Kris’s Kolumn

So Oprah is about to announce her latest book choice.  I’m pretty sure it’s not me.  But she’s announcing the latest pick a day before my birthday.  Hello!!!!! Oprah!!! This could have been huge…for me at least. Actually, I think Oprah would like me.  Can you see it now?

Kris Radish striding onto the stage in Chicago  wearing her favorite cowboy boots, jogging bra, and her hiking shorts while she waves wildly to the audience (half relatives) and then crosses her gams as she sits in THE SEAT.

I get about three-thousand emails a week (I’m exaggerating but I’m having a great time.) asking when  I’m going to be on Oprah with my books.  If only I knew!  My new theory is that Oprah is going to wait until the next book and then spread them all - eight by then - out on the stage and we’ll blow the drums off the Random House printing press. Some people dream about nice cars and trips to the Bahamas.  Me?  Cowboy boots on Oprah’s stage. And maybe nice sheets.  I’ve always wanted really nice sheets.  Oh!  And I want to take my mom to New York and have her sit in the Oprah audience back in Chicago. She adores Oprah.   This means I may have to change my outfit. And just once to walk into the wine store and not look at prices - just labels.

Suddenly I am very thirsty.  But, seriously I love Oprah.  Her mom used to live very close to me and there were always Oprah sightings.  I wanted to go lie in the ditch and wait for her and throw copies of my novels at her limo but I thought that might turn her off. A woman’s empowering novels should stand on their own.  So I considered lining the highway with them.

Seriously, for real this time. I love, love, love what Oprah has done for authors and books and reading. Books are the cornerstone of society and she’s helped not just authors but the ripple down effect is amazing. Booksellers.  Publishers. Relatives. Collection agencies.

I really do get emails from lots of my readers asking me why I haven’t been on the show.  It’s not easy.  Oprah has readers who have readers who have readers.  She’s one smart cookie and I know it’s just a matter of time before she has me on and then gives me my own show. And no, a Radish will not do a cooking show.  I have the whole thing planned but you’ll have to wait.

In the meantime I’m going to keep writing.  My head is spinning with novel novel ideas and I have all of you to keep me company while Oprah figures this out.

But just in case - I’m polishing up all my boots.

The gang was over last night and we talked and laughed ourselves into Sunday morning. I think if we hadn’t started to fall asleep around the kitchen table we’d still be sitting down there talking about everything from shrimp and politics to Italy and domestic violence. Big sigh.

The power and importance of female friendship isn’t just something I write about in my novels - it’s also something that I  eat, breath, and live on a daily basis. I have been blessed my entire life with really, really, really wonderful friends and the more the merrier. I try to be a good friend too.  I take that job very seriously and I have a special place in my heart for their concerns and joys-everything that matters to them.

Sometimes women write to me who don’t have friends and it makes my heart ache.  I try to help them, give them a little direction and often wish I could just drive over and sit around their table with them too. I can’t imagine my life without my pals and know with certainty that everything would be dull and grey.

Last night as we were all bumping around in the kitchen with the oven opening and closing, doors banging, wine  bottles popping and a stream of laughter bouncing off all the walls, I felt absolutely filthy rich. There is such joy in being able to be yourself, unguarded, free, open and unarmed when you are with true friends.  Friends who would do anything for you, who have already propped you up when you’ve slumped over, who laugh at your jokes and make you feel smart and pretty even when they aren’t drinking wine.

We all know the richness of life is about that-bumping around in the kitchen and laughing so hard your stomach cramps but it’s so easy to get distracted by machines and schedules and all those lists we keep making.

Here’s my recipe for happiness this week.  Call your posse.  Have them come over Saturday afternoon.  Don’t really plan dinner but see what everyone brings.  You can make some pesto shrimp with peppers and mushrooms and veggie and turkey burgers.  Everything will fall into place. There will be food everywhere and the recycling bin will be full in the morning and so will you.

You will also be very, very tired next Sunday but you will also be filthy rich.

I just survived my first Florida election-voting-blitz-a-rama and I have the worst stomach ache.  Politics these days isn’t what it used to be…wait! Maybe it is.  Maybe it’s just worse.

Back in the old days when I was a full-time journalist I relished election season.  I would put on my rainsuit, rubber boots, my bullshit protectors and throw myself right in the middle of everything.  This could be the reason I love wine so much. It was like living in the middle of the circus.  Such entertainment!

What totally grossed me out about this Florida election, and I know it happens everywhere, is how much money was spent.  There are people begging on the streets on every corner in Florida and I can’t help but think how many lives could really have been changed with that money. Swallowing rhetoric doesn’t do much for an empty stomach.

I’m not sure what it was like where you live but the campaigns down here turned nasty. In the end it was the lesser of many evils.

And now it starts all over again.

I’m going to stock up on anti-acids, steer away from television news, stop answering the telephone and get ready to laugh a lot.

And hope for at least one sane, not self-centered, honest, sincere politician to make it all better. And no - I’m not drinking before noon - I remain hopeful in Florida.

Am I the only one who feels as if she is waiting for the entire world to catch up? I’m having one of those well, years, when I’m thinking my Midwestern work-ethic upbringing is making me half crazy.

I was raised, and rightly so I think, to always be on time. Because I’m a bit of an over-achiever that means I’m always, well, almost always - early.  In the Radish family we worked hard, were polite, respectful and considerate.  We thought about what our actions did to other people.  If we hurt someone’s feelings it was a pain that we carried with us until we made things better.

Some of these lessons were hard learned.  And some of them included corporal punishment. After all mothers and fathers back then went to the holy church of Dr. Spock. Every lesson was infused with love, which is a good thing, how can it not be? There was always a great letting go of feelings and emotions and then everything ended up with an embrace and lots of tenderness.

And then we moved on.

Moving on is a great thing if other people aren’t holding you in place.

I’m waiting a lot this year. And more than a few people are holding me in place and it’s a very hard way to exist . I am one who thrives on living and not merely existing. I understand the joy of slowness, hiking instead of jogging, skipping instead of running. But I’m not a good crawler.

These long pauses - when I am waiting for so many people -  do help me work on my patience.  But to hell with that.  I think it’s important to decide if the way you are living is the way you want to keep living. And that is my gift while I am suspended, held in place by so many others.

Let’s all think about that this week, this month and the rest of this year.   I’m working on my plan, which I will share as soon as  I can figure the whole damn thing out. In the meantime, while I’m out here swinging, I’m going to pray to God the birds don’t poop on me and that the people holding all the strings of my life keep me in a place with a light breeze.

This past weekend(right..it’s Monday now?) I had one of those huge, rolling on the floor, can’t-stop-it-if-I tried, pee-in-my-pants(almost) belly laughs that makes me feel drunk when the episode finally subsides.

Than God!!!

I’ve been dodging curveballs for about six months now and as soon as the pitching slows down I’ll tell you all about it but hells bells - dodging is hard work. Once you start weaving and bobbing it’s also hard to slow down.  All that moving around makes a person forget about what has always been a reprieve-for me anyway. It’s letting go with the Radish laugh.

I’ve always said that when they get to the root of cancer and some other horrid diseases one of the things the will discover is a lack of laughter.  This will not be a cause that harms me…but once in a while I forget.

So when the laugh started Friday night I knew it was going to be a good one.  Thinking about it right now makes me start laughing all over again.  It’s one of those things that happens to everyone-I know this because I’ve asked you.  For instance you might be having your hair dyed or buying pancake mix and suddenly you remember what made you laugh and you start all over again.  And everyone thinks you are insane. There’s no way to speak when this happens to try and explain what is so funny.  Besides no one else will think it’s funny - which sort of means we are all a little insane.  I love it when that happens.

After I pulled myself together I remembered the last time this happened at a theater when I was watching a REALLY stupid play that obviosluy had a few good parts. This past weekends laugh was WAYYY too long in coming.

So Monday around here is pretty much Monday and there are balls everywhere but I have this laugh memory now that will probably get me through the next couple of weeks.  I mean how many balls are there for God’s sake?

My advise is to crank one up and get over here.  We could probably shatter windows.

This week I was at a public event and it finally hit me.  We need a National Be By Yourself Day.  This idea popped into my extremely wild mind while I was watching people text on their  damn cell phones as they pushed past other people to get to their seats. How disgusting.

The person who threw me over the edge(not a far fall) was bumping into people, making them stand up, and never once made eye contact or said a word. What is wrong with us?

I know I’ve been harping about instant and constant communication for quite a while.  I like my goofy little cell phone even if my bill this month is now past due. (I was just instantly notified of this via my email.) Tons of people have logged into my Twitter thing-be and I don’t even have a Twitter phone. I love being able to leave my kids a message or call my mom when I’m watching dolphins or check in with a friend the moment I remember to do so.

But sometimes I  leave the house and forget to take my phone.  Can you imagine?

And no, I don’t even have an iPod.(or iPad or IPony or IWanna)  I’d kind of like one so I don’t hear all those people grunting when I go lift weights but right now I need to pay the phone bill. Instead, I hum, and no one seems to notice because I can hear Aerosmith coming out of their ears.

So lets take a break for the love of God!  How about a national Be By Yourself Day.  Each one of us must pick a day to be alone from sunup to sundown.  No phones or computers or music machines.  Alone means alone. Think about it.  You could read a book, take a hike, sleep all day.  Who cares? Think of the possibilities airing out your brain will bring to your life.

Don’t be scared.  You will not get eaten by sharks or have a nervous breakdown.  Think of it as a break-up.  Your mind will be uplifted, your ears will get a rest, you might even figure out who you are.

Imagine that.

Life is a whisper of uncertainty in many areas. If there is anything to know about everything from love to money - that’s it.

That’s not all there is to know but it helps to hang on to that reality.  Because sure as tomorrow arrives on the morning doorstep-something is already preparing to change. Maybe the older I get the less surprised I want to be about change.  Maybe I’m just tired but do you sometimes feel the same way?

Remember when we were young? Young in age-because I still feel pretty young on the days when my back and knees are behaving.  Young in age when we could pack and go in a heartbeat, change horses in mid-stream, jump from one place, job, person to another without blinking?

I’m thinking a lot about change this week.  At first it’s sometimes a bit painful until your mind, and the mind does control the world, can ease into what the change will bring.  There is such comfort in embracing the reality of how and where and why we live.  It’s something I think we all crave from time to time. Routines. Safeness. The peace of consistency. When that disappears it creates an uneasiness that can be frightening.

Frightening can also be good. I suppose we’d all still be in diapers if we never took a step forward - either by chance, force, or  choice. And it’s the center of who I am-empowering myself, my readers, the people I love to step over their fears and live boldly and with great passion.

There’s a big, big step ahead of me.  I can see it and my thighs are shaking just to look at it.  This time it’s a combination of all of the above-chance, force, and choice. The horses in my stable have already left the gate and are about to start galloping.

If you see me ride past please wave.

And stay tuned. It may be a while before the horses are in need of a long pause because they are in very good shape.  But rest assured when they take a break I will tell you the rest of the story.

Giddy-up!!!

My little desktop calendar is open (No - I still don’t have a BlackBerry) and there are so few appointments during the next four weeks I feel as if I’ve forgotten fifteen meetings or something. I’m a little lightheaded with the joy of it all.

There are no airport runs, book signings, soccer games, conferences at the school, dental appointments, play rehearsals, slumber parties…well, you get it. Yes, there is this other thing called WRITE A NOVEL that is written on every single page for the next fifty years.  I’m plunging into the second level of my heavy writing season and today I’m remembering how I wished these days into my life when I was doing everything I just mentioned…and oh yeah, worrying even more than I do now.

Remember those days?  Remember when the word I was the last word of every sentence, day, night, week, month and year?  Remember when we were all so tired that it was possible to fall asleep standing up?  There were nursing babies and then all those school days and nights when the kids were sick and driving all over hell and back and volunteering for everything from the bake sale to tutoring and then music lessons and soccer and tennis and wrestling and play practice and all those activities that became something called life?

Mostly it was pretty wonderful but there were times, and I remember them well, when I wished for the moments I have right now. Stretches of time to do my work, to put myself first, to create a new to-do list that only filled one page and not sixteen.  I knew these days would come and I have never been one to wish away even the hardest moments of my life - when I am in the middle of it all, the pain, the agony, the loss and the laughter and happiness stuff too - well, that’s what I wear.

Now, for a little while anyway, I am wearing the quiet.  My stomach still sticks out when I dress like this with so much silence everywhere but it’s amazing how quickly the stillness passes time. All those days and nights way back then when I wished for this day and tomorrow and every other blank day on my calendar - were the days that I was creating the reality of now.  This sounds kind of funky but I also do yoga, burn a lot of incense, and love to wear cotton.

I’m here to tell you the quiet isn’t frightening and it’s louder than you might think.  All these characters are speaking to me, I’ve discovered a glitch when the refrigerator kicks in, and every night around five o’clock I swear I can hear a wine bottle calling my name.

It’s just past midnight.  I’m the last one up and turning off lights, locking doors, doing the “last-up-the-stairs” patrol when I realize my cell phone is no where in sight.  Normally I’m not that fond of my cellphone but I need the alarm in the morning. Where in the hell is it?

My daughter, the total clone of me, is home and I can hear the music from her bedroom.  She’s two minutes ahead of me. God forbid she should be without music for more than two minutes.  My partner is already snoring. I’ll have to find the phone alone.

It’s not on the table or the counter or anywhere.  So I do what you do.  I call myself.  Think about this.  What has happened to us?  Calling ourselves?  I’ve already discussed in this blog the hilarious moments of looking for a lost cell phone when I actually talking on it. So I call and I hear the faint sound of my cellphone…somewhere.

I have to do this like five times.  I race out on the deck.  Not there.  In the downstairs bathroom.  Not there.  Kitchen. Not there. Front porch. Not there. But I can still hear it ….ever so faintly when I call myself.

Desperate, I race upstairs and ask my daughter to help me.  Yes, this is the daughter who has lost so many cell phones she is up for an award from Verizon.  Now she has the industrial military phone that can be run over, dipped into beer, and dropped from the top of her apartment roof.  When I ask her to come help me find my phone she snorts.

“Mom, now do you know wher I get it from?”

“Get your ass down here and help me.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

I refuse to answer which is an answer in itself.

There we are at 12:23 a.m. in the kitchen.  Rachel has on her jogging bra and underwear that is like two pieces of thin thread. Me?  I’m writing this so I’m not saying.

So I call the phone and we start running around the kitchen.  We narrow it down to somewhere near the sink.  We start to laugh so hard I have to run and use the bathroom.  I call the phone again and Rachel opens up the garbage bin.  I call it again.

There it is resting under  the rotten kale we sifted through to make our amazing dinner five hours ago.  It’s also under a mess of other garbage that makes my hands stink.

“How did the phone get in the garbage?” Rachel asks, smiling widely.

Six years of cell phone rage that has been directed at her suddenly hits a brick wall. I have no idea how the phone got in there.   I am totally caught wih my pants down on this one.

Rachel, who is VERY tall, stands with her hands on her hips smirking as I wipe crap off the phone, keep my head down, and follow her up the stairs.

“Mom, I’m just like you,” she reminds me as I tuck her in bed, sit beside her, and we begin our nightly bedtime chat.

“No kidding,” I sigh, remembering how important it is not to get mad at my children when they act like me.

Rachel, who can sometimes drive me mad with worry, grabs my hand and says, “Mom, being like you is a good thing.”

Of course I cry and after we are done talking I have absolutely no idea where I put my cell phone.

My son has been home now for almost three weeks. After his months away in college, his recent graduation, and a wilderness expedition we’ve fallen into the lovely rhythms of life that make a mother’s heart sing.  His heavy footsteps up and down the hall; the refrigerator door opening and closing and opening and closing; his trademark whistle; random hugs and kisses; the wild laugh of a gentle bear; deliberate intellectual discussions…endless Andrew.

He leaves in two days for a two month adventure in Europe.  This morning I was rounding the steps when I thought of that-his leaving-again and a wild spontaneous sob flew from my heart and up toward the window. Leaving again. And again.  And Again.

This is it, my life now, with Andrew and his sister Rachel who flys in the same afternoon he flys out.  I wanted my children to be explorers and lovers of the wider world. I wanted them not to be afraid of life and living and the unexpected challenges of opening up new doors, stretching, running with the wolves, cats, deer, and giraffes of the world.

And now I must pay the price.

Life will now be a series of comings and goings. When Andrew returns he is heading West for a new job.  The next time I see Rachel after she leaves will be when I drive her to yet another airport that will take her to Spain for a semester of study abroad. And so it goes.

There is a map on the wall and a map in my heart where I follow them always.  They are the sailors of my heart now.   A son and daughter flying into the wind after all the years of training.  After all these years of packing and unpacking to prepare for this grand launch-the real adventure of life.

There will be great airport exchange Wednesday afternoon.  I will trade one son for a daughter.  And off he will go, my soulmate son with his backpack, new hiking shoes, and a secret note I will tuck into his hand the second he turns to go. Daughter Rachel will be here for a re-charge, I call it emotional triage, although there will be much opening and closing of the refrigerator as well.

And even as my heart sings for the joy of life that I see glowing in their eyes, my own heart, as every mother’s does, clings to hope of their safe return, the key turning in the door, a shout from the kitchen-”Mom! I’m home“-and that long-awaited embrace.

Sailors of my heart….

Sailors of my heart…

Sailors of my heart…………………