When the child becomes the parent

Dad passed away yesterday, one week after I wrote the story below. 

My Dad has cancer. Our family is now part of that club that no one wants to belong to. But once you’re in it, you’re forever a member. Your mind flashes back to all of the stories of friends and family from the past and suddenly you’re hearing them again. But this time, you’re hearing them in a language you actually understand. You’ve been initiated.

No more radiation, No more chemo. Dad is dying. The man who raised my sister and me along with Mom. The man who left the house every morning wearing a tie, a Mad Men-worthy hat with briefcase in hand. The man who meticulously twist-tied every single light on the Christmas tree (sometimes a 2-day process) while we waited anxiously to hang the first ornaments. The man who believed without a doubt that road trips were to be conquered with relish. And the only good reason for a stop was an empty tank of gas. The fact that he traveled with three females (two of whom had infamously small bladders) must have been a great test of his will. 

 Dad and Mom are from an era when you do not ask of others. They are honest, hearty, hard-working native Nebraskans. One does not need help. And for the last 61 years as a married couple, they never asked for it as far as I know.

Enter bone cancer. It came into our lives quickly. After metastasizing slowly from his kidney. A diagnosis at the end of March quickly escalated to hospice three weeks ago. A new world. A different language. The club has new members.

His request was (and still is) simple, really. “Let me die at home.” Mom, 84 like him, bravely led the charge. But as quickly as the cancer grew, so did the job. When I arrived to help out a few weeks ago, Mom was exhausted on every possible level. She was going to do it all.  Because that’s what people like my parents do. I took her to ER the next morning.

That was the moment when it was time. Time for the child to become the parent. My sister and I have shared the blurry trek from Washington State to remote Northern New Mexico. There, we’ve helped order hospital beds, moved furniture and art, coaxed Dad to suffer the indignities of helplessness as he took on a quiet newfound dignity, even handed over driver’s licenses to pick up the controlled substances that make him forget the terrible pain that is eating his body. We learned to navigate the volunteer system, hire experienced caregivers in a small New Mexico town (“This isn’t Albuquerque you know,”) and convinced Mom that yes, the retired minister neighbor and his outgoing wife, yes, the neighbor who lost her husband to ALS and yes, the man who survived cancer really do want her to call.  They’re in the club after all.

This trip, I brought my two children. To see their grandpa. To let him see them. In his brief good moments, he shared gifts and wisdom with them. He openly stared at them as they sat, uncomfortable but sagely understanding under the scrutiny.

We’re heading back home now.

An early goodbye with lots of hugs and quickly-wiped tears, an hour and change drive to the closest public airport, a hefty layover and then the last flight. Home stretch. My 12-year-old daughter and I decided to watch the in-flight movie: A sappy, painfully predicable love story.

And then, I lost it. Have you ever seen anyone openly sobbing during a ridiculously cheesy movie on a plane? That was me. My daughter looked over with concern. I wiped the tears quickly and apologized.

She looked at me, said “it’s okay,” laid her head against mine and gently patted my arm. In that moment the child once again became the parent.

Big Agency Brat Changes the Toner Cartridge! (Not really)

Photo: CBS News. Expression: Perfect.

For a lot of my career, I have worked at large (I mean 1100 people in one office large) to medium/large advertising agencies (think: 50-400 people). In most, I had an assistant that I shared with a few others. Or as I worked my way up the ladder, I was rewarded with an assistant of my own.  She (there were several over the years, almost every one a gem, and yes, they were all female) did my timesheets. My travel. My expense reports. My calendar. She walked into meetings to pull me out if I was late, or pushed my next obligation back. She made my copies, brought me lunch. She made sure my husband knew what city I was in and when I’d be back in town.  She was a lifesaver. And she was just one benefit of being, as I have described to others who have made the bounce from giant monolith to small independent, a “Big Agency Brat.”

In my Big Agency Dreams maybe

As far as “Big Agency Brats” go, I was pretty easy. Made my own travel plans through the agency travel desk when they changed on the road, called my own cabs, got my own coffee and lunch. I pretty much kept my own calendar and tended to be on time (or close to it) for meetings. More often than not, I made my own copies too. Heck, I even added 8 ½ x 11 paper on several occasions and called the IT guy when the toner was low. Some may disagree (hopefully none of the assistants I so loved) but I tried not to be too bratty. 

Cut to last April, in a small, bustling office in Seattle. An agency called Hydrogen Advertising had welcomed me into their fold. An agency full of old friends and former co-workers. An agency of hope, talent and (surprise) people who honestly try to help each other out.  Really. I remember after sitting in my first all-agency meeting (we did then and still can squeeze into one room) and saying to my colleagues: “Everyone’s really, genuinely nice to each other here. I’ll try to get used to this.”

Now don’t get me wrong, most of my career has been filled with positive experiences: good friends, wise mentors, you name it. And when things weren’t as, um, positive, well I proudly look back on these times as “learning experiences.”

Oh, and speaking of “learning experiences, ” let’s get back to my new job and my new life. Sans assistant of course, I gamely sat down to do my first timesheet in our agency’s timesheet program a week or so into the gig. I stopped looking at the clock after two hours. I think I had half a bottle (or more) of wine that night just trying to forget the horror that was that timesheet. I swear that program was designed by sadistic left brainers who, at a young age, decided that right brainers must be punished and punished severely. Then there were the expense reports. (Oh yeah, I used to sign those…) And of course, the copier.

Thanks to Eli Moody for a very evil copier illustration.

The copier. I have a copier at home. I was a freelancer for a year at one point in my life. I can do this.

Actually, no I can’t. I can print, yes. I can even collate and staple. But for the life of me, of the four paper trays on that monster, none of them seem to be the “empty” one. I think the paper hops around when the trays are closed to trick me. Of course, kind, patient co-workers swoop in to help. I haven’t even asked where the toner cartridges are. Nor would they probably tell me, if I asked. (Wise move on their part.)

Oh and the timesheets? No prob these days. I have learned to click on the least intuitive box in the spreadsheet and my job numbers pop up in seconds. Click. Save. Done.

Take that, left brain sadists.

8 1/2 weeks

 Not long ago, I posted about my month as a full-time Mom. Since then, I have started a job 2,500 miles away. And I started it 2 1/2 months before the rest of my family will join me. Now, I'll admit I didn't really think about it beforehand but I have honestly never, ever lived totally alone in my life. I've always had roommates. In more recent years, I upped the ante to include an XY, two kids, two dogs, a tankful of fish and a corn snake. (We did have a guinea pig but she has since found a new home. Really, another home, not at a "ranch" or anything.) So for me, chaos is the norm. But lately, it's been just me and uh...me.

Hello, Friend

Crickets. 

I have a great little place. A cottage behind a house attached to a garage. Kind of a glorified efficiency. Just the right size and very nice. But perhaps the most important feature of this cozy place is the remote control gas wood stove. Yep. Remote control. I walk in the door and turn it on when I get home from work. The flame that flickered on demand quickly became my beloved companion. A warm friend who's always ready to welcome me home at the end of the day. I also developed a much closer relationship with the tv. I've never been a huge tv watcher, but I will admit: The Voice can get kind of addictive.

My kitchen looks different, too. French bread. Red wine. Imported salami. Truffled sea salt. Arugula-at-the-ready.

But the biggest thing I've noticed about living alone is how little one XX (at least this XX) effects the environment. When I get home at night, MY HOUSE IS EXACTLY LIKE I LEFT IT. Not a dish in the sink. Not a thing out of place. Not a noise to be heard (until I turn on the tv.)  No spills or stains to be discovered. No piles of dirty clothes to trip over. No "mysteriously" un-flushed toilets. No toothpaste drips in the sink. Who knew? I'm a neat freak.

Dinner of Champions and one XX

Sometimes I'll go for a long walk at twilight (love that flashlight APP, btw) or early in the morning. I can go to bed whenever I want. Or I'll just lay in bed and watch the wood stove flicker in the next room for an hour or two. Once, I had imported dark chocolate and red wine for dinner. Delicious.

Yes, I have done it. I have lived alone. I have survived for 8 1/2 weeks on one roll of paper towels, one bar of soap and a dozen eggs. I survived the realization that I was talking out loud to myself as I watched tv. (Was it The Voice or Law & Order? I can't remember. Oh come on, I can't believe you can't remember...) I survived when there was nothing to clean, no dog to let outside, and no one complaining or bickering or fighting.

My time alone is quickly coming to an end.  In a few short weeks, I'll fly back East to road trip across the country once again with my XY and two kids. This time, we'll add two dogs and a snake to the car.

I hope he doesn't get car sick

Let the chaos begin.

Hot Mommas

Yeah, don't get your homes up. This is an XX blog, not an XXX blog. I'm here to talk about the hottest thing going right now: Mom. That's right, the love, honor, respect (and buying and selling power) of Mom.

Being a Mom myself, I am glad to see that gone are the days of romancing "my Mom is the reason I'm the mess I am today" in film, literature and my personal favorite, advertising. Moms had it bad there for years. Decades, I'd say. One minute, Moms are June Cleaver baking cookies in pearls. The next? We're villainesses who destroy lives and force our grown children to finance their therapists' weekend homes in the Hamptons. Maybe only one other group has been as pigeonholed as the controlling, life-wrecking Mom: the generic 25-40-year-old, possibly-slightly balding, usually Caucasian XY. He's been the politically correct butt of jokes since before Reagan was in office.

"Momma made me do it."

But now it's 2012. The world is enlightened. Somebody, somewhere realized that in most cases ( I know unfortunately not all), Moms are a positive influence. PEOPLE LIKE THEIR MOMS. Heck, sometimes they even love them. Maybe even more important, someone realized that Moms are the ones who buy stuff. So it might not be a bad idea to make them feel good about themselves. Give them credit for trying, not blame for failing. And I for one, like it.

With Mother's Day just a few weeks away, the Momvertising is out there in full force. Hallmark always tugs at the heart and this year is no exception with their latest  in the "Tell Me" series "Tell Mom". Of course, the idea is, tell Mom what she is doing right. Casting is imperfect and therefore noticeable.  Sentiments were fragile and heartfelt. Advertising cynic though I may be, I turned to my almost teenager and started quoting lines back from the spot, complete meaningful looks.

But Hallmark and Mother's Day are just the tip of the Momvertising iceberg. Kudos to P&G (Cannes's advertiser of the year in 2008 and loaded with Lions for years) for their "Proud Sponsor of Mom" positioning. Those smart people who realized that Moms are buying everything and we should be nice? That was Proctor. Sure, you'd expect it from Pampers (they're actually breaking ground with XY's for this brand these days.) But recently, someone sent me a link to an Oil of Olay site, no doubt the latest from their "Generations" campaign. Check it at: Facebook: Oil of Olay  "My Mom shows me Beauty by Example" not only upholds the strength of Mom, but this Facebook page encourages you to talk about the good things you got from Mom. How often do you hear XX's do that?  It's a Facebook page actually worth visiting.

Thanks, Proctor & Gamble

But for me, the pinnacle of P&G's positioning revealed itself in the 2010 Winter Olympics.  Here's a taste: P&G: They'll always be kids.Of course, the cynic in me saw the ending of these spots a mile away. And you know what? I didn't care. Call me pre-menopausal (but not to my face), these spots moved me. And they threw the stake in the ground that nobody's for Moms like Proctor. (Unnamed car company recently hijacked this idea with a dad and daughter, but P&G got there first and more powerfully.)  With the London Olympics coming, how will P&G top 2010?

Sniff, here's a great start. London 2012 P&G commercial Yes, Moms are going to be hot this summer. You heard it here first.

The Great American Road Trip (with apologies to Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Columbia, Ecuador, Guyana, Paraguay, Peru, Suriname, Uruguay, Venezuela, Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and Panama)

You too can do Mt. Rushmore in 17 minutes

I know, there are many Great American Road Trips. For example, there's Che Guevra's epic, life-changing SOUTH American road trip (no political statement here) made famous in the U.S. by the book and then 2004 film, The Motorcycle Diaries. In fact today, Bolivian travel companies romance ( in English) the "Ruta de Che" in your choice of a 4-day/3-night or 6-day/5-night packages, continental breakfast included, no doubt. (Now at this point I probably need to let my XY know that no, this doesn't mean I want to tour South America on the back of his motorcycle, sorry. Maybe in a car.)

But I digress. I'm talking the United States of America here. And short of the much-hummed Route 66 that winds from Chicago to L.A., I recently took what is surely the Greatest American Road Trip of All Time. I'm talkin' Interstate 90, 8 states, 2,500 miles, 6 days, five people and an overpacked Toyota Camry. It was a trip of necessity, to take my car, me, and whatever I could fit in the trunk to Seattle to start my new job. And it fell over spring break.

Until this year, our spring breaks were spent at a tropical beach or a mountain or a Disney facility.

What do you think they talk about?

Badlands, South Dakota

But this year, we traded Mickey Mouse for Best Western. And it pretty much rocked. We passed up  the Corn Palace but stopped at Wall Drug. We wandered the Badlands and made it to Mt. Rushmore minutes before it closed. We hiked around Devil's Tower and outran storms in windy western Wyoming. Yes, we saw all of the expected places. But  I was also impressed with beauty in unexpected places. (Like the spectacular border between Wisconsin and Minnesota.) I jumped a fence to avoid a frightened, charging bison on the streets of Gardiner, Montana during a morning run. I marveled at the foreign XX bathrooms in Montana and Idaho that offered side-by-side seating, no stall required. (It gave a whole new meaning to the cliche of girls going to the bathroom in pairs.) I heard the whoops of joy from preteens who, even after five years, couldn't wait to eat at Taco Time after seeing the first sign just east of the Cascades. But perhaps most important, my XY and I discovered the secret of somewhat-less-painful-family road travel. Call me a Beta Mom if you must but when you're driving 500-700 miles a day, and everyone, even the driver, is holding a backpack at their feet, it's no time to inflict your ideal of cherubic faces silently watching beautiful scenery and playing quiet road sign games. Give into the Kindle, the iPad, and most important, the motel with the overly-chlorinated indoor pool. Did I mention the importance of the motel with indoor pool?

Bison can really move when they want to. So can I.

It was epic, our road trip. And a gift to spend so much up-close time with my loved ones that putting them on a plane was a relief, for almost 12 minutes.

Of course, they're coming out in June. So, we're preparing for the Great American Road Trip Part Two. We'll skip Mt. Rushmore and head to Crazy Horse. We'll see Old Faithful, which was closed for the winter in March. Heck, maybe we'll even stop at the Corn Palace. And because my XY and I are always trying to up the degree of difficulty, this time we'll be doing it with two dogs and a pet snake. Stay tuned...

9-ish hours in Berlin

I recently found myself with a "free day" while working in Germany. It was my last project for my former agency. (More on my next adventure in the future). But, it was definitely a project and trip that meant closing a major chapter in my work life. I flirted with flying home early to start the next chapter post haste, but the ticket change was twice as expensive as the hotel bill. My next chapter could wait a day.

An XY I had been working with suggested Berlin.

Berlin. Sexy. Different. Full of art and architecture and history and cool bars and late nights. Well, I had a day so the second half was out. But a day in Berlin started to sound pretty sweet.

I checked with friends who had been there for fun or business and the rave reviews kept coming. But I only had a day. Less than a day really. A two-hour high-speed train ride there and back combined with a freakishly early flight out the next morning, made every second precious.

Suggestions, great suggestions came from everywhere. My former boss and friend. A producer I'll miss working with. A co-worker who actually lives in Berlin and works in Hamburg.  He and an acquaintance with the exact opposite situation arranged a symbiotic "house swap" during the week. Smart.

Okay, let's start with the "must do" list: East Side Gallery, shopping around Hackescher Market/Rosenthaler Str, Topography of Terror ("it's not what you think," I was assured), the bust of Nefertiti at the Neues Museum, the Reichstag (Parliament), a walking tour, a brunch place called Entweder Oder, The Tacheless, Mustafa's food car, climb the Kreuzberg, Curry 36.....

That's a lot of must-dos. I went to the front desk of the hotel and after the first woman vaguely pointed to the lobby computer when I asked for help, I was saved by her colleague who offered to help me book the train ticket. She helped me read the time table, the special pricing, and printed it out for me. Love her. Emboldened by that, I decided to plan the day around my train schedule. I booked a ticket to the Neues entirely in German. I tried (and failed) to get a time pass for the Reichstag. On recommendation ("I know it sounds stupid but it's really great," I think were my old producer's words) I booked a free walking tour. In English.

All I had to do was get from the train station to the Brandenburg Gate. I could do that. Yeah, a three-year-old could do it. It was a sneeze of a walk across a bridge and past the Reichstag. I was immediately struck by the architecture. The old and the new together. This city doesn't ignore its past, it respects it. Honors it. Creates memorials lest we are tempted to repeat our mistakes.

The tour was worth every penny. (Just kidding, the guides work for tips. He was a bit of a tourist hater but he hid it well. And he knew his stuff. Yes, I tipped him well.)

Memorial to the
Murdered Jews of Europe 

He took us through Brandenburg gate, showed us the famous "Michael Jackson" baby dangle hotel (still can't look at that photo), pointed out the little cobbles in the road that are your indicator of a Wall that once sliced through this city. He pointed to the Reichstag and told of the rise of Nazism and the irony of "Dem Deutschen Volke" (To the German People) inscribed on a building repurposed for a dictator.
All fascinating and amazing.

But in a day filled with life changing moments, I was unexpectedly faced with the first. We walked through the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. I couldn't keep from crying and as it was a rainy day, the monuments were crying, too. 

Harrison Ford Doppelgänger?

From there a deep breath. We moved on to many other sites: my first glimpse of the Wall ( I saw Topography of Terror only on the outside, but again another amazing architectural structure), 1980's communist luxury housing, Checkpoint Charlie, the office building that provided the set for Valkyrie (I never saw it but I was intrigued by another Hollywood lookalike on a mural there. Does this guy look like a young Harrison Ford or what?)

There were churches of all sorts: for the French, for the German, for a variety of religions. My guide pointed to the bank from "Run Lola Run." All along, there were  history lessons. Then, our first view through the fog of the Fernsehturm, the famous television tower build by the DDR in the sixties to claim its place as the "symbol of Berlin."

Amazing architecture at the
Deutsches Historisches Museum

The funny thing about Berlin is, you can be standing in the middle of a great (or horrible) place in history and it's an innocent plaza, or a nondescript parking lot. But as I was standing, robotically snapping church photos, my guide asked us to look at the plaza we were standing on. It was the site of the famous Book Burning. The memorial is underground and is viewed from above. Thousands of empty book shelves representing the books lost that day. More history, more heart-wrenching memorials, more amazing architecture, and then I was on my own with five hours to go.

I visited the Neues Museum (could have spent hours there, gave myself just under an hour.) The bust of Nefertiti, which I remember from my art history book in college, is exquisite. No photo can do her justice.  Then, under the advice of my tour guide who vaguely pointed behind him, I set out to take the public transport to the East Side Gallery. Just under four hours to go.

My free guide told us the sad story of
this 19-year-old earlier in the day.

Forty-five minutes later (and after a major iPhone directions failure), I hopped in a cab and went to the East Side Gallery. Best eight euros I ever spent. I walked the entire length, captivated by the stories, the art, the pain, the happiness, the different voices and subject matter. It was all there right in front of me. A new beginning. A new start. A new chance. A brave new step. Thousands of XX's and XY's made a choice to fight for a better life. Over the years, many paid with their lives. It was humbling. It was inspiring. It was life changing. 

Thank you, Berlin. I'll be back.

. 

Girls and (cringe) farts

Let’s start with the title. Cringe is the operative word. I’d bet at least one out of three XX’s cringe at the word “fart.” Maybe more like two out of three. Maybe some of you are even thinking, “Oh XX, do you have to talk about THIS?”

Illustration: Nok Sangdee

That’s because girls don’t do that.  Or do we…?

I’m on a plane, sitting across from an XY watching Bridesmaids on his computer. He is laughing in all of the right places. If you have read previous posts, you already know I’m a Bridesmaids fan. So as I surreptitiously watch him watch the bridal party churrascaria lunch and aftermath, it got me wondering: how different would those scenes be with guys?

Let’s try it.

OPEN ON A BUNCH OF GUYS EATING AT A SKETCHY CHURRASCARIA AND DISUSSING A BACHELOR PARTY.

GUY 1: “Meat!”

GUY 2: “Meat!”

GUY 3: “More meat!”

ALL:     “Yeah!”

ONE GUY DOESN’T WANT TO EAT THE MEAT. THE OTHERS AGREE TO LET HIM OFF THE HOOK IF HE DOES FOUR TEQUILA SHOTS.  ALL GUYS JOIN IN AND DO TEQUILA SHOTS WITH HIM. WHEN GUY ONE GOES TO THE BATHROOM, THE REST DISCUSS THE THEME FOR THE BACHELOR PARTY.

GUY 2:  “Vegas?”

ALL:      “ Vegas!”

Next stop: Vegas

CUT TO THE SAME GUYS IN FRONT OF A MEN’S  WEARHOUSE. THE DOOR IS LOCKED. ONE GUY FARTS. THE OTHERS LAUGH. THEY GIVE UP IN LESS THAN 30 SECONDS AND GO BACK TO THE CHURRASCARIA BAR. ALL ARE FARTING AND BELCHING ALONG THE WAY.

CUT BACK TO SKETCHY CHURRASCARIA. THE GUYS HAVE FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE WEDDING FASHIONS AND DRINK MORE. THEY HAVE A BELCHING CONTEST AND THEN A FARTING CONTEST. OTHER PATRONS LEAVE THE BAR AREA. SUDDENLY ONE GUY LOSES IT IN HIS PANTS. THEY ALL LAUGH. ANOTHER GUY BARELY MAKES IT TO A TRASH CAN. THE GUY WHO DIDN’T EAT THE MEAT HAS PASSED OUT ON THE BAR. THE WAITER SHAKES HIS HEAD SADLY AND WALKS AWAY.

It could probably be funny in an I hope they serve beer in Hell kind of way. (More to come on that excellent peek into one twisted XY’s world in the future.) But in contrast (to me) it’s the embarrassment/mortification factor that sends the Bridesmaids version into Hollywood classic land.  Of course I’m sure someone could make the XY version lot funnier but my point is, there’s a different code in place.  In Bridesmaids, I thought the most horrifying moment was when one bridesmaid projectile vomited on the back of another bridesmaids’ head as the latter heaved helplessly into the toilet. Imagine someone else’s vomit in your hair. I can. That’s viscerally XX in my humble opinion. But the sink is truly epic. Why? I think in large part it’s the dialogue. Rita: “No Megan, No!”  Megan: “Look away, just look away” totally nails the XX fear of another XX seeing her Make Stinky.  Add the fact that she is forced to use an inappropriate toilet substitute and the scene becomes a perfect 11.

All hail the mighty This is Spinal Tap reference

 It’s an unspeakable horror surpassed only if an (attractive) XY had been in the room to witness as well. Or maybe not. The scene is flawless and will go down in history, mark my words.

Yes, XX’s fart. Pass gas. Break wind. (Insert other lower gastric descriptor noise of choice here.)  But have no doubt: we’ll spend every waking moment trying to convince you that we don’t.  It’s what we do.

Or rather, don’t do.