My favorite person

With all Madonna's gazillions, can she not afford a stylist? THIS is what she chose to wear at the Cannes Film Festival:

Somebody help me understand.

But you go on...

There's no business like show business
Like no business I know
You get word before the show has started
That your favorite uncle died at dawn
Top o' that your pa and ma have parted
You're broken hearted
But you go on...

--Irving Berlin

How many times have I heard or sung that lyric, thinking, nah. All that stuff would never happen. They're exagerrating.

Well, my favorite uncle did die. Not at dawn, but pretty close. 7:45 a.m. And I had to perform that evening. And before I went on the stage, I asked him for strength. I knew he was with me. I knew I would do fine because he was right there with me - in a way he hadn't been before.

My favorite uncle was not even my "blood" uncle. He was married to my favorite aunt, Suzana. My uncle was called Olgert. He was from Estonia. He survived World War II. He was a POW. He was a jeweler. He was a widower. He had two children and two step-children. He loved it when I did "I'm a little tea pot". He used to carry me up on his shoulders, the way my dad never did but I always wanted him to.

I loved my Uncle Olgert as much if not more than any blood relative I ever had. Most of all, I loved that he kept his sense of humor until the very end. We visited him in Florida at Christmas, my husband, my son and I. We all knew he was close to the end but he wanted to see my son before he passed. And he did. And I am happy knowing that they had a chance to meet, to hold hands, almost as if passing the baton from life to death.

I haven't cried yet for Olgert, even though he died one week ago today. But I am crying now as I write this. I guess we all need to mourn in our way, in our own time.

I remember once witnessing Olgert moving a heavy piece of furniture - in the middle of it he suddenly said, "How do porcupines make love?" Silence from all of us. "Very carefully," he answered himself in his thick Estonian accent, and wheezed in laughter.

When I remember Olgert, it is for his sense of humor, for his optimism, for his strength.

I will miss him forever.

Thoughts on parenthood

Our son turned one three weeks ago. One! What a year it has been. I feel like I've learned so much, yet I know there's so much more to learn. One thing I learned a few months down the road is that as soon as you feel confident in what you're doing, your child will change again - taking all your newfound confidence with him. And so you learn again. And read. And try.

I have decided that I will not fret if the apartment is a mess, or I have to mop the kitchen floor after every meal. I will not think about the fact that we have not been to the movies in over a year, or that my husband and I have only gone out for dinner three times in the last year. I'm too busy adapting to our son's changes.

You just gotta go with the flow. (Or the mess.) You have late dinners. You watch more DVDs. You find new rooms or new times of day in which to have sex. (What's wrong with that?) Most of all, you laugh. I don't expect my old life back PLUS child. This IS my life now.

I was telling a fellow stay-at-home mom all this recently. And she said, "Yeah, I've learned I'm going to be a slave for the next 18 years."

No, no, no! I thought. That's not what I meant at all. I don't feel at all like a slave. I love my new job. I get to be a nurse, teacher, counselor, nanny, cook, spiritual advisor - all rolled into one. All the things I considered doing but never went out and actually did. This is the ideal job for me. But slave? Oh no. Far from. It's the most rewarding job I've ever had.

Maybe the attitude problem lies in so many people planning or wanting to have "a baby". It's not really about that, because you only have a baby for a short time. Maybe instead we should say, "I'd like to be a parent." Because that's what you are. All the time that you are growing and changing with your child. Even after you "retire", and your home is tidy again.

Donald D*ck

Has anyone else wondered why Donald Duck never wore pants?

Tell me what's not great about you!

One thing I love about blogging is that you get to know what really bugs people. There is a thread that runs through personal blogs that lets you into their deepest thoughts, fears, worries.

I have always felt I made my closest friendships by revealing the worst about me. I always recognize the signs in a new friendship. I start to tell the potential new friend my fears, my insecurities, my weaknesses. It works every time. Their eyes widen, they move in closer. "You too?" I see them thinking. After all, nobody wants to be friends with someone who's perfect. No, we want to know that you've got it just as bad - if not worse.

Still, not enough of us admit what's wrong. When I was about to separate from my first husband, I called up my oldest and dearest friend. She'd been married for about 10 years and had two kids. But only then - only when I told her about my problems did she reveal that they had almost divorced a few years back before having kids. "WHAT???" I thought. "How come you never told me this before?" I was and am still stunned that she could go through something like that without talking to me.

Do we all want to be viewed as perfect? Of course we do. We want to know that perfection is possible, otherwise what is there to strive for?

I'm not even talking about schadenfreude. I'm talking about the relief we feel when a friend tells us she or he ain't perfect, ain't always happy, ain't got it all figured out. Why is it a relief? I guess it helps us feel...normal.

So go ahead. Tell me what's not so great about you. It's a great way to be friends.

Oscar Who?

So the Oscar ceremony might be cancelled due to the writer's strike. My question is, do we care? I thought I did. I used to care. Hubby and I have argued over this for years. He calls it nothing more than an evening of mutual masturbation in Hollywood. I argue that it's important because...er, it's a chance to see some really pretty dresses.

As this year's Golden Globes came and went and were communicated via a quiet press conference, I realized how little I actually cared about the awards themselves. In fact, right now I couldn't even list one of this year's Golden Globe winners.

Even though I love movies and acting, I have come to realize that perhaps Hubby is right. When it comes to the awards themselves, I guess for me it really is about the dresses.

God, am I shallow.

She may be weary...

I grew up in a house full of music. We always had a piano and one or two guitars around. Dad would play his improvised jazz, Mom would play her improvised classics and teach guitar to local teenagers, and Sis would do her own piano arrangements (thanks to the voices in her head). As the youngest, I was the last hope for someone in the family to read music, so I was encouraged to take (and FINISH!) piano lessons. I studied piano for 10 years and eventually played part-time during cocktail hour at a yacht club.

I remember strictly being taught the classics, only to come home to my jazz-loving father who would place various standards in front of me while I was practicing my scales. He'd say, "Could you just try this one when you're finished with your practicing?" I did try, even though it was pretty hard to go from classical to non-classical. As a result, I ended up falling in love with the music from the 1930s to the 1960s. Not only the beautiful melodies, but the timeless lyrics. What amazed me was that these guys were writing about feelings and emotions that I was experiencing right then at the tender age of 16 in 1984. In fact, in my opinion they put it even better than Bryan Adams, Tina Turner or whoever else was infiltrating the radio waves at that time. So I was hooked.

I had many favorite songs. But there was always one song in particular that I could never quite relate to. It was Hoagy Carmichael's "Try a Little Tenderness".

Here's how it goes:

She may be weary, women do get weary
Wearing the same shabby dress
And when she's weary, try a little tenderness
She may be waiting, just anticipating
Things she may never possess
While she's without them, try a little tenderness

It's not just sentimental, she has her grief and her care
But a word that's soft and gentle makes it easier to bear

You won't regret it, women don't forget it
Love is their whole happiness
And it's all so easy, try a little tenderness

Nope, I couldn't relate back then. After all, what does a 16-year-old know about being weary? I doubt the word was even in my vocabulary. But Bloggers, now I know. I know what "women do get weary" means. Since I had that gorgeous bundle of joy almost 10 months ago, I am bleary-eyed. I want a make-over. I want to look glamorous. I want to be thin. I want to feel beautiful.

I'm weary.