I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

End blog soundtrack:

Adventures in Working: The Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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

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



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

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

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

Cornucopia

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

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

Both these emails were in response to this post.

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



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



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

Plymouth Rock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End blog soundtrack:

Thanks Giving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pilgrim

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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