The Class of 87 Turns Forty

(delivered to my senior class, Corner Brook, Newfoundland, July 11, 2009.)

A high school reunion is a time of reckoning. At some point during this midlife rite of passage--say, as you step out on the dance floor for an interpretive heavy metal dance solo, or as you scheme with your classmates to t.p. the houses of local alumni who are no-shows, you have to ask yourself the existential question, what am I doing here?

When I was in high school, I couldn’t wait to get away from it. Let’s be honest, I didn’t wait. I skipped classes most of my senior year, got my diploma, went to prom, and split. Like everyone here tonight, I grew up, and had a life. As I got older, those three years kept getting smaller. Cynicism about them in my twenties faded to indifference by my thirties. High school was a vanishing point in my rearview mirror, just a place I passed through in a hurry a long time ago.

Turning forty is another time of reckoning. The number is an arbitrary mile marker. Supposedly it represents the halfway point in life, but none of us knows how long--or strange--a trip this is. We have friends who didn’t make it this far. But judging by the horrified expressions of the twentysomethings who watched our takeover of their night club on Broadway last night, it’s fair to say the Class of ’87 is officially middle-aged. Yeah, We Shook You. All Night Long.

My birthday is a few months away, but mile four-oh is in sight. And as I approach it, I begin to sense that the road is curved. My thoughts circle back more often to my youth. I google names I haven’t thought of in years. I find myself listening to Journey songs. Non-ironically. Just a small town girl.

And though I would have said you were out of your mind had you predicted it twenty two years ago, my response to the first suggestion that we hold this reunion was a mighty Hell Yeah. I drove 2,500 miles for seven days in a minivan with three kids and my husband. Not to compare resumes, bank balances or hip circumferences. Not just to see my bffs. And not to keep my house from being tp’d some day. But to honor the place and time I came from, to embrace the people who knew me when, and to connect with the part of myself that is forever seventeen, no matter what the birthday card says.

And to laugh my ass off.

Thank you for being here. Happy fortieth.

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And on the seventh day...

We made it.



And there was much rejoicing.




Road tales to come. In the meantime, check our photos in the right hand sidebar link to my flickr set.

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Mile Marker: Day 5

We crossed the border into Canada today, after overnight stops in Maryland, New York, and Maine. We've come through eleven states, three time zones, and nearly 2,000 miles, and still have two provinces and the Gulf of St. Lawrence to cross.

Here's a quick update on what's been working, and what's not:

Routine is our friend. We drive 8 hour days max, getting on and off the road about the same time most days. The kids know what to expect. I've built in short horizon lines, like a movie after lunch, and an ice cream stop late afternoon. The ice cream idea came from the same road wizard who told me to "swim their hinies off," and in my opinion, this woman needs to be consulted on the situation in Iraq. She'll have it all sorted out in no time.

Another invaluable tip from Bridget was to be sure to book hotels with indoor pools. "Huh?" I said, at the time, from my house in sunny and dry Arkansas. "OH!" I said, as we drove into rain all the way up the Appalachians and into New England. Genius.

Those daily swims--sometimes, after dark-- have been our salvation, I am convinced.

Something I wish I'd brought is a travel clothsline. I've had to roll wet swimsuits into towels and pack them more than once.

Another thing I'd take next time is a bigger road atlas, one that shows every highway interchange clearly. We have the coil-bound, medium Rand Mcnally, and there have been times we've had to second guess my Blackberry gps app, TelNav (we call her Clarisse), or the satellite craps out at a delicate juncture (Clarisse can get passive-aggressive). GPS is fantastic, and I can't imagine making a trek like this without it, but it's not infallible. In fact, today we analysed the atlas and overrode Clarisse for the last 60 miles through Maine, which ended up being a wise decision, though she cussed us out for a while.

Which brings me to another lesson learned: scenic byways are highly overrated. We've taken two detours off the Interstate--Rte 30 through Pennsylvania, and Rte 1 through Maine, and those are years of my life I will never get back. Wet, dreary years. Yes, we passed through a few charming villages and chuckled over the odd kooky bit of roadside Americana, but I'd rather have had more time at our destinations. On the way back, we'll be sticking to the Interstate.

The kids continue to amaze me with their patience and good humor. Several people suggested stocking up on games and activities from the dollar bin, and rationing them out as needed. The fact that Mom's bag of tricks is still quite full is a testament to how well they've been travelling. And it's not like they are zombies in front of a video screen all day--we have one movie per day, and just an hour or so of DS. Up in the cockpit, my co-pilot and I are enjoying their conversations and observations so much.

Lots more to come.

Sent from my BlackBerry Smartphone provided by Alltel

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On the Road

Well, this is an experiment in mobile blogging from the road, so forgive any formatting irregularities. The Great (North) American Family Roadtrip is underway, and we are zipping up I-81 into Virginia. Pretty country!

We set out yesterday morning, and though it makes me THAT mom, I have to crow over how amazing the kids were all day. We haven't driven more than a couple of hours at a stretch in years, so I had no idea what to expect. Honestly, Patrick and I argued more than the boys did, and that was for all of two minutes (over some minor point of automotive safety.)

We got into Knoxville, Tennessee in time for supper and a swim. Patrick's best friend from college brought his family and joined us. They hadn't seen each other in 20 years. I'm already thinking of this as the vacation brought to us by Facebook. Several items on our itinerary are owed to renewed connections there.

Remember how fun hotels were when you were a kid? Give them a swimming pool and a luggage cart, and it's as good as Six Flags. "Swim their hinies off," a veteran road warrior mom advised me. Great advice: they were asleep moments after lights out.

We're so far managing to eat reasonably healthy. Lunches and snacks are out of the cooler. Patrick teased me for all my list making of the past few weeks, but this morning he chivalrously ate his hat, marvelling over how well our little ship is run. Example: our clothes are packed, one day's worth at a time, in giant, numbered ziploc bags, stowed in the clamshell rooftop carrier. At check-in, we just grab that bag, and return it as laundry in the morning.

It's bound to all go to hell at some point, but so far, we're wondering why we don't just live on the road.

Okay, the pilot just announced that I am missing some tremendous scenery. Next stop: Pennsylvania.
Sent from my BlackBerry Smartphone provided by Alltel

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The Great (North) American Family Roadtrip '09:Preparing for Take Off

Telling people you plan to make a 5,000 mile road trip with three kids is like telling people you plan to have three kids. Those who haven't been there/done that, think we are nuts. Those who have been there/done that assure us it will be the time of our lives.

I like to think they are both right. It's not exactly the first crazy journey Patrick and I have taken together. We've always loved being on the road, and the children are finally at an age where traveling with them doesn't feel like a kidnapping gone bad. I'm confident we're in for a great adventure.

We head out Sunday across Tennessee, and then head north. We hope to roll across the Canadian border on Canada Day, and should pull into my mother's driveway on the Fourth of July. I'll be seeing my sister, her husband, and their kids (one of whom you see pictured above on my kitchen wall) for the first time in four years. I've got a high school reunion to catch. And lobsters to eat. If the van ran on anticipation, we really would be flying.

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The Meeting Place

Two lifetimes ago, a generation and thousands of miles apart, two boys set out to be men, along paths that were in no way parallel.

Patrick's father:



and mine:



They met each other, as men, one time.

They dwell together, in spirit and in flesh, every day:



In memory of PawPaw and Poppy, on Father's Day.

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Put that Cosmo quiz down!

And take this one instead, brought to you by the sparkly brilliance that is the collective mind of Kirtsy to test your fluency in social media:

A. When you hear the term social media, you think:


It should be followed by the term optimization.


Greatest thing evah!


I love Page Six!


I have no idea what you’re talking about.


B. When you see things like ‘twitter’, ‘flickr’, ‘etsy’, ‘vlog’, ‘flagr’,and ‘dopplr’ you think…


They’re all soooo 2008…I’m now beta testing things you’ll hear about sometime in 2010, if you’re lucky.


I could not live without these things. Please don’t make me try.


Where are all the vowels?


When you make up words that aren’t really words, you just seem silly.


C. When I say RSS, you say…


Meh.


Yay!


Umm…


Stop.

Check your answers and count up your numbers.
If you or someone you love scored between 9 and 12, well then it’s time for some serious hands-on learnin’. Don’t be scared. It’s painless. And super easy.

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I love those girls and everything they do. They are a wild party. Even our conference calls involve feather boas and clinky drinks. So I was thrilled when they emailed to say they wanted to bring Hands On Social Media training to Little Rock, with me as the presenter. And when the fabulous Capital Hotel stepped up and offered to house it, well, I kissed the Capital Hotel full on the mouth.

If you come, I promise to show some self-control. But inside, I will be very, very excited. Did I mention it's FREE, thanks to a sponsorship by Microsoft?

It happens this Saturday, June 20th at 10 am, and again at 2 pm. There are two offerings of the same, two-hour session. Registration couldn't be easier. Go here for all the details (scroll down to Little Rock). Please note that the Saturday night cocktail party has been postponed to a later date (tba). Instead, why not come meet me and get a gander at who's who in Little Rock social media at tonight's TweetUp, at the Capital Bar and Grill, 5:30-8? There are drink specials and free valet parking. Not twittering yet? No worries. Come anyhow. Most of us are amazingly normal.

Just find me. I will tuck you under my wing, and provide translation services if needed. I look like this:



See? Perfectly normal.

---

P.S. I have more 'splainin to do on THV's This Morning show Friday. Watch my twitter updates for the time.

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Cannonball

I should have started work an hour and a half ago, but Mondays...what are you gonna do? So a quick update before I get down to it.

Summer is officially underway. The kids got out of school June 5, and their nanny started last week. She shows up at 8 every morning, and I run past her to one of several coffee shops that are serving as satellite office space this summer. I write all morning and come home at noon. Leaving aside the utter lack of financial security or benefits, crushing pressure, and strangling attacks of self-doubt, I have to say that it totally beats a straight job.

Any of you keeping up with me on twitter know that we have made our vacation plans: we leave in two weeks to drive 5,000 miles to Newfoundland and back. It's utter madness. But it's been thirteen years since I left home, and there's a part of me that wants to feel the distance, know the revolutions of the wheel and the distance spanned. Something feels right about making this trek while I'm writing my way back to the beginning of my American life.

Expect stories. And send survival tips.


Back to it.

P.S. I'm giving away a wonderful summer book for girls of all ages on Noteworthy this week. Go enter.

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Preshus.

You'll have to have read this blog last week to understand what this means:

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a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!
!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!
a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!
!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!
a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!a!

Thanks for the push. xo

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Role Model: Jean Kerr

After "Mommy Wears Prada" came out last summer, I was approached by several literary agents wondering if I had a book.

"You could be Erma Bombeck," one told me, in a gross (if flattering) oversell.

"No disrespect to Mrs. Bombeck," I said, "but I'd rather be Jean Kerr."

Actually, I'd rather just be me. But if you haven't heard of Kerr, or read her book, Please Don't Eat the Daisies, you're missing out on some very smart and funny writing about motherhood. Kerr was cultured without posing, witty without snarking, warm without being saccharine. If Mommy blogs had been invented sixty years ago, she'd have been the Queen.

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