My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad…and Other Tales

By Kelly Sinon

I opened my eyes and felt a new feeling I wasn’t familiar with and I was…smiling. Smiling, first thing in the morning?  I took tally of my “Things to Fret About” file in my head and realized that I must have dragged and dropped it into the recycle bin ( A. because ...well, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. And B. because I am me, I know it’s probably going to be short-lived. I was proven right, because ten minutes later, while reveling in this new feeling, it was somehow replaced by anxiety that I had nothing to be anxious about.).

The last couple of weeks, I have been Full of Fret (I know I could have said fretful here, but this sounds a lot more significant and dramatic… and really, since no one is editing me).

Dad had undergone shoulder replacement surgery and had had some pretty serious (although, if you ask him, “not that bad”) complications after, which put the near constant anxiety of the final word about our loan modification on hold.

Dad is 67, looks 57 and behaves likes he’s 27, still enjoying car racing and playing with cars. After he came home from surgery, a few days later, he was back in the hospital, thanks to his wife Carolyn not taking no for an answer, with a raging infection, and throat issues from an intubation gone wrong. Not able to eat, drink, or even speak well, he was still able to convey that he “didn’t need any help”, which on one hand was par for the course. He never needs help with anything (is that 8-year old me, bragging that her Dad is the biggest, strongest man in the world and could beat up your Dad? Probably.). On the other hand, my adult (?) self was very qualified to help him now, and it frustrated me that all I could do was walk their dog.

A week later, Dad was discharged almost none the worse for wear and recovering quickly. I teased him that I missed the sound of his voice, but it was really true. It was good to see him eating, drinking, and laughing , standing and looking tall to me again when they came over for dinner last night.

Sometime during all of this, we’d gotten the word that we were approved for our loan modification. It was a long ride, but at the end of it, all I could imagine was a new dishwasher (the bank was not getting my new dishwasher) , new floors (and dare I dream- new kitchen counters?), Katie, bringing home her future husband and Kirk walking down the stairs in a tux, on his way to the Prom. Did you notice that the dishwasher was number one on my list? Yeah, me too.

So, if it’s possible, I am going to embrace this Much Ado About Nothing anxiety. With a 27-year old father, two kids and a pretty self-contained husband, I am sure it will quickly be replaced with Much Ado About Everything in the Entire World anxiety. It’s okay…that feeling, I’m familiar with.

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Kelly Sinon will continue to live in Gilroy with her family. She can be reached at sksinon@aol.com

If You're an Asshat, Weezer And I Will Let You Know...

By Kelly Sinon

 I'm beginning to fancy myself a gracefully aging Shirley MacLaine, a la Steel Magnolias’  “Weezer.” 

 After telling my co-worker that in no uncertain terms that she seemed to have misplaced her head and put it where her rear end is, it occurred to me that I will be -and I quote from my own Facebook status- there may still be some sort of hope for me, since I am using, and am well-acquainted with, technology that has been invented after 1975- "the old lady who blurts out the uncomfortable truth at family dinners and county fair quilt judgings." Not only that, I am relishing it.

 There is a certain invisibilty that my mother feared as she aged, that I’m  becoming aware of at 41. Not that I am old, necessarily. I am in fact reminded how young I am when one of my friends mentioned a movie that was made fairly recently that I had to Google. But, I am thinking that my Weezerisms are coming more and more frequently in an effort to stave off people not seeing me. Maybe.

  Since I was always a sort of "filter off'ed" type, I can only imagine it's going to get worse. Not for me, but for unsuspecting retail clerks with spinach in their teeth or ill-prepared family members' new significant others. 

 In my scenario, I'm sharp as a tack, and no one suspects that I'm just telling it like it is to ...well, tell it like it is. Rather, they will think, "Oh, poor (insert “Mom”, “Grandma”, “Aunt”, “cute lady with the cats”, “horrible old bat”, here) is slowly losing it. We'll humor her because she really didn't mean anything when she said, (insert acerbic sentence here).

 I have a long history of struggling to keep my filter on, and it seemed the more I  tried to Scotch tape it or Super Glue it in the “on” positon, the faster the fuse blew.

 My sister and her friends were often the recipient of some of my thoughtlessness.

 Weeks earlier, we’d been playing and teasing each other, seeing who could come up with the worst insult to the other.

  Back and forth we went until I spluttered,”You…bloody stump!” it struck us both funny, and we used it often.

Fast forward a couple of months, when while in Canada on a dog showing curcuit, my 14-year old sister had the pleasure meeting a great kid, who began to woo her. He was cute, funny and best of all, nice to her little sister who tagged along. Everywhere.

 Brad was so easy to be with that when we began our ritualistic teasing, he was included. 

 “You...backwards, backwoods jack ass,” he teased me, refering to the tiny, in fact correctly termed “backwoods” hamlet of Hayfork, where we lived.

 “You…bloody stump,” I announced, which would have stopped the game cold, since it seemed to trump everything else and reduced everyone into fits of giggles, usually.  This time, not so much. Suzie was glaring at me so hard, I thought I might turn to stone. I blinked.

  I felt like I’d been slapped in the face, for remembering that Brad was missing a hand and sported a hook that he used deftly to open candy.

 For once, I was speechless, but as always, embarrassed.

 It didn’t last long, and the thoughtlessness that seemed to follow me everywhere as a kid, morphed into something else as an adult.
 It just got too hard to try to keep the switch on, and I often made things worse when trying. So, the result is, if you’re being an Asshat, I’m going to say, “You’re being an Asshat.” I will try to say it nicely. I will even try to discourage you from being an Asshat in the future, but…you will know that I think you’re being an Asshat.

 But I’m pretty sure that’s how “Weezer” got started.

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Happy Birthday, Mom... You Still Make Me Laugh

By Kelly Sinon

 Throughout the day, I reminded myself that it was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 66, today.      One of her deepest wishes was to never age. Not that she was someone who was terrified of losing her looks, really. Not any more than anyone else, but because she didn’t want what happens to people when they age; the invisibility.  Although, anyone who knew my mother, knew that there was absolutely no chance of her ever becoming invisible, with her nasal, perpetually allergy-laced, Brooklyn accent and her contagious Drescher-esque laugh, accompanied by snorts.

 Mom stopped aging at 56 years old, in her happy prime of life. Retired, with her husband and beloved Scottish Terriers, she was free to travel to all the dog shows she wanted in their RV. While driving home from one of their many shows, their RV had a blowout, which caused it to overturn and catch fire. A tragic accident that changed our family forever.

 In the ten years since, I’ve come a long way in the grief process. It was so sudden, that when my husband, who’d gotten the phone call earlier in the day, broke the news to me on my arrival home from a shopping trip, I was appalled that he could lie to me in such a disgusting way.  I wrestled with the guilt that we hadn’t spoken in a few months.  I still do. But I remind myself that she knows, and any wrong between us has been made right by the forgiveness that death can bring for people who truly loved each other beyond condition.

It seemed for a month straight, I cried.

 I cried, as I asked my husband in all sincerity and fear, “Will I ever stop crying?”

 I cried in line in the supermarket, for a reason I still don’t know.

 I cried in the middle of my kitchen with my young children unsure of what to say or do to make it stop.

 I cried the second my eyes opened in the morning.

 But little by little, with encouraging friends and family, the tears stopped and the stories began.

 The time Mom didn’t believe there was a bat in the house, until its whirring wings woke her at 2 a.m. and she and my sister tried to usher it out of every open door we had while I giggled maniacally from my post under the dining room table. 

 Mom’s fearlessness in taking her girls all over the west coast and Canada in a ‘60s era camper without a toilet, which in itself displays amazing courage, to compete in dog shows and introduce us to the land of “colorful money” and metrics none of us could decipher.

 Her quickness to defend her children from harm or mistaken identity, as was the case when my botched haircut at her scissor-wielding hands resulted in the butcher telling my sister to "take care of her little brother."

"How can you think this adorable little girl is a boy?" Grabbing my wrist, she stalked away muttering about how dare he think such a thing. Even though I think in her heart of hearts, she knew it was not a difficult conclusion to jump to. 

 Her talent as a story teller, writer, and painter, her wit and wisdom are remembered still. She was quick to laugh. Usually at me, which infuriated my sister because it seemed I could get out of almost any punishment. But my sister was entrusted with Mom’s respect for her capable nature and brand of fearlessness, herself.

She’s with me when I catch myself snorting when I laugh, or when I’m excited and talking fast, my husband will call me on my “Brooklyn accent.” She’s also with me when I say things like, “Enough a’ready” or standing on a soapbox to get my point across, since she did pass on the gift of gab and her opinionated nature.

Happy birthday, Mom. To me, you will always be forever young, beautiful and unforgettable.

Conversations With Ten-Year Old Can Yield Good Advice

By Kelly Sinon

 The girl with the long brown braids and overbite was taking me to task again. I’m not sure why I allow it. She hasn’t mastered fractions yet, cannot seem to match her pants with her shirt and her bed time is at nine. She hasn’t had her heart broken or suffered the indignity of high school but sometimes she has good advice and insight, considering her age and abysmal style choices.

 That boy who gave me his marble collection (um…yes, apparently, I am that old. We played marbles)  but then pulled my hair in class? Yeah, He liked me.

 Practicing extra hard might earn me a spot as first chair sax, despite my inability to read music at the time.

But where was she the summer before my Freshman year in high school, when I was positive that blonde was the way to go; and she failed to warn me that wearing my socks tucked inside my pants would garner unsolicited laughter from my father. She was also nowhere to be seen when I thought it might be a good idea to screw together a picture frame with a pocket knife. Her absence led to a trip to the ER; the second in a week, for stitches in the same hand. There were other things she could have warned me about but I’m pretty sure I stifled her.

 Sometimes, she over-rides my will and appears when I need a firm talking to, usually. No, we…I mean, I… am not schizophrenic. Ten-year old me asks me questions that 41-year old me won’t and tries to guide me. I don’t always listen to her. Sometimes, you just have to wear Mom jeans. I mean, what else would one wear to a buffet to accompany the extra large purse? Sweats aren’t dressy enough and besides, I am a Mom.

 She also appears to remind me of simpler things that made me happy and still do. She does know me better than anyone, like it or not.

Ten-year old me is all about “black and white.” There are no shades of grey for her. Life is all about what’s fair and she does have a handy way of cropping up and whispering in my ear to remind me of Karma when I see an injustice. We giggle shamelessly together when it happens. To other people. She whispers in my other ear to remind me of it for myself.

 These days, she’s been relentless. Asking me questions about my future, where my head is at, what do I want to be when I grow up.The usual.

 She chides me for thinking about my writing “career”. The one I imagined when I was her age; living in New York, single and fancy-free. Ten-year old me had the world by the tail. I would write, date boys (…er…men. C’mon, now), and have a luxury condo in Manhattan.  Who knew I was imagining being a character on “Sex and the City”? 

 I’m telling you, Ten-year old me, was a woman before her …my…time.

 For the most part, I enjoy her. She keeps me young, and reminds me of my idealistic side which isn’t buried as deep down as I thought.

I hope she is glad her teeth are fixed and we finally did manage to figure out how to match our clothes. 

Why Personal Set-Backs Shouldn't Define Us

By Kelly Sinon


I am Kelly. I am a lover of bacon and derivative humor; the more sophomoric, the better. I am a recovering Band Geek and self-professed Clean Freak and yet my closet is an avalanche in the making. I like dogs, but will never own one again. I dislike People who think The World Is Out To Get Them and Everyone In It Is A Schmuck. I am a big believer in Everything Will Work Itself Out. As Long As We Are Informed.  Oh…And Smile, Smile, Smile!

This is where I am running into trouble. I’m smiling, but it makes my teeth hurt now.  I am going to bed too late and waking up too early.  I hadn’t made the connection until this morning, when for the second day in a row, on a much-coveted weekend, I woke up before everyone else.

The thoughts that pull me from sleep are the same ones that have me staring into blackness at 1:00 A.M.

“What next?” even though I already know the answer. I know the answer, because as much as having to start your life over because of foreclosure is out of your control, it’s so much more reassuring to know the process. What to expect. To be informed.  At least that was the theory. I have researched and poured over various websites. Precious few address the emotional issues that accompany this course of action.

With one hand, the bank rejected the loan modification application, while with the other, we get telephone calls from them, “wanting to help.” More infuriating than I can even put words to, but I am someone who wants to be proactive.  Okay, so that didn’t work, what’s the next step? Short Sale.

My mood goes from complete despair to hopeful optimism and back, at an alarming speed. At this point, I just want to “get ‘er done” and start over, but there’s a course of action. Even for failure.   

And as I write the word, “failure”, I see its starkness, and finality, but two years from now, this will be a memory; a not so pleasant one, but a memory. I will have done more, seen more, laughed more and hopefully cried less.     

There is some comfort in the fact that I am not alone, and that we are a casualty of the economy, rather than greed. Millions of people are right where we are now. There were millions before and will be millions after, each with our own stories of how we got here.

What doesn’t change is who we are. I will still love bacon, and hum the saxophone part to Battle Hymn of the Republic.  And once I’ve dusted myself off, I will still be a big believer in Everything Will Work Itself Out. As Long As We Are Informed.  Oh…And Smile, Smile, Smile!

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com                                                                                                                                                                        

When Cruising Stopped Making Sense

By Kelly Sinon


 Lately, I have noticed my speech has been peppered with, “Those kids”, “These kids”, “Today’s kids”, and “Why are those damned kids on my lawn?”

 It’s happened.  Apparently, I have hit middle-aged cootitude with a bang. I’m not even sure when it happened and I am pretty sure that I remember hearing people a lot older than I am saying those things when I was considerably younger.  So somehow, even when I am young(-ish), I’m still old.

I have been heard to say things like, “When I was a kid, you could still cruise The Strip in Salinas without being in the cross-fire. It was 1988, and it was a whole other world.”

 Of course, back then it made perfect sense to drive back and forth over a mile and a half of  7-11 convenience store and gas station-lined main drag, with as many of your best friends who could squeeze into the car. All while yelling out the window at no one in particular on a hot summer night. Ah, youth.

 Back then, you and your friends could pool your money and for $15.37, you could hit the Taco Bell drive-thru, fill the tank in the Chevette and go where the night takes you.

 Now, the very idea, while nostalgic, seems a terribly irresponsible waste of money, natural resources and time. Not to mention the traffic issues that was sure to have caused.

I had my turn. Now, it’s “those kids’” turn and I get to be the one who tsk-tsks at the loud group in the corner booth of the restaurant that used to be ours. But I earned it; swilling bad coffee and smoking what I thought was a sophisticated brand of cigarettes with the rest of my angst-riddled contemporaries, pontificating about the state of the world, late into the night and early morning.

 In 20 years, “today’s kids” will be all grown up and remember walking to school in torrential downpours without benefit of rain coat or umbrella, simply because it “wasn’t cool” as they force a coat onto their eye-rolling teenager.  They will shake their heads at two- sizes-too-big, low slung jeans, tiny tops that barely covered what should have been and bass so loud it shook the closed windows of cars stuck at the mercy of the same red light.

 Their kids will tire of their tales as ours have. We tell these tales not for them, but more for us; to remember. So that when we see them do these things, we can remember not so long ago, we were “those kids.”

 I will wait and watch, because I know, sooner than they think, my kids will say to their kids as they walk out the door, “…And tell tell those kids to get off our lawn.”

A Group Fast Becoming the Silent Majority...Homes in Jeopardy.

By Kelly Sinon

A paraphrased version of the old TV campaign for the Marines comes to mind.

 “Join the Not-So-Few, The Even-Less-Proud. The Foreclosed.”

The home I have loved for the last six years is fast becoming the anvil around my neck, as I feel my family’s financial future pulling me deeper into an abyss of uncertain lender waters; navigating the uncharted territory of loan modification forms and the ever-nagging question, “Now what?”

Like most people, I go to work every day, and pay my bills on time. But the mortgage could start slipping.

Before you say, “Well, how many credit cards did you max out?” or “Bet your car payments are a killer,”

We have no debt. No car payments and no, no ARM.; only this huge albatross (If you want to call 1,477 square feet huge).

My hours have not changed, but I’ve taken a small pay cut I have yet to get back, if ever. My husband’s hours at his company have fallen sharply over the last four years. We’ve managed.  But it’s become apparent as our home’s value has dipped, and we are not earning any more, holding onto the house just might not be possible or even worth the fight, in the end.

You might be asking yourself why I would want to talk about this in public; lay my financial soul bare. But, I see first-hand what it looks like on paper to lose your home. And behind each document, there is a family’s struggle. A struggle no one talks about, out of shame and embarrassment.

Pages and pages of Trustee Sale Notices fill the newspaper, making something we wish would be private, so public, as it announces that each home will be sold at auction.  There is small comfort in the knowledge, that sadly, we are hardly alone.

Irony abounds in our scenario. I won’t name the place where I work, but notices like these are what keep my paycheck coming.

It’s easy to get angry; ill-equipped local bank branch employees, offering little more than a phone number to a recorded line and a sympathetic smile. For Sale signs line the streets in front of vacant homes for months at a time, further bringing down the value of the neighboring homes, when they are finally sold for a fraction of what the folks next door paid; begetting more of the same, maybe two houses down.

The idea of living in a rental, which was so abhorrent to me only a few years ago, as I chased the American Dream, is sounding so much more appealing than I’d thought possible. If something breaks, it’s not my problem, money left after paying half of what our mortgage payments are to be able to actually…save!  Or even… have fun with!

I can’t help but wonder how many people are thinking the same thing I am.

I will do what I can, and prepare for an outcome that might mean upheaval for my family for just a little while.

For now, I am taking consolation where I can get it. It could be so much worse; compounded by credit card debt, collection calls or car repossession. In the end, after the dust settles and we are in a place to lick our wounds, we will rebound.

 We’ve joined the ranks.
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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com.