God School

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This past weekend, Iz had yet another event she was very much looking forward to. With her birthday and the Father-Daughter dance behind her, she repeatedly began to tell me about and remind me of her next adventure – “God School.” This is how she referred to her Catholic religious school also known as CCD.

Every day last week, I heard, “Mom, I’m going to God School this week,” or “Don’t be surprised when I’m not here on Sunday morning, Mommy, because I’ll be at God School.” Funny, but her never-ending bulletins and reminders about it made me think of the main character in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” who was always talking about going to “Greek School.” In Iz’s scenario, unlike the character in the movie, God School seemed to be like a trip to Disney World.

I wanted to tell her that there would be no “attractions” at CCD; there would be no man from the Audubon Society named Noah showing his two bald eagles, water would not turn into root beer, and the closest she would get to locusts were the lady bugs that were hatching everywhere lately. But, I didn’t. I only said, “You’ll learn a lot and have fun.”

I am supposed to be a Catholic. Technically, I am, but I’m a non-practicing Catholic that only practices “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It’s worked for me so far, so I don’t feel compelled to do much more.

For family reasons, I became a Catholic and had Iz baptized. It was important to John’s father, and at the time, that was a very good reason for me. And, it still is.

My Dad went to parochial school. He suffered at the hands of some horrible nuns who told him he was stupid. I think over time that my Dad gave up on his religion, only going when his father came to visit; thus, when I was 15 and asked if I wanted to continue with a confirmation, I told my parents “No,” and they respected my decision.

In the end, my Dad went back to what he knew and what I think he truly believed in all his life, despite his lapse and asked for a Catholic service when he knew he was going to die. Me? I want a big party on Cisco beach with a clam bake, champagne, music, and lots of laughter and dancing. And, my ashes will be scattered all over that beautiful beach. It’s a simple plan, but it’s what I believe spiritually would be my fitting end.

Anyway, I had no problem with Iz going to CCD. In fact, I think I was a bit envious. There were times in my life when I wished I had a religious label; however, it was only because I felt like it would make me “normal.” At one point, I got over that and decided that the only label that I might ever be fond of was the one crafted by the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union in the collar my vintage apparel!

Nathan, unlike Iz, had been brought up with no religious background, which was never discussed between his parents but seemed to be something we silently agreed on. For a short time, I tried to bring Nathan to the Unitarian Church when I went, but he didn’t seem interested even at that young age in any sort of organized religion. When he was young, he declared to me that he was a Libertarian and an atheist, later becoming a devotee of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

It never really bothered me that Nathan was honest from the get-go about his religious beliefs or more like his lack of belief in religion. I wondered if Nathan’s beliefs would have been different had we brought him to church from the beginning, but with two on-the-fence parents would it have made any difference? Was it because Nathan had a scientist personality, which I thought made it difficult for him to accept anything that required faith?

After his claim of atheism, I stopped thinking about it. I respected him for believing wholeheartedly. And then I admired him, because he had faith in something, something that made him one of few and daring Americans (12% to be exact) who actually admitted to being an Atheist.

Anyway, when Iz and I went grocery shopping one night last week, she ran into the teacher, Renee, who instructs the second grade at God School. Iz said, “You have to wear skirts to God School.” Renee said, “No, you don’t. You can wear anything you want.” Iz said, “You have to wear a skirt!” I love the way Iz invents the answers to the questions marks in her life. I figure this is a sign of creativity or it could mean big trouble later in life.

“Iz, where’s your report card?”
“They’re not giving out report cards this quarter due to the paper shortage. They write them on your hand instead. See. Oh, dear. My grades are all smudged now! Believe me, Mom, I did well, okay?”

Iz would not be alone at God School either. Her best friend, Katherine, was going to begin God School, too. In fact, I found the letter she wrote to Katherine the night before.

Dear Kathrine thaks for gowing to God School with me becose I would be scad becose I wouldit have any freds Love Isabelle

On Sunday morning at 7:30, I walked out into the hallway and saw Iz standing there fully dressed. I thought, “Why can’t she be like this on school mornings?” She was dressed in a black SKIRT, a red and black plaid top, red and black plaid shoes, and had put on a pair of nylons.

She saw me and said, “Oh, Mom. Could you put this on?” I said, “Sure. You look lovely, Iz.” She thanked me and handed me a crystal bead necklace which had a cross hanging from it. She had a gift certificate to a local jewelry store, and when she picked this necklace out a few weeks ago, she said, “This will be good for God School.”

I began to fasten the necklace. She then said, “I am wearing this because it has a cross on it. Jesus was on a cross. That was so mean, wasn’t it, Mom?” I agreed.

I then noticed that she had even brushed her hair without prompting. Despite whatever feelings I had, I knew Iz was going to love God School. So be it, and off she went at 9am.

When the car pulled in the driveway at noon (she went to church with John after God School), I braced myself to hear adjectives like “boring” or “scary.” She walked in carrying two pamphlets with a big smile on her face. I asked, “So, how as it?” She said, “Good! We had snack, and I got to take these home. I have to study them, okay?” No matter how I felt, I was elated that she happy with what she had found at God School.

About an hour later, she and I hit the road for a “shop date” (the big girls “play date”) with Melissa and her daughter, Sydney, at the mall. Iz brought her God School pamphlets with her in the car. At this point, she was faithful at least to her homework assignment.

Once in the car, Iz asked, as usual, “How many highways do we have to take to get there?” I said, “Two.” She said, “Okay, then I think I’ll do my studying now,” picked up her “Children of light!” pamphlet, and began to read out loud to herself.

About ten minutes later, she said, “Mom, repeat after me.” I said, “What?” She said, “Mom, we have to pray now. Repeat after me, okay?” She then said, “Dear God, our Father, thank you for Jesus, your Son. Now you say that, Mom.” Did I? Yes. I did.

She said, “He shows us the way…” I said, “He shows us the way…” We said the whole prayer together. Would I ever be shown the way entirely? I don’t think so. But, while my daughter was making her way, I would be there by her side even though I had already found my way.

Iz believes one way and Nathan believes another way. Did I think one was right and one was wrong? I thought that my kids would always believe different things and be two different people.

Nate will support the right to bear arms, and Iz will support the right to arm bears. Nate is a “Pastafarian;” Iz will probably end up being an altar girl. Lately, I think my religion has become accepting my children for who they are, and, most importantly, respecting what they believe no matter what I believe. ♥

The Artful Forgers

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Iz has been asking me for a few weeks, “Can we do art again?” This morning, I found a great website with zillions of wonderful pictures on it. And, when she got off the bus at 3pm today, it was clear that we should go forth and be artful forgers!

Portrait of a Woman, Kees van Dongen (1903)



La Japonaise, Claude Monet (1876)



Nanny and Rose, Scott Prior (1983)



Some of you Massachuchettsians may recognize this. It hangs at the Museum of Fine Arts in one of its entry ways. I’ve always loved it.

Happy Weekend! ♥

Quirky is as Quirky Does

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Do you ever have a day where you ponder something all day just because of one thing a person said to you? Yes, I didn’t do this when I had a job; however, it’s now my occupation to think too much about things I never really thought about before. I’m beginning to think this is the definition of “unemployment” in the dictionary.

Did you ever ponder “normal?” In my opinion, it’s not normal to dislike cats. It’s not normal to swim in the Atlantic Ocean on New Year’s Day. And, it’s certainly not normal to loathe pink! (Remember, I prefaced that with “in my opinion.”)

I was thinking about some of the things I do that might not be “normal.” When I find a penny or a whisker, I keep it. I then put it in my whisker-penny box. Iz asked me recently why I saved whiskers. I quite simply said, “I think they’re lucky, too.”

I also have a problem with the number 13. If I ever write the number 13 in my checkbook, type it in an email, or jot it down as an answer on Iz’s math homework paper (on those night’s I have no patience for homework and expedite bedtime), I need to write another number right after it. I think that’s superstitious though not “abnormal.”

I dislike and grumbled intensely under my breath when I find balled-up socks in the laundry. I do all the laundry, and that’s really my only rule. I have given mini-tutorials on how to unball a sock, and I’m probably so good at it, it might make a good spot on Sesame Street. Ah, if only men watched Sesame Street!

A few times, I have even purposely washed a load of laundry with 5 pairs of balled up socks. Nathan then says, “What’s up with my socks?” He then promises to unball them, but by the next load of laundry, he’s already forgotten. There’s nothing worse than unballing a stinky, dirty, sweaty sock, but like Monty's barking, it seems to be something I have to live with!

I never usually call my cats or kids by their given names. Well, after Nathan turned 12, “Bear” and “Doodles” went out the window along with him admitting to anyone that I was his “real” mother! Fortunately, Iz is a kindred spirit in that department.

I have several different nicknames for Iz. I only ever call her Isabelle when I verbally punctuate the sentence directed toward her with “Period.” Depending on my mood or the moment, I refer to her as SqueakyCheeseLouise, Stinky, BiddestB, IddyB, Squeaker, and, most recently, Princess Pukamunga or Pukamunga for short.

I told her it was her Native American name. Unfortunately, she’s too smart for me, because she said, “Mommy, I’m not Native American. I’m Lebanese, Irish, Polish, German, and English.” Well, with all that ancestry, why not just throw in Native American for good measure, Iz?

I don’t like bright lights either. Well, I only like them when they’re in the big city, New York City to be exact. And, in conjunction with the low lights, I am vehement about turning lights off when they don’t need to be on. I think I have PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) from the 70s energy crisis; my Dad would make me climb two flights of stairs to turn out the hall light if I left it on!

Finally for the last year, I feel that some days, I’m living my life like a little old retired lady, and I didn’t even renew my membership in the Groton Woman’s Club last year! My Summer was spent biking four or five hours each day with no care in the world, as if my unemployment checks were really Social Security checks. Of course, as you know, everyone I biked with was over 60 years of age, which only enabled me to complain about my aches and pains, go from three to 10 cats, and ask for the senior citizen discount at the movies.

So, I asked myself today, am I normal? Is anyone really normal? What is “normal?” I did what any person does when they are pondering a deep and meaningful life question; I asked Nathan.

Nathan said, “Well…” and he stopped mid-sentence to ponder and began to rub his thumb and index finger against his chin. (I didn’t know if that aided his thinking process or if he just liked feeling the little clump of blonde whiskers on his chin.) Then he then said, “Hmmm. Good question.”

I said again, “Is anyone really normal, Nathan?” He said, “Well, I think this is a philosophical question. It’s what “normal” means to you and the environment you live in. Whoa, perhaps he should bin the Marine Biology and be a Philosophy major; I always knew my son was brilliant even if he thought I was an evil backseat driver like yesterday.

I remembered back to the Summer when I was riding on the rail trail one afternoon with Bill. I think we had just ventured off from Bob, Jeff, and Jim after riding, a term one of my friends coined, a “bike-a-marathon” with them. Bill and I were discussing our fellow riders; err, it was their “personalities” to be exact.

Bob, among other things, always had to touch the post at the end of the trail; and, if he rode 48 miles instead of his intended 50, he’d ride around the parking lot until his odometer was plus two miles. Jim didn’t use email; if and when you got a response from Jim, you knew you weren’t really “talking” to Jim. His wife wrote his emails for him. And, Jeff, a great rider, who could even be greater with a good bike, wouldn’t spend more than $200 on one, even though it appeared he was not strapped for cash.

On the bike ride back, Bill and I agreed that they were quirky. We decided that we were a quirky bunch. I remember thinking about all the quirks and then saying to Bill, “Well, I think you’re pretty normal though.”

Today, Bill picked me up to go visit the bridge. It was colder than usual and a pretty gray day. As usual, when I climbed into Bill’s truck, my Dunkin’ Donuts coffee was there waiting for me in the cup holder; hot and fresh, the benevolent beverage inside was always a good substitute for the missing sunshine outside.

We traveled to the bridge. The crane was gone; and according to Bill’s source, a person from the Mass Department of Highways, a small crane was coming, because they only needed the big crane for the heavier pieces. Other than that bit of information, there was a little banging going on but nothing much else.

I snapped a picture of the bridge. I told Bill that I wanted to send it to one of my friends, because I told him that bridge, not the kind that involves a deck of cards, is what we little old retired people do. Bill laughed and said, "Well, I don't think it is for you, but for me it is a sad reality!"

Unlike our last visit to the bridge, I could hear the sound of the river. It was even louder than the bit of banging going on over at the bridge. I looked over the side of the temporary bridge.

There were no bare spots in the river bed now. The rain and melted snow ran furiously downstream and made a lovely rushing sound against the stone footings of the bridge. Like the sound of the ocean, I could have listened to it all day.

When we finally arrived back at my house, I climbed out of Bill’s truck. As I did, he smiled and said, “You said something that bothered me once.” I was thinking, “Oh, jeez. What did I say? Wait a second. He’s smiling. It can’t be that bad!” He said, “Well, you said I was normal and not quirky.”

I started laughing. It had bothered Bill all those months ago, though I’m sure he wasn’t losing sleep over it, when I said I thought he was “normal.” I thought for a few seconds, and then I said, “You are quirky, too!”

Who bikes 25 miles in November when it's 40 degrees? Who climbs Mount Monadnock in sneakers? And, who goes out of their way to see, like they’re watching “Avatar,” a covered bridge being built when it’s the middle of Winter? You’re right, Bill. It’s only us little old retired and very quirky people. ♥

Mr. Independent

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It’s not often Nathan and I have disagreements. We always disagree over music. Okay, there might be a few other things like walking the dog, cleaning the litter boxes, and entertaining his sister; all of which he usually finds disagreeable.

Yesterday, I told Nathan he could take the car to school and then drive to TJ Collectibles to buy some Magic cards. Apparently, he and the boys are having a Magic card fest this Friday night. He offered to go and buy a booster packet for each. According to Nathan, they open one pack at a time. Each person grabs a card and then passes it on to the next person. The objective is to build a 40-card deck and…after this, I stopped following the thinking, kept listening, and then I said, “Oh, cool.”

Don’t ask me why they do this? After 14 years of hockey, I’m still trying to get my head around icing, off sides, and why Nathan got a penalty last month because he was “too tall.” Given that I’ve never gotten all the rules straight for soccer, lacrosse, and hockey, I wasn’t about to try to figure out the world of Magic cards. All I really needed to know what that Nathan liked them; thus, I liked them and supported his Magic card hobby by maternal association.

When he left for school this morning, I didn’t think twice about him taking the car. For some reason, his cell phone alarm went off three times, waking me up each time. He gets up early (one alarm), showers, goes back to bed, and gets up again (second alarm); the third alarm must have been thrown in for good measure. Personally, I’d sleep later, get up, shower, and then stay up; however, like Magic cards, I’m not about to figure out or mess with something that works for Nathan.

I heard Nathan leave, because I was up at 6:55 and at 6:30 and at 6am due to his phone. He’s driven himself to school a few mornings now, and when he leaves, I always peek out the bathroom window. For some reason, I’m still worried he’ll walk out of the house without the keys, forget his lunch, or not be able to get the car started. Don’t tell him, because then he’d look at me, roll his eyes, and say, “Mom! I’m not stupid!”

Yeah, well, it’s not because I think you’re stupid. It’s because I want everything to be all right for you. I know what 17 year-olds do; do 17 year-olds ever figure out what Moms do?!

After everyone was off to school, I sat there watching Frasier because Law & Order wasn’t on. I noticed that it had begun to snow. It wasn’t sticking, but I had my doubts about my decision to let Nathan drive 40 minutes via highway to buy his Magic cards after school. At 10:30, I got a text from Nathan that said, “I can get to 495 South from Littleton, right?”

I read it and thought, “Never mind the snow! He doesn’t even know where the highway is!” Just then, I not only doubted Nathan driving in the snow, but I doubted my decision to let him make the trip alone. And, I had typed up and printed out directions for him last night; I didn’t check, but I now wondered if they were on the floor of his bedroom tucked under a Dungeons and Dragons book. Bad weather, bad sense of direction, and was this a bad decision, Mom?

I said, “If the weather is bad, come home. I will go with you. Take a left out of school and entrance to 495 is on right. Or you can go tomorrow….” Nathan said, “That’s what I thought…..I’m going today if it stays like this. I’ll be fine.”

I had my doubts if he would be fine. Okay, he might be fine, but I knew I’d be worrying about him the whole time he was gone. I had to reel this one in.

Mom: If it keeps snowing, I will take you.
Nathan: Don’t be like that. :)
Mom: Don’t want you driving in this!
Nathan: I’ll be fine. If I die, you don’t have to pay for college.

I’m sorry, Nathan, but I didn’t bear you, nurture you, and love you for the last 17 years to lose you in an avoidable car accident. Besides, I always wanted to be a marine biologist, too. If I’m paying for your education, I am going to live vicariously through your college years, so you will go and love it!

Mom: No! I will drive if it is still snowing!!!!!
Nathan: NO. :p
Mom: You are not experienced enough.
Nathan: Yes, I am. If you’re coming with me, you’re listening to my CD with music you’ll hate…a lot!
Mom: I don’t care.
Nathan: I do. I want to be independent. I want a divorce!

A divorce? I thought that was a bit Drama King. But, I had to say that the kid was passionate about doing his own thing and without his Mom along for the ride, quite literally.

Mom: No!!!!
Nathan: Looks fine out to me. I’ll go by myself.

I sensed where he was going with this. As long as I didn’t explicitly say “You can’t drive there by yourself,” Nathan felt he could still make a convincing argument for driving on his own. I should have known this; his third grade teacher, Mrs. Pasqueretta, always said he’d would be a good lawyer or a politician!

Mom: We will see what the weather is like at 1pm!
Nathan: Make me!
Mom: I will take your X-box away!
Nathan: Do!
Nathan: It!

I realized that I didn’t explicitly say “You can’t drive there by yourself,” because I felt guilty. I wanted him to go on his own, but I was worried. Driving 15 minutes to school was one thing; however, driving 40 minutes on the highway seemed like quite another. So, I questioned his driving resume.

Mom: We WILL see how the weather is. Do you even know how to merge onto the highway?!?!?!?
Nathan: Mom, I’ve been on the highway so many times. You have no faith in my lack of driving ability.
Mom: Yeah as a passenger!

No faith in his lack of driving ability? I had faith in his ability. I was concerned about what he lacked, hell ya! Of course, I hit a nerve.

Nathan: Are you kidding me? I’ve been driving on the highway so much with my Dad. I drove to Cape Cod and back.
Mom: We will see how the weather is at 1pm. Period.

“Period.” My Mom always used to verbally punctuate her sentences with that when she meant business. Funny, how you don’t want to be like your parents, but you always end up being like them a bit, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing I’ve found recently.

Nathan: …I have the car you know…. :)
Mom: I can report it stolen you know. :)
Nathan: You’re a kill joy.
Mom: Better to be a kill joy than have a dead boy!
Nathan: Debatable.

Looking to assuage my guilt and find someone who didn’t think I was a kill joy, I called Quinn, Nathan’s Dad. I explained the situation to him. He said, “I wholeheartedly support your position.” So there, Nathan! For a second, I felt like was 8 years old again and had just ratted out my sister to my mother for some bad behavior.

I then said to Nathan, “Discussion to resume at 1pm!” Then to show that I was not bluffing, I put my Parental Power card on the table and said, “And, your Dad agrees with me!” Nathan responded, “What a traitor!”

After 30 minutes, it stopped snowing. And 20 minutes later, it started snowing again. I knew that bad weather or not, I needed to drive with Nathan just to be sure. So, at 1pm I wrote…

Mom: Supposed to snow on and off.* Come home, and then we will go. I rethought it and would rather drive with you this time.
Nathan: NOOOOOO…COME ON!
Mom: Just this time, so I know that you can handle the highway.
Nathan: I’ll be fine :( I gotta stop at my dad’s and make a CD then.
Mom: You have two CDs in the car.
Nathan: New one. :)
Mom: [cringe at the thought of listening to Nathan’s music] Okay, pick me up.

*I didn’t know if it was going to snow off and on. And Brenda the Weather Girl is probably reading this now and saying, “No. It wasn’t!” But, I needed Quinn and the forecast, even if fabricated, on my side!

About 20 minutes later, I got another text from Nathan that said, “If it doesn’t snow hard by 2, then can go by myself?

It was nice to see that Nathan still wasn’t giving up his newly found independence. He had envisioned smooth sailing down Route 495 South with a CD chock full of his favorite music, and I was the one sucking the wind out of his sails. I thought, “Wow, he really wants to be a grown up.” But, I responded with “No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Nathan: I have to learn how to do it by myself eventually!
Mom: I know, but I would like to see how you do today.
Nathan: I’ll do fine. There’s no point of two people dying instead of just me.
Mom: See you when you get here. Period.
Nathan: You’re not my mother anymore.
Mom: Definitely bring MY car back then!

Today, I knew I couldn’t let him drive on his own snow or not. Eventually, I would have to, like maybe when he was 42. But, today was not the day.

Payback is a bitch though. True to his word, Nathan brought a new CD chock full of his music. He had it blasting when I got in the car. Here’s my visual opinion of Powerman 5000. (Seriously, listen to this song for 30 seconds and tell me if your ears don’t start to bleed!)



Nathan glared at me. He then said as if he were talking to Iz, “One of the rules of the car now is that you can’t make fun of the music that is on.” Okay, okay, okay, Nathan!

And, how was Nathan’s driving on the trip? Well, he took the long way to get to Route 495 and almost missed the 495 exit off of Route 2, but that’s nothing a GPS can’t fix. He did a great job. And, I knew he would, but this Mom just needed to be sure. I see his laminated license; but I needed to see the highway driving for myself.

On the trip home, Nathan made it clear that he felt my presence on the trip was a total waste of my time. (Hey, I could have been home doing nothing instead of enjoying time with my son!) But, it wasn’t a waste of my time, because I knew that as he gets older, I’ll spend less and less time with him. No matter how much you look forward to your child being independent, you want to keep that tether, not unlike the one Mrs. Maxant puts on her animals, attached to them for life, never wanting it to grow so long that you can’t easily pull it back to you again. ♥

All of Me

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I was doing some serious moping this morning. And, you’ll never guess who saved me from it all. Superman did.

Actually, if truth be told, we saved each other. I was taken hostage by the couch and Lenny Briscoe. Superman had lost his way to Krypton, taking a left at the bear that looked like a rock and taking a right at the rock that looked like a bear. And, thus, this answers the age-old question, “Does Superman ever screw up?”

It was about noon when I heard Monty barking. Of course, this usually doesn’t cause me any concern, because Monty is always barking when he is not dressing up in my clothes. After 2 minutes of barking, I heard a foreign bark join Monty’s in a chorus of what now sounded like “Who Let the Dogs Out?”

I thought, “Oh, Mrs. Maxant’s dog is on the loose again. I had better go investigate.” This woman has many animals, and the neighborhood has had problems with all of them. (Well, we have problems with her and not the animals.) This is because Mrs. Maxant believes that chickens aren’t the only animals that should be “free range.”

A few years ago, I saw one of her horses tromp through my backyard. Quite tragically, one of her horses got caught up in the brambles in adjoining neighbor’s yard. The poor thing suffered a heart attack and died. Last time, I saw Mrs. Maxant’s dog, a lovely Golden Retriever, it was walking through my backyard dragging a big tether, which she uses to secure her dog and horses, behind it.

When I saw her dog traveling through the yard, I went outside, gathered up the tether, and then I walked over to return her pooch. This was the same pooch that was at the bus stop one morning and climbed onto the bus after Iz. It was a very beautiful and friendly dog, and I felt sorry for it having to be owned by Mrs. Maxant.

Anyway, I envisioned the pooch on the porch with his tether wrapped around my grill 20 times, so I headed down to investigate. When I looked out on the porch all I saw was Monty standing by the stairs barking. The second barker was either on the stairs on somewhere in the grassy knoll next to the porch.

I opened the slider, walked to the stairs, and when I looked down, I saw a big Golden Retriever on the stairs; however, it wasn’t my neighbor’s dog. This dog was very elderly. I could tell, because being the animal expert I am, I counted the rings around its tail. Okay, I didn’t do that, but I did notice his blonde fur was white in many areas.

I grabbed a hold of his collar. He didn’t look familiar, so I thought he was lost. (Isn’t it funny how I have a way of finding lost things? I’m looking forward to the day when I find D.B. Cooper’s stash!) I checked his tag, and it read “Superman 617-555-1212.” And, what were the odds that Superman would end up on my porch of all places?!

I put Monty inside, because he was still barking. I gave Monty a bone, because he found Superman before I did, so a reward was in order. I took another bone, grabbed Monty’s leash, and I went back out on the porch. I gave Superman the bone, he gladly accepted it, and then I hooked him up to Monty’s leash.

I went back inside, grabbed the phone, and when I returned to the porch, I asked Superman if I could see his phone number once more. Given the 617 (Greater Boston) area code, I thought I may have one of those super heroes who wandered a great distance from home. Perhaps he was in Clark Kent mode (I should have flipped his tag to see if that was written on the other side!), and he was out in my neck of the woods doing a story for the Daily Doghouse. Who knows?

When I called the number, it was answered on the second ring by a man who uttered a desperate “Hello!” I said, “Hi. I think I have your super hero.” He laughed and said, “Oh, I was just driving around looking for him. I turned my back for just a minute and off he went!” I gave him my address, and he said he’d be by to rescue Superman (albeit a third time after Monty and me) in about 5 minutes.

I took Superman around to the front of the house, just then realizing what a lovely day it was. I brought super pooch to the end of the driveway, and he sat down, looked up at me and said, “It’s a lovely day outside, too lovely for you to still be in your pajama bottoms! You should get out for a spin like I did.” I said, “Superman, I think you’re right, “ and he smiled.

A black pick-up truck drove up the street. It slowed down and stopped in front of my driveway. A man climbed out and walked toward Superman. I saw a young yellow lab jump up in the backseat and then thrust its head out the window. I should have asked if its name was Lois Lane! He said, “Thanks a lot! I just drove up this street, too.” I said, “Well, he and my dog got involved in a heated conversation on the porch – Which came first? The dog or the cat?”

I took Superman off of the leash. The man took Superman by his collar and brought him over to the truck door. He opened the door and said, “Get up, Superman.” Superman hesitated. Perhaps he should have said, “Fly, Superman, fly!”

Superman jumped up, and the man closed the door behind him. The man thanked me again. Superman then stuck his head out the window. He said, “Thanks. I bet you will write about me in your blog tonight. Go get changed and do something; the world is still waiting for you.” They drove off down the street.

I knew Superman was right. Staying home and lounging in my pajama bottoms was no way to deal with a beautiful Tuesday. The last few weeks, I know I had gotten more disappointed about job opportunities, especially knowing that two didn’t even care about any of my writing that wasn’t technical. I guess it’s understandable, but it had me thinking and feeling.

If I could get a technical writing job, I’d feel fortunate. But did I want to work in any job that didn’t need all of me? Perhaps one day, technical writing would be a hot career again, but, at this point, I knew I had to think of something else to do. It had to be something that required all my parts and pieces.

When I was out running (shout out to Superman if you are reading this now!) , I pondered what I could do besides technical writing. Unfortunately, I felt the economy might make it just as difficult to switch careers as it had to find a job in my field. But, I told myself I wasn’t going to give up thinking about it and trying to do it, whatever IT was.

So, what’s a job that requires an outgoing phenomenal (working on my self-esteem here) writer who imitates great works of art, likes old clothing, shoes, cats, and cycling and makes movies about hanging out on a Sunday afternoon? You give up? You can’t! I was looking to you for the answer here!

Yesterday, a wise man told me, “Never stop writing, being yourself, and doing what you love.....I know that's the key to your future and your happiness!” Some days, like yesterday, it’s hard to keep the faith. But, I, Jean, do solemnly swear to keep believing, even when wearing my pajama bottoms when I shouldn’t!

Someday soon my job will come. There’s got to be a job out there that’s just dying to have me do it. And, today, I do know that I want my next job to want all of me. ♥

“Well some say life will beat you down, break your heart, steal your crown,
So I've started out, for God knows where I guess I'll know when I get there.”

P.S. And a belated welcome to my new follower, the Jewelry Box; thanks for being here. ♥

Seven Again

Blog soundtrack:



Yesterday, Iz had a few gift cards that were burning a hole in her size 6x jeans. She had received one from Sephora and one from Toys R’ Us for her birthday. I had promised her that after I cleaned the house, I’d take her to redeem them.

Of course, after I cleaned the entire house, I felt like curling up on the couch with the TV remote in my hand. Iz kept asking me when we were going, and I could only put it off for so long. And, when I heard “Mommy, remember, you promised,” I knew there was no curling up on the couch in my future, because I did promise.

As we drove up to the mall in Nashua, Iz plotted out her shopping strategy. “First, we will go to Sephora. You can get two things, and I can get two things.” Before leaving, I remembered that we had two Sephora gift cards from Valentine’s Day, so our buying power was now $75. Iz then said, “After Sephora, we will go to Toys R’ Us. But, we have to go buy chocolate balls (Lindt truffles), too. And, can we go look in the pet store, too?”

I love Iz, because she is all that and more, but I so adore the planner part about her. As I said previously, all of the men in my life aren't planners and that irks me every now and then*. I must have been Patton, albeit Patton in heels, in another life. I needed a battle plan!

*This weekend, Nathan’s plans changed liked Iz changed outfits. “I’ll see you on Sunday.” “I’ll see you on Saturday, and then I’m going to go to Matt’s.” “I’ll see you on Saturday, but I’m not going to Matt’s.” “Pick me up at Matt’s, take me to my Dad’s, bring me home, and then someone’s picking me up at 11pm to take me to Matt’s.” Arrrrrgggggh!

Once at Sephora, Iz grabbed a basket and said, “Here, Mom. We’ll put our stuff in here.” I had to laugh, because I never grabbed a basket. I always juggled my purchases in my hands.

After an hour in the store, I had added one pressed powder compact to our basket. Iz picked up a tin of solid perfume, body wash in the same scent as the perfume, and a pink lipstick. Funny, but I think it was the same shade I wore when I was a Las Vegas booth babe. (And, I think she used your gift card, Brenda and Steve, for this lipstick!) Ah, like mother like daughter!



After owing Sephora $8, we headed off to Toys ‘R Us. Of course, to be honest, I did lobby for heading home with “Are you sure you don’t want to save your gift card for another time, Iz?” Iz said, “No!”

I sighed, because if Sephora took an hour, I knew Toys ‘R Us would be a two-hour excursion for sure. And once we walked through the doors of Geoffrey, I saw the bewildered and almost trance-like look on Iz’s face – “So many toys and only a $50 gift card!”

If we had a divining rod just then, it wasn’t leading us to water; it was leading us straight to the Barbie doll aisle. If my couch had a gravitational pull, then so did the Barbie aisle at Toys R’ Us. In less than 5 minutes, we were there looking at over 25 different Barbie dolls.

As Iz walked up and down the aisle, I had no choice but to ponder my Barbie days, the “olden days.” When I was growing up, we had only a handful of dolls to choose from – Barbie, PJ, Francie, Skipper, and Ken to name the few. When I looked at the shelves, I saw you could choose from mermaid Barbie, Barbie Twilight Bella, Cyndi Lauper Barbie, Pet Doctor Barbie, and Alfred Hitchcock The Birds Barbie!

After much pondering, Iz decided to buy the Barbie Glam Vacation House. Considering she had ten Barbie dolls, if not more, I thought the house was a good but not redundant addition to her huge collection. And, I had to laugh, because I still had my sister’s Barbie’s Mountain Ski Cabin in the attic.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but think some more about my Barbie days, which had begun when I was about Iz’s age, too. My sister and I played for hours with our Barbie dolls. And back then, we didn’t have Barbie this or Barbie that.

I remember my sister and I had bought plastic horses for our dolls to ride at Woolworth's. They weren’t Barbie-approved horses, but they worked nicely with our dolls. I remember Julie, who was very artistic and very into riding then, handcrafted horse combs and brushes out of cardboard. If our dolls lacked anything, we made it for them.

And when home yesterday night helping Iz assemble her vacation house, I envied her. It was good to be seven. She had her parents, her brother, her three cats, and her dog; she had a loving and happy home.

I remember being 7. My first grade teacher aside*, I remember being very happy then. We played outside a lot and the rocks, sticks, and leaves in our yard became stores, homes, and money (the leaves!). And, an old odometer attached to the underside of the basement stairs was the dashboard of a space ship for me, Julie, and Jack.

*From a previous blog: My first grade teacher was Mrs. Moyer. God, she was awful. She was not very kid friendly, which is obviously a really bad personality trait when you're a teacher, and she had a totally cruel but apparently 1968-acceptable way of dealing with children who talked too much in class; she taped their mouths shut with masking tape! Jeez, could you even imagine that going on in a first grade classroom today?

*We had one particular chatty Kathy in our class. No. It wasn't me. I liked to talk then and still do, but I was totally scared silent by an authority figure and sadistic punisher like Mrs. Moyer. Poor Gayle Howes. Yes, I will never forget her name. A beautiful and lovely girl, who I went to school with through the 12th grade, yet whenever I saw her, even years later, all I could think about was her with her mouth covered in masking tape looking like an unfinished mummy of sorts.

My mother told me that when she and my Dad bought their house in Sudbury, the town I grew up in, they had money to pay the mortgage, the bills, and clothe us; however, there was nothing for anything after that. My Mom cut our hair, and no wonder why my bangs were always uneven and too short! But, I never felt deprived growing up.

My parents were always there. No matter what their relationship, I always felt a sense of love and security. I didn’t get the white patent leather go-go boots and our family vacations only began when I was about 11. They comprised a week at a cheap motel in Cape Cod and not a cruise or a trip to Disney World. But, for the most part, I always felt safe and loved.

Today, I had a phone interview. The interviewer asked me approximately five questions. After I responded to each question, she answered with a very generic response which was usually “Thank you.” When I got off the phone, I couldn’t help but feel defeated and I cried.

Some might think crying equals devastation. But for me, crying is like sneezing. Something irritates you, you expel, and then you’re fine.

I went downstairs. Upon entering the family room, I realized that Iz’s Glam Vacation House still wasn’t finished. I noticed we hadn’t put all the stickers on. I picked up the directions, which were in a print so small I concluded they were crafted without much thought and in a foreign country, and I finished her house.



At that moment, as I sat on the floor, I wished I was seven again. I wanted to wake up tomorrow morning knowing that Love and Security were there. And, tonight, if I could speak to anyone I wanted, I would love to talk to my Mom and Dad and have them tell me that everything would be all right...once again. ♥