The Eyes Have It

Until a couple of weeks ago, I had never had a real eye exam. Oh, sure, I had blown through that big chart on the back of the door during annual physicals and passed the peripheral flash test at the DMV but I had never scheduled an appointment at an optometrist's office. Lucky enough to have been born with 20/20 vision, I just never saw the need to seek out additional medical personnel, especially after we hooked up with that high-deductible insurance plan.

You would think I might have been tempted when I took a tennis ball to the face a few years ago, but even then I played the waiting game. Then, right around forty, my People magazine started to get a little fuzzy. Still, I resisted. What did that expensive eye doctor have that I couldn't get at my friendly neighborhood Costco? Nothing. Did he have a four-pack of readers that I could strategically place throughout my house? No, he did not.

And then my friend Linda, who just happens to work for an eye doctor, found out about my optical neglect. Her subtle hints started with lines like, "Sure, it's no big deal. You can wait for awhile. We're just talking about your eyes" and ended with horror stories of a client who had no idea he was walking around with glaucoma and was now in the company of a hard-working Golden Retriever named Rusty. Okay, I'm exaggerating just a little but she did make it her business to scare the crap out of me. And she did a pretty good job. When my own daughter found employment in an optometrist's office, I knew my excuses were over. I made the appointment.

Turns out everything is okay. I discovered there is no eye chart on the back of the door, it's all electronic now. I also discovered that I can't make up my mind which looks better, one or two, when the doctor flips the lever on that lens machine. I'm still using my Costco readers, despite being told I'd see a lot better if I switched to a prescription. I know I should but I don't know what I'd do with only one pair of glasses.

A few days after my exam, Linda and I were both invited to a graduation party. Now was my chance to tell her the good news. I had finally taken her advice. I was no longer an optometrist virgin. At last I would be off the hook. Or so I thought.

"You didn't have dilation?" she asked in horror. "They can't see the health of the eye without dilation. When are you going back for that?"

I will. I promise I will. Right after I schedule that dental appointment.

The Brown, Brown Grass of Home

I've lived in the Midwest for most of my life and I've gotten used to weather extremes. Well, that's not completely true. No one in their right mind can get used to 20 below zero wind chills and ten foot snow drifts. What I should have said is that I've accepted the fact that, as long as I'm crazy enough to get my mail delivered here, I know I'm going to have to put up with temperature swings that necessitate sweatshirts and shorts living in the same drawer.

I don't know if global warming is the culprit or not (if so, I apologize for using all those cans of aerosol hairspray), but this summer has been particularly brutal. I'm not one to complain about hot weather; I do enough of that between November and March. Usually, as long as I can duck into air conditioning every couple of hours, I'm good. But, after four consecutive 100 degree days, with humidity that would frizz Cher's hair, I'm crying uncle. I'm not saying I'm ready for the melodious rhythms of the snowplows; I'm just saying I'd like a day under 90.

Last summer, I don't think I had to water my plants more than a handful of days. Several times a week we were lucky enough to have a decent rainfall that guaranteed an abundance of cherry tomatoes as well as a lush lawn as green as the felt on a pool table. This summer, our flowers need to be doused two or three times a day just to have a fighting chance and the lawn is looking more and more like the baseline at Wimbledon after two weeks of play.

I wouldn't be quite this upset about the weather if it weren't for two things. I just spent several hundred dollars to go to a wedding in a beautiful state park and spent all of ten minutes outside the confines of the lodge and, this weekend, I'm about to host a large gathering in my backyard that is doomed to end up singing karaoke in my basement. Maybe there will be a few brave souls that venture out to toss the frisbee around. To them, I just want to say:

I'm sorry. And, please don't sue me if you cut your feet on the grass.

To Everything Turn, Turn, Turn

If everything does have a season, this is certainly the season for weddings. This weekend I attended my third in as many months and my second involving a child of a long time friend.  The best thing about this wedding was that I got to spend a weekend with a group of people I've known for thirty years.  I've written about them before because they're well worth writing about; four couples that have laughed and cried  through dating, marriages, births, job losses, deaths of parents and now this - watching the little people we created grow up and start their own families.

The wedding locale was beautiful, set in a rustic lodge in a state park.  We were all looking forward to a couple of days spent enjoying the great outdoors; hiking (if our knees held out), canoeing (if the river didn't smell like dead fish), and sitting out on the veranda enjoying a glass (or two) of wine  (no need to worry about working body parts for that one).  Funny how a little thing like 104 degree temperatures and 90% humidity will squelch any hopes for outside activity.  But what did we care?  We were together and we were going to have fun.

We hunkered down in the air conditioning, pitched in to help with wedding details, and did our best to hydrate.  (Doesn't frozen custard drowned in hot fudge help you stay hydrated?)  We also talked about everything from religion to tennis; job worries to vacation plans; doctor visits to movies.  When you know someone as long as we've known each other, there's a shorthand that takes over. You know you can be yourself; that there's nothing you can't share.  We'll call each other on whatever we have to, we'll lend a shoulder if anyone needs one, and we'll have a (gentle) laugh or two at each others' expense.   And, oh, yeah, we'll be there for each other no matter what.

As I watched our friends' daughter say her "I dos", I couldn't help noticing she seemed to have a great group of friends. They had all gone to high school and/or college together and seemed a tight-knit, supportive group that had a lot of fun in each others' company.

I can only hope they find a way to end up three decades from now with what we and their parents have - a circle of lifelong friends that can make you smile through just about anything.

Dear Dad

Dear Dad:

Don't know how I got so lucky to have been blessed with someone like you for a father. There are so many things you've done for me, I hardly know where to begin. Thank you for:

- never doubting me for a minute
- teaching me to be honest, even when no one is looking
- making me a Bears fan
- not making me a Cardinal fan
- encouraging every creative impulse I've ever had
- making me feel like the best cook in the world
- telling me I'm your favorite golfing partner
- sharing your knowledge of all things financial
- the sound of your laughter
- never being too busy to help me tackle a problem
- not being disappointed I wasn't a boy
- teaching me to stand up for myself
- being my ever fearless, ever ready mouse hunter

There's so much more but it's almost midnight and your middle-aged little girl is falling asleep. I can only promise you that I won't wait till next June to let you in on how grateful I am God sent me to live at your house.

When a girl is lucky enough to have the best father on earth, every day should be Father's Day.

Follow That Truck?

The experts say that our sense of smell is our greatest trigger of memories. While I can't disagree that the aroma of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies does ship me back in time to my Nana's kitchen or that cutting a fresh lemon does transport me back to the Amalfi Coast, I still think the ring of an old familiar song is the closest thing to a Time Machine voyage we human beings are ever going to experience. The song definitely remembers when - especially when the chimes of Turkey in the Straw (or as I know it, Do Your Ears Hang Low?) pierce the humid, summer air.

The ice cream man wasn't always a rip-off. When I was a kid (okay, be ready to be very jealous), The Good Humor Truck was the only game in town. The drivers in the crisp, white shirts delivered yummy, chemical-free treats to you and two of your best friends for less than a dollar. He didn't have a song then, just a bell; a bell that had every kid in the neighborhood salivating every bit as much as Pavlov's dog. The instant gratification of running to that truck with a pocketful of quarters and coming away with a frosty treat was the best. I tried my best to recreate the memory for my own kids but by that time, Good Humor ice cream was found in every grocery store and never tasted as good as it did when it was dripping down your arm while you were standing on the curb - not that I ever heard them complain.

Now that the independently owned ice cream trucks employ a song you can't get out of your head and serve $2.50 vanilla flavored, imitation chocolate-covered ice cream bars, I can't help feeling sorry for today's kids. It must be a tough sell trying to convince their moms to pony up the cost of a steak dinner for a handful of Popsicles.

But, there's no denying, there's something powerful about that damn song. Like a cobra popping out of that basket when his turbaned master picks up his flute, I've been close to jumping out of my car and tracking down that pied piper more than a few times and I haven't had a child looking up at me for more than fifteen years.

So maybe it doesn't matter that it's expensive. Maybe it doesn't matter if the quality isn't as good. Maybe all that matters is that it's part of your childhood - a part I know I'll want to share someday with my grandchildren.

I just hope I can afford those $10 Fudgesicles.

Wedding Bell Blues

It's finally here - the onslaught of weddings that will occupy considerable space on my calendar for the foreseeable future officially started this past weekend. First up was the wedding of a young man I've known since birth. His parents are part of a circle of friends that have graced our lives for the last thirty years. We all got married together, we had children together and now we are moving into the inevitable role of father/mother of the bride/groom.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, the kind of day that cements June's reputation as the perfect wedding month. The bride and groom were right off the top of that cake, the venue was charming; heck, even the food was good. So where was my previously incurable romantic self hiding during all the festivities? And who was that cynical, considerably older persona that had taken her place?

It might have had something to do with being married for almost three decades. As much as I want to believe that two young people can find their soul mates and live happily ever after, I'm realistic enough to know how tough that happily ever after thing is; how challenging it can be to share your life with another human being, even if, against all odds, you end up picking the right one.

So, tonight I'll be saying a prayer for all the couples committing themselves to each other in front of God and family. I'll pray they won't give up when the you-know-what hits the fan. I'll pray they weather adversity with humor and kindness.

And I'll pray that thirty years from now, they'll still look at each other the way they did on a warm, sunny day in June.

The New Normal

Another Friday night. This used to be my favorite time of the week. School and/or work was over and I could look forward to sharing a pizza as well as a weekend with my family. Now that the kids are moving on, Fridays are still great but they're not quite living up to their former glory.

Take tonight. I'm sitting here in my family room, completely alone, trying to run through a couple of online Italian lessons (Vorrei avere la zuppa del giorno - I'd like the soup of the day to you non-Italians) before coming up with a topic for this blog. The house is dark; my husband is watching some nature or history channel on the non-HD TV in the basement and my daughter is up in her room getting cozy with her computer. I know I must be getting old because all I want to do is turn off all the gadgets and blow the dust off the old Scrabble board. There are just some nights when 'Words With Friends' won't cut it.

I guess I shouldn't complain. The son we rarely see did manage to squeeze us into his busy schedule tonight. Never mind that he stayed just long enough to consume a quarter of the extra large pizza we ordered before hustling off to see a movie with his honey. Good thing I'm not proud; I'll dangle free food or just about anything else to entice my kid to pop his old address into his GPS and find his way back over here. For a few minutes we were all together. For a few minutes it felt like old times, hanging around the kitchen on a Friday night with a pizza. For a few minutes I forgot that we're all going in separate directions.

But now that I'm sitting here in a dimly lit, painfully quiet room; with nothing to keep me company but the words pouring on to my computer screen, I remember.