I can breathe again, it's Friday. The week rushed by, culminating with a visit to Roosevelt University in Chicago's Loop yesterday. We found out that Mara was one of ten violinists accepted for the 2007 freshman class at Roosevelt's College of Performing Arts. The school is located in Adler and Sullivan's magnificent Auditorium building on Michigan Avenue. The dorm is on State Street, just around the corner and a quick jog under the "L" tracks from the school.

This college will be big city living for Mara. The street atmosphere is loud, bustling, and electric. Several colleges are clustered in the South Loop area and students are everywhere. The museum campus is just to the southeast, the Art Institute a few blocks north, the Chicago Public Library is across the street from the dorm, and Bein & Fuschi violins and Performers' Music are in the Fine Arts Building right next door. The acoustically perfect, world famous, Auditorium Theater is in the same building as the school, the Siskel film center is just down State Street, as is Macy's Chicago flagship store.

I know I'm gushing. I'm almost as excited as Mara. I'm already making plans to buy a condo near the school where Mara can stay her last two years and which Mike and I can use for years after as a pied-a-tere. I joked to Mike that we could pay for the condo by renting it out during the Olympics in 2016. He was not amused. I think he's suffering from sticker shock, as Roosevelt is considerably more expensive than the University of Illinois. He was hoping to get off cheap, until the fat envelope arrived belatedly from Roosevelt.

We have only one hurdle to clear before we send the formal acceptance to Roosevelt. Mara needs to have lesson with her prospective teacher, just to make sure it's a good fit. Yesterday she E-mailed the teacher, a 28 year old violinist in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Our fears about his youth and inexperience were allayed somewhat by his prompt response to her E-mail. The lesson will be Saturday at Orchestra Hall, before that evening's concert.  No charge. Wow!  I'm starting to think that lessons from a working musician may be more valuable than anything she could learn from a professor.

My only regret is that I can't attend the lesson with Mara. Ashley has a cello recital at the same time. God, I wish I had a clone.

I just filled the van's (Chrysler Town and Country-I am such a stereotypical suburban mom) tank with over fifty one dollars worth of gas. As I watched the numbers rush ever higher I vowed to end my profligate driving. No more jaunts to the grocery store just for a gallon of milk and a bottle of tonic water. No more driving my children one mile to school (in my day I would trudge miles through wind-driven snow...). I will try to walk or bike to work one day a week.

I wish I could say I was resolving to do this because I was so touched by earth day or because walking is better for my health than driving, but my reason is entirely mercenary. I don't like paying $50 every six days to fill the tank. I'd rather save that $50 for a new pair of sandals. I'm not complaining about the price of gas. I think gasoline is too cheap. I'm just recognizing that like most everybody else I'm more influenced by dollars than by good intentions.

The current relatively low price of gasoline doesn't take into account the hidden costs of driving, costs that are shared by everyone. There are costs of ill health due to pollution, there are costs of poorly planned cities and towns that separate rather than unite people, there are health costs from obesity and a sedentary lifestyle. An employer can be more cavalier about replacing workers because the business can draw on people within a 50 mile radius to fill a job. Moms line up to pick up their children for the 1/2 mile drive home from school, teaching their kids sloth, fear, and isolation.  Americans spend more time commuting than enjoying dinner with their families.

So I say tax gasoline.  And make it a big tax, $1.50 a gallon at least.   Use the money for public health and to subsidize public transportation.  Reward communities that plan for transit and help towns develop bike lanes.  What a better use for our dollars than filling the coffers of  the oil companies.

Some may argue that such a tax will hurt the poor the most.  But most of the really poor live close to their jobs or already use public transportation.  They would be helped by a new emphasis on public transit.  Those who commute thirty or more miles to work are commuting to well paying jobs.  They take the money they save by buying "more house" in the exurbs and spend that money and their time on long commutes to work.  By downsizing vehicles, by carpooling, by moving closer to work they could have a unique opportunity to re-integrate into a community and to enhance their lives.

I'm not upset at paying $50 to fill my gas tank.  I just wish my $50 paid for something more responsible than pollution, traffic congestion, ill health, and an indifferent and socially isolated populace.

After much telephoning back and forth with Roosevelt University we have the word--Mara was accepted!  She'll be a violin performance major at their College of Performing Arts.  She is positively glowing today, as Roosevelt was her second choice school, just behind Northwestern.  She's looking forward to living in the city and she has already told me to get her an opera ticket for next season.  I will gladly comply.

My only concern is that Roosevelt University is too close to home.  Usually mothers want their children nearby, but I'd be more comfortable with Mara at least 100 miles away.  No threat of emergency "bring me this" calls, no bags of laundry brought home on the weekend.   No, this Chicago school isn't giving me the clean break that I was hoping for.  It's difficult enough having your oldest go to college, but I feel like we're only prolonging the separation process when she's close enough to see every other weekend.  She's only an hour away on the commuter train that runs every hour.

I'm either not trusting myself to not overly mother Mara, or not trusting Mara to make a healthy clean break of it.  Damn, these things are so complicated.  Mara says she wants to go to graduate school on the East Coast or in Europe.  I won't trust that she means it because that makes me even more anxious than her going to college in Chicago.  She 's a good girl with a level head and we've done a good job of making sure that she's resourceful and independent.  She has a plan for her future, which is a lot more than the vague ideas I had for my future.  I think I need to trust both of us.  I think it's time to let go.  Maybe then I can enjoy meeting my daughter for dinner and an opera eight times a year.  Maybe then I'll be able to reflect on how lucky I really am.



 

I'm so happy to have survived the weekend. I can't believe what a difference it made to put "relax" on my to-do list. After all, that is supposed to be the function the of the weekend. That's something I seem to always forget as I consistently return to work on Monday more tired than when I left on Friday.

The highlight of the weekend was my daughters' recital on Sunday. Their quartet performed Debussy's String Quartet and I was treated to their "dress rehersal" in my house on Saturday. What a treat to hear music that beautiful and that well-played issuing live from my home as I worked in the garden. The Debussy is a gorgeous piece with swirling harmonies reminicent of his "La Mer." I heard it played live by a professional group a few weeks back and I couldn't believe that my girls could master the piece. On Sunday they performed it beautifully.

It was a long recital and the last three students closed with Prokofiev's Violin Concerto #2, Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, and Sibelias' Violin Concerto in D Minor. Each performer was better than the last, the accompanist was marvelous, and by the end of the recital I was ecstatic. This is what it's all about. My girl doesn't have to be the best violinist, nor does she have to win the coveted last position in the recital. What is important is that she is a part of the tradition of music and that she and I can be exposed to great music and great performers through her endeavors.

Mara starts music school next Fall at either the University of Illinois or at Roosevelt University in Chicago's Loop. She will not be the best violinist there. But she is a strong player and she will do very well. Music performance, especially violin, is a humbling major. It is axiomatic that not everyone can be the best. But everyone can aspire to excellence and to being an important part of the orchestra or the ensemble. Mara will be a valuable addition at whatever University she attends.

Weekend projects, lets see how much of this gets done. All are welcome to hold me accountable.

1) Tame the giant mound of laundry in the basement. Done. The mountain is now a molehill.
2) Plant fern garden.  Started.
3) Evict dust bunnies from bedroom. Done. The bunnies now reside in the vacuum cleaner.
4) Start writing sermon (only 3 weeks left).  OK.
5) Practice piano.  Didn't even touch it.
6) Relax.  I made sure to do this.
7) Inventory pots for planter garden.
8) Maintain peace and harmony within my family. Not so good. Husband is snippy and I get snippy back.

OK, that's plenty for now. I was starting to get nervous by point #5. I hope I get 1/2 of the list done.

I learned a very important Spanish phrase yesterday. Hubby was watching the movie "Pulp Fiction" when I came home (a pretty mild version of "cat's away"...) when I heard Bruce Willis say to his girlfriend, "Donde esta la zapataria?" "Where is the shoestore?" What a great and necessary phrase! I am now ready to go to Mexico City, Guadalajara, and points south.

With the tease of spring I've gone through my closet to box up and store three pair of boots, two pair of black shoes, and a couple pair of salt damaged grotty winter pumps. I started to unbox and unstore my spring and summer shoes, entertaining bright memories of pink flip flops and bright kitten heeled sandals. But memory can be deceiving and my airy thoughts were grounded by the reality that my summer shoes were in reality heavily used and sorely out of fashion. One season can be so hard on a sandal, I wondered why I even bothered to save them. Vaya a la zapateria, mujer!

Too lazy to shop today, I let my fingers do the walking to the Nordstrom sandal page. Over one thousand pair of sandals, slides, mules, espadrilles, peep-toes, wedges, my head is still spinning. I am in need: I have no espadrilles. The web site tells me that I should pair my short skirts with chunky-strap sandals. Oh no, I have no chunky strap sandals. Nor do I have a "knotted slide" or a "fancyfree thong" or a ballet slipper. All I have are ten fabulously painted toes waiting for a frame. The shopping hormone is kicking in...must...go...to ...the...mall.

I should narrow down my choices before going to the mall. For, alas, I am not Nicole Kidman and I cannot purchase every shoe that catches my eye. I definitely want to try the espadrille, especially with a higher heel. A pair of slides to go with pants or skirts would be great. Flip flops can wait. I can push my pink and my blue thongs a few months longer.

The mistresses of fashion are cruel. I know that as soon as I buy a few pair of shoes I'll need to buy a new skirt and top or a new dress. It never stops. And I know that when I go to unpack my boots and shoes this fall I'll have the same feelings of disappointment and yearning. For I'm sure the fashion mistresses are right now plotting beautiful fall fashions that will turn my head and make me spurn the clothes I have just packed up. It's a fact of nature.  It's the circle of life.

About a year ago I started getting together with two girlfriends from church every other Tuesday. Of course I had to reeducate my husband that this was OK, no different than his golfing once a week during the summer. And I had to reeducate myself, that I was not abandoning my family and that I would indeed return home, albeit slightly inebriated, by nine-o-clock. Honestly, I think the hardest part was to give myself permission to do this. My husband quickly saw the benefit of no wife around the house. Cat's away....

This bi-weekly bender has turned out to be a godsend. My girlfriends are fun and smart and I so look forward to our dinners together. Tonight we're meeting at a Mexican restaurant--it's half price margarita night. After the first margarita we'll be laughing and silly and kind of obnoxious. By the second we'll be talking work, husbands, kids, siblings, you name it. If there's a third margarita we'll be having a great time and my single girlfriend will be checking out every guy in the place. She'll assure us which guy is perfect for us--she really doesn't like either of our husbands. We really need to set this girl up with someone before she gets us in trouble.

All of us come straight to the restaurant from work. We're all dressed nicely, in our work clothes, usually a suit, or a skirt and top and heels. We try to rotate between four or five restaurants. All are very nice places, all have bars. Often, guys come up to our table, looking to buy us drinks and join us. When we tell them that two of us are married, the guys don't care. They say, "Happily?" Men! And then they try even harder! My friends are giving this straight-laced girl some education. At the end of the night we'll be tottering out together, wobbly in our heels, supporting each other.

It's so important for women to get together. Even for some misbehavior. Maybe especially for some misbehavior.  I just read a review of a book by a woman who traveled to Afghanistan to set up a string of beauty parlors. She wrote that soon after they came to power the Taliban shut down all beauty shops. The idea of women gathering together in their own space was politically threatening. Abusive husbands isolate their spouses from their friends and family. Female friends undermine his power and control. Our get-togethers are for fun and drinks, but I have to feel there's something important and powerful going on when I'm bonding with my girlfriends. I think that's why all of us treat our every-other-Tuesday as sacrosanct. We rarely cancel.

In August our threesome will be taking its first annual "Girls Week Out" to the beach in South Carolina. We're chipping in on a timeshare and a car for a one week getaway with no husbands, boyfriends, or kids. Just Thelma and Louise and....Xena. We'll have to figure out who is who. A week of sun and spas and shopping. Finally, I'll get payback for all those golf trips my husband has taken. I can't wait.

Mara's going to college! She received the big envelope from the University of Illinois a couple weeks ago.

The horror. I wrote those sentences just before I heard about the killings at Virginia Tech. Thirty one dead, many wounded. What a tragedy. What a nightmare for those families.

Colleges are supposed to be safe places where children can transition into young adults. They get more freedom, and a have more risk. But a college campus should be a place where a young woman can walk alone at night, people can play with new identities, and where experimentation is welcomed and even encouraged. How naieve of me.

Colleges are places where the suicide rate is high and the incidence of date rape is even higher. Alcoholism abounds as does drug use. Students are underfed and overcaffeinated and the social order resembles "Lord of the Flies." Athletes are exaulted, plain sorority girls are shunned, and the pressures to conform are enormous. At today's university large corporations subsidize studies and set academic priorities. Businesses recruit from a ready pool of applicants, all trained since high school to chase that high paying carrot of a job.

These may just be the rantings of a terrified mother. For I have been focused on the idea of college for the last six months. Now I'm shocked, scared, and disturbed. Not disturbed about the infinitesimal possibility that my daughter will be shot on campus, but upset at the absolute certainty that she will have to face the very adult issues posed by modern campus life. Sex, drinking, drugs, peer pressure; I dealt with all of that at college, but I conveniently forgot just how difficult that was, in addition to carrying a full class load. Mara will have to find her own way. It was easier for me to deal with that five hours ago, when my glasses were still rose colored.

Today is Jackie Robinson Day at all major league ballparks.  Certain players, and even entire teams, will wear Robinson's now since retired number 42.  Speeches will be given and baseball will congratulate itself on being the first major sport to break the color barrier.

A cynic may suggest that we are beyond all this.   Today baseball is entirely integrated, as are all sports.  This is nothing but a self-congratulatory self-promotion by Major League Baseball.  Modern America should be race-neutral and today's ceremonies highlight racial division.  We should be looking forward, not backwards.

When an event as momentous as the integration of major league sports has happened within the lifetime of someone in the stands, that event needs to be celebrated and everybody needs to be reminded that not so long ago things were very different.  We need to recall the recent past in order to focus on the future.  Less than 100 years ago I would not have been able to vote in an election.  Today women take for granted those rights fought for by their great grandmothers.  We look at the restrictions on females in the Middle East and Africa and proclaim those societies backward.  Yet less than a century ago our own laws were written by men and for the benefit of men. 

The Imus and Michael Richards debacles and the debates over affirmative action show that race is still a sensitive topic in 21st Century America.  The racial division that today's ceremonies highlight should be frequently raised and discussed.  America should be race-neutral, but it isn't and it won't be unless we work towards identifying racism in our laws, our institutions, and our attitudes.  Only then can we work towards finding our common interests, as Americans, as parents, as workers,and as baseball fans.  Thank you Branch Rickey.  Thank you Jackie Robinson.    
 

I woke up this morning, looked out the window, and saw snow on the ground.  This isn't right.  It should be sixty degrees and sunny, with birds chirping and squirrels playing.  Instead it's thirty-five and sleeting.  And I'm in total denial.  I'm refusing to break out my winter coats which I put away three weeks ago.   I wore a cream colored skirt and shoes today with a pink blouse.  My boots are boxed up and in the basement.   Maybe wishful actions can make spring happen.

I enjoy the Winter because it gives me a chance to cocoon.  I like the break from outdoor activity and the focus on the indoors.  I paint, clean, redecorate, cook and do all those things that I don't have time for once the garden calls.  But by April I'm tired of redecorating and I don't even care to look in a cookbook.  I can't wait for the first sign of spring...neatly piled bags of mulch at the gas stations.  I want to hear the Crocus call for me.  I need the Daffodils to demand my attention.  Begone mop, hoe is my new companion.

It's difficult, not to mention foolish, to hoe through snow.  My gardening dreams are on hold for at least another week.  Until then I'll be shopping the plant catalogs, starting seedlings, sorting my pots, and dreaming of spring with every bag of mulch I see.

I've been away for the last week...Florida.  I'm back, red as a lobster, but quite rested.  Details to follow....