Mom...

January 27 -- Happy Birthday, Mom...



(My Mom, Rosemary Borg Karlek, and Me, 1952)



...I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you...Not just today...All the time.

I hope -- I mean, I know -- you know how much I love you and miss you.

You also know I'm a grandma now, too, don't you? That means you're a great-grandma! But then you already were a great grandma -- Just ask Meagan and Dj...any of the kids!

But of course, I'm talking about Charlie -- Charlotte Rose. I just love that she has your name as her middle name. (And that I do, too.) I remember the day Meagan was born, and you came in to see me just before I was wheeled away. I saw such love and concern on your face that I impulsively wanted to change our girl's middle name from Day to Rose. (It remained Meagan Day, but I'm so glad that Meagan chose Rose for her Charlie.)

I know you and Dad would both love the stuffing out of that baby girl -- who's now one year old! (She almost shared your birthday, too!) I always imagine myself telling you about all the silly, funny, sweet things she does, and I can hear your laugh so clearly...

There are so many ways I wish I were more like you, Mom, but that's one way I am like you -- You loved babies -- everything about them!

I think Meagan finds it a little strange that I love Charlie's feet so much, but I remember how you used to say that babies' feet are like fat little pin cushions. (Actually, I think maybe you said Grandma Karlek said that. And I guess it is a rather disturbing comparison. But you mentioned it because we were having a conversation about how adorable babies' feet are, and I remembered it!)

Oh, Mom, if you were here, what a celebration we would have for you and Charlie!

I miss you so much, I still cry sometimes, even though it's been almost ten years. I love when I dream about spending a day with you...In my dreams, we're always shopping and going out to lunch -- And there's always dessert!

We'll have birthday cake for Charlie on Sunday, Mom, and I'll be enjoying mine for you, too.

I don't have to say more, because you know...I love you forever and am so grateful for everything you are and have always been!

That Article I Referred To...

...You know, the one I mentioned in my previous post -- The one about five things worth admitting to...

"Okay -- I took the cookie -- I admit it!"


The first thing on the list is You don't have all the answers.

First of all, I have to admit that I don't even know why this made the list. Do people seriously have a problem admitting that they don't know something?

Okay. I guess I can see that some people do have trouble with this one. (Doctors, for example.) Not me, though. I love admitting that I don't know something. So much so, in fact, that sometimes I say it, even when it isn't true!

For example, to the question, "Why did you do that?" my answer is almost always, "I don't know." But often, I really do know. For example...

My Awesome Husband Greg: "Why do you insist on putting dirty pots and pans in the dishwasher?"

Me: "I don't know."

Truth: Because I didn't feel like washing them, and I knew if I put them in there, you'd rage about my incompetence, but then you'd take them out and wash them yourself (because I'm so incompetent).

Or...

MAHG: "Why don't you just clean up after yourself when you're through?"

Me: "I don't know."

Truth: Because it took me so long to find what I was looking for (because I have so much unnecessary crap) that I was running late by the time I found it, and I didn't have time to clean up!

See? No big deal. I like admitting that I don't know something.

Next on the list: You spent a small fortune on yourself.

All right. This is getting a little tougher. Even though I rarely buy anything that costs more than 20 dollars (and if I did, I wouldn't tell you), I hate admitting to MAHG that I spent any dollars on myself. I guess that's because he wears shoes until they have holes in them, while I have too many pairs to count. (But they were all on sale!)

Third item worth admitting to: Your house is usually a disaster area.

Ah. No problem here. My house is always a disaster area. I say it all the time. Every time someone comes to the door -- even the UPS guy. I don't have to say it; it's obvious. I just love admitting it.

Number 4: You're tired of hearing about it.

Well, I'm a little ambivalent on this one. I probably won't admit that I don't want to hear what you're saying because you've already told me a whole bunch of times. But I will tune you out.

I guess I can see the value of being honest, but I just can't hurt you that way. I know people listen to me say the same things over and over without letting on (unless I catch them rolling their eyes). I like to extend the same courtesy.

And last, but not least: Everything.

Got this one covered...In fact, it's my reason for blogging!

Truly, if there's something about myself that I don't want to admit (which there isn't, but if there was), I wouldn't bring it up as the subject of a blog. And although something might be hard to admit in conversation, if I can sit down and type it out, I'm likely to give even more information than was required.

Well, so I do that when I'm talking, too...There! See how readily I admitted that?

So what was the purpose of this little exercise? I don't know.

Maybe I'd like you to know that I'm a cheap, lazy slob who tries to be nice to people, and that I like to spew words -- especially words about myself -- all over the place; and when I saw an article about things that are good to spew, I couldn't resist using it as the subject of a blog. About me.

Why

?

I don't know...I suppose there are as many answers as there are people who blog.

My sister, Melissa, who inspires me in many ways, got me started. She had been writing a beautiful blog about her son, Alex, who was diagnosed with autism when he was two years old.

(Alex is 19 now, and has been having seizures for about five years. Melissa's taking a blog hiatus -- a permanent one -- from Alex is all done screaming... to work on her book, and to take care of Alex.)

When Missy told me I should have my own blog, I said, "But what would I write about? My kids don't have autism. My life is a bowl of chairies," intentionally misspelling the word in my mind. And that's how it all began...

Okay. That's not really how it happened. What really happened is that when I said, "What would I write about?" Missy said, "Anything you want."

So I wrote the first post for my Bowl of Chairies on September 12, 2008. I called the post "This Is It." It wasn't, though. It took me a few days to get rolling; but since then, I've done exactly what Missy said -- I've written about anything I want.

For someone like me, who loves to say things, and who hates being told to be quiet, blogging is a great place to expound/expand/complain about things that have currently sparked my passion and/or obsessive tendencies (usually a temporary state).

At times I've questioned why I've maintained The Bowl (as I've just now, right this very moment, decided to lovingly refer to my blog). Since the last few months of 2008, when I wrote nearly every day, I have slacked off dramatically, sometimes going months without "publishing" a post. It wasn't that I couldn't come up with ideas...No, those guys are always running around in my mind, making it difficult for me to focus on things that might (just might) be more important.

It's just that in an occasional -- and uncharacteristic -- burst of introspection, I might ask myself, Who the hell cares, really? Sometimes, I question whether a post should have been published in the first place. (I once even deleted one in a fit of remorse.)

Then yesterday, I read an article in one of my favorite magazines: Real Simple: "5 things worth admitting to." And I thought, These would be great to include in a blog!

But this post is already lengthy enough. Even I'm bored with it, and I'm totally fascinated with myself! So with the hope that I've piqued your curiosity but not worn out my welcome, let me end by saying:

To Be Continued...

In Mourning Once Again...A Metaphorical Blog

It happens this same time every year...

After a short period of adjustment, during which I get used to your size, your shape, your smell, I fall head over heels in love with you. I exclaim that you are even more wonderful (i.e., bigger, more nicely shaped, more receptive to adornment) than last year's love object.

Our affair blossoms. It doesn't matter to you whether I am being naughty or nice, lazy or productive, noisy or quiet... You simply stand tall and let me load your branches with sparkly lights and glittery baubles. You let me rearrange them as often as I like, with nary a complaint about broken twigs or lost needles.

You ask only for a drink of water every day.

In exchange, you cast a beautiful glow across our living room, and fill the house with your irresistible scent...



I declare my eternal love for you, and promise to keep you with me for as long as I can.

Then Christmas passes. And New Year's. You grow tired. Your branches droop and your needles fall. You stop drinking water.

I am bereft; I know what must happen next...

Sadly, I strip you of your ornaments and pack them away with the promise that I will bestow them on a new love next year.

Unadorned, you look smaller. You seem relieved. I know I must let you go.

We tip you gently onto a tarpaulin and drag you out the door and down the front stairs, being careful not to strew your needles across the lawn...




We lay you neatly perpendicular to the curb, and hope that the recycling crew will handle you with due care.



We will always remember you, Tree. You performed beautifully, and we could not be more pleased.

Rest in Peace. (Sigh.)

January 4, 2011 -- Hi, Dad...

This is my dad with the first three of his six kids -- my sisters, Bev and Karen, and me -- circa 1956. (I'm the oldest.) This was taken at my Grandpa and Grandma Borg's house in Garden City, Michigan, probably by my mom. Whenever we had pictures taken with Dad, he would say silly things to make us laugh. You can tell he's saying something here, but it looks like Bev is the only one listening.





Hi Dad --

Boy, do I miss you! I can't believe it's been three years since I've actually seen you. I guess that's because it's never really felt like you left.

Of course right after Missy called to tell me that you were gone, all I could do was cry -- It was too quick! I felt like I needed to tell you goodbye or something!

But as soon as the shock wore off and it started to sink in that you really were gone, it hit me like a ton of bricks that it was okay, because I knew exactly where you were!

I even smiled, then, thinking of you landing on your butt right outside those renowned Pearly Gates, looking up at St. Peter and saying, "Well yeah, sure I want to stay. But what about those guys? Can I go back and hug them or something?"

Of course you didn't need to do that -- although I sure could have used a few more of your hugs -- I still need them!

Just like I really didn't need to tell you goodbye. (Although I sure am glad we talked on the phone a couple of days before you went!)

I don't think you had any unfinished business with anyone, did you, Dad? I like to say that you lived every day as if it were your last. (Oh, I'm not saying you were perfect -- I know you wouldn't want that -- I'm just saying that I like to tell people that, okay?)

I also like to tell people that when you died, I lost my best audience. Remember how we used to start and finish limericks for each other. I'm proud to say that it was you who fostered my love of that great art form -- the limerick! And it was you who made us kids love reading, and words! Crossword puzzles -- I so wish I had kept that New York Times one that we worked on together for a week -- and actually finished!

Well, Dad, we've finally arrived at what this whole thing has been leading up to...I wrote another limerick, just for you...

There once was a father I had.
(I lovingly called him "My Dad.")
If he were here,
I'd buy him a beer...
I miss him, yet I don't feel too bad.

You like how I did that...kind of started off serious, like it was going to be all sad or something, then threw in that surprise ending? Because that's how it is now. I'd give everything I own just to be able to spend a day with you -- and Mom -- again; but I feel really peaceful and good, thinking of where you are.

I'll see you again, Dad. I'm just glad you'll be with me until then.

Love you!

P.S. How 'bout those Lions?!!