"We Take Discover"

My long-suffering husband and I had a “Burger King Breakfast and Jean Shopping Date” yesterday. The goal, I told him, was to nurture our marital relationship. My shadow mission, however, was to build my winter wardrobe. By using his credit card. So, after bribing Super Hubs with a breakfast of an egg-and-sausage sandwich and cheesy tots, I dragged him to the nearby outdoor mall with promises to “be in and out in a jiffy.”

We entered American Eagle, and stopped in dismay. There were 6 different shelf units filled with women’s jeans of all shapes, sizes and colors of blue. Where to begin? The friendly sales girl pounced on us, pledging to find me “just the cutest little pair of versatile jeans that would make me look like a 20-something;” jeans that I could wear “to the office” and also for my “evenings out.” (Which spun me into a fantasy of having a high-rise office at a high-powered job upon which I’d leave at 5pm to go out clubbing. So, were they magic jeans? Ones that, when I wore them, would morph me into a Hot Partner At A Law Firm With A Rockin’ Social Life?? Hmmmmm.)

Then she peppered me with questions: Did I want “Skinny?” Or “Bootcut?” “Flair; Real or Extreme?” “Tight through the hips and things, or looser around the legs?” She assured me that I’d look fabulous in “Wide Leg” with the “Rip and Repair Wash” or “Favorite Boyfriend Cut” in the “Super Bleach.” My head spun. It had been a few years since I’d bought a pair of jeans. I had no idea the variety…the enormity of choices…the utter overwhelmingness of possibilities….”I just need a new pair of jeans that are blue. Ones that fit me,” I said definitively.

She gave me a cool once over, and began pulling pants off the shelves and piling them into Super Hubs’ arms. I was then ushered into the unisex dressing room, where I began trying on clothes like a crazed runway model. Super Hubs sat on the bench in the hallway, watching me prance in front of the mirror until his eyes glazed over.

In the end, I left a pile of jeans on the dressing room floor. And I acquired two new purchases, one in “Vintage Destroyed” and the other, “Indigo Wash.” Both felt cozy, friendly and….me. Me with my humble little suburban lifestyle. The three of us were going to become fast friends, I could just tell.

We went home, and I put on “Vintage Destroyed.” “Indigo Wash” rested up in the closet, acclimating to its new home. And Super Hubs crashed on the couch, exhausted. I was beyond happy. It’s a big day when a girl finds the perfect pair of jeans that make her feel fabulous. And an extra pair for half price.

Let Me Off!

I like my coffee hot, and my orange juice cold; my roller coasters fast and my Sundays slow. I was a sprinter in high school and I’m a napper currently. Life is often an up and down, back and forth conundrum of extremes. Which can make it good and exciting and rich. But my goodness, sometimes I want my life to resemble a good old average-priced glass of merlot served room temperature! (With just a handful of cashews to spice it up.)

Nothing I’ve ever encountered in my (phenomenally many) years of living has prepared me for the emotionally-taxing parenting of teens. And my introduction to parenting, 17 years ago, was not exactly stress-free. I spent my first 5 weeks of motherhood living with a newborn in a third-world country with very bad water in the midst of a civil war. (I cringe when I hear other mothers talk about the horrors of parenting newborns. I want to say, “You have no idea! Try caring for a tiny baby while living in a foreign country. With no English-speaking pediatricians anywhere. And no electrical power. Which meant Bad Hair days always.) But my husband and I survived, and our newborn survived, and, in retrospect, it was actually a walk in the park compared to Teen Parenting.

I have two really, really great teenagers whom I love with all my heart and soul. I would jump in front of a train for either one of them. I honestly would. They are good, wonderful people. But, that being said, they quite often drain me emotionally. And I believe that if anyone ever says that Teen Parenting is easy, they are either lying, in denial, or have a really great au pair that enables them to stay in denial.

This is the deal: The life of a teenager is fraught with drama. This is caused by a combination of hormones, unformed gray matter, immature life perspective, and a tad bit of self-absorption. And where teens do not have real drama, they create drama. Or their friends do. Or their enemies. Or parents of their enemies. And Teens view TV shows like “Gossip Girl” that perpetuate the theory that a teen life without drama is not a life well lived. So every day there is a soap opera -worthy story of who broke up with who, and who got arrested for what, and who picked on who, and who is their new best friend, and who they love and who they hate and so forth. I simply cannot keep up.

One of my friends very wisely told me to “Get off the roller coaster now.” She said there was not one mortal reason why I needed to feel the high highs and low lows with my teens. I had no business ride-crashing and that I should hightail it to the nearest park exit sign immediately. She was right. It’s just easier said than done when I’m the Tender-Hearted Feeler Type with Co-Dependent Tendencies. Super Hubs detaches really well. He won’t ride the ups and downs with The Teens. He’ll simply say, “Get your homework done.”

(Big sigh.) I’m tired. I’m just sayin’. More on this topic later. (After my nap.)

What's Up With Her Buying A Lamborghini?

I believe I am having a crisis, of sorts. The Travel-Into-Another-Era type. The Middling-On-The-Timeline-Of-My-Life kind. One marked by transitions, turning points, and the desire to rebel by eating junk food for breakfast. Okay, I’ll quit hedging and just say it. I AM HAVING A MID-LIFE CRISIS! And I intend to enjoy every minute. Because they can actually be a little fun. I can act in bizarre and immature ways, and it’ll all be excused with a wink and a nod and the whispering of: “She’s having The Crisis. Just humor her, and pretend she looks great in those skinny jeans and nose ring.”

Mid-Life Crisis, from what I’m learning, are not All Bad. They can be an excellent time of exploration about oneself, and reevaluating the trajectory of one’s life. They are a time of opportunity. They needn’t be harmful or destructive, or an episode of Desperate Housewives. I don’t plan on spending my daughter’s college fund on implants, or leaving my loyal and faithful husband for a 20-year-old buff Cabana Boy named Sven.

I am finding fellow Crisis Travelers among some of my women friends, and realizing that we are all dealing with this season in a different way. For example, I have a friend who is lusting for adventure. She recently went on a girl’s weekend where they white-water rafted by day, and then drank wine until the wee hours. And in a few months, she’s going to go Tree Top Trekking. Tree Top Trekking is apparently an aerial adventure in the tops of trees using ropes and suspended bridges. Then you sleep in hammocks, much like Tarzan and Jane. Well, good for her, I say. That’s just not me. I’d prefer to have My Crisis in a four-star hotel with a hot tub and room service. But to each her own.

My Mid-Life Crisis is so far causing me to have feelings of restlessness. And wondering what the rest of my life should be like. And terror that I will end up looking like my Aunt Millie. And I am finding myself contemplating the application of a little tattoo to mark the moment. And I fantasize about spending the evening clubbing rather than homework helping. Or having a complete image makeover and dying my hair a vibrant shade of red. Just little, teeny acts of rebelliousness. Or independence.

I’ll keep you posted on my journey. And I’m open to suggestions. And if anyone wants to join my on my Mid-Life-ing Adventures, just let me know. We'll do it together.

Report Card

Little Squirt received his first report card of kindergarten today. Frankly, I’m disappointed. Where is the verbiage about his intelligence? His brilliance? His Harvard-bound smarts? Does his teacher have no discernment?? Perhaps I should share a few vignettes with her about his incredible resourcefulness. Oh, soooo many stories! The child is amazingly clever. How can she not see that??

Behavior: “Demonstrates improving behavior.” Improving. Improving? He’s gotten through the past 4 weeks without another Poopy Pants Incident and nary a toilet seat stuck on his head. I’ll say he’s improving! She doesn’t know the half of it.

Work Habits: “Needs some assistance.” Well, duh! My flirtatious little boy loves women! Why would he work independently when he could have his adored teacher help him to form his lower case letters? The male version of “the damsel in distress” sort of thing. He ain’t no fool!

Effort: “Average.” Average. Average?? Now that really bothered me because it made him sound so……. “average.” And “average” my boy is certainly not. Of course…..Little Squirt does only want to do what he loves to do. Things that he finds adventurous and breath-taking and spine-tingling. And seat work is definitely none of those things. Little Squirt has told me that seat work is “boring.” That he wants to “quit seat work.” That he likes recess and gym best of all. And “singing class.” So…… I suppose if he was doing something he vastly disliked, such as seat work, he might show minimal to average effort.

But still. He’s my baby and I know in my heart of hearts that he’s special. And today he drew me a picture with markers. It was a portrait of Moi with bright yellow hair, a blue dress and radiant ruby lipstick. And he wrote on it, “Mom,” without asking me how to spell. It was a darned good A+ Brilliant Adaptation of Me That Showed Greatly Improved Independent Effort of Excellent Proportions, if I do say so myself.

Homecoming

All The Homecoming Hoopla at The Teens high school is officially over for the year. And frankly, just watching Butterfly embrace the festivities was exhausting to me, a mere observer! She pranced through the week with the energy of a colt let out to pasture. Her main focus was wardrobe. (God love her- she is my daughter through and though.) Every day after school she went on a mission to purchase the perfect accoutrement for the theme of the following day: Country-Western, Beauty and The Geek, Cross-Dressing, etc. If the girl would put that much effort into her studies, she’d be a competitive candidate for Oxford U. Then there was the Homecoming Football game of which she is a Super-Fan. She bathed in green and gold paint, hosted a tailgating party for much of the senior class, and cheered loudly to the 35-point game win. Then danced the night away with her friends at the Homecoming Dance.

Rock Star is a more sedate freshman. He didn’t actually think about his wardrobe until each morning, when he’d climb into the costume his sister laid out for him. But he thoroughly enjoyed his first Homecoming weekend with its parade, football game and “crank that” at the dance. He walked through the door at 1:30am, his shirt and tie crumbled into a ball in his fist, sweaty and tired after a post-party. But he’s completely encompassing the high school culture.

The Glory Days.

Date Morning

Having Rock Star in high school now, Super Hubs and I have essentially lost our Friday evening Date Nights. Between football games and guitar jams and parties, our teens have calendars packed with social agendas. Which is good. That is how high school should be. But it leaves Little Squirt with nary a babysitter. So our Date Nights have morphed into stolen moments or practical opportunities when the kids are in school; “Date Taco Lunches” or “Date Grocery Shopping” or “Date Let’s Just Sip Coffee and Read the Papers.” We try to be flexible and take what we can get.

The other morning, with a 2-hour window when Little Squirt was in school and Super Hubs was working from home, we headed up to Woodstock Square, a mere hop-skip-and-a-jump from our home. I adore this historic town, with it’s old Opera House, gazebo, artsy shops and French creperie. This is the location where the movie, “Groundhog Day,” was filmed.

We ate a breakfast sandwiches of sausage in French toast pockets and sipped hot café au lait while watching people walk The Square. Then we browsed the shops, where I bought a blue ceramic choker. The air was crisp, the leaves were beginning to color, and it was bliss.

Life Is My Stage

As one of the leaders of our church’s Drama Team, I helped to audition 7 potential actors last night. I thoroughly enjoyed watching them Improv, do a “cold read” of a script, and perform their monologues. Very few things in life energize me as being around fellow actors. Their spirit, spunk, lack of inhibitions, wild creativity, sense of humor. They.Are.My.People. Last night’s experience brought me right back to 5 years ago when I was auditioning for the same Drama Team….

Before we auditioned, we were asked to fill out an application that asked general information, including the dreaded: “Please describe any acting experience.” I glanced over at the others’ answers, feeling intimidated by seeing “Commercial work” and “Professional Voice-Overs” and “Community Theater.” Other than a tad bit of child runway modeling and one acting class in college for non-theater majors (Ahem. I was the only one who got an “A.”), I had no real practical experience.

Yet how could I describe, in three sentences or less, that I have been a frustrated actor since birth? How could I begin to explain that I grew up viewing my life as a performance that I was called to produce, act and direct? As if the world was an empty canvas, and I, the artist, would paint away the white monotony with colorful swirls of my choosing….

I spent my childhood bored with being just “Kelly the Middle-Class Suburban Girl.” So I invented characters wherever I went. I successfully entertained my friends and convinced complete strangers that I was “Inga from Sweden.” Or “Sadie the Orphan.” Or “Random Blind Child At The Park.” I was also “Girl Who Made A Guest Appearance on ‘The Brady Bunch.’” And “Weird Kid At The Mall.”

But my piece de résistance was when I was ten and staying at our vacation condo. I transformed myself into twins, “Kelly and Kerry.” With a quick change of my of my bathing suit and hairstyle, all the other condo kids were fooled. For an entire week, no one questioned that they never saw “the identicals” together. But then I nearly had a panic attack when we both were invited to a birthday party. I gave “my twin” a bad case of scarlet fever, and I went off to the festivities solo. I was feeling proud of my ingenuity, until the discerning mother of the birthday child confronted me on my fib. Being a good Catholic girl, I confessed my lie, and then slunk away in mortification. Did I learn my lesson? Absolutely not!

I was born to act. On stage, in front of a camera, or in real life. It’s an art form. A creative urge that must be expressed. A soul-filler. Other actors know exactly what I am talking about. Which is why, in answering the “Please describe any acting experience” question, I simply wrote: “Life is my stage.”