dirt don't hurt

My kids should know better by now than to tell me they are bored during their summer break.  Not only does it instantly turn me into a drill sergeant, barking out orders to re-clean the windows and bathrooms, but it also sends me into a spiral of what my childhood days were like.  Way back when.  It goes like this: “Back in my day, we didn’t have all these “camps.”   We had one camp.   It was called swimming lessons and we went there at 4:00AM when the pool was barely above freezing and had to wear these awful swimming caps that were made out of industrial strength rubber that squeezed your brains, gave you a rash, and made you look like an alien.   And that’s if we were lucky to go.   Most of the time we woke up, ate a few bowls of brightly colored cereal and watched nothing on TV because we had four channels.   Most of the time there was nothing good on, unless you liked to watch the news, a game show, or reruns of shows from the 1970’s wer...

Like a good child of the early 80’s, about once a week my mom loaded up her woody station wagon with baby oil and Kool-Aid and all the neighborhood kids and drove us to the local public pool.   We got there early and set up our blanket and cooler and my mom talked with her friend for hours while we swam happily in what I have recently learned is a vat of toxic fumes. I feel lucky to be alive even reminisce the days of when we found a candy bar floating in the shallow end and went and told the lifeguard to fish it out with that super long scoping net because when it came right down to it, we weren’t 100% sure it was a candy bar at all. Public pools have been around for a long time, and I fully trust the years of science that have gone into keeping the yucky germs at bay.   I trust the strength of the chemicals in a well-maintained pool to kill the bad things without burning my skin.   I don’t, however, trust the other patrons of the public pool.   Because ...

I was a good kid.  I rarely got in trouble.  I never broke the rules.  I wasn’t a rebellious teenager in the least.   And though I admit to trying a few of my college roommate’s cigarettes, I can honestly say that I have never smoked. So why my son asked me the other day if I ever smoked, even when I was younger, I could honestly say, “no, I didn’t,” although I’m not sure he could take me seriously because I had a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.    “No way I smoked.   That stuff will kill you.   Literally.   Like I’m not even joking, it’s really insane.   Now how does it look when hold it like this?” I asked, moving the thing from the between-the-fingers position to the thumb and index finger hold. “You look ridiculous, mom.” And I knew I did, which is exactly the problem.   A role in an upcoming theater production finds me on stage, at a bar, smoking a cigarette while my doofus boyfriend sings a song to me which is...

 Like most families, we counted down the days until school was finally over.  We celebrated with snow cones and stayed up late on what used to be a school night.  As a mom, I reflected on how nice it would be to have the freedom of a sunny day, with no strict schedules to stick to and just the time to play and be kids before it’s too late. But then the reality of never being alone set in.   In fact I have sat down to write this column about forty three times, each time interrupted by one of my lovely children who I was so excited about spending the summer with. “Mom, our fish died.” “Mom, can I make a craft?” “Mom, where are the pruning shears?” “Mom, I’m hungry.” “Mom, why are you on your computer again?” “Mom, why are you so grouchy?” “Mom, I’m still hungry.” It’s like they have secret meetings late at night after I’ve collapsed from exhaustion of answering their questions all day, finding things hidden in plain sight, and revisiting my career as...

5/25/14 It was my fault because I had just said, “nothing crazy has happened to me lately.”   I wish I could take   It’s like I’m cheering on an invisible sports team or constantly asking a question to whomever I pass by, while being wrapped like a mummy. it back because now I find myself kicking off this summer season with my hand held high in the air, sporting a perpetual symbol for number one. Most readers won’t know, but I also have a small homemade soap company that runs under the same name, “dirt don’t hurt.”   I make soap from scratch using fats and lye and give it natural smells and color and most of the time, it’s a hobby turned side job that I absolutely love.   The artistry of fragrance, the chemistry of the soap, and the mission to tell people to love nature and play in the outdoors because, as I remember hearing often when I was younger, “dirt don’t hurt.” The problem is that lye does. There are moments in one’s life that should not be re...