But we're not even Jewish......

      In our family, we have a rule. You don't go to the doctor unless you are bleeding, running an unusually high fever, or near the point of death.  General malaise, aches and pains, lumps and bumps, bruises or contusions,  and any other ailments have to be endured for the duration. Not only do I believe this is character building, it is the result of learned behavior.
     This aversion to doctors and hospitals is a result of spending  the majority of my pregnancy on bedrest at St. Mary's, spending nine weeks in the NICU with two pound preemies, spending another six weeks at Children's Hospital after Sissey had surgery, then spending countless days running back and forth to the hospital for therapy. So don't come complaining of some mamby-pamby ailment and expect me to haul you to the doctor. It better be real and it better be bad, or else you're going to just have to ride it out. 
      But after Monday's little episode, I added fainting in public to the list of reasons that qualify for a trip to the doctor.
     Actually, it wasn't just the fainting that qualified Sissey for a trip to Dr. Sam's office. It was the swollen glands in her neck that had been painful for over a week, the sore throat and headache,  plus the fact that she could barely make it home from class before heading to bed each day for a four hour nap.  It just took the fainting in public to get me to pay attention to her complaints and haul her in for bloodwork and an exam.
     Dr. Sam poked and prodded and drew blood, looked her over from head to toe, peered in ears and eyes, felt for lumps and bumps, then announced that he thought she had Epstein-Barr Virus.
        I couldn't believe the diagnosis. We're not even Jewish, for heaven's sake. We're hymn singing Presbyterians.   Sissey doesn't even like bagels and lox, and I've never made a matzo ball in my life. Shouldn't she have something like John Calvin disease?
      It seems, however, that Epstein-Barr is non-discriminatory and selects it's victims without regard for race, gender, age,  physical impairment, or religious preference. It is especially fond of over-stressed and under-rested college students,is the harbinger of mononucleosis, and once it comes to call, likes to hang around for four to six weeks.  That's a little obnoxious if you ask me. A nice Presbyterian virus would know to leave after a respectable week or so.
     So I did what any good mother would do. I hauled her up to the mountains for some rest and fresh air, ordered her to bed with a big pile of movies, and did the only other thing I could think of to treat something called Epstein-Barr...
      I made a big pot of chicken soup and went shopping.

  

The Fine Art Of Swooning

      Maymester is in full swing, and Sissey is fully immersed in Speech Class. It's a small class of fourteen, and the professor is a vibrant and enthusiastic theater gal who runs the class with wit and creativity while still maintaining a strong professional arena.  The students are required to give eight speeches on various subjects with various formats: some are timed, some are spontaneous, some involve objects and demonstrations, and some are scripted. On the first day of class, she lectured on the importance of capturing the audience's attention and keeping them engaged throughout the speech.  Sissey  mastered both of these points in one fell swoop. Literally.

      How, you may ask, did she manage such an amazing feat in one speech? How, you may ask, did she manage to attract the attention of her audience and keep them fully engaged? It only took one little gimmick, one unplanned but brilliant move that has assured her a place in the annals of the history on the USC-L campus forever.

      She fainted during her speech on Monday, and let me tell you, it got their attention and they were fully engaged.  I should have seen it coming as she stood at the podium, legs firmly locked in place, hands with a death grip on her walker, face becoming increasingly pale as she gave her speech while forgetting to breathe.  She was almost at the end when a funny look came over her face. She looked up for a moment as though she were confused and then she frowned. That was when she went down fast and she went down hard. Her head cracked the back of the walker as she slumped down, arms tangled in the bars and keeping her from fully landing on the floor.

    The minute she crashed, the two ex-military guys in the class jumped into action as the first response team.  As veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and with Jungle Response Operations Training,  the Navy man and the Army guy were quick and efficient.   They kicked into reflexive motion and bolted to the front of the classroom, got her untangled from her walker, laid her flat on the ground, and wrapped her in a jacket.

     After I recovered from my paralyzing shock, I ran to the front of the room,  put her head in my lap, and started slapping her on the face, yelling, "Sissey, Sissey, wake up!" I'm not sure if the slapping was effective, but it was the best I could do.  The professor was in the back screaming "Should I call 911? Should I call 911?" and I couldn't yell fast enough, "No!", thinking  'Please, Lord, don't let the ambulance show up. She will be mortified enough as it is, and being hauled out of class on a stretcher could cause permanent brain damage.'

     The military drill team lifted her onto a wheeled chair and scooted her into the hall. Danyell, who bears the scars and scrapnel of four gunshot wounds in his ankle and leg, did a 2-minute mile running for water and cold rags. Gregg got her elevated, hydrated, and resucitated, and thankfully, she quickly revived. Danyell jokingly told her he was ready to start mouth-to-mouth but was afraid she would go into cardiac arrest if she woke up and saw his big scary face on top of her. She thanked him profusely for showing such restraint and assured him she was breathing just fine on her own.

     After she came to and realized what had occurred,  she covered her face and began to cry, "I am so embarrassed! I don't know what happened. Now everyone is going to think I am so weird."

    "Oh honey, no!" I  told her while wiping her brow. "Fainting is a very Southern thing. Women used to practice swooning all the time!  You don't have to be embarrassed. It's a real talent to be able to faint gracefully, and believe me, you have just mastered the fine art of swooning!"

     I promised to buy her a sterling silver vial of smelling salts which she could carry in her pocket with a lavendar scented lace hankie. She rolled her eyes at me, and I thought she was going to swoon again until I realized she was simply trying to tune me out and pretend I wasn't there. Sometimes she just doesn't think I'm funny.

   The irony of it all is that her speech was entitled "Am I Nuts or Insane? Only My Doctor Can Tell" and it detailed the professional distinctions between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. She was informing the audience about when one might need the services of a psychologist (her intended major) or when one might need the professional help of a psychiatrist when she passed out. It was not an intentionally practiced part of her speech, although it was effective, well-timed, and a great visual prop.  After she pulled herself back together and reentered the classroom,  she gave an embarrassed grin, apologized to the class and joked, "Well, I obviously need a psychiatrist!'

     She told the professor she'd like to try again, this time sitting down instead of standing, please.  I almost fainted myself as I watched her go to the front of the classroom and give the entire speech from beginning to end-- a flawless rendition that came in at 4 minutes and 4 seconds, well within the required time frame,  with the entire audience fully engaged and at attention, and with no swooning needed.            

      Sissey earned her credentials that Monday as a true Southern lady, having mastered the fine art of swooning, having been rescued by our military's finest, having shown impeccable manners in a delicate situation, and having exhibited the courage to get up and march back into that classroom to give her speech.

      That took more guts than I have ever had.  

     And that, my dear, is what we call a real steel magnolia.

Because I Said So....

    In honor of the recently observed and most important holiday of the year, Mother's Day, I feel it is only fitting to spew a little motherly advice out there for all the wanna-be, gotta-be, oughta-be, already-be college students.  
     At the end of the first year of college, I have made a few observations about some of the pitfalls the current college student encounters. I feel obligated to toss a few pearls of wisdom out there that may make the transition to college life just a tad bit easier for the typical student. Besides, this is my second time around that old academic track, I have earned a few gray hairs, and I'm practically half a century old. I think that qualifies me to have an opinion, but regardless of that fact, I am a MOM, and you will listen to me and not argue because I said so!!

Number One. GO TO CLASS!!!!
Is it really that difficult to understand that one of the reasons you go to college in the first place is to GO TO CLASS? I am completely amazed by the number of students that do not attend class, that only show up for tests, that arrive late,  and that leave early. This is not rocket science here, boys and girls. This should be the easiest thing for you to do. I'm not asking you to perform well, to come prepared,or to participate....just GO TO CLASS!! You will be amazed at how much your professors appreciate the fact that you actually showed up for class. Believe me, you'd be surprised at how much they appreciate it, and you may even pick up a few bonus points as a result. So get up, get dressed, and GO TO CLASS....because I said so.

Number Two. HANG UP THE PHONE!!
When I was in college, we called home about once every other week, on Sunday night, for five minutes. Period. Today's college student cannot go five minutes without taking a hit off the old cell phone. It's worse than a nicotine fit. First they start to fidget, then they play with their pockets, hands jiggling around like they are looking for loose change,  then they slide out the phone and sneak it under the desk as if a tenured college professor is too stupid to know that they are texting instead of listening. The boldest of the bold will stroll out of class, cell phone in hand, as if it is so much more polite to take that urgent call in the hall than to text while the professor is lecturing.  Several minutes later, they will saunter back in and resume their seat, crises averted.  I find it hard to believe that two minute call was for a real emergency. Unless someone is bleeding, delivering a baby, in the hospital, in jail, or dying, HANG UP THE PHONE.....because I said so.

Number Three. Sit up front, sit up straight, raise your hand, participate!
This is not high school, it is not cool to sleep on the back row, and participation counts. If you want to spend four years sleeping while you get a free ride, go on down to the welfare department and sign up for food stamps and assisted living, but please don't take a seat in a college classroom that could be filled by an eager, willing, participating young scholar. It's a waste of your time, it's a waste of the professor's time, it's a waste of money, and it's a shame.  I don't care if you do have a Life Scholarship or an athletic scholarship or any other ship that's giving you a free ride through college.  If you're not going to use it, don't abuse it. There are plenty of government subsidized programs that will allow you to sit on your honkus and sleep and do nothing, so please don't take up a precious seat in a college classroom if you just don't care. Sit up front, sit up straight, raise your hand, participate!...because I said so.

Number Four. GRADES ACTUALLY DO MATTER.
Again, I am amazed at the collective assumption among many college students that grades do not matter. Just pass the class, take whatever grade you can slide by with, and move on. Well, let me fill you in on a little secret. Grades actually do matter if you plan go to graduate school, law school, medical school,  business school, or pursue an advanced degree. Grades actually do matter if you plan to apply for scholarships, internships, grants, or fellowships.  Grades actually do matter if you plan to seek a coveted position in a highly competitive field. Grades actually do matter if you plan to do anything after college other than stumble around looking for the first available job. I am not kidding.... this is real life, real world advice you should heed...because I said so.

Number Five. Have Some Fun...these are the best years of your life.
OK, this is where I will cut you some slack.  College should be fun, and it can be fun, but that doesn't mean you have to be stupid about it.  If you just put in an eensy weensy bit of effort,  go to class, participate, and hang up the phone for  45 minutes, you'll have tons of time for fun. You won't have to spend endless semesters trying to  pull that GPA up from a 1.whatever, you won't have to panic and pull all nighters trying to cram a semester's worth of work into one day, you'll be much more relaxed and happy, and you'll actually have lots more free time to do all that fun stuff you were texting about while in class.  I'm telling you this for your own good, to make life easier for you, to ensure that you will have success, and to enable you to have plenty of time for the fun part of college.  Don't ask me how I know all this, just believe me...because I said so.

Finally, eat your vegetables, brush your teeth, always have a designated driver, put clean sheets on the bed more than once a semester, get a flu shot, check the balance on your bank account, never let the gas tank get below the red line,  and call your mother....because I said so (just please don't call while you are in class!).

Economics 101

   This Economics class is for the ladies only. Gentlemen, I must ask that you excuse yourselves from the room at this point, and being the gentlemen I know you to be, I am confident you will comply.  Besides, I have put a secret curse on this class which will cause your credit cards to suddenly become maxxed out if you read any further. So gentlemen, be forewarned and beware and be gone.
    Now, ladies, we're going to have a little economics lesson, a much needed refresher course after my last trip to the Metrolina, and a valuable tool for obtaining economic freedom in today's precarious market.   In today's class, we will solve the following problem:

        How does one realize a financial gain in today's soft market when one has invested too heavily in some had-to-have-it, one-of-a- kind rare deal ?


     If one is smart and a good student of economics, one can not only survive, but one can thrive,  in any economy. One need not fear making unsound financial investments or falling into the pit of economic ruin. In just three easy steps, you, too, can have unlimited financial freedom and learn to reap abundant economic rewards on all your investments.
      A good financial investment always bears fruit if the vine is properly tended. No matter what the state of the current economy, no matter if the market is hot or flat, any investment can be rewarding if it is properly tended.  For today's lesson, the  financial investment is understood to be the seed that grows into the desired goods, the husband/significant other will be referred to as the vine, and the realized savings will be referred to as the good fruit.  Those are the only factors needed to be able to successfully apply the following formula for financial success, a formula which can be learned and mastered in JUST THREE EASY STEPS!

     STEP NUMBER ONE:

     NEVER, EVER, EVER tell your husband/significant other what you actually SPENT.
      Your spending must be put into a frame of reference which the male brain can comprehend.  Male brains do not understand the value of antiques or other collectibles, the necessity of more than five pairs of shoes, the need for designer handbags and clothing, or the relentless pursuit of any of life's other necessary retail acquisitions. Your spending must be put into a frame of reference which relates to the male brain's limited capacity to comprehend. In other words, your spending must be compared to something of equal value in which the male species would invest large sums of money in order to participate and to be able to survive in life.
     My spouse happens to be an obsessive golfer. Your spouse may be an avid hunter, or fisherman, or gardener, or tennis buff.  The important part of this lesson is to determine your husband/significant other's driving passion, that one thing without which he will die, and then relate all of your spending to the costs he incurs while engaging in his life-sustaining hobby. Plant the idea that his hobby is more expensive than your investment in desired goods, and nurture that thought on a daily basis, letting it grow into a huge vine which you must prune into perfect shape.
 Example #1:
Wife:         Honey, I bought a statue of a bird today.
Husband:   How much did it cost?
Wife:         Not as much as your last round of golf at Pine Valley.
Husband:   (no comment).
Example #2:
Wife:        Honey, I also bought a ceremonial mask.
Husband:  How much did it cost?
Wife:         Not as much as your bill from Cabela's for turkey calls and camouflage.
Husband:  (no comment).

Always, always, always equate your spending to his, at which point, the issue of your spending becomes moot. This is referred to as "watering the vine".

     STEP NUMBER TWO: 

     NEVER, EVER, EVER, tell your husband or significant other what you actually SPENT.
      Your spending must be put into a frame of reference which the male brain can comprehend. Male brains do not comprehend the actual cost of goods received. They can only comprehend the harvest left at the end of the day. Therefore, one must never discuss the price paid for any object. Rather, the anticipated future value of the object must first be presented, then the current retail value must be disclosed,  and finally, the amount of money saved between the two, but at no point should the actual price paid ever be disclosed.
Example:
Anticipated value of highly collectible statue:        $X,000.00
Current Retail value of highly collectible statue:    $Y,000.00
Amount Saved:                                                   $   Z00.00
By the time he realizes how much money you have saved him, he will never ask what you actually paid for the item. You must be SURE  to  tell him you would like the amount saved IN CASH.   At this point, one should be succesfully  "harvesting the good fruit"  in addition to collecting seeds which can be replanted for a future harvest.

STEP NUMBER THREE:

NEVER, EVER, EVER, tell your husband or significant other what you actually spent.
     Your spending must be put into a frame of reference which the male brain can comprehend. Here is the final part of today's lesson. If you have successfully applied your marketing skills up to this point, you are now ready to advance to the most important level of economics.....calculating your rate of return, or reaping what you sow.  At this stage, you should be able to acquire all desired goods while receiving a high rate of return on said goods by collecting the  realized savings in cash.
      What to do with all that newly acquired cash? The smart economics student will quickly reinvest realized savings, apply the marketing formula discussed in Step Two, collect the newly acquired savings, and reinvest....this cycle can be successfully repeated indefinitely, as long as the formula in Step Two is strictly adhered to. Any deviation from this formula will result in a decrease in the rate of return, which may lead to disastrous financial results.
      If you have tended your vine well, you should have an abundance of good fruit, which will lead to a bountiful supply that never runs out. Financial success hovers on the horizon...be fearless in your pursuit and you will always harvest an abundant crop. Plant the seed, water the vine, harvest the fruit, replant the seed...heed these words and an infinite cycle of growth and abundance waits for you.
      This concludes today's lesson. Your assignment for next week is to demonstrate successful application of  said formula while realizing a rate of return at no less than 50% on original investment. The acquired goods must be submitted with the assignment as well as proof of return on investment. This assignment must be completed individually, with no help from other classmates, signed and pledged.  Assignments due by 3:00 on Wednesday. The next chapter will explain construction of storage facilities for an over-abundant harvest. Class dismissed.

A Very Rare Bird...

     One of the advantages of going to college on a small campus is that you get to know your professors really well. On Friday, Sissey's Sociology professor invited us to spend the day with her on a shopping and antiquing expedition at the Metrolina in Charlotte. The Metrolina is a once-a-month warehouse exposition that attracts hundreds of vendors from all over the East Coast who are  peddling a wide variety of goods: silver, jewelry, furniture, quilts, books, artwork, plants, rugs and other various collectibles.  Of course, they all have one-of-a-kind, highly collectible, extremely valuable, rare finds, one of which I am now the proud owner. Let me explain.
    Dr. Nancy Hazam is a fascinating woman. She is an anthropologist of Lebanese descent, a Rhodes Scholar, a cancer survivor, a sociology professor, an amateur beader, a world traveller, an animal rescue worker,  and a former Peace Corps volunteer who spent three years living in a mud hut with the Tutsi tribe in Africa. She is witty and funny and enjoys life tremendously. We were excited to be spending the day in her company and under the influence of her vast array of knowledge on many subjects, hoping a little of that knowledge would spill into the vast caverns of our eager little minds.
       Her years in Africa led to her passion of collecting the rare African art which fills the walls of her Columbia, SC home. She knows every dealer of African art on the East Coast, they know and love her, and her passion for collecting is contagious. Very contagious. Believe me, I know.
    When we arrived at the Metrolina, Nancy quickly instructed us on "The Plan." We were determined to cover every booth, peruse every article, uncover every rare find, and still have time to squeeze in the most important part of the trip-- lunch. We hit the floors running with Sissey loaded in her hot red wheelchair. The tremendous shopping bag made from African fabric which Dr. Hazam had given her last week was hanging from the back, empty and begging to be filled with treasures.  We didn't make it far into the crowd before Nancy spotted her first hit, a counter filled with silver cutlery of every imaginable pattern and being sold by the gram. The dealer informed us that it would all be melted down the next day, and Nancy, being a "rescuer" by nature, had to save a few doomed tines and blades.  A couple of forks and spoons went quickly into the bag.  These were followed by an 1817 Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, leather bound, printed in London, and destined to replace my late grandfather's missing missile. His prayer book, which had been used at every marriage, baptism, and funeral in my family, had mysteriously disappeared after a baptism, and I figured with a little imagination and story telling, this one could replace the original.  A strand of carved agate beads joined the pack as we strolled down the first aisle.  It was beginning to look like a lucky day.
     That was when we spied THE BIRD. It was perched quietly on the edge of the very last booth of the aisle, a booth normally manned by Nancy's good friend and fellow collector, ViVi, who was absent today but had a friend covering the booth for her. Most people, normal people, would  never even have glanced twice at THE BIRD, but Nancy gasped when she saw it, and announced that THIS WAS IT, the had-to-have-it find, the one-of-a-kind piece, the real deal! She immediately declared that the German red-glazed pot with bas relief stags that she had been contemplating would have to be forfeited for THE BIRD.  This was not just any old bird, but an Ivory Coast hand-carved African ceremonial bird. It stood about two feet tall, was carved from a single block of wood, covered in hand-hammered metal with cowrie shells lining the crest, and sported a very phallic-looking bill that spilled from crown to claws.  It was ominous, to say the least, and Nancy had that gleam in her eye that the avid collector longs to get, a gleam that only comes when sparked by the appearance of a real treasure.  She bargained with the dealer for a better price, which he graciously conceded to (only because she was a friend of ViVi's and ViVi would be so happy to know that Nancy had bagged the bird), then whipped out her check book and stroked a handsome check for a pretty ugly bird.  Sissey and I "oohed" and "ahhed" over the treasure and went on and on about how much her twin brother, another avid collector of exotic finds, would just love that bird.
      Now here, I must backtrack a bit.  There are a few important personal characteristics about Dr. Hazam which I must explain. Not only is she interesting and fun to be around, she is generous and giving to a fault. When Sissey commented in class one day how much she liked her African fabric bag, Nancy insisted she take it and would not let her leave without the bag.  The agate beads which Nancy had bought earlier were slipped into Sissey's hands at the end of the day as a present for her. She has probably given away as much art as she has collected, and the same can be said of the animals she rescues. She is always finding a good home for the ones she does not keep, and she can tell you the ever-after life story of every creature she has rescued, including the dog which became the beloved member of Dean Catalano's family. So if you tell Nancy you like something, you had better mean it, because there is a high probability she will give it to you.
     Back to the bird.  As we continued shopping, adding more treasures to our bulging little bag, Sissey and I continued to tell Nancy how wonderful her bird purchase was.  That is sort of the secret code of professional shoppers....you must encourage one another after a major purchase so that shopper's remorse does not set in and pangs of guilt do not ensue.  We were both well versed  in this routine, had profusely praised THE BIRD, and everyone was feeling very satisfied with their purchases.
    Enter Sulaymane Berete: a tall, exotic gentle man from Guinea, dealer in BaCongo tribal art, a kind and soft spoken man, resident of New York, and an excellent salesperson.
     It was the end of the day and we were tired, but not too tired to stop by Sulaymane's booth to talk about his collection of beaded wedding crowns, passport masks, bronze cuffs worn by tribal queens, carved fertility statues, intricate ritual masks, and glory hallelujah! a disappearing-wax-cast-bronze ceremonial staff! Nancy grabbed the staff and held it to her chest as that old familiar gleam began to twinkle in her eyes. Once again, she gasped! Not a good sign....
   THIS WAS IT!, the had-to-have-it find, the one-of-a-kind piece, the real deal! A bronze ceremonial staff was just the piece she needed for her collection,  but alas, she had already bought the previous "THIS WAS IT!, the had-to-have-it find, the one-of-a kind piece, the real deal"  bird, and the staff would be just too much on top of that.  That was when Nancy had an idea, and I knew we were in trouble.
    "Beth," she said, "I know how much you really wanted that bird for Bro, and I insist that you take it. I don't need another carving, I have a house full of them, and I would love for you to have it for your son's collection."
    Sissey and I both emphatically shook our heads "NO!" and said that we would not think about taking her bird, that we knew how much she loved it, that we just couldn't dream of taking it away from her. But Nancy is not a selfish person,  she truly wanted us to have that bird, she really wanted that bronze staff, and I was caught up in the moment. I couldn't help myself. I couldn't say no. I'm just not that kind of person.
    So I whipped out my check book, wrote a check for the bird, threw in an African BaCongo passport mask for good measure, and walked home with the ugliest statue you have ever laid eyes on.
    When I entered my parent's home, I told my father that he was not the only one in the family that could bag a big bird, and that I, too, had inherited that hunting gene. I plopped ole ViVi-bird on the mantlepiece and stepped back. They, much like Nancy, gasped as soon as they saw the bird, and both asked me if I had been on drugs.
    I then called my husband and told him I'd been shopping and that  he might want to fix himself a drink
before I proceeded to tell him about my "THIS WAS IT!, the had-to-have-it find, the one-of-a kind piece, the real deal!"
      I heard him gasp and the line went dead.
      He must have been overcome with excitement.