweaters from her local Goodwill store. It was my favorite gift. We spent Christmas morning rummaging through them, exclaiming, “Ooh, look how ugly this one is!” When you focus on the right areas, ugly sweaters transform into the most beautiful mittens. 

I’ve often tried to find the correlation between editing (what I do professionally) and sewing (what I do for fun). My theory: both pursuits allow me to be “The Fixer,” adding a comma to a sentence, attaching a button to a cuff. The end result is made stronger. When my son goes to college next year, I have no idea what career path he’ll choose. I do know that the second he steps out the door, his bedroom will turn into my sewing room. No doubt, Mrs. Lavalle would approve.