Whats in a Name : Pineapple

     My family already knows why I sometimes use the nickname Pineapple, even if it is not something I am called.  When I started the blog a couple years ago I had no idea what to call it so I fell back on the old standby.

     When I was in high school,  I was pretty much a loner, with just a few close friends.  I didn't participate in many activities like sports or band.  My extracurricular thing was French Club, and I did that just because I had a crush on a couple guy friends.  I wasn't outspoken, and if you asked people from my graduating class if they remembered Marcy, I am pretty sure that most of them wouldn't, even if you showed them picture.  I mastered the art of invisibility, and for someone as awkward as I was, invisibility was a comfort!

However, if you asked some if they remember Pineapple, I am betting at least a few would.

     In my senior year we were required to take P.E.  Many of the girls in class refused to participate because they didn't want to get sweaty, and they definitely didn't want to use the showers.  I  really liked PE though, and  I put in a lot of effort, whether it was basketball, volleyball or flag football. I did manage to piss off a few boys in flag football because they just didn't pay me any mind until I yanked their flag. (Ahem, behave.) The only thing I wasn't crazy about was running the mile. However, in good Marcy fashion, I did try my hardest.

      One of those mile runs was the reason I got the nickname I  would keep for the rest of  the school year.  To say that I didn't have much of a style sense would be like saying  Jay Leno has kind of a big chin.  My choices for gym clothes weren't  the best, and I just grabbed something from the drawer and threw it in the bag.  Today kids get gym clothes, and how much less entertaining that year would have been if I had worn  athletic shorts.  In the eighties, you could  get away with wearing anything.  And on this day, I went to PE wearing thin cotton shorts and matching shirt that had fruit all over them.  You  read that right.  Think cherries, apples, bananas grapes, oh and yeah, pineapples. 

These are not my shorts, but close enough to gag.

     The class began normally.  I started in the back, because that's just what I do.  The athletic types were up front and  as we were running, many of the girls just  walked, so they fell behind.  I  am stubborn, so even if I had to jog  slowly,  I was going to do that mile. I wasn't really that heavy back then, but I was sturdy and strong and bigger than a lot of the little southern belles I shared that class with.  More than halfway through the mile, embarrassingly, the athletics had just about lapped me.  

     As three or four boys approached my lonely self from behind,   I suddenly became the center of attention.  When a girl  with some badonka-donk runs the mile, there is action back there. And if you wear thin cotton shorts, its pretty hard to hide the action.  What happened was that  the fruit on my shorts was moving right along with the rest of me, and that caught the boys attention. I could have stopped and let them pass me, but oh I am a stubborn one, and that was NOT going to happen!  As much as I  tried to be invisible,  I was not going to let this keep me from finishing.   I kept hearing the boys calling out the different fruit on my ass.  I can tell you one thing, as red as my face felt, I think I am glad that they could only see the back side of me!  And as for the pineapple, well, it was the fruit that was right in the middle of my butt.  It could have been worse.  As  I finished the race, a different boy who had already completed the mile cheered me on to the finish with a , "Way to go Butterball!"   That nickname would have sucked.  

     After that day the same boys, when they would see me in the hall, or when I would walk into class, would call me "Pineapple"  dragging out the first syllable. It stopped being embarrassing  after a couple weeks. I had an English teacher who turned the tables on one boy when I was absent from class.  She asked him why they called me that, and after he explained my fruity shorts,  she commented on his checking out my butt.  This was a football player, so that shut him up!  I had one friend in that class and  she couldn't wait to call me and share how red faced HE was!

   So that is how I got the nickname Pineapple.  For me it was probably one of the few memorable moments in high school,  and even though no one called me that after I graduated, I used the small  image pineapple as a signature on my artwork. 
    

Not a midlife crisis.....

   

     This week I will turn forty four years old.  Really, that’s not a milestone.  It’s not a number that is going to get the mailbox decorated with black balloons or over the hill birthday cards.    And I pretty much feel and look better than I did when I was thirty four, when I was carrying an extra forty pounds, plus or minus twenty,  and looked as tired as any mom with a one, six and 11 year  old.   I have a few more wrinkles, but they don’t bother me.  You see them mostly when I smile, and if you made me smile, I don’t mind if you notice them.   I will be proud to show more of them off if you do me the favor of making me laugh! 

     It  has thrown me for a loop, then,  that I seem to be experiencing some age-related transitional problems.  I refuse to call it a mid-life crisis, because crisis sounds far too dramatic and negative, and I don’t have the sudden urge to go out and buy a sports car.   Going from a minivan to a bad ass black F150 was just me boasting that I no longer needed room for three car seats.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 

     While I won’t be celebrating a milestone birthday, all three of my children did last year.  My oldest son turned twenty one, my daughter was sweet sixteen and my baby turned ten years old.  Part of me has been waiting for this moment for a long time, the day when I would find that not only do all of my children have some degree of independence from me, but I have some independence from them as well.   Heck I even went on a few dates with my husband and came home late enough to make my oldest text us to see if we were ok.

But for all these years, my primary purpose and function was to take care of my family.   I kissed boo boos and wiped runny noses.  I made Play-Doh cookies and Lego castles.  I tossed footballs and painted fingernails, made snowmen and helped with homework.  I watched every Disney movie multiple times, and still know most of the songs by heart.  I made costumes, and carved the coolest pumpkins.   In all the time I was a stay at home mom, my main focus was my kids. I didn’t go out, I didn’t make many friends, I didn’t worry about what  I looked like  I tried to master the art of taking care of three kids and a husband. My primary hobbies were reading, working on genealogy, and   keeping up with the news online after everyone was in bed.  I didn’t mind that time at all, I loved it really.  I was shy and staying home appealed to that part of me.  

     Sometime in the very recent past, the looks I get from my kids are less “Mum you are awesome!” to “Mum you don’t have a clue!” And folks, that really cuts deep.   My kids are intelligent, spectacular and sweet.  They would never hurt me on purpose.  They are acting completely in an age appropriate way.   I know that most every mother goes through this, and I know my mom went from my hero, to a lady who didn’t have a clue, back to my hero.  I know I am not alone.  Why doesn’t that make it just a little easier??   Why does my honey get to act like a goof and yet he still can be the cool guy? Why does the song, “You’re gonna miss this?”  make me cry every time?

      Now that my kids don’t need that type of mom anymore, I am really starting to struggle. I am so glad that I started working at the primary school, because it has allowed me to retain the best parts of that time and of me.  I get to care for hundreds of little ones.  It helps me when  my goofy side comes out and my own kids  would give me a look like I’m a doofus, my school kids will  still look at me like I am the BOMB.  

     The unexpected and wonderful side effect of my job is being surrounded by so many wonderful and supportive people, many of them going through their own series of struggles with life and its never-ending series of changes. I am trying to figure out how to appreciate that I am pretty OK outside of my role of “mum”.   I am confused by my feelings that vary from day to day, from feeling the beauty and awesomeness that growing older allows me to be to, the terrified woman who doesn’t have a clue as to what she is supposed to be, hopefully, for the next forty four years of her life.  

     Like the women before me, I’ll get through this, hopefully without leaving as many scars as most life changes mark us with.  And don’t be surprised if I show up with a new tattoo or a crazy new hair-do.  At least that’s a mark I have a choice in!

Embarrassing moments and moments in time ....

      My very small, but humorous embarrassing moment this afternoon made me glad that I haven’t had too many deeply embarrassing moments in my life.   On the few occasions that I have, there were good people who made the moments more bearable, and their acts of kindness make those memories better ones.  I always hope that I am a person who can help, who can make someone feel better.  That doesn’t come automatically to us; it comes from people who teach us the right way to act. It also brought to mind one  a story from when I was a girl.

     I remember one person, and one incident in particular, who made a big impact on me and was one of many who have helped shape the kind of person I have become.

      When I was a young girl, my best friend Frannie lived across the street.   She and my brother and I did everything together.  Her father, Mr. Fichter, was an older gentleman, a father of eight children, the youngest of whom was Fran.  Mr. Fichter, from all I can recall, was a very laid back, kind, hardworking man.  I can see him in my mind’s eye as if he were right in front of me.   He was older, shorter in stature, thin gray hair, and gentle face that sported small round specatacles.  Most times when I saw him he still had on his blue work uniform, Carrier I think, the heating company.  Every memory I have of him is good, whether he was fooling around on New Years Eve, having a sing along in their family dining room around the piano, spending time sharing the special Christmas train display he built each year, showing us old silent movies on a pull down screen with his old 8mm projector.

     There was a time when Mr. Fichter would take Frannie, my brother and I on the city bus on Sunday mornings into downtown Pittsburgh.  I remember exiting the bus, the smell of fresh cold winter air, the bus exhaust, and McDonald’s near the bus stop.   It is a combination of smells that many suburbanites might find offensive, but that I love, instantly transporting me like a time machine that even HG Wells would envy.   Each of us has our own smell, or sound, and that strange city medley is one of mine.

     Some mornings Mr. Fichter would treat us to a Danish or a cup of hot cocoa.  I can’t remember if it was before or after, but he would take us to a big Catholic Cathedral in town, where we were part of the children’s choir.  It was special, and we got to sing from high up in the balcony.  I don’t even think the Mass was heavily attended, but it was something wonderful, in a place we might not ever have visited otherwise.

     It was on one bus trip, whether it was departing or returning, I can’t recall, that Mr. Fichter gave me a very special gift, a lesson really, on what it means to walk the walk, what it means to be truly kind.  Back then, lots of people rode the city bus, and on a Sunday morning, there was every sort of person using the public transit to get to Church, visit friends and family, travel downtown.  As the bus slowed to a stop, an elderly woman got up and made her way towards the front.  My friend and I looked at the woman and we began to giggle.   From behind, we saw that the hem of the elderly woman’s skirt or dress and her slip had become trapped in her undergarment.  Half of her underthings were showing, exposing her little legs and stockings.  Now, in meager defense, we were just squirts, and any children our age would have giggled as well.  

     No one approached the older woman.  Mr. Fichter , who was, simply put, a man of a different time, gave us a look that locked the giggles in our throats.  It wasn't an angry or scowling face, which most kids become practically immune to; it was a very sad and disappointed look that he gave us.  And with that, he quickly approached the woman, whispered something quietly, and returned to us.  I don’t remember anything about how she reacted.  I only remember his look, and then his action. I think he may have spoken to us afterwards about how it would have been better, less embarrassing for the woman if one of us or any other lady on the bus had done the simple act of kindness that he performed. Maybe that is the older me understanding what that look and act imprinted on my memory.

      I am sure that over the many years I have fallen far short of the example Mr. Fichter lived out in his every day life.  I do know that at that moment, I never wanted to witness the look on a face I considered so inherently good.  I tell my kids all the time, don’t do anything you wouldn't want Jesus or your grandma to know, and in my case Mr. Fichter .  Sometimes that can mean saying  nothing, or it can be doing something that is embarrassing.  Having  kids, and working with kids, it’s especially  important for me to do the right thing when I see the opportunity, knowing that little eyes are watching.  I want the imprint I leave on their memories to be  a good one.

Beauty

I love beautiful things.  I told my friend Jane, after talking about a handsome man,  for me, looking at a man is like looking at anything beautiful.  I like looking  at my garden, appreciating the beauty in the flowers ,  the birds. I like the sounds and smells of them.  I like looking at everything, old cars, beautiful homes, you name it.  What I think is beautiful doesn't always impress other people. I find Tom Bergeron  irresistible,   and I  am not sure  exactly why that is, other than he makes me laugh, he makes these funny silly faces.
There is not a litmus test for beauty.  Beauty is a million little things!

While raising my daughter, I wanted to be sure that she felt beautiful. She really is.  But I also know how hard it is for women to accept their own beauty, in whatever form it lies. From the time she was a tot, I have told her how beautiful she was, and I meant every word. She has these amazing blue eyes, framed by beautiful dark lashes.  She  has a little dimple when she smiles, just like her daddy.  As she has grown, she has taken my breath away with the sheer gorgeousness of her,  her laugh, her  physical beauty, her intelligence, humor, talent and  strength..

It is really hard for me to watch her struggle with her self image  now. To me, she is stunning, yet she compares herself to other girls she can never, and shouldn't ever want to be. I was that way when  I was her age, and for much longer.  I thought that beauty in a girl was a tiny frame, big breasts, perfect skin.  Even after I met Chris, my very own freckle faced beauty,  I spent too many  of  our married  years  wondering when he would realize he made a big mistake.   I just didn't see what he did.

The past three years working with a building full of  wonderful women  has helped  me accept the beauty that is in me. I used to think  working with so many women would be horrible, that I would find that I was inferior, that they would look at me with the same eyes that I saw myself. An amazing thing happened. I met all of these women, and learned that we had so much in common!  The woman I thought was spectacularly beautiful or amazingly talented or kind, they  were generous with their compliments, and the sharing of what it means to be a woman, a wife, a mother. The ones I thought were the most stunning shared the same insecurities that I had.

I am going on  now, like I do when I start talking.  But  I think what I want to say, if you are a mother,  remember that your child looks at you as the most beautiful thing in the world.  Don't berate yourself. Your child will listen, and she will take that to heart.  When she is old enough, she will look at herself and remember your self criticism  and find herself wanting.

If you are a dad, or brother, or just friend,  remember  to appreciate out loud all the things you find beautiful in a woman, not just the physical..  Your daughter, sister , friend hears that and judges herself by your words too.

I had a substitute teacher tell me this year  that my smile lit up the whole room.  She went on about it for a while, and even though I was embarrassed, I floated on cloud nine for the rest of the day. I will never be petite, I'm never going to be Angelina Jolie.  But, I am beautiful.  And  my sweet baby girl, you are too.

Why Baseball is not just a Sport, or, Why I love the Reds



Why Baseball is not just a sport to me, or, Why I love the Reds.

I am one happy woman! The Reds will be on the radio every day at about 3p.m. for the next two weeks, and I will be listening. It’s just spring training, but opening day is close enough to touch. I know Rachel Evans is right there with me, but I think some of my co-workers think I’m off my rocker over the Reds. Well, maybe I am, just a little.


Baseball is more than just a sport to me. It is tied to so many memories of people and places, sounds and smells.

It was a schoolgirl’s crush on the little league pitcher. That boy’s last name rhymed with my first name, and I remember my brother, or maybe my mother, teasing, “Marcella Tortella”. His name was Richie.

It was playing in the backyard with my brother and our best friends, either “off the wall” where pitching meant bouncing a rubber ball off the garage next to our house, or whiffle ball, where the rules included hitting the runner with the ball to get him out.

It was watching my little brother play baseball, or watching my dad and the guys play softball, where honeybees visited garbage cans full of flavored ice cone wrappers and empty soda bottles, and little girls sat in the bleachers with dirty hands and faces from playing in the dust.

It was warm summer nights at my gram’s house, sitting with her on the front porch, watching fireflies and car’s pass by her house, and listening to the voice of Pirates baseball, Lanny Frattare. It was my dad parking at the gas station where my Uncle Henny worked and walking the several blocks to Three Rivers Stadium to watch the Pittsburgh Pirates play. In the spring or fall, we sometimes played “hooky”, getting out of school to watch our favorite players alongside our favorite people, Mom and Dad, Grams, and her friend Angie. Baseball was remembering Angie-babe, as Gram called her, screaming out for her favorite player, “WILLIE!” (#8 Willie Stargell) If she was pissed at a player, depending on the number of beers she had, she hollered much more colorful things! Baseball was the smell of beer, peanuts and hotdogs, and the unspoken hope of ice cream on the way home.

When we moved to Birmingham, Alabama, baseball was going to watch the Buccos when they played the Braves. It was an eccentric teenage girl looking more like a bumblebee than a baseball fan, and the whole family singing Billy Joel during a rain delay. And when the need for watching baseball outweighed the need for staying loyal, it was cheering on the Cubbies when they were on WGN, or watching the Birmingham Barons play minor league ball.

Then I met Chris, and baseball became a Tomahawk Chop, and a chant that would make my folks crazy. They never did buy into the Atlanta Braves. They eventually moved back to Pittsburgh, and not long after we had our firstborn, we followed them. They loved their Buccos once more, but by then we had our Braves. That year the two faced each to go to the World Series, and living in the same house, we somehow made peace with that. Dad even took me to see the Pirates one summer when Jessie was more than just a twinkle, so I know there was no grudge.

When we moved near Akron, I lost touch with baseball. I was busy with a baby and a kindergardener, and the Cleveland Indians never caught my eye. We took Jeff to one game, but the spark wasn’t there.

Then we moved to Cincinnati, and I met the Reds. I don’t remember how it started; only that it didn’t happen right away. Maybe it was  Joshua playing his first tee ball games. Maybe I heard Reds announcers Marty Brenneman or the “Cowboy” Jeff Brantley, when I was searching for Talk Radio. Whatever it was, baseball called me back, and when it did, all of the things that baseball meant came back with it. When I went to my first Reds game at the Great American Ballpark, I was in love. Like Three River Stadium, the Ballpark sits right beside the (Ohio) river, and when you look to right field, you can see the river and the river barges. Cincinnati itself reminds me of home, with skyscrapers and bridges, and colorful, city- loyal people. Now I am eager for another baseball season to begin, and while my boys are ready for it, my daughter isn’t so crazy about baseball. That’s okay though. Maybe one day when she is older, baseball won’t be all those boring games, but maybe it will be some of the things that baseball became to me. I hope when they get older, my kids will hear a game on the radio, and they will not think of baseball as just a sport, but a thousand happy memories.



crybaby

I  moved  my boy into college on Thursday.  I did really well, and I hardly cried at all.  I did a little bit when I was putting his stuff in the van, but only  Chris saw me, and he didn't tell.   Jeff was  so nervous, and when we took him to breakfast, he was pretty shook up.   When we got to school, he wanted me to go with him to fill out paperwork, while his dad waited for the golf cart to unload the stuff out of the van.

As we were about done, it was clear Jeff was feeling a little better, and he let us know we could go whenever we were ready! LOL.  I gave him a big hug, and still, I didn't cry.


Anyone who knows me,  this was a monumental feat for someone who cries at cartoons and commercials, who cries when she is sad, happy and angry, and everything in between.

I didn't cry Friday. Jeff was happy and having a great time.
I didn't cry Saturday. Jeff was making new friends, and staying out WAY too late.

Then today.  Well, so much for the not crying thing!  We got up early, got ready for Church. We  sat behind Sam and Courtney at Mass, (his friends) and Courtney's family.  That was cool. I said hi to the girls.
At some point after Mass started, my little Joshua  was snuggling up next to me, and he put his little face in my arm, and looked up at me  with a sad face and said, " I miss Jeff."  I  told him, I miss him too.

  TA DA!!   In front of a couple hundred people, my eyeballs decided it was a good time to leak.
I didn't even have a tissue. I had to go to the bathroom to get some toilet paper because my sniffles were getting on MY nerves!  (TWICE)

You might think it was just that cute little Josh, with his  watery eyes, that did me in.  You would be partially right. But really, Joshua just felt first what was missing from out picture.  Jeff hasn't really wanted to hang with us for a while. He is eighteen after all, and being with friends is much more fun, whether in person, or online.  But the one time a week when we are always together is on Sunday when we go to Church together.  There are very few times when we go without him.  Then the stupid  Music director for the church HAD to play America the Beautiful.

The last few times  the song has been accompanied by Jeff on the trumpet.  It is one of the reasons I stopped grumbling about playing a patriotic song at church instead of a song praising God.

No trumpet.
No Jeff.

It just did't feel  right today.  I am going to have to get over  the fact that Jeff is moving on with his life.

We will always be a family of five , but all five of us are not always going to be together~!

One more week

There is only one more week until school, give or take a few days depending on which  of the kids I am talking about.  Jessie has  an open house Monday when she will get her schedule and find all of the rooms for her classes.  I am SO glad that we only have to go through that stress once in our life. Well, you know what I mean anyway, she has several years of it.

    I  went to Catholic school, so it was a lot different for me than it is for the kids in public school. I went through K-8 with the same  30 kids.  We switched classes in 8th grade, and that meant all 30 of us went accross the hall to another room for math! I didn't go through  the type of adjustment she will  until ninth grade.  And let me tell you, I was THAT freshman.   The Highschool I went to freshman year had three levels, plus the basement where the cafeteria was, and my locker was down there too.  :(  I was the kid who was afraid to be late for the class on the third floor, so I carried  umpteen books around with me .
What was worse, I was desperate to be liked, so when a classmate asked me to carry their books, while they schmoozed with other friends, I likely did it. Yes, I was also the one who dropped said books while going up the stairs!

Josh starts school Thursday. Bless his heart, he is anxious about second grade because a kid  he know said he will have to add 3 digit numbers.  He will, that is true, but the kid is just good at math. he will do fine. 

Jeff has a little more time to relax. His  move in date is September 2.  THey have a whole weekend of activities planned, and I am sure  he will do fine. But I feel sort of like when  each of them started kindergarten.  Maybe worse.  He has already  "met" his roomate online, so that shouldn't be as awkward as I was worried about.  One thing that is helping me is that he is only going to be forty minutes away, so if we forget to pack something,  or he needs us, it is only a phone call away. Now I just have to keep from calling HIM and bugging him while he is away!  See, he should thank me that he doesnt have texting!!

Overall, I am kind of bummed that summer is almost over. We had alot of fun together , and there are alot of changes to come this school year, and I am not sure I am ready for them.  They are coming anyway.