No place like home: My week in pictures

Whenever I tell people that I grew up in Detroit, they give me "the look."  It's a mixture of confusion (Detroit? Are you sure? Gee, you certainly don't look like a gang member )  pity (Awww, you poor thing. Did you live on 8 Mile?) and relief (You survived! You got out! You moved to Ohio, the land of plenty!)

And I get it.  About 90% of the actual city of Detroit is horrible. It is desecrated, burned, and crime filled. What most people don't realize, however, is that Detroit has some beautiful suburbs.  Just a few miles up the river from downtown, on the shores of Lake St. Clair, lies Grosse Pointe. It's picturesque, safe, and filled with country clubs instead of crack houses. It's where I grew up, where I still call home.

After I graduated from college, my parents moved 45 miles away from Grosse Pointe, so when I go "home" to visit them, it's often hard to see my friends all in one visit. Thus, every summer, I spend about four or five days staying with my high school friends in GP. This year, I chronicled it with pics.

Wednesday: The picture above is Lakeshore Drive in Grosse Pointe. In my opinion, it might be one of the most beautuful views in Michigan.  Growing up, I saw this view every day. I wish I could go back in time tell my sixteen-year-old self to appreciate it more. 

Wednesday: Ahhh, Boones. The Kool Aid of the 90s. Have you ever had Boones Farm Wine legally (read: as adults)? We hadn't, either. So, in the spirit of reminiscence, my friend Terri bought a bottle over to Andrea's house and we split it in little plastic cups before going out for the evening. Strawberry Hill, of course.  It smelled and tasted just as we had remembered it: a mixture of rotting fruit, sulfur, and rebellion. 

Thursday: This is my friend Cooper on our lunch date last week. Isn't he the cutest little guy?! He is extra-special for so many reasons, but especially because I love his Momma to pieces. Kelly and I have been dear friends since high school.  To me, Cooper is so much more than  just my friend's baby - he represents hope, faith and determination. 

Thursday evening: This is my adorable mother chasing Davy Jones from the Monkees down the streets of downtown Detroit (post happy hour) after realizing that we'd been standing next to him while waiting for valet.  Poor Davy. I wonder which is scarier: Being chased by gangs in Detroit, or a lady in a pantsuit? 

Saturday: Ahhh, the Fish Flies The sign that summer has arrived in Grosse Pointe. In case you aren't familiar with them, they're flying insects that hatch in Michigan's fresh water lakes every year near the end of June. For three weeks, Grosse Pointe is covered with these rascals, especially near the water. They're harmless, but they reek like rotting fish. Is it weird to say that I miss them?  They remind me of home. Here I am next to an ATM near the lake.

Saturday: On the last night of Summer Bender 2011, my parents dragged invited my brother, sister-in-law, and me to a reunion concert by one of their favorite 1960s bands, the SRC.  Apparently, this band was quite big in Detroit at one time, and they were reuniting for a special concert. Keep in mind, the last concert my family attended together was New Kids on The Block in 1990, where my parents were the oldest people in the audience. We owed them one. Talk about a role reversal - at Saturday's concert, my brother and I were by far the youngest. We went in with an open mind, but it was bad. Really bad. This would be the equivalent of my husband and I taking our kids to a Pearl Jam reunion tour in 2040 and then realizing that Eddie Vedder can no longer sing and sounds like a dying cat. We all left after three songs

So there you have it, my week in random pictures. There's no place like home.

There's a new man in my life

 His name is Bob. It's still new, but I can really see it going somewhere. He's totally into me, inviting me over to his patio after my husband leaves for work. I hope the other neighbors don't get the wrong idea. But they probably aren't too worried. He's 80.

I knew Bob was friend-material from the moment we met. He called me over to his patio and offered me a graham cracker.  He's a sharer, that Mr. Bob. And I know that sharers make good friends.

See, the best thing about friends is that there is a choice.  You get to choose what kind of people you want to share your graham crackers with, so to speak.   As little children, choosing our friends is the first important, autonomous decision we really get to make.  Our parents teach us to share, to be kind to others, and to make good choices.  Then, they set us free in the scary world of preschool and hope that we make friends who have the same values.  But what they don't teach you is what makes a bad friend. That, we must learn on our own, through experience.

It's heartbreaking when you realize that a friendship just won't work, but you learn to be more selective in the future, and you develop a  checklist of traits to avoid. My checklist is short and sweet. For example, I know that a friendship between us will not work if you are:

1) Overly negative

2) Judgemental (of me)

3) Anti-animal (Now, you don't have to LOVE all of them. I hate rats and possums (big rats), for instance. But if you are one of those people who makes the blanket "I hate all animals" statement, then I think you must probably hate babies and rainbows, too, therefore violating Rule #1. ) 

4) A home wrecker (My home, or anyone else's.  If you are ok with having a hand in ruining someone's marriage, then I am not ok with you. Trust me on this, our morals are vastly different, and a friendship between us will not work.) 


5) A Nickelback fan (Sorry, but if you're a Nickelback fan, we should probably go our separate ways right now. It's not you, it's me Nickelback.  The same also applies for Shinedown, Creed, Daughtry, and other variations of Nickelback.  Again, trust me on this. Our morals are vastly different, and a friendship between us will probably not work.)

6) Growing or currently sporting a mustache that isn't part of a goatee or beard. (When was the last time you saw someone with JUST a mustache and thought, "Hey, that guy is probably awesome." The answer is never. (Except my father-in-law. Family doesn't count.)

Yep, Bob made the cut. He's positive, likes my dog, doesn't try to hit on me, and he's clean shaven.  We haven't discussed music preferences, but I'm really hoping that he's decidedly anti-Nickelback...because I feel that this is the start of something good.

So you know that Superman essay?

Well, I won. Shocked. And I was pretty happy about that.  I think my dad was, too, until I told him that he had to clean the house because the reporter was coming over to interview us. Oops! Sorry I forgot to tell you about this whole essay thing, Daddy.

So I drove up to Detroit today to be here for the "big interview." They're not only publishing my essay, but they're doing a feature story on my dad and me, too. Pretty cool if I do say so myself.

So reporter lady gets here, and she wants to go "in depth" (because that's reporter speak for gossip) about the boyfriends my dad "grilled." Then I got all nervous and stuff. If you know me, you get it. I got all fidgety.  Couldn't make eye contact.  Because I totally wanted to link this whole Free Press article on facebook! And what if those boyfriends read it?! Because they have nothing better to do than click on a link I post, right?!

But I went for it anyway. I mean, who am I to stand in the way of her Pulitzer? I let it fly, ok? Yup.  All the "woe is me" tales of broken hearts and Daddy making it all better. And don't worry -  I didn't forget to talk about all the other stuff that makes him cool. Like his amazing speech at my wedding. Or the fact that he used to open for Bob Seger. I pimped him out. Hard.

And then, toward the end, I happened to mention his recent open-heart surgery.  "Wow!  That seems like a really big moment in your lives! Why didn't you mention that in your essay?" she asked.

Why?  Because having your chest cut open and your heart stopped at 61 years-old isn't nearly as admirable, noteworthy, or challenging as being an amazing father for 29.

What NOT to say to someone experiencing infertility

I am an open person about most things. Probably too open. If I have a problem with something or someone, I talk about it.  I write about it. I complain about it. I may will probably even talk behind your back about it. (I'm trying to quit that last one. It's on my list of things to stop before I'm 30). That's how I roll.

So it's no surprise that I chose to be open about our experience with infertility and PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome).  To give you a little background, with my severe PCOS, we have a 1-4% chance of conceiving on our own without treatment. I know that our road has been short compared to so many infertile couples, but I don't know any of those couples. So to me, it sucks. A lot.  So we have been trying fertility drugs and IUI to help us, which increases our odds to 15%.  So far, no dice.

Even though I don't regret being open about this whole process, I totally understand why many (heck, most) infertile couples choose to keep it quiet - because when people hear news that makes them feel uncomfortable, their first reaction is to try to make the other person feel better. Often, they try to accomplish this by making  well-meaning, yet annoying (and sometimes hurtful) comments like these:

What NOT to say to someone who is experiencing infertility:

1) Just Relax!
I tried relaxing. In fact, I relax all the time because I don't have kids, remember?  That's why I want kids!  So I can never, ever relax again!  

2) Don't worry about fertility treatments. It will happen when you least expect it!
What are you? A wizard?  Infertility is an illness - something is wrong with my body.  Would you tell a cancer patient that their cancer will be cured when they "least expect it?" 


3) "Just enjoy the time to yourself right now.  After you have kids, you'll never have peace and quiet. "
I'm not an idiot. I know that kids take an insane amount of time and energy.  They're messy. They're loud. They're expensive.  They're exhausting. And that's ok! See, I don't just want a baby - I want the mess, the exhaustion, and everything that comes with it. And I won't stop wanting that. 

4)  Just be glad you don't have to deal with this horrible morning sickness / sore boobs / swollen ankles, etc. (And other complaints from pregnant people)
I would give anything to be sick if it meant I was pregnant.

5) You can always adopt!
Really?  Thanks!  I didn't know that! And next you'll probably tell me some great story about a couple you know who adopted a baby and then "poof!" They got pregnant.

6) It just isn't meant to be right now. 
Thanks, God. 


So what SHOULD you say?  If she brings it up, ask questions. Be supportive. Acknowledge that it sucks. Let her have time feel bad about yet another negative test. Go out for drinks. Ask her about testing dates, and tell her that morning that she's in your thoughts. If she doesn't want to talk about it, give her space. You can't go wrong by just being her friend.

My Superman

 My Superman

My father does not have a red cape in his closet. I’m certain because I looked once, when I was five. “There has to be one in here somewhere,” I told my friend. “My dad is the REAL Superman. He’s always there at the perfect time, and he makes everything better. He can probably fly, too.” But instead of a cape, all I found were some Rolling Stones T-shirts and a pair of red Reebok High-Tops. Even as a five-year old, I knew this was a fashion “don’t.”  However, being the good daughter that I am, I covered for him.  “See!  His Superman shoes are here!” She didn’t buy a word of it.

He may not have a cape, but to me, my daddy is a Superhero.  He’s the strongest man I know. Invincible. He knows the answer to every question, especially about the really important stuff like family, finances, and fertilizer. He mended my broken bike and my broken heart. He grilled the perfect hamburgers and my not-so-perfect boyfriends. And every time we talk, he always tells me “I love you more.” I ‘d tell him it’s not possible, but I can’t argue with Superman.