Virgo, Skeptic Rising

There are two kinds of people in the world: believers and skeptics. George Bernard Shaw said: "The fact that a believer is happier than a skeptic is more to the point than the fact that a drunken man is happier than a sober one.

Sober or not, I fall pretty comfortably into the skeptical category, though I'm not quite as jaded as my mother. She can't even watch a magician without saying: "It's a trick."

"Of course it's a trick," my dad says, "but the illusion is fun."

"It's just a trick," says my mother.

Her sister, my aunt, reads her horoscope pretty regularly. When my mother says that she doesn't believe in horoscopes, my aunt says: "Of course you don't. You're a Capricorn."

On the Zodiacal chart, I'm Virgo, often described as: perfectionistic, anxious, hardworking, self-sacrificing, reliable, logical, observant, helpful, precise, interfering. I am all of those things.

Virgo is also described as cold, fussy, inflexible, introverted, fastidious, health conscious, fit, and emotionally secretive. I am none of those things.

If I am sitting in a doctor's office and if there is no good celebrity gossip to read, I will glance at my horoscope. Sometimes I agree, somethings I don't. But do I believe? No. Nor do I believe a single word that tarot card reader told me at that party last summer.

In fact, the older I get, the less I believe in much of anything. The folly of youth seems to be to believe that things will simultaneously change completely (for the better) and yet never change. Experience shows that fashion and technology change, but that human nature does not.

The belief systems of the world's religions have never seemed particularly helpful to me. I worry enough about this lifetime to spend much energy worrying about the next. I'd like to believe, as many ancient cultures do, that everything has a spirit, but I don't really care whether a rock has an inner life and I don't want to have to worry about the soul of that mosquito I just snuffed. One of the big reasons that Judaism appeals to me is that it offers more questions than answers. That seems right. Answers are elusive, maybe even irrelevant. It's the questions that count.

On the other hand, some things aren't even worth questioning. They just … are. And despite a pervasive skepticism, I do believe in a few unbelievable things. Like most parents, I know for a fact that my babies are miracles. Life itself — the spark of it — is miraculous, even if it is just a random accident rather than divine design.

Part of this miracle that it is finite. Our lives are limited and unpredictable, and most belief systems seem to stem from our need to answer the answerable: where do we come from, how long will we be here, where do we go? I don't believe that anyone really knows, at least not for sure.

I don't believe in ghosts, either, but I do know that my grandmother came to say goodbye to me when she passed away 12 years ago. She was in Michigan when she died, and I was at home in bed in Chicago. She came to my room and told me not to worry, that everything was fine and that she loved me. I saw her standing there, by the door. She didn't speak, yet I heard her clear as day. My inner skeptic didn't even question it.

You don't have to believe me. It doesn't matter whether you do or not. If you need proof, however, I did wake my husband to tell him. He patted my hand and told me to go back to sleep. When my mother called at 6:30 in the morning to tell me the news, my husband was wide-eyed and my mother had no idea what I meant when I told her I already knew.

This week, my father's sister passed away. I was lucky to get to visit her one last time a few weeks ago. As sick as she was, it was still a shock to hear that she had died so soon after our visit. I'm glad I got to see her in person, because she did not visit me when she died.

I've been lucky — my direct experience with death has been limited primarily to elderly relatives who have lived long lives. Perhaps that is why I haven't looked for further explanations.

I know people who have experienced traumatic or unexpected loss — through illness, accident or senseless violence. They often seem to want answers, or at least reasons. I have one friend who lost so many family members in such a short time, that when they moved to a new town, the first thing her son wanted to see was the cemetery. I have another friend who lost her dear husband of more than 60 years, but talks to him regularly … and he talks back. I have no doubt that she hears him.

My friend and fellow writer Shari Brady recently wrote about her belief in the paranormal, and how she uses it as inspiration for her fiction. In many ways, I think fiction writers are all trying to work out our control issues. Through writing, we have the power of life and death. Even better, we can write an entire life and then change it in rewrite.

Maybe it's a Virgo thing, since there have been many famous Virgo writers including (to name just a few): William Rice Burroughs, Taylor Caldwell, Agatha Christie, Craig Claiborne, Eldridge Cleaver, George Fenimore Cooper, Roald Dahl, Robertson Davies, Theodore Dreiser, Johann von Goethe, O. Henry, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Ken Kesey, Stephen King, D. H. Lawrence, H.L. Menken, William Saroyan, Mary Godwin Shelley, Edith Sitwell, Upton Sinclair, Leo Tolstoy, H.G. Wells, William Carlos Williams and Richard Wright.

And lest we forget that other Virgo writer, Robert Benchley, who capsulized the whole two kinds of people belief system in his Law of Distinction:

"There are two kinds of people in the world, 

those who believe there are two kinds of people
and those who don't."

My Aunt Phyllis was a Libra. Although I don't know if she followed her horoscope, I do know she held deep religious convictions and I hope they brought her comfort. I also know she was loved and will be missed.

Please share your own beliefs or close encounters with the other side here.

Image credit: Virgo by ~Miss--Dee at deviantart.com.

Holy Crap, They're Graduating — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Dateline Evanston: Micro-preemie Twins Graduate from High School; Mom's Non-stop Weeping Earns World Record

Denial is the thumb in the dyke holding back the deluge of tears that I know is coming. So far, it's working pretty well.

The fact that it's May helps. May used to be a pleasant, benign month, the waiting room for summer. Now, it's a whirlwind of award ceremonies, school concerts, final projects, class picnics, paperwork and soccer games. If you could see my color-coded calendar, you'd weep right along with me.

This year, May bustle is my lifeboat down the River of Denial, and I'm grateful. Each morning, I focus on one square of the calendar, and take things one day, nay, one event at a time.

But the subconscious is an uncooperative entity, and I'm having a much harder time keeping things in perspective during my short, fitful hours of sleep. For example, last night my dream-state kept pelting me with the reality that the twins really are going to graduate in just a few weeks. And what did the devil on the shoulder of my subconscious whisper in my ear?

"You are old."

"Well, OK, maybe not old, but you are definitely not young. Only not-young people have children who are high school graduates."

It also revealed to me that my role is about to change. Growing up, I had nothing but respect for my parents. (In the case of my mom, it was more like fear. She is all of 5' 2" and tiny, but she has the best mom glare you have ever seen. It worked every time.)

That was until my brother and I graduated from high school, when it all changed. Our parents became the subject of endless mockery — by us, their adoring offspring. It was gentle mocking, but mocking nonetheless. Every foible, every tiny misstep was held up for ridicule. They were easy targets and pretty good sports. I'm not sure I have it in me to become the butt of my kids' jokes. Oy, I can see it now: 

"Remember how Mama lost her keys every morning?" — followed by exaggerated pantomimes of me tearing apart the house in an eternal quest for the elusive keys.

"Remember Mama's escalating rants in the car while schlepping us around?" — followed by shrill mimicry of me losing my mind about something ridiculous.

"Remember how Mama always corrected everybody's grammar? Like the time she whipped out her Sharpie and crossed out '10 items or less' and wrote '10 items or fewer' on the sign at the Jewel?" (OK, I don't apologize for that. Once an editor, always an editor.)

I woke up in a cold sweat. This is not fair. I'm not ready.

I am Mighty-Mama, in absolute control of your electronics and play dates. I have the power of grounding and time out. I know your most embarrassing secrets and, if necessary, I am not afraid to use them.

I am Mama. Thou Shalt Not Mock.

When Susan Bearman isn't having nightmares about her diminishing authority, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog, as well as freelancing at www.bearman.us. Oh yeah, and Twittering @2KoP. This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. 

Celebrate National Pet Week — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

This week, May 2-8, is a big week for animals. It is both National Pet Week and Be Kind to Animals Week.

In our family, every week is National Pet Week, not just because we love our Soft-coated Wheaton Terrier, Hazel, or our one remaining hermit crab, Maize (Blue passed away earlier this year). No, we wish every week was National Pet Week because we own a small independent pet shop.

People who have known me since I was a teenager mock chuckle when I remind them that we (and by we, I mean my husband) own a pet shop. My childhood pet experiences included hating our not-quite-cocker-spaniel for shedding blond fur all over my black-only wardrobe during my angsty teenage years, and being freaked out by discovering a brief series of dead animals stiff in their cages or belly-up in their bowls. But one day, just after my twins were born, I found myself the co-owner of a pet store, and I still scratch my head over how that happened.

It's a wonderful pet shop and my husband and his staff are incredibly knowledgeable about animals. While I'm not in their league when it comes to animal-related information, I have learned a thing or two along the way, including to appreciate the deep connection people have with their family pets. The American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry states that "children raised with pets show many benefits." Animals teach children compassion, responsibility, and about our relationships with nature and each other. Children often talk to their pets they way they talk to stuffed animals, spilling all their secret fears and dreams into those fuzzy, nonjudgmental ears.

A recent poll indicates that a full one third of married women think their pets are better listeners than their husbands. I don't know about that. My dog doesn't seem to listen to me any better than my husband or my kids do. On the other hand, she doesn't talk back. In my kids favor, however, it's been a long time since any of them has peed on the floor. Of course, if the kids took the dog out when they're supposed to, then she wouldn't pee on the floor either. Some families have a synergistic relationship with their pets. Ours is more like a Catch-22.

It took years of convincing before I finally caved and allowed us to get a dog. Every time my kids begged for a pet, I told them they owned hundreds of them and could play with them whenever they visited Daddy at the store. I know, it's like the cobbler's children who don't have any shoes. But retail is a hard life with long hours and I already felt like a single parent — and I didn't want to feel like a single parent with a dog.

If you promise not to tell my kids, I'll let you in on a little secret. I knew that one day we would have to get a dog. I think it's a law or something. I also knew that I only wanted one dog during the course of raising our family, so I waited until my youngest child was 7 years old before I even considered it. I confess that this was a case of planned obsolescence. If things worked out according to plan, the dog would live long enough for my youngest son to go off to college, and then conveniently pass away right after his freshman year Thanksgiving break, having lived a happy, healthy 12 years or so (that's 84 in dog years).

So about five years ago, we got our first dog, Roscoe. He wasn't the brightest puppy in the pound, but he was a sweet dog. Unfortunately, he was killed tragically by a speeding truck right in front of our house when he was just three years old. Telling my kids about his death was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do as a parent.

My children were devastated and, while I was sad for the loss, I have to admit that things were easier without him. Two of my kids immediately started lobbying for a new dog; two felt that no puppy would ever replace their beloved Roscoe. I tried to remain ambivalent, but the damnedest thing happened. I missed that mutt — more than that, I missed having a dog in the house.

So, we got Hazel. She's much smarter and more well-behaved than Roscoe ever was, and while she isn't nearly as sweet, she and I have a good working relationship. And it melts my heart every night when the boys snuggle with her, scratching her belly and saying goodnight to the "best puppy in the world."

The passing of Roscoe was a difficult time in our family's life, but it made me understand that often, the death of a pet is the first significant loss a child experiences, and learning to cope with that loss is just another gift our pets give us. So here's to Roscoe … and Hazel … and even Maize and Blue, and all the other animals in the lives our families. Take time during these days of National Pet Week and Be Kind to Animals Week to appreciate them and all they bring to us. You can find some ideas about how to celebrate here.

When Susan Bearman isn't busy walking the dog, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog, and freelancing at www.bearman.us. This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post.

Boys to Men — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Not long ago, I wrote a kind of tongue-in-cheek post about how boys and girls are innately different and that there's not much we can do about it. While I stand by my premise (as far as it goes), I'm a little concerned that my meticulous research (conducted over 20 years as a stepmom and mom) could be used to justify more adult-oriented "boys will be boys" shenanigans.

Let me state for the record that just because I have documented that boys are likely to find great humor in bodily emissions and enjoy making car noises, it does not mean that they should grow up to be lying, cheating a$$h@!#s.

I don't know Tiger Woods, Jesse James, John Edwards or Charlie Sheen (read Darryle Pollack's hysterical post called "Bad Taste Meets the Final Four" for a great wrap up). Nor do I know Sandra Bullock, Elin Woods, Elizabeth Edwards, or Brooke Mueller, though as a woman I feel their pain. While millions of other women experience similar betrayals every year, I can't even imagine having to struggle through it as it is played out in the media.

As a mom, my question is this: how do I raise my boys to be good men — trustworthy, honest, caring partners worthy of the title mensch? What can I say or do to help them make good decisions, even when tempted? How can I instill in them a sense righteousness in honoring the women in their lives?

These are not idle questions. My sweet boys are turning into young men right before my eyes. My husband's first son is getting married this summer, our oldest is graduating from high school in June, and the "little" boys … well, as middle schoolers, they're not so little any more, and the boy-girl texting has already begun.

I know that my influence is diminishing by the day, and that the influence of their peers and the media is growing. I've certainly never pointed to athletes or celebrities or (heaven forbid) politicians as role models for my children. I also know there's only so much I can do or say.

So I'll just say this to my future daughters-in-law or significant others of my sons: I tried.

And boys, if you are reading this, please do not grow up to be lying, cheating a$$h@!#s. It would break your mama's heart.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't busy teaching her boys that mensches hold the door open for others and put their dirty clothes in the hamper, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People, twittering @2KoP and freelancing at www.bearman.us.

A Dime a Dozen

"Ideas won't keep. 

Something must be done about them."

— Alfred North Whitehead, (1861-1947)

mathematician, logician, philosopher

As author and pool playing expert Robert Byrne once said, "There are two kinds of people, those who finish what they start and so on." You know what he means. It's one thing to have a good idea, it's a whole other thing to follow through with it.

How many times have you been watching late-night infomercials only to discover some bozo took the idea that you've had for years and converted it to pure gold right there for everyone to see at 3:30 in the morning? Oh, you don't watch TV infomercials 3:30 in the morning? I guess it's just me, then, but surely someone along the way has stolen one of your brilliant ideas.

"Everyone is a genius at least once a year.
The real geniuses simply have their 
bright ideas closer together."

— Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

physicist, mathematician, astronomer and writer

I don't know whether I'm a real genius or not, but for writers, ideas are our stock and trade. Every once in a while, I get a little nervous that all the good ideas have been taken, but then I remember The Crescent Rod™ shower curtain rod. The first time I saw it, I thought the thing was pure genius. With a simple curved rod, it was now possible to take a shower in a tiny hotel tub/shower combo without that gross, plastic curtain sticking to you with its germs and who knows what all over it. I also remember thinking, damn, why didn't I think of that?

Most of the time, though, ideas aren't my problem. In fact, the ideas never stop. They come in my sleep, while I'm driving, when surfing the Net … sometimes bidden, sometimes not. My problems come in the areas of followthrough, procrastination, and finishing one project before I start something new.

My friend, Ardis Berghoff, has good ideas, but even more importantly, she has transformed her ideas into a cool Etsy business called Foundry Designs. I met Ardis through writing, and now her ideas have lead her into clothing and accessory design, often using found or recycled materials, like her new collection of "Shirtback Dresses", made from recycled men's dress shirts. While I certainly admire Ardis for her vision, the thing that bowls me over his her ability to just go for it.

In the writing world, it's considered bad juju to talk about your ideas or your WIP (work in progress). I'm not sure I buy into that. I like bouncing ideas off other writers and getting feedback. I'm currently working on a new idea and it's exciting. (Nope, not gonna tell ya. The puppy dog eyes will not work this time.) I think it's a great idea (but then, when don't I think my ideas are great?). I think it may even be a lucrative idea, which probably means it isn't.

The thing is, you can't copyright an idea. And besides, it's not really the idea. Ideas, as they say, are a dime a dozen. It's what you do with your idea, the execution of it, that counts. This is the lesson I'm working on now: getting the idea out of me, on paper, and through the process — the whole process: writing, editing, revising, revising, submitting, pitching, revising, revising, publishing (!), marketing and starting all over again. I can do it. The idea is a good one, but it's just the beginning. I know what I have to do, and I know I have to do it before I walk into a bookstore, pick up the latest bestseller, read the jacket flap and say: "Damn. That was my idea."

What brilliant idea did you have that is now being produced by Guthy-Renker for someone else? Better yet, what ideas do you have for getting your ideas out of your head and into the world? Click here to share your successes or missed opportunities.

"Every composer knows the anguish and 
despair occasioned by forgetting ideas 
which one has not time to write down."

— Hector Berlioz (1803-1869), composer

Ed. Note: If the curved shower curtain didn't convince you that there are still plenty of good ideas to be had, maybe the square Coke bottle will. This is by far the coolest thing I've seen (today).  4/28/10 9:50 a.m.

Photo credit: Curved Shower Rod by splityarn via a Creative Commons License.

Bring on the Boredom — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

The other day, I heard someone discussing the benefits that being bored can bring to children: time to think, room to imagine, space to exercise creativity, and reasons to practice patience and interpersonal skills with peers. In other words, some time in a child's day that isn't dictated, structured and supervised by grownups can be a good thing. The line that has really stuck with me was "Give your child the gift of boredom." Turns out there's quite a bit of support for this in the fields of psychology and education.

When I was a kid (about 3 million years ago, according to my own children), not every single second of my day was booked with lessons, play dates, activities, school, and screens. And there were times when I was plenty bored, believe me. I learned not to express those feelings to my mother, however, because she would always solve my boredom by giving me chores to do. Have I mentioned that my mom is one smart chick? To avoid doing those chores, I quickly learned to entertain myself by doing crafts or making a puzzle or sometimes even playing with my brother. Usually, I would crack open a book and get lost in another, less boring world.

Kids today don't have that luxury. I've tried hard to avoid overbooking my children, but it's hard to turn down interesting opportunities. On the few occasions when my kids have told me that they were bored, I've tried my mother's line on them, but it doesn't seem to have the same impact that it had on me all those years ago. Maybe I'll call and ask her for a refresher course.

Spring break provided some much needed down time for our family, and the kids and I took yet another road trip to visit my parents in Florida. It's too expensive to fly, so we drive down, and 1,200 miles each way provides plenty of time for boredom to set in. But, we have that part down to a science: audio books, car-friendly activities in individual backpacks, and just enough junk food to keep everyone happy, but not enough to make anyone sick. Plus, we always listen to the deluxe anniversary edition of the original broadway cast of Fiddler on the Roof, complete with additional tunes and commentary by Sheldon Harnick. What can I say? It's a tradition.

The real boredom set in once we got down to Florida and my parent's 55+ community. Horror of horrors, there was only one computer available for the seven people in the house that week and March madness basketball occupied my father's TV. I could feel the tension rising as my usually bickering boys were forced to spend too much time together with not enough scheduled activities or screens to keep them occupied.

But guess what? They didn't bicker. They played games. They did crossword puzzles. They went down to the shuffle board courts. They become deep sea divers discovering new worlds in the pool every day. They learned how to play poker and Euchre. They played with girl cousins. They played with each other. They SHARED computer time. I think they may even have cracked open a book or two. They had fun.

And can I say it again — they didn't bicker.

I guess a little boredom never hurt anybody. Maybe we'll try it again soon. And if that doesn't work, there are always chores to do.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't busy figuring out how to make her children's lives miserable and telling them boring stories about the good old days, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and on her freelance Website, www.bearman.us.

I Need a Little Backup

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who perform as part of a group and those who fly solo.

As a family of six, we are definitely a group act, but I've recently come to the conclusion that I'm lacking something in my life, and I've decided what I need is … backup singers.

Think about it: what mom couldn't use backup singers? Instead of repeating myself 237 times a day, I'd just have to sing the chorus through a couple of times and my backup singers would pick up the slack.

Me: "It's 5:30, baby. Turn off the screens and do your homework."

My backup singers: "Do your homework, do your homework, yeah, do your homework now."

Me: "It's bedtime, honey. Put your jammies on, brush your teeth and get into bed."

My backup singers: "Get to bed, get to bed, yeah, get to bed now."

Brilliant, right? And I'm not the only writer to think along these lines. Turns out some pretty famous authors have formed a nearly infamous rock group known as the Rock Bottom Remainders. Current members include: Mitch Albom on keyboards, Dave Barry on lead guitar, Roy Blount Jr., Greg Iles on lead guitar, Kathi Kamen Goldmark on vocals, Stephen King on rhythm guitar, Matt Groening on cowbell, James McBride on sax, Amy Tan on vocals, Ridley Pearson on bass, and Scott Turow on vocals.

I thought of joining up with the Rock Bottom Remainders, who are performing their Wordstock Tour this month in DC, Philly, NY and Boston. Lest you think this is a bit of a leap, given my not-quite-published status, it turns out I have an in. Scott Turow's mom, the lovely Rita Turow, is a long-time member of the Off Campus Writers' Workshop, the very writers' group of which I am a member of the board. One phone call to Rita, and I'd be a shoe-in to join the group.

But, on further reflection (given my not-quite-published status), I thought the group might relegate want me to sing backup, and that simply does not fit in with my plans. No, I want to be a best-selling author and have my very own band with my very own backup singers. Not that I can actually sing, or anything, but one step at a time.

And I have already taken the first step. According to the Wall Street Journal, one of the biggest startup problems new bands face is coming up with a good name. As John Jergensen wrote in "From ABBA to ZZ Top, All the Good Band Names are Taken," it turns out that once again, the Internet is to blame. "The last decade's digital revolution not only transformed the way people listen to music, it changed the way bands establish identities," wrote Jergensen. Facebook, MySpace and other social networking sites have given once local-only garage bands international visibility. And they are willing to sue if you encroach on their names.

Luckily for me, a quick Google search confirmed that there is, as of yet, no band with the name "Two Kinds of People." And if I want to go edgier, I can always use 2KoP. So Step 1: pick a cool name for the band. Check. If you're still struggling with Step 1 in creating your own band, you'll be happy to know that there are all kinds of band name generators available online.

Now it seems that all I have to do to get my own band is to become a famous author. I'm still working on that. In the meantime, if you are interested in becoming one of my backup singers, you might want to check out this wikihow article on How to be a Backup Singer.

Have your own band stories, glories or fantasies? Please do share by clicking here. Then sit back and enjoy this musical interlude from the Rock Bottom Remainders:



Photo credit: Mics by Matt Gibson via Creative Commons.