I prefer mine spiked with a little bourbon. Hopefully, at this writing, the adult male member of the household has made the run to the grocery and liquor stores, and we're fully stocked with the makings of some good,old-fashioned eggnog.
It's how we like to spend our Christmas eve.
We're not really a family that's big on tradition, but it seems our years evening before Christmas consists of the spiked nog, settling before the television, and watching the video of our daughter's first Christmas, when both her Nonnie and Papa were still alive. Afterwards, we watch A Christmas Story and then It's a Wonderful Life.
If I can work up the ambition and enough guilt, I'll make my way to a midnight mass.
To be honest, Christmas eve hasn't been the same since my mom passed away. She made it special for everyone and anyone who showed up at her house. The number of gifts under the tree were embarrassing. We could have helped restock a homeless shelter with clothing, bath items, and electronics. No one left my mom's house empty-handed.
One of my favorite dinners she'd make was a pork roast with an apricot glaze. I never bothered to get the recipe from her, and after she died, I had to make long search of the internet to track down something that came close. The only thing I remembered was the glaze was made with apricot jam and Russian salad dressing. It sounds disgusting, but it is seriously delicious.
After she passed away, my brothers and I started doing our own holiday plans with our respective families. I usually make the trek north to see them the day after Christmas. We all like for the young cousins to see each other and stay close, or at least as close as possible. Not always easy when your homes are separated by more than five hundred miles.
So tonight, I will try to figure out what to feed the two other members of my household. It won't be an apricot glazed pork roast, I'm sad to admit. Maybe next Christmas eve.
But I'll always have eggnog.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I'm Sure It's A Phase
One of the hardest things about motherhood, at least for me, is having to look at the little darling I delivered to the world (a two day ordeal, thank you very much) and declare her one of the biggest bitches I've ever met. She is a piece of work, my daughter. But of course, I love her.
The other day, there was not one thing I could have done or said that wasn't up for debate. For instance, I was running errands, busy as hell, and needed to ask the male adult in the house a question. I phoned home not in any way, shape, or form, anticipating issues. Darling daughter answered the phone.
"Hi, sweetie, is daddy there?" My tone was light and neutral. Very pleasant, yet bland, I thought. No need to poke the tiger, or in this case, teenager.
"Why do you want to know?" I couldn't see her face, but the sneer made it's way over the cell, loud and clear.
"Look, I don't have time to argue with you," I said. "I need to talk to your father. Is he there, or isn't he?"
It was a question that required an answer of yes or no. Why, I wondered, did she insist on making it a thousand times more difficult than it needed to be?
As it turned out, her father was not there, but the rest of my interactions with her for the remainder of the day were equally as challenging.
She says it's because I'm annoying. Clearly, I had no idea.
Silly me...I thought I was simply being a mom.
The other day, there was not one thing I could have done or said that wasn't up for debate. For instance, I was running errands, busy as hell, and needed to ask the male adult in the house a question. I phoned home not in any way, shape, or form, anticipating issues. Darling daughter answered the phone.
"Hi, sweetie, is daddy there?" My tone was light and neutral. Very pleasant, yet bland, I thought. No need to poke the tiger, or in this case, teenager.
"Why do you want to know?" I couldn't see her face, but the sneer made it's way over the cell, loud and clear.
"Look, I don't have time to argue with you," I said. "I need to talk to your father. Is he there, or isn't he?"
It was a question that required an answer of yes or no. Why, I wondered, did she insist on making it a thousand times more difficult than it needed to be?
As it turned out, her father was not there, but the rest of my interactions with her for the remainder of the day were equally as challenging.
She says it's because I'm annoying. Clearly, I had no idea.
Silly me...I thought I was simply being a mom.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Great Christmas Blizzard of 2009
You can't really appreciate a massive snowstorm until you live in an area that totally freaks out when the white stuff starts falling.
I'm a Detroit native and also lived in Lake Tahoe. Snow typically doesn't scare me. Living in a Mid-Atlantic state is a totally different story. It takes the mere threat of a mere two or three inches to send people into a panic, making a wild dash to the grocery store to stock up on bread, toilet paper, and milk. I have no idea as to why these three staples are always the top three on the list. For me, it's way more important to make sure there's some good wine and cheese on hand, not to mention the key ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. In a pinch, if we run out of toilet paper in our house, there's always paper napkins. Oh sure, once in a while, the toilet clogs up if you use too much...but such is life.
In any case, the snow started falling in earnest late Friday night and didn't stop until last night. As of this writing, Sunday morning, I'm guestimating there's a good 18 to 24 inches out on the deck.
We did take a ride around town late yesterday evening. A party we'd been invited to had not been canceled and we braved the trek over to the other side of the city in my very capable, all-wheel drive, SUV.
This morning, I'm thinking about putting on my warmest fleece and muck-luck boots and taking a walk through the neighborhood, see if any stores are open for a little Christmas shopping.
Enjoy the White Christmas while it lasts. Beats rain, anyway.
I'm a Detroit native and also lived in Lake Tahoe. Snow typically doesn't scare me. Living in a Mid-Atlantic state is a totally different story. It takes the mere threat of a mere two or three inches to send people into a panic, making a wild dash to the grocery store to stock up on bread, toilet paper, and milk. I have no idea as to why these three staples are always the top three on the list. For me, it's way more important to make sure there's some good wine and cheese on hand, not to mention the key ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. In a pinch, if we run out of toilet paper in our house, there's always paper napkins. Oh sure, once in a while, the toilet clogs up if you use too much...but such is life.
In any case, the snow started falling in earnest late Friday night and didn't stop until last night. As of this writing, Sunday morning, I'm guestimating there's a good 18 to 24 inches out on the deck.
We did take a ride around town late yesterday evening. A party we'd been invited to had not been canceled and we braved the trek over to the other side of the city in my very capable, all-wheel drive, SUV.
This morning, I'm thinking about putting on my warmest fleece and muck-luck boots and taking a walk through the neighborhood, see if any stores are open for a little Christmas shopping.
Enjoy the White Christmas while it lasts. Beats rain, anyway.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Oh Christmas Tree And Other Holiday Bunkola
I'm not sure why it takes almost a week to get a Christmas tree up and running in my household. On paper, I think my family likes the concept of a beautifully decorated tree. Reality is another story. After a week of discussions on the pros and cons of a big tree versus the table-top variety, it became very apparent that no one really wanted to make the huge leap of getting into the car and actually buying a tree.
By last Sunday, I'd had it and realized it was up to me. I drove down to Whole Foods (it really is nice to have one so conveniently located) picked out the first nicely shaped tree that would fit in the back of my SUV and drove home.
It's now Wednesday...I'm still decorating the damn thing! Oh well. Some people have heartwarming holiday traditions, I have my yearly holiday torture.
After dragging the seven foot tree up two flights of stairs by myself, another member of my household (who shall remain nameless for a variety of reasons) helped me maneuver it into the tree stand. It was straight and well-shaped, and ready for some twinkling lights.
Yeah, right. I had already gone through the four sets of lights from last year. They all seemed to be in perfect working order...until I had three quarters of the first string wrapped around the upper half of the tree. I happened to glance over at the youngest member of the household (who shall also remain nameless because who wants to be called out in your mom's blog)as she held onto the tail end of the lights, which were, for whatever reason, no longer twinkling.
"SON OF A @&*$#*%*," I screamed, loud enough to make the poor kid drop the lights. "ARE YOU $&*#*#+&*% KIDDING ME?"
Yes, I yell and swear, so sue me. My people are loud and short-tempered, it's genetic.
"I suppose this is my fault." said my daughter. "I didn't do anything, I was just standing here!"
"It's not your fault," I said, regaining some composure. "Let's pull them off and string a new set."
"Mom, go sit down, I'll put them on," she said.
And she did, very nicely, I might add. Today after work, we'll add a few more decorations, and I think we'll be done!
On a much sweeter note, I asked my fourteen year old nephew what he'd like for Christmas. He's the toughest one on my list, but now that he's in high school his interests have broadened.
"I'd like a book that explains how women work," he said.
Ahh, my young, naive nephew. If only a book could help us figure out everything we need to know about the opposite sex. I scoured the teenage book section on Amazon.com and came up with what looked like the best choices, books that advised nice boys on how to win a girl's heart while still being true to themselves.
I also sent him a case of his favorite body wash because after he's wooed the women, he's going to want to smell nice. That's important, too.
By last Sunday, I'd had it and realized it was up to me. I drove down to Whole Foods (it really is nice to have one so conveniently located) picked out the first nicely shaped tree that would fit in the back of my SUV and drove home.
It's now Wednesday...I'm still decorating the damn thing! Oh well. Some people have heartwarming holiday traditions, I have my yearly holiday torture.
After dragging the seven foot tree up two flights of stairs by myself, another member of my household (who shall remain nameless for a variety of reasons) helped me maneuver it into the tree stand. It was straight and well-shaped, and ready for some twinkling lights.
Yeah, right. I had already gone through the four sets of lights from last year. They all seemed to be in perfect working order...until I had three quarters of the first string wrapped around the upper half of the tree. I happened to glance over at the youngest member of the household (who shall also remain nameless because who wants to be called out in your mom's blog)as she held onto the tail end of the lights, which were, for whatever reason, no longer twinkling.
"SON OF A @&*$#*%*," I screamed, loud enough to make the poor kid drop the lights. "ARE YOU $&*#*#+&*% KIDDING ME?"
Yes, I yell and swear, so sue me. My people are loud and short-tempered, it's genetic.
"I suppose this is my fault." said my daughter. "I didn't do anything, I was just standing here!"
"It's not your fault," I said, regaining some composure. "Let's pull them off and string a new set."
"Mom, go sit down, I'll put them on," she said.
And she did, very nicely, I might add. Today after work, we'll add a few more decorations, and I think we'll be done!
On a much sweeter note, I asked my fourteen year old nephew what he'd like for Christmas. He's the toughest one on my list, but now that he's in high school his interests have broadened.
"I'd like a book that explains how women work," he said.
Ahh, my young, naive nephew. If only a book could help us figure out everything we need to know about the opposite sex. I scoured the teenage book section on Amazon.com and came up with what looked like the best choices, books that advised nice boys on how to win a girl's heart while still being true to themselves.
I also sent him a case of his favorite body wash because after he's wooed the women, he's going to want to smell nice. That's important, too.
Friday, December 11, 2009
To Sleep Perchance To Dream
Shakespeare was so dead-on correct with this line. Granted, the Bard of Avon was caught up in the whole Hamlet mess when he penned it more than four hundred years ago, but the gist of it is, I like to believe, that if you don't get enough sleep, for whatever reason, you won't be playing at the top of your game.
At least I don't have to deal with ghosts. But a decent night's sleep sometime in the next few days would be fantastic.
For the past month or so, I've been averaging about five hours of sleep a night...and it's taking it's toll. In theory, eight hours of sleep doesn't seem like it would be too difficult to achieve. If you're managing to accomplish this each night, I applaud you. Could you please tell me how you do it?
I'm guessing you probably have a bedroom with an actual door attached. As far as sleep issues go, this would be my biggest deficit. I'm no longer sleeping in what was my bedroom. Apparently I snore, so I've been banished to my third floor loft. I'm not quite sure how or why it was decided that I would be the one to vacate the premises, but the place where I now lay me down to sleep every night is a twin size daybed.
The funny thing is, the person who accuses me of snoring can also hit some impressive decibel levels during the overnight hours. His snoring has been known to waft up three flights of stairs.
But he's only keeping me awake at night, and that's the important thing.
At least I don't have to deal with ghosts. But a decent night's sleep sometime in the next few days would be fantastic.
For the past month or so, I've been averaging about five hours of sleep a night...and it's taking it's toll. In theory, eight hours of sleep doesn't seem like it would be too difficult to achieve. If you're managing to accomplish this each night, I applaud you. Could you please tell me how you do it?
I'm guessing you probably have a bedroom with an actual door attached. As far as sleep issues go, this would be my biggest deficit. I'm no longer sleeping in what was my bedroom. Apparently I snore, so I've been banished to my third floor loft. I'm not quite sure how or why it was decided that I would be the one to vacate the premises, but the place where I now lay me down to sleep every night is a twin size daybed.
The funny thing is, the person who accuses me of snoring can also hit some impressive decibel levels during the overnight hours. His snoring has been known to waft up three flights of stairs.
But he's only keeping me awake at night, and that's the important thing.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
I think It's Getting Clearer...
When I started this blog my intention was to dwell on what it is that makes me happy. This endeavor, I've discovered, is not always immediately evident. It's a process and as it unfolds, I'm learning what it is that makes others happy. Or unhappy. Let's face it, some people simply choose to be miserable. It's what keeps them going.They love to wear their unhappiness like a gold medal and hope it rubs off on those around them. But I've decided those particular vultures won't drag me down.
But as I keep posting on a regular basis (not nearly as often as I'd planned) I realize that there needs to be some point to why I keep blogging. Obviously, it's not to entertain the huge mass of humanity that has glommed onto my posts!
So...
Here's what I've decided. Starting with the new year, it's time to embark on new adventures. At the age of fifty, it's time to dive headfirst into activities that normally scare the heck out of me or at the very least, make me very, very uncomfortable.
On December 15th, I will audition for a speaking part in a local stage production. I've been in the media for years, but have never attempted anything like this. I'm going into the whole thing with no expectations whatsoever. At best, they'll like me and give me a part, and at worst, it will be a great learning experience.
What comes afterwards is up for debate...
But as I keep posting on a regular basis (not nearly as often as I'd planned) I realize that there needs to be some point to why I keep blogging. Obviously, it's not to entertain the huge mass of humanity that has glommed onto my posts!
So...
Here's what I've decided. Starting with the new year, it's time to embark on new adventures. At the age of fifty, it's time to dive headfirst into activities that normally scare the heck out of me or at the very least, make me very, very uncomfortable.
On December 15th, I will audition for a speaking part in a local stage production. I've been in the media for years, but have never attempted anything like this. I'm going into the whole thing with no expectations whatsoever. At best, they'll like me and give me a part, and at worst, it will be a great learning experience.
What comes afterwards is up for debate...
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Do I Really Have to Pay to Go to Detroit?
For three weeks now, I've been on an extensive internet hunt for the best air fares to my hometown, Detroit. As you may or may not be aware, Detroit has been having tough time the past couple of years. Many would argue that it's never been easy in the Motor city. But lately, the situation seems to be even more depressing than usual. For the love of God, the Pontiac Silverdome was recently sold at auction for a mere 585 thousand dollars! What does that tell you?
But getting back to my air fare search...
Here's what kills me: having to pay more than four hundred dollars for a round trip ticket to Detroit. I recently flew to Paris and only paid five hundred dollars for a round trip fare. I enjoyed Paris, it was my first trip to that gorgeous city and I had no problem shelling out the money for the voyage. And that's the point, it was a voyage, an adventure to a completely different continent. I needed a passport!
Detroit is not an adventure, it's merely a trip back for the holidays to visit family. Let's call it a 'Guilt' trip. Given the current situation in the Motor City, I believe they should be giving me some kind of discount to venture back. I even promise to say nice things about Detroit when I return.
But getting back to my air fare search...
Here's what kills me: having to pay more than four hundred dollars for a round trip ticket to Detroit. I recently flew to Paris and only paid five hundred dollars for a round trip fare. I enjoyed Paris, it was my first trip to that gorgeous city and I had no problem shelling out the money for the voyage. And that's the point, it was a voyage, an adventure to a completely different continent. I needed a passport!
Detroit is not an adventure, it's merely a trip back for the holidays to visit family. Let's call it a 'Guilt' trip. Given the current situation in the Motor City, I believe they should be giving me some kind of discount to venture back. I even promise to say nice things about Detroit when I return.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Aha! So That's What Happened!
Funny Video: China recreates the 'Tiger Woods Incident' with CGI (with funny video)
Posted using ShareThis
I needed a good laugh today and this certainly provided quite a few.
Posted using ShareThis
I needed a good laugh today and this certainly provided quite a few.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Where Are the Odor Eaters When You Need Them?
My daughter has recently started doing her own laundry. Some friends would say I waited way too long to bestow this responsibility upon her, but I never really minded doing it. If I was throwing in a load of my stuff, why not include some of her dirty laundry? She never really seemed to have much. And yesterday, I discovered her secret.
I was going downstairs to throw in some jeans and sweaters and noticed her blue knee socks, part of her daily school uniform, were wadded up in balls under the living room table.
"Would you like me to throw those in the wash?" I asked. "I'm doing a load."
"Nah, it's okay," she said. "I'm going to wear them again tomorrow."
"But they're dirty," I protested. "That's digusting. Let me wash them."
"No, really, you don't have to," she insisted. "I wear my socks for a week before I wash them."
This explains why the child's feet smell like stale fritos. I was totally appalled.
"If anyone at school finds out about that, you'll be the class pariah."
When she went to the gym later in the evening, I threw the socks in the wash.
It wasn't until this morning, while at work, that I remembered I'd forgotten to put them in the dryer.
I hope she had another dirty pair tucked away somewhere...
I was going downstairs to throw in some jeans and sweaters and noticed her blue knee socks, part of her daily school uniform, were wadded up in balls under the living room table.
"Would you like me to throw those in the wash?" I asked. "I'm doing a load."
"Nah, it's okay," she said. "I'm going to wear them again tomorrow."
"But they're dirty," I protested. "That's digusting. Let me wash them."
"No, really, you don't have to," she insisted. "I wear my socks for a week before I wash them."
This explains why the child's feet smell like stale fritos. I was totally appalled.
"If anyone at school finds out about that, you'll be the class pariah."
When she went to the gym later in the evening, I threw the socks in the wash.
It wasn't until this morning, while at work, that I remembered I'd forgotten to put them in the dryer.
I hope she had another dirty pair tucked away somewhere...
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Turkey and Twilight
Whew. The long Thanksgiving weekend is almost a wrap. It was, and it was not, what I'd thought it would be. Dinner at M's was a complete delight. Great company, delicious food, with an Argentinian flair (M's native country).
Even though work consumed the majority of my weekend, there was still time for a couple of fun events. Teenzilla dragged me to see the new Twilight movie. Let me start the review by saying I have had no desire to read the books. The vampires contained within the pages have been completely bastardized, in my opinion. But it gets even worse in the movie. I missed the first one, but based on the second installment, I think I'm pretty much done, thanks anyway.
If you're not familiar with the story line here goes:
There's Bella and Edward. Bella's human, Edward is the vampire who falls for her. He's a vampire who glitters when he's out during the daytime. I have no idea as to why...silly me, I thought vampires were supposed to be tucked snugly away in their coffins during the day. Bella and Edward live in the gloomy Northwest, lots of rain and ominous weather, apparently. Then there's a hot young werewolf who lives on an Native American reservation. He's under some genetic, tribal curse and his fate is that he turns into this oversized, angry wolf when he gets upset...or something along those lines. He also loves Bella (wish I could remember the poor kid's name, but I think my mind went blank when he ripped off his shirt, gave the over-hormonized teen girls a gander at his six pack abs, and wiped blood from Bella's head after a motorcycle crash) but of course must vie for her attention from the handsome, pasty, brooding Edward.
There's lots and lots of deep and meaningful looks at one another, screaming from bad dreams, semi-passionate hugging and kissing, lame reasons for hot young men to remove their shirts, and enough bad dialogue to make your eardrums want to pack a bag and march out of your ear canals.
And yet, women eat this crapola up bigtime. I don't get it.
I know some diehard Twilight fan will bust me for leaving out what they perceive is the heart and soul of a beautiful storyline. Sorry, it simply wasn't for me. I like my vampires pure and simple, and really, really bloodthirsty. Give me Bela Lugosi or Vlad the Impaler any day, thank you.
The rest of the weekend, I managed to get in a craft show or two. Caught up on some sleep. And sadly, no leftover turkey sandwiches.
The only bad thing about being the Thanksgiving hostess. There's always next year, I guess.
Even though work consumed the majority of my weekend, there was still time for a couple of fun events. Teenzilla dragged me to see the new Twilight movie. Let me start the review by saying I have had no desire to read the books. The vampires contained within the pages have been completely bastardized, in my opinion. But it gets even worse in the movie. I missed the first one, but based on the second installment, I think I'm pretty much done, thanks anyway.
If you're not familiar with the story line here goes:
There's Bella and Edward. Bella's human, Edward is the vampire who falls for her. He's a vampire who glitters when he's out during the daytime. I have no idea as to why...silly me, I thought vampires were supposed to be tucked snugly away in their coffins during the day. Bella and Edward live in the gloomy Northwest, lots of rain and ominous weather, apparently. Then there's a hot young werewolf who lives on an Native American reservation. He's under some genetic, tribal curse and his fate is that he turns into this oversized, angry wolf when he gets upset...or something along those lines. He also loves Bella (wish I could remember the poor kid's name, but I think my mind went blank when he ripped off his shirt, gave the over-hormonized teen girls a gander at his six pack abs, and wiped blood from Bella's head after a motorcycle crash) but of course must vie for her attention from the handsome, pasty, brooding Edward.
There's lots and lots of deep and meaningful looks at one another, screaming from bad dreams, semi-passionate hugging and kissing, lame reasons for hot young men to remove their shirts, and enough bad dialogue to make your eardrums want to pack a bag and march out of your ear canals.
And yet, women eat this crapola up bigtime. I don't get it.
I know some diehard Twilight fan will bust me for leaving out what they perceive is the heart and soul of a beautiful storyline. Sorry, it simply wasn't for me. I like my vampires pure and simple, and really, really bloodthirsty. Give me Bela Lugosi or Vlad the Impaler any day, thank you.
The rest of the weekend, I managed to get in a craft show or two. Caught up on some sleep. And sadly, no leftover turkey sandwiches.
The only bad thing about being the Thanksgiving hostess. There's always next year, I guess.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Just Like the Pilgrims Didn't Do It
Honestly, I had my Thanksgiving day plans set in stone weeks ago. It was going to be at my house, and I was finally going to have the chance to make the meal I wanted to make with recipes carefully picked from my favorite cooking magazines: Bon Appetit, Food and Wine, Cooking Light. The turkey would have been lovingly rubbed with the herbs and oils of my choice, and the sweet potatoes would have been in a casserole, the more butter and brown sugar, the better. For dessert, I would have had something involving pumpkin, but not pie.I hate pumpkin pie, and like I said, it would have been my Thanksgiving dinner.
The gameplan always looks good on paper, doesn't it?
As it now turns out, I have to work on Thanksgiving and most of the weekend that follows. My brother and his family normally make the ten hour drive to see us, but this year they have a new puppy and it's too young to leave behind or take along for the ride. Which is just as well since I really won't have much time to spend with them.
So this Thanksgiving, we'll be at M's house, my dear friend who I had originally invited to my home so she could have enjoyed a relaxing day.
"Don't worry, we'll keep it small and low-key," she reassured me, after I'd apologized several times for the agenda change. "When you're done with work, head on over."
As I've stated before, it always appears under control on paper.
The festivities now include eighteen people, two turkeys, and not enough dishes, chairs, or flatware. M tells me it will all be taken care of by the time the guests arrive tomorrow afternoon.
"What can I bring?" I asked. "Please let me do the sides or a dessert." I felt terrible. I'd completely shirked my hostess responsibilities and heaved the entire load on M.
"Bring wine," she said. "Lots of wine."
I called my favorite little wine shop earlier today. They're filling my order as I write this, loading up two dozen bottles of the perfect blends to accompany a Thanksgiving feast.
Maybe I can save those cooking magazines for Christmas...
The gameplan always looks good on paper, doesn't it?
As it now turns out, I have to work on Thanksgiving and most of the weekend that follows. My brother and his family normally make the ten hour drive to see us, but this year they have a new puppy and it's too young to leave behind or take along for the ride. Which is just as well since I really won't have much time to spend with them.
So this Thanksgiving, we'll be at M's house, my dear friend who I had originally invited to my home so she could have enjoyed a relaxing day.
"Don't worry, we'll keep it small and low-key," she reassured me, after I'd apologized several times for the agenda change. "When you're done with work, head on over."
As I've stated before, it always appears under control on paper.
The festivities now include eighteen people, two turkeys, and not enough dishes, chairs, or flatware. M tells me it will all be taken care of by the time the guests arrive tomorrow afternoon.
"What can I bring?" I asked. "Please let me do the sides or a dessert." I felt terrible. I'd completely shirked my hostess responsibilities and heaved the entire load on M.
"Bring wine," she said. "Lots of wine."
I called my favorite little wine shop earlier today. They're filling my order as I write this, loading up two dozen bottles of the perfect blends to accompany a Thanksgiving feast.
Maybe I can save those cooking magazines for Christmas...
Friday, November 20, 2009
I Just Want Me!
I had to chuckle over my brother's latest Facebook status update. He's been keeping everyone up to date on the new baby, his youngest daughter. The original youngest daughter has now been granted that dubious position in the sibling world, the middle-child. At the age of four, she's already proving to be perfect for the role.
My brother's comment went something like this: "My 'Little Miss Sunshine" just announced she doesn't want a baby sister or an older brother, I just want me!"
It's going to be an interesting few months, he predicts.
Just for the record, he was the youngest of the three children in our family, and as the oldest child, his big sister, I can attest that he covered just about every stereotype associated with the youngest child. Spoiled, indulged, lazy. But maybe I'm remembering all that through the jaded eye of the oldest sibling, the one typically saddled with the most responsibility. Or maybe I'm bitter because I was the one who had to wipe his butt while he was toilet-training (if that doesn't scar an adolescent girl, I don't know what will).
But back to my poor little niece, knocked off the Princess pedestal even before starting kindergarten.
It's all about the drop in attention she already understands is coming her way.
My daughter and I will be visiting them for several days over the Christmas holidays. We can't wait to get our hands on her. Oh don't get me wrong, we can't wait to cuddle with the new baby, or roughhouse a bit with my seven year old nephew. I love them all equally. But it's the middle one who is going to prove to be the most entertaining. Or as my brother refers to her, The Evil One.
"You're going to give her a complex," I told him over the phone the other night. "That whole evil thing can really leave it's mark on a kid."
"Are you kidding me," he said. "She's proud of it!"
I have a feeling she's going to be my favorite...but don't tell anyone.
My brother's comment went something like this: "My 'Little Miss Sunshine" just announced she doesn't want a baby sister or an older brother, I just want me!"
It's going to be an interesting few months, he predicts.
Just for the record, he was the youngest of the three children in our family, and as the oldest child, his big sister, I can attest that he covered just about every stereotype associated with the youngest child. Spoiled, indulged, lazy. But maybe I'm remembering all that through the jaded eye of the oldest sibling, the one typically saddled with the most responsibility. Or maybe I'm bitter because I was the one who had to wipe his butt while he was toilet-training (if that doesn't scar an adolescent girl, I don't know what will).
But back to my poor little niece, knocked off the Princess pedestal even before starting kindergarten.
It's all about the drop in attention she already understands is coming her way.
My daughter and I will be visiting them for several days over the Christmas holidays. We can't wait to get our hands on her. Oh don't get me wrong, we can't wait to cuddle with the new baby, or roughhouse a bit with my seven year old nephew. I love them all equally. But it's the middle one who is going to prove to be the most entertaining. Or as my brother refers to her, The Evil One.
"You're going to give her a complex," I told him over the phone the other night. "That whole evil thing can really leave it's mark on a kid."
"Are you kidding me," he said. "She's proud of it!"
I have a feeling she's going to be my favorite...but don't tell anyone.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Children: The New and the Old(er).
Congrats and much love to my brother and sister-in-law on the newest addition to our family. A new niece has been added to the fold, and like all newborns she is absolutely precious. I love babies because, to me, their needs are so simple; feed me, change me, hold me. Life at it's easiest and most basic, as far as I'm concerned.
And then, they start growing and eventually learn to talk and think.
At some point, if we parents are lucky, they will learn some common sense and understand there are so many ways to make their lives easier, not more difficult. Sadly, for some children, this takes years, and years, and years to comprehend.
Let's take my little darling, for example. I love the girl, and lately I've been trying like heck to figure out her mindset, aside from the fact that she's in the throes of the teenage years.
Last night, she handed me some paperwork from her Geometry teacher that needed my signature. Two dismal quiz grades. Not the end of the world, but her teacher noted that my darling daughter had not been coming in for any extra help in order to improve her grade.
"Do you know when Ms. N is available to help you?" I asked.
"Yes, she has free time after school," said daughter.
"Why aren't you getting help?"
"I was going to go this afternoon," she said, "but I have detention."
HUH???
"Why...?" I could feel a cluster headache simmering in the back of my brain.
"I wasn't wearing my nametag. It's broken."
"Well for the love of God, go buy a new tag." If I'm lucky, I thought, maybe this headache will segue into an aneurysm and kill me before she graduates.
"You know, I thought about doing that but I didn't feel like climbing all those stairs to the third floor office."
GAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!
Give me a drooling baby with a stinky diaper any day. Much easier.
And then, they start growing and eventually learn to talk and think.
At some point, if we parents are lucky, they will learn some common sense and understand there are so many ways to make their lives easier, not more difficult. Sadly, for some children, this takes years, and years, and years to comprehend.
Let's take my little darling, for example. I love the girl, and lately I've been trying like heck to figure out her mindset, aside from the fact that she's in the throes of the teenage years.
Last night, she handed me some paperwork from her Geometry teacher that needed my signature. Two dismal quiz grades. Not the end of the world, but her teacher noted that my darling daughter had not been coming in for any extra help in order to improve her grade.
"Do you know when Ms. N is available to help you?" I asked.
"Yes, she has free time after school," said daughter.
"Why aren't you getting help?"
"I was going to go this afternoon," she said, "but I have detention."
HUH???
"Why...?" I could feel a cluster headache simmering in the back of my brain.
"I wasn't wearing my nametag. It's broken."
"Well for the love of God, go buy a new tag." If I'm lucky, I thought, maybe this headache will segue into an aneurysm and kill me before she graduates.
"You know, I thought about doing that but I didn't feel like climbing all those stairs to the third floor office."
GAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!
Give me a drooling baby with a stinky diaper any day. Much easier.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Merry $*&#%@* Christmas
This could really be the Christmas season where I decide to bag it and drop out of the entire festive scene. Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away and I can't work up even an ounce of enthusiasm for what's coming.
Teenzilla and I have already received an invitation to a Mother/Daughter Christmas cookie exchange. I don't want to go...there, I admitted it. Christmas cookie swaps are a pain in the butt. I don't need the added aggravation of having to make eight dozen cookies that I will swap with an undetermined amount of other people who I probably don't even know. The outcome will be more than enough mediocre cookies to last until the Easter season.
Wow. I really am bitter. I've even managed to outbitter my usual quasi-grouchy, sarcastic personality.
Right now, and I know there are still several weeks to deal with this, but the thought of dragging out the Christmas decorations, buying presents (although that's pretty much limited to the children in my life), buying a tree, and going to parties is something I could easily do without this year.
The worst part of decorating, for me, is putting those freaking lights on the tree. In our house, we have very high ceilings and could go as high as ten to fifteen feet for a tree. But guess who usually gets stuck stringing the lights? Yep, that would be me, so I prefer nothing higher than seven or eight feet.
And one year, should my mood about these things improve, I would love to have a Martha Stewart-esque, themed tree. A tree that screams, 'look, I have a matching color scheme, I have some rhyme, some reason.' Instead, the typical Christmas tree in our house usually looks like a mad dash to see how many ornaments can be crammed onto the branches. Sometimes most of the lights actually work. The angel on top is always leaning at a 45 degree angle. I'm waiting for the year it finally decides to end it's agony and take a freefall to the hardwood floor.
But I seem to be getting off topic here...I really just wanted to bitch about the cookie exchange. Look, here's the thing, I guess making eight dozen cookies isn't the major complaint...I don't want to bring home the dozens of other cookies provided by the other guests. There is no need for all of those empty calories. If I'm going to be bad, let me be bad with a nice, buttery Chardonnay, thank you!
Maybe this will be the year I kick off the Christmas Booze Exchange. Just a thought.
Teenzilla and I have already received an invitation to a Mother/Daughter Christmas cookie exchange. I don't want to go...there, I admitted it. Christmas cookie swaps are a pain in the butt. I don't need the added aggravation of having to make eight dozen cookies that I will swap with an undetermined amount of other people who I probably don't even know. The outcome will be more than enough mediocre cookies to last until the Easter season.
Wow. I really am bitter. I've even managed to outbitter my usual quasi-grouchy, sarcastic personality.
Right now, and I know there are still several weeks to deal with this, but the thought of dragging out the Christmas decorations, buying presents (although that's pretty much limited to the children in my life), buying a tree, and going to parties is something I could easily do without this year.
The worst part of decorating, for me, is putting those freaking lights on the tree. In our house, we have very high ceilings and could go as high as ten to fifteen feet for a tree. But guess who usually gets stuck stringing the lights? Yep, that would be me, so I prefer nothing higher than seven or eight feet.
And one year, should my mood about these things improve, I would love to have a Martha Stewart-esque, themed tree. A tree that screams, 'look, I have a matching color scheme, I have some rhyme, some reason.' Instead, the typical Christmas tree in our house usually looks like a mad dash to see how many ornaments can be crammed onto the branches. Sometimes most of the lights actually work. The angel on top is always leaning at a 45 degree angle. I'm waiting for the year it finally decides to end it's agony and take a freefall to the hardwood floor.
But I seem to be getting off topic here...I really just wanted to bitch about the cookie exchange. Look, here's the thing, I guess making eight dozen cookies isn't the major complaint...I don't want to bring home the dozens of other cookies provided by the other guests. There is no need for all of those empty calories. If I'm going to be bad, let me be bad with a nice, buttery Chardonnay, thank you!
Maybe this will be the year I kick off the Christmas Booze Exchange. Just a thought.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Is It strange That I Like Jury Duty?
I served jury duty the past couple of days. Despite how some people feel, I actually don't mind going in when they summons me every couple of years. It's the perfect spot to people watch and, I'll be honest, to be a catty, evil person...only in my mind, of course.
For starters, I always wonder if some of my fellow citizens save their absolutely worst outfits for jury duty. There was one woman this morning who honestly looked like she was ready to go scrub floors. C'mon, we all know you don't want to be there, lady, but how about a clean pair of jeans and tee shirt minus the logo?
A kindly, older gentlemen was in the chair to my left (he was a Vietnam vet, his baseball cap told me so) and while he was dressed plainly but neatly, a shower or some deodorant wouldn't have killed him. He exuded an interesting aromatic mix of dust and rancid cologne. Fortunately, he met another juror, also a military vet (yes, I eavesdrop on other people's conversations, so sue me) and they went to another corner of the room for a quiet chat.
And of course, there is always that one pissed off human being who can't believe that yet again, they've been called in to possibly serve on a jury, and they are apparently the only one in the room who has better things they could be doing, and for the love of God, do they really have to fill out one more piece of paperwork? Yes, yes you do, lady. Just shut up, fill out the form, and deal with it!
As it turned out, after two days of sitting alone from the rest of the world, we were politely dismissed, obviously the overflow gang on standby in case the other jurors didn't pan out for the defense and prosecution. We were told to not discuss any of the proceedings with anyone after we left. This will not be a problem, I think. I can't vouch for the rest of my contingency, but during the two days, no one in any official capacity shared anything with me that anyone on the outside world would care to hear. Basically, I sat on by butt and enjoyed a good book. The jury commission even gave me fifteen dollars a day. Best of all, jury duty allowed me to sleep in two extra hours in the morning. All in all, not a bad deal.
They can summon me anytime they want.
For starters, I always wonder if some of my fellow citizens save their absolutely worst outfits for jury duty. There was one woman this morning who honestly looked like she was ready to go scrub floors. C'mon, we all know you don't want to be there, lady, but how about a clean pair of jeans and tee shirt minus the logo?
A kindly, older gentlemen was in the chair to my left (he was a Vietnam vet, his baseball cap told me so) and while he was dressed plainly but neatly, a shower or some deodorant wouldn't have killed him. He exuded an interesting aromatic mix of dust and rancid cologne. Fortunately, he met another juror, also a military vet (yes, I eavesdrop on other people's conversations, so sue me) and they went to another corner of the room for a quiet chat.
And of course, there is always that one pissed off human being who can't believe that yet again, they've been called in to possibly serve on a jury, and they are apparently the only one in the room who has better things they could be doing, and for the love of God, do they really have to fill out one more piece of paperwork? Yes, yes you do, lady. Just shut up, fill out the form, and deal with it!
As it turned out, after two days of sitting alone from the rest of the world, we were politely dismissed, obviously the overflow gang on standby in case the other jurors didn't pan out for the defense and prosecution. We were told to not discuss any of the proceedings with anyone after we left. This will not be a problem, I think. I can't vouch for the rest of my contingency, but during the two days, no one in any official capacity shared anything with me that anyone on the outside world would care to hear. Basically, I sat on by butt and enjoyed a good book. The jury commission even gave me fifteen dollars a day. Best of all, jury duty allowed me to sleep in two extra hours in the morning. All in all, not a bad deal.
They can summon me anytime they want.
Friday, November 6, 2009
It Was Nothing Special, Apparenlty
Dear_______,
I will leave this as cryptic as possible because you've made it more than clear that you would prefer to not be associated with my online ramblings, be it blogs or Facebook, or whatever. Okay, that's fine...I understand.
However, I think you know that yesterday could have been a happy day, a day of celebration. Instead, it was day of nothing. No sadness, no hate, no love, no joy. Nothing.
And that's the most pathetic thing of all.
I will leave this as cryptic as possible because you've made it more than clear that you would prefer to not be associated with my online ramblings, be it blogs or Facebook, or whatever. Okay, that's fine...I understand.
However, I think you know that yesterday could have been a happy day, a day of celebration. Instead, it was day of nothing. No sadness, no hate, no love, no joy. Nothing.
And that's the most pathetic thing of all.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Firsts and Seconds
It's real gift to have the opportunity to watch young people grow into responsible adults. My daughter is still navigating her way through the teenage years, and yes, it's not been easy for either of us. Sometimes she's to blame for the issues that come between us. Too many times, I'm ashamed to say, I'm the one at fault. But we'll make it through, I'm sure of that.
But before she was born, I had two other young women that came into my life, courtesy of my husband. They're my step-daughters, if we have to put a label on it, but really, they're my friends. They have a mother, a truly wonderful woman, who I consider a friend.
My oldest step-daughter, "J" is now older than I was when I met her father. She's happily married with a young son of her own, and she lets me know that I'm his grandma, too.
Today is my youngest step-daughter's birthday. "K" is now thirty-one years old. She was fifteen when I first met her. When her dad and I married, with a baby soon to be on the way, K took it in good stride. But she let her feelings be known on her vanishing status as the baby of the family.
"I'd like to be known as youngest child, first marriage," she said.
I don't know if she even remembers saying that, but I still remember, and it makes me chuckle every time I think about it.
Happy birthday, K. May you have many more.
But before she was born, I had two other young women that came into my life, courtesy of my husband. They're my step-daughters, if we have to put a label on it, but really, they're my friends. They have a mother, a truly wonderful woman, who I consider a friend.
My oldest step-daughter, "J" is now older than I was when I met her father. She's happily married with a young son of her own, and she lets me know that I'm his grandma, too.
Today is my youngest step-daughter's birthday. "K" is now thirty-one years old. She was fifteen when I first met her. When her dad and I married, with a baby soon to be on the way, K took it in good stride. But she let her feelings be known on her vanishing status as the baby of the family.
"I'd like to be known as youngest child, first marriage," she said.
I don't know if she even remembers saying that, but I still remember, and it makes me chuckle every time I think about it.
Happy birthday, K. May you have many more.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Ho Ho Ho...Not!
It's the second day of November and I'm seriously not ready to start thinking about the upcoming holiday festivities. I've learned to accept the melding of the Thanksgiving/Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza holiday season, but as I sit here eating leftover Halloween candy (not one kid stopped by the house the other night), I have to get myself into a festive frame of mind for some related items I need to finish for work. If the people I'll be pitching this to are anything like me, they don't want to hear about getting ready for the holidays either.
While running errands this afternoon, I had to drive through our city's downtown harbor area and what appeared before my wondering eyes...Santa's house! The tradition in our town is a big Thanksgiving parade the weekend before Thanksgiving. It's a pretty big deal and brings in hundreds of people who line the main parade route. The big finish, bringing up the rear, is a firetruck with Santa and Mrs. Santa sitting up top. It's usually the same couple every year, although one year, the Mrs. was absent, not really sure why. Was she sick or mad at Santa?
Anyway, after the parade ends and the throng of attendees thinks it's time to wrap it up and head back to the suburbs, heading back up the one way street is a police escort taking Santa and the firetruck to his house so he can start setting the kiddies on his lap and listen to their Christmas wishes. I may be wrong, but it seems the past couple of years, that house of his has been erected earlier and earlier. It spends most of November empty so I can't understand what the rush is all about. It's not a terribly convoluted structure so I'm not sure why city officials feel the need to assemble at the start of November.
My bowl of Halloween candy is almost empty. I'm betting the CVS down the street has a whole rack of sale candy available...right next to the chocolate snowmen and Santa's decked in their red and green tin foil.
A little empty calorie therapy is just the ticket to get me through the next two months.
While running errands this afternoon, I had to drive through our city's downtown harbor area and what appeared before my wondering eyes...Santa's house! The tradition in our town is a big Thanksgiving parade the weekend before Thanksgiving. It's a pretty big deal and brings in hundreds of people who line the main parade route. The big finish, bringing up the rear, is a firetruck with Santa and Mrs. Santa sitting up top. It's usually the same couple every year, although one year, the Mrs. was absent, not really sure why. Was she sick or mad at Santa?
Anyway, after the parade ends and the throng of attendees thinks it's time to wrap it up and head back to the suburbs, heading back up the one way street is a police escort taking Santa and the firetruck to his house so he can start setting the kiddies on his lap and listen to their Christmas wishes. I may be wrong, but it seems the past couple of years, that house of his has been erected earlier and earlier. It spends most of November empty so I can't understand what the rush is all about. It's not a terribly convoluted structure so I'm not sure why city officials feel the need to assemble at the start of November.
My bowl of Halloween candy is almost empty. I'm betting the CVS down the street has a whole rack of sale candy available...right next to the chocolate snowmen and Santa's decked in their red and green tin foil.
A little empty calorie therapy is just the ticket to get me through the next two months.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Falling Back
Set the clock back before I went to sleep last night, just like I was supposed to do. Managed to get in a full eight hours of sleep, so why do I feel like someone poured cement in my head overnight?
Not one kid showed up at my door for Halloween. This morning, my co-workers are enjoying the two bags of leftover treats...I'm down sixteen pounds, so there was no way they were staying in my house!
We used to have children show up on our street for Halloween's past. The four youngsters who live on our block, my daughter included, are now teenagers and doing their own thing for Halloween festivities. We have several new, young couples who have moved in the past few years, and I suppose it would be rude of me to suggest to them to start procreating so I can enjoy handing out candy again!
Halloween night, in my neighborhood is mainly geared to adults, anyway. It's an old historic part of town, too many bars shoved into a matter of a few blocks. Last night, some friends asked me to join them on the parade of the drunken idiots. Thanks, but no thanks. I am so done with that. No interest in dressing up anymore. Just give me some cute little ones in costume.
I spent the evening trying to drown out the hooting and hollering on the streets below my house, and settled back with a great book about a vampire hunt; The Historian.
All in all, not a bad way to spend a wet, gloomy evening.
Not one kid showed up at my door for Halloween. This morning, my co-workers are enjoying the two bags of leftover treats...I'm down sixteen pounds, so there was no way they were staying in my house!
We used to have children show up on our street for Halloween's past. The four youngsters who live on our block, my daughter included, are now teenagers and doing their own thing for Halloween festivities. We have several new, young couples who have moved in the past few years, and I suppose it would be rude of me to suggest to them to start procreating so I can enjoy handing out candy again!
Halloween night, in my neighborhood is mainly geared to adults, anyway. It's an old historic part of town, too many bars shoved into a matter of a few blocks. Last night, some friends asked me to join them on the parade of the drunken idiots. Thanks, but no thanks. I am so done with that. No interest in dressing up anymore. Just give me some cute little ones in costume.
I spent the evening trying to drown out the hooting and hollering on the streets below my house, and settled back with a great book about a vampire hunt; The Historian.
All in all, not a bad way to spend a wet, gloomy evening.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Notes From Slothville
I've been out of commission for the past several days. Sick kid. Lack of sleep. Ennui.
The child is back at school and feeling much better. It was only a bad head cold and sore throat, no fever, thank goodness, which put all of my Swine flu fears to rest. At some point, I'm guessing production on the vaccine will increase and we can all get protected, if we so choose.
For now, I will keep spewing the up side of obsessive hand-washing.
But I'm not going to beat myself up over the lack of ambition, the desire to simply sit back and be a sloth in human form. I liked it.
An entire weekend was wasted on the couch with the latest dvd's and a new book. Nope, I'm not even going to feel a little bit guilty.
As a refreshing change from staying up too late, I actually made it into bed last night at 8p.m and managed a full eight hours of sleep (a dose of Nyquil was a huge help). Still, I cringed when the alarm went off at four a.m.
Money used to motivate me at work. Now the thought of a nap is what gets me through the workday.
As my dear friend, M, would say: "You do like your naps, don't you?"
Yes, M, I do. And it's nice to know my couch is waiting for me.
The child is back at school and feeling much better. It was only a bad head cold and sore throat, no fever, thank goodness, which put all of my Swine flu fears to rest. At some point, I'm guessing production on the vaccine will increase and we can all get protected, if we so choose.
For now, I will keep spewing the up side of obsessive hand-washing.
But I'm not going to beat myself up over the lack of ambition, the desire to simply sit back and be a sloth in human form. I liked it.
An entire weekend was wasted on the couch with the latest dvd's and a new book. Nope, I'm not even going to feel a little bit guilty.
As a refreshing change from staying up too late, I actually made it into bed last night at 8p.m and managed a full eight hours of sleep (a dose of Nyquil was a huge help). Still, I cringed when the alarm went off at four a.m.
Money used to motivate me at work. Now the thought of a nap is what gets me through the workday.
As my dear friend, M, would say: "You do like your naps, don't you?"
Yes, M, I do. And it's nice to know my couch is waiting for me.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Official
Several years ago, I lost a long-time job. As much as I hated this particular job and my bosses, and the lack of morale that had permeated the building, I was still in shock the day they called me in to tell me my services were no longer needed. First I laughed, long and loud, right in front of them. They sat and stared politely, if not a bit bewildered. Then, days later, when the reality of it finally sunk into my brain, I had a mini-panic attack while doing laundry. In the middle of throwing a load of wet clothes into the dryer, I became chilled and dizzy. My chest felt tight and I had to sit down. My whole life, my identity, had revolved around that job. What the hell was I going to do? It wasn't just about money, there was another adult in the house, still gainfully employed. I had been employed in one career, and one career only, since graduating from college in 1981. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and I'd always felt that I did it rather well. As working mom, it was also the perfect career to help me meet my daughter's needs, too.
I wasn't trained to do anything else and I was scared.
As it turned out, I was out of work for almost a year. But it was a good thing because during that time, my grandmother was dying and I went home to help my family. They had taken care of the old woman for all the years I was gone, hundreds of miles away, and now I had the chance to ease some of their load. I also brought along a journal, the thought being that I could finally get some writing down on paper. Writing; I was always too busy, to unsure of myself to really give it a try. And I'd graduated with a degree in Journalism.
I managed to put together some nice little paragraphs, snippets really, about my grandma and my family. Trying to make it all segue into an interesting tale, or essay, was another story. It was dawning on me why so many of the people I knew who called themselves writers had to take on other jobs to survive.
I signed up for a writing workshop and after eight weeks, managed to finish two essays. Both were eventually published in two separate anthologies.
Did this qualify me as an official writer? To date, my writing skills have earned me grand total of forty dollars. In my mind, that doesn't sound too professional. But I kept at it, it was fun, therapeutic even. I wrote my first short piece of fiction, a love story about a young couple and naturally, tragedy ensued. It's been three years since I started it and I'm still re-writing, and I even managed to find another job, one that offers a regular paycheck. At some point, it may be time to say farewell to my characters, Sam and Sophia, and start fresh with a brand new story.
My first full week as a fifty year old woman and I'm disappointed to admit that I've not achieved my goal of finishing a novel by the half century mark. Well, actually, that's not quite true. A couple of years ago I participated in National Novel Writing month. It takes place every year in the month of November. The goal is to finish a fifty thousand word manuscript, and that's exactly what I managed to do. I even have the downloaded certificate, my award, to prove I was capable of quantity, not quality.
And so, for the right here and right now, I will keep plugging away at this blog...and keep a journal at my side.
I wasn't trained to do anything else and I was scared.
As it turned out, I was out of work for almost a year. But it was a good thing because during that time, my grandmother was dying and I went home to help my family. They had taken care of the old woman for all the years I was gone, hundreds of miles away, and now I had the chance to ease some of their load. I also brought along a journal, the thought being that I could finally get some writing down on paper. Writing; I was always too busy, to unsure of myself to really give it a try. And I'd graduated with a degree in Journalism.
I managed to put together some nice little paragraphs, snippets really, about my grandma and my family. Trying to make it all segue into an interesting tale, or essay, was another story. It was dawning on me why so many of the people I knew who called themselves writers had to take on other jobs to survive.
I signed up for a writing workshop and after eight weeks, managed to finish two essays. Both were eventually published in two separate anthologies.
Did this qualify me as an official writer? To date, my writing skills have earned me grand total of forty dollars. In my mind, that doesn't sound too professional. But I kept at it, it was fun, therapeutic even. I wrote my first short piece of fiction, a love story about a young couple and naturally, tragedy ensued. It's been three years since I started it and I'm still re-writing, and I even managed to find another job, one that offers a regular paycheck. At some point, it may be time to say farewell to my characters, Sam and Sophia, and start fresh with a brand new story.
My first full week as a fifty year old woman and I'm disappointed to admit that I've not achieved my goal of finishing a novel by the half century mark. Well, actually, that's not quite true. A couple of years ago I participated in National Novel Writing month. It takes place every year in the month of November. The goal is to finish a fifty thousand word manuscript, and that's exactly what I managed to do. I even have the downloaded certificate, my award, to prove I was capable of quantity, not quality.
And so, for the right here and right now, I will keep plugging away at this blog...and keep a journal at my side.
Monday, October 19, 2009
What I Learned From the French
Two days. Two women. Paris, France. A 50th birthday. It was the whirlwind I'd expected. The City of Lights did not disappoint me. Saturday night it was dinner at a small cafe on the Champs de Elysees, next weekend I'll be helping out at the Spaghetti dinner at my daughter's school.
"M" and I made it to the top of the Eiffel Tower, we marveled at the Arc de Triomphe. We blasted through the Louvre with two goals; to see the Mona Lisa and the statue of Aphrodite. We accomphlished both and then ran to catch the train to Versailles. Marie A's Palace was over the top, lots of gold and decadence. M and I agreed the peasants had every right to revolt!
Contrary to what some of my American friends believe, the French were not rude. They were lovely, polite and more than happy to help a language-challenged U.S. citizen.
When it comes to food and fashion, the French adhere to the "less is more" policy.
I've learned that you can't go wrong with black and a beautiful scarf. The women may not all have been beauties but they all possessed a simple,elegent style.
The French also understand the concept of portion size when it comes to their meals. A serving of pasta arrives at your table in a small bowl. It's not swimming in sauce.The Boeuf (beef) Bourguignan contained just a few chunks of tender red meat in a delicate wine sauce, accompanied by small pieces of potatoes and carrots. And of course, one has to have a glass of wine. Please notice that I said glass, as in one glass, maybe two. I have a feeling that for the majority of the French, wine is simply another part of the meal, not a reason to keep drinking until you can no longer stand. Of course, I could be wrong. People sit and talk and enjoy the company of their friends, with a bite of food being consumed at a slow, leisurely pace. I'm willing to bet they don't suffer the gastrointestinal troubles we do in the states.
They also smoke...alot. But they walk everyday and everywhere.
Delicious food. Good Wine. Great art. Forty-eight hours isn't nearly long enough to fully grasp a new culture, but I sure can appreciate it.
"M" and I made it to the top of the Eiffel Tower, we marveled at the Arc de Triomphe. We blasted through the Louvre with two goals; to see the Mona Lisa and the statue of Aphrodite. We accomphlished both and then ran to catch the train to Versailles. Marie A's Palace was over the top, lots of gold and decadence. M and I agreed the peasants had every right to revolt!
Contrary to what some of my American friends believe, the French were not rude. They were lovely, polite and more than happy to help a language-challenged U.S. citizen.
When it comes to food and fashion, the French adhere to the "less is more" policy.
I've learned that you can't go wrong with black and a beautiful scarf. The women may not all have been beauties but they all possessed a simple,elegent style.
The French also understand the concept of portion size when it comes to their meals. A serving of pasta arrives at your table in a small bowl. It's not swimming in sauce.The Boeuf (beef) Bourguignan contained just a few chunks of tender red meat in a delicate wine sauce, accompanied by small pieces of potatoes and carrots. And of course, one has to have a glass of wine. Please notice that I said glass, as in one glass, maybe two. I have a feeling that for the majority of the French, wine is simply another part of the meal, not a reason to keep drinking until you can no longer stand. Of course, I could be wrong. People sit and talk and enjoy the company of their friends, with a bite of food being consumed at a slow, leisurely pace. I'm willing to bet they don't suffer the gastrointestinal troubles we do in the states.
They also smoke...alot. But they walk everyday and everywhere.
Delicious food. Good Wine. Great art. Forty-eight hours isn't nearly long enough to fully grasp a new culture, but I sure can appreciate it.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Winging It
Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you did not do than the things you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. Mark Twain
I am not a "spur of the moment" kind of person. I like to have a gameplan, an outline on the events that will affect my life. Sure, there will always be the things that will be out of one's control, no matter how organized the plan, but for the most part, I enjoy playing it safe. But as I get older, I've been trying to change, trying to free myself up to new opportunities.
That's why I'm headed to Paris for the weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday. Yep, that Paris...the one in France. It never would have happened without "M". She's the catalyst for this impromptu voyage, and she's also my traveling companion, and the one who arranged the itinerary.
At some point, probably several years ago, I must have mentioned how I hoped to get back to Europe before hitting the half century mark. Did I really bother to take myself seriously, of course not. Life was crazy, there was a child to raise and a job to report to during the week.
But "M" didn't forget. She booked our flight, reserved a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, and then, knowing my unease with surprise, called me a couple of weeks ago to tell me and let the idea sink in. She understands my need to plan.
So we leave this afternoon, after my workday ends. It'll be a short trip, and we'll pack in as much of the excitement of Paris that we can in two full days. My family is more than capable of taking care of themselves, in fact I'm certain both hubby and child do the happy dance whenever I'm gone.
So Paris awaits me and M. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to give my guidebook a once over and recheck my suitcase.
Au revoir!
I am not a "spur of the moment" kind of person. I like to have a gameplan, an outline on the events that will affect my life. Sure, there will always be the things that will be out of one's control, no matter how organized the plan, but for the most part, I enjoy playing it safe. But as I get older, I've been trying to change, trying to free myself up to new opportunities.
That's why I'm headed to Paris for the weekend to celebrate my 50th birthday. Yep, that Paris...the one in France. It never would have happened without "M". She's the catalyst for this impromptu voyage, and she's also my traveling companion, and the one who arranged the itinerary.
At some point, probably several years ago, I must have mentioned how I hoped to get back to Europe before hitting the half century mark. Did I really bother to take myself seriously, of course not. Life was crazy, there was a child to raise and a job to report to during the week.
But "M" didn't forget. She booked our flight, reserved a hotel near the Eiffel Tower, and then, knowing my unease with surprise, called me a couple of weeks ago to tell me and let the idea sink in. She understands my need to plan.
So we leave this afternoon, after my workday ends. It'll be a short trip, and we'll pack in as much of the excitement of Paris that we can in two full days. My family is more than capable of taking care of themselves, in fact I'm certain both hubby and child do the happy dance whenever I'm gone.
So Paris awaits me and M. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to give my guidebook a once over and recheck my suitcase.
Au revoir!
Monday, October 12, 2009
My Dehydrating Quest to Kill Germs
My hands are very dry today. I've been going crazy with the liquid hand sanitizer and it's taking a toll on my skin. The Swine flu frenzy is well under way, and while I ponder whether or not to get the vaccine, the hygiene freak inside me is having a field day. I carry a mini-bottle of sanitizer in my purse, as well as wipes. I use the pump bottle provided at work on my way to and from the ladies room, the kitchen, and the elevator. I think twice before scratching my nose with my hand, opting instead to use my sweater-covered arm.
And of course, the huge debate continues: Is the vaccine safe? Are we idiots if we don't get it. What about companies forcing their employees to get vaccinated?
Currently, from what I understand, there is a limited supply of the H1N1 Vaccine available, and right now only a select group of people can get it, like pregnant women and those with compromised immune systems. Once those in the higher risk groups are protected, the rest of us schleps can get vaccinated, if there's anything left.
My daughter and I have both received the seasonal flu vaccines, we had no side effects, not that I anticipated any. People who claim they always get the flu after getting a flu shot were probably already getting sick, at least that's what my doctor tells me. Still, like many other people, I too had my questions about the Swine vaccine. After a long talk with my daughter's pediatrician, a true non-alarmist, I was left very reassured. The good doctor says it's a safe vaccine, produced in a very similiar way to the seasonal variety. She recommended that my daughter get it as soon as it was available to her, and me too.
In the meantime, I'll keep slathering on that hand sanitizer.
And of course, the huge debate continues: Is the vaccine safe? Are we idiots if we don't get it. What about companies forcing their employees to get vaccinated?
Currently, from what I understand, there is a limited supply of the H1N1 Vaccine available, and right now only a select group of people can get it, like pregnant women and those with compromised immune systems. Once those in the higher risk groups are protected, the rest of us schleps can get vaccinated, if there's anything left.
My daughter and I have both received the seasonal flu vaccines, we had no side effects, not that I anticipated any. People who claim they always get the flu after getting a flu shot were probably already getting sick, at least that's what my doctor tells me. Still, like many other people, I too had my questions about the Swine vaccine. After a long talk with my daughter's pediatrician, a true non-alarmist, I was left very reassured. The good doctor says it's a safe vaccine, produced in a very similiar way to the seasonal variety. She recommended that my daughter get it as soon as it was available to her, and me too.
In the meantime, I'll keep slathering on that hand sanitizer.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I went shopping today in search of a black turtleneck sweater. Sounds simple enough, right? This Fall, however, is apparently not the season for turtleneck sweaters. Huge cowl necks, button ups, scoop necks, v-necks, but nary a turtleneck to be found. I finally settled on a simple cable knit, the scoop neck variety. I can always spiff it up with a scarf around my neck.
But I'm getting off track. The real reason for my post tonight is to vent on a very disturbing fashion trend from the past that seems to be making a comeback...stirrup pants.
I was in a fairly hip boutique this afternoon and there they were, on a rack all to themselves, in black, no less. For a minute I was confused, my head felt dizzy as if in the throes of a vertigo attack. I had a strange flashback from somewhere in the 80's. But then I thought, this can't be right, it's 2009, who would be dumb enough to try and resurrect a style of pants that actually made mom jeans look hip?
This continued to bother me on my drive home so I decided to do some online investigating. Ladies, I'm terrified to say that my discovery today is not an isolated incident. I found pair after pair, after pair, available online. Neiman Marcus even offered a top line designer pair for $895.00! Okay, I'll concede that the size 0 model wearing them certainly helped...but they're still freaking ugly pants!
But I'm getting off track. The real reason for my post tonight is to vent on a very disturbing fashion trend from the past that seems to be making a comeback...stirrup pants.
I was in a fairly hip boutique this afternoon and there they were, on a rack all to themselves, in black, no less. For a minute I was confused, my head felt dizzy as if in the throes of a vertigo attack. I had a strange flashback from somewhere in the 80's. But then I thought, this can't be right, it's 2009, who would be dumb enough to try and resurrect a style of pants that actually made mom jeans look hip?
This continued to bother me on my drive home so I decided to do some online investigating. Ladies, I'm terrified to say that my discovery today is not an isolated incident. I found pair after pair, after pair, available online. Neiman Marcus even offered a top line designer pair for $895.00! Okay, I'll concede that the size 0 model wearing them certainly helped...but they're still freaking ugly pants!
Friday, October 9, 2009
Facets Away
Lower back pain, it's a true pain in the ass (well, close enough) that's for sure. At some point in the evolutionary chain, we went from walking on all fours to scuffling along on two feet, and that's when all our problems started. I sometimes wonder if Cro Magnon man or Mr. Neanderthal, after a tough day of hunting and gathering, sat down on a bed of fur wondering what to do about the nagging pain in their lower spine.
My own back pain started after the birth of my daughter almost sixteen years ago. I'm convinced that while the little darling was growing inside me, she managed to knock my pelvis out of whack, which has led to years and years of searching for ways to make the pain stop.
You name the treatment, and I've probably tried it; chiropractic, physical therapy, decompression therapy, deep tissue massage, and a bizarre hands-on manipulation where the practitioner pressed down on my pelvic region and told me to think about urinating.
Yoga and pilates classes, yep, tried those as well.
Relief from all of the above would be short and sweet. Nothing seemed to provide a permanent solution and apparently the two arthritic discs in my lower left back weren't bad enough to require surgery.
I tried to keep a smile on my face and stay positive despite the pain.
But now I think I've found the doctor who can make me pain free again.
Today he performed a little something called a lumbar rhizotomy. In a nutshell, he cauterized the facet nerves that were generating all of the agony from my degenerating discs. If all goes as planned, the treatment should last anywhere from nine months to two years.
"In some cases the pain never returns, " said the doctor, a man who has the potential of topping my all time favorite human being list.
Two to three weeks from now, I'll learn if this rhizotomy thing was successful. Tonight, I'll get comfy on the couch with an ice pack on my back.
My own back pain started after the birth of my daughter almost sixteen years ago. I'm convinced that while the little darling was growing inside me, she managed to knock my pelvis out of whack, which has led to years and years of searching for ways to make the pain stop.
You name the treatment, and I've probably tried it; chiropractic, physical therapy, decompression therapy, deep tissue massage, and a bizarre hands-on manipulation where the practitioner pressed down on my pelvic region and told me to think about urinating.
Yoga and pilates classes, yep, tried those as well.
Relief from all of the above would be short and sweet. Nothing seemed to provide a permanent solution and apparently the two arthritic discs in my lower left back weren't bad enough to require surgery.
I tried to keep a smile on my face and stay positive despite the pain.
But now I think I've found the doctor who can make me pain free again.
Today he performed a little something called a lumbar rhizotomy. In a nutshell, he cauterized the facet nerves that were generating all of the agony from my degenerating discs. If all goes as planned, the treatment should last anywhere from nine months to two years.
"In some cases the pain never returns, " said the doctor, a man who has the potential of topping my all time favorite human being list.
Two to three weeks from now, I'll learn if this rhizotomy thing was successful. Tonight, I'll get comfy on the couch with an ice pack on my back.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
It Fills Me With Glee
The past several television seasons have been a real disappointment for me. Where were the Freaks and Geeks, The Wonder Years, the Malcom in the Middles. I held out some hope when Desperate Housewives hit the airwaves, but lost interest by season 2.
There was no happiness to be found on television, not for me, anyway. And then, I heard about Glee.
This is a new show on the Fox network that should be assigned watching for middle to high school-aged students. Absolutely wonderful. I even stay up an hour past my bedtime on Wednesday nights just to watch it.
The show centers around Mr. Schuester,an Ohio high school teacher who longs to bring back his own glory days of being a member of the Glee club. He assembles a group consisting of the lowest on the high school food chain to the coolest of the jocks and cheerleaders. Together, they have one goal: to win the local high school glee club regional competition. But are they good enough?
The writing is brilliant. Every cast member the perfect choice for their given role. These kids can sing and they made me laugh,and they broke my heart, and they had me rethink my own high school days and the class systems I knew all too well. The adults are even better, from the germaphobic guidance counselor, Emma Pillsbury to Sue Sylvester, the militaristic cheerleading coach who believes terrifying children helps motivate them!
Has Glee changed my life? Has it inspired me to be a better human being? No, c'mon, that's asking an awful lot of a t.v. show, especially a musical-dramedy. But for at least one night a week, for one sweet hour, I'm pulled away from all the garbage that's happening in the world, and I smile.
And that's enough for me.
There was no happiness to be found on television, not for me, anyway. And then, I heard about Glee.
This is a new show on the Fox network that should be assigned watching for middle to high school-aged students. Absolutely wonderful. I even stay up an hour past my bedtime on Wednesday nights just to watch it.
The show centers around Mr. Schuester,an Ohio high school teacher who longs to bring back his own glory days of being a member of the Glee club. He assembles a group consisting of the lowest on the high school food chain to the coolest of the jocks and cheerleaders. Together, they have one goal: to win the local high school glee club regional competition. But are they good enough?
The writing is brilliant. Every cast member the perfect choice for their given role. These kids can sing and they made me laugh,and they broke my heart, and they had me rethink my own high school days and the class systems I knew all too well. The adults are even better, from the germaphobic guidance counselor, Emma Pillsbury to Sue Sylvester, the militaristic cheerleading coach who believes terrifying children helps motivate them!
Has Glee changed my life? Has it inspired me to be a better human being? No, c'mon, that's asking an awful lot of a t.v. show, especially a musical-dramedy. But for at least one night a week, for one sweet hour, I'm pulled away from all the garbage that's happening in the world, and I smile.
And that's enough for me.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A Purple Kind of Day
I've decided to play around with my blog settings a bit. Purple is a lovely color and I choose to use it for the rest of the football season in honor of the Baltimore Ravens. The team has truly made me a fan, and I thank them!
Aside from the new color, I've also changed the font size. Call me middle-aged, it's just easier to read.
Also, I'm having one heck of a time trying to keep my eyes open today...purple text is quite the eye-opener.
I have no one but myself to blame for my fatigue. It's very simple: I get up at four a.m. in order to be at work by 5:05. I average about five to six hours of sleep per night. You don't even have to be a sleep disorder expert to figure this out. I need more sleep, it's as simple as that.
The nice thing about being exhausted is that it's killing my desire to eat. This is a good thing, I've lost about thirteen pounds. Twenty-seven more pounds to go.
Can you tell I'm really scrounging here to come up with something, anything, to talk about this morning. My promise to myself was to write daily. It's not easy. There are so many fascinating blogs out there. So far, I have to admit, this is not one of them. Yet.
Am I happy today? Not really sure...but a nap wouldn't kill me.
Aside from the new color, I've also changed the font size. Call me middle-aged, it's just easier to read.
Also, I'm having one heck of a time trying to keep my eyes open today...purple text is quite the eye-opener.
I have no one but myself to blame for my fatigue. It's very simple: I get up at four a.m. in order to be at work by 5:05. I average about five to six hours of sleep per night. You don't even have to be a sleep disorder expert to figure this out. I need more sleep, it's as simple as that.
The nice thing about being exhausted is that it's killing my desire to eat. This is a good thing, I've lost about thirteen pounds. Twenty-seven more pounds to go.
Can you tell I'm really scrounging here to come up with something, anything, to talk about this morning. My promise to myself was to write daily. It's not easy. There are so many fascinating blogs out there. So far, I have to admit, this is not one of them. Yet.
Am I happy today? Not really sure...but a nap wouldn't kill me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
But is it Leather?
Dear AARP,
I believe you have clearly made your point. Yes, I know, believe me, I know that I'm going to be fifty very soon. Thank you, though, for driving the point home over and over again for the past several months with your incessant offers of a free travel bag if I sign up with your fine organization. However, here's the deal:
A) I don't need another travel bag. My closet is filled with enough bags and sacks, and over-sized purses to supply an entire tour bus of senior citizens. Real senior citizens, people over the age of sixty-five who are actually retired and have the time, if not the cash, to travel.
Which leads me to my next point:
B) At what time did the AARP decide that the age of fifty was when a person made that graceful transition to old age? No one in my circle of friends, fifty and over, has yet had the luxury of being able to retire. Where are all of these rich old people who need your travel bags? Just asking. It seems, given the amount of times you've solicited me, that you have an over-abundance of bags, but that could be me.
Please understand, I have nothing against aging. I'm doing my part, with my salt and pepper hair, and the annoying brown spots that have started to appear on my cheeks. I assure you, there will be no caving in to the plastic surgeon's lair. I could spew a whole bunch of bull about the beauty of older women who choose to remain in their natural state, untouched, just the way God intended...but the reality, I'm way too cheap. Sure, a doctor could have a nipping and tucking frenzy, maybe start somewhere down around my ankles and pull all the way up to my eyebrows, but if he or she can't promise I'll come out of that operating room looking like Cindy Crawford, then forget it. I'd rather spend my hard-earned cash on a nice piece of art or an overseas adventure!
If it turns out I do need that travel bag, I'll be in touch.
I believe you have clearly made your point. Yes, I know, believe me, I know that I'm going to be fifty very soon. Thank you, though, for driving the point home over and over again for the past several months with your incessant offers of a free travel bag if I sign up with your fine organization. However, here's the deal:
A) I don't need another travel bag. My closet is filled with enough bags and sacks, and over-sized purses to supply an entire tour bus of senior citizens. Real senior citizens, people over the age of sixty-five who are actually retired and have the time, if not the cash, to travel.
Which leads me to my next point:
B) At what time did the AARP decide that the age of fifty was when a person made that graceful transition to old age? No one in my circle of friends, fifty and over, has yet had the luxury of being able to retire. Where are all of these rich old people who need your travel bags? Just asking. It seems, given the amount of times you've solicited me, that you have an over-abundance of bags, but that could be me.
Please understand, I have nothing against aging. I'm doing my part, with my salt and pepper hair, and the annoying brown spots that have started to appear on my cheeks. I assure you, there will be no caving in to the plastic surgeon's lair. I could spew a whole bunch of bull about the beauty of older women who choose to remain in their natural state, untouched, just the way God intended...but the reality, I'm way too cheap. Sure, a doctor could have a nipping and tucking frenzy, maybe start somewhere down around my ankles and pull all the way up to my eyebrows, but if he or she can't promise I'll come out of that operating room looking like Cindy Crawford, then forget it. I'd rather spend my hard-earned cash on a nice piece of art or an overseas adventure!
If it turns out I do need that travel bag, I'll be in touch.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Thank You for Visiting...Now Please Go Home
One of the nice things about living in an historic urban neighborhood is that people from all over love to come visit. One of the bad things about living in a cool old neighborhood is that sometimes, thousands of people like to converge all on the same weekend.
My neighborhood dates back to the late sixteen or seventeen hundreds. I've lived here close to twenty years and perhaps if I bothered to do the research, I'd know the exact date. It's an old seaport area, home to drunken sailors for a long, long time.
This particular weekend the neighborhood is holding what it calls a "Fun" festival. For me, it was fun for oh, let's say, the first ten to fifteen times I experienced it. Now, I would love for all these nice people to pack it in and leave.
When I explained my dislike of the festival to a new neighbor, she said, "Oh, you're one of those people."
One of those people? I had no idea there was a special category just for us.
And to further perpetuate my new reputation as the grouchy woman on the street, I will have to endure, at some point today, our annual block party. Someone had the brilliant idea about nine years ago to start this tradition during the festival weekend. Every year I have to devise new and creative ways to politely avoid it. It's not that I don't like my neighbors, they're all great people. I simply hate block parties.
I suppose that makes me one of those people yet again.
My neighborhood dates back to the late sixteen or seventeen hundreds. I've lived here close to twenty years and perhaps if I bothered to do the research, I'd know the exact date. It's an old seaport area, home to drunken sailors for a long, long time.
This particular weekend the neighborhood is holding what it calls a "Fun" festival. For me, it was fun for oh, let's say, the first ten to fifteen times I experienced it. Now, I would love for all these nice people to pack it in and leave.
When I explained my dislike of the festival to a new neighbor, she said, "Oh, you're one of those people."
One of those people? I had no idea there was a special category just for us.
And to further perpetuate my new reputation as the grouchy woman on the street, I will have to endure, at some point today, our annual block party. Someone had the brilliant idea about nine years ago to start this tradition during the festival weekend. Every year I have to devise new and creative ways to politely avoid it. It's not that I don't like my neighbors, they're all great people. I simply hate block parties.
I suppose that makes me one of those people yet again.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Giving One for the Team
Kudos to you moms who have more than one child, especially those with children involved in sports and other after school activities. I don't know how you do it. One high school athlete is about all I can handle.
I've been trying to update this blog for two days...so much for those plans to sit down and write every day. My life doesn't swing that way, apparently.
Work takes up about nine hours of the day, starting bright and early at five a.m. Teenzilla (she'd kill me if I used her real name...MOM, I can't believe you're talking about me on a blog...) takes up the other half. Believe me, I do it gladly because I love her, and because one day, she'll be choosing my assisted living facility. She's a great kid (okay, a little mouthy, but I'm sure it's passing phase) with a wicked sense of humor, but her volleyball schedule is killing me!
Let me get this out in the open, right here and now: I'm a bad sports mom. Oh sure, I show up at games and bring the Gatorade when asked, but if I had my way, I'd be at home taking a nap. It's not my fault, I was born without a competitive nature gene. The "good" sports moms know all of the girls on the team, their jersey numbers, their positions. I know to pay attention and act like I understand the game of volleyball when Teenzilla is at the net.
When she made the JV team, I was thrilled. JV plays first which meant, I thought, only an hour of my time invested and then we could grab her gym bag and continue on with the rest of the afternoon. I would have about an hour to run errands (take a nap, who am I kidding?) before dealing with dinner. Yeah, right. Teenzilla volunteered to be the line girl for the varsity games. From what I can tell, the line girl holds a red flag and plays a role in determining whether the ball is in or out of bounds. Excuse me...isn't that the job of the referee?
Now I sit in the stands for an extra hour or so and cheer on girls whose names I will hopefully learn before the end of the season. Why not just leave after the JV game, you ask? Take your nap, run to the grocery store and then pick up Teenzilla after the varsity game. Well, you see, it's those good moms again. They never fail to show up early and cheer on my daughter and the rest of the JV team. It would be rude to not do the same for their daughters.
On the drive home from last night's game, as we went to pick up Chinese for dinner, my daughter made the offhand comment about how Mrs. "L" had the weekly schedules of all four of her children, and her husband, programmed into her Blackberry.
"Do you want me to put your schedule into my phone?" I asked, hoping like heck she wouldn't because I can barely retrieve my voicemail messages or send texts. "Would that make you feel better?"
"No, it's okay," she said. "Besides, Mrs. "L" is kind of of a Stepford wife, it's pretty scary."
I made a mental note to retrieve the October school calender from the bowels of my oversized purse. It's crammed down there, somewhere, between bills that need to be paid, raffle tickets that need to be sold for the Mother's Club, and the empty order form for the school fundraiser that's due later this month.
No one will ever hurl accusations of being a Stepford wife my way...at least I have that in my favor.
I've been trying to update this blog for two days...so much for those plans to sit down and write every day. My life doesn't swing that way, apparently.
Work takes up about nine hours of the day, starting bright and early at five a.m. Teenzilla (she'd kill me if I used her real name...MOM, I can't believe you're talking about me on a blog...) takes up the other half. Believe me, I do it gladly because I love her, and because one day, she'll be choosing my assisted living facility. She's a great kid (okay, a little mouthy, but I'm sure it's passing phase) with a wicked sense of humor, but her volleyball schedule is killing me!
Let me get this out in the open, right here and now: I'm a bad sports mom. Oh sure, I show up at games and bring the Gatorade when asked, but if I had my way, I'd be at home taking a nap. It's not my fault, I was born without a competitive nature gene. The "good" sports moms know all of the girls on the team, their jersey numbers, their positions. I know to pay attention and act like I understand the game of volleyball when Teenzilla is at the net.
When she made the JV team, I was thrilled. JV plays first which meant, I thought, only an hour of my time invested and then we could grab her gym bag and continue on with the rest of the afternoon. I would have about an hour to run errands (take a nap, who am I kidding?) before dealing with dinner. Yeah, right. Teenzilla volunteered to be the line girl for the varsity games. From what I can tell, the line girl holds a red flag and plays a role in determining whether the ball is in or out of bounds. Excuse me...isn't that the job of the referee?
Now I sit in the stands for an extra hour or so and cheer on girls whose names I will hopefully learn before the end of the season. Why not just leave after the JV game, you ask? Take your nap, run to the grocery store and then pick up Teenzilla after the varsity game. Well, you see, it's those good moms again. They never fail to show up early and cheer on my daughter and the rest of the JV team. It would be rude to not do the same for their daughters.
On the drive home from last night's game, as we went to pick up Chinese for dinner, my daughter made the offhand comment about how Mrs. "L" had the weekly schedules of all four of her children, and her husband, programmed into her Blackberry.
"Do you want me to put your schedule into my phone?" I asked, hoping like heck she wouldn't because I can barely retrieve my voicemail messages or send texts. "Would that make you feel better?"
"No, it's okay," she said. "Besides, Mrs. "L" is kind of of a Stepford wife, it's pretty scary."
I made a mental note to retrieve the October school calender from the bowels of my oversized purse. It's crammed down there, somewhere, between bills that need to be paid, raffle tickets that need to be sold for the Mother's Club, and the empty order form for the school fundraiser that's due later this month.
No one will ever hurl accusations of being a Stepford wife my way...at least I have that in my favor.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Old Party Girl She Ain't What She Used To Be
I was picked up in a limo an whisked off to Washington D.C. this weekend. The three week kickoff, apparently, to my 50th birthday. Sadly, I am not the girl I used to be. My heart was willing to give it a go but the old body just couldn't deliver!
K & K (we'll keep it simple to protect all those concerned) arrived at my front door shortly at three p.m. on Friday, they popped open a bottle of champagne and we sat back and enjoyed the forty minute ride.
Dinner, from what I was told, was fabulous. I made it through the appetizers and decided enough was enough, it was time for bed. Honestly, I don't remember falling asleep at the table. In my defense, I was running on four hours of sleep. K&K, good friends that they are, had the entrees packed and shuttled me back to the hotel.
And let's talk about those appetizers for a minute. For three weeks I had been strictly adhering to the South Beach diet. Good little doobie that I am, I didn't cheat, not one little bit. South Beach, for those not familiar, is a modified low carb plan; lots of fresh veggies and lean proteins, no bad fats or sugar. The appetizers, of which I had very little, happened to be extremely rich. Have you ever had Cuttle Fish? Me neither. All I remember is that it came back to visit me the next morning in a very nasty manner. Both ends...disgusting.
The good news is for the rest of the weekend there was absolutely no desire to cheat on my diet. The thought of alcohol repulsed me and I finally managed to scarf down some poached eggs and ham by this morning.
There is an upside to intestinal distress...no weight gain!
K & K (we'll keep it simple to protect all those concerned) arrived at my front door shortly at three p.m. on Friday, they popped open a bottle of champagne and we sat back and enjoyed the forty minute ride.
Dinner, from what I was told, was fabulous. I made it through the appetizers and decided enough was enough, it was time for bed. Honestly, I don't remember falling asleep at the table. In my defense, I was running on four hours of sleep. K&K, good friends that they are, had the entrees packed and shuttled me back to the hotel.
And let's talk about those appetizers for a minute. For three weeks I had been strictly adhering to the South Beach diet. Good little doobie that I am, I didn't cheat, not one little bit. South Beach, for those not familiar, is a modified low carb plan; lots of fresh veggies and lean proteins, no bad fats or sugar. The appetizers, of which I had very little, happened to be extremely rich. Have you ever had Cuttle Fish? Me neither. All I remember is that it came back to visit me the next morning in a very nasty manner. Both ends...disgusting.
The good news is for the rest of the weekend there was absolutely no desire to cheat on my diet. The thought of alcohol repulsed me and I finally managed to scarf down some poached eggs and ham by this morning.
There is an upside to intestinal distress...no weight gain!
Friday, September 25, 2009
Wasted Calories
I've been a very good girl since the end of August. It was time to get serious about the weight I'd put on over the winter. Whether I wanted to believe it or delve into denial, the bathroom scale confirmed that I needed to lose a good thirty, maybe even forty, pounds. Five feet, seven inches can only hide so much of 190 pounds. I had gone well beyond pleasingly plump, and not only was it making me look and feel older, it was depressing.
The good news: Staying away from refined carbs and sugar (with a wee bit of exercise thrown in) I've managed to drop eleven pounds. The bad news: My girlfriends have decided today is the kickoff of my 50th birthday celebration. The actual day is three weeks from now but due to scheduling conflicts, K & K will be "kidnapping" me later this afternoon and taking me away on a mystery adventure. This will mean good restaurants and good wine...both of which I love dearly. Nothing makes me happier than a nice glass of a buttery Chardonnay, or a tender piece of filet paired with a nice Zinfandel (my personal favorite, Sin Zin). Typically, with K& K any celebration involves wine, lots of wine. This will be my ultimate challenge this weekend. I want to have fun and I want to maintain my weight loss.
I will dig deep and hard to unearth all of the willpower inside me to prove that I can survive with one glass of a good red, and a lean steak and green veggies. I want to enjoy all of the good things in life, because really, life is so damn short...especially with fifty breathing down your neck!
I just don't want to be a fat old lady.
The good news: Staying away from refined carbs and sugar (with a wee bit of exercise thrown in) I've managed to drop eleven pounds. The bad news: My girlfriends have decided today is the kickoff of my 50th birthday celebration. The actual day is three weeks from now but due to scheduling conflicts, K & K will be "kidnapping" me later this afternoon and taking me away on a mystery adventure. This will mean good restaurants and good wine...both of which I love dearly. Nothing makes me happier than a nice glass of a buttery Chardonnay, or a tender piece of filet paired with a nice Zinfandel (my personal favorite, Sin Zin). Typically, with K& K any celebration involves wine, lots of wine. This will be my ultimate challenge this weekend. I want to have fun and I want to maintain my weight loss.
I will dig deep and hard to unearth all of the willpower inside me to prove that I can survive with one glass of a good red, and a lean steak and green veggies. I want to enjoy all of the good things in life, because really, life is so damn short...especially with fifty breathing down your neck!
I just don't want to be a fat old lady.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Familial
When my daughter was born, she had the honorable distinction of being the first grandchild, at least on my side of the family. My mother was head over heels in love...she'd waited years to become a grandmother. As she told my father after he commented on her non-stop holding, fussing, feeding, and diapering of her granddaughter: "She's blood, you're not."
It took me a long time, well into adulthood, for me to realize that while family is important, family doesn't always been blood relations. My mom and dad have both passed away, my brothers live in other cities, and in a few years, my daughter will be in college. I've had to establish my own little family; people who don't share my bloodlines, but are in many ways closer to me than some on my actual family tree.
Let me tell you about my "sister." I met her more than twenty years ago when I started a new job, hundreds of miles from my hometown. M was the first person in the office to come in and say hello. At the time, I had no idea the impact she would make on my life.
Petite and flashy, with a flamboyant personality, M is the woman you can't help but notice. I'm "Ethel" and she's "Lucy." She loves high-heeled, fancy pumps while I favor comfort over style. Over the course of our twenty-some year friendship, my taste in clothing has driven her a tad bit crazy. One pair of pants in particular, black corduroy with little cherries on them, were a favorite target of hers.
"Where did you get those pants," she'd say. "You look like a homeless lady."
"I like them, "I'd counter. "They're extremely comfy."
"They have an elastic waistband...they're pathetic."
I finally did give those pants to charity, and some authentic homeless lady is probably enjoying them immensely.
But the bottom line is this: M is the one who allows me to engage in these sisterly battles, something I never had the chance to experience growing up.
We've watched our children grow up together, we've laughed and cried together, and we've had our share of disagreements. But the bottom line, no matter what, we know we are absolutely, one hundred percent, there for each other.
Just like family.
It took me a long time, well into adulthood, for me to realize that while family is important, family doesn't always been blood relations. My mom and dad have both passed away, my brothers live in other cities, and in a few years, my daughter will be in college. I've had to establish my own little family; people who don't share my bloodlines, but are in many ways closer to me than some on my actual family tree.
Let me tell you about my "sister." I met her more than twenty years ago when I started a new job, hundreds of miles from my hometown. M was the first person in the office to come in and say hello. At the time, I had no idea the impact she would make on my life.
Petite and flashy, with a flamboyant personality, M is the woman you can't help but notice. I'm "Ethel" and she's "Lucy." She loves high-heeled, fancy pumps while I favor comfort over style. Over the course of our twenty-some year friendship, my taste in clothing has driven her a tad bit crazy. One pair of pants in particular, black corduroy with little cherries on them, were a favorite target of hers.
"Where did you get those pants," she'd say. "You look like a homeless lady."
"I like them, "I'd counter. "They're extremely comfy."
"They have an elastic waistband...they're pathetic."
I finally did give those pants to charity, and some authentic homeless lady is probably enjoying them immensely.
But the bottom line is this: M is the one who allows me to engage in these sisterly battles, something I never had the chance to experience growing up.
We've watched our children grow up together, we've laughed and cried together, and we've had our share of disagreements. But the bottom line, no matter what, we know we are absolutely, one hundred percent, there for each other.
Just like family.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
When Life Hands You Other Plans
If you want to hear the most heartbreaking sound in the world, listen to your father cry. Fathers aren't supposed to cry, at least not when you're an adolescent and they're the rock that keeps the family in a solid place. When your mom is chronically ill, and in and out of the hospital, all you have is your dad. To hear him sobbing behind his locked bedroom door is, to say the least, bewildering.
My mother isn't even forty and the doctors say her kidneys will fail within years and she'll eventually need a transplant if she wants to live. Three days a week she depends on dialysis and her hope is that a suitable donor will be found. Still, she refuses to even consider her doctor's insistence that one of her three children be tested to see if they can donate. My father's healthy kidneys are not a suitable match.
Fourth of July, 1974, my mom is in the hospital yet again. I don't even know why this time. It's become so common place to not have her in the house, I don't even ask. I'm afraid to ask. My grandmother is over, giving my dad a hand. We've finished dinner and all I want is for the sun to go down so I can go outside and light firecrackers and sparklers with my friends. I want to have fun. I want life to be normal, but normal in our family ended several years ago.
I go upstairs to ask dad if it's okay to venture across the street but mere inches from his door, I hear him on the other side, even though his sobs are low and muffled. His face must be buried in a pillow, maybe two. I press my ear to the door, yet I cannot knock, scared to disturb him. He would be so embarrassed, deny that he is crying.
Is he envisioning my mother's possible early death like I have so many times in my worst nightmares, seeing himself as the young widower with three children to raise on his own?
I can't think about it anymore, have already spent too many hours worrying about my life as a girl without a mother. I run down the stairs, pretend that all is well.
My grandmother is in the family room watching television. Bob Barker is helping contestants with Truth or Consequences.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Across the street."
"Did you tell your father?"
"Yeah, he said it was fine," I lie.
"Don't stay out too late," she says.
As I run to join the other neighborhood kids, I notice dad's bedroom light has been turned off. Perhaps he's waiting for my mother to join him in his dreams.
(In loving memory of Alex G. Keurejian on this day, 9/22, his birthday. You should have been eighty-one years old, dad...but life had other plans)
My mother isn't even forty and the doctors say her kidneys will fail within years and she'll eventually need a transplant if she wants to live. Three days a week she depends on dialysis and her hope is that a suitable donor will be found. Still, she refuses to even consider her doctor's insistence that one of her three children be tested to see if they can donate. My father's healthy kidneys are not a suitable match.
Fourth of July, 1974, my mom is in the hospital yet again. I don't even know why this time. It's become so common place to not have her in the house, I don't even ask. I'm afraid to ask. My grandmother is over, giving my dad a hand. We've finished dinner and all I want is for the sun to go down so I can go outside and light firecrackers and sparklers with my friends. I want to have fun. I want life to be normal, but normal in our family ended several years ago.
I go upstairs to ask dad if it's okay to venture across the street but mere inches from his door, I hear him on the other side, even though his sobs are low and muffled. His face must be buried in a pillow, maybe two. I press my ear to the door, yet I cannot knock, scared to disturb him. He would be so embarrassed, deny that he is crying.
Is he envisioning my mother's possible early death like I have so many times in my worst nightmares, seeing himself as the young widower with three children to raise on his own?
I can't think about it anymore, have already spent too many hours worrying about my life as a girl without a mother. I run down the stairs, pretend that all is well.
My grandmother is in the family room watching television. Bob Barker is helping contestants with Truth or Consequences.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Across the street."
"Did you tell your father?"
"Yeah, he said it was fine," I lie.
"Don't stay out too late," she says.
As I run to join the other neighborhood kids, I notice dad's bedroom light has been turned off. Perhaps he's waiting for my mother to join him in his dreams.
(In loving memory of Alex G. Keurejian on this day, 9/22, his birthday. You should have been eighty-one years old, dad...but life had other plans)
Monday, September 21, 2009
I Need A Gameplan
Many of my friends and co-workers have blogs. It seems like the thing to do. I started mine on a whim and really had no clear plan on why I was doing it, or the topic of my blog. As with most things I've attempted in life, winging it seemed like the best idea.
I know lots of writers, real writers, people who actually make a living and pay their bills with the money they earn putting words to paper. I admire them a great deal for their dedication and love of the craft. Some people who know me would call me a writer, albeit a mostly unpublished writer. The sum of money I've made as a writer totals a grand forty dollars. Apparently, I'm a mostly unmotivated writer.
So the gameplan right now is to sit down at my laptop every day, be it morning or night, and get something down on this blog. It doesn't even matter if nobody reads it. This is for me, my very own personal, daily writing exercise. Maybe something brilliant will come out of this, maybe not.
Maybe it will simply make me happy.
I know lots of writers, real writers, people who actually make a living and pay their bills with the money they earn putting words to paper. I admire them a great deal for their dedication and love of the craft. Some people who know me would call me a writer, albeit a mostly unpublished writer. The sum of money I've made as a writer totals a grand forty dollars. Apparently, I'm a mostly unmotivated writer.
So the gameplan right now is to sit down at my laptop every day, be it morning or night, and get something down on this blog. It doesn't even matter if nobody reads it. This is for me, my very own personal, daily writing exercise. Maybe something brilliant will come out of this, maybe not.
Maybe it will simply make me happy.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
What Is It We Really Want?
The other day, my friend "M" and I were sitting on the deck, enjoying a beautiful afternoon. The weather was perfect, not too hot or humid. We were enjoying our diet Cokes in wine glasses (seems a bit more sophisticated for some reason) and basically taking it easy before we had to part company and start thinking about what to make for dinner or how many loads of laundry we'd finish before falling, exhausted, into bed.
"What do you need to be happy?" M asked me. "I've been racking my brain about this for days and I can't think of one thing that would make me happy."
"I think having more time to travel would make me happy," I said. "Or at least a little happier."
We've had many conversations the past several months about this topic. What does it really take to make a person happy? Make us happy, that is. We've both come to the conclusion that it certainly isn't material things, although we like material things. We're happy that our children are happy and seem to have their lives in order. We're excited for their futures and hope they make wiser choices than we did. We realize it's pointless to lament about the past but we're still trying to figure out how we should tackle our futures. We both know what we'd like to do but have not yet worked up the courage to do it.
Right now, right at this moment, I am happy. My Ravens beat San Diego tonight. My laundry is done, for the most part. My house is quiet and peaceful.
Perhaps that is enough for right now.
"What do you need to be happy?" M asked me. "I've been racking my brain about this for days and I can't think of one thing that would make me happy."
"I think having more time to travel would make me happy," I said. "Or at least a little happier."
We've had many conversations the past several months about this topic. What does it really take to make a person happy? Make us happy, that is. We've both come to the conclusion that it certainly isn't material things, although we like material things. We're happy that our children are happy and seem to have their lives in order. We're excited for their futures and hope they make wiser choices than we did. We realize it's pointless to lament about the past but we're still trying to figure out how we should tackle our futures. We both know what we'd like to do but have not yet worked up the courage to do it.
Right now, right at this moment, I am happy. My Ravens beat San Diego tonight. My laundry is done, for the most part. My house is quiet and peaceful.
Perhaps that is enough for right now.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Downward Dog is Not My Friend...Yet!
I have a gym membership and like thousands of other people out there, I rarely get my fat ass to the gym. Sure, around Christmas time it seems like a great idea, a good investment for health and well being and all that other crap I keep reading about on the scores of health web sites I can't stay away from. I was actually pretty good the first few months, went every single day for at least an hour. Even tried a Zumba class. For those of you not familiar with Zumba, it 's apparently the hot new Latin Dance exercise craze. It will always be taught by a size two hottie, young enough to be the daughter of most of the women taking the class. She will move like a gazelle while the rest of us simply try to keep up with the pulsating beat, lumbering at best like hippos with four left feet.
Somewhere around mid-summer I took a sabbatical from the gym. It started innocently enough, first with the excuse that it was more important for me to catch up on my sleep with afternoon naps, and then moved into the "but there's so many other things I need to do around the house first" excuses. I stopped going and never looked back. I knew hard-earned money was being wasted, automatically withdrawn from my bank and into the gym's account, but I didn't care, I was sick of working out. It went on for so long that the staff at the gym even started calling me to see if I was okay. Talk about guilt.
And here's a shocker: after four months of being a sloth and cramming any and all refined carbs down my throat, I gained ten pounds. I was surprised to see it was only ten. Time to get back on the wagon, I decided.
Today, My daughter and I tried Yoga, deciding to ease ourselves back onto the exercise bandwagon. We grabbed our mats and picked spots in the back, away from those who looked like they probably knew what they were doing. We inhaled and exhaled, and we fell over quite a bit. But little by little we managed to keep most of our balance and tried to suppress a chuckle when the instructor went into new age, spiritual overdrive.
I can't say I loved it, not yet. But as the class ended and we went to place our mats back on the shelf, I did notice that the little pains and cricks in my lower back felt much more relaxed, my knees less stiff, my neck nice and limber.
Sign me up for the next class. Who knows, maybe power yoga not too far down the road!
Somewhere around mid-summer I took a sabbatical from the gym. It started innocently enough, first with the excuse that it was more important for me to catch up on my sleep with afternoon naps, and then moved into the "but there's so many other things I need to do around the house first" excuses. I stopped going and never looked back. I knew hard-earned money was being wasted, automatically withdrawn from my bank and into the gym's account, but I didn't care, I was sick of working out. It went on for so long that the staff at the gym even started calling me to see if I was okay. Talk about guilt.
And here's a shocker: after four months of being a sloth and cramming any and all refined carbs down my throat, I gained ten pounds. I was surprised to see it was only ten. Time to get back on the wagon, I decided.
Today, My daughter and I tried Yoga, deciding to ease ourselves back onto the exercise bandwagon. We grabbed our mats and picked spots in the back, away from those who looked like they probably knew what they were doing. We inhaled and exhaled, and we fell over quite a bit. But little by little we managed to keep most of our balance and tried to suppress a chuckle when the instructor went into new age, spiritual overdrive.
I can't say I loved it, not yet. But as the class ended and we went to place our mats back on the shelf, I did notice that the little pains and cricks in my lower back felt much more relaxed, my knees less stiff, my neck nice and limber.
Sign me up for the next class. Who knows, maybe power yoga not too far down the road!
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Countdown Begins...
In less than a month I will turn fifty years old. It's still hard for me to physically form that particular F word and urge it to leave my mouth. Writing it down seems much easier, maybe because it will seem more like a story...like it's happening to someone else.
The nice thing about turning fifty is that if you're suddenly afflicted with amnesia and can't remember your age, there are so many nice people who will be more than happy to remind you. AARP has more than likely killed one adult tree simply with the amount of invitations they have sent me, asking me to please become a member. They've even thrown in the offer of a free travel bag. I'm touched.
My doctor loves to remind me that my body is falling apart. My daughter finds a certain joy in pointing out sags, lumps, veins, and wrinkles. I like to remind her that the twenty-five hours I spent pushing her out of my body and into the world were pretty much the death knell on my size six figure. Oh well. Some people said I was too skinny back then, anyway.
So what am I doing, you ask? Who the heck cares if I'm turning fifty, or nineteen, or eighty-nine? It all seems a bit self-absorbed, doesn't it? Just trying to get my house in order, so to speak. I've been busy the past several weeks trying to get my home, my literal home, organized; throwing out old paperwork, packing up and giving old clothes and books to charity, scrubbing floors and washing windows.
Perhaps it's also time to get my physical and emotional house in order.
The nice thing about turning fifty is that if you're suddenly afflicted with amnesia and can't remember your age, there are so many nice people who will be more than happy to remind you. AARP has more than likely killed one adult tree simply with the amount of invitations they have sent me, asking me to please become a member. They've even thrown in the offer of a free travel bag. I'm touched.
My doctor loves to remind me that my body is falling apart. My daughter finds a certain joy in pointing out sags, lumps, veins, and wrinkles. I like to remind her that the twenty-five hours I spent pushing her out of my body and into the world were pretty much the death knell on my size six figure. Oh well. Some people said I was too skinny back then, anyway.
So what am I doing, you ask? Who the heck cares if I'm turning fifty, or nineteen, or eighty-nine? It all seems a bit self-absorbed, doesn't it? Just trying to get my house in order, so to speak. I've been busy the past several weeks trying to get my home, my literal home, organized; throwing out old paperwork, packing up and giving old clothes and books to charity, scrubbing floors and washing windows.
Perhaps it's also time to get my physical and emotional house in order.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
