What's My Hurry?

For a little while there, I considered taking October off. The weather has been downright shitful, the Politics has been too, and I'm Over It All. But backing down means The Terrorists win, so here I am. I feel like I've been frightfully busy, flinging myself all over the place here in NEO (motto: Don't bother doing your hair; we specialize in heat, humidity, and rain--what Autumn?). How can I have so damn much to do when I'm Retired?

I hurry a lot. It's hard for me to do things in a measured, unhurried way. I think it has a lot to do with when I was teaching and always, always multitasking--doing a million things between classes, like giving kids makeup work before class started, trying to go to the bathroom and still be on time to class, running off a quiz or test at a copy machine that was not broken down, making a quick parent phone call, or grading a few papers so that I wasn't so inundated by all 120+ a day. Everything was rushed, and it became a way of life. It's hard to suddenly slow down after thirty years of hurrying.

And with children--I'm speaking of my own sons--doing things quickly was, at times, a saving grace. It stopped fussing and crying. It appeased hurt feelings. It forestalled toddler tantrums and sibling fights. And, as a Working Mom, hurrying kept kids on The Sacred Schedule. I'm sure so many of you understand that benefit.

Now, however, hurrying isn't really all that necessary, but I still find myself doing it. I start looking at blocks of time in my day and thinking about how I can shoehorn stuff in. How I can combine a bunch of errands and how early I can get them all done so that I can do a ton of other stuff so that I can...what? It's insane. It makes it really hard to unwind. And sleep.

Free time still feels like a sin to me--a selfish indulgence. Why? I worked hard and I earned it.

I have all day most days to vacuum, to plan and prep dinner, to do any number of the little Domestic Goddessing tasks that tuck into the nooks and crannies of my days. But old habits, as They say, are hardest to break.

So I am determined to form new ones: to take deeper breaths more often; to drive more slowly and with less gritty determination; to enjoy the lulls in my day rather than fret about them; and, to read some poetry every day.

And another jaunt North is in order. Getting Away is different than Running Away, don't you think? Things will definitely slow down then.




image

Cleaning Out The Cranial Clutter; Will You Hold The Dustpan, Please?

Time for a little Cleanout of my Cranial Clutter. Let's see what I can sweep out of the old cerebellum.

~*~Anniversary. Somehow, in all the Goings On of August, I completely forgot that the Dept. Of Nance had its 13th Anniversary. It's true; I've been writing here since 2005. I almost cannot believe it myself. Sometimes, I hop into my Wayback Machine (read my archives) and take a look at my life when I was teaching, in my forties, and raising teenagers. And I laugh and laugh at the things I Said I Would Never Do, many of which I am now doing routinely. Oh Life, how you smack us around and teach us to Be Humble!

~*~Eff Word. This week, my hair finally allowed me to go pick out new glasses, which I gladly did. The young woman (probably about twenty-five) who assisted me at the cheapo eyeglasses place was friendly and fun. As we chatted about Being Female and Our Vanity, she dropped two Eff Words, never batting an eye, zipping right past them with nary a concern. Another associate seated within earshot didn't even flinch. I am a Huge Fan of The Eff Word, but there is a Time and a Place, and that? Not It.

~*~Insomnia And Obnoxious Theme Song. I'm currently in the throes of another bout of Insomnia. Sigh. Sometimes when I can't sleep, I watch a few late night episodes of the original Will & Grace show, and I have to tell you, that show's theme song is absolutely the worst. Ugh. Nothing but hard-driven piano that sounds like it is being played by perhaps Herman Munster on crack. It's abusive. Why so awful? Why? I don't know what I feel sorrier for, that poor piano or my ears.

~*~Videotapes. I finally made myself clean out the cabinet housing our now-nonexistent videotape collection. Is it Really A Thing that the Black Diamond Classic Disney videotapes are worth money? And that the Fox Original Star Wars Trilogy Boxed Set is valuable too? Because I have the latter and five of the former. And they are available. Aside from that, I had Sam hook up the old VCR and I watched a few hours of the boys when they were little. My immediate response was to be overwhelmed with so much love--and an odd feeling of sadness. They were So Little. They looked so fragile to me. I hope I Did The Right Things. I know I always wanted to and tried to.

Catch me up in Comments.

image

Tell Your Mother You Love Her. A Mother's Day Guest Post

Hello, Jared here. I am not great with graphics, HTML, or general Blogging Fanciness like Nance is, so this post may lack some of the aesthetic pinache of a Typical Nance Post. While she takes a break from blogging, and in honor of Mother's Day, I wanted to contribute in her stead.

I remember spending the morning at the desk in my bedroom with my brother. We were so young, and we wanted it to be perfect, so we spent a long time trying to figure out what the perfect picture to draw was. Trying so hard to fold thick awkward card stock precisely and sharply. Thinking long and hard about what we wanted to say so that everything was perfectly put in a way to conjure up memories and the good feelings that we had so that on Mother’s Day, our mother could open up the handmade card and know how much we love her.

Things aren’t so different now. Sure, Sam and I don’t live at home. We aren’t folding handmade cards. We both put to rest any idea that we were artistic enough to do accurately portray all of the things that we had. Some things, though, are remarkably similar. Sam and I share an apartment. We both want to do special and nice things for our mother and father. We both still have no idea how we can possibly do that in a way to radiate the love that we have felt every single day.

Those cards from my youth were full of things like “whether it is going to a movie and lunch, or talking about books”, and trying to come up with our favorite things about those moments, about our mother. All of those times, those wonderful experiences still matter. I still carry them around with me every day. I still remember leaving the theatre and talking to my mother about the film in a way that made me feel very adult, very smart, and very complete. Now, though, there are different things to take away from those times, those moments, and those feelings.

My mother often says to me,  when I find myself in a time of anger or hurt, that “it doesn’t cost anything to be kind”. And yes, while there is no financial obligation associated with commonplace kindness, there is a real and tangible cost. You can set yourself up for vulnerability, let down, and more hurt or anger. My mother knows this, and, in my adulthood, I’ve come to understand exactly what she meant by those words. Simply, there is no cost that is too great to pay to do a kindness unto someone that you love.

2017 has, for a few reasons, not been tremendous for me so far. I have leaned on my mother more frequently in the last handful of months than I have needed to in the last handful of years, it seems. No, her taking my aimless phone calls during boring and lonely days doesn’t cost her money. The dog and I showing up at her house with little to no notice causes her exactly zero monetary hardship. There is, however, a cost to all of those things, and my mother pays it over and over with no thought to how it may affect her because in her mind, being there for me in those ways is simply practicing what she preaches, and the cost of kindness for someone that you love is always zero.

I have learned a great many things from my mother. My gift with language, my analytical nature with feelings, films, and books. My practicality, empathy, and compassion. (And apparently the Oxford comma). Most importantly, I have learned to be kind and patient and to always do the best I could to think outside of myself, the moment, and what was best for me. I think that the best way to put all of those things under one umbrella is to say that, simply, my mother has taught me how to be an adult, and she did so through an unrelenting practice of the best ways that I can find to describe kindness.  

People make jokes about “turning into their parents” on television and in movies all the time. I can feel myself turning into my mother. I’m prouder of the man that I’m becoming now than I ever have been in my 32 years. It would be foolish to ignore the fact that this change, this sort of acceptance of self and circumstances has come in the time that I needed and relied on my mother the most.

So, on this Mother’s Day, I ask you not to think of times, gifts, or tangible memories of your mother. Instead, reflect on what those things mean. The intangible aspects of what those times were, and how they shaped you.

N Is For Normal

I can't remember exactly what precipitated it, but in a moment of frustration early in his childhood, Jared (my eldest) landed this salvo, "Can't you just be Normal like other mothers?!" He was of elementary school age--that much I do remember--so his need for acceptance was understandable. The fact that it was in the Early Nineties makes it even more poignant for the both of us, that decade being the beginning of Organized Play Groups, Smothering Parental Involvement, and Mumsy and Popsy sticking their tentacles into every nook and cranny of their kids' lives until they became one huge being of KidParent with no discernible end of one and beginning of the next if it were in any way possible.

Even if the parents worked, which, of course, Rick and I both did.

Anyway, back to Jared's Wish.

I remember feeling both surprised and terrible. I had no idea he was feeling ashamed or irritated regarding my parenting, which had always been a source of pride for me. Like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, my parenting role model, I never lied or talked down to my children. I held them to a standard of honesty and character that was high but reasonable. Whenever possible, I waited for their better natures to assert themselves and allow them to do The Right Thing.

But I'm sure Atticus Finch didn't, for example, make up The Underwear Song and sing it so loudly that a neighbor called to request an encore, along with a reprise of The Bug Killing Song. I'm sure he never drank beer out of a water bottle in right field during a Little League game. Or let his kids quit Little League because they were so damn miserable. Or say to them, "Go ahead and fight like hell, but just so you know, the winner gets grounded for two weeks." Or, when they were bored, let them draw all over each other (and me) with washable markers. (Full disclosure: Sometimes, during Sam's naps, I would draw elaborate pictures on the bottoms of his feet. I once wrote his letter to Santa on his back.) Or go shopping at Toys R Us, stopping first to put the five-foot stuffed Clifford in the cart with absolutely no intention of ever buying it. Or announce to the entire family gathered at Thanksgiving one year that Jared was getting pubic hair.

Yeah. That last one. I Know.

But anyway, back to Jared's Wish.

As soon as he said it, "Mom, why can't you be Normal like other mothers?", I felt sad. I felt terrible and sad. Because Jared was my First One, and I had been such a crappy mom, I thought, for so many of his earliest years. I was scared and overwhelmed and tired and really, he didn't do anything any of the books had said he would. But he and I had Hung In There, and we were good buddies overall. Beyond being my kid, I really liked him. He was funny and smart and thoughtful. But, apparently, I was failing all over again. "Oh, Jay," I said. "Do you really want me to be like that?"

I'd like to think that he's as grateful as I am that he said No.

image

Today's Top Ten List: Lies My Parents Told Me

Growing up, my mother and father told me all kinds of things. On balance, most of them were Very Good Things, and I listened to a great deal of them. But like most parents, they also told me a lot of things that were simply Not True. Sometimes they were Nice Things, sometimes they were Comforting Things, and sometimes they were Folksy Things that were passed down for eleventy generations or merely things that became part of their DNA once my eldest sister Patti was born and the Parent Gene was flipped to the On position.

Here then are the

Top Ten Lies My Parents Told Me

1. You're Prettier Than All Of Those Contestants
2. Just Ignore Him/Her And He/She Will Leave You Alone
3. If You Don't Bother The Bees, They Won't Bother You
4. You Don't Need Makeup/Only Whores And Streetwalkers Wear Makeup
5. Piercing Your Ears Is A Tragedy
6. It's School, Not A Fashion Show
7. The Best Thing For A Headache Is Putting Your Hands In Warm Dishwater
8. 8th Grade Is Too Early To Be Shaving Your Legs
9. You Think Too Much
10. We're Not Having Any Pets In This House

I know. Bless their hearts.

1. Both Mom and Dad said this every single time we watched any beauty pageant throughout our lives, and they said it to all three of us girls. We all rolled our eyes because it was Patently Absurd. Some of those women were gorgeous and had perfect bodies. We, ranging in age from Patti--seven years my senior, to Susan, five years my junior, could not possibly imagine how any of this could be remotely true.

2. Absolute bullshit, and almost every day in my family it was proven False by my brother, who terrorized me daily with taunts about my weight. I could never suitably retaliate because he was invincible physically and emotionally. We're very close now, but growing up was hell.

3. Someone needed to tell the bees. I suffered an unprovoked attack--twice--while minding my own business. I didn't even disturb a nest or flight pattern. Ouch.

4. I was in my sophomore year when my mother found my mascara and face powder. She immediately tattled to my father, who gave me a terrible lecture, including the above quotes. Ironically, in later years, every time I would show up at Mom and Dad's without any makeup, my Dad would ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look pale and a little wan." Sigh.

5. In the seventies, everyone was wearing cute earrings. Except me. I waited until I was eighteen and went to the jeweler to get mine done so that I could do it without parental permission. When Dad found out, he was devastated. Somehow, though, I managed to survive it. So did he.

6. As everyone in the universe knows, School IS a Fashion Show. It shouldn't be, but it is. Even as a teacher, it was still, for me, a Daily Walk On The Runway.

7. Oh, St. Patsy, you really thought you were the clever one with this. We all knew what you were up to.

8. No! No, it wasn't! Not when you are mostly Eastern European and your legs looked like gorilla legs and you had to dress for gym. I ended up surreptitiously shaving them while home alone after school one day and took off about a foot of skin on my shinbone because I pushed too hard on the razor. That's another story.

9. St. Patsy still tells me that I Think Too Much. I am not one to brood, but I do analyze. But not overmuch, usually. How is Thinking a Bad Thing?

10. Oh, this one was the biggest lie of all, perpetuated by my mother. For a complete list of the TEN pets "not allowed" in our house and the full explanation, click here and read the post over at Stuff On Our List.

Your turn. What Little White Lies did Mom and Dad tell You?

Bus Stop

For the past few weeks, I've been watching the same sad drama unfold outside my living room window every morning at about 8:30 AM. It's not that I sit and wait for it; I'm already in my big armchair, reading the newspaper and having my second cup of coffee. Or, if Piper has decided it's Time, I'm having a Snuggle with a huge orange marmalade cat, rendering any movement at all completely impossible. (More than once, I've mistakenly played an Unintentional Word in Words With Friends; it doesn't always work out advantageously.)

But I digress.

At 8:30 in the morning on Mondays through Fridays, a school bus pulls up to the house two doors down, and the sound of a child crying and wailing begins. Soon, a little boy of about six appears, backpack on his back. Sometimes his mother carries him; other times he slowly walks, rubbing his eyes or his head with one hand while holding his mom's hand with the other. It's crying only--no words, no complaints--just a steady bawling which reaches a higher pitch as soon as the doors whoosh open. Each day, the little boy and his mom have been greeted by a cheery, merry bus aide. She calls out his name--it sounds like it might be Charlie? Marty? Barney?--and asks how he's doing. Is he ready for school today? She carefully takes his hand and helps him to walk up the steps to the bus. She won't carry him; he has to walk himself. The doors close, and the bus lumbers away.

The first time this drama unfolded, I initially focused on the little one, naturally. My heart broke for him. He clutched at his mother; he looked so tiny and his backpack looked so large. He's so afraid! I thought. And he has to go on that big huge bus! That poor baby. What if he cries the whole way there? What if someone is mean to him? Then I looked at his mother, who lingered at the end of the driveway, watching and waving, then standing there, hands clasped at her chest. How awful for her! To know that her baby is so sad and so upset, and to be unable to do anything but watch. I remembered my own guilt: I couldn't take my own kids to school on their first day because it was always the first day of school for me, too. I would always spend odd moments of the day wondering. So much of raising children is Heartbreak!

In the ensuing days, the tears have not subsided when the bus comes. Each day, the mother brings the little boy to the bus, still crying. The bubbly aide tries her hardest to jolly him up, but nothing has worked thus far. "He's a little crabby today," said the mother yesterday through the wailing. I wondered why she bothered to say anything. Maybe, though, he does stop crying on the bus at some point. Certainly he would at school. I'm not entirely certain, however; today as I was gathering my mail, the bus dropped him off. He was crying.

All of this is in stark contrast to the other little boy three doors down from me the other way who used to get picked up by a van for his school. A happy-go-lucky sort of kid, he was very hyperactive and didn't seem to have any sort of concerns about going off to school at all. As a matter of fact, one morning as he was leaving, he yelled loudly, "So long, suckas!"

A performance that was never, at least to my knowledge, repeated.

image

Dog Days

While away On Jaunt, if you will, Dearest Readers, I met a new dogfriend named Stella. She is a delightful canine torpedo of a Boston terrier. Before I arrived at Stella's house, considerable talk had occurred along the lines of What To Do Since Nance Was A Cat Person. I was horrified to discover that a contingency plan had been made to stow Stella away with her Grandmother in the adjoining "Mother-in-law Suite" in case I didn't appreciate her presence.

Of course, that was a Gracious and Hospitable thing to do, but the idea of separating a loving pet from her owners would have made me feel like the worst sort of villain. Besides, I already have a Dog Niece, a cute little Corgi mix named Abbi, for whom I carry tiny biscuits in my car at all times. Truth be known, I like dogs very much as a Spectator Sport. I simply know that owning one is not for me. Dogs, as I have stated many times before, are too worky. I view all dogs as a sort of Grandchild Entity: I enjoy them for purely temporary entertainment purposes and selfishly. Then they can go home with their pet parents and I can retreat to my cats, who, except for Hair Maintenance and Shitboxes, require little of me.

It seems, however, that now I will indeed have a Dog Grandchild, a Granddog, I guess. Sam and Jared, housemates now, have adopted a dog. Did I offer lots of Motherly Advice and do My Part, pointing out the various pitfalls of dog ownership at this stage in their lives? La, it is to laugh. I brought up their odd work schedules, the fact that they live on the second floor, the expense of vet bills, the way a dog needs to be exercised in all kinds of weather--even lousy NEO weather--and yada yada yada. Sam, as usual, said nothing. Jared said, "Mom. Do you think every dog owner in the USA is at home with their dog 24/7 and has a million dollars? This won't involve you at all. We're not kids anymore. It's okay."

So much of that is true that it hurts. It hurts because he is right and I am being a big fat idiot. Who needs to butt out.

You will all be happy to know that I did precisely that. I butted out, and better than that, even, I Got On Board With The Dog Happening. We all went--even St. Patsy--to buy food, dishes, collar, lead, toys, and treats at the store. And can I just say something about the topic and item known as a Dog Bed?

Whoever is in charge of Dog Bed Pricing is a genius. This cartel is making money hand over fist and making it in skyscraper-like stacks. I have never seen something so outrageous as the price of Dog Beds. When I bought cat beds, I spent no more than ten dollars ($10.00 US currency) per cat bed. You cannot buy a large Dog Bed for less than FIFTY DOLLARS ($50.00 US currency). I'd like to quote the clerk in the pet store when I say, "Right? Like...why?  For...what?" And that is for the most basic, no-frills, bigass pillow on the floor type thing. Any decent Dog Bed is going to run you at least EIGHTY BUCKS. I could not contain my outrage nor my incredulity. One Dog Bed we looked at was simply a cat bed on steroids. Period. IT WAS ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. FOR A DOG COVERED IN DOG HAIR TO LIE IN. POSSIBLY AFTER POOPING OUTDOORS AND LICKING ITSELF.

When did this happen? Who did this? And, more importantly, how do I get a cut?

Anyway, the best thing ever was a Pet Store employee who told us to go to a local buyout outlet. "It's ridiculous," she said. "You'll do much better there, at least half off, and get a brand-name bed." We went, and we got a Serta Dog Bed with a washable cover. A Serta. For a Dog. And it was still a ridiculous price, in my estimation, although way cheaper than anything we'd seen anyplace else.

Listen, if there is anyone out there who wants to go into business with me and sell affordable, good quality Dog Beds at a reasonable price, I am IN, one hundred percent. You be the seamstress/tailor, and I'll research and design/develop. We will rake in the cash; I am not kidding. The world needs high-quality Dog Beds at a fair price. Go ahead and check out Dog Beds online. You'll see what I mean.

Oh, and yes, like all good grandmothers everywhere, I do have a picture. Here he is. Meet my new one-year old Granddog, Zydrunas. He will be joining the family as of Friday, 9 May, rescued from the Cleveland APL, where he is being neutered and vetted before coming to his Forever Home and ridiculously overpriced Dog Bed.

post header image

Yo! Check It Out

Even as I was on my Bed Of Misery, my children decided yesterday to come on over for the afternoon and dinner (in order to Jolly Along my recovery, I'm sure.) Thank goodness I had the ingredients for the world's simplest and most delicious Asian-style pork recipe done entirely in the crockpot. Thanks to Dear Reader Shirley, I had the crowd-pleasingest salad* in the universe, and dinner was a simple matter of tossing things into receptacles, stirring, and serving. The only thing I had to actually pay attention to was some rice. (*I add chunked-up apples; it's a wonderful addition.)

Sam and Jared brought their lovely and intelligent girlfriends, Tina and Kait respectively, and it was a great strain on me not to hug and kiss everyone. We are and always have been a demonstrative family, a trait that has been echoed throughout the generations. (As a matter of fact, when Jared first "sent me a fax", as my mother calls text messaging, that he and Kait were coming, I told him that it was fine, but that I had a terrible cold. "Don't touch me. Don't even look at me. That's how awful it is," I tapped out to him."Kait says she is going to lick your face," was the response.)

Our tiny livingroom was full to the brim with people. Tina was bundled up under a comforter (see, it's not just me), Sam and Jared and Rick folded their tall frames into furniture, and Kait leaned over the arm of the couch to tell me all about her recent birthday trip. I was in my chair, finishing up Jared's knee warmer. Having taken his measurements the last time he was here, I custom-knit him a knee warmer to keep his knee warm at work in order to lessen his arthritis pain. Soon, however, this heartwarming scene of domestic tranquility would degenerate into something far more typical for us:

Jared: Are you gonna hook up your Playstation or sit there like a bitch?
Sam: (affably) You mean like you? (to me now) Do you guys mind if we hook up the Playstation and play a little bit before dinner?
Me: No, go ahead. But play nice. Jared, you know how you get.
Jared: Remember when we had the Sega, Sam, and Mom used to yell at you all the time because I told her that you had cheat codes that you used to beat me?
Sam: Yes! You got me in trouble all the time with that. I never had any cheat codes.
Jared: Mom used to holler upstairs and say, "Sam! Stop using cheat codes! Play the right way or I'll--"
Sam: (interrupts and uses horrible nasally voice that sounds nothing like his mother)--I'll come up there and take the power cord and NO ONE will play. I mean it. That's not fair." And I didn't even have cheat codes.
Me: Oh my god. I never sounded like that in my entire life. Maybe now, with this horrid cold, but never like that.
Jared: Mom was all about the cheat codes.
Me: Sam, Cheat Code can be your rap name.
Jared: That's pretty good. Cheat Code. If I'm ever a rapper, my name is gonna be Hate Crime. That's so gangsta. Because who likes a hate crime? No one. But I'll spell it K-R-H-Y-M-E, like rhyme. Then I'll rap about everything I hate.
Tina: (looks up from her phone) I want a rap name, too.
Kait: I do, too. What's my rap name?
Me: (surveying the empty box of candy in Kait's lap) Kait, your rap name can be Gummy Worm.
Kait: Okay!


Somehow, Rick got the rap name Head Wound, and I don't remember how. Tina and I still don't have a rap name, so we're open to suggestions. And, luckily for you, I left out the profanity that tends to zing around the room when Jared and Sam get together. They both work in male-dominated workplaces, and there, it's ubiquitous.

Starting April 1, Sam and Jared will be roommates again. They will be sharing a house, back together again for the first time in ages. I feel a sense of a circle connecting, a knot tying, yet a loosening of...I'm not sure what; but it's like I can breathe more deeply. They're best friends, and they look out for each other. They have good women in their lives. I feel good about Hate Krhyme and Cheat Code right now. I really, really do.

original image

In Which I Mention The NSA, The Salem Witch Trials, Maroon5, And Still Focus On Christmas Tips

Yesterday was a busy day and a lovely day.  Rick and I were out and about, and then had a cozy dinner of bruschettas and merlot in front of a fire and Netflix.  I'll atone by giving you two Tips today.

Pressure Busting Tip #9
The NSA is overlooking a vast resource among its citizenry, and that is the untapped pool of mothers and teachers.  No one in the entire world is better at ferreting out secrets, reading minds, or being able to hear the smallest whisper, whine, or whimper.  Within that pool is the subset of The Secret Weapon, of which I am one:  The TeacherMom.  Like it or not, I am that deadly combination of Compassionate Mentalist--the person who can read your face, gestures, and thoughts, and sometimes even your words, and then relay their meaning to you with empathy as I figure out what we can do.  I can hear the crinkle of a forbidden gum wrapper six rows back and forbid it without even breaking stride during a lecture on Predestination and its influence on the Salem Witch Trials, or a baby turn over (without any monitor) and know instantly if it will fuss or just sigh and snuggle down drowsily.  And I can remember dates, names, places, authors, wrongs, page numbers, joys, sorrows, casual mentions of things seemingly trivial, and the name of the paint we used in the baby's room eleventy hundred years ago when we first bought the house (Cloud Blue).

Now that the kids are in their twenties and out of cribs and into their own distant apartments, and I'm no longer in the classroom pontificating about anything, one would think that my finely honed skills are going to waste.  One would be wrong.  Christmas is great for airing them out, and you should hone yours at Yuletide, too. So, for Pressure Busting Tip #9, I urge you to Become A Spy For Christmas.  Start listening carefully to all your Gift Recipients.  Watch them; observe their environments.  Just last Thursday, I picked up on two major gift ideas for St. Patsy.  A few weeks ago, I got an awesome idea for her and also my brother and two sisters, who are not normally people I buy for, but this was just perfect for all of them, so I pounced on it.  I also get emails daily from a new service called Amazon Local, and it plopped a gift idea right in my lap. Not spying, but it was something I knew St. Patsy would like because I had spied.  Maybe you could even toss on a trench coat and listen to the theme from Mission Impossible on your iPod while you do your thing. I don't, but hey! whatever works for you.

(PS--I'm no shill for Amazon, and I'm not receiving anything for the mention.)


Pressure Busting Tip #10
Christmas is always a time of surprises.  For children especially, because of Santa Claus, everything they open is magical and wonderful.  A beneficent old man in a red suit brought them all these wonderful things, some of which they didn't even know they wanted!  But they did, turns out, and they love all their gifts!  When I was a kid growing up, Christmas retained its surprise well into my teens, and here's why.  First of all, St. Patsy did ninety percent of the shopping for all four of us kids while my dad worked at the steel mill.  As we opened presents, we always showed them to our parents, and my dad always said some variation of, "Hey, that's really nice!  Where'd you get that!?"  When we were little, we'd say, "Santa!"  When we were older, we'd laugh and say, "From you."  Then he'd turn to my mother and say, "Good job, Doll.  I really like that." When he worked nights on Christmas Eve, sometimes he'd be pretty groggy on Christmas Day.  He'd be mostly asleep on Christmas Morning.  So for days and days afterward, he'd be asking, "Where'd you get that?  Is that new?  Hey, that looks really nice.  When did you get that?"  It was hilarious then; now, I feel a little bad.  But he would go shopping at least once with Mom, and he'd find neat little things, unusual things that we always loved.  He was a personality shopper, and he knew each of us deep down inside.

My mother, always beleaguered and collapsed by Christmas, tended to lose track and get down to the wire by Christmas Eve.  There was always at least one gift that was a double, so either Patti and I both got one, or Susan and I both got one.  Or, in The Case Of The Maroon Knee Socks, Patti got all of them.  Holy crap, I think she got like five pair one year.  Mom just kept buying them.  No one knows why.  So, in tandem to PBT#9, let me, in honor of St. Patsy, give you Pressure Busting Tip #10.  Use Lists Like Crazy.  There is no shame in it, and if you're shopping a little early or in fits and starts like we Spies do, it's vital.  I have a pad with headings on each page, and I keep it with me, either in my car or in my purse.  I don't like to overbuy, and I don't like to overspend or duplicate.  And, because I am One Of Those Moms, I like to make sure Jared and Sam have an equal amount of gifts.  Even now.  Sigh.  Anyway, The List.  So helpful!

spy image
notepad image

The Everchild Equation--A One Act Playlet For Your Enjoyment

Curtain closed.  Spotlight illuminates center stage.  Solitary figure walks out of wings and stands in spot.  It is Nance.  She faces stage, begins soliloquy.

Nance:  Human nature is a funny thing.  As adults, we do grow older and taller, but we remain children in the face of many things.  I found this out last week, when I was taking care of St. Patsy after one of her minor surgeries.

Curtain draws wide to reveal a sunny, beautiful, pastoral scene of a wide lawn and a fishing dock over a lake.  St. Patsy is seated in a padded lawn chair; Bobby, a 50-something man, is standing at the lake's edge, trimming brush.  Nance goes to St. Patsy and fusses with her chair.

Nance:  Mom, are you sure you're comfy here?  Do you need anything?  Do you have your sunglasses?

Patsy:  I'm fine, Nance.  Now go and fish for a while.  Go on!  Did Bobby fix you a pole?

Nance:  Yes. (lifts pole with bobber from beside chair) I'll be right over on the dock.  Let me know if you need anything.  (walks up and onto dock; tosses line in)

Bobby:  (after a moment or two)  Any bites?

Nance:  Nope.  These worms are mostly dead.  But I don't really care.  I just wanted to fish a little.  It's gorgeous out here!

Bobby:  We really lucked out.  Hey!  See that? (points a little to his right)  Right there.  It's a snake.  Mom, see it?  That little thing just poking out above the water?  Watch. Right there, going toward the dock.  Snake!

Nance:  (horrified and paralyzed) No it's not.  Where?  No it's not.  Bobby, don't. 

Bobby:  (casual and oblivious to his sister's trauma, as usual) Yeah!  Right there.  It's probably gonna come in and sun itself on the rock there, or on the steps to the dock.

Nance:  SHUT UP.  No it's not.  NO IT'S NOT.  Mom!

Patsy:  Oh, Bobby.  It's probably not.

Bobby:  I lost sight of it now.  It probably went under the dock and will come up--

Nance:  (in a major panic)  What?!  No it can't!  There's no way!  Bobby, stop it.  I mean it now.

Patsy:  (calmly, almost disinterested) That snake is already gone.  It's under the boat or--

Nance:  Mom!  The boat is right there!  It's right in front of the dock, sitting there!  What are you talking about?

Bobby:  Mom, remember that huge blacksnake I saw out here that one time?  That thing was as big around as--

Nance:  Shut up.  I have a bite.  (begins to reel in and lift pole; screams as she pulls up the snake, which had been briefly attached to the worm) OH MY GOD!  WHY?  (throws pole down on dock and runs screaming into yard)  WHY, MOM? WHY?  MOM!  WHY?  MOM!  ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS FISH!

Bobby:  What?  What happened?

Patsy:  (calmly; shading her eyes with her hand) Wow, Nance.  I've never seen you run so fast.

Nance:  (tearfully) Did you see it?  Did you see it?  Oh my GOD.  That stupid snake!  That stupid, stupid snake was on my line!  All I wanted to do was fish and that stupid snake had to ruin it.  Why?

Bobby:  Was it really?  Where is it?  Is it on there?

Nance:  No.  It fell off.  But not before I saw the whole stupid, awful thing.  Its mouth was open!  It was disgusting. 

Patsy:  (conversationally) You should have seen her run, Bobby.  She really ran.

(Bobby has walked over to the dock, where he inspects the now empty hook.  He picks up the bait container and looks at the worms.)

Bobby:  These worms are dead.  They're no good anymore.  If you're done fishing, then, I'm just gonna dump them out.  (leans over; shakes them into lake)  Was that snake really on there?  Are you sure?

Patsy:  (adjusting her visor)  You should have seen her run.  I'm surprised she didn't throw the pole into the water.

Nance:  (indignant)  Yes, it was on there!  The whole thing was on my line!  I didn't know there were snakes down here!  Now what will I do?

Bobby:  (grins; to Patsy)  There's all kinds of snakes down here.  Remember when Ken was here and found that huge snakeskin in the yard there?  And the one guy down the road said he saw a python out here one time.

Nance:  Oh shut the hell up.  (gives him The Finger)  A python.  (glances around)  Let's go  up.

(End Scene 1)

Scene 2

Scene opens in Rick and Nance's living room. St. Patsy is asleep in the chair, left.  Rick and Nance are on the couch, center.  Nance is finishing her story about the day's events to her husband, who is exhausted from his first day at his new job.

Nance:  (earnestly)  He just would not stop yammering away at me about snakes for the rest of the day.  It was awful.  I think you should call him or send him a text message.

Rick:  (stifling a yawn; surprised)  What?  Your brother?  I should call or text your brother?  And say what?

Nance:  And tell him to quit it.  Quit it or you'll...you'll beat him up.

Rick:  I should call Bob and say, Quit teasing my wife or I'll beat you up.  Is that what I'm supposed to do? 

Nance:  Well, I feel like you should do something!  You weren't there to protect me from the snake!

Curtain, finis

post header image found here

If You Want To Date My Son, You'll Have To Take A Quiz

Jared and Sam are wonderful individuals, but like most of the people in whose lives I take great interest, they often don't give a damn about what I say.  This is Irksome at the level of, say, their taste in clothing or their driving habits, but it becomes something more Momentous when it involves A Young Woman.  It is one matter when Jared wears only Christmas-themed boxers as his underwear of choice and Sam cannot stop speeding on Route 480; it is quite another when they start Getting Serious with The Wrong Women.

It does no good to remind them that I certified as a marksman with a .22 caliber rifle, either.  They know that A) I do not own any gun but a BB gun, and B) that was back in my freshman year of college.  (Neither of those is any comfort to the Robber Squirrels at my bird feeder, though! Ha!)

Anyway.

In order to assist them--and me--in their quest for An Acceptable Woman, I developed a quiz.  I urged them to administer the Quiz to any and all prospective girlfriends before they got too terribly serious with them.  It's easy, I reminded them, to be bewitched by a lovely smile, cute figure, and ready laugh.  But it's vastly more critical to be able to relate to, talk with, and be interested by her.  Some things can be overlooked (she calls it "fro-yo", wears PINK across her butt, hates cats), but the young woman has got to have some brains, after all.

I've published my Acceptable Woman Quiz here, for you to see.  The Quiz and its Scoring Guide are available as separate pages on the blog simply by clicking the tabs up top.  Let me know what you think. 

Sam's current girlfriend passed with a good score.  Jared didn't administer the Quiz to his girlfriend...yet.  He said, "I think she'd do pretty well." 

I hope so!  ;-)

Saturday With St. Patsy

On Saturday I had the opportunity to renew my Good Daughter Merit Badge.  Rick and I went and picked up St. Patsy at the Lakehouse where she spent a week with her sister and ladyfriend, and transported her back home.  I'll let you decide if I earned it.

Scene I.

Main room of lakehouse.  Older woman is bustling to pack up a mountain of luggage, baskets, tote bags, a cooler, etc. in preparation to leave.  Younger woman observes with dismay, but wisely chooses not to remark upon the volume of stuff.  She is, instead, having a glass of chardonnay.

Nance:  Mom!  You'll be happy tonight! Guess what's on TV!
St. Patsy:  (looks up expectantly; is honestly excited) What?  Give me a hint.
Nance:  It's a Tragic Heroine Double Feature tonight on one of the old movie channels! Guess what's on.
St. Patsy:  (smiling; really happy now) No!  You mean on TNC?
Nance: (laughs)  Mom!  What the hell is TNC?  It's "TCM" or "AMC".  Turner Classic Movies or American Movie Classics!  But yes, one of those, and I think it's AMC.  Doesn't matter; you can look at the guide. Guess the movies.  Remember, both are tragic female leads.
St. Patsy: (now completely not packing at all; unable to multi-task) Oh, well! Has to be Camille.
Nance: (proud, but a little surprised) Yes!  Camille is the first one.  What's the second?
St. Patsy: (leaning on a barstool now; thinking really hard)  Now...is it...well, don't I even get a hint?
Nance: (teasing) What a wimp.  Okay, here's your clue:  Same leading man in both of them.  Robert Taylor.
St. Patsy:  (frowns; then brightens)  Oh!  Oh!  Gotta be D-Day 6th of June!
Nance: What?!  How is that a Tragic Heroine Movie?  Now you're just grasping at straws!  I'm so disappointed in you.  I could not be more--
St. Patsy:  (interrupts)--well, what's his character's name?
Nance:  I don't know!  Besides, that's not even fair.  Here's your next clue:  He is military and she--
St. Patsy: (triumphant)  Oh, Waterloo Bridge!  Oh, boy.  I will be crying tonight!  I better have plenty of tissues. 
Nance:  I know, right?  I knew you'd be happy.

Scene 2. 

Interior of car on the ride home.  Rick is driving, Nance is up front, St. Patsy is in the passenger seat, crowded by several pieces of luggage that would not fit in the hatchback of the Prius.  Nance and St. Patsy have been reminiscing about the myriad car trips of her youth.

St. Patsy: (fondly) Remember taking the long way with your father down 511?  It was way out of the way, but you kids put up with it because he would stop at the ice cream place and get you all a twist cone.
Nance:  Yep.  I remember.
St. Patsy:  There were a lot of cows that way, Nance.  (very bright and happy now) And those goats!
Nance:  What?  Why would you say that to me?
St. Patsy:  Say what?
Nance:  About the goats.
St. Patsy: What about them?  There were always a whole bunch, remember?
Nance:  Mom!  I really cannot believe that you would be so cavalier in your mention of goats to me, considering my Childhood Trauma with them!
St. Patsy:  What childhood trauma?
Nance:  (turning fully around in her seat; indignant)  What childhood trauma?!  Don't you remember that travelling petting zoo at the mall when we were little and we went in to it and that goat ate my favorite dress that Grandma made me?  How upset I was? How do you not remember that?  Oh. My. God, Mom.
St. Patsy:  (giggling) Oh that's right.  I do remember that.
Nance: (aggravated and wounded) Holy crap, Mom.  That was traumatic for me.  And you are laughing! (more laughter from the backseat)  Wow.  I bet if it was Patti* who had her favorite dress eaten by a renegade goat, it would be a whole different story. Because Patti-- *(note: Patti is the eldest and perceived favorite daughter)
St. Patsy:  (interrupts) --Oh, Nance!  (begins to mock-sing a tragic violin/movie music interlude) Da da daaaa da da, da da da daaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Nance:  (horrified at her callousness) Mom! Really? First you don't remember my childhood goat trauma and then you mock me?
St. Patsy: (calm) But I remember your attraction to cattle.

Finis.

A Weekend At Nance's

Every so often, one or both of the boys will decide to have a Spendover at the Dept.  This is usually initiated by Jared, who is a less frequent visitor because he hates driving almost as much as I do.  He decides that he has had enough of the Fraternity Atmosphere of his place on the weekend, or that he wants to watch Cleveland Cavaliers basketball with his father, or that he wants real home cooking, or that it's someone else's turn to assume full responsibility for Othello, the household cat.  Invariably, Sam appears, and we are a Whole Family once again.  Once it's all over, I discover the following:

 Things Which Occur After Sam & Jared Have Spent Time At Home

1.  We are out of potatoes
2.  And the fancy pretzels
3.  And barbecue chips
4.  I have to clean up beard trimmings around the sink and soap dish again.
5.  There are way more recyclables to go out
6.  Oh, and we are out of salami, too
7.  I have inherited some miscellaneous laundry

Briefly, allow me to comment:

1.  The boys--and yes, they are in their twenties, but will always be boys to me--exist on restaurant food and pasta.  Jared will make baked potatoes, but neither one of them makes mashed potatoes with gravy (why would they?), so when they are going to eat here, I make sure they get a Traditional Sunday Dinner, if possible.  I roasted a turkey this past Sunday for them, and made a ton of mashed potatoes and gravy.

2. & 3.  Kind of self-explanatory.  We have a cupboard devoted entirely to snacks, hence its name "The Snack Cupboard." They both hit it pretty hard.  As far as fancy pretzels, they are Snyder's of Hanover Pretzel Pieces.  I highly recommend the Sea Salt and Cracked Pepper variety with a nice chilled Chardonnay.

4.  For some reason, they trim up here and cannot see those teeny tiny hairs behind the faucet and on the wall-mounted soap dish. I am positively manic about it--always screeched at them concerning it when they lived here--but still this skill eludes them. 

5.  The Pepsi consumption is unbelievable.  Jared is observing Sober February, or there may have been several brown bottles in there as well.

6.  Sam and his girlfriend stopped in yesterday.  He had a headache, and neither had had any lunch.  I told them there were coldcuts in the fridge, including salami.  Except...that there wasn't.  Jared had eaten it.  All.  In a day.  Okay.

7.  Where did this white sock come from?  Whose teeshirt is this?  What is this pair of boxers doing in the towel hamper?  Is that Sam's work outfit under the livingroom chair?  Sigh.

Why did I have all these bigass children?

Being A Mom Is Not All FTD And Brunches, You Know: The Dept. Takes A Walk on The Romero/Hitchcock Side Of Motherhood (Again)

*this is previously posted material from long, long ago when my blog was just a newborn; it contains minor edits*

If the producers and directors of horror films were smart, they'd have their test audiences comprised solely of moms. Because we know scary. We confront it every day; moreover, we stare it down and kick its ass. It is part of our on-the-job training, and even playing with dollies does little to ready us for when it rears its ugly head.

Consider the labor and delivery room: Not only do we propel, through sheer brute force, a human being averaging 8 pounds and 20 inches out of our bodies, but while we are attempting to do so, someone is sticking his/her fingers inside us, strapping machinery to us, and, in my case, leading in a pack of student nurses to interview us and observe us, taking notes during the entire event and then admonishing us when we are a teensy weensy bit less than polite.

Then, at various times throughout Momhood, we are vomited on, snotted on, peed on, diarrhea-ed on, and forced to deal with "boo-boos," some of which require a trip to the Emergency Room--also known as "The Department of Motor Vehicles Medical Center"--where we see people who look like extras from Central Casting for The Night of the Living Dead. After we get home, we get to clean all these bodily fluids up, while retching upon our own.

And, because of our supernatural diagnostic powers, we are subjected to a barrage of horrific encounters almost continually if we have teenagers, a species well-known for its low grossness threshhold.

Teen: Mom, taste this.

Mom: Why?

Teen: Just taste it.

Mom: But I don't want any.

Teen: You don't have to eat it, just taste it.

Mom: Good God! Okay, fine! (tastes it) There. It's good. Why?

Teen: It smelled funny. I thought it might be rotten and I wasn't sure.

And it's not just our palates that are assailed. Our vision is assaulted as well:

Teen: (in bathroom, calling): Mom! (pauses imperceptibly) MOM!!!!!

Mom: (rushes in) What?! What's the matter?

Teen: Is there something on my back?

Mom: What? Is that all? You sounded like you were bleeding to death.

Teen: I can feel something gross on my back but I can't get it.

Mom: Let me see....Eeew! It's a huge zit. Just leave it alone.

Teen: Mom! I know it's back there. It's gross. You have to get it.

Mom: I don't want to touch it. Yuck.

Teen: Mom! Please. You have to. I don't want my new American Eagle shirt to even touch it.

Mom: I'll put a band-aid on it, then.

Teen: Mom, come on! You have to. Just squeeze it real quick.

Mom: (Sighs) Okay. Brace yourself. (Squeezes) Ugh!

Teen: Ouch! Oh my God! Mom! Geeze! What the Heck!!!!

And this is the same child who, upon entering and seeing that I am watching "Dr 90210", the plastic surgery show on the Style Network, says, "Oh my God, Mom, how can you watch all that blood and guts and crap?".

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 22 and 25, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy Tea Party wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.

I'll be back soon with Something New. In the meantime, Happy Mother's Day to all the Moms, Moms-to-Be, and Those With Moms.

Spring Cleaning At The Dept., And Everything Must Go: Ninjas, Paula Deen, And Genes...Especially Those Genes

Here are some little Thought Nerfuls that have been nooking-and-crannying in my brain for awhile. Besides, it's time things got a bit Lighter here at the Dept.

]*[ Jared, shaking his head and chuckling at the memory, recently recounted this scene while reminiscing about his adventures with his buddy Isaac, currently serving in Iraq.

(scene opens at a neighborhood bar. young man in his twenties is at the bar; seated next to him is a young woman of the same age. they are obviously strangers.)

Young Woman: Yeah, so what do you do?
Isaac: Um, I go to school.
YW: Oh, really? What are you studying?
Isaac: (without missing a beat; completely cool, serious) Ninja Arts. At the community college.
YW: What? Wow. (takes a moment to study his face; is skeptical) Really? I never heard of that.

Isaac: Yeah, well, it's sorta like a phys. ed./psychology double major thing. It's pretty cool.
YW: Oh, wow. That is cool. Wow. Could you, like, show me something?
Isaac: Come on. Really? Here? (shakes head with totally disdainful look; walks away)
(end scene)

]*[ The Cleveland Plain Dealer has been doing a series about obesity in America. It recently published an article about celebrity chefs climbing on the bandwagon for healthier eating habits. I almost sprayed my coffee when I saw the name Paula Deen. Holy crap. This is the woman whose Holy Trinity is Butter, Mayonnaise, and Cream Cheese. Who invented a recipe called "Gooey Butter Cake." Who has a casserole called--and no, I am not making this up--"Piggy Pudding" which calls for a cup of maple syrup. I'm sorry, but unless her inclusion in this campaign is Court Ordered, I'm just not falling for it.

]*[ Had Easter buffet/groaning board/Embarrassment Of Food Overload with the Entire Extended Family on Sunday. Lovely...and Freudian in that we all blamed the patently ridiculous amount of food brought/provided on our upbringing by my mother. My sister bought a huge ham, hefted it at the store, and what was her first thought? "I will also make an Oceanic Vat of sloppy joes." I made enough Asian Slaw to bury that continent, and on and on and on and on it went with all of us relations making Titanic containers of food and transporting it all to Patti's house, then feeling waves of amusement, ridicule, and resignation. It is part of our Genetic Makeup. My mother did--and still does--the same thing. My brother Bob witnessed her, standing in front of the open freezer, doing unnecessarily complex mathematical calculations, just to decide how many chicken wings to cook and bring. When he quickly told her what he thought, she viciously challenged him:

Mom: How do you know that's how many?
Bob: Because I made one bag for my poker night for half as many people and it was more than enough.

Mom: But...

Bob: And shut the freezer. You're wasting energy.

Mom: Oh for heaven's sake. You don't even know how many wings are in here.

Bob: (reaches over and shuts freezer door while handing her a bag of wings) There are forty in here.

Mom: How do you know? It doesn't say on here.

Bob: I just know. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of the wings.

Mom: Boy oh boy. I wonder how I ever raised four kids if I never, ever do anything right.

(By the way, there were plenty of wings, but once this story was related to everyone by my brother--and my mom overheard--she made several of her grandchildren ask for more wings, pretending that they hadn't had enough. She can get ornery.)

]*[ Finally, one last story. My sons tease me endlessly about how long it takes me to "run into Walgreens" to get one or two items. They claim that I take hours, aimlessly wandering, lingering too long here and there, reading labels, calculating cost per ounce for the best deals, etc. They never want to take me or go with me. I claim that they are filthy liars. I might take a bit longer than they would like, but it is never hours. But this, too, might be genetic. My brother, who takes my mother shopping, says that she especially lingers overmuch at the greeting cards. "Dropping Mom off at the greeting card aisle is like dropping off a kid at the arcade," he said earnestly. "She can spend hours and hours in there. I can go do whatever shopping I have in whatever departments I need to, and when I'm done, no matter how long it took, that's where I'll find her. It's incredible."

I'm wrapping it up here. Dinnertime, and it's leftovers. For some reason, I always seem to have a lot of leftovers....

Maternal Guilt: Of Bras, Underwear--Stay With Me Now--Teenagers' Rooms, Rescue Workers, And Microwaves

Remember when your mother used to admonish you about wearing clean underwear or making sure your bra had no safety pins by presenting to you the scenario "What if you were rushed to the Emergency Room! All the doctors and nurses would see that!"? My sister Patti and I would roll our eyes and stomp upstairs muttering about how stupid Mom was, and later in life we'd reminisce and talk about maternal guilt and confess that we'd say the same thing to our own kids. (Well, she'd say the bra thing to her three daughters; I had two boys and could employ the clean underwear line on a fairly regular basis.)

As Jared and Sam became teenagers, I found that I could improvise upon my mother's basic salvo and apply it to their lair upstairs. Sad to say, my sons were no different than any other teen boys: the room they shared was a disaster all of the time. Dressers were unused because the floor was much easier. The cordless phone was located only by calling it from the cell phone and using an advanced system of echolocation. At one point, Rick forbade me from even going upstairs because I became a madwoman unleashed. "What if something happened and emergency services had to break into this house for some reason? Firemen or rescue people would come up here and see all of this! What would people think!? The headlines would read: LOCAL TEACHER'S HOME A MESS--HEALTH DEPARTMENT SUMMONED!" I'd yell.

Truth is, the only person who any of that works on is the mom. I truly believe that my mother's only objection to our safety-pinned bras was that someone else might see them. And, if my boys wanted to wallow in squalor of their own making and I didn't have to see it, well, then, okay, but I didn't want to have to take the fall for it. Know what I mean?

And here's what made me wax philosophical about all of this.

Cleaning my microwave.

Seriously.

Cleaning my microwave.

First of all, I have no freaking idea how my microwave gets so crappy. I cover every darn thing I put in there, I don't cook in there, and no one is around here to use it but Rick and me. And Rick does not use it. I have major issues with a dirty, grungy microwave, but as you know, it is a bitch to clean because you can't just fire up the old Mr. Clean and go to it. (No, you can't! You can't use a chemical in a microwave and transfer all those polymers and carcinogens to your food! Ugh!)

But I digress.

So, I started getting really complacent, and then when I put in some meat to thaw, I saw it. Oh my God, I thought, What if someone comes over and sees this? They'll think I'm a pig. I got the old Pyrex measuring cup out, and steamed that baby up. Totally clean now.

Sadly, I feel so much better. So! If there is some sort of emergency--heaven forbid--at the Dept. and rescue personnel are involved, they damn well better look inside my microwave!

Epiphany

Some things just sort of creep up on you. You know how it is: you look at the calendar and suddenly, it's almost Christmas. Or you realize you forgot about your nephew's birthday. Worse, you pull out those navy pants now that it's fall and the waistband is a leetle bit tight. Where did those pounds come from? You didn't think you ate quite that many Lay's Classic potato chips right from the bag, but it looks like you did. This morning, a new grey hair is glinting at you from your bangs. And the habit that your husband has of leaving the room and leaving the remote for the TV in his chair across the room is now grounds for divorce. It's this kind of stuff that can lurk in the dusky margins of your life quite innocuously for oh, so very long, until one day, any one of them can be The One Thing that it takes to make you stop and Re-evaluate Your Life.

Readers, I've had That Moment. And I am going to share it with you. It was when I realized that Google had replaced my mother.

Oh, I can hear your anguished cries. Your ragged gasps. Your wailing and gnashing of teeth.

All that crap.

Er, lamentation.

Imagine my own dismay. But we all know that the first step on the Road to Recovery is knowing that you have a problem, and once I identified the problem, I knew I was on the way to solving it.

For years now, my mother has been crabbing at me about how I never call her and that she always has to be the one to call if we are ever going to talk at all. This is true. I won't deny that. My aversion to the telephone is well-known. I am not a Social Telephone Talker. To me, a telephone is a Necessary Communication Device, such as: "Hello? Yes, this is Nance. I will be there to meet you at 11:00 A.M. What should I wear, heels or flats? Thank you. Goodbye."

But my mother, who loves to chat on the telephone, cares not for my excuse. "I am your mother," she reminds me. "Don't you think I'd like to hear from you?"

Honestly, my reply in my head is, "Not really. Jared is away at college, and Hell be damned sure he doesn't really want to hear a whole lot from me. Sam is at the junior college and then goes to work and has his cell phone and he never ever checks in, even under penalty of death or vacuuming, so he doesn't want to hear from me. So, no, Mom. I can't imagine why you'd want to hear from me." But, do I say that aloud? Oh, heavens no. She's 78 and she can't really take it, I don't think. (Although...she is pretty tough, and she did raise me, after all. But, I'm more like my father was. But I digress.)

What I really say is, "Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. You know how I hate the phone. It's easier if you just call me. It's not like I'll hang up on you for heaven's sake."

And then she aims really low and pushes the classic Guilt Button: "You used to call me a lot more often."

And I realize that this is true. It really is. I used to call her tons more often. Tons. I'd be doing my crossword puzzle and call her and say, "Hey, Mom! What was the name of the guy who...?" and she'd know it if it was, say, from the 1920s through the 1960s, or in American history at all. Or, I'd call her from the lounge at school if we were trying like crazy to think of the name of some actor who was in an old movie that we were talking about or the words to an old song from the forties. Or let's say I was teaching an American novel that had a reference to an old product, like Ipana in it. I'd call her up and say, "Mom, what in the heck is I-P-A-N-A and how do you pronounce it, even?" And she'd get all excited and tell some bigass story about it from her childhood and even sing a jingle from the radio for it.

Sigh.

Not anymore.

Now...I have Google.

Let's face it: Google has made my mother obsolete. Who needs Patsy June when I have Google? It's faster and it's more complete. AND--I ask Google one question and get one answer. I don't have to also hear about grandchildren, my brother and sisters, my uncles and aunts, or any aches and pains. It's strictly business and one-way. Google is less involved.

Google replaced my mother.

Now that I've identified my problem, I think I've actually embraced it. I'm not even sure it's a problem anymore. Thanks for all your help! You guys are the best!

If Moms Wrote Horror Movies, Redux

*this is previously posted material from long, long ago when my blog was just a newborn, with minor edits*

If the producers and directors of horror films were smart, they'd have their test audiences comprised solely of moms. Because we know scary. We confront it every day; moreover, we stare it down and kick its ass. It is part of our on-the-job training, and even playing with dollies does little to ready us for when it rears its ugly head.

Consider: the labor and delivery room. Not only do we propel, through sheer brute force, a human being averaging 8 pounds and 20 inches out of our bodies, but while we are attempting to do so, someone is sticking his/her fingers inside us, strapping machinery to us, and, in my case, leading in a pack of student nurses to interview us and ask us questions during the entire event and then admonishing us when we are a teensy weensy bit less than polite.

Then, at various times throughout Momhood, we are vomited on, snotted on, peed on, diarrhea-ed on, and forced to deal with "boo-boos", some of which require a trip to the Emergency Room, also known as "The Department of Motor Vehicles Medical Center", where we see the extras from Central Casting for The Night of the Living Dead. After we get home, we get to clean all these bodily fluids up, while retching on our own.

And, because of our supernatural diagnostic powers, we are subjected to a barrage of horrific encounters almost continually if we have teenagers, a species well-known for its low grossness threshhold.

Teen: Mom, taste this.

Mom: Why?

Teen: Just taste it.

Mom: But I don't want any.

Teen: You don't have to eat it, just taste it.

Mom: Good God! Okay, fine! (tastes it.) There. It's good. Why?

Teen: It smelled funny. I thought it might be rotten and I wasn't sure.

And it's not just our palates that are assailed. Our vision is assaulted as well:

Teen: (in bathroom, calling): Mom! (pauses imperceptibly) MOM!!!!!

Mom: (rushes in) What?! What's the matter?

Teen: Is there something on my back?

Mom: What? Is that all? You sounded like you were bleeding to death.

Teen: I can feel something gross on my back but I can't get it.

Mom: Let me see....Eeew! It's a huge zit. Just leave it alone.

Teen: Mom! I know it's back there. It's gross. You have to get it.

Mom: I don't want to touch it. Yuck.

Teen: Mom! Please. You have to. I don't want my new American Eagle shirt to even touch it.

Mom: I'll put a band-aid on it, then.

Teen: Mom, come on! You have to. Just squeeze it real quick.

Mom: (Sighs) Okay. Brace yourself. (Squeezes) Ugh!

Teen: Ouch! Oh my God! Mom! Geeze! What the Heck!!!!

And this is the same child who, upon entering and seeing that I am watching "Dr 90210", the plastic surgery show on the Style Network, says, "Oh my God, Mom, how can you watch all that blood and guts and crap?".

If Moms wrote the script for a horror movie, can you imagine what it would be? Mine, now that my kids are 19 and 22, would be one in which the boys never left home but got some low-life trashy wenches from the Fundamentalist Right "in trouble" and tried to live here with their babies, played country music at top volume, spoke with bad grammar, and brought yappy dogs into my house. Seriously scary stuff, that.