The Goddess of all Things Lovely

When the Light Seems Dim…

2011-09-06T20:46:00.004-04:00

It’s good to have a friend like Brenda, who makes you feel the sunshine.

♥

Food is Love

2011-08-22T21:04:00.014-04:00

Recently, I posted on my Facebook page that I was preparing myself for Nathan’s departure for college. I questioned if I was ready for it. I answered, “No, not at all.”

I’d add it to a long list of life’s not readys. Was I ready for the death of Disco? (You might not ever get rich but let me tell ya it's better than digging a ditch!) No. Was I ready for the revamped Boston Garden? No. Was I ready to become a second-time Mom at the age of 40? No. Though I guess that’s what life was really about; it was about being ready or not, because eventually it all came if you were ready or not.

One of my friends, whose daughter just graduated, replied to my posting. She asked, “Is your living room filled with college stuff yet?” I looked at my living room. In it was a couch, two chairs, two tables, a china cabinet, and a bookcase.

There were no signs of college life in my faux Victorian period living room. There were signs that my carpet needed vacuuming. There were signs that my bookcase and tables needed to be dusted; however, there were no hints that I had an 18-year-old who was going off to college shortly.

I wanted to respond to my friend's post but what would I say? “Err, no. When should I expect ICO (Identified College Objects) in my living room?" I hesitated and hesitation led to doubt. Was I doing something wrong in regard to Nathan's college preparation because I had no ICOs in my living room?

I pondered. I remember packing everything and the kitchen sink when I went to college; I even painfully remember wondering how I would survive without being with my Mom and my cats, Jerry, Patches, and Little Red. I reminded myself that my friend had a daughter.

I then said to myself, “18-year-old girls are from Bed, Bath, and Beyond; 18-year-old boys are from “Subway.” Some day the girls would be from Venus and the men would be from Mars. But, in the scheme of going away to college, this didn't seem to apply yet; in college, everyone was on the same page of Cosmos -- no parents, universal domination for all!

The girls needed the storage containers, the matching comforters and sheets, and the framed vintage movie posters to adorn their walls. The guys needed food. And, that’s all the guys really needed.

If the World ended tomorrow, I knew cockroaches would survive. I know that Nathan hoped that Subway would survive any nuclear disaster. I'm sure he could deal with the cockroaches as long as he had Subway.

At that point, I questioned Nathan. “Did you get a list of things you need from school.” He answered, “Yep.”

I asked, “Well, do we need to go shopping.” He answered, “Nope.” I asked, “But, you need things?” He answered, “Yep,” and then he finally, uncharacteristically, eked out a huge amount of information and said, “Dad and I are getting that stuff.”

I felt a bit gypped in the “Son Going to College” portion of my life. Besides paying for it, I wanted to be in the “Son Going to College” loop somehow. I called Nathan’s Dad to confirm that Nathan was going to be ready and not a not.

I went over the mental list in my head with his Dad. TV? He said that Nathan would have his new laptop and bring his large monitor; he could watch all his favorite shows on Hulu. Clothes? He was taking Nathan shopping for clothes. Refrigerator? He said, “Oh, you can buy that.”

I was elated that I was now a cog in “Son Going to College” wheel. Somehow buying a refrigerator became a mission not a consumer purchase. Of course, every mission has its failures and every cog gets worn down; I said to Nathan, “I’m getting you a refrigerator,” and he responded, “I don’t need one.”

As the air seeped out of my deflating tire, I asked, “But, but, but… [think fast, Mom], wouldn’t it be good to keep some cold drinks in your room?” Nathan pondered my suggestion. He answered, “Well, I guess so,” and I was a newly carved cog in the wheel again and the mission was not aborted.

On Saturday, I went to Target to search for the perfect refrigerator. Nathan said that he preferred black to white. Since Nathan’s room looked like every hurricane in history had passed through it, I wondered why he was now getting picky when it came to décor; however, I shied away from asking not wanting to receive an abort from “Son Going to College” mission.

I was probably taking it far too seriously; however, this “Son Going to College” mission was near and dear to my heart. I knew that many had done it before me, but I had never done it before; in my life, I was Neil Armstrong walking on a college campus for the first time.

Once at Target, I texted Nathan with “Big refrigerator?” and “Or small refrigerator?” with corresponding pictures. Given that I knew he wasn’t gung ho on the refrigerator from the start, I guessed his answer would be “small.” I guessed right.

I then texted him asking him if he wanted a white board for his dorm room. Of course, two seconds after texting this, I realized, “OMG, that’s so before cell phones.” He asked, “Why do I need one of those?”

I then tried to gracefully and comically recover from my “I’ve No Clue What It’s Like Having a Son Going to College in 2011” text. I answered, “Oh, we used to have them in college. But that was when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and we had no texting via cell phones.” He replied, “I’ll pass.”

After lifting what must have been a 100-pound 1.8 cubic chrome (in absence of black) refrigerator into my cart, I found myself in the food aisles. Somewhere between dairy and frozen foods, I determined that in absence of a matching comforter and sheets, I could give Nathan a “If the World Ends Tomorrow” or “I Have the Munchies After My First Off Campus Keg Party” food supply. After all, that’s what 18-year-old boys want – food!

As I strolled through the aisles, I thought about my friend’s question. Boys were so different from girls; I’m sure that when Iz goes to college, I will have a living room and family room full of matching comfortors, coordinating bins, and vintage movie posters. Nathan would be going to college with his clothes in a green trash bag, his computer, a long board (no bike for school; only a long board for which the campus had many racks!), and a refrigerator.

What I was getting for him, all seemed too little; however, it retrospect, it was all that he needed. For some reason, reasons that probably many parents know, I needed to give him more. So, I threw into my cart a huge box of Pepperidge Farm goldfish, two 42 ounce bags of M&Ms, 24 Hershey bars, and three bags of Oreo Double Stuff cookies.

I texted Nathan. I asked, “Do you like trail mix?” He responded, “Stop buying me stuff!”

It was true. Nathan would be going to college with all he had on his back and not much more. From his tone, it would certainly now be without trail mix!

In that moment, I was so proud of him yet I felt sad, because I felt that the food I was buying was all that I could really give to him right now. He was an adult who was going to handle it all on his own. But, in a way, he was too young to understand what the food meant to me.

When I was little, my Mom was a stay-at-home Mom until I was in first grade. At that point, she went back to work and worked only every other weekend. While my Dad did his best to be Mr. Mom, making us macaroni and cheese or kielbasa with beans for dinner, he lacked in the nurturing department. I remember tucking my sister in those nights and reading her Richard Scary’s “What Do People Do All Day?”

For lunches, my Dad was off duty. My sister loved peanut butter and jelly. Even though my sister was only 16 months younger than me, I always felt I needed to take care of her; I slathered on the jelly and the peanut butter.

Years later, she would tell me that I put on way too much jelly and peanut butter on my sandwiches. It was then I recalled my Mother telling me that she felt her Mom showed love using food. “Food was love,” my Mom used to say.

As I stood there in Target, I glanced at the refrigerator and then at the goldfish, Oreos, Hershey bars, and M&Ms. I smiled. I reminded myself that before Nathan left for college, I’d be sure to buy him a Subway gift card, because there was one near his campus. Good or bad, food was love and sometimes the only thing you felt you had to give. ♥

I Just Called to Say...

2011-08-19T20:50:00.010-04:00

It’s only a week until Nathan, my eighteen-year-old son, leaves for college. I thought this last week might be about us spending a little more time together; however, I think that the Mom in me was playing some sort of joke on me. Of course, I could have said to him, “I need you to be home, so I can get used to you not being here,” but, seriously, did that make any sense? Nope.

Earlier in the week, Nathan texted me. “Can I go to Long Island from the 19th through the 24th? I love you.” Iz, my eight-year-old daughter, always called me “Mumma” and used her baby voice when she wanted something from me. For Nathan, it was stronger, because he knew I loved him and wanted him to do what he wanted to do for the most part, unlike his Dad.

His Dad had long been the bad cop. I had long been the good cop; however, I think when looking back, that as the good cop, I was not taken advantage of. As the good cop, I received more information, except where it concerned girls, and, most importantly, I earned most trust from Nathan.

As parents, I know we’re supposed to lay down the law. In hindsight, I had always wished I could share more with my parents. I never wanted Nathan and I to be “friends,” but I did want him to know that he could tell me most anything.

The “anything” might upset me. But, I’d always state my position. I'd be supportive in the context of my position, and let him know that no matter what I was always here for him, even if it meant driving to some location late at night, because he couldn’t drive.

When I looked at Nathan’s text, I was a bit disappointed. But then, some switch must have turned on in my 5’10” body. The switch was labeled “Time to Let Go.” I texted him and said, “K.”

It was funny, because while I was feeling the loss of my little boy, I felt I was gaining a wonderful new man in my life. He was going to drive his ’00 RAV, which just rolled 190K miles, to New London, CT and then take a high speed ferry to Long Island. How did I know the mileage on Nathan’s car?

Last night, when he left to go sleep over so-and-so’s house, because there are "only TWO weeks left,” which was the excuse given as to why he couldn’t stay home, I asked, “How’s the RAV running?" I then quickly asked, "What’s the mileage now?” He responded enthusiastically, “Good. It just rolled 190K!”

He seemed excited at the mileage. He was driving a car that my Dad bought in 1999, which I inherited in 2000 with 10K miles on it. Given that he was leaving soon, I had told him I was taking him off my car insurance.

He immediately said, “What? Are you getting rid of the RAV?” I laughed and said, “No. I’m going to save $1500 while you’re away. When you come home, a phone call gets you back in the RAV.” He said, “Oh, okay, because me and the RAV are going places!”

I loved that he loved the RAV, a ten year old car that for all intents and purposes had seen much better Kelly Blue Book days, but was now only seeing the best days of its life. Nathan loved it so much, a car that belonged to a man he didn’t really know at all but still loved. It warmed my heart in a way, because it had been the very same way I had felt about my father, his grandfather.

I texted Nathan today and asked him what time he’d be leaving for Long Island. He said 4pm. I texted him back and told him that I transferred $100 into his account.

He said, “Stop giving me money!” I had to laugh, because against bad cop’s wishes (his Dad), I had been paying for his gas all Summer. I told him that it was vacation money and that he should buy flowers for his hostess. Though, I’m sure it’ll be spent on Arizona Iced Tea, Dunkin Donuts, and pizza.

I texted him and said, “Text me when you get there.” He said, “Just text me at 7pm. I’m a forgetful creature.” I said, “Only one more week of being forgetful. Then you have to start remembering a lot!”

After picking Iz up at 5:30, shopping for groceries, feeding cats, and cleaning litter boxes, my phone meowed. I saw Nathan was calling and was a bit concerned that something was amiss. I answered and Nathan said, “I’m in New London. I’ll be in Long Island around 8pm.” I said, “Okay, I’ll call you at 9pm.” He said, “Okay.”

He was “forgetful,” but he had called me to tell me where he was. I never asked him to. While he was going away to college, it was good to know in this small window before college that he still felt that I was his Mom and he owed some explanation.

When he called initially, a Stevie Wonder song queued in my head. By the time my conversation with Nate was over, I realized that “I just called to say I’m in New London,” meant so much more. Sometimes "I'm in New London" meant "I love you. And I mean it from the bottom of my heart." ♥

In Your Eyes

2011-08-13T20:20:00.004-04:00

Life is funny. That’s so trite; however, today I realized that while life can be humdrum and challenging, it can also hand you these little glimmers that sparkle. And, the light from those sparkles can always guide you through the darkest tunnel.

Recently, I felt like I had been going through a dark tunnel. I was ready to write a post called “It’s Always Something.” But, I knew I had to write about a Something, because today reminded me that this something was a "good" always.

Life gives big gifts. But, every now then, Life puts you in an unexpected place, where you might expect to see nothing you expect. It might show you a spectacular sunrise, let you find a crumpled-up $5 bill in the pocket of your jeans when you thought you had no money, or enable you to buy your shirt for 50% off when you didn’t even know it was on sale.

My son, Nathan, will be off to college in two weeks. Sometimes I can’t believe it. Although, with his job, his car, and his social life, I don’t get to see him a lot anyway; in hindsight, it’s probably good preparation for the freshman college year to come.

When Nathan turned 18, and he never looked back. In a way, I was glad my introverted “Just Wants to Stay Home and Play X-box” had become the extroverted “Most Changed,” which his Senior classmates in high school had voted him. But, recently, when I received a text message that said, “Can I stay at Sam’s tonight? I love you,” it was with great regret I said, “Sure. That’s fine.”

I then asked, “Can you at least send me a picture of you, because I forget what you look like?” Of course, even if Nathan wasn’t the extrovert I was, he had my sense of humor. In under ten seconds, I received this:

When I was lucky enough to see Nathan for an hour or more, I was amazed at who he had become. Usually, I'd find him on his bed with his X-box controller and Thunderbolt, our cat, in his lap or stretched out on the sofa eating his two bagels with cream cheese while watching “House.” It was then that I looked at this handsome 6’4” blonde and blue-eyed son of mine and heard a tiny voice that said, “Jeez. I remember when he only took up one third of the sofa! Who is this wonderful man and where did he come from?!”

Recently, when I did happen to catch a glimpse of Nathan, he sparkled at me. When I looked at him, he was the flashlight in my dark tunnel. He constantly reminded me that whenever it was something, he and his sister were my one and only thing; when I looked at either of them, I saw light even when it was dark.

Today, Iz and I headed off to Crane Beach in our red VW bug. Some of you know that I don’t own a red VW bug, but for a few weeks now, I will. I love VWs, but since April, I think VWs stink.

I own an EOS. The part my car currently needs (window motor) is “nationally” backordered. But, I have to pay for a rental (ironically, the bug, which I like to call "rental car irony"), because VW can’t keep up with supply and demand!

Anyway, Iz and I parked in the Crane Beach lot and unloaded our cooler, her beach toys, my beach chair, and our beach tote. It’s funny how I end up with the cooler, the chair, and the tote and Iz only ends up with the toys. It’s never a fair division of labor when you have kids, is it?! And, it never will be, but you accept that, and you know you will always love it, even when your back is breaking.

After we were sure we had everything, we began our trek toward the beach. Iz followed behind me, but then she sped up and grasped my hand. When I felt her firm grip, I looked down at her.

She smiled up at me. I looked into her big beautiful brown eyes, which were definitely something she got from her Dad. They were one of the things I loved about him way back when; they were like a tiger’s eye.

Just then, everything started to sparkle around Iz. It was as if there was no one else in the parking lot except for us; I was Jodie Foster and Iz was David Morse in the movie, “Contact.” I knew that Life had given me a huge gift in this girl and in my son, Nathan.

I looked long and hard at her, and I found myself truly amazed that she was mine, all mine, a beautiful gift sans the bow. As we walked through the parking lot, she never let go of my hand. While it seemed like Life hadn’t been going my way lately, Life reminded me that I had everything going for me and through it all, Iz was always going to be holding my hand and that Nathan would always be loving me even if he wasn't there. ♥

Follow Your Heart

2011-07-31T21:21:00.008-04:00

I lost my dog, Monty, in May to lymphoma. It was a tough loss, so tough that I thought I’d never want another dog again. As they say, never say never.

After some time, I thought the phantom Monty pains would subside. Some of the pain was the lack of barking when I pulled in the driveway, the not needing to head out at 11pm for a water-the-old-Xmas-tree-that-was-still-in-the-backyard pee before bedtime, and walking past the box of peanut-shaped peanut butter bones in the pet aisle without tossing one into my carriage. Every day I wondered, “Will I ever forget what Monty felt like?”

Every time, I passed a dog, my heart beat Monty. It could be a pug, a breed I was never fond of, or it could be a mutt with one erect ear, one floppy ear, a curly tail, and a long lanky body with short legs that made it look like it was the dog owned exclusively by Mr. Potato Head. All dogs led to the fact that I no longer had one.

When I periodically needed a break at work from trunk groups and call detail records, I’d resort to surfing the Internet. If stressed, I’d go right for shoes at http://www.zappos.com/; uncontrary to popular opinion, I do have quite a few pairs of shoes. Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t really buy a lot; all of my shoes are what I like to call a “collection” that I’ve amassed over a period of years.

Usually, I spend 20 minutes perusing the shoes. I find a few pair of shoes I like, and then I put them in my “cart.” But, I usually never end up buying them; it’s a virtual shop that soothes the savage shoe shopping beast, because by the time I click “X” on my browser window, I realize that I want them more than I need them.

Last month, given a very canine state of mind, I passed www.zappos.com and hoped to scratch an itch (not caused by a flea bite) at http://www.petfinder.com/. Every day at lunch, I found myself typing “dog,” “Corgi,” and my zipcode in the Advanced Search box. Instead of adding the Corgi-Chihuahua or the Corgi-Jack Russell mix to my cart, I’d make the dog a “Favorite” via my web browser.

When someone would enter my office, I’d immediately click “X” on my browser window. I don’t know why, but part of me felt like I was looking at something I shouldn’t be. It wasn’t like I didn’t walk in on people all the time at work looking at golf clubs, used cars, or Facebook; it felt like I was cheating on Monty. This led me to start calling what I was viewing “dog porn.”

One day, one of my friends caught me by surprise when I was looking at a Corgi-Dachshund mix wearing a blue plaid sweater vest whose name happened to be Stewart. He asked, “Are you looking at dogs?” I said, “Shhh. It’s my dog porn!” He looked at me strangely and then laughed at me just like he always does.

He left and then I happened upon a Corgi-You’reGuessIsAsGoodAsMine mix named Spencer. I had looked at about as many dogs as I had shoes in that month. As Spencer sat there smiling at me, he said, “I’m Monty but without all that barking.”

I thought, “This is my dog!” I went home that night, and that’s when I made one of my biggest parenting mistakes. After a stressful day of work, I grabbed a glass of wine, parked myself in front of my desk, and began to look at dog porn, particularly Spencer.

I sat there totally enamored of this pooch. Deep in thought, I wondered what it would be like to have Spencer sitting next to me, to run my hand down his soft-looking coat, or to take him for a drive around the block. Suddenly, I heard a thud.

Iz had landed at the top of the stairs. I had to hide my dog porn, but there was no time! In under three seconds, Iz was staring at my laptop saying, “He’s so cute! Can we get him?”

If anyone knows my daughter, you know that she is my “mini me.” She likes everything I like, she likes to do everything I like to do, and we share a love of all creatures great and small.

I said to her, “Ahhhhhhhhh, well.” She said, “Oh, please, Mumma.” In my defense, she pulls out the “Mumma” card when she wants something.

I sat there and pondered it all. I had really missed having a dog, and I know she did, too. With a second glass of wine and Iz on my lap, it seemed like the right thing to do as we filled out the adoption application.

I hit “Send.” I said, “Well, we’ll have to wait and see.” Iz said, “I think he’s great. We’ll call him Spence!”

The next day, I received an email from Spence's dog rescue asking us if we’d like to come meet Spence. No longer an under-the-influence Mumma, I thought, “Okay, this is it. I am getting a dog.” We want a dog, so we’re going to get one.

I arranged a time that Iz and I could meet Spence, which was the next day. We had to drive all the way to Quincy, but Spence was worth it. Iz was all excited, but in the scheme of things, she and I were the only ones who were excited when we heard from friends and family things like “Life is easier without a dog.”

That morning, I felt a huge wave of emotions. Were the critics right? Or, was what I felt in my heart right? I hemmed and hawed over whether I should subject Iz to anymore “dog talk.” She sensed this that morning and said, “Mom, follow your heart. It’s okay if you say no.”Amazed by my 8-year-old’s wisdom, I chose to follow my heart and ignored everything my head was saying to me.

Iz and I pressed on and drove to Quincy to meet Spence as planned. We found our way to his house, knocked on the door, and he came bounding out knocking Iz flat on her back, and licked her into a giggling frenzy. Spence’s foster Mom told us she had to run an errand and handed us and leash. She asked, “Would you like to take him for a walk?”

Iz and I left with Spence in hand. I finally knew how it felt to drive him. He handled pretty smoothly though was a bit jerky in places due to still being a wild and crazy pup.

When we arrived back at Spence’s house, we entered the backyard. Spence’s foster Mom showed us how he like to jump at the water coming out the garden hose. Spence was clearly a lovely and talented guy, and then I suddenly realized something was terribly wrong when Iz hugged him.

Spence had so much energy and love; so did Iz. I had a lot of love, but at this point in my life, did I have enough energy and, most importantly, the time for Spence.

Standing there wanting so much to make him ours yet wanting so much to make a good decision, I had no idea what to do. I asked, “You still need to get his health certificate, right?” She said, “No. I have it. You can take him home with you now.”

I said, “Oh. I’m unprepared,” because I knew that the fact that Iz and I loved him was good, but it wasn’t everything. She said, “Go home and think about it.” I said, “We will. I’ll e-mail you tomorrow.”

When Iz and I got into the car, she said, “Mom, he’s great.” I said, “Yes, He is wonderful.” He hadn’t barked once the whole time we were there, he loved to be touched (Monty didn’t like to be picked up or have his hindquarters touched), and he just seemed to be the “woof” to our “meow.”

As we drove home, I recalled how I acquired Monty. It’s was 2000, I was terribly lonely yet in a relationship, and my father was a few short weeks away from dying of colon cancer. I was at the mall one night, and I thought right before I was about to leave, “I need to go to the pet store. If they have a Corgi, I’m getting it.” And, that’s how Monty came into my life.

Distressed at not knowing what to do and more so for having drawn Iz into my web of emotional dysfunction, I said to Iz, “Let’s go see my Mom and Dad.” We ended up in my hometown, went to Duck Soup to buy coffee, and then went to the cemetery to visit with my Mom and Dad. Finally, we headed to the street I grew up on so Iz could play at my elementary school playground and see the house I lived in.

It’s true. Kids do see dead people; okay, well, most kids don’t see dead people, but they see things that most of us don’t. Every 30 minutes or so, Iz asked, “So, have you decided about Spence?”

It was so hard to keep putting her off. And, I felt so guilty for not being able to give her an answer. I, being the parent, should have a well-thought out answer to her question. But, I didn’t.

As the time passed, I felt more confused and more guilty that I had brought Iz along for this ride. My intentions has been good, but I was constantly questioning my intentions. When I put Iz to bed that night she asked, “Have you decided?” I said, “No.” She kissed me good night, and I knew I had to make a decision.

After she fell asleep, I pondered the pros and the cons. Unfortunately, there were more cons than pros, not because of the dog, but because of my life. I knew I couldn’t give such a vibrant guy the vibrant existence he deserved; Monty should have had far more outdoor time than he did. And, ultimately, I knew Spence was a furry band-aid for the extreme loneliness I had felt every day for many years.

I sat down at my laptop. I’m sure a sighed a million sighs. And, I wrote the following note to Spence’s foster Mom:

It with a very heavy heart that I write this, but I think I'm doing the right thing for primarily Spencer and then for myself. I *love* Spencer, though the more and more I played with him today, the more and more I realized how much attention he needed. We have no "dog parks" nearby, and I work full-time.

As I drove home, I realized I loved Spencer so much that I didn't want such a vibrant dog to be stuck snoozing inside the house by the backdoor every day. Monty had a good life with us, but I think he snoozed more by the back door than was out playing and romping. I also realized that I was getting a dog because I was lonely, and I had to address that issue first rather than apply a lovely furry band-aid.

I hope that's all not too much emotional information, but I wanted you not to think me crazy for not taking such a WONDERFUL dog, and I wanted to make the best decision. I wish I had worked out these issues before I went to see Spencer for Spencer's sake and my daughter's, but *alas much of wisdom is gained in retrospect.

*That was something my Mom had actually written in a letter to my cousin, Laura, who became a Mom at 18, about parenting; fortunately, it came back to haunt me, not making me feel as badly as I might have for bringing Iz along on my emotional canine ride.

Spence’s foster Mom wrote me back saying that she had wished all people made such informed decisions when it came to pets. While that was nice to hear, it didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted Spence, and I knew Iz did, too; it felt like a lose-lose situation.

Though in retrospect, as my Mom had said, seeing Spence was the right thing to do, but letting him go was the right thing to do, too. I had to go through the emotional motions; that was a win-win, though I still wished I hadn’t involved Iz. I knew the most important thing for me, and eventually for Iz too, was to get unlonely instead of applying a furry band-aid to a gaping heart wound.

The next morning, Iz asked me about Spence again. I looked at her and before I said anything, she began to cry, because she could see a person who had loved and had already felt that loss. We both cried together; I told her how sorry I was, and that we’d get a dog when the time was right, though I knew I still had a lot to go through to make the time right.

I think you realize you’re a good parent when you know that you’re not a perfect parent. I also think a pinnacle point in any parent-child relationship is when a child realizes that the parent is not perfect either. Iz didn’t understand my reluctance about Spence, but she understood that I wasn’t perfect, and she still loved me anyway even when I had followed my heart. ♥

(A few days later, I checked Spencer's page on www.petfinder.com. He was still smiling at me; good doggie! He was now titled "Spencer, a newly adopted dog." He found a home; good doggie! ♥)

Ouija Phone

2011-07-28T23:05:00.003-04:00

I’ve had a particularly stressful last few weeks at work. Given that I work in high technology, I should expect it. But after all these years, it still makes me want to stamp my feet when things go awry at the last minute.

In high technology, we like to think we are playing 18 holes. More often than not, we were only playing 13. Unfortunately, I was never good at golf; thus, it is all usually Parcheesi, Cricket, and horse shoes to me.

At 5:45pm tonight, I received an e-mail. There was yet another change when I had to meet a deadline on August 2nd. I shrieked, “Aaaaahhhhhhhh.”

Earlier in the week, I wrote the engineering manager of the next release. I gave him my demands, among them champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries delivered daily to my cube. He replied, “You’re very demanding, Jean!”

The funny thing is I had never ever been very demanding in my life. Actually, that was probably my biggest problem in life, especially where it concerned my relationships. I told him that I had a new attitude recently; it was “Ask for everything in hopes that you get at least one thing.”

Anyway, my co-worker, who had been most helpful today, asked, “What, Jean?” when he heard my shriek. He then came over to my cube. I said, “Have you ever had one of those days when you just want to phone home?”

Puzzled, he just looked at me strangely. I decided to help him out by telling him a story. I told him about a particularly bad day I had at the same company a few years ago when I said out loud while in my cube, “I want my mother.”

When I came in the next morning, I had a voice mail message. I began to listen to it. When I heard a person speaking like Mrs. Doubtfire, I thought, “Surely, this must be a joke.”

When I then heard, “I’m Esme, Sarah’s mother,” I knew it wasn’t a joke. My co-worker, Sarah, who was in the cube next to me, had gone home, told her Mom that I had a bad day, and her Mom had called me. Esme said, “So, feel free to call me whenever you have a bad day.”

Today, I don’t think my co-worker knew what to make of my story. I let him off easy by saying “Thanks for all of your help.” I then glanced at my phone thinking, “I still really want to call my mother.”

While I knew I had many wonderful girlfriends to call in this moment, somehow I just wanted my Mom, which seems really odd to say given that I'm in my 40s. While I knew my Mom wouldn't say anything different than any of my friends, DNA made me desire family. It wasn’t about the consolation; it was about the connection.

Whenever I have a really bad day, I go visit my parents in the cemetery. I know they’re not there. But, it’s the only place I have them now, and more often than not, I still find myself standing there and needing them more than ever.

After my co-worker left my cube, I felt slightly silly for my “phone home” babbling. But I knew, some day, he’d understand. I didn’t want it to happen to him anytime soon, but some day, he’d understand more of what I meant when he couldn’t phone home anymore.

I sat there in my office and thought if Maxwell Smart had a phone in his shoe, then why can’t Verizon offer the Ouija phone? “Great Great Great Great Great Grandma, can you hear me now?” At least, everyone should get a gift card card that gave them 10 after-life phone calls, I thought.

When I left work tonight, I knew that card would never be a reality. I phoned home, and Iz answered. When I heard her voice, I knew that home was definitely where the beating heart was and that via DNA, it would always contain the hearts of those that beat no longer. ♥

Cougar Camp

2011-07-14T22:20:00.003-04:00

I never went to camp when I was little. Well, I did go to a camp for one Summer as the camp nurse’s daughter. I spent a Summer in Saco, Maine with my Mom and my two siblings.

My brother, Jack, was old enough to be a camper; however, Julie and I were only old enough to be the “nurse’s daughters.” When I got older, I wondered why on Earth my mother packed us all up for a Summer and left my Dad at home. So, one day I was bold, and I had asked my Mom about “that Summer.”

She simply said, “That was the Summer I thought about leaving your father.” I said nothing. In her response, enough was said.

If truth be told, it wasn’t a bad Summer at all. I liked eating in the dining hall, drinking “bug juice,” (a dumbed down name for Kool-Aid), and buying candy with a punch card at the camp store. It was also the Summer I learned about the monthly curse when a young girl came into the infirmary yelling in pain.

I said to my Mom, “Oh, no. She’s going to die!” My Mom said, “Oh, no. She just has cramps!” Being a nurse and one not to shy away from anything medical, my Mom whipped out a book on menstruation the next day holding Julie and I as her captive audience for an hour or so as she flipped through the pages and asked every two pages or so, “Do you have any questions?”

I was a bit horrified by the whole puberty thing I have to say. Julie and I had no questions. But, in hindsight, I’m glad my Mom was who she was especially in that regard; kids need to know these things, and, in a perfect world, their parents need to be the ones to tell them these things and be there for them when they do have questions.

Anyway, I sit next to a lovely young man at work; he’s only 22 years old, yet he’s smart, polite, self-confident, family-oriented, compassionate, and I think he’s going to be a Vice President in the corporate world by the time he's 26. Sometimes I want to say to him, “Your parents have done so well!” but I restrain myself, because like with Nathan on Facebook, I don't want to be deleted via the Internet or via cube space. The other day, he muttered to himself, “If it keeps raining, maybe the running camp I coach will be cancelled.”

Being an avid runner, I asked, “You coach a running camp?” He said, “Yeah,” and then he popped into my office and then told me to Google the camp. He then said, “Here’s what we do,” and handed me a sheet that broke down two hours worth of camp by minute intervals during which all sorts of sprints and drills would occur.

When I saw the word “suicide” next to one drill, I laughed. If there was ultimate fighting, then this must be ultimate running. I then said to myself, “Two hours of running around like this? That sounds like fun.”

I asked, “Is this just for kids?” He said, “Well, it’s for ages 10 to about 20.” I said, “Oh.” He then hesitated for at least 5 seconds, and it was not like him to have immediate words, and said, “Well, when we had our meeting the other night, we were thinking of starting a cougar camp.”

I laughed out loud. I said not knowing what to say, “I thought cougar camp was sitting by the pool drinking Cosmopolitans! Err, well, when you do that, let me know.” He looked outside (the storm had passed) and said, “Well, I’ve got to get going.”

I sat there still laughing. Then I thought, “Does he think I’m old?” And then I thought, “Does he think I’m a cougar?”

Up until then, I always thought a cougar was an older woman who looked like a younger woman. I googled “cougar.” Apparently, I was wrong.

I told a friend about the fact that someone had suggested I attend a Cougar Camp. He said I should knee this young man in the groin for such an insult. It was funny, but I wanted to hug the young man for thinking I was an older woman who looked like a younger woman.

My friend was adamant about the fact that I was insulted. But, I knew this young man well, and I knew he’d never insult me. As I read the definitions in context of young men, I knew the only young man I was ever after was the one I was related to, who was my son; and, I was only after him to save more money, clean his room, cut his hair at least every three months, and get the oil changed in his (MY) car every three months.

I read further and wanted to think I was someone who had her “shit together,” but, alas, I wasn’t. I had actually been trying to get my shit together for the last seven years. Obviously, I was only a very slow “shit together” cougar. Perhaps I was not even a cougar but a tortoise!

If truth be told, my friend’s reaction made me feel a bit badly but only according to definition. In my heart, I knew my cube neighbor meant no harm. I would strongly consider attending cougar camp if it ever was open to enrollment, because I had already taken my definition of "cougar" and who I really was to heart. ♥

Bring In 'Da Noise, Bring In 'Da Funk

2011-07-10T21:22:00.008-04:00

Blog soundtrack (not for the faint of auditory heart!)

Noise. You can love it like the sound of Billie Holiday singing “Crazy He Calls Me” or you can hate it like when your neighbor is having gravel dumped into his yard at 7:30am on a Saturday morning complete with the beeping backing up truck. One of the most interesting experiences I had last night was when dumping gravel became as pleasing as Billie Holiday singing.

A week or so ago, I saw my brother, Jack, for a Fourth of July celebration. He casually mentioned that he was going to playing at some venue with his friend, Steve. Jack had recently begun to learn how to play the drums, so I thought, “He’s playing in a band. ”

I said to him, “Oh!” thinking that it would be really nice to watch my brother play. I asked for the details, and he mentioned an event notice on Facebook. I told him I’d think about attending; however, when he said, “Well, I might be banging on a coffee can,” I only thought, “Oh, he’s a little doubtful there will be a drum kit there for him.”

During the middle of the week, I e-mailed him to tell him that I’d be attending after saying “Yes” to the event invitation on Facebook. He then replied, “I think it is funny that you are going to a noise fest.” I read his sentence again trying to read, “I think it’s nice that you’re are going to a jam fest.” But, when I read it again, I knew I was going to a noise fest, and I thought it was pretty funny, too.

If I didn’t know it then, I did after I read Jack’s, “You might want to bring ear plugs. I hear the shows are loud.” Ear plugs? I only thought the Rolling Stone roadies who stood next to those huge speakers needed ear plugs. The last time I wore ear plugs was, well, I had never worn ear plugs; and, as far as I knew, ear plugs went with no outfit that I owned!

In preparation, Jack told me to go to http://www.youtube/ and search for +DOG+. I did, and I watched the first video shown. At first, I looked high and low for audio subtitles, but when I saw one of the guys slam down a metal sheet, I thought, “This is something I could totally get into after a
l-o-n-g and frustrating day of documenting custom destination and subdestination mappings for Call Detail Records!”

One of the best things I like about music is sharing it with people. Actually, I’m open to most things, and I especially like when people open me up to things I never would have heard of had it not been for them sharing it with me. After absorbing +DOG+’s noise, it reminded me of some other noise that I really loved.

I e-mailed Jack back and asked him if he had ever heard of beatboxing. When I saw Imogen Heap (electronic) a few years ago at the Paradise, a musician named Kid Beyond opened for her. I loved Imogen’s show, but Kid Beyond mesmerized me with his ability to produce all these sounds sans instruments and, in the link I sent to Jack, be a drum set.

Jack then told me that he thought it was going to be “fun to beat on something.” After watching +DOG+’s video another time, I had to agree. Jack then said, “I think I will be beating on something and was thinking of bringing a saw.” The more I read, the more intrigued I became.

When I was driving home from work yesterday (big deadline), I was trying to think about all the things I had to do to get out of the house to make it to Jack’s gig. I needed to shower. I needed to bring my camera, and I needed –crap– ear plugs.

At 4:54pm, I pulled into the Aubuchon store in my town. I walked in and was greeted by a teen employee who looked very happy that I walked in only so he would have something to do. I asked, “Where are the ear plugs?”

I thought he might look at me funny, but he jumped off of the large cardboard box containing a table saw and said, “Follow me!” I followed him for about 100 feet, he stopped, and then he pointed to Aubuchon’s ear plug section. They had the single serving, the party pack (a set of 6 ear plugs), and the single serving with the head band.

What to choose? What to choose? Having never had to accessorize with ear plugs, I chose the party pack, thinking that any noise fest newbies, like me, might need a helping plug. Fortunately, Jack had warned me, but others might not have had such pre-fest brotherly love imparted upon them.

I went to the register with my party pack. It reminded me of buying condoms but in a totally different way. I expected to feel somewhat guilty thinking that this young man is wondering what a person like me is doing with 6 sets of ear plugs.

Instead, he punched a few buttons on the register, said “$3.69,” and then said “Have a nice evening!” If I had perhaps bought the party pack of condoms, I knew I’d be having a nice evening. But, with the party pack of ear plugs safely tucked away in my purse, I wondered what the hell my evening was going to be like!

At 7pm, I got into my car, and courtesy of my Droid found my way to the venue. I was somewhat irritated that the GPS, who I named Gertrude on the way there, had a tendency to repeat herself over and over again. After I heard “Take Exit 35A toward Nashua, NH” about five times, I said out loud, “Chill, Gerty. I know!”

When Gerty made sure, after 5 times, that I was in the right place, I pulled over and parked on the road across from the venue. I was in a sketchy section of Lowell, and I seriously wondered if my car would be outside when I came outside after the gig. But, I threw caution to the wind and said, “Hey, I have insurance, and if it gets stolen, perhaps I can get at 2008 instead of this used 2007!”

I locked my car and crossed the street. I didn’t know exactly where the venue was, as Gerty only told me I was near it. As I walked down the sidewalk, I looked in an open door, and I saw my brother, Jack.

Yeah, it was definitely a 1+1=Jack’s gig equation. I walked in, and I looked around. There were about 10 people scattered across two rooms, and I walked back to greet Jack, who greeted me with a big hug.

I had no idea what to expect of the night, and despite any expectations, it was really good to get a hug from my brother who had expected to see me. He and Steve had set up their table of noise tricks; Jack showed me a miniature drum set and a small piece of metal that he was going to whale on with his drum sticks.

I went to stake out my space and parked myself on a folding chair. As time passed, the room became more crowded, and not too long before show time, Jack came over to sit with me. He said that he had never had to be in front of this many people before.

I was a bit surprised by his admission, though, like my profession (technical writer), he largely dealt with people one-on-one being a goldsmith. I told him that he’d do fine. And, then I shared my only public speaking experience with him; I had to explain the new documentation strategy to 75 HP people who were fed up with our archaic one.

I said that I was scared to death; however, unlike Jack, I had baked two batches of my butterscotch sprinkle cookies the night before to sooth the savage audience. I told him that while I shook in my chinos, I knew that half their attention was directed toward their coffee and my great cookies. I’m sure this was no consolation to Jack, because he had no cookies and, unlike me, he had no great plan to improve noise (or in my case, documentation).

I said, “You’ll do a great job!” It was all I had, and I knew he would. Did I really know that? No, but I knew he would, because after so many years, you don’t know these things, you feel them.

The first noise-icians came on. The leader of the Noise Pack described what they were going to do by saying, “When I was little, I heard this sound. I got out of bed and my brother asked me if I had heard it, too. I went downstairs to ask my Dad about it. He had had a drink or two and was half asleep on the sofa and told me that it was only an airplane. I thought it was aliens, and so here are the sounds that I thought I heard that night.” Fifteen minutes later, I felt as if several times in my young life that aliens had indeed landed at 188 Haynes Road in Sudbury!

Three guys stood there and banged on things, hit buttons, and made noises. I was tapping my foot as they did. When they finished, I clapped my hands together hard, because their noises were indeed what an alien invasion would have been in my head.

Steve and Jack went on after them. As Steve wrapped something around his mouth with tape, I had visions of Hannibal Lector. When they started, I had no idea what to expect, but that’s what I liked about these noises. Like life, did you ever know what to expect?

Steve began. Jack improvised with his drum set and a small piece of metal. I sat there watching, listening, and thinking, “This is not odd. This is the sound of life when you’re trying not to listen.”

When they finished, I clapped. No, I didn’t because I had to hit the “Stop” button on my camera. The audience went wild, and then I heard a “Fuck yeah,” and I thought that’s the ultimate compliment that any artist can receive.

After they dismantled their stuff, Jack and Steve sat down with me. Steve gave me the thumbs up. While I was a Mom to much younger children, I wanted to hug them both and say, “OMG! You were so good!” but I just smiled instead.

The next noise-icians came on. While they were warming up, I thought, “Ear plugs now!” When they began, I let the ear plug party pack invade my ear space. While they were “playing,” I closed my eyes a few times, and I thought, “Wow, this is what it’s like to be on the Amtrak Northeast Regional train…but louder.”

This group was the loudest by far; however, when I closed my eyes, I was with them. I was sleeping and hearing gravel dumped, I was on the train when it was going 70 mph down the tracks, and then I was dying thinking this is what the white light sounds like but only that much louder. And, I loved it.

Jack and I weren't that close when we were growing up. Last night, I realized that perhaps my brother and I were closer than life would have us believe. Neither of us was good at public speaking, yet we both loved music, were laid back, and we appreciated noise, in whatever form in came in, even after all these years. I love you, Jack. ♥

The Tooth Fairy Chronicles

2011-07-07T19:41:00.002-04:00

As I mentioned last night, Iz now has a on-going letter correspondence with the Tooth Fairy. I don't remember writing this many letters to the Tooth Fairy when I was her age. (Of course, Iz has her Dad's "go get 'em" attitude instead of my "okay, whatever" attitude, which is a very good thing indeed.) In hindsight, I think that if I had written as much to the Tooth Fairy as Iz, my already frazzled-with-three-kids parents might have told me the Tooth Fairy didn't exist sooner rather than later!

So, now in addition to trying to get my creative writing going here again on my blog, I am also trying to sustain a hard copy blog with my daughter. In a way, the hard copy blog is a bit more fun. It's interactive with daily comments from my only little "follower."

In another way, it gives me a chance to pretend. I haven't pretended in a long time, well, except for those times when I pretend that George Clooney gets stranded in Ayer due to a huge snow storm and has to come home with me. Finally, in a guilty parent way, it made me wonder if I was perhaps making Iz more fond of the Tooth Fairy and inviting a total crash-and-burn emotional situation when Iz eventually realized or was told that the Tooth Fairy was non-existent or only existed in me.

Well, surprise, surprise. My creative and pretend side won out over sensible parenting. And, I wouldn't have it any other way.

After Iz lost her tooth, she wrote a letter to the Tooth Fairy. She'd written a letter a few weeks ago, but the Tooth Fairy was too frazzled to write back. Anyway, since she had lost yet another tooth, the Tooth Fairy got her stuff together and replied Tuesday morning with:

Dear Iz,

I'm sorry I didn't write back sooner. I have been so busy!

Congratulations on losing another tooth. Take this money and buy something special with it.

You are a very smart and beautiful girl. I love you.

After reading the Tooth Fairy's response and pondering all 54 things she could do with $10, Iz said, "I'll have to write back." I grimaced a tad. Iz could not let the Tooth Fairy get the last word in nor would she accept that there wasn't more to glean from this correspondence.

On Tuesday night, Iz replied with:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Thanks. I was wondering if you have anything special you wanted. Also, please make Monty back to life. I will do anything to make him back to life. Please write back.

P.S. Here is something. It's okay to take the stuff.

[ed. Iz left a random assortment of small toys with the note -- a Polly Pocket doll, a few clothes for Polly, and a few small plastic animals.]

On Wednesday morning, the Tooth Fairy replied with:

Dear Izzy,

You do not need to give me anything. I will always be here for you. No matter how much I would like to bring Monty back to you, I don't have the powers to do so.

I did talk to him the other day. He's in Heaven and has a wonderful girlfriend named Zelda. He is very happy, but he told me to tell you that he misses you a lot.

I love you.

Last night, Iz replied with:

Dear Tooth Fairy,

Wake me up please and show me where you work and can I have some powers? I'm begging you. How about you and the fairies put their magic together to make Monty back.

[ed. There's a heart here, and in it, it says, "You Rock."
P.S. You can really have these. [ed. She left the same toys again and this time included a $1 bill. I think she was testing the theory that "money talks even with the Tooth Fairy!"]

This morning, the Tooth Fairy responded with:

Dear Izzy,

No matter how much power we Fairies put together, we cannot bring someone like Monty or your Mom’s Mom (because I know she misses her terribly) back. It just cannot happen even with fairy dust.

I cannot take your things. You keep them. I cannot show you where I work either; magic is only magic because you have to believe in something you don't know.

You don’t need my powers, because you have powers of your own. What are those powers?

You are smart. You are kind. And, you are beautiful. Those are the only powers you need.

I love you.

When I got out of the shower this morning, Iz greeted me at the door. She said excitedly, "The Tooth Fairy wrote back to me!" I asked, "Oh, really?" By the way, can you get a Best Supporting Actress award for your life, which sometimes seems like a movie? If so, I deserve one.

I said, "Read me the letter!" She began to read. Then she stopped when I knew there was more.

She looked up at me and smiled. I asked, "Is there more?" and then I took the letter out of her hands; I began to read, "You don't need my powers...."

She had stopped at the part where the Tooth Fairy had lauded her. She was embarrassed to read about how wonderful she was, which made me happy that she was modest, but it also made me more determined to read to her how wonderful she was. As I read my own words to her, I realized that there was not just one smart, kind, and beautiful girl standing there.

I knew, like Iz's toothless smile, that I was not perfect. None of us are. But in that moment, I realized how important the Tooth Fairy blog had become to Iz and to me.

I had always told Iz what a great girl she was. But as I stood there reading, I also realized how important it is that I tell her that often. And being the Tooth Fairy not only made me feel special to Iz, it made me realize that I was special, too, and that the greatest power was the power to love yourself, especially when you didn't have a Mom or a Tooth Fairy to do so.

After I finished reading the letter, Iz blushed. She asked me, "Does she love me the best, Mom?" I laughed on the inside and on the outside I said quite seriously, "Yes, she does." Iz then said, "Oh, I'll have to write her back now!" and off she went. ♥

Am I Living It Right?

2011-07-06T22:04:00.002-04:00

Blog soundtrack:

It’s been a while since there has been a blog soundtrack, so go forth and listen to the music.

The last few months of my life have been trying. I have not lost a job (been there and done that), I have not lost a loved one (been there and done that too much and in huge ways), and I have not lost my mind (well, been there and done that maybe once a month when stress rhymes with PMS!); however, I did lose a tooth last night. Okay, at 40-something, I way beyond the baby teeth and cavity prone years.

Iz, my 8-year-old daughter, lost another front tooth last night, leaving her with virtually no front teeth and making an even more blinding glare (sometimes she reminds me of Jaws, not the movie, but of the James Bond henchman!) from the palate expander that currently occupies her whole mouth. Currently, Iz has an open dialogue (that is, exchanging letters back and forth) with the Tooth Fairy, which I encouraged. I had to put on my Tooth Fairy wings last night; if truth be told, I so love those wings and the words that I get to say as her.

For example, last night, Iz wrote the Tooth Fairy in regard to her lost tooth and because she also wanted to give the Tooth Fairy all her Polly Pocket paraphernalia in exchange for getting Monty, our dearly departed Corgi back. The Tooth Fairy wrote back that she could not accept Iz’s toys. She told Iz that she could also not bring Monty back.

She did tell Iz that Monty was very happy in Heaven with his girlfriend, Zelda. (I always thought if I ever acquired a female Corgi that her name would be Zelda.) The Tooth Fairy also told her how much Monty missed her, and Iz seemed very happy to know all of this.

Anyway, despite being a part-time Tooth Fairy, I have been trying to navigate the waters of my life in a very small boat for the last several months. Sometimes these waters seem like the Bermuda Triangle. I’m lost, confused, alone, and I wonder if I’ll end up as an episode on Unsolved Mysteries.

There have been many diversions along the way. “Come stay on my island for a while.” But, none of them have seemed quite right. In fact, most of them involve spending life on a deserted island, a place in which I can live but can never be seen or heard from. (Some of you will “get” that. Some of you won’t, but I don’t care, because it’s my blog!)

Recently, I stopped and thought long and hard about being stuck in the Triangle that seems to be my life now. Oddly, when I think about my life right now, I hear two songs. They are the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” and John Mayer’s “Why Georgia.”

I did say once that my life has soundtracks, right? Okay, if I didn’t, I’m saying it now. My life is an endless soundtrack, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

After assessing all my choices, I said, “I should go.” And then when I reassessed all the ways I could divert myself from concentrating on going, I said, “Am I living it right?” I decided that I wasn’t.

Typically, I’m a very impulsive person. I’m the very impulsive person who usually makes the wrong decisions when being impulsive. VHS or Beta? Beta. Microsoft stock or Flowbee stock? Flowbee. Chicken or egg? PedEgg. I am always wrong on impulse!

So, I took a deep breath, and I asked myself the question in "Why Georgia Why?" which is “Am I living it right?” It wasn’t that I started living wrong; it was that I was thinking about living wrong. For the first time in my life, beta, flowbee, and pedegg went out the window.

I decided that the most important thing I owed myself was myself. My children, Nate and Iz, always came first; however, I owed it to myself to make it all about me and where I wanted to go and where I was not about to stay. I was not going to stay on someone’s island, a captive; I would venture unknown waters and discover a new land, my land.

At the end of the day, I really have no one to be proud of me in the traditional sense. My parents are long gone. But, in the moment that I decided that I would live my life right and think about me and me alone, I was so proud of myself.

I hate to say it, but that was a first for me in my lifetime. I think I felt inklings, but what I felt in that moment was defining; old Jeans can be patched! And, life is so very good when you let yourself be who you were meant to be without any deserted islands, pirates who want to steal from you, or planks some might want you to walk. ♥

P.S. And, thanks Brenda for (paraphrasing here) "A blog no matter how small is always appreciated." ♥

Let Your Troubles Roll By

2011-07-05T00:12:00.002-04:00

As some of you know, my son, Nathan, and I have had a friend-unfriend you relationship on Facebook. Some people tell me it’s stellar that Nate and I are friends at all. In the last two years, I have been added by Nate, deleted by Nate, added by Nate again, deleted myself, and then added by Nate again.

Today, I’m officially his “Mother” on his page. Of course, one of his friends, Matt, is listed as his father. So, I might be kidding myself by thinking that I’m special given Nate’s Facebook “Father” status.

Though, if truth be told, I’m the only biological parent that is Nathan’s friend. He deleted his Dad, Quinn, the bad cop. For some reason, and I’m still trying to figure out why it is, I’ve survived all these months despite my inquisitive presence in his life, which has occurred periodically and with issue.

I was deleted for stalking initially, but it’s so not stalking when he’s my friend. Legally and friend-wise, I am entitled to see his friend updates. So, when I read a post, I’m not a stalker, I’m a friend and a mother; though, so often, the mother part outweighs the friend part in the level of concern that occurs when reading a post.

Anyway, I saw last night’s post which was “F*ck,” and then he posted Carbon Leaf’s “Let Your Troubles Roll By.” So, I texted as nonchalantly as I could today and asked, “So, is everything okay?”

He said, “Meh. It’s okay.” Okay, what the hell does “Meh” mean?! My new Droid phone had an annoying spell checker; sometimes when Nathan texted me I felt that I needed a just as annoying Babelfish translator when it came to interpretting Nathan.

So, I went to Babelfish. There was an every-language-known-in-the-universe-to-English translation option. I tell you, Babelfish could make millions if there was an 18-year-old to English translator.

I said, “Okay, just checking.” I let an hour go by and then I called. I asked, “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

He responded, “Yeah.” Then I pushed it and I asked, “Are you sure?” If that question were in a comic book, it would have been bold, italicized, and underlined.

He said, “Yes.” I said, “Okay, well, as long as you know, that I’m here for you and you can talk to me whenever….” Suddenly, a ring back tone started playing on Nathan’s end of the line.

I knew I was about to get shut down and pretended not to interpret Nathan’s tone; thus, I threw out the desperation question, which was, “Is it about a girl?” The ring back tone became louder.

Oh, no, wait, it wasn’t a ring back tone! It was Nathan saying, “La-la, la-la-la, Mom, you’re overstepping boundaries, la-la-la, la-la!” Obviously, he knew I had read his FB posts.

In my defense, it is there out in the open for me to read. Yeah, well, in hindsight, maybe I should have let the conversation end after he said, “Yes,” but call me a mother 24/7. I said, “Okay, I get it.”

I then asked when he was working next; he told me Tuesday and Wednesday nights. After five seconds of silence, I did what I knew I had to and said, “Okay, so see you Tuesday. I love you.” And, I hung up before he could even respond.

As I sat there on the couch, I realized something for the very first time. Parenting was difficult, and it never became any easier. As Nate got older, it would only become more difficult, because then I really had no control over his body (tattoos, piercings, and anything else), the car he might drive, the person he dated, or how often he visited me.

Though, Nate might think it was, parenting was never a meh. I would love him always, yet, as time went on, I knew I'd have him in my life less and love him even more. Being a parent was anything but meh.

Parenting was really a hem (that's "meh" backwards) and a haw. I would hesitate and sometimes falter. Or I would falter and sometimes hesitate, but no matter, I would always love him and never ever let my haw and hem resolve to meh where it concerned him. ♥

Girl Time!

2011-06-29T22:37:00.003-04:00

Every few weeks, I hear the cry of Estrogen as Iz shouts, “Girl time!!!” when she and I end up being a dynamic duo for a few days or a week or more. Nathan is usually around during some of that time; however, we tend not to include him in the Estrogen equation (Mom + Daughter = Girl Time). Obviously, a Testosterone can’t be factored into the Girl Time sum, and as a Testosterone who is 18 and has his own wheels, he’s never around long enough to even count!

As all 10.25* of my devoted readers know, I haven’t been here lately. A big shout out to those of you, most recently Sucra, who have said, “What happened to the blog?!?!?!” I thank you for missing me, though I became a missing person somewhat on purpose, unlike Nathan who became a missing person just due to the fact that the State of Massachusetts gave him his license last year.

*The .25 is a cat. Someone told me recently that her cat liked my blog. Hey, if there are cats that can bark like dogs, then there are cats who can read! Yeah, you’re right; that’s bullsh*t. Her cat was lying on her keyboard while my blog was displayed on the screen; I think that’s a cat who wants to get warm and one who is not enthralled by my random babblings!

Anyway, I had a well-thought out plan for my life in March. April came and stalled my plan due to fact that I got a miserable infection and landed in the hospital for three days. Subsequently, I felt rotten for the entire month of April, and the sails of my life lost a lot of wind.

May came. With it, it brought Nathan’s prom, Iz’s first communion, and my birthday. I usually love May, because it comes in like Spring and goes out like Summer, and my favorite flowers bloom (Lilacs and Lily of the Valley) and spend just a few precious weeks in vases next to my bed providing me with natural aromatherapy.

This May was different. My dog, Monty, was diagnosed with lymphoma in February. By the time May 6th came, Monty couldn’t walk more that 50 yards and had difficulty going up and down stairs; I had a difficult and heart-wrenching decision to make.

I called my veterinarian. After I got off the phone with her, I sobbed. I had made an appointment to euthanize him on May 11th.

After that, I couldn’t look at his smiling face without feeling tremendous guilt, even though I knew I was doing the “right” thing. Sometimes the “right” thing can feel so wrong. And when the morning of the 11th came, I sat on the porch and watched Monty roll around in the grass; he smiled, but it almost seemed at some points like he was laughing.

I got up and went to get the phone; it wasn’t his time. He got up out of his roll and sat there on the lawn and smiled at me. I went over to him and rubbed him, feeling 10 huge golf ball-sized lymph nodes in only two hands worth of rubbing.

I went back to sit down on the porch. He still sat there smiling at me. I smiled back at him; I think that we both knew it was his time then.

One friend asked me if I was going to write about Monty; I think that’s as about as much as I can write. I put him in the car, we drove to the vet’s, and then…well, I can’t type much more without wanting to cry…a lot. I did write this to a friend:

His lymph nodes had become huge in the last week, and he couldn’t get up and down the stairs. I took him for a walk on Sunday to his favorite place, Groton Woods (see “Me and My Shadow” blog for a happy trip description). Once there, he walked 50 yards and then sat down to rest. He couldn’t go much further than that. I then realized that he could leave this life happy or miserable. He was still eating and despite his discomfort he seemed happy. He was rolling around on the grass on Monday morning, and I was very tempted to call the vet and say “Forget it!” But, I knew he was only going to get worse. I also knew I couldn’t bear to see him get worse and become a miserable Monty I didn’t know. I knew the best of Monty, and that’s the way I felt (though selfishly it sometimes felt) he should leave this world.

He was happy to the end. When he passed, he collapsed into my lap. They left me alone with him, and I sat there for over a half an hour holding him and rubbing his soft pointy ears and massaging his cute little feet (which always smelled like popcorn); these were the parts I adored most about him. It was so hard to make the decision, and then it was so hard to leave him there. Finally, I gently moved him out of lap, repositioned his paws, so it looked just like he was asleep on the rug by the backdoor. I kissed his nose, told him I was sorry for all the times his performance art (barking) irked me and how much I loved him for always being such a good man in my life, and I sadly had to leave without looking back. It was one of my most difficult things I ever had to do in my life.

After that, I went home. I sat on the porch for the longest time and only went back into the house for five minutes, cringing when I didn't hear a single bark, to grab a bottle of wine. I opened the bottle, brought it out onto the porch, and I drank the whole bottle while I sat there and cried for the next three hours.

The funny thing about it all, if it could be funny in the unusual way and not the ha-ha way, was that I always felt I was such a cat person. Monty was the first dog I had ever owned on my own, and he meant a lot more to me than most dogs might due to the fact that I bought him two weeks before my Dad died. Dog are so different from cats.

In retrospect, I can only think that the lesson in all of this was for me to feel that and to know that sometimes you just have to let go. There was no replacing anyone or anything in life. Life always moved forward yet you always had to remember to keep the past present in your heart.

As some of my devoted blog readers know, I bought a new-to-me car (a ’07 VW EOS which Iz and I named Little Red) in April. May was also devoted to bringing it back and forth to the dealership to fix water leaks, a squeaky sunroof and rear window, and finally, a clutch that needed replacing after only 40K miles. The dealership I bought it from paid for everything, so I couldn't complain.

Though, it was stressful going from convertible to a rental car periodically. Even though I had printed out all the Internet fixes for all my car’s issues, the men in charge at the dealerships chose to ignore them. It only gave credence to my quote, “Who needs a man when you’ve got the Internet?”

One day, I had a ginormous van that made me feel like my surname should have been Duggar. The next day I’d have a Nissan Versa, which nicely fit my bike in it with the back seats down and gave me buyer’s remorse. This is a shout out to Nissan if you stalk blogs.

I love the Versa. If I could afford two cars, I’d have it and a convertible. It’s such a clown car; it’s small on the outside and huge on the inside!

When May came to a close, despite the Lilacs and the Lily of the Valley, I was ready to join the Witness Protection Program. Nathan happily went to the prom with a friend; Iz became Communion-ized. But somehow, I couldn’t move past Monty; his death left me with this huge sink hole in my life.

People who lost limbs had phantom pains; I lost my dog and had phantom late night and early morning take-dog-out-to-pee pains. I’d turn off the TV to go to bed, look for Monty, and then realize that I had no dog to take out. Ironically, the worst part was when I pulled in the driveway or opened the front door; the incessant barking that once annoyed me was not there, and I now so wanted it to be there to greet me.

In a nutshell, the last few months have been about lovely steps forward (full-time job, house in Nantucket sold, prom, communion, and the car -- well, it was a step forward and then an equal step back for a while), and then it was about steps back (the illness, Monty, and even doubt in my own plan). Of course, work got in the way, and I cringed when I knew I didn’t have the bandwidth to write as I do here. Sometimes I wish I could blink and all my thoughts about something could appear here, but that doesn’t happen.

My blogs truly are a labor of love, each taking me 2-6 hours to write; I know I’ve said that before; however, it’s worth repeating that creativity doesn’t come in an “I Dream of Jeannie” blink, as TV would have you believe. Musicians spend a year to creating 12 songs for a CD; I was writing at least 12 blogs a month if not more. What does that mean? If I were a musician, I’d be turning out a new CD every month!

But seriously, I have not been sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Okay, a few days a month, I do, like we all do when faced with challenges. For the first time in my life, I decided to take care of the most important person I know; and, that person is me.

While I let my writing go, I spent time watching movies with Iz, time folding laundry, and time watching stuff on TV I had already watched before without fretting about being here. It was difficult, because I felt like I was letting myself down by not doing what I loved. But as the days and weeks passed, I knew I was giving myself something that Iz and I loved the most – girl time!

I can’t say I’m back every day. But, I’m here now, and I know that this endeavor gives me the girl time to be who I am. But, sometimes, I won’t be here, because I need the girl time that makes me the girl who I am when I’m not here . ♥

He's a Strange Beast

2011-05-22T20:57:00.005-04:00

Recently, I was fortunate enough to buy a new car. Well, it’s a car that’s new to me. I like to refer to it as my “mid-life-crisis-son-going-to-college” car.

Why mid-life crisis? It’s a red convertible, I’m somewhat in a crisis, and I’m mid-life if I were to only live to 60. Yeah, yeah, you got me; pants on fire! So, the “son-going-to-college” part of the car is that it’s a 2007 with 40K miles on it. Perhaps someday, I’ll get a new one after Iz graduates from college when I’m…okay, let’s not go there.

I bought a VW EOS, which is the "new" VW Cabrio. In 1996, I bought a used 1995 VW Cabrio; by the way, it’s very true that history repeats itself. Peasant blouses were trendy in the 1940s, 1970s, and now for the last year. (Okay, I had to put in my fashion two sense there, and yes, I meant to spell “sense” like that.) By the way, never throw out clothes; put them in the attic, and in 15-30 years, they’ll be back in style, I promise!

Anyway, I sold my VW Cabrio in 2000. (If Nathan were to hold a grudge against me for anything, it would not be because I called him “Bear,” my pet name for him, in front of his friends at his eighth birthday party; it would be because I sold the Cabrio. When my Dad died, he left two Toyota RAV4s; my brother took one, and I took the other one, which was less than a year old with only 10K miles on it.

At the time, I felt that if I were a good parent, I’d have a car with a backseat that could hold three passengers. The backseat of my Cabrio only had two seatbelts. I wondered how I could drive all of Nathan’s friends around if I were a seatbelt short; in 2000, I was out of my first mid-life crisis, and, by the way, if history repeats itself, so does the mid-life crisis evidently!

I wanted to be a good parent, but I was hesitant, because I loved my car. I had never loved a car in my life before, and the VW Cabrio was the first car I ever truly loved. I reluctantly put a “For Sale” sign in the car and then reluctantly put an ad in the Want Advertiser, which wouldn’t run for a week. Phew, I had time to put off being a “good parent.”

The evening after I put the “For Sale” sign in my car, my doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw my neighbor’s 16-year-old daughter standing there. She said, “Hi!” and then asked, “So, your car is for sale?” Knowing she didn’t even have her permit yet, I chuckled to myself and said, “Yes. It is.”

She then said, “My Dad’s going to buy it for me.” I asked, “Really?” She said, “Well, I can’t drive yet, but it’ll be mine when I can drive.”

Her Dad seemed to love cars, because he had about six of them in his driveway and at least one was a VW. I stood there somewhat amazed. I wasn’t amazed that she couldn’t drive yet; I was amazed that she was getting a car before she could even drive. When I was 16, I think my parents gave me a sweater vest!

The next day her Dad called. He wanted to buy her my car; I emphasize the “my,” because I was still wondering what I was doing. A voice said, “You’re being a good parent,” and I listened to it over and over when I signed the title over to him after he handed me a check for $6000.

When Nathan found out that I sold my car, he was upset. I tried to explain my whole “good parent” thing to him, but it was said again and again to deaf ears. Ironically, during that whole post-Cabrio time, I was never driving Nathan and a bunch of friends around; back then, Nathan was a shy kid with Connor, Ellen’s son, being his best and pretty much only close friend. "Carma" (yes, I meant to spell it that way) is indeed a bitch!

Believe it or not, my 1995 VW Cabrio, though somewhat rusted on the driver’s side door, is still being driven by my neighbor and his wife to this day. I saw his wife drive down the street in it this afternoon, and I’m always glad when Nathan isn’t around to see this. When he is, he looks fondly at the car, glares at me the “good parent who is really an idiot for ever giving up that car,” and then he sighs.

It was all very painful in that “bad parent” way, though I have learned my lesson. After I bought my “new to me” car, I promptly handed over the keys to my 2000 Toyota RAV4 with 180K miles on it to Nathan. He was elated.

I somewhat felt like I had been forgiven for my past VW sins. It was like I had given Nate the keys to a Ferrari. Of course, it was half the size of “Big Red,” the Suburban he crashed last Fall; so, in hand-me-down car terms, the RAV4 was a Ferrari!

When I took Iz for her first spin in my “new to me” car, she, not one to mince words asked matter-of-fact, “Mommy, since Nathan got the black car, I get the red car when I am driving, right?” Iz already staked out her vehicle territory. When I wasn't thinking “That’s my girl!” I was thinking, “Good parents drive fun cars and pass the fun cars and the love of them to their children.”

Anyway, there comes a time when driving your child everywhere becomes a total drag. You worry about them driving your car, but then you worry about your sanity when one child is already asleep and you have to pick the other one up from his job. After fighting off the antiquated “Well, I didn’t have a car until I was 22,” you think, “I’m going to be good to myself as a parent, and I’m giving him my car!” It’s the new parent math -- being a good parent to yourself!

But, there’s a downside to the child with car keys; it’s called “abandonment.” You don’t abandon them; they leave you, BUT this only occurs when they have gas money from you and you've paid their car insurance. Yes, a big HELLO, you contribute to their deliquency to abandon you; um, parenting is also a bitch!

Last Friday, I was texting with Nate about his plans for the weekend. As usual, he drops a bomb in a text message rather than in an actual conversation. He said, “Oh, I need to talk to you about Strange Creek, which is next weekend.”

I replied with “What creek?” He didn’t reply, so I knew it was something big, something that surely involved my money and my car! They think we parents are totally clueless, but if they only really knew who the clueless ones were, it would make our lives as parents a lot easier!

After I put my cell phone down, I immediately went to my computer to google “Strange Creek.” It was a music festival over two days where concert attendees would camp. Can you say, “Woodstock?!?!?!?!”

I was sitting in my office chair thinking, “No way. Not my son. Not my car. ” Of course, it seems that as I have aged, everything I did back when I was 18 was okay, because I knew what I was doing. It seems that Nathan has the same attitude, but I can’t accept it because I’m 40-something and he is 18; again, history repeats itself, because my Mom and Dad probably thought the same thing back then.

Tonight, I thought it was time to discuss the concert with Nathan. So, I asked, “So, you’re driving out to Greenfield and camping?” He said, “Uh, well, no. First, we’re driving up to Burlington, Vermont on Friday, seeing Ray Lamontagne, and then driving to Greenfield to meet up with about 15 other people from school.” WOODSTOCK, WOODSTOCK, WOODSTOCK!

I said, “Um, I don’t know about this.” Then I defaulted to the “bad cop” parent by asking, “So, what does your Dad think about this?” Nathan said, “Well, I think he’s okay with it,” and then he added “Well, more or less.”

I laughed and asked, “So, what does that mean?” Nathan said, “Well, he’s a strange beast.” I then said, “Nathan, we’re not strange beasts. We’re parents!”

Am I worried about this road trip? I am. Will I fund this road trip? I will. Would I prevent him from going? I won’t, because at 18, 28, 38, or 48, or 58 (if I’m that lucky), I will always worry; it’s comes with the “good parent” and “strange beast” territory, understanding only now that my parents were good but very strange beasts, too. ♥

Who are You? Who, Who, Who, Who?

2011-05-13T12:37:00.002-04:00

In February of this year, the company that laid me off in 2009 hired me back. It seems that my company, not unlike others, had outsourcing remorse, which led them to hire many people back. While I was not keen when they outsourced me, I was glad to see that they tried it but didn’t end up liking it as it applied to some positions within the company, especially mine as a technical writer.

Before I was rehired, the company rehired a few engineers that they had laid off. I remember feeling a bit miffed that people who could write code were being welcomed back before people who could write a complete sentence and remember to put a period after it, but then I reminded myself that this was high technology. As long as the software worked, who cared if no one knew how to use it?!

A few weeks ago, I was in the bathroom washing my hands. I happened to be speaking to someone when a woman rounded the corner from the bathroom stalls. She took one look at me and exclaimed, “Hi, Jean!”

It would have normally been a positive experience; however, I took one look at her, and I had no idea who she was. Now, I’m one of those people who is very good with names and faces; I can directly attribute it to my many hours of CSI and Law & Order TV viewing. I scanned her face again hoping I could channel Lenny Briscoe or Sara Sidle, but alas, I could only channel a tabula, and it was rasa; I had no idea who this woman was!

The situation was made worse by the fact that her “Hi, Jean!” was said with an “I have known you since Kindergarten” type of familiarity. I said, “Hi!!!’ hoping my many exclamation marks would make up for the fact that I could not append a name to “Hi.’ She told me that it was good to see me, and taking her lead, I said the same thing back; right then I should have said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name, “ but she knew me so well, I knew I’d feel like I was in Kindergarten by saying that.

In my previous job, I had worked on the release notes for three major products. On a weekly basis, I interacted with 40 to 50 software engineers; this was almost entirely done by e-mail. It used to amaze me that I worked with one sixth of the employees in my building, who were only a floor away, yet I knew them only by their e-mail addresses.

Between you and me, I had formulated ideas of them. There was “engineer who never responded until the last minute,” “engineer who was most appreciative that I could take something incoherent that he wrote and make it a complete sentence with a period after it,” “engineer who always wrote grumpy replies,” and “engineer who always went out of his way to help me.” I had profiled most of them even if I didn’t know them, and I had Criminal Minds to thank for that!

Occasionally, I might have to call an engineer to actually “talk” about an issue or prod one to review something I wrote two hours before a deadline. I’d access the employee directory to look up a phone number; it was only then that I might get an idea of what the engineer looked like due to the picture in the directory; however, the employee photos were about as good as those FBI mug shots you see in the post office.

You could look at the picture of the fugitive for 5 seconds, walk out of the post office, pass the fugitive on the sidewalk, and never know it was the person in the picture. Like most pictures, they captured you at a moment in time; from perusing some of the photos, people had lost hair, gained weight, and grown older. Though, I was comforted by the fact that when I roamed the hallways at work, the engineers that I didn’t know were only wanted by me most days and not by the FBI.

After two minutes of basic chit-chat, my CSI and Law & Order TV viewing started to kick in. While trying to converse, as if I knew who she was, my Lenny Briscoe voice said, “Try and look at her badge.” Everyone in the company had a badge; you were supposed to wear your badge at all times, and sometimes, according to corporate regulations, it seemed like it was more important to wear your badge than clothes as in “Hey, nice belly button ring, but where the heck is your badge?!”

I hated my badge. I was never one to be a huge rule breaker, but I tried to get away without wearing it as often as I could. Truthfully, I was not James Dean for doing so; frankly, it was just because I felt the badge didn’t go well with any of my outfits! Yes, I admit it; I was transparent when it came to corporate security.

While trying to remain focused on our conversation and share my “I was laid off and hired back too” story, I glanced down at her pants. I saw her 2x4 inch badge dangling from her waist. Unfortunately, it was flipped over showing me only that she was as white as a ghost and I couldn’t even call her Casper!

When the conversation came to its natural conclusion, I skedaddled out the bathroom door with a “Yeah, it is really nice to see you, too!” When the door closed behind me, I walked back to my office wondering who she was. I knew everyone in my life; I even knew people in my life that I didn’t know like the man who serviced the ATM machine at the supermarket and the woman who booked my ferry ticket to Nantucket!

I arrived back at my office and pondered how I had let this person slip through my life. I didn’t know where she sat, so I couldn’t do a “walk by” and read the name plate on her cube. I could try and point her out to someone, but I’d feel rather silly saying, “Hi” to her and then asking a companion, “Who the heck is that?”

With so many other things on my mind, I decided that I’d have to file her away in a cardboard storage box in my mind and watch more episodes of Cold Case. I knew I’d see her again, and I’d still be in that awkward position. For now, I’d just have to settle for my exaggerated “Hi!!!!” until I could figure out the mystery.

Today, my life unfolded as an episode of CSI, Law & Order, Cold Case, and maybe a bit of the Brady Bunch; that would be the Brady Bunch episode where Jan gets a tape recorder and secretly tapes her siblings’ conversations.

I had a chance encounter with the woman who knew me but who I don’t know!

I was leaving the bathroom.

I saw her in the kitchen waiting by the microwave.

I didn’t need to go into the kitchen.

Two steps down the hallway, I said, “Oh, I’ll get some tea.”

I didn’t need tea, but it was an opportunity to try and read her badge once again!

I walked into the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I had just walked by the kitchen and think, “I wonder if Jean’s coming in here to try and read my badge, because she has no clue as to my identity, the poor dumb thing.”

She smiled at me.

I smiled back and said, “Hi!!!!!”

I stood there for too long of a moment, and then I realized, “Oh, yes. I need tea!”

She looked at me, and I know she was thinking, “Jean looks confused. Perhaps I should call Security.”

I got my cup and I glanced over at her pants to see if I could catch a glimpse of her badge.

She flashed an uncomfortable smile, and I know she was thinking, “Jean’s checking me out. Perhaps I should call Human Resources.”

I quickly grabbed a tea bag when I noticed that…

She wasn’t wearing her badge.

Damn!

She took her food out of the microwave and left the kitchen, and I know she was thinking, “Jean’s really strange. Perhaps I should tell the CEO at the next company meeting.”

I came up with a plan, I saw that she was not wearing her badge, and I conquered, well, not much of anything other than proving to her that I might be a tad odd. No matter, I think Lenny Briscoe would be proud of me. I do believe that figuring out who this woman is could be my entertainment for at least the next six months; I suppose I could just be brave and ask her what her name is, but where’s the Law & Order fun in that?! ♥

Brenda: Thanks for help me get my writing groove back and for always inspiring me. ♥

Shall We Dance?

2011-04-19T21:59:00.004-04:00

Do you remember your prom? I remember mine. I went to my Senior Prom with my friend, Doug.

When I was in high school, the prom seemed like a big deal. Unfortunately, I never had a boyfriend in high school, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. My last attempt at boyfriendom was with a boy named Eric.

Eric was a tall curly-headed brunette who played hockey and lacrosse. I didn’t even know him, but I saw him as sweet, tall-like-me, and somewhat resembling a teddy bear. I guess I knew he was out of my league being that he was a popular guy and I was an unpopular girl; somewhere between 16 and 17, I threw caution to the wind and subliminally wooed him.

This was pretty wild for me back then, because I was not the outgoing and talkative individual that I am today. Believe it or not, when it came to boys, I was stupefied. Okay, I still am stupefied, but back then I had no idea what I was doing; today, I still have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m older, so that must count for something -- like legally driving but still driving blind!

I had a plan of woo attack. Whenever Eric walked by me in the hallway, I was going to look him in straight in the eyes. I was no General Eisenhower in my plan of woo attack; I had no idea if my plan was working, but deep down, I liked to fantasize that I was winning the Battle of the Beers.

Just when I was about to give up, I was waiting for the late bus after winter track practice. Eric wandered into the hallway where we all used to hang out to stay warm and wait. He leaned up against a wall, saw me, and said “Hi.”

Immediately, I said, “Hi” back. No, I didn’t. Years later, I still wished I had eeked out a “Hi.”

I stood there in shock. I kept thinking, “Eric talked to me. Eric talked to me.” And, in a moment, the buses arrived, and it was too late to say anything.

A few weeks later, I was working at my part-time job at First National supermarket. I was a cashier. I was a dinosaur cashier, because it was before we scanned bar codes; I punched in the $1 key, the 90-cent key, and the 9-cent key for $1.99!

(By the way, why did it take us so long to scan those bar codes? I remember my Mom shopping, bringing home groceries, and me asking, “What are these lines on the back of this?” She said, “Someday, they will just wave a wand and the cash register will know the price of something from that.” I’m sure my jaw dropped and then I asked, “Really?” Of course, the sad thing is that this was 10 years before I became a cashier at the First National.)

One afternoon, I was working my cash register when I saw Eric and his Mom get into my line. I was excited yet horrified at the prospect. I rang their order, bagged their items, and then turned back to my register to see what had happened to my woo gun in this surprise heart attack.

All of a sudden, I felt someone tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was Eric’s mother. She said, “Hi!”

Once again, I froze. My woo gun went off in the pocket of my First National smock and stunned me. I said nothing and just glared at her; she smiled, turned around and walked out with Eric.

I stood there waiting for an emotional rescue; however, nothing came to me except five more customers in my line. I fretted thinking that I blew it and by now Eric’s Mom must be saying to Eric in their Ford station wagon, “Are you sure she’s not an exchange student from another country who doesn't quite understand the English language yet?” A few months later, I found out that Eric had begun to date one of my sister’s friends; my woo had become a big boo-hoo.

Anyway, when it came time for the Senior prom, I was Ericless. I wanted to go, because I’ll admit that I wanted to be a princess for a night. I asked my good friend, Doug, and he obliged me. In hindsight, I couldn’t have asked for more; I was with someone who loved me dearly, even if we were just friends.

A few months ago, Nathan was asked to the prom by a friend. She had a boyfriend in college; however, she didn’t want to bring him. When Nathan told me he was going with her, I wanted to say something like “Shouldn’t you wait and see if there’s someone special you might want to ask,” but fearing Facebook deletion and eyeballs rolling Heavenward, I decided to stun myself with my Mom gun.

Last Friday, I received a text message from Nathan. It said, “Can I ask for some maternal advice?” Instead of “Aw, he wants my advice about college,” I was like, “Oh, shit! The prom has come back to bite him!”

I took a deep breath. I sent him a text message back which said, “OMG! I knew this was going to happen. It’s about the prom, isn’t it?” No, I only said, “Sure.”

Within 3 minutes, I had a text message telling me that he regretted accepting the invitation from his friend. He really wanted to go with another girl. He said while he liked the girl who asked him, he knew he’d have a much better time with this other girl who was a close and dear friend.

I took a deep breath. I then immediately headed into the cube of my co-worker, Dave, who had two daughters in their early 20s. I thought he may have been through this before, so I told him the dilemma.

But, before I traveled the four feet to Dave’s cube, I knew I already had an answer to Nathan’s question. I just needed someone to bounce my idea off of. I told Dave that I thought Nate should speak to the first girl, explain the situation, and then go with the second girl.

The first girl had a boyfriend who could take her. Nathan had a lousy time at his prom last year. He wanted to enjoy his prom this year with someone he liked.

Dave agreed. Once I was validated like the parking ticket I felt I was, I went back to my office. I told Nathan to talk to the first girl and explain the situation.

Of course, after I told Nathan what I thought, I then doubted myself thinking he should honor his first commitment. Then creativity struck. Why couldn’t he take both girls?

I sat in my office and texted him my creative prom wooing idea. He texted me back saying, “No way!” And then he told me that his backing out didn't go over well with the first girl and that the girl, who he wanted to go with, didn’t want to go with him, because she didn’t want to create any “drama.”

I knew that girls now went to the prom without men. They went together, which I wish had been popular in “my day.” (Wow, “my day,” I am old!) I wondered why in this day that a man going to the prom with two women was frowned upon; in the 70s, Hugh Hefner was a legend for the very same!

After feeling like a failure in the “maternal” advice-giving department, I went to drown my sorrows at beer o’clock. My barbecue meatballs were a hit, yet I couldn’t help but feeling like a miss all over. After my first glass of porter and surround by six men, I frowned.

One male friend instantly knew why I frowned and asked, “What’s going on now?” I said, “It’s not going well.” Who said women like to gossip?

I then had six men asking me about what wasn’t going well; thus, I explained the whole prom story. Most of the men were amazed that Nate had potentially two women on his arm; however, most agreed with me. He needed to follow his heart not his obligation.

When I arrived home that night, I went to pick up Iz at Ellen's house. I was upset; therefore, I kept quiet. Nah, I told her everything.

She mentioned that she might speak to her son who was Nathan’s friend. It was thought that perhaps he could speak to the girl Nathan wanted to go with who he was friendly with. Meanwhile, I fretted that I had screwed up Nathan’s life forever.

On Sunday, I received a text message from Nathan; I read it and heaved a sigh of relief. He was going to the prom with the girl he wanted to. His friend, Ellen’s son, had acted as Switzerland and had admirably won both their hearts.

Nathan and Ellen’s son had been so close for years. In 7th grade, they had parted ways, and in the last year or so, they had become the best of friends again. Interestingly, they were both so different, but time had shown them that each gave the other one a strength that nature had not given them; as Ellen’s son said, “They would be friends for life,” just like Ellen and I. Our differences had bound us and would always make us stronger…together.

Within ten minutes, I received another text message from Nathan. I noticed that it had been forwarded on to him. I opened it, and it displayed a picture of his prom date's dress; I wanted to text back, “Your girl is lovely, Hubbell.”

I told Nathan how happy I was for him. He told me he was happy but; I always knew I raised a good son, but I knew it again in that moment. Despite feeling good about going to the prom with someone he wanted to, he felt badly about the girl, his friend, who had first asked him.

This morning, I worked at home due to a miserable cold, which kept me on the couch most of the weekend. (Yes, I’ve been sick for pretty much the last three weeks. Uncle!) Nathan took the car at 1pm to go for breakfast. At 3pm, I heard the Kings of Leon’s Birthday blaring in the driveway from my car; Nathan was in the house or the driveway as it was.

I knew I had locked the front door, and I wasn’t sure if he had his house key. I ran downstairs, unlocked the door, and then peered out the window to see if he was near. I saw him looking at his cell phone and then raise his arms. I opened the door, and then before we even got to say anything to each other, he shoved his cell phone in my face.

It was text message from the girl who he originally asked to the prom. Basically, she said that her boyfriend was taking her, there were “no worries," and she understood why he backed out. I told him that she was a very good friend to have realized that, though Nathan said, “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure she still might want to slit my throat.”

I laughed, but I was optimistic. I had worried about Nathan when he developed this horrible head tick when his paternal grandfather was dying. Now I worried about his prom life.

My friend, Ellen, said, “All the worrying us mothers do!!!” I knew then, like I was renewing a library book, that this wouldn’t be the first time I worried, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. This was my life; this was motherhood, and despite its difficulties, I loved dancing with it. ♥

Do You See What I See?

2011-04-13T14:40:00.002-04:00

Dear Goddess,

I still can’t figure out what I see in the ink blot. Is that bad?

Lorraine, Looneyville, New York

Dear Lorraine,

No. That’s not bad at all. Recently, I have begun to think that perhaps the people who see things in ink blots are the crazy ones!

Pattycake!

Dude on a motorcycle!

Playground merry-go-round!

Thumbs up!

Batman!

Corset!

Happy Cat! ♥

I Can Handle Zits

2011-04-12T20:15:00.003-04:00

Young men are different from young women. Did I ever doubt this? No, but two weeks ago, I lived it; Nathan was dreading a visit to the dermatologist, and Iz was acting like the orthodontist was God.

My son, Nathan, has always sported a very handsome face; however, like most adolescents, for the last year, it had been riddled here and there by acne. At first, it appeared nothing that Clearasil couldn’t handle. At second, it appeared to be getting a bit worse, but with images of Facebook deletion (once again) dancing in my head, I decided to be a Mom and be mum. At third, which occurred a few weekends ago, I said, “Your acne is getting worse. I’m taking you to a dermatologist!”

Of course, Nathan said, “Thanks, Mom. That would be so awesome.” Okay, I admit that’s what he says in my June Cleaver dreams. In my Jean-So-Not-Cleaver reality, he groans and asks, “Why?”

I say in a very Mom-like tone, “You’re a handsome guy. The acne just takes away from all that.” Nathan meets me in my Jean-So-Not-Cleaver reality by groaning once more and saying, “I’m not handsome. My face is fine.” I then break my Mom-like tone and say in exasperation, “Chicks don’t dig guys with zits!”

Nathan answers, “I don’t like girls anyway.” I laugh and say, “I’m making the appointment.” In my Jean-Somewhat-Cleaver reality, Nathan now sighs and says quite irked, “Fine.”

So, I made the appointment, which took me two tries given Nathan is on his Dad’s insurance. Nathan’s Dad doesn’t think Nathan can handle his own plastic insurance card; thus, I have minimal information to go from necessitating a second call to the dermatologist after talking to Nathan’s Dad. On the phone, I propose to Nathan’s Dad that he give Nathan the plastic card for his wallet, which would save me time and effort.

Nathan’s Dad says that Nathan has already lost two paper copies of his card. I want to say, “Oh, brother. Just give him the plastic card!” Before I speak, I then remember that Nathan has misplaced his car and house key about five times this last year and lost his ATM card once. I then think that perhaps Nathan’s Dad is right about the plastic card, and then I have a great idea for an invention – an implanted chip with health insurance information, ATM access, and remote keyless car entry for teens like Nate!

At 3pm the day of the appointment, Nathan sent me a text message to say that I should be outside my office at 4pm, because he was giving a friend a ride to work. He was basically saying, “Don’t make me late for my 4:15 appointment,” when he was the one who might make himself late, but somehow it could potentially all be my fault anyway. Is there “Teenagers for Dummies” book?

I sent him a text message saying that I wouldn’t be late. He then answered, “You know, I really don’t need to go to see the doctor.” I fiercely texted back, “Yes, you do!”

At 3:53pm, Nathan sent me a text message that said, “Here.” Feeling guilty that he was early and I was now technically late, I quickly shut down my computer, grabbed my things, and ran outside to meet him. I got in the passenger side door and was greeted by some punk-rap-fusion group whose CD only said to me “boom-boom-boom” every minute.

I wanted to say out loud, “Thank God, it’s only a five-minute ride to the doctor’s office.” Instead Nathan asked me how to get to the doctor’s office, and I obliged by saying, “Take a left out of the parking lot, take a right at the stop sign, and take another right into the medical office park.” He drove with a purpose, though I felt it was with the “I so want to get this over” purpose rather than the “I want to have an acne-free face” purpose.

Once in the dermatologist’s suite, I checked in. Nathan crumpled himself up into a chair. I looked at him, and then he said, “Mom, I really don’t need to be here.”

I was at a Mom crossroads. Part of me knew I was doing the right thing. The other part of me was peeved that Nathan didn’t appreciate the fact that I had made the effort to make the appointment and leave work early to escort him.

I doubted myself, and I hated when I did that. I argued back and forth with myself until a voice said, “Hey, you’re doing the right thing!” When the medical assistant called out Nathan’s name, I thought, “Thank, God!”

We walked into an exam room. The medical assistant asked Nathan a few questions, and when she left she said, “The physician’s assistant will be in to see you in a few minutes.”

I looked at Nathan. He looked at me. He didn’t say anything, but he was saying, “Mom, why am I here?”

The physician’s assistant came in and immediately went to work. She examined Nathan’s face, chest, back. I started to feel guilty as she said called out acne terms to the medical assistant; I was so hoping there would be subtitles for this very foreign medical visit!

I felt sorry that Nathan was now a medical artifact; however, he didn’t seem to mind at this point. Between poking, prodding, and assessing, the PA asked Nathan many questions about himself, which I thought was very nice. When she found out he was a Senior, she asked him where he was going to college.

He said, “SUNY Stony Brook.” I laughed, and she looked at me strangely. Last I knew Nathan loved Roger Williams.

It seemed that at just that moment, he had a college break out. I knew he didn’t want to go there, yet I knew he didn’t really know where he wanted to go yet. Sometimes kids think you don’t understand them, but little do they know, you always get them and unlike with milk and yogurt that intuition never expires.

The PA prescribed an topical ointment for Nate and some pills. She wished him well, and Nathan thanked her. When we left the office, Nathan didn’t say, “That was a waste of time.” I knew at that point that he didn't think it was, but I knew he was never going to tell me that.

Just last week, I said, “Nathan, your face looks great.” He had some dryness, and he said it stung. I told him to lay off the ointment for a bit and he said he would.

It appeared that there was better living through pharmaceuticals for Nathan; however, I had felt badly for pushing the issue. I hoped that someday Nathan would say, “Thanks, Mom, “ but I’d never hold my breath on that one. Despite my lack of self-confidence, I knew I did the right thing, and unlike many other things in my life, I’d never change a thing where it concerned Nathan’s handsome face. ♥

Purrspective

2011-04-11T20:09:00.005-04:00

Above: I see a happy cat. What do you see?

Today, I went to see my doctor for my follow-up visit post-The-Hospital-Nightmare-Before-Easter. My doctor apologized to me at least three times. I said, “Stuff happens, and it just unfortunately happened to me.”

I went on to tell her that given I had lost my Mom, Dad, and best friend to cancer and that my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago (still cancer-free), I could only be grateful and not hateful that my biopsies came back negative. The real negative was the infection due to one of the biopsies, but to me, given all that could have happened, I deemed it a positive, because I left the hospital healed for an entirely different reason.

She said, “You have such a positive attitude.” I had to laugh. Because when I woke up today, I realized how miserable I had been the last few years; I didn’t kick small dogs, I didn’t throw away glass bottles in the trash when I knew they could have been recycled, and I didn’t intentionally tailgate.

I had been miserable, because I had kept years worth of “stuff” bottled up inside me. I realized that it didn’t matter why someone didn’t like me, it didn’t matter that someone had treated me badly, and it didn’t matter that someone wasn’t there when I needed them. When I woke up this morning, everything looked, felt, and smelled differently.

I had gained a new perspective; I realized that I couldn’t move forward unless I lost all the stuff that I had kept inside me for so long. I had to let go of the bad stuff to make myself open to the good stuff that would eventually come into my life. And then I would never ever look back.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks; however, I don’t believe that. Sometimes you need a challenge to realize how much you need to learn new tricks. Today, I realized it was all about learning new tricks, tricks that made me see my life in a whole new way; it was about letting go and moving on, which for the first time in a long time made me a very happy cat. ♥

One in a Bazillion

2011-04-11T12:58:00.005-04:00

Once again, rumors of my online blogging death are greatly exaggerated. Though after what I’ve been through the last five days, I can tell you what near death may feel like. And, believe me, when you least expect it, expect it!

For every pharmaceutical drug, vaccination, or medical procedure, there’s either a tiny warning message on the side of the bottle or the form you have to fill out before the vaccination or the procedure. The message or form usually warns you that there’s a one in a bazillion chance that the drug, vaccination, or medical procedure in question will cause some type of bad thing to occur; I don’t know about you, but I usually sign this form thinking, “That’ll never happen to me.”

Well, after signing the paper, something happened. It did happen to me. I was the one, the one in a bazillion, Jean Bazillion.

When it came to the lottery, why wasn’t I ever Jean Bazillion? When it came to finding a sunken treasure chest filled with gold doubloons, why wasn’t I ever Jean Bazillion? (On second thought, I had never found a sunken treasure, because I had a land-based occupation and didn’t know how to scuba dive.) But when it came to acquiring a bad infection, which required an emergency room visit, a three-day stay in the hospital and having tons of fluid (ringers lactate, which made me laugh in spite of my pain, because of all those episodes of Emergency! that I had watched when I was little), antibiotics, and two hits of morphine pumped into my body, I was Jean Bazillion!

After having all four impacted wisdom teeth taken out, a tonsillectomy, two c-sections, and the flu, I have to say that being Jean Bazillion was the worst I had ever felt in my life. At some points during my stay in the hospital, I had to wonder who hated me enough to subject me to this at this exact point in my life. Was it that person who I didn’t let into traffic, totally ignoring the “Yield to Side Street Traffic” sign, when I was late picking Iz up at her after-school program? Or was it my neighbor, the one whose yard I threw Monty’s poop into? There was a whole list of suspects, and as I lay there, I tried to crack the case!

As I stared at the IV pump next to me, which went “brup-mrrrrr” or brup-two,” the “two” said as if being spoken by an android, I thought that this was just one more unhappy thing to get through. There had been the sixteen months of unemployment that made it impossible for me to move my life in any direction and the initial stress of my “starter job.” And then there was the long and painful sale of my Dad’s house in Nantucket.

At one point, when I was either lying awake listening to my elderly neighbor’s mucus-laden cough at 4am or when I was experiencing Montezuma’s revenge (sans the lovely trip to Cancun but avec Flagyl) at 2am, I knew there was a reason why all this was happening to me. Okay, I’m not one of those people who usually believes in signs, okay, I really am. It was a sign!

I have to say that the whole experience was not without its bright spots. There were the visits from friends, the lovely flowers sent to my house, and the gifts from Isabelle, which she brought Saturday afternoon, when she visited me in my room.

She walked in carrying a pink bag. She said, “Mommy, I have presents for you. Open them.” I glanced into the bag and saw a book that a friend had given me as a birthday present, and I thought, “Oh, dear. I won’t tell her I already have it.”

I unwrapped what looked like a mug wrapped in pink tissue; the mug was filled with a Hello Kitty hair band and bracelet. I then realized that the mug was one I had bought at Kohl’s for Iz a few weekends ago, and the Hello Kitty items were hers and book was indeed mine. She had re-gifted but not to get rid of unloved items; it was to give a loved one loved items.

I thanked her. She beamed. Then she asked, “Mom, who gave you that book? Is it good?”

The experience wasn’t without its lovely people either; you know, I’ve never ever met a nurse I didn’t like. My Mom was a nurse, perhaps I could never not like a nurse for that reason; however, I don’t think so. I think you have to be smart to be a nurse, and you also have to be a special person.

I had one male nurse, Randall (not Randy but Randall), who looked like he rode Harleys when he wasn’t administering morphine. In the emergency room, I fretted because I had not showered in a day. Randall promptly told me a story about a patient he dealt with at another hospital who came in and then subsequently told him that she hadn’t showered in three weeks. Randall, a seemingly very no-nonsense and no-humor kind of guy, told the story like he was saying, “Yeah, you’re stinky, but you’re not three weeks stinky.” Randall refreshed my perspective on the degrees of stinkyness.

Then there was the nurse who walked in and who I felt I knew instantly, but I couldn’t figure out why. When she returned a second time, my brain, just exiting its morphine rush, said, “Oh, my God. She looks just like her.” I then said, “Has anyone told you that you look like….” She said, “Yes! Sara Sidle from C.S.I.?” As she took my blood pressure, something pivotal happened on the episode of Law & Order that I happened to be watching on TV.

She looked up at the TV and said, “Yeah, like that would ever happen!” I said, “You must sit there and say the same things when you watch shows like ER, huh?” She said, “Oh, yeah. You know when you watch “House” and you see all the doctors visiting their patients? Well, that never happens!”

Sara went on to tell me other things that were false on medical shows. It was funny how when I watched those shows, my brain didn’t question them, even if I thought, “Doubt it,” while watching them. Sara refreshed my perspective on reality.

The next nurse walked in my room, her presence illuminating the four gray stone block walls that held me prisoner. She was wearing a bright scrub top that had wild animals all over it, and I then felt that hospital administration had mistakenly sent the Welcome Wagon not the Vital Signs Soldier. Within three minutes, she divulged that she had two Corgis, Mazie and Poppy, which I thought was pretty amazing given that she didn’t know I owned a Corgi, my Montgomery.

I said, “That’s quite a coincidence! I have a Corgi, too.” Iz happened to be visiting and upon hearing this news said, “We made a video of our dog. It’s on YouTube!” Corgi Nurse asked, “Really, because my daughter shows me all the corgi videos there.”

Iz went onto explain our video in great detail. Corgi Nurse listened and before Iz could finish, she asked, “Wait, is he playing soccer in it?” Iz said, “Yes!”

Corgi nurse said, “I’ve seen that.” Iz said, as if she were a rock star, “That’s me biking in it!” She said, “I’ll have to watch it again.” Corgi nurse refreshed my perspective that 1) It was a small world, 2) I had fans I didn’t even know, who were right in my own backyard, and 3) When you’re sick, the Great Cat Goddess sends you Corgis. well, at least people who own them.

I met my last nurse at 3:30am. There was a knock, and she blast through the door and appeared at the side of my bed. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven, which was a movie starring ex-60s blonde movie goddesses; she was a very pretty woman in her 60s wearing these huge owl glasses who said, “Hello, my friend!” in an accent that I didn’t recognize.

A bit startled when I realized I wasn’t in a movie and still in the hospital, I said, “Err, hello.” She immediately said, “I’m here to take your vital signs.” No, she didn’t say that, and if she did, I would have felt like I was still in the hospital, but her remark transported me back into that movie.

She said, “Oh, what a beautiful sweater!” I then realized that was sitting there in Nathan’s t-shirt, my underwear, and wearing my pink vintage mohair sweater. I wondered if I were the sight to her that she initially was to me.

I said, “Thank you. It’s vintage.” She asked, “Where did you get it?” Still thinking that Bobby Darren might enter the room at any moment and start singing, “Beach Blanket Bingo,” I said, “Um, eBay,” because I never expected this kind of conversation at 3:30am while in the hospital.

She then said, “Let me take your temperature.” No, she didn’t; she asked, “So, what year is that from?” I said, “I think it’s from the 60s.” She then said, “Oh, I met my husband in 1965, and we used to wear those big skirts.” I said that I didn’t own any of those, but I had a few dresses that required a crinoline. I then asked, “Where are you originally from anyway?” She said, “Oh, just Denmark” like she had come from down the street instead of across an ocean and a few continents.

After looking at the temperature, oxygen level, and blood pressure machine to make sure it was real and not going to suddenly turn into Annette Funicello, I told her about my vast vintage collection and she listened intently. We chatted vintage up and down until 3:45am. Even though she owned no vintage, she seemed intrigued by me and my love of it; after taking my vitals, she left, making me feel like my Fairy Godmother had just left the room, leaving me with only with a pumpkin and a few mice.

She returned the next night after I pressed the call button at 3:30am to complain about my visit from the evil Prince Montezuma. I heard the knock on the door, I said, “Come in,” the door flew open, and she said, “Hello, Jean Marie!” (If there was one thing I had hoped to leave the hospital with, it was a “Mariectomy,” but Blue Cross Blue Shield didn’t cover it.)

By the way, my Fairy Godmother’s name was Hannah. I found that out earlier that morning when I mention her to Corgi Nurse who said, “Oh, that’s Hannah. She’s kind of wacky.” And does it surprise anyone that my Fairy Godmother was “wacky?”

This time, however, Hannah didn’t catch me sitting on my bed. I was going back to my bed after spending some more quality time in the bathroom wishing I was Cancun have the runs instead of in the hospital having the runs due to the other evil Prince in my life, Prince Flagyl. Hannah saw me standing there and exclaimed (imagine this in a Danish accent), “Sweet Marie! You look like a model!”

Once again, I was sporting a look you’re sure to see on the runways of Milan next Fall. I was wearing another of Nathan’s t-shirts, my underwear, and my pink vintage Mohair sweater. I laughed.

She said, "You should go to NYC, model, and earn lots of money!" I thanked her, and then I said, “I need to lose 30 pounds for model standards, not to mention that I’m too old. Hannah said, “Nah! Nah!”

I then got into bed, and she came over. I complained about the runs, began to cry, and she said, “I wish there was something I could do for you, Jean Marie” in a most heartfelt matter and then hugged me. I wiped away my tears. I knew it was going to be a long night, and that Hannah couldn’t stay with me all night.

Hannah left my bed, turned out the light, and then said, "Good night, Sweet Jean Marie. You're gorgeous." After she left, I thought, “I don't think she's wacky at all.” Hannah kept my mind off my inside by making me feel good about my outside. She was my Fairy Godmother.

The next morning, Hannah popped her head in my door at 7:25am. She was in her coat and had a bundle of papers in her arms. Her shift was over; however, she had made a special effort to say good-bye to me on her way home. She said, “Good luck, Jean Marie. I hope everything works out okay for you,” and then she was gone. Poof!

I wasn’t her patient; I was her princess, albeit it way before the transformation. Hannah refreshed my perspective on people; sometimes people are only meant to be with you for a short time. And, if you’re lucky, they leave you a carriage, two white horses, and a footman, and whenever you are ride in that carriage, you’ll feel like a princess if only in your heart.

Later that morning, I waited for my doctor to arrive. As I listened to my elderly neighbor’s mucus-laden cough again, the intercom call light dinged. A voice on the other end asked, “Can I help you?” I heard my neighbor say in her gravelly voice, “I need the bed pan.”

It was all about perspective; Jean Bazillion, despite feeling horribly rotten for three days, had a very good life. Maybe I was one in a bazillion, because as I lay there, I realized that everything I had gone through was nothing. And even though there was more to go through, it would be nothing too as long as I kept my perspective knowing that I had my health, my kids, my friends, my sense of humor, and most importantly, my carriage. ♥

10

2011-03-25T00:02:00.003-04:00

It was a long day today. I brought Monty and all three cats to the vet’s. And, then Iz and I headed out for important supplies like a new bathing suit for her stay at a hotel with a pool this weekend, kitty litter (a staple and seemingly my middle name most days), three pairs of flip-flops for Iz (because her current pair flipped but they didn’t flop or so she tried to explain), boxers, socks, and shorts for Nate, and jelly beans for me.

The trip to the veterinarian’s was complex. Thinking I was saving myself time, I booked an appointment for Monty and the three cats. The cats needed maintenance (shots and check-ups), but when it came to Monty, I needed a piece of mind.

I needed to know that when I rubbed his tummy the other night that the lumps and bumps I felt were normal; well, I needed to know they were normal given that he was dying of lymphoma. I also needed to know that his labored breathing was to be expected. After having my Mom, good friend, and Dad all die of cancer, I realized that even after all these experiences, cancer still took me by surprise, dumbfounded me, and made me ask “Why?” when I knew there was no answer.

Due to illness, Nathan happened to be home today. At 9:50am, I said, “Let’s gather the tribe.” He didn’t ask, but I answered without being asked, “I’m sure it’s going to take us a while to get the cats rounded up.”

Liam went into the carrier…not. He braced all four paws on the entrance. He then said, “Noooooooo!”

After we got him into one carrier, we chased Plume around the house for 10 minutes. I finally trapped her, wrapped her up in one of Iz’s sweatshirts, and was able to dump her into the smaller carrier. This occurred after she put two or three scratches in my back; I haven’t dared look yet!

When Nathan and I had Monty on the leash and two cats in carriers, we were done. I said, “Oh, jeez, Thunderbolt.” Nathan asked, “Can’t he just ride in the car?”

At that point, I said, “Yeah. Good idea.” Thank goodness it was only a 5-minute ride to the vet. Monty panted in the back seat, Liam meowed every five minutes, Plume, ever the dainty girl, meowed only once to say, “I object!”, and Thunderbolt roamed freely about the cabin complaining that he was going to miss his connecting flight and that his headset didn’t work, so he’d not heard any of the dialogue for the in-flight movie, “Beverly Hills Chihuahua.”

Upon arrival at the vet’s office, we had to make a few trips in. I carted in Liam and Plume in their carriers. I then brought in Monty on his leash. Nathan carried in Thunderbolt.

We had to wait for a few minutes. I sat with Liam, Plume, and Monty. I wandered over to find Nathan, and he sat on the bench while Thunderbolt stood on his shoulder meowing out the window as if to say, “Help! I’m wrongly being vaccinated for distemper. I really need to get my connecting flight to Miami!”

After we were escorted into an examination room, Nathan and I unleashed the pets. They were all free to roam about the cabin. Monty just stood there and panted, Liam jumped up on the exam table and immediately sniffed out the cat treat jar, Thunderbolt continued to complain about his connecting flight to Miami, and Plume decided to stay wedged in the far corner of her cat carrier.

Everything was going fine until Thunderbolt got his distemper shot. Apparently, the shot is now given with an air rifle (well, the syringe equivalent). The vet shot the vaccine into Thundie’s buttocks, and then Thudie complained about his missed flight and the shot. Thundie shot off the examination table and onto the floor.

Of course, since the room had exceeded its occupancy, Thundie went face-to-face with Liam. Thundie hissed at Liam; Liam hissed at Thundie. Monty, wanting to know why, Thundie, the Ghandi of Cats was upset, poked his nose in Thundie’s face and asked, “Good God. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Thundie hissed at Monty. Monty barked; Liam whacked Thundie. Thundie hissed at Liam, and then Nate and I separated Thundie from the rest of the tribe.

After all cats were examined, Nathan shuttled them back out to the car. The vet told me that she’d examine Monty in the next room, where they had an exam table that Monty could jump up on and then be elevated. Monty had never liked to be picked up; I liked this practice, because they “got” me and my dog.

After examining Monty and confirming that his lymph nodes, spleen, and liver were enlarged, I saw blood on the table. The vet, the vet tech, and I had no idea where it was coming from until I saw a red spot on Monty’s bottom. I said, "I think it's here," pointing to his bottom.

I then asked, “Could it be because I didn’t give him his pepcid yesterday? I ran out.” The vet then said that she thought it might be. She peered at and prodded his behind, and then she paused.

She said, “You know what?” I asked, “What?” She said, “It’s not the meds. It looks like one of the cat’s clawed him when we were in the other exam room.”

Unfortunately, the guilty cat didn’t claw him in the bottom. The cat got him in the fleshy tender part that rhymes with the planet Uranus. Yes, frickin’ ouch! The poor guy!

Just then, the vet who owned the practice asked me if a student vet could “feel” Monty. She entered the examination room, and the vet stated to the student, “He’s got lymphoma.” I began to cry, but I realized, along with other losses this week, that this was life, and I needed to accept it; I didn't have to like it, but I needed to accept it.

After leaving $425 poorer and with a prescription for antibiotics for Monty’s Uranus, I felt a bit defeated. The vet student told me how handsome Monty was and what a good boy he was. I thanked her for that, but I couldn’t help but feeling her presence had made everything worse, even though I agreed she could feel Monty. Good acts don't always give way to good feelings.

Nathan and I dropped the tribe off at home. I then drove Nathan to school, and I traveled home. When I got home, the tribe was fast asleep; I didn’t blame them, because sometimes, I wanted to do the same after a trying day.

At 5pm, Iz and I dropped Nathan off at his Dad’s. Iz and I headed out to do a bunch of errands and had a good time doing so. When we finally arrived home, I dragged Iz into the tub.

For the last few nights, she has wanted me to braid her hair when it’s wet. She takes out the braids in the morning and goes to school looking somewhat like Roseanne Roseannadanna. When she got off the bus today, she said all her friends said her hair was “cool,” and they wanted to know how she did it.

Tonight, as I was braiding her hair on my bed, she read out loud from “Junie B. Jones and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake.” I then thought, “Wow, this is one of those times, whether I’m here or not, that she’s going to remember for the rest of her life.” I realized that I'd gain things in life and I'd lose things, but it was most important to have these memories and keep them closest to my heart. ♥

Back to ACK -- The Cyclone

2011-03-23T21:54:00.003-04:00

Note: I forgot to bring my cell phone-internet cord yesterday, so I was at the mercy of the Steam Ship Authority’s wireless network. Unfortunately, it blocked my video and blogger websites. Technology is only good when it’s good, and yesterday it sucked!

After a two hour and fifteen minute ferry ride, John and I drove his van off of the ferry named Nantucket and headed toward the house. I think that’s the first time I’ve referred to the house generically. Even though it was my house (well, Citibank owned half), I had always called it my Dad’s house. And, considering the way things went, it was never really my house and ended up going back into the sea of available properties on Nantucket.

As we drove off the ferry, I said to John, “Drive straight out of here, and then we’re going to go straight up this road.” I was totally stumped when I saw the “Do Not Enter” sign where we were supposed to "go straight up this road." I said, “Oh, jeez. We can’t get there from here.” It was like the last time I was on the island; I would have to find another way home, which seemed ironic as I sat there jostling in the passenger seat of John’s van.

Even when my Dad was living at "the house" in Nantucket, I was unable to go there a lot. It wasn’t that I wasn’t welcome. It was that Nantucket was a PITA (pain in the ass) to reach, even though it was only 26 miles off the coast of Massachusetts.

By car, I knew only one way to get to my Dad's house. When John took a left, where we should have been able to go straight, I said, “Um, I think we’ll have to go over the cobblestones. Sorry!” When we hit the first cobblestones, John’s van jumped, jerked, and then rattled. I said, “Thank God I don’t have to pee right now,” and John laughed.

After a 10-minute kidney jostling ride, we found our way to my Dad’s house. We pulled in the driveway, and I immediately saw the moss on the roof, the rot on the boards outside the family room windows, and then I pondered if I even wanted to go in. It seemed that the exterior had already set the tone for the interior.

Nevertheless, I climbed out the door of John's van. It was good to see her, though I immediately wanted to wrap her in a huge Hello Kitty band-aid and rock her in my arms. I could feel her pain. I could see her wince when I stepped on the porch stairs and I could hear her cry when I opened the door, yet she reached out to hold me knowing we might comfort eachother one last time.

The deadbolt had been unlocked (see “Wicked Witch of the West” realtor), and I opened the door. I walked in, and I smelled her. She always had this distinctive smell; she wasn’t Chanel No. 5 like my grandmother nor was she Jean Nate or Emeraude like my Mom.

I couldn’t describe her scent. She was wise, she was worn, but she smelled so comforting. I breathed in, and I didn’t want to breath out.

Like Dorothy in Munchkinland, I was greeted but not by munchins. I was greeted by small piles of swept-up dirt on the floor. Not recognizing where I was after landing in a big white van on top of this island, I began to search for life.

In the bedroom next to the bathroom, I saw this….

She said, “Jean, life goes like this. It’s somewhat crazy, it’s really crazy, and then it all goes normal again.” I looked at the shade for a long time. I decided she was right.

I then looked to the right, and I saw this…

She said, “Jean, things break. Sometimes you can fix them. Sometimes you can’t. And if you can’t, don’t feel badly about it, just move on, girl.”

I left that bedroom, hoping to find a room that hadn’t been bruised or sprained. I was worried because I only had two Hello Kitty band-aids left in my purse. I then entered the family room, and I saw this…

She said, “Jean, I’m coming apart. You can’t fix me. I know you want to, but you know you can’t. I understand that and I love you for loving me, but you need to let me go…to someone else.”

I turned around, and then I saw this…

Before she spoke, I got angry. I couldn’t believe that a vine had made its way inside her. And before I could speak, she said, “I know you care. Above all, I know you will always care the most. They (see the evil apple trees) care, not like you, but they care and can and will make me feel better.”

I walked up the stairs from the family room and entered the living room. The sun shined brightly through the window. Then, I walked outside to see if John needed my help; actually, I knew John didn’t need any help. I knew I might need help from John to go back in again.

As I stood on the porch, I looked at the door…

She then said, “Remember this.” I asked, “Why?” She said, “I’m going to a better place and you are, too.”

I took a deep breath and walked back into the house. There was so much nothing where there had once been so much something. She said, “You of all people know that when the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”

She was right. I would always love her. But, we were better not being together even if we wanted to be. ♥

Back to ACK -- The Cast of Characters

2011-03-22T08:42:00.002-04:00

Once upon a time…

The realtor:

The ex-tenants:

The buyers:

My driver and Ellen’s husband, Professor Marvel (a.k.a. John):

Me, mostly a good witch:

Will they all live happily ever after?!
Stay tuned…
♥

Back to ACK -- ZZzzzZZZzzzzz

2011-03-22T05:46:00.002-04:00

5:15am: Not awake.

5:30am: Coffee! Food!

5:45am: At least my sneakers are awake! ♥

Was that short and informative enough?!

Take the Long Way Home

2011-03-21T20:35:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow, I’m going to see a friend who’s dying. My friend’s a house and she lives on the island of Nantucket. She was diagnosed with Regret, Disillusionment, and Disappointment, and her doctor, Bob Vila, said she’s terminal; it’s time for her to pass away…to another owner.

I’m making the long voyage (two-hour car ride and a two hour and 15 minute ferry ride) to the island tomorrow. It’s surely not a necessary trip for the things I am going to retrieve, though it surely seems necessary to me to see her one last time. I really hope I don’t cry when I see her; however, lately, when I think about her passing away, I cry… a lot.

And, I know it seems like I’ve been crying a lot lately. Like cleaning my house, crying is often therapeutic for me. I always feel better after a few tears, which makes me think that crying is sometimes like an emotional enema; you have all this shit bottled up inside you, the water comes, and then washes it all away, well, mostly.

As the time draws nearer to leave (6am tomorrow morning to be exact), I find myself further away from crying, which I guess is good. I try and think that what I will see is not the “home” I once knew, even though I once knew it to be my “home.” It’s only walls, windows, and doors now; it’s a shell that someone else will again fill with furniture, appliances, beds, and, most importantly, love.

My father, who originally owned the house, has been dead over 10 years now. When I wonder why the loss of the house is so upsetting for me, I think a large part of it is feeling like I’m losing my father again. Upon further reflection today, I realized that like the house, I sometimes feel like a shell due to a lot of regret, disillusionment, and disappointed these past few years, and I have to hope that, like the house, someday soon I will be whole again and filled with love. ♥

P.S. I’m going to try to do a few mini-blogs tomorrow; have pink laptop, will try to write. I’m still trying to master the art of the short yet informative blog post, so I shall try and practice tomorrow! If not, please don't cancel your subscription to my blog, especially if you've already used your free gifts, the Freudian slippers and the breathalyzer keychain.

Pleasance

2011-03-20T14:47:00.004-04:00

I was in NYC this weekend; every time I go to NYC, I go alone. Do I really want to be alone. No, I really don’t, but it seems to be my destiny right now.

I could stay home and be with the kids, the cats, and Monty; however, every now and then, NYC calls to me. It tells me that my life is largely in Massachusetts where I am a mostly a Mom and a technical writer. Yet it also tells me that from time to time, I can live my other life as an avid music lover, theatergoer, and person who sometimes likes to think that “Awake is the new sleep” at 2am in the morning.

A few weeks ago, the call from NYC came, and I answered like I always do.

She said, “Hello, Jean. One of your favorite musicians is playing on a Friday night. This time, stay the weekend and see a Broadway show.”
I said, “You’re right. Let’s do it!”
She said, “Life’s too short not to live a life you wished was part of your everyday life.”
I said, “You’re right again. Thanks, my friend.”

You had to love a city that called you regularly, made you feel special, and got you out of the house for a weekend when you needed it the most. NYC was my girl when it wasn't my mini-me, Iz. It was my city, even if while in my city, I didn’t know where the hell I was most times nor where I was going and often thought that any one of my trips might easily end up as an episode of “Law & Order.”

Last week, I told a friend about my impending trip. She asked, “Who are you going with?” I said, “Me, myself, and I.”

She asked, “All by yourself?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “You’re brave!”

I thought people who survived cancer, natural disasters, and Justin Bieber concerts were brave. I was not brave. I was only determined to not let the fact that I was alone prevent me from doing the things I loved the most, things that most others might feel more comfortable doing with a partner.

When I get on the train to NYC, I am always excited. But, I'd be a liar if I didn’t admit that I was always a bit fearful. While I planned, packed, and ventured out on my own for the trip, it was sometimes difficult looking at myself in the mirror while in the ladies room at the Amtrak station in Westwood, knowing that I was going to get on the train with just this girl, me.

In retrospect, I believe I was the only one of my friends who was willing and able to venture out on such a trip, which some might also see as a whim. In my defense, I am a Taurus; thus, I will be impulsive! Also, while I’m a responsible parent and gainfully employed professional, I am also a free spirit, prompting one friend to label me a “hippy chick” not too long ago. And, can you really be a hippy chick if you’re a Sephora devotee, love clothes, are fond of shoes, and shave your armpits regularly?!

After I attended a great concert on Friday night, I ventured out on Saturday afternoon to see La Cage aux Folles. I had loved the movie, “The Bird Cage,” and I knew the show would be even better. When waiting outside to enter the theater, a lovely woman sashayed out from a theater door dressed from head to toe in pink and rhinestones and wearing pink rhinestone stilettos.

She strutted down the sidewalk and spouted off joke after joke. I fell in love. Yes, I think I have a thing for men in drag, or maybe it’s just that I respect and admire someone who’s willing to be who they are regardless of anything else.

Near the end of the first half of the performance, Harvey Fierstein sang “I Am What I Am.” And, while he doesn’t have the voice of John Barrowman or Anthony Warlow, I cannot recall being so emotionally moved by a song since I heard “No One is Alone” when I saw “Into the Woods many years ago. I began to cry, and then I sat there feeling stupid, wondering why the song and the words had me sneaking a Kleenex and dabbing my eyes before anyone sitting next to me would know that the song had made me cry.

During intermission, I sat there and pondered my tears. It then struck me that I, too, had tried so hard to be myself for the last 10 years. I had only met with frustration, a terribly lonely frustration.

I was not a perfect person. Actually, I thought I was a pretty good person when I wasn’t cursing the women in the locker room at work for not turning out the light in the bathroom (my 70s energy-crisis upbringing) or wishing my neighbor contracted a bad case of head lice for choosing to use his power tools at 7am on a Saturday morning. To be honest, the first time he did that, I wished for imminent death.

When I left the theater, I passed a store with a handbag that caught my eye on my way into the theater. Did I need a bag? No. Did I go in telling myself, “I’d just look.” Yes.

Shopping in NYC somewhat intimidated me. At home, people rarely asked you if you need help with something. As soon as I walked into the Fossil store, a lovely young woman approached me and asked, “How are you doing today? Can I show you something?” I said, “No, thank you. I’m just looking,” because I needed to remind myself in the next two minutes that I didn’t need a handbag to be my friend just because I was alone.

I found the bag that caught my eye. I picked it up; it was lovely and very, as another friend would say, “me” because it was "hippy chick." The lovely young woman came back to me, and I thought, “It looks like I will not be alone while here.” She saw the bag I was holding and said, “Oh, I love that bag!”

She didn’t look like she was a hippy chick. In fact, she looked like she had only been parked in front of the TV watching “Sesame Street” a short 15 years ago. I saw another bag nearby, and I surrendered to the fact that I had a friend now who wasn’t a handbag yet had the same good taste I had, so I squealed, “Oooo. I like this one, too!”

She said, “Would you like to try them on?” I said, “Nah, well….” I knew I really liked my new friend, who wouldn’t leave me alone, so I caved and said, “Okay.”

We walked over to the corner of the store. I saw a full-length mirror, and I flung the bag I saw in the window over my shoulder. I said, “Oh, I love this.”

My friend said, “That’s one of my favorite bags, too.” I then said, “Oh, but I like this one.” She said, “I really like this one better,” pointing to the one that was in the window, and so did I.

I said, “Oh, I really shouldn’t. But, I love it, But I shouldn’t, but I really need some retail therapy, you know?” She laughed out loud, raised her hand, inviting my hand to a high-five and said, “Oh, I know!” I high-fived her, and now the Mom in me wanted to adopt this lovely young lady, who was going to make sure I walked out of the store with a new friend.

I said, “Okay. I want it.” She said, “I’ll put this back and go get you a new one.” She then asked, “What’s your name?” I said, “Jean.”

She said, “I’m Pleasance.” I said, “Pleasance, really? That’s a beautiful name.” She thanked me for saying so and was off to find my new friend, my hippy chick doppelganger purse.

Unfortunately, due to my recent rhinestone overexposure at the theater, something sparkly caught my eye. Okay, that’s a lie. Sparkly things always catch my eye, especially when they’re pink.

I saw a watch that suddenly wanted to be my friend, too. “Pssst. Come over here. Try me on. I’m so you!” it said. (Objects often talk to me. Do they talk to you, too? Just asking.) By then, Pleasance had come back and handed me my hippy chick doppelganger purse wrapped in plastic.

I said, pointing to the watch, “I love that. Can I try that on?” Pleasance laughed and then said, “You’re so funny!” I then asked, “Pleasance, what are you doing to me?” And she giggled.

Pleasance was wearing the same watch my friend, Suze had. I loved Suze's watch, but I knew that I couldn’t buy the same watch; it was the girlfriend code. You could not buy the same thing a girlfriend had if you saw her on a regular basis; this was just an unwritten rule that I always liked to follow.

Pleasance strapped the watch on my wrist, but not before mentioning that the band I had was interchangeable with a rainbow of other colored bands. I said, “Oh, I can change the plastic band.” She was then quick to point out, “Rubber not plastic.” It seemed as though “plastic” was a four-letter word in this store, and Pleasance's job description said that as an employee she must make it clear that rubber ruled and plastic was so not cool.

I tilted my wrist forward; I tilted my wrist backward. The rhinestones twinkled. I looked up at Pleasance and smiled, and she twinkled too.

I sighed and said, “Oh, dear. I’ll take this, too.” Pleasance said, “Let me get you a new one. You can go over to the wall and pick out a box for it.” I felt silly going to pick out a box for a watch, but I also felt silly for being totally enthralled by pink and rhinestones twice in one day – first, a transvestite and now a watch.

I got my pink, white, and blue box covered with birds, and I went over to Pleasance who was at the register. I looked at the wallets, I gasped, and I said, “Oh, those are so cool, too. In Massachusetts, the department stores don’t carry all of this.” Like a good friend, she threw a catalog into my bag and said, “You can order online!”

I laughed. She asked, “Are you here visiting for the weekend?” I said I was and that I had just seen La Cage aux Folles. I added, “It was so good,” and then she said, “I really want to see that!”

She then asked, “Are you here on your own?” I felt a small jab in my heart, and I said, “Yes. I am.” She asked, “And how’s that going?”

Since Pleasance was now an accidental BFF in my middle of my afternoon, I said quite honestly, “It’s okay.” I think she put “retail therapy” and the tone of my voice in an equation and summarized my mood. She said quite heartfelt, “Maybe next time, it’ll be different.”

I said, “Maybe it will.” I paid for my purchases, Pleasance handed me a large paper bag, and she wished me a great rest of the day. I did likewise; I turned around to leave, took a few steps, then I turned back. I caught Pleasance’s eye, and I whispered, “Thank you so much,” and she sparkled like she was wrapped up in pink and rhinestones.

Ironically, "pleasance" is a feeling of pleasure or delight. I had delighted in transvestites, hand bags, pink, and rhinestones yesterday afternoon. Amazingly, I had experienced half of that delight with a real Pleasance. And, most importantly, I would take pleasure in being alone until there's a different "next time," which was a hopeful delight I took from Pleasance. ♥

The World Needs More Lindas

2011-03-17T16:39:00.007-04:00

Writing is difficult. Well, sometimes it’s more difficult than at other times. When I have a lot on my mind, it’s difficult for me to write, and then sometimes I’m just not inspired or only inspired by bits and pieces that don’t seem story-worthy.

I’m inspired by bits like Iz and her antics with her fairy dust necklace. I went to clean her room last Sunday, and after I unearthed the first layer of clothes and toys, I found fairy dust all over the floor of her room. I said, “Iz, you’re not supposed to throw the fairy dust all over your floor.” She asked, “Well, where am I supposed to put it then?” as if she were really saying, “Duh, Mom. It’s fairy dust, and it must be scattered somewhere.”

I, not wanting to spoil the fairy dust fun nor encourage scattering that made more vacuuming for me, answered, “Scatter it outside!” Iz asked, “But what if I need magic inside?” I, not wanting to prolong the conversation, then quickly asked, “Hey, let’s go have some cookies!” By the way, that always works, and I hope it works until she’s 18!

I’m also inspired by pieces like my long stay in the waiting room after my mammogram earlier this week; the imaging center at the hospital was running about 30 minutes behind schedule. The technicians were in the waiting room every 15 minutes to tell us that, which was most likely to dispel the quiet fear we were all thinking very loudly to ourselves. That fear was the radiologist is taking much too long looking at my pictures.

After I counted seven of us in the waiting room, the brave seventh rolled her eyes in disgust at the soap opera on the TV, grabbed the remote control, and then said, “There’s got to be something better on.” We all sighed in relief at her ability to take charge of the remote, which was something we probably all wanted to do but didn’t, because we kept thinking, "I know my results are okay, and I will be out of here any minute!"

She changed the channel and yet another soap opera appeared. There was a collective groan. She changed the channel again, and there was a collective, “Yeah, this is better.” Amazingly, all seven of us played along with Family Feud for the next 30 minutes, which didn’t make the wait any easier but it made it made it a group effort filled with a bit of laughter that took our minds off of the wait.

Anyway, writing has been difficult here lately, because I have so much on my mind. It’s nothing life-threatening. They’re just things that I worry about, and they clutter my mind making words here seem somewhat impossible for me.

Today, all that changed. One of my tasks was to get myself to Nantucket to get three pieces of furniture from my Dad’s house. I undertook that task today.

Was I fetching a Chippendale desk, a Stickley rocker, and a William Savery highboy? No. I was fetching two desks (one which a Great Aunt owned and one that my Dad bought at an antique store) and a mahogany trunk that had belonged to my grandmother that some nice young woman had danced on while wearing her stilettos. The pieces were pretty much juntiques, but I felt I needed to pull something out of the emotional “rumble” that this house had become.

I enlisted my neighbor's husband, John, to help me; he’s got a huge van, and I figured he might have the bandwidth to accompany me on my one-day pilgrimage to the island. Someone asked me if I could just ship the furniture to Hyannis. I explained the trip was two-fold; it was to get my furniture and to leave a small bit of my heart behind the way I could only do in person.

This afternoon, I called the Steamship Authority armed with the make, model and license plate number for John’s van. (Actually, I called five minutes before that call, but I was naïve about the ferry ways having only the license plate number.) I pressed one to speak to a reservation agent, and then I heard, “Hi, this is Linda.”

I told Linda that I’d like to make a reservation. She asked if I had my profile number handy, which I didn’t. She stressed to me the importance of writing my profile number down, keeping it in a safe place, and always giving it when I first called.

It was painful enough making this call, and when Linda went all profile number on me, I thought, “Oh, this is going to be even more difficult.” Speaking out of stress, frustration and disappointment, I then said abruptly, “That’s okay. I really won’t need it again, because this is my last trip there.”

Linda quickly said, “Aw, don’t say that, Sweetie!” My reservation agent went from corporate to comforting in under twenty seconds. I said, “Yes. It is.” She said, “Never say never, Honey.”

I felt myself smile, and then Linda began to take my information and made a light-hearted joke about something insignificant. Yet, whatever it was, it made me significantly laugh. She immediately said, “I knew I was going to get a laugh out of you somehow!”

I then said, “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should write that profile number down. Maybe I will go again.” Linda said, “That’s the spirit.” I then blurted out, “You see, I’ve sold my Dad’s house,” and I know Linda could hear me holding back waves of tears for which I felt stupid, because I had no apparent excuse for them.

Linda offered waves of comforting words in return. I thanked her, and she asked me when I wanted to go. I told her Monday was the preferred day leaving at 9am and returning at 5pm.

She told me that the 9am ferry was sold out. I sighed, and she told me she could get me on the 8pm (what my brother and I used to call the garbage scow as it transported all the really large vehicles) and save me some money. I said, “Oh, we’d have to stay over then.”

She said, “Yeah, but you’ve got the furniture in the house, right?” I said rather sadly, “No. I’m just going to get the last three things.” She said, ‘Oh,” and I thanked her for suggesting that alternative.

She said, “When do you need to go?” I said, “I need to get there by the 31st; that’s when the house closes.” She then said that Tuesday was available, and I said I needed to check with John before I could book it.

Again, frustrated that I was missing information and making the voyage seem that much more difficult, she said, “I can reserve the spot for you. You just need to call back by Sunday to confirm and pay for it.” I thanked her; it was probably what she could have done for anyone else, but she had already made me feel like she was going to get me to Nantucket but with a ferry ticket full of hope and love.

She then asked for the make, model number, and license plate number of John’s van. I gave it to her. Then came a question that stumped me. She asked if the van was a crew cab, a regular cab, a short cab, or a long cab.

Mystified, I said, “Well, he measured it, and it’s 17.6 feet long. Does that help?” She said, “You know, I’ll just put it’s a regular one, and then you can check that and tell them when you call back.” Desperate to finalize the plan, I said, “It’s got four wheels and looks like a refrigerator box!”

Linda laughed, and I laughed because Linda laughed. She gave me my confirmation number, and I wrote it down. Linda said, “Everything is going to be all right. You will go back; miracles happen sometimes. Believe me, they do.”

Starting to cry again, I thanked Linda. She then said, “When I say my prayers tonight, know that you’ll be in them.” I thanked her again and said, “You know, after talking to you, I now know that there are angels.”

After I hung up, I pondered what I had last said to Linda. I was totally surprised that I had said that about angels. I thought it might be so and I hoped it was so, but I had just had a real angel help me cope.

We all have these tough times. They are times when we hope someone will swoop down out of nowhere and make everything okay. Thank you, Linda, the Steamship Authority Angel.

I would like to think now that my Dad sent Linda. If that's so, thank you, Dad. It will be like saying good-bye to you all over again next Tuesday, but I will have Linda with me, knowing in my head and my heart that some day everything will be all right again. ♥

The Best Gifts

2011-03-09T23:06:00.002-05:00

For the longest time, I had this quote on my bulletin board. It said, “The best gifts are not those that cost the most money but those that show how well you know the person you’re giving the present to.” I have received many gifts this last year or so that have been in that vein.

There was the vintage pin-magnet from Nancy, the Hello Kitty Las Vegas cell phone charm from Nancy’s daughter, Kelly, the pink tool kit and the perfect coffee travel mug from Brenda and Steve, the cycling jersey and Hello Kitty rubix cube from George, and the Sephora gift card from Suze. Hey, nothing says “I know you’re crazy about Sephora, but I love you anyway,” like a Sephora gift card.

I’m sure I’ve missed others. That’s why I dislike naming things but yet I can’t resist the urge to name things! Oh, yeah, and then there was that bottle of red wine at Christmas, a special vintage with a hint of pizzazz and quite a kick.

When I arrived home today, I was lugging six grocery bags. As usual, the front door banged wide open, and several people came out to help me. That didn’t happen, but it’s a reoccurring dream I have when I’m awake carrying six grocery bags!

After placing six bags of groceries on the front steps, I saw a box from Amazon by the door. I racked my brain and thought, “I didn’t order anything from Amazon.” I lugged my work bag and the six grocery bags through the front door.

After I put all the bags on the kitchen counter, I went back outside to get the box. I brought it in and double checked the address label. It was for me, and I couldn’t think of what it was.

I started my crock pot meal for a party tomorrow night, made coffee for the morning, and then made Iz’s lunch. I put the box up on the counter; it was heavy. I thought, “Did I drink too much wine and order several pounds of marbles?”

I took a knife and cut the tape on the box. I opened the horizontal flaps, and then I opened the vertical flaps. Sitting in the box was a huge (6 pounds to be exact) bag of hard candy.

Perplexed, I saw a white card. I picked it up and read it. It said, “Hi Jean! Thought it would be nice to have some hard candy to fill your Mom’s candy dish with!!!” Love, Lisa”

As I’ve said to many people, this blog is my heart and my soul. If you read it from start to finish, you’d know me, pretty much all of me. Sometimes people have said to me, “I can believe you share so much," but this is who I am; I am what I am, and, World, please come and “get” me.

I stood there and looked at the bag. It was not a bag of candy; it was 12 dozen roses, a 12-carat diamond, and 12000 stock options bought for .05 cents and now valued at $5. Though, it wasn’t the money behind the gift; it was the wealth of love behind the gift.

My Mom’s candy dish was empty; Lisa filled it up and then some. With friends like you in my life, I knew I'd never be alone no matter how lonely I might become. My heart was full, and that was the best gift anyone could hope to receive in their lifetime. ♥

P.S. There’s a Part III to the other blog; however, life gets in the way. ♥

A Beginning and an End -- Part II

2011-03-07T16:58:00.008-05:00

“When you're safe at home you wish you were having an adventure; when you're having an adventure, you wish you were safe at home.”
~ Thornton Wilder

Part II -- Killjoy Street

I own part of a house on the island of Nantucket. The house will be sold at the end of this month. I have owned the house with three others for eight years.

While I owned the house, I didn't tell many people about it for fear that they would think I was a person born to privilege when I was really only born to Richard and Ruth in 1962 in Dorchester, Massachusetts. While this was a privilege, it didn't make me privileged. Growing up, I was well fed, clothed, and loved; however, I didn’t get a mini Mercedes SL 500 Two Seater Car on my 7th birthday, a pony for my 10th birthday, a car for my 16th birthday or a small condominium upon my graduation from college.

When my parents bought their home in Sudbury in 1964, they paid $22,000 for it; at the time, my Mom said that they had enough money to pay the basics. Anything after that like trips and entertainment weren’t in the budget. That’s not to say we were poverty stricken; I did get the first Atari among all of my friends, though I was pretty sure that my Dad bought it for himself first and foremost!

My parents, specifically my Mom, did give me a great gift besides the gift of life. It was my college education; I paid for a year on my own, but my Mom paid for the other three. I was very fortunate in that regard, and looking back, I never felt deprived; I’m sure I wished for a pony on my 10th birthday or a car on my 16th, but I always felt like I hadn’t really missed a thing when I was growing up.

After my Mom died, my Dad sold our family home in Sudbury. He moved to a small condominium and bought a house on Nantucket. When he first bought the house, I was perplexed.

My Dad never liked going to the beach when we were growing up, and now he’d be living just a mile from the beach. When I found out his new girlfriend had been to Nantucket most every Summer of her life, it didn’t take me long to figure out why he bought the house. I had hoped she was worth the somewhat radical purchase. (In my opinion, she wasn’t.)

After my father died, I inherited a bit of the house, which I then bought with a family member, owing to the fact that we had to buy out two others. We had a grand plan to rent the house and use it in the off-season. Well, after only two years, that was a bust, and we ended up renting it year round for the remainder of the time we owned it.

I went down to stay at the house after I was first laid off; two tenants had moved out, and I needed to clean up their mess. It was a difficult trip, but I’m glad I made it with my trusty scaredy cat dog, Monty. In hindsight, little did I know it was to be my last trip; I only wish I had enjoyed more, but when I left, I guess I already knew that it was unlikely that I’d ever be back.

Anyway, it was decided a while ago that we needed to sell the house; it had become a living nightmare, and that’s putting it nicely. It was sad to think that such a beloved place by my Dad had become a battleground involving relatives who behaved so very badly, wretched tenants, slimy realtors, and bozo buyers. But, as one friend said recently, “Thank gawd you’re almost done with that place.”

This past weekend, it was time to begin clearing out the house in preparation for the closing. The first closing date had been originally scheduled for February 14th, which told me that a true test in life had to be losing something you loved on a day that was all about being with the one you loved. After a few glitches (see “bozo buyers” above), the new closing date was April 1st, which immediately reaffirmed for me that I was a fool for buying the house; however, I should learn from the experience and always try to make a joke about it.

Anyway, the tenants (see “wretched” above) were told they could take anything they wanted when they departed recently. It seemed best given that there weren’t any things I wanted from the house (that is, there weren’t many things that hadn’t been ruined by the above-mentioned wretched tenants). The realtor (don’t see anything above and only imagine an ugly slug wearing a Nantucket island pendant around its neck) mentioned she knew “some Costa Ricans” who might like to also take some furniture.

I laughed when I heard that. Not only was she slimy, but she was with the “Costa Ricans” too. (You’ll only get that if you listen to “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon.) I can only imagine that she got some kind of kickback for providing furniture, as I failed to see her helping people who were most likely low-paid workers on the island. Can you tell I’m a tad bitter?

Well, there are three stages when selling your father’s house under these circumstances. They are grief, anger, and bitterness. I could only hope that relief, happiness, and joy came right after I signed the paperwork to pass the house onto the buyers (see a picture of Bozo the clown and his live-in girlfriend).

I was asked if I wanted furniture from the house. At first, I said I didn’t. Upon reflection, I changed my mind and chose two desks and a chest. The desks belonged to a great Aunt and my Dad; the chest had belonged to my grandmother.

The trunk was mahogany, and I had it refinished after my grandmother gave it to me. I tried to store clothes in it; however, it turns out my grandmother’s middle name was “Mothball” when it wasn’t Louise. She had put so many mothballs in it over the years that anything I tried to keep in it ended up reeking of mothballs.

When first moving furniture down to the house, I decided that the chest might make a nice coffee table in the family room. It was shipped down to Nantucket and remained in the house with our Winter tenants. Unfortunately, I found out that the Winter tenants had let a party guest, who was wearing stilettos, dance on top of it making it look like it had been a victim of chicken pocks; you know how much I love shoes, but I couldn’t look at a pair of stilettos for about two weeks after that.

In my heart of hearts, I knew I really didn’t want these things. Had they belonged to family? Yes. Could I have lived without them? Yes. Did I need to take something from the house, because I needed to walk away from it with something that had once been in good condition and meaningful? I guess so.................................and then there were the whale mugs.

Last night, the whale mugs were brought home to me. I requested them; however, I hated them. My sister-in-law bought them as a house warming gift. They were ugly, small, and she paid a fortune for them on the island. I couldn’t exactly tell you what they meant to me, but they’re in my house now.

I was also given something else. When it was presented to me, I gasped. I knew it so well, and I found it hard to believe it had survived the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos.

My Mom was never one for clothes, cosmetics, or anything fancy or expensive. I’d say this gives more credibility to my “I was adopted,” claim in that regard, but I can’t escape the fact that I have my Dad’s creativity and sense of humor, although unlike him, I don’t call women “broads,” which he always did in jest. I call them chicks!

My Mom’s china was a very inexpensive pattern called Blue Danube. She had all the basic pieces. My brother’s first wife had given her some extra pieces over the years, and this was one of them. My Mom used to keep hard candy in it.

I stood there and looked at it. I flipped the top up and down. I remember she kept all her china in a hutch that my Dad had moved to Nantucket when he first bought the house. I asked “Did someone take the hutch?” thinking that it was yet another piece I should have clung to, all the while I knew I was clinging to things like they were life savers when I should have been swimming away, far away, under my own power.

I was told that one of the Costa Ricans had taken it. Damn them all I thought; damn the relatives, the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos! I was then told that a woman had taken it. She said that she had young children, and it would be great to place her nice things in something that her kids couldn’t get into.

Okay, damn the wretched, the slimy, and the bozos, but I’ll leave the Costa Ricans out of it. I looked at my Mom’s box again, and I flipped the lid; I wanted to cry, but I would not cry in front of him. I looked up at him, thanked him for the box, and then hoped that what comes around goes around. I was glad that my Mom’s hutch had gone but come around to a woman who would treat it well and store her special things in it like my Mom did so many years ago.

All night long, I kept trying to think that the time owning my Dad’s house was a learning experience and that the passing of the house on (Kill)Joy Street, unlike my father’s, was a good thing; however, sometimes, good things don't necessarily feel so good. This morning, I took my Mom’s little Blue Danube box into work, and I placed it on my desk. I had the rest of her china at home; however, sometimes it felt like that when things went to pieces, it was important to scatter the pieces everywhere and in time, like a jigsaw puzzle, you'd be able to put it all back together again, at least in your heart. ♥

A Beginning and an End -- Part I

2011-03-06T18:00:00.002-05:00

A friend recently said to me, “Everything has a beginning and an end.” It sounds trite. But, it’s true just like how the sun rises and then sets.

This past week involved three ends that all had beautiful beginnings. First, I was told that my dog, Monty, had lymphoma and didn’t have long to live. Second, my Dad’s house would soon be gone, maybe earlier if the things inside were cleaned out sooner than anticipated. Finally, my friend’s mother lost her battle with cancer.

Part I -- Monty

I bought Monty two weeks before my Dad died. I was never a “dog” person, but for some reason, as my Dad grew more ill, I became more of a dog person desiring unconditional love (let’s face it, cats can love you or leave you), barking, and regular walks. After I saw “The Accidental Tourist,” I knew if I were to ever get a dog, it would be a Corgi.

One day at work shortly before my father died, I googled “Corgis.” I came to a website, I saw the cute dogs, and they conquered my heart, even though the website said, “This breed sheds a lot.” This was ironic given that I had previously dated a guy with a yellow lab that was always shedding; I could never wear black there, and if I did, I cursed the poor dog for two days afterwards.

A week later, I was at the mall. I was just about to leave when a voice in my head, which sounded a lot like Queen Elizabeth's, asked, “Are there any Corgis at Debby’s Petland?” I answered, “I doubt it.”

Queen Elizabeth said, “I really think you should take a look.” I said, “No. I doubt it.” She said, “Even if you doubt it, I command you to go there anyway.” Hey, she was the Queen after all.

I entered Debby’s Petland thinking “There’s no way there’s going to be a Corgi here.” As I scanned the cages, I said, “Queen Liz, you were like so wrong, girlfriend.” When a flash of white and sable met my eyes, I gasped; it was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi!

An employee saw me gawking at the dog and asked, “Would you like to meet the dog?” I said to myself, “No, no, no!” Just then Queen Elizabeth said, “Come on then. Just meet the little bugger for a few minutes,” and I said, “Okay, just for a minute.”

I was instructed to a little play area. I waited, and in about two minutes, the little sable and red creature came running out to greet me as if he had known me all his life. Queen Elizabeth said, “Ask if he’s a male?”

Damn her. She knew that in my fantasy dog house that my corgi was a boy and his name was Montgomery after General Montgomery. Obeying my Queen, I asked the employee who brought him in, “Is he male?”

The employee looked at the puppy’s card and said, “Yes.” Meanwhile, the little sable and white puppy, who was six months old, jumped up on my leg and wagged his bottom at me. I sighed, and the employee said, “You can put a $25 deposit down, and it will hold him for 48 hours.”

The puppy was now smiling at me. Queen Elizabeth said, “Your Dad needs you now, and you’re there for him. This puppy needs you now, and, look, you’re here!” I said to the employee and to Queen Elizabeth, “I will leave a deposit.”

I had no idea what I was going to do. I knew I was losing my father. And, then I knew, I loved this little dog.

Monty smiled again. It was so hard to say good-bye to him. I said, “I will see you again soon!”

Two days later, I went back with John to fetch him. When I went to pay ($750), John whipped out his American Express card and paid for Montgomery. We led him out of the mall, drove him home, and within five minutes of being home, untrained, he pooped on Nathan’s bedroom floor!

When I went to visit my Dad the day after I picked up Monty, I said to my Dad, “I got a dog!” My Dad laughed, smiled, and in his smile, I saw so much more. It was as if he knew exactly what Queen Elizabeth knew; he would always be with me no matter where my love for him manifested itself. ♥

Where’s Skippy?

2011-03-04T15:51:00.004-05:00

Earlier in the week, my friend, Brenda, sent an e-mail with a photo attachment to me and to two of our friends, Nancy and Sarah. The e-mail was titled “From Our Wildlife Preserve.” Last I knew, Brenda and her husband, Steve, had not moved to Africa, so I was a little confused; however, instead of reading the e-mail right away, I sat there and pondered what one might name a pet giraffe (“Yao”), gazelle (“Flo Jo”), aardvark (“Arthur”), eland (“FunkyAntelopeDudeWhoICan’tThinkofaGoodNamefor” or quite simply “HeyYou”), impala (“Chevy” after Chevy Chase, of course!), hyena (“Giggles”), or hippopotamus (“Hippocrat”).

I proceeded to read her e-mail which described the photo attached. It said, “You might miss Skippy. He’s on the lower corner of the picture, behind the weeds.” Okay, I knew Skippy was not a giraffe, gazelle, aardvark, eland, impala, hyena, or hippopotamus; Skippy was Brenda’s domestic short hair orange tabby cat.

I opened the photo, and I saw this.

After looking at the lovely deer, I went directly to the designated “lower corner” of the picture. For the life of me (pre-second cup of coffee in my defense), I could not see Skippy. I saw a beautiful deer, snow, weeds, and rocks. (Upon reflection later, maybe there was only one rock in the picture.) In about five minutes, both Sarah and Nancy responded to Brenda to acknowledge that they had seen Skippy.

I took another look and I still could not see Skippy. I felt stupid asking again where Skippy might be, so I pretended to be busy with work, didn’t respond, and got that second much-needed cup of coffee. Upon return, I looked at the picture again; jeez, I had always stunk at those “Where’s Waldo?” books.

Nathan would find Waldo over and over again. I’d sit there looking and looking and Nathan would ask why I hadn’t spotted that dear chap, Waldo, yet. I’d say, “I see him everywhere, but I just didn’t want to spoil the fun for you!”

Anyway, today, I had lunch with Brenda. I guess because I didn’t respond to her e-mail (but I was way too busy with work, Brenda!), she asked, “So, did you see Skippy's picture.” Damn. I could have feigned a trip to the bathroom or thrown my roll on the floor and gone under the table to fetch it, hoping Brenda might forget her question; however, there really was no avoiding an answer at this point.

I hesitated. I knew I had to confess to my friend that I had a problem; I was “Where's insert_item_here?” challenged. Would she understand? Would she be supportive? Would she direct me to the closest “Where’s insert_item_here?” anonymous meeting? I knew I had to tell her the truth, even if I was going to feel totally stupid.

I said, “I couldn’t find him!” Oh, the anguish, the shame, and damn the second cup of coffee that didn’t make me see the Skippy light. She said, “Really? He was right there in the corner of the gazebo.” I said, “I know; he’s in lower right corner. I looked, and I could not find him!”

She laughed, though I knew she must be thinking, “How did Jean not see Skippy in that photo? Jean can always spot a cat at one pace. Jean is losing her feline identification mojo; this usually doesn’t happen until after the age of 50. Gasp!” I said I’d attempt another look. I was really thinking that I would just respond to her e-mail with an “Oh, yeah. There’s the little furry dude,” even if I still couldn’t see him!

When I got back to my office after lunch, an email was waiting for me. It was from Brenda. I didn’t open it immediately. I knew she was just probably sending me the date and time for the next “Where’s insert_item_here?” anonymous meeting in my neighborhood.

After acknowledging that I might benefit from such a meeting, I looked at the title of her e-mail which was “See?” Anticipating "Monday night at 6pm at the Congregational Church," I opened her e-mail thinking I had nothing to lose and only super x-ray vision to gain. Isabelle was missing about 8 socks; this meeting might be the key to me finding all the matches in her bureau. I could play “Where’s purple with green polka dots?” successfully!

A photo displayed. It was the same picture of the deer and the alleged Skip in the right corner in the weeds. This time though, there was a huge circle around Skippy and a large red arrow pointing to the circled Skippy.

After the not so subtle pointer to Skippy, I thought about replying, “Oh, I get it now. Skippy is your new deer!” Actually, when I saw the circle and the arrow, I laughed out loud. Okay, okay, okay, Brenda! I see Skippy now!

I told Brenda that it wasn’t my fault. Skippy was too good at cat camouflage, which I'm sure he learned at the Cat Intelligence Agency. For all Brenda knows, Skippy is with the CIA and that deer is on the terrorist watch list, a suspected card-carrying member of Elk-Qaeda!

Just so I didn’t feel totally stupid about my inability to identify a cat in the weeds, I sent the picture to my friend, Chris, in the UK. When you feel like you’re on another planet because you can’t find a cat in a picture, you outsource to another country for a different perspective. He said, “I wouldn’t have spotted that cat.” You have to love friends, who say things like that while they are secretly thinking, "I'm with Brenda. How the hell did she miss that cat?"

After looking at the picture again, I thought that Skippy did a great impersonation a clump of vertical weeds or a rock with ears. No offense, Skippy, because you know I think you're the George Clooney of cats! I do know that the next time I receive another “Where’s insert_item_here?” message, I am going to respond with “Yes, I see insert_item_here by the insert_location_here and it looks insert_adjective_here!” whether I see it or not! ♥

Dress You Up in My Love

2011-03-01T15:48:00.006-05:00

I run a few days a week with a friend at work. My friend and I are vastly different in looks and in interests; however, something about the Sikh girl from Chandigarh and the Great Cat Goddess Girl from Poznan clicks two days a week for a run.

For a long time, our preferred running time was at noon. I got ready, and then waited for her to put her hair up. After a few months, she decided that it would be better if we ran a bit later instead; this would give her time to put her hair up. I insisted that I didn’t mind waiting; however, she insisted that she minded that I had to wait.

In an IM conversation one day, I asked, “What time do you want to run then?” She responded “12:08.” I laughed out loud, thinking it was such an arbitrary time; she was not one I’d called “goofy,” like I’d call myself, so I was clearly impressed by the goofiness of her appointed time.

I agreed we could run then. I was then instructed that she would leave first for the locker room, because she needed exactly three minutes to put up her hair. I would then follow her.

Knowing she was engineer, I then realized that 12:08 was not a goofy time; it was a carefully thought out and designed running time. She arrived at noon; she had her hair up at 12:03. I arrived at 12:03, and I had five minutes to get ready; thus, at 12:08, we were off and running!

Sometimes, when I entered the locker room a bit early, I was chastised for arriving before she put her hair up. It was then repeated that she did not like me waiting for her; and a few times, I might have responded like Iz by saying, "Okay, okay, okay!" It was rather quirky of her, but I loved that about her.

Of course, eventually, our runs became about a lot more than just running. When the weather was nice, we’d sit outside the building after our run, drink water, and chat. We’d talk about what was going on in our lives; I probably shared more than she did.

I knew this one day when she asked me, “Do you have a lot of friends who you can tell anything to?” She asked the question like she was asking me if there really was an Easter Bunny. When I said, “Yes,” she seemed genuinely amazed.

I named a few friends. She reaffirmed, “And you feel like you could tell them anything?” I said, “Yes. I feel like I could tell you most anything, too.”

A few weeks later, she asked me for some advice; unfortunately, it was about men. I’ve not fared too well in that department; however, I felt quite honored that she asked me. Up until that point, I don’t think she had a friend who she felt she could tell many things to.

Last Fall, she had mentioned that it was time for her to visit India. She asked me if I wanted to come along, and I decided I wanted to. Unfortunately, I decided with my heart and not my brain. A few weeks later, I told her that my efforts and finances were best spent at home for the next few months; she penciled me in for the next trip.

A few weeks ago, she told me that she was set to go on her trip. She had been planning it all along; however, in some ways, I think she didn’t share the details, because like a good friend, she didn’t want me to feel badly for not going or that I was somehow missing out. She understood where I was, because she knew all of my “everything.”

She told me she’d be gone for a month. I exclaimed, “A month!” She laughed, and I again said to myself, “Jeez, a month!”

Okay, I do know that it’s impossible to go to India for a weekend. Heck, it’s pretty impossible to go to Pittsburgh for the weekend, and that’s even in my time zone. I guess I just hadn’t thought how long a month would be in terms of our friendship; I knew she would be safe with her family, but I was going to miss her, the only female friend I had at work in a sea of male co-workers.

I told her that she was going to have a wonderful trip. Sensing my sadness at not being able to go along, she immediately said, “You will go next year.” I said, “Yes. I think things will be much better next year.”

When Iz and I were at the mall two weekends ago, I was thinking about my friend’s journey to India and was somewhat feeling badly that I had a long journey to make at home before I’d ever make the long journey to India. If I couldn’t go to India, part of me would go there. I dragged Iz over to my favorite jewelry kiosk, and I said, “We need to pick out some earrings; they have to be small, and they can’t be dangles!”

Perplexed but motivated by a fashion challenge, Iz spun the earring racks around. I like pink; however, my friend was not a pink person. I’d show up wearing something and she’d say, “Oh, what a surprise. It’s pink!” We’d then laugh, because we constantly teased each about our color choices.

She didn’t get pink. I didn’t understand why with her beautiful coloring she chose only to wear brown and black. In a nutshell, we had a friendly color rivalry.

As Iz spun an earring rack around, I said, “Oh, and the earrings must be pink!” Iz looked at me and asked, “Why pink?” I said, “Because she doesn’t like pink.”

Iz looked puzzled but returned to her task. In about three minutes, she spun a rack around and stopped it. She said, “Mommy, I like these, these, and these,” pointing to three different pairs of earrings. I examined the earrings, and I said to the salesperson, “I’ll take these.”

I knew instantly that I liked them. They were the non-dangle version of the earrings my friend, Brenda, had given me. They were pink, reminiscent of opals, and the tiny embedded specks of green in the pink stone sparkled brightly in the light.

Yesterday, I told my friend, who is leaving on Thursday, that she must stop by my office. I told her I had a bon voyage present for her. Of course, she told me it wasn’t necessary, but I told her to come by just in case we were unable to run today.

In five minutes, she was at my cube. I handed her the silver box tied with the silver bow and a small card. She again said, “You didn’t have to do this,” and I answered, “I know, but I wanted to.”

She opened the envelope to reveal a pink card covered with white sparkle dots. She started to laugh, mumbled, “Pink!”, and then asked me if I had made the card. I told her I was talented but not that talented.

She lifted open the card, and she read. I told her to have a safe trip, and that I’d miss her. She looked up from the card, and she said, "I’ll miss you, too.”

She took the ribbon off the box, opened it, lifted up the tissue paper, and then she laughed. I said, “You have to wear them!” She then laughed even harder and thanked me.

Today was our last run before her trip. Finding it a bit hard to concentrate for some reason, I headed up to the locker room a bit early. I was brushing my teeth when a voice saying, “Jean!” startled me so that I almost swallowed my toothpaste.

I peered around the bathroom door, which was halfway closed, and my friend said, “You’re early!” (Did I already tell you that she hates it when I’m early?) I said, with my toothbrush still in my mouth, “I saw-ree bub I wuz notb bizee, saw I comb earlbe.” She smiled and continued her fake irritation by imitating me with my toothbrush in my mouth.

If my mouth had not been full of tooth paste, I would have laughed out loud. You think you know a person. That was the first time I ever saw her act, well, exactly like me – goofy!

After much more feigned irritation, she said, “I forgot my gym bag in the car.” She fretted because now I would have to wait longer for her. I said, “Don’t worry about it.”

She left and came back with her bag. She said to me, “Now you have time to stretch. Go out in the gym and stretch.” I said, “I’m sitting here stretching my brain,” and she laughed.

She fretted again about being late. I said, “I’m just relaxing here.” Funny, but she then said, “Tell me something exciting,” and I said, “Sorry, but I can’t. I’m meditating now.”

As I sat there in the locker room meditating (okay, I wasn’t really) and watching her put up her long jet black hair, I could not remember how I first met her. I know it was because of work and involved running, but for the life of me, I didn’t remember the first time I met her. I suppose it didn’t really matter; all that really did matter was everything that came after whether it be pink, brown, or black.

After our run, I was getting dressed and said, “Now, you’ve got to wear your pink earrings on your trip.” She said, “Oh, yes, I have the perfect pink sweater to wear them with.” I got all excited and asked, “Really? You do have a pink sweater.” She laughed as if she was Iz playing some sort of joke on me and said, “No!!!!!”

I laughed and said, “Awww, I hate it when you get me all excited about you and pink like that!” Hoping to give the runner left behind from the long voyage some hope, she said, “I do have a pink outfit that I wear to church.” I said, “Okay, maybe you can try to wear them with that, and send me a picture!”

At that point, it didn’t seem like it mattered whether she wore them or not. My pink earrings were going to India with a dear friend. I smiled and thought, “To Chandigarh With Love.” ♥

Blog Picture Note: I love this picture, and I had it pinned up on my office wall before I was laid off. Ironically, my friend, George, gave me a cycling shirt this past Christmas with this picture on it. I like it when people tell you they love you; however, I think it’s even greater when they are able to dress you up in their love.

NQ (Thank You)

2011-02-25T22:33:00.001-05:00

A video thank you to our BFFs...

Spring Sprang Sprung

2011-02-22T20:24:00.004-05:00

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

2011-02-16T17:19:00.002-05:00

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

2011-02-14T15:13:00.011-05:00

(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

2011-02-11T15:22:00.010-05:00

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

2011-02-08T00:01:00.003-05:00

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!

2011-02-04T21:39:00.006-05:00

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?

2011-02-02T21:01:00.002-05:00

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

2011-02-01T21:13:00.007-05:00

Beginning blog photo:

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♥

End blog photo:

Lights On. Lights Off.

2011-01-28T14:21:00.005-05:00

I'm old. Well, I'm not really that old, especially if my life expectancy turns out to be "almost 103" like my maternal grandmother. I'm old enough now that I feel like I’ve crossed over to the stage of my life where I can say to my kids, “Well, when I was your age, I did _insert_some_comparison_here,” but definitely don’t say “walked three miles to school in the snow while barefoot.”

Actually, come to think of it, a few times when I missed the bus, I did walk from my high school to home or from home to my high school. The high school was at least three or four miles from my house. While I wore shoes, I think that walking that far at that point in my life probably made me feel like I was walking barefoot through a swarm of locusts on a 98 degree day with 80% humidity. (Is that forecast possible, WeatherGirl Brenda?!)

I spent a good part of my youth in the 1970s. While dinosaurs didn’t roam the Earth then, we were a tad prehistoric not having the Internet, cell phones (with the much despised-by-me call waiting), or, thank God, Justin Bieber. With the exception of disco, which I liked but only because I liked to shake my groove thing, the 70s had some great music if you forget the likes of Disco Duck and the Pina Colada Song and remember most of these.

Everyone had a job never even thinking of asking their parents for money, everyone pitched in for gas never even thinking of asking their parents for gas money, and a fantastic Saturday night was wolfing down a few bags of M&Ms while watching Saturday Night Live with a few friends and without parents present. Okay, even back then, parents were personas non grata the minute you hit your teens.

I was 8 in 1970, and I was 17 in 1979. I cannot really tell you much about many of the current events that occurred during that time (well, I could if you gave me a few hours) other than the energy crisis, which seemed to affect me from January 1, 1970 to December 31, 1979. And, as far as fashion went, I can tell you that I wore sweater vests, maxi skirts, bell bottoms, and Fair Isle sweaters!

It’s easy for most to look back and see the wonderful qualities your parents gave you via DNA. Besides genetics, it’s probably also easy to pinpoint certain “life lessons” your parents taught you. My parents taught me to how easy it was to be cold yet stay warm, consume yet reuse, and see the light yet while keeping it mostly dark.

If there was a Heat Miser, then I am the Energy Miser when I’m not the Recycle Miser. My vigilance began in my youth; my Mom and my Dad made me this way, and I am glad that they did. My Mom was a recycler long before it was cool to be “green;” today, I cringe when I am at a friend’s house and a glass bottle goes into the trash.

My Dad kept the house at a toasty 65 degrees during the day and at an even toastier 62 degrees at night. I love to tell people that my electric blanket was my first boyfriend. He was a good boyfriend, who hugged me and kept me warm with no chance in hell of ever getting me pregnant!

When I was in high school, my Mom worked as a nurse; she worked 7 to 3pm, so her car was gone at 6am. If I wanted a car during the day, I was at my Dad’s mercy because he only worked a few minutes away, so I could drive him to work. But, if I wanted his car, there was a price to pay.

During a portion of the 1970s, you actually had to wait in line, long lines, to fill your car with gas. If I wanted to borrow my Dad’s car, I had to fill his puke green Gran Torino with gas, which was not a typically difficult task. The only thing was that I had to get up at 6am, drive two miles to the closest gas station, and then wait in line for an hour just so I could drive a few friends to Friendly’s after school.

Doing that then, I thought I was being asked to walk across burning coals. When I look back at it now, my Dad, who worked full-time like my Mom, was just asking me to contribute as a family member. He paid for the tank of gas, but I make the tank of gas a possibility; it was a family affair.

Sufficed to say, when I’m not a product of Richard and Ruth, I’m a product of the Energy Crunch of the 1970s. If a light was left on in the upstairs bathroom, we’d hear my father roar, “Who left the light on in the upstairs bathroom?” We’d all look at each other, wondering who was going to have to go all the way upstairs to turn off the light. When a confession was made, my Dad would say, “Go back upstairs and turn off that light!”

Though, there was that one time when my Dad roared, “Who left the light on in the upstairs bathroom?” I think my sister, Julie, and I were the only ones around. After looking at each other, we silently came to the same conclusion.

There was no confession coming from the two girls sitting on the couch watching TV in the family room. We both knew who had left the light on, but did either of us have the guts to say it? Julie moved her mouth to speak, and I yelled “Noooooo!" but unfortunately no sound came out of me.

Julie said quite matter of fact, “Dad, you did.” Of course, while Julie had the guts to confess for my father, she suffered his “Do as I say not as I do” wrath and was asked, err, very nicely to go upstairs and turn out the light in the bathroom anyway. Julie got a 10 for guts and a 1 for “Thou should never tell thy father he's at fault.”

Anyway, when I bought my first house on my own, I realized shortly after moving in during the middle of the Winter that I had become my parents. I didn’t start eating bridge mix like my Mom nor did I develop a sudden urge to become a philatelist. I did however become frugal where it came to energy.

Nathan’s “I’m cold” thrust was met with my “Put a sweatshirt on” parry. When I caught my boyfriend pressing the up arrow on the thermostat while dressed in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of February, I said, “Dress properly and don’t be laying a finger on my thermostat!” Jeez, a good portion of people today, if jettisoned back to the 1790s, would never survive. I would and at night time, it would be a three-cat night, err, just like it is now.

Recently, I’ve begun to realize that while I preach conservation, my children aren’t getting the hang of practicing it. I came home the other day and went to throw something away. Nathan had thrown three plastic bottles in the trash. Of course, if this was one of the worst things he did, I know I should count myself lucky, and I did.

I grabbed the bottles out of the trash, headed upstairs, and I found Nathan. I held the bottles up and began to wave them to divert his attention from his X-box controller to the Polyethylene Terephthalate I had in my hands. I sighed and said, “Nathan, you can recycle these! It’s number four!”

He looked up and said, “Uh-huh.” I said, “Put these in the recycle bin, okay?” He said, “Uh-huh.” I was lucky; at least his response was a bit more of a respectful acknowledgement than Iz's “Okay, okay, okay!”

It snowed several inches here yesterday. Iz had a snow day, and since her Dad was finally home, I had a “Go to work and work in peace and quiet day.” After I got ready for work, I went to kiss her good-bye.

I saw that the door to her room was closed, which could only mean one thing. She had cat hostages. I opened the door, and I was right.

She was lying on her bed and had a choke hold on Plume. I exclaimed, “Iz!” I then exclaimed a second time when I saw that her bedroom window was wide open. If we had lived in Florida, I wouldn’t have had an issue; however, since it was 30 degrees outside, I said, “Close the window. The heat is on!”

She still didn’t release her death-grip on Plume. I slammed the window shut. I said, “Iz, that is a waste of energy!”

She looked at me like I had just told her that there was no Santa Claus; I needed to tell her that there was an environmental clause which said that someday all this great heat might be gone. Iz said, still holding on tight to Plume, “I’m hot.” I said, “Well, take a cold shower,” which is something I always expected to say to a man but not to my daughter!

When I arrived home from work yesterday, I noticed that the house was lit up like a Christmas tree. This surprised me given there were only two people home and not twenty. Who was having the party?

When I was inside, I noticed that Iz was in the family room. I brought my things upstairs, hoping to find the other 19 people that were in my house. I scanned the hallway, the bedrooms, and the bathroom; there were no signs of life except for the large dust kitty that blew by my foot when I pushed my bedroom door all the way open.

Iz was afraid of the dark, and at her age, I understood that. For Iz, this meant that when she was upstairs by herself that every light needed to be on, even in unoccupied rooms like Nathan’s and in the bathroom. To add insult to conservation injury, she wasn’t even upstairs.

I yelled “Iz!!!!!’ She yelled, “What??????” I said, “Come up here, please!”

She asked, “Am I in trouble?” I laughed and said, “Nooooo!” She sighed and I heard her stomp through the hallway, stomp up the stairs, and when she arrived at the top of the stairs, she said, “What????” in a peeved tone, indicating she was missing an “iCarly” episode she had seen only seven times.

I said, “When you’re not upstairs, turn off the lights. You’re wasting energy by keeping the lights on when they don’t need to be.” She looked totally uninterested and said, “Okay.” There probably would have been two more utterances of “Okay” if she had only seen the “iCarly” episode in question twice.

She asked, “Can I go now?” I had already turned off most of the lights, but I left the one on in Nathan’s room for illustrative purposes. I said, “No” and walked over to Nathan’s room.

I said, “Look,” as I flipped the switch off, “The lights don’t need to be on in a room when no one is in it.” Feeling dramatic probably due to an excess of hormones, I flipped the switch on and then off and then on and off again as I said, “On. Off. On. Off. Lights should be off when no one is around.” Being an 80s movie buff, I had an flashback to “The Karate Kid.” Not only was I turning into my parents but my “Lights on. Lights off” speech had turned me into Mr. Miyagi!

I looked at Iz. She looked at me like I was crazy. I realized in that moment that I, Energy Miser, had now been cached in her memory, as the one who had made her come all the way upstairs to learn how to, duh, turn a light switch on and off ruining that episode of "iCarly."

She then said, “Okay, okay, okay!” I, being slightly peeved and again dramatic said, “Tub, tub, tub!” Iz got a 10 for “Sassy 7-Year-Old Attitude” and she got a 1 for “Don’t forget who's the boss of you!”

Once I got her in the tub, I went downstairs to get a drink. I came up 5 minutes later. The light was on in Nathan’s room.

I went into the bathroom and sighed. I asked, “Iz, why’s the light on in Nathan's room?” She smiled and quickly and defensively said, “Liam was in there, and he couldn’t see!!!!!”

Okay, she got me. I realized that my lights-out rule had to be amended to be more specific about who “no one” was. I went to Nathan’s room and turned off the light doubting if Liam had ever even been in Nathan's room.

I knew schooling Iz on energy conservation was going to take a while. Though, all I had to do was glare at the toys all over the bathroom floor ten minutes later, and she went right in and picked them all up; it would always be about baby steps in different directions. But, that was all about her growing up and all about me growing into what my parent's DNA had made me and the lessons they taught me best. ♥

Sometimes It Takes a Village to Start a Car

2011-01-26T17:44:00.002-05:00

Last Sunday was very typical as far as Sundays go. At 7am, I heard Thunderbolt, who had been sleeping on my feet, jump off the bed; his internal alarm went off, and it was now time for him to act as mine. As usual, he went out into the hallway and realized that I didn’t get up and follow him out of the bedroom. A minute after his realization that I was not part of his “Time to eat” tribe, he wandered back in the room, circled around the bed, and then sat on the floor and began to meow at me.

At 7:08am, I continued to play dead pulling the covers over my head. Thunderbolt knew this modus operandi all too well, and then jumped up on the bed. He situated himself right next to my head and began to meow at me; if I really wanted to be dead, I would reach out from underneath the covers, pick him up, and then place him on the floor.

At 7:10am, Plume jumped up on the bed landing on my feet and then she jumped onto my bureau. She, far smarter than Thunderbolt, knew there were cat treats in the drawer. She sat on the bureau staring at me intently, hoping that her evil cat eye would entice me to open the drawer and give her a few treats if I wasn’t ready to make my way downstairs.

At 7:13am, I sat up to survey the bedroom territory. By now, in addition to Thunderbolt and Plume, Liam had positioned himself in the doorway. Maybe he was the smartest of them all, because when I did get up, he’d be the first one out the door, down the stairs, and situated in front of his dish.

At 7:15am, I hid under the covers again, wondering how I’d entertain Iz today. At 7:16am, I heard Iz walk out of her room and go into the bathroom; as usual, I didn’t hear the toilet flush. So, when I heard her walk by the door of my room on her way downstairs, I said, “Iz, please go back and flush the toilet,” to which she responded, “Okay, okay, okay!”

At 7:20am, with Thunderbolt, Plume, Liam, and Iz up, I knew I had to join the “Time to eat” tribe. At 7:21am, when Iz jumped off the last step of the stairs into the downstairs hallway, I heard a loud thud. And, at 7:22am, Monty barked; it was then official. Sunday morning had begun, and I needed to go downstairs and tend to the tribe.

At 7:30am, Iz plodded out of the family room and asked me, “What are we going to do today that’s fun, Mommy?” I waved my hand in front of her; she acknowledged my wave and went back to the couch. She knew the wave meant “Do not talk to me until after I’ve had my first few sips of coffee, please.”

After the French Vanilla was flowing through my veins, I first acknowledged the three furry creatures that were staring at me and the one furry creature that was barking at me. I went to the “Time to eat” cabinet, and then I proceeded to feed everyone. Okay, four creatures down, and there was one to go.

I asked Iz, “Bagel or cereal?” She answered, “Bagel.” I popped a bagel into the toaster, and when it popped, I slathered it in cream cheese.

I put it on a plate, and I delivered it to Iz who was now on the couch watching “Despicable Me” for the third time. I handed her the plate, and she took it from me. I turned to make my escape back into the kitchen for a second cup of French Vanilla when she spoke. Damn!

She asked, “Mommy, so what are we going to do that’s fun today?” I stopped, and I thought; I felt guilty because I had been a single parent for a few days, and I felt a need to make up for the absence of the departed parent. I quickly said, “Um, we have a few gift cards; let’s go spend them.”

She said, “Yay!!!!” I loved my daughter. But, I loved my daughter even more because she liked to shop for things that we had gift cards for, namely Barnes & Noble and Bath and Body Works.

After we spent all our gift cards, we were ready to go home. I love gift cards, but they’re such a scam in that you can never spend just what’s on your gift card. That is, you’re always putting out more money to cover your purchase, and the gift card people so know that!

At 2:55pm, Iz and I climbed into the car. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

Not being a car person, I swore under my breath. My car had given me no indication whatsoever that it potentially might not think about starting during the course of the day. All of a sudden at 2:55pm, I turned the key and it said, “I can’t hear you, Jean! La-la-la!”

This was not right. Surely, if my car was sick, it would have given me some notification. It would have said at 1:58pm, my starter is a bit scratchy, or at 2:15pm, it would have said, “I think I’m going to toss spark plugs!”

So, Iz and I were stuck in the mall parking lot with a dead car. I tried to remain calm while flipping through my mental Rolodex to see who might be the most willing to come and jump start the car if that was even a possible solution. I stopped at the “Ns.” N was for Nathan, my 17-year-old son.

Thinking about it now, I probably should have flipped a few more pages. Nathan didn’t have a car readily available. Amazingly though, he had a better social life than I had at his age even without a car.

I called Nathan, explained our dilemma, and then he said he’d have to call me back. My son had put me on hold, which wouldn’t have been bad if I had been by myself. But, since realizing that we were going nowhere soon, Iz was already on her 145th question, the last one being, “Are we going to have to go sleep at a hotel?” I loved the way the 7-year-old mind worked, but sometimes it drove me crazy, especially when I had no way to escape it.

Nathan called me back saying that he could borrow his stepmother’s car; however, he was not granted the ability to jump me with it. She drove a Volvo not a Ferrari for heaven’s sake! I sighed and quickly flipped back through the cards in my mental Rolodex until I came across the “Es.”

E was for Ellen. Ellen was my husband; okay, unfortunately on paper, Ellen wasn’t my husband. She was just a very good neighbor who helped me out a lot, probably more so than any husband I ever had did.

With my husband, Ellen, came her husband, John, who had gotten me out of a few jams (plumbing and locking myself out of the house) more than once. I told Nathan to stay put, and he seemed glad to do so. I didn’t blame him, because I would have rather been in a warm bedroom playing X-box than freezing in a car in a mall parking lot with Iz who was on her 152nd question which was, “Do you have any food?”

I called Ellen and explained my dilemma. Ironically, her husband and her eldest son were 5 minutes away from us at the grocery store. She gave me his cell number, and I called.

When he answered, I again explained our dilemma while Iz asked her 154th question which was “Will we get to drive home in their car?” John said he would send his son over with the car to give us a jump, and I said that I’d save the empty parking spot next to my car for their car.

I told Iz, “Stay in the car and keep warm,” because it wasn’t over 25 degrees outside. I told her I was going to stand in the parking space and watch for the car. It’s a good thing it wasn’t Christmas time, or I might have gotten killed for attempting to save a parking space.

In two minutes, Iz opened her door, jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and then came around to where I was standing. I guess my statement about staying in the car and being warm fell on deaf ears. She said, “Mommy, I want to wait with you.”

Okay, I didn’t want her to get cold, but I had to love her for wanting to feel my pain, which was beginning to take the form of frostbite in my finger tips. A few cars drove by and the occupants looked at us curiously. What? Like you’ve never seen a woman and her child standing in the middle of a parking space when it’s 25 degrees outside looking like they were waiting for the circus to arrive?!

Fortunately, for Iz, this adventure was better than the circus. She was true to her hardy Polish-German roots. I knew in a crisis, she’d make the best of it; that was a good trait to have when you were only 7-years-old.

I saw Ellen’s son pull into the parking lot. I waved my arms. He saw me, and then he pulled into the parking spot.

He pulled out his jumper cables and popped his hood. He said, “Oh, my battery is on the other side” meaning that he needed to move his car to the other side of mine. I was beginning to think then that my car was destined to remain in the mall parking lot until the circus really did arrive.

Fortunately, the car parked on the other side of my car pulled out. He back out and pulled his car into that space. Hoods were popped, cables were connected, and then “Vroooom,” the lovely sound of my car starting.

Iz cheered. Ellen’s son smiled. I rested my head on the steering wheel and sighed while Ellen’s son disconnected the cables.

“MooooorV” went my car as it died. We tried a few more times with no more success. I said, “It looks like we’re coming home with you.”

Iz and I piled all our purchases in the back seat of Ellen’s car. We climbed in and after two minutes, the feeling started to return to my fingers. We went over to pick up John at the supermarket.

He looked surprised to see me and Iz sitting in the backseat. He realized the car starting effort was a total bust. At that point, I was ready to go home, be warm, and worry about it the next day.

I think this is where some men and women differ. For me, it was “I fought the machine, and the machine won!” For John, it was “I will fight the machine, and I will win!”

We headed back over to the car, John strung the cables together to reach my battery, and we again tried to start the car a few more times; all attempts were unsuccessful. While sitting in the car, I turned to the car parked to the right of me and noticed a woman getting into it. She mouthed “Do you need help?” to me.

I opened my door, and I thanked her. She reminded me a lot of my sister-in-law, Lisa. She looked like Lisa, and I’m sure this was the kind of thing Lisa would do – linger to help a stranger who refused help but who she sensed needed help anyway.

She began to talk to someone in the car. I then noticed a man in the passenger’s side next to her. He was tilting his seat forward; it looked like he was ready to nap on the ride home until she said “I think you should help them out” to him.

We were all mystified as to why the car wouldn’t start. I didn't even see her husband get out of the car; I was ready to give up when her husband, a stocky man wearing a long white beaded chain to which a white cross was attached, made his way around the hood of their car. He looked very serious as he surveyed my engine, the cables, and then the cables connected to Ellen’s car.

He went back to his car and pulled out his cables. He disconnected the cables we had been using; of course, we were all cold and perplexed, so he heard no “We’ve got it under control” from the lot of us. He then meticulously and quietyly executed his plan to start my car.

He said to his wife, “Baby, make sure the car isn’t started.” She said, “It isn’t,” and held up her key so he could see that it wasn't even near the ignition. I smiled at her and laughed; she smiled back at me as if to say, “He’s a serious guy, so I need to prove that I’m just as serious!”

Instead of connecting the cables in under a minute, he connected one and then double-checked it. He then connected another and then double-checked it. I wanted to laugh, but I was in awe of this man who had left his lazy-boy seat in the car to come out into the 25 degree temperatures to help me, a total stranger, start my car.

When everything was just right, he said to his wife, “Baby, start the car.” I loved the way he called her “Baby.” And, every time he said it, it sounded just like “I love you.”

He told me to start my car. I took a deep breath and turned the key. “Vroooom!” said my car.

Iz and I both squealed with delight. Just as carefully as he put the cables on, he took them off and then shut the hood of his car. I jumped out of my car, walked around to him, and I hugged him. He seemed rather shocked by the display of affection, but then his serious face gave way to a big smile as I said, “Thank you so much!”

I walked over to his wife. I touched her arm, and I said, “Thank you so much. That was so nice of you.” Still feeling like I was looking at Lisa, I was struck by how sometimes family members are not nearby but how near they can feel even when they are someone else.

Ellen’s husband and her son closed their hood and climbed into their car. The helpful strangers back out and drove off. I climbed into the car, and Iz asked, “That was really nice of them, wasn’t it, Mommy?”

I told her it was, and we headed home. When we pulled in the driveway, I turned off the car. I then realized that was probably a mistake, so I tried to start the car again; it wasn’t speaking to me at all, even after Ellen’s husband came up to try to start it once again.

We gave up, and I thanked John. Iz and I headed inside. I went through my mental Rolodex again, and I arrived at the “Bs.” (Did you notice that I was working through it backwards? Post-it note to self: Begin with the As next time!)

B was for Bill, my cycling buddy. When he had worked, he had been involved in managing fleets of cars and also in the automotive industry. I texted him and ask if he might help me out on Monday; he texted me right back and said he would be glad to.

The first challenge on Monday was to get Iz to school. I asked Bill if he could drive her. When Bill showed up with his pick-up truck, Iz was mesmerized.

She asked if she could sit in the front. I hesitated, and then Bill told me he could turn off the airbags. It was a 5-minute drive, so I told her to go ahead; she beamed as she perched herself in the front seat and closed the door quickly before I could rethink my decision.

When Bill returned 20 minutes later, he told me that Iz had commented, “I’ve never been in a car like this!” When they were in the drop-off queue, Bill had asked Iz if the line was always that long. She quickly said, “Yes, it is. But, don’t cut in line,” to which Bill responded, “Iz, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

The plan was to jump the car. I pulled out my jumper cables, and Bill said, “No wonder. Those aren’t good cables.” He walked around to the back of his truck and pulled out his jumper cables; the cable resembled a 30 foot boa constrictor and the clamps looked like Jack Lalanne compared to my Twiggy.

After I turned the key the first time, my car said, “Vrooom!” I drove my car to Bill’s house, and he hooked it up to some sort of battery tester. He said he’d drive me to work and try to diagnose the problem.

When I got into work, I worried that I might need a new battery or alternator. The car was over ten years old; I knew it was time for a new car, though I wasn’t ready for that step yet. An hour later Bill texted me to tell me that he had fixed the car.

I had a bad battery connector. My car was fixed, and it only cost $13.47. Bill picked me up at lunch, drove me to get my car, and I had my car back in working order by 1pm.

Lately, I was feeling a tad sorry for myself and all that was going on or not going on in my life; however, as I drove back to work, I realized how fortunate I was to have all these wonderful people, those I knew and those I didn't, in my life. Ultimately, it was nice to have someone special in your life, but it was a whole lot more important to have a lot of “ones” in your life, much more so than the wrong someone. ♥

Glass o' Wine, Tub, and Silence, Oh My!

2011-01-22T21:56:00.003-05:00

I think I’m a pretty good Mom. Actually, I know I am. Though every now and then, I have my doubts when I find my voice elevated a tad while I say, “Isabelle, throw your candy wrapper that is on the floor of the family room in the trash can!”, “Isabelle, flush the toilet!”, “Isabelle, stop squeezing Liam like that; he’s not a stuffed animal!”

What about Nathan? Nathan is the perfect child; no, that’s not true. When Nathan was Iz’s age, he was just more of a rule follower, so much so that he used to frown at me with parental disapproval when I swore, spoke ill of someone, or told someone a white lie; he was “old” long before I was.

Iz, totally unlike Nathan, likes to challenge authority. “Why?” was her first word not “Mommy.” As far as Iz is concerned, everything is up for debate.

Even when she is proven guilty, it’s not her fault. Liam threw the candy wrapper on the floor, Monty didn’t flush the toiler, and she was not squeezing Liam hard; she was hugging him. The fact that Liam meowed loudly was him exclaiming his pleasure, and I was to pay no attention to his eyes as they popped out of his head due to the tremendous good loving applied to his rib cage.

Iz and I even had a script. When Nathan was that age, our script went something like “Nathan, please clean your room, “ and Nathan would reply, “Yes, Mom.” It was so easy.

My script with Iz went…

Me: “Iz, _insert_request_here, please.”
Iz: “Why?”
-queue heated 5-minute debate-

During the debate, she would blame a cat, dog, her father or Nathan for her actions. She was smart; always blame someone who can’t speak, and if you have to blame someone who can defend himself, make sure he is conveniently absent being several miles or hours away. When she finally gave in after I proved there was no way that Nathan threw her winter coat in the middle of the hallway, she executed the big triple which was “Okay, okay, okay!!!!”

After two snow days and a 2-hour school delay, I felt I had spent too much quality time with Iz. You know I love my daughter; however, the quality time spent with Iz was making it difficult for me to amass my mortgage payment for February 1st. Being a contract employee, I had no vacation time; a snow day was still a work day for me, and while Iz was a peach, it was hard to “work” when she was around.

I had taken her into work one day this week. After a few calls of nature and some food, she sat down to watch the Princess Diaries on my laptop. I sighed; I could finally work.

Before I turned to my monitor, I said to Iz, “Oh, I do love that movie.” Iz said, “Me, too.” She then asked, “Do you want to watch it with me, Mommy?”

I laughed. I thanked her. I didn’t even waste my breath saying, “Iz, Mommy has to work that’s why we are at work!”

Anyway, yesterday was the second snow day this week. I worked at home, because I couldn’t coax Iz to come into my office again. I got a lot of work done; nope, I was lucky if I put in three hours.

In an effort to pay my mortgage, I enlisted Nathan’s help. I asked, “Nathan, can you babysit your sister on Saturday, so we can still afford to live in the house?” Nathan replied, “Yes, Mom,” and he was still the same at 17 years old that he was when he was 7 years old.

While I was working yesterday afternoon, I received a text message from Nathan. He asked me if I was going out at night, because he had gotten himself into a “pickle.” (Yes, he really used the word “pickle.”) Nathan has always spent half his time with me and half with his Dad; however, for some reason, he liked being at my house better, which is why he sometimes used babysitting as an excuse to be with me.

The plan was that he would stay over Friday night and be ready to babysit at 8am. I would get into work nice and early, so I could leave early and salvage what was left of my Saturday. As it turned out, Nathan’s pickle was that his Dad assumed he was staying over last night, because I would be gone both Friday night and Saturday during the day.

Nathan’s Dad, Quinn, had invited both Nathan and Iz for dinner. Immediately, I went into good parent cop mode and said, “Well, yes, I am going to have dinner at a friend’s house.” Then I turned into a parent who was, as Jackson Browne says, “running on empty.”

I asked Nathan if he might take his sister to his Dad’s regardless so I could enjoy an hour or so of peace and quiet. Oh, who am I kidding? Monty was here, so it was peace with intermittent barking whenever I sighed, sneezed, or even thought about scratching Liam’s head.

Nathan agreed to make Plan Deception a reality, so his Mom would not malfunction. An hour later, he texted me and asked if Iz would like to go snow tubing. I asked her and she said, “Yeah!!!!’

My hour or so had now morphed into three hours. When Nathan arrived home, I took Iz , ran out to get supplies (salmon and wine), and then arrived home and gladly handed Nathan the car keys. Go forth, child, and leave me alone for the next three hours.

Was I a bad parent for thinking that? I don’t think so. Personally, I’d like to hear more parents say “I need some alone time” versus being proud of the fact that they hadn't ever left their children for more than eight hours.

Before Nathan and Iz left, Iz asked Nathan what they were having for dinner. Nathan said, “We’re having breakfast for dinner; it’s pancakes and bacon.” Iz looked at me and then asked, “Mom, is he serious?”

Funny, but in Iz’s world, like mine, there were endless crazy possibilities. So, it tickled me to think that she didn’t believe that it was possible to have breakfast for dinner. Nathan said to Iz, “Why? Is that a problem? You like pancakes, don’t you?”

Iz said, “Yes.” Nathan said, “Well, it’s breakfast for dinner.” She smiled at me, and I asked, “You like that?” She answered, “Yes,” as if she was eating at Disney World.

After they left, I stood there in the hallway not knowing what to do first. I had three hours to kill on me just me. I had a glass of wine, made dinner, and took a bath; I even posted all this to Facebook with a thank you to Nathan. Amazingly, Nathan “liked” it.

I love my son. He really didn’t want to go tubing or to his Dad's. He would have preferred to have stayed home and played X-box, but he took a hit for his Mom.

When they arrived home, Monty barked. Are we surprised?! Iz was exhausted, but I let her stay up and watch a little of “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

At 10:15, she asked, “Mommy, can I go to bed now?” Did I feel like a bad parent then? I said, thinking I was being a cool parent, “Of course, you can.”

We went upstairs, she went to the bathroom (and flushed the toilet), brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. She was asleep in under 5 minutes. In about ten minutes, Nathan was downstairs, looking at me like he needed a favor for taking a hit for the Mom.

He asked, “Mom, if Sam picks me up, can I stay over there tonight?” I answered, “Yes.” I knew Nathan wouldn't be back early in the morning; however, he gave me a precious gift tonight, and I needed to pay him back.

Within 20 minutes, he was gone. I was sad. I knew he was going to go off to college soon, but when he left the house last night to go be 17, it hurt me to be 48 and left in the house.

I had wanted to be alone; I needed it. But when it happened for longer than I wanted, I hated it. I had been running on empty, and now I felt an empty nest looming.

Breathe in, as Iz said. Breathe out, as Iz said.
My life was changing so fast and in so many ways, oh my!
But, that was a good thing. ♥

Author! Author!

2011-01-19T21:24:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was quite a day. Some of you already know this, so humor me by saying to yourselves, “Oh, I already know this, but I’ll read about it again, because Jean is always more amusing the second time around.” And, aren’t I?

You don’t have to answer that now; however, I would appreciate an answer in the next few months. Preferably, your answer will be a hand-written note in a birthday card (May 18th, stubborn bull that I am) where you will be accepting me instead of “almosting” me. I love getting cards; and call me "old-fashioned," but I love to get snail mail over e-mail.

Anyway, due to a snow storm here in New England and a school cancellation yesterday, I headed to work around 10am with child (Iz) in tow. As we drove down our unplowed street, Iz asked, “Mommy, are we going to get in an accident?” I replied, “No,” though I was thinking “Mebbe,” but rule number eight in parenting was never show them your fear!

We skidded a tad around every corner. Occasionally, I glanced back to see how Iz was faring; at first, she had a look of “Will I live to see my eighth birthday?” By the time we were 10 minutes away from my office, she looked like she was going to fall asleep out of boredom, because she somehow secretly hoped we would get in an accident to make the perilous drive worthy of being perilous.

I finally said, “It’s a slow drive today, but we’re almost there.” She then said, “Mommy, are you at the new building now?” My company had moved in December; I was surprised she remembered, but then again, she was an elephant when it came to memory, though I hoped she would be a donkey when she voted!

She said, “I’ve haven’t been to your new building yet,” as if she had somehow missed a key milestone in my professional career. I said, “No. You haven’t.” She said, “So, I get to see your new building today, right?” and then I swore she pulled out a pad and a pen from under her winter coat and checked that goal off of a list.

As we drove up the driveway, Iz said, “It looks smaller.” I said, “It is.” She said, “Oh,” somehow sensing the economic downsizing that had occurred and that she should not elaborate on that point.

When we walked in the door, she asked, “Are you on the first floor or the second floor?” I said, “I’m on the first floor now.” She said, “Well, where’s the cafeteria?” When Iz visited my office, she reveled in the coolers that contained the unlimited supply of free root beer and orange soda; she had her priorities, and I didn’t blame her.

I told her that the cafeteria was now on the second floor. She said, “Oh.” Then she asked, “Is there a bathroom on this floor or do I have to go to the second floor?” I had to laugh; I was being interrogated by a seven-year-old as if she might someday be employed by the company that was having a hard time deciding if it wanted to employ me.

There was a funny thing that happened while Iz was at work with me; she became more needy. For example, if I had stayed at home and worked, I probably would have heard from her only two or three times during the day. At work, she suddenly needed to eat every 20 minutes and go to the bathroom every 25 minutes.

After an hour, I realized that she was not really needy. I think, like her Mom, it wasn't about need; it was her desire to explore and be fascinated by new territory. This was affirmed when we went to the bathroom for the fifth time after only being at work for two hours.

She put her hand under automatic soap dispenser and squealed with delight when it squirted a quarter-sized dollop of soap onto her palm. Her urges weren’t biological. Her urge was to roam freely about the cabin sans seatbelt!

After I got a huge amount of work done, no, that didn’t happen, though when looking at my deadlines, I wish it did happen. At 2:30, it started to rain, and it was supposed to get very icy. It was time to roam freely through a slippery parking lot to the car and head home.

As we walked out to the car, Iz asked, “Mom, is that toy store near here?” When Iz and I were on own for a week and I had to put in some extra hours at work to meet a deadline, I had brought her home some small plastic figurines from a toy store near where I worked as a treat. Remembering this, I said, “Yes.”

She smiled at me. When she does, it’s like I’m looking directly at the sun. I know I need to put on my sunglasses, but I don’t want to put them on, because the beauty of the light that I'm seeing mesmerizes me.

I said, “You were a good sport coming into work with me. We can go there, and you can pick out a toy.” She beamed. Damn, where were my Ray Bans?!

After she picked out a paint-a-pony craft kit, we left the store. I could see from the parking lot that the sheets of ice that were predicted to take over the pavement had already done so. I started the car, and Iz climbed in to ponder how she would paint her pony while I scraped off all the ice from my pony, the Toyota RAV4.

When I got into the car, I saw my phone blinking; I had an e-mail message. I read the message which said that someone had commented on one of our youtube videos; the comment was simply “Brilliant!” I said to Iz, “Hey, someone thinks our video is brilliant,” and she smiled.

Due to a slow commute home and many red lights, I went to view the e-mail again wondering who had left the comment. Upon rereading, I saw that the musician whose song we used in the video was the one who commented. At a red light in front of McDonald’s, I shrieked, “Iz, the guy who sang that song thinks our video is brilliant!”

Iz seemed unimpressed as she pondered the pictures showing the different ways she could paint her pony of the back of her paint-a-pony craft kit. She looked up and smiled like she had not gotten the punchline of a joke. I said, “Wow! Wow! Jeez! Wow!”

By the time we hit our fourth red light and I said “Jeez!” for the tenth time, Iz finally tore herself away from her paint-a-pony craft kit. She said quite seriously, “Mom, breathe in.” I laughed, but I did breath in as instructed.

Before I could say anything, she then said, “Mom, now breathe out.” I breathed out. I then wondered, “Where does she get this stuff from?” while she wondered, "Why does my Mom think I would care about some comment on a video when I have a paint-a-pony craft kit sitting here in my lap!"

I calmed down. Obviously, the compliment didn’t mean to Iz what it meant to me. I felt like Sally Field accepting her Oscar for "Places in the Heart." “I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!"

Once Iz and I arrived home, there was more snow to shovel out of the driveway. I said to Iz, “Stay in the car and keep warm.” I climbed out, grabbed the shovel, and had to find creative places to throw the snow, like –shhhhhh– in my neighbor’s yard; there was so much and I had no place to put it all!

Within five minutes, Iz climbed out of the car. She asked, “Can I help?” I said, “Sure. Grab your shovel and do the walkway, okay?”

After ten minutes of silent shoveling, Iz asked, “Mom, is this good?” I looked at the walkway not even noticing how much snow had been cleared, and I said, “That’s great!” It didn’t really matter what she did; she had already received an “A” for effort.

As we stood there assessing our snow output, Iz walked over to me. She asked, “Mom, that was really cool that the guy who sang the song on our video liked our video, wasn’t it?” I laughed. I answered, “Yeah, Iz, it was!”

Once inside the house, I received a text from Nathan. He had been accepted to a “a college in Florida.” Despite my blog post, which capture the attention of several people at that college in Florida, Nathan had been accepted. If truth be told, I confessed to Nathan the day before he was accepted that I had –cough-cough– “networked” with people at that college in Florida.

Amazingly, knowing me as he does, Nathan smiled after I asked, “So, how badly do you want to go to that college in Florida?” He asked, knowing me as he does, “What did you do?” I said, “Well, I wrote something, and now I think I have an “in” at the college.” Fortunately, Nathan and the college in Florida liked me despite it all.

Recently, a friend thanked me for sharing here. I had to think about it. Was I sharing here or was I just being me?

I do know that it’s good to be liked for me just like Sally Field said. And this “me” would like to do nothing but write and make movies. Unfortunately, because I have a mortgage, I have to write about things like database summarization most days, which is a pretty good gig, so I can't complain.

Someday, I’d like the title of my day job to be “author/producer.” My job description would be the one my Uncle once supplied as a comment on one of my videos: “All I see is love.” Because, ultimately, my life is a story in a music video in which all I see is love. ♥

Granny, Telie, and Me

2011-01-17T19:42:00.010-05:00

I mentioned previously that I dabbled in children’s stories. I even went so far as to attend a weekend writing workshop in Vermont in the 90s. Is it just me or does it sometimes seem like the state of Vermont is the Workshop state not the Green Mountain state?

A: I'm going to a workshop for people who own incontinent pugs.
B: Oh, that sounds lovely. Where is it?
A: Vermont.
B: Oh, Vermont is the perfect state for a workshop! By the way, have you tried those doggie diapers?!

During the course of this workshop, I had to do a lot of writing exercises. On the first day, we were subjected to some rapid-firing writing exercises. The expert children’s book author who led the workshop would say a few words, and then we had to write a story about it in a minute; I failed miserably at all those exercises and was ready to head directly to the border of the Workshop state after a morning of that nonsense.

I was a s-l-o-w writer. Actually, upon reflection, I couldn’t even understand the point of the exercise. Did someone walk up to Roald Dahl, sputter “Eccentric man, dwarfs, and chocolate,” and did Roald then pump out the first five chapters of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” in under a minute? I think not.

That afternoon, we had a group exercise. For this one, fortunately, we were given about an hour. We had to write a letter from a child to a famous person; I wrote a letter to Madonna, which is pretty surprising, huh? You probably pegged me for a letter to Mario Andretti, Warren Buffet, or Napoleon, didn’t you?

Dear Madonna,

You’ll never believe it, but my Mother won’t let me wear the bustier I bought to the dance. I’ve got a date with Eric, who’s really fine, and now I have nothing to wear! My Mom’s so uncool.

That’s why I’m writing to you to ask if you need someone to carry your Gucci luggage, organize your makeup, and keep track of your busy social calendar. I’m a good organizer, because I’m the secretary of the Students Against Fur club at school. If you need a personal assistant, I’m your Material Girl! I even know all the lyrics to your songs in case you ever need a backup singer. I have a halfway decent voice; I’m in a band, the Righteous Rockers. We’re even playing at the dance.

I really want to pierce my belly button like you, but I know my Mom would freak. I just wanted to get a few more holes pierced in my ear, and she said, “You have enough holes in your head already!” She’s a nurse, and she took care of my ear when it got infected before.

So you can see what I’m up against here. I heard that you have a lot of great stuff in California, although I’d probably miss the dance, Eric, my band, the club, and maybe my Mom, just a little bit anyway. Well, maybe I’ll stay here for a while, and see how things go. You can just mail me some of your old bustiers instead if you want!

Sincerely,

Susan

The final writing assignment was to produce a short story. I remember that I stayed at my Dad’s cousin’s house in Vermont for the weekend; while I wanted to visit and chat with her, I had to banish myself to the guest bedroom to think of an idea for a story, never mind write it.

There I was on the bed with a laptop that I had borrowed from a friend of Quinn’s. This was 1994, so the laptop must have weighed about 10 pounds. Okay, maybe not that much, but I remember sitting there feeling like a real writer with a spiffy computer until I realized my tabula was totally rasa making me want to flee the Workshop state once again.

I think that was a turning point in my writing career. Okay, up until then, I really had no writing career other than my professional one as a technical writer. I used to write a lot of silly e-mails to friends; actually, The Legend of the Easter Cat and The Legend of the Easter Dog began as
e-mails to friends at work, err, when I wasn’t really busy working, of course.

I knew I wanted to write something from the perspective of a young girl. I thought about when I was a young girl. I asked myself what were some of the nicest times I remembered; I knew that some of them were spent with my grandmother, Granny.

I remember spending a night or two at her house every now and then. My Mom would drop me off, and I’d look forward to “Granny time.” Staying with Granny always involved staying up late to watch the news while eating peppermint patties that were always stocked in her refrigerator, eating pizza from the Lynwood Café, hunting down her red tabby cat, Charlie, who she fed chicken livers, and always going out to a movie.

Ask me who I saw Star Wars with in 1977? Go ahead, and –hint– the answer is not George Clooney; some day the answer will be George Clooney, but today it’s not! I saw Star Wars with Granny on one of my many trips to visit her; I also saw the remake of Psycho with her. She liked scary movies, which always amazed me, because your grandmother’s picture is definitely not next to the definition of “scary” in the dictionary!

As grandmothers go, she was pretty cool. Her husband, my grandfather, had died very young and before I was born. Funny, but I think my grandmother was the first independent woman I spent time with.

She was fortunate in that she didn’t have to work, but for someone who was on her own, well, the grass didn’t seem to grow under her feet at all; she always seemed to be on the go. I loved it when her “go” mode brought her to our house; with her, she brought a varying assortment of treasures in a brown paper bag filled with magazines (our favorite was the “National Enquirer”), pickles, and always a box of Ring Dings.

She mowed her little lawn with an electric lawn mower. I was always fascinated by her yard. It wasn’t large at all; and most of her small yard was behind her house. I think it was maybe 40’ by 20', and her yard was split in half by a stone wall, making the second half of the yard elevated in the back.

There were a few steps to climb until you reached a rickety little house that had been made for children. It smelled musty and maybe a tad of cat urine, but I loved the little house. I remember that odor like I remember the way the old Wonder Bread factory in Framingham used to smell; it’s a smell you never forget, even if it didn’t smell so good, because the memory was that good.

As you walked along the raised portion, the yard was almost like a small jungle or a secret garden due to the varying and overgrown flora and fauna. I remember my grandmother’s house had a three-season porch on which she had a small table and two chairs. Sometimes we’d take our pizza out on the porch, eat, and then look out upon her lovely little secret jungle.

I also liked the way she saved paper most would have thrown away. If the paper was blank on the back, she ripped it up into 4”x4” squares and then piled them up on her shelf. She used them for notepaper; maybe that's where my Mom got the recycling bug from, and now I have it too.

When I was in college, I used to get a card from her every few weeks. There was nothing like looking in your mail box (#2690, and I can’t believe I still remember it!) back then and seeing that you had gotten (snail) mail. When I opened the card, there would be funny little jokes plastered all over the inside that she had cut out from Reader’s Digest.

She made sure later to ask if I, being a Latin scholar (cough, cough), enjoyed the rendition of “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun” written in Latin. She obviously loved finding that treasure for me. I told her that I even showed it to my Latin professor, and she was tickled pink.

Inspired by my time spent with my grandmother, I began to write my story for the workshop. When I had returned home, I sent my story to a few magazines. I received a rejection letter from Cricket Magazine with a handwritten note; though, remember that a rejection letter with a handwritten note is an “almost” letter!

The note said, “Although I didn’t find this quite right for Cricket, I would like to complement you on your writing. You’ve done a lovely job of drawing your characters. Good luck with your writing”. (By the way, given she was the first reader, I was surprised that she didn't spell compliment correctly. Although, as advertised, she was a reader not a speller. Hey, it's always comforting to find a flaw in someone who's "almosting" you!)

The funny thing was I didn’t really have to draw any characters. I was fortunate enough to have lived the essence of this story with my grandmother, Telie. And, this is our story. ♥

Granny, Telie, and Me

(Nota bene: It was the early 90s; Kevin Costner was fine! And, Ruth was my Mom's name.)

“Reason 25 to add to the list,” Ruthie said taking her pad and pen out of her backpack. Granny’s big, orange tabby circled around in her lap, curled up, then began to knead her sweatshirt.

Ruthie’s mother had just dropped her off at her grandmother’s that afternoon for a weekend visit. Ruthie had called it her two-day pass all week long. When Ruthie’s mother had dropped her off, Ruthie was sure that her mother was just as happy to see her go as Ruthie was to leave. She had looked forward to time away from the apartment, her younger sister, her older brother, and all the rest of the reasons.

“What’s Reason 25?” asked Granny, as she poured Ruthie another cup of tea.

“Reason 25 is not being able to have a cat because we live in that apartment,” Ruthie stated as she scribbled Reason 25 onto her list.

“What’s on this list exactly, Ruthie?” asked Granny.

Ruthie reluctantly handed Granny her pad.

“The Things That Bum Me Out,” Granny read. “Reason 1: I live in apartment. Reason 2: I’m going to a new school. Reason 3: I’m getting zits. Reason 4: My brother calls me “Ruthie, Ruthie the big, fat caboosie” constantly. Reason 5: I am called a Geek at school because I get good
grades and read a lot.”

Granny stopped reading and handed the pad to Ruthie. “Ruthie, I thought you were excited about the new school.”

“I was until everything got rotten all at once,” said Ruthie as she took the pad from Granny and returned it to her book bag.

“Ruthie, did I ever tell you about my friend, Telie?” asked Granny. Granny got up from her chair, went over to the bookcase, and pulled out a worn photo album.

“Well, maybe,” said Ruthie, hoping to avoid a repeat of Aunt Jenny’s photo extravaganza last Sunday. She had shown photos of the family trip to the Grand Canyon, which contained photo after photo of her cousins pretending to hold up rock formations. That was so boring thought Ruthie.

“I never told you about my friend, Telie, or as her brother used to call her Telie Two Tons.”

Granny sat down, opened the album, and began leafing through the pages. Ruthie sighed and sat down next to Granny.

“There’s Telie,” Granny said, as she pointed to a photo of a young girl who looked to be about Ruthie’s age.

“She doesn’t look like a Telie Two Tons to me,” said Ruthie as she studied the photo.

“She was never really that heavy,” said Granny. “Her older brother liked to make her think she was though.”

In the photo, Telie wore a white puffy blouse. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a braid and, at the neck of her blouse, she wore a beautiful diamond broach.

“Telie’s parents had moved to a new town because her father bought a larger store for their bakery,” said Granny. “She was so upset. She had to go to a new school. Her classmates weren’t kind either,” said Granny.

“Why?” asked Ruthie.

“Well, because she had some of the same problems or reasons as you call them. She liked to read a lot. She was a big girl. She occasionally had a blemish or two. To make matters worse, her parents had asked her to work at the bakery after school.”

“Gee, she does sound kind of like me,” sighed Ruthie. “Did the kids at school call her a Geek, too?”

“We didn’t have that name then,” said Granny. “But, she took her share of name calling.”

“Did she have a list, too?” asked Ruthie.

“No,” said Granny. “But, she let her parents know how unhappy she was. In fact, she almost picked up and ran away the day that her father had hired one of the local boys, George Daily, to help out after school also. He always teased her.”

“Wow, that is cruel and usual punishment,” said Ruthie.

“Well, one Saturday afternoon,” said Granny. “Her father had to make a delivery in the city. He had to ask Telie to work with George to make the doughnuts for Sunday.”

“What a bummer,” said Ruthie.

“Ruthie was waiting on a customer, so George went in the back to start the doughnuts. Suddenly, Telie heard George shouting. She ran into the kitchen and saw that George had started a huge grease fire. He was furiously throwing water on the fire. Telie shoved him aside, picked up a 20 pound bag of flour, and threw it on the fire. In a minute, the fire was out.”

“She was able to lift a big bag of flour?” asked Ruthie.

“Well,” said Granny. “She was a big girl, but she was a strong girl."

“She was smart, too,” said Ruthie.

“She was,” said Granny. “When her father got home and learned what had happened he was quite proud. In fact, George relayed the story to everyone at school. Telie was a hero of sorts. If she hadn’t been there, the whole block might have gone up in smoke.”

“So, did things get better for her?” asked Ruthie.

“Slowly,” said Granny. “She grew taller and got thinner. She made good friends who got to know her for what were really her strengths not her weaknesses. After the fire, her father gave her the diamond broach that she’s wearing in this photo. Well, they weren’t really diamonds; they were rhinestones. But, do you know what the card with it said?” asked Granny.

“What?” asked Ruthie.

“It said, 'To Telie, a diamond going through the rough.'”

“Wow, that was nice,” said Ruthie.

Granny gave her a pat on the head, got up, and said, “We’d better hoof it if we’re going to do something fun this afternoon. I’ll go get my sweater and purse.”

Ruthie pulled her list out from her backpack and looked at it again. Well, thought Ruthie, at least this Geek could put out a grease fire. Some of those kids at school would probably need help figuring out how to light a match!

Granny came back with her sweater, her handbag, and a box. She handed the box to Ruthie.

“What’s this?” asked Ruthie.

“Open it,” said Granny.

“A bunch of snakes aren’t going to come flying out at me like last time, are they, Granny?” questioned Ruthie suspiciously.

“No, I promise,” said Granny. “Open it, Ruthie.”

Ruthie opened the box. In it lay the pin that Telie wore in the photo. “Telie’s pin?” wondered Ruthie. “How did you get it?” Ruthie saw Granny grin. “Wait a minute,” said Ruthie. “Is Telie you, Granny?” asked Ruthie.

“Let’s just say,” said Granny. “I was once a diamond going through the rough, and I think you are, too. Now, let me see your pad and pen, Ruthie,” said Granny. “I think you need to start a new list.”

Ruthie handed her the pad. Granny flipped to a new sheet of paper, wrote something, and handed the pad back to Ruthie.

Granny’s list was called “Things That Make Me Special.” There was only one item on the list, which Granny had underlined several times, and it was “I am a wonderful granddaughter.”

“Thanks!” cried Ruthie as she hugged Granny.

“Let’s go and see that new Kevin Costner movie. He’s the cat’s pajamas, right?” asked Granny.

Ruthie giggled. “No, Granny. He’s fine!” said Ruthie as she crumpled up all the reasons and threw them into the trash can.

Lion's Pride

2011-01-15T22:22:00.006-05:00

As a parent, you're always proud of your child’s accomplishments. Hell, you don’t have to even be a parent to be proud of someone for their accomplishments. When I opened the door the other night, I was totally amazed and pleased that Monty didn’t bark his head off when I came in the front door; I said, "I'm so proud of you, Monty."

Oddly, for some reason, Monty doesn’t give a damn about security when no one, except him and the felines, are home. That could be a bad attribute for a pseudo-security dog. He and I will discuss that when it’s time for his performance review!

As some of you know, my 17-year-old son was accepted to UMass-Dartmouth a few weeks ago. A week ago, he visited a college in Florida to which he had also applied. I’m not going to name that college now for reasons known to many of you. (Hello, Casey, just in case your web search captures phrases like “a college in Florida!”) He loved that college.

When I arrived home today, he said totally elated, “Mom, I got into UMaine!” I said, “That’s great!” He then told me that he was invited to participate in some special academic program there, too. UMaine was the first school he visited; it was love at first sight for him, well, until he saw how college life in Florida can be!

He said to me, “You know, Dad was wrong.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “Because he gives me such a hard time about grades.” I then said, “Hey, just because you’ve been accepted to two schools doesn’t mean you can goof off the rest of your Senior year!”

He said, “No. That’s not what I mean.” I asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “Dad made it out that if I didn’t get the best grades I’d never get in anywhere. He was so wrong!”

I said, “Well,” and then I stopped. I had to agree and disagree somewhere between Nathan and his Dad; grades were important, but they certainly weren’t everything when applying to a college or, at least, I didn't think they should be. Before I could say something parental indicating that both Nathan and his Dad had valid points, Nathan spoke again.

Nathan said, “I’m just so glad I know that I have two places to go.” I asked, “You didn’t think you would?” Nathan didn’t have to answer; I knew how it felt.

Applying to college seemed like a trial romance. You threw yourself out there heart and soul, waited to be checked out, and then hoped that someone you actually liked would say, "Hey, will you date me for the next four years?"

After a lot of excitement (from him), and congratulations (from me), I went to leave to do some errands. When I was backing the car out of the driveway, I saw Nathan leave the house without a coat on; I thought he might be going to take the trash barrels behind the house. I saw him continue down the road; he was going to Connor's house to tell him that he got into UMaine.

I remember being that excited the day I broke the discus record at my high school. I remember being that excited the day that Eric Beers, a hockey player I had a crush on, said "Hi" to me in the hallway. I remember being that excited the day I found out I got into Brandeis, a school I had a huge crush on but didn't think it would ever ask me to go steady from 1980 to 1984.

When I saw Nathan start to run down the road, I began to cry. It was not sadness. I was so proud of him, and I could feel all of his happiness flowing through me and right to my heart just like I did when Eric Beers said "Hi" to me that day.

The realization finally came that Nathan was all grown up now; he was not my "Bear" anymore. He was ecstatic about the next chapter in his adult life, and so was I. And, that made two of us looking forward to turning to the next page in Life magazine. ♥

Joie De Vivre

2011-01-14T20:38:00.004-05:00

Joie De Vivre by Judith Anderson

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but a house can never hurt you. How could it? Four walls, plaster, nails, windows and a few doors. That’s really all there is to it, right? Wrong.

I tried to write children’s books once upon a time ago. After writing “The Legend of the Easter Cat,” which was a classic along with “The Legend of the Easter Dog,” I tried to pitch my stories to several publishing houses. I remember my first rejection letter, which really didn’t make me feel totally rejected.

It was “heard of” to get a form letter notifying you that your story was not something the publisher fancied; it was “unheard of” to get a handwritten note on your rejection letter. The handwritten note on my rejection letter said, “While I thoroughly enjoyed your story, it is anthropomorphic to a degree that Philomel cannot accept.”

Anthropmorphic! While upset that my story was an “almost” instead of a “yes,” I couldn’t help but keep mumbling “anthropomorphic” over and over again under my breath. I loved saying the word. It made me giggle; it made me happy!

Before my Dad died, I remember sitting with him in the living room of his condo watching TV. Somehow the subject of words that we liked to say came up. I said how I always loved saying “apropos” and “anthropomorphic.” He agreed that those were good words; I have now also added “stiletto” and “kiosk” to my “love to say” word repertoire!

Anyway, I don’t believe a house can hurt you, though I do believe a house can come to mean something more to you than just four walls, plaster, nails, windows, and a few doors. A house can be anthropomorphic. A house can mean the world and your father to you.

After my father died, he left his house on the island to my siblings and his girlfriend. It was a difficult situation. And, my sister and I ended up buying the house.

I had to think long and hard about buying the house. It had been a place of many happy memories. Could it be that way again?

As it turned, it wasn’t. It was nothing but struggle and a total disappointment; life lesson learned. When I left the house the last time (read the linked blog post), I made peace with the fact that the house was not going to be what I had hoped; however, when the house finally sold this week, I fell to pieces because my peace over it was not as I had hoped.

In the 15 years the house had been in the family, I had probably not spent more than 2 months time there. It was not my family home. Oddly, when I thought about it, I could leave my house and drive by every “family” home I had lived in my whole life in under an hour.

There was the house on Water Street in Framingham where I believe I was conceived. There was the house on Greenleaf Circle in Framingham where we moved from when I was four years old. And, then there was the house on Haynes Road in Sudbury from which I left to marry Quinn.

As far as family residences were concerned, the house on the island by the ocean should probably mean nothing to me; however, it meant a whole lot to me. I had never been particularly close to my father, but that house was a place in which I felt I got to know my father a lot better. When I was troubled, I went there and felt instantly warmed when I saw my father waiting for me at the dock and totally loved when I opened the car door and then we drove home.

When my mother died, she was gone. When my Dad died, he left all these things, one of which was this house. When we bought the house, I still felt I had my father in my life and maybe that was my emotional mistake; so be it.

I often called the house “Dad’s house.” My sister would say, “It’s our house.” As I said once before, “Somehow, even though the deed transferred the house on paper, the transfer never quite went through in my heart.”

The house was put up for sale a few months ago for various reasons. An offer came through yesterday morning. I signed on the dotted line, and then I cried all the way to work.

It might be hard for some to understand, but it was as if it was October of 2000 all over again. I was sitting in my Dad’s living room, holding his hand, and telling him how much I loved him. I was losing again and this time it really was forever.

While the house selling was a very good thing, it didn’t come without a price, an emotional price. After the house was gone, my life would improve; I would be able to do so much, but it would be knowing that this house that was my Dad in so many ways would not be with me any longer.

On this island where the house is, some people name their houses. “My Dad’s house” is on Joy Street. The people who own 4 Joy Street have a sign by their door that says “Jump 4 Joy.”

One time when I was visiting, my Dad said that he would like to name his house. I said, “How about Killjoy?” Anne, his girlfriend, howled, and my father gave me his, “You wise guy” look.

My father then said that he was thinking “Joie de vivre,” the joy of living. Anne and I pondered it, and I said, still in wise guy mode, “I still like killjoy!” Anne and I howled again, though the two glasses of wine we each had made it that much funnier that we were totally pissing off my Dad, who was unusually in super serious mode.

When I arrived home tonight and opened the door tonight, I was greeted by total silence. I almost wish I had been; however, immediately Monty came running down the hallway telling me about his day with a “Woof-woof, woof-woof-woof!!!!” Apparently, Liam clawed him in the behind, Plume sniffed his bottom one too many times, and Thunderbolt sneezed in his face; life stinks, then you’re a dog living with three cats!

In a minute, I heard, “Momma?” and Iz rounded the door of the family room and came to greet me. She said, “Where have you been?” as if I had been gone eighty hours instead of eight. I’d like to say that Nathan acted accordingly, but Nathan acted accordingly earlier and texted me that he’d be out with Sam and Joey and then going to the high school basketball game.

I put down my things and walked into the kitchen. Iz had turned on the lights around the windows. I loved my lights, I loved my dog, especially when he was fast asleep and snoring, I loved my tabby mackerel tribe, and I loved my kids. This was home.

I glanced over at the kitchen table and saw the Sears Silvertone radio that had belonged to my grandparent’s. I remember my Dad telling me that he listened to all the radio shows on it when he was a little boy. I knew then that I was always going to see my Dad somewhere in my house when I didn't already feel him in my heart.

I won’t lose any joie from my life when his house is finally sold next month. I will somehow lose my Dad again, and there’s no getting around that. But, sometimes it is necessary to lose joie and to let go in order to finally experience the joy of living. ♥

Driving Sideways

2011-01-12T19:21:00.004-05:00

I went to work today. To some of you that may not seem like a note-worthy accomplishment; however, it is a note-worthy accomplishment when you have received over a foot of snow. I know what you’re thinking now, and, no, I’m not crazy; I’ve just been motivated lately to perform death-defying acts!

I had two choices this morning. I could work at home with a 17-year-old, a 7-year-old, three cats, and a dog that barked whenever a snow plow went by or I could drive 11.44 miles to work in what they now called a blizzard. To most the choice was obvious; it was go to work! I might have overly simplified my choices a tad.

I could attempt to accomplish something in my “office,” which was really just a very small desk at the end of the my upstairs hallway, while listening to the sound of Nathan’s X-box game go ka-pow, ka-pow, ka-pow, being asked for snacks every 20 minutes or why Plume didn’t like her by Iz, and hearing cats chase each other around the kitchen while Monty barked. I take that back; Monty would be barking at the sound of a pin dropping!

So, you can see my dilemma. I could spend the day at home accomplishing nothing while being warm and safe inside or I could risk life and limb and travel to work and wallow in the silence as I figured out how level1 and level2 differed for database summarization. I did what any red-blooded American Mom would do, given that she had just spent an entire week home for school vacation with a 7-year-old. I drove to work!

I was told the main roads were clear. Of course, the person who told me this also was the beneficiary of my $1million dollar life insurance policy, so he only had to gain if I ended up in a snowbank! Once I got to the main road, I realized that he was right; it wasn’t too bad, though it wasn’t too good.

I was confident that my trusty steed, an ’05 Saab with snow tires, would see me safely to 4 Technology Park Drive. When my steed wasn’t burdened with snow tires, she let me go from 0 mph to 60 mph in seconds during the snow-less months; I could merge onto Route 495 with a tractor trailer truck only five seconds behind me in the slow lane and be doing 80mph before the truck ever even knew that I had merged. God, I love my steed, though don’t tell her that I often wish she was a convertible!

Before I left, my gas tank read empty. I had just saw the news, where some bobble-headed newscaster announced that it was a good idea to have a full tank of gas if you had to venture out in the snow. I stopped at the Mobil station in town, though I needed to find a pump that was plowed.

Once I did, I jumped out of the car, slammed my hand against the regular unleaded button, and wished I had remembered to bring gloves. Oddly, I had been a New Englander all my life, and it really didn’t bother me that my fingers went numb in 45 seconds. I filled my tank, and then I drove off with my steed flashing her “I’m not liking the traction here” light.

Before I drove off, I put on my headphones and turned my iPod up loud to listen to “Find Your Way Back.” This song had become my anthem in the last week. I also hoped that it would guide me to work unscathed.

As I drove along, I noticed that the only cars I saw on the road were plows or pick-up trunks. I began to get scared, doubting myself, wondering if I should really be going it alone in this weather. As “Find Your Way Back” blared, I realized that I could go it alone, and I would.

This trip to work had became more than just about work. It was a perilous voyage, a voyage that I needed to make on my own. While my steed was stellar in the snow, there were a few places where we slipped and skidded.

In those moments, I held my breath. When I steered the wheel in the opposite direction, my steed kept me on track and in the right direction. Oddly, when I was scared at some points during the journey, I smiled; I was so living this journey scared or not.

At noon, I pulled into work and drove up the long driveway. I went to take a left into the parking lot; however, it wasn’t plowed. I thought, “Surely, I’m not the only one here today.”

When I arrived in work, I was one of ten people who had made the drive in. For most of them, their journey was mandatory and work-related. For me, my journey was all about free will and my new life, little did they know.

Today, I made my way from home and back again. Unlike the song I listened to on my trip, I wasn’t finding my way back. I was finding my way to the person I felt I had never been but always wanted to be. I was confident, strong, and driving sideways when I wasn’t driving forward, and I truly loved that about me today. ♥

End blog soundtrack:

Dear Mom

2011-01-10T20:25:00.004-05:00

Letter to my mother, circa 1968. “Dear Mom remember yesterday you said I didn’t have to have any potato salad. I said at supper I didn’t want any potato salad and Dad gave me some.” Funny, but I love potato salad now. ♥

Dear Mom,

It has been over 18 years since I last spoke to you. The last time I spoke to you, I don’t know if you even heard me. I left to go home to get some rest; I kissed you good-bye and told you that I loved you. You died a few hours later.

I think the last time I knew that you heard me was when I was reading Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights to you. Earlier in the month, you had asked me to read to you when I visited you in the evenings. I remember you cut me off mid-sentence and said, “Jean, can you read something else? I can’t concentrate on that. I said, “Sure,” dropped the book into my bag, and I picked up an anthology of poetry; you liked that much better.

Anyway, I guess when I said I hadn’t spoken to you in a long time, I meant in person. Certainly, between then and now, I’ve thought of you often. Frequently, when I’ve decorated my Xmas tree or glanced at the picture I have of you in the living room on my bookcase, I’ve said out loud, “I love you, Mom.”

Recently, I miss you more than ever, so that’s why I decided to write you this letter. In case you didn’t know, Mom, I’ve turned into a pretty good writer. Believe it or not, some people actually really like it when I write. What? You know? Hey, you didn’t make them like me from up there, did you?!

When I get upset, writing calms me, Mom; wine calms me, too, though with the New Year here and my potentially new life arriving this year, I’ve been trying to write things instead of Riesling things. Anyway, this is why I decided to write to you; I just I hope I can afford the postage to send this to you.

Often, over the years, when I have been upset, whether it be at home or in my office at work, I always tend to look toward the nearest phone and wish that I could call you. Since you’re a nurse, you know that amputees have phantom limb pain. I often have phantom Mom pain.

Anyway, a lot has happened to the world since December 4th, 1992 when you left this world, Mom. Of course, maybe you already know what’s going on. In case you don’t, it costs 44 cents to mail a letter and cell phones, these little phones that are a necessary and needed organ, unlike our appendix, which is an unnecessary and useless organ, have made telephone booths almost obsolete. We really don’t have to “talk” to each other anymore; we can “text” and “e-mail,” ourselves into a total non-verbal frenzy.

Princess Diana, who I knew you loved, was killed in a car accident in 1997. Just like you always remembered where you were when President Kennedy was killed, I’ll always remember where I was when I found out that she had died. I was at a Dave Brubeck concert at Tanglewood; the concert was just about to start when the man sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around and he asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Princess Diana?” Before I could answer, the guy I was with said quite pleased, “Yes, she gets that a lot.” The complimenting stranger then quickly said, “Oh, but I supposed that might be in bad taste now.” Stunned as to how such a lovely compliment turned into such a negative, I asked, “Why?” He said, “Didn’t you hear? She was killed in a car accident.”

Shocked and deeply saddened, I turned back to wait for the show to begin. Mom, that was the first time I ever mourned a person that I didn’t know; the second time was when John Kennedy Jr. died. Death is even harder to understand when people die long before their time like you did.

Terrorists took down the World Trade Center. A hurricane named Katrina devastated Louisiana. Kids started shooting each other in school. A sheep was cloned. We have our first African-American president. We can listen to thousands of songs on our iPods. We have hybrid cars. Pluto’s not a planet, and, suddenly, we care about the environment more than ever by recycling everything we can; thus, it’s not that we care about the environment anymore, no, we are “green,” Mom!

I’ll never forget when you recycled in the 70s. It seemed like you were one of the only ones. I thought you were way before your time washing out jars and tin cans and saving aluminum foil.

Oddly, a fond childhood memory is sorting out the recycle items for you at the dump. Sometimes, it seems that somewhere along the way, we all got totally selfish and stopped caring; I think that was called the 80s and the 90s; however, now most everyone is doing it, Mom.

Everyone’s also doing a lot of other things you never would have imagined either. Some are very good and some very bad. But, alas, this seems to be the way of the world, Mom.

Two months after you died, your grandson, Nathan was born. He was two weeks overdue and breech, so I had to have a c-section. I remember being peeved, because Quinn and I had paid $200 for our Lamaze class; in retrospect, after hearing other natural delivery stories from friends and having had two no-muss no-fuss c-sections, I no longer felt ripped off at paying $200 for that Lamaze class!

When I first saw Nathan, I said to Quinn, “Oh, my God. He looks just like your Dad.” I tried to breast feed him, but that didn’t work out too well. I remember feeling like a failure, but I did what I had to by giving him a bottle. It was very lonely without you then; sometimes I wished that someone had saw fit to let you live a few years longer so you could help me through that and see your lovely grandson for a while.

Mom, Nathan has turned into a wonderful man. He is a lot like Quinn’s Dad, his grandfather, a scientist and a proud atheist. Like me, he lacks confidence sometimes, but like Quinn, he’s not afraid to speak his mind. He’s 6’3” now, and sometimes I can’t believe he was ever small; you’d love him, no, I already know that you love him.

In 1995, Bitsy Sinkiewicz, my friend from college, died. Actually, I hope you know this, because when I said good-bye to her that morning in the hospital, I told her that “My Mom’s going to be there for you.” I hope that while you’re reading this that Bitsy is sitting there drinking tea with you and that you both have a cat on your lap; tell Bitsy that I miss her a lot, okay, Mom?

After you and Bitsy died, I became really depressed. Though, back then, I don’t think “depression” was as well treated as it is now. I made some questionable decisions, and I ended up divorcing Quinn; it was a dark time in my life if I ever had one, because I chose to ignore my gut, my friends, and let go of things in haste.

In 2000, Dad died. I was never nurse material; however, I tried to play one in real-life then. I took Dad to chemo once a week, and when he was close to the end, I was there by his side. When you died, I was devastated. When Dad was dying, I knew I had to be there for him more than I could be devastated.

I think I did a good job, Mom. Dad wanted me, not his girlfriend, which surprised me a great deal, to go to the doctor’s with him for what was his last visit. At that time, I didn’t know it was his last visit. When his doctor said, “Dick, I told I could get you through until this summer, but that was all I could do,” I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn’t.

I looked at Dad in disbelief, and then he thanked his doctor for everything. Dad hadn’t told me everything. I also knew then what a strong and courageous person Dad was, knowing all the months he acted as if there was hope that there really was none.

Dad died at home on an October morning. I was with him. And, so was my cat, Thunderbolt, who became Dad’s cat for the last few months of his life, annoying the crap out of Anne, Dad’s cat-hating girlfriend, and loving Dad by sleeping next to him when he wasn’t annoying the crap out of Anne. Good Thunderbolt!

In 1999, I met a man on a plane and fell in love; Dad met him before he died and liked him very much. We married in 2002, and at the ripe old age of 40, I found myself pregnant. In 2003, I had a little girl; I named her Isabelle, and she loves to be called Izzy. She’s an absolutely wonderful girl, Mom.

She is funny, creative, insightful, compassionate, energetic, and loves animals. Your sister, Aunt Ethel, met Iz for the first time when she was four or so. After Iz went running off in the yard with Uncle Bill, your brother, Aunt Ethel said to me, “She is just like you when you were that age. Somewhere your Mom is laughing.” Payback! I laughed.

I think Aunt Ethel was spot on, Mom. Iz is my “mini-me.” I predict great things for her, because she is loved dearly by her father, which I think is important for a women, and she is also loved by all.

In 2007, Granny, your Mom, died. She was two weeks shy of her 103rd birthday. I remember at her 99th Uncle Bill whispering to me his justification of why he chose to have a 99th birthday party for her; he wondered, like all of us, if she would amazingly still be around for her 100th, and she was.

On my last visit to see Granny, she was told me that she was upset. Her husband, Jack (your Dad), who died in 1960 had not been to see her in a long time. And, she was currently waiting for her parents (your grandparents) to pick her up for dinner; poor Granny pondered endlessly about what could be keeping them from her. I knew then that it would be sad when she died, but maybe this was nature’s way of saying that she would not be kept from them for much longer.

Quite selfishly, I often wished that perhaps she could have given you, Bitsy, and Dad a few of her years. I feel really guilty writing that, because you know how much I loved Granny. But, it was so hard to lose you all so early like that.

Anyway, I have been blessed with two wonderful children, Mom, though marriage has been a challenge for me. I have wanted to change my life for a few years, but the economy has prevented that. I was laid off for over a year and a half, which was devastating, but it did allow me to spend a lot of wonderful time with Nathan and Iz for the first time in my life.

I have a plan now, Mom; of course, like any plan, it has parts that make it a whole like a permanent job, a house that needs to sell, and then a union that needs to be uncoupled. On Saturday, I made a small step toward independence by beginning the process of refinancing my house. Of course, knowing I was “under water,” I was nervous.

Every time the bank representative asked a question, I answered and then held my breath. I was slammed because the percentage of this-and-that didn’t meet their criteria, but, of course, I could get around that by paying a fee. I thought I was done for when I said I had been laid off for a year and a half.

The bank representative said, “Well, the bank likes to see two years of solid employment.” I then wanted to scream at her at that point, but, luckily, she said, “Let me see if we can wave that.” I had been solidly employed for 24 years and unemployed for a year and a half. How can anyone judge that? She got back on the line and said, “It’s okay.”

When I got off the phone, I got an e-mail that said they could not automatically approve me because of special circumstances regarding my loan; however, they assured me that they still wanted to do business with me. Mom, the first small step in my large plan had frustrated the crap out of me, and I wondered, “Is the whole year going to be this difficult and frustrating?”

Though, instead of plunking myself down in front of the TV, I grabbed my gym clothes and headed out. As I drove, I thought more and more about my plan. For no reason, I started to cry, Mom.

I couldn’t stop crying. Part of me felt good, because I knew that, unlike other times in my life, that my plan was well-thought out and had much merit; I was not making a bad decision. The other part of me was so scared, Mom, like after all this time, would I ever be happy again, and how difficult would it be to get there?

Being happy seemed liked such a simple request in my life. I was not asking to be America’s Next Top Model; I didn’t want to win $1 million dollars in the lottery. All I wanted was to be happy. Mom, you once said it was better to be with someone than to be alone; no, Mom, it’s better to be alone than to be with the wrong someone, this I know.

In that moment on Saturday, I really wanted to call you, but I knew I couldn’t. This is why I wrote this letter, because I wanted to tell you that I realized something today. And, perhaps, not being able to call you made me realize what I needed to know and how I need to be in this moment.

As I was listening to my iPod, the gizmo with thousands of songs on it, I knew that I had wonderful friends to talk to who supported me, though while running along the street, I knew that at times I would be alone. No matter how many friends or family members I had, I would have to experience things that a friend couldn’t experience with me. I would have to run alone sometimes, even if I didn’t want to.

That’s not a bad thing. Making it through something on your own empowers you and enables you to make it to the next level. You climb the ladder to make it to the top; your friends and family are the ladder.

After I came back from my run, I had to jot down an appointment. I rummaged through my purse and found the year planner I had bought in Target’s dollar aisle, my favorite aisle. Still reeling with thoughts about, well, everything, the cover twinkled.

I had used the planner for two weeks now and never noticed that inside the twinkle there was writing. It said, “Go for it! 2011” Thanks for being there always, Mom, wherever and whenever it is, even if you’re not a phone call away. ♥

So, This is College?!

2011-01-08T18:49:00.007-05:00

As some of you know, I have a seventeen-year old son, Nathan, who is a senior in high school. He has applied to several colleges and is now in “wait to hear from several colleges” mode. He heard from his first college last week; he was accepted to one college and received a $4K scholarship award to boot.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that $4K is nothing when college tuition is running on average from $40-$50K a year. He was accepted to a local state school; at a state school, $4K is like $10K. Yes, there’s definitely an exchange rate!

Nathan was pleased. While it wasn’t the school he wanted to go to, he had the comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, he had at least one school to go to. It had his major, which was Marine Biology. So, what was wrong with the school? Quite simply, it seemed that the only thing wrong with it was that it “looked like a prison.”

I went online and looked at the tuition costs. It was 20K a year for everything. Tuition would only be 16K a year. I was excited, because it was just like I had found John Fluevogs at Payless prices!

I said to Nathan, “Given what your Dad and I have saved, you could go there, get your degree, and when you graduate, you would be debt free with a brand new car!” Nathan frowned. He then grumbled, “It looks like a prison!”

I thought that the prison was never going to be a contender even after I waved my “debt free” and “new car” flags in front of Nathan’s nose. I knew then I had to dig deeper. I needed to provide proof that the school was cool.

I had two girlfriends. They had a nephew and a son attending the school. I said to Nathan, “Both of them love it.” Nathan still grumbled, “It looks like a prison.”

Actually, when I told the friend, who had a son attending the school, about Nathan’s prison comments, she said, “Oh, well, it does. But, that’s just the freshman dorm!” I told Nathan that, but he still seemed unimpressed.

I decided to get gutsy. I asked, “Let’s go on a tour.” Amazingly, he said, “Shure,” before he left for a three-day vacation at Disney World.

Of course, Nathan is probably the only person who has ever dreaded a trip to Disney World. He was going with his Dad, stepmother, and his 10 and 8-year-old brothers. While Nathan had always been good with his much younger siblings, I think the age spread was finally one that would cause a black-out period for a few years.

In addition, to Disney World, Nathan informed me that he would also being going to Eckerd, a college he applied to. His stepmother, who was a professor at a college in Boston, could participate in a college exchange program on Nathan’s behalf. Her college took an Eckerd professor’s child, and Eckerd would take Nate, tuition free. It was not a given that he’d get tuition every year, but he could get a year or two, which was something, given that Eckerd was $40K a year.

When I accepted that the state college just might be Nathan’s prison, I visited Eckerd’s website again. Once there, I knew that the state college was definitely not a prison; however, it could not compare to palm trees and the beach! This was the first picture I saw, and knowing Nathan was into longboarding, I heard “Want some candy, little boy?”

I clicked on every link on the website. I looked at all the photos. And, then I thought, “So, this is college?!”

Flashback to 1980 (ouch, that hurt!): I applied to colleges that were in New England or New York. Little did I know then that there was life, warm life, outside of my comfort zone. It was all so different then.

Some of me, based on what Nathan was showing me, made me wish I could do it all over. I was dropped off at college with my typewriter, a copy of Webster’s Dictionary, and a stereo that played LPs and had an 8-track player. I might be dropping Nathan off with his longboard, SPF50, and swim trunks; it was all so different now.

Earlier this afternoon, I received a stream of text messages from Nathan:

N: Like Eckerd’s private beach?

Mom: No!!!! You don’t like the beach anyway!
N: This campus is f*cking beautiful.
Mom: What are the chances you’ll get in?
N: Good.

N: Cats are allowed and dogs. The local cat life.

Mom: Don't bring it home! Remember: Pets at school don’t get transfer credits to home.
N: I’m bringing my cat home with me. Bite me!
Mom: Bring a girlfriend home not a cat!
N: Can I bring both home?
Mom: Um, we’ll see how your grades are.

N: The rare domestic Floridian bobcat.

Mom: Enough about the felines. What about the academics?

Totally stealth and probably while putting away his longboard and taking off his flip-flops, Nathan asked, “Did you hear from work?” I was waiting to see if I would become a permanent employee at my new-old work. I texted him back saying that I hadn’t.

Actually, I knew his inquiry was genuine, and I wrote back, “Thanks for asking. ♥” Besides, a discussion of academics wasn't probably best suited to a text message, and he knew I had been worried about my job for a while. Given he had spent all his life in the frozen tundra of New England, I knew he was probably rejoicing in "So, this is what a Winterless Wonderland is like!"

I went back to Eckerd’s website. It was a beautiful place, and it had everything he wanted academically. I knew I would support Nathan wherever he wanted to go.

When I thought about it more, I wished, like me back in 1979, that he didn’t know that any states existed other than MA or NY. If he went that far away, I’d miss him terribly. But, if he went that far away, I knew he’d be happy and that would make me happy, too.

No matter where he goes, I’ll be there on moving-in day. I want him to go where he feels he’ll get the best education…and have a lot of fun. After all, isn’t that what life’s all about – learning as you go along and having fun doing it? ♥

Much Love, Anne

2011-01-05T14:04:00.007-05:00

I’ve been a single parent for a week now. Oddly or not, I like the single part of “single parent.” But, the parent part of “single parent” has been keeping me extremely busy and at a loss for words here lately.

Last night, I finished the last Modjeska caramel marshmallow. Why is that significant? It’s not really, other than it’s the last of the Christmas candy left that I enjoy; this is a bit strange because this shipment of candy bothers me a bit when it arrives before Christmas each year.

Every Christmas since 2000, a brown cardboard box arrives on my doorstep two weeks before Xmas. Usually, I’m excited when a box arrives; however, this one sends holiday greetings and with it, the Ghost of a Life Past. When I look at the label for the sender and see that it’s Godiva, Williams Sonoma, or Dean and DeLuca, I sigh.

After I bring the box inside, I let it sit for a day or two. Any ghost whisperer knows that it’s good not to let the ghost or the cat out of the box until you dwell on it and know you can deal with it when you let it out. When I finally open the box, I pull out some wonderful treat, which leaves the packing receipt staring at me while I hear it scream eerily, "Wooooooo, woooooo, woooooo!" (By the way, that's the sound a ghost makes when the sound is typed!)

Year after year, I do the same thing; at this point now, it almost feels like a dream. I pick up the receipt. I unfold it, and there it is in black and white. It says “Much Love, Anne.”

Anne was my Dad’s girlfriend when my Dad was alive. I had always gotten along well with her, and while not a bad person, I was just sadly disappointed with her at the end of my Dad's life. Above all, I found it very sad, even sadder for my Dad that she, one who was given quite a bit of money by my Dad in the end, chose to hide up in his bedroom the last 30 minutes of his life.

I went up to his room, told her she was going to die. I went back downstairs. I waited and waited and waited to hear her footsteps on the stairs.

She never came down. I stayed with my Dad. And even though I didn’t think he could hear me or feel my presence, I remained by his side holding his hand and telling him over and over again how much I loved him.

After that day, I never looked at Anne the same way again. In fact, I made a point of avoiding her. When the first box of Christmas candy arrived, I wanted to scream. To his credit, John tried to hide the box the second year.

I went down to the basement to do the laundry; this is where I keep the recycling bins. I noticed a cardboard box sticking out from under the stairs. I pulled it out to put it into the bin, and I saw the Godiva label.

I went into John’s office, and I asked, “What came from Godiva?!” He stammered, paused, and then said as if he thought I might punch him, “They were from her. I gave them to Susan.” I smiled; in retrospect, it probably was one of the most thoughtful things he had ever done for me.

By the third year, John didn’t try to hide the chocolates. When I’d arrive home, I’d see the box and grimace. He waited for it; the rant came, went, and the chocolates found a home with my co-workers, a neighbor, or a friend.

By the seventh year, I gave in to the past that would finally remain in the past. I opened the licorice from Dean and Deluca, and then I went to up to my bedroom. It wasn’t to cry.

I stared at the sailboat painting on the wall. Anne once asked me if she could have it because it reminded her of Dick, my father, and I very obnoxiously said, “No.” After receiving a good deal of money from my father and failing to be there with him in the end, I thought she could go out and buy herself another; yes, I was upset and angry, but I was entitled.

I pulled the painting off the wall, and I replaced it with one that my Dad had painted of Nantucket, which really seemed more fitting. I took the painting, wrapped it in Christmas paper, and crossed out “From:” on a present tag; instead, I wrote “Love, Dick.” I packed the painting up in a box, gave the box to John, and said, “Please mail this and make sure it gets there by the 24th no matter how much it costs.”

It doesn’t sound like mailing a painting to a woman you didn’t care for would heal an old wound, but it did. I wasn’t completely done dwelling on it, because each year, the box brought a pang to my heart. This year was no different I thought as I crumpled up the Modjeska caramel marshmallow wrapper.

Ironically, during the day, I had read a blog post by my college roommate, Lauri. She had lost her Dad to cancer like me, and she recently lost her brother-in-law. She wrote:

“I'd realized after my father died that there is little use in dwelling on the negative details of the past when what's done is done, especially after someone dies. Accepting the past without a further thought is an integral feature of living in the Now.” Funny, it almost was like I was destined to eat that last marshmallow and read Lauri’s thoughts yesterday. Was the tenth box of Christmas candy from Anne the charm?

I threw the Williams Sonoma box down the basement stairs where it would eventually make its way into the recycle bin. I still held onto the packing receipt. I unfolded it once more and read “Much Love, Anne,“ and then I said softly, “I love you, Mom and Dad.”

Iz, who had wandered into the kitchen for her dessert, asked, “Mom, what did you say?” I said, “I love you.” She looked at me strangely and then said, “I love you, too.”

I then remembered that she had a huge patch of blue paint in her hair and blue paint all over her hands and under her fingernails. In school, she said that they had painted their “world.” Allegedly, Gabe had also painted Iz’s noggin.

I tend to think that Iz asked for it, because she thought it might look cool. Based on her reaction when Nathan’s friend, Connor, said it looked cool, it reaffirmed my suspicions. And even more so, when she said she wanted a permanent blue streak in her hair when she was older; I frowned and then she asked, “Mommy, can I have that pink gel in my hair for tomorrow?”

Usually, Iz takes a bath every night. After completing my nightly routine of feeding the pets, cleaning the litter boxes, doing homework, making a school lunch, and then feeding Iz, Nate, and Nate’s friends, Joey and Connor, I was exhausted. So, I told her she could skip her bath, which was greeted by an immediate “Yay!” This was closely followed by an immediate scowl when I said, “But, you have to wash your hair, your face, and your hands.”

This exchange of bathing ideas and facial expressions was then followed by Iz placing her hand on her hips. She asked, “Now?” I told her that if she washed up now she could then have dessert and stay up 15 minutes longer and wallow in the presence of the two teenaged males in the house; she liked pretending not to like Nathan’s friends and telling them so even though she adored them both.

She whined “But, I don’t want to go up to the tub.” Just then, I had a blast from my childhood past. When my Mom didn’t feel like putting us in the tub when we were young, she did the kitchen sink bath. I asked her to go upstairs and get a towel and the baby shampoo to which she asked, “You’re not going to use the hose outside are you?”

I laughed and said, “No. We’ll do it right here in the kitchen sink just like my Mom used to do." She looked puzzled but went upstairs and came back down with what I had asked her for. I pulled her stool in front of the sink, and she looked questioningly at me.

I said, “Step up.” She looked a bit fearful, and I said, “Cover your eyes with this towel and lean over the sink.” I turned on the faucet sprayer, and she began to giggle as the water flowed over her blue-stained noggin.

I located the blue paint, scrubbed, and in only a few minutes, she had the towel wrapped around her head in a turban. My sister and I used to like when my Mom made us “the turban.” Iz liked it, too.

She washed her hands, and we scrubbed her fingernails. She took her turban off and began to brush her hair. I asked, “Wasn’t that easy?” She said, “That was fun, Mommy.”

The blue streak was gone, though I’m sure it would be back eventually. Nathan never wanted to do anything off the beaten path. I’m sure at 14, Iz would be rocking pink hair, big earrings, and fake tattoos.

While there was much love from Anne every Christmas in the form of marshmallows, truffles, and licorice, I decided last night that I could no longer dwell in it; this was my year to let go of a lot of things. I would not dwell in the Past, I would live in the Now, and I would not worry about the Future. But, I’d always borrow from the Past; I love you, Mom and Dad. ♥

This Girl

2011-01-02T14:40:00.001-05:00

Q: How did you spend the last day of school vacation?

A: ♥