On turning 50...

Some occasions require quiet moments of reflection.  Such is the case on the eve of my half century birthday.   So…what did I actually learn over these past 50 years?  Obviously this list could be a LOT longer, but then you would all get bored, or think I was Dali Llama or something (joking, I'm not that deep.)  Anyway, here is my top 50...

1. High school sucks.  Don’t let anyone ever tell you “they are the best years of your life.”  They are full of shit…fact.
2. You are going to make stupid mistakes.  Accept them. Own them, then move on.  Your past is your past for a reason.
3. The person in the room with the biggest ego and/or mouth is usually the one who is most insecure.
4. Shoulder pads are a bad idea.  Always.  So are leg warmers unless you are a dancer.
5. The older you get, the dumber everyone younger than you looks.  You’re not smarter, but you sure the hell are wiser.  Give them a break. They just haven’t caught up with you yet.
6. Your twenties are amazing.  You will do things you should have been dead for doing.  You will drink too much and never have a hangover.  You will be shameless AND thoughtless in your actions – all at the same time.  Your twenties are your wreckless years, and you pretty much get a pass, so enjoy them.  Two words...NO REGRETS.  (By the way, after 30, hangovers SUCK.)
7. You never forget your first love, especially if he is worth remembering.
8. Take care of your health.  Your body will thank you later.
9. Drinking and horsebacking riding simultaneously is a really bad idea. Speaking from experience here.
10. Some men are just assholes.  They will break your heart with total disregard.  Stay away from these losers.  They are so not worth your time.
11. Procrastination just makes the inevitable more painful.  Knock it out, get it done, and then relax. 
12. Your mother was right.  Pretty much about everything.
13. No one will ever take the place of your parents.  They are and always have been your biggest champions.  P.S.  The older you get, the more you realize they were never dumb.  You were just an asshole.
14. If you are lucky, your siblings will be among your best friends.  I am blessed.  My two brothers and sister are amazing.
15. There is a time and a place for everything.  Wearing a bikini to the beach (or anywhere for that matter) when you have clearly packed on ten pounds over the winter is never the time or the place.  There will be photos. You will hate them.
16. Remember when you thought you were butt ugly in high school, and you would never have a boyfriend?  You weren’t ugly, and you will have a boyfriend eventually. Hopefully he won’t be an asshole (please see #10.)   So, for the love God, quit worrying.
17. Pick a profession you love.  You will have to go to work every day for a VERY long time.  There is nothing worse than having to go to a job you hate.
18. There is always one person at work who will march right over you to get ahead.  Watch your back.
19. Everyone picks their nose in their car.  Remember, you’re not invisible.
20. If a guy puts up with your shit, and is still smiling at the end of the day, he’s a keeper.
21. Get a college education.  You may think you can slide by without one, but getting your degree will make things easier.
22. On the same note, study HARD, do your best, but always leave a little time for fun. 
23. The color orange looks good on very few people.  You are probably not one of them.
24. Be thoughtful.  Keep a calendar with your family and friend’s birthdays.  Send a card…not a facebook message, not a text…A CARD, by U.S. Postal Service.  Everyone loves getting cards.  P.S. always keep stamps on hand.
25. Hanging out in your pajamas and drinking coffee on Sunday morning is one of life’s little pleasures.  So is eating takeout chinese food naked in bed after sex.
26. Save for vacations.  Travel.  See the world.  In spite of all the crap that happens, it’s still a beautiful and magical place, this big blue marble of ours.
27. Animals love you unconditionally and ask for nothing in return.  So always be responsible for your pets.  They really are family.
28. As you age, current songs on the radio sound like crap (except for Bruno Mars - he will always be awesome.)  I will forever be a child of the 70’s and 80’s music scenes.  Don’t even get me started on rap or hip hop. 
29. The drunker you get, the more you think you are the world’s greatest dancer.
30. Only marry for love.  Marrying for anything else is not an option.  It took me three tries, but I finally got it right.  I love you to the moon and back, Bill Tucker.
31. It is ok if you don’t want to procreate.  Kids aren’t for everyone.  But, if you do have children, they will be your greatest joy and accomplishment…and your biggest pain in the ass.
32. I should have recorded every sermon my mother ever gave me.  Now that I have my own daughter, I sound just like my mother, and I mean JUST LIKE HER.
33. No good comes from gossip.  You’re going to do it.  Everyone does.  But honestly, nothing good ever comes from rumors and innuendo, and in the end, someone usually gets hurt.
34. New York City is the greatest city on earth. Period.  If you don’t like NYC, then obviously your time there was poorly planned.  And if you can, take the train.  It’s really the only way to travel.
35. Taking the time to put on makeup before you go to the grocery store is a good idea.  You never know who you will run into while you’re in the produce section.
36. Just because someone does not agree with you does not mean they are wrong.  Let it go.  You’re never going to change their mind anyway.
37. Never underestimate the value of your girlfriends.  They will always help you through the hard times, and celebrate your happy times.
38. You CAN be too old to wear a miniskirt, no matter how rockin’ your body is.  By the way, same rule goes for yoga pants that say “Luscious” or “Juicy” across the butt.  As a matter of fact, NEVER wear those.
39. Have the courage to stand up for your convictions.  You will sleep better at night if you know at the very least you were true to your own heart. Screw everyone else who told you otherwise.
40. Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you a nice car to sit in while you are busy being miserable.  Along those lines, while it is true that money can be dangerous, people get “drunk” more quickly on power.
41. Never underestimate to pure deliciousness of cheesecake, pie, cookies, cake and ice cream...and chocolate.
42. Real Christmas trees smell great but you’ll be picking needles out of your carpeting for six months out of the year.
43. When in doubt, order a martini.  Likewise, life is too short to drink cheap wine.
44. Be kind to people, always.  People always remember kindness… BUT
45. Don’t be a doormat.  People will happily wipe their boots on you as long as you let them. People just suck that way.  It's usually not intentional, it's just human nature.
46. Always take time for yourself – no matter how busy you are.  The kids, the job, the husband, the obligations...they will always be there, waiting, but clearly your sanity will leave you completely if you don’t take a moment to be your own best company.  
47. A clean house is not the most important thing in the world. If you don’t dust for two weeks, really, who cares?  The flip side of that coin is that no one likes a slob or a hoarder.  Pretty soon you're on an episode of TLC's "Hoarders" and your friends and family are mortified.  It's OK to throw shit out...I promise.  You won't even miss it.  If you haven't looked at it in two years, DITCH IT.
48. Nothing comes before family. Nothing.  That being said, there is absolutely no reason why your best friends can’t be considered family as well.
49. Growing old is not the worst thing.  Being dead…that is the worst thing.
50. Life is short, too short.  The older you get the faster the years go by, and I mean exponentially.  People will move far away.  People will die.  So always remember to say I love you.  You never know when it will be your last chance.  Cherish and treasure those who are close to you.  Every moment counts.

One of my favorite quotes is from the late, great Nora Ephram, who said “In fact, looking back, it seems to me I was clueless until I was about 50 years old.” As for me, can totally relate to that.  I feel a whole lot smarter now than I did 25 years ago, even ten years ago.  I see the world differently, but I have always tried to look at it with wonder and a sense of humor.  It helps a lot, especially when you start to lose faith in humanity.

My other favorite quote is "Life should be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved boy, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOOHOO what a ride!"  That is how I live my life. Every. Single. Day.  I turned out ok (although there were moments when it was a bit iffy) so no reason to stop now.  So for those of you who plan on being with me for the next fifty years…hold on tight, and we can enjoy the ride together.

I love you all so very much.  For those who have been in my life through good times, and bad times, too, thanks for the memories.  You've made life that much sweeter.

Never forget...for Patricia...

I hate September 11^th but I am writing this for my 14 year old daughter who is blessed to not have been old enough to remember that day.  But it is important to explain, to pass along the stories, the emotions, the tears and the loss.  It is important that we never forget.

No matter how many years go by, it is still always the most vivid, gutwrenching and sickening feeling that surrounds me when 9/11 rolls around.  Thirteen years seems like it should be a long time.  To me, it’s yesterday, as it is to so very many.

Everyone has their “where were you” moment on that morning.  For me, it was an incredibly beautiful sunny day, just me and my two year old daughter out in the back yard of our Alexandria home.  I was clipping herbs to take to a new neighbor whom I was meeting for coffee at her house around 10am.  I’ll never forget how beautiful the sky was that day.  Perfect really.

Out of nowhere, I heard the loud rumbling of thunder, really really loud.  “Weird” I thought to myself.  Seriously not a cloud in the sky.  It never even occurred to me that it wasn’t thunder. 

I gathered the child, gathered my herb basket, and headed to Jackie’s house.  She had the TV going and was glued to it.  By this time, the third plane had hit the Pentagon, 9:37am, and the first tower had just fallen, 9:59am.  Then the plane crash in Shanksville, 10:03am.  There was so much all at one time, and I couldn’t even comprehend what was happening. It didn’t seem real, more like a movie. The two of us just sat there, tears running down our faces.  Jackie’s husband was on Capitol Hill and couldn’t get out of the city. Rumors of another plane headed for D.C. were being tossed around.  My cell phone rang. It was Gary.  He was supposed to have been at a meeting in the wing of the Pentagon where the plane hit, but it was moved at the last minute.  He was driving on 395 not a mile from the Pentagon when the plane slammed into the building.  Suddenly the thunder made sense.  It wasn’t thunder at all.  My heart was in my throat.  Then cell service shut down. Jackie couldn’t reach her husband.  We sat there together, in silence as we continued to see the news reports roll in.  The second tower collapsed, 10:28am. I felt physically sick.  All of those people, their children, wives, husbands, parents, sisters, brothers.  Cameras rolling.  That awful “tweeting noise” breaking the silence of the streets of NY.  It was the radios of the firemen and police officers.  I can still hear that tweeting noise when I close my eyes and think of that day.

Jackie’s husband did come home, as did Gary.  It was actually Gary’s birthday but there was no celebration.  We just watched the news reports roll in, the footage of the injured, the horrible gray dust that covered everything and anything.  The gaping hole in the side of the Pentagon…the field in Shanksville where it seemed the plane itself had turned to dust when it hit the ground with such unbelievable force.  I didn’t sleep for days, I just watched the news, all the news, any news I could find on the tv.  It was the early days of the 24 hour news cycle, and I believe that after that day, none of us ever watched the news in the same way again.

The following weekend I had plans to see an old high school friend in Caldwell, NJ, just across the river from the downtown Manhattan skyline.  That Sunday morning before I left, she and I drove to a park that overlooked the river and the devastation.  We stood there and cried as we watched the billowing smoke, still rising from the ruins, on the other side of the water. The Towers, where I had been many times to meet up with a banker I dated a long long time ago when everything seemed easy and fun. Happy memories, good times.  All gone.

Everything changed. Everything.  We all, collectively as a nation, wrapped our arms around each other, and tried to make sense of it all.  There was no sense to be made. None. It still doesn’t make sense.  The loss of life, the terror that we all felt for such a long time afterwards…no one felt safe, only incredibly vulnerable.  Honestly, I still feel vulnerable.

But out of the madness emerged something good…so many acts of selflessness, courage,compassion and humanity. People helping people, helping families find their loved ones, helping recover the smallest of personal items of those that had perished.  Everything had meaning and importance, because there was so little left to even show that those who perished had even been there on that morning.  Everything was dust, everything.

Twice I have had the privilege and honor to visit what has come be known as Ground Zero since 9/11.  I have driven past the Pentagon on many many occasions, and in fact saw the Phoenix rise from the ashes and rubble, like it had never happened, save for a beautiful memorial park where there is an empty seat under an individual tree for each person who lost their life.  I have not had the opportunity to visit Shanksville, but I would like to one day.  I should, everyone should.  So brave were the souls on that plane who gave their own lives to keep pure evil from flying that plane into the White House or Capitol.  Were it not for so many acts of courage on that day, so many more lives would have been lost.

And those who, without hesitation, signed up for the military after 9/11, how special they all are.  They loved their country so much that they did not even hesitate to die for it is bravery beyond compare.  They go and fight so we can live our lives under the flag of a free nation.  Even on our worst days, America is good.  I know there are many who no longer believe that, but look around.  There really is still so much good in the world.  I am thankful every day to call the United States my home.

God bless the souls lost on 9/11, and subsequently those fighting to make sure that history does not repeat itself. God bless the firefighters and police who worked tirelessly to bring home those who were lost, so that every family could at least find some measure of closure.  They still suffer from the effects of the conditions they worked under…cancer, respiratory problems, other diseases that cause them suffering every single day.  God bless them all.

And God bless the United States of America.

Yes I have a potty mouth. No, I don't give a f*ck if you care.

Lots of people dying lately…

And here I am, looking 50 right in the kisser.  If my math is correct (and we have a 50/50 shot at that since I can't add my way out of a paper bag) that means I have 30 years til I hit the age that is definitely on the precipice of "the big dirt nap".  I thought I would be upset about it, but as it turns out the only thing I am really worried about is how long will it be before I have to switch from botox to fillers.  Vanity, as you know, is one of the seven deadly sins, and apparently I wear that bitch like I own it (because I do.)  There are worse things than being vain. A LOT worse things.

This morning, as my daughter and I were watching the Today Show and their coverage of Joan Rivers’ passing, she turned to me as said “I hope you look hot when you’re 81.”  I fell on the floor laughing.  I didn’t even know she cared.  I promised her I would do my best not to look hideous.  She was good with that, and promised she would make sure I was buried in black because we all know it's an instant ten pounds off your ass.  Actually, Joan would have appreciated that statement from my daughter. Love her or hate her, Joan was a broad who was unabashedly unapologetic and made no excuses for who she was.  Didn’t like her humor?  Get in line, a lot of people didn’t.  Thought she was the poster child for plastic surgery?  She was happy to admit that too.  She lived her life on her terms, every day, and in the end I think a lot of people respected that about her, even if they didn't like her. I know I did.  Love her or hate her, at least she inspired an opinion. I try to live my life under very similar circumstances.  I have a crapload of people who adore me, and probably just as many, if not more, who think I’m a pain in the ass, or a bitch, or [fill in the blank with your own colorful descriptive term.]  I’d rather inspire a strong opinion than no opinion.  That would be boring, and I never want to be thought of as a boring wallflower.  I’m a loudmouth, a smartass, a shameless broad who curses too much and is prone to inserting my foot in my mouth.  I love to laugh – sometimes too loudly, and I have a caustic sense of humor which is often misunderstood. And honestly, my favorite thing to laugh at is myself, so it’s not like I don’t allow myself to be fair game.  If we can’t laugh at ourselves, we are missing the very best jokes.  Love me or hate me, at least I gave you something to think about.  And admit it, you did think about it.

Part of the reason I live my life on my terms without apologies is that I want my daughter to realize that she is JUST FINE the way she is.  If people don’t like you? Fuck ‘em.  In ten years you won’t remember them. For a long time I really did give a rat’s ass what people thought of me.  What a waste of frigging time that was.  I want my daughter to realize that in the end it just doesn’t matter.  Life is a grand illusion, a very very long epic movie. We spend far too much time worrying about people and things that will have no bearing on how we lived, or how we died.  If life is about the journey, then make damn sure the journey is interesting.  She’s starting to get it.  Sometimes she makes a comment that makes me smile, because I realize she is a lot stronger and a lot less fragile, than I was at her age.

So to you, Joan, I tip my hat. I hope they plant your ass in that Valentino gown, and I sure the hell hope your daughter makes sure your makeup is flawless.  Thank you for living your life with grace, and a delishly cruel sense of humor that many times left me in tears laughing.  Because let’s be honest, we all love to laugh…really really laugh.

And if you don’t like this blog?  Well, screw you, and I mean that in the best possible way.

When Good Girls Go Too Short...

I am a self-professed short skirt/dress junkie.  I always have been to be honest. I have good legs and I don’t mind putting them on display as anyone who knows me would tell you.  Mind you, I don’t go for the “micro mini” anymore – I left that behind along with my twenties, where it belongs. But still, I have no problem wearing things that are “above the knee” even though I am quickly approaching the big Five OHHHHH.  The countdown has begun and we are down to 8 months.  And after Saturday evening I have been compelled to rethink my wardrobe strategy entirely.

That was when Bill and I happily hauled ourselves to one of our favorite watering holes for something slightly stronger than water. Ok, a lot stronger than water.  We have just come off a ridiculously stressful year and a half, and we were in the mood to celebrate.  I opted for pants and a funky shirt – age appropriate – brightly colored to match my happy mood.  We laughed, ran into some friends, and indulged our need for alcohol.  And that, folks, was when I saw her.  As I turned around from the bar to take a look around the room I noticed a woman standing with her back to me.  She was in a pair of impossibly high heels, a snug fitting shirt, and a skin tight skirt that was short enough to make you wonder if it was immune to the laws of gravity. It was no less than five inches above the knee so we are talking SHORT.  I hoped she was wearing underwear for obvious reasons.  She had a great figure, and for a moment I thought “damn, wish I looked like that in a tight miniskirt and heels.”  Then…then she turned around, and my jaw hit the floor.  Was she 50? Ummmm…no.  Was she 55?  Nope, keep going…was she 60?  If she was 60 she really needed to consider some Juvaderm and maybe a micro peel.  No, she was definitely more than a couple of years beyond 60.  That was when I realized you can DEFINITELY be too old to wear ANYTHING really really short.  Yes, from the back she was a knockout.  From the front, it was like looking at your grandmother wearing something that she was sure would make her look hot.  First of all, I don’t EVER want to think of my grandmother, or anyone else’s grandmother, as being hot.  When I am in my sixties, I can only hope that there are a variety of more desirable terms used to describe me.  Hot? Nope. Pass. I’m shooting for “lovely”, “elegant” or “classic beauty”.  That does not mean I don’t want to look drop dead gorgeous, but I don’t want to do it in something that is clearly meant for someone at least 20 years younger than me. 

In that moment, as I looked at her, I felt a pang of sympathy.  She wasn’t giving off that vibe of an incredibly confident older woman who didn’t give a crap what other people thought.  And that would have been just fine in my book.  She seemed to be that woman who was struggling with growing old gracefully and was grasping onto her younger years with both hands as time dragged her down the road, kicking and screaming.  She looked uncomfortable, maybe even just a touch paranoid that people were looking at her.  I bet she wished she was home in her yoga pants having a glass of wine trying to catch up on episodes of Mad Men on Netflix.  I know that would be been my thought. There is nothing worse than standing in the middle of a crowded room when clearly you are not feeling your finest.  And with that, I picked my jaw up off the floor and stopped staring.  I know, bad form on my part but the whole thing was kind of like watching a train wreck. 

So yesterday I went through my closet and packed up the last of my miniskirts and dresses.  It was like packing up my youth in a way, not that I feel old. I just don’t feel like “that girl” anymore.  I wouldn’t call my wardrobe boring.  In fact, I usually gravitate towards the “eclectic”, but I am definitely not interested in wearing anything that looks like I am trying to recapture my youth. Those days are thankfully behind me, which is good because quite frankly they were exhausting.  An inch or two above the knee?  I can deal with that.  Anything more than that?  No freaking way.

And for those who are wondering, no I am not “letting myself go.”  I’m still ridiculously vein.  I never miss my botox appointment, and I spend way too much on skincare.  But I do feel as though I have crossed over to the other side.  And honestly, it feels fabulous, so I’m to go with it.  But if I do lapse and wear something meant for the younger set, I can only hope my friends will hit me upside the head and drag me home to change into something more appropriate.  Because THAT is what friends are for.

Confessions of a 49 year old control freak...

So I submit to you, in all humility – yes, I am a control freak.  I’m not as bad as I once was, but there is still a lot of work to do in this particular category of my life.  Along with patience, it is probably my life lesson.  This past weekend was yet another example of how I can let my controlling tendencies get the best of me, and sometimes hurt other people in the process.  I’m not proud of that.  But I am a work in progress.  I figure as long as I am at least learning from my mistakes, there is something positive born out of a bad situation.

I’m not quite sure when I decided that my ability to keep track of everything and everyone around me was “the right way.”  And truly, a lot of my “knowing how this is going to turn out” comes from my own stupid mistakes.  I’ve been there, I’ve tested that hypotheses, and the outcome stinks.  Two failed marriages, countless bad relationships, and a generally bad track record when it comes to love and life decisions pretty much sealed the deal for me.  I got lucky though.  I finally stopped trying to control that part of my life.  I met Bill and he was the best thing to ever happen to me.  But still, I watch the people around me, people I love, and I can’t help but feel the need to tell them how to avoid the stupid mistakes in life, especially the ones in which I have lots of experience.  The problem is that unless you make those mistakes on your own, you never get the benefit of learning firsthand how to not fuck up.  I can’t protect everyone, as much as I would like to, it’s flat out impossible.  That little voice in my head keeps saying “they need to walk their own path.”  My heart keeps saying “you know, you could just drag them kicking and screaming down the right path and you would save them the trouble.”  I know I know…control issues.  But really?  Is it so bad to want to save your loved ones from heartbreak?  Well in theory, no, but in the end it just causes a lot of stress that no one really wanted in the first place, and then those very same people start to view you as the world’s biggest pain in the ass.  Guilty as charged, and I have the big ass to prove it.  Again, luck is in my corner though.  Usually those very same people recognize that I am a recovering control freak and they forgive quickly.  I always appreciate someone who can see me for my faults as well as my fabulousness.  Truly, it is all meant with the best of intentions, just sometimes I have really bad delivery.

I do reserve the right to exercise a fair amount of control in my daughter’s life, although I am inclined to sugar coat it so it’s not so annoying for her.  She gets it, and for right now, she deals with it like a champ.  That, of course, is always subject to change when dealing with a teenager, so I will hold out hope that things continue to be awesome around my house.  I also know there are no guarantees.  I’m never going to get Mother of the Year, but hopefully I won’t screw her up permanently.  I am positive I still have those discount coupons for therapy that I was given at the hospital the day she was born.  “Here, these are for your daughter.  She’s going to need these someday.”  Damn that hospital staff for seeing right through me.  I guess control freaks are easy to spot.  I should upgrade my “mom camouflage.”

So, I just felt it necessary to throw myself on my sword and shout out “mea culpa” to my always patient possé of family and friends.  If I push too hard, if I become too insistent, please know it’s only because I care so deeply.  Then feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up.  I promise I will stop trying to screw with your gps in life so you can walk your path without obstacles and wrong turns, at least any caused by me.  The rest of them…well, you’re on your own. 

Butterflies would be better in a cage...or a convent...

My 13 year old daughter, Patricia, has really blossomed this year.  It’s been a joy to watch, until today.  Now, I am thinking a convent might be an appropriate learning institution for her until she’s - oh let’s pick a number – 30 years old.  Thirty is good, a nice round number. She’ll still have a lot of good years left and I will have survived what every parent fears, your teenage daughter dating.

It hasn’t begun yet, mind you.  In fact, she lamented to me over the summer that “all the other girls in school have boys that like them, but not me.”  My heart broke for her.  I told her I didn’t have a boyfriend until late in high school, and that teenage boys are nothing to brag about anyway.  (Generally speaking they are a pile of braces, bad jokes, awkwardness, and Axe body spray.) I told her they were too stupid to realize how funny, beautiful, intelligent and amazing she is.  My words fell on deaf ears.  The summer went on, and somewhere between swim team and the end of August, the caterpillar turned into a butterfly.  She went to school with an incredible sense of herself, a boatload of confidence, and a totally hot new school wardrobe which left a gaping hole in my checking account.  I was proud of her, happy for her.  I looked back on my days in 8^th grade and shuddered.  She was definitely on track to a better 8^th grade year than mine had been.

So last night, when she bounced onto my bed during the Monday football game, she was all smiles. To anyone with a teenage daughter, smiles are always good because if they aren’t smiling then that usually means drama.  Anyway, apparently, some boy (who shall remain nameless) who she found to be cute, walked up to her in the hallway and told her “Wow, Patricia you really look great this year.”  She was elated.  Suddenly all her hard work getting healthy and happy over the summer had paid off.  She felt…HOT.  I was elated for her as well…until I started to think about it for a bit.  Then suddenly my overriding thought was how can I find this brazen little prick, who obviously had ill-conceived designs for my daughter, so I could punch him in the face and threaten him within an inch of his awkward, smelly life.  My father hated teenage boys.  Now I get it.  Dad was right.  I didn’t say anything to her.  I just smiled, and a little something inside me died. She wasn’t a kid anymore.  She’d always be my baby, but the kid was definitely out the door.  I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.  I wanted to lock her in her room for a VERY long time, but I didn’t.  I just sat there, feeling like nothing would ever be the same again.  I hate it when that shit happens.

I mentioned it to Bill this morning, who was quick to remind me that he does, in fact, own a pump action shotgun which he would be happy to clean at the dining room table on any evening when some Axe-laden teenage predator came by to see her.  I laughed, but knew he was only half kidding.  He told me that the sound of that pump action is something many teenage boys have nightmares about.  I considered making it my new doorbell sound.  Inside I promised myself I would pull the trigger myself if any of these miscreants touched my girl.  I knew it was hardly the case, but a mother can dream.

So one more milestone down and many more to go.  She turns fourteen in October.  Next year she will be a freshman, and not too far down the road, she will be getting her driver’s license.  There will be “boy/girl” parties, and dating, and proms. What happens when she falls in love and gets her heart broken?  What happens when she leaves for college?  Ok, not thinking about those moments, it makes me teary-eyed and pathetic.  I know she is a smart kid who is far beyond her years when it comes to maturity, but I’d still like to shield her from all those awful moments when you think your world is ending and nothing will ever be the same. 

I’m lucky in the fact that she talks to me without any reservations because she knows there is absolutely nothing she can tell me that will shock or surprise me.  My teens and twenties were filled with all those memorable moments, both good and bad.  I’m not THAT old. I still remember them all, some with great fondness, and some with a cringe.

Ahhhh, to be young again.  I know that I’m not. I am however, considering getting my concealed carry permit.  And you're never too old to learn how to clean a pump action shotgun.

Down the rabbit hole, hope I don't spill my martini...

There is little in this world that drags me down more than one of my now infrequent bouts with depression.  Over the years I’ve been able to keep myself on a pretty even keel, thus not falling down that nasty little rabbit hole that can quite often seem bottomless.  I take my meds religiously, try to keep a positive attitude, exercise regularly and eat right – all the things “they” tell you to do in order to maintain the “emotional buffet” while navigating through life.  But sometimes, there is that moment when no matter how you look at a situation, it makes you want to crawl under the covers and hide, or in my case, hide in the closet with a martini…or five.

So, it would seem that this is one of those times when everything is towering over me, insurmountable situations that aren’t even really fully in my control.  Bill being laid off from his job after nearly 33 years is a big part of it, but not all of it. Yes, I am nervous about being the only breadwinner until Bill finds a new line of employment, but we have planned for it, and I can certainly keep us comfortable on my salary. Still, nerve-wrecking though.  But this time, most of my looming downward spiral revolves around family relationships, manipulation, lies and drama – all of which I cannot become truly involved in, because it’s not my side of the family. Trust me, this is not about an argument between family at the Thanksgiving table.  I’ve been dismissed, told I “don’t know anything about it”, and asked to step back.  I’ve watched these mini-soap operas grow into full length movies, complete with underlying plots…emotional rollercoasters that bring you to the top of a hopeful situation, only to mercilessly push you over the other side, and all you can do is watch and try to keep from screaming.

Anyone who knows me will tell you in a heartbeat that my tolerance for bullshit is at a level somewhere below zero.  For some reason this strikes fear in the hearts of some, but usually only those who are trying to pull the wool over my eyes.  That’s a really tough thing to do. But when the situation involves people that you have no power to say what is on your mind, then it turns into something akin to emotional paralysis.  On the inside, my mind is screaming “are you people fucking stupid???” and on the outside, I am forced to stand on the sidelines, knowing what the final chapter will be – utter disappointment and complete betrayal.   I used to be hopeful, but that ship has sailed. I don’t fault those involved for trying.  Family is family and when it is yours, you will do anything to save those involved. I get that.  But when you constantly beat your head against a wall, only to get the same response from the one you are trying to save, then it turns into an act of desperation.  I’ve made my opinion known the few times I have been asked how things should be handled, and every time my response has been the same. “You cannot save someone who has no desire or intention of saving themselves, I don’t care how good a game they talk.”  Actions speak louder than any spoken word and when they say one thing then do the exact opposite, it’s time to step back and let that person, no matter how much you love them, find their own bottom.  Their bottom is their determination, not those who are trying to help.  What may seem like the bottom to you may be nowhere near the bottom for the person in question.  Interventions only work when the person being intervened on is absolutely willing to take the steps to do the hard work to get better.  Otherwise, it’s like spinning your wheels in the sand.  You just get sucked in deeper.  When you have to witness a significant other or partner get sucked into that hole by the person they are trying to save, it is gutwrenching and heartbreaking.  But there is nothing you can do but be there for him.  I’m trying to remember that, I really am.

So this nightmare scenario, along other life-altering melodramas, has me wishing I was anywhere but along the sidelines watching it all go down. I am trying to see the bright side of things, and tell myself “It will all be just fine. It always is” but I am wondering at whose expense.  I’m not sure I can watch, so that rabbit hole is looking mighty inviting.  I bet there is room for my martini glass and maybe even a bag of Grandma Utz’s potato chips.  I can hide in there, pretend the outside world doesn’t exist, sleep as much as I want, and generally forget all about the fact that my home, and my loved ones, are about to fall apart like a house of cards…in my home, right in front of my eyes. I know it. I can feel it. But I am helpless to do anything about it.  To those who think that my life is always sunshine and lollipops, glitter and butterflies, it most certainly is not.  Today…today it pretty much sucks, and it will probably suck tomorrow.

I’m going to try to ignore that cozy rabbit hole for now.  It might be time to up my meds I’m thinking. I really need to call my damn doctor about that. I’m going to march on, smile on my face, with my wit and sarcasm to sustain me as I watch the idiocy of the world go by.  I know there are people who are in far worse situations, but right now, at this moment this is my albatross, my hell.  Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer. Wish me luck.  And if you see me around, just give me a smile and a nod.  I’ll know you “get it.”  Trust me, I will appreciate it more than you could even know.

For the love of Lean Cuisine...

There is probably nothing more difficult than trying to cram as much crap as possible in an one hour lunch break.  Normally, I just head home and grab something left over from dinner the night before, or make a salad.  Filling? Yes. Healthy? Usually. Yummy? Most definitely.  But today, heading home wasn’t an option as I needed a manicure for an event this weekend.  A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!

Enter the Lean Cuisine.  I’m not sure what Keebler-like elf creates these things in Lean Cuisine Land, but honestly, what it lacks in total calories, it also lacks in total taste.  I opted for the “Spa Collection Thai Noodles.”  Spa? Really?  I can almost guarantee there isn’t a spa on the face of this earth that would serve up one of these babies.  The description on the box reads “Spa Collection. Gaining inspiration from wholesome and modern ingredients…made from vegetables, whole grains and no preservatives.”    My Thai Noodles gourmet extravaganza boasts a low 300 calories, 7 grams of total fat and 41 grams of carbs.  It also has about 580 mg of sodium, which I can pretty much assure you is off the chart in the sodium department.  Still, I was hopeful.  I was also hungry enough to chew my own arm off.  You’d be surprised what you’d eat when your stomach starts to devour itself.  By the way, it should be noted that there are all sorts of handy little tips about eating healthy on the back of a Lean Cuisine box.  You can even sign up for “Rewards points.”  What in the hell are they giving rewards for??? Is there some sort of prize for eating this crap?  There should be.

Upon my arrival back at the office, I popped my very “efficient” looking Lean Cuisine in the microwave for 4 minutes, remembering to cut a slit in the top of the cellophane top, lest my meal explode under such heat and pressure. I stood there, STARING at the microwave, willing time to move at a lightening pace so I could dig in with wild abandon. Waiting…waiting…did you know that watching a microwave is much akin to watching water boil?  In fact, since you are indeed watching each second tick by with amazing precision, I am pretty sure that it is even WORSE than waiting for water to boil.  I paced, I tried to distract myself. I decided that if I went to pee then perhaps time would fly by more quickly.  I had no idea I could pee, wash my hands and check my appearance in the mirror in less than 45 seconds.  Seriously, that has got to be a world record someplace on God’s green earth.  Back to the microwave.  Another minute and a half.  DEAR GOD THIS IS THE LONGEST FOUR MINUTES OF MY LIFE.

Ding!  The waiting is finally over.

As I peeled back the cellophane and peered anxiously into the microwavable dish, a wave of utter disappointment passed over me.  I sniffed it.  It smelled like really bad Thai peanut sauce from a really crappy Thai restaurant.  (I’ve been to several in my life, so I have experience with this sort of thing.)  There were EXACTLY six cubes of what I assumed was chicken breast, some anemic looking red, yellow and green peppers, and a pile of noodles plopped on top of the stinky peanut sauce.  I stirred and prayed it would all magically come together and take on the appearance of something whipped by Ming Tsi.  It did not. Was it because I did not follow instruction exactly and cook on 3 minutes, then remove the cover, stir and recover, cooking for another minute and a half? It must be my fault, because I was never going to admit that I actually purchase such a food travesty.

I took my disappointing lunch back to my desk.  Having no other option, I actually ate it.  While it wasn’t the worst thing to ever pass my lips, it was damn close.  But like I said before, you would be surprised what you’ll eat when you are pretty sure you are watching your life pass before your eyes from absolute hunger.

I know, I could have taken the time to make myself something yummy, I really could have.  But sometimes that extra 15 minutes of sleep surpasses anything else, and I opted for the shuteye.  Will I think better next time?  Yeah, probably.  But just in case, there is a Lean Cuisine Spa Collection Chicken and Tortellini with Basil Cream Sauce waiting for me in the freezer.  I’m hoping that one will present as a more satisfying lunch.  Maybe?  Nahhhhh….

30 years is a long time...

Reunions are a funny thing.  They can bring out the best and the worst in people, often simultaneously.  My 30^th high school reunion is next weekend, and I am looking forward to more of the best than the worst. I went to my 20^th, still thinking I had something to prove – to whom I’m not really sure. The beauty of my 30^th will be the fact that I just couldn’t give a shit anymore.  We all grow and evolve on our own terms.  It took crossing over the “40” age line before I realized I was just fine the way I was, physically, mentally and spiritually.  After that, things just sort of fell into place.  Too bad we can’t take that feeling of self-satisfaction and go back to that awkward time known as the “teenage years” and spend some time reassuring and coaching ourselves through all that anxiety and self-doubt.  We were all just fine back then. We just weren’t able to see it.  At the advanced age of 48 ½ (give or take a month) I am actually pretty happy in my own skin and that’s a really incredible feeling.  I hope my classmates and friends have managed to find their “happy place” as well.  The ones that I am close to I pretty much adore just the way they are.  They’ve grown into amazing individuals, each with their own story, complete with moments of absolute celebration and tragedy.  It’s those moments that make us who we are.

There is a common thread that weaves us all together into a really beautiful fabric.  We all hail from a small town in Pennsylvania, and from my perspective and the observations of others, I think we all cherish and treasure that commonality.  We are special.  We cling to a way of life that allowed us all to enjoy that “Leave It To Beaver” lifestyle growing up, dotted with memories of memorial days parades, Friday night football games, the annual carnivals, and an extreme sense of belonging to something very very good. Life was simple.  Life was splendid.  I know I personally didn’t appreciate that when I was 18 years old and so full of myself, but now…now it has become very precious to me.  Maybe that is what has drawn me to live in another small town, much further south, but with a lot of the same values and sense of community.  They do say things like “y’all” a lot down here, and even this Yankee girl catches herself using such southern phrases, but the reality is Manassas, Virginia shares more with Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania than I ever thought it would. I find it completely heartwarming that so many of my former classmates who left our town after graduation are now back in Tunkhannock, and raising their own families there.  It’s a great life.  I just couldn’t handle those cold Pennsylvania winters anymore.

I’ve also been lucky enough to find a partner and best friend (it only took me three tries, mostly because I’m a slow learner) who shares that same affection for small town life.  Indeed, he has lived and worked within five miles of the house we currently live in (where he actually grew up) his entire life.  I love that stability and solidness about him.  I’ve been anything but grounded over the past three decades, especially the earlier two.  He keeps my feet firmly planted on the ground while allowing me to at least exercise the option to still be myself, and all that comes with that – most of it a bit on the “quirky” side.

It’s good to remember where you came from.  It will help you walk the path to where you are going.  I, for one, am thankful for Tunkhannock, and all those that remain there.  Next Saturday is going to be special, and that makes me smile.

Looking forward to seeing all of you from the Tunkhannock Class of 1983.  Cheers!

You can pick your friends,and your nose, but family...not so much...

Let me start this off by saying this is not about MY family. I am blessed with one of the most amazing families ever, and yes, I'm more than a little biased.  We’re not perfect – not even close.  We fight on occasion, but most of the time we are all about sharing a good bottle of wine and some chips/dip, and having a whole lot of laughs.  There is a fierce love and loyalty between all of us that trumps everything else.  I have gone through some incredibly difficult times in my life, and not all of those times can be attributed to being “unlucky.”  Quite frankly, a lot of it was self-induced because I’m the kind of person who can’t be satisfied with making a mistake once. I have to make it five or six times so I can consider myself an expert.  My family hasn’t always been happy with my decisions, and they aren’t shy to express their opinion, but there has never been a moment when they haven’t stood firmly behind me in solidarity. They’ve seen me through two divorces, and that was no easy task.  They were always very good at seeing what I was completely blind to in the men that I chose for myself.  But they let me walk my own path, and in the end I was lucky enough to marry a man that they not only approved of, one that they actually love and accept.  It’s been one of my greatest joys.

As for my two divorces?  Well, let’s just say I’m not very good at making things easy for myself. On the upside, it has allowed my friends to learn from my mistakes.  I’m just the BEST kind of teacher in that respect.  When my last marriage fell off the cliff, my mom and dad opened their hearts and really listened. They gave me their best advice and they helped as much as they could.  And most importantly, they made sure it was perfectly clear that they were on my side, not my former husband’s side.  It’s good to feel like you have people in your corner.

So imagine my shock when I found out that a close friend’s sister was throwing HER ex-husband a birthday party. At first I was speechless, then…then I was PISSED.  Keep in mind, this was not an amicable divorce and there have been several occasions where it has gotten downright nasty between her and her ex. It’s also a very recent divorce, one that still involves a lot of healing for everyone, including her kids. The first thing I said to her was “Now let me get this straight. They are throwing a birthday party for him???” She confirmed and added that it was a party that her two girls were invited to, but she was not. Ok, now I want to punch someone in the throat.  Seriously?  Well, that is a new level of disrespect I hadn’t really experienced or heard of in a long time.  I told her it was bullshit. I told her if she attended this party, I would personally drive to her house and escort her to a mental institution.  I was mad she wasn’t as mad as I was, but she’s all about “the high road” which I personally find overrated.  I spent many years being a doormat to anyone who chose to walk all over me.  Little did I know when I stopped my doormat behavior, I must have somehow “magically” passed my doormat on to her which she now had firmly secured on her forehead.  I couldn’t swear to it, but she may have even gone the permanent tattoo route.

My anger at her for allowing this to happen is far overshadowed by my anger at her “loving” sibling.  What a wretched excuse for a sister.  I can say with all certainty that my sister would never throw my ex a party. I couldn’t actually promise that my sister wouldn’t run him over if he was crossing the street in front of her.  Family is family and blood is blood. My ex is not blood.  Even if my sister was fond of my ex, it would be a cold day in hell before she EVER pulled that crap.  Her loyalty is firmly on my side of the fence. She’s an awesome sister, by the way.

I’m not sure why I was so shocked that my friend was put in this situation.  This is the same family that insists on inviting her ex to family vacations, even though she was absolutely against it.  Mind you, the vacations are paid for by her mother.  Yeah, I can guarantee my mom wouldn’t even let herself be within a 50 mile radius of my ex, let alone share a beach house.  How do you do that to your own family?  This is HER family, not his.  So this year, he is going on vacation with her family. She is not.  I can’t even believe I just typed that.  Two words. Fucked up. Pardon my French, folks.

The good thing is, while she has a hard time standing up for herself, she is surrounded by friends who have no problem telling her sister to go to hell, myself included.  My friend is a beautiful and wonderful person. In fact, I wish she could see the woman I see. Her sister is a bitch and a bully.  No one needs that in their life.  Getting from one end to the other in life is hard enough, without having family firmly planting a knife in your back.  I was happy to tell her delusional sibling exactly what I thought of her, as did other friends.  We propped my friend up.  I hope it gave her strength and empowered her to take a stand.  This is why picking good friends, supportive friends, is so important.

Family is difficult, sometimes frustrating, sometimes downright infuriating.  It happens in every family, including my own.  The one thing family should never be is devious, antagonistic, jealous or undermining.  I’m sad that she had to endure this utter bullshit from a family member, and I hope that through some sort of miracle, her sister realizes how much she hurt with her actions.  I doubt it, since she is pretty convinced that no one else could possibly be right about anything.  Good thing she isn’t MY sister.

Looks like I’ll be visiting Maine…

It’s unfair the way life tosses someone into your life, only to remove them later.  I hate that, and it’s happened to me a lot over my lifetime – one of the hazards of living in a transient area I suppose.  No one stays in D.C., except me, and I think I hold the record…twenty-seven years and counting.  I had so hoped to get the hell out of here a long time ago, but the furthest I have ventured to live is my current location of Manassas, and that’s only 30 miles from the D.C. border. Wow, look at me, such an adventurer.

Anyway, one of my dearest friends is wrapping up her move to Maine.  In actuality, she has been up there since last fall, but just recently sold her D.C. condo, so now I guess it’s permanent.  (Insert my bitchy resting face here.) I was hopeful that somehow she would not sell it, thus giving her an excuse to come back here periodically, but alas, my hopes have been stomped on by the D.C. real estate market.  She’s all packed up now, and will be leaving next week.  Am I sad? Yep, although not terribly sad.  I refuse to say goodbye to this awesome woman, and priceless friend.  We’ve only known each other for a few years, but I feel like I’ve known her a lifetime.  I also know that no matter how long it is between conversations, or how many miles between, she will always be there, and vice versa. Why? Because she gets me, and all the neurotic/crazy behavior that goes along with knowing me. Besides, I’m not losing a friend. I am gaining a new vacation spot, and that can’t be all bad.  And I have heard her bragging about the outlets up there. Shopping is a good excuse to visit.

Being a Yankee girl, going to Maine isn’t terribly frightening, although they do talk funny up there.  I know they say wicked a lot. I shall try to incorporate it into my vocabulary so that I am comfortable using it in any situation.  “It’s wicked cold out today” or “That’s some wicked big hair you are wearing tonight” (only she will get that reference) are two fine examples of how I can use “wicked” in my every day vernacular.  I also understand that when someone dies in the winter up there, they have to “keep them on ice” until the spring thaw because they can’t dig holes in the ground to plant someone in the winter (keeping them cold shouldn’t be hard since it’s cold as BALLS up there in the winter.)  Hell, just throw grandpa out on the back porch until the ground defrosts. Therefore, I think it’s best if I only travel during the temperate seasons, in case I croak while visiting. I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I think summer is on a Wednesday in July but I will have to verify that.  Maybe it’s a Thursday, I don’t know. I know it’s not much longer than a week at best.  I shall take lots of snuggly clothes with me just in case the weather turns quickly.  I’m going to see her this weekend before her departure, which will give me the opportunity to remind her that she will no longer need all those fabulous summer designer duds, so she should just leave them with me.  I will take good care of them, and make sure they are worn only in fashionable and appropriate situations.   We wear about the same size, so we might as well make the most of it, eh?  Which leads me my next question. I know they say “eh” a lot in Canada, which is CLOSE to Maine.  Does that mean they also say “eh” like they say “wicked”?  Damn, it’s like learning another language.

So to you, my big-haired fabulous friend, I wish you much love and great happiness back home where you truly belong, although it really doesn’t work for me, but whatever.   I shall love you anyway.  Expect a visitor, and make sure those sheets on my bed are high thread count. You know how high maintenance I am. Not "goodbye" but "see ya later alligator". 

The cruelty of 13 year old girls…

Having a 13 year old daughter is my greatest joy. It is also my greatest heartache on any given day. Maybe because even though I am pushing fifty years old, I can still vividly remember the nauseating angst of middle school. And if I think about it too long, I still get that feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve been lucky with Tricia.  She has suffered much less than many other kids at the hands of a bullying classmate.  But I am mystified that when it does happen, it is often at the hands of someone who purports themselves to be her friend. Why is it girls are so cruel to each other?  Jealousy?  Insecurity?  Ignorance?  A ridiculous need to insert themselves into a situation all for the sake of creating drama? Probably all of the above in some form or another.  I’m not sure where these girls have learned such unspeakable meanness.  I know I have worked tirelessly to make sure Tricia understands the meaning of compassion, and indeed she is one of the kindest, most compassionate kids I know, sometimes to a fault.  That being said, I have also tried to make her understand that being a doormat is not an option, and that as long as she is doing the right thing, standing up for herself is really really important. And she does, much better than I ever did when I was her age.  Hell, I’m pretty sure I had doormat tattooed on my forehead until about 40.  

But today…today was one of those days when I could have put her friend “Dory” through a wall.  She took what was a vulnerable issue with Tricia and viciously turned it on her.  Really?  And she did it over text messages and the phone?  Apparently Dory is a gutless wonder on top of being a drama-filled insecure bitch.  Tricia was hurt, really hurt, and all because this pain in the ass of a 13 year old girl was too uncaring or too stupid to know when to shut the hell up.  I gave Tricia the “ignore her” speech. I told her that this person was not a friend.  But it seemed no matter what I said, the situation still cut like a knife in my daughter’s mind.  Have you ever wanted to grab that other kid by her long freaking blonde hair and scream “You’re such a BITCH!” to her?  Yeah, that’s where I was today.

I wish, for one hot minute, Tricia could see the girl I see…beautiful, intelligent, giving, with an acerbic wit and a sharp tongue when she wants to make her point.  There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think to myself how lucky I am to have such an incredible daughter, in spite of myself.  I know I’m never going to get that coveted “Mother of the Year” award.  In fact, I am constantly amazed she hasn’t landed in therapy by now. But every day, she becomes more and more of a fabulous young woman, and every day I thank God for giving her to me.  

I’ve told her often, these days will pass and in twenty years you won’t even remember this little tyrant’s name.  And for the most part that is true.  It’s such a blessing when we all come into our own and finally realize that the ONLY opinion that matters is our own, and to those who don’t like us, well they can just fuck off.  She’ll get there, probably sooner than most kids. But until then, all I can do is hug her tight and remind her that she is nothing less than wonderful. It comes along with being my daughter.

The Perils of Using a Friend's Prescription Painkillers...

A conversation between one of my closest friends (nameless) and myself…

Me:  Hey, are you there?

Nameless Friend:  Yep

Me:  OMG, my mouth is KILLING me.  I have never had a toothache before.  Ibuprofen isn’t touching it.

Nameless Friend:  You want me to ask  [insert nameless friend’s boyfriend here] if he has any Percocet?

Me:  (DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNER!) Would you?

Nameless Friend: Yep

(a few minutes later)

Nameless Friend:  Yep, he has some. How many do you want?

Me:  Three???

Nameless Friend:  They expired last month, is that ok?

(It should be noted they could have expired two years ago, and I still would have taken them.)

Me:  No problem, I will take them. (Mouth throbbing to the point of seeing stars)

Nameless Friend: You want me to drop them off at your house?

Are you freaking kidding me? She delivers?  Hell, she would have made a hell of a drug dealer.  Hell, if I were at home when she arrived, I’d even tip her.

Me:  Oh, if you could that would be awesome!

Twenty minutes later…BAM, the contraband has been delivered.  What I did not realize is that in the twenty minutes, the ibuprofen kicked in.  All 800 milligrams of it.  Splendid.

Fast forward to this morning.  I’m searching the house of more ibuprofen, but apparently it is GONE (I could have sworn we had a huge bottle of it) and I am yet again in agonizing pain.  I think to myself, no worries, I have three handy dandy Percocet, and THAT will take my worries away.  I grab the baggie of illegal prescription drugs, take one out, and pop it in my mouth like a piece of candy. MMMMMMMM…YUMMY. Not really, but I would have eaten dirt if it would have made me feel better.  

Fifteen minutes later…

OH MY GOD I NEED TO SIT DOWN.  By this time, I am sweating, I feel like I am going to pass out, and I cannot put together a sentence.  This can’t be good.  What the hell?  I’ve taken Percocet before, countless times before my back surgery, and it NEVER affected me like this.  Holy hell, suddenly a coma was sounding like sweet relief.  I sat down and waited for the wave of dizziness and nausea to pass.  Then, it dawned on me…that one little word I totally forgot…DOSAGE.  Now let’s think – nameless friend’s hunky boyfriend is about…wait for it…220 lbs.?  He’s about 8’ tall, at least to me, and he certainly is not a human stick figure.  And I am…wait for it…5’3” on a good day and about 135 lbs.?  Yeah, I have just taken what is the equivalent of a horse pill of narcotics.  I panic.  I didn’t really feel like I was dying but I did feel like I was having an out of body experience. I really needed to get to work.  I finished my blueberry smoothie (which was doing nothing for my stomach, by the way) and decided I could make the three miles to the office, which I did, thankfully. Upon my arrival at the office, I quickly sit down to try to make the room stop spinning, and called Nameless Friend to tell her of my “situation.”  She hadn’t thought about dosage either.  Apparently NO ONE had thought about it.  I promptly tell her I have to go because I have to throw up in my office waste can.  Lovely, now my office smells like blueberry scented vomit.  Mother of God, can this day get any worse?  I laid my head on my desk and tried to make the feeling stop. I was unsuccessful. I tried to explain the situation to my boss/friend, but was having issues because of my slurred speech.  Something about blueberries, Percocet.  He, in his usual manner, shook his head and laughed at me.  He has come to expect anything but normal from me.

I did make my 11am dentist appointment (and I am proud to say I have no cavities and not really a reason for all the pain, other than the fact I needed a good cleaning.) Wonderful, I live for deep scale cleanings. By the way Ginger, my hygienist friend from high school, SAVE IT. I know what you are going to say.

I guess the moral of the story is, if you need to “borrow” prescription painkillers from a friend, you might want to cut those babies in half depending on the size.  I wouldn’t recommend going through what I went through to anyone.

That is all. I really just wanted to share my pain.  Thanks for listening!

Pope for a day...SWEET, where do I sign up???

For the record, I know my hair doesn't work with the head gear.

Ok, so the Pope is retiring.  Retiring? Really?  Who do you even write your letter of resignation to, God?  I understand the rigors of the job, the pressure, the daily chore of jamming your feet in those funny pope slippers/elf shoes. It’s got to be hell, but in a good way on some level…because of course you live in the Vatican!  Still, the stress must be exhausting, especially if you’re somewhere between freaking old and ancient.

Honestly though, I wouldn’t mind being Pope for a day. The food must be awesome and you get to have a million minions doing your bidding, not to mention an entire college of cardinals.  Hell, I wouldn’t be writing my own homilies.  That would definitely be their job, since they are a college and all.  You get a cool pope-mobile, your own jet, millions of followers.  I think I just found my dream job. I would have to become Catholic of course. I’m not thinking this will be a problem though.  I hear they are enthusiastically accepting applications.

So when I heard the Pope was retiring yesterday, I have to say I was a bit taken aback.  Yes, you are old. Yes, you may not be in the greatest of health and may walk with a cane, but you are, in fact, the Pope. Can’t you work around these things?  I’m sure they can make all sorts of special accommodations for you, not to mention some really cute nurses to wait on you and give you sponge baths.  Just delegate, my Man, delegate delegate delegate. What are they going to do?  Say no? 

I’m also not sold on his choice of retirement “homes.”  I can guarantee a monastery would not be on the top of my list.  Pretty boring, no?  You work for the Catholic church.  Really, look into some island real estate on the books.  Pick something in a warmer climate, like maybe the Caribbean or Mexico.  Both are demographically Catholic.  Hell, even Florida would be better than a place filled with nuns and monks.  Yes, there is an overwhelming Jewish population in Florida, but they sure know how to live. Find a nice sandy spot on the beach, get some sun, order a nice fruity drink in a coconut.  You can pray and tan at the same time. It’s not difficult. You just need to figure out the whole multi-tasking thing.  As a woman, I do it all the time, and once you get the hang of it, you can get so much more accomplished.

I don’t know, maybe his heart was never really in it.  He never seemed excited to be the Pope, not to mention John Paul was a tough act to follow.  Anyone would have paled in comparison to John Paul’s outstanding papal talents.  He even skied when he was Pope. I can’t remember Pope Benedict skiing one time during his entire tenure.  They’re even fast tracking John Paul to sainthood.  You’re quitting, Pope Benedict.  No gold watch for you. Have you even been there long enough to collect your pension?  Usually it takes ten years to be vested. You’re two years short.

I personally believe I would make an outstanding Pope.  First thing I would do is institute a Friday Happy Hour and wine for everyone.  I’d also change the color of those vestments to something darker so I would look thinner, and the pope shoes would have to go. Perhaps a nice pair of Pope heels (not too high, mind you) and a tiara instead of that giant Pope headpiece.  That would give me a damn headache.  And really, it’s not very attractive. Also, I'd move midnight mass back to, say 8pm, on Christmas Eve.  I don't like mass getting in the way of time with my family and friends, and cocktails.

The possibilities are endless. There would be enough room for all my friends. We could have weekend games of “Angels and Demons” or “The DaVinci Code.”  The location would be ideal for those sort of murder mysteries. However, Mondays would be my day off, no exceptions.  I hate Mondays.  I figure God doesn’t like them much either, or he would have made them more appealing overall.

Now all I need to do is figure out how to submit my resume and references. I’m a natural for the job…snicker…

ME FIRST…THE LINE FORMS TO THE REAR.

I learned a long time ago that to be a better mother, wife, friend, family member, there comes a time when you must finally realize that “putting everyone before yourself” is complete and utter bullshit.

“NO” may be the single most difficult word for any woman to say, no matter what her situation. It doesn’t matter if you are a working mother, a stay at home mom, a single woman, a divorced or single mom, or just married. The ability of society to put unreasonable expectations on us knows no boundaries.  Nothing pisses me off more than society encouraging – no, wrong word – INSISTING that we put ourselves at the end of the line, and put everyone else first. Does the world have a clue how long that fucking list is? I mean, seriously, think about it for one hot moment.  I don’t know about your list, but mine takes up two pages on any given day. And God forbid you actually take a moment for yourself, then there is whole guilt thing to deal with and wrestle into submission.  I’ll be damned if anyone is going to make me feel guilty for being kind to myself. Now THAT is some bullshit right there.

Let me give you a real world example of what I am talking about.  I have a friend. For the sake of anonymity we will call her “Jane.”  Now Jane is a young divorced mom of two very energetic little girls.  She has a good job, a deadbeat ex husband, and a veritable mountain of obligations to others, so there is really no time or energy for her to keep any obligations to herself. She’s trying to get in shape, trying to find some “me” time, and last but not least, trying to maybe find a rewarding relationship with a man along the way. Sound familiar? Anyone??

Her two school-aged daughters, adorable as they are, have taken over her bedroom in the evening, so there isn’t even a quiet moment to read a book, or watch something besides Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel (both of which make me want to stick my head in an oven and turn on the gas.)  Every night they sleep with her (on the professional advice of her daughter’s therapist) so they would feel “safe”, take over her bathroom, insist that her time be given to them completely.  In the end, she was left feeling empty and exhausted. She asked my advice.  Hmmmm…let me think about this for a moment.

Well, you know me, I’m so subtle when it comes to giving my opinion, sort of like an oncoming freight train.  My first thought was “are you fucking kidding me???”  First of all, I am NOT a fan of “co-sleeping” arrangements, and in fact my daughter, now 13, has never slept with me, unless I asked her, generally when Bill is out of town and we are watching tv together in my bedroom. I was not shy to tell Jane that she needed to get her daughters out of her room, and quick, or they would be going to college and still sleeping with her.  Several of us who are older and a bit more experienced (i.e., over 40 years of age) in such things, told her “to hell with the therapist!”  Get them excited about their own bedrooms, even put them in the same bedroom to sleep so they at least have each other.  Make bedtime a routine instead of an argument. And for God’s sake, get them to use their own damn bathroom.  I think she hesitated a little, but in the end she brightened up their own bedrooms, presented the situation in a positive light, and voila!  They are now sleeping in their own bedrooms and leaving toothpaste all over the sink in their own bathroom. Did they pout?  Yep. Did they cry?  You betcha.  But Jane stuck to her guns.  Mission accomplished. GO JANE! Wait until I tell her she now needs to find a babysitter, put that bitch on speed dial, and get out of the house for some “adult time” once in a while.  That one may take a bit more work.

It’s hard to establish boundaries so that at the end of the day you have time for yourself.  My “me” time has always been immensely valuable, and I have never been afraid to take it for myself. To be honest, I’d go bonkers without it.  So many demands from every direction make it nearly impossible, but if we don’t insist that we hold back something for ourselves, then the world will just continue to take and take, until we are popping Xanax like Skittles and hiding in the closet drinking vodka out of a paper bag.  We end up sleep-deprived, unhappy with the world around us, and most of all unhappy with ourselves.  I don’t know about you, but I can’t live like that.  I can’t even think about living like that.

So my advice to you today is take time for yourself, even if it’s an hour at the gym, or a well-deserved pedicure, or hell, if it is just being alone in your bedroom with the door closed doing absolutely nothing at all.  You’ve earned it. I’ve earned it. WE HAVE ALL EARNED IT. You are not being selfish.  Taking time for yourself will make you a better mother and spouse. Trust me on this one.

Battle of the Swimwear

We love to hate it, we dread shopping for it, we are perpetually dissatisfied with the way we look in it.  I’ve always been envious of the women who can rock a bikini with complete and utter abandon.  It’s not an easy thing to do, especially when you are 5’3” and pretty much convinced you have been ten pounds overweight your entire life.  I’ve sort of made peace with the world of swimwear by arming myself with an army of sexy and elegant beach covers and dresses.  They allow for a hint of bikini without revealing the wide selection of stretchmarks that cover my hips, and my less than toned abs. 

Usually, January is not the month in which I stand in front of the mirror torturing myself with thoughts of putting on a bathing suit.  I save that special hell for late February or early March.  But a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, brought the subject to the forefront because she is heading to Florida.  She is a very tall, very athletic looking woman who actually had dropped a profound amount of weight recently, and is still adjusting to the new girl in the mirror.  I think she looks sensational. She still thinks her arms are fat and hates her legs. Today she contemplated putting on a bikini for the first time since losing weight.  I could tell from our conversation that it was not something she was looking forward to doing, and was truly worried about what other people would think.  I told her she looked fabulous, and she does.  I told her that the sexiest part of a woman’s body is her confidence, and it is. I told her if she was really worried, take the coward’s way out and buy a hot beach coverup.  She listened, and tried to believe me. I think we made progress, but you never know what is going through another person’s head.

It dawned on me, I’m really bad at taking my own advice. What a revelation! How many  times have I donned one of my bikinis for a day out on our boat, only  to stand in front of the mirror and beat myself  up for not having the body of Jennifer Anniston.  Every damn time, every damn year.  I spend a small fortune on swimwear only to have it look up at me from its spot in the drawer, taunting me.  If I manage to persuade myself to get into one, I usually stand there and pick apart every little flaw I can find.  My friend would be disappointed at my inability to take my own advice, and she’d probably give me hell for it, because she’s that kind of friend.  It’s true, we are our own worst enemy when it comes to self-deprication and self-loathing.  As I had mentioned in an earlier blog, it is my resolution to stop that self-destructive behaviour and just get on with it in a healthier, happier frame of mind. Now that the whole “swimwear” thing is in my head two months early, I shall look at it as an opportunity get a jump start on not getting thin, but getting healthy – body and mind – and hopefully that will help to change the way I look at myself in the mirror.

So here is my plan of attack.  First off, in the interest of not turning into a brittle-boned, arthritic old woman, I am going to start doing yoga.  Not the full-fledged pretzel version of yoga, since I am the most unbendy person on the planet, but a kinder gentler yoga that will allow me to start slowly and work my way up to more bendy yoga positions.  I’m not going to rush it, or push myself well beyond my limits to the point of needing traction. Believe me, I have done that many times at the gym.  Not fun.

I’m also heading back to the gym after a ridiculously long hiatus of  two years.  The best I’ve ever felt is when I went to the gym five days a week. I looked in the mirror and described myself as “strong” and “toned” and “sexy.” I haven’t done that in forever. Time to get back in the groove and do something positive for me.  But this time, I am not going to put the pressure on myself of being there every day, Monday through Friday.  It stops being fun, and becomes a chore.  I will aim for three days a week.  If I feel like going four days a week, then great, but I will no longer make it mandatory. And since I need constant motivation to keep the groove going, I am going to enlist my friend to go with me, so she can kick me in the ass when I’m too lazy to do it myself.  She already belongs to the gym I plan to join.  That solves part of the problem right there.  It’s also less than two miles from my house. Another problem solved. Wow, I’m on a roll.

So, I stand before you, ready to admit I am not in the best of shape, but ready to do something about it, and not just for the sake of losing weight.  That will be a bonus if it happens.  The name of the game is healthy – mind and body.  

Let’s do it. 

This Woman's Worth...

Sometimes in life, we struggle…sometimes we overcome.  Sometimes we just lay there, floundering, trying to find the balance in life and in all that we do.  Right now, I am floundering.

2013 begins with a lot of uncertainty in Bill’s and my future.  Bill is being laid off from his job of 32 years.  This is a tough one for him – talk about a struggle.  I am more concerned for his well-being than the financial aspect of the situation.  I make an adequate income. We are carefully planning so that by the time his job ends in September we will have nearly all of our short term debt paid off.  When you have a plan, life is a lot less terrifying, at least that has been my experience.  And while it is completely disheartening that his career at his current company is ending, we are thankful that we have been afforded a lot of lead time so that we can make the necessary preparations to weather the storm.  I keep telling him, it is not a setback, it is an adventure into the next chapter of his life.  A positive outlook does wonders.

My inability to find life’s balance comes from inside me.  I’ll be 48 years old next month – just two years away from the big 5 0...wow.  I’m not sure where the first 48 years have gone, but it’s been quite a rollercoaster ride.  I’ve overcome a lot of adversity in the first 48 years, and enjoyed many triumphs. I’ve made mistakes, some of them sizeable.  But I have no regrets. I own my past – good, bad or otherwise. I am the sum of my experiences and all paths to this point have led me to right here, right now.  I love my husband, my daughter, my family and friends, and my career.  I count myself as blessed in so many ways. But at the end of the day, the struggle comes from looking in the mirror and trying to find the guts to really like my physical appearance. And it comes from inside me, not from anyone else. Ok, I know I’m not “homely.” I know I have great hair and pretty green eyes. There are many things about myself that I actually appreciate, maybe even love. Yes, I have been known to dabble in botox, and spend more than my fair share on skincare, but at the end of the day, I don’t look anywhere near my age.  I don’t want to look 20. I just don’t want to look 50, so it’s all good.

In the end, my insecurity (yes, I said insecurity) comes back to the whole “weight thing.” It’s the thing that haunts me, follows me around like some sort of shadow.  It chips away at my self-worth, taunts me at every turn, and ruins my fun at the most inopportune moments - like today.  My prevailing thought when I woke up this morning? It’s a new year, summer is just around the corner, need to start worrying about how I am going to cram my ass in a swimsuit. Did I gain weight over the holidays? Are my jeans a smidge snugger than they were a week ago? Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter? Yep, it does to me.

I look at my scale as some sort of mortal enemy that doles out my torture, one day at a time. Even when my clothes fit the same and the needle hasn’t moved, I worry. If I gain one pound, that will turn into 3 which will turn into 5, then 10, and so on. Going to a restaurant can be just as painful. What did I eat today?  Was it healthy?  Too many calories? Should I order the salmon or the steak that I really want? No, I don’t want any sauce or butter on my entree.   “Would you like dessert?” Are you freaking crazy?  Yes, I want it. No, I’m not having it.  I’ve been having these conversations in my head since high school.  I thought I was fat then. I hated myself.  Now, I look back at those photos and think to myself, “You looked great, what the hell was your problem?”  My problem?  After 30 years, I still look at myself the very same way. I never see thin, only "if I could just lose five more pounds" or "does my ass look big in this outfit?" It’s mentally and emotionally exhausting.  I’ve battled my way through eating disorders on more than one occasion in my life, and it’s still a struggle, much like being a drug addict or an alcoholic.  And with it comes shame, hopelessness, and fear that it will rear its ugly head again.  I’m tired of being afraid.

So here is my resolution for this year. This is the year I am going to find TRUE balance. I am going to stand up to the demon scale and tell it to fuck off. I’m going to “walk the walk” instead of just “talk the talk” to my daughter when it comes to self-worth and being healthy.  I am going to stop comparing myself to every size 2 woman that crosses my path and realize that I look good, REALLY good, for almost 48 years old. (I’m not owning 48 yet, I have 30 days to go before I cross that bridge.)  I am going to concentrate on being healthy, instead of being skinny, and I am going to order the cheesecake once in a while.  While I take on this challenge, I am going to document my progress in my blog, It is not always easy laying your thoughts and emotions out there for people to see, but if it helps someone else who is fighting the same battle, then it is worth it.  I know I’m not the only woman on the planet who struggles with her weight so maybe it will prove to be beneficial to someone else if I share my journey.

Have no fear, I will attempt to throw some humor into the equation, just to keep it fun. And above all, I will try to convey the positive in everything.  With the positive lies hope, and without hope…well, life just sucks, so hope part is important.

I hope you’ll bear with me on my path to a happier, healthier mind and body.  I can’t guarantee the ride will be smooth, but it should be an interesting journey this year.

And so it begins…

The Vagina Monologues

I have noticed an interesting, albeit annoying, phenomenon lately – completely heterosexual men with vaginas.  I am not saying the have REAL functioning, vaginas.  They have vaginas in the figurative sense, which makes them act like women.  No bueno.

Now before you point your finger at me in an accusatory fashion, please know that I am not saying ALL men have vaginas.  There are still the manly men out there who grow beards in “Movember” and scratch parts of their anatomy in public that makes their significant others cringe.  I, for one, like my men “manly” and am happy to report that my husband Bill has never exhibited signs of even a tiny vagina as part of his anatomy.  Yes, I have seen him cry, but not without a good reason.  He hates shopping, and  has never exhibited signs of bi-polar behaviour.  He is an all-American guy who would rather have his teeth drilled without novacaine than get a manicure.  He passes gas regularly and thinks it is incredibly funny.  He is more comfortable in his Levi jeans and a fishing t-shirt, and he actually had to purchase a suit when we got married, since he didn’t have one to his name.  He gives great bear hugs when I am sad, and always makes me feel “little” even when I’ve gained weight.  He is also more than capable of telling me to pull myself up by my bootstraps when I am being a big baby.  He keeps it real, and I am thankful for my manly guy.  

Seriously, these vagina-sporting men are rocking that particular girl part with great enthusiasm.  They are moody, weepy, given to temper tantrums, and would rather go shopping than watch sports.  They are “in touch” with their feminine side, dress better than most women I know, and they fight like girls – nasty.  They show signs of manipulative behaviour and use the guilt card on a regular basis.  Every time I am around one of these dudes (I am using that term loosely here) it makes me break out in a rash.  How DARE they impinge on those womanly traits?  Women are the only ones who are allowed to act like that.  It is expected of us. It is our God-given right.  It is what makes us one big collective pain in the ass.  Seriously, I’m pretty sure if Bill caught himself acting in that manner, he would make me take him out to a field and shoot him with one of his big manly guns.

I do know women who think guys with vaginas are “cute” and are thrilled to have a shopping buddy, as well as a bed buddy, all rolled into one.  I, for one, could not deal.  To me, there is nothing sexy about a man who is more obsessive about waxing his guys parts than I am about waxing my hoohah.  Of course, I am not repulsed by man hair.  I find it kind of appealing, and it certainly is handy in the winter when it’s cold outside.  I understand that there are guys out there that are sporting the “fur coat” on their backs.  I realize women may not find that attractive.  That’s fine.  Go get laser hair removal.  But for chrissake, don’t make a public service announcement about it.  This is way too much information.  I don’t even want to think of ME getting a wax job.

I think the most annoying thing about these vagina-equipped men is that they are so “in tune with their feelings” and feel compelled to inform anyone who will listen about how they wished their girlfriend could understand their needs.  Do I think men have needs? Yep, absolutely.  Are guys supposed to talk about it ad nauseum?  Nope, not last time I checked.  That is a conversation FOR YOUR GIRLFRIEND, not the entire world.  I do not want to “chat about it” over a cup of coffee.  That is what I have female friends for.  Us girls have the lock on whining, moaning, complaining and going on in great detail about every little aspect of our lives, no matter how trivial.  I can’t even imagine what Bill would say if one of his close buddies came up to him and said, “You know, I really love [insert name here] but she just doesn’t take the time to understand what I’m feeling about our relationship, and that I really just want her to listen.”  Really? Yeah, let’s just say Bill wouldn’t handle that interaction well.  But it’s never going to happen, because out of all of his guy friends, NONE of them have a vagina.  I’m 100% sure he’s happy about that.

It’s not that I don’t miss having a homosexual guy friend.  THAT is a totally different animal. They are allowed to have an imaginary vagina. They are the most awesome at telling you which outfit looks like crap on you, and will partake in heartfelt chats for hours about feelings and relationships and Real Housewives of New Jersey.  I’ve had several gay friends over my lifetime who not only have maneuvered me through some very dicey relationship issues, but have also kept me from committing some devastating fashion mistakes.  Gay guy friends are like great female friends without the competitive edge.  There is no competing. It is apples and oranges. 

So to any overly-sensitive, overly emotional, moody, weepy guys out there.  Stop it.  It’s not attractive, or sexy, or even remotely appealing.  Pull out your tampon and MAN UP.