Steps

Watching my first born child Stephanie graduate from college has left me longing to tell a story that began over 22 years ago. I find I am flooded with a sentimental passion I’ve found difficult to put into just a few words. My goal was to write a post about her graduation ceremony, yet there is a lifetime leading up to it and I’ve found it hard to only write about the actual ceremony.

First, I’ve had a lot of people ask me about her graduation announcements. We elected not to send the UC Davis ones out. Stephanie and I had talked earlier this year about her writing her own “announcement” to tell family and friends about her experience at college, including pictures. At this point, I think we’ll hold off and have her include her graduation trip in September to complete her entire college experience.

Next, I have a bone to pick with the OB/GYN who, when I was only 5 weeks pregnant with Stephanie told me I had a non-viable pregnancy and would need to immediately terminate my pregnancy. Having faith in God left me with no decision whatsoever. I would not consider terminating my pregnancy. I’ll spare you the details other than I’d like to send a faithless OB/GYN a picture of my beautiful, talented, vibrant, healthy college graduate! Non viable pregnancy? Faith is always must. In the words of the Rev. Dr. Randy Johnson just recently, faith requires waiting. Thank God we were patient and we waited. Stephanie has been a blessing and such a rare and special gift to our family from the moment she arrived safely into our arms.

UC Davis eventually won my daughter’s heart after agonizing and revisiting a number of universities she was choosing between. From the day Ken and I moved her into the dorms her freshman year, she knew she had made the right choice.

Did I? For the entirety of our children’s lives they were indoctrinated with the fact that they would go away to college. There wasn’t a choice; it would be the normal, next step after finishing high school. But when she chose UC Davis, over 8 hours away by car, I started to wonder what I had been thinking. I started to panic. I had to tell her that if Mommie threw herself in the street crying hysterically, begging her not to stay, to turn around and walk promptly away and have a blast; that Daddy would scrape up the mess of puddly Mommie Goo from the street and get me safely home.

As it turns out, lots of other Dads had similar plans for their puddles of Mommie Goo in Napa Valley to try to entice us into leaving our babies at the dorms. So off we drove, leaving Stephanie smiling from ear to ear and excited to begin her new adventure. It reminded me of Nursery School when she was 3. She just looked up from what she was coloring and said, “Bye, Bye Mommie.” No tears. Just “Bye.”

At a number of the wineries, we ran into lots of couples like us. Happy Dads and lots of puddly Mommie Goo crying over their wine. If you were crying and saw another one crying you asked if they’d just moved their child into college. That would get puddly Mom’s crying again and the Happy Dad’s laughing and saying to pour us more wine.

A startlingly quick four years later, watching Stephanie graduate, was the fulfillment of a dream for not only her, but for Ken and me too. We sat proud of ourselves, clutching hands, whispering to each other, “she did it…& …we did it!”

At the graduation ceremony, as Stephanie made her way forward and stepped up onto the podium to receive her diploma I started thinking about past steps in her life, and how there had been so many. I thought about how so many of her steps before were to Mommie and Daddy. Those cherished first baby steps, when she trusted us to catch her. And many more along the way were steps when we were there, right beside her, holding what I still love to call her “baby hands.”

Watching her take those excited steps up to the college podium was another joyous time for us to witness her taking steps, although these steps were very different. Now she was walking up as a grown woman, confidently, to receive the diploma she’d had to earn through hard work on her own.

Suddenly I felt fear rising in me and I wanted to go back to the beginning, before her first steps and hold my precious baby. I wanted to smell baby powder on her, hold her close and rock her to sleep. I’ll admit to the tears that fall down my cheeks as I write this. Remembering holding my babies is just something that turns me right back into a big mess of puddly Mommie Goo.

Watching my daughter walk up those podium steps was exciting and melancholy all at the same time. We’ve watched her take all her necessary steps to prepare for life, and now it’s time to let her fly. You can’t imagine how happy and excited she is as she looks to the future, wondering what to do next. Thankfully, the first stop was to come home for the summer before her graduation trip. I’m not so puddly and gooey anymore.

Stephanie has always been a strong person and doesn’t often cry. She obviously got that from her Daddy. I honestly don’t think she cried much during college until the day she packed up her car and had to drive away from UC Davis, as an Alumni.

I imagine after she hugged her roommate Corinne, drove away alone from her beloved Chi Omega home, away from Davis, the college town she’d fallen in love with… then the tears probably fell unabashedly down her face and onto Mr. Bear for many, many miles and hours to follow.


Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined. Henry David Thoreau

Going Postal

My son Sam recently turned 20 and I went postal. Not because he turned 20, but because the United States Postal Service does not deliver overnight from Temecula to Chico, and it was a huge, epic Mommie crisis.

I got up early the morning before his birthday and made a special batch of his favorite cookies to ship to him with his birthday box. Admittedly, I was sad thinking about him celebrating his birthday away at school and wanted to make sure a piece of Mommie love arrived on his doorstep on his actual birthday.

Like the many years before, I wanted him home on his birthday. I’d grown to love waking the children up on their birthdays by singing them Happy Birthday and jumping on their beds and smothering them with kisses. They were always allowed to eat ice cream for breakfast on their birthday, a tradition they love. One year, I took the fruit and vegetables out of Sam’s lunchbox and replaced it with a bag of candy. He threw himself around me and said he loved me and I was the best Mommie in the world. I felt like it.

There is no replacement for the intensity of love that pours into my body, mind and soul when I get a dose of love from my children. It literally feeds me. My big, beautiful, 6 ft, 20 year old college student is growing up and growing away and it scares me. I used to be the only one who could feed him. He didn’t want to sleep in his crib; he wanted to be held all night by me, and would cry when I’d try to set him down. At Nursery School, they had to peel him off me, screaming. It’s been baby steps for both of us, because I had to hide in the hedges, wiping away my tears at the Nursery School, peeking in to see if he was going to be ok. There were many days they’d call and say I needed to come pick him up because he just wasn’t going to make it through the day. It was baby steps.

When I stood in the Post Office with Sam’s birthday box, complete with the fresh cookies and was told they didn’t do overnight to Chico for Saturday deliveries, I literally lost my mind. I was sure the Postal Service didn’t quite understand these were Sam’s fresh, hot birthday cookies and needed to be in Chico TOMORROW. My voice was rising and getting screechy and the people in the notoriously long line were getting annoyed. I wanted to jump over the counter, bang some heads and demand a helicopter to airlift my son’s birthday box.

Instead, the birthday box had to make its way to Chico at a snails pace, missing Sam’s birthday and giving me a complete and total Mommie crying meltdown and entertaining everyone in the post office.

One of my best friends, Lori Jagger, my mentor of living life on the “No-Mad Diet” insists the Diet does not exist if the situation has to do with your children. All bets are off and you are allowed to get mad, really, really mad. So, Lori, I just want you to know that my last few postal episodes all had to do with my children. And I think the US Postal Service not delivering Sam’s cookies on his birthday, Saturday, a working postal service day was cause for me to go off the Diet.

Butt Ugly

One day when I was in my early teens, my Mother came into my room and found me crying hysterically. Always the lifesaver, she grabbed me up, and held me, trying to stop the crying and save me from my near death, pre-teen trauma. When the hysteria was over and my Mother got me calmed down enough to speak, she asked me what was wrong.

“Mother! I’m ugly! A boy told me I am butt ugly!” A dumb boy had to make it even worse by saying it was all a big joke that he even liked me and he wouldn’t go steady with me if someone paid him. Ohhhh, the pre-teen pain and agony. Ugly was a new one. I hadn’t been called ugly yet. Short, yes. Freckled yes. Butt ugly? Never. Ouch!

Now that I am a Mom, I understand feeling pain for your child. I bet my Mother was feeling it that day for me too. Mom, always at the ready with lots of tissues, got me spiffed back up and said I certainly wasn’t butt ugly. I cried more and said my friends were prettier, had better clothes, hair, could put on make-up like movie stars and could walk jiggling their hips like proper teenagers.

Me? I was behind! I wasn’t in “The Club.” I hadn’t crossed over the threshold into womanhood like most of my friends and really didn’t want to. I was far more interested in mastering the latest flip on the balance beam. When my Dad went to Russia, I was relentless begging him to bring me back an authentic Russian leotard like Olga Korbut had worn in the Olympics. I worked on mastering the splits in all three directions while folding the laundry. I was determined to look as much like Romanian Olympic Gold Medal Gymnast Nadia Comaneci as I possibly could. She was my hero. None of this translated into pretty for the boy of interest that particular day. He tossed me aside with one “butt ugly” swoop of his prepubescent face and went onto another girl with her supposed prettiness, great clothes, long hair, makeup, and jiggly hips.

All knowing Mother, with her great wisdom, did give me wonderful advice that day which I have carried with me throughout my life. She said, “Jodi dear, So-and-So isn’t all that particularly attractive. She doesn’t wear expensive clothing. She has ordinary hair. She has dime store cosmetics. She has probably practiced her walking skills by spending too much time adoring herself in the mirror. Furthermore, she shouldn’t be jiggling her hips like that, it’s completely inappropriate!”

“But Mother! Shhh Jodi. You are beautiful. You can pay more attention to your clothes. You can start by ironing them. Even the most humble clothes look 100 times better when ironed. You can periodically take your hair out of its ponytail, get out of your leotard and put on some of the darling clothes I buy you. I will help you mix and match so you will see how to stretch your wardrobe. We’ll visit the cosmetics counter at Bullocks and ask the saleswomen how to properly apply cosmetics for a girl of your age. We’ll find out how you can properly care for your skin. While we are at Bullocks, we’ll sign you up for Charm School. You’ll learn your basic etiquette skills, manners, how to properly get in and out of a car without showing your panties (GASP!), walk a runway and eat politely while on a date.”

A couple of weeks later, I was Miss Charming, Charm School graduate. I learned how to walk with a book on my head and can still get in and out of a car without showing my panties.

What my Mom did that day was give me some special gifts. Unconditional love, acceptance, and motivation. She also taught me the mix and match. Now she does the same thing with my daughter Stephanie. Besides being reminded that I was loved unconditionally, I was told I was beautiful. Beautiful? Mom’s always think that, don’t they? It’s great how they are always in your corner, rooting you on and thinking no one is better than you.

She also taught me something about self confidence. She taught me that you don’t have to be the tallest one in the room to feel the tallest. You don’t have to have the most expensive clothes to feel well dressed. You don’t have to spend a fortune on a haircut to feel like your hair looks amazing. You can apply dime store cosmetics with a skilled hand and it can turn out like a masterpiece.

My Mom’s best advice goes with me everywhere I go and it can’t be beat. Walk in with confidence, hold your head up high and wear a great smile; you’ll light up a room.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom. Thanks for always being in my corner and making me feel like the tallest, brightest and best thing in the world. I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

Pay It Forward

In April 2008 I was invited to my parents alma mater, Whitter College, to be the guest speaker at their 50th Annual Scholarship Appreciation Luncheon. I'll be attending the 52nd Annual event today and thought I'd reprint my speech so I could share the history of the Marcus Quarles Scholarship Endowment and my passion for the Organ Donor Program. Thanks for reading.

I’m here today in memory of my father, Merrill Jessup, who graduated from Whittier College in 1953. He passed away December 29th, but his love of higher education, and fierce loyalty to his alma mater, will live on through The Marcus Quarles Scholarship.

Today, I am joined by members of my family; my husband Ken, my brother Greg, and my mother, Joan Jessup, also a Whittier College graduate. Although we grieve the loss of my Dad, today we come to celebrate with senior Chris Tarver, the inaugural Quarles Scholarship recipient.

I’d like to begin by telling you a little history about my Dad and why this scholarship was created.

My father was born here in Whittier, at the Burkett Maternity Home on May 19, 1931. His parents were Walter and Doris Landreth Jessup, both 1924 graduates of Whittier College.

My father, and his younger brother Al, were raised in Thousand Oaks, CA. My father worked many jobs trying to help supplement the family income and to save for college. One of his jobs was being a paperboy for the Los Angeles Times. In 1949, the year my Dad graduated from high school, he applied for, and won the LA Times Young Timers Scholarship. This scholarship paid full tuition to any college of his choice. His choice was Whittier College.

Although he could have chosen any college in the United States, Whittier College was a sentimental favorite since his parents and many of his relatives were alumni.

Whittier proved to be an excellent choice for my Dad, both academically and personally. This is where he met my mother, and where they created a lifetime of close friendships.

Throughout my life, I’ve enjoyed hearing my parents, and the majority of their friends reminiscing about their time here at Whittier. It’s been over 50 years but the stories still make them all laugh. As a child, it was fun hearing my parents talk about all the crazy things they did here on campus. We’d giggle and say, “You did what???” We heard about Wanberg Hall, the Sachsens, the pretty Palmer girls, the Campus Inn and the Rock.

To this day, they continue to be loyal Whittier College alumni, with some still sitting on various Boards of the college. My mother continues to meet monthly with Whittier gals to play bridge. Before he passed away, my Dad organized a new group called the Whittier Old Farts, also known as the WOF’s…so the men would have their own events to plan.

For the students who are here today, I envy you. You are fortunate to study at such a prestigious, private university so rich in history and traditions. I can assure you, you will graduate with more than a college degree. You will take with you cherished memories and relationships that will last a lifetime. I know my parents, and their friends have been thankful for their time at Whittier College. I’m sure you feel as they do, and will want to be generous and active alumni. By doing this, you will join those who like to “PAY IT FORWARD.”

We’ve all heard the term “PAY IT FORWARD,” right? It means doing something good for another person because someone has already helped you along the way. It was important to my Dad to PAY IT FORWARD. He felt he owed many. He was first inspired by the LA Times, for their generosity back in 1949 when they sent him to Whittier College on a 4 year, full ride scholarship. An opportunity he would not have had, without that gift.

Then, a life altering event in November 2000, cemented my fathers desire to PAY IT FORWARD. It began when my father’s heart stopped and he collapsed while boarding a plane in San Diego. He ended up in the care of Sharp Memorial Hospital. He was 68 years old, very sick and was told he needed a heart transplant to survive.

Typically, patients who are 68 years old are not accepted into heart transplant programs. At first, we were told he’d probably be referred to UCLA, where they might take older patients. In the end, the Sharp Hospital - Heart Transplant Program accepted my Dad.

The transplant team said his acceptance into their program was based on many factors, but these being the most influential: his positive attitude, having a supportive family, not being overweight, and that he didn’t smoke. These factors are all what contribute to a successful and long life, and ones we can all aspire to achieve!

My Dad waited 18 months for a transplant. In November 2000, he received the phone call that would save his life. A donor heart had just become available and he needed to get to Sharp Hospital immediately.

While we all made our way with excitement to Sharp Hospital, there was another family arriving to say goodbye to their first born child. His name was Marcus Quarles. Marcus was a young man from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. When he was 15 years old, he told his parents he wanted to be an organ donor.

In November 2000, Marcus was in his early 20’s, serving in the US Navy in San Diego. He had just returned from duty in the Pacific and was enjoying a night out with friends when he was in a car accident caused by a drunk driver.

When Marcus’ parents arrived in San Diego, they remembered his wishes, and when he was declared “brain dead,” they made sure to fulfill Marcus’ desire to be an organ donor. Seven individuals received organs donated by Marcus. My Dad received his heart.

The transplant team told us that six months after a transplant, they will allow correspondence between donor families and transplant patients to begin, if each party agrees. We told them we definitely wanted contact with the donor family. Seven months after the transplant, my Dad received a letter from Lawrence and Darlene Quarles, the parents of Marcus. My Dad asked the Quarles if our family could travel to Tuscaloosa on the 1st anniversary of Marcus’ death to express our gratitude for his decision to be an organ donor.

The meeting turned into something far more meaningful than any of us ever dreamed possible.

Marcus became a real person to us; a beloved son, grandson, older brother, cousin and friend. We sat for hours hearing stories, pouring through photo albums, and getting to know the person whose heart I watched that night thumping inside my Dad’s chest. Their generosity was astounding. We were at a large table in a restaurant and other patrons overheard what was going on at our table. A few came to tell us what an amazing story it was.

Later that night in our hotel, my Dad reflected on the whole experience and wanted to find a way to honor the memory of Marcus. That is when the idea for the Marcus Quarles Scholarship was born.

After meeting the family of Marcus Quarles, my Dad decided how HE was going to PAY IT FORWARD. His idea would combine the inspiration by his own LA Times Scholarship, his love of Whittier College, and belief in higher education. He wanted to honor the memory of a young man he never met, who taught him the importance of the organ donor program.

The first thing my Dad did to begin the process …was to pledge himself as an organ donor, and communicate that desire to his family. Then he established criteria for awarding the Marcus Quarles Scholarship. He decided the student would –

• Have to be a full time student at Whittier College
• Have the need for financial aid
• Be African American, to honor the heritage of Marcus Quarles
• Lastly, and most importantly, the student must have designated on his/her driver’s license their intent to be an organ donor, and make those wishes known to their family.

Two years ago, I sat here at this same luncheon with my Dad. He was excited as The Marcus Quarles Scholarship was introduced. He was looking forward to the luncheon this year, and having the opportunity to meet the first recipient. While it’s painful not having him here to celebrate, I keep reminding myself that his dreams will play out here at Whittier, and he lived 7 extra years because a 15 year old kid told his parents he wanted to be an organ donor.

My Dad taught us you have to practice what you preach. Many years ago, a Navy pilot came to my Dad seeking advice on leadership before leaving on a dangerous overseas mission. He told the pilot, “Do not ask of someone what YOU are not willing to do yourself, lead from the front and you will be followed, if your people trust your judgment.”

After his transplant, my Dad started asking everyone he knew if they were an organ donor. When he passed away on December 29th, it was only a few hours until he fulfilled his dreams of PAYING IT FORWARD, literally. He practiced what he preached. He did what he asked others to do, because he too became an organ donor.

One of my favorite sayings is, “The reward for a good deed is to have done it.” After you think awhile about the saying, “The reward for a good deed is to have done it,” you come away reminded that it’s not important to have flags waved about your good works. The reward comes from the simple act of doing it. Good deeds are still good whether or not they get recognized out loud. The good will always prevail.

It’s what I personally love about the organ donor program. It’s something you give to, and the reward will come after you are gone. It’s the ultimate in humility. If I’ve ever had a bad day and think my contributions to this world are meaningless or small, I take out my Drivers License and search for the small pink sticker at the bottom. That important little pink sticker says DONOR, and I’m instantly reminded that I’ve already laid the groundwork for something valuable. It will pay when I am gone with the greatest gift I can offer, the gift of life.

Ask a mother whose child would have died if it hadn’t received a donated organ.

Ask a child whose parent lived because he received a donated organ. You can ask me.

We’ll both tell you that seeing our child or parent survive with a donated organ was a miracle.

Marcus didn’t get any accolades for the good deeds he posthumously bestowed upon 7 individuals. But his gifts were far greater than the simple things we often try to do; hoping for tangible rewards, praise and recognition for things like donations of our time and money.

Marcus is a symbol to me, a reminder of PAYING IT FORWARD. He reminds me of how a REWARD comes from committing to do something, not from the recognition.

I urge all of you today to consider joining me, in the spirit of Marcus Quarles, and my father Merrill Jessup, to PAY IT FORWARD.

Reach back somehow, in some way, and help someone… anyone because we all sit here knowing we’ve received. Somebody paved the way for us, somebody made a sacrifice, somebody believed in us somewhere along the way. Was it a teacher? Your parents? A friend? With that person as your inspiration, go out into the world and do something that will benefit another human being.

The REWARD IS TO HAVE DONE IT.

Skipping Christmas

I suck at Christmas. Most people wouldn’t believe that, but I do. I love Jesus, and the simple story of how he was born in a manger to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem. But I wish we could celebrate his birth every year without any of the ridiculous hoopla that is now called Christmas.

My favorite Christmas decoration is a ceramic Jesus in a worn manger we’ve always placed on the hearth. Jesus is chipped, missing the ends of a few fingers and is wearing a loincloth Stephanie made Him when she was a little girl. The children were always allowed to play with Jesus and the manger, so they are a little beat up. I wanted my kids to know Jesus like I do; most likely very approachable, extremely kind, and someone who adored children. “Of course you may play with Jesus,” I’d tell them.

Each year as I unpack the 30+ boxes of Christmas decorations, somewhere in the neighborhood of Thanksgiving weekend, I can feel the familiar panic already starting to set in. I’m trying to find Jesus in all this, thinking, “Where is He…where did I pack Him last year?" If I find Jesus and put him on the hearth, I think I’ll be ok. He’ll be a blatant reminder of why I’m doing all this.

There was one year, 2008, with Jesus’ birthday quickly approaching I knew I was going to have to lead my family away from our traditional Christmas, and Skip Christmas completely. Could I do it? Would I be allowed? What would my family and others say? What would Jesus think? I had to close myself in a dark, quiet room to drown out all the “noise,” so I could hear Him.

I’ve decided spending 12 glorious, uninterrupted, carefree vacation days in the company of my husband and children was the holiest thing we’ve ever done. If home is where your heart is, I was home cruising the blue-green seas of the Caribbean, snorkeling, sailing, swimming, sleeping, reading, listening, resting, sunning, and basking in the 24 hour attention of my family. We immediately opened the doors to our adjoining rooms, and shared long, luxurious meals that were prepared, served and cleaned up after by others.

Those 12 days did not come cheap. Christmas doesn’t either, so we had to choose one or the other. We are blessed to have families who love us unconditionally & who wished us all a wonderful trip, possibly having broken hearts and hurt feelings. That’s love though. Our families knew I needed those 12 days of vacation, and to Skip Christmas to survive.

It had been a long haul for me trying to help care for my ailing Dad. After we lost him, I gained many new responsibilities, so many of which I had no understanding. Thankfully, I got a lot of help from my dear Godfather, one of my Dad’s best friends, Tony Pierno, an attorney in private practice.

Towards the end of 2008, I knew I needed to get in a quiet place and listen for a special voice who would give me some direction. What I heard was that I was going to heal. I heard I needed to stop and allow myself to feel. I heard I needed to say the words out loud that my heart was broken and I missed my Dad, who was also one of my best friends. I needed to say the words I can’t do everything, all the time, for everyone. I needed to say I was exhausted, drained, stressed beyond my breaking point and I can’t do Christmas this year. Those are not easy things for me. I am half Merrill, half Joan. Complain? Wimp out? Me? It’s not what we do!

While I was raising my children, taking care of my husband, our home, various jobs, a sick Dad, and a variety of other tasks, I was always going at 100 mph and rarely ever sleeping. Why then, was I in my quiet place, sobbing, thinking I was a complete loser because I couldn’t face a simple go-round with Christmas?

If that were someone else, I’d probably cry for them. I’d tell them to Skip Christmas and have a wonderful, relaxing vacation, they’d earned it. It took me longer to be kinder to myself and to hear His comforting words. He was offering to carry me again, and I was fighting it, always wanting to drag myself farther. I’m honestly like a 3 year old that screams, “No! Me do!”

Thank you God, my forever Abba Patare for your unending patience with me. I always want to be in control. Thank you for helping me understand how the celebration of your birth lives within my heart wherever I go. I’m still learning to let go and let you lead. I’m 48, but still just your child.

The Jeanne Spa

If you read my Acceptance Speech, you might have been wondering what got me so fired up. My sister. Many of you are probably surprised to hear I even have a sister. Jeanne has been living free for over 30 years. She laughs about it to my face. I’d like to hit her, but I don’t get in the ring with repeat convicted felons. Jeanne is on SSI, labeled by our Federal Government as Disabled. Disabled they say. WTF?

When she is out prostituting herself to support her drug habit, she seems to be able to work pretty darn hard, and eat almost nothing. When she is romping around Disneyland with free passes given to the poor, she moves around just fine, on her feet, for hours on end. If someone yelled, “FREE CIGARETTE BUTTS,” I bet she could jump 10 feet in the air off the couch.

Yet, she continues to get a free pass by the federal government for rent, food, clothing, medical care, cigarettes, liquor, and just about anything else she might want. She periodically gets tired of her living situations, and they just as quickly tire of her. That’s when she will typically check in at the local jail for a Jeanne Spa stay. She and her friendly jail mates laugh about that too.

Did you know we are all contributing to their little Spa visits? Did you know the prisoners laugh about how they get a warm place to sleep, a shower, clean clothes, TV, magazines, entertainment, classes and a store where they have a selection of toiletries, snacks and books? Yes, they laugh. And, to add insult to injury, they have a selection. Yes. You can send your favorite prisoner money and give them a credit line so they can walk down to the store for a little shopping trip. All the comforts of home for your murders, rapists, child molesters, burglars, drug lords, prostitutes and so on. Isn’t that special?

Jeanne claims she needs an open credit line when she’s in jail because “You’ve got to have Chex Mix when you are in the joint.” You’ve got to have Chex Mix? WTF? Chex Mix, a warm shower, television and a good night’s sleep isn’t punishment. Ken rarely gets 8 hours of sleep each night because he’s working too hard contributing to Jeanne’s Spa stays at the Santa Ana Women’s Correctional Facility. You are too. How does this make you feel? I’ll tell you more about how they are laughing at you and me because I want my sister and others like her, to get cut off from the gravy chain here in America.

Do you know anyone who has had to send a loved one to Rehab? I do. There are all kinds. Alcohol, Drug and Eating Disorders are a few. Most of the families involved were terrified, but didn’t blink and eye about spending their life savings to send someone to a Rehab facility. They are not always covered by insurance. Some have huge copayments. To the person who is saving a life, they don’t care. For my entire childhood, my parents invested a fortune in time and money trying to help save Jeanne. They too, were desperate to save their child. In the end, they both paid dearly.

I know a family who has their house mortgaged higher than what it is currently worth. They had to do this to save the life of their child who needed emergency treatment in an expensive Rehab facility. I’m telling you this because Jeanne was sent to Rehab recently for almost free. Seriously. I want more people, besides me, to see how wrong it is. And yes, Jeanne is still laughing about it.

Jeanne didn’t want to go to Rehab, but it was court ordered. It was Rehab or Prison. She enjoys her Spa treatments in the local Jail, but Chowchilla, and the other big Prisons are a different story. Don’t get me wrong, they still have all the wonderful accoutrements that the local Jails offer, but I think she is a Jail snob. So, off to fancy Rehab Jeanne went. At the time, her SSI income was $850 a month, so the Rehab gave her a sliding scale payment plan and told me her portion would be $320 a month. All inclusive. Just another Spa treatment on Uncle Sam, you and me. How do you feel about that? Especially when she laughs in my face? She is laughing at all of us. They are all laughing at us.

When the day came, and I knew it would, when Jeanne had had enough of that particular “scene,” she walked out of her hundredth (or more) stint in Rehab after only completing a few weeks. She said “Fuck that shit, I’d rather do Jail time,” which is precisely what she did. She went to a few of her favorite haunts, picked up some “customers,” earned a couple of dollars (ICK!!!), did some drugs, got picked up by the Police and was taken to Jail for a more comforting Spa stay. Her pattern remains unchanged after all these years.

When I saw her after the Jail stay for that particular offense, she laughed. She said the people at Rehab were stupid and how they wanted her to write down on a piece of paper that she was committed to her rehabilitation. She said she didn’t care about being clean, didn’t want to be clean and only went to Rehab to satisfy the judge so she wouldn’t have to go to Prison.

I’ll tell you a few more things if I don’t already have you convinced why we all need to be ranting about this. She also laughed and said I didn’t give her enough cigarette money. I don’t give her enough cigarette money? I told her I was managing her SSI payments for free; if an organization managed her money they would charge her a percentage and she would have less of the federal governments’ money “to smoke.” So yes, it is our money she needs to buy her cigarettes.

She told me she can go around to all the churches and food banks in the area for as much free food as she could eat. She can go to all the social welfare programs and get scrip for free toiletries, and other things she needs. They will also subsidize her rent payments. She said she just wanted to “smoke” her SSI money since she didn’t need to use it to pay for anything else, because she can get everything else for FREE. Then she laughed.

This crap has to stop!

I’m done with taking care of Jeanne. After the last post Rehab laugh-in-my-face-event, she did something so raunchy, vile and criminal, I threw in the towel and quit as her caretaker and Representative Payee. I’m also done with food banks. I’m done with social welfare programs. I told Jeanne’s Social Worker in a rant how I was going to give the Jeanne responsibility back to the educated professionals who get paid to handle this idiotic, pointless, worthless & mind numbing crap.

I have a beautiful, loving, hard working husband who has been waiting patiently for the children to be raised so he could be number one. I'm here sweetie. You will always be my number one. Thank you for getting up every day while it's still dark and going to work when you are exhausted. Thank you for never saying I quit when things were rough. Thanks for giving up all your paychecks and bonuses to raise a family and never spending a dime on yourself. Thank you for being the best Daddy any child could every ask for. You are our hero.

But You Don't Work

What do you do all day? I’d be bored. Have you ever heard stuff like that? If you are a housewife, I bet you have.

I was a young girl growing up in the Cinderella Homes when I had dreams of being a housewife, just like my Mother. She was always home, well dressed, hairdo perfect, always had lipstick on, her clothes were ironed, her shoes & purse always matched, always had tissues, kept a clean home, threw fabulous parties for my Dad’s business associates, came to all my school and sporting events, had warm, homemade cookies when I walked in the door from school, taught me how to sew, and always let me have all my friends over to swim. I’m not good at cleaning, but that’s not my Mom’s fault; it’s just that I don’t enjoy it. I will always choose something I find fun to do over cleaning. Thus the continued state of my house, garage and the Pigmobile.

When our children were small, and I got to quit working, it was cause for celebration. When I sobered up, I decided if I was going to be a proper housewife, I was also going to be a really good housewife like my Mother. That doesn’t mean the stereotypical type housewife we saw portrayed in the sitcoms we saw in the 60’s, the Harriet Nelson and Donna Reed types. No, I had different ideas. I had my eye set on being the best wife, raising my children to be the best people they could be, learning how to cook, bake, open a bottle (or 3) of wine, and learning how to love and coexist with dogs like my darling Mother-in-law. Check, check, check, check, check and yes, check! Hooray!

But I don’t work!

My Mother never sat down, never watched TV, never went to a spa, never went to the mall, the movies or off for the weekend with her friends. My Dad had to beg her to shop for clothes if they had to go on a business trip. She also refused a housekeeper. Refused! She didn’t indulge in manicures, pedicures, waxing, plastic surgery or Botox. She saved up all the left over money my Dad gave her weekly for running the house to pay for stuff us kids needed, or we drove her crazy begging for. I was famous for wanting to go to every summer camp known to man. I also wanted her to buy me tons of books, because I was obsessed with reading. I would tell her it was all her fault from reading to me so much. Her response was to drop me off at the Placentia Library and let me stay there as long as I wanted.

My Mom made the dresses my sister and I wore and if she found a pattern that fit us well, she made the same dress in every color. When we traveled to Europe for 6 weeks in the summer of 1970 with The Turman family, my Mother packed for us five Jessup’s in 2 hard Samsonite suitcases. I was inspired.

The Cinderella homes on Cedarlawn Drive were meticulous. My Dad took great pride in his Dichondra lawn. He’d drive around and lament the lawns and curse the owners that weren’t maintained to his high standards. He once went around the corner and asked a widow whose house was seen as people approached ours, if he could maintain her yard since she wouldn’t, or couldn’t.

The homes were beautiful on the inside as well. My friend Scott still has the original brochures with the floor plans because his childhood home is also on Cedarlawn Drive. Our Mom’s raked the shag, vacuumed designs into the carpets, kept the pools pristine, polished the Formica countertops and somehow caught dust before it landed.

Most of the Dad’s worked in aerospace, for two local companies called Autonetics and Hughes Aircraft. I loved watching the Dad’s drive up in the evenings at 5:00 while us kids would be playing Kick the Can and Hide-N-Go-Seek. Most of the Mom’s were housewives, and at 5:00 p.m. were busy in the house making dinner or cleaning their Cinderella House. One of my friends had a Mom who worked and she went home to an empty house everyday. I always felt bad about that when I was going home to fresh baked cookies and a Mother who would always sit down and give me her undivided attention.

I don’t keep a clean house, garage or car like my parents did on Cedarlawn Drive. But, I take great pride in how I care for my husband, how I’ve given my children tons of undivided attention, bake them cookies, go to all their school and sporting events, and that I let them have all their friends over to swim & play. I’ve been Class Mom, Team Mom and a Carpool driver.

I’ve been teaching myself how to cook, to bake, and sometimes I clean (mostly I don’t). I love having parties. Sometimes I iron my clothes, but I usually just shake’em out and hang them to dry. I’ve learned how to quilt, and love to sew but I don’t mend much. The children were so afraid of my mending pile they would beg to have Grandma fix their clothes… so they’d get them back. I’m still working on the tissue in the purse thing; the kids know to go to Grandma if they need to wipe their noses on something other than Mommie’s sleeve. My hair is only perfect every other Friday when I have it colored by Carrie, colorist extraordinaire. Sometimes I put makeup on. Mostly, I like to wear my hair in a ponytail and cruise around HQ and the Downstairs Office in my Nappies sans Clinique. I never, ever go without perfume though, ever. My Mother had her lipstick thing. I have a perfume addiction. And my Dooney thing.

I take my job seriously, and so does my Boss. But, I have job security and scheduling flexibility to accommodate my husband and children so it’s the best job in the world. Yes, there are some parts of my job that are boring and tedious. Some aspects are stressful. I have great benefits. The pay? Did you say pay?

The pay comes in hugs and love. It came in the faces of my children each time they crossed the finish lines, made Honor Roll, and got acceptance letters to colleges. I got paid when I watched my children helping poor people when they worked in the hot sun for a week each summer repairing their homes. I got paid watching them run to greet their Daddy every night when he came home from work. I was paid every night when we sat down to the family dinner he demanded, no matter what time it came. Pay comes when your family needs you to find something in the refrigerator, a missing sock, or the permission slip. It comes with every Bandage applied and every goodnight kiss. It also comes when a bunch of smelly kids get into your car after practice and are all talking at once. That is my heaven.

I wouldn’t trade my work for anything.


“All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.” -Abraham Lincoln

The Safety Zone

After I wrote about Patsy Clairmont last week I was reminded about The Safety Zone. The Safety Zone is what I’ve always called our Home. It’s another place where we can start teaching our children about how to be the people we want to send out into the world. After my daughter Stephanie went through a rough week recently I wrote her a letter to try and help lift her spirits. I’ll share some of what I wrote to her with you.

My Dearest Stephanie,

What you experienced is quite sadly just a small taste of what is in store for you as you make your way into the real world and begin your adult life. There were days I often felt like a lonesome trailblazer and a minister of my own religion when I started preaching my personal message in our Home. You grew up in the Safety Zone, free from hate and cruelty. Do you remember? Those were family rules. Sadly, others have not. I’ve always told you how people are products of their environments and only have learned skills based upon their parental role models.

If others grew up in a house where they heard derogatory comments, gossip, racial slurs and opinions on beauty, weight and popularity, they grew up programmed to think those are standard and acceptable topics of conversation. You, however, grew up in a cruelty free, hate free zone. We did not indulge in gossip. We don't consider ourselves authorities on beauty, because how can it be measured? Weight, being something that is inside a person's clothes, would be considered a personal matter, and therefore not our business...much like a person's sexual preference. We don't discuss that kind of stuff. There are bigger and better things in the world like love, peace, acceptance and joy.

You and Sam were not allowed to indulge in unkindness towards each other, which others have laughed about. We didn't find it funny at all. Our home was a haven, The Safety Zone, a place to go from the cruelties of the world. Not everyone grew up like this. The people out in the world you are going to be spending your adult life with have come from a variety of homes. I've preached a lot about giving them grace because of our Biblical teachings and because not everyone has been blessed with an upbringing as wonderful and loving as yours.

I guess people can only be allowed a certain amount of grace. Because I, like you, have to actually blaze the trail and try to spread a message about how wrong meanness, gossip, cruelty, hate, racism and injustice are. You were a trailblazer last night. A witness to the faith and a preacher after my own heart. I am proud beyond words. You stand 10 feet tall for not sitting down. You inspire me.

I Love you with all my heart,
Mommie


Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. Ephesians 4:31-32

Patsy Clairmont

I’ve used Patsy Clairmont’s name as an instructional tool in my home for years. When I heard her speak for the first time at a Women of Faith conference years ago, I sat transfixed, completely and utterly speechless. That hardly ever happens if you know me.

Her speech at the WOF conference was about how people are walking around everyday in pain and we simply don’t know it. There are people with obvious markers/signs you can see. A cast, crutches, a wheelchair, white cane, or a handicap placard on their vehicle. Maybe someone has told you they recently had surgery, are in pain, undergoing chemotherapy, psychotherapy, or grieving for someone they’ve recently lost. Some people are good at communicating stuff like that.

There are also the Patsy Clairmont's, and a whole world of other people out there in pain who are crying on the inside and smiling on the outside. Those are the ones I have been talking to my family about all these years.

My Godfather, Tony Pierno once told me, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease Jodi.” He who screams loudest wins, right? Well, what if we are talking about broken wheels that make no sound. Those broken wheels aren’t giving us any warning. Scary thought, isn’t it?

Patsy Clairmont has a serious disease. She told the 50,000+ WOF attendees at the ARCO Arena in Sacramento, California about it. The arena was jam packed that day. It was rough navigating around to get to the snack bars and the restrooms. She was speaking before a break and wanted to warn people. She told us how she is in constant pain, and how simply being jostled in a crowd can cause her unbearable pain. She wanted us to know, so if she was trying to get to the Ladies Room during a break in the program, people would be careful. How many times have we all carelessly bumped into someone and simply said, “Excuse me.” That day, as I listened to Patsy, I sat and wondered if I’d ever run into anyone who was hurting, and I didn’t know it.

It’s been a goal of mine since hearing Patsy speak to pass along her message to my family and friends. People don’t necessarily come with markers or signs. Some people won’t tell you they are in pain, are grieving, are undergoing treatments, or have a serious illness. Pain comes in varying types; physical as well as emotional. Sometimes pain can be seen, other times it is well concealed.

I’ve asked my family to go out into the world and be careful with others. Treat each person with kindness, love and respect. You don’t know what is going on in that person’s life. It might only be 8:00 a.m., but you don’t know what has already happened in that person’s day. You don’t know what is going on in that person’s world. Their world might be filled with well concealed pain; they could be dodging emotional darts, possibly caring for a sick person, or what if they got some crushing news that morning? We have got to be more careful and gentle with everyone.

Patsy Clairmont has inspired me to be kinder. I want everyone else to try too. If you are the person at the market being unkind to a Cashier, yes, I am going to tell you stop being rude, and be nice. If you are the customer talking down to a server, yes, I am going to ask you to be more considerate to those who serve you. If you are the impatient driver behind me honking because I am not turning right, yes, I am going to turn around and tell you to stop honking because I am allowing someone to use the crosswalk. If I wonder what I can do to help you I am not going to say, “Call me if I can do anything to help.” I’m going to show up and do something. I promise.

Thanks Patsy.

Abba Patare

After the celebration of Communion today, I wanted to share a bit about my feelings and theories on God, my eternal “Abba Patare.” Because God is such a complex entity for me to wrap my head around, it’s always been easier for me to think of him in the realm of a Father figure. Easy for me, because I had a Dad who loved me unconditionally.

Abba Patare is Greek in origin, meaning father. This isn’t a bunch of hogwash. I’ve discussed this at length with my Pastor, the Reverend Dr. Randy Johnson, and he says I am “right on” thinking of God as a father figure.

When you understand how I feel about God being a loving, kind and non-judgmental type of Father, you’ll also get that I don’t feel scared at the thought Him watching over me, watching me live my life. If you know me well, you’ll notice I’m ok with being well behaved and I’m ok when I’m really poorly behaved. My Dad always loved me either way too. He was always thoughtful and forgiving with me.

Just like my Dad, my Abba Patare always welcomes me into His home, His arms, and His place of worship. I think He loves me unconditionally whether I go into a church or not. He loves me when I act stupid; he loves me when I am good. He loves me when I am wrong, he loves me when I am holy and when I act completely unholy.

Just like my own Dad, I bet there are times when He aches watching me, wishing I hadn’t made a poor choice, when I’ve said the wrong thing, ran an extremely yellow light or went to a bar to watch football and drink martinis instead of going to church.

Just like my own Dad, I bet He cries when I’m hurting and wants to carry me when my feet hurt too much to walk. I bet He aches when I’m sitting in church praying “HELP, HELP, HELP ME” because I can’t think of any other eloquent words to send up to Him.

Just like my own Dad, I know my eternal Father rejoices in my joys, loves hearing me sing off key, doesn’t care that my house, garage and car are dirty, and that I wear the same wrinkled clothes over and over again.

I know my eternal Father, my Abba Patare loves me. Only He can see into my heart and soul. He is the only one I care about impressing, and only He gets to judge whether I am holy.

I love you Abba Patare. Thank you for your unconditional love. Thank you for bringing me parents who love me unconditionally, so I would learn how to love my children in that beautiful way too.