When Tenth Avenue Freeze-out Killed the Party

He proved my mother wrong. With him, life was a party. That alone secured his permanent position in my heart, making bonuses of the countless worthy reasons to love him.

I lived in anticipation of the excitement his spontaneity promised and appreciation for his refusal to entertain negativity. His easy, infectious laugh, hilarious antics, entertaining stories, refreshing outlook, and talent for including everyone set my smile and guaranteed our invitation any time friends gathered. My secret was that the time we spent alone was more exciting than the parties were, and the afterglow floated me through the dreaded hours when work or reality tore me away from him.

Having to wait my turn for his attention in crowds might have been the downside of loving the life of the party but even that had its own reward. I loved him more each time I watched him lift a spirit, ignite a smile, smooth a ruffled feather, or hug a friend through the blues.

I stood behind his rapt audience that night, caught his smile, and returned my keep-going-I'm-okay nod. His story was funnier the second time than it had been on the drive over, when I laughed until I cried and begged him to stop before my eyeliner ended up on my chin. He might have embellished details or exaggerated reactions for the bigger audience but I attributed the bulk of my giddiness to the fact that his arm was around Denise and she was laughing for the first time since Stan left her.

From across the room, a current goalie let me know their game was almost over and we were up next on the foosball table. A couple of guys beside me vied for the opportunity to impress one another by snapping the plastic rings that had once held their beer cans in a six pack. The doorbell announced pizza delivery. We had been in the same place, with the same people, doing the same things many times before. My thoughts and actions were automatic. I was comfortable.

He ended his story and detached from still-smiling Denise. His audience reached for wallets and purses to pay the delivery guy. I expected him to follow the food. I would say we didn't have time to eat because we had next game, and he would tell me he'd grab a couple slices and meet me at the foosball table.

But it didn't happen that way. His eyes darkened as he approached, upsetting the sameness, and confusing my predictions. Carefree turned to intense which I decided could only mean one thing - he was deathly ill.

He took my hand and led me past the pizza and beer and down the hall to a back bedroom. Terror set in when he called back and told the others to skip our game before he closed the door that separated us from familiarity.

Still somber, he dropped to one knee. A flood of conflicting emotions rushed up my throat and threatened to choke me. A proposal beat deathly ill - barely - but his obvious level of discomfort and the fact that he wasn't facing me were not encouraging. My heart stopped racing when, instead of a ring, he pulled out headphones for each of us and said he wanted me to hear something.

In the seconds it took him to turn everything on, plug everything in, remove the album from its cover, blow the dust off the record and the needle, and, touching only the rim, position the album on the turntable, my relief tumbled through several stages of confusion. I had never known him to push the button to change songs on the radio, much less select an album and play it. Deciding it was time to mow the lawn or wash the car when I played Engelbert or Tom Jones versus staying in the room if I selected Humble Pie or The Doors was the closest he had come to expressing an opinion about music. Now, he had pulled me away from a party to hear something.

His continued darkness clouded my curiosity.

He handed me one set of headphones, donned the second set, and pressed the automatic play button. As the arm settled in the grooves to deliver the anticipated music, he sat, back to the wall, on the floor and pulled me between his legs. I rested against him, comforted when I discovered he still felt like the same man even if everything else seemed to have changed.

Although far from an orchestral sound, the mellow harmonica and piano intro was more suited to Engelbert than to Humble Pie. That told me he knew my taste, and this something he wanted me to hear was for me. Maybe the darkness was in anticipation of how miserable he would be sitting through it? I pulled his arm around me and squeezed his hand just as a mournful, scratchy, nothing-like-Engelbert voice joined the mix.

Once over the shock, I enjoyed the unlikely combination of mellow music and raw voice and decided the something he wanted me to hear must be in the lyrics. It didn't mean much to me until the singer blasted my last hope of sameness with a mournful, "Roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair." I recovered in time to catch something about, "Ready to take the long walk," and "I know you're lonely for words that I ain't spoke."

My make-something-of-nothing conclusion returned me to the proposal scare but the lyrics rescued me before I went into a full panic attack. My final conclusion, after "Town for losers, pulling out of here to win," was that he had introduced me to a powerful combination of great instrumentation and passionate vocals, and he wanted to ditch our friends because they were a town of losers.

With the mystery solved, I reached up to remove the headphones and return to the party. But he stopped me. We were there for the long play.

The second song started with the drive it had taken the first song a complete verse and chorus to build up to, and with lyrics that are more upbeat. The dancer in me had trouble sitting still until I felt his heart beating against my back. I snuggled closer, knowing this was probably as close as I would ever get to a dance with him.

More into the heart dance than the lyrics, I almost let that song be nothing. Almost. He made it something when he flinched with the words about being all alone, on his own, and can't go home. The saxophone cried and he tensed again. I remembered thinking he was in pain before we entered the room and made more something of nothing.

I turned to look at him but he didn't open his eyes. His arms were still around me but he had detached and didn't seem to notice my movement. Was he crying behind closed lids, placing me in a Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out and leaving me through music?

Physically, I couldn't have been closer without crawling inside his body but emotionally I felt like I was on another planet. I wanted to go back to hearing something because I didn't like feeling it.

The seconds it took for the needle to scratch over to the next song felt like an eternity. I vowed I would only hear the music, but words broke through. "And you're just another prisoner of your dreams." I didn't know his dreams. In all that time, I had not considered the possibility of his wanting anything after the party, or that my mother could be right and the party might end. I didn't hear, feel, or think. I blocked everything until a new song started and the piano lulled me into believing this one would be simple and the music would return me to familiar emotions.

There was no blocking the pain in "Backstreets". The first hide took a piece of my heart that never returned. I tried to crawl inside my broken life-of-the-party's body, where he could protect me from that song, but I didn't find an entrance. Who was that singer and why did I need to hear him plead for whatever he needed so desperately?

The answer came in a crushing blow when my guy's body reacted to Bruce Springsteen's heart-wrenching Whah-ahh that not only sounded like he was dying, but also convinced me that he planned to take me with him.

Emotionally shattered, I resented Bruce for delivering my guy's pain to me. At the same time, I was both resentful and grateful to my guy. I appreciated his willingness to share the part of him that either I had ignored or he had hidden before, but was devastated to come to this point of no return, where he no longer wanted to protect my dreams and visions and my party would end.

I reminded myself repeatedly throughout the rest of the album that this was someone else's autobiography, not his. I heard the challenge to let him know if love is real, and thought about where I could go physically with that music. But we had been there, and obviously, it wasn't enough to feed whatever hunger made him feel Bruce's wails.

The last thing I remembered was him kissing the top of my head and releasing me from his hug following the words, "Back when her love could save you from the bitterness." That must have been what he wanted me to hear. Past tense.

There was nothing I could do to shake that freeze-out. And, Baby, I was born to run.

Bruce Springsteen website with links to lyrics.

1968

Published on Gather, January 27, 2008 04:57 PM EST (Updated: January 28, 2008 01:52 PM EST)

Like Duckie, I also had a recent visit from a Ghost.

December 31, 1968.

• Bell-bottomed, black, bolero pants with wide suspender straps over an uncharacteristic,
  
  
  white, ruffled blouse my parents had given me for Christmas, worn only to protect their feelings.
• Black pumps with gold buckles, a poor choice for walking on ice.
• A tight girdle (laughable in retrospect, since I was 110 pounds with a flat stomach, no butt, and toothpick legs), because I needed something to hold my stockings up without having garters show through my pants.
• My favorite peach and brown bikini panties, even though I couldn't wear the matching bra under a white blouse and I didn't plan on letting anyone else see them, included only because they felt stylish
• Blue eye shadow, light pink--almost white--lipstick and copper rouge applied under my cheekbones. Black eyeliner curled up at the outside corners, with a thin line of liquid white above the pupils to create the Sophia Loren look.
• Gold wire earrings with snowflake charms, a gold barrette securing the top layers of side hair to the back of my head.
• Hard contact lenses that still felt like huge chunks of broken glass in my eyes.
• A pea coat, and Daddy's rabbit-lined leather gloves.
• And a smile that would last forty-five days.

Until then, my father had photographed every event in my life and laminated some of his favorites. But the camera didn't come out for my first, first date with the guy with whom I would later share many firsts, many of which I would not have wanted anyone to photograph. For some reason that I won't try to guess, Daddy did not preserve this night on film; the only picture is the one that my memory pulled out on December 31, 2007, when it all came back to me - the clothes, the music, and the emotions.

What caused that night to revisit thirty-nine years later? Forty makes sense as a milestone year. It might seem appropriate if I had been at a house party in the same neighborhood, worn similar clothes, spent the evening with his friends or family, mentioned his name, heard Diana Ross' "Love Child", seen a picture of him, or even thought his name. None of those qualifiers carried me into the time warp.

One minute I was sitting on the couch in my 2007 sweats, listening to a movie on television while I worked on a craft project. In an instant, I landed in the same calendar square thirty-nine years earlier.

Now, nearly a month later, I still feel something akin to the life-altering hangover of a dream that was too real. If he were still alive, I would expect him to call. As it is, I've started 2008 feeling young, and with a wild streak that has nowhere to go.

(I alternately blame and thank Time Heals and Lyndon for drudging up this bad boy, and Duckie for opening the door to let him back in.)

Love or Leave

(published to Gather on March 27, 2008 09:08 AM ED)

When my child falls to the floor in the aisle between cereal and pop tarts and throws a temper tantrum, I am not proud. I might walk away with the Quaker Oatmeal Squares and pretend I don't hear her screaming for Reeses Puffs, but I don't desert her and look for a perfect child.

I don't excuse her because she needs a nap, or because she saw Reeses Puffs ads on television, or because I have seen other children demonstrate the same behavior, or even because most three-year-olds behave that way. And I don't blame the grocer for stocking the unhealthy choice or the network for running the ad.

I don't excuse her inappropriate behavior because her father doesn't contribute emotionally or financially, or because she is female and therefore expected to be emotional. I don't decide she deserves a treat because she is female and will always get the short end of the stick in life. I don't reinforce any of the excuses she might hear from anyone, anywhere, any time in her life.

Did I already say I am not proud of her behavior? I want to say that again. I love her and I forgive her, but am not proud of my daughter's inappropriate behavior.

I will tell my daughter I am sorry she is disappointed. I will understand her need to cry. But, I will tell her that she chose the wrong time, place, and method of expressing that disappointment. I will explain that her inappropriate behavior disrupted others, and why repeating that behavior will not benefit her.

I will tell her screaming in public is not appropriate. I will tell her she has choices, and the power to choose behaviors that will benefit her in life. I will tell her how many friends, ads, movies, magazines, and grocery shelves she will meet in life, and how many times people will offer her excuses and scapegoats. I will make sure she knows I believe she has the strength to resist what will hurt her.

She might not hear me the first fifty times I tell her about her about power and choices, but that won't stop me; I will repeat myself until she finds her strength. As her mother, it is my job to believe in her, arm her with knowledge, and give her strength, and I take my job seriously.

I love and respect my child enough to help her when she is out of sorts.

When my government pitches an eight-year temper tantrum, I am not proud. I know it can do better. I will not excuse poor behavior because others have done the same, or put it down for a nap and hope that will solve the problems. I will address the problems and repeat myself until it finds the strength to make healthy choices.

It is not a matter of love it or leave it (I can't believe people are still saying that). For me, this is about loving enough to do the work, even when it isn't popular or easy.


As a citizen, it is my job to believe in my government, arm it with strength and knowledge, and I take my job seriously. 

Where Do I Fit In?

Where Do I Fit In?

In addition to the traditional offerings most generous, doting parents lavish on a child, mine infused a lifeline to their unrestricted generosity. They gave me the world, by allowing me to see the people in it without filters. They augmented their love for me by inviting the world in to love me with them, and they backed me to the wall where I had a wide-scope, eye-level view of people, without ever having to look up or down at anyone.

Through that wide scope, I learned invaluable lessons about perception. No matter how much one person belittles other, misquotes or misrepresents them, ignores facts or logic, or deprives others of what he has, none of that increases the wealth or intelligence of the first person. Even when that person puffs his chest and sneers down his nose at a dropped head, the person wearing that dropped head maintains his original wealth and intelligence. Perception is the only thing a bully affects, and it only favors him in his own mind.

No one becomes honest or patriotic by calling another a liar or a traitor. People are what they are, and no amount of name-calling or swearing otherwise will change that. One man can’t drink another thirsty. Contrast does not produce, assumption will not build, fear will not protect, and denial cannot erase. Perception does not replace experience or knowledge.

That scope also showed me we have no absolute control over what we receive, but always have control over what we give. When we tap out on receiving, we will always have more to give. I also noticed that what we give comes back, although seldom from the people we have given to, often in a different form, and usually more valuable than we’d imagined. Those who count favors and pennies often cheat themselves.

I treasure all of these lessons, but appreciate seeing myself as part of the bigger picture more than any other. I was unlike any other person in that wide scope. There might have been a dozen other white-skinned, blue-eyed, tall females present, but they wouldn’t all be able to type eighty-five words a minute or ace their exams without studying. I knew my father would be home for dinner every night, help me with my homework, and drive me to my music lessons. My mother would have breakfast on the table and my school uniform ironed when I came down the stairs in the morning. But that didn’t mean any other parent would, or every other parent could do the same.

Where did I fit in, since I had done nothing to deserve my special status? For me, the answer was simple. I fit in the bigger picture by wanting to be there, and by sharing my parents with the world.

Here they are world – I will continue to do my best to share what they have given me.

Let It Be

My big mistake was in expecting a twenty-mile drive to erase the thirty years I had been away. I set myself up for the unwarranted sense of betrayal that came when I saw a flat lot with a beer garden standing where I remembered rows of curbside-service speakers, covered by orange awnings. Otherwise, the outside of the stone and glass building appeared untouched except for the new name.

While I was growing up, my family ate out most Friday nights. We hit the church fish fries, Sizzler and Pizza Hut after they came around, and Frisch's on occasion. Once in a great while, we donned good clothes and manners and visited an upscale restaurant. The one place we all enjoyed, and therefore frequented most often, was Hunt's, a family-owned, neighborhood bar-restaurant combination with one small and one large dining room, a banquet room, and servers who delivered food outdoors, on trays that attached to the car windows. Hunt's original salad dressing made them famous. Individual jukebox connections on each table made the dining room our favorite spot to eat. For a quarter, each of us could choose a song. A dollar entertained us through the whole meal.

Last week, my daughters and I went back to Hunt's, now Rubbie's, where an eerie combination of old and new greeted me. Everything and nothing had changed. Hunt's family had taken the salad dressing but left the bar, standing across from the same row of booths, seating what looked like some of the same people, in the same clothes and hairstyles. A stage replaced the jukeboxes, and open mic meant we could still eat to music and choose a few of our own songs.

Before I registered the significance of the glass-encased antique coke bottles I might have emptied in the past, or absorbed the nostalgia of the coconut face on the wall, I spotted my uncle standing at the bar. A few pounds heavier, much shinier on top, same brandy in hand, he looked past my pounds and gray and recognized my daughters. Hours and hugs later, I wondered if his mist over partying with great nieces came from the bottle, the years passed, or realizing how few we might have left. Maybe he thought, as I did, that I should be my daughter's age and he should not be the only male left in the only generation ahead of me.

Harmonious discord wasn't exclusive to our table, nor did familial concern end there. When the red head in the out-of-season, cardboard New Year's Eve tiara draped her arms around my daughter's shoulders and smiled at me, my heart sank. How could I have forgotten her name when she was so obviously overjoyed to see us? I mentally removed the tiara and a few lines from her face, and tried on the name of every second and third cousin I could remember. Nothing fit, except the warmth she radiated and the smile my daughter wore.

As the tiara bobbed and the stories poured, I narrowed the prospects. Laughter accompanied her complaints about the pawing she had received from the old fart by the pool table; she had to be from Mom's side. I would either remember her name by the time she finished the rundown of safe, arms-length, and stay-the-hell-away men present, or I would ask my uncle when he found his way back from the bar.

Her name was Bonnie. I didn't remember because I had never known. She was a regular, not related on either side, but already vested in my family by the time we found out. Bonnie stayed with us the first hour and then took off to pull a good-natured, stay-the-hell-away guy to a back corner for a dance.

Later, Bonnie hugged her way to a back table of arm's-length listeners and my uncle grew roots beside a blonde barfly. One daughter went off to reserve her ten minutes on the sign-up sheet, while the other huddled close to hear a friend yell over the heavy metal group on stage.
A lone dancer hypnotized me with her routine – five steps to the right, raise the beer bottle overhead, bow, five steps to the left, flip the hair off the face, turn a complete circle, and repeat.

Although disturbed by the obvious role of long-term chemical use in this dazed ritual, I respected the dancer's disregard of public opinion. As if willing to enhance my appreciation, an ageless, gender-undisclosed clogger unfolded from a lotus position beside the stage and tapped passionately to the last thirty seconds of a poor rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock You".

Possible explanations flooded my mind: flashbacks, nightmare, Twilight Zone, time warp. Flashbacks seemed unlikely since I had refused even the drugs prescribed to me, and I'd never heard of contact flashbacks. The Twilight Zone was fictional and I knew I was awake. A mullet head conversing with a tube top supported the time warp, until I looked past my daughter's nose ring and focused on the table behind her. Three men stared back at me, one fiftyish with waist-length hair poking out a bandana scarf, a thirty-something, clean-cut yuppie, and a sixty-something, toothless biker in a leather vest. I would surely have warped to one era and there was no way these people all belonged in the same one.

Sometime after the clogger (who turned out to be male) sang "Let It Be", and before seventies rock, they called my daughter to the stage to introduce ancient country. While she tested the mic and whispered to the bass player, a ghost from my past climbed on stage beside her. Not quite the guitar player her father had been, and not knowing he was standing next to an old friend's daughter, a worn man plugged in and accompanied her on a song her father had sung twenty years before.

I watched his tired eyes travel with the music, maybe wishing he could recapture the same thirty years I had wanted the trip to erase for me. He stared into space, the middle-aged bass player watched the back of my daughter's head, the young drummer kept his eyes closed, and my daughter's eyes never left mine. My uncle and Bonnie left their fans and came to stand beside the mix-matched crew behind us. The lone dancer repeated her routine and the clogger remained in lotus position.

The magic of this unique little world hit me as I watched young-and-hopeful stand two feet and a world away from holding-on-to-what's-left on the stage. Everyone had come to share common space and individual passions and paths. Some were young. Some were old. Some were sober and others hadn't been in decades. No one laughed and pointed at the clogger or the lone dancer. No one booed when the band changed, or when the music was horrible. The stay-the-hell-away guys didn't shun Bonnie when she pawed them and turned the story around.

I hadn't been anywhere so accepting in years, and couldn't remember when being unaccepting had come into vogue.

Twenty miles got closer. We're anxious to go back, where people remember how to let it be.

Let It Be - Revisited

Our eyes locked. Her grin confirmed the shared memory, enhancing the pleasure for me.

"I wasn't crazy about the song before," I said as the last notes played, sure she knew before what. "But I'll always smile when I hear it now."

She laughed. "I guess so. That was one of the funniest things I've ever seen."

Funny? My cheeks ached from smiling through the song but I didn't consider hilarity the key motivation behind my smile.

I replayed the original experience. Several times that night, I had noticed the wiry little guy in the corner, legs hugged tightly under the chin that propped his forlorn expression atop his knees. More impressive than his agility was his apparent ability to shut out the screaming music and hubbub of the crowd around him. He might have been grieving, contemplating the most serious decision in his life, stoned out of his mind, or so utterly comfortable with his own company that nothing else mattered.

As if sneezed into a fresh cosmos, he suddenly landed--arms flailing and feet stomping—in the aisle, where he danced something similar to a jig/clog blend, to a less-than-jiggy rendition of "We Will Rock You". Blown away by this opportunity to experience a transformation before my eyes, I laughed with him, and enjoyed his dance as much as if I had been his partner.

"Seriously," I returned to the present and my daughter. "I will never forget this guy, and I'll smile every time I think of him. Don't you appreciate what he has given you? "

"I guess." Her expression lost a little of the here-goes-my-crazy-mom look. "Remember the first time we met Jeff and Christine? That's the song I'll never be able to hear without losing it." When able to control her laughter, she wiped her eyes and sang Jeff's line. "If you don't blow me right now –"

I did Christine's part with a straight face--"I will never never never-"--and become conscious of the impact the many single moments of pleasure people, often strangers, have given me.

"Don't you hope you've given others moments they will never forget?" I asked. "That people you don't even know smile every time they think of you?"

Her smile faded. "I'm not sure I want to be remembered because I made a fool of myself."

I thought about the time my boot hit a slick spot in the middle of a busy intersection and tossed my legs over my head. Six lanes of stopped traffic and the four co-workers crossing with me watched as I untangled my skirt from around my face and scrambled to my feet before the light changed. I don't begrudge any of the people who still smile when passing that corner.

"What about the Mambo Kings picture?" I asked.

She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Shut up, Mother."

"You know some of those people still tell friends about the crazy girl who flipped through her pictures and drew a crowd when she fell on the floor laughing." I gave her an encouraging nudge.

"Come on. Admit it isn't such a bad thing to make so many people laugh."

She wasn't admitting any such thing.

"How about the time you wouldn't let go of Duncan's leash, and he pulled you between my legs and knocked Bill and me off the porch?" I asked. "It doesn't make you the least bit happy to know your grandmother will always have that memory?"

"Let's go back to other people making us laugh," she suggested. "Remember when Tim asked for a tampon, thinking it was a popsicle? And when the bird perched on Mike's glasses?"

Later, as we held our sides and wiped our eyes, my thoughts returned to the shared memory that had started this laugh fest. "The dancer makes me smile for a different reason. He made me happy."

We decided it didn't matter how we leave good impressions, as long as we give others a reason to smile when they remember us. I might learn to clog, but I think she's looking for something different.

Dear Girl In the Red Convertible

Dear Girl In the Red Convertible,

I know you haven't seen me in thirty-three years but something tells me you remember me as well as I do you. If I knew how to contact you in person, I would apologize face-to-face, since that's how I delivered my low blow.

My only attempt at an excuse is that I was with Paula, whose laugh is one of the most wonderful sounds on earth. She has a unique combination of a melodious belly laugh and giggle. Once she gets started, you think she might never stop and just have to join her. Still, what I did is inexcusable, because Paula would laugh at most anything. I could have encouraged her without hurting you.

I did not know your boyfriend. I had never seen either of you before. There you were, making out at the red light, and I just lost control. The convertible made you so approachable. Before I knew it, I jumped out of the car and delivered my Academy Award winning performance, surprising myself with the tears.

He told you the truth when he said he didn't know me. I didn't really catch him at anything; I broke up with a perfect stranger. I hope he convinced you later.

My greatest wish is that the two of you eventually got married and are living happily ever after. Maybe you are even laughing about this.

Sincerely,
Sandy

A-non-y-mouse Smiles

For the first time in my life, I couldn't force a smile. I had been through most of it before, just never so many things at once. And the one thing I hadn't experienced before was worse than all the others combined.

The kids were two and thirteen; that alone was enough to warp a smile. I was recovering from surgery, working full time, going to school three nights a week, doing my best to ignore the ugliness of the divorce proceedings, selling the house I had worked so hard on and loved, and watching my father die.

Friends noticed before I did. The engineers on the other side of my office window drew cartoons and placed them on my side of their blinds. Doctors checked me for physical symptoms when they came in to work with me, and the girls in the cath lab invited me up for watermelon. I turned up the corners of my mouth, but didn't convince anyone.

Cheryl placed my mail in the basket one morning and dropped an unopened envelope on the desk. It looked like a greeting card, but my birthday was months away. I couldn't imagine anyone sending a card to the office anyway. I slit the flap, expecting a creative seminar invitation.

It was a greeting card. The outside read Noticed you lost your smile, and the inside, So I'm sending you one of mine. It was signed A-nony-mouse. It worked. I stood the card on a shelf and smiled each time I looked at it.

Similar cards arrived every day that week. No one admitted having any idea who had sent them. I watched for guilty eyes and smiles but found none.

On Friday, a sizeable audience had gathered to watch me open my card. I laughed, and said the greetings were nice but flowers would be better.

A single flower arrived on Monday. I was embarrassed, and positive A-nony-mouse worked somewhere near me. I thanked everyone I passed that day. No one took responsibility. Finally, I told Cheryl the flower made me uncomfortable and asked her to spread the word.

Everything returned to normal, until Friday. Six flowers arrived late that afternoon. I laughed, thanked everyone again, and still they denied sending anything.

Flowers came every day the next week. Word got around and I attracted visitors from other departments. Everyone agreed that A-nony-mouse was quite the nice person, but no one had any idea who he might be. On Friday, I upped the ante. I said flowers and cards were nice, but diamonds would be better.

You guessed it. My co-workers liked me, but not that much. When I let them know this gift scared me, they understood. Not only did they promise they weren't responsible, they tried to help me find A-nony-mouse. The florist wouldn't budge, and I had no way to track anything else.

I almost went straight home that evening, but decided at the last minute I needed to unload on the shoulder of the classmate who also came from work and had thirty minutes to kill before class. He had the matching earring. Apparently, I had told him more than I realized.

Simon or Paula - Value of Critique

Modesty is one of the things I admired most in the musician I married. I said he never took the credit he deserved. He said, "When you're good, you don't have to tell people. They tell you."

He died thirteen years ago. Recently, our daughter met a disk jockey and some fans who were still talking about how great a musician her father was.

Another good lesson I learned from this man was to value fans and people with more experience. He grew from listening to the advice and criticism he received from others.

On the flip side of this story, I watched a decent performer waste his potential by surrounding himself only with people who said what he wanted to hear. With a bit of coaching, or a few words of criticism taken to heart, he might have become great.

At the age of eight, my daughter took first place in a regional singing competition. As a result, the producer of a local television program she had previously only danced on invited her to sing on a few episodes. When a stranger recognized her in public, and I noticed her little head swell, I remembered her father's words. When she slacked off on her practices, I knew she could use his lessons.

"Everyone in the competition was good," I reminded her. "Your trophy only means that on one day, a set of judges enjoyed your performance more than the others. On another day, or with a different group of judges, the outcome might be different. Your work is not done."

For the next ten years, I tried to make sure she received a healthy balance of praise and criticism. I could honestly commend her effort and dedication because she was always a hard worker. However, her performances were not always perfect, and I let her know where I thought she needed improvement. When she outgrew me, I paid a small fortune for a voice coach who might have been Simon Cowell's mentor.

Which brings me to the title of this article. Simon has taken quite a beating in the media over what some perceive as cruel and inhumane treatment of the American Idol contestants. I'm here to vouch for his authenticity, commend his honesty, and vote him my pick for American Judge.

All contestants go into this competition knowing Simon Cowell will critique their performance in stage presence, vocals, marketability, personality, and song choice. Right or wrong, each of these categories matter in the business and he says nothing these performers won't hear from industry executives should they be lucky enough to get in the door for an audition.

Simon delivers a slice of reality, without the usual fee or likely bribe most pay. Thick skin is a requirement in the business, and anyone who hasn't developed this required hide is probably not ready for the big time.

Paula Abdul, who won't allow Simon to deliver a critique without interrupting and physically abusing him, is portrayed as the nicer person. Randy Jackson's comments are often inaccurate and his advice far less useful, but he evades public criticism. Without Simon's input, I fear many of these contestants would walk away with nothing, straight into the wasted potential trap.

Our society seems incapable of dealing with honesty. I believe we have forfeited educational components of communication in the name of nice, or in search of a misconstrued version of self-esteem. I wonder what will happen to a generation of people raised on inflated egos and hollow pedestals.

A no-holds-barred, potentially excruciating, honest critique by Simon is at the top of my daughter's wish list. I salute her courage.

I Forgot To Be Betty

Everyone left the small table by the mirrored pole for Betty, no table tent announcing reserved for necessary. Employees and regulars honored the icon who remembered their names, birthdays, recent illnesses, habits, and accomplishments as though each of them were her personal charge by leaving this space for her, six nights a week, fifty-two weeks a year, open-to-close, no questions asked. Drop-ins must have sensed either the good-natured cussing the feisty redhead would deliver should she find anyone in her seat, or censure from others if they ventured near her table.

Her slender, athletic frame and high-fashion clothes masked the fact that Betty was usually the oldest person in the club. When caught in the bright lights near the stage or the DJ booth, the lines on her face broke through heavy layers of make-up, suggesting she might fit better at the bingo down the road, or maybe a nursing home across town. Otherwise, she appeared to have more energy and spirit than the rest of the crowd combined.

She danced every song, most of them alone. Her smile welcomed the first note of music and remained faithful through the last. The band dedicated her favorite songs without request and she waved her arms overhead until the song ended and it was time to blow each musician a kiss of gratitude. Waitresses delivered her drinks without orders. Betty characterized routine.

Years of speculation shrouded this woman's tenure. She knew the owners. The cook was her sister. She wanted to find a younger man. She was a retired dance instructor, insane, lonely, a rich old lady with nothing better to do, good for a blow job in the backroom or parking lot, an alcoholic, a lost soul. Projection circulated like folklore, without verification or malice. Betty became everyone's eccentric aunt. Annoying succumbed to permanent and accepted.

With the same permanence, "Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain" lingered on the song list years after falling off the hit charts. A Betty favorite, it never failed to pack the dance floor. Although the song was also high on my list, I dodged the dance floor when it started to take advantage of the vacant ladies room. Deviating from routine, Betty followed.

I took a stall; she stopped in front of the mirror. A honking blow, loud enough for me to hear over the flushing toilet and background music, convinced me illness must explain Betty's uncharacteristic silence.

I buttoned my jeans and stepped out into a changed world. Betty raised shaking hands in an attempt to hide the tear washed mascara streaming into the crevices on her face. "That song," she said, stepping away from the sink.

I switched my gaze to the water running over my hands. "It always gets to me, too. Such a sad song."

She opened a stall door, pulled off a new strip of toilet paper, blew her nose again, and let loose a new stream of tears. Relieved the song had ended, I dried my hands and turned, expecting Betty to return to normal. She snuffled behind her hands. Her head and shoulders shook. I locked the outside door as laughter, cheerful voices, and undue humiliation neared.

"That was his song," she explained as I wet a paper towel and wiped the streaks off her face. "Don't know why it got to me tonight."

"Maybe you needed a good cry," I said. "Funny how these things hit at the worst possible times."

"We danced every weekend for fifty-two years. He made me promise I wouldn't stop when he was gone."

"And you haven't." I spoke around my own mascara-threatening torrent.

"Hell no. Long as I'm dancing, I feel like he's with me." Her smile returned.

I unlocked the door, years of speculation lighter and hoping, with all my heart, I would be just like Betty one day.