Go, Lisa O!

Blogging my life.

[golisao]

Parenting Skillz

Half way through watching Deadpool in the theater with my husband, I thought, “My son would really like this.”

Blood. Nudity. Sex. Dick jokes. Are these appropriate for a 15-year-old boy?

Hell yes.

I’ve never been a fan of if you don’t talk about it or show it to them, kids won’t learn about it kind of parenting. I’ve tried to be very honest and human as a mom. Feeding his intellect and curiosity has always been more important to me than making sure he follows the rules blind.

I curse, I ask him about sex and girlfriends, advise him on how to handle prickly teachers and classmates, describe the benefits of medical marijuana, and I don’t run for cover if he sees me naked. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not flagrant about these things. They come up in natural conversation. And sometimes my parenting style comes back to me in the most awesome kind of way.

The first time was when, at age 6, he got into trouble at summer camp for telling another kid, “You hit me in the penis.”

“He should say ‘pee pee’ or ‘wee wee’,” the councilor recommended, clearly upset over his anatomically correct usage of the word.

“I taught my son to use the appropriate words for the appropriate body parts,” I answered, slamming the door shut on the matter. My inside voice was calling her a dough-faced, slack jawed ignorant cunt, and I later relayed that to my son.  

When he was about 7 or 8, I told him if anyone tried to force him into a car, “You have my permission to gouge their eyes and rip their throat out. Go for it as hard as you can.”

I laughed when a teacher insinuated he may have autism because he spaced out on occasion in the classroom.

“He acts like that because he’s bored,” was my response because I knew she wasn’t challenge him intellectually in any way. Again, I had to tell my son that this teacher wasn’t the sharpest tool and to just play nice until the end of the year.

I see my role as a parent to prepare him for the world, for better or worse. The more I shield him from reality, the harder it will be for him to adjust when he’s ready for it.

So what do I get for all my efforts?

He asked for permission to use “big ass” on a label for his electronics bins.

He makes straight A’s.

He loves robotics and D&D.

He has an insatiable appetite for science and electronics.

He gets frustrated when his classmates don’t take their schoolwork seriously.

His friends are just plain good, smart kids.

His sense of humor is amazingly witty and sharp.

Yeah, sure, sometimes I have to stop him from doing things that could hurt him or burn the house down. But those are small prices to pay when I look at who he has become: a much better version of me and his father.

I could be prouder.

Fuck yeah.

[golisao]

The Final Form

Early this morning, I woke up in a puddle of my own sweat again. It’s a familiar scene. I stumbled into the kitchen, the house still dark and quiet. It was even too early for the cats to meander into the kitchen for their morning feeding ritual.

I opened the refrigerator doors and stuck my head inside. The brightness of the light stung my still-tired eyes. The cool air still wasn’t enough; I closed the doors and slid open the freezer drawer. I stuck my hands in a tray full of ice, ignoring the sharp pain and waited for the minutes to tick by.

These moments feel like an eternity, but rarely last more than 15 minutes. I felt myself returning to normal, so I closed the freezer drawer. Should I go back to bed or give up on sleep and make coffee? It’s my birthday, so I decided to stay up and enjoy the sunrise and birds.

Welcome to perimenopause, when even your body doesn’t even give you a break on your birthday.

Technically, I’m not in menopause. That’s going to happen in several years, according to all those online health websites. No, I’m in that weird stage when my body has decided to produce less estrogen. It’s slowing giving up on the whole baby-making thing.

One of the first signs of perimenopause is a hot flash. There’s nothing hot about it. It feels like your blood has suddenly turned to boiling hot magma. Your mouth, your eyes, and even your hair are sweating. When they take hold, you just have to hang on like a cowboy riding a mad bull.

It started a few years ago as the sporadic hot flash disrupting my sleep. Then I noticed things shifting, and not just in my decidedly more prominent middle. My moods shifted. I cried huge embarrassing tears while watching pet rescue videos. I became upset more easily. Naps were a necessity if I wanted to do anything late at night.

I was in high denial at this point. I was convinced it was cancer or thyroid problems and conveniently skipped over the more obvious answer. I talked to my ob/gyn who dismissed my fears and said to either get on birth control or use biodential hormone creams to help control my symptoms. 

It hit me: my body has betrayed me. I’m disappointed. It’s decided to do something that I thought all the old women with purple tinted hair, vinyl handbags, and wearing pantyhose went through. That’s not me. Well, I have the gray hair, but that’s where the similarities end, right?

You can look young, act young, and feel young, but what’s undeniable is our slow march into old age. I found a few women friends and family members who will talk to me about their experiences, but for the most part, women are reluctant to open up about perimenopause.

Goop.com published a wonderful article on perimenopause this week. I’m relieved. Sometimes it takes a high-profile celebrity or publisher to get the dialogue started on tender topics. It’s not that I want to shove lady-part problems in everyone’s faces; I just want to have an honest conversation about this next phase in our lives. We just don’t get the village support and love you get from going through other happy life events like childbirth.

I don’t see perimenopause as an embarrassment or something that needs to be shoved away and never brought out. I see it as an evolution. And I’m waiting patiently to take my final form.

[golisao]

How I Became an Artist

The 12 year journey of my art thus far.

A beautifully represented journey of an artist.

[golisao]

Make It Wearable | Episode 4: Becoming Superhuman

[golisao]

When I Grow Up...

I’ve read a lot of stories by women who suddenly rediscover their amazing mothers after they’ve had kids. I’m definitely one of them, but it hasn’t been a ‘sudden’ discovery. More like a slow realization over the course of a few decades. 

While in the throws of early adulthood, I thought I knew everything. I can still be pretty stubborn and arrogant, traits that my son has sadly inherited, but I always knew my mom was a pretty awesome person. I just wasn’t ready to admit it.

Life in the 90s gave my family the best and worst that life has to offer. In 1992, mom was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. She sailed through radiation and a surgery to remove half of her thyroid. It was terrifying, but the outcome was beyond our expectations.

Two short years later, the day I left to live in California, my dad was diagnosed with mesothelioma. “Go,” they told me when I asked if I should turn around and come home. “Go live your life.”

Ten months later, dad lost his battle. The anxiety, sadness, horror, and anger that I felt when that battle was lost was probably a piddly thing compared to mom’s journey. 

She came out of the dark cloud fairly quickly, finding a companion to spend time with and buying a hobby farm to keep herself busy. And by hobby farm I mean about 20o-plus acres of hilly, wooded land. She reconnected with old friends and found a new social circle at a local church.

Today, her social life, pets, and her aging parents occupy most of her time. Mom’s slowing down a little with age but she’s content and comfortable. She deserves it.

I wish we didn’t have the 2,363 miles between us (thanks, Google maps). I enjoy her company and often seek out her wisdom on things like cars, parenting, and finances. When we visit, she dotes on my son. He adores her and the two spend their time browsing antique stores or building fires in the backyard. Mom, despite her extra-competitive nature, doesn’t mind a bit when he wins at Monopoly. It’s mesmerizing to watch.

I can admit it freely now to anyone and everyone: My mom is the most amazing human. And when I grow up, I want to be just like her. 

[golisao]

Why I’ll never watch ’Boyhood’

I haven’t seen the movie 'Boyhood,' and after watching a clip of Patricia Arquette’s desperate last scene, I won't be able to. Her maternal grief at her son's departure felt like a punch in the gut.

No one tells you how much you life changes when you have children. There’s not a manual to tell you what to do and when and how you should feel about it. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you have the help and guidance of friends and family, but most of the time you’re on your own emotionally.

When divorce enters the picture, things get even messier. Will he be scarred for life? Will he be happy in the future? Did this ruin his childhood? Is it the right thing to do? The questions go on and on and on. It’s agony.

That first night that my son stayed with his father after our separation was the darkest, loneliest night I’ve ever had. I cried. A lot. Not for me, but for the little one. I had a lucky childhood. My parents were together until my dad died. I had one home. One room. One set of parents and a sister. We were a united front (most of the time). We took vacations in the summer and visited the grandparents every major holiday. My son, I realized that night, will not have those kind of memories.

He has two rooms. Two sets of parents. He’s shuttled back and forth every few days (to his insistence). He’s handled it all beautifully. The ex and I do our best to keep the boy at the center of all things. He’s not and never will be a bargaining tool. His happiness and health trumps everything. And my husband has grown to love the boy just as much as I do. I couldn’t ask for a better outcome.

Now, about why I’ll never watch 'Boyhood'.

I know my son will be going to college soon. I know that. I’ve been talking about college with him for years. I’ve been carefully analyzing his performance at school to see if he needs help in any subject (he doesn’t). Grades are taken very seriously.

And yet… that damn movie forced me to confront that instead of just talking about the boy leaving, as we've done for years, I’ll have to live it. That notion devastates me.

He’s my little man. He inherited my eyes (and poor eyesight), my obsessiveness, my shyness, the mental castles that we can play in all day, and tendency for weather-induced migraines. I see so much of myself in him that it hurts.

A few months ago, I tried in vain to remember seemingly unimportant events: the last time I changed his diaper, the last time I tucked him in at night or read him a story. I couldn’t remember any of them. I give myself some slack here. Those kind of things don’t stop abruptly, but quietly sputter out. Still, it would have been nice if someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, “This is the last time you’ll tuck him in at night. Savor it.”

Patricia’s “I was hoping for more” line reminded me that I’m never going to get that tap on the shoulder. I have to enjoy every moment as much as I can.

I don’t need a movie to relive that long, dark night that I spent without him for the first time, or remind me that my nest will be empty in four short years. Too much of the past, too soon for the future… let’s keep it in the present and have a good laugh. We all need that.

[golisao]

Style on the Cheap

Not my most fashionable moment.

My family is not traditionally full of fashion-obsessed women. The wardrobes of my aunts, grandmothers, and mother fit their approach to life: budget-friendly, practical, and comfortable. Chanel had no place in the Ohio Valley.

Oh, they have style. Grandmother’s pale blue patent leather handbag remains a fixture in my childhood memories (it always smelled of Doublemint gum), and my mom’s business-appropriate peasant skirts would fetch a small fortune in today’s vintage world.

As a child, I was obsessed with clothes. I’d peruse the World Encyclopedia’s historic clothing section, admiring the artist renderings of medieval dresses; I tried to mimic the dresses described in my mother’s bodice ripper romance novels. Miss America Quick Curl Barbie suddenly found herself wearing a miniskirt and having a pixie cut, both badly executed by my five-year-old self.

But fashion magazines, ads and all, were the most alluring. They were a glimpse into the glamorous life of the late 70s and early 80s. My small bedroom was a far cry from their well-heeled world, and I watched them live a life that seemed impossibly glamorous. These women used Indian Earth Bronzer to perfection, their sticky gooey lips were coated in Maybelline Kissing Potions.

When the Halston III collection landed at JCPenney in 1983, I was thrilled. My pubescent body couldn’t come close to filling out those dresses, but that didn’t stop me from trying them on. Or from begging my mom to buy me a pair of too large but perfectly affordable leather pants (she refused). In high school, I asked my parents if I could spend three months in New York as an unpaid intern at a fashion magazine (they refused).

Today, thousands of miles and three decades separate me from those childhood years. I’m still mesmerized by clothing. Sure, the fashion industry can be frivolous and downright silly sometimes (uh, Victoria's Secret Angels?). I don’t care. I love it. It’s art, magic, and imagination.

Unfortunately, I’ve grown into my family’s sense of practicality, which makes buying anything over a few hundred dollars physically painful. It’s not that I don’t want investment pieces or a wardrobe that last for decades. I do. It’s just that I’m cheap. Unabashedly cheap. I hate spending a lot of money on clothes that I know I’ll get bored with in a few years. Except for those months after my divorce when I went a little haywire with the credit card, I’ve stayed remarkably sensible with my wardrobe. That astounds me.

If money’s tight, or you are, but your creativity isn’t, your closet can be a place of woe or one of your finest challenges. When I worked at the San Diego Union-Tribune way back in the 90s, I landed the interview of my dreams: Bjork. We talked about fashion and how she approached clothes. She was, and still is, one of the world’s most fascinating women. Bjork admitted that before she became successful, she was much more creative with her style because she had to be. That idea fascinated me, that creativity is positively challenged by constraints. It works in experience design, so why not fashion?

 Digging for treasures in vintage stores and sales racks is my favorite pastime. I mean, who doesn’t love a good deal? And as much as I desire a Hermès Birkin, I can’t imagine buying a handbag that costs as much as a car. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’d totally take one if given to me. Buying it for myself? No way.

[golisao]

Pardon My Dust, But I Haven't Been Myself

In April 2013, the decision to stop dying my hair was a minor life change, no big deal. At least that’s what I thought. I’d let the gray grow out, cut it, and I would emerge a white-haired wonder.

Instead, my yearlong journey has deeply transformed how I think about myself, about what beauty means, and the world around me. I’m saddened, surprised, humbled, and a little angry too.

 About the sad

I never really thought about being older. I’ve been so preoccupied with my son, husband, work, and home that it never dawned on me that 45 is actually middle-aged. Statistically, I’m a little past middle age, but I was never a math person anyway.

It wasn’t until I saw pictures of myself with a head full of gray hair that I realized my ‘true’ age. And it made me sad. Really sad. Like, crying in the shower sad. I admit, I did that more than a few times, but it’s OK now. I faced it, I accepted it, and moved on.

Color me surprised

I always read that elderly people feel invisible when they walk down the street. I get it now.

Younger men’s eyes glaze over me like I’m not there. I’m a phantom in their perky, unwrinkled world. I’m in Mom Territory, not Cougartown.

 It was surprising how quickly this all happened. I’m not bragging, mind you. I’ve never been the constant target of ardent attention from a line of suitors, but I have turned a head or two. And I did notice when it wasn’t there any longer in a certain age group. Boy, did that smart.

On the plus side, older men are much nicer to me now. And they have better manners. 

To the women of the world

I’m now ashamed by what I thought beauty was when I was in my teens and 20s. My ideas were mostly superficial, glossy, and usually came at a couture price. It never occurred to me that compassion, kindness, and self-confidence were even more beautiful.

My sincere apologies to every woman out there. I’m sorry for overlooking your real beauty, for falling for our culture’s twisted obsession with youth, and for letting it go on for too long. You all deserve better. 

Keep reading, women…

It took some time and a few rants with myself to get to why I was so emotional during the past year. The reason was surprisingly simple: I missed my hair.

I missed the hell out of it. I was in mourning for my long, dark locks. It was fun and flirty. Feminine. Without it, I was exposed and less like myself.

I’ve been overwhelmed by this revelation and my journey. It has not been an easy year for me emotionally. And all because of my fucking hair. This is what angers me. Not that I’m older or seen as less desirable in some men’s eyes. I’m angry because I finally realized how much this filamentous biomaterial really means to me. And it makes NO sense! None!

I guess I have to confront the inevitable: that somewhere deep inside, I’m a girlie girl who just wants to be a princess. Or get a pony.

A Picture Journey

All of these were taken from my left side because, as a left-handed person, I cannot hold my phone with my right hand with any degree of coordination.

1. The super-short phase: I'm smiling but all I kept thinking was, "Shit, I wonder how fast it can grow?" I didn't leave the house much during this time.

2. Getting longer: This was about the time that I admitted to myself that I am really, really getting 'up there.' I was so tempted to dye it that I must have looked at salon Groupon's every day for a month. 

3. Everybody just calm down now: I have hair that moves in the breeze. I can style it. I look less like a Bob (my husband's nickname for me during my super-short phase). My emotions, like my hair, are finally at a place that I can accept. Life is good.

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‘CLOUDS’ Shows Art and Code Are One In The Same

[sdzoo]

Baka the Cheetah by Bob Worthington

[golisao]

Gorgeous.

[mseeley1]

Photographs from my recent NASASocial experience - this is a Falcon9 rocket, launched by SpaceX from Kennedy Space Center.  It’s taking supplies, experiments, tiny cube satellites and a vegetable incubator to the International Space Station. Oh, and it’s also got legs for a legless robot hanging around the ISS.

[golisao]

S P A C E D 2

The spirit of a NASA Social

On April 14th, we were on the NASA Causeway, with a spectacular view of SpaceX-3’s launch pad before us, when the announcement came through the PA system: “Scrubbed.” 

The woman’s disembodied voice instantly deflated our group’s mood. For a second time in five weeks, we were denied the chance of seeing a rocket launch into space. A few who had braved the Florida humidity to set up their tripods and cameras reluctantly packed up their gear, while the rest of us stayed inside the air-conditioned bus. We exchanged mournful faces and frantically tweeted the latest developments as the vehicle rumbled it’s way back to the NASA Press Center. The return journey felt much longer.

Later that evening, between sips of margaritas and Mexican food, we reflected on the past few days and embraced the spirit of a NASA Social.

We were strangers, now friends, who witnessed a little bit of history and felt damn good about it. And we were primed to share our space fever with anyone who would listen.

  Photo courtesy of NASA TV

And she’s off

“3… 2… 1… And lift off of the Falcon 9 rocket and Dragon…”

I clutched my iPhone with both hands as SpaceX-3 began its fiery ascent.

It was April 18th  and I stood in my grocery store’s produce section not able to do much but watch my phone’s little screen. Rather than witnessing the SpaceX-3 launch in-person, I was watching it on NASA TV. Despite the disappointing viewing location, I still found my eyes filled with tears.

Happiness. Gratitude. Relief. I tried to convince myself that I cried because of these emotions. The truth is, it was about hope.

Hope for a better today, a better tomorrow. Hope that our children will grow old in a world that’s healthy and sane. Hope that we can finally focus on the things that matter.

It’s a simplistic view of something as complex as space exploration, but I’m sticking to it. Humans have a fantastic ability to make things awesome for us, or we can be our worst nightmare.

NASA gives me hope, and I’m wishing it does the same for you.

  A brief word about launches

Launches are tenuous events. If there’s one shred of doubt, just one thing that’s not right, the whole thing’s off.

After riding the thrills of experimentation in the tech industry, I was frustrated with the seemingly plodding, mercurial NASA method. How they work is completely opposite of the just-try-it attitude that has been my comfort zone for more than 10 years. But here’s where it all clicked for me: when millions of dollars invested and human lives are involved, NASA can’t believe in ‘good enough.’ 

[golisao]

S P A C E D

On March 13th, I turned on my phone to text my husband just as my plane taxied to the gate. Instead, I found a message that the SpaceX-3 launch had been postponed. I had flown more than 2k miles to Orlando, Florida, for a launch that wouldn’t happen.

Waiting for this SpaceX-3 NASA Social event had felt like a kid trying to sleep on Christmas Eve. I was sorely disappointed. 

“Are you going to turn around?” the husband asked. No, I answered. Scrubs and postponements are the nature of space travel. You gotta roll with them. Plus the NASA Social folks were on it and sent an updated itinerary within hours. The weekend was still a go.

I don’t want to do a blow-by-blow narrative of every single thing that I experienced. That’s boring. Instead, I’m going to hit on my big revelations:

The accidental aesthetics of NASA

My husband and I are art geeks. We love to look at and surround ourselves with creative, beautifully designed things that inspire us. When I came face-to-face with the Orion Launch Abort System (see pix above, provided by alloyjared), I was rendered speechless by its unintentional beauty. Brushed metals, matte white paint, clean lines… all displayed on a floor so shiny we could have been walking on glass. 

Everything about NASA is like this: the buildings, the rockets, the robots, the launch pads, Space Shuttle controls. They’re built for practicality and necessity, but the results can be as aesthetically beautiful as an Apple product. There is symmetry and order to NASA’s designs that I find endearing and appealing.

This place oozes passion

These people love what they do. Love. It. There’s a fire in their bellies as they’re talking about whatever it is that they do. Sometimes I had no idea what they were talking about, but was mesmerized by the sparkle of pure joy in their eyes.

 It was humbling to know that these people are creating things that will impact our society on many deep, meaningful levels. Robots that will mine on Mars and make our lives in space easier. Systems that make growing food in zero gravity possible. Our future lives will be improved, and possibly saved, because of these passionate, smart people.

People f!#&*ing love space

I must have uttered “wow” and “awesome” at least a thousand times during SpaceX-3 NASA Social. I heard the same from everyone around me. No matter if you’re young, old, or somewhere in between, we just f!*&@ing love space.

It captures our imaginations, allows us to infinitely dream, and pushes us to do what was once thought impossible. My Irish husband often comments that Americans are optimistic, and I have a feeling that NASA and space exploration has played a large part in that. When you can walk on the moon, what else can you accomplish?

NASA the great collaborator

A long time ago, NASA was an institution of secrets. Now it’s a global collaborator. Civilian space exploration and budget cuts have made it nearly impossible for it to keep to itself anymore.

NASA is going to be even stronger and more innovative by leveraging the intellect of the collective. That’s just good business sense. I was thrilled when Dr. Phil Metzger said, “That's the great thing about citizen science... because a million brains are smarter than a hundred brains."

They are indeed, Dr. Metzger, they are indeed. 

[nypl]

NYPL presents #LiteraryMarchMadness, a daily pairing from one of  four conferences: Triple Threats (3-named authors), Real-Life Feuds (guess which author punched his rival!), Kid Favorites (but you adults love them too), and Cult Following (self-explanatory). Visit our Facebook page to vote! 

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How Social Media Is Making Sure ‘The Act of Killing’ Won’t Be Forgotten

[golisao]

Small fortune: Why everyone should give short stories a chance - Ink Tank

Novels, novels, we all love novels. The most amorphous of genres, the novel has swallowed literature whole in the past couple of hundred years. But, we cry, it’s far from the only player on the fiction scene – what about the short story?

[golisao]

Look Up

Most of us want to be an astronaut, even well beyond our childhood years. To travel among the stars and planets, discovering new life.

I’m no different. I cut my teeth on space-inspired TV shows like ‘Star Trek,’ ‘I Dream of Jeannie,’ and ‘The Jetsons.’ In 1977, I was forever altered after watching ‘Star Wars: A New Hope,’ and ‘The Right Stuff’ is firmly cemented as one of my favorite movies. My heart broke when I watched the Challenger disaster happen on live television, and it leapt with joy and a little adrenaline at Felix Baumgartner's space jump.

Now firmly established as an adult, my excitement for space hasn’t diminished. When NASA Social tweeted about the opportunity to cover the  Space-X launch at the Kennedy Space Center, I jumped at the chance. I thought it was a stretch to apply. There are only 50 spots. I’m a huge social media fan, but didn’t think I had the audience that mattered. My friends tend to be artists, writers, designers… creative people who find inspiration in the stars rather than fly among them.

I was thrilled when I found out that I was chosen next Space-X launch on March 16th.

Me! With temp NASA Social credentials! At the Kennedy Space Center!

So, onward and upward and reach for the stars. Or just admire their beauty.

Either way, don’t forget to look up.

Gorgeous photo by Adam Evans.