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August 29th, 2010
 Photo from David Zeiger’s film ”Displaced in the New South”
First Published on Owning Pink 8/19/2010
While traveling through southern Arizona on Interstate 10 did not provide me an overheated mirage of a tropical spa, I did experience delusions of a 100 MPH speed limit. Why not, since there’s a sandbar every ten feet to slow my runaway minivan? Among the yucca plants and dust devils I noticed the regular presence of border patrol, even 200 miles from the Mexican border in a wide sand bowl where lizards fear to cross.
“Really?” I asked my Samsonite luggage stacked in the passenger seat. “Are illegal immigrants really sneaking into our country through this misery? Anyone who survives a trek like that is a soul we may want on American soil — because that, my trusty traveling companion, is determination with a capital D.”
Drawing Lines
There’s no question Arizona has become overwhelmed by illegal immigrants desperate for a shot at the American dream: a decent living, a good education, medical care. These are the very systems that are being overrun. I understand that the demand made by those who are not contributing taxes is overwhelming those who do. It wasn’t surprising that the Arizona State Government felt the need to draw a line allowing local police, who have made a “lawful stop, detention or arrest” of an individual, to determine that person’s immigration status if there is a “reasonable suspicion” that they may be an illegal alien.
Of course this law carries the taint of racial profiling, which has made it controversial with the rest of the country. My hometown of Austin, 800 miles to the east, responded by drawing a line of their own: they banned travel and all business ties with Arizona. All of this political maneuvering reminded me of Europe — a place that has drawn more lines than a child’s Spirograph.
A History of Borders
My husband and I were very fortunate to live in Germany for three years in the late 90’s. He was in the Air Force, working four days on – four days off, with an outstanding vacation package. We decided to spend as much time and money as two DINKs could traveling the continent. In the end we had visited 26 countries. We loved seeing the red barns in the Swedish country side, the gothic architecture in Prague, the history in Cairo… and then there was Italy. There is very little to dislike about Italy.
But no matter where we visited, from Israel to Ireland, Spain to Russia, the locals always had a negative opinion to share with us about one of their neighbors. Unfortunately, a good deal of it was still being directed toward Germany. WWII may have ended 65 years ago, but the emotional turmoil lingers still. “Oh how sorry we are for you to be in Germany,” said a young Russian man on the Moscow underground. “Germans? We hate the Germans!” shared a French couple in a Strasburg restaurant. “Germany! Why it is no wonder you have come to Brussels to escape,” boasted a Belgium waffle vender. It became depressing for us to listen to these harbored feelings.
If only I could say it were the remnants of the World Wars, but Europe’s history is long and pock-marked with conflict. A Turk bragged that if we were Greek, he would kill us on the spot — while a Greek explained how they are striving to erase Turkey from the world map. The Poles want nothing to do with the Russians, do not insult an Englishman by referring to him as Welsh, and the Swiss — well, how can you hold a grudge against the world’s banker?
The Gift of Living in an Intermeshed Culture
Whenever we ran into this cultural discrimination, we would try to explain how odd it was to grasp the depth of this discrimination as Americans. We are still dealing with race issues and the inequality of the sexes, but you never find hate on the other side of a geographical line in the United States. “I am from the State of Wyoming,” I would explain. “Wyominites do not hate New Yorkers, or Californians, or Vermonters.” We love to ski and camp in Canada and take spring breaks in Mexico. They would wave me away, shaking their head, “Bah! You Americans, your country is still a baby.”
The truth is that our short history has saved us from this cultural discrimination. Why theGerman/French border alone has been moved and fought over for centuries. If the Canadians were constantly invading Minnesota, do you think we’d be nearly as enthusiastic today about their crude oil, low-cost prescriptions and bacon?
One of the greatest gifts we possess in this country is our lack of violent history with our neighbors. And our intermeshed cultural inheritance is a fantastic buffer to discriminate against any single group. Arizona checking the citizenship of its Hispanic population is like California checking the authenticity of its blondes. Look around… then tell me where they plan to begin?
When our country has drawn cultural lines in the past (racial segregation, the Japanese Internment Camps) it has proven to be an embarrassing regret. How many lines marked by massive walls topped with razor wire will it take for humanity to realize these physical divisions only make it more difficult to listen and work out solutions with one another?
Exporting the Dream
These are humans we are trying to keep on the other side of that line; people with the same dreams as our forefathers, people who hold a dream for their parents, spouses and children. They are not entitled to reap from our systems, but does that make it impossible for us to discover safer routes for them to access the human dream thriving in America? Do you think there may be a way to export The Dream across the border into their homeland? Can you envision a future Mexico that we would consider moving into?
Tags: Arizona Immigration Law, border control, Femme Tales, illegal immigrants, Mexican border, Monica Wilcox, Owning Pink
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August 9th, 2010
 Photo Credit: The Exit Door campaign was developed at Colenso BBDO Auckland by executive creative director Nick Worthington, creative director Karl Fleet, art directors/copywriters Steve Hansen and Paul Kim, account manager Kate Smart, planner Hayley Pardoe, agency producer Phil Newman, designer Lachlan Palmer-Hubbard and retoucher Kevin Hyde.
I’m looking into the face of closure: his name is Ron and I’m paying him good money to close down my life in Austin only to reopen it again in the Bay Area. He’s brought a few of his buddies because wrapping up someone’s life in brown paper, cardboard and shrink wrap takes some time.
My Life on a Truck Bed
It begs the question: do I really need all this stuff to travel with me into the next phase? What would I discard? Everything essential is already packed in my mini-van. I could ask Ron to leave my creature comforts: dishes, mattresses, towels, flip flops, but I’d end up replacing them all within the week. Maybe I should discard my emotional attachments: the things I can not replace, have inherited, or picked up in a dark corner of a mom-and-pop-shop in Santorini. The pinnacle on this mound would be the photo albums; my record of all the beginnings and closures I have experienced over the last forty years.
Seeking Closure
It’s got me asking how we ever achieve full closure with a semi truck of momentos trailing behind us? There is a spiritual push to live in the NOW, to let go of the past while avoiding concerns over the future. I agree the majority of us spend too much time out of the present, but if we were meant to experience only this moment then why have we been blessed with memory and foresight?
The more I move, the more I find that full closure; doors shut, hatches locked and sealed, smothered in a five foot thick cement block, with a five alarm security system, is an illusion of the ego. A perfect example can be found in Suzy- the bitter teenager who did her share of impossibly cruel things to me in junior high school. She had a knack for stealing my favorite things during sleepovers only to strut around school with them for the next six months claiming they were hers. I was thankful the day she exited my life, and have rarely thought of her since. I eventually got over the loss of my personal treasures BUT when something valuable turns up missing in my life my mind instantly concludes someone I trust has taken it. I chide myself; knowing that this is Suzy’s legacy rearing up at an inopportune time. But as long as I have this gut reaction, as long as I remember her name and face, can I claim to have found closure with her or those unpleasant experiences?
The standard of “finding closure” is to close the proverbial door. To achieve this may feel as simple as a two word text message, a luncheon with departing friends, an overly lengthy letter, or curling yourself up into a bawling mess on the floor of your closet. One way or another we must seek the satisfaction of knowing that we have “come to the end” of this present event/person as we scramble to find an open window to the future.
Moving On Consciously
However, this move has been different for me because I’ve consciously tried to bring about positive closure with Austin and the people I have come to know here. It was going pretty well until I was saying good bye to someone I have come to cherish. The door I was attempting to pull closed decided to crumble away instead (along with the protective walls) revealing a large, sun filled open space between the two of us. As if to say, “All is well between the two of you now. There is no need for barriers. As you move on with your lives you will always have the support of the other.” Instead of closure it felt more like… a transformation on the eternal continuum. How beautiful to find uninhibited space at the end versus a wall. Could I find closure this way with everyone? With every situation?
Closure or Continuation
Do you think all relationships carry on? What if the way we end a relationship now is exactly where we pick it up again in the Later? If we walked away from our “Suzys” and our cherished ones knowing we would meet every last one of them again would it change the way we “found closure” now? And if we came to a place of mutual understanding would that bring about final closure or would it be another transformation in an on going relationship? I have no idea but heaven never struck me as a place where grudges and hard feelings are coddled.
Do you think this is why we feel the need to journey through life with a moving van of material goods? Do we know each event, each person, each relationship holds significance and as long as there is significance there is continuation?
Tags: closure, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, moving
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July 26th, 2010
First Published on Owning Pink 7/13/2010
Have you ever noticed how a high level of gratitude reinforces the very thing you are thankful for? In this shifting economy it is easy to be thankful for an income, the roof over your four supportive walls, a job that feeds AND inspires you, happy children, and good health. This alone can fill your meditative moments with buckets of gratitude. But what happens when you find heartfelt gratitude for something immeasurable? If a strong dose of inspiration springs into your life, and your consciousness of it triggers gratitude, will this spiral into greater amounts of inspiration?
Finding synchronicity on Craigslist
I’ve been slammed this year by a waterfall of synchronicity. It has become so common that I wake each day expecting to find a “coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related.” Expecting may be a big piece in this mysterious cycle. Now I’ve found it in the most unlikely of spots; synchronicity is pulling some serious strings on Craigslist, particularly within the free section. You assume you’ve signed onto the site in an effort of ditching your “unwanted” items in the easiest fashion known to man. What you’re really doing it putting in a calling card to fill another’s need. Tell me if it’s not so…
The first time I noticed it was two years ago when we were giving away an antique kids kitchen. It had been in my mother’s kindergarten classroom for eighteen years before she gifted it to my daughter. But my daughter (and son) had outgrown it and now it was time to find another child who would find charm in its wooden pulls and red painted burners. A child who would not feel jipped out of the modern, plastic, ringing contraption they sell at Costco.
If you’ve never sold anything on Craigslist you’re missing out on a social phenomenon. There’s an acceptable behavior surrounding this site that you will not find anywhere else. The motto of the free section is “Your Trash, My Treasure.” It doesn’t matter what you are discarding: a kid’s bike, a broken mower, a pile of sand — there are people driving small pickups waiting for it. It’s perfectly legit for these buyers to promise you that they are in their car, driving, on their way to pick up this thing they can no longer live without… and then never show. It is also perfectly acceptable for the seller to give their item to the first person who pulls into their driveway, even if they promised it to you yesterday. It’s free, so the expectations on both parties are low; kind of like a blind date at a food bank. It may take six or seven people “promising to come” before someone actually knocks on your door, but it’s the person who knocks you want to open your mind to.
And so arrives the day care owner
Leslie finally knocked on my door to relieve us of our 1970’s play kitchen. As we stuffed the thing into the back seat of her Corolla, she mentioned how much her “kids” are going to love it. Apparently her daughter has medical problems that prevent her from being accepted into a day care, so Leslie decided to start her own day care. She can’t afford to fill her living room with toys, so she’s living off of the “kindness” of Craigslist. We were so touched, a year later we brought her the matching table and chairs to the kitchen when our kids outgrew them.
The college roommates
The next item we posted on the site was an old desk that had lived long past its life expectancy, plus four years. I happen to spot Committed Buyer Twelve pulling into my driveway from my den window. She walked toward my open garage, saw the desk, than promptly turned to run, and I mean sprint, back to her car, threw it into gear and tore down the street. I guess she had higher expectations of FREE. But then Committed Caller Thirteen pulls up: three roommates who are starting their first year at UT. You know the gig — empty apartment, nothing but a card table, a mattress, a laptop and a crate of Ramon noodles. They couldn’t have been happier to have an oak desk, with a chair on rollers. So Synchro-intuitous Dude!
The Vietnamese interpreter
Now that I’m moving, I can really dedicate some time to Craigslist. Yesterday I gave away our pile of scraps: mismatched wood, leftover fencing, dowels, some PVC pipe. A family shows up with a pickup full of carpet pieces and other “goodies.” They’ve brought their nine year old son to interpret English to his Vietnamese parents. As they joyfully load the stuff we’ve been piling in the corner of our garage for seven years, I offer them the craft table I’m trying to sell, some pots I don’t want anymore, and two chairs I won’t need in the new place. I figure anyone who will drive across town for wood scraps will put a nice country table and chairs to use.
The foster parent verses the good Samaritan
Today I’m driving my heavy park bench to the corner of Shoal Creek and Hancock St. My first committed caller, Don, wanted to come get it but couldn’t make it (he’s adopting his two foster kids) while the second caller, Henry, is doing a “beautifying Austin” project for the city on his dollar and thought my park bench would be a great addition. So a foster parent and a good Samaritan are juggling to put my junk to a higher purpose. Luckily, I happen to be in a predicament where I have more than enough to give away. So now I’m taking — and this is not the way this is supposed to work, by the way — a box of outgrown toys to Don’s house and my old bench will become a seat for those who have biked one too many blocks. Synchronicity, how beautiful is thy name!
Gratitude for the mighty string pullers
I can’t help giggling as the events play out. Would it be fortuitous of me to post that love seat I’m tired of, the filing cabinet I’m too lazy to empty, my child’s hamster? I could wait to see who will end up knocking at my door needing something I no longer care for, with their perfect story and a car that is impossibly too small.
As I send my gratitude to the mighty string pullers above I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I became conscious of the beauty in my life, or kindness, or truth. What would I like to draw more of into my day? Do you think the Universe is much like mankind in that it appreciates being appreciated? That it will preen for those who have the eyes to take it in? What immeasurable quality are you drawing into your day? Would you mind if you had even more of it?
Tags: Craigslist, Femme Tales, gratitude, Monica Wilcox, Owning Pink
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July 12th, 2010
This spring I was diagnosed with skin cancer. This was not a big surprise since I’ve been financially supporting my dermatologist throughout the recession. Three years ago I asked her if I was one of those just asking for a case of skin cancer, she looked at me with that ‘some questions are too dumb to ask’ look and said, “Pretty much.” I’d love to blame it on exotic weekends climbing the worlds peaks, or a college stint as a beach lifeguard in that infamous red swimsuit, or the green glow of a tanning bed in my guest bedroom. But alas, the fault lies in my Irish genes, a few nasty childhood burns, and parents who thought sunscreen was applied after you were fried through.
It’s a regular summer day in Texas; hot enough to burn the calluses off your feet, humid enough to curl dandelion stems. I should be thrilled to be “medically restricted” indoors with the hum of my air conditioner, the shade of my roof, and piles of paperwork on my desk. Instead, I’m eyeing my fellow creatures with a new set of eyes.
My fuzzy beagle is stretched across the carpet in the long rectangle of sunlight pouring through the window. Apparently four hours of direct sunlight in the backyard this morning wasn’t enough for her. Outside I watch a squirrel lying across my railing, belly to the wood, sunning. Beyond it, off in the background, are four turtles clustered on a rock near the pond; sunning. My neighbors have beached their winter white bellies at the edge of their pool; sunning.
If you want a challenge, try staying “out of the sun” when your child is a member of a year-round swim team. Try avoiding the rays at the neighborhood pool while attempting to look sociable. Nothing says “sit and chat with me” like a woman huddled in the shade, lounging in a tightly-woven full sleeve shirt, pants, and an oversized hat. Why I’m wearing enough sunscreen I could be blocking for the Saints. I no longer need a swimsuit, I need a full bodysuit.
Now that I am sentenced to lifelong pastiness, I can’t help envying every creature lounging long hours in the light without a concern for oddly shaped moles. Is there something more to this than a “warming of the blood”? Am I missing more than ultraviolet damage to my genetic code?
Obviously my beagle doesn’t need Einstein to tell her sunlight has energy. What if “sunning” triggers a transfer of energy beyond heating and the creation of vitamin D? Could it be a chemical or spiritual recharge of some sort? After thousands of years in the light doesn’t it make sense that mankind needs the light more than he needs a cave?
What would fifteen minutes of sun a day do for our health? We fall out of bed and into our “solar spa”. As we lay back in, close our eyes and put our face to the sun (yes, that great glowing enemy to flawless skin) to soak in energy, to luxuriate in the feeling of cholesterol being transformed into vitamin D, would we ease into a smoother, less stressful day. Would we still crave caffeine, chocolate, sugar, hot freshly-baked baguettes? Maybe I’d find myself needing less sleep, less food, less hassle, less yelling. If time spent in the sun is so unhealthy why is every living creature within sight doing it?
Interestingly enough recent research has come out saying sun exposure helps fight seventeen different types of cancer. How crazy would that be to find that a lack of sun is actually contributing to my body’s inability to control sick skin cells? Shouldn’t we consider how the removal of any natural element may impact our mind and spirit? Maybe what I need is some wise maintenance versus all out avoidance. Maybe I should spend my afternoon curled up with my beagle enjoying an afternoon sun-nap.
Tags: Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, skin cancer, sun, sun tanning
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June 29th, 2010
 When we came across their huddled masses a second time we knew a natural ritual was at hand. Each spring the daddy longlegs in the hill country forest of Central Texas cluster under man-made benches and rock ledges; a gathering of stringy legs and wee bodies. They gently sway, as one, to a song we could not hear.
My daughter convinces one to scurry onto her palm before she transfers it to my shirt. She knows I was terrified of spiders as a child, except for the daddy longlegs who clung to the black bricks on the outside of my house. This one climbs into my armpit looking for another shaded place to gather with its buddies.
“Can we take it home mom? I’ll hold him the whole way.” She promises. The drive is a little more than an hour…in a mini-van…with more nooks and crannies than an antique shop.
“And if you lose it you know it will die.” I say obviously excited by the idea of finding skeletal spider remains in the glove box.
“Aaaah Mom! I’ll find it if I drop him.”
“And how would you feel if some giant came along, grabbed you up, and hauled you away in a rag tag Mazda spaceship? How would you like to be snatched up at your reunion?”
My son pipes in, “Well that’s what you’re doing to us. You’re moving us away from our friends to the other side of the world (the far, far away land of California).” He’d make an exceptional color commentator when he grows up since he’s learned the fine art of filling the conversation with his vast personal experience. He’s a regular expert at refocusing my “educational moments” to the injustices of being seven.
I attempt to lighten the conversation with parental humor. “The difference is no one will suck your dead, curled up body off the car mat with a shop vac once we arrive.”
My daughter shares a look of deep empathy with her brother. “Let’s leave him. At least he’ll always be with his friends,” she says, gently returning him back to his arachnid social. She’s been struggling for three years to strip the southern slang from her spelling (thay, manee, shur ) but she’s getting pretty good at smothering her parent’s conscience with a thick layer of guilt frosting.
Taking a risk in life is always difficult for an individual. It’s a steeper slope when you’re a couple trying to balance what is best for two people pursuing their own dreams. But where do you begin with a family of four; two of which are arguably too young to vote?
My husband and I learned early in our marriage that if one of us was unhappy in some aspect of our personal life it was very difficult for the marriage to be happy. How do you know if a major change that looks ideal for one person will be positive for the other? If one person’s joy comes at the cost of another’s misery will we end up in a different city but on the same unsteady ground?
While we’re making this move for my husband’s career (therefore our family’s security and livelihood) our children may be thrown into a school that is not as successful, a community that is not as welcoming. Maybe three of us will find a more fulfilling life while the fourth will be thrown into melancholy. What if the unhappy one turned out to be my husband? How could we feel true glee as a unit? Unintentional pain can be a difficult outcome to live with.
Barbara Winter says, “Faith is knowing one of two things will happen: there will be something solid to stand on or you will be taught how to fly.” Taking personal risk is an act of faith. When the scope of life stretches beyond the horizon, into places I can not fathom, my best option is to turn it over to a higher power; trusting in where we are being drawn, that our family bond is strong enough to support one another through the difficult periods (which will come no matter where we reside), that our relationships will be stronger for having done this move together. I would rather teach my kids that it is possible to survive a risky change which will allow them to swap out their fear of change for a solid dose of confidence.
My children are too wise and don’t mind me dancing around the truth, “Okay, we can take Mr. Longlegs on a minivan adventure. He might like our deck as much as this bench, maybe even better, or he may hate it, but I think he’d like it better if you took a few of his friends along. It’s always easier to do something new if you’re not alone…if you get to do it together.”
“Alright,” My son concedes, “but then I’m taking this cactus home too? It’s loaded with a pack of ants. That way if we do lose the spiders we can sick the ants on them.” Looks like I’ll be putting my shop vac to good use anyway.
Tags: Femme Tales, leap of faith, Monica Wilcox, moving your family
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June 13th, 2010
 Can you be married and still be considered independent? If you were at a cocktail party and someone said, “Her husband is so independent,” would you consider it a compliment or would you think something must be missing in the marriage? What if the same reference was made about the wife?
Throughout my marriage I’ve made it a point to maintain my independence. I do a solid chunk of the mowing, edging, trimming, cooking, cleaning, laundry and all of the Christmas decorating. I’ve done the bills often enough to know where the money is going, fought the tax assessors office on our property value, and planned our vacations. I strive to NEED my husband as little as possible so I have plenty of room to WANT him.
This is well and good until the DVR breaks. I’ve struggled enough with broken computers and cable boxes to appreciate that there are a number of areas in our household that are better left to my husband. I don’t need him to manage the hardware and software in our home, but doing so has saved us regular visits from the Geek Squad. But after seventeen years of marriage, no matter how I fight it, I still can’t walk into an auto mechanic shop without my independence sliding off my shoulders onto their greasy door mat.
Do mechanics feel a moral obligation to swindle every woman who enters their shop? This behavior is so chronic I’m beginning to suspect it’s been written into the by-laws of their union, “Thou shall reap the leather clutch with doctored numbers and falsifications.” In twenty years of car ownership (and a greater number of working garages) I have yet to get a basic oil change without an extensive list of “recommendations”. Who knew my van had all this crap stashed under the hood: cylinoide, flywheels, rockers, manifolds, tie rods, pitman arm, ball joints, sway bars and thrust arms. (The auto parts list sounds as if it should be rated R! Obviously a woman was never asked to name these vital mechanical organs.) They assure me if I don’t act now my van may explode into a ball of fire as I drive home from soccer practice.
This sexual discrimination has become so standard that my husband and I no longer mind being scammed; we’ve adapted our own little system around it. I get the extensive list (funny how they never call my husband’s cell first) so I can call him to go over the $3200 tally, he scoffs, rants on about being robbed for a few moments, then calls the mechanic to discuss the “recommendations”. Suddenly these numbers start fading off the paper in smoke and colored lights. “Oh you’re right, Mr. Wilcox! We did replace that second bank just last fall. Well I suppose you could get by another year with the water hose you have. I’m not even sure why we put that catalytic converter on there; must have been a typo.” With a little testosterone magic, our bill comes down to $330, plus tax.
I’ve tried to find somewhere in our society where I could switch the tables. I’d like to send Mr. Wilcox in to do some of the “family business” only to return completely belittled and taken advantage of in his masculine naivety. The closest I can come, sorry to say, would be a trip into Victoria’s Secret for the purchase of my under things, because as every woman knows there’s more to a bra than cup and circumference. The bra market has got a few vital material organs of its own; “Honey, could you pick me up a 32 D, demi, slightly padded, razorback with full support, underwire and a thick strap?” I imagine him helplessly lost in racks of delicates before an associate swoops in for the kill. He won’t get out of the store without an armful of pretty-little-some-things wrapped up in pink tissue and gold seals. It won’t run him $3000 but he may lose a few hundred.
My amusement in this scenario only lasts until I remember the men I’ve seen stepping into Victoria’s Secret. They don’t strike me as unfortunate souls being stripped of their independence, more like blessed creatures stumbling into a lacy fantasy. Some of them stand in the entryway debating if they should start howling or exit for the closest confessional? It appears there’s nowhere a man can experience the sexual belittling I’m continually subjected to by the local mechanic.
If I want to feel independent in the maintenance of our autos, I’m going to have to get some professional training so when the next guy tells me the lines to the gasket are stripped I’ll give him my girlish smile and ask “When’s the last time you looked under a hood? Since when did they put lines to the gasket?” Or…maybe I’ll admit to needing my husband on this one.
Tags: Auto Mechanics, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, scams, Victoria's Secret
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May 31st, 2010
When I was 10, the best day of my life was the first day of summer. I woke that day to the foreign silence of parental distance. I’d never experienced a morning without someone yelling “Breakfast!” or “Do you know what a comb is?” much less “Feed your rabbits before I make dinner plans outta them.” My mother finally showed up at my bedroom door to offer some guidance, “Get your breakfast whenever you feel like it, honey.”
The sweet taste of liberation smothered the metallic morning breath of my braces. I had a banana seat bike to roam my ten mile home turf, a sewage creek running to the east, busy train tracks to the south, Peppy’s Junk Yard to the west and a Tasty Freeze up top. It was 1980, over-scheduling was done in doctor’s offices, camps were for criminals pounding rocks, and playdate was a word that had not been compounded yet. My mission: work myself into a grand state of boredom and discover how delicious it was.
All of that ended on the first day of summer in my 15th year. My alarm clock went off and I realized “I’m employed now!” Schweet-o-rama?!? But putting on that orange striped Speedy’s Pizza uniform felt like I’d scrubbed the color out of my lazy summer dreams. As I grieved the passing of my first summer love, Mr. Boredom, my mind offered up this little tidbit; don’t worry; you’ll doze through a summer again, in 2040. But instead of riding your bike through musky culverts, you’ll sit on some porch with your waistband around your nipples and contemplate the state of the weather. That’s pretty dark material for any 15 year old to swallow. From then on, my summers were air conditioned days of labor, wishing I was outside charging the neighbor kids a quarter to watch my pet crawdad have it out with a bucket load of garter snakes.
Now I’m a mother with two school age kids whose school year is as booked as a mammogram clinic. Last year my nine year old woke on that first summer day at 7 a.m., her freedom cycle full upon her, and asked when our carpooling would commence. “I’m seriously BORED!” she cried, as if “nothing to do” equaled mental illness. Great! The highlights of my childhood are boomeranging back to me now with morphed teeth and a pair of Freddy Krueger claws.
For 93 days I played Summer Entertainment Booking Agent for these two unimaginative creatures, who’d take to rolling around on my carpet, begging for a straight shot of Ambien. I couldn’t help it! That “B” word was a calling card to my spastic-Mom-mode; “Isn’t your generation supposed to be the great exterminator of boredom? You’ve got more gadgets than MacGyver. Lock yourself in your bedroom with your I-phone, I-pad, I-touch, I-pod or I’m going to show you my I-scream! Go bike your two streets of independence! Go scooter until you find another kid foolish enough to brave this 100 degree heat! I don’t care if you’ve never been formally introduced to them for a playdate! You will play with that child until a police squad hunts you down…AND you will like it!”
This year I started anticipating Mr. Boredom on Martin Luther King Day. Since the techniques of blowing, wasting, fiddling and pissing away time are beyond my children’s capabilities, I brought out the big guns; a bold Sharpie, the phone and the Summer Camp Guide. I’ve booked playdates, gobbled up every last available camp slot (“Not till August? Will I get a refund if my son gets tossed over our deck by his sister before then?”), and elbowed my way through the other desperate moms in the student activity book aisle of Barnes & Noble.
Yet I will admit, like all hot summer romances, I’ve got a bit of nostalgia for old Mr. B. So on this, my 40th first-day-of-summer, I plan to snuggle my early birds back into their beds as the birds sing to the rising sun. “Hey, did you know there are these really smart guys called Snow Patrol? They came up with this great game. All we do is waste time… chasing cars… around our heads.”
Okay, so maybe I won’t have to wait until 2040 to doze through another summer again.
Tags: Boredom, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, Surviving Summer Break
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May 22nd, 2010
Dear Spokeo.com,
Apparently you’ve been stalking me and then pimping my information out to the electronic universe. If you were a creep leaving size 12 boot prints in my flower beds I’d have the legal grounds to pull you before a judge while I staged an internet campaign all over YOUR identity. But since you’re an ambiguous person chugging Red Bull from an office cubical in your chino pants, flip flops and Nike t-shirt we’ll begin professionally: with a letter.
Yes, I’m aware that I can remove my name from Spokeo’s “modern phonebook”, but what would be the point? You’re one out of a hundred electronic info breeding sites. I’d have to spend my Sunday afternoon social networking hours scrubbing my name off the internet wall to make a dent in my virtual image.
My situation also has a slight catch; I’m a freelance writer (so now you can fill in the “unknown” under occupation) and it’s part of my job description to have a platform. That means I’m supposed to be splattering my name across the World Wide Web the way a small child spews vomit, the way an old man throws a bucket of soapy water on the gas spill in his driveway, like a ten year old boy trying to kill a sunfish with his air gun. You’re technologically savvy enough to get the picture.
Since you’re tossing my personal stats and images around the world could we begin by getting the basics correct? You’ve got me listed as in a Caucasian woman (correct) in her 30’s AND her 40’s. You know I’ve got a fireplace in my living room but you can’t figure out if I spent a summer in a pair of Daisy Duke’s? How difficult can it be to establish my birth date since it appears on every public document known to Uncle Sam: my birth certificate, marriage license, children’s birth certificates, driver’s license, the mortgages I’ve held, my vehicle registration, library card and the Super Savers Buddy program at our local grocery? Yes, Ambiguous Person, I could have strutted a few summers in Daisy Duke’s if I had been an orphan and in fact, in the ‘80’s, I possessed more shoulder pads than the Colt’s locker room.
You’ve got me living in a “middle class” home built in 2001 with no swimming pool AND no central air or central heating. I’m not sure why anyone would search the web to discover how I’m maintaining my body temperature but don’t you think anything built after 1970 would have central air? Doesn’t it seem odd that I would be living in a home with a median home price of $368,000 surviving on space heaters and a well used fireplace? I’m pretty sure central air is required by our Home Owners Association (Yes, document how I’m living beneath an HOA dictator.)
I must say my “listing” looks downright drab when I compare it to my spouse, one Michael Wilcox. When did he move into a home worth $1M+? This is news to me, my neighbors, and the agent currently working to sell our home. Either, you’ve done a bit of loose rounding OR Mr. Michael Wilcox is maintaining some serious property other than the one I’m scrubbing down each week. Are you telling me my husband has a secret family living in a home twice the value of mine?
In fact, I’d like to meet this man you’ve got residing with me. He’s a left wing activist, (and he told me he voted for McCain!) his hobbies include sky diving, body building, high stakes gambling, whiskey tours and secret trips to Canada. He’s a member of the NRA, NVF, NCAA and the NRP (Oh, so he’s bi-political?). He owns more stocks than a Kansas corn field and has invested heavily in a Brazilian boogala berry enterprise since 1986 (how did he manage that kind of money in high school as a summer farm hand?). Not only is this man sitting on a load of real estate, he’s got outstanding health insurance, a dental plan and disability insurance. I see he subscribes to Personal Defense, Quilters Corner, and Sudoku Today. He also missed three payments on his Home Depot credit card back in 1996 which still haunts his credit rating to this day. Unfortunately he can’t afford central heating either.
Ambiguous Person, since it’s obvious you’re struggling to locate the factual details of everyone’s net identity, I’m authorizing you to juice up “Monica Wilcox” a little; turn me into a woman this Michael Wilcox of Ridgeview Drive would be struggling to keep up with. Tell them I’m non-political YET I’m an active representative for the Tea Party of Texas. Note how I enjoy weekends on the Great Barrier Reef, Christmas in Tibet and own property on the cooler side of Venus. Make my subscriptions look sophisticated yet edgy; chalk me up for Cruising World, Artforum International and Exotic Body Art Today. And while we’re at it, could you switch me to a “YES” on the central air/heat?
I appreciate your timely cooperation in this matter. Hopefully, I have helped you blow a good ten minutes in your long work day.
Sincerely,
Monica Wilcox (that would be the one in Texas-Austin-Ridgeview Drive-enjoys collecting stray cats)
Editor’s Note: Spokeo.com is a real website with some real, and obviously not so real, information – potentially about you. If you would like to remove yourself go to http://www.spokeo.com and type in your name. If you do indeed find yourself and want to remove yourself, click on the “Privacy” button in the lower right hand corner of the page. Now this is important: We suggest that you use a “junk” e-mail address (one that you no longer use or one that you have set up for just such a purpose as this one) otherwise, the Ambiguous Person has one more piece of your vital info which may well be the point. If you don’t have a “junk” e-mail you might try a “fifteen minute e-mail.”
Tags: Femme Tales, internet identity, Monica Wilcox, Spokeo.com
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May 8th, 2010
What I’d truly like for Mother’s Day can not be bought at the end of a grocery aisle on Saturday afternoon or massaged in by a trained therapist’s hands. What I’d like is to re-experience the little moments of yesterday that were whitewashed over by the events of today. This, my two sweet babies, is what I’d like you to give me…again:
-Lay your newborn head in my palm as our eyes meet for the first time.
-Dangle your feet against my thigh as I carry you through our world on my hip.
-Allow my hand to overwhelm your tender grasp while a sense of protectiveness comes over me.
-Snuggle your favorite stuffed animal under my head when I’m sick so I may find comfort in the smell of you on its fur.
-Slip off to sleep in my arms as the rhythm of your breath drops to a slow draw.
-Giggle through the silly part of your favorite bed time story for the 1,489th time.
-Prattle your bare feet across the wood floor as you run to wake us before we miss the sunrise.
-Ask me to lead you in a round of If You’re Happy and You Know It while we drive to the best park in town.
-Bury your face in my hair as you clutch my head and reassure me that I’ll never lose you again in the women’s clothing racks of Kohl’s.
- Run to the front door squealing for joy when Daddy comes home from work.
-Invite me up to your tea party (but only if I wear a fancy hat and bring a purse full of Goldfish)
-Mumble “I wub you Mommy” as I turn off your bedroom light and close your door for the night.
If you could return me to a few of these moments…this is what I would like most.
Tags: Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, Mother's Day Present
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May 4th, 2010
It’s odd to step into someone else’s home with the full intention of possessing it. It takes effort to look past the owner’s gawd-awful fuchsia sofa, the wall-shrine of baby pictures, and the orange Gatorade stain on the family room carpet. You run through the usual buyer questions-How many nights am I going to stub my toe on my coffee table as I sneak through the dark family room for my midnight snack? Can I comfortably cry over a mound of chopped onions in this kitchen? Is this a bathtub I’m willing to put a few rings on?
Shopping for a home is like shopping for a mate; if your greatest consideration is the brick and mortar then there’s no complaining four months later when the electricity stops pumping to the sockets. You have to search for it’s spirit, defined within emotion. Peace, such as – orange hues of sunrise fill the study as you sip coffee while bringing up your email. Connection - long conversations with good friends over dinner preparation at oversized kitchen bar. Comfort- nursery room only 20 steps from the master. Serenity- children’s bedrooms are pleasantly located in guest house.
In the movie The Legend of Bagger Vance a wise Will Smith says, “Yep…Inside each and every one of us is one true authentic swing…Somethin’ we was born with…Somethin’ that’s ours and ours alone…” Homes carry, no matter the age or square footage, an authentic swing too. Here are the MLS listings I’d give each of the homes I’ve had the pleasure to dwell within:
Colorado Springs, CO- black and white checkered master bath surrounded by hot pink flamingoes brings a smile each morning as you apply mascara in a “1950’s burger joint”.
Bann, Germany-foot thick stone walls combined with the roll-down metal shades on the outside of the windows provides the coziest nap on the planet.
Painted Post, NY-you’ve never heard the potential of rain until you hear it on the solid oak logs of this roof.
Broomfield, CO- large square skylight over master bed provides private year round observatory.
Austin, TX- nervous chills as you watch three year olds take the 30 degree hill in your drive way on their Batman and Cinderella scooters.
I’d sell my second home in Austin in a Kodak flash if the potential buyers had one dinner on our deck. It stands 14 feet off the ground, overlooking a lily padded frog pond trickling down into a larger, fully stocked fish pond. The view opens to a vast nature preserve sliced in half by Lake Austin (a.k.a Colorado River). It’s a view worthy of the wall of windows spread across the back of the house. The kind of view that drives you to plotting dark night escapades into your neighbor’s back yard to “remove” the only mature tree on the street. (Oh, the fantastical fantasies we had over the demise of that cider!)
I’d offer the potential buyers a deck-chair-with-a-view beside a bowl of pita chips and homemade artichoke dip. While I grilled up some burgers and dogs they’d notice the four foot fish flopping in the shallows beyond our fence line. This may trigger visions of bass fishing until they noticed the fish were nibbling at the grass stalks overgrowing their muddy bank. They’d watch in anticipation, awaiting the carp to beach themselves like a killer whale after a seal.
There’s a popular rock on the left I’ve nicknamed “turtle hill” where all the adult turtles clamor until they’re stacked at tight angles like plates in a dishwasher. The geckoes are bound to show up, flashing their colorful throats. A hummingbird or two will zip by to investigate the merlot in the wine glasses. The grey heron will circle in for a questionable landing between the purple martins and swallows clearing away the flies and mosquitoes. The buyers will be so entrenched in the nature sideshow they’ll miss my opinion of our school district.
As the departing sun washes the sky in pink water colors, and the potential buyers nibble on chocolate dipped strawberries (they’re an aphrodisiac for homes too), the Austin bats will fill the darkening sky, swooping down over the candle lit table. As they finish “seeing our home” over tea or a nice dessert wine, the moon will slowly arch up over the roof line to light the single pond fountain as it sends soft rings over the steel colored water into the black night.
If the buyers, after an evening on our deck, grab up their jackets and rush for the door with a quick “Great burgers but we really gotta get home and catch Grey’s Anatomy. Tonight’s the season finale!” I’d kindly suggest they visit the home for sale down the street with technology leaking out of its game room windows. When you’re shopping for a home, it’s wise to look past the travertine floors and the double stacked crown molding to find the intrinsic value of the place; to make a connection with its authentic swing.
Tags: buying a home, Femme Tales, Monica Wilcox, selling a home
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anonymous 
Jill 
We’ve posted a certain image that seems to draw in large numbers of football fans. I’m so glad you took the time to read through our posts. Keep coming back and leave a comment so we know you’ve visited us again. Don’t you think it’s time for some Monday Night FB!?!
alison 
Julie 
Yvonne 
Merri Lee Zaba 
It will always be the person squatting down to draw a line in the sand who gets his hand stepped on hardest. The planet belongs to us all. My hope is in the next generation who sees themselves as citizens of the world. Thanks for the eloquent blog.
I hear horror stories from south of the border way too often. Even canceled a trip down there myself. The cartels are in an extreme power struggle, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. The Mexico that Monica asked us to imagine probably existed 25 – 30 years ago, but those days are loooooong gone!
This photo rings with your response Michele. Between the drug traffic and human/sex traffic there are families desperate to find a better life. No one is going to cross a desert in July who isn’t reeking desperation. Instead of building a massive wall, I’d rather see our efforts going to improving the state of Mexico. Yes, it would not be quick, but progress on a massive scale rarely is.
Let’s hope that the tools of the Internet, free trade, and the ease of traveling the globe will enable our kids to find the borders have faded while the people behind them seem only one connection away.
Thanks for sharing you comment.
Hey Alex, Great to hear a perspective from someone who is near the border where this issue is much more heated and impactful. Do you think there would be any possibility of shooting for a Mexico, let’s say 20-30 years down the road, that would be safe and positive enough that we could open the border? The Mexico I like to imagine has never existed (to my knowledge) but I’m not sure anyone imagined China the way it is today either.
Here’s wishing that both of us will visit again someday soon!!!
20 – 30 years down the road would be a fantastic goal, but I don’t see much being done currently to achieve that. To open the border would mean the US would have to take on Mexico’s debt. Providing welfare, health care, etc. would cripple our economy. Not to mention the struggle of power over new turf for the cartels, and new problems at the South American border. Sadly, we need to think about making our border more secure rather than opening it.