how lovely to be a woman

Lara in CMJH's Kids on Broadway. Sweets!

Freeze a jolly good fellow

A highlight of the Christmas season every year is gathering my big family together under one roof -- my children, my parents, five siblings and their spouses, and twelve (thirteen by year's end!) nieces and nephews. Everyone is married now, save me and the kids, but I can recall many a holiday when new boy- or girlfriends were part of the celebration.

Tales of our past houseguests poke edgewise into at least one family conversation every year. Each of these dear departed-from-us souls has left behind fond memories, and I imagine that we've provided them with a few stories as well. Like how my sisters and I share a secret language of syllables and partial thoughts that no one can follow, not even our mother. Or how all three of my brothers-in-law swill too much grog every year and end up running naked through whatever neighborhood we're in, losing wallets and shoes and sustaining minor injuries in the imponderable annual ritual.

It's no wonder that the poor dears rarely returned the following year. It isn't that we didn't want to bring them into the fold; we did, and we tried. "Once when Joey was in first grade and I was in fifth, she went to a different school than the rest of us because we'd just moved back here from Topeka and there wasn't room at DR so I walked her to school and one of our friends, whose parents were Irish. . ." But with stories flying and a lifetime of shared experiences providing the framework, the new loves found themselves smack in the middle of what must've seemed to be a verbal maelstrom.

Occasionally my younger brother Andy would attempt interaction through the use of punnery. I know this was a friendly overture to our visitors because the entire family, so far as I can tell, despises puns, mostly because of him. When I was in high school, 11-year-old Andy -- redheaded, bespectacled, buck-toothed Andy -- would hang about ten feet away from my friends and interject punny witticisms whenever he could. My friends laughed (laughed!) at his horrid intrusions which would incense me. "Mom! Andy is bugging us! He's telling stupid jokes again!" My mom would admonish him, much too kindly to satisfy me, "Andy, sweetie, leave the big girls alone, and stop making puns. People hate puns."

Punnitry, for those who've been spared the exposure, is largely the trick of compacting two or more ideas within a single word or expression. It's wordplay at its most punitive. To wit: Punnery is a rewording experience, especially around Christmas time. That's when people exchange hellos and good buys with each other, the time of year when every girl wants her past forgotten and her presents remembered, the time of year when mothers have to separate the men from the toys.

Yes, that kind of punnishment.

Studies have shown a correlation between punderstanding and sound intellect, so the dumb jokes aren't really so dumb. Puns are found in many of Shakespeare's plays and in the Bible, more proof that they appeal to the lofty among us. Still, I loathe puns, which must be evidence that I'm not particularly clever, or so the punnits would have me believe.

This year will be only family and there will surely be a shortage of dumb jokes around the table. To take the heat off poor punmeister Andy, I'm going to surprise my family with a few holiday puns of my own. I won't trouble you with the three pages I've amassed so far but, trust me, much pun will be had this year. Enough to satisfy everyone for years and years to come, I can only hope.

So, Meretricious to all! And don't forget that There's No Plate Like Chrome for the Hollandaise!

It's simple, Sarah Palin. Just say no!

Exactly who is John McCain pandering to by adding Sarah Palin to the ticket? Talk is that he's hoping to hook the evangelical crowd, but he's obviously missing a few key bits of information.

Conservative Christians do not put their women in positions of authority over men. Ever. In my former church, women were not allowed to preach to the general congregation because this was seen as unbiblical, and a condescension to their male counterparts. Believe it or not, they aren't even permitted to lead the "praise and worship" musical segment of the Sunday service for the same reason. Jezebel can forget about the support of evangelical males.

As for females, they present an even peskier problem. Christian women have strong opinions about the roles of wife and mother. In my experience, few evangelical wives are employed full-time outside the home. Their lives are about rearing godly children and glorifying their husbands. Many consider themselves helpmates, subordinate to their husbands and the church. They are not going to view Sarah Palin as a sister in Christ. She resembles a Biblical harlot, not a Proverbs 31 role model.

There is a nonreligious unbridgeable gap here as well. In case you hadn't heard, there is an ongoing feud between stay-at-home mothers (SAHMs) and women employed outside the home. The SAHMs claim the moral high ground in the area of child-raising and husband-tending, while the working women, especially those in traditionally male-dominated professions, cling to feminist values of independence, equality, and self-actualization. Ms. Palin -- the working woman who calls herself a soccer mom -- may strike both camps as an imposter. And many women, regardless of work status, will wonder why Sarah would leave five children, including a special-needs infant, to be used as a pawn in a good-ol'-boys ploy.

I feel sorry for Sarah Palin. She's being used as hastily begotten arm candy to pretty up an ugly ticket. Things won't go well for her this election season. In my opinion, she should have refused McCain's offer. She should have thanked him for the honor of being asked, and then used the national spotlight to showcase who she really is. Not the life preserver he'd like her to be.

Party of One

I remember when running came to Colorado Springs. Jim Fixx's The Complete Book of Running was published in the late seventies and preached running as the path to good health. The book spent 11 weeks at number one on the the bestsellers list and is credited for starting America's fitness revolution.

I was part of that revolution. Not as a runner, but as a close observer. You see, I'm the sister of a running fanatic.

My brother's friends opened a store called Runners Roost shortly after Fixx's book hit the big time. Between his daily 15-mile runs, Jim worked there for years, while I worked for a bigger, more general sporting goods store at the Citadel. The two jobs hardly resembled each other.

I spent my days shoe-horning Air Jordans onto the feet of just-paid GIs, while Jim watched people run up and down Bijou so he could check their gaits, look for pronation or supination, and make sound footwear recommendations. I pulled Russell Athletic sweat shirts over the bellies of armchair quarterbacks, while Jim sold silky singlets and impossibly short running shorts to fat-free lunatics. Even when I was allowed to fit football helmets on 10-year-old pinheads, and wax the K2s of handsome ruddy-cheeked skiers, I still envied my brother's life. To me, there was something enigmatic and appealing about a long-distance runner. I feel the same even now.

Today my 14-year-old son got up at 4 a.m. and ran to the top of Pikes Peak -- a solitary 13-mile trek. I imagine he wouldn't have mentioned his plan to anyone if he didn't need a ride to the trailhead. Later he told me his finish time, and not much else.

After all these years, it looks like I may have another chance to unravel the mysterious runner's mind.

Big Brother

Mellow yellow

When I visited Southern California in the mid-eighties, I was bedazzled by my boyfriend's beachside neighborhood. Tiny stucco houses. Flowering vines crawling weatherworn trellises. Impossibly narrow streets. Sandy restaurants serving fish tacos. Cramped outdoor patios overlooking the ocean -- the vast inconceivable Pacific ocean. An exciting vista for a Colorado girl.

As with all lovers' trysts, the visceral has faded to ephemera, and I am left with only a sense of place and time. However, one tangible relic remains from my visit, and it was recently brought to mind afresh. If it's yellow let it mellow; if it's brown flush it down. In case you've not heard this California incantation, it is a reference to pee and poo, number 1 and number 2, realities that, to my mind, are best left behind stall doors. In any case, they should not be fodder for a state mantra. Drought be damned!

After many years of recklessly rejecting the admonition, I am prepared to pass California wisdom on to my Colorado offspring. Why? The Gazette reported this week that 1/3 of a typical household's water usage goes to flushing the toilet. A third! I have six Kool-aid swilling children so the flushing in our house, reinforced rigidly by prissy mother me, is nonstop.

No more. New rule. If it's yellow let it mellow; if it's brown flush it down. I have yet to divine an apt consequence for willful disobedience.




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The world is large, its beauty indescribable

David is off to China. I wish I could change his mind and make him stay here. I tried, but he laughed, thinking I wasn't serious.

I know he'll have a great time. His eyes will be opened, and he'll never view the world in the same way. I just wish China weren't so far away. And I wish he didn't have asthma. And that China had cleaner air. And that he wasn't allergic to peanuts. And that he didn't have stitches in his head. And that I was going with him, to keep him safe and make sure he isn't lonely. Or uncomfortable. Or nervous. Or bothered in any way.

Come to think of it, maybe it will be easier for him to breathe polluted Chinese air, than to be smothered by me at home ;-(

Father's Day

A father sat with bowed head in his aloneness. About him clung his weeping children. The winds outside threw great scarfs of powdered snow against the window panes, when suddenly the last born tore himself from the group and rushed out into the storm calling for his mother. Yet even his baby voice could not penetrate the great silence that held this mother.

Hurriedly, the father gathered him back to his protection and for more than two decades, William Jackson Smart, alone, kept paternal vigilance over his motherless children.

Mrs. John B. Dodd, of Washington, first proposed the idea of a "father's day" in 1909. Mrs. Dodd wanted a special day to honor her father, William Smart, a Civil War veteran, who was widowed when his wife died in childbirth with their sixth child. Mr. Smart was left to raise the newborn and his other five children by himself on a rural farm in eastern Washington state. It was after Mrs. Dodd became an adult that she realized the strength and selflessness her father had shown in raising his children as a single parent.

Father's Day has become a day to not only honor your father, but all men who act as a father figure. Stepfathers, uncles, grandfathers, and adult male friends are honored on Father's Day.

Mother's Day with the family

The kids and I went to Denver today to celebrate Mother's Day with various family members, including my own adorable mom. My sister and her husband are big kids -- though they're sometimes disguised as an attorney and an architect -- and have every imaginable toy, including this insane surrey bike for eight!

Today also happened to be my brother's 40th birthday. My sisters filled bunches of balloons with helium and, instead of paying proper attention to the gift-opening thing, Andy inhaled helium and said funny things, which amused the actual children to no end.

Kisses to you, sweet family!

The Jean Ciavonne Poetry Contest

When Devon and I realized that the contest deadline was upon us, she grabbed a pen and pad and ran off to write her poem. "The theme is music!" I yelled after her. Ten minutes later she handed me her finished product.

"Devon, come on. Don't you think you should spend a little more time on it?"

"Nope," she said, wearing her best how dare you question the artist? face.

We submitted it. And she won!


Music is My Heartbeat
by Devon

when I hear the beat

I get to my feet

'cause I just can't stop

the urge to hop

I got rhythm deep down inside

this is somethin' that I just can't hide

twistin' and turnin' on the dance floor

got to keep movin', I need more

music moves my soul

like jello in a bowl

music moves my spirit

everyone can hear it

my feet are skippin', barely touchin' the ground

my jivey jumps bring people around

they gather together to see my moves

they're all watchin' to see my grooves

music makes me feel so free

for music is a part of me

My sister and Rush!

My sister, Suzy, and her hubby have been Rush fans for as long as I can remember. Not just kinda sorta fans, but like MAJOR MAJOR fly-to-wherever-they-are-playing fans. Even name-your-firstborn-son-Geddy fans.

Here is the pièce de résistance (well, maybe not) of their years of loyal fanship: a picture of them with Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson in Albuquerque. Woot, woot!



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Distilled beverages

George Dubya calls himself the Decider, so I feel comfortable calling myself the Imparter. For the past 20 years, a significant chunk of my time and energy has gone toward researching issues related to physical and mental health and imparting the wisdom gained to those whose idea of good nutrition comes from Big Food and the FDA -- both of whom want us dead and, toward that end, spew lies they hope we'll digest without question. Which we do.

Yesterday, I asked my 23-year-old son to stop by the store and pick up a couple jugs of distilled water for me. Imagine my surprise when he refused to comply. That stuff will kill you, he said. Feeling like I'd taken a knee to the gut, I knew better than to argue. This was, after all, the boy who bore the full brunt of my passion for vitamins, minerals, electrolytes, phytonutrients, mucopolysaccharides, glycemic indices and the like, while friends' mothers counted calories and grams of fat, and patted themselves on the back for feeding their children Honey Nut Cheerios. I humbly accepted the spring water he offered and ushered him out the door so I could look into the downside of distillation.

Holy crap, he's right.

Distillation is the process whereby water is boiled, evaporated and the vapor condensed. Distilled water is free of dissolved minerals and, because of this, has the ability to actively absorb toxic substances from the body and eliminate them. Studies validate the benefits of drinking distilled water when one is seeking to cleanse or detoxify the system for short periods of time. However, even fasting using distilled water can be dangerous because of the rapid loss of electrolytes (sodium, potassium, chloride) and trace minerals like magnesium, deficiencies of which can cause heart beat irregularities and high blood pressure. Cooking foods in distilled water pulls the minerals out of them and lowers their nutrient value. Fuuuuuuuck.

Distilled water is a sponge and when it comes into contact with air, it absorbs carbon dioxide, making it acidic. The more distilled water a person drinks, the higher the body acidity becomes. Distilled water, being essentially mineral-free, is very aggressive and tends to dissolve substances with which it is in contact. Even metals are dissolved by distilled water. Fuuuuuuuck.

The most toxic commercial beverages that people consume -- soft drinks -- are made from distilled water. Studies have consistently shown that heavy consumers of soft drinks (with or without sugar) spill huge amounts of calcium, magnesium and other trace minerals into the urine. The more mineral loss, the greater the risk for osteoporosis, osteoarthritis, hypothyroidism, coronary artery disease, high blood pressure and a long list of degenerative diseases generally associated with premature aging. A growing number of health care practitioners and scientists from around the world have been advocating the theory that aging and disease is the direct result of the accumulation of acid waste products in the body. Fuuuuuuck.

Holy geez. I knew that soda leached calcium from the body, but always assumed it was due to the process of carbonation. I really had no idea that distillation of water was so detrimental. Now that I read about it, it makes perfect sense to me. As a biochemistry major in early college, I know that any time molecular structure is altered there's a price to pay.

I feel like crying (okay I am crying) that I let my guard down on this one. I've given my children distilled water for a long time, even in their baby bottles, and felt like I was giving them my highest and best. I am so pissed that I was duped. My guilt isn't pure enough to give absolution, however, because it's tainted by righteous anger. Pure water is in short supply in our ugly world and at least I've tried to find higher ground. When natural water supplies are ruined by toxic chemicals and pollution, when we can't drink tap water because of fluoride and other additives, when natural spring water is another lie put out there by Coca-Cola, what options do we have?

Still, I make no excuses. I've long known that to mess with Mother Nature -- to artificially alter the gifts of water, fruit, vegetable, grain, meat and dairy she offers -- is to look a gift horse in the mouth, and to reap the consequences of inferior knowledge and arrogance.

I find solace in that I have a boy who understands more than most people do. Finally, a new imparter has joined the ranks of the few.

Two-hour delay!

In Memoriam Kathy Verlo 1938-2008

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