The Big Machine AKA Life as We Know It

As I write this, I'm listening to some of the music that assist in keeping my sanity intact at times. The present assistance would be from the Goo Goo Dolls.  That's right.  Some grandmas, like yours truly, enjoy the occasional Goo tune as well as Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Guns N' Roses, etc. and from what I remember from Psych 101, because of my musical choices, Erikson might be ever so slightly confused as to which life stage Mama Finch is actually perched in.

That's OK Erik, Mama Finch doesn't even know which life stage Mama Finch is in most of the time.  Daddy Owl does not throw out the occasional Dodo Bird reference for nothing you know.

Life stages are funny like that.  Sometimes they are well defined.  We know exactly where we are, where we are going, blah, blah, blah, and sometimes, well...not so much.

It is a tough go watching my children as they go through all their various stages.  I sit and  watch their struggles and have no real answers.  I just want to make it all better, but I can't.  A couple of them tackling real adult issues and figuring out what being a grown-up in a tough world really means, one trying his best to make the transition into fatherhood and provider, one who is contemplating future choices while being thrust into the world head first ready or not, and one who just really, really, really wants a turtle.

Now you understand why I listen to tunes.  Confusion - 5, Sanity - 0.

Will someone please turn up the music and direct me to the nearest pet store?

Good and Evil

Let's just call it what it is.  This week I mean.  This week has just plain sucked.  It has sucked not only for America, not only for Boston, not only for Texas, but for...humanity.

Let's all just breath now, shall we?

Evil gave a sucker punch right into the rock bottom gut of innocence, goodness and the inherent hope that we all cling to, whether we admit it or not and before we could recover our collective breath from the horrific events in Boston, another punch was thrown right down the highway from where I sit now.  Thrown while families were having dinner, children were complaining about their homework, and someone was getting ready for the night shift.

West, Texas is only 68 miles from where we live.  We have driven by it a million times down I-35 on our way toward Austin, San Antonio and all points south.  The only thing I really know about West is its kolaches, Czech heritage and slightly confusing name.  I may not know much about West, but that's OK.  I know enough.

I know it's spirit was attacked last night.

At the risk of sounding all flighty, Mama Finch does like her soapbox and now my friends her feathers are ruffled.

Evil is a coward.  It waits until backs are turned and eyes are closed.  It takes great delight in knocking us down when we least expect it and laughs when we cry for mercy.  It's darkness rejoices the most in the suffering of the truly innocent, the good, the hopeful, the faithful.  Evil rejoiced in Boston on Monday and laughed in West last night.  Evil is the worst kind of coward there is.

But even evil knows the truth.  It will continue its darkness knowing full well it will not last and that its days are numbered. The time will come that it will be forced to look us in the eye and admit the truth.

Until that day we will pray.  For Boston, for West, for humanity.

Mr. Dickens and an Orphaned Grammy

One year ago, the town we live in had a tornado blow through causing much damage and chaos.  In the past sixty-five days, I have felt a somewhat similar but altogether different storm travel straight through the nest blowing our lovely birdbrains and scattering our conscious and unconscious thought processes hither and yon. Did I really just say "hither and yon".  Wow, how old am I?  Anyhoo, this storm is one in in which taking cover and/or flying south may not be viable options, especially since Mama Finch's wings have not been worked out as of late and their flap-worthiness is questionable at best.

It has taken all of the twelve months since the tornado for those in our community with damages, both mental and physical, to begin to recover.  As of this Monday, it will have taken only sixty-five days for yours truly to become an orphan and a Grammy.  Uh whaaa?

A couple of days before my dad died, when we knew it was just a matter of time, Baby Chick asked me most sincerely if when his pawpaw died, would I then be an orphan considering I had already lost my mother years before.  When you are 9 and your entire universe up to that point revolves around your own parents, his wondering becomes valid.  So there you have the orphan part.

The Grammy part?  That's a whole different story.

Our second male child, the one which should be coming up on the conclusion of his freshman year of college, will instead begin a new journey this Monday as a dad and hence (OK, seriously?), I become a Grammy and Daddy Owl becomes a "Sir".  No, really.  That is what he wants to be called.  Don't ask.

Hawkeye and his girl have decided to dive into grown-up land at warp speed and welcome a  new baby girl next week.  We are truly thrilled about the new little life and our move into grandparent grandeur and the land of babydom, just not so much about the timing of the situation, but what are you gonna do?  Life happens, you move on, and lessons are learned.  At least we hope they are.

So there you have how I became an orphan AND a Grammy in the span of sixty-five days.  There have been many other things going on but for the moment this orphaned Grammy has not the energy for more. “Please, sir, I want some..."  Uh no...thanks Mr. Dickens, we're good.

Death-Defying

Death-defying.  Now there’s a phrase that will grab your attention.

I have never understood those who believe you are not “REALLY LIVING” until you are jumping from a plane at 10,000 feet, riding the world’s fastest, steepest, most heart-stopping roller coaster, or taking a daring little sprint alongside a few gore-happy bulls in Spain.  What exactly are they trying to prove?  As Mama Finch does not like anything that is too high, that goes too fast or that may result in her immediate demise, she just doesn't get it.

Is not everyday life frightening enough for some folks?  Did no one explain to these people when they were mere chicks in the nest that darting in front of cars or jumping off the roof in a misguided attempt to fly may not be a preferable method of extending ones life?  Why do we allow a few “devil may care” attention-seeking thrill-junkie Houdinis, (who, I believe, were most likely dropped on their heads as infants), to define what really living means for the rest of us?  They have apparently not chaperoned a third-grade field trip as of late.That is a fear-inducing time there.

I very recently lost my own dad, so obviously his death has been on my mind lately.  More specifically, I have been pondering exactly how facing his impending death (as well as my mother’s ten years earlier) square in the face and getting down that first steep terrifying coaster drop of child-like fear actually helped change my perspective on the entire ugly affair.

The anticipation of hearing the clickity-clack momentum of the cars slowly lurching up the track, the knowing of what is inevitably coming will always bring the breath-defying, white-knuckle fear that will exist, no matter how old, experienced, or tough one is perceived to be .  Once you reach the end of the fall however, the scary slows down just a little and you stay on that ride because you know you have to stay seated until it comes to a complete stop.  The sign and the teenaged attendant say so.

Okay - here's the kicker:  Once the experience is over and the safety bar lifted, (assuming of course that you did not run screaming like a banshee for the entrance or were not left hanging over the side vomiting) you and your jello-like legs step out realizing no matter how unavoidable death may be, its defining boundary of inevitability should not paralyze but rather provide the inspirational kick-start needed to “really live” right now and I don't mean by jumping out of airplanes or running with the bulls no matter what Hemingway thought.

As the old saying goes, life is short.  We should use death as a reminder to live each moment with mindful purpose, making the most of our presence in the world while realizing what a gift life is and most importantly how much time we waste each and every day trying to defy death rather than live life.  There is a difference.

No, you will never find Mama Finch attempting outrageous stunts or seeking death-defying thrills in order to validate her life.  Well, unless you consider a trip to Wal-Mart a little scary.  I know I do.

I Did Not Know It Then

Life is fleeting and time is fragile.  Handle both with care.

Christmas Eve my family and I visited my Dad.  While we walked, I held his arm to steady his steps.  I would not know it then, but it would be the last time I would see him walk.

Last Wednesday I guided his lunch spoon while he shakily scraped at his plate, occasionally scooping up the food myself and then handing it back so that he could feed himself, because he still had dignity.  I would not know it then, but it would be the last time I would see him eat.

Thursday the final downturn that had always been expected had begun and by Saturday I held his hand while his body fought.  I would not know it then, but it would be the last time I would hold my Daddy's hand.

He fought hard but was tired.  Sunday afternoon he left us.  Just like that.  The normal that had always been and the constant his very existence provided died right along with him.

Never take those closest to your heart for granted.

To read more about my Dad's journey:

Make Mine Pastrami Please
and
Stories to Tell

And Now for Something Completely Different

It really is all just about the Abbey, isn’t it?

Baby Chick believes himself to be quite the funny man of late when he inquires as to whether Mama Finch is about to watch “Downtown” Abbey.  No Baby Chick.  As I keep explaining to him, that is the sister show in which the Dowager Countess peruses the mean streets of the inner city fighting crime with her cain and zany one-liners and then has high tea with Petula Clark, wherein they discuss whether Lady Edith should join Match.com or E-Harmony.  I watch the other one I tell him. You know the one with the castle and the dog. “Oh,” he responds.

I have not been so invested in the lives of so many fictitious characters since Hope and Michael hung out with Nancy and Elliot and poor misguided Gary rode off into the sunset on his bike never to be heard from again.  I think I cried for a week over that one.  If you have no idea who the heck I am talking about at this point, go to bed, it is past your bedtime.

I want to live at the Abbey.  Is that too much to ask?  Quite simply, I want to wear beautiful, ornate, wistful gowns and have special clothes for each activity of the day.  “Oh, we are going to hunt for Isis in the woods Papa in every spot but the most obvious?  Fine, I will ring for Anna to dress me in my hunt for the dog in the woods clothes”.  Now that’s livin’.

I want to be a person who tugs on a hidden velvet rope in the corner of the library to summon a footman from out of nowhere to show my guest out because walking the 10.2 feet to the front door myself would be much too laborious due to the weight of my beautiful, ornate, wistful gown.  I want to live in a time where numerous little notes are always being dramatically hand delivered to me so I can rush out just as dramatically after reading the contents of said notes and where my biggest faux paux is not agreeing to play bridge ‘til the boys walk through.  Who am I kidding?  I really just want to be called “M’Lady” just once.  Preferably at the Abbey.

Oh well.  I probably would not fit in anyway.  I would be the only person present with a slight Texas accent constantly following Carson around asking too many questions.  For example, the game of Cricket that they all seem to get so excited about.  What is that all about?  “It is baseball in church clothes people!” I would exclaim at a most inopportune moment during the game.  Lord Grantham would then promptly, but very politely after bringing the car around, kick “the American” out to go live with Isobel in town and quite frankly her house looks kind of dull.

Here are things I frequently but most assuredly and sincerely ponder while viewing Downton Abbey:

I wonder if Lord Grantham finds having another grown man help him get dressed a bit creepy?  I know I do.  Does he not know how to dress himself?  Does he need Garanimals?

Why is everyone so pasty looking?  Doesn’t the sun ever shine?

Do the servants all share a bathroom?  How do the women wash their hair?  Their hair always looks so clean, but I never see anyone washing their hair.  Hmmm….dry shampoo?

Exactly where did Anna and Bates get the paint for their cottage?  Is there a Home Depot nearby?

Does Anna not realize she can now refer to Mr. Bates by his first name since they are married?

Who takes the dog out? WHO IS IN CHARGE OF THE DOG PEOPLE?  Not Lord Grantham.  He can’t even dress himself.

Why is it that every time one of the daughters does something, “daft”, it is immediately blamed on the American in her?  Hey now…

What does daft mean?

Why does Matthew always look like he has a stomach ache?  Did he eat the dog’s food?

Seriously, no one else thinks Matthew looks like Kardashian clan member Scott Dipstick’s older brother? 

I wonder if Lady Mary would get along with the Kardashian sisters.  She would most definitely call them daft.

Who are the two as yet unnamed young house maids always lurking about in the kitchen giggling?  Does Mrs. Hughes know they are there?  What is their job?  Are they supposed to be taking care of the dog?

How can I get one of these ringing boards in my kitchen?  Now that’s cool!

I wonder if anyone ever rings the bell for the servants and then hides when they get bored?  That would be fun.

Why is Carson so afraid of the new contraption that toasts bread?  He lived through the telephone installation without going up in flames, so what’s the problem there ole chap?

Why does Cora only speak in a restrained proper tone no matter how dire the emergency? C’mon Cora, you know you want to scream at O’Brien just once.

Why does Cora always blindly believe everything O’Brien tells her?  Is Cora daft?

Will someone please send O’Brien a flat iron already?

What the heck does Laura Linney have to do with any of this?  Is she supposed to be taking care of the dog?

Why does poor Edith have so much trouble finding love?  I mean so far she has been through a married farmer, a mystery man with no face and an older gimpy armed man who jilts her at the alter.  What's up with that Julian?  You go Edith Coco!  

But first would you please go find that dog?

Night of the Living Dead AKA You Don't Know You're Beautiful

Oh those wacky pack ancient Mayans are always trying to make things more difficult, aren't they?

Will someone PLEASE inform me again as to the exact date the world is going to end?  Next Friday, right?  Anyone know precisely what time as I would like to set an alarm in my phone. Mama Finch is nothing if not organized.

Oh and hospitable.  I'm that too.  As any good hostess can attest, getting ready for a zombie visit is an event that warrants much diligent and methodical preparation.

The way I see it, the only people actually prepared for the supposed coming event are the 18 and under crowd. I know this because they wear T-shirts that say so.  In our family, if you are anyone other than Owlie or a Directioner you are not prepared.

I love One Direction, don't you?  That Harry is a cutie, but my favorite is Niall, the blonde one.

Hmmm...I digress.

Back to the zombies.  The following is my ever so carefully crafted to-do list for the big shin-dig:

1.  Food.  What do zombies like to eat?  Oh uhhh, yeah.  Never mind.

Note to self:  Make self and family less tasty.  Eat onion, garlic and fish oil.  Do zombies like the taste of onion and garlic?  Research zombie likes and dislikes.  If they prefer more fatty cuts, I'm in big trouble.

2.  Scratch first step.  On second thought, they don't need nutrition to live as they are already dead.  So just how are they up and around? Some type of voodoo electrical energy drink?  Are the poor dears actually just in need of an outlet to plug into?

Note to self:   Ensure outlets are provided OUTSIDE perimeter of boarded up house.

3.  Music and dancing.  Anything uptempo should do such as...One Direction?

"You're insecure
Don't know what forYou're turning heads when you walk through the door"

Perfect!  Maybe zombies walk that way because they are depressed about their situation and are just searching for a little light entertainment and encouragement before the big chow down.  If Thriller taught me nothing else it proved that even dead people like to have fun.

Note to self:  Provide Karaoke machine, Harry Styles (sans Taylor) and dance floor OUTSIDE perimeter of boarded up house.

Before anyone gets their knickers in a twist believing that I am sacrificing Harry to the walking dead next Friday, I do not actually believe the world is ending.  I mean the only thing more disturbing than the belief that an ancient group of tribal people could predict the final chapter is a 48-year old woman knowing so much about a teenaged English boy band.

Weird, just weird.