NQ (Thank You)

A video thank you to our BFFs...

Spring Sprang Sprung

When I saw it snowing yesterday morning, I knew I had to do something other than shovel, dress warmly, or open my bedroom window and yell, “Where the hell is Spring, Mother Nature?” It seemed like it had been a long Winter already. I really didn’t mind the cold and the snow; in retrospect, I think that Winter seemed that much longer, because I had been looking forward to several things occurring during the Winter that would give my life a spring of sorts.

Sometimes waiting is the hardest part. Yesterday, it seemed that I had a long time to make it to that spring which would occur in Spring and be the thing that I could say sprung me. This spring, like Spring, would be about new beginnings.

Waiting for my real life to begin, I decided my plan of action for the day – Field of Dreams. Hasn’t a movie ever been your plan of action? When I go for a pedicure, it’s “Pretty Woman.” When I buy shoes from Zappos, it’s “In Her Shoes.” Life imitates art most definitely.

I decided that if I think it, Spring will come. Why the rush? The odd thing about me (okay, we all know there are many odd things about me) is that cleaning calms me. A clean house makes me feel like my world has order even when my world looks like a Picasso, totally abstract; when I’m done cleaning my house, my life is a Singer-Sergeant with everything in its place.

Amazingly, after all these years, I had finally learned a lesson about how to approach cleaning or any other "to do" task. Psychologically, it was better to only put two things on the list than 20. If I only completed two of twenty tasks, I felt defeated; however, if I completed one of two tasks, I had gotten halfway through my list. I liked that math!

Anyway, I surveyed the indoor tundra (a.k.a., the upstairs of my house). Unlike the numerous piles of snow covering the outside tundra, I had small piles or boxes of things in every corner it seemed. I sat down at my desk to make a list of two things to do.

In an instance, I was overwhelmed when I noticed the small box of things next to my filing cabinet. Given that I had been laid off over two years ago, I still had one small box of stuff that I hadn’t yet cleaned out. It was a box of my favorite office things – Post-it Notes, binder clips, pens, pencils, paper clips, magnets, and those pin-like clips that you use to hang things on fabric-covered cubicle walls, which I only remembered were in the box after one stabbed me in the finger!

I wrote “Clean out little box of stuff” on my pad. While rummaging through the box, I found a wine bottle opener; I couldn’t ever remember drinking wine at work (champagne, yes, wine, no), though some days, shouldn't it be a work essential?

When I put the box down, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from underneath the linen closet door. I opened the door and was immediately attacked by DVD cases, stamp pads, and an Ethernet cable, all of which had fallen off a box that was perched on top of another box on the floor of the linen closet. This was a no-brainer; I then wrote “Clean out bottom half of linen closet” on my pad.

I sprang into action by dragging the box of office supplies to my feet and began to paw through the contents. Ouch! I had found the pin-like clips that you use to hang things on fabric-covered cubicle walls. In addition to the office supplies, I found a folder full of things that used to cover my cubicle walls.

A lot had been hanging on my cubicle walls. In fact, there was so much stuff hanging up that it prompted one engineer to say when he first stopped by, “Wow. It’s like a museum in here. You should sell tickets.” I took that as a compliment.

I sorted through pictures of the kids, postcards, and various things people had given to me. I took a piece of paper that a friend had given me that said, “Look! A shiny object!” and I tossed it into the trash can; it was tough to do, but it was curled up and faded. Though, I did keep the Playboy Club ashtray he had given me, which he had found when he cleaned out his mother’s house after she died.

I found my numbers from the two 5K races I ran on the corporate team when previously employed by my current employer; I pitched those in the trash can. I then came across the short essay I had written that won me a trip to Las Vegas as a Booth Babe, and I pitched that in the trash can, too. I have an electronic copy if I ever want to read how great my company is, especially if they ever lay me off again, which I hope won’t happen again anytime soon!

I found an e-mail that a friend had written to me after running with me for the first time. It said, “I ran with Sizzlechick the Merciless…AND LIVED!” I loved it, but it was crumpled, so I tossed it in the trash can. I realized then that even if you threw something away, the memory of it was still inside your head and your heart. There were going to be new races, trips, and there would always be new friends to run with, who enjoyed running with you.

I came across a paper coffee cup I had saved. It wasn’t just any coffee cup. I can’t even remember why I did this, but it was a cup on which I had pasted a picture of Lucy in her psychiatrist’s booth.



I kept it perched on the top of my cube wall. Every once and a while, one of my co-workers, Chuck, would come by to ask a work-related question. He’d always pull out a nickel or a penny from his pocket and drop it into my cup; I think he even threw a few paperclips in there, too.

I looked at the cup. I laughed, and put the cup in the trash can. I thought, "Those were such good times with some really great people." As Chuck said once, “We didn’t know how good we had then.”

Iz must have ESP, because I had just pulled out the unopened Hello Kitty Pez dispenser from the box when she came thudding up the stairs. “Whatcha doing?” I answered, “Cleaning out stuff,” and her eyes immediately zoomed in on the Pez dispenser.

She asked, “Whose is that?” I looked at it, knowing already it was destined for the trash, and I said, “It’s yours. Do you want it?” She said, “Suuuuuuuure!”

I handed it to her. She asked, as if she were asking to open a Christmas present early, “Can I have some now?” It was 10am, and like a good mother I said, “Suuuuuuuure! Dessert should always follow breakfast!” Heck, it was a holiday of sorts, so I was justified.

Have you ever tried to load one of those Pez dispensers? I think you need a PHD to do it or elf fingers. Since I had neither, I struggled; however, unlike my last attempt, I grouped the Pez into two short stacks and put those two short stacks successfully into the dispenser. I was not too old to learn new Pez tricks!

Iz left with her loaded Hello Kitty Pez dispenser. I sat there pondering what I had left in the box to bring to work and what I had put in the trash can. I rethought some of my toss items; however, I knew I couldn’t keep it all.

Last December, I gave an ornament to a friend who was grieving the loss of her mother’s death on her first Mom-less Christmas. As it turns out, this ornament was one my Mom had given me; it was a mother cat holding a baby cat. The note with the ornament said “A Mother’s Love is Forever.

One of my friends e-mailed me to tell me how much she loved my blog about the ornament. She said she thought I would have saved it for Iz. Then she said that she might have been more sentimental about something like that. I am very sentimental, which is probably why I have piles of stuff in my attic; however, through the years, I realized that sometimes your sentiment might be best nurtured with someone else, so you can be sprung into a spring that gets you to Spring.

It might just be better to know that the memory in your head and in your heart is now comforting someone else’s head and heart. Sometimes, it's more powerful to know that the love in your heart is shared between two hearts. It's an emotional heart transplant; my love is your love, and together we love them both.

When I was finished sorting through my box, I opened the door of the linen closet. I was immediately attacked by DVD cases, stamp pads, and an Ethernet cable. I sprang into action again.

In addition to the many little plastic boxes of stuff, I must have had over 300 thumbtacks; I put them all in a plastic bag. Under the many little plastic boxes of stuff, I also had a plastic three-drawer chest filled with stamps (when I thought I might be a Stampin’ Up! goddess), my many attempts at children’s literature, and Nathan and Iz paperwork (hospital bracelets, school photos, precious drawings science fair awards, and pre-school diplomas).

Nothing belonging to Nathan or Iz was discarded. I still had hopes that I might have tons of time to design wonderful cards, so the stamps were organized and the dried out ink pads were tossed. But, how many copies of “The Legend of the Easter Cat” and “The Cat Rap” did I need? Why was I saving four Children’s Writer magazines from 1991? And, did I really need the manual from a TV I owned 10 years ago and how was it ever filed under Nathan and Iz?

After the linen closet was all sorted out, I heard Iz’s footsteps thudding up the stairs again. She arrived in front on me, scanned my keep and toss piles, and then noticed something that caused her concern. She asked, “Mommy, why are you throwing my rainbow away?”

I said quickly, “Oh, I’m not!” It was a painting she had made on a piece of scrap paper at least four years ago. I know I might seem evil for tossing it, but if I saved everything Iz and Nathan ever created, I would need a librarian to catalog it all and a storage container the size of an oil tanker!

After she thudded off into her room, I picked up her rainbow. I said to myself, “She's right. This is definitely a keeper.” While every piece of paper and every coffee cup was full of fond memories, I could let most of it go, because I carried it all in my heart.

I thought of my name plate outside my cube. I had recently decorated it with heart stickers and pinned my John Fluevog button next to it, which said “No, you’re weird.” It was decorated differently from when I had last worked at my new-old company.

Iz was right; it was all about keeping the rainbow in mind. Keep some of the old, incorporate the new, discard some of the old, and hope for something beautiful at the end of all. You must always hope that you will eventually spring, sprang, sprung into a rainbow; it's at the end, but you just can't see it yet. ♥

Life is Like a Red Foil Heart-Shaped Box of Chocolates

My daughter, Iz, has always been a huge fan of sweets. Iz’s motto is, “Life is uncertain, eat dessert constantly” when it wasn’t “Okay, okay, okay!” Typically, she got a treat after lunch and dinner; though after cleaning the family room last weekend, it appeared that the crumpled-up candy wrappers behind the TV and under the sofa were evidence that Iz felt dessert could follow breakfast, come before dinner, and be eaten whenever Mom was not seen or heard.

Given that both Iz and her older brother, Nathan, loved chocolate, I always had some on hand; Nathan was strictly an M&M guy while Iz preferred Hershey kisses and Lindt truffles. I have a set of blue vintage canisters with copper tops that are labeled sugar, flour, coffee, and tea; they sit on the counter. True to form, they contain everything but sugar, flour, coffee, and tea.

The sugar canister houses all the chocolate, and the flour container holds Charms blow pops and Tootsie Roll pops. The coffee canister contains gum (though the ratio is one piece of gum to every ten wrappers that Iz can’t be bothered to throw away), and finally, the tea canister ACTUALLY holds Tazo Awake tea. The tea is for those times when Ellen and I discuss life over a cup of tea and a glass of wine; you can probably guess who’s drinking the wine and who’s drinking the tea.

Anyway, after Iz eats, she immediately brings her plate to the counter and asks, “Can I have dessert now?” Depending on the time and how much leverage I need, especially in the evening, I say, “Yes” or “After tubbie.” If I say “After tubbie,” she groans, whines, and rolls her eyes; however, after a stern word or two from me punctuated verbally by my Mom’s “Period!,” she storms up to the bathroom saying, “Okay, okay, okay!”

Besides the poorly hidden wrappers in the family room, I could often tell if Iz had helped herself to sugar, flour, or coffee. Sometimes I could hear a canister screech across the granite counter top, which wasn’t a reliable indicator most times given that I believed Iz turned up the TV volume to cover her screeches. Other times, I could see that a canister had been pulled out from the wall a tad or left in plain sight in the middle of the counter. My conclusion was that Iz needed to watch more C.S.I., so she would know how to cover up a crime scene.

As Valentine’s neared, Iz informed me that the “chocolate box,” as she called it, was almost bare. When out shopping one night last week, we passed the candy aisle and she said, “Mom, remember? We need more things for the candy box.” Before we could take the right turn down the aisle, the aisle end cap with all the Valentine’s Day candy caught her eye.

She was totally enthralled by the red foil heart-shaped boxes filled with pieces of chocolate. It figured that my daughter would not be easily taken in by the conversation hearts or the red and white M&Ms; it was shiny and the most expensive confection for her! There in the candy aisle it would have been impossible to ever deny that she was my daughter.

She looked at me, pointed to one of the red foil heart-shaped boxes and asked, “Mom, can I get one of those?” I sighed like I usually do when she asks for something I didn’t budget for and thought that I really shouldn’t be buying for her. Just then, I looked at her face, which had now turned into red foil heart-shaped box with a mint dream and a milk chocolate butter cream caramel where each brown eye used to be, and I said, “Okay.”

We brought the box home, and after dinner that night, she selected two chocolates. Unfortunately, a wave of 18-year-olds blew into the kitchen the next afternoon, and Iz’s box of chocolates was rendered empty. She put her hands on her hips and asked, “Who ate all my chocolates?!” I tried to blame it on the cats; however, she saw right through the fur coats to the cotton hoodies.

When I went Valentine’s Day shopping on Sunday, I glanced through all the red foil heart-shaped boxes in Target. I remembered my Dad always giving my Mom a very goofy Valentine’s Day card and a red foil heart-shaped box of chocolates; I smiled, and I thought that it would be a nice tradition to start with Iz. I picked up the 56-ounce bag of M&Ms for Nathan, which I knew would be inhaled in less than two days. Speaking of which, where, oh where is my 18-year-old metabolism?

After Iz ate dinner on Monday night, she asked for her dessert. Not in the mood for the tubbie-before-desert altercation, I said, “Sure.” Iz went straight for her red foil heart-shaped box of chocolates and asked me to open them.

Once opened, Iz asked, “Where’s the map that tells you what chocolate is what?” Obviously, Iz was no stranger to good chocolate, the chocolate that actually came with a User Guide! Whenever her Dad came back from NYC, he always brought home a box of expensive chocolates; when I found out how much they were, I said, “Eeek! Don’t buy those again!” It was funny how I could spend $150 on a pair of shoes but balk at a $50 box of chocolates.

I told Iz that there was no “map,” so she’d have to just wing it. She selected two chocolates and went off to the family room to enjoy them while I thought “At least, they are wrapper-less!” As I went to take something out of the oven, I started to hear Iz choking or so I thought.

I quickly said, “Are you okay?” I went toward the family room, and then she raced passed me headed toward the sink. Before I could say another word, she got on her tippy toes, put her mouth over the sink, and started spitting out her chocolate.

All I heard for the next two minutes was…

“Ptooey-ptooey-ptooey, ptooey-ptooey-ptooey!”

…over and over again.

I asked, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” After what I thought might be her last “Ptooey!” she said, “Pto...coconut…eoy!” I laughed and asked, “You don’t like coconut?”

She shook her head back and forth. She commenced her spitting. I offered her a drink of water, which she gladly accepted.

Like the true chocolate trooper she was, she asked, “Can I have another one instead?” I said she could and presented her with the red foil heart-shaped box again. She pondered the chocolates like she was picking out an emerald, diamond, or ruby.

I said, “This looks like a good one.” She plucked it up and once again went off into the family room. I went back to turn off the oven but then heard Iz run into the kitchen once again, resume her “Ptooey!” place in front of the sink, and start to spit still holding half of the offending chocolate in her hand.

I asked, “What now?” She said, “Coconut again!” I took the chocolate, looked at it, and then I took a bite. I said, “Iz, this isn’t coconut. It’s a vanilla cream.”

She looked puzzled. I said, “I think you still had the taste of the coconut in your mouth, so it just seemed like it was coconut.” She said, “Oh,” grabbed the rest of the chocolate from my hand, and then went back into the family room.

I laughed and looked at the red foil heart-shaped box on the kitchen counter. I didn’t see a red foil heart-shaped box of chocolates though; instead, I saw my life. Given my month of emotional ups and downs, I realized that life was really sometimes like a box of chocolates.

Monday and Tuesday might be a mint dream, Wednesday might be pecan delight, where you liked the caramel but pecans were just okay, Thursday might be a dark chocolate roman nougat, where you could barely tolerate the cherry-flavored nougat but would consume it anyway, and Friday might end up being that dark chocolate coconut cream you just had to spit out. You had to taste it all, and sampling things from the red foil heart-shaped box was how you learned to savor the mint dream, tolerate the roman nougat, and spit out the coconut cream. Life was never knowing what you would get but learning how to deal with what you got. ♥

Now We are Eighteen

(See also: Last year's birthday post.)



My son, Nathan, celebrated his eighteenth birthday on Saturday. It was a big deal. In retrospect, it seemed like it was more of a big deal for me than for him.

Just like how Iz wanted to make her birthday into a month-long celebration, I wanted to at least make Nathan’s birthday into a week-long celebration if only for myself; it appeared Nathan could have cared less in the being-18-years-old scheme of things. Anyway, I did this by using a different picture of him every day for my Facebook profile. Of course, it was interesting to note that someone who had previously deleted me as his friend for perusing and questioning his Facebook posts now had an issue with mine.

It only took Nathan a day to notice that he had become a prominent figure on my Facebook profile. He commented, “I don't appreciate all the pictures of me. That's copyright infringement or something.” I responded with “It's the Week of Nathan leading up to THE EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Let me celebrate you for just a few days. I promise that I'll go back to pretending that I'm not your mother on February 13th.”

He didn’t protest after that. I thought he might delete me as his Facebook friend again, but I didn’t really care. He would not always be 18, but I would always be his mother.

Friday night and four Facebook profile picture changes later, he exercised his teenaged right to spend more time out of the house not sleeping than in it sleeping. Shortly after I arrived home from work, he asked me if he could sleep over Matt’s house. Knowing that I’d have the whole weekend to see him, or so I thought, I told him to go; I had to love the fact that he was almost 18 yet still asked me to go places and then always told me, even when he wasn’t home, where he was going.

To be honest, no birthday I celebrated ever made me feel old; however, in the last few years, certain events in Nathan’s life had made me suddenly feel old. When Nathan entered his freshman year of high school, I had to consume a few chill pills. When he went to the prom, I reassured myself thinking that I’d be the hippest and coolest grandmother wearing my Chuck Taylor All Star sneakers while pushing someone in a swing. When the realization sunk in that Nathan was going to be 18, I felt older than old, because it felt like I had only been 18 yesterday when it really had been 30 years ago.

On Saturday morning, I woke up and texted Nathan. I said, “Happy birthday, old man. You can vote and join the army now. Woooo-hooo!” Within five minutes, he texted me back saying, “And sleep!” Hey, it wasn’t my problem that he didn’t turn his cell phone off before he went to sleep; besides, someone needed to be excited at 8am on Nathan’s birthday if it wasn’t going to be Nathan!

Iz, who was probably just as excited as I was, couldn’t wait for Nathan to arrive home, so she could give him with his birthday card and presents. I had shopped for her. Knowing that food was to Nathan what shoes were to me, I got him gift cards to Subway, McDonald’s, and Dunkin Donuts.

When I went into Subway on Friday, I stood in line behind a woman who ordered a ham, bacon, and mayo sub, which was a combination that baffled me. The young man preparing the sub asked if she wanted anything else on it. She said, “No, just ham, bacon, and mayo.”

When her sub was finished, the young man asked her, “This is for your son, right?” She laughed and said that it was. Obviously, this sub was not a popular request and her son must have eaten at Subway quite a bit to be known for such a concoction.

I was mystified as to why Nathan treated Subway like it was a five star restaurant; however, it was reassuring to see that it came with the teenaged territory. I then said to her, “I’m glad I’m not the only one with a son addicted to Subway.” She then said, “I’m just glad he didn’t think that I was going to eat that.”

On Saturday at 9am, Nathan rolled in the door with his blanket and pillow in hand looking like he had been up playing X-box most of the night. He walked by me, said something inaudible, and went upstairs. I thought it was to sleep for a few hours, but when I went upstairs after him, he was sitting at his desk opening a birthday card.

I called to Iz downstairs, who had been waiting patiently since 7am to give him his card. She ran upstairs clutching her white envelope which now had smudges of chocolate muffin on it. I said, “You can give him his card now.”

She looked up at me and gave me a goofy smile as if she was now suddenly shy. I said, “Go ahead!” She didn’t say anything, but her eyes pleaded quite unnecessarily, “Will you please come with me, because Gabe told me that there was no Santa and that brothers start biting when they are 18!”

I sighed and followed her to Nathan’s door. I scanned his room quickly noting the three empty root beer cans, the four piles of clothes, and the slew of belongings that littered his floor. Obviously, being 18 didn’t make you any neater than you were when you were at 17.

Iz handed Nathan her card. He began to open it, and she looked up at me silently saying, “Mom, he didn’t bite me!” I silently said, “Please don’t listen to anything Gabe says ever again!”

Within 10 minutes of receiving his gift cards, he asked, “Mom, can I take the car to go get a McFlurry?” I said, “Sure. I can’t think of anything better to have for breakfast on your eighteenth birthday.” I could, but I wasn’t going to tell him; after all, he was 18.

After he left, I thought that 18 was a funny age. You were an adult, but were you really? A few weeks ago, Nathan and I had a heated debate (well, as heated as we ever got) about whether an 18-year-old could survive without any parental aid; Nathan painted this rosie picture of living with friends, getting a job, getting apartment, and then going to school part-time.

I was sure that there were 18-year-olds who did that. I just couldn’t see most of the 18-year-olds that I knew doing that; however, Nathan was vehement that any 18-year-old could do it. Nathan and I then discussed one friend in a similar situation, and Nathan said, “He's 18. He knows what he's doing.”

I was startled out of that conversation 20 minutes later when Nathan opened the front door and came upstairs. He asked, “Can I take the car for a while? I’m going out with Connor. And, can I take it tonight, because I’m going to my Dad’s for dinner?” I was then trying to do the “cake math.” When would we ever have a cake and sing “Happy Birthday?”

I said, “Sure, but what about a cake?” He shrugged his shoulders; I frowned. He said, “Don’t worry about it.” If Iz was the birthday girl, Nathan was the “It’s just another birthday, so no big deal,” guy.

I said, “But….” He glared at me. I then said, fearing the “Don’t’ act like my mother” look on his face, “Err, um, okay.”

Some battles with Nathan had been worth it, like the “Thou shalt wear deodorant and shower every day” one. Others, like the “You must have a cake even if you don’t want one,” were not. I said, “Have a good afternoon. Be safe.”

At about 4pm, Nathan arrived home to leave some things off and pick some things up. Nathan was like a plane that touched down on the runaway briefly and then immediately took off. Refueling took place in the air as he grabbed a root beer and some potato chips from the kitchen.

At about 10pm, he texted me asking if I had seen his ATM card and could I look in his room for it. I was thinking that I could barely see the floor in his room; surely the ATM card would be a needle in a stack of balled-up socks and t-shirts that were inside out. I went in and glanced around; it was hard to see anything beyond the mess.

I texted him back and asked, “When did you last have it?” He said, “When I went to the ATM machine.” I asked, “Do you remember taking it with you? The machine will suck it up if you leave it.”

He didn’t remember, so I told him to call the bank and report it missing. He said he would, but he didn’t seem too concerned. At 48, I would have been freaking out if I lost my ATM card; I realized then that being 18 didn’t make you any more responsible or careful about certain things, and in many ways, you were still a kid.

The part of me that was feeling old because Nathan seemed so old now laughed. I think the college applications and the 18th birthday had given me food for thought, though never a ham, bacon, and mayo sub. Nathan was going to continue to get older; I wasn’t going to like it, but I would learn to accept it, yes, I would.

On Sunday, I paid for him to take 7 of his friends out to dinner at a local restaurant. At 7:00pm, he grabbed the car keys and left without even saying good-bye. I said to myself, “Well, I guess he’s off for his big night with his friends.” I reminded myself that he was 18, and in some ways, his birthday was about him and his friends this year and for many more birthdays to come.

At 10:30, I saw the car pull in the driveway, heard the front door open, and I got up to see how Nathan’s evening was. Before I could ask, he said excitedly, “That was so good, Mom. Everyone had a great time. Thank you so much!!!” Suddenly, I was looking at my 8-year-old son again after his first Chuckie Cheese birthday party. In that moment, I was reassured knowing that Nathan was always going to need and love me and that even when he was 28, 38, 48, and 58, he would still always be 8 to me. ♥

Stranger Things Have Happened

If you’ve ever received a gift card, you know that there are two approaches to spending it. You can tuck it away in your pocket for a rainy day, a sunny day, a windy day, or for a day when you just really need some retail therapy or else you’re going to rip someone’s head off. Or, you can collect your gift card, put your car in drive, and head straight to the mall to stop the card from burning that hole in your wallet.

I felt this way on Wednesday; however, I didn’t have a gift card. Well, I had one for Crabtree & Evelyn, but it didn’t burn a hole in the pocket the way the ones from Sephora usually did. I was always eager to buy a lipstick but could wait endlessly for scented soap.

After becoming a permanent employee at my company on Monday, I had a personal day. I was a contract employee for the prior seven months, so I had no paid holidays or vacation. If I took a day off, I didn’t get paid or I had to make the hours up in order to be paid; thus, this is why I spent time at work on the weekends, err, having fun when I wasn’t working hard.

Anyway, after meeting a big deadline on Wednesday, I heaved a sigh of relief, and then I felt a stabbing pain in the Law & Order portion of my brain. It was that damn personal day saying, “Take tomorrow off, chillax, and dwell in being paid for watching a few episodes of Law & Order!” I tried hard not to listen to my personal day, but when it said, “It might be nice to clean the house, because I noticed that your dust kitties now have dust bunnies the size of your kitties,” I began to think, “Hey, it might be nice to have a day to chillax and vacuumax.”

I wanted to take the day off, but I decided to debate it with me, myself, and I for the next 30 minutes. Should I save the day for a trip? Since I had no accrued vacation time, I figured that I would not be eligible for any trip outside of my town for the next six months. Should I save the day for an emergency? I had five six days, so at least I was covered for medical emergencies though not for the ones where I locked myself out of the house or had a car that didn’t start.

After much consideration, I brought up my web browser and logged onto the company’s time off system. As I clicked the links to request my personal day, I felt somewhat like a little kid in a candy store or what it feels like for Iz in the Zhu Zhu pet aisle of Toys R’ Us. Feeling like it couldn’t get any better than this, I then looked at my vacation balance and laughed out loud.

I had 17 days of vacation. The funny thing was that when I arrived back at this company last June, after being laid off over a year before by them, they didn’t have to reactivate my e-mail account, because they never deactivated it. When I started Outlook, I received the 432 messages sent to me while I was laid off; it now appeared that while I was accruing e-mail during my unemployment, I was also accruing vacation time!

Forget about staying around town. On Thursday, I’d be heading to Aruba! Okay, I’m a pretty honest person, so instead opening another browser window and navigating to Orbitz, I e-mailed the Human Resources representative and said, “While I’d like to have 17 vacation days, I don’t think that’s correct.”

After successfully inputting my request for my personal day, I sat back in my chair while visions of Law & Order danced in my head to the sounds of the vacuum cleaner. Every now and then, I enjoyed being home alone. I thought that since school had been cancelled for a few days due to snow on the roofs, the kids would definitely be back in school tomorrow; I spoke too soon.

Just then my Blackberry began to blink. I read an email message announcing that Iz’s school would be closed yet again. Okay, I could deal with that as her after-school program was open for the day. When I arrived in the door after leaving work, Nathan said, “Mom, I’ve got no school again tomorrow.” Okay, so home alone had now become home with my 17-year-old; I could deal with that.

When I got up the next morning, I carted Iz off to a friend’s house for the day; she seemed very pleased to go, and I thanked her friend’s father about ten times for inviting her over. I went home and heard the gun fire coming from Nathan’s X-box in his bedroom, I knew it was not going to be a chillax kind of day.

I regrouped and decided that this was a day to get things accomplished. I’d let Nathan do the chillaxing for me. Actually, I was beginning to think that Nathan’s middle name was “Chillax” when it wasn’t “Elliott.”

I Want to Make My Dog Street Legal

I unburied my “Things to Do” list from under the pile on my desk. I made a few needed phone calls, and as I did, I sorted out the pile. I then filled out the town census, and when I got to the bottom, I realized that Monty, my dog, needed his license, which meant a trip to the Town Hall.

I must admit that I had been remiss about Monty’s license. Actually, when I went down to check his current license on his collar, which was not so current, I saw that Monty had not been street legal since 2008.

While he was not one of those dogs who roamed the neighborhood freely, I felt that I should really make him legal. Of course, while walking him, I had never been pulled over by the police demanding to see his license. And, if Monty was going to get arrested for anything, it would be for “Disturbing the Peace” with his incessant barking!

I then left to do some errands. After I went to the dry cleaners, the grocery store, and the veterinarian’s to pick up Monty’s proof-of-not-being-rabid certificate, I headed to the Town Hall. It had been some time since I ventured to the back where they kept track of important things like births, deaths, and dogs.

When I approached the counter, I saw the Assistant Town Clerk sitting behind her desk. In this day of computers, I was amazed to see how many piles of paper were on and around her desk in boxes. Had technology not made it to town government yet?

I said, “Excuse me, but I need to make my dog street legal.” Of course, I was trying to be humorous, but she didn’t laugh. To recover seriousness, I quickly said, “Oh, I forgot the form at home, so I’ll need another to fill out.” She got up and said, “Okay, just a minute,” as she plucked a form off of her desk and headed toward the copying machine.

I had dealt with this woman once a year from 2000 to 2007, and she always struck me as a gruff and serious person. When she arrived at the copy machine and saw a book on top of it, she exclaimed, “Oh, look, I was already doing something and I forgot about it.” She laughed to herself; I think this was the first time I saw her laugh.

She photocopied the street legal dog form, and she brought it over to me. As if facing a priest in a confessional, I almost blurted out, “I haven’t made him street legal in a few years,” but it struck me that if she didn’t remember what she was doing ten minutes ago that she probably didn’t care that Monty had roamed the yard occasionally as a delinquent member of canine society for the last three years.

Pen in hand she asked, “Dog’s name?” I said, “Montgomery.” I don’t know why I felt compelled to give Monty’s full name; it was not as if we were filling out his passport application. When she asked his breed, I just said “Corgi” instead of his regal title, which was Pembroke Welsh Corgi; thankfully, I didn’t want to stupidly babble “But, you know, he’s not really from Wales. He came from Arizona!”

Then, being me, and not liking vacant verbal space, I offered, “It’s been so hard for him in the snow lately,” thinking she might know a Corgi is a very vertically-challenged canine. Right away, she said, “Oh, it’s been hard for my dog, too. He’s a dachshund-lab mix, so he’s low to the ground. He’s old, too.” I asked, “How old?” She answered, “Fourteen.”

I said, “He must be really cute.” Uncharacteristically, or so I thought, she said, “Oh, he is. Wait a minute. I think I have a picture.” She dropped the pen on the application, rounded her desk, and then rifled through a drawer saying, “I know I have one somewhere.” It’s truly interesting when you thought a person was one way, you talk to them for a bit, and then you realize they’re totally something else and much like you are.

She walked back and said, ‘Here he is, but this is old. Bless her soul, that’s my mother-in-law with him.” I assumed that her mother-in-law had passed away a while ago. I looked at the small black lab on legs exactly like Monty’s; I laughed and said, “He’s so cute!”

She smiled and then she offered, “And, I have three cats, too.” I said, “So do I!” She then went onto explain how every one of her pets was acquired.

The dog was a birthday present for her son after a divorce, a kitten was for a daughter’s birthday, another kitten was found in the woods that they just had to take in, and the last kitten was a Valentine’s Day present to her daughter from a neighbor. I asked, “Do you still talk to that neighbor?” She laughed and said, “Yes, but I did tell her nicely that there should be no more kittens for presents.”

After she filled out the form, she passed me Monty’s tag. We kept talking about our animals until the conversation reached a natural conclusion; if our children bring home pets from college, the pets can stay but the children must leave! I realized then that I hadn’t given her the $6 for the license yet.

I pushed it toward her, and she said, “Thanks.” She then hesitated as if she was rather sad our engaging conversation had ended. I knew I had my entire 2010 “Things to Do” list to do on this one day in 2011, so I then said, “Bye. It was so nice talking to you.”

After my trip to the Town Hall, I headed home. When I walked in the front door, I was greet by X-box gunfire and Monty who was barking. I walked into the kitchen and took Monty’s collar off. I said, “You’re going to be legal now!”

Monty didn’t look too thrilled at the prospect. After all, it was just other dog day for him in which he would bark endlessly at anything that moved or made a sound, including Plume who was chasing a lady bug that flitted across the panes of the bay window. I got the pliers out of the basement, probably one of the few times I actually touch such a tool, and I took off Monty’s now vintage 2007 tag and put on the 2011 tag.

I fastened his collar back on. Monty sat there, and I exclaimed, “There!” Monty was still having issues seeing the joy in being street legal, but rallied when the mailman dropped the mail in the slot of the front door and raced down the hallway to growl at the mail that had dropped on the floor.

I Miss Morse Code

Anticipating a busy weekend, I rescheduled an appointment to have my hair cut on Saturday to Thursday. Nathan’s 18th birthday was on Saturday, so I figured that there would be a lot of movement in and out of the house, and, of course, a lot of barking. Actually, getting my hair done was kind of like getting a massage; it was something that relaxed me and rejuvenated me or at least the color of and length of my hair!

I glanced at the clock and thought I should leave not wanting to be late like I usually am. I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out to the car. I said “Bye, Nathan!,” heard nothing but gunfire from upstairs, and then said to myself, “Bye, Mom. Love you!” and laughed to myself.

When I arrived at the salon, I saw through the window that the previous appointment was still there. I walked in, and when I sat down, I realized that miraculously I had arrived 15 minutes early. An older gentleman with a beard was having his hair cut, and a younger man sat nearby and appeared to be waiting for him.

My hairdresser was talking about a legal issue she had encountered over a car accident. The two men, Charlie and Roy, were giving her their opinions. Again, not liking being verbally vacant, I said to my hairdresser, “Donna, what have you done now? Was that you that held up the bank in Fitchburg last week?”

The younger man, Charlie, howled. Donna laughed, and the older man, Roy, chuckled. Donna said, “Well, if I did rob a bank, you know I’d only take what I needed. I’d be the first robber to ask for only $1000.”

I said, “I always knew you’d be the most likely to commit a felony.” Charlie laughed again. It seemed that Charlie thought I was funny, and it was nice to hear the sound of his laughter and see him smile, thinking that I did that; it made me feel better when I needed to feel better about myself and a particular situation.

After we all wholeheartedly agreed that Donna was the least likely to even litter, the conversation turned to how nice it was to be retired. I kind of knew how that felt after being unemployed for sixteen months. Roy mentioned that he had been retired since 2005; I figured that Roy must be Charlie’s father.

Roy had retired not once but twice. He retired from the Navy in 1969 when he was 39. He had been a radio operator on a ship.

Charlie chimed in that retirement was great. I then said to Charlie, “You look too young to be retired,” and he again laughed. He quickly said, “I am!” and laughed. I cracked Charlie up and Charlie cracked himself up; I liked this guy.

Charlie then said, “I retired at 53, I’m 63 now.” He said that one day his wife amazingly said, “Why don’t you retire?” He then laughed and said that he told her “Okay, honey!”

Donna pointed to Charlie and said, “He is a very smart engineer.” At that point, Roy’s hair cut was done; he got up out of the chair, and walked over toward me. He was a very short and petite little man and reminded me of Merlin the Magician, though now with a very well coifed beard.

He pointed his arthritic finger at Charlie and then shook it at me while he said, “It’s amazing what he can do." Roy then said that he told Charlie, “I miss Morse code." Roy continued and said, "Two days later, he came over to my house with something he made, so I could practice code at my kitchen table." Of course, Roy had no need to practice it, but Charlie made sure he could if he wanted to.

Charlie smiled and looked embarrassed by the praise. Then Donna said, “Oh, and Comcast messed up my phones. Roy told me he knew someone who could fix it. Charlie came by and had my phone working in a few minutes.” Charlie’s embarrassment had subsided and now he commented like a serious engineer, “It was really a mess. They had every connected wrong.”

Roy said, “He can do anything.” Charlie said, “Oh, Roy” and was back to being embarrassed. By then, I sensed that Roy and Charlie were friends, because I didn’t know of too many children who were on a first-name basis with either one of their parents.

It was funny, because at that moment, I felt like I was in an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. I had just spent 30 minutes in Floyd’s barbershop. Roy and Charlie went to leave and we exchanged “It was nice to meet yous.”

After they left, Donna told me that Roy was Charlie’s neighbor. Roy’s wife had died a few years ago and was on his own. Charlie looked out for him and took him where he needed to go.

When I drove home later, I realized that there were still 36 things left to do on my 2010 “Things to Do” list. It was already 3pm, and I didn’t figure I was going to get all of them done by even the end of 2011; well, I guess that’s why there was 2012!

I arrived home, vacuumed, and then pulled out a load of laundry from the dryer in the basement, and headed upstairs to fold it. I figured that so my day wouldn’t be a total loss from the “to do” or “to not do” lists, I plunked my basked down on the couch, turned on the TV, and found an episode of Law & Order. It was “to doing” and “to don’t-ing” simultaneously!

Yesterday, I didn’t stay home and watch stories. I went out, got a few things done, heard new stories, and made new friends. I thought about the book my Mom got me when I was little – “Don’t Talk to Strangers.” Upon reflection, yesterday was a very good day and an even better day to talk to strangers. ♥

End blog soundtrack for Roy and for everyone else who misses Morse code:

Model United Nathan

My son, Nathan, has participated in the Model UN program at his high school for a few years now. When I first found out that Nathan was involved in the Model UN, I was pleasantly surprised. Given that Nathan liked to play airsoft in his free time, emulating guerilla warfare with guns that shot plastic pellets, I found it amusing that he chose to participate in a “can’t we just all get along” atmosphere where weapons weren’t allowed.

Though,I had my doubts. When I recently cleaned his room, I came across this. It’s his UN worksheet.



When I got to the bottom and saw "Motion to nuke Iraq," I laughed. Nathan had always been a lover and not a fighter. And, when I asked about it later, he said that he had been peeved with the way the whole UN session was being run, hence his note.

This past weekend, Nathan went to a Model UN conference at M.I.T. Leading up to this event, there had been a bake sale to subsidize costs. Of course, Nathan’s contribution to this sale was brownies from a box.

He added butterscotch chips to mix it up. Five minutes after they came out of the oven, he spatula-ed them out of the pan. Then, off he went with his dark brown globules of gooey cake that were dotted with flecks of yellow.

Apparently, they sold enough dark brown globules of gooey cake that were dotted with flecks of yellow, because the next thing I knew, he was headed to M.I.T. Well, he didn’t tell me that explicitly. I only realized it from (shhhhh!) stalking his Facebook page and reading his status, which said, “MIT for the weekend.”

Sometimes I feel guilty reading Nathan’s Facebook page. I read something, and then I say something to him in regard to something he’s posted. He responds, “Mom!!!” as if I’ve breeched his privacy.

I wanted to say, “Hey, last time I knew, anything you posted was public record. I’m your public mother. I can read the records, Dude!"

Nathan posted, “Spent more time packing for MIT than I did preparing for the actual conference.” One of his friends asked, “Preparation?” Nathan responded, “As in I found someone who owns Risk.”

I was thinking to myself, “Surely, these kids with their X-boxes and Wii systems aren’t talking about the game that one plays on a piece of cardboard without the benefit of any super-duper graphics or an Internet connection?” I read on. Two people liked that post, so believe it or not, Nathan and two other teenagers liked board games.

Then there was a response to Nathan’s post. It said, “I'm bringing Monopoly too, btw.” It floored me to see that “3 people” liked that.

And, another post asked, “Shall I bring Lord of the Rings Risk, Trilogy Edition? Just in case?” Of course, the poster put a smiley face after that. I sensed that a few of Nathan’s friends were now reeling him in from the cardboard landscape that required no super-duper graphics card nor an Internet connection, because four people liked that post!

One naïve parent (no, it wasn’t me!) asked, “You guys are actually going to so some model UN-type things, too, aren’t you??” I laughed. I wanted to respond with “Hello?!?!?!!”

I thought to myself, they’ll do things they’re not supposed to, have fun, and be good Model UN ambassadors. It would probably not be in that order, but they were kids. The good thing was that they were at least thinking about “mobilizing international cooperation to resolve problems that affect countries all over the world” or playing Risk, whichever came first.

I texted Nathan on Saturday to see how his ambassadorship was going. He responded, “Fine. Today sucks.” I asked, “Why?”

He responded, “Crappy topic. I had no opinion.” I was surprised when I read that, because Nathan always had an opinion. I responded, “Well, you can’t always have an opinion.”

After Nathan’s post of “MIT for the weekend,” one of his friends posted “Nerd.” I saw that and pressed the “Like” button. Nathan wasn’t really a nerd, but as a Mom, I was glad he sort of was when it came to Model UN, Magic Cards, and Dungeons and Dragons.

On Monday morning, I caught up with all the latest Facebook news. Funny, but I kept seeing Nathan’s name pop up in association with new friends. “Nathan is now friends with Meg Butterfield and 3 other people.”

Two hours later, I logged onto Facebook. I read the latest news. “Nathan is now friends with Samatha Smith and four other people.”

And, today, I logged onto Facebook. I again read the lastest news. “Nathan is now friends with Ava Gardener and six other people.”

I finally became curious. I clicked the “other people” link. I was surprised when I saw that they were all female.

Nathan went to a conference. He came away with 16 friends, all of them female. For all his self-doubt with girls, Nathan had finally come into his own at the Model UN of all places.

I think he found he could woo more people, especially those of the female persuasion, with his opinions than with his airsoft gun. Nerd? No. Ambassador Chick Magnet? Yes! ♥

It's My Party, and I'll Love Me If I Want to!

Today is February 4th. Why is that significant? Well, if you’re my daughter, Iz, it’s significant because this month you celebrate your 8th birthday.

Actually, for Iz, it’s not a day of celebration. It’s almost a month-long planning endeavor (until the 23rd) followed by a day of celebration. Of course, when February 25th arrives, you’d think that her birthday would be over; it’s not. There's another four days to celebrate!

Iz’s birthday actually begins six months before her birthday. Last year, this began in the Spring when she asked, “Mom, am I seven or seven and a quarter?” I’d answer, “You’re seven.” Then she’d asked, “Are you sure I’m not seven and a quarter?”

In the Summer, she’d ask, “Mom, am I seven and a half or seven and three-quarters?” I’d answer. Actually, I’d just sigh. Then I’d remember that when you’re young, you want to be older versus us older people who want to and pretend to be younger!

When she checked her Christmas list for the eighth time in December, I said, “You’re not getting a puppy.” She asked, “Why?” I said, “Because we have Monty!”

She asked, “Can I get a puppy for my birthday then?” Somehow the “We have a dog, so we don’t need another dog” concept was lost on her. I decided it was time for the big guns, so I said, “No!!!!!”

She gave me a look, and then she continued to read her list; it was as if she was prioritizing. If Santa could bring her only this and that, then her parents could give her that and this on her birthday. I wish I had been that savvy as a seven-year-old.

Then it was January. She began to ask not how old she’d be on her birthday but how many weeks, days, hours, and minutes it was until her birthday. Our local Irish pub has a clock that counts down to St. Patrick’s Day; unfortunately, they recently closed, and I wondered if I shouldn’t try to buy the clock from them and reset it for February 24th instead of March 17th.

When the calendar was flipped to February, things changed radically. There were no longer questions about “when” her birthday would occur. She knew February meant that it was totally her party time. The questions were now about “how,” “when,” and “where” would we celebrate her birthday.

There was a minor complication in the birthday planning process for Iz. The complication’s name was Nathan. He was a complication in the fact that his birthday came before Iz’s; his birthday was February 12th.

Of course, I answered any birthday planning question that Iz had. Could we have a puppy at the birthday just for entertainment purposes? I said, “No!!!!”

One day she overhead me talking about plans for Nathan’s birthday. She asked, “Why does Nathan get to go out to dinner with his friends?” I said, “Because that’s what he wants to do.”

I talked about presents for Nathan. She seemed irritated that Nathan was getting any presents at all and especially before her. “Nathan’s getting a Subway gift card,” she asked one night quite perturbed.

I began to think that at any minute I’d turn into Carol Brady. I’d be jettisoned into Mike’s study; I’d be telling Mike about my day, and he’d be listening intently to every word I said. In retrospect, “The Brady Bunch” should have been called “Fantasy Island” instead. (Err, ignore the bitter woman behind the pink laptop!)

Anyway, Iz would storm into Mike’s study, not unlike Jan Brady, and tell me that it was unfair that Nathan was born before and therefore celebrated before her. She would then say, “Nathan, Nathan, Nathan!” I would look at her and say in my infinite Carol Brady wisdom, “Suck it up! It’s not my fault that I had Nathan 10 years and 12 days before you!”

I had Nathan by c-section. He was overdue, breach, and the cord was around his neck; therefore, there was no other option. When I was pregnant with Iz, I had the option of a c-section given my history.

Given that Iz’s Dad traveled a lot, I opted for the c-section. If truth be told, I did ask my doctor if I could have Iz on the 12th. He said that would be too early, and in retrospect, though he was only speaking in medical terms, he was right. Each child deserved a different birthday, so Iz’s birthday would be on the 24th.

After Iz finally accepted that Nathan was going to have a birthday before her, she stopped the birthday celebration comparison. Though she did ask, “Why can’t I go to dinner with Nathan and his friends?” I said, “Because it’s Nathan and his friends.”

She said, “I’m Nathan’s friend.” I then visualized the scrunched up look on Nathan’s face, which said “I don’t think so!” I answered, “Nathan loves you, but he’s going to have dinner with his friends. We’ll have dinner with him the night before.”

Iz pondered this. She probably then thought about how much she adored Nathan’s friend, Joey, but then hid the moment he came in the door. And, after much thought, she said, “Okay,” knowing that she would not have to deal with Matt, who was “weird,” but who, like Joey, she also adored.

She was intrigued by them yet she knew that ultimately they had cooties. Confused, she opted to view them from afar. Good move, Girl; I wish I had done that more.

Even if you’ve accepted something, sometimes you still have doubt. After Iz accepted that Nathan’s birthday was before hers, she had one last question. (It was a last question about his birthday; unfortunately, it was not her last question!)

One day, when we were sitting on the couch watching an iCarly episode for the 16th time, she asked, “If I was born ten years ago, would my birthday be before Nathan’s?" I laughed. I said, “No. Nathan’s still older because he’s ten years older than you. If you were born then, that would only make you two years older than you are now.”

She looked puzzled. Exasperated I said, “You see, he is ten years older than you. His birthday is before yours. He's older, and the only way you could be older was if you were born…” She then said, “Shhhhh, Mommy. I haven’t seen this part before.”

The other morning, I went into Iz’s room to put some clothes away; as usual, her room was a wreck. I put her clothes away, and then I turned to pick up a few thousand things off of the floor. I saw that the whiteboard hanging over her bed had been updated; like her Mom’s blog, it seemed her whiteboard changed often to reflect her feelings.

Her board was now a snow day predictor and birthday planner. In the top left and right-hand corners, were predictions about school indicated by “mite be cansled” and “mite be a delay.” There was also a forecast, which conveniently tied into her birthday party. It read, “A lot of snow it will be a foot here! So make sure for my birthday bring snow pants hats&gloves & boots thank you! :)”

[Brenda: I’m thinking with that forecast that she might be taking after you! I’ll never forget the time I left Nantucket in March. You e-mailed me before I left and told me the winds were, um, knotty, so I should take Dramamine before the trip. ♥)

Iz added to her birthday party agenda by stating “by the way a magican at my party so there would be popcorn and drinks!” I noted that she also wanted a democratic vote on sweets. She wrote“let me know what cake vote here.”

Then there was a grand finale. She said, “I have a lot of animals and they mite be in the show you will too!” If you’re introverted and don’t like to perform on demand, I advise that you be washing your hair the day of Iz’s eighth b’day party.

Some people might think a day was sufficient to celebrate the birth of someone special; I’m glad Iz saw it all so differently. She saw herself worthy of months of pre-party preparation and a month-long celebration. You go with the self-esteem, Iz; you are my heroine, and, ironically, I want to be just like you someday. ♥

Are You Happy or Sad?

I have a friend, and like most good friends, we share the ups and downs in our lives. Over time, when either of us hits a bad spot, we try to cheer the other one up. Sometimes when we were both in a down place, it was hard to find some encouraging words to say to the other that hadn’t already been said.

At one point, he said to me, “Hang in there!” A few minutes later, he sent me an e-mail and said, “Well, that was really trite. I'm sorry.” I thought about it more and responded that indeed most might think “Hang in there” was a trite phrase; however, at the time, it was exactly what I really had to do in my life. His sentiment was perfect, and I uttered to myself the trite “Simple is, as simple does.”

I’m sure another friend might have said, “You should do ABC, go to DEF, and then call GHI and say JKL,” but in the moment, all I really needed to do was hang in there. The expression wasn’t really trite then. It was so very true, appreciated, and much abbreviated.

At the time, I was unemployed. It was far easier to think “Hang in there,” while riding my bike than “I need to do ABC, go to DEF, call GHI and say JKL.” And, after 30 or 40 miles of biking, “Hang in there” was most helpful when trying to make it up the last l-o-n-g hill on my street.

As many of you know, I, like many other people, was laid off from my job in 2009. I spent 14 months without a job; however, I became to understand quite tritely that “Everything happens for a reason,” when I realized every other week during those 14 months, that it was fun not to work. Not only was it fun, but it was truly a wonderful experience being a full-time Mom for the first time in my life.

I got to spend time on a razor scooter with my daughter, Iz. I got to teach my son, Nathan, how to drive, and I spent more time on my bike than I had ever during my life, including in my younger days when I was racing. Of course, as I said, every now and then, financial insecurity got the best of me, and no matter how much I liked being at home, I missed having a job.

The job search was much like looking for a needle in a haystack when it didn’t put me in trite mode making me think “Nothing’s ever easy.” When I wasn’t feeling badly about being scrutinized because I did not have a hyphen between “Hewlett” and “Packard” on my resume, I was feeling like a cast-off from “Survivor” when I didn’t get the third interview after surviving the first two. Of course, the ultimate blow was when Macy’s rejected me as a cosmetics representative when I lived and breathed Sephora.

I’ve never shopped at Macy's the same way again. While I have shopped there, it's just not in the same way. When I saunter pass the Estee Lauder counter now, I stick my tongue out at the lipstick display. I stop at the Clinique counter, try on a bunch of things, wasting 30 minutes of the cosmetic representative's time, and then walk away saying, “No, thanks. I’m not interested in any of your products.”

When I was finally offered a contract job by the company that laid me off last June, I didn’t have to think twice. Well, I did for about five minutes, because as you all know “When it rains, it pours.” I had a second interview for a permanent job that was an hour away from my house, and I had a contract job opportunity at my old company which was 20 minutes away from my house.

Unemployment was difficult, but it also gave me tremendous perspective on just about everything. When I wasn’t thinking, “Carpe diem,” I was thinking, “A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner.” So, when I pondered both opportunities, I came to the conclusion that “Life was too short…to be driving two hours a day.”

It was also an easy choice to make, because while my company laid me off, I still liked my company and the people who worked there very much. I was going back to perform a different job and with new people; however, the job was like putting on a pair of your favorite jeans (comfortable) that had just been washed (almost like brand new). They welcomed me back enthusiastically, and I was thrilled to be back.

Over time, I dealt with a lot of stressful deadlines, but I worked hard to meet them. Sometimes I was working weekends to complete a milestone, and friends asked me if I was getting paid overtime. I knew I couldn’t put in for overtime, because the position was 40 “regular” hours a week; however, my boss was always flexible letting me take time off if I worked extra hours. This worked out well when I had to pick a child up unexpectedly, wanted to attend a friend’s father’s funeral during the middle of the week, or wanted to go Christmas shopping with a friend.

Besides, I had always felt like my company did me a favor, even though they had laid me off. They had inadvertently prevented my life from moving forward, but they gave me fourteen months with my children, which I wouldn't have had otherwise. Not working made me feel good and working again made me feel just as good; they had flipped a switch, turned it off, and then turned it on, but it all worked for me.

The only drawback was that the job they offered me wasn’t permanent; I had a six-month contract. After six months, I didn’t know what was going to happen, and while I felt fortunate to have a job, it made planning my life difficult. There were rumors of permanent employment; however, it seemed they were treading water in a sea of politics and budgets.

Two weeks before my contract expired, I inquired about whether it would be extended. They couldn’t tell me my Fate until the budget was approved, which would be at the beginning of the year. When my contract expired on December 31st, I was told to ignore that minor detail and come to work anyway; they said they would still “Show me the money,” so I dutifully came into work on January 3rd.

The first week of January came and went. The board had met, the budget was approved, and I still didn’t have a contract. Part of me was upset, because I had no idea what my Fate would be, though I knew many people were trying to get me and my co-worker hired permanently. As the month progressed, my co-worker and I would light-heartedly kid each other about who would ask about our “status” next.

I knew the people who hired me weren’t taking it lightly. I was told countless times how much they valued me and wanted to me to be at the company permanently. In this case, it was going to take a village to raise a job offer, whatever the offer would be.

Along the way, I was always pleased to know that there was not one person rooting for me but several managers and most of the engineers I worked with. Even if it didn’t work out the way I wanted it to, it was good to be loved. And, they were such good people.

In mid-January, I asked "Was no new no news?" Or was no news news that we would be increasing Massachusetts unemployment rate shortly? I was beginning to feel like that little kid in the Heinz commercial from long ago; if I had a theme song for January, this was it.

On sleepless nights, I toss and turned. Was Nathan going to college or would his college fund be paying my mortgage? Would Monty continue to light up my life by barking non-stop or would he be sold as a sled dog? And, was Iz ever going to say “remember” instead of “revember?!”

Finally, one day, my boss stopped by and said that we’d be hearing something shortly; it would be either Friday (last Friday) or early this week. He wouldn’t say exactly what we’d be hearing, but I assumed that “You’re no longer employed here” would have been out of the question given the slow and mysterious build-up over the whole employment question.

I spent the day at work on Friday waiting for my phone to ring or for someone familiar yet unfamiliar to walk by my cube and say, “Jean, can I speak to you for a moment?” For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want the familiar yet unfamiliar person to be George Clooney. Due to Iz’s Father-Daughter dance, I had to leave work early on Friday to attend to a manicure, make-up application, and a hair-do, which took priority over database summarization for once.

Due to the all the snowstorms and a looming deadline, I headed into work on Sunday to make up a few hours. Being a contract employee, I had no vacation time or sick time; however, I always allotted myself beer o’clock time. When I arrived in my cube, I saw my phone, which I largely ignored for most of the time I had been employed, was blinking; someone had left me a voicemail message.

I took off my jacket and hung it up, booted my laptop, and then I logged on. I stared at my phone, thinking that it was a wrong number or phone spam. I dialed the voicemail number, punched in my password, and then I listened to the message; it was the HR representative who wanted to speak to me about a position as a “regular employee” on Monday.

I shrieked only no sound came out. I then listened to the message four more times. I knew what it meant, a full-time job offer; however, after doubting myself for so long, I doubted the context of the message, wondering if I had somehow interpreted “regular employee” for “contract employee.”

I convinced myself that I was certain it was a permanent job offer. I texted and e-mailed 8 of my closest friends. When I wasn’t responding to congratulatory wishes, I sat there crying.

It had been a long road. In some ways, it had been an even longer road coming back to a company that had told me it didn’t need me anymore. No matter what had happened in the time I had been there, I always tried to have faith.

Actually, maybe it was the first time in my life that I was in a situation where I knew that I couldn’t do anything to control the outcome. I just had to have faith that something good would come from my good work. And, it did.

On Monday, I got into work early. I called the HR representative and said, “I’m here. I’m shining. You’ll have no problem finding me.” Okay, I didn’t say that; I left a very professional voicemail, and, yes, I can be professional when I’m not being goofy.

Once again, I waited for George Clooney, err, I mean the HR representative to call. I really wanted a cup of coffee, but I would kick myself if I left, and she called. Eventually, I had to pry myself away from my cube to leave for a meeting.

When I got back from the meeting, my phone wasn’t blinking. Of course, doubt got the best of me. Had they decided that they could not afford me and my co-worker? Had they gotten the video tape from the ATM machine where I had bared my breasts after two glasses of sake and a $60 withdrawal?

I sat there thinking about Heinz ketchup; anticipation was really making me wait now. At 2pm, I picked up the phone to call again; no, I didn’t want to appear too eager, and maybe she was busy. At 2:30, I started an e-mail to “touch base.” I deleted it.

At 2:45, I decided to send an e-mail. “Hi, it’s Jean. I was just touching base about your voicemail. I wasn’t sure if you were in or not today.” About 30 minutes later, a young man, familiar but unfamiliar but not George Clooney, appeared in front of my cube. He said, “Jean, I was asked to speak to you today; the regular HR representative had to travel today.”

Of course, I acted like he was someone from Facilities to change a light bulb in my cube; I was totally cool on the outside even if I was screaming silently on the inside. He asked if I knew where a free conference room was, and I led him to one not too far from my boss. We walked in, sat down, and he started to explain to me that the company wanted to offer me a permanent position.

I tried really hard to pretend he was still someone from Facilities changing my light bulb, but when he opened the folder and pulled out the official offer letter, I started to cry. I stared at it. I couldn’t really read “The company would like to offer you,” because all I could read was “We like you, we really, really like you, Jean.” As I cried, the poor guy looked befuddled and asked, “Are you happy or sad?”

I started to laugh, and then I said through tears, “So happy, you can’t even begin to understand.” I then condensed my 14 months of unemployment into forty-five seconds, and he then told me he understood. I don’t know if he really understood all my babbling, but it was nice of him to say that he did.

When I stopped babbling, he asked, “So, will you verbally accept this offer?” I probably looked at him like he had five heads. I then said, “Yes,” then I paused because I finally had a chance to use one of my favorite quotes of all time. I said, “You like me, you really, really like me!”

He looked puzzled. I then said, “You don’t know that Sally Field quote?” He shook his head “No,” and I decided it was time to reign in my emotion. I cleared my throat and then said, “Search for it on youtube."

When our meeting was over I left and immediately…didn’t know where to go as I clutched my “new employee” envelope. As if on auto-pilot, I went to my friend’s office. As I entered, he looked up and smiled, and I said, still in shock, “I’m an employee now!” He stood up, opened his arms, hugged me, and then I started to cry again.

I went home on Monday night and was greeted with cards, flowers, and a cake from Iz. Nathan’s first response to me was “RAV,” in that he was hoping that he would inherit my car now that I could afford to buy a new one. Fortunately, I know Nathan didn’t love me just for a ’01 Toyota RAV with 187,432 miles on it, though lately I've had my doubts!

When I arrived at work on Tuesday morning, it was odd. I wanted to run through the hallways and scream, “I’m back!!!!!” when everything there seemed so unchanged while my life had changed so much. I bumped into my friend, Lisa, who worked in the cafeteria, and she immediately asked, “So?”

I tried not to shriek, giggle, or raise my voice in the hallway. I said, “I have a permanent job here now. It’s ironic that the offer comes almost two years to the date that they laid me off.” Lisa said, “What comes around goes around,” and I said, “I was just going to say that!” Trite but so true; sometimes what comes around and goes around can be bad, but sometimes, in my case, it can be so good. ♥

Rabbit, Rabbit

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I didn't want to miss a post on February 1st, so I'm reposting a blog from another Rabbit, Rabbit day. Needless to say, for the last few days, I've been stressed out, overwhelmed, anxiety-ridden, and, oh, so very happy but not necessarily in that order. New blog tomorrow.

And, I love those of you "read" me most every day. Mentioning...

SuzelyBabeWhenShe'sNotBabelySuze

BrendatheMostAccurateWeatherGirlintheWholeWideWorld
&Steve-a-rinotheBestSaxPlayerEastoftheMississippi

FancyVintageNancyPants

GeorgiePorgieCyclist, oh, my! He kissed the girls and made them cry, "Jeez, why is your kitchen so much better than mine?!" ♥

HotTunaJack

LisaTheAbsolutelyBeautifulItalianChickDrivingtheBeamerConvertibleWho
LovesFelinesButIsInMuchNeedofShoeBuyingAssistanceFromMeandZappos.com

LisatheBestSister-in-Law-inTheWorldandtheMostCompassionate
GoddessofAllThingsMercedesFelineVegasandShoesWhoJumped
MyCarinaParkingLotLastWeekendEvenWhenSheWasn'tThere

AnneWhoI'llAlwaysHugRegardlessOfWhetherOrNotSheisHoldingaBagofM&Ms♥

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