When I saw the 2nd guy with big mutton chops, I thought perhaps I was missing a new fashion trend.  My oldest son used to say when he was old enough to grow facial hair, he’d have mutton chops.  There must be something inherently manly about being able to grow and style that much hair on your cheeks. I made a mental note to tell my son that at least on the East coast, they seemed to be coming back in style.

Coming back to reality, I was startled to see a girl with very short bangs and long wavy hair, clipped in a barrette.  She was wearing a short sleeved cardigan and skirt – and was accompanied by a guy with mutton chops.  And then there was another couple in an equally Jets vs Sharks look.  We were in Atlantic City at the time – not a place I frequent as a matter of course – and wasn’t sure if this was the norm or what.  We finished our meal and made our way over to the auditorium to see Brian Setzer and his orchestra for a concert.  And guess what?  They all followed us!

Obviously this was the first time I had seen Brian Setzer, who is an incredible musician/singer, and has an equally impressive big band.  If you can remember way back to the early days of MTV and the videos of the Stray Cats – there is Brian Setzer, complete with mutton chops and huge pompadour.   He still looks like that today, although now it’s abundant gray hair!  Looking around at the crowd was something like, I imagine, going to a Star Trek convention:  devotees who dress the part, except instead of speaking Vulcan, these do amazing swing dancing in the aisles as if we’d turned back the clocks and were all headed to the malt shop after the school dance.    The strangest thing to me was that no one seemed to think they looked out of the ordinary.

I was reflecting on how where I grew up, unless you were blond, blue-eyed and of a certain religion, it was very easy to feel out of the ordinary.  Even in my own family I was unique:  I had the darkest hair, I was the only one with green eyes.  This “being different” reinforced my desire to fit in and started my chameleon lifestyle.

It was when I moved to the East Coast, where life is truly a melting pot of cultures and identities, where I wasn’t really the same as anyone else, that I finally felt like I fit in.  Sometimes being an individual in a group of individuals is easier than trying to be just like everyone else.   Last week my middle son and I had an argument over what he should wear to a party at a country club.  I thought he looked great and very appropriate wearing a classic blue blazer and khakis.  He insisted on wearing a striped cotton blazer and cordoroys.  It was one of those “pick your battles moments” and I “agreed to disagree”.  I believe it probably was easier for him to look like an individual rather than try to look like a member of the club.  Probably in the same way that I would have looked as ridiculous in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes as much as the young woman who sat next to me at the concert would have in my chic, yet decidedly middle-aged attire.

I’m just glad I don’t have to worry about facial hair.

I haven’t had Thanksgiving dinner with my parents, sisters and extended family for a very long time.  The 13 hour drive is just too much for either side for a long weekend and as my little family grew, we started creating our own traditions.  But I always got a twinge of nostalgia when I’d call home to wish them a happy Thanksgiving.  As the phone was being passed around the table from person to person, I’d hear the laughter and could imagine the warmth and easiness of our family gatherings.  By the time I’d spoken with the last relative, I’d be feeling rather sad and wishing I was there.

Things this year were totally different and yet I never felt so at home.  To begin with, we had Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving eve.  I highly recommend this practice, as it gives you the entire day on the actual holiday just to really relax and revel in gratitude.  Next, we had blended families – me and 2 of my kids with my fiance and his daughter.  My oldest stayed on the west coast with his college friend, already beginning the holiday separation process.  And even more shockingly different, my turkey was done to a golden brown and ON TIME!  In the 20 -some years I’ve been doing my own Thanksgiving, I have NEVER had a turkey done on time.  Last year it was not only not done on time, it was questionably done at all.  It was a real treat to taste turkey that tasted like turkey with no lingering fear of food poisoning!

As tradition dictates, I called home with a cheery “Happy Thanksgiving!” and my mom said “Lynn?”  Really?  My mom thought I sounded like my cousin Lynn?  This is my cousin with the strongest Michigan accent.  I guess my transformation back to a Michigander is more advanced than I thought! (see my blog “Unleashing my Inner Michigander“).  Once we had established that I was really her first born (and undoubtedly favorite) child, we chatted a minute before she handed the phone over to my father, a man of few words.  The conversation was about the University of Oregon football team (Go Ducks!) and then how he needed to get off the phone because my middle sister was lost trying to find my youngest sister’s new house and he needed to be available if she called for further instructions.  Happy Thanksgiving!

You would think that this minimal exchange would make me sadder than the usual ones, but for some reason it was just fine.  As I looked at my table, handcrafted by my great-great-great grandfather, I realized that I had brought together elements from the past and present into a beautiful moment in time.  It was adorned with a tablecloth from my Grandmother, dishes from my Aunt, glasses from my Mother, and food that was a combination of recipes from the past and new ones from the next chapter of my life.  They fit together like they had always been there.  I didn’t need to be physically with my all people in my family; they were here with me, sharing the loving moments of the day.

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite days of the year: the food, the family, the free-flowing gratitude.  This year it also became a time of acceptance and peace.

It was working up to be a perfect storm of frenzied activity when I got a text message from my son saying he had to talk to me in 40 minutes – it was important.  And for that moment the swirling energy around me stopped.  What could possibly be so important that he had to set a time for us to talk?  For the next 40 minutes I came up with a rather impressive list of possibilities and was ranking them as to my preference.  Of course I was hoping it was something like “I’m out of socks and need you to fed ex me some”.

Meanwhile, I had a pie in the oven in preparation for the early Thanksgiving dinner we’re having to accommodate multiple family schedules. The heating contractor came in hour 4.5 of the 4 hour window they gave me and announced that I have no gas pressure and probably a leak on the line.  My other son casually mentioned he was asked to the big winter formal dance next week and needs a tux.  And my daughter was sent home from school with a bad cold/cough (yes, I got “the call”…).

I had just ushered my semi-sick daughter out the door with the dog who was going crazy with the workman in the house when my son called.  I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not ok.  Without going into all the details, let me just say he is physically ok, he is not in jail, he is not quitting school and he is not going to be a father. (those were all my top worries…).  But a friend of his was seriously injured in a situation where he was standing in for TJ and it shook him to the core.  The realization that it could have been him brought him face to face with mortality.  And it made me wish he was flying home for Thanksgiving instead of going to a friend’s on the opposite side of the country.  It’s times like that that a boy needs his mom, and vice versa!

Needless to say, the drama of the leaking gas line, the faux-flu, and the needed tux faded from my reality.  All that mattered was that my son was ok but needed me and I was grateful to be around for him.  Getting back to basics is what true Thanksgiving is all about.

If you ever want to see what it feels like to be a pariah, I have the perfect experience:  sneeze or cough in a crowded area.  I have never seen so many dirty looks flung towards the offender or witnessed so many other subtle acts of condemnation.  You would think we were facing the bubonic plague…

Lest you think I am above such judgments, I must confess I can be right there with the masses.  If I see someone sneeze or cough into their hand instead of the crook of their arm, I cringe and make a mental note to avoid them and make a dash to the closest bathroom to wash my hands.  The audience at the local play I attended this weekend seemed like a walking petrie dish.  Every time I heard a child cough I did a virtual headshake as if to say to the parents, “How could you take them out?!”  and was clutching the hand sanitizer nestled in my purse.

All this flu-fear hysteria is a good reminder to me to be aware of my surroundings and to practice good hygiene.  It is also a reminder not to judge, lest you be judged.

A couple weeks ago I accompanied my fiance to the barber shop to get a haircut.  He had developed a sneeze that morning – nothing too serious, just a bit annoying.  But I do believe that the record speed at which he received a haircut had not so much to do with the barber trying to break his record for speed cutting, as much as he just wanted us OUT OF THERE!  It was a very degrading feeling to be shuttled aside and so obviously dismissed.  Clearly “our kind” was not wanted there!

This advanced state of health alert has also served to bring forward some old “Mommy guilt”.  I confess to being the type of mom who would shuttle kids off to school who were clearly questionable, using the old “you don’t have a fever” test as my justification.  Receiving the dreaded call from the school nurse to come pick them up solidified my guilty feelings.  Today I had the discussion with my daughter as to whether or not to go.  Interestingly it was her who wanted to go despite her apparent cold.  “Well, you don’t have a fever…” was all I could say.

I’m praying the phone doesn’t ring…

It was those little girls singing the National Anthem at the Texas Tech game that got me started.  I am a total sucker for really talented kids.  OK, who am I kidding – I’m a sucker for kids performing anything anywhere!  I was in this “altered state” when I read a Facebook entry gushing over our little community theatre production of Beauty & The Beast.  I should have known better.

As I decided that Sunday would be a day of “want to do”, rather than “need to do”, I decided to take in the final performance and roped my daughter into going with me.  Somehow going to a local production by yourself when you have no family members in it is just short of pathetic.  Its kind of like stopping in to the elementary school holiday program after your kids are grown.  Actually, going to one of those programs would probably have the same effect on me.  Again, I should have known.

The auditorium was packed – a sold out performance.  Evidently the buzz around town was effective.  It was also the place to be if you were under 5 years old, especially if you could dress up like a princess to boot.  We got 2 of the last seats in the back and I settled in with only a slightly jaded attitude.  After all, I’d been to many, many of these productions and knew that although they were always well done, they also were always slightly “charming”.  In other words, there was usually a key role played by someone who, if they didn’t live in town, probably would not have the part.  We support our own, regardless.

It was oh, maybe 2 minutes into the first act when the tears started.  The girl who played Belle was, I believe, a Disney plant.  She looked like Anne Hathaway and sang like, well, Belle!  The beast was big and growley, Lumiere was French and flirty, and Chip was the cutest thing you’d ever seen.  I just could not stop crying.  Thank goodness it was dark in there or my daughter would have been mortified to be seen with me.  Even I was getting a little embarrassed by my over the top reaction.

What was it, besides perhaps raging hormones, that triggered this tear fest?  Well, it could have been memories of watching the VHS tape of “Beauty” about 7 million times with my first born and picturing his very serious and intense look in trying to take it all in.  It could have been when they announced they were dedicating the show to Jerry Orbach, the voice of Lumiere in the movie, and who’s son and grandchildren who live in our town accepted an award on his behalf.  It could have been watching kids I’ve known since they were tots up there doing an amazing job and hoping to be the next Tom Cruise (he too started in our town).

But what it always is, whether its watching a school play, a 4th of July parade or a video of kids singing at a basketball game, is seeing an authentic soul doing what they are meant to do.   A child who is singing their heart out because they love to sing gets me everytime.  Seeing anyone doing what they love without fear or concern about what others will think is to me like witnessing the purity of the human spirit.  They have stepped in the full light of their being and it touches me to my core.  I come away inspired and energized, ready to peel off one more protective layer and let my light shine perhaps a little brighter than I allowed it to before.

I’m grateful, especially at the start of this national week of gratitude, for the reminder that it is more than ok to be all that I can be.  And the reinforcement that our children are indeed our teachers.  And just for good measure, I’m off to watch Susan Boyle on the Today Show now.  Get the tissues ready!

Answer:  Motherhood, being a woman, talking with a Midwestern accent when in the Midwest

Question:  What do Sarah Palin & I have in common?

I was talking with my sister yesterday and bemoaning the fact that I had choir practice that evening.  This is not because it was one more thing to do on a long list of to dos, or that it was a cold, wet night and a good one to stay in and watch my favorite “Must See” TV shows.  No, it was because deciding to join my church choir has been a glaring reality check for me and a very humbling experience.

Throughout most of my school years I sang with our church choir.  I loved it.  I loved the songs, the robes, the standing up in front of the congregation.  For a midwestern girl, it was about as close to Broadway I could get.  I even continued into adulthood for a while, garnering a small but very important (in my world) solo.  I love to sing and think of myself as relatively ok at it, although it varies from day to day or phrase to phrase at times.  That is, until I joined this choir.

I joined my church 20 years ago with the expectation that I would join the choir, which at the time was large, wonderful and full of professional singers.  Somehow I got sidetracked and never made it.  We just got a new choir director this year and he put out an appeal for singers to join the choir for a special Cantata to be performed at Christmas.  It was a 6 week commitment, a good way to dip the toe back in the pond, and with a big gulp, I accepted the challenge.  It was NOT what I anticipated!

The first night I showed up and unbeknownst to me, they had cancelled practice.  However, there was one woman there – who teaches singing no less – who volunteered to stay and take me through it.  Yikes.  No throngs of people to hide behind!  Not only is the music difficult, but it is in Latin!  If mercifully I managed to hit a note, my brain was still struggling to figure out the word associated with it.  Three weeks into this and I am only slightly better.  I realized that over those past 20 years, among other things, my voice has dropped and I instinctively sing things an octave lower than they should be sung.  You can’t quite do that in a choir situation.  So between me trying to hit a high note and trying to remember that it is pronounced “AHHH-bra – ham”, not “A-bra-ham”, it is a stressful experience.  Gone now are any illusions of my being a Broadway star in this lifetime.

So, I mentioned to my sister that really, to be kind to the choir, I should quit.  She said, “Ah, a mercy quitting.  You’re just like Sarah Palin.”

Enough said.  Come see me sing with the choir in early December!

What’s in a name?  Evidently a whole slew of reinvented identities for me!  I was reflecting on one of these transformative identity changes – and then realized there had been many.  In fact, how you address me is dependent upon who I was  and what i was called at the time.  Let me share with you the many sides of me:

Janet MacMeekin – the original me

Janet Carol – who I am when my mother is full of familial pride or angry at me

Jan MacMeekin – my first radical shift, circa 8th grade.  Decided Janet was too formal and “Jan” was much cooler.  And so I was. (or so I thought…)

McKeever – college name for those who were too lazy or unfocused to remember my real last name

Janet MacMeekin – back to the original for job searching purposes.  Besides, I was a mature college graduate now.  (or so I thought…)

Miss MacMeekin – first year teaching

Ms MacMeekin – second year teaching; more worldly and embracing my feminist side; also not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I was still unmarried when ALL my friends were getting married

Janet MacMeekin – back to the original; back to grad school; looking for another job; entry into the corporate world.  Now totally mature (you know the story…)

Janet Neal – Finally got married and found a name that’s easier to pronounce but shockingly just as easy to misspell

Mrs. Neal – Now I’m really a Mom…

Chris’ mom, Emily’s Mom, TJ’s Mom – OK , now I’m really a Mom!

Ms. Neal – Divorced but still a Mom

Janet MacMeekin Neal – Embracing all of me!

Stay tuned…..I have a feeling there may be more to come!

My 19 year old son is starting his own business.  He is also a full-time college student and founding “father” of his fraternity, which he started his freshman year because he didn’t find what he was looking for in the existing frats on campus.  This is the son whom I said on about day 2 of his life that he will make an amazing adult, if he lived through his childhood.  It was like he was a grownup who was indignant at being in this pint-size body and being forced to live this child’s existence.  Look out world, he is coming into his own!

A business consultant friend of mine whom I had put in touch with my son and his partners, spoke to me after their meeting and commented that he loved his fearlessness.  I assured him this was not a new trait.  My son had just said to me, “Mom, I figure that I have nothing to lose right now and why not take the risk?”  This child was a competitive ski racer and convinced me to allow him to attend a boarding school 3000 miles away for his last 2 years of high school.  I believe “I have nothing to lose” is his life motto.

Let me assure you that this is not necessarily a family trait.  I also have 2 other children at home for whom living at home with Mom the rest of their lives sounds like a good thing.  To them.  Their interest in taking those leaps of faith is diametrically opposed to their brother’s.  But then again, so are most humans I know.  I think I am somewhere in the middle.

Thinking of myself as a moderate risk taker, and one fairly new to this concept, it still surprises me when someone comes up to me and in awed tones tells me that they could NEVER do what I do.  I literally have to stop and think about what it is I do that is so amazing/scary/ridiculous that they couldn’t/wouldn’t do it.  Most times I just look baffled.  It’s not like I am jumping out of airplanes or leading expeditions into the jungle.  I am just doing what shows up in my path.  I have learned to trust that if its there, there must a reason for it.  I think that is the difference.

All of us have our own unique journey through life and each one has its own hills and valleys, sharp turns and surprising detours.  Learning to use the resources at your disposal, to stay focused on the moment at hand, and to RECOGNIZE and APPRECIATE your own unique gifts will help you take that next step…and the next…   It certainly has for me.

Suppose for a moment that everything you need will show up on your doorstep and all you have to do is open the door and let it in.  Would you be willing to do that?  Or would you prefer to stay locked inside, mulling over the “I wonder”, “if only” and “what ifs”.  Go ahead and take a chance on life…..what have you got to lose?

It’s going to be a long, hard winter.  I haven’t heard that on the news or seen it on weather.com.  I haven’t read it in an Almanac or necessarily seen any particularly fat caterpillars.  I did see a lot of squirrels furiously gathering the large and plentiful acorns, which could be a sign.  But the real test is this:  I have been doing some serious nesting.  The only other time I was in such a focused state to get my affairs in order was prior to the birth of all three of my children and I can guarantee that is NOT the case now!  But when I finished my last chore yesterday, I thought to myself “Winter may now begin”.  A very scary thought.

I moved into this house in May and this weekend I FINALLY emptied my last box.  I am not saying that there are no boxes left in my house, but at least now they are labeled and organized and there is some logic to them.  And there are far fewer, thank goodness.  Every piece of office supply overbuying is put away.  The garage is no longer a storage facility for the “I can’t deal with it now” stuff.  It actually houses a vehicle, something my garage hasn’t done in years.  I can walk through my basement without tripping on something.  My summer clothes are packed away and my winter ones are ready to go.  I even found my lost shoes and my daughter’s clothes, which she insisted we had permanently lost or thrown away.

What a relief!  I am now ready for whatever blizzards may be coming our way.  I can now stay in this house for days on end and not go completely bonkers because of all the “stuff” oozing around every corner.

As I sit here now, proud of myself and feeling slightly smug, my eye catches the reflection of light from the treatment-less windows reflecting off the make-it-easier-to-sell neutral walls.  Sigh…  A homeowner’s job is never done!  I know now what my winter project will be…

I just may have found a way to get myself healthy again:  trick myself into it.  I realized this fact as I was leaving the Y this morning after doing my cardio workout.  These are words that would not have been uttered a couple of weeks ago.  It just requires a very patient and subtle approach.  This was brought home to me, and my shocked fiance, when he made some comment to me this weekend about something I “had” to do.  The ferocity of my knee jerk reaction scared me and and I think he is still not quite sure to make of it.  It was akin to an Exorcist head spinning with me saying “Don’t tell me what I HAVE to do!”  Not that I have any issues or anything….  It did drive home my theory that the best way to get me to do something had to be the softer, gentler approach.

I believe I mentioned my frustration with my “health status” a few weeks ago.  Actually it was more than just my health – it was pretty much my way of living.  I began this gradual transformation by agreeing to meditate daily.  A couple of weeks later I committed to blogging daily.  OK, at least 5/days week…  Next I needed to tackle the diet.  I had gotten out of control (see my 11/2 post entitled “My November Condition“) and knew I had to do something. I also knew myself enough to know that I just was not in the frame of mind to do a drastic diet change.  So I tricked myself by making it very non-threatening.  I decided that for one week I would give up sugar.  I could do that.  In the past I’ve “agreed” to doing maybe 3-8 weeks without something, but I knew that I was not up for the big commitment yet.  So one week was manageable.

One week came and went without incident and so the next week I decided that I would give up white flour and rice.  And since I had already given up sugar, might as well continue that.  The next week, add in going to the Y for some cardio work.  No pressure – whenever you can get there, but try for at least 3 days/week.  This week, all of the above plus adding onto the cardio routine.  Again, just a little – nothing really noticeable.

So far, so good.  OK, except for that slice of apple pie I just ate.  These mind tricks can work in reverse as I was able to justify eating all that fruit and really, just how much sugar is on that TINY piece of pie anyway?  But I am feeling good about this evolving lifestyle and intend to continue it for a while.  As long as no one tells me how it should be done…