I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Given that Nathan had played soccer, lacrosse, and hockey on and off for the last 13 years, I considered myself lucky that he had never gotten seriously injured. I never thought soccer was a seriously combative sport, until I attended a game two years ago where a player broke his leg. Actually, Nathan did get mildly injured once.

Unfortunately, Nathan’s only sports injury occurred when I wasn’t at the game. I rarely missed games, but I missed a hockey game one Winter night. I got a call from Nathan’s Dad; he said, “Nathan was illegally checked tonight.”

Technically, I don’t think he had a concussion. He was hit hard, got the wind knocked out of him, and then stayed on the bench the rest of the game. Fortunately, the player who check him was thrown out of the game, and the coach of the opposing team actually sent Nathan’s Dad (an assistant coach) an email of apology.

Last Saturday, Nathan took the car to go over to a friend’s house. He was supposed to sleep over, but as usual, when you’re 17-years-old, plans change rapidly and he came home. But, at 10pm, Nathan decided it was time for plans to change rapidly again.

He said, “Mom, I borrowed a long board from a friend.” I asked, “What’s a long board?” He said, “It’s kind of like a skate board but longer.” I should have known, right?

Still mystified as to why Nathan had a skateboard that was long, because he was never a skateboarder, he said, “So, I’m going to go out and try it.” I said, “It’s 10pm, Nathan.” He said, “Yeah, I know. So?”

Of course, on many a late night, I had ventured out with my iPod and the dog. How was this different? Oh, yes, I was 40-something, and he was only 17.

I thought about it. I said, “Well, okay. Be careful.” He rolled his eyes, and he was off.

Nathan had always been his own person, but he had never been a skateboard person. While I was worried about him tooling around the dark streets of the neighborhood on a long board, I liked that he was trying something that was not Nathan.

I sat there watching TV, thinking that if he was not home in 45 minutes that I would drive around the neighborhood. That was a last resort, but this was my “baby boy” on a wheeled piece of wood. No matter how cool I thought it was that Nathan was experimenting in extreme sports, I was still worried.

Less than thirty minutes later, I heard the front door open. I called, “Nathan?” from upstairs. He said, “Hai!” Yes, “Hi” isn’t spelled like that, but that’s the way he says it.

So, he was home with his long board. From what I could hear in his voice, he had no broken bones. Just then, I heard him stomp up the stairs.

I was sitting at my desk. Instead of going into his room, grabbing the Ethernet cable, and plugging in his X-box, because I have lame DSL and not rippin' FIOS, he got to the top of the stairs and walked toward my desk. He sighed, and as he rolled up his sleeves, he said, “I hate it when this happens.”

Both of his elbows were badly scraped. I said, “Oh!” He pointed to his left elbow and said, “Oh, that was from last night. This one is from tonight.”



I looked at the raw skin on his right elbow. I said, “Aw, Nathan. What happened?” He answered, “Well, you know on Pearl Street where the road goes downhill and you cross the rail trail? Well, I kinda went pbtpbtpbtpbtpbt [ed. passing gas sound], I speed wobbled [ed. I still have no idea what this means], and then I crashed.

After that description, I wanted to laugh. I looked at his raw elbow and winced. I said, “Come to the bathroom. We need to clean that out.”

Surprisingly, Nathan followed me instead of saying, like when I offered various snacks for his Dungeon and Dragons gatherings, “Mom, don’t. It’s not necessary.” Oddly, the night before, I had sent two six-packs of root beer, a bag of Doritos, a bag of potato chips, a box of chocolate chip cookies, and a bag of M&Ms to such a gathering, and it's always gladly accepted. When we got to the bathroom, I washed his cut with alcohol, applied a layer of Neosporin, and put two Band-aids on his elbow.

After this, he then went into his room, grabbed the Ethernet cable, and plugged in his X-box. I threw the cotton ball and band-aid wrappers into the trash and washed the Neosporin off my index finger. I smiled but not where Nathan could see me.

I knew my “baby boy” was getting older. On any given day, he would probably say he could largely exist without me. But on Sunday morning, Nathan was sure to tell me as if soliciting Mom's sympathy, “My elbows hurt.”

I, the Mom, said, “Yeah, you really banged them up.” Then, off he went to make himself four [ed. Yes, FOUR] bagels. Even though he was 17 and college was looming, I knew he’d always need me and, on any given day, even when his age was _insert-number-over-one_7, I’d still get to care for him like he was only 7 again, and I would always love that. ♥

End blog soundtrack:

Adventures in Working: The Weekend

As some of you know, I have a big deadline at work this week. Actually, when did it ever seem like I didn't have a big deadline?! For the last five months of employment at my new-old job, my mode has always been panic mode.

Anyway, I went in today to catch up. Well, I was never really behind. It just seemed like engineering was always behind, which was its normal mode; thus, I was even more behind than they were.

Actually, I like going into work when there is no one around. It’s really quiet, and I think better. Oddly, I work around a lot people in Finance; you’d think by number-crunching nature that they’d be quiet and introverted souls, but they’re not!

Today, I had to complete a very boring task. I had to recapture about 25 screen captures in my User Guide. It was a pain, but it was a necessary, tedious, and boring pain.

Run-of-the-mill things often make me more creative. Here’s the Jean math. Silence + boring = Flow of the River Jean; thus, I present to you…

Things You Can Do at Work When No One Else is Around

1. Give yourself that well-deserved promotion from Principal Technical Writer to Corporate Executive Crockpot Officer.



2. Tell FrameMaker 9 exactly how you feel about it; though, ease the blow with a Hello Kitty post-it note.



3. Build a fort out of your running clothes for your two stuffed animals. (Hmm, if I’m not living in Nathan's basement when I’m 65, I just might end up living here.)



4. Think of interesting ways to recycle computer paper. Like my 8.5”x11” throw rug?

5. Important: When the Security Guard comes around, make like ET and try to blend in with your stuffed animals.



When I was taking that last picture, I was surprised. No, it wasn’t by my skillful screwiness; a woman I knew only casually rounded the corner of my cube and said, “Oh…..hi.” I jettisoned my Hello Kitty stuffed animals onto my desk, but not before realizing that I had a red bow taped to my forehead.

I snatched the bow from my forehead like I was swatting a gnat, threw it into my trash can, and then said, “Oh, hi,” like I was the most serious actuary in the world, though one who had obviously just failed in the risk and uncertainty departments. She paused, not quite knowing what to make of me. Then she turned, walked off to her office, and I'm sure she was thinking, "What the hell was she doing?!?!"

Sometimes, I do screwy things in public places. Other times, I do screwy things in places where I think I will be totally alone. Today, I got caught, felt totally stupid, and when I drove home, I said, “Screw it.” I would not feel badly for being me, even if me in the moment meant I had a red bow taped to my forehead because ultimately that was me. ♥

Cornucopia

Sometimes this blog is challenging. I love to write in case no one has noticed, though because I work full-time, that’s when writing here becomes a challenge. As I’ve said before, the best thing about my blog is when I write things, and a person writes me to tell me about how my blog made a difference in her day or how another writes to tell me about how my story made him think of his story that's so very similar to my story.

Cornucopia is about abundance. So, we all know what that means, right? It’s time for "Tell the Goddess" email!

Both these emails were in response to this post.

Dear Goddess,
Everybody needs something…
Satchmo, New Orleans, LA



Dear Goddess,
Just thought I’d share. Everyone needs Hello Kitty for their boo boos. :-)
Patsy, Pink, OK



Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, and I adore you Satchmo, Ella (Satchmo's lovely wife ), and Patsy. ♥

Plymouth Rock

While I think it’s true that no man is island, sometimes you must be your own rock if even as part of a continent. This was one thing that amazed me about one person in my life. This person was my son, Nathan.

I often wondered what we had in common. Our politics were different. My iPod was a cat; his iPod was a hedgehog. He said, “Sausesome,” and I still said, “Awesome.”

Growing up, Nathan had always been who he was and stood up for what he believed in. He was the only kid in his junior high school class to vote Libertarian in a mock election, a fact he was proud of when he came home from school that day. So was I, thinking most of his classmates probably thought he voted for the school librarian instead of for the Libertarian.

One day last year, he wrote me a text about stupid people. I asked him what was going on. Apparently, he had a heated debate with a few others; I told him to take caution when stating his views because of my own insecurities. He then told me that he would not back down; he would always tell religious fundamentalists that homosexuality was not wrong.

Nathan had never been one to care about his clothes. Last night, he asked to borrow the car to go to a pick-up hockey game. As he walked out of his room, I immediately noticed he was wearing an unfamiliar shirt. Before I could say anything, he twirled around in the hallway and then asked, “Like my Salvation Army flannel shirt?”

I laughed. I said, “It’s nice, and since when do you shop at the Salvation Army.” He quickly said, “Oh, it’s saucesome there. I got a pair of purple pants and a purple sweater to go with my purple sneakers, and then I got a windbreaker from the 90s. It’s one of those ones with all the colors like Will Smith used to wear!”

I said, “I didn’t know you liked used clothing.” He said, “Well, yeah.” I said, “Maybe we can go together next time.”

He grumbled. I didn’t know if it was a “yes” or “no.” I think it was a “TBD” (to be decided); nevertheless, I was smiling on the inside thinking that my son liked used clothing and had no fears wearing it.

When I first started wearing vintage clothes, I felt somewhat self-conscious. I was dressing like no one else I knew; however, after a few compliments and one uplifted nose and a “I’m just not a vintage person” from my sister, I became a rock about it.

This morning, Nathan wanted to borrow my car for the day. He drove me to work. Our unwritten rule, though Nathan might think it’s written in the dashboard next to the VIN number, is that the driver always gets to pick the music.

Of course, somehow the keys to the car disappear ten minutes before we leave, which never gives me a chance at the driver’s seat and ABBA. This morning, as I sat that waiting to get blasted with the Nine Inch Nails, Nathan rolled his finger down his iTouch and said, “Mom, you might like this.” I was surprised, because usually, his philosophy was “Listen to my music, or get out of the car.”

I listened to his hip-hop-rap-alternative tune for a minute. I said, “I like it,” though I was surprised how much Nathan’s taste in music had changed in the last few months. He then said, “Oh, wait. You might like this one, too.” We were two rocks forming a small continent; however, I'm pretty sure that it would still be a continent on which the likes of Abba and John Mayer would never be heard.

I had to stop for money, and when Nathan pulled up to the ATM machine, I handed him my card and gave him my PIN. Sixty dollars shot out of the machine, and Nathan handed it to me along with my card and the receipt. I put $20 in my wallet, and I handed $40 to Nathan and said, “Get some more gas, please, and the rest is for Harry Potter.”

He took the money and stuffed it into his pocked. I said, “You’re welcome.” He quickly said, “Thanks, and I love you….......as much as six.” I laughed out loud.

I asked, “Six?” He said, “Don’t push it, unless you don’t want to eventually make it to 7.” I laughed again at his somewhat crazy statement, and I stopped talking, because I knew I wanted to get to 7, especially if it meant I got to live in his basement when I was 65.

He pulled out of the bank, and I sat there quietly thinking “Where does he get this stuff from?” I then remembered something a friend said to me earlier in the week after I proposed she and I run off to Nantucket for just a day. She thought I was kidding, I then agreed that my idea was crazy, and then she said, “Yes, but I need to be more crazy… like you!”

Then I realized that my son was a lot like me in deeper ways, ways that spoke to composition. We didn’t share music (most of the time). We did share minerals.

As he drove me to work, I knew that the pebble didn’t chip off too far from the rock. I then asked, “Can you play the one that says something about the membrane?” He quickly scrolled down his iTouch; when the song came on, he began to move his head back and forth to the music. I laughed, because he looked like me when I listened to Dancing Queen, and I would always love my pebble like the rock he was. ♥

End blog soundtrack:

Thanks Giving

There are many ways to thank someone. You can say thank you, send a thank-you note, send flowers, or rub up against someone’s leg. By the way, that last one only works if you’re a small furry animal; don’t try that one at work.

Last night, I attended Nathan’s soccer banquet. To be truthful, I never looked forward to these events; it wasn’t because I didn’t want to support Nathan in his athletic endeavors. I had lost all feeling in my fingers during April soccer games and then lost all feeling in my toes at December hockey games. I was a jock strap! (That’s an athletic support for all of you who can’t read between the words.)

[Okay, I can’t believe I just typed that, but I thought it was funny in the moment, though a tad lame. So, it’s staying up there in that paragraph. Remember: My blog, people!]

One reason I didn’t like these events was because I didn’t live in the town that Nathan went to school in; however, his Dad did. The other reason I didn’t like these events was because I didn’t live in the town that his Dad did; we were divorced. While things were never acrimonious between his Dad and I, these banquets seemed to be like a larger-than-life play analysis, like the ones you see written over the football players on TV, showing the distinct and separate families sitting miles away from each other, even though they shared a play, Nathan.

At least last night, I had a “date.” Iz came with me. When we entered the high school cafeteria, many of the tables were fully occupied; thus, Iz and I sat down at a table that had not yet had any occupants.

We stuck out like a sore thumb. About five minutes later, Nate’s Dad walked in, said “Hi,” and presumably walked off to sit with other people; I heaved a sigh.

I then thought, “Screw it.” This was the last one of these I’d ever have to attend; well, at least for another 7 or 8 years. I was always the odd person out given the way I dressed every now and then; what did it matter if I was the odd person out at the soccer banquet for one last time?

Just then, Nathan and Joey walked by. Nathan saw me and said “Hi, Mom.” I said, “Hi.”

Within ten seconds, Joey said, “Hi, Mom!” too. I was surprised, pleased, and then I smiled. I said, “Hi, Joey!” and then I said to myself, “Thanks, Joey.”

You always want your kids to love and respect you. Some days this happens; some days it doesn’t. But, a day doesn’t get any better than when your son’s friend calls you “Mom,” which later I wondered might really be Joey’s way of saying “Thank you,” again even if he already had said it every time he had visited.

During the banquet, Nathan passed by me with a plate of food. He came to the table, stopped, and knelt down to talk to me; knowing him as I do, I immediately thought, “Uh-oh, good cop parent.” He said quite matter-of-fact, “I’m not going to ask Dad this, but Wednesday is a half day. It’s really a waste of a day. So, can I not go to school and go to see the latest Harry Potter movie instead?”

I laughed; no, it wasn’t out loud. I laughed inside. Nathan and I were beyond the art of the deal; we both knew exactly what the deal was now, given that he spoke to me frankly.

Smiling, I said, “Sure.” He said, “Sweet.” He walked off to join his fellow players at the table; just then, alone at the table with Iz, I didn’t feel so alone.

It felt like we were miles apart from the other parents from “the town.” I can’t say it didn’t hurt that Nate’s Dad didn’t sit with us or ask us to join him with the parents he knew at another table. In the end, I knew my son might not tell me everything, but he was going to tell me most things, for which he’d at least accept or deny my input; I don’t think his Dad would ever carry the same weight.

Today, I texted Nathan to tell him that I was going to call the absence line while I remembered. Totally engulfed by a deadline for the last month, I wasn’t wearing my underwear inside out yet, but I was feeling like I should do my best to address things before their time. So, I wanted to call the absence line a day early.

I listened to their canned message about leaving my name, my number, Nathan’s name, his grade, and the reason for his absence. When I heard “beeeeeeeeeeeeeep,” I said, “My son will be traveling, so he will miss the half day on Wednesday.” At the same time, another voice said simultaneously, “Because I am a good cop Mom, I have been convinced by my son that attending a half day of school on Wednesday is a waste. I’ve also been informed by said son that a much better use of his time is attending the new Harry Potter movie. And, for this, I will always have his unconditional love and affection.”

After I left my message, I texted Nathan. I said, “Okay, you are officially sprung for tomorrow. You owe me.” He replied, “Yah, yah,” which I knew meant “Thank you, Mom. You can live with in my basement when you are 65.”

Thank you is always different. It’s said in gestures, and it’s said differently in language and said differently in other languages. I think it’s always important to say “thank you,” and the best thing about thank you is when it’s unique. You’re welcome, Joey and Nathan. ♥

Pilgrim

Yesterday, I was on a pilgrimage. It was an unusual pilgrimage for me. I was going to buy a dress.

This was not unusual in that I liked clothes; however, it was unusual given that I most wore mostly vintage dresses. The most unusual thing was that I was going to the mall to look for something different or so I thought.

I think that was my first mistake, equating “different” with the “mall.” I must have had some sort of mental lapse. Though, the trip had another purpose, which was to pick up a present for a friend, and the mall, Target exactly, was the perfect place to find it.

The dress was really only an instant gratification craving, the present for my friend was a given, and, on second and third thought, the trip was really only to get myself out of the house to avoid another episode of Bridezillas.

I don’t know why I even watched Bridezillas. Of course, please think more of me, because, at least, I admit to watching it every now and then. I cannot explain why the whole marriage thing intrigued me, though it could be because I had always felt the “almost perfect” marriage thing had eluded me all these years.

Anyway, as some of you know, I have a vast vintage wardrobe, some of which I will only ever wear in the comfort of my own bedroom whilst playing dress up. I thought dress up ended when I was 9 years old, too. Apparently, you can still play dress up when you’re 40-something; remember, I admitted it so please think more of me for coming clean!

Some of these dresses are much too fancy for my job. My job really only requires jeans and a t-shirt. Actually, my job really might only require a potato sack skirt with a Hefty trash bag top!

Every now and then, I go up to the attic to visit my dresses. For me, it’s like a museum. Clothes in general and my clothes are like art, wearable art.

While Iz’s Dad is three inches shorter than me, I hope she turns into the Amazon that I am. I envision her at 15 years old being 5’8” (that’s what the Mom’s-height-Dad’s height calculator predicts) and pawing through the dresses in the Jean Museum of Vintage Clothing which will be then housed in my huge walk-in closet. Someday George Clooney and my walk-in closet will come!

Iz'll ask, “Can I try this one on now, Mom?” I’ll say, “No!” and giggle. Then she’ll say, “I’m putting in on anyway,” and when we both have a dress on, we’ll parade around in front of the full-length mirror, accessorize each other, and then laugh at how silly and special we were.

I remember when I had my first date with my college boyfriend, Robert Caputo. I met him towards the end of my freshman year; our first real date was in the Summer. I was taking him to Walden Pond, given he was a city boy from Chelsea.

I didn’t know who was more anxious or excited about this date. Was it me or my Mom? My Mom decided that I needed to paint my toenails; this was something I never did back then, when now it is a twice a month addiction.

She bought a bottle of pink polish. The night before the date, she and I sat on my bed, she painting my toes. When she finished, she said, “There!” as if she had just put the finishing stroke on an unfinished Van Gogh.

I stretched out both my legs; we both looked at and then pondered my pink toenails. I looked at her, and then she looked at me. And, we both started to laugh hysterically.

Unfortunately, I got my Dad’s breasts and his toes. In fact, my brother has the same toes. He and I agreed long ago, and it could have been one of the few things we agreed on way back then, that we had Dad’s “crow toes.” By the way, the only thing that can make “crow toes” somewhat passable is slut-bitch-ho red nail polish.

I hoped that Iz and I would share the same moments. We’d laugh at ourselves as we gazed at our rhinestone and black crepe in the mirror. Above all, I hoped I’d just be here when she was 15.

Anyway, the pursuit for a dress at the mall was a dismal failure. Did you know that sadly women seem to rarely wear dresses anymore? I looked through all six women’s clothing stores at the mall, and I could not find a decent dress anywhere. Was it the Goddess of Vintage Fashion telling me that eBay and vintage clothing shows were my only answer?

The few dresses that I did find were black or gray, and how boring was that? It seemed that as far as mall dresses went, black and gray were the new chartreuse, azure, and fuchsia. How boring were Macy’s, The Gap, Banana Republic, Ann Taylor, and Talbot’s? Very!!!

I passed by Sephora, stopped in, glanced at a few things, and left without buying a thing. Yes, George, someone should have taken my temperature just then. I must have been ill, because it never seemed too hard for me to need a lipstick.

Perhaps Sephora wasn’t the same without the person who I always went there with. Iz was my right-hand Sephora girl. Without her, the whole mall trip seemed lonely, when 5 years ago, I’d walk the mall from end-to-end just to get away from my busy 2-year-old. They times they were a changin’.

I saw the Lindt chocolate store. Iz loved the “chocolate balls” which was what she called their truffles. I sighed and thought, “I don’t need to go there, because Iz isn’t here.” I then thought, “If I’m not going to bring home a dress, then I am going to bring home chocolate balls for someone who’d loved to have them.”

Then I headed to Target to buy staples and my friend’s present. I tossed my staples (deodorant, shaving cream, and Venus razor blades) into my carriage; okay, I didn’t really buy Venus razor blades, but, as an experiment, I wanted to see if Tammy from Venus might show up on my blog again. Remember, Big Sister Gillette is always watching your social media! ♥

My friend was challenged in the cooking area; he’d be the first to admit this. But, it wasn’t like he didn’t try. For a single Dad, he tried harder than most to always make his kids something they would like for dinner.

Lately, as some of you know, I had been inspired by my crock pot. I had been inspired to cook, and the people who loved me for it, inspired me to continue Friday after Friday. They were all amazed by my effort, but I was continually amazed that they loved what I made.

Anyway, on two different Fridays, my friend knew he had to make dinner for his son. I suggested he bring my crock pot leftovers home. On both occasions that he did this, the meal went over very well, especially when he prefaced to his son that he wasn’t the cook of the meal.

I told him that he should get a crock pot. He was always pretty busy on the weekends and he kept saying, “Yeah, I should get one.” I finally decided last Friday that I needed to get him one; in many ways, I didn’t need to get him one, but in many ways I knew I did.

I found the small appliance aisle in Target. There were about eight different crock pots; oddly, I found myself having a Sephora moment in small appliances. While I loved my Smashbox crock pot and its three different-sized pots, I drooled when I saw the Givenchy crock pot; it was programmable!

I selected a mid-size crock pot and put it in my carriage. It was a good starter crock pot. We all needed that starter crock pot like I had purchased two years ago, and we could all hope that Santa would bring us the over-the-top crock pot for Christmas if we were on the good sweet and sour kielbasa list.

After leaving Target, my present was not complete without the crock pot bible. I headed to Barnes and Noble, and $100 later, I had his bible, the updated crock pot bible for me, and two cool writing notebooks.

As I drove home, I realized that any pilgrimage is subject to the unknown. No matter what the goal, a pilgrimage is always a success. You search to find something; even if you don’t find all the things that you’re looking for, and you answer questions sometimes in a way that’s different than you expected. And, that’s what I love most about life, the unexpected pilgrimage. ♥

Heart Attack

While many of us thank a God or a Goddess for Friday, some of us look forward to Friday, because it’s casual. I work in an industry (engineering) where every day is casual. Of course, because it involves fashion and I’m me, I do celebrate casual Friday in my own way.

Usually, when inspired, I like to dress up in one of my many vintage dresses. If not a dress, then I wear jeans and a vintage sweater. But, on Fridays, everything changes in the footwear department, and I wear a pair of Chuck Taylor All-Stars.



I own four pairs of them. Of course, I can never purchase anything once; I must purchase it several times if I really like it. And no, I’m still not telling anyone how many pairs of shoes I own!

This morning, I was sitting on the bed tying my sneakers. The door to my bedroom slammed open, Iz appeared, and then she threw herself onto the bed but not before announcing that she had another thumb-sucking-free night. I congratulated her, got up to peruse my earrings, and then Iz said, “Mommy, I know what would look good with that shirt.”

She hopped off the bed, and I saw her run off in the direction of her room. Thud-thud-rattle-rattle-shake-shake-“Here, it is!” was all I heard. In a few minutes, she was back in my room holding her large pink plastic heart-shaped necklace.

I said, “Oh, my!” She said, “You should wear this. I think it will look good.” While I was one for making a statement, I didn’t know if I wanted to do it with Iz’s necklace.

“Well, I don’t know if I should wear one of your favorite necklaces, Iz. I might lose it.” She started to undo the clasp and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. I trust you.” Just then, I realized that there was probably no getting out of wearing Iz’s large pink heart-shaped necklace.

She said, “Put it on, Mommy!” I said, “Well, Iz, I was thinking of wearing this one,” as I grabbed one of my necklaces that was more like a period than the exclamation point that Iz wanted to give me. She frowned and said, “I don’t like that. Wear this one.”

I took her necklace, and I put it on. I said, “There. How does that look?” She said, “That looks good. You need some earrings.”

Just then, I was glad Iz didn’t have pierced ears. I was afraid of what she might take out of her room for me to wear to go with this necklace. I turned around to look in the mirror and assess my look; my new look screamed at me, “Someone is wearing her seven-year-old daughter’s necklace from Claire’s!”

I turned back to Iz. I calmly said, “I like it. Thanks, Iz.” She said, “You’re welcome” looking very pleased that she shared and had acted as my personal stylist this morning. But, wait for it; wait for the ulterior motive!

She then said, “Now I get to wear one of your necklaces, Mommy!” She walked over to my bureau and began to peruse my strands of pearls (all fake except for one), my cameos, and my St Francis (patron saint of animals, of course) medal. I said, “Err, um, well, I don’t know,” thinking that none of my necklaces were from Claire’s.

She pointed to one that had a silver chain and attached to it was a large black stone with many lines of different colors going through it. She said, “This one?” I then quickly said, “How about diamonds, Iz?”

I went to my jewelry box and pulled out a rhinestone diamond necklace that I had bought at the flea market. I could see the sparkle of the diamonds in her eyes. She said, “Yes!”

I put it around her neck. She asked, “How does it look?” I knew in an instant that it was so not second grade nor would any personal stylist let her client go to second grade in a purple shirt, frilly skirt, leggings, Bear Paw boots, and an elaborate rhinestone necklace.

I said, “Nah. I don’t think so.” She sighed and glanced back at the necklace she had originally picked out. I sighed, and I thought about it for about five seconds; I had many necklaces, this one had no sentimental value, and it certainly had not cost me more than $25.

While I said nothing, I could see that Iz could hear me thinking when she tilted her head to the side and made a little face that said, ‘Puuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhleeeeeease.” I scrunched my face up, and I pulled the necklace from its hanger. She smiled, and I said, “Please be careful with it, and if you need to take it off, put it in a safe place in your backpack.”

She answered, “Yes, Momma!” I put the necklace on her, and then she got up on her tippy toes to glance at herself in the mirror. I looked at my necklace again as I stood next to her; in the moment, we both sparkled, but it really had nothing to do with the necklaces.

While I enjoy many things in life like shoes, the older I get the more I realize how unimportant most of my things are. The most important thing is love, the love from my children, my friends, my family, or even from the stranger who smiles at me after I open the door for her. On any given day, it’s all about the people who want to hang their heart around your neck. ♥

Under Her Thumb

Comfort comes in many forms, and what is “comfort” varies for most of us. Comfort can be in the arms of another, it can be watching “America’s Next Top Model,” it can be a tuna fish sandwich with Fritos smashed into the tuna fish, or it can be stroking a blanket while you suck your thumb.

Some days, I wish the last one of those things did it for me like it did it for Iz. On my really bad days, my comfort was from a bottle, a wine bottle! Some days, I wished that it was socially acceptable for 40-year-olds to suck their thumbs, because I’d be all over that, well, in the privacy of my own home while watching “America’s Next Top Model.”

A few months ago, Iz’s dentist suggested she go see an orthodontist. I always knew Iz would need braces. She had my mouth (my teeth) along with my ability to chatter endlessly.

The dental tech told me that Iz had a cross bite, an underbite, and a few other conditions; perhaps it was a mosquito bite and frostbite. She handed me a brochure and circled all of Iz’s oral challenges. After perusing the brochure, Iz’s mouth appeared to be worse than mine ever was.

I wore braces for three years. When I wore braces, they were not as common as they are today. You were an oddity if you had them when I wore them; nowadays, you’re an oddity if you haven’t had a palate expander, braces, or both.

I remember that getting braces for me and my sister was a big financial challenge for my parents at the time. There was no insurance for it, and it seemed to be considered a luxury item then. My mother told me that she thought it was important that we had nice smiles; we were good girls, and she wanted that reflected in our smiles.

Back then, I’m sure many parents thought, “You can chew and smile,” so who cares if your teeth are crooked. I was fortunate. My mother always felt that it was important to deal with issues that might eventually make you self-conscious; I had a serious underbite, Julie had an overbite, and my brother was the only one blessed with near perfect teeth.

I had a mole over my eye and one on my neck. They bothered me when I was in college, and when I was in my early 20s, my Mom said, “You should get those removed.” Like the true nurse that she was, she then said, “Make sure a plastic surgeon does it, because you don’t want scars on your face!”

After she died, I looked in the mirror one day. I called a plastic surgeon, and I had the moles removed. To this day, whenever I look in the mirror and smile, I think “Thanks, Mom.”

Anyway, after our visit to the dentist, Iz quizzed me about the orthodontist. She wanted to know when she was going and what they were going to do to her. I tried to explain it the best I could on the car ride home, but she still seemed uneasy.

I called the orthodontist and made the appointment the next day. Iz asked me every day with dread when her appointment was. It was as if I was taking her to see a 24-hour marathon of the “Wizard of Oz.”

When the day arrived, I dreaded it. I knew she was scared. I did my best to act as if going to the orthodontist were like going to Chuck E. Cheese.

I explained that this orthodontist gave you a wooden nickel for every visit. You could then use the nickels to buy things like beanie babies and iTunes gift cards. I knew this peaked her interest when she asked, “And what else?!?!”

Once it was our turn, we were escorted into a room that looked like someone’s den; Iz was asked to sit in an exam chair disguised as one of those overstuffed recliners that looked like it could fit a family of four in it. The orthodontist came in and had her laughing in about two minutes. When he was done looking at her mouth, he confirmed all the bad bites I had heard about; well, except for the mosquito and frost bites.

Of course, there was one caveat. Iz had to stop sucking her thumb. When Iz heard that, she looked at me panic stricken.

When we left, I was questioned up and down about why she had to stop sucking her thumb. I explained to her that it was not helping her teeth. Also, the palate expander had a thumb guard; if they put it in, she couldn’t suck her thumb.

She frowned. She whined, “I can’t suck my thumb. I don’t want that thing!” I told her that I’d never let them put something in her mouth to prevent her from sucking her thumb; the alternative was for her to try very hard to stop sucking her thumb at night on her own.

It’s funny how when your kids take after you and then when they don’t. I was never a thumb sucker; however, both Nathan and Iz were. Nathan sucked his ring and middle fingers while stroking the manufacturer’s tag on this ratty little brown bear he called “Bear.” Iz sucked her thumb while stroking a pink Winnie the Pooh blanket that was so old and tattered that the pink satin edge it once had around it had long worn off.

Nathan had stopped cold turkey when he was 7. I didn’t encourage him to stop. He just stopped overnight it seemed.

I knew Iz was not a cold turkey. She was a frisky kitten. She was going to fight for her right to retain her stuffed catnip mouse.

One day last week, I played the answering machine messages while Iz was on the couch watching TV. One message was from the orthodontist asking when we might consider beginning Iz’s “treatment.” Iz heard the message and shrieked, “No, Mommy, no! I’m not ready yet!”

I sat down next to her, and I told her that I was not going to call them back yet. Again, I told her that she was getting to be a big girl and sucking her thumb was something she should really try to stop at night. I knew that her thumb wasn’t the issue on its own; the blanket provided the fuel which jettisoned the thumb into her mouth.

I said, “I think that having your blankie in bed makes you want to suck your thumb more.” She thought about it. She said, “But, I like my blankie.”

I smiled, squeezed her hand, and then I said, “I’m just saying that you might try to sleep without blankie for just one night. I hesitated and then I said, “But, only when you’re ready to do that.” She sighed and went back to watching TV.

That night, I tucked her into bed with her blankie, and I sat down at my desk outside her room. She asked me if I was going to call the orthodontist soon. I reiterated that she needed to stop sucking her thumb, and then I would call.

Just then, I heard her jump out of bed. She marched down the hallway toward me with what looked like a mighty purpose. She stopped at my desk, whipped her blanket around from behind her, and dropped it on my desk.

I asked, “Are you sure?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “I know it’s going to be hard, Iz, but it will be worth it.”

She gave me a hug. I said, “You’re a good girl for trying so hard, and after you get your braces off, you will have an even more beautiful smile.” She walked back down the hallway and got into her bed.

The next morning, she climbed into bed with me. She said proudly, “Mommy, I didn’t suck my thumb last night.” I said, “I know. That’s wonderful!”

Her blankie was in the laundry basket in my room. She saw it and then asked, “Mommy, can I have a moment with blankie?” I said, “Sure,” and I left to go feed the animals.

When I came back upstairs, I saw a lump under the covers and pulled the blanket down. There was Iz curled up, stroking her blankie, and sucking her thumb.” I laughed and said, “Iz, your moment is up!”

When she came home last night she said, “Mom, guess what? Samantha has one of those things!” I asked, “A palate expander?” She said, “Yes. I saw it. It’s cool.”

I’m sure that Iz will still want a few more moments with blankie, especially on those days when she needs a bit more comfort. While I never want my daughter to feel pressured to follow trends, I was really glad that Iz seemed excited about becoming part of the “in” orthodontic crowd. Happily, it appeared that Silly Bandz were to second graders’ wrists what palate expanders were now to their mouths. ♥

Note to the blog lurker, Lisa: Thank you for lurking and for all of your lovely comments. ♥

End blog soundtrack:

What Price Silly Bandz?

I’m mean. Okay, I’m being a Drama Queen when I say that; however, my breasts automatically give me the inalienable right to be a Drama Queen according to the Declaration of Chick Independence. See, my blog is educational; before today, you didn’t even know that such a declaration existed, even if the only document existed in my mind.

Anyway, in my 40-something years, I know I have been mean. Like most of us, sometimes it was totally unintentional; sometimes it was totally intentional. When I was 8 years old, I told my 7-year-old sister that it was perfectly okay to run through the sprinkler while holding our cat, KC; that was mean, and she still has the scar on her chest.

Yesterday, I spent most of the day cleaning the house. Surely, that’s not a mean thing. Actually, it was a good thing and a thing that deserved a medal because I’m the only one who does it.

The weekend before last, I only cleaned the downstairs due to time constraints and a general WTF cleaning attitude. As I climbed the stairs to my office (a desk in the corner at the end of the hallway) last Friday night, I noticed that the dust bunnies that were hiding behind the scattered pairs of shoes on the stairs were beginning to take on epic proportions. They were beginning to resemble my 14-pound Maine Coon Cat, Liam.

I then said to myself, “Sunday is not a day of rest. It is the day of cleaning.” I raced up the second tier of steps thinking that one of those dust bunnies might reach out and claw me in the calf. When I got to the top of steps, I looked back down, and I could have sworn that the dust bunnies said, “Redrum!”

When Sunday arrived, I cleaned the house furiously. That’s a lie; I didn’t. I only cleaned the house furiously after I watched ROT (Rubbish on TV) until noon.

Given that I worked 40 hours a week, a stressful 40-hours a week, cleaning the house seemed to be the anti-icing on my marble cake lately. Sadly, I loved icing. And, I could leave the cake and just eat the icing most times.

Anyway, I realy did love cleaning. In some ways, it was therapy for me. But, when I was overloaded, it became like everything else; it was something to postpone.

At 1pm on Sunday, I began to clean the counters. Be gone English Muffin (and did you know that these really aren’t English according to my friend who lives in the UK?!)
crumbs under the toaster! Be gone red wine rings from the bottle from which I was only going to have one glass. Be gone sticky gunk that was no doubt from a snack that Iz tried to fix herself.

Two hours, 20 paper towels, and 30 squirts of 409 later, I was finally ready to vacuum the floors. Vacuuming always made me feel like I was in control of the Universe. Yes, that’s strange but true.

While vacuuming, I saw clumps of fur, bits of food, and small objects I couldn’t identify. When I sucked them up, all was right in my world. I could walk barefoot through my world with no fear, and walking barefoot through my world was one thing I loved and always did no matter what the season.

Usually, when I vacuumed the family room, I had to enlist help. I had to ask Iz to clean up all her “stuff.” Her stuff littered the room; however, on Sunday, there was no Iz to tap for clean up, because she had slept over a friend’s house the night before.

As I vacuumed, I picked up Barbie dolls, both naked and clothed, pencils, and magic markers. And how exactly are they “magic?” (Could someone please research that and then send me an explanatory e-mail?) On that Sunday, the rug was littered with Silly Bandz.

I liked Silly Bandz. Well, I liked them well enough to buy Iz a few hundred of them. But while vacuuming on Sunday, I had mixed feeling about them; actually, I began to hate them!

I live in a house with multiple furry creatures. I have three fluffy cats and a dog that sheds and barks a lot. While a rolling stone may gather no moss, any rubber item in my house gathered a whole lot of fur!

Usually, when I came across a Silly Bandz on the floor, I rescued it. Typically, it was twisted beyond recognition (each bracelet resembled something), and it was covered with fur. I’d pick the fur off of it, and then twist it back to what it was supposed to be.

Yesterday, I wasn’t so kind. It might have been because I was on overload, or it might have been because I was overloaded on Silly Bandz. When I saw the first one on the floor twisted and covered with fur, I had to think twice.

I turned off the vacuum. I picked up the Silly Bandz, picked off the fur, and then I untwisted it. I placed it on Iz’s desk in the pile of forgotten Silly Bandz.

By the time, I came across the fifth Silly Bandz, my “Leave No Silly Bandz Behind” policy had totally faded. I saw the twisted mess of plastic lying on the floor covered with fur. And, then I asked myself, “With 100 of these things around the house, was this one really worth saving?”

I stood there pondering. The vacuum was sucking. And, I thought “To suck it up or not?”

I sucked it up. I thought, “She has 99 other Silly Bandz!” By the way, Iz once asked me to wear a few of these; I thought they should be renamed to SuckTheCirculationOutofYou Bandz.

After I sucked up the first Silly Bandz, I felt horribly guilty. I then thought, “I am mean.” I then thought back to my meanest childhood moment that involved my sister, Julie; I wasn’t being mean to Iz at all.

I was being practical. Iz had so many Silly Bandz; I had so little time. Sucking up the twisted and furry ones was not mean at all.

Iz would always have Silly Bandz. I would know this, because I was the one who would be buying them for her. I would never have a lot of free time on the weekend; however, it was so worth sucking up some Silly Bandz every now even if it meant I had to buy them all over again. ♥

Jean's World: Disturbing But Funny

I’ve been overloaded at work recently. I keep looking at the stack of things I have to document in comparison to the number of days that I have to document them in. As I like to say, I was three months behind before I even started my current job.

Yesterday, I had to document an issue that involved changing the time of scheduled report. Yeah, I know. ZzzzZZZzzz. When are we going to start talking about Iz, Jean?!?!

Hey, it can’t always be about the kids. Sometimes I’m interesting, too. So, this blog is about me, me, me!

Oh, before I begin, in case anyone reading this didn’t know, I’m a technical writer. Yes, I write the documentation that most people love to hate, except I’m so not that person. I know most of my readers probably thought I was a model, a crime scene investigator, or cat whisperer, but I’m not; I’m just as technical writer when I'm not a Crock Pot Goddess.

While technical writing pays well, it’s very, well, technical. As some of you may know, I have a creative side, just a tad. And, sometimes, like yesterday, this creative side seeps out of my heart, oozes up (But, how is that possible? Hey, in my make-believe blog world, anything’s possible!) my chest, my neck, and then somehow makes its way into my left ear and takes over both lobes of my brain; anyway, this all occurred yesterday, and didn’t you read about it on the national news?

So, back to our boring technical writing story...

To change the time of this scheduled report, a user has to edit a cron file. Google that, because I’m so not going to explain that bit of technical boringness here. The engineer felt we shouldn’t document the issue; the engineering manager overruled him and said we should document it.

When I e-mailed the engineer for more information, he e-mailed me the information I needed and a one-sentence statement saying how he still didn’t think we should document the issue. He said that someone could edit the file and mistakenly change the frequency at which the report was run instead of changing the time. If someone scheduled the report to run 1,000,000 times instead of just once a day, their system could potentially overload.

I e-mailed him back and asked him if he wanted me to talk to the engineering manager about it. He said that he had complained enough, so it was fine with him if we just went ahead and documented it. I told him I’d write something up and run it by him for review.

Given his resistance and my stressed out and overloaded state, one of my internal switches must have been flipped. I became totally motivated and wrote the needed text in under 15 minutes; however, while writing it, something oozed into my brain. I thought twice about what I wrote, but then I had a WTF-creative moment and clicked “Send” but not before writing this in an email to him:

My first stab at it…I think my note correctly conveys the severity of it all. :-)
Please comment.

I had written a note to warn users about the dangers of messing with this file. Was it an accurate note? No, but it was accuracy in my world at that point in time!

When modifying a report’s cron file, do not modify anything other than the scheduled time. For example, ensure you do not modify the frequency; if the report frequency is changed, making a report run numerous times a day instead of once a day, a system could be put into overload, locusts could swarm, and cute little furry animals could spontaneously combust.

Within minutes, the engineer was at my cube. He could have emailed me, but there he stood. When I saw him I laughed and probably blushed, and then he said, “That was good.”

He told me there was only one thing he would change. I quickly said, “Yeah, I’ll delete that stuff about the locusts and the spontaneous combustion.” He said, “No. Just change this, “ as he pointed to some command.

I then confessed, “You know, half of me wants to leave it in there to see if anyone notices.” He said, “You should.” I said, “Nah!!!!!”

He left to return to his office. I made his change, and then I modified the note to instruct users to contact technical support first and modify later, if they must. Then my heart oozed into my brain again and took over.

I started an email to the engineer. I wrote…

Age-old question: What happens when someone schedules a report to run 1000000 times a day?

Answer: The polar bear population takes another step closer toward extinction.



He replied back with, “Haha, disturbing but funny.” I smiled, but then I hesitated and thought, “Wait a sec, am I disturbing but funny or is it the picture?” After a minute, I realized he was talking about the picture, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he had been talking about me, too.

So, the feature was documented. Despite the fact that the engineer didn’t want it documented nor did I want to have to bother to document it, it was now there in black and white. Though, that black and white was not smoke, because all evidence of locusts and “spontaneous combustion” were removed from the documentation...sadly.

I love my job; however, some days, like yesterday, I missed having a job in which I could write about locusts and spontaneous combustion...all the time. I think the engineer and I both had a laugh, but when all was said and done, I felt like my creativity had taken a huge hit due to my day job. Well, it felt that way until 6:30 tonight.

As usual, I went to beer o’clock. I made crock pot nachos, but I wasn’t sure how they had turned out. I had to leave for 30 minutes to give Nathan my car, and upon my return, three quarters of the nacho dip was gone along with two bags of chips. I guess it was a success.

At one point, as I held my Dead Guy Ale in my hand, one of the engineers said, “Oh, _insert_engineer’s_name_here sent me your thing about the animals blowing up.” The other five people holding beers in their hands turned to look at me and said, “What is he talking about ?” from the looks on their faces. I stammered, buried my head against the wall, and then I began to try to explain it all.

When I finally came to the end of my short-question-long-answer explanation, the beer crowd said, “Um, yeah, okay, Jean” from the looks on their faces. I said, “Oh, that sounds really crazy.” The engineer who initially mentioned it then said, “When he forwarded to me, he said that it was an example of why he liked having technical publications here again.” I heaved a sigh of relief; then I thought, "You like me, you really like me and my disturbing but funny world!" ♥

Happy weekend, everyone. ♥

Dear Goddess

As I previously mentioned, I get tons of email from readers every day. There are the e-mails with questions and then there are the e-mails with answers. By the way, Winnie in Why, AZ, thanks for “Chicken.” I always thought it was "egg" when I didn’t think it was “Abe Vigoda.”

Then there are the marriage proposal e-mails. Sam in Sing Sing, no, thank you. George Clooney of Los Angeles, CA, oh, yeah!!!

Lastly, there were the restraining order e-mails. George Clooney of Los Angeles, CA, okay, but then how will we ever consummate our marriage?!?!? Mrs. Fletcher from down the street, I’m sorry, but I thought Winston said he was an “orphan” cat; complain all you want, but my cat crunchies are better than your cat crunchies obviously!

Today’s email had the subject title “Good cop Bad cop.” Before I read it, I was torn. Could it be from prison or involve yet another legal action against me?! Was it time to call my cousin who was in the landfill business or my Uncle who was in the cement business? Hmmmm.

Dear Goddess,

So --I woke up this morning on this no-school day and read your blog. After reading it -- I was inspired! I decided to blow off a day of work and take my daughter to the mall to buy clothes she didn't really need and take her to lunch -- things her frugal Bad Cop Dad would frown upon.
We had a ball at Victoria Secret and Abercrombie and the Loft and 99 Restaurant.
Thought you would want to know!

Signed,
"What Would Jean Do" Suzie, South of the Border, SC

Dear Suzie,

Your letter made my day. I already knew you were an awesome Mom and a wonderful friend before your letter arrived. (Of course, that's due to the fact that I watched a lot of "Bewitched" episodes back in the day.) It’s a lot of work keeping up with my career, my family, my home, and this blog. Sometimes I just want to give up. But, knowing that you’re reading (along with many others and you know who you are) and hearing your story based on my story makes it all worthwhile. Thank you, dear Suzie. ♥

And thrown in for good measure…

Dear Goddess,

Do they make Winter Hello Kitty hats for big girls like us?

~Harriet, Humptulips, WA

Dear Harriet,
Humptulips, really?!?!
Err, yes, they do.
And, I own one.
Go figure.



Keep on writing to me, dear readers. I love you. But, that doesn’t mean you, Sam from Sing Sing! ♥

Pink is the New Forty-Something

This afternoon, I was at work madly writing away in effort to meet a major deadline that I have next week. I had a question about configuring file extensions in the netx.cfg file, so I emailed one of the engineers I work with asking if I could discuss it with him tomorrow morning. Just so you know, I already mastered that 5-minute-15-minute bin thingy; thus, it’s so yesterday’s stressful documentation task.

Since the issue was assigned to an engineer in the UK, who was long gone from work at 3pm EST, I hoped that this engineer might be able to answer my questions and quickly. Instead of emailing me back, within 5 minutes, he was at my cube. He said, “Can we discuss this now?”

I said, “Oh, well, I need to transcribe my notes from this morning’s meeting about dynamic thresholds before I forget everything. I was supposed to do it this morning, but I had to update the Installation Guide and then tell the engineering manager that I have no time to devote to updating that appendix that we removed from the v2.1 guide, because we had no time to devote to it, and we still don’t!” I babble sometimes; I totally babbled to him in that moment.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time. He stopped by my cube one day just to see how things were going, and we started talking about our kids. He told me his daughter, who is the same age as Iz, had the next day off due to some teacher enrichment day before the Columbus Day holiday, and I said, “Gee, I wonder if Iz does?”

After he left, I immediately went to Iz’s elementary school’s website. Lo and behold, she had the day off due to some teacher enrichment day. I went by his office later and said, “Thanks! My daughter has tomorrow off, too. I would have totally missed that hadn’t it been for you!”

Due to being a single parent most of the time, I posted her school calendar in a prominent place on my cube wall. Later, this engineer and I joked about it. And when he came to my office today, the first thing he said was “Half day tomorrow!” I said, “Oh, we’ve got the whole day off!”

Anyway, feeling badly that I just verbally vomited my day to him, I then quickly said, “But, now is okay, too!” He said, “What are the issues?” I proceeded to explain them to him; he gave me answers.

At one point, one of the issues required an action item on his part. He said, “Let me write this down.” He went to grab a pen from my pencil can, well, one of three pencil cans.

He chose one, pulled it out, which was pink, glanced around my desk, and then said, “Everything is pink here.” I laughed out loud. Then I said, “You should talk to Amrit about that.”

Amrit was one of my friends. She was an engineer at work; however, we didn’t work together. We did run together and were good friends.

Amrit always wore brown or black. I had always encouraged her to explore her pastel side, specifically pink. She fought it tooth and nail.

Her sking was dark; there really wasn’t a color she couldn’t wear well. She and I had a very friendly pink rivalry. She thought I was too pink; I thought she wasn’t pink enough or at all as the case may really be.

Anyway, after his pink comment, I reached for my Post-It Note container. "Hello, my name is Jean, and I’m an office supply addict, specializing in pens and Post-It notes." Like my BFF Brenda, we loved office supplies!

I reached into the container and pulled out a small pad of notes. I handed it to him. I said, “Perhaps you might like to make your notes on this?”

He looked at the pad. I had handed him a pink Hello Kitty Post-it note pad. He laughed and continued to write with my pink pen on the paper he had brought with him.

I exclaimed, “Pink is the new taupe!!!” I threw the Hello Kitty Post-it notes back in the container. I then said, “Obviously, I’m 48 going on 8.” He laughed.

Childish as it seemed, I was proud that I was older yet still young. I didn’t have to think too long about who made me that way. After he left, I looked at the picture of Iz on my desk. Besides the unconditional love you give me, my darling Iz, you make me a great Mom and a much better and younger person. ♥

I Must Be Doing Something Right

Nathan’s soccer team made the playoffs this season. Last Saturday, his soccer team played some school named after what sounded like a clam in their first playoff game. They won.

This allowed them to move onto their second playoff game. Yesterday, they were supposed to play a team from a school named after what sounded like a 40K a year private school. They were an “Academy” not a “High School!”

The weather on Saturday had been marginal for a soccer game. Earlier in the week, it had been cold and rainy. On Saturday, the conditions had only improved slightly from cold and rainy to cold and somewhat damp.

Being the Mom of a son who played soccer and hockey for the last four years, I was used to braving the elements to earn my titles, “Hockey Mom” and “Soccer Mom.” If I wasn’t shivering outside during the Spring or Fall, I was shivering indoors during the Winter at a cold hockey rink. But, I had grown fond of the challenge of dressing for the occasion; if I was going to be there, I might as well make it about fashion!

On Saturday, I made sure I brought a chair, a Winter jacket, gloves, a blanket, and Iz. Why Iz? Well, it’s very simple; she cheers loudly and functions as a small electric blanket at sporting events where the temperature is below 50 degrees.

Yes, I’m not above using my child for warmth. At a few points during the game, Iz jumped off my lap to run around. When she left, I wanted to whine, “No!!! Stay!!! You’re so warm!!!”

There were people around, so I thought it best not to divulge to them that while I loved my daughter to bits, I loved her as a lap warmer, too. I let her run around. And then, I shivered while trying to channel “Please sit on my lap again!!!” vibes to Iz.

When my “Please sit on my lap again!!!” vibes didn’t work, I was left with my desperation vibes. I channeled to the timekeeper, “Please make this game end soon!!!” By the way, none of this vibe channeling crap ever works; it does keep your mind off being cold though.

Anyway, when the whistle finally blew, due to no “Please let the whistle blow!!!” vibes on my part whatsoever, I jumped up out of my chair, grabbed my blanket, and said, “Let’s go, Iz.” Though, I had to think for a second. Did they win?

Thoughts of a warm car immediately began to thaw my brain. I said, “Yes! They won!” I eagerly anticipated the next playoff game, well, only if it were going to be playing it in Bermuda.

Knowing that the next game would most likely be occurring on a week day, I headed into work on Sunday for a few hours. I didn’t have benefits at my old-new job. The only way to take time off was to make time up.

Actually, if truth be told, I loved working when there was no one in the building. I loved the solitude and the fact that I could walk in with partial bed head, no makeup, grubby jeans, and an old sweatshirt, and that there was no one to notice. Though, given I worked among engineers, no one would have probably noticed that fashion statement on a weekday either.

I found out that the second playoff game was going to be on Monday at 2pm. Of course, weather-wise, Monday came in like a lion and stayed a lion. It was cold, raining, windy, and, in some areas, there was snow and hail. Despite that, let me say, “I love New England!”

When I left the house on Monday morning, I threw my Soccer Mom fashion statement into the car. I had my chair, my Winter coat, a hat, gloves, boots, warm socks, and a blanket. Damn! I’d have to rough it without my little electric blanket named Iz.

As I sat there warm and content (well, other than the fact that I had to figure out how to document the 15-minute bin size versus the 5-minute bin size) at work, I peered out the window periodically. The wind was blowing, the rain was coming down in sheets, and I began to shiver, feeling that I just might have the first case of pre-traumatic weather stress disorder. When I last looked out the window at 1:45, the rain and the wind had subsided.

I was glad to see the wind had died down. Besides the shivers, I had envisioned myself being carried away by a gust of wind at the game while I was in my lawn chair. As I imagined it, it was not unlike how Dorothy’s house gets twirled around and around by the cyclone in the Wizard of Oz.

At 12:45pm, the Governor called to pardon me. Okay, that’s not true, but it was similar. Nathan texted me to tell me that the game had been postponed to Tuesday.

I was somewhat relieved. Okay, I was a lot relieved. I knew that someday I would die, but when it did happen, I didn’t want the headline to read, “Woman in Lawn Chair Attending Soccer Game Carried By Strong Winds for One Mile Before Being Dropped into Sewage Water Treatment Facility and Drowned.”

Of course, when I woke up today, the day looked no better. There was no wind; thus, I knew I could strike the “Carried By Strong Winds for One Mile Before Being” from my above-mentioned obituary. I could still get deposited into a sewage treatment facility via lawn chair and drown; it could happen and, yes, I’ve watched way too many CSI episodes.

When at work, I checked the weather forecast. Rain was predicted for the afternoon. I was really glad I still had my Soccer Mom fashion statement in the car, and, for a few seconds, I even thought about getting Iz out of school early in the name of more warmth.

I admit that my fashion statement was missing an umbrella. I owned three umbrellas; however, it was funny that when I needed one, I could never find one. I attribute this to the Black-Hole-Bermuda-Triangle in my house; and her name is Iz.

At 12:45pm, Nathan texted me with “The game is still on.” I said, “Okay. I’ll see you there.” He asked, “You’re still coming?”

I guess Nathan thought that my offer to attend his playoff game expired after the first game cancellation. Obviously, he isn’t familiar with the Soccer Mom credo; okay, I have no idea what the Soccer Mom credo is, but I know we’re not quitters even when we’re shivering! I texted back, “Yes. I worked on Sunday just so I could be there. I’m coming!”

When I arrived, I plunked down my chair. I shivered, but I knew I had to tough it out without Iz the Electric Blanket. And, when all was said and done, Nate’s team lost 2-1.

They played a great game; Nathan even got to play a few minutes. As the players filed off the field, I thought, “Wow. That’s the last time I’ll probably ever see Nathan play soccer again.” Despite the weather, I’m so glad I was there instead of trying to wrap my head around bin sizes.

Nathan was rather grumpy on the ride home. After I dropped him off at home, I went out to shop. Then my phone rang.

I answered, and it was Nathan telling me that all the Senior players were going out for dinner tonight. I asked if he needed money; he said he was fine and would be gone by the time I got home anyway. He said Sam or Joey would be picking him up.

When Iz and I got home, there were only one or two lights on in the house. I assumed Nathan had left. To be sure, I yelled upstairs, “Nathan?!?!?!”

He responded, “Yeah?” I said, “Oh, you’re home. When are you leaving? Where are you going? What time will you be home?” As usual, he responded, “I dunno.”

About 15 minutes later, the doorbell rang. Actually, the corgibell rang before the doorbell. I opened the door, and there was Joey to pick Nathan up.

Joey yelled, “Nathan, come on!” Nathan thudded down the steps. Nathan got to the bottom of the steps, said “Hi” to Joey, and then began to come towards me.

I stiffened up, having no idea what Nathan's closeness maneuver was about, especially in front of his friend. Nathan then kissed me on the cheek and hugged me. I looked at Joey and stammered, “Oh, I thought he was going to give me a noogie or something.” Joey laughed.

Nathan kissed and hugged me in front of his friend!!! It was in that moment I realized that I was much happier being Nathan’s Mom than his Facebook friend. They left, I closed the door, and I then thought, “I must be doing something right.” ♥

Saucesome Mom Chops

That sounds like a recipe, doesn’t it? In some ways, it is. Lately, I’ve found it’s been a recipe that creates what Jean + Motherhood equals; each day, I discover what it is to be the Mom that I am and what it is to the person I am by being the kind of mother I am.

Does that sound confusing? Yeah. Life usually is.

At 7pm last night, I received a text from Nathan. It said, “So, here’s the deal. You need me to babysit tomorrow.” “Babysit” was in quotes; reading between the quotes, this kind of text always meant, “Mom, I need you to tell a white lie, so I can do something I know Dad won’t let me.”

As I’ve said before, it seems that Nathan loves both his parents; however, it’s clear that we each have a parental role we play. Quinn’s is the “bad cop.” I am the “good cop.”

Last night, Nathan needed the good cop. Without even having to think or ask about it, I texted back, “I am meeting with my financial planner. Can you babysit?” Actually, that wasn’t a lie. I was supposed to meet with my financial planner, but Sunday left me a single-parent for a week, and I hadn’t cancelled the appointment yet.

To cut to the chase, I called Nathan; I asked him what was up with Monday night. After all these years, I should have known better. He said, “Mom, Call of Duty: Black Ops comes out at midnight. Can I drive to Game Stop and pick it up?”

I had never been into computer games. Quite frankly, when I played them, they stressed me out more than everyday life did. But, I respected Nathan’s right to be excited about Call of Duty like he respected my right to listen to ABBA.

Okay, Nathan had never respected my right to listen to any of the music I listened to; of course, when I was 17 did I respect any of the music that my parents listened to? Actually, my parents didn’t listen to any music that I remember and how weird was that? I always knew I was adopted!!!!

I told Nathan it was fine if he wanted to go out and buy his game at midnight on my watch. We synchronized Swatches, and I was going to fetch him after his soccer playoff game today. When I got off the phone, I texted him with “Yes. I will be at my financial planners, so it would be great if you could babysit,” thinking he might need an alibi text to show to his Dad.

Nathan texted me back with, “Yeah, when are you going to be home? Don’t stay out too late. It’s a school night.” I was trying to supply him with a text alibi, and he wasn’t playing along. I then texted that I would be home by 10pm to which he texted, “Saucesome.”

Saucesome? What happened to awesome? Recently, I realized how little I knew about current actresses, when I read a story and said, “Who the hell is Demi Lovato?” Now, I was losing track of the lingo too!

I then said, “I thought you might need a text trail for your Dad.” Nathan said, “Hahaha. Well, maybe.” Of course, to add insult to “good cop” injury and obviously my text acting was bad, Nathan asked, “Why 10pm? What financial planner works ‘til 10pm?”

I was now asked to defend my fake get-Nathan-out-of-Dad’s-house-for-the-night plan. I wanted to say, “Hello, Nathan?” I said, “Well, I’m not going. But, he works in Waltham, I was going to meet him after 6pm, and I’m sure I wouldn’t be home ‘til late.” Nathan said, “Alright, no biggie. Just making sure you’re not off doing meth or crack or something.”

I laughed out loud, and then I wanted to ring his neck but in a nice Mom way. He asked me to cover for him, which I did. Then, he scrutinized my fake plan, and I was just about ready to say, “Scratch the mission!”

I answered with “Me?!?!? No. I’m just high on Maine Coon cats.” He said, “My Dad said I could go.” After all that, it was a plan, a saucesome plan.

Did I feel guilty? No, because Nathan and I were kindred spirits. I think he knew that.

I had finally realized it about the two of us today. Like I went to NYC to see a musician I adored perform from 11pm-1am, which some might think a bit crazy, he wanted to pick up a game he adored at midnight. I “got” the thrill of being there and being in the moment for something you loved; his Dad, and probably many others, didn’t.

Today, I got a text from Nathan shortly after noon telling me that his soccer playoff game at 2pm was cancelled. Thank goodness, because sitting on a wet soccer field when it was 45 degrees outside with the wind whipping was the last place I wanted to be this afternoon. I told him, “Go to your Dad’s. I’ll fetch you at 4pm.”

He said, “Walk in the rain. Fun.”
I asked, “Can’t you take the bus?”
He answered, “Uhh, no. I didn’t buy a bus pass this year. It’s ok. I’ll just walk in the rain…alone. Maybe I’ll catch pneumonia and die. But, no, it’s okay. I’ll manage. Wasting away as sleet and hail descend upon me. I’ll be okay. No, really. No harm done.”

I was so overwhelmed with the stress of work, I didn’t really process his response with the parental “bull” detector. I resorted to my basic instincts which were, “OMG. I have to go get him!”

I asked, “Can’t Connor drive you home?” I then reread his previous message and thought, “Hey, wait a minute. If I didn’t know any better, you were competing with your sister, Iz, for that Wrongly Treated Child Academy Award!” Nathan text me back with, “I’m getting a ride with Joey. I was just busting your chops!”

I frowned, then I smiled. I then thought, “Hell, I want to ring his neck," But, at the same time, I wanted to give him the Academy Award for the Wrongly Treated Child with that stellar text message; he was so much better than Iz, but maybe that came with age.

I texted him back with “Sigh. Like I needed that!!!!!” He texted me back with “I’ll be dying in the cold. No worries.” I laughed out loud, and then the phone rang.

It was Nathan. I almost didn’t want to pick up. I feared that the first words out of his mouth would be, “Mom, I’m pregnant,” not unlike they were a few months ago.

I answered, and he said, “Mom, Joey is going to drive tonight. Can he just sleep over?” Gasp! They were going to pick up their game at a store located in Joey’s town; however, Joey would have to go to the store, drive them all home, and then go back home. I said, “Sure.”

Nathan asked, “Can he have supper with us?” I said, “Yes. I’m making spaghetti.” Nathan said, “Oh, spaghetti,” as if “spaghetti” were only one rung below “Call of Duty: Black Ops.”

I told Nathan I had to stop on the way home to get a few things. He said, “Okay,” and then I hung up. I went to the store, and while I was there, I stopped in the “Health and Beauty Aid” aisle; I got something for Joey.

When I arrived home, I was greeted by a barking dog and a very excited Iz, who said, as if I didn’t know, “Mom, Joey’s here!!!” I said, “I know, Iz. He’s staying over.” She asked, “Really?!?!?!?”

I put away the groceries, fed the pets, and then I headed upstairs. I heard Nathan say quite warmly, “Hi, Mom!” I walked into his room, and then I pulled out my purchase from the “Health and Beauty Aid” aisle.

Nathan said, “Thanks, Mom!” when I whipped out the new blue toothbrush. I said, “It’s for Joey,” to which Joey said, “I have one, but thanks!” I said, “I thought if I was staying at someone’s house unexpectedly, what’s the thing I would want most? Minty fresh breath before sleep and after!” He laughed, and then I said, “Nathan, it’s all yours then.”

After dinner, Nathan gave me a hard time about something trivial. I said, "Hey, your Dad would never let you do this!" He answered, "Yes. I know. That's why you're the fun parent."

Tonight was all about Jeanhood. It was an interesting cross between motherhood and me. I was letting my son do something that was quite different.

Most parents probably wouldn’t let him do what I was going to let him do tonight, but I knew it was something we both shared – a passion for being there when it all happened, no matter the time nor the place. Tonight, I wasn’t there for my favorite musician in NYC, but I was there for my son. I hoped he’d have a good thrill and then come home safe from his exciting adventure just like I always did. ♥

TFIF -- Blog Lite

I took the afternoon off from work today to prepare my house for a Lovelies evening. A Lovelies evening comprises five of my dear friends from high school, food, wine, and lots of talking, especially about men. Anyway, given that I had taken the afternoon off, I wanted to pick up Iz early; she wasn't an official Lovely yet, but she aspired to it and loved it when they all came over.

When I arrived at her after-school program, I went to her usual room. It was empty. I did note that when I arrived, there were 12 backpacks hanging on the fence outside.

I thought, "Oh, it's playground time." So, I headed down the stairs, passing by the pre-kindergarten rooms to get to the playground. I used to pick Iz up at one of these rooms, but she was a big girl now.

As I walked down the hallway, something caught my attention. It was a sign posted above someone's coat hook. I read it, smiled, and something about it gave me pause for much thought.



Whether your child is 20, whether your child is 7, or whether you have no children, you had to love the fact that Alyssa had reached a very important milestone. Some parents might say it was even monumentous. And, wasn't it great that this accomplishment was posted for the World to see and admire?!

We all work hard toward reaching goals. Would the world be a better place if we all got a balloon every once in a while that praised us? I think so.

Alyssa, congratulations! Big girl underwear -- you go, girl! Your parents aren't the only ones who are proud of you; we all are. ♥

Brenda and Steve: Thanks for helping me get my writing groove back. ♥

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Last night, we had a dinner guest. Guess who? Don’t guess Sidney Poitier, because it wasn’t him!

When Nathan, my son, stays with me, I always try to make a dinner that I know he enjoys. His two favorites are spaghetti and my baked salmon. The latter has become my primary comfort food; whenever I’m stressed, guess what I’m having for dinner?

What makes my seemingly boring baked salmon special is the side dish. Usually, I coat the fish with a light layer of olive oil and then rub some herbs or some pesto over it, which is always “tasty**.”

**When I wrote “tasty,” I had to laugh. My grandmother, no matter what dinner my Mom served her, always would say, “That’s tasty!” It became a running joke between my Mom and my Dad; after my grandmother left the table to go back into her little apartment, which was attached to my parent's house, my Dad would always taunt my Mom by saying, “That was tasty, Ruth!”

Anyway, my special side dish may seem pedestrian; well, the ingredients on their own could be quite ho-hum. It's baked potato covered with broccoli and smothered with cheese. Except, I put four potatoes on a plate, plant a field of broccoli on the potatoes, and then unleash a flood of cheddar cheese; when I pull it out of the microwave, it resembles a small mountain covered with trees and snow!

At about 5pm last night, I got a text from Nathan. He asked, “Can Joey eat dinner with us?” I had to read the text two or three times to make sure I was reading it correctly – Joey, dinner, with us.

As some of you know, Nathan deleted me as his Facebook friend for questioning a post he wrote (some depressing song lyrics) and for scrutinizing his picture (prom date who, I think, led him on something fierce); okay, I probably deserved the deletion. He let me be his friend again; however, I posted something that was too Mom-like (supportive post about his car accident after he chastised himself about it in a Facebook post). He promptly deleted it, and I then decided that Nathan was a good kid, I trusted him, so I deleted myself as his friend, yes, really.

Sometimes mother-son relationships are best in real-time and not in cyberspace. I talked to him every day, and I always knew where he was going and what he was doing, so why did I care about being his friend on Facebook? Heck, in five months, he was going to be an official adult and be able to vote his little Libertarian heart out!

Anyway, after confirming with my brain and heart that I had read Nathan’s text correctly asking if one of his friends could come for dinner, I wrote back, “Yep!!!” After I clicked “Send,” I wondered if my exclamation points may have shown too much enthusiasm. I was quite elated a few months ago when Nathan had not one but two friends sleep over; I had to tread lightly before they came over, fearing that zealous snack buying and preparing the living room with pillows and blankets seemed too invasive for Nathan's friend space with the clearly marked Mom-No-Fly zone.

On that sleepover night, I was to be seen ever so briefly and not heard other than to leave the downstairs and say “Good night.” I was okay with that, though I didn’t think I was a bad or embarrassing Mom. I was only a very enthusiastic Mom.

My phone buzzed again showing another text from Nathan. Joey had to check with his stepmom to make sure eating over was okay. I wrote back telling Nathan that I needed to buy a bit more fish and broccoli; my phone buzzed two minutes later saying, “Joey is coming for dinner.”

This was momentous, because a friend was coming over who actually had to interact Nathan and me in this dinner scenario. I told myself to calm down; I didn’t want to blow it. Nathan was letting a friend hang out with me!!! (Oh, again, with the exclamation points, Jean. Down, girl!)

So, I had a chat with myself on the drive home. First, I said, “Breathe; now’s not the time to hyperventilate, because your son may now think you’re more okay than you were when his friends slept over.” Second, I promised myself that while I would make dinner, I would not make a fuss by buying dessert, flowers for the table, or making an “I ate dinner at Nathan’s house!!!” t-shirt for Joey, yes, with my signature three exclamation points!

Boys are tough; okay, Nathan was never tough. He's been easy going from the get go, and he’s a great kid. But, Iz and I seem to have so much more in common than Nathan and I do. As Nathan’s traveled through high school, I’ve felt a little more distance because his likes and dislikes are now so defined as they should be with him almost being an official “adult.”

Nathan is a libertarian, likes playing airsoft, loves his X-box, magic cards, and Dungeons and Dragons. I am a Democrat, like playing with my vintage clothes, and love pink, Sephora, shoes, and Law & Order. I guess we do meet in the middle sometimes when it involves cats and shows from the 70s (Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, and MASH); most importantly, we are both lovers not fighters and find it difficult to confront people, especially those who hurt us.

When I got home from the store with Iz, I ran around the house like a maniac picking up, sweeping, and making the beds upstairs. (Nathan didn’t have to know about this bit of enthusiasm; so “Mum’s the word” this time.) I even picked up Nathan’s room for Joey's benefit; of course, when I left Nathan's room, I wondered why I bothered, because I’m sure every 17-year-old’s room looks pretty much the same with the unmade bed, the pile of dirty clothes petrifying in the middle of the floor, the candy wrappers stacked in between the old homework papers, and one empty root beer can on every flat surface.

After I started dinner, I heard Monty bark. If my doorbell ever dies, I don’t have to worry about fixing it. I have a corgibell which alerts me to any movement within 250 yards of the house. Oh, lucky me!

Nathan entered the door with Joey behind him. I glanced down the hallway wanting to rush to the door to greet them. I grabbed the cook top to steady my enthusiastic mother urges and then said to myself, “Just say no to Carol Brady, June Cleaver, and Edith Bunker. No, no, no! Be cool; don’t drool. Cats have class and dogs that bark a lot are a pain in the ass! What?!?!?”

Obviously, it was a struggle for me to hang on to the cook top and any coherent thoughts; however, ten seconds passed, and I began to busy myself at the cutting board, pretending to cut up broccoli that I had already cut up. I heard Joey say, “Hi!” I looked up, pretending that he was just “some kid,” said, "Hi," and I went back to my fake chopping.

Nathan and Joey began to head upstairs. Temporarily lost in my world of fake chopping, I said as they went upstairs in a sing-song-thinking-I-was-being-helpful voice, “Oh, I cleaned up your room a bit, Nathan.” My words were greeted with a grunt. When I realized what I said, I shrieked to myself, immediately put both hands over my mouth, and asked Carol, June, and Edith, “Why, oh, why did you say that?!?!?”

Just then, I was hoping that Nathan couldn’t delete me from the kitchen. I went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and searched high and low for my “Carol Brady, June Cleaver, and Edith Bunker” anti-venom. Damn, I was out!

Once I heard them land in Nathan’s room, I decided that there was no turning back. I had said something enthusiastic and so Mom-like. Joey was never going to come back for dinner again, and Nathan would offer to add me as a Facebook friend later tonight only to delete me two seconds after I accepted his friend request. Ouch!

When dinner was ready, I knew I had to make contact with Nathan’s bedroom. It would be very Carol Brady to go upstairs, especially if I were wearing a June Cleaver apron, and then it would be so very Edith Bunker to actually say, “Dinnah’s ready now! Oh, Nathan, don’t you like the way I organized your magic cards in that box?” I decided it was best to remain on the first floor.

I headed to the stairs. I thought long and hard about what I would say and practiced it over and over again. I said, “Dinner’s ready!” Yes, I really had to practice that.

I heard some shuffling and X-box controllers dropping. There was no response; I wrung my hands together and made a Hail Mary play when I shouted to the stairs, “Um, do you want to eat up there or at the kitchen table?” I figured that perhaps Nathan would like to dine sans enthusiastic mother given my "I cleaned your room" outburst earlier.

He responded, “No. We’ll eat at the table.” I said, “Okay.” He said, “We’ll be there in a minute.”

Of course, now I was panicked that I’d had have to make conversation. If I couldn’t say one sentence without thinking about it five time and ten different ways, how could I carry on lengthy discussion over salmon and potatoes? This was looking like one of my biggest parental challenges of the year, and it was too late to phone a friend or poll the pets. Eeeek!

I got the plates ready, put serving spoons out, and then stood there pretending to be busy when I was really waiting anxiously for their arrival. Thud-thud-thud came down the steps. They entered the kitchen, and I decided brevity was best by handing them items and saying, “Plate. Fork. Napkin. Root beer.” and then pointing to the salmon baking dish and saying only “Hot!!!” (At least, “hot” merited the exclamation points!)

They both sat down at the table. I lingered over the salmon baking dish, pondering if I could fake something a bit longer by the cook top before heading to sit down at the table. I then figured that I’d look even odder if I lingered too long at the cook top, so I took a deep breath, walked over to the table, plunked my plate down, and sat in my chair.

Joey thanked me for inviting him. I then I thanked him for driving Nathan home numerous times due to Nathan’s lack of the beaten and battered Big Red, a victim, and luckily the only one, of Nathan’s first driving accident. Joey said the fish was great; I thanked him, and after the easy polite talk, my first babble burbled.

I told Joey how I made salmon at least once a week. I said, “It’s my comfort food.” I quickly looked over at Nathan to see if I was divulging too much personal information, but Nathan was busy munching on a piece of broccoli. Joey must have sensed my drift into enthusiastic and now “sharing” Mom talk when he responded, “Now it’s mine, too!”

I asked about the soccer playoffs, because sports always seemed like a safe subject, except for that whole Yankees-Red Sox rivalry. Joey and Nathan were both on the high school's soccer team. They were playing some school (it sounded like the shell fish, Quahog, but thank goodness I didn't babble that!), this weekend.

For some reason, the conversation turned to a boss I had long ago who sounded like Elmer Fudd. I can’t remember exactly how we got to that conversation, but I did do my Elmer Fudd impression at the dinner table. After I did it, I again went to look at Nathan but Joey was laughing, so what did it matter? I was being Jean, super enthusiastic Mom, and I was doing okay with the dinner guest!

After dinner, I started to get up to clear the plates; however, Joey grabbed his own before I could get up, took Nathan’s, and then reached out for mine. I said, “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” He said, “No. That’s okay.”

I looked at Nathan. Then I said, “Nathan, did you see how he did that?” Nathan was anti-plate clearing when he wasn't anti-clean his room, and then Nathan said kiddingly to Joey, “That’s it. You’re not coming over for dinner anymore!”

Joey said he had to leave, and I told him it was nice to have him over. He thanked me, and I told him that he was welcome any time for dinner; he lived in a town 20 minutes away, and he had driven Nathan home on his way home whenever Nathan needed a ride to my house. As he went out, I said, “Thanks for giving Nathan all the rides,” pushed $20 into his hand, and then said, “Here’s some gas money. I really appreciate you helping him out with the rides."

He thanked me, said good-bye to Nathan, and left. Nathan –gasp– thanked me for dinner, and then headed upstairs. So, I was Carol Brady, June Cleaver, and Edith Bunker sometimes; however, tonight, I was Martha Stewart, off to a rough spot at the beginning and thankfully not over an illegal stock trading, but finished as the hostess with the most-est yet still a sometimes overly enthusiastic but pretty damn good Mom.

Who will be coming to dinner next?! A girlfriend?! Okay, I'm so not ready for a girlfriend; I hope it's Joey, Matt, Sam, or Ben. ♥

Crime and Punishment

Every morning, I fight a battle. Amazingly, my opponent is half my size, says “revember” instead of “remember,” and still believes in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus. You’d think I’d win this battle once and for all based on fact that I’m bigger, can pronounce most words correctly, unless there’s more than two glasses of wine involved, and, finally, because I believe that the Great Cat Goddess is a powerful and all-knowing yet moody being not unlike myself!

While I occasionally say those things that remind me of my mother, I also occasionally get sick of saying certain things. This would be things like, “Please brush your hair” or Please get dressed” over and over again to Iz. Typically, I ask, I go off to get myself ready, and when I come back ten minutes later, Iz is still lounging on the couch in her PJs with a blanket covering every part of her body except her head.

Don’t get me wrong. Iz is a great kid, and she listens most of the time. Though, she’s better at hearing “Let’s go to the mall” or “Let’s get manicures and pedicures” than she is at “Please brush your teeth” or “Please stop squeezing Thunderbolt like he’s a stuffed animal.”

This morning, after many repeated requests for cooperation, I entered the family room once again to see Iz no closer to being ready to go to school. She was sitting there munching on a muffin and holding the TV remote. If I didn’t know any better, she was male, it was Sunday, and all the best football games were on!

I said, “Iz, you need to get ready now!” She looked up at me from her spot on the couch, muttered, “I am!” while shuffling back and forth in her seat, trying to give the appearance of putting on her socks under the blanket, and then proceeded to continue to watch TV. Yep, it must have been a football game – The Wizards of Waverly Place versus the Jonas Brothers.

I said, “That’s it!” I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV; funny, but now I had her complete attention. I was waiting for her to say, “But, Mom, the Jonas Brothers were on the 10-yard line!”

I made my “I mean business now” face, which Iz might probably confuse with my “I really have to pee” or my “I just stepped on a coughed up furball” faces. No matter, as long as my face showed urgency and anger.

I said, “That’s it. From now on, you must get dressed and brush your hair before you turn on the TV in the morning.” She glared at me and I swear her head may have spun around once or twice.

She then said...



It’s always good to be serious when you’re a parent trying to “mean business.” The way she said it and in light of recent events, I didn’t laugh to myself. I totally laughed out loud.

I said, “Are you kidding me?” She crumpled up her face and rolled her eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn she was going for the Academy Award for the best portrayal of an Overly and Unfairly Punished Child.

At that point, I decided it was time to help her get dressed and brush her hair. Tomorrow there would be no TV; however, today, I ended the battle early, noting that there were going to be many more battles and my medal for being "the best Mom a chid coald have" would be awarded and then taken away for many years to come. ♥