John and Kate Plus Who Gives a Crap?

My grandparents were immigrants from Russia. My grandmother on my mothers side had 12 children that included 2 sets of twins. My father's mother had 11 of her own. I'm surprised any uterus could withstand such abuse without dragging behind you like a dead cat hanging on a leash. But they did. And how?

Because these people were tough as nails. They were from the Old Country. Grandchildren of immigrants know all about the Old Country. And they didn't get their own TV show for having a bunch of kids. Maybe because TV wasn't invented yet. Or maybe because if they did, it would go something like this:

Kid 1: I don't like deer meat.

Grandma: Your father killed it, chopped its head off and dragged it 5 miles through the snowy woods and back here so you would have something to eat. He spent 6 hours gutting it and ripping the meat from the bone. Eat it or eat nothing.

Kid 1: But I don't...

Grandma: What you don't-- is have appreciation. Go to your room without any supper. Anyone else?

Kid 2 through 11: No ma'am. Bambie's delicious. We love it. Thank you Ma.

Grandma: I didn't think so.

And just like that, dinner conversation was over. Later, Grandma would cut her own hair with a paring knife and vacuum cleaner. And somehow, it still looked better than Kate's over-bleached, uber-chic "what the hell happened to the back of your head" $200 salon cut.

The next day you would find grandma in the garden, 7 months pregnant, growing an entire produce section worth of fresh vegetables. She would dig, fertilize and pull weeds all the while banging the heads of garter snakes that got in her way against the nearest rock. One time she even beaned a rattler with a shovel, kicked the fanged-head in one direction and swung the body onto the compost heap. Let's see you do that Kate...or John for that matter.

Now, kids 1 -11 had their own list of do's and don'ts. The eldest took care of the babies while both parents worked from sun up to sun down. That left kid 2 through 7, 8 or 9 depending on what year it was to do things like keep the house, keep the yard, and generally keep out of the way. When Aunt Patty acted up (she would be diagnosed as ADD today and put on Ritalin), Grandma's solution was simple; run around the house. So Aunt Pat would frequently run around the house like the village simpleton until she fell over from exhaustion in the flower bed. Complex psychiatric situation solved and without meds.

Now I wonder if all this crazy would make a good TV show? I'm thinking I would find it infinitely more entertaining than most reality TV. I know the neighbors did. But they had the good sense to come by with a tuna casserole and share their own versions of crazy with my grandparents behind closed doors. I'm sure Grandma and Grandpa would have the good sense not to put this menagerie in the public eye. After all, while certain celebrities like Julia Roberts fight tooth and nail to keep their children out of the limelight, just what kind of parent's shove their kids right out in it?

The problem is, kids grow up. I can't imagine being in the lion's den called junior high with teenage hormones raging all around me and having to try and find my way in the world when all of the family dirty laundry for years was some 10 million peoples entertainment.

You're Only Renting

Have you ever heard someone say, "It's my body, I'll do what I want with it?" I remember saying that to my Mom and Dad when I thought about all the options I had to color, cut, stick, poke and just go ahead and generally maim myself. I actually believed this was my body...that I owned it. Years later I would look in the mirror and think,"Who the hell is that?" After living life a bit, you one day come to realize it's really not your body at all. You don't own it. You're simply renting. You can't change any of it, so it's obviously not yours. I didn't choose this particular nose. And I want to be taller. And what's with this hair? A cowlick for God's sake? Who chooses that? If this were actually MY body, I want in no particular order:

- To be 6' 3"

- The waist of a 13 year-old girl

- 18" Biceps

- Brad Pitt's Chest

- His Wife's Lips

- Hugh Jackman's anything

So, if this isn't really my body at all...then who's is it? Scientists say we descended from apes. And apes are in the monkey family. And if that's true, why didn't we keep the tail? Can you imagine the fun we could have with that? Theologians suggest we are created in God's image. I wonder if God has a pot belly or scoliosis? I know my parents had something to do with it. But how much really? My dad was a steelworker and my mom was a waitress. I can't weld and I can't balance a tray to save my life. I look a bit like both, but mostly nothing like either. I can't imagine anyone could have ever conceived the miracles that happen within our bodies every second of every day. That had to come some from somewhere else.

So, if this is all true...who the heck is our earthly landlord? And would he really be happy with me mangling his creation? Or sticking pins in it? Or posting it on the Internet with Kim Kardashian? Or just plain embarrassing the rest of the human race from which we are all connected? I know if I was a landlord and my tenants painted my house the wrong colors, hammered holes in it all over the place or used it as an opium den (my fathers favorite term, God rest his soul) I'd be pretty P.O'd. I mean doesn't this simply devalue our earthly rental property?

So the next time you think that this body is really yours, think again. Think about how little control you really have over it. Think about how you can't keep your boobs from sagging or your prostate from enlarging. Or that Thanksgiving neck. Or hair that won't grow on your head but happily sprouts out your ears. But most importantly, think about the miracle that allows you to breathe, think, speak, move and feel. Think about how the miracle of modern science only knows about a thousandth of one percent about how any of it really works at all.

Then, think about how really perfect you are...right now...today...just the way you are. And when you come to realize just how true that is, how all of this really has nothing to do with you at all....then take one big breath and exhale. You're doing just fine. Then stop thinking about all of this before you get a headache.

Love...Down For The Count?

"Love doesn't always die with a loud bang, but rather, maybe even more sadly, with a whimper."

A recent comment to my last post asked for a comment on the above statement. And, since I've never been asked to comment directly, I felt compelled..well flattered actually, that someone was actually engaged enough to ask.

So here's my take on it. Love doesn't die...period. Hope dies. Faith dies. Expectation dies. Desire dies. Grandma dies. The dog dies. Love, nope....not possible. Now, before you all comment to the contrary, hear me out. And trust me, I'm not an 18-year old quivering virgin. I actually haven't quivered in years. Tremors maybe. Quivers no.

Remember the adage, "God is Love?" If you believe in a higher being, a spiritual guide, a universal oneness, then you must come to the conclusion that love doesn't die. How could it? It would bring the destruction of entire religions, philosophies and cultures. There would be no more really good love stories. Hollywood would crumble. Most of us would just pack it in right now. In my own life, I can honestly say that I still love everyone that I ever started out loving. Maybe I'm just lucky. Or is it something else?

I believe I've chosen to love for all the right reasons, and this goes for friends as well as lovers. What are the right reasons? Well, to begin with, those chemical ones that no one can explain. Then layer on all the beautiful quirkiness that make each person we meet so special. Include generous portions of want, not need. Add a dash of tolerance, remove too much expectation and you have a pretty good recipe to start.

People will disappoint you. It's inevitable. Why? Because they can. We all have our list of basic human needs, unfortunately, they are rarely the same for any two people. In fact, they are never really the same at all. It's a function of testosterone and estrogen. They don't chemically exist well together without some hormonal imbalance. Just remember the commonalities that bring us together must simply remain stronger that the differences we might allow to tear us apart.

I know a girl that lives for attention. She has to be the prettiest, the smartest, the most everything. Even when she's wrong, she's right. She needs to live every day in Perfectville. Even the idea of one single flaw or deviation from the perfect train can bring her to complete and utter dysfunction. Her boyfriend is a drug addict. Why? Because no one should ever take on the task of being everything to another person. It's too much pressure. So, he's chosen to disappear in the only way he could figure out; self-medication. This philosophy holds true of friendships as well.

People will let you down. It doesn't mean they don't care. It just means that they're not wearing your matching "LOVE" t-shirt today. Don't judge them. Love them for who they are with all their glorious flaws and everything that makes them truly unique...and I suspect they'll do the same for you. What you put out there is what you get back...so just put it out there.

I've never understood why people are so afraid of that concept. Say what's actually on your mind. Tell someone you love them. Or you're mad at them. Or you love their hair. Buy a friend a gift. Take a friend to lunch. Do a silly dance in the middle of your office. Break into song. (Just stop picking your nose in your car at the stoplight. As much as it doesn't seem so, the windows are actually transparent. I can see you and that's just gross.)

Stop worrying about reciprocation or how it will be accepted. Live, just live large, great and a memorable life. That is what everyone will be talking about after you're gone...from the room or from the planet.

How absurd it would be for us to believe that people should do what we want them to, behave how we want them to, say what we want them to in any particular situation. Do any of us do exactly what everyone in our life asks of us at any given moment or in any given situation? Nope...and don't kid yourself by saying you do. Because you don't. No one does. Not even my dog does that and he loves me unconditionally.

But more importantly, I don't want him to. I want him to poop on the carpet every now and then. Or chew up a shoe. Or bark at two in the morning. Why? Because if love was really that predictable and controlled, I don't imagine it would be all that much fun.