when faces talk

When it comes to cleaning it's always been this way for me - I don't need to clean so much as I need a reason to clean. This weekend I had my reason. My sister and two little nieces are flying down from the north country.

While I was cleaning and vacuming the car (twice a year affair, if that) I found myself smiling despite the one hundred degree temperature and the sweat dripping down my nose. I was thinking about how my sis and I get to laughing hysterically during our visits, mostly because she makes the most ridiculous faces.

Some people call it mugging.

Mugging seems to be a family tradition. My mother always made crazy faces, usually conveying surprise or mocking disapproval. Then there's my sister who routinely puts on clown faces. And now my daughter. When she was a toddler, my husband's sister remarked how animated she was. I didn't understand what she meant. She said my daughter was a lot like me and my sister in that way, that we were so expressive. Huh? I still didn't get it. What was so different about us? I was intrigued.

Many years later I do get it. I've been paying attention. Whereas I used to think everybody made faces when they talked, I've come to see that people's expressiveness ranges from rarely using gestures to regularly making faces to tell a story or emphasize a point or punctuate a joke.

My husband, Sam, and his sister are quick witted and funny but hardly ever make faces in the middle of their story. Maybe never because I can't think of an example where they did.

Some of my friends are dry witted and completely deadpan to the point of almost missing the joke. I like both kinds of humor but think I'm partial to the making faces thing.

Like for instance, my favorite comedians have a thing about mugging:

Martin Short

Kristin Wiig

Andy Samberg

I've also come to realize how much I make faces when I talk. Sometimes I'm overly aware of it. It's like looking out from my own face, noticing my expressions from behind my face and seeing their effect on people. And I wonder if I look ridiculous. If they wonder why the heck I find the need to make so many faces, why can't I simply tell a story without the goofy mannerisms.

What about you? Are you one of the expressives or one of the deadpans?

forever young

I am slowly recovering from a Fab50 reunion with six of my closest girlfriends from high school, all graduates during the late 70's.

When I mentioned this visit to people, I was met with incredulous looks.

High school? You're still friends with girls from high school?

I do realize that for some people their best-friends-for-life were met in college. For others, as the psychology department head told we incoming graduate students, this would be the place where sacred, lifelong friendships would form.

But for me? It's always been my high school buds. No question about it.

I was really lucky that way. I moved to a new area the summer before my 8th grade year. A few weeks before school started, two nervous, 13-year-old girls knocked on my front door to meet me. The mother of one of the girls made them introduce themselves, I was to find out later. It was probably more our of nosiness about the new family in town than genuine concern for my wellbeing. But whatever the reason, these two girls became my friends and introduced me to a larger group of girls who became some of the best girlfriends I could ask for.

I've met many friends since then who have become very good friends. Excellent friends. Cherished friends. We relate in a way my high school friends and I don't, or can't, or won't ever relate.

But there's something singularly special about hometown friends. All the shared experiences, a shared larger network of friends and towns people, memories of some of life's most difficult heartaches.

Over this past weekend, here we all were, gathered in my home, the first time a few of them had even been to Texas. All of us 49 or 50 years old. (Come think of it, only ONE of us was actually 50. Poor woman. The rest of us will remain forever 49).

But here's the remarkable thing. As I looked at my friends sitting around my living room, or on my back porch with the sunlight fading, or on a river bank cooling our feet in the spring fed water, I was taking them all in.

I saw not their crow's feet, nor their varying shades of color enhanced hair hiding the gray, nor their extra-padded midlines.

What I saw were laughing teenagers. A seventeen year old running beside me during a field hockey game. A young woman chugging down her first beer and wincing at the god-awful-taste-of-it. A girlfriend crying over a boyfriend betrayal, the first of many.

Over the past recent years, when I have met someone new, someone my own age, I would see a middle-aged woman.

But my childhood friends? The years drop away in an instant. Disappear. Gone. In each other's company, for just a weekend, we are ageless, timeless, forever young.

ssssshhhhhh .. don't tell

Disappearing for a little while.

Slumber party.

Twelve girls.

Twelve years old.

Twelve hours

in the attic

ought to cover it.

If not?

There's always vodka.

when an instruction manual would come in handy

Or The Valium Fairy.

It's 2am. Lying in bed reading. Ready to turn out the light when ...



Heart jumpstarts into angina mode. Who died? Fumble out of bed. (Damn, that's a loud ringer). Answer phone. Small, quiet voice ... "Mommy?" Aw shit, that's right. Daughters at slumber party ... "I can't sleep."

Relief. No, not relief. This will take longer than bad news call. Make a few suggestions and reassurances. Hang up.

Call number two, ten minutes later: Ask if they watched any scary movies ... "Well, yeah." Which one? ... "Disturbia." What's it about? "Something about a serial killer."

Great. (On the family room television? What the hell?) Talk her through deep breathing (searching for soothing therapy voice to replace pissed off voice).

Call number three, fifteen minutes later: Ask if anyone has scared her or done anything to make her uncomfortable (older sibling in the house). "No. Nothing like that. I promise. " More coaching on the deep breathing. Suggest she read until she falls asleep. More soothing encouragement (through gritted teeth).

Call number four: "The lazyboy chair I'm trying to lie down on? It keeps popping back up." (tears). "Can you come get me?"

No, I say. I am not picking you up. (FuckFuckFuck. Should I?) You can read until morning if you have to. Find a spot next to your sister. Keep breathing, honey, and stop thinking about calling me. "Ok. I love you."

I love you, too.

An hour later? I know she is sleeping. But I am not.

Update: As I had hoped, my daughter was asleep by 2:45a.m.
I did not get to sleep until 4:30a.m.