Maryann Austin

     Babci (Bopchee: Polish for Grandma) lived with us until she passed away in 1984. I was 17 years old.  One of my sweetest memories of her is the way she decorated her Christmas tree each and every year.      Not sure where it ever went.  It seems like it disappeared around the time that she did.  But it was a small white plastic tree.  And every year she would break out her old cookie tins and dig inside.  Ribbons of every color she pulled out.  Her hands were old and arthritic, but faithfully did the work.      I wish I had a picture to post, but I can only describe what is so vivid in my memory.  A Christmas tree like no other I have seen.  Completely covered in colorful ribbons and bows.  Absolutely happy and charming and delightful.      And so, I guess I blame it on Babci that my tree is a hodgepodge of everything.  It is the one object that looks better and better as you pile more clutter onto it--lovingly, though. Have a Merry Christmas.  Remember what it's all abou

     Since the news is so upsetting, I don't watch a lot of it lately.  So I have to admit that I do not know the details on the recent accusations against Bill Cosby.  But I did see a clip of that interview with one of the "victims."  The interviewing journalist is being blasted by the public and the media for his "insensitivity" to the woman who says that in 1969 she was forced to perform oral activities on Cosby.  The journalist suggested to her that there are ways to avoid such a situation and mentioned the word teeth.  (I like members of the media who are not bullied into avoiding the obvious.) The woman's reply was (maybe paraphrasing here) that she was stoned.        At that point of the report, viewers are shown a clip of a rape victim advocate.  She boldly states that women under the influence of drugs or alcohol cannot legally give consent.  My questions would be: 1) If she was stoned, how reliable is her account? 2) What made her wait 45 years to

My husband knew this man.  It’s been almost a year and a half since the man went home from work, put the barrel of a gun inside his mouth, and pulled the trigger.  There were a good number of people at his funeral, but it was quiet.  Very quiet.  Odd that the man’s widow did not shed a tear.  Well, maybe not so odd.  Their marital woes were not a secret.  It sickened me that she seemed almost jovial when the funeral had ended.   And yesterday I came across the name of a person I know of whose wife killed herself many years ago.  He had been cheating on her.  They had a young child.  I’m sure that he went on with his life like her death was her own choice.  And, ultimately, it was.  But I have to voice that there is an attitude and common belief today that rubs me the wrong way.  It is the philosophy of each person being responsible for his or her own happiness.  There is truth in the statement.  But it makes it all too easy for careless and hurtful people to excuse their own behavi

The other day I was washing my hands in the restroom at work.  A lady I know ran a comb through her hair and said to me, “Doesn’t thin hair suck?”  I agreed and started telling her about how mine started falling out a few years ago.  She informed me (though I already knew) that it was stress and nerves. I’ve come to find out that there are a number of men at my place of work who have wives struggling with one or more ailments.  It used to be that women almost always out-lived their husbands.  It’s not that way anymore.  And my feeling about it is that it’s largely because women are now forced to work harder than they were created to, and they cannot stop even when they become old.  They care for their own children, then possibly their grand children.  Before they die, they care for their ailing parents.  And many hold down a full time job while doing all of these things.  Add on the stress of the money problems many of us face these days. As a kid, back in the 1970’s and ‘80’s, I r

Remember that catch phrase “microwave society?”  It was the way some stodgy old adults referred to my generation and our instant gratification problem.  There was so much that we didn’t have to work for.  If we wanted food, it was as simple as pressing a button or driving thru McDonalds.  If we were tired, we took a pill.  If we couldn’t sleep, we took a pill.  Blah blah blah. But how those folks would be rolling over in their graves if they could see the depths to which we have sunk.  At least the aides we used gave speeded up tangible results.  Today there is a whole new evil which creates in our young people a false sense of gratification and accomplishment.  What am I talking about?  Video games. There have been a slew of books about “swagger” in the young adults of our culture.  There are many today who feel that they have it all--even if the world is too dumb to see it.  Without having truly worked at something, many feel that they know more, have more, and can do more.  I

A few days ago, I wrote a post about using the phrase "Oh my God."  I noticed that there are many people who say it, and that there are many people who are offended by it.  I received responses on both sides of the issue.  One was particularly sad to me, and I wanted to share it because it comes from one of the kindest and most generous people I know, my brother's wife, Kim.  Here is what she said:                    Here's what I think since you asked. I also grew up using that phrase never giving it much thought. I do know however, that I never intended to offend God or any one else. I was judged for using the phrase when I was a young "tween". Parents of  anoth er child didn't "like me" because they heard me say "oh my god". "Devout Christians" I suppose. That phrase didn't define me and it was wrong of them to judge me or deem me unworthy of friendship with their child. The fact is that they literally didn't

Last week I watched Dr. Phil reach into a trash bag that came from a hoarded house.  I don't recall what it was that he pulled out that made him exclaim, "Oh my God!"  But his comment prompted me to write this blog post.                                                                       I was raised in suburban NY by a devout Catholic mother.  My husband was raised in the south by devout Baptist parents.  We have been together for about ten years, and we know well each other's pet peeves, and serious matters.                                                 He is very offended by the use of "Oh my God."  I, on the other hand, grew up saying it and hearing it, and thinking little of it.  I have recently been listening closely to see who says it and when.  I have noticed that there are many devout people who take this phrase more lightly than does my husband.                                                                      My seven year old son rec

   I DVR the Dr. Phil Show every day.  I have a great respect for the guy and I agree with almost everything he says.  But I have to challenge him on one point: You don’t fix money problems with money.      Every day I assist people who are in the market for a new mower.  Some of them make a quick decision and others labor over which to get.  Will the Honda engine outlast the Briggs and Stratton?  Is the warranty on that one better than the one on this one?  And it all comes down to money.  You can smell the fear on some of them.  It’s the fear that they might pick the wrong one, the one that will break down and leave them in a lurch.  Who wants to be stuck buying another mower in a few years?  Who can afford it?    And today I helped a guy for whom it was no issue.  He made the choice with nonchalance.  There were no veins popping out of his head when he basically said eenie meenie miny moe, and picked one.  If the darn thing quits, he’ll just come back next year and do it again.

Something that not many people know about me is that I have dealt with anxiety and panic.  I have been told that it is unusual for panic to surface so late in life, but I experienced my first panic issue in my early forties.  I knew immediately what it was, and I sought the help of a doctor.  I also devoured a number of books and listened to relaxation tapes.  I practiced breathing exercises.  I took the initiative and brought the situation under my control.  I took pride in the fact that the doc prescribed Xanax, and I only ever took it two or three times--and that was half a pill.  I hated the feeling it gave me, kind of like being a zombie. There is a misnomer about such attacks.  Perhaps panic is not the best description of what actually occurs. I saw a reporter on the TV a few nights ago.  They showed a clip of him in the midst of a panic attack while reporting live.  He looked down and appeared confused.  He stumbled over his words and tried to recover, all the while seeming

I envision the day when there will be another memorial in Washington, DC.  It will be a memorial to the countless lives of innocent Americans: the most innocent of the innocents.  Not young men who fought in Vietnam.  Not those who died on 9/11.  But the millions of infants whose lives were taken as they rested in the safety (?) of their own mothers’ wombs.

http://www.irenasendler.org/

Check out this book on Goodreads: Balancing It All: My Story of Juggling Priorities and Purpose http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18113513-balancing-it-all

http://www.abbacare.org/