Crock Pot Goddess

For Brenda and Steve… ♥

I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was like turning 48; it just sort of happened, a natural progression as in the art of any process. I’m a crock pot goddess.

Is there an award for this? Nope. I didn’t get a little red and notoriously unreliable Italian convertible, a tiara, or even a crock pot recipe named after me; however, I do have a small but devoted fan base consisting mostly of the support engineers who work at my new-old company.

I was hired back at my new-old company about four months ago, and my position was to last only six months. In my new job, I was working for a different group than I had when I was there doing my old job; thus, there were many new things to learn. The most important thing to learn about and participate in was beer o’clock.

Beer o’clock occurred every Friday at 4:30. A few cases of beer were chilled in a refrigerator which lived in a small storage room. In addition to the refrigerator, the room also housed numerous computers, monitors, and one very lonely exercise machine that looked like its owner had sadly neglected it to said beers in the refrigerator. Anyway, the small room was much like a dugout for a baseball team if there was a major league team comprised of support engineers from a telecommunications company; it housed everything they needed to play the game.

My biggest challenge wasn’t learning FrameMaker again, remembering the difference between a trunk group and a super trunk group, or getting a phone installed in my office. My biggest challenges was walking 100 yards down the hallway, grabbing a beer out of the refrigerator, and finding some common ground with 15 or so engineers. The difficulty in that was only increased due to the fact that I had to also be comfortable being the only woman among all those men.

What was my problem? They certainly weren’t mean or unfriendly to me. And, it wasn’t like I was a shy person. It was just a situation that I had never been in before and perhaps it was one that I thought too much about, making me feel like a walking clip from Sesame Street’s “One of These Things is not Like the Other.”

As the weeks passed, I attended each beer o'clock. I did my best to mingle. One beer o’clock became extremely loud and laughter-filled; and discussions strayed to things that might have been topics that men normally didn’t discuss in front of women. At one point, I laughed out loud at one comment, and one of the engineers looked at me and said, “Hey, now you’re one of the boys.”

As I drove home that night, I said to myself quite pleased, “Hey, now I’m one of the boys!” Of course, a mile later, I was asking myself, “Is being one of the boys a good thing or a bad thing?” I polled my female friends, and they all voted “Good thing.”

Then, I began to look forward to beer o’clock and the nice people who made me laugh and feel like I was one of the boys despite my love of pink and the fact that I was from Venus. I felt grateful, and as a woman, I couldn’t help but see room for improvement in beer o’clock. I went right for the food, and I decided that the snacks (chips, cheese doodles, and pretzels) needed improvement.

Having used my crock pot every now and then, I thought what better way to contribute to beer o’clock than with warm treats. Armed with my “Fix-It and Forget-It Cookbook,” I stood in the kitchen the next Thursday night trying to decide what my first snack would be. Aha, nothing says “One of the Boys” like chili!

I carted my chili in to the dugout that Friday afternoon. At first, they all seemed a bit surprised. This was evident when someone went to grab a few pretzels, saw the crock pot, and then said, “Oh, wow. Hot food!”

Fortunately, if you make hot food, men will eat it, no questions asked. The chili was a hit. It was followed by barbecue meatballs, and that was followed by a question from the vice president asking me, “The food is great, but why are you doing it?”

I then confessed. Well, I didn’t really tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth; the truth was that I liked these people very much, and the food was my way of showing it. My truth to him was that I was hoping a permanent job offer was going to come through their stomachs. Actually, I don’t think the chili, barbecued meatballs, pulled pork, and apple sausages have hurt that goal either!

My vice president said my pulled pork was “amazing” and an engineer said my sausages were “delicious.” I had become adored! Earlier this week, two people asked, “So, what are you making this Friday?” I had become a wishful occurrence!

Today, as I was sitting at my desk, the designated beer buyer popped his head over my cube wall; I was quite surprised to see him standing there. He asked, “So, do you have any requests for beer?” Rather shocked, I said, “Dead guy beer!” I was asked about my preference for beer. I had become the Crock Pot Goddess! ♥

Mom's the Word

Last Thursday night, I got a text from Nathan. He asked me if it was all right if he stayed overnight, because he wanted to go over his college essay with me. I said that was fine, and I’d see him when he got home.

I was surprised that Nathan was in a hurry to finish his essay and even more surprised that he was in a hurry to finish something that involved writing. Nathan wasn’t a writer; well, he could be one when he wanted to. But, being a writer finished far below “D&D,” “X-box,” "Magic cards," “breathing,” “sleeping,” and “eating.”

I could only think of one reason for Nathan’s sense of urgency. It was his Dad. I didn’t ask, but where there was anxiety in Nathan’s life, there always seemed to be Nathan’s Dad.

I’m not saying Nathan’s Dad was mean or evil; he’s a great guy. Parents, no matter whether they are married or not, always bring their own set of issues into the parent-child relationship. Quinn seemed to bring out Nathan’s anxiety. I had pre-packaged my issue in Nathan in the womb; that would be lack of self-confidence.

Earlier in the week, Nathan had asked me if I would read his college application essay. I said that I would. After reading it, I then asked, “Has anyone else read this?” It appeared to me that no one else had read it.

Nathan told me that his Dad and his stepmother had read it; upon hearing that from Nathan, I knew then that an engineer and a scientist had read it. (Nota Bene: While I am saying that some engineers and scientists write well, I am also saying that some don't. So there.) After seeing numerous sentence fragments, misspellings, and thoughts didn’t have points to illustrate them, I said, “I’ll look this over once more, and we can review it later.”

I’d be the first to admit that I’m not perfect. In fact, if you read back through my blog, I’ve admitted this many times. My blogs have mistakes in them; I’m sure of this. But, my blog is not the college essay that’s going to make the difference between getting into UMaine or SUNY Stony Brook.

I read through Nathan’s essay, which despite the mistakes, was a very good story about his trip to Budapest in June. Actually, when he arrived back from his trip that cost $3700, I asked how it was. I received the twenty-five cent reply which was “Good.”

After I spent all that money (well, half of that), I felt that I was entitled to a “Good” and one more complete sentence. Thinking about it before opening my mouth, I realized that I didn’t want to use up my monthly quota of personal questions for Nathan in ten minutes over Europe.

So, being a good pay-for-the-trip-but-don’t-ask-too-many-questions-ever kind of Mom, I chose to write my own sentences about Nathan’s trip. “On the flight, the food was good.” “When I looked at the buildings in the city, I realized how good the architect was.” “I didn’t think the beer was good!” Of course, that last one was my favorite and true; one of my few IM messages from the trip was “Oh, and I still don’t like beer.”

At least when I read his story, I felt like I received a dollar’s worth more of information, even if the trip had occurred over three months ago. In hindsight, even if I had been in the dark about his trip, I was able to ask “How’s your love life?” a few weeks ago and get “Non-existent” as a response. It was so not worth asking about Europe just for that tidbit I received about Nathan’s personal life.

When Nathan arrived home on Thursday night, I could tell he wasn’t happy. It must have been his tired face which was accentuated with a miserable frown. The whole grumpy package was only enhanced by the overloaded back pack slung over one shoulder and the pile of books, weighing 30 pounds easily, that he carried in his hands.

I don’t ever remember school weighing that much when I was Nathan’s age. The amount of textbooks he carried had always amazed me. Somehow I thought I should have been the one carrying more books back then, because we didn’t have the Internet; and what good is the Internet now if it isn’t to lessen the load of information carried in the back pack and in the arms?!

I made the mistake of asking, “Are you ready to go over the essay now?” Nathan sighed and said quite perturbed, “Mom, I’ve got other homework to do first!” Sensing I should be tiptoeing now by the lion with the thorn in its paw, I asked softly, “Should we do it another night?”

He snapped, “No! I have to have it done tonight.” I laughed, which was again probably the wrong thing to do. I asked, “So, is tomorrow the last day to have college applications in or what? Why does this have to be done tonight if you’ve got too many other things to do?”

Nathan gave me the evil eye. He said, “Dad wants me to have it done tonight.” Just then, I had a déjà vu; I had been here before with Nathan. Actually, I had been stuck between Nathan and Quinn; well, I wasn’t really stuck between them. I knew I had to be the go between in this situation.

I said, “Let’s do it this weekend instead.” Nathan said again, “But, Dad wants it done tonight.” I said, “Nathan, you’ve got homework to do, and it’s already 8pm. The essay can wait until the weekend.”

Before I could finish my the-essay-can-wait speech, Nathan turned and began to trudge upstairs with his 50 pounds of high school weighing heavily on his mind and his body. I followed him up to his room. I said, “I’ll call your Dad, and I tell him that it will get done on Saturday.”

I could tell Nathan was stressed out. He started talking in that voice I know all too well from Isabelle and from myself. It was the “I’m talking but I’m almost ready to cry” voice.

Nathan said, “No, Mom. He said tonight.” I said, “Nathan, that’s ridiculous.” Nathan plunked down his 50 pounds of high school on the bed and reached for some light-weight but heavy-duty comfort that was tiger-striped, furry, and answered to the name of Thunderbolt.

I picked up the phone and dialed Quinn. Quinn answered, and I said, “Nathan’s got too much to do tonight. He can come over on Saturday, and we’ll go over his essay then.” Of course, Quinn said quite easily, “Okay.”

For a father and son that were pretty close, there were often disconnects when it came to conversation. Nathan had a voice and was afraid to speak his thoughts. Again, this was something I prepackaged in him; oddly, after being almost on mute the last ten years, I was finally starting to turn my volume up.

I hung up the phone and entered Nathan’s room. He was on his bed with his books spread out on his comforter and his notebook and Thunderbolt in his lap. I said, “Your Dad said Saturday is fine.”

He looked up. He then sighed and stroked Thunderbolt’s head. As I saw the relief melt away the miserable frown to reveal a set of lips that would quickly kiss Thunderbolt on the head, he said quite surprisingly, “Thank you.”

I said, “Nathan, nothing can’t be discussed. I know it’s hard for you to speak to your Dad sometimes, but I’m here, and I’m here to help you talk to your Dad.” He didn’t say anything; he only shook his head up and down. I said, “When you can’t find the words, Nathan, remember, Mom’s the word.” ♥

A Stylish and Practical Solution

Last night, I attended a party. Of course, I was wearing very practical shoes for this dark and rainy night; no, I really wasn’t. They were only practical if Webster’s Dictionary defined "practical" as a pair of two and a half inch black velvet mules with sequined butterflies on each toe; however, Coco Chanel, Betsey Johnson, and even RuPaul might define them as practical.

Anyway, when I sat down on the couch next to my friend, Brenda, I groaned. I really wanted to take my shoes off; I said, “Does anyone mind if I take my shoes off?” I don’t remember anyone saying, “Oh, no, please not that!” I kicked them off.

In a minute, I began to smell something. It was not stinky feet. It was similar to new car smell, except it was new shoe smell; the smell was made stronger by the fact that the shoes had indeed come into contact with sweaty feet. I quickly put my shoes back on.

Brenda, seeing my dilemma, asked, “Hey, have you seen those fast flats?” I said, “Huh?” She went on to explain that they were flat shoes you could whip out of your purse when you finally admitted to yourself that having toes that weren’t numb or sore meant more to you than the way those three-inch black patent stilletos with the peep toes made your calves look oh so sexy.

I told her that I remembered watching a video on youtube that afternoon, and I had to watch a commercial before the video. I said “I think it was for those shoes!” I recalled these young girls out dancing when all of a sudden one of the women whipped off her heels and then put on these hideous flat black shoes.

At the time, I thought, “What was that all about?” I wasn’t really paying attention, so I wondered if it was an ad for Dr. Scholl insoles. When Brenda explained the concept to me, I didn’t “get” it.

Nota bene: I know people have to wear orthopedic shoes and I understand that, but I just hope I’m never one of them. While thinking about it, I was reminded of a book that Tunabreath and I wanted to write many years ago; the concept was things we’d never wear when we got older. We would not wear plastic rain bonnets, Chanel No. 5, or orthopedic shoes.

As Brenda and I sat there, I had a hard time understanding why young women or any woman for that matter want to whip off her heels in exchange for a pair of ugly black flats. From a fashion standpoint, it was instant outfit death. I said to Brenda, “Those shoes are so ugly, why not just whip on a pair of orthopedic shoes for that matter or just go home and put on your robe and slippers?!”

Brenda sent me a link to the fast flats today; I knew I had to check out these slippers masquerading as a sexy yet comfortable shoe. Brenda prefaced the link with the fast flat’s tag line, which was ““A stylish and practical solution for times when you just can't bear to take another step in your heels.” As a red-blooded fashionista, I know that you can always take another step in your heels if you really want to, especially if they make the outfit and make your calves look more killer than they already are!

Brenda placed a smiley face at the end of the email. She wasn't into fast flats either; however, it seemed we were both having a laugh over the idea of them. Unfortunately, we got stuck in traffic on the way home, which led to a post-party fast flat tantrum.

Of course, I ranted some more about them. This had us (Brenda and me) in hysterics, taking our minds off the fact that we were stuck in traffic and thirsty. Fast flats weren’t sexy, but they were incredibly humorous, especially when you were grumpy.

Anyway, I thought even sneakers would be more acceptable over fast flats. Sneakers and a little black dress say “Cyndi Lauper.” Fast flats with a little black dress say, “It’s time for me to go home now and soak my feet in Epsom salts.”

Question 1: Which one would you choose? By the way the only right answer is the right one. Hey, it’s my blog!



Question 2: Again, which one would you choose? By the way the only right answer is the right one. My blog, people!



After reading more about fast flats, I discovered that they come with a “stylish wristlet.” They’re not shoes; they’re a bracelet, too! I replied to Brenda’s fast flats email with “Hey, you might as well be wearing a pair of these!”



I’m all for comfort; however, I think there are comfortable heels out there. I own many pairs of them. How many? Yeah, I’m so not telling.

I have Crocs. They’re plastic, ugly, and pink, but they are comfortable. but, I’d never ever consider wearing them with my little black dress even if it meant blisters for three weeks.

On many occasions in life, it is mandatory to be stylish and impractical. I think sticking to your guns and your stilettos is mandatory at those times. Sometimes it’s more about how you look and how that look makes you feel than about the pain you feel when wearing the look. ♥

Sometimes When You Least Expect It

I’m tired. I think this was one of my most productive days of sorting out and cleaning I’ve had in a year. It’s amazing how having a job motivates me to get far more done; unemployment only seemed to motivate me to ride my bike more, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Today, my to-do list said, "Clean Iz's room." I had cleaned Iz’s entire room only a few weeks ago. And, I cannot tell a lie about my mental state during the cleaning process.

As I picked up, threw out, and organized from American Girl to Zhu-Zhu pet, I might have muttered negative thoughts once or twice. I think I probably said, “Isabelle! Isabelle! Isssssssssaaabeelllllllllllllle!” when I found some badly soiled underwear shoved in the back of a drawer. Then perhaps I said, “This room will be a mess in a week; I’m sure of it!” after I straightened and organized every book on the shelf in her closet.

Anyway, when I went in, I couldn’t see the floor. When I came out, I could see the floor. Most notably, I could see my reflection in Iz’s Barbie doll mirror that had been previously smeared with every lipstick and lip gloss known to Izkind. Ta da!



At the end of two hours, I had a clean room, a white trash bag stuffed full of junk (though Iz might not see it that way, so shhhh!), and a pile of school papers. As I began to sort through the papers, I came across one that stopped me dead in my sorting tracks. I smiled.

It was a picture of us.



And above the picture was written:



Sometimes when you least expect it, you’re reminded, “That’s why I’m here.”

After cleaning the house, sorting through the boxes I took home from work when I got laid off, doing the dishes, cleaning off and dusting my desk and book shelves, trying to rid my shower of this strange orange mold that had appeared in a corner, and organizing a small corner of the attic, I declared myself done at 6pm. I probably would have done a few more things; however, my lower-back screamed, “Go on without me. Ha-ha! You can’t!”

I was sitting at my desk trying to do one last task, which was making Tunabreath a Billie Holiday CD. Nathan approached to plug his laptop via Ethernet cable into the router. I said, “Oh, Nathan. Can you just pound my lower back for a bit? It’s killing me.”

Peeved that Dell made me reset his laptop to its factory settings, thereby wiping out all his games, IM, and all the other “crap” he had on it, he was not in a good mood. It had irked me, too, because after three calls about the issue, Dell finally said, “Oh, we’ll just send you a new wireless card.” Nathan swooped down, like he was going to help his Mom out, and then he faked to the left and plugged the Ethernet cable in saying, “I need a car, a girlfriend, and good grades, but you don’t see me whining.”

Sometimes when you least expect it, you’re reminded that despite the fact that you have a stellar 17-year-old son, he is indeed still a 17-year-old. ♥

Growing Pains

Nathan, my 17-year-old son, was supposed to be “with” me this weekend. His Dad and I are divorced, and we have been for many years. Anyway, he was supposed to be with me last weekend originally; however, he decided to go salmon fishing with his Dad instead.

While I really wanted to see him last weekend, I understood how fishing, especially a trip that just involved him and his Dad and not his two much-younger half-brothers, would be a priority over time spent with me. I got that; I think the fact that I got that made me a good but still imperfect Mom.

Anyway, earlier in the week, I had asked Nathan about this weekend. I expected him to say, “I’ll see you Friday night.” Instead, he answered, “I have a LAN party at my Dad’s on Friday night, and I have D&D at Higglesworth’s on Saturday.”

Apparently, I can’t be the host for LAN parties. My Internet stinks, because the town I live in doesn’t have FIOS. Thanks, Verizon; and can we work on that so I see my son some more?!

I asked, “So, am I going to see you at all this weekend?” He said, “Well, I’ll be there on Saturday some time, and I’ll be there on Sunday at some time.” I wanted to scream and whine, but instead I said, “Okay.” I had realized a few months ago that a license and a car trumped Mom.

This morning, I texted Nathan and asked if he might like to see “Social Network” with me today. Given that Nathan had deleted me as a Facebook friend, it would be a bit of movie-going irony. He texted me back and said, “I have homework to get done before Higglesworth’s, and I gotta finish my D&D stuff. I’ll pass. Sorry.”

I tried. I frowned. And, I didn’t conquer.

I texted back, “That’s okay. No problem.” I was a good mother. I was letting my son go slowly to do the things he needed to do without me.

Later, Nathan texted me to tell me that he’d be late arriving to my house. His Dad had asked him for some help cutting down some trees. I sighed, and I let him go some more.

Meanwhile, I did errands, visited a Lovely friend, and did some grocery shopping. When at the grocery store, I texted Nathan to ask him if he might like some sushi. He texted back, “Yeah, salmon.”

I asked the sushi chef to make a salmon-only tray. As I waited, I texted Nate to ask if he wanted me to pick up treats for his D&D night at Higglesworth’s house. He said, “No!”

Did I listen? No, I got two six-packs of root beer, a bag of Cape Cod potato chips (Nathan’s favorite), and a bag of Smartfood popcorn. I thought I could somehow sneak it into his car, diabolic Mom that I am; and I had to laugh how Nathan made me feel diabolic for offering to supply him and his friends with junk food!

I asked if he wanted me to drop his sushi off at his Dad’s. He declined and said he’d be home soon. When he finally arrived home at 3:30pm, he grabbed his sushi and plunked down on the couch with his homework, his D&D books, and his trusty cat, Thunderbolt.

I asked him if he’d like to take my car to Higglesworth’s house tonight. It was half the size of Big Red, and I knew he liked driving it more than Big Red. He said, “Yeah!”

So, I diabolically left the root beer, chips, and popcorn on the passenger side front seat of my car. I knew he didn’t want me to make a fuss; but I knew I wanted to. And, if you can’t be with the one you love, send love with the one you can’t be with.

Before he left, we discussed the merits of Big Red. Nathan said, “That’s my car; it’s common law now.” I laughed and said, “Well, the nice thing is that you can sleep ten people in that thing.”

He said, “I slept in it during Relay for Life.” I asked, “Really?” He said, “Yeah, and it’s really good for sleeping just two people, too.”

He then did this Groucho Marx face with his eyebrows going North and South repeatedly. He smiled wickedly; I smiled back. Then, I said, “Ewwwww,” and we both laughed.

At 5:40pm, he drove off in my car. Within two minutes of leaving, he called. I thought he was going to again chastise me for buying food and drink for his friends without his approval.

Instead he said, “Mom, there’s the cutest little black Corgi walking down the block now.” I asked, “Is the man walking him older and does he have a beard?” Nathan said he did, and I told Nathan that I had met him and his dog, a Corgi cross, several months ago.

Nathan said, “Well, I just wanted to let you know; the dog’s really cute.” I said, “I bet he doesn’t bark as much as Monty does!” We said good-bye, and after I hung up, I smiled. No matter where I was and where Nathan was, I’d always love the man who called me just to share the news of a cute little Corgi walking down the street. ♥

Only Thirty Days

Until Halloween! And, this morning that thought terrified me. No, I’m not terrified of Halloween; oddly, Halloween is my favorite holiday. I was terrified because I didn’t know what I was going to be; it was quite a dilemma somewhat like when I enter the house and have to decide which cat I’ll cuddle and kiss first.

Not surprisingly, Iz loves Halloween, too. That’s my ghoul. It was as if her DNA got the genetic instruction, “Go forth and be spooky.”

In fact, she loves Halloween so much that she was ready to start celebrating two weeks ago. We had to drag out all the Halloween decorations; her favorite is a ghoulish door knocker that plays eerie organ music. Yes, it’s cute, but after you hear it every day ten times a day, it begins to wear on you.

We stocked up on candy corn the minute it hit the supermarket shelves. We had to buy pumpkins, though only one was permitted, because I thought they might rot before Halloween. Lastly and most importantly, we had to decide what we were going to be for Halloween.

Last year, Iz was a green witch. In fact, she knew right away when I asked her what she wanted to be. This year, when asked, she said, “Hmmm. I don’t know. Maybe a Goth cheerleader.” Gone are the days of one-word costumes like ghost, hobo, witch (we only had black ones in my day), and princess.

Anyway, while I was envisioning exactly what a Goth cheerleader would look like, Iz asked, “Mom, when can we go to Target?” Normally, I like Iz to ponder such an important decision for a few weeks, only because she usually changes her mind a million times. I know this because her DNA also has the same genetic instruction as mine; this one says, “Go forth and be indecisive.”

Last weekend, I was asked again when we could go to Target. I wasn’t asked just once; I was asked about fifteen times on Saturday. You might say it was a definite costume haunting that I was experiencing in the house.

Like the perfect parent I am, I said, “No. I’d like you to think about your decision a little longer. It’s best not to be impulsive when contemplating any important decision.” Yes; you’re right. I didn’t say that nor have I ever uttered anything like that to either of my children. Okay, I probably tried it a few times with each of them, but my words were met directly with their little hands.



I said to myself, “Jeez! She’s not going to let me watch Bridezillas in peace until she gets her costume.” Like the imperfect parent I am, I said, “Let’s go to Target.” Then I continued to myself, “So, I can watch the rest of Bridezillas in peace when I get home.”

As we drove to Target, I remembered that I had no idea what I wanted to be this year. I was Madonna last year. Though when out trick-or-treating with Iz, I was reminded how old I had become, even if I was out trick-or-treating with a six-year-old.

Three young girls stopped me and said, “That’s a great costume!” I thanked them, and then I made the mistake of asking, “Do you know who I am?” One said, “You’re Lady Gaga!”

This just proved what I’ve always said. “Fashion repeats itself.” I hope you all have your stirrup pants and parachute pants tucked away in your attic; although, these are two fashion trends that I hope remain in the attic, but you never know!

When we got out of the car at Target, Iz was like Monty on his leash when he sees another dog. He gets all excited and wants to drag me with him over to greet or rip the other dog’s head off, depending on whether he’s being the small dog in the small dog’s fur coat or the small dog in the large dog’s fur coat. Iz was holding my hand, but it was as if she couldn’t pull my hand hard enough to lead me through the parking lot and to the costume aisle.

Once we were inside, Iz pulled my hand even harder when I stopped at the $1 aisle. She rolled her eyes, tugged my hand, and said, “Come ooooooooonnnnnnnn, Mom.” I know she’s testy when the word “on” is pronounced with lots of extra o’s and n’s.

I love the $1 aisle at Target. Of course, having worked once for a company that created software for the consumer packaged goods industry, I can tell you that the $1 aisle is deceiving. You travel through it thinking happy consumer thoughts like, “Oh, wow, this pumpkin ice cube tray is only $1!”, but when you leave the aisle, you’ve spent $20, mostly on stuff that’s appealing because it’s cheap you will never use!

After I picked up $5 worth of cute but potentially very infrequently used items, I told Iz that I needed to stop for a few items on the way to the costume aisle. Of course, like Monty, she barked at me saying, “Mooooooooooom! Again with the extra letters!

I decided it was time to let her off the leash. I said, “Okay. We’ll go look at costumes now.” She bolted, and, like with Monty, I didn’t even bother to chase her.

I found her eyeing the Halloween decorations first. She asked, “Mom, can I get one thing?” I said, “No. We’re just here for the costume.” Yeah, again, I didn’t say that. I said, “Oooookkkkaaaay.” Three minutes later, we had a screeching bat in our carriage that I knew would meet with a miserable death (perhaps a battery malfunction) before Halloween was over!

Once perusing the costumes, Iz, like Monty, was wagging her tail. She pondered Grecian Fairy Child, Teen Wizard Wanda, Feelin’ Groovy Child but kept coming back to Punk Pixie. She told me that she had decided that she would be a Punk Pixie. What’s a punk pixie? I have no idea, but I do know Iz will be an adorable one.

Today, I told a friend about Iz’s costume and how I wasn’t really sure what a punk pixie was. He said it sounded like the year his son went trick-or-treating as a “dug up ghoul.” As he said, it seems like just being a regular ghoul or pixie isn’t enough anymore; ah, well, as you know, I’m all for maximum creativity, especially where it concerns dressing up.

I was Madonna last year; however, as you all probably know, Madonna had phases. I was Madonna from her “Desperately Seeking Susan” phase. I think I was pretty good Madonna, too, especially since a male friend said that I should be Madonna again; thus, this proves that men like Madonna or they like me as Madonna. Hmmm.

Unlike last year, I was not having the same costume vibes this year. Well, last year, with no job, I had a lot of time to think of such things. Fortunately and unfortunately, my head is now filled with probes, analyzers, and agents, oh, my!

Anyway, anyone who knows me knows I loved the 80s. It was a good decade for me, and yes, I even wore stirrup pants, but I don’t have them in my attic! Today, I told Tom that I was totally at a loss for a costume; being a fan of the 80s, too, and having even installed a 80s music trivia app (I am the champion by the way!) on his Droid, he said, “Hey, how about Cyndi Lauper?!”

I sat in my desk chair saying, “Hmmm, Cyndi Lauper.” While a tad less outrageous (yes, really, well, I think so) than Madonna, like Cyndi, I just wanna have fun; this was it! Besides, I’ve always wanted to have green hair and wear pink and yellow eye shadow; and life’s too short not to always just wanna have fun. ♥