Imagine My Surprise

So I'm not a huge fan of Facebook. I think it's cool, it's cute, it's a way to keep in touch but I'm a blogger at heart not a social networker. Well, not an online social networker.

But I talked to my cousin today, and she's been updating my sister on Facebook and I realized if nothing else, I want to stay in touch with her.

I had the time to talk to her because I was driving four hours today to Connecticut and back.

On the way there, I placed a series of calls, leaving messages etcetera. Hoping to catch a few people. My cousin was later on the list, but when I reached her, boy did I. We talked for almost an hour.

During that time several people cut in. Thanks to the magic of caller ID, I saw their names flash across the screen. First my husband, then another, then a third. I didn't pick up but as soon as I ended the call, I hit redial and grabbed the last caller.

She proceeded to chit chat with me amiably, letting me know that she had received my message, did I get hers, and basically what she had said was a. b. and c. and not to bother listening to it.
All very chatty and happy.

Which was great. So time passes. I get home and tonight finally decide to join Facebook.

Where lo and behold my friend that I had JUST spoken to today left me a friend request. Likely lurking in the system from when she uploaded her profile.

I clicked on it.

and read her Wall.

Where she remarks that it REALLY annoys her when people say leave a message but dont check voicemail thus she has to repeat the whole call.

I have to say, I hear her point. That IS annoying.

You know what ELSE is annoying, that the voicemail notification app on my cell doesn't work when I'm on the phone and someone else calls in.

Passengers Wanted

I hate driving my husbands car. I don't mind that it's a Ghetto Saab Hyundai. It's actually cute. Zippy. Red. Sunroof. Sirius radio.

It's just that it's filled with papers and neckties and old Wall Street Journals in dirty plastic wrappers from the front yard.And installed within this otherwise cute as a bug car, The Ugliest Car Seat Ever, as purchased at Costco, by my impatient husband when I refused to make a decision on Ellie's "Big Girl" carseat.

Apparently he thought functionality was enough.
Shesh.

Point is, I hate driving it, because it's dirty.
I hate the carseat, because it's ugly.
And I hate the fact that every time I'm in it, something goes wrong.

The car alarm goes off randomly, the windows freeze - locked, the battery dies because the radio was installed wrong and he never went back (let's jump start it daily, shall we?) the back flap over the cargo area flips up. It's all very distracting. Very pain in the ass. It's like driving an extremely temperamental wedding planner.

So the other day, of course, I consent to driving his car with Ellie and her door doesn't work. I use the key fob, press the litle unlock button, I hear all the doors unlock, save for hers. This happens about three different times, all one after the other. I try using the btoon on the door. I tryy locking them all the unlocking.

Inconvenient. Inconvenient in the slush as I drag her across the back seat out the rear drivers side door.

I call him.
"Did you do something to her door? Like one of those safety things?"
Him: "No"
Me: Grumpy. "Fine"

I get home.
"Something's wrong with the door."

He assumes I'm an idiot.
This is a frequent occurrence.

"Did you try locking then unlocking them all?"

Honestly, my husband should work on a help desk. You know, one of those guys that asks about 17 obvious questions before getting to the point you were at when you called.

I advise him of everything I've done.
He's skeptical.

We go out together over the weekend.

And hallelujah glory be to the powers above, it happens to him.
Several times.

"Hmh. I hope it's under warranty"

A couple of days later, I open the back door to take out my bag.
I look over my shoulder to tell him that I'll get Ellie and I notice him leaning over laughing.

"What's up?" I check my butt, my hair. Back in the car. "What?"
"I think I know what happened to the back door"

And I look in and see Ellie with her shoe in her hand, and the toes of her right foot gliding over the door lock. Pushing it firmly then pounding it with her heel.
The door lock that she can't reach in my car.

She's so freakin cute that Ellie.

Good To The Last Drop

Like the good mother that I am, I plopped my daughter in front of (ugh) Yo gabba Gabba while I made various and sundry annual appointments.

A two year for her, an eye exam for her, a wisdom teeth extraction for the hubby and a mamogram for me.

I didn't feel old making the mammogram appt.
I felt old when I watched the little "cool trick" girl on Yo Gabba Gabba do the coffee grinder.
No. I wasn't feeling old because I saw it the first time it was invented (yeah, I was born before Flashdance)
I was feeling old because I fell on my ass trying to do it in Ellie's playroom.

Seriously.
Thank god I ran around rolling down the shades first.

It Takes a Village

Or more specifically it takes a Fisher Price Family Village #997 from 1973 with lithos gorgeously intact, both cars, the bridge, the restaurant furniture, the mail truck - with mail - the police car, the dentist chair, the firetruck, the phonebooth, some cheap ass plastic people switched for the real ones, and little rose, the girl in the red dress.


Seriously.
I'm the shit.

I bought the village for a crazy steal in Salem over the weekend from a guy standing out near a gas station.

I mean, he wasn't opening his raincoat for it, we had an appointment but it was eirily remincent of the time my girlfriend and I thought if you worked for Temporarily Yours Escort Service, all you had to do was go out to dinner with guys. Nothing else. And we were supposed to call Joannie from the payphone at the Chinese Restaurant at 3pm and they'sd send someone over to meet us.

It felt sketchy.
Dirty.

Like I was on a packey run circa 1985 waiting for Sully, Obie, Bri, Bri and Flash to come back with one sixpack of Heffenreffer.

Oh but the glory is mine.

I bought it for Ellie then promptly decided she was too young and put in in the empty china cabinet.

After playing with it for 1/2 hour.
Now if only I had the Merry Go Round.

whatever...

I bought a pinwheel at the Doller Spot, had a Miller Light and danced with Ellie to Forever In Bluejeans. The weekend was redeemed.
And thanks to Cheek who reminded me (but not in so many words) that I was being a big huge baby.

Part One of Four...More Jewish Then You, subtitled My Story of One Christian Woman's Journey Doing a Mitzvah or They Don't Call Me Deborah for Nothing

Early February, 2009....
I have to start with an email I wrote to a good friend.

The point was that I had been - unfairly to me - mocked for something that I didn't feel was mock worthy. It stemmed from my helping someone out, who wasn't a friend, but was in need, and it took hours versus minutes. And I did it again. And would do it again still.

Shortly after the not so thinly veiled mockery, I was at a playdate with a friend - and reader - whose casual comment sparked a spark in me, and while it had nothing to DO with me and she's a reader so I have to caveat the shit out of this entry, it tweaked something.

Ergo:

my email, third in a string, you don't need one and two to get the gist...
If you don’t mind Im going to use you as a therapy sounding board - but it's all about me so you only need pay a little attention.And I mean SERIOUSLY take yourself out of this b/c I really am not not not talking about you. I can't talk to you if you think it's you - so it's not you. Ok?

So - lately - and this is hard to articulate - I feel, devalued? Like, you are vegan right? And you and hubby practice a lifestyle choice and you do other things like, I dunno, use cloth diapers and people applaud your choices. You are green, you are healthy, you are saving animals :o) Or like A today saying M is the kind of mother she wants to be b/c M made her own food,, and jogs, and knits baby legwarmers. No one mocks her, or you, for all the extra work you do to make that choice because those choices are universally acknowledged as "good" or "right" thus valuable.

Well, I feel like I have something I believe in - truly - and it's a way that I live. It IS about recycling, and giving things away and not hoarding, and keeping the house crazy clean. And disciplining Ellie rigidly about etiquette things. In my heart of hearts the things I do daily, whether it's WSSF or bringing a toy purse to Linda even though it's out of my way, are the way to live. I believe in it and care about it DEEPLY. I believe that by one action, say taking a bag from Laurie, many people are happy. She is happy, my dad is happy, then I sort through it and pull out bras for one friend, then your mom gets things, and a few things went to Salvation Army. I don't do it to MAKE them happy, I do it to balance the universe. I do it because I 100% believe that you can make a difference in your life energy this way and it's the better path. I am not codependent or caretaking. I have bins of things that let's say you can USE. And if I keep them I'm unhappy. So I give because it opens a space to receive. Because something always comes when you give.

And lately I feel like my ideals, my way of life I have to defend. I feel like I'm being mocked/belittled/ or at WSSF, devalued for trying to practice what I believe in. No one dares say anything to you about your choices, or B's hers (expensive big house etc), or A*, or S*, or S*, or M* but somehow to my face it's ok to have a fucking free for all about me and how unnecessary the things I do/value are. I'm tired of the little jokes. I really am.

I listen to the moms at the playgroups, at the park, on the message board - and I want to smack them sometimes with their limousine liberal ideals. They talk about living a certain lifestyle and believing in equality, and giving back, and doing for others and pitching in. Sign this petition, boycott this drug.
Um, ok.
But in application, I also see a slew of people carrying Whole Foods sacks and mommy masturbating over their uniqueness.

And yes, that's a super shitty thing to say and I'm not proud of it but I'm feeling sad, and angry so I'm not looking to be rational.

When it comes to really living a life of reuse, of caring, of doing - I see people who actually have time to do something - and choose not to. CLEAN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE people. What the fuck do you MEAN you can't get your kid dressed after 3 days? It's slothful. All the principles of feng shui, of religion, of counseling speak to it. GET YOUR HOUSE IN ORDER. That's mentally AND physically. So you can use a hemp sack and fill it with new shit OR you can genuinely get off your fucking lazy ass and vacuum out your car. Sleeping until noon? Really. Get UP already.

I feel like I walk the walk and don’t talk the talk. Parable/example: When I was in highschool I hung out with all the theater geek gender benders and I dressed like Holly Hobbie Headband cheerleader. I was big hair queen in college yet hung out with the radio station kids. Both times someone asked the group leader what I was doing there because I didn't "look" the part. To their credit, and mine, both "leaders" said she' s more alternative then you'll ever be and that ended it.

Here's the thing, and maybe this is MY vanity talking but I sometimes feel like my being up, going out, getting the house clean, donating, organizing is some kind of affront to people. Like they have to rip me down b/c, what? I dunno. I'm tired of ABC with her little "Where do you get the energy" sighs and DEF with her "I used to care about that kind of stuff but now I'm so over it" It's RUDE. It's FUCKING RUDE. This is MY life. My choices. Trust me, I think TONS of shit about your choices but I'm not sighing at you, now AM I???!!!

I kind of feel, I dunno, sad maybe? I feel like here I'm taking the high road a lot, I actually DO the shit that's in their GET ORGANIZED magazine - I could teach a fucking course on getting your shit together. I play by all the rules, keep the house clean, pay bills early, recycle, help my neighbors, pay it forward back and sideways, I'm a good mom to Ellie, I'm good to others - so basically ALL the fucking things people SAY they value, I am actually doing - and yet I get fucking mocked for it.

Listen, I live this way b/c it has it's own rewards. The way Doug and I choose to live is WHY we are happy, Ellie's happy and we have money (another thing I'm tired of being embarrassed about)

It's just overall I'm sad today and lately because I wish someone would say just once "hey, I like the way you live" or "you work hard" or even for my values to be respected. And I don't feel like they are.

I generally don't care if someone who doesn’t believe in the same value system I do thinks I suck. That’s ok. I am just wondering how people who PROFESS to believe in what I like to do (sort of) can belittle me?


Charity...

Part Two of Four...Comfort Food for Thought

Early February, 2009 -

A portion of her reply...


It sounds like you are looking for recognition, not in a prideful way but in the way of your friends and people close to you realizing the value of all that you do. Everyone deserves that, needs that. And it is a shame you don't receive more of it because you DO go far above and beyond.

I am not sure why some people have a block when it comes to recognizing the value of what you accomplish in the time it takes them to get out of bed but I'd hazard a guess it has to do with their own feelings of inadequacies and guilt, i.e. let me latch on to buying organic since I could probably drive to Whole Foods, throw things in a cart and plop my credit card down on the counter but I'll devalue true recycling, helping others, and actually making the world a better place for my family and everyone I meet because that just seems too difficult.

I had a similar feeling when I first became vegan and hadn't learned not to tell anyone yet... the backlash from some meat-eaters can get really ugly, as if I am questioning their lifestyle and choices even when I made no comments of the sort.

So perhaps, are subconsciously threatened by your ability to seemingly do it all while they flounder. The fact that you do what they believe to be impossible makes them feel vulnerable themselves and so they lash out. It's no excuse obviously.

Part Three of Four...I Can't Even Give It Away

Present Day, 2009

What brought this up? I received a email today from my sister-in-law. In regards to my nephew. Whose floundering still. Six weeks away from his departure into the military.

I call him and leave him a message.
"Come stay with me" I say "We can find you something to do."

I talk to my husband. tears threatening. "We have the money" he says "And even if we don't have any room for him, we can blow up the bed. Sleep with Ellie. Whatever. We'll pay him $100 a week and he can run errands, watch Ellie whatever. $200 if we have to. It's fine"

He gets it. Usually my husband would point out all the folly of my idea but I think he knows that this isn't something we can talk about. I can't discuss if it's a good idea, a bad idea, if we are enabling, if we are reactionary. It is what it is.

I call my friend. "Listen, he's coming to stay. If you need help, anything. He's available. I don't have enough work for him for the week so if you need help with the kids, the house. Let me know."

This is a friend I talk to daily. I know intimately. A friend whose children I have watched. A friend who I trust with secrets and vice versa. A friend that had a baby less then 10 weeks ago, is tired, and overworked. A friend who just moved 4 months ago. Frankly, someone who could use a hand.

"Let me think about it and call you" she said.

I called a second friend. 8 months pregnant with her 3rd. The other two kids are under four. She lives 10 houses away. Her husband is self employed. Their house is up for sale.

"Listen. My nephew may be staying with me. If you need any help, him to come entertain the boys while you do paperwork, him to help lift boxes out of the attic or move stuff with your husband, like bedframes whatever, call me. I'm trying to organize a work schedule for him."

"Well, not to be rude but what exactly is wtong with him that he's staying with you instead of at home" and then "Let me talk to my husband and let you know."

And I hung up from both turned around and in a funk.
I don't know where to begin.

On one hand I'm like "You are the people who purport to need help. You claim daily that you are tired, worn, frazzled. If you only could get a break. I'm offering you a break. Here is someone, directly in front of you, willing to work for free. To help you."

Ah, but he's a guy. I see. Are you worried about rape? Drugs? Child molestation?

and to that I say "Oh for fuck's sake.I get it. I do truly. But you know me, right? You trust me? It's ok for me to be in your house, in your life, around your kids. But you don't trust me enough to take my assurance, referral and recommendation that he is legitimate?"

Well, maybe I'm in denial. I'm blind to his faults. I don't really know him.

"Yep. Ok. So I suddenly, what, lost my mind? What EXACTLY do you think he's going to do? Wander off with your child? Abduct them? Hurt them? Assault them? Please DO explain. Because frankly, you are going to be home the whole time. He's going to be in your playroom with you, where, in the kitchen, two feet away. What praytell is he going to do?"

But forget all that. Forget everything about being with the kids. What about all the projects your husbands have. Cleaning out the basement, moving shelves, clearing the attic. Your husband will be there the whole time.

"I don't know. I'll have to see."

"How funny," I think.

How funny it is when someone calls me and asks me if I will help I say first "Sure I will. I don't know in what form, but I'll help."
Then I think about it.

How daily I think "I can find a way. Sure, we can do that. Let's be creative! What do you think you need?"

And I wonder what it would have cost either of my two friends to say to me:

"Yes. I'll find a way to help you out. I may not need him but I'll talk to my husband and we'll make up a project for him to do. We'll create something. Yes, he can help us. Because I want to help you."

I want to say to my friends
"Really really think about it. Because exactly many times, ever, have I come to you and said 'Help Me'"

"Yes, please help me GIVE YOU A HUMAN BEING TO HELP YOU AT OUR COST BECAUSE WE ACTUALLY DON'T NEED HELP BECAUSE OUR SHIT'S ALL DONE. Let me BEG you to get a free helper. Let me prostrate myself in front of you calling in my favor chip on the form of GIVING you free labor.

Sigh.
Patience, patience.

Then I think, bitterly, that people deserve to be unhappy.

But you aren't me. And your mission isn;t charity. And you live differently.
And I'm not right, and you're not wrong.

But what kind of world do we live in when you have a kid, a good kid, no drugs, no drinking, fit, fluent, kind, vouched for, strong, willing and able - who can't even work for FREE.

If you won't give him a break, who WILL you give a break?

And while you are at it, take that fucking yellow ribbon off your car because you don't mean that shit either.

Part Four of Four - What's so funny about peace, love and understanding?

And today
Part Four of a Really Long Self Absorbed Reflection Which Is Redundent in Title, Eh?

Wednesday, I was handed a bag of clothes.
"Maybe you can use these for the teenage moms you support"
I sorted through them and divvied them up into piles. A baby girl outfit for you, the boy pants aside for you, and the rest to St Pauls.

On Thursday, the conversation ended with
"I'll call you. It's a great idea to have a haircutting playdate. You're a stylist, moms need haircuts, let me contact a few people and see what I can set up." I emailed the stylist who usually has dates. 'Do you mind?' and then I wrote the description. Hit send. done.

Friday, we left it at
"So your idea is that I could come over, walk on the treadmill for 30 minutes while you watch Ellie then we'll switch and I'll watch your two. Yes, I have Tuesdays and Fridays free. So, maybe in the afternoon some days. Let's see what we can work out"

Saturday, I finished the conversation with
"Yes, I can see bringing her to the baby soccer tournament would be fun for you and yes, it IS hard being a grandmother from so far away. Sure. Maybe on the OTHER side of Hartford? I could drive her to you and we'll meet it what, Waterbury? Let's talk Monday"

What can I do? How can I help?
You need it? You got it.

Four things offered in four days. Not really beneficial to me after you get past the face of it.
The clothes for "my girls" - I'm getting rid of them for you, on my time.
The haircutting playdate? - Yeah, my hairs cut. The nephew was here so I had time. But not everyone has that luxury. And you could use both the money and the clientel
The treadmill playdate? - Well honestly, I have one child and the gym has childcare for her age. So, I don't really need to drive 20 minutes to walk on your treadmill during the morning when I have fun potential other plans but I know you don't have another choice because right now, your child is too young.
And finally
Keeping Ellie for the weekend? - Yes, I will let my daughter go stay with you because your son lives here, and you there and it's not THAT far to drive halfway (only 4 hours roundtrip) but no, it wasn't really a hardship to keep her because my obviously sketchy transient nephew was going to be here anyway so it;s not that much of a break, but thanks.

Bitchy?
You betcha.

What's my point?
I need to rethink my overall life strategy.

Epilogue

I've concluded, in the face of all else, that it must be me.
There has to be something wrong with me.

"Maybe they didn't realize that you were asking THEM for help. Maybe they saw it as you trying to help them. And that's why they declined"
Is what my husband said about an hour ago.

Perhaps.

"Maybe" I said last night. "Maybe it's me. Maybe this is all a bunch of bullshit and I don't have this zen calling of christianity. Maybe I'm just a loser"

Yep. The problem is that I don't have a goal. I'm not a decorator, I'm not a consumer. I'm not going to school at night, or working full time. I'm not trying to write the great American novel or save the whales. Maybe the problem is that I don't HAVE a goal of my own so I'm happy enough helping others reach theirs.

"Maybe" my husband said noncommittally.
I channeled my fried Jess "Why don't you do what would make you happy" I asked myself.

Well that's a funny conundrum.
I don't have anything I'm desperate to do.

I've achieved professional fulfillment, I had Ellie, I'm happy with this house in terms of decor, I'm not an avid traveler. I read when I can, I garden when it's nice out, and I like to hula hoop on occasion. My husband and I laugh over what's funny. We visit family and friends. It's a tiny little life but I think I've learned that the key to happiness is not working to get more, it's being happy with less.

"Until Ellie's in preschool" I mused to said "I don't see much else I can do."
In terms of "growing" myself.

He commutes 2 hours a day. He walks in the door at 6:45. I'm not going to join a book club, a writers workshop, a woodworking shop class. We have maybe an hour after Ellie goes to bed. Really. So what, he'll walk in and I walk out?

I mean I guess.
Really?

Doesn't seem to make my husband much of a priority.

So yeah, I guess I'm a loser. And a hopeless romantic one at that.

I DO have a lot of time to help get other people where they want to go. Because it seems like THEY have a purpose even if i don't per se so sure, I'll lend a hand. Not because I need to, and not because I need to be liked, or need to be needed, but because I can.

And I'm piss poor angry at my so called frieds for not rising to the fucking occasion and doing one tiny mitvos in the universe.
or at a minimum, for me.

There Was A Crooked Man

I met a man tonight.
I went out with a friend and he gave us access to the bar.
I offered to hold his coat in exchange for his seat.

Through the course of conversation we discovered he was about to have an affair.

He showed me a picture of his kids.
Two of three.
Not yet out of the NICU.
And he told me he was there to meet someone.

I said to him "I'm not judging you for wanting to be with someone else. I'm judging you for not being ethical about it."

I truly believe their are things worse then cheating. There's murder for one. There's stealing assets - leaving someone alone and undefended. There's child molesting, there's abuse.

Having a sexual affair, in the scope of things, is not the worst betrayal between a man and wife.

It's so easy to call him a cheater, a liar, a ne'er do well. To say all men are the same. To assume he's a sleazebag. A child.

But who's to say what covenant was broken first. Did his wife honor her commitments? Is this a man broken, or selfish? Did he go forth in good faith and did she treat him with healthy reverence and respect? Were they equals? Was he an atm? A meas to an end? Had she loved him? Or what he could do for her?

What about the kids?

My friend was appalled. He married her they should make it work.
My friend said he's trying to escape.
I say he's trying to find an excuse for being unhappy.

In all cases it's too much to comprehend without peanut brittle.

In the final analysis I told him this:

Regardless of what I think you are doing as being right or wrong, you reap what you sow. The woman who is meeting you here, she knows you have kids, she knows your life is unstable, yet she's willing to meet you here anyway. What does that tell you about her? If you truly want to be out of your marriage, then go about it ethically. Talk about it with your wife and go forth in an ethical and rightous manner. But do you really want to be the guy who's lying, who's cheating, who's scheming. What does that say about how you value yourself?

He doesn't want to have an affair.
He wouldn't have told two strangers so we could talk him out of it.
What he wants is something of his own. Something that is just his - an escape from her, from this life, from these kids, from this demand on that time.

As I always say, you'd never pick one house, one car, one job, one haircut for all time but your supposed to pick one person and it's supposed to last forever.

Good luck with that.

Springtime for Hitler in Germany

I don't actually need an ovulation predictor kit.
I can tell.
All of a sudden there'll be a random day after my period when every guy that walks past me smiles. opens the door. Gives my a munchkin with my coffee when I wasn't even looking at the donut trays.

My friend Kathy used to love it.
"Friday night after you get your period - we are going OUT."
It was like a beacon. I must emenate pheremones.
We'd party hearty in our pleather outfits like it was 1999.

Oh wait.

When I was younger, cuter, it happened with far more frequency.
The going out part. The being looked at part.
Now, being looked at? I can't imagine anyone has checked me out in the last 26 months.

Except for very old men.
For I am a geezer pleaser.

But today. Ah. Today the world was my oyster. I didn't have my virtually perfect day as envisioned in bygones paragraphs.

But the exceptionally virile hot cop who pulled my over for driving with my husbands expired inspection sticker and I had a moment.

As did the mechanic and I at the garage directly after.

Then the young man at the coffee shop where I waited.
and the two old men who sat while I whiled away the inspection minutes.
For a moment I was my old self.
Heads gave the illusion of turning.

Was it the promise of spring in the air?
The hint of sassiness in my new butchered mommy bob?
Or was one final dropping egg calling out with all it's might for a little recognition before we switch from annual pap smears to annual mammograms.

ah. The sweet sweet scent of fertility.
Celebrate it while it lasts I'm sure.

Virtue is Mine

Today I ate a chocolate brownie and spit all the chocolate chips out.

She's Living in LA with My Best Old Ex Friend Ray...

I used to have a friend.
She was bright. Funny. Talented.
Extremely talented. Extremely funny.

Talented in the actual sense not just the vague complimentary sense.
But.
We aren't friends anymore.

My drinking days.
To hear me say it you'd think I was an alcoholic.
I was actually a workaholic.

I worked near a series of bars - so that combined with a passion for music had me warming a lot of stools. I miss, and I say it all the time, I miss dearly the feeling of abandon - dancing after a long day. Balls to the wall bar songs, laughing until 3am. I could wax on. I can discuss it with all the passion and animation of a real drunk.

I met my exfriend years prior and we hadn't sparked but we didn't extinguish each other either.

We were reintroduced in the midst of the post Shannon preMike debacle that sucked three years out of my life, cost me 10-lbs, 1 miscarriage, him his job, is worth a post of it's own, and is also colloquially referred to as the time that I met someone else's husband who lied his way into my life and recently said he was sorry but found a way to still blame me but I digress period.

So I met her at the worst time, when I acted my least favorable, and inevitably, we parted, the worst of friends. Or perhaps not because I had more respect for her then she me so we parted as likely a blip on her radar, and for me, a friend lost.

I seldom think of other bygone friends but she is one of the few that regardless of our ending I still think about.

So I stalk her.

Well, solely within the magical purview of Facebook, myspace, her webpage and occasionally, her show schedule.

Because DAMN that girl is talented.

She has a voice like Roseanne Cash, she can cover the shit out of almost any genre and she isn't afraid to rip her heart out.

So I occasionally search for her. I download a song. I hope she reaches all her dreams.

Because regardless of the fact that I was a fickle, faithless lush of a friend who quoted Pride & Prejudice when I slept with the guy she liked "Would my not sleeping with him made him like you more" said my Elizabeth to her Lady Catherine, I cared about her deeply.

Hmm. All these years later and I'm wondering why she's still on my mind.
I must be on Step 8.

Borrowing From Peter to Pay Paul

Today my priorities were in the wrong place. I yelled at Ellie, who's sick. I went hither then yon, for a friend while my husband ate 3 sausages and a brownie for dinner. I stayed on the phone with someone I didn't care to talk to and blocked someone I did. I'm tired and up creating fake valentines for a story session tomorrow when I should be in bed with my husband who's working like a dog to put a roof over our heads.

And I'm tired. I'm tired of pettiness, mine and other peoples.
I need a vacation from myself, from this house and quite possibly from my phone.
So I'm creating a fantasy vacation from my life.
Here.
Now.
In the spirit of being positive.

And it's going to be called
THE WAY TOMORROW SHOULD GO.

Tomorrow morning I am going to wake up. I'm not going to snooze the alarm. I'm going to get up and walk downstairs and prepour Ellie's milk, make coffee and eat something besides a shitty frozen waffle, dry. I'm going to find my keys on the hook, and my bag is going to be packed. My books and radio will be ready to be taken to the car and my attitude will be upbeat.

I'm not going to answer my phone. Not for any one of the 3 people who call me almost daily between 7 and 8. Ellie is coming first, and I second. I'm going to go upstairs and brush my teeth. Leisurely. For over two minutes. I'm going to dress in something clean. My hair is not going to be in a ponytail. Ellie is going to be greeted at 8 vs wailing for attention at 8:10. We are going to hug before we walk downstairs. Likely we'll hug after.

My cell phone is going to be charged. My voicemail counter cleared. The laundry will be upstairs. It will be folded. I won't struggle for something to put her in. Our shoes will be found. And ready to be worn.

I'll get to WSSF and I wont be so busy welcoming people and setting up that my daughter cries. I'm going to sing TO her vs sing to everyone elses child. I'm not lifting any little girls tomorrow but my own. We are going to sit down and do the craft. I'm going to leave early.

I'm going to make my afternoon appt tomorrow on time. Happily.
I'm going to stop on the way home, get groceries, and we are going to eat a nutritionally balanced dinner.

I'm not calling anyone back, I'm not offering to drive, loan, supplement or support anyone tomorrow. Ellie and I are going to read a book. Then another. Maybe I'll buy her a balloon.

And when my husband comes home, we are going to chit chat vs talk. And maybe go upstairs early and not discuss our finances, the house, what we need to do and who we need to call back. Maybe we'll lie in bed and play scrabble. And then I'll eventually feel tired, and I'll go to sleep.

I won't toss and turn internally yelling at myself for gaining weight. I won't begrudge someone else for having a better day, a better plan or a better hairstyle. I won' be mad for having a messy basement, a messy porch, a messy desk. I won't kick off the covers in aggravation because my feet are dry nor will I condemn myself for not moisturizing them. I'm going to spend tomorrow remembering that I actually like myself. And that if I was as mean to someone else as I am to myself, I wouldn't be friends with me.

Tomorrow I am going to play Baby Got Back. And I'm going to laugh loudly at the part where he says I like my woman like Flo Jo. I might even learn the lyrics.

Tomorrow is going to be a good day.
You just wait.

I Vant To Be Alone

I just got off the phone with the third person this week who seems incapable of helping themselves.

There's No Slowing Down...

We're watching the Grammys.
My nephew is reading Angels and Devils.
I'm online doing some electronic housekeeping.
My husband is reading the paper.

We've been invited to a wedding.
I added it to the calendar.
I checked the Registries.

then

I emailed my friend Cindy. She's blond. She grew up on Vermont. She wears LL Bean with regularity. She's up on this kind of stuff.

I just went online to Allison's wedding registry. I’m in shock. So as tacky as this is I have to ask you- do you old school wasps give cash at the wedding or is that just my Massachusetts townie Italian roots? You realize of course that I never even HEARD of open bar until college. I grew up with the $50 shower gift and a $150 check at the reception. Doug says Ally's people don’t do that.

Thoughts??? HELP!

Then I went back to the registry.
"$625 for silver service. Service for 12." I murmur, scrolling.
"Is that $625 a setting?" my husband asked.
"I think so" I replied. I scrolled down. "Yep. The gravy ladle is $300."
"There's the tablespoon...and the server...Oh, and the Vera Wang sterling picture frame..."

"That's a lot of silver" my husband noted absently.
to which my nephew, heretofore completely silent replies
"Maybe they're worried about werewolves"

We both look up.
He's still reading.

"You can melt it into bullets you know..."

On Chris Martin's Grammy Outfit...The Husband Comments:

"Unless you're a football player or in the Olympics, I don't think there's any occasion for a grown man to be wearing a belly shirt."

The Vagina Dialogues

I asked my friends "What are you calling it?"

I'm stuck. I'm not happy with "vagina". I'm not a prude, I'm not adverse to discussing it. I jut don't like the word. Like Crotch. Or Suede. Or Taupe. They are just ugly sounding words.

I had a friend who's mom was a floral designer. We used to drive around and faux marvel at shrubbery. "Ooohhh what a beautiful example of a Chlamydia bush." If we weren't in our twenties, she would have smacked us.

I had two relatively normal friends come out and say "We're calling it a vagina. We just don't have a problem with it."

Neither do I, I mean. Except for you know, when I was a kid and the kids who called it a vagina were named Reuben, got their asses kicked and were overly precocious in the way that adults say they like but later mock to other adults.

"There's something WRONG with it" I said to my mother in law on the phone. "What did you call it?” “Well” she said “It never really came up. I had two boys remember and they were years apart. I said vagina but I'm sure Douglas might have taught his brother another name for it.”

I honestly can't remember what we said growing up. My mother was pretty frank about sex, about body parts, about keeping it clean "down there" and also not ever ever ever letting a strange man touch you. So we were all clear. Now I call it a cho'cha. My stepsister introduced me to the phrase about 25 years ago and it's never bothered me.

My friend Carla calls it a Mickey Rooney. She has no idea why. It was something her mother used to say. Although, this IS the same girl who squealed "Burberry!" in London whereupon my other girlfriend craned her neck screaming "WHERE’S Bill Murray???" so it could just be a Boston accent thing.

"Why wouldn't you just uses its proper name?" my girlfriend queried "That is what it is."

I know, I know. Sigh.

But here's the thing. TONS of things have proper names but we don't use them. And it's not out of prudishness or an inability to. They just don't SOUND right.

"I'm sorry. I'm just in a bad mood. I think I'm commencing my menstrual cycle."

"We really should have intercourse more often."

"Call me on my mobile phone at my business establishment and we'll arrange a mutually convenient time to masticate together."

I just don't want to be standing in the kitchen next year and have her walk in crying.

"What's the MATTER honey, are you ok??"

sniff sniff baby voice cry "I hurt...I hurt my vagina falling off my bike."

"Oh no honey, actually you hurt your pubis bone. It's looks like you banged your tibia up pretty bad as well."