New Year's Eve Live

Not Nancy Drew

I admit that I have an overactive imagination. And maybe it was because I had just seen the movie, "I Am Legend" with my daughter last night, but I woke up this morning at 3, hearing a noise downstairs that sounded like footsteps. I sat up in my bed, in a frozen, possum-like stance; my ears straining to listen. Creaking. On the first floor. An Intruder?? My heart raced.

I quickly groped about my room for a weapon. What should I use? My Intuition razor? A bottle of perfume? (“Yo, Intruder, you'd better leave my premises immediately. I have Chanel #5 and I know how to use it! If you come any closer, I’ll spray some in your eyes, and it might sting a bit!”) No. The only danger to The Intruder would be if he laughed so hard he dropped the gun on his foot.

Then I remembered my "weapon", the fireplace poker I keep under my bed, for the infrequent times when my husband is out of town. I grabbed the poker, and headed to the stairs to investigate. That is when Super Hubs woke up. “What’s going on?”, he asked sleepily. “I think I hear a prowler and I’m going to hit him with this," I whispered. With a look of alarm, my husband grabbed the poker from my hands, and told me to stay put, while he went downstairs. I picked up my cell phone, ready to dial #911 if necessary.

Then I checked on my children; safe and sleeping in their beds. But where was the dog; our Loyal Family Canine and Protector of All Things Evil? “Rudy?” I called, looking in all his usual sleeping places. But he was not to be seen. Had The Intruder silenced my dog? OMG; was my dog bound and gagged somewhere in a closet in the house??! But then I spotted him, sleeping under our bed, oblivious. And completely useless.

Super Hubs came back into the bedroom and told me he had checked every area of the house; opened every closet, peeked around every corner, and saw nobody. Our house was safe and secure. “You must have heard one of the cats. Or just the heat creaking through the pipes.” “Sorry,” I said, sheepishly, as he went back to bed.

I cannot help it that I conceive drama where there is none: I hear our cat during the night and think it’s an Ax Murderer; I can’t find the dog and assume he’s been murdered. My reasoning that The Norm could possibly be The Scary is probably, in part, caused by my steady diet of crime television viewing and mystery novels. I should probably cut back on those, for the sake of our sleep cycles.

But it’s also due to my colorful thought processes, which kept spinning long after Super Hubs went to bed. I finally fell asleep at 5:30am. So this morning I needed lots of caffeine. And today I am trying to lay off the frightening media, at least for a day, so Super Hubs can get some rest tonight.

2007 Resolutions

I came upon my list of New Year’s Resolutions from 2007. I tend to have over-inflated opinions on what I’m able to accomplish in a year. Let’s see how I did.
1. I will write a book.
Hmmm……….I did begin writing a book last January. Then I put it down, and began writing another book last February. Then I felt creatively blocked, so I began reading lots of books for inspiration. And then magazines, for the fashion advice, candidly. Which caused me to go shopping and buy purses. So I didn’t really have time to finish any of the aforementioned books. Alright, not so good on that resolution. I give myself a “C-.” No, a “D.”
2. I will drink 64oz. of water a day.
I did drink 64 oz. of water daily the first week of January. But then I had to pee every hour, which became highly inconvenient. And flushing the toilet every 60 minutes is a tremendous waste of gallons of water. So I decided that increasing my fluid intake was actually bad for the environment in the long run. So I stopped. (No need to thank me.) An “A+” for thinking "Green."
3. I will organize my entire house.
I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just give myself an “F” and move on.
4. I will purse a new hobby that will make me a more interesting person.
I did think about taking up something like cross-country skiing, but it looked….....cold. So I considered other options: Cake Decorating, Succulent Raising, Taxidermy. Nothing seemed right. So I decided that my current hobby of napping was actually very healthful to my body. Scientific studies have proven that! And there’s nothing more interesting than a healthy, well-rested person, correct? So why mess with what’s already working?? I am clearly a fabulously fascinating person because of the shut-eye. I ‘ll grade this one with an “A” for my brilliant foresight.
5. I will show self-control by not buying any more pets this year.
Well…….it all depends on how you look at it. I did acquire a small hamster. And then another. And then one more. And one to replace the one that was murdered by the dog. And then the first one died, so I honored her memory by buying another, which was the noble thing to do. But, I did not breed the hamsters, so I actually saved us from having hundreds. Nor did I buy the adorable puggle in the pet shop, tempted as I was. Or the cute terrier mix. Or the Siamese twin kittens with the blue eyes. So, I believed that I showed great improvement of character in the “impulsive pet purchasing” department. “B+.”

Overall, not too bad, yes? Oooooookay, pretty awful. Deplorable, even. But I can aim higher in ’08. Maybe I’ll resolve to write a screenplay or take up the harpsichord or win a Grammy. Who knows???

Brothers

Thankfully the nose is a recessive gene.

The Big Apple

It was off to New York City today! Super Hubs' sister, Elizabeth, met us for a romp around Rockefeller Center and Times Square. We watched the skaters, ate lunch at a little deli, shopped relentlessly, and even rode the subway. We were sad not to see any sewer rats, as that would have made this truly an authentic experience. But nonetheless, it was a fabulous day all around. We love New York!

Tonight the adults will take Mom out for a farewell dinner of some amazing form. A delicious vino is on my agenda.

Tomorrow we will leave pre-dawn for our marathon non-stop car trip back to Chicago; our mini-van packed to the gills with the 5 of us and all our Christmas loot. If all goes well, we should be home in a few short 14 hours. I simply cannot wait (she writes, toxic sarcasm dripping from the keyboard).

Merry Christmas Live

Monkey Jammies

My niece, Hanna, and I in our monkey jammies on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve

A much better day. The stupid stuff of yesterday is forgiven and forgotten.

We begin our day with a tender visit to Dad in the nursing home. Alzheimer's is a thief; a stealer of time, memories, connection. But love is impervious. We feed him his favorite; chocolate. Somewhere, we hope, he is deep inside; remembering.

Back home again, we sit around the living room on this sunny New England Christmas Eve; our family and Mom, Chris, Matt and Lori and their baby, and Liz and Nick. We enjoy appetizers and drinks and laugh over a silly board game. Then we move into the dining room to completely satiate ourselves over lasagna, ham, and the works.

Later, we exchange gifts and watch, "A Christmas Story." It is comfortable and warm and entirely relaxing. Litle Squirt makes sure there is cake set out for Santa, along with carrots for the reindeer. Then the kids head off to bed, with "visions of sugarplums."

Bad Wind

We are, quite possibly, brilliant. We left a good 24 hours ahead of the storm and had beautiful, clear weather on our drive to Connecticut; only hitting bad weekend traffic while going over the George Washington bridge. But there was a beautiful view of the lights of Manhattan, so it wasn't awful.

We are packed tight in a home now filled with 5 adults, 2 teenagers, a 5-year-old and a toddler. And what is about childhood homes that can cause the sweetest of adults to regress into the patterns set by family and birth order? The years are wiped away in a flash.

One minute I was happily grocery shopping for upcoming holiday meals and putting together a gift basket for a sick brother-in-law. And then the conflict hit, like a twister without warning. This was over pizza. We wanted to stop in and eat, and he wanted to bring it home. So the tornado came upon us; beautiful pieces of the day completely broken and swept away like like debris. And as I tried to clean up the mess in the aftermath, I was left feeling shell shocked. What the heck just happened? How could we have been so completely misunderstood? About a frickin' pizza??! And can we hope to rebuild or should we just level this out and begin again?

Life is complicated, Folks. No matter how much you long for the Norman Rockwell picture, you realize that family holiday gatherings contain people who carry different world views and experiences in their pockets. And prisms through which they look at life. Even regarding pizza; take-out or dine in?

So I take a break and leave the crowded home, finding a quiet hideaway in Stamford with internet access, and blog. Writing away my frustrations and confusion and inner tantrum, hoping to return there a more peaceful, centered person. And then pour myself a big ol' glass of something wicked.

To Beat A Blizzard

As if I wasn’t harried enough…..

I woke up this a.m., nursing my cup of coffee, and sitting deadlocked into my easy chair. I had so much to do to get read for our vacation to Connecticut tomorrow to spend Christmas with my in-laws. I thought if I just sat there, trying to muster up the energy to begin tackling my To-Do list, maybe things would just kind of “do themselves.” Supernaturally. But it was not to be. So I kept putting my chores off, just sitting there in a zombiated, “stuck” kind of place; fretting about all I had to do.

And then Super Hubs saw the forecast of impending snow storms headed our way tomorrow……scheduled right on time to accompany us on our trek through Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. Oh, just terrific. And potentially dangerous, going through the Appalachians.

We decided we’d better leave tonight and drive to a hotel on the Ohio/Penn border. If things go as planned, we should beat the storm and be at my in-laws home in CT by late afternoon Saturday. And once we had the idea to leave early, it was, “Let’s leave earlier.” Then “Earliest.” Then, “How about Right Now?” But we realized we needed to wait until Butterfly got home from school. (And she will be thrilled, I’m sure, to have to cancel her social plans for tonight.)

So it’s been a day of hectic scrambling. Hurry, hurry. Fast, faster. Throw things into suitcases. Bring dog to Peggy’s. Leave instructions for person who will house-sit. Do quick errands. And speaking of that- it’s crazy out there! All The Crazies are out in Crazy Land today, driving around my town to get their last-minute Crazy Christmas shopping done. And being QUITE RUDE about it. I give you fair warning: Stay home and be safe!

Now it’s become a contest of The Blizzard vs. Us. We are determined to beat this winter storm to the East Coast! And then have a relaxing time with Super Hub’s amazing family.

I will attempt to blog on location, whenever I can get out to a place that has internet access. My mother-in-law’s computer system is so archaic; it involves something like a man riding a camel to deliver email on papyrus scrolls.

Blessings to my cyberspace friends. I wish you warmth and beauty, wherever you are.

Rapid Palpitations

Yesterday ended beautifully enough…….dinner with Super Hubs and another couple at a charming restaurant (Asian Chicken Salad and Pinot Grigio)…...a bubble bath (Bath and Body Works’ Vanilla Chamomile)…….a yummy read (“The Murder Artist” by John Chase).

And the beginning part of the day was also lovely. I took Little Squirt to The Dollar Store to buy family Christmas presents of his exact albeit inappropriate choosing (plastic race car for Uncle Nick, stuffed penguin for Grandpa). Precious and adorable.

My Panic Attack occurred during the noon hour. After shopping with Little Squirt, I promised him lunch out. We ate at McDonald’s, which always must include at least 30 minutes of romp time in the nasty, germ-infested Playland. So up he climbed on the chutes and ladders while I curled up with “The Murder Artist” and a large cherry Pepsi. Ah....bliss.

I was just at the part of the book where the protagonist’s 6-year-old twin sons are abducted, when I glanced around to “eyeball” my son. He was nowhere in sight. I stood up, and looked around further. No Little Squirt. The Playland was fairly empty, with only three other children playing. “Little Squirt?” I called, wondering if he was in a tube, out of sight. No answer.

“Did anyone see which way my little boy went?” I called to the other children, slightly concerned. Three heads shook from side to side. One of the boys volunteered to check upward, to the tubes that were far overhead, but soon came back down, shrugging his shoulders.

Now I was beginning to feel anxious. No. I was panicked! My mind raced, imagining the worst. Where was my little boy?? My baby??!! Had he been kidnapped from right under my nose while I read a book about childhood abduction??!!! Oh, the horrible irony of it all! Please, Dear God! No!! Nooooo!!!

As I stood in front of The Playland, momentarily paralyzed by fear, suddenly the children’s bathroom door slammed open. Little Squirt came running out, handed me his soiled underwear rolled into a ball, and proceeded back up a ladder, oblivious to my fear. And apparently going "commando.”

I stood there, relief washing over me. I HAD MY BABY BOY BACK, safe and sound!! And his dirty underwear, which I wrapped in a napkin and stuck in my purse; the purse's lifespan now permanently altered, no matter how much air freshener I’ve squirted since. But a purse is just a purse. Little Squirt is undeniably my precious, precious child. Perspective is an amazing thing.

Lost In Space

Today I had one of those stressful afternoons when I needed Butterfly to be home from school with the car right on time, so we could head out and get our hair cut. I also wanted to squeeze in a quick trip to Super Walmart to pick up ingredients to make an appetizer for a party tonight......a crab dip with cocktail sauce on Ritz that tastes heavenly with a dry Chardonnay......but I’ve digressed.

I needed to get these errands done in less than an hour, so I could get back home to prepare Garlic Chicken Breasts for my family’s dinner, throw together the appetizer, iron my outfit and do my makeup for the party. And my hair, because I never like the way they blow dry it at the salon. They make me look like a Country Western Singer; too much poofiness at the crown.

I dropped Rock Star off at Game Stop, then swung by the salon and told Butterfly to start getting her hair cut and I’d be right back after I ran into the store. Super Walmart is the size of an airport, so it took me a little while to find the few items I needed for my appetizer. And I ran into someone I knew, and she was all “gabby”.....and then I got into the checkout line behind the Shopping Cart Piled With Every Item In The Store....so as I walked to the parking lot, I was feeling anxious that I was running late.

And then I couldn’t find my car. I could swear I had parked it in the row across from the Garden Center door! But it wasn’t there. I rewound my brain to 15 minutes in the past. Drove into the parking lot, passed the Garden Center, down the first completely full row, up the second, pulled into the right……but the car wasn’t there. I walked up and down the rows fruitlessly, feeling ridiculous. I was certain people were ridiculing me behind my back: “Look at the stupid lady who lost her car!”

Four minutes later, I realized that I was looking for a silver Grand Caravan when I had actually driven a black Toyota. Another reason for increasing my daily dose of ginko biloba. Feeling foolish, I went back to the second row, now scouting out my Toyota. Not there. Lots of little black sedans, but none of them mine. Up the first row I went, down the second, up the third, and so forth. No success.

Now I was feeling a bit freaked out; the possibility that my car had been stolen crossing my mind like a really slow freight train. Great. Just great. On the night my crab dip needed to be refrigerated at least one hour before the party for it to be flavorful!

And then I saw my license plate. On a Toyota that looked like mine, only was a grayish color instead of black. Oh. Dear. God. I had not recognized my own car because it was dirty. I had passed it in Row #2 a myriad of times for the past 15 minutes, not seeing it because it was covered with the remnants of ice and sludge from my trip to Iowa this past weekend!!

Why can’t they make cars with automatic washers attached, like they do for windshields?? Because, For The Love Of All Things Good And Holy, I CANNOT be late for parties all the livelong winter!

Getting There Is Half The Fun

Guess where I’ve been all weekend? Hint: It is known as “The Tall Corn State.” If you guess “Iowa," then you are correct! I spent the weekend visiting my friend, Sandy.

I left last Friday morning in the bitter cold. What was supposed to have been a four-hour drive to Iowa turned into a 5 1/2 hour drive because of Stupid HWY 20, which apparently has a Business HWY 20 that is different from Regular HWY 20. Which I found out the hard way. I was driving along, merrily singing Christmas carols with the radio, when HWY 20 W morphed into Business HWY 20 E supernaturally, without one stinkin’ sign and/or me realizing it until I came to a complete dead end. Looking for some direction, I stopped at a gas station, where a kind man informed me that I would need to back track for quite a distance to get back on HWY 20 W. So I did, and then soon began noticing sights I had passed an hour ago! Same church. Same road construction. Same dead end. It had happened again! Evil HWY 20 W had morphed into Business HWY 20 E and spun me in the complete opposite direction from where I needed to go. I was living in an episode of “The Twilight Zone!”

Near tears, I stopped at a church to see if a priest had time to perform a quick Highway Exorcism, but the church was closed. So I stopped next at a Quick Mart where an employee directed me out of my dead-end habit trail and onto the salvation that came in the form of I90. So the bad news was that I lost 1 1/2 hours. The good news was that I became very intimately acquainted with the city of Rockford.

I had no further incidents of getting lost, but one other adventure. I was driving in a rural area and felt “the call of nature,” so I stopped at the only place in sight; an antique shop attached to a restaurant. The restaurant was closed, so I went into the shop to use the bathroom. The snooty (and lying) owner told me she did not have a working bathroom in the store. “Yeah, right,” I thought about saying, “And what exactly do you use, one of the antique chamber pots??” She gleefully informed me there was a port-a-potty in the backyard that I was welcome to inhabit. I had no other choice, much as I hated to do it.

The port-a-potty sat on top of an ice-covered hill. I had to pull myself up by the branches of a convenient evergreen to get there, slipping and sliding all the way; risking my very life. It was entirely unpleasant; an adventure that I wish to completely put out of my mind forever, after I finish this post. I only tell you about this sordid part of my trip to warn you never to drink 20 oz. of coffee while driving to Iowa in the winter.

The rest of my drive was relaxing and uneventful. I passed some beautiful and charming small towns, some rolling hills, and lots of frozen corn fields, finally arriving at my friend’s house at 2:30p. And we had an amazing weekend together, which I will tell you about tomorrow.

Saint Santa

In a bad parenting moment last week, I threatened Little Squirt with the Trump Card that many dysfunctional parents across the world use during this Season of Good Will Toward Man: “Santa’s elves are watching to see who’s naughty and who’s nice. If you don’t behave, you will go on the Naughty list. Then Santa will have to re-think the gift thing.” I hated to do it, but I was stressed, and his behavior was particularly awful that day. Even for him. Plus, I had a splitting headache.

Little Squirt turned ten shades of pale, then timidly looked around the room and asked, “Where do the elves hide, Mama?” And then I felt really bad, and told him that the elves were actually very nice, kind of like angels, and they were watching him with the expectation that he would behave, as he usually did. And that the elves hoped beyond hope to tell Santa to bring Little Squirt lots of expensive presents. And then, panicking that I had fatally damaged his self-esteem, I read him the book, “I’ll Love You Forever,” and fed him fudge. And gave him a hug. And made a mental note to add more money to his Adult Therapy Fund. And implored him to please stop smacking his brother and hitting the TV with his Lord of the Rings sword. It turned out to be a lovely mother/son bonding moment, but then I realized that I have totally messed up his theology. Yes, Folks, I have my son believing that Santa’s elves have the spiritual power of angels.

But it gets worse. Now every time someone offends him, Little Squirt says, “That was NOT nice. That hurt Santa, God and Jesus." So because of my inadequate and lazy parenting conflict resolution skills, I have Little Squirt actually believing that The Trinity consists of “The Father, The Son, and The Holy Saint Nick.”

Tailgating

“Please please please can I take the car to school tomorrow???” Butterfly begged us last night, as is the recent routine. The $4.00 per day parking fee is but a small pittance for her to pay for “being cool.” And my 16-year-old daughter is all about The COOLNESS FACTOR. It ups your social standing in high school “to drive” as opposed to being “dropped off.” And it is especially better than taking the bus. Or walking.

Then there is the lunch period. It is WAY cooler to eat out for lunch as an upper classman than to eat in the cafeteria. And a lot more fun to grab a small handful of friends for some socializing and fried rice at Panda Express. Or gossip and chili dogs at Tommy’s Red Hots.

Butterfly has taken over our new car as if it is her own, filling it with her favorite CDs and hanging something interesting around the mirror. I drew the line at putting a “Bob Marley” bumper sticker on the back. She loves zipping around in this new cute little car, instead of our old beater with the missing hubcaps.

We try to accommodate Butterfly’s requests to borrow the vehicle as often as we can arrange it. If Super Hubs and I can manage with just one car between the two of us for the day, it’s hers. Unless it becomes a safety issue, such as with the recent drizzly, slippery winter weather.

This morning the sun shone warm and the ice appeared to be melted. After driving Super Hubs to the train station for his commute downtown, I assessed that it was safe enough for Butterfly to drive to school. Her face lit up and she gave me a hug. “Thanks, Mom!” she said, brightening.

A few minutes later, I poured my second cup of coffee and glanced out the living room window. There was my daughter, happily driving the new car down the street toward school. With the blue recycling bin, jammed under the back of the car, following.

Ah yes. Her COOLNESS FACTOR was going to be very high today among her peers.

Winter Wonderland

This view from our back deck shows the gorgeousity that is my part of the country right now. The tree branches look like they are wrapped in crystal. I saw a cardinal looking for food; a flash of bright red against the monochromatic landscape.

Last night we had an ice storm, with freezing drizzle on and off throughout the day. Cancellations abound: My daughter’s school, my intentions to run errands, my drama team training. So it’s a big dose of Cozy for my family tonight. Popcorn and board games by the fireplace. .......Of course, that’s my plan. The teens may make themselves scarce and hide behind their laptops.

Drive safely tonight, my local friends! Or better yet…..stay home and call me.

I'm His #1 Fan

Rock Star, my 13-year-old, is not the most self-motivated teenager on the planet. But then he has was not a self-motivated baby, either. He did not walk until he was 16 months old. I would have panicked if he’d been my first child; insisting that he be flown to The Mayo Clinic for all sorts of CT scans and blood tests, and blaming myself for allowing too much infant “Sesame Street” watching. But in retrospect, I realize that he did not take his first steps any earlier because he was not motivated. He had an older sister who was born a "go-getter", walked at age 10 months, and waited on her baby brother hand and foot. And I'm sure in Baby Rock Star's little pea brain, he wondered: "Why should I venture upright when I have a sibling who carries me around and brings me everything I need?" I don’t blame him a bit. I'd stay horizontal, too.

Rock Star is just not motivated unless he's motivated. A while ago he told his father, in all sincerity, that upon high school graduation he did not want to go to college or get a job. He’d rather just hang out with his friends and live in our basement forever. And was that okay? I’m not exactly sure how Super Hubs, who has an incredibly strong work ethic, responded. I only know that he flipped out for a bit and chugged lots of Maalox before he went to bed. And had nightmares. And the next day he highly encouraged Rock Star to read an old book called, “What Color is Your Parachute?” to help him begin to brainstorm career possibilities for the future, even though he’s currently only in in 8th grade. Rock Star skimmed the back cover and then decided he would really love to be:
A. A Rock Star
B. A Professional Wrestler
C. or Unemployed and Living In The Basement Until His Parents Die, And Then Take Over The Rest Of The House. And watch lots of MTV and Professional Wrestling.

As the less intense parent, I don’t happen to worry about our children’s future quite as much as Super Hubs. I believe they'll come into their own eventually, with time and maturity. And lots of prayer coverage. Also, I was not a super motivated child either, and I turned out fine. Right?……....I said, “Right??!!”

I had faith that Rock Star would find his inspiration when he discovered what he was really passionate about. And one fine day, noticing his sister's unused electric guitar in her closet, he declared that he wanted to take lessons. BINGO. He'd found his true love. Who knew he'd be musically inclined?? I could almost hear the angels singing the "Halleluiah" chorus. He’s now been playing for about 16 months; eating, sleeping and breathing "guitar." He desires to practice for hours a day, which I don’t mind at all. It’s better than his old habit of playing non-stop video games, which subsequently led to a diagnosis of carpal tunnel syndrome at age 12…….but that’s another story.

Rock Star played yesterday in the Worship Band for his church youth group. (1st cutie on the left.) It did my heart such good to see my first born son using his gift of music to share with others, and his love for God pour forth. Love him, love him, love him, My Non-Conformist, Phlegmatic Beautiful Middle Child!

Polarity

Here are some of the ways that Super Hubs and I manage the various goings-on in our household:
Children’s Activities: Me
Car Maintenance: Super Hubs
Pet Buying: Me
Pet Disposal: Super Hubs
Social Agenda: Me
As the Social Agenda Committee Head in our marriage, I usually plan The What, The Where and The Who, lay out an appropriate outfit for Super Hubs to wear, and off we go. Last night we went to two simultaneous Christmas parties, both at opposite ends of the same building. It was a case of me wanting to be in two places at once. I felt a bit like a Two-Timer, such as the episode of The Brady Bunch where Peter has two different dates on the same night. (I never had two different dates simultaneously but I did actually have three different dates consecutively on the same evening while I was in college. But I was young and free-spirited and it was My Wild Sorority Girl Days. So don’t judge me.)

We stayed at Party #1 for 42 minutes, munching on appetizers, until I whispered to Super Hubs to finish his buffalo wing and wrap up his conversation, because in three minutes we were headed to the other party. He obediently followed me to the other end of the building where we enjoyed the main course at Party #2. Then an hour later, conveniently right before the game of Christmas Song Charades, we ducked out and went back to Party #1 for dessert. We mingled there a while longer, then cavorted back to Party #2 for coffee and The White Elephant Exchange.

After we left the parties, I directed Super Hubs onto more Fun. I invited us to the home of good friends for drinks, which was a wonderful way to wind down our evening.

We went home, and Super Hubs was exhausted, while I was exhilarated. He fell into a comatose sleep of the dead, while I, energized after so much social interaction, was awake much of the night, thinking: “Was I too babbly? Was my all-black outfit attractive, or was it too Grandma’s Funeral Frumpy? What was in that delicious cranberry dip? Did I talk to everyone enough tonight? I hope I didn't leave anyone out.” and so forth; my mind incessantly mulling over the evening’s events and conversations and every detail.

Super Hubs and I are polar opposites. I am a Sanguine, and he is a Melancholy, which can bring a beautiful balance to our family if we don’t end up killing each other first. In the early days of our marriage, we just didn’t get each other. I found him anally structured, even-keel and analytical, while he found me emotional, people-pleasing and freakishly talkative. We’ve learned over 18 years of marriage to appreciate each other’s differences in temperament. He provides safety and structure and security, while I………….find us the parties. Sometimes several in one night.

I found this interesting on-line personality test. I’ve found it so freeing to figure out why I am the way that I am, and be okay with it. And become more tolerant of other’s differences. And to try to understand the way each of my three children are wired up.

It makes the world a more interesting place to have variety of personalities, I believe. Like flowers in a garden. Or people at two different Christmas parties on the same night. Or a well-balanced marriage. My husband draws the pictures of our life, and I color them in.

“We are staying home tonight, right??” Super Hubs asked me anxiously, first thing this morning. “Yes, we’ll just make popcorn and watch a DVD, “ I said. He visibly relaxed. Until I added, “Unless someone calls and invites us to a party.”

Winter Song

We have about 3 inches of snow on the ground from Tuesday night's storm, and the forecasters are predicting another 2-4 inches tonight. As much as I abhor the cold, I must admit I've loved the snow ever since I was a child. There's nothing cozier than hot chocolate by the fireplace while watching snow sprinkle softly outside the window. Yes, Southern California may have its warm weather charms, but I'll take The Midwest in the month of December, hands down!
Summer joys are o'er
Flowerets bloom no more,
Wintry winds are sweeping;
Through the snowdrifts peeping,
Cheerful evergreen
Rarely now is seen.
Now no plumed throng
Charms the wood with song;
Icebound trees are glittering;
Merry snowbirds, twittering,
Fondly strive to cheer
Scenes so cold and drear.
Winter, still see
Many charms in thee,
Love the chilly greeting,
Snowstorms fiercely beating,
And the dear delights
Of the long, cold nights. (Ludwig Holty)

Patch Pickle

You, my dear blog readers, will be pleased to know that we’ve had a small victory in our household involving one of my cats, Kinsey. I rescued her from a shelter four years ago, and named her for the heroine detective of the Sue Grafton novels. I thought calling her after the feisty P.I. would be a prophetical indicator of strength of spirit, but I was SO wrong. Kinsey is as timid and neurotic as they come.

As much devotion as I have for this pet of mine, I realize that she is quite odd. She’s kind of like the peculiar aunt who lives with you, and friends give you knowing, compassionate glances with a wink and a nod; “My, she’s a strange one! How good of you to take her in.”

Shortly after I brought Kinsey home, she was diagnosed with colitis, which played itself out in bloody……...well, never mind. I’ll spare you. Let’s just say the corner of the dining room carpet she chose to use for her private water closet the first few weeks has never been the same.

She spends hours a day sitting in my Master Bathroom, just staring at the toilet. Honestly. She gawks at the white porcelain throne for endless amounts of time, as if she expects one day it’s going to jump up and do The Watusi.

Here is another oddity about her: Kinsey is a bicolor; primarily white with a big black patch of fur on her back, and black on her face. And for months she was only grooming her white fur, while completely neglecting the black. She’d start from one end of her body to the other, meticulously grooming her light fur until it gleamed, and passing right over the dark. In recent weeks, the ebony hair on her back had begun to look unsightly. It was matted, knotted and full of dandruff; really disgusting. So a few weeks ago I called the vet to ask their advice. What do I do about this feline who left much of her fur in complete filth? Do I bathe her? Groom her myself?

The wise vet advised that, yes, I should groom Kinsey myself, thus showing her how to keep her black fur clean and orderly. So I did. Which went pretty well……...except for the part about misunderstanding the vet’s instructions and getting a mouthful of fur……....and the subsequent throat-swelling and EMS call due to my cat allergies. My bad. But the epinephrine injections gave me the manic energy to clean not only Kinsey fur but my entire house as well! So do not fear, it all turned out happily. This cat now takes control of her own self-hygiene completely, and has a new improved interest in grooming her black backside. You can sleep well tonight knowing this. And my house is completely in order for the holidays.

Like Buttah

My favorite Christmas CD of this year is Josh Groban’s “Noel.” It’s fantabulous. But I can only play it when Super Hubs is not home, because he’s apparently jealous. Come to think of it, Super Hubs was also threatened by my Harry Connick, Jr.’s CDs. And by Yani. He shakes his fist at the all the Mad Passionate Music Makers of masculine form.

**Note to self and blogosphere: I only said, “I think Josh Groban’s voice is hot.” I did not say, “I want to fly off to Tahiti with Josh Groban.” There’s a big difference.

Positively Paring

Maybe it’s a reaction to having a mother who despised everything to do with the kitchen, but food interests me. A lot. It has, ever since I got my “Creative Cooking” Girl Scout badge. I hated Girl Scouts, but at least it birthed in me a love affair with The Culinary. I began collecting recipes from people at the tender age of ten. I’d interrogate my friends, “What did you have for dinner?”, and if it sounded intriguing, I’d run over to their house with an index card. I truly did that, as bizarre as it sounds. While other little girls were playing Barbies, I was organizing my recipe file. I was odd that way.

Uh huh, I publicly confess that I am a Foodie. I devour culinary mysteries, am addicted to The Food Network, and read cookbooks from cover to cover. My favorite movie of the summer was “Ratatouille.” I love The Yummy. Nothing is so soothing to me than preparing a fabulous meal. I light a candle, play a little “Madame Butterly,” and begin sautéing. With every sizzle and pop of the pan, cell after cell of my body relaxes. Who needs valium, when you can very easily fricassee?

So I’ve been cooking for years and years, primarily self-taught. Which is probably why I’ve never owned but one small knife. I’ve used it my entire adulthood to cut everything from sirloin tips to artichokes. I’ve never invested in a good set of cutlery, because I never really saw the point. A knife is a knife is a knife, I’ve believed.

But a friend who knows I love to cook gave me very generous early Christmas present; a complete set of cutlery. And Oh My Good Lord In Heaven, I have seen the light! Yes, folks, I have entered the Wonderful World of the 21st Century Epicurist. It feels like I’d been trying to light a fire with a flint rock, and someone handed me a blowtorch. Wahoo- Fireworks! I admit with utter abashment that I HAD NO IDEA I could cut everything effortlessly like this! DUH! And, different knives for different foods? What a concept!!

Ever since receiving this gift, I have been a Transecting Queen. With the precision of a brain surgeon, I carve, slice and shred. Got a chicken? I’ll debone with the best of them. Celery stalks? I’m a Chopping Maniac.

Right now I’ve got spaghetti sauce simmering in the crock pot, and the French bread is waiting to be warmed. But my hands are itching to julienne. So I need to go find a carrot, or something. Come on over to my house, and I’ll proudly show you my new set of cutlery. And dish you up a plate of something delicious.

To Infinity And Beyond

Last night we spent Date Night at a Chinese Restaurant with another couple whom we’ve known for 12 years. It’s great to be with people you have a long history with. People with whom you can always pick up right where you left off. People with whom you feel safe that they know all your quirks and idiosyncrasies and weird family stories over the years, yet remain steadfast and true. Our relationship has stood the test of time, which feels really good.

So we ate Chinese (the Pot Stickers were to die for!…….as was the Cashew Shrimp and Beef with Peapods….gosh it was all so good) and we talked. When we first met this couple, their oldest child was in 1st grade. He is now in college. And as we talked about that, I began to realize that my friends were aging. They were now twelve years older than they were twelve years ago. How sad for them. And then as I took another bite of food, the tantalizing egg roll I had been previously enjoying now stuck in my throat like a lump of clay as the thought dawned on me; I AM AGING, TOO! Good Lord, I am getting older!

I stirred my jasmine tea compulsively, my ears now deaf to the pleasant conversation of my friends (“Wah wa wah wah waah”) , and tuning into a frequency that was my internal voice shrieking loudly, “YOU ARE OLD! YOU ARE OLD! YOU ARE OLD!”
And then I spoke a panicked monologue to myself for the next ten minutes, silently, which went something like this:

“Is 40 really the new 20, or is that just a marketing ploy by the cosmetics companies to make women feel good and believe there is hope in buying the latest anti-aging potion? What is an alpha-hydroxy, anyway?
And are my hands getting too veiny looking, screaming, "Middle Aged", and if so, should I just “go with it” or invest in dainty white gloves like a Fine Lady of 1910? Or would that be too obvious?
And Good Heavens, I think I just had a hot flash! Is menopause beginning tonight, or is just vasodilation from that last bite of the spicey Kung Pao Chicken?
Will I age like my mom’s side of the family, who stay beautiful and youthful-looking? Or like my dad’s side of the family who……...do not? Oh, dear God, whose genes do I have??!!
And, Nicole Kidman’s frozen features aside, how do I really feel about Botox? Or low-rise jeans? Am I getting too old to wear them? Should I now start investing my money in some practical old lady garments, like girdles? And high-waisted pantaloons??
Why don't I take these chopsticks and jamb them into my brain RIGHT NOW, putting an end to the bleakless future that is my old age??!"

And on and on I went inside my head, obsessively fretting, with Super Hubs and our friends cluelessly enjoying their dinner. And then someone passed me a cookie, and I opened my fortune, and it said this: “The joyfulness of a man prolongeth his days.”
And I snapped out of my narcissistic worriment and shamed myself. There is one certainty in my future; I will age no matter what. But I will try to do it with joy, as my fortune advised. So I ordered a round of plum wine and we toasted our future.

Think Blonde

A French scientific study recently came out which showed that men dropped intelligence points after being around blondes. I am not making this up.

Now, as a blonde, I must take issue with this particular study. First of all, I highly doubt that if I were a brunette, I’d be any smarter………….Wait. That didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that any ignorance I have has nothing to do with my hair color…………No, that wasn’t said well either. Let’s move on.

I actually am pretty smart, probably more so than people realize. I am not “Nuclear Physicist Smart” maybe, but I’m “Normal Smart.” I can hold down a job and multi-task and find my way home from the mall. I can even make a mean Marlin Roulade, which is not nearly as easy as it sounds. And possibly I could be a Nuclear Physicist if I wanted to. I just don’t want to, because it doesn’t sound like fun. (No offense to you, if you are a Nuclear Physicist. I hold what you do for a living in high regard. The world needs more Nuclears. And I’m sure you sometimes have fun.)

Now let me rebut this study. First of all, are blondes really dumb? And if that’s true, then are they saying that brunettes are more intelligent? I do not agree, and here's why: I happen to have a hamster who is a brunette, and he is not smart at all. He’s been running around on his wheel 20 hours a day for the past 3 months. Last week I moved his wheel half an inch to the left, and he couldn’t find it. He’s still looking for it. And then I have a blonde hamster who is……..well, actually she’s dumber than a box of rocks, too. She cannot tell a kibble from a finger. Never mind. The theory may not work on rodents. But I have all kinds of human friends, and I must say that I find the blondes equally as intelligent as the brunettes. That’s my first point.

My second point is this: If the men in this study “dumbed themselves down” after being around blondes, then would their IQs increase after being around brunettes? And how about redheads? So, in theory, I could run out to Ulta and get a box of Loreal #4C Dark Ash Brown, do the dye job, then hang out with my kids and be assured they’d be heading to a future at Harvard. I doubt it. I happen to be the only blonde in a family of dark brunettes. Which, if the theory holds true, should make me “Nuclear Physicist Smart” just by Brunette Approximation Saturation. And as I mentioned before, I am not.

And lastly, if it is true that blondes are dumber, then is it also true that “blondes have more fun?” I must say a resounding "YES!” I happen to have a lot of fun, but I then I came out of the womb ready to party. I am a Sanguine, and Sanguines go through life having fun. It’s just my personality type. I live for All Things Fun. I am married to a Melancholy who doesn’t like to have nearly the fun that I do. He takes life much more seriously. And he is also a lot smarter than me. And a brunette, which actually doesn’t help my point at all.

I don’t know. I just think that maybe the French scientist should have not wasted precious time and money on such nonsensical research. And that’s all I have time to say. I must run out to the salon now. All this "blonde talk" has made me realize my roots are showing.

My Friend, Tim

I have been an actor in our church’s Drama Team for almost 4 years. Performing with this team of talented artists has been one of the greatest joys of my life. There is something very bonding about being part of an ensemble doing live theater. We are “in the trenches” together; depending upon one another for lines of dialogue, sharing pre-performance jitters, and encouraging each other’s best.

My Drama Team also has the ability to bring out levels of immaturity in my humor that I didn’t even know existed. They can make me laugh like no one else in my life! I admit I am usually right in the thick of the joviality, and often the instigator of All Things Ridiculous. They are some of my closest friends, and always great refreshment for my soul.

Another benefit I’ve found from being part of this excellent church’s Arts Ministry is that I get to brush elbows with some incredibly talented artists who inspire me. Today I want to give a “shout out” to my good friend, Tim Merkel. I’ve performed in dramas with Tim for three years. He is also a dear friend who has prayed me through some of the most difficult times of my life. He is an all-around Excellent Person.

Tim is a well-rounded gifted artist: Actor/Singer/Writer/Musician and Voice Over Artist. He is currently giving my son, Rock Star, guitar lessons and his idol and mentor. He recently set up a new website: http://treebeardsound.com. Take a few minutes to visit, and if you ever need a talented artist, give Tim a call.

Tonight I look forward to hearing him perform at a local restaurant. Super Hubs and I will meet with several actors on the Drama Team to have dinner, relax, and hear Tim’s beautiful gift of song and music. Go, Tim!! Many blessings to you!

The Y Chromosome

Two interesting happenings in our household today, both involving our sons:
1. The one and only line of dialogue that Little Squirt has zeroed in on and now memorized for all eternity in our favorite family move, “A Christmas Story”, is : “Son of a ______(rhymes with witch)!” So now he’s all “Son of a ______” ing this and “Son of a ______” ing that all the live long day. Which my teenagers are finding quite comical. Let’s just hope Little Squirt forgets about that particular locution in time for church next Sunday.
2. In cleaning out Rock Star’s bedroom today, we found a three-week-old half-eaten ham sandwich sitting on a plate on his closet floor. Yes, just sitting there on the floor of his closet in plain sight. For three weeks. On my good dinner plate. By now this Repast-Gone-Wrong is so filled with various forms of life that it really ought to be paying us rent.
Frogs and snails and puppy-dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of.

Black Beauty

We brought home our new car the other day! I shamelessly admit I was quite excited, although I am not really a “car person” under most circumstances. I don’t have the time or inclination to research “Consumer Reports” to find the best automobile for our money. I don’t find joy in pouring over a car manual; memorizing features and accessories. I’d rather read Sue Grafton, frankly. I just don’t care enough about what I drive. All I require is a vehicle that can take me from Point A to Point B safely without making me look like a Beverly Hillbilly. So I let Super Hubs choose the type of car, while I chose the color. (Black, to contrast nicely with my blond hair.)

And my car needs are very simple, really. I do not require remote-start or a sunroof or a Front Seat Bologna-Maker. I just would like a cosmetic mirror so I can apply my Loreal “Bella Donna Mauve” lipstick without mishap, a cup holder to carry my Dr. Pepper, and a CD player to play my subliminal messages of affirmation. (“You’re the tops, Kel.”)

Super Hubs and I have purchased several cars together during our 18-year marriage, and we find that we are amazing as a car-buying team, utilizing well our individual strengths. Super Hubs is adept at doing the research, choosing the car, and negotiating successfully the sale. I am adept at………..well, none of those things. I actually have no car strengths. Not one. Besides my afore-mentioned lack of interest in all things auto, we both know that I would be deplorably bad at car-buying because I happen to have rather large co-dependency issues. I CANNOT SAY NO. EVER. I am a born people-pleaser. Which makes me extremely dangerous when I am in the presence of a car salesman. And carrying my check book. Truly. If the car salesman began feeding me a pathetic story about his grandmother’s upcoming surgery, I’d be handing him my credit cards in the blink of an eye. And agreeing to pay more than the sticker-price.


So, while Super Hubs went to meet with the finance guy, I took Little Squirt by the hand to the Tot-Room, after promising my husband on my mother’s grave that I would not make eye contact with any of the car salesmen, lest I come back with the title to a Grand Velocious Limited, or something. I sat on a tyke-sized chair in the germ-infested Tot-Room for literally an hour and a half, watching the Disney Channel. When I could stand it no longer, I called Super Hubs on my cell phone and hissed, “What in Sam Hill is taking so long?? You are buying a car, not a country!!” He assured me that he was still haggling over the price and various accessories, and the deal would be sealed momentarily. And please be patient and stop calling him. So I waited a little while longer, until I decided I needed to flee the Tot-Room with Little Squirt because a certain child in there was coughing so hard I feared he had SARS.

It turned out that Super Hubs got a great deal on our new car, and I was very proud of him. He was a man with a plan and he stuck firm. Yes, he wanted tires, but not with the package that included the Nuclear Bomb Safety Shield for $900. No, he did not need the Moon Terrain Converter or the While-You-Drive-Pants-Press. Neither did he need to buy the Extended Warranty to cover the extension on the Extended Warranty ‘s Warranty Extension’s Extensive Plan. Yes, he did want windows and a steering wheel. And paint on the car. But not a gauge that reads the Earth’s core temperature and converts it into 40 different languages. Or the In-Car Butler who serves you a sandwich and gives you a neck rub. Just a regular automobile that’ll suit our family’s needs nicely. And is a smidgen sexy.

So now we are a family with two decent, workable cars, once again. And we have a driving-age teenager who guarantees that she’ll be putting lots of mileage on the new car in the upcoming weeks. Which means I will hardly get to drive the new car anyway. I’ll be stuck with the mini-van.

Happy Thanksgiving

As I was dishing out the turkey dinner this afternoon, my eyes fell upon a bright splash of color. The Hawthorn tree outside our dining room window had branches draped with red berries; a brilliant contrast against the otherwise gray outdoors. Momentarily interrupting our dinner, my husband ran to the front yard to cut a few branches, which I spontaneously propped between my silver candlesticks on the dining room table. An inspired centerpiece resulted, which would have made Martha Stewart proud, I believe!

So today I am grateful for the ordinary. Besides the blessings of my family, hearth and home, I am thankful to God for the scarlet color of the Hawthorn berry, which brightened the colorless canvas of this November day. It truly felt like an unexpected gift.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your loved ones! I join you today in thanking God for all our many blessings.

Drugs, Anyone?

How do I even begin to describe my day? Hmmmm, let me think.……Taxing?……Stressful?……Wanna just shoot myself?……Tempted to pilfer the hydrocodone??

Butterfly (16 yrs) had her wisdom teeth removed today. While she was having her oral surgery, I sat in the waiting room for an hour, listening to a total stranger talk my ear off about Marlo Thomas’ bad cosmetic surgery while I drank icky lukewarm instant coffee.

A while later, I drove my tearful daughter home in the sleet (yes, it was sleeting here in the Midwest, isn’t that lovely) while listening to her cry for her boyfriend. Back home, I propped her up on the couch with an icepack and the “Hairspray” dvd, loaded her up with painkillers and attempted to meet her every demand.

My daughter tends to be high maintenance when she’s not feeling well. Here are all the things she claims I did wrong today:
1. Didn’t let her call Boyfriend upon immediate arrival home after surgery.
2. Brought home the wrong flavors of Jamba Juice.
3. Made rice too salty.
4. Didn’t keep her little brother quiet enough.

But, God bless her, she’s a good kid most of the time. I hate to see her in pain. And I did leave her in the care of her brothers for an hour today so I could get out for coffee with my girlfriends, who put together a beautiful basket for my daughter, filled with jello and pudding and magazines and pj’s…..I have the greatest girlfriends. They care for me through caring for my daughter.

Right now Butterfly’s in a peaceful hydrocodone fog while I am attempting to prepare part of our Thanksgiving Day feast with Super Hub's help. Warm and safe in our home with our three healthy children nearby, my heart is beginning to let go of the stress of the day……and think about all the reasons I have to be thankful. Which are many.

Trauma Drama Mama

I had one of those mornings today when my mind felt all blurry as I was trying to toast my daughter a bagel before she left for school, and I was waiting and waiting and waiting for the imbecilic toaster to cook the bagel and fretting that it was taking too long and now she’d be late because the stupid idiot useless toaster didn’t know how to toast a bagel in a timely manner like normal toasters, and I was about to drop-kick it across the floor and then call Black & Decker and get someone fired, when suddenly I spied the bagel sitting on the kitchen counter, uncooked. I had forgotten to put it in the toaster. (And I swear that bagel gave me a smug look as I picked it up.)

So I had that kind of experience this morning, and after a horrific moment or two of thinking, “This is it! Early-Onset Alzheimer’s is beginning!”, I realized that I made the bagel toasting error because I was completely exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the drama of this past weekend. The drama regarding Butterfly’s dating woes.

Rock Star, who is only thirteen, has had just one “girlfriend,” and I seemed to be able to take their relationship much more in stride. He and his girlfriend “dated” for a month (I use that term loosely as “dating” involved talking inanely on their cell phones continuously to the tune of a $788 Cingular bill and occasional tv watching marathons). But one day Girlfriend called Rock Star on his cell phone, and he didn't return her call for three days because he was busy. My naïve son had no clue that a sin such as that was akin to a Relational Death Sentence in Estrogen Land. His girlfriend promptly broke up with him on MySpace, causing Rock Star to spiral down into a mini-depression during which he spent two days not showering and singing John Mayer love ballads on his electric guitar. But on Day #3, he woke up, showered, and returned to playing songs by Green Day; completely fine once again.

But with Butterfly, who is sixteen and more emotional, I am whipsawed back and forth by her every feeling, owning them as if they were mine. If she’s up, I’m up, and if she’s down, I want to crawl into a fetal position and just die. (I believe that’s called co-dependency??) She and her long-term boyfriend were having relational problems that seemed to stem from spending too much time together and decided they needed to “take a break” (and we all know what happened when Ross and Rachel did that. It was over with them from Season 2 until Season 10, for those who are not “Friends” fans.) So Butterfly spent a lot of time crying and being sad and heartbroken this past weekend. And I spent a lot of time comforting her and saying all the wrong things, until I finally realized I needed to just shut up and take her out for a manicure.

It’s hard, sometimes, being a mother to a teenage daughter. I connect emotionally almost too much. Her sorrow and losses stir up my own. I want to spare her from any pain in her life, even though I know that’s completely impossible and not helpful. She can grow from pain and be better for it. Some of the most beautiful people I know are that way because they have been through tremendous losses in their lives. But none-the-less, I want to make life all better for her because I am her Mommy and I was able to do that when she was a little girl. But now she’s sixteen, and I feel powerless to help her.

Last night at 9pm, Boyfriend came over and professed his undying love for her. “Break” over after two days. So Butterfly is happy again. But I am empty after the past 48 hours of emotional upheaval. Completely spent. Hence I cannot remember to put said bagel into said toaster like a person with functioning brain cells. But tonight I am having dinner with a couple of friends who make me laugh and fill me up. Pour me a martini and let the good times roll! I am SO ready!

Woof No More

If you are from P.E.T.A., please stop reading now. This post is not for you. I seriously mean it. Consider browsing a blog filled with successful pet stories, where The People and their well-adjusted, well-trained Dog frolic into the sunset, happily ever after. This is not one of those stories.

Little Squirt wants a dog for Christmas, suspiciously after viewing the “I Want A Dog For Christmas, Charlie Brown” DVD 17 times in a row. We already have a long-haired daschund, Rudy, who occasionally is one dog too many. But Little Squirt insists that Rudy needs a friend. He does not consider our three cats and three hamsters friends enough for Rudy, apparently. But I shudder at the thought. Another dog = Another possible Pet-Gone-Wrong. Here is the story of one example.

Several years ago, our beloved pug, Molly, died suddenly on a Saturday afternoon. We spent the evening having a “memorial service” for her with the kids; celebrating her life of 9 years.

The very next morning after Molly’s death, on the way home from church, I convinced Super Hubs to stop by the local pet shop, “just to look at the cute puppies for the fun of it.” “Ok, but we are ABSOLUTELY NOT coming home with a new puppy already, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he stated.

“Of course not!! How much of a cold-hearted nutcase do you think I am?!!” I said incredulously. I was appalled that he would even suggest I would consider such a thing. True, my pet buying track record was thus far less than stellar. I had made a few impulsive pet buying mistakes during our marital history. Okay, quite a few. Many. I have this soft spot in my heart for warm, fuzzy creatures. But surely he did not believe that I would think of replacing our 9-year-old dog with a new one THE VERY NEXT DAY AFTER HER DEATH! Jeeez!!!!!

We went into the pet shop to browse. My family headed off to see the fish-filled aquariums, while I viewed the puppies. An overly-zealous employee caught me eyeing a black boxer/lab mix, and asked if I wanted to pet her. “Sure! I LOVE dogs!” I replied enthusiastically. He put us together in one of those little Pet Viewing Rooms where you can play with the puppies while listening to a musical CD playing subliminal messages such as “Take me home!” and “You MUST have me.”

Within 10 minutes of looking into this lab/boxer’s big brown eyes, and smelling her puppy fragrance, I was sold. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this dog was God’s answer for our family. This dog would erase our sadness from Molly’s death and be the answer to THE PERFECT PET for the next 10-15 years. It would be a homo sapien /canine marriage made in heaven.

As Super Hubs walked by the Pet Viewing Room, he did a double-take, saw me with the puppy, and a look of horror crossed his face. “We are SO not buying that dog!” He said. “Let me remind you that our precious pet died just yesterday and we are still in a mourning period. And then there’s the fact that we are leaving for a 700-mile drive to my parents’ house at the end of the week. There is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY we are leaving this store with that dog. I put my foot down!” Ten minutes and $700+ later, we headed to our station wagon with 5 lbs. of IAMS and an 8-week-old BIG MISTAKE. I can be a bit persuasive when I am determined.

From the moment we arrived home, it became abundantly clear that this new puppy of ours, whom we named Gracie, had severe social and psychological issues. As we walked her into the front door of her new home, she ran straight under the kitchen table, where she remained in a quivering ball for the next 6 hours. She apparently was the only puppy on the planet that did not like people. And most especially, she did not like children. She snapped and growled at my kids as they tried to coax her out of hiding.

When I finally tempted her out from under the table with a piece of bologna, a new and very strange relationship was born. With that offer of processed meat, I became Gracie’s BEST FRIEND FOR LIFE, her SOUL MATE, her PERSON TO SWIM ACROSS OCEANS FOR. Everyone else became a threat to her relationship with me. I felt a bit pleased. A tad flattered. And then extremely suffocated.

Gracie followed me everywhere I went that first week. We were joined at the hip. I could not leave the room without her going into hysterical barking. She slept next to me. She growled at my children. She attacked my cats. And she glared at Super Hubs.
I began to feel the slightest twinge of doubt. Had I possibly made a mistake? Should I not have bought the very first dog that I saw, less than 24 hours after Molly’s death? Perhaps I had been a bit hasty? …….Nah. Probably not.

My marriage suffered a bit that week. And then there was the question of our upcoming trip to CT to visit my in-laws. What would we do with the puppy? After exhausting all possibilities, it became apparent that we had no choice but to bring Gracie with us. In the car. For a 20-hour drive. As the thought of this began to dawn on my husband, it wasn’t one of our better marital moments. “I’ll take care of her. She won’t bother anybody. It’ll be my problem,” I promised. “Trust me.”

We headed to CT at the end of the week, with the dog crate in the back of the station wagon. It was a very long drive. VERY LONG. The dog barked and howled in the crate for the first 120 miles. The kids complained for 120 miles. Super Hubs stewed for 120 miles. I ended up carrying 50# of lab/boxer mix on my lap for the rest of the way, just to keep peace. I ate my meals in the car. I became intimately acquainted with every “dog potty” area between The Midwest and Hoboken, while Super Hubs honked the horn impatiently. The air conditioning broke. It was hot. It was smelly. It was not pretty. Certain people in my family were very cranky for most of the 20 hour trip.

I tried to get Super Hubs to see the “half-full glass” of the situation. “This is an adventure! You, me, the kids and the dog. Taking a family vacation all together. How very American! And kind of funny, really. A good memory, yes?!” I said brightly. He did not agree. He most definitely did not agree.

Late, late that evening, we pulled into the CT driveway of my in-laws. They aren’t exactly “pet people”, and so Gracie and her crate were sent to spend the week in their mudroom. And, because of her previously mentioned neurotic attachment to me which included barking obsessively whenever I wasn’t in sight, I spent much of my vacation on a cot in the mudroom as well.

Our week in CT went by slowly. My family went off on fun dogless adventures while I was relegated to stay home and “baby-sit” Gracie. One morning, desperately needing a break from her, I tied the dog to a tree in the backyard so I could sit in the kitchen alone. Seeing me, her beloved mistress, through the sliding glass door, Gracie yanked so hard on her chain that she broke it and a branch off the oak tree to which she was tied. She ran through the yard to reunite with me, knocked over two big ceramic pots filled with azaleas and then scratched a big gash on the kitchen door. An oak tree and two azaleas taken out in less than 10 minutes! It was surreal, like a really bad “Lassie Come Home” remake. And I had to re-pot the azaleas.

Spending lots of time alone with the dog in CT gave me time to think. Time to reflect. And time to resent. And I was beginning to resent this dog in a big way. I was feeling smothered. And I missed my family. No one could come near me without the dog becoming threatened. I felt depressed and weepy. It was a rotten vacation. I knew what had to be done. Gracie would need to find a new home.

On the return car trip home, I gingerly broached the subject to Super Hubs. “Honey,” I began. “I’ve been doing some thinking. Maybe we made a mistake. Maybe we were a little bit too quick to buy this dog. “ “Oh, YA THINK??????!!!!!!” He quipped back.
“Yes, I do think. I’ve concluded that this dog is not working out. And so when we get back home, I think you need to find her a new home.” And with that request, was born SUPER HUBS’S QUEST TO GET RID OF THIS DOG. And he embraced this quest as if he was one of King Arthur’s Knights seeking the Holy Grail.

He began with the pet shop where we had purchased her. The interesting thing about pet shops is that once the puppy is purchased and leaves their property, they no longer want the puppy back under any circumstances. Not even for free. NOT EVER. Apparently, the minute the puppy walks out the pet shop door, it may contract a Pandemic Puppy Plague, which could wipe out all the other puppies in the shop. And perhaps the hamsters as well.

The animal shelters were all full. There was a waiting list to take unwanted dogs. They did not want ours. Who knew this was such a common problem?

Another interesting tidbit is that none of our friends were in the market for a free puppy at that time. Or they were all away on vacation. We aren’t quite certain, as none of them returned our calls.

But it was becoming clear that Gracie needed to leave the our home, and fast! And it became Crystal Clear the night she snapped at my daughter, nearly biting her eye. So Super Hubs and I did the only thing we possibly could. We are not proud of it. We neither recommend nor condone it. But we felt we had no other choice.

One evening, under the cover of darkness, adorned completely in black hooded outfits, we headed to a dog shelter which was closed for the evening. We attached Gracie and her leash to the front door of the shelter, with a full dish of puppy chow in reach.……..And then we drove away. FAR away, for the shelter was in a completely different county, which will go unnamed to protect the innocent. And we left Gracie and her puppy chow, howling and barking on the front steps. Alone. With a last look and a very slight pang of guilt, I realized that this dog was gone forever. I could have my life back. YIPPEEE!!!!!

I guess the moral of this story is that it is not wise to buy a new puppy the very next day after your beloved pet dog dies. You need to have a grieving period. And do graduate-level puppy research first. Or my point may be that spending $700+ on a dog that you get rid of three weeks later is a deplorable waste of resources. It really is. Or perhaps I just needed to inform you that I really don’t look good wearing basic black. It washes me out.

But, more importantly, did I learn my lesson??? Absolutely not. I have since had other pet horror stories, to be told at a later date. And occasionally I still wear black.

Glean from this what you choose. In any case, this story is honestly, completely, mostly true. And I dedicate it to Molly, the dog of my heart.

Va-Voom!

There’s an adage that says, “Don’t drink and blog.” …….Or is it, “Don’t think and blog”?? Hmmm…………..Well, I’ve already done the one, so I won’t do the other.

I confess I’ve just had a glass of wine. Okay, two glasses of wine, truthfully. But they were a chianti; very fruity and full-bodied and not cheap. And it was Date Night. Super Hubs and I went out to a new Lou Malnati’s that just opened less than a mile from our home, and we had their wonderful deep dish sausage pizza. And time in the bar beforehand to catch up.

We both process our week on Date Night. It’s like having free therapy. I highly recommend it for every married couple on the planet. Even if I’ve had a crapola seven days; filled with insensitive people and whiny children and acrylic nail breakage, everything comes into a rosy perspective on Date Night. I’ve been listened to by the human being that knows and loves me the best in the world and reassures me that I am a wonderful person. So I leave Date Night feeling that I can conquer anything! And between the glasses of wine and my inner-narcissist that comes out of hibernation every Friday, I am tempted to jump on our table at Lou Malnati’s and sing, ”I am woman, Hear me roar!” But I don’t, because it would take at least one more glass of wine to lose my inhibitions entirely. Instead I come home and blog.

In any case, we must buy a new car. Sadly, our Hyundai is terminally ill. We got the distressing medical report today. We were told, this afternoon, that we can repair our car by spending thousands of dollars more than her book value or something…….I wasn’t really listening beyond that because I began fantasizing about cars I’d love to drive. Call me a traitor.

I am at the age when I am SO ready to ditch the mini-van that fits my family of 5 and their friends so cozily, yet screams, “Middle Class Soccer Mom.” I fantasize about driving a car that says, “Posh Spice.” Or someone equally cool and classy. Nicole Kidman, maybe. Or even Madonna.

So I day-dream about a Jaguar. Or a red Mini-Cooper with white pin-stripes. Or a Mustang. A car that makes people on the road do a double-take, sum me up and decide that, even though I am a middle-aged mother-of-three, I am COOL. Or HOT, even. Because of my car. And my clothes. And my French-manicure. I don’t know. A girl can dream. It’s superficial, I realize, but sometimes you want to know you’ve "still got it.” I want to be sexy, I confess in blog-o-sphere (because I’ve had two glasses of chianti.) I want to be hot and drive a hot car.

And tomorrow, perhaps, Super Hubs and I will head out to an “auto-mart” or “auto-world” or whatever they call those dealerships that are lined up on the highway in our town, and we will compromise and bargain and buy a car that fits our family’s needs. And is possibly a little bit sexy. For me.

Leaves

I watched Little Squirt today, playing in the leaf pile in our front yard. He jumped into the heap, rolling around and scattering the leaves with pure glee, uttering squeals of delight. The sight of his joy took me back. Way back to my childhood.

I have a distinct memory that I hold dear in my heart, of coming home from school one autumn afternoon. Looking out the kitchen window, I was ecstatic to see that all the leaves in my backyard had been raked into a big pile. I excitedly asked my mother if I could jump in them. “Okay,” she admonished, “But I just spent a few hours raking, so if you mess up the pile, you’ll have to rake it again.”

Joyfully I changed out of my school dress into play clothes and ran outside to the backyard. It was a beautiful, brilliant October day in the Chicago suburbs. The air was crisp and cool but sunny. Being a very compliant child, I was wary of disobeying my mother and messing up the pile. Trying carefully not to disrupt one leaf, I sunk down into that pile; ginormous to a my petite 7-year-old body. It felt like a soft, plushy bed. I lay there for a while on my back, just staring upwards.

The color of the sky was radiant; a peacock blue with streaks of wispy clouds. I could see the boughs of the maple tree overhead, and if I squeezed my eyes half-shut, the branches looked like fingers reaching toward heaven. I watched the maple branches reaching, swaying in the breeze; then closed my eyes and sunk further into the crunch of red and golden leaves. Now buried entirely, I breathed deeply their earthy scent; their perfume intoxicating me. A fresh, clean odor. I heard a squirrel scolding nearby, and then the distinct call of a cardinal. Scolding, twittering. Scolding, twittering. A cacophony of wildlife. I felt enveloped in a peaceful aura. Warm and safe. Connected to the earth, somehow.

I lay there for a long, long time, deeply ministered to by a symphony for the senses. I felt God saying, “I made this all for you.” Life was beautiful at that moment. Beautiful and rich and nurturing my soul. An intimate moment between me and nature and God. I felt truly alive.

As I watched my son today, I wondered. At the age I am now, could I lie in a leaf pile and experience the same kind of magic as on that autumn day of my childhood? Or is my heart now too cluttered with the stuff of life that block the senses from experiencing nature in all its glory? From feeling joy with the same abandonment as does my 5-year-old? I don’t know. But tomorrow I will find out. Tomorrow, weather permitting, I will rake up a big pile of leaves, muster up my inner child, and lie in the leaves. And I’ll let you know.

Good-Bye Recession

In spending three full days last week at Disney World, I have come to believe that the Disney people are quite brilliant. Not because of the dazzling shows or the elaborately detailed attractions executed with perfect precision.

No, the Disney people are clever as a fox because they know the mindset of the 5-year-old consumer. At the end of every attraction in Disney World, one must walk through a gift shop filled with elaborate and exorbitant Disney paraphernalia. And if anyone tells me their 5-year-old doesn’t want to buy EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE, I will know they are fabricating.

Actual conversation between Little Squirt and me, in the gift shop of DINOSAUR:
LS: (Picking up three-foot-long rubber dinosaur for $22) “Oh, Mommy, I NEED to buy him!”
Me: “Uh, no, Little Squirt, he’s too big. I’d have to buy an extra seat on the plane ride back. Pick out one of the smaller ones for $12.”
LS: (Picking up two smaller dinosaurs for $12 each) “I want to buy these two. The red one and the green one.”
Me: “I said you can buy ONE.”
LS: “I NEED two!”
Me: “One is all I’m buying.”
LS: (Throwing himself on the gift shop floor) “Pweeze, pweeze, pweeze, Mommy???”
Me: “No. Get up off the floor.”
LS: (Still lying on the floor, now blocking the aisle and kicking dinosaur stand) “But I WANT two.”
Me: (Beginning to feel mortified) “Little Squirt, please get up right now or we’ll leave and go back to the hotel.”
LS: (Still lying across the aisle, people now walking over him) “But Daddy needs a dinosaur, too. He told me.”
Me: “Daddy doesn’t need a dinosaur.”
LS: “YES he does. We have to buy two!”
ME: “Then let’s call him and ask.”
SH: (Super Hubs answering cell phone from his Orlando conference) "Yeah?"
Me: “Honey, did you want a dinosaur?”
SH: “Uh…..what??”
Me: “Little Squirt insists I buy him two dinosaurs because he says you want one. Is that true?”
SH: (Talking very slowly, as if mustering up extreme patience) “No, I do NOT want a dinosaur. And I need to get back to my conference.” (Hangs up cell phone)
Me: “Bad news, Little Squirt. Daddy says he doesn’t want a dinosaur. So I will buy you only one.”
LS: (Still lying in aisle. People having to step over him at The Happiest Place On Earth no longer look happy) “But Sissy needs a dinosaur! She told me.”
Me: (Admiring his persistence, yet feeling a latent homicidal urge) “Get up NOW! You have 10 seconds to pick out ONE dinosaur or we are leaving this store without ANY!”

We leave exactly 10 seconds later with one green dinosaur. And a similar conversation and posture occur in every other gift shop in all the parks.

So the sure-fire cure for a sluggish economy, I surmise, is to send all the 5-year-olds in the country on a shopping spree. That'll do it.

I Am An American

I am an American.
My father belongs to the Sons of the Revolution;
My mother, the Colonial Dames.
One of my ancestors pitched tea overboard in Boston Harbor;
Another hungered with Washington at Valley Forge.
My forefathers were America in the making;
They spoke in her council halls;
They died on her battleships;
They cleared her forests.
Dawns reddened and paled.
Staunch hearts of mine beat fast at each new star
In the nation's flag.
Keen eyes of mine foresaw her greater glory:
The sweep of her seas,
The plenty of her plains,
The man-hives in her billion-wired cities.
Every drop of blood in me holds a heritage of patriotism.
I am proud of my past.
I am an AMERICAN. (Elias Lieberman)
Thank you, Veterans. Sincerely, thank you.

Disney Day 4

Super Hubs is available to play with us today! I am thrilled to have my husband join the fun. It’s his first trip to Disney World since the park opened, and I love showing him around. We decide to take on Epcot.

We ride everything in Future World that can be done without a lengthy wait. The favorite of my boys is “Test Track.” I am partial to “Ellen’s Energy Adventure,” simply because I am a big fan of Ms.DeGeneres. And riding back in time is such a kick!

We wander through all the countries in the World Showcase. Super Hubs and I love soaking up the atmosphere. We are famished and decide to eat our way through the park. My sons have a yen for the exotic cuisine of hamburgers and fries, so we make a pit stop in “The American Adventure” for lunch. Super Hubs and I, however, enjoy an orgy of eating. We indulge in Mexico churros, tempura kiku in Japan, bratwurst in Germany, pastry and rich coffee in France. If only we could dine with such cultural variety regularly in our hometown!

We take two monorails to get to The Magic Kingdom, hitting some rides we’d neglected last Thursday. It is Saturday, and the crowds have come! Hoards of people cover every inch of the park. The lines are depressingly long. It is appropriate that Super Hubs is wearing his “Grumpy” t-shirt. I need to wear one, too.

We head back to Epcot for our last ride of this visit,"The Seas with Nemo and Friends," Little Squirt’s favorite. He especially loves watching the live fish swim in the aquarium with the real deep sea divers. They wave to him from the tank. (The divers do the waving. The fish were less affable.)

We eat dinner in the park. My nerves are shot from arguing with Little Squirt in every gift shop, because he wants me to buy him everything. A family sits down right next to us to eat their meal. They have two “special needs” teenagers. One is autistic, and he holds his head and rocks back and forth, crying, “Please! Please!” the entire time, clearly frightened by the crowded dining room. The other teen is in a wheelchair and needs help to eat his food. I am greatly touched by the love and patience I see displayed by the parents. They minister to their teenage sons with such tenderness and grace; calming the extreme anxiety of one, cutting the food of the other. I think about the love they have for their sons, bringing them to Disney World knowing full well all the difficult challenges they would encounter given their circumstances. The difficulties I’ve encountered today in parenting a strong-willed yet healthy 5-year-old pale greatly in comparison. Watching that beautiful family has blessed me. My soul is deeply moved.

We arrive back at the hotel at 8pm, and Rock Star takes one last swim. Tomorrow we have a 3:15am wake up call to make our 6am flight. It’s been a wonderful trip, and we are so very grateful!

Disney Day 3

Rock Star, Little Squirt and I drive to MGM Studios, arriving when the park opens. We have an amazing time. I looove all things Hollywood, so the whole "feel" of this park pulls my actor heartstrings.

We spend a fun 4 hours there, then "hop" over to the Animal Kingdom. I especially enjoy the Kilimanjaro Safari, where we see live elephants, giraffes and lions freely roaming. Little Squirt is over-the-moon happy in DinoLand.

We leave at 5pm, one stuffed dinosaur later. We three are also stuffed, as we ate our way through the parks. I SO delight in any experience of dining!

And speaking of dining, we pick up Super Hubs at the hotel, then drive to a Cuban-themed restaurant for dinner. I am served a fabulous dish of shrimp linguine with a spicy cream sauce. And with a glass of dry white wine- an extremely pleasant experience in all it's entirety.

I have been missing Super Hubs on this vacation, who has been otherwise occupied with his conference. But now it is over, and we celebrate by taking a couple of hours to ourselves after we get the boys settled for the night. We find a charming cabaret and enjoy drinks together.

Catching up, Disney Style

Kellye and I enjoy a brief vino vacation moment.

Disney Day 2

My sons and I head to The Magic Kingdom in the morning. Butterfly is conspicuously absent this trip (she opted to stay home with a friend) and I am missing her terribly. We experienced a mother/daughter trip here just two years ago, so everything is reminding me of her.

Little Squirt, who delights in the ordinary, is over-the-top joyous about the extraordinary that is The Magic Kingdom. It is both my boys' first trip here, and I enjoy their extreme enthusiasm. We do.....everything. Every ride, every experience is their's today.

The "Pirates of the Caribbean" seems to be my sons' favorite. Little Squirt, who has no interest in castles or princesses, implores me to buy him a play gun, and then "shoots" every tourist in sight. Ah...testosterone.

We spend a full 8 hours in the park, then head back to the hotel to join Super Hubs, finished with his conference for the day. We relax for a bit, then meet my friend, Kellye, and her family for dinner. Kellye is one of my closest friends and actually lives only about 15 minutes from my house in the Chicago suburbs. We just happen to be vacationing in Orlando at the same time, through sheer coincidence. So we enjoy pasta and wine together with our families.

All in all- A Magical Day!