Have I Been Here Before?

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As I said earlier this week, often when I’m thinking about one thing, all the things around me suddenly remind me of that one thing. With my high school reunion a day away, I was constantly reminded of those years this week when I looked in my laundry basket, glanced at Nathan’s prom invitation, or poured a glass of milk; Cathy used to pick me up just so I could go buy milk a gallon of milk with her. Today, I went back in time again; I went back to “work.”

It’s not what you think! I didn’t get a job overnight nor did I opt to be an enumerator; working nights and weekends didn’t end up being too appealing. Plus, I had my priorities; who would Bill bike with?!

I went back to “work” to run at lunch with what was left of our running group. When I worked there, I began running with Brenda, and then somewhere along the way, Tom started running with us, then Jeff started running with us, and then Tom knew other engineers who wanted to run. Okay, I’m not sure if I’ve got the sequence of membership to the group correctly, but I was not the group historian; I only sent the “running email” as it was referred to.

So, most every day when it was not hot as Hades or as cold as my feet were when I took a picture of them in snow, I would send an email to our group asking “Running?!?!?" or something like that. It was short and sweet. At noon, we’d all meet out front and then head off; of course, once running, we all filtered out into running subgroups due to our differing speeds.

These days the running group has grown quite small, and they ran far less frequently than they did when I worked there. It was due to heavier workloads and to those who had joined the nearby gym to escape the heat and the cold year round. After I was laid off, they (Tom) kept up with the running email for a long time, and I went back to run every now and then; however, like all good things, the economy came along and ruined it to a certain extent.

Anyway, after talking to Tom recently, I got motivated to go back and run. I could easily run at home, but I really wanted to be back at "work." I missed a lot of the people there, and I needed motivation to lose my dress down outfit. Yes, I was exchanging it for running shorts, but I was having lunch there so a shower, jeans, a shirt, makeup, and earrings were mandatory!

When I arrived at work, I walked up to the front door, and there was Tom with another engineer, John. John didn’t run with us a lot; actually, he didn’t need to because without any training at all, he could beat most people. He was a natural much to Tom’s disappointment, as they bet each other who would have the best time at the 5K race we did as a “group” each year.

I went inside to drop my car key off. As I walked up to the receptionist’s desk, I saw Joe, the security guard. He glared at me, and then he said, “Where have you been? Long time no see!”

I greeted him with a laugh and asked, “Can I leave my key with you?” He tapped his fingers on the desk and said, “Put it right here.” I dropped my key on the desk; it was good to be there, even if only in the lobby as a “visitor.”

I turned around and walked back out. Amrit had joined Tom by then. When I saw her, I embraced her, and she mentioned it had been so long; it had been too long. Tom said, “Chris is coming, but Ron’s working on a critical.”

When Chris joined us, we were off. As usual, Tom ran ahead, I stayed with Amrit, and Chris feel behind Amrit and I. I had my iPod on, because I’m usually only able to listen to music and run at the same time; talking and running was difficult for me. I began to ask Amrit what was new, and then I said, “I’m turning my iPod off. Let’s catch up.”

It’s funny how something that felt so wrong (losing my job) had felt somewhat right this last year, given that I had gotten to spend some much time with my kids and do so much for myself. But as I ran with Amrit, running along with her seemed so right. And, when Tom passed us (we run the route counter clockwise; he runs clockwise), he waved like he always did; it was indeed an old friend saying “Hi” on a day when I needed an old friend most.

When we arrived back at work, Tom had bottles of water waiting as usual. I ran inside to get my key, and I was greet ecstatically by Barbara, the reception. I had to laugh after she said, “It’s so nice to see you,” and then immediately frowned, lowered her voice and said, “Are you working yet?” in the short span of 30 seconds.

I told her I wasn’t; she asked if I was still looking. I said, “Yes.” Though, I told her that it depended on the day of the week; for example, if it was sunny and 70 degrees, I was not parked at my desk seat but sitting on my bike seat!

I ran back to the car, got my things, and I went to the locker room with Amrit. After I was showered, dressed, and wearing a spritz of Hermes, we went to the cafeteria for lunch. Amrit departed to go check on “work,” but she said she’d come back if “work” had behaved itself while she was gone. (Her boss called her while we were out running; she amazed me, chatting on her cell while running. I bet she could even do all that while chewing gum, too!)

I loved the salad bar at our cafeteria. Actually, I had babbled on about it to Tom. He probably thought I was crazy, but I missed my daily salad bar romp.

As I grabbed my plastic salad bowl with which to create my salad du jour, I glanced up. I saw Lisa, who worked in the cafeteria. She smiled, walked up to me, opened her arms, and gave me the biggest bear hug.

She asked me if I was working. I told her I wasn’t. Then she asked how everyone from my laid off technical writing group was doing. I filled her in as best I could, and during the course of conversation, I found out that she lived in Pepperell, which was two towns away from me Ironically, she had just bought a bike and said she’d probably be out on the rail trail tomorrow; I love life when it’s a small world!

After talking to Lisa, I realized I had lost track of Tom. Lisa, who knew everything that went on in the company, had told me that Tom had come through “a while ago.” I texted Tom, because I could remember where I was supposed to meet him. I somewhat felt like Alice in Wonderland being back walking the halls of a company that I had loved working for.

After I got a fork, knife, and napkin, Tom, Ron (another lovely engineer), and Amrit appeared all at once. It was like a group hug without the hugging. I chatted with Ron, who was now the father of three daughters, one of whom loved Hello Kitty; Ron said, after telling me about her devotion, “Didn’t you have all that Hello Kitty stuff up in your office?”

Tom, Amrit, and I sat down to eat. I heard about the latest stock news. This was ironic given that Sonus stock was about to pay for Nathan’s wisdom teeth, well, the co-pay.

I had been getting these eTrade statements for a long time. I never bothered to open them thinking, “I wasn’t there long enough to get any stock.” I was thinking that they were only a brutal reminder (Balance: $0) of how I had never made good on any stock options in my professional career; though, oddly, after I left men, they cashed in big time on Lucent and CMGI stock options! Ah, maybe I was bad/good luck charm?!

I finally opened one of these eTrade statements three weeks ago. Much to my amazement, I had 200 or so vested shares. I immediately hit “Sell,” and said, “Thank you ex-company for paying for Nathan’s wisdom teeth!”

After lunch I went up and visited my friend, Dave, who works in Customer Service. When I first got my job, I feared him; I had to get his approval on all the major issues I documented. It was very difficult to get his attention let alone his approval, so I opted for what had always worked best for me; this was humor.

I had “convinced” him over time that our major issues affected the Ozone layer and contributed to the extinction of the red panda bear, so he should respond immediately to me to save the world. After five crazy emails depicting a talking red panda, I had his immediate approval most of the time on all major issues and his friendship. And to this day, I still cherish his friendship.

After I left “work” today, I realized why the people I worked with and the company I worked for had meant so much to me. It was just like high school. I had a wonderful group of friends, especially among the writers, in a very supportive environment where I flourished both professionally and personally.

I missed the job, but I missed being with the people I worked with so much more. I had been lucky enough to find all the Lovelies again in regard to high school. But, today, I also realized how fortunate I was to still have all my former co-workers in my life, too. ♥

Happy weekend, Everyone! ♥

A Birthday Note: Today is my Mom’s birthday and, for some reason, this is always the most challenging day of the year for me emotionally. (That’s why I’m so glad I spent it at "work.") Happy Birthday, Mom. I’m glad I was your “sunshine;” you meant the world to me and you always will. ♥

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Paul Brady, Helpless Heart.

Your Hair's Alright

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When I looked in the mirror this morning, I thought, “Your hair’s alright.” Then I took another look and said, “No. It’s really not alright.” I had plans to have lunch with my friend, and I was standing in the bathroom debating whether I needed to shower or whether I just needed a hair brush, a dab of deodorant, a spritz of Hermes, and to exchange my sweat pants and oversized t-shirt for jeans and a shirt that wasn't two sizes too big.

The past few months, I had started a new trend, one which I’m sure would never catch on, because it could really only be carried out in the comfort of your own home or town. Instead of “Casual Friday,” I had created “Casual Weekdays.” Though I loved fashion, I had unconsciously rebelled against it somewhere along the way while being unemployed.

Given that I had nowhere to go every morning, it seemed that there was no particular reason to get "dressed" first thing in the morning. I could take Iz to school wearing my sweat pants and oversized t-shirt (hereafter referred to as my “dress down” outfit), because I never had to get out of the car. I could apply for jobs online and watch Law & Order in my dress down outfit, because potential employers and Lenny Briscoe couldn’t see me wearing my outfit.

My dress down outfit was not fancy. It did not do my body justice either. But, somehow it hugged me like no other person could lately.

If I had anywhere to go, it was usually to the gym or to the bike trail. So, I only shed my dress down outfit for my cycling tights or my running shorts. While I had a vast wardrobe, I had gotten used to sporting only three outfits most days of the week.

Another important component of the dress down outfit was the Hello Kitty baseball cap. While I could pick Iz up at the bus wearing my dress down outfit, I did not have the car to hide behind; therefore, I potentially left myself open to –gasp- exposed bed head. The Hello Kitty baseball cap was crucial to covering up any remnants of “bed head.”

Biking accommodated bed head quite well; in fact, biking turned bed head into helmet head. (Somehow in my mind, it was much easier to justify messy hair when it came from exercise rather than sleep.) The Hello Kitty hat could go either way when I was faced with running at the gym; however, I hated running with a hat on.

In the case of the gym, I usually opted for the wet hair brush to smooth strands over or down. Or, I went with the “Who cares? It’s just the gym!” philosophy and didn’t do a thing to my hair. Fly aways, hair bumps, I didn't really give a damn.

Sufficed to say, I skimped in other areas. The dress down outfit didn’t require jewelry; if it shouted out for any accessorizing, it screamed for a whistle on a rope, because I often thought I looked like a gym teacher gone AWOL. If I managed to get any jewelry on, it was my pearl earrings maybe two or three times a week.

If I had to rush off anywhere in the morning, I only bothered with makeup every once in a while. I could usually muster enough of a primp for a dab of lip gloss and some face powder. But, that was it.

Every once in a while, I glanced at my lonely make up bag in the corner of the bathroom cabinet. I swore I could hear the sounds of compacts opening and closing, lipsticks smacking, and eyeliner caps popping off. They were desperately trying to get my attention; however, I was having none of that powdering, glossing, or lining!

After I took a third look in the mirror this morning, I thought, “Hmm. If I just wet my hair here and comb it over there, maybe I could get away without taking a shower before lunch.” Then I heard a voice, which sounded an awful lot like Davie Bowie say, “Calamity’s child!” “Maybe you’re right,” said Calamity Jean.

I realized I was letting myself “go,” in a direction I really didn’t want to go. It was time to change. I wanted to look good and feel good even if it was for lunch with my friend and not a job interview.

So, I put on my running shorts, went outside, ran three miles, came home, showered, and by 11:30, I was dressed in jeans, a shirt, a sweater, shoes complete with earrings and make up. I thought, “Wow, it’s only 11:30, and all of me is alright.” Most days, I was lucky if I was “alright” by 5:30pm.

At around noon, I arrived at my friend’s house with my pasta salad and a bottle of champagne; champagne is not just for anniversaries anymore, okay? She was giving me some hand-me-downs from her daughter that she thought Iz might like. In exchange, I thought the least I could do was bring lunch and some liquid festiveness.

After sorting through the items, we sat down for lunch and a glass of festiveness. Unorthodox, I know, but these are certainly some unorthodox times we’re living through. We began to chat about everything and then some, and before I knew it, she was telling me how she got up that morning, showered, dressed, and put on makeup.

I was kind of surprised that she did that, because I knew she was working a contract job from home. She told me that when her husband saw her this morning, he looked at her quizzically. Before he even asked her a question, he answered it with, “Oh. Jean’s coming over.”

When I heard that, I laughed out loud. I then described my dress down outfit to her and how most days it was accompanied by a brush of the hair, a dab of deodorant, and a spritz of Hermes. She then confessed she did similarly and told me that she couldn’t remember the last time she wore earrings. I even told her that I had gone a day and a half without a shower; of course, that was only if I hadn’t run or biked during the previous 36 hours.

I’ve said this before, but it's true. When you think you’re alone, you’re not. As we sat there talking about how life without an office to go to had transformed us, I couldn't help but feel like the hugs the dress down outfit gave me were being replaced by knowing that I was not the only one in third grade wearing Danskin stretchy pants for chubby girls.

The more we talked about it, the more we seemed to laugh about it. The dress down outfit wasn’t something you’d share with anyone. But once you walked down the runway wearing it, it was good to know that others were buying it, too. And as we continued to talk and laugh, somewhere I heard someone singing, “Looks like you've been there too.” ♥

Maxima Cum Laude

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I’ve often found that when something from my past or in the future occupies my mind a great deal, it seems that everything else in my present life can also remind me of it. I have all my reunion dress choices hung over my curtain rods. They stare me in the face every morning, reminding me of the something I was thinking about, my 30th reunion.

But, they were not the “everything else” reminding me of the reunion today. “It was a piece of paper that dropped from the sky this afternoon,” said Henny Penny. As I sat at my desk typing, Nathan approached, dropped something from high (6’3” high!), and it floated down onto my desk. When it hit my desk, I picked up the white crisp piece of paper, unfolded its tri-folds, which revealed a formally typed letter.

My first reaction was not “OMG, you’re being suspended,” or “You’ve won a full scholarship to UMaine, because of your third place in that Magic card tournament in Lowell!” No. My first thought was, “People still type letters?!”

Actually, I knew typewriters still existed a few months ago. I had lunch with Lovely Cathy and Lovely Marcia at Lovely Cathy’s law office. There on Marcia’s desk was a typewriter. Okay, maybe it was a “word processor,” but it’s really the same thing in my book.

When I saw it, I wanted to reach out and touch it. I had not seen a typewriter since I pitched the Sears manual typewriter I used throughout college. And, if you used a typewriter in college like I did, do you ever wonder how much more you might have learned if you didn’t have to spend all that time typing and retyping your papers?

I do. Where would I be now if I had a laptop, a printer, the Internet, and spell checking back then?! Okay, I’d probably still be in the same place I am now, but I still think it’s interesting to think about!

After my typewriter flashback, I began to read the letter. “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Canfield….” That salutation always kind of throws me; I used to be Mrs. Canfield, but now there’s another Mrs. Canfield. I read on thinking, as I usually do, I will always be Mrs. Canfield in my heart because of Nathan and because of Quinn.

Nathan had taken the national Latin exam. He had done very well. He had done so well that he had received the Silver Maxima Cum Laude award.

I said, “Wow! That’s great, Nathan.” I never saw Nathan as a Latin scholar, but now he was “Vendi, vidi, vinci” right before my eyes. He took his letter and went off to his room.

I had taken two years of Latin in high school and two years in college. I remembered my high school Latin teacher, Mr. Bronson, very well. He was a quiet, sweet, and serious yet very kind man who always wore a suit and tie and believed that you should learn Latin like you were a Roman “baby.”

We spent the whole school year reading Winnie the Pooh in Latin. It was a gray book with a picture of Winnie the Pooh on it, and its title was “Winnie ille Pooh.” I just typed that in Google, and I now see that it’s called “Winnie ille Pu.” Perhaps, it was only after we invented the compact disc that we could deduce that the Latin equivalent of “Pooh” is “Pu.”

This is Mr. Bronson. I think you can tell the kind of person he was from this photo. He signed my yearbook; it’s a quote from Catullus.



“Ave atque vale, puella.” (Hail and farewell, girl.)

When I was in college, I remember that Melissa and I used to have “Latin downs.” One of us would yell, “Latin down!”, and then we’d both yell Latin phrases at each other. Melissa didn't take Latin, but since she was studying medicine, I guess she was dotted line away from most Latin expressions!

Quod hod locum! (I always remember Melissa saying this one, but I have no idea what it means!)
Caveat emptor!
Pro bono!
Quid pro quo!

I think I finally beat her with the Latin translation of “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.” My grandmother had sent me it in a card. It was something she found in Reader’s Digest of all places.

Anyway, after Nathan left my desk, I rummaged through my high school pile of papers. Nathan came out of his room again, and I said, “This is where you get it from!”

He walked over to my desk, giving me his “Oh, no, what is Mom talking about now” look. I said, “See, I took Latin, too.” He picked up the paper certificate I had given him and said, “What’s this?!”



He saw my name on it. He looked puzzled; it was as if he couldn’t comprehend I had a past. I said, “My Senior year of high school, I got the Latin award!”

He said, “Oh.” I said, “Well, that’s where you get it from!” He didn’t seem that enthused, though I didn’t blame him. After all, it was just Latin, a dead language.

Of course, I didn’t tell him that I didn’t have to take an exam to receive the award. My Latin class comprised myself and a lovely sophomore named Ursula (“little bear” in Latin). I got the Latin award by default; of course, in my opinion, anyone who takes Latin deserves an award!

Nathan, unlike me, doesn’t like to write. I wish he did, but he doesn’t; however, I doubt my Latin then was ever as good as Nathan’s is now. One of the many beautiful things about having children is how they often do fill in your blanks. ♥

Paper Doll

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When I was little, I had Barbie dolls that I could dress. I also had paper dolls, which were always given to me by my grandmother. I can’t remember when I last saw a little girl with paper dolls. Like origami, are paper dolls one of those lost amusements of the 1970s?

I have some. I bought them for Iz. Really, I did!



Has she played with them yet? No. But, she can…when she’s 42 and won't rip them!

Anyway, when I grew up, I realized how much more fun it was to dress myself than a doll. Like paper dolls, I found that “dress up” wasn’t just for little girls. You could be a big girl and enjoy it just as much, especially with old clothes out of someone else’s closet or attic (read “vintage”)!

Clothes are inevitable. They are nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.
~James Laver, Style in Costume

As you all know from yesterday’s post, I am in a bit of a quandary over what to wear to my 30th high school reunion. As I said to one friend, the problem is not that “I have nothing to wear!” The dilemma is that I have to many dresses that I could wear.

When in doubt, wear red.
~Bill Blass

I was talking to Melissa today. She came up with the idea of asking you, my readers, which dress you thought I should wear. While I felt it was a good idea, I also felt that I had to take one of her blog suggestions sooner or later.

She last suggested I write a blog about some dude who spends all day pushing a rock up a hill only to have it roll back down, so he has to do it all over again the next day. Of course, I like to think I can make anything interesting like inanimate objects wearing pearls. I had complained about picking up the house, and she thought the rock dude story could morph into something about how it feels to pick up other people’s messes day after day (read “motherhood”).

Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in;
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all;
Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall.
~William Allen Butler, "Nothing to Wear"

So, let’s begin. Pretend I’m your paper doll, although the only place I’m really flat is in my chest! Ponder the outfits below, which are shown with coordinating shoes and purse, and then vote (scroll down to the very bottom of my blog) for the dress you think I should wear. And, I have more dresses to choose from, but I choose not to tell you how many more! ♥

Our clothes are too much a part of us for most of us ever to be entirely indifferent to their condition: it is as though the fabric were indeed a natural extension of the body, or even of the soul.
~Quentin Bell

China Girl



On the subject of dress almost no one, for one or another reason, feels truly indifferent: if their own clothes do not concern them, somebody else's do.
~Elizabeth Bowen

The Rose



Fashion is architecture: it is a matter of proportions.
~Coco Chanel

Black or White



All women's dresses, in every age and country, are merely variations on the eternal struggle between the admitted desire to dress and the unadmitted desire to undress.
~Lin Yutang

Black Velvet



Where's the man could ease a heart
Like a satin gown?
~Dorothy Parker, "The Satin Dress"

Gold Digger



The dress must not hang on the body but follow its lines. It must accompany its wearer and when a woman smiles the dress must smile with her.
~Madeleine Vionnet

Remember the Time?

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High school memories. Are yours in the back of your head? Are they in that Cusinart 2.5 quart saucepan on your stove’s back burner? Are they in the far right corner of your dining room buried under that colossal dust kitty that you’ve been meaning to suck up with the vacuum for the last 3 weeks? Or, are they buried in the backyard along with your former pet hamster, Algonquin Neapolitan Hamy the 8th? (By the way, if you ever need a name for your new pet hamster, go here.)

This last year, my high school yearbook was opened at least once a month. This occurred when I gathered with my old, but suddenly new, high school girlfriends, the Lovelies. In fact, if I hadn’t been unemployed, I might never have had the “time” to reacquaint myself with each and every one of them. Just like when we were in high school, I can’t imagine being a phone call away from any of them ever again.



(L-R: Anne, Cathy, Laura, Marcia, Melissa, and me, circa 1980)

What did you say?
I look the same.
God, I love you!

I loved high school; in fact, I liked it better than college. I had a wonderful friend in college, Bitsy, and I loved her dearly. She and I were inseparable during those years; however, on a different level, I never felt like I had the “group” of friends in college that I did in high school.

I was not “popular” in high school, well, I was not how “popular” was defined in our high school. I don’t think I dwelled on that in high school nor did I long to date a football player. Okay, I lied; I did have a crush on one, but crush is the furthest it ever got, which probably was good thing given I once saw a sign posted high up in the hallway stating that this particular individual had “mean beer farts!”

Anyway, this week, high school is front and center in my mind; there’s also an associated wardrobe dilemma. (Yes, it’s not that I don’t have a dress to wear; it’s that I don’t know which one to wear!) This Saturday is my –cringe-gulp-gasp-OMG-is-the-football-player-with-the-mean-beer-farts-going-to-be-there? 30th high school reunion.

Thirty years. Back then, I had 70 years ahead of me, more if I was lucky, but I don't think I have that now given genetics. Today, I think, "Where did those thirty years go?! I'm still 18! Yes, I am!"

One of my Lovely friends recently told me that she never felt like she fit it in high school. I always felt like I fit in. Well, I fit into my crowd of friends; she was part of that crowd. So, you see, dear Lovely Melissa, you did fit in!

This is Melissa; she was featured in the Boston Globe.



When this was taken, she was in veterinarian school at Tufts. When her Dad asked the Tufts admissions people what she should do if she didn't get into veterinarian school, they said, "She should apply to medical school." Did you know that it is harder to get into veterinarian school than medical school? Therefore, if I have an ache or pain, I always ask her about it first!

Surely, some of us didn’t fit into other social crowds. We were not theater people nor were we the ones who smoked pot outside by the outdoor pursuit course. I’d like to think now that we were a crowd who had a little bit of everyone; yes, we were the United Nations crowd!

Note that I did participate in Model UN, so I think that entitles me to say that. Of course, my first Model UN gig at Salem High School in New Hampshire was a tough one. I was Afghanistan, and the girl I stayed with, Dana, was Russia.

This was right after Russia invaded Afghanistan. The ironic thing was that she and I got along very well. So, I felt very guilty that I was now quite literally sleeping with the enemy.

Anyway, I’ve already shown some of my embarrassing high school photos, so why stop now? I participated in volleyball (along with Laura, Cathy, and Anne) and track. Here’s me at a track meet at Acton-Boxborough. How do I remember that when I don’t remember what I had for dinner last night? I have no idea! (P.S. That’s Marcia Lovely wearing my Lincoln-Sudbury sweatshirt.)




I also participated in the previously mentioned Model UN, became the Program Director of the new radio station my senior year by correctly identifying a song by Led Zeppelin, and I wrote for the school newspaper.



I still have my high school folder full of papers and newspaper articles I wrote. I have a scrapbook full of track and volleyball newspaper clippings. I didn’t think I was that sentimental until I came across the rose I carried at graduation and the ticket to my prom along with the corsage that Doug gave me.



I fondly remember a toga party I went to in high school. I know a few of the Lovelies were in attendance. I made my toga out of a Peanuts sheet, and we sang “Old Black Water” over and over again.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, the day after the party, I was accused of throwing up in the bathroom hamper. I denied it vehemently until it was confirmed that someone else had thrown up in the bathroom hamper. Humph! Drinking and subsequent barfing was a skill at which I only mastered at the end of my senior year in college; this is why I haven’t had a Southern Comfort sour in 26 years.

All in all, when I look back, I was very fortunate to have grown up in a nice town, have gone to a good school, and to have met a lot of good friends. That’s a lot of goods I know, but it was all good to me then and it still is now. Of course, there were some painful times, but as far as I know, my birth certificate didn’t say “N/A” under “Emotional Turmoil.”

After I signed up for my high school reunion last Fall, I got an email via a high school website from a classmate named Kenny. I was surprised, because he was an athlete and his picture was definitely next to our high school’s definition of “popular.” He wrote:

“Jean, your dad was a baseball coach of mine when i was 12 and i want you to know that i thought he was the best. just thought you would like to hear that he really was a great guy and people still think of him. Kenny”

I wrote him back and thanked him for his lovely words. If there was a time I needed to hear something like that, it was then. If I had any reservations about anyone in high school, whether they were in my crowd or not, I cancelled them all after reading his note.

Lately, I find I need to keep myself moving through the days, and while I do, it’s most important to linger in the happy times, whether they be in the present or in the past. To be trite, I know happy times will be here again. Life’s cyclical, isn’t it? When everything seems all wrong, you have to know that everything will be all right again soon.

Most people ponder their past. Some even wish to go back to a certain point in time, so they can change the course of their life. I know; I’ve been there before.

I have regretted some decisions I’ve made in my life. At the same time, they are hard to regret now given that I made most of them with the best of intentions. Instead of regret, I now only think it would be nice to be 8, 20, 30, or 39 again for a moment or two.

I would tell Julie, my sister, not to run through the sprinkler with Patches, our cat. I would spend another night at the Stein, Brandeis’ pub, with Bitsy trying to unstick our $1 Waltham Supermarket flip-flops from the beer-saturated floor. I would sit on Crane Beach for another day with my Mom. And, I would go up to my Dad’s girlfriend after he died and kick her ass for not being with him when he died. These are my only real regrets now.

“If we spend our time with regrets over yesterday, and worries over what might happen tomorrow, we have no today in which to live.”

Sometimes I think I might like to go back to high school. I had a different feeling then, one which captured love and security especially within the four walls of my parent’s home. Today, I am glad that I can go back Saturday night even if it's just for the night. ♥

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School Vacation, Day Five: Isabelle Georges!

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I was wondering when I would hear it. After four days of school vacation and having no fun activity planned for today, I knew Iz’s claim of total and utter boredom was just around the corner. Little did I know that when I went into the family room this morning, I’d see a little blonde head behind a pile of toys, and it would speak to me from the corner of the room and say, “Mommy, I’m bored!”

Iz was supposed to fly to Philadelphia and then drive to see her grandparents for the weekend; however, available flights out of Manchester weren’t plentiful today. It worked out well anyway, because she told me she was afraid to fly by herself. Of course, this was the same girl who bravely got on a flight a year and a half ago and flew to Philadelphia by herself.

I wondered what changed fearlessness into frightfulness. She had gotten older, so maybe it was her increasing years, which weren’t really many. Though, when I was 23 years old, I never braked my bike when going 25 m.p.h. down a hill; these days, I do!

Anyway, like any parent, I immediately offered a number of activities that Iz could partake in.

You can walk Monty around the yard.
No.
You can pick up your shoes in the entry way and put them in your room.
No.
You can clean up the mess in this room.
No.

I usually cleaned the house and did laundry on Fridays. So, I didn’t plan on a trip to the museum, the beach, or the mall. I figured that Iz might like to help out, but obviously her participation in cleaning was off limits while it was still officially school vacation.

She then said again, “I’m bored.” I said, “Well, why don’t you go to the after-school vacation program then?” She scrunched up her little face and said, “Noooooo!” It felt ironic that Nathan had no worries leaving me but Iz never wanted to.

She sat on the couch and said, “I miss Mackenzie, Nicole, Mindy, and Rachel.” These were her friends at school. I knew she was not only bored, but she was missing school in a big way when she sighed and said, “And, I miss Miss Tessier!”

I said, “Well, school starts again on Monday.” She seemed to get no solace from this. And going from first gear to fourth gear, she asked, “Mommy, why is there no kids day?”

This must be a parent-child Frequently Asked Question. I asked Iz what she meant, and she said, “Well, there’s Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, but there is no kids day!” I remembered how my Mom responded to me when I asked this very same question of her years ago and said, “Every day is kids’ day!” Iz scrunched up her little face again when she heard that.

I told her that we really had to clean up the family room, so I could vacuum. She frowned and sighed. If had been employed by me that very minute, I’m sure she would have quit.

Quite surprisingly, she got off the couch and began to pick up her Barbie dolls. I left to go fetch the vacuum upstairs, and as I walked up the stairs, I heard, “But, Mommy, aren’t you going to help me?”

I like to call this phenomenon The Mess According to Iz. She can make numerous messes; however, when it’s time to make the mess into a memory, it would appear that the mess is not her sole responsibility to clean up. You see, somehow when I was making dinner, doing the laundry, or vacuuming the rug, my evil twin had aided and abetted her in committing the messy crime in question; therefore, I was legally bound to help her clean it up.

Another thing I love about children at this age is their ability to believe. When Iz first explained her Big Mess Theory to me, she explained it to me with such conviction, almost as if she was reading it out of a law book, that I almost believed her. The last few years, I’ve listened to her explain her It Was Not Me Who Left the Bathroom Light On theory, her It Was Not Me Who Forgot to Flush the Toilet theory, and her I’m Not The One Who Squeezed Thunderbolt and Made Him Howl theory; she is so convincing that most times I stand there, think “Maybe she has a point,” and then shake my head violently and say, “Hey, that’s not right!”

When I arrived back downstairs and entered the kitchen, Iz yelled, “Mommy, why am I doing this by myself?” I said, “Isabelle Georges!” And, she knew I meant business, because I don’t play my first name-middle name card a lot. Iz glared at me and said, “Mommy, don’t say Isabelle Georges,” and I said, “I’ll help you in a minute.”

In five minutes, I came back into the family room. She had picked up everything. Proudly and somewhat amazed, she said, “Look, Mommy! I picked it all up.”

I thanked her, and then she said, “I’m going upstairs.” It was a quick exit. I wondered if she was on a roll and was going to pick up her room or she feared she might be cleaning out the refrigerator in another five minutes.

After I vacuumed, I went upstairs to check on her. It’s amazing how cleaning can make a bored child resourceful; she was on her bed, watching a DVD, and coloring. For the rest of the afternoon, I didn’t hear “I’m bored” again!

I was only summoned three times thereafter. The first time I heard, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! This is so cool. Come quick!” She wanted me to view a Cardinal that perched itself outside her bedroom window.



The second time, there were no words. I was sitting at my desk and a Polly Pocket doll was dropped onto my desk along with blue plastic pants and a green plastic top. I hate dressing these little plastic people; dislike is a kinder word, but I really do hate this!

As you can see, I was somewhat successful. I think Plume the kitten has the right idea. The only useful purpose for these little plastic clothes is as cat toys to be batted about the house and carried around in the mouth when not being batted.



The third time, I heard, “Mom, come look at Liam!” I sincerely hoped when I arrived in her room that Liam would not be squeezed into Iz’s American Girl doll’s gaucho pants and embroidered peasant top. I was relieved to see that she had only found a new use for Liam – head rest.



So ends another school vacation. At any age, the thrill of being totally unoccupied is fleeting. The desire for activity and friendship is always missed before too long. On Monday, Iz would certainly look forward to going back to school; and I’d continue to look forward to a job that I could go back to soon. ♥

Happy Weekend, everyone!

School Vacation, Day Four: Invisible Son

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While it’s obvious that I spend a lot of time with Iz, especially during school vacations, you might be wondering where Nathan’s been lately. For those who don’t know, I have two children; Iz is 7 going on I-know-more-than-Mommy, and Nathan is 17 going on my-Mom-is-crazy-but-she-is-the-gullible-parent-so-I-will-put-up-with-her-because-she-gets-me-out-of-school-on-religious-holidays-that-I-don’t-believe-in. Anyway, this school vacation is the first where Nathan has all but fallen off the radar screen; thus, I’m beginning to detest his mobility.

Nathan got his license in February after it took him a bit (okay, it seemed like forever) to get his learner’s permit, finish driver’s education, and then finally be ready for the license test. Lately, his license seemed like a parental Murphy’s Law or “Field of Dreams” gone wrong; if they get their license, they will come…home only when they feel like it. In the last week, I had only seen Nathan four or five times, and most of those times he was horizontal and fast asleep.

It’s funny how unalike your kids can be; mine don't have the same father, which makes them different, but I know from having siblings that even if you have the same father, you can all still be very different. As an example, I practically had to force the car keys into Nathan’s hand. Then there’s Iz; if given the opportunity, she’d take my car keys tomorrow, if I let her, and do her best to drive herself to Sephora, Claire’s, or Chuck E. Cheese.

Lately, this is how I know Nathan’s in the house.



Does he still have blonde hair? Is he still tall? I’d never know, because this is what I “see” of Nathan lately; well, I imagine he’s sleeping, because I can’t hear the sound of gunfire coming from Call of Duty XXII.

Sufficed to say, now that Nathan has a license and a job, I don’t see him much. He gets up, takes the car, and goes off to school. He manages to put down his X-box controller, take the car, and go to work, or he walks in the front door, plays X-box and/or eats two bagels and drinks a root beer and then asks, “Do you mind if I take the car and sleep over _insert_Matt_or_Ben’s_name_here_ tonight?”

When Nathan’s not a door with bumper stickers on it, he’s a ghost. He floats in and floats out, an apparition in soccer shorts carrying a backpack or in his tan khakis and red work shirt. I know he’s there, because he’s always jingling those car keys as he says in a low background voice “Mom, I’m going to _insert_work_Matt’s_soccer_practice_here_.”

Yesterday morning, he came home after staying at Matt’s the night before. I saw on his Facebook page that he had been up for two days in a row. At the time, I thought it was teenager hype, but when Iz and I left for the beach yesterday morning, Nathan had morphed into the door with the bumper stickers on it.

I tried calling him on the way home from the beach to see if there was garlic bread in the freezer. He didn’t answer his cell phone. Either he was screening his calls or he was still horizontal.

After three hours of driving, two hours at the beach, and 194 questions from Iz, one of which was “Is Florida in Masschusetts?”, I had to go grocery shopping. Iz and I shopped; she is such a good little shopper. By the time I arrived home, I was exhausted.

When I got home, I noticed that the screen door wasn’t fully shut and the front door was open. Liam, Maine Coon Cat and Escape Artist, can push the screen door open. Once in the kitchen, I saw Nathan on the couch and said, “Nathan, make sure you close the screen door tightly.”

If truth be told, I might have sounded a tad bitchy when I said it. Like I said before, I’m not perfect, and I am not the perfect mother. I was tired, and I think "Other Frustrations" spoke to Nathan instead of "Mom."

Nathan got up from the couch, walked briskly to the front door, and said, “There’s a solution to that. I’ll just close the door!” He slammed the front door. He walked back to the couch and finished eating.

He had never spoken to me like that before. Of course, I didn’t speak to him the way I did very often either. With a sinkful of dishes staring at me, dirty cat boxes lurking in the basement, and a sandy child who needed dinner and a bath, I felt overwhelmed and horrible in that moment.

Nathan is a wonderful kid. Last Friday night, he went to a magic card tournament in Lowell with his friends; it was from midnight to 6am. I know you’re thinking the same thing I did; these kids are vampires, right? (They’re not; some new cards were released at midnight. Hey, we’re all passionate about something, right!)

That night, he texted me about his work hours for the weekend. He also told me where he was going. I gave him the Be Careful and Call Me If You Need Anything parental speech. He said, “Yeah, Dad already told me this. I’m not generally the one who does stupid shit.”

He was right. I had done more “stupid shit” in the last 10 years than Nathan would ever do in his entire lifetime. He had a point!

After Iz was off in bed last night, I sat at my desk pondering my potentially non-existent unemployment benefit, the house that I love and dislike in Nantucket, which is still not for sale, and how I wished I hadn't used the tone I did when speaking to Nathan earlier in the evening. So, I wasn’t really pondering; I was really upset. At that point, Nathan came out of his room; I thought he was heading to the shower.

He asked, “Can I sleep over Ben’s tonight?” I said half-heartedly, “Sure.” I think Nathan sensed my half-heartedness, and he wrapped his arms around me to hug me. I started to cry and said, “I’m so sorry I was short with you tonight. I’m so upset about still not having a job and this house in Nantucket is killing me.”

I had never cried in front of Nathan. Actually, the only time I think Nathan saw me cry was when I told him that his grandfather was going to die. Nathan said, “I’m sorry, too."

He went on to say, "I shouldn't have slammed the door.” And, he didn’t stop hugging me. He just hugged me tighter.

I know the first rule of parenting is not to be “friends” with your child. When I thought about how I let Nathan be sick (when I knew he wasn’t) or picked him up early when he wanted to avoid a boring day at school, I didn’t think I was being his “friend.” I was just being the “gullible” parent, but, shhhh, don’t tell Quinn.

Last night, I realized that the less I feel I have Nathan around, the more I have him present in a more grown-up way. I have a lovely young man. He now realizes that his Mom is not Wonder Woman; she is merely a wonderful yet “crazy” woman who needs his love and support every now and then.

When I was sitting on the couch this morning drinking my coffee and watching “Full House” with Iz, Nathan came into the family room. He was wearing his shorts, had his back pack slung over his shoulder with his cobalt blue laptop peeking out of it, and he was jiggling his car keys while also trying to balance his iPod and his cell phone in his hands. He said, “Mom, I’m leaving now. I have to take Ben to the dentist.”*

*Obviously, both Quinn and I have taken advantage of the personal assistant aspect of the driver’s license. Ben is Nathan’s little brother.

I went to get up to kiss him good-bye; instead, he came over to the couch and gave me a big hug. I asked, “So, when will you be back tomorrow?” He said, “I’ll call you and let you know.”

Earlier in the month, that statement might have bothered me a bit; however, this April vacation week, I didn’t go to Disney World, Atlantis, or math camp. I arrived at a new level of parenthood. Even if the son is gone; he’ll always shine in my life, especially when I need him the most. ♥

A Sure Sign That Spring is Here Note: The lilacs, one of my favorites, are in bloom.



Monty needs the furminator. Get out fur! (Of course, that’s only funny if you say it like Arnold Schwarzenegger!)

School Vacation, Day Three: Beachin'!

School Vacation, Day Two: Brace Yourself

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Today was a day that Iz had anticipated for quite a while; I wouldn’t say she looked forward to it like the Father-Daughter dance or her birthday. She definitely knew the day was coming; however, this past week she had been sitting on the fence between the “this is no big deal” backyard and the “lose sleep over this” front yard. The growling and salivating dog with the spiked collar who was occupying both yards was the orthodontist.

After her last visit to the dentist, the dental tech recommended that Iz see the orthodontist soon. The dental tech handed me a sheet with all of Iz’s problem areas circled. In addition to lady bugs and sharks, things that scared Iz, she had to now be fearful of crowding, a cross bite, and a gap due to thumb sucking, which our dentist abhorred.

The dentist had told Iz before that should really stop sucking her thumb; the same dentist , who I never really cared for, also told Nathan the same thing. Iz only sucked her thumb at night, and it seemed like something she would outgrow just like Nathan did. (Nathan didn’t suck his thumb; he was more creative and skillfully sucked the ring and middle fingers of his right hand.)

When Nathan first saw the orthodontist, the orthodontist said that it was no problem that Nathan sucked his fingers. Nathan seemed embarrassed at first and then relieved. Shortly thereafter, Nathan just stopped sucking his fingers. And, this was why I really liked this orthodontist; he told Nathan is was okay and perfectly natural to comfort himself in this way.

Iz was aware of the orthodontist from tagging along on Nathan’s visits to him. I think she always associated his visits with pain. I don’t know why because Nathan usually portrayed the visits as an inconvenience that cut into his after-school X-box time; perhaps Iz wrongly translated “pain in the butt” as “pain in my mouth.”

This morning, Iz was scheduled to go off to the school vacation program for a few hours. As I ran around gathering her things and putting together my cycling necessities, she walked up to me and handed me a piece of white paper. I asked, “What’s this?” and she said, “It’s a ticket.”



She was right; it was an “orthodtist tikit.” (I thought that the spelling of orthodontist was particularly good considering she’s only 7!) I asked, “Why do I need this?”

I thought I was given a violation because I was “speeding” her off to the orthodontist’s before the official “orthodonture” season had begun. She said, “It’s to remind you.” Note to Self: Iz just might be my future partner in Law & Order crime given the tickets she’s always handing out.

I was encouraged that she was reminding me to take her and not standing there having a coughing fit to persuade me to cancel her appointment due to one of her usual imagined illnesses. I hadn’t forgotten, and I told her I would pick her up at tooth hurty. (Okay, that was lame, but I need to have a lame joke in here every now and then.)

When I picked her up at 2:30, I gathered up her belongings. The first thing she asked was, “Are we going now?” I told her we were, and, totally changing gears, the next thing out of her mouth was, “Mom, someone got earwax on my iPod!”

I asked how someone got earwax on her iPod. She said that it was either Katherine, Taysia, or Amanda, because they had all borrowed it. She said that Miss Aly had tried to clean it off; and, I was not looking forward to seeing that mess.

When we got in the car, Iz said, “Here, Mom” and flung her iPod over into the front seat. Miss Aly hadn’t done a great job cleaning the ear bud as I suspected, though I didn't blame her. I took a deep breath, found a napkin, and then I wiped the rest of the offensive orange mess off the ear bud; I then said, “Iz, friends don't let friends borrow iPods, okay?”

As we drove off, she asked, “Do we need to go on the highway?” I love the way little kids think, well, until adolescence ruins the little kid way of thinking! Iz didn’t ask me how long it would take to get there; however, I knew the highway indicated to her whether it would be a short or a long trip.

I told her that we didn’t need to take the highway and reminded her it was a few minutes away and a place she had been before. She then asked, “Is the doctor a boy or a girl?” I said, “He’s a boy,” to which she answered a very even tempered “Oh.”

There ended the orthodontist questions. It was back to “Is your Mommy in heaven?” and “Where are Rover’s ashes?” Just before we entered the driveway, she shouted, “There it is! I remembered, Mom!”

After we checked in, we sat in the waiting area. Iz whispered to me, “Mom, are you coming in with me?” I told her I was.

She seemed relieved and then looked at the receptionist and said, “Look, Mommy. That lady has braces.” I told her that sometimes adults get braces, too. And, like clockwork going from the issue at hand to basic instincts, she asked “Can I go to the bathroom?”

After her bathroom visit, we sat a bit longer in the waiting room. Iz didn’t seem interested in the TV (Hannah Montana) or the magazines; she was totally entertained and amused by the activity going on around her. When a dental tech came out and announced “Jeff” to the room, Iz said, “How come girl doctors keep coming out?”

In less than a minute, another “girl doctor” came out and announced “Isabelle.” We followed her into a spacious office with an exam chair in the far right corner. Once we sat down, the girl doctor went over all the things the doctor would do and look for with Iz.

She also explain the doctor’s incentive program; each visit, Iz would receive a wooden nickel. She said, “When you get enough nickels, you can exchange them for things like American Express gift cards, beanie babies, or iTunes gift cards.” She then sked Iz, “Maybe you don’t have an iPod though?”

Iz said, “Yes, I do!” The girl doctor said, “Well, you’re more advanced than me!” Then Iz replied, “But it’s covered with earwax!”

I cringed for a moment. Another thing to love about this age is TMI (Too Much Information). The girl doctor laughed, and before I could say anything, the doctor entered the room.

After he played several games with Iz, he asked her to climb up into the chair. He began to raise it up, and I saw her eyes get wide. When he stopped it, he began to drop it down so her head was lower than her body and she squealed; he pretended he had made an error, though it was obvious he was playing with her again.

He took a look in her mouth. He started to randomly say letters and numbers to the girl doctor like “A-1 through A-6” or “B7 through B-12, top and bottom.” If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn he was dictating his lottery numbers to her. But, I figured he was just commenting on Iz’s crowding, cross bite, and open space.

He then asked her to hold up her hands. Alas, I knew where he was going with this. He said, “I’m just looking for something that you may be putting in your mouth,” and then he grabbed onto her right thumb and said, “I think this is what it is, right?” She confessed.

When he was done, he lowered Iz back down to Earth. She hopped off and sat in the chair, and she was allowed to pick a toy from his toy chest. He sat down in front of his computer and asked her when and where she sucked her thumb; she had to direct her attention away from her new mini-squirt gun, which I knew she thought would make a nifty concealed weapon with which to sabotage Nathan at 8am on Saturday mornings, to answer his thumb sucking questions.

He then explained to her why she had her space and showed her how thumb sucking affected her teeth. He dragged a slider across the bottom of a picture of a mouth, which illustrated how more sucking meant a bigger space. I was beginning to think that he had changed his stance on thumb sucking when he said, “It’s good that you only suck your thumb at night. You’re halfway to stopping then.”

I was relieved, and he told Iz that he wanted to check her in 5 months. After he left, I asked the girl doctor, “So, he doesn’t think she should stop sucking her thumb, does she?” She said, “Oh, no. He believes that it’s okay for children to suck their thumbs or fingers until they’re 8. He doesn’t believe that you should prevent a child from doing that.”

I was relieved; I didn’t want to have to put something bitter on her thumb or make her wear a sock over her thumb at night. I liked this doctor all over again today, because he believed that kids should have their little comforts, even if it meant he had to spend more time fixing things to accommodate them. Certainly, I knew the thumb sucking might make her mouth more costly; however, it was worth it to me to let her keep whatever gave her comfort, especially on those nights when she might dream about ladybugs or sharks. ♥

School Vacation, Day One: Teach Your Children Well

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In our house, change seems to end up everywhere except in our wallets. I find change in the washing machine; I find change on the floor of Nathan’s room. I have even found change in the bathtub, which is most likely Iz’s doing though Nathan might try to blame it on the kitten.

Like most homes, we have a jar into which most of our spare change gets tossed. The jar is emptied every six months of so. Usually, Iz and I empty the change into a plastic bag, go to the nearest CoinStar machine, and then take our earnings to the mall for Sephora and Claire’s purchases.



In addition to the jar, change seems to build up in the cup holders in the car.



At a certain point, it becomes unsafe to put my travel mug in the cup holder due to tipping issues. Of course, I could clean out the cup holder; however, there’s a time, a place, and a set schedule for relieving ourselves of our change. And, it’s probably tied to the phase of the moon and how bored and broke we are!

I wanted to give Iz something to do today; however, I wanted an activity that wouldn’t require too much of my energy. Given it was school vacation week, I knew I was going to have to find entertainment all week; thus, I didn’t want to burn myself out the first day of the week! I proposed to Iz yesterday that we get rid of all our change.

She eagerly agreed. She asked, “Can we go spend it at Sephora?” I told her we’d think about it today.

When I got up this morning, I felt like I really wanted to clean and organize something; thus, the change activity would be a good one for both Iz and I. But, somehow the thought of going to the mall was totally unappealing. I knew I needed a different kind of gratification today given the way I was feeling, and then I had an idea.

When I was sitting on the couch next to Iz this morning drinking my coffee and watching “Full House,” Iz asked, “Mommy, are we going to do the change thing today?” I said, “Yes. But, I have a different idea for the money.” She asked, “What?”

I told her that we really didn’t need anything from Sephora, Claire’s, or any other store at the mall; we had enough of everything. I looked at her, and she still sat there listening intently without any protest thus far in regard to my “just say no to shopping” speech. I dropped the final bombshell by saying, “Instead of going shopping, why don’t we take the money and buy food for the food pantry?”

I sat and waited for her disappointed, “Oh, Mommy!” It never came. Immediately, she said, “Okay!”

I got the change jar down from the shelf, and we proceeded to dump its contents into a large plastic bag. We then went outside, got in the car, and dug out the change from the car cup holders and added it, some of it notably sticky and gooey from coffee dribbles, to the bag. We scoured the washing machine, the floor of Nathan’s room, and any other place in the house where we thought we might find a stray quarter or penny.

Iz even dumped out my purse, took all the change that fell out, and added it to the bag too; I was mugged but in a good way! Twenty minutes later, we had a huge bag of change. It was so heavy Iz could barely tote it around; she then said, “Wow! How much money do you think is in here? $20?!”



At that point, she seemed more excited about knowing how much money we had than what we were actually going to buy with it. I told her I thought we had $50. She asked, “Can we buy a lot of food with that?”

I told her that I thought we could do quite well with $50, but before we went to cash in the change, we should figure out what kinds of food to buy. I went to the food pantry’s website, and I printed out the list. Iz asked if she could carry the list since the bag of change was too heavy.

As we drove to the store, she said, “We need to buy 100% juice, tuna, jelly, ramen noodles, chicken noodle soup, soap, shampoo, conditioner, and toothpaste.” She then asked me, “Do they have shoes?” I told her that I thought everyone had shoes and we just needed to worry about food today.

When we arrived at the CoinStar machine, Iz wanted to be responsible for the change purge. I opened the bag, dumped some change in the tray to get her started, and she carefully pushed the coins down the tray. As the coins went down, she watched the screen above and every minute she shouted out how much money we had so far.

I collected all the rejected change at the bottom while she kept feeding the machine. There were foreign coins, Chuck E. Cheese tokens, and even a few wooden nickels (courtesy of Nathan’s orthodontist). When Iz had pushed the last nickel down the tray, she glanced up for the final total and screeched, “Mommy, we have $102.35!!!!”



I was amazed that we had that much. And then Iz asked, “Mommy, what do we do now?” The machine asked for our zip code, which I helped her enter, and she pressed the “Enter” button to expel our receipt. Then she said like a CoinStar professional, “Mommy, it’s going to come out right here.”

She grabbed the receipt and said, “Let’s go shopping!” She began to push the cart and walked off toward the bakery. I had never really seen her this excited; it seemed that while buying a lip gloss at Sephora made her feel like a big girl, buying groceries for the food pantry made her feel like a very good girl.

When I caught up to Iz, she said, “What do we need, Mom?” I said, “Tuna fish.” As she pushed the cart past the aisles, she scanned the sign over each aisle muttering to herself, “Tuna fish, tuna fish, tuna fish,” and then she said, “It’s down here!”

She went to grab the first can, and I said to her, “Let’s see what’s on sale and compare prices.” Iz then asked, “Can I put the things in the basket?” It became apparent to me that both mother and daughter liked all aspects (the list, pushing the shopping cart, looking for bargains, crossing things off the list) of grocery shopping.

After we had picked out 20 bags of ramen noodles, 12 four-packs of tuna fish, 10 cans of chicken noodle soup, 6 boxes of tooth paste, 6 bottles of 100% fruit juice, and 10 bars of soap, I said, “I think we’ve spent all our money now.” We pushed the carriage to the check out, and Iz began to unload everything onto the conveyor belt. Iz said to the cashier quite proudly, “We used all our change to buy this for people who don’t have food.”

I almost laughed out loud. The casher said to Iz, “Really? That’s very nice.” Iz beamed and pushed the carriage through the line.

When the last can of chicken noodle soup was scanned, the casher said, “$86.04.” I thought I was keeping track of what we spent, but apparently, my math was off. I said, “Aw, we could have bought more.”

Iz said, “Mommy, we can go back.” I said, “No. We got a lot.” And as we left the store, I thought of a good way to spend the last bit of money on another very worthy cause and said, “Iz, there’s $16 left. Do you want to go buy yourself a book or two at the bookstore?” to which I got a gleeful “Yes!”

After we put all the food in the food pantry box, we drove to the nearby bookstore. Iz spent an hour looking and finally decided on two chapter books. As an additional treat, I let her pick out a wolf bookmark, which only put us over budget by eight cents!



Lately, given the economy and my unemployment, I felt it was good for Iz to understand that there are times when you have to give up things or you give up things in order to give to others who have less. Today, Iz learned about helping others and got a well-deserved treat for her efforts. It was a very good way for both us to begin the week, remembering and appreciating how much we have and what’s most important. ♥

Census and Sensibility

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Have you all filled out and returned your census forms to indicate that you are a family of 4.37 with an incontinent pug, a cat with three legs, and a lizard that went missing last Christmas, though it may still be living in the walls of your family room, so it may merit including in the family total? I’ve done mine. Why am I reminding you?

I’m practicing. I have a job as a census enumerator. They called me today.

What’s that you say?
Does the blue, green, and white mold growing on the macaroni salad from Easter that’s still in your refrigerator count as a life form and as a subsequent family member?
I’ll ask when I attend the four-day training session at the end of the month, but I don’t think so; however, you might be able to count the gentleman friend of Aunt Flo’s who came for Easter dinner with her and is still sleeping on your couch in the living room. By the way, you might want to check for a pulse.

During “Curb Your Enthusiasm” but before I went to the gym to avoid the after-Curb-Your-Enthusiasm episode of “Law & Order,” the phone rang. Not feeling like answering the phone and hearing the CVS robot voice announce an available prescription or the Waste Management robot voice proclaim that my trash collection next week would not be interrupted by the Patriot’s Day holiday on Monday, I let the answering machine pick up.

A man with a very commanding and deep voice started to speak. I thought, “Oh, another robot voice!” When the voice said, “You took the Enumerator test, and we’d like to know if you’re still interested in the position,” I ran to the phone and pressed the Talk button.

He seemed a surprised when I said, “Hello?! Hello?!” I was hoping I sounded like I had just come in from a 10-mile run and not like I had made a mad dash from the sofa after flinging the remote control down. He began to repeat the information that he had left thus far on his answering machine message, and then he said he needed to ask me a few questions.

Since this was a “federal” job, I was hoping the questions weren’t going to be too invasive like the last time I met with the Lovelies. I entered the party, and before I could get my coat off, I was asked, “When was the first time you had sex?” I looked around quickly, because I thought for a moment that I had entered the wrong party, but after visually identifying the usual suspects, I laughed out loud.

He asked, “You will have to ask people their age, their race, and how much they make. Are you comfortable with that?” I said I was; however, I lied. I hate asking people their age. When I dare to ask, they usually say, “Oh, guess how old I am!” and I always make them older than they really are!

He asked, “You will have to go into many different kinds of neighborhoods. Are you comfortable with that?” I almost laughed. Different kinds of neighborhoods? I wasn’t sure if he was implying I might need to carry a concealed weapon or that I should make sure I left my credit cards at home in case I hit a an abfab shopping area.

He asked, “You will go to multi-family homes where there will be stairs and perhaps have to take elevators. Are you comfortable with that?” I wanted to say, “Dude, I bike and run. Send me to Robinson Crusoe’s house if he hasn’t filled out his census yet, because I can make it to that island, scale those palm trees, swing by a vine, and knock on the front door of his tree house!” But, I said, “Yes.”

He asked, “Do you have a valid driver’s license and a car?” I must have paused when I heard that question, and then I answered, “Yes!” He said, “You’d be surprised at how many people say no to that one.”

When the conversation came to the end, he told me that the training would take place over four days during the last week of this month. He said, “When you come to the training, you need to bring a check for direct deposit, two forms of ID, and you will be fingerprinted because this is a federal job.” Most would cringe at “fingerprinted.” Being a CSI and Law & Order junkie, I said, “Cool!”

He laughed and said, “Yes. You’ll have the black finger tips.” I said, “Not a problem.” Of course, I had never been fingerprinted, though you all know how much I love a good crime scene. In a way, the census was letting me live a life of crime without committing any crime, and they were going to pay me $18.50 an hour and give me 50 cents a mile for driving my car!

I told one of my friends that I was now an Enumerator, which should in no way be confused with a Common Denominator. He said, “It’s a job.” He was right; because I knew it was a job, too.

It was not my job though. It could be my job temporarily if unemployment benefits were willing. Half of me wanted to bike away the next three months and continue to look for my baby (i.e., the job I am supposed to have)* and then half of me wanted to walk the streets of my community, because I longed for work, camaraderie, and a paycheck that I had earned.

*Whenever I experience the loss of a job opportunity, I say to myself, “That’s not my job.” When I say that, I am always reminded of an episode of Sex in the City that I loved.

Charlotte: [hearing the front door open] Hi, honey. I'm a bad wife. I ordered Chinese.
Harry: I got something from China, too. They're giving us a baby.
Charlotte: What? How?
Harry: I guess God remembered our address. We get her in six months... and here she is.
[hands Charlotte a photo of the baby]
Charlotte: [smiling through tears] That's our baby. I know it. That's really our baby!

Today, I am an Enumerator. Tomorrow, I hope to find my baby. Some day my job will come, and when it does, I hope it’s similar to this one, one which I am applying for. ♥

Happy Weekend! ♥

Wit and Wisdom

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When I listed childhood and adolescent milestones (sleeping through the night, eating solid foods, crawling, talking, walking, going to school, and learning how to drive) in a previous blog, I forgot one, probably because it was most often a painful one. I had neglected to mention having wisdom teeth out.

Recently, I was reminded of this milestone when Nathan complained to me one weekend, “Mom, my gums are killing me right back here.” I asked, “Where?” and Nathan opened his mouth, full of perfectly straight teeth for which we had paid a hefty sum, pointed his finger back towards his molars, and he said, “Rrrrrht errrrre.” I didn’t even have to look; I thought, “Oh, no! Those bastard wisdom teeth!”

We had just gotten rid of the braces. I thought naively, “Well, that’s it then.” But, when I looked in Nathan’s cavernous mouth, I knew it wasn’t over until the fat oral surgeon bill stings!

I also knew it wasn’t something for which I couldn’t say, like with Iz’s growing pains, “Take some ibuprofen, and it’ll be all better in the morning.” Nathan never complained about pain or discomfort, even when he had strep, lice, pneumonia, newly tightened braces, or a badly skinned knee. He was of pre-Revolutionary War Vermont stock; I envisioned him taking a swig of whiskey and biting on a bullet if he ever was in serious pain.

At 3:15 today, we had an appointment with the oral surgeon. Nathan seemed a bit grumpy; however, he wasn’t so grumpy that he didn’t want to drive. Of course, the rule is that if you drive, you get to be the car DJ. I know almost every song by A Tribe Called Quest now, and I actually like some of them.

Prior to our trek today, I had made somewhat of a parenting mistake. When Nathan originally complained to me about his pain, I immediately called the dentist. I scheduled an appointment, took him, and the dental hygienist said, “It’s his wisdom teeth.”

Without thinking, I said out loud, “Oh, dear. I remember having my wisdom teeth out when I was 19. It was horrible.” I asked, “Has oral surgery gotten any better since then?” She laughed and said, “Oh, yes!”

Of course, Nathan was still not understanding the implication of the words “wisdom teeth.” So, he didn’t really absorb what I was talking about. Next out of my mouth was going to be me describing my Mom pulling over the turd brown Dodge Aspen 100 yards before Sudbury Center, so I could vomit all the blood I swallowed during my wisdom tooth surgery; thank goodness, I didn’t get that far down Memory Wisdom Tooth Lane.

The hygienist gave me a referral to an oral surgeon. She then informed me that Nathan was behind in his cleanings. If we stayed for another 45 minutes, they could fit him in for a cleaning.

Nathan muttered under his breath. I said, "What?" He said, "Mom, I'm really hungry now. I said, “Can he have another appointment this week? He’s hungry and grumpy now.”

She said, "Sure. We have something tomorrow." I looked at Nathan, who was still oblivious to the wisdom teeth aspect of our visit, and he said, "Sure." As we left, she laughed and said, "Nathan, please come back less grumpy tomorrow." I had to laugh because I hoped for the same. I was beginning to think this wasn't just hunger; it was [cringe] adolescence!

After we arrived home and Nathan’s fuel gauge was reading “Full” instead of “Hungry,” he began to remember the events of the previous few hours. He said, “So, I might have to have these teeth taken out?” I told him it was probably most likely, and then I slipped again saying, “And, after I had my wisdom teeth out during my freshman college break, I developed mono!”

Of course, Nathan then gave me a sly look and asked, “Mono, Mom?” I said, “Oh, it’s so not what you’re thinking Nathan. I didn’t even had a boyfriend then!” Nathan looked doubtful since I just admitted I had what was sometimes called the “Kissing Disease.”

I said, “Two women in my dorm had it, and I probably got it from them, because 10 women shared one bathroom.” January of my freshman college year was a horrendous one for me. I spent the entire six weeks sick as a dog.*

*Major Guilt Note: It was only recently that I found out that my experience effected someone profoundly. No, it wasn’t Nathan. When this all started to happen with Nathan, Melissa (a.k.a., Dr. Tunabreath) told me that it was suggested that she have her wisdom teeth removed. She told me she didn’t, because she remembered the hell I went through!

These are pictures that she took of me that January. It looks like I’m having fun, but my cheeks weren’t that big normally. And, not many people know this, but after you’ve had difficult oral surgery, a side effect is pushing stuffed bears up your sweater.



As Nathan, Iz, and I walked into the oral surgeon’s office, Iz began to do what she does best. She will never be one of those people who doesn’t ask questions. No event goes unquestioned or without comment; I’m convinced that Iz is really Robin Roberts, Tyra Banks, or Christiane Amanpour in size 6x jeans wearing a Hannah Montana t-shirt while listening to Taylor Swift on her iPod Shuffle.

Iz said, “Do we have to go into the room with Nathan?”
I said, “No.”
She asked, “That’s because he’s a big boy, right?”

Before I could answer that question, she said, “This reminds me of the building where I had my first H1N1 shot.” Again, before I could say a thing, she said, “Remember, I cried when I got my second one.” Gosh, how could I forget, and then I tried to say something, but she said, “But, then I said, oh, that didn’t really hurt at all!”

Once we arrived at the office, I signed three forms in six different places, and, shortly thereafter, Nathan was called into the exam room. After he had his panoramic x-ray, I was called in. So, I misinformed Iz; Nate wasn’t a big boy when it came to his wisdom teeth.

The oral surgeon came in and gave Nathan a history of wisdom teeth. At that point, I don’t think Nathan really care about their history. He only knew that they had now become a huge inconvenience in his life.

The surgeon began to explain the potential procedure. Nathan is not a big fan of needles, so he was relieved to find out that they would numb his arm with novocain before they inserted the IV that would deliver the anesthesia that would put him to sleep. The surgeon said, much to Nathan’s relief, “You will be totally knocked out. Yeah, it will be like you’re dreaming about fairies and unicorns the whole time.”

Iz was sitting on my lap, and as I’ve said before, she’s not one to say “No comment.” She immediately said, “Nathan doesn’t like fairies and unicorns.” Nathan glared at her; the surgeon said, “What? Everyone likes fairies and unicorns” to which Iz said, “Nathan doesn’t!” Yes, on the morning of surgery, I will make sure that Iz is far, far away from Nathan.

Removal of four impacted wisdom teeth: $2600
Giving Nathan anesthesia instead of letting him have a swig of whiskey and bite on a bullet: $350
Having wisdom teeth removed after prom but before trip to Europe in June: Priceless for Nathan (well, to some degree when he isn't in pain) but $1000 out-of-pocket for Mom and Dad! ♥

I Can Mash Potato

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Last Sunday, I decided to try and make a special Sunday meal. So, I rifled through my pile of recipes, which were, if truth be told, all stacked on top of my Longaberger basket recipe box instead of neatly filed inside them. As I said, I love my recipe box, and there are recipes in it; however, it’s also a good recipe coffee table for when you haven’t found the time to re-file all your recipes!

Anyway, as I sorted through the olive oil-stained, basil flake encrusted, and rumpled print outs from All Recipes, I found one for Shepherd’s Pie. This wasn’t one of my favorites, but it seemed to please a variety of picky tastes (read “Iz” and “Nathan”). I didn’t really care for it, because it was so bland.

John once told me that his Mom was not a very good cook nor did she have a huge repertoire of meals. One of the meals she made quite frequently was Shepherd’s Pie. I once said to John after making it, “This tastes like nothing but potatoes and hamburger” to which he responded, “But, that’s the way it’s supposed to be!”

One of the main ingredients in my Shepherd’s Pie is mashed potato. I don’t make mashed potatoes a lot, so I had to pull out my most stable companion over the last 30 years which was the Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook. My grandmother gave it to me in 1985.

I like it, because it tells you how to make all of the basics. Before I discovered All Recipes, I was a basics girl when it came to food. Of course, I find it a tad funny that it was the “New” cookbook in 1985 and continues to be so; the “Old” version must have been before my cooking time.

On Sunday afternoon, I was perusing the index for “Potatoes, mashed.” I found them on page 401. I knew I really didn’t need a recipe; however, my cooking strategy had always been one half recipe, one quarter self-doubt, and one quarter winging it.

I opened to page 401. I read the recipe. I said, “Jeez, after all these years, I know how to do this!” I closed the book, and I began to peel the potatoes.

Many blogs back, I mentioned how certain songs and scents always reminded me of events and people in my life. As I stood there by the sink peeling the potatoes, I remembered who taught me how to make mashed potatoes. It was my friend, Bitsy (Elizabeth) when we were in college.

Our Senior year, we lived in Brandeis’ Senior housing which was called “The Mods.” They weren’t mod by any stretch of the imagination; they were really only modular. Bitsy and I lived with Steve, her boyfriend, and another guy named Steve.

Besides the four bedrooms, the bathroom, and the living area, we had a kitchen in which we cooked dinner a few nights a week. Of course, shopping and cooking were left to Bitsy and I; dishes were left to Steve and Steve. Bitsy and I didn’t mind shopping, because we controlled the purchases, which included the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine whenever it was available, and we just made Steve and Steve fork over the cash for the total purchases.

I loved our food shopping nights. We got into the car (Robert’s steel gray Camaro, my Mom’s turd brown Dodge Aspen, or Bitsy’s puke green Dodge Dart) and headed to the Stop & Shop in Waltham armed with our coupons, which I cut out of the Sunday Boston Globe on the weekends I went home. The only real struggle those evenings was where we would park; Bitsy always wanted to try and park next to the front door, and I preferred to grab the first available and walk. We had many differences, and I always laughed about that one the most.

After shopping, we’d arrive back at the Mods and park in front of ours, Mod 16 or 22, I think. You weren’t supposed to park in front of your Mod, but we did it only to unload our bounty. One of us, depending on who was driving the car of the evening, would run into the Mod and roust the boys to carry in bags.

After the car was parked legally back in the parking lot, we’d head back in to unload the bags. Subsequently, Bitsy and I would fight with Steve (her boyfriend) over who got to read Cosmopolitan first. Bitsy and I usually won due to Bitsy wooing Steve via whatever she happened to whisper into his ear that made him drop the magazine onto the couch and leave the room.

In those days, we all ate dinner together 3-4 times a week. I remember two staple dinners that Bitsy and I made. One was chicken parmesan (Robert’s mother taught me how) with spaghetti and salad and the other was Shake ‘n Bake chicken, mashed potatoes, and frozen vegetables. Steve, Bitsy’s Steve, was a big canned vegetable guy; I insisted on frozen if we couldn’t have fresh, and I won.

I remember one of the first nights we made dinner; Bitsy announced we’d have mashed potatoes with our Shake ‘n Bake chicken. She said to me, “You make the potatoes,” to which I said, “Um, err, ah, how do I do that?” She asked, “You don’t know how to make mashed potatoes?!”

I didn’t. I could bake anything; remember, I had flour running through my veins due to my maternal great grandparents who owned a bakery for many years in Cambridge. But, alas, I didn’t know the first thing about mashed potatoes. Of course, after that night, I could make them with my eyes closed for the rest of the school year.

As I stood there mashing my potatoes on Sunday, I thought about Bitsy a lot and especially of the things that reminded me of her, one of which was mashed potatoes. Any song by the Police always reminded me of her, because I had attended my first concert at the then Boston Garden with Bitsy and Steve. We saw the Police; and that was a night I’ll never forget.

Other things that always made me think of her were Cosmopolitan, Peeps (which ironically Iz adores), Pleasures by Estee Lauder, Germany (she was fluent in German and had a full scholarship to Brandeis because of that), pop-tarts, the Tubes, and the Ramones.

We saw the Tubes at WPI. Her brother went there. In 1982, our sophomore year, one of her brother’s friends picked us up, brought us to Worcester, and we danced like maniacs to Talk to Ya Later and everything else they played that night.

There were good times, and there were bad times for us both. One night, after a few beers at a party, I walked Bitsy back to her dorm. She was so miserable she wanted to walk home to her parent’s in Weymouth. I gave her two aspirin, made her drink two glasses of water, and I kept her from making that long walk home. I tucked her into bed, rubbed her head, and then I left and locked the door.

Shortly thereafter, we both applied for transfers. I got into Boston College; and then Bitsy told me that she couldn’t afford to transfer because of her scholarship. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I couldn’t finish college without her, and I knew I wanted to stay with her.

As I spread my mashed potatoes over my pie, it was funny to think that mashed potatoes could bring so many memories. But, they did. And, it was so good to think about her and have her back in my life even if it was for just that moment.

This picture shows Steve, Bitsy, Steve (her husband), and me at Bitsy and Steve’s wedding in 1989. (I have the bad perm. And, yes, that's an 80s bridesmaid dress.)



And, as went to put my pie in the oven, all of my Bitsy memories came back so strongly. She died of breast cancer in 1995 when she was only 33 years old. She was a beautiful, wonderful, and intelligent woman, and I will always miss her.

Life is about many things. Mostly, to me, it seems to be about love and loss. Though, it’s so very nice when mashed potatoes, a very pedestrian carbohydrate, can remind you of a love and a life that was so long ago but is still so near and dear to your heart.

Bitsy’s Mom’s 80th birthday celebration was on the Sunday I mashed my potatoes, though I couldn’t make her party. That night, after much mashing, I got a Facebook friend request. It was from Bitsy’s good friend, Krista, who I had lost touch with. You can’t tell me that the Great Cat Goddess doesn’t work in mysterious ways. ♥

This is what I read at Bitsy’s memorial service. (♥ Don’t read this if you are Nancy. ♥)

It was 15 years ago to the month that I walked up a flight of stairs in Allen Hall at Brandeis University and entered the room of a fellow freshman where she caught my attention immediately.

She was effervescent. She was animated. But, what were these “pup tarts” she was talking about? Taken by her friendliness, I began to talk to her only to find out that Bitsy’s pup tarts were Jean’s pop tarts.

Our accents aside, we chatted, almost interviewing each other as if we were both secretly hoping to find an ally in a place where we felt out of place.

We discovered we were both from Massachusetts; this made us acquaintances. We discovered that we were both Polish; this gave us solidarity. And as breakfast meetings led to lunch meetings, and as lunch meetings led to dinner meetings, Sherman Dining Hall gave us friendship.

As I look back, it’s hard to believe that that 15-minute conversation about pop tarts, Massachusetts, and nationality led to a 15-year friendship. In some ways, we were opposites. She was studying German Literature. I was studying English and American Literature. She did the Jane Fonda aerobic workout. I played volleyball and threw a discus. She liked Barry Manilow then. I liked the B-52s. She drank tea. I drank coffee. She said “pup tarts.” I said “pop tarts.”

The transition to Brandeis was a challenging one for both of us. Some of our interests were different, but our spirits were the same. Laughter was important to us. People were important to us. We were important to each other. In a place where I sometimes felt like it was “us” against “them”, my friendship with Bitsy made me feel like there was a whole lot more of us than of them.

To some, that four years may seem insignificant out of a total of 33, but they were four of the most important years of my life. Neither Brandeis nor my diploma gave me strength or confidence. Bitsy did. When I look at my diploma now, it seems as if there should have been a signature line on the very bottom titled “Friend who helped you make it through the most difficult four years of your life”, and that’s where Bitsy would have signed.

She helped me with my Computer Science. She was my security blanket at parties. She cheered me on at volleyball games. She let me raid her refrigerator. She listened to my fears. Her encouragement was never ending.

I have never longed for those college years since then. I always felt that when I graduated, I left with the thing I deemed most important about Brandeis - not its diploma but Bitsy’s friendship. Our departure from Brandeis did not end our friendship. While we did not see each other as often, I always knew that she was there for me, and she knew that I was there for her.

After 15 years, I could still not tell you exactly why we clicked. She liked Persians. I liked Tabby cats. She liked marshmallow peeps. I liked Milky Ways. She said pup tarts. I said pop tarts. She believed in me. I believed in her. Well, maybe it was just really because she loved me, and I loved her.