What's the hurry?

So, after my sister up and died the year before, my mother decided she was going to defy our expectations of living at least as long as her parents (mid-90s) and without much warning, died of a heart attack in April, 2017. She was 82.

82! That's like--average death age. She was supposed to last longer!

She had been sick with a cold in the days before, she went to the doctor, who thought nothing of it, and I'd strangle that doctor now if I could. What she probably had was congestive heart failure, if you ask me, but I'm no doctor. Still.

Shannon, Marty and I were with her the night before, she wasn't feeling well. We had no idea. We tried to convince her to go the the hospital; she wouldn't budge. Finally, we put her to bed, and she said to us that she felt loved. Those were her last words to us.

Shannon checked on her in the morning, she was sleeping. I showed up to visit an hour and a half later, and she was gone.

One hour and a half hour. That's it. That's all it took.

She wouldn't have liked being hooked up to all the tubes and wires and electronics that folks are subject to in the hospital when they die. She died in her sleep. So it was a good death, we keep telling ourselves.

She was cremated, and sits beside my dad in the basement. We had a great service for her--beer and wine and snacks--we wanted to make it a party. I think she would have approved.

Since then, I've taken my parents to Aruba and to San Francisco and scattered some of their ashes into the water. Just so they know I get around. 

Five years

Well, here it is, September 2, 2018. Whaddya know?

Oh, I know: a lot of goddamn fucking shit has happened since I last posted.

First: My sister died August 7, 2015. Her days were numbered, of course, because she was an alcoholic. She was 63. Had some kind of seizure after having been hospitalized for the umpteenth time for some alcohol-fueled fall or complication or somesuch. She went home and seized up the next day. So her bf calls me and says "Yeah, I think this is the big one!" After many other "big ones" who's to say?

But just in case, I hopped in the car and rushed to the hospital, stopping at the wrong one along the way. I was in a race with her daughter to get there, and I arrived first, which made me feel like I'd won something. The privilege to see her dead body first, I suppose. I'd known her longer than her daughter so I thought I deserved to see her dead first. She didn't look too bad, considering, just like she was sleeping after a 30-odd year bender that included multiple trips to hospitals, rehabs, some respites taken on people's couches, living in her car, or in sleazy motels on the Black Horse Pike.  Took a photo. I won't share it here. I don't want to judge, but I'd say her life was a misery.

Her service was nice though; some of her oldest friends who she hadn't talked to in years showed up. I asked them if they ever hung out together (some still lived in Wenonah) and they said no. So I said you better get on that, you've known each other for more than 50 years! You're getting old! Life is short! And sure enough, several weeks later, someone in the group posted a photo of them out having cocktails or dinner or something. Good on them. Sometimes I give good advice.

My sister was cremated and she's in Shannon's basement now, I think. She was an organ donor--inasmuch as her organs could be useful to anyone, but whaddya know: they used her corneas and her skin. The recipient of her corneas sent Shannon a nice note saying he was able to see...I think Yosemite? Some national park for the first time. Her eyes were not very good, so that surprised me. And her skin helped a breast cancer survivor.

I guess even a life of misery still has gifts to give. RIP, Laur.

But that's not the only shitty thing that has happened in the last few years, which I will attempt to detail with some regularity and humor in the coming days.

that moment

When can you say the moment your life ended and a new, different, somewhat worse one began?

Sure, life has its ups and downs, challenges and hardships. But there are moments when it just stops being what it was and becomes harder. More complicated. And you can't see back to the one you had, you'll never get that one back again. You'll wonder why you ever complained about it. Because the new one, see, the new one...you look at what's ahead, and you see lots of anger. Sadness. Fear. Heartache so crushing it's hard to breathe.



For me, that moment was in a recent 3 am phone call about my youngest son. No, he is not dead or injured. But since that moment, my life has been toppled and tossed like a sightless gerbil in an exercise ball, banging into furniture, crashing into walls.

The Bebop farewell

My dad died on April 5 of this year. We knew it was coming--he had Alzheimer's, and toward the end he seemed to decline pretty quickly. His small family (my mother, my sister and her...roommate--for lack of a better word--her daughter, and my two boys) gathered in a small room at the funeral home. A few rows of chairs were set up but weren't needed. I was impressed to see tissue boxes built into the walls. 

There was no service, no family friends...just a rather hurried goodbye before he was sent to be cremated.

My family tends to look for the dark humor in tragedy, so instead of excessive weeping, we told jokes and stories. Dad was lying on a table, covered by a white sheet. Only his head was visible; he looked a little waxy, but really not bad at all. I was afraid this image of his head would continue to haunt me and follow me around like a floating bowl of Cream of Wheat, but so far that hasn't happened. 

He still had great hair for a man his age, 81. We're still amazed he lasted that long, given the abuse he put his body through with drinking. We figured it acted as a preservative.

We sat for several minutes telling old stories--the same ones we always told--and alternately going up to him to say goodbye, then sitting down, then going up to say goodbye again. It couldn't have been much more than 20 minutes, and my mother had had enough. She was ready to go. She didn't want to see him up close.

Twenty minutes to try to squeeze in a lifetime of goodbyes, of "I love you"s not spoken in life.

It wasn't easy, but we got through it. We went out to lunch afterward, and threw rolled up balls of straw paper at each other. 

It's not a bad coping mechanism.

I'm writing this today, Father's Day, because more than two months have passed since his death, and I finally summoned up the courage to place his obit in the newspaper. It seemed like the right time.

get away from me with that thing

I had a shocking realization tonight as I was watching the Ed Show and alternately yelling at the clips of last night's Republican circle jerk.

It was during a Cialis commercial. A silly concept, for sure: the women in the commercial are doing some girly thing or another: one woman twirls her hair, one is caught off guard singing, another is doing that wavy swimming hand thing out the window. Their men are so enchanted by these little displays of whimsy we're led to believe they develop enormous, throbbing erections as a result. Erections that of course demand immediate attention.

But then I looked a little closer at the folks in the commercial, and it hit me:

They're my age. Maybe younger!

These guys look like all the guys I went to high school with. Except mostly better looking. They look old! I mean, these aren't old 68-year-old naked Gingriches getting hard-ons. (Ugh, I can't unsee that! Make it stop!) These are middle age guys with little paunches and wrinkles and grey hair--if they still have hair--and grown children. They still have some potential. And they all have erectile dysfunction.

This made me sad. I'm of an age when women go bonkers with angry hormone fluctuations and gushing, clotty, surprise periods and men are alternately trying to get away from them or waving erections in their faces. Seems like the last thing anyone of this age would want to do is have sex.

republicans make me nuts

I've watched just about every Republican debate because....well, I don't know. It's torture. I'm trying to keep the boys informed about the dangerous, 13th century views--in my opinion--that the candidates spew. You can almost see the spittle flying out of their mouths when they deflect the topic back to some or another of Obama's shortcomings/abject failures/lack of leadership, blahblahblah. They can't see the world clearly, they're so full of anti-O rage.

They don't have O-faces. They have anti-O faces.

And the problem for me is, that pisses me off. So I end up yelling at the TV during the debates. A lot.

I argue with Romney, debating every false, misguided point he makes, my comments peppered liberally with comments like "shut up you fucking DOUCHE" and "OmiGOD, you're SUCH a fucking DOUCHE, you DOUCHE!" He usually is the recipient of my douche comments.

I reserve "dick" mostly for Newt in my arguments with him. He's a sanctimonious, pompous dick. The term "dick" just seems to fit his milky, bloated visage.

Santorum is tricky. His names vary; I can't quite pin just one on him. He could be "fuckwad" or "dickweed" or "fucking asshole" or "uptight prick". Sometimes he's just a big jerk. His evangelical, dorky personality almost makes me go easy on him. Probably because I don't believe he'll get the nomination. Possibly because I'm still in shock that he has gotten this far in the process, and HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN???

And Paul? He's just entertaining. I go pretty easy on him too, with "moron" and "imbecile". Or "isn't he CUTE?"

I believe watching these things and yelling at the TV is probably hazardous to my health, and my boys think I'm nuts besides. But this process, and my mental and emotional investment in it, is far from over. Go, Team O!

Lockdown

Hello. Let's switch gears here for a moment.

Last week, I got a call from my mother, one I had been expecting for a little while.

"It's time to move your dad," she said.

Of course, she was talking about moving him to what I've taken to calling "the big house," now known as "lockdown." Another name for an Alzheimer's facility.

Back in the late summer, my niece and I helped move my mom and dad from their home in Virginia to an assisted living community in Lewes, Delaware. It's the kind of place plunked down by aliens in the lonely middle of a cornfield, with little homes in various shades of neutral, an apartment building, medical care facility and the main office/dining room/pool/bingo hall/ballroom. In the winter, hundreds and hundreds of snow geese congregate in the field across the road, sending up a flowing white curtain when one bird decides it wants to split.

They got a little house there, and at the time, my dad was ok. In that, yes, he was off his rocker--you can't understand a word he says because it's mostly gibberish--but he was still shuffling, and still smoking cigarettes. I never thought I'd consider smoking cigarettes a sign that his health was basically ok.

He's not smoking anymore.

He had wandered in the night, my mother told me, before the move. He sometimes fell during his travels, somehow managing to escape serious injury. Once in the new house, he continued to wander while my mother dozed (she never got a real good night's sleep knowing he was shuffling around in the dark), sometimes drinking maple syrup and once eating an entire jar of raspberry jam while hiding mugs and cups and trash can lids all over the house.

About a week before the move to lockdown, he had fallen in the garage at night. My mother found him on the other side of the car, half dressed, asleep on the cold floor. It appeared to her that he had gotten into the vinegar.

She couldn't lift him from the floor, because he is dead weight and largely uncooperative, and she made the last of a growing series of calls to the staff to help her.

A few days later, my mom moved him into a room with a gentleman named Ben. We hear Ben is a nice guy.

My niece and I drove down to Lewes that day. We wheeled Dad into the lockdown and to his room. While we stood there talking to the nurses, he used his feet to scoot the wheelchair out the door and down the hall. My first instinct was to go get him, but I remembered. He's in lockdown. He's not going anywhere.

I did catch up to him as he tried to get up from his wheelchair. He had some trouble, and I eased him back into the seat. I spoke to him gently and stroked his back, and told him I was glad he was exploring his new digs.

He looked at me, and for a brief moment, a wave of clarity seemed to wash over his face. His eyes were scared as he looked at me, looking for answers. He looked like he would cry. It seemed like he tried to speak, but couldn't. I wondered how much he knows.

I wonder if he sees his future.

That look is going to stay with me for a long while.

Happy endings

Wow, I just noticed I've been posting in a larger font. So old people can read, I guess.

So for those watching at home, the colonoscopy wasn't so bad...but the splitting headache that resulted from not eating and caffeine withdrawal for 2 days was horrible. I was pretty goddamn hungry by the end of it! But the actual...elimination process was not nearly as bad as I'd read...probably given that it was stretched out over 2 days. In any event, the actual procedure and recovery was a walk in the park and an excuse to lie there and do nothing for a little while.

---

I took Jeremy to the Friendly's the other day, kind of a date night thing. He noticed on the back of the menu that Seniors over age 60 could get a free happy ending sundae with their meal.

"Heh heh," he says.

"What?"

"It says here that old people get a happy ending sundae. Get it? Happy ending?"

I DID get it, but I wasn't sure what he was driving at. To Friendly's, it's a 2-scoop sundae. To me and the rest of the world, a happy ending is what happens at the end of a massage, for an extra fee, of course.

"Uh, what do you mean, 'happy ending'? What's so funny about that?"

"A HAPPY ENDING, Mom. Get it????"

Oh, my boy, do you already know what a happy ending is? You're 13! How could you know this?! I didn't know what this was until about a decade ago! Clearly I haven't shielded you from the seedy side of human sexuality!

"What are you talking about, Jeremy?"

"A HAPPY ENDING! Like, they're over 60. They're old. They could die after eating ice cream! So it'd be like their 'happy ending' sundae," he says, and gives me that eye roll that suggests I know absolutely nothing about anything.

So. A happy ending is like when old people die after eating ice cream. Ok then.

hope everything comes out all right

I said earlier, I no longer really give a shit about turning 50, it's old news now. It's still a milestone; I know women who have thrown themselves parties, or have had parties thrown in their honor, or have thrown themselves into pools to celebrate.

I imagine other women might use the event to get their girly on: get a mani/pedi, some botox injections, a makeover, a new man, maybe some fat sucked out of their thighs.

Sadly, I'm a little too pragmatic and stingy to indulge in many of those things. So instead, this week, I did what perhaps most of us should do at this age: ordered new bifocals, and had a colonoscopy consultation.

The word "colonoscopy" can induce fits of helpless giggles in otherwise mature grownups. I mean, the idea of someone snaking a camera and a polyps-snipper through your bowels and who knows where else is truly riotous. You have to have a sense of humor about it. So I'm pretty sure when I spent the half hour or so talking to Lisa, the nurse practitioner, she had already heard a million times before all the nervous lame jokes I made, ending with a cheerful encore of "well, I hope everything comes out all right!"

Groan.

My concern is not the procedure itself, scheduled for the end of the month, but the prep. It helps to do your homework before the consultation so you can ask appropriate questions, such as "exactly how much crap can I expect to expel during the prep?" You are warned that it may be "uncomfortable." As in, for 24 hours before the procedure, don't go anywhere not within 5 feet of a toilet, and prepare for perhaps the first time in your adult life to wear a diaper to bed. And tell the kids to spend the night elsewhere, or sit them down and have a serious talk about how all those times you said you didn't fart or poop because you're a lady and ladies don't do that...you were lying.

(Of course, my boys already know I was lying, but up to now, I've worked hard to keep the illusion alive.)

After this is done, there really won't be too much left to be shy about. With my first birth, the ob/gyn made a joke about a dull knife while he's giving me an episiotomy. My tits have been squeezed, prodded and smashed through 15 years of annual mammograms and ultrasounds. And soon I will have a snake up my ass. There's not many more ways I can be physically humiliated. In a weird way, it's kind of liberating.

more kissing for dummies

Generalization #4: The Pecker. This man—or woman, so I’m told—cannot commit to a real, long, open mouth, soul-stirring kiss. He pecks here and there like a chicken. Maybe he’s not emotionally invested in the other person. Maybe he thinks saliva is icky. Maybe he’s got a plane to catch. Maybe he’s new at this. If he does manage to pry his stingy lips apart and go in for an open-mouther, chances are he will keep his tongue to himself. Which is probably just as well.

Generalization #5: The St. Bernard. We all know one. It’s like kissing your dog after he’s had a long drink from his bowl. There is way too much wetness going on; a little drip out the side of your mouth, that bridge of spit connecting your tongues together when you part lips… when you’re done, your face looks like it’s been bobbing for apples. This is in contrast to Generalization #6: The Deserter, whose kiss is as arid as the Sahara. You know how your mouth gets dry after you smoke weed? That’s this guy: you feel his every taste bud for lack of lubrication, his tongue flipping around like a finger in your mouth, sweeping away seaweed before you are the unfortunate recipient of his mouth-to-mouth.

Generalization #7: The Hard Rock. If you had to kiss a cardboard cutout of a real person, this guy would be that. Every angle in his face is hard. His mouth is hard. He presses it against you at one speed and pressure: hard. His lips are like pencils. Pencils with teeth behind them, which you can also feel, because they, too, are hard. Hard, hard, hard.

No, I'm not done.

kissing for dummies

In honor of the Saint of Chocolatey Goodness, I could only think about one thing to write about.

Kissing.

I hadn’t really thought much about it, because up until fairly recently, kissing was something I used to do, long ago, with a husband I no longer have, and before that, with a collection of mostly ill-suited boyfriends with wildly divergent techniques. In that pantheon of past boyfriends, one-night stands, two-night stands, and other close encounters, there are a few—just a scant few—that I would honestly rank up there as good kissers.

Great kissers are even harder to find. I have found one, and I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit, and naturally it becomes a big fucking science project for me to analyze and theorize about. He tells me kissing isn’t complicated. He is right, of course. We have an understanding, I think, that we are both doing it very, very well, to a mutual melty, trancelike satisfaction. This is some of the best kissing I have ever experienced. I had forgotten how wonderful it can be.

Here’s the thing: everybody goes about it differently, of course, and great kissing is subjective. Some folks might really enjoy someone else’s bloated, fat tongue in their mouth, grazing the uvula. That’s not for me.

Let’s start with the initial encounter. A little awkwardness can be overlooked. But ya can’t both just be standing there one minute, and then zip! the guy swoops in like some unexpected fighter jet to plant one on you. This works in the movies, but in real life, one of you will invariably be knocked off balance, there will be an uncomfortable repositioning of feet and legs as you regain your footing, your teeth will crash together, and your handbag will fall off your shoulder.

Sitting next to each other, say, at the movies, presents its own perils, as you may have to twist your back in one direction while your head tilts in another, or “kisstwisting,” which can result in serious muscle spasms and cramps later on.

I think that a finger or two along the jaw, gently turning your mouth toward his, accompanied by a deep gaze into the eyes, is a rather nice way to start. Or stroking back even a few imaginary strands of hair first. Some innocuous physical touch that indicates that the kissing is about to begin.

If you really have to passionately eat each other up immediately, you miss out on all the gentle exploration that should rightly occur before, and I will bet that that wild, frenzied kissing will not be nearly as satisfying as a slow journey to get to that point.

I think there are a few generalizations that can be made about men who do bad kissing.

Generalization #1: The Man with the Swollen Tongue. This dashing gentleman somehow is able to inflate his tongue to double its normal size. I’m not talking about length here, so much as breadth. It can fill up your mouth and make breathing difficult. He can’t even really move it around in your mouth so much as he needs a tugboat to guide it. There is no room in your mouth for BOTH your tongues, so you can only attempt to keep yours out of the way while he goes on an exploratory mission. There’s a certain panic that sets in and you feel sure you will, in fact, drown in the night air.

Generalization #2: The Darter. This gentleman consistently leads with his tongue, even before your lips have met. This is totally unacceptable, unless it’s in a porno with lesbians. Imagine: your eyes are closed and your lips are slightly parted, you’re ready for that light brush of the lips (that’s where all the good nerve endings are). Instead, here’s this tongue, flipping and darting around like a garter snake. The worst of these is the man who hasn’t grasped the concept of clockwise or even counter-clockwise, but whose tongue is instead stuck in a pattern of rapid, horizontal, back and forth.

That might work on another area of the body, but the inside of the mouth is not the place.

Generalization #3: Mr. Timid. Where an overzealous man can make you wish you had a handy can of mace, Mr. Timid just…isn’t quite sure what’s going on. His lips are flaccid and unconvincing, neither too taut nor too squishy, just…non-committal. He pokes his tongue out like he’s testing the temperature with a vague, skittish, licking motion. There is no sense of urgency or desire, no heavy breathing, no sense that he is really enjoying the experience.

There’s more, but I’ve got a tomorrow to prepare for tonight. To be continued….

lavender and sawdust

It didn't take too long for me to stop giving a shit about being 50. Less than 6 months. Nobody else cares, why should I?

I only care to the degree that every day, the only thing that is guaranteed anymore is that I will get a little bit uglier. Now, before you say, "oh, stop, beauty is on the INSIDE, blah blah," that's not the point. The point is, folks DO just simply look uglier as they age. It's just a fact, and I'm ok with that. Mostly. Sometimes.

I will not be a cute little old woman with a delightful pouf of white hair and porcelain, unlined skin, smelling of lavender. No, I expect I will fall into the Bea Arthur camp of loud, lumbering old women who smell a little like sawdust and indeterminable vaginal secretions. She was nearly 50 when she starred in Maude. Lest we forget, this is what 50 used to look like:

Ok, I guess I'm not ready for camp just yet.

ham chunk

Ok, ok. I'm going to give this another shot. Another kick in the ass. Goddammit. Ok, what inane thing can I blather on about?

The fact that I hate the word luncheon? How it's just a snooty word that implies it's something more special and festive than a simple "lunch"? When in fact, all it means is that somebody will probably get up and say something demoralizing or stupid followed, maybe, by tepid, bored applause?

I recently hosted such an event for my editorial board, comprising all rich old white doctors.

You can imagine the hilarity as they shared a joke about combination therapy for multiple myeloma. Ha!

..no. There were no jokes about multiple myeloma. There were no jokes at all. Just a couple of tables of rich old white doctors telling me how I could do my job better.

The good news is, I didn't embarrass myself, and I was taller than 95% of them, which kind of gave me the gravitas I needed, as a lowly English major in a room full of rich old white doctors. Being taller also placed my cleavage a little closer to eye level, which drew attention away from the fact that part of my chocolate peanut butter tart had made a home in my lap. Ah, yes, what a delicate, well-mannered flower I am.

Anyway, it went ok; nobody got hurt or offended, or choked on a ham chunk--the missing part of the definition of a successful luncheon.

start of the second half

Day 1: If I had a nickel for every time I've heard someone say 50 is the new 30, I'd take all those goddamn nickels and hurl them violently at the person who coined the phrase.

Lots of folks have taken time out of their busy days to wish me a happy bday on Facebook, which is nice.

I took the day off from work, which is also nice, because work just sucks it.

I'm celebrating today by dropping my van off at the shop, so they can investigate this jerky phenomenon in what I believe is the transmission. But I know about as much about cars as I do about quantum physics, so it's probably just a dead cat stuck in the engine.

Later, the ladies and I are lunching. Somewhere. We don't know when or where. That's how we roll.

Then Jeremy might have a game, depending on the weather. The most important game of the season! So I won't be needing that birthday manicure, for I will have chewed all my nails off.

I'm off to bathe and have the birthday. I'll be back.

minutes after 50

Ok, wow. It's 47 minutes after 12 a.m, June 16. And I am now officially 50 years old.

Yeah. Doesn't quite roll off the tongue, does it?

Fifty. The other f-word.

Your tongue is barely involved with that word, it's all teeth and lips, sharp consonant edges and harsh air. Lends itself well to cursing.

Because I am now officially 50, I am suddenly old and sleepy and I'm not going to drone on here, now at 12:55, about the angst, the regret, and the aches and pains of middle age. No, I'll save that for a book. A funny book. A darkly funny book that chronicles the year after 50. Maybe with cartoons. And I'll use some of this blog stuff. I can do that, right?

So folks will know that 50 sucks, but it's manageable. Perhaps, if I say it here, on my very little-read little public blog...maybe I'll be compelled to really do it.

OK?

the future is a pink jacket

I saw my future in a Kohl's dressing room last week.

I have a bit of a small, inconsequential habit of talking to myself. Not loudly, not so folks can clearly hear but...I might let a couple words slip out if I'm thinking. It's not a crime, yet. I do tend to complain out loud a bit more, if I can't find something in my size. For instance, I might say,

"Oh, sure, size 2. Who the FUCK wears size 2? Seriously? Nobody. So why even stock them? Why is it always on the very infrequent times that I actually buy clothes in a store, that my size is always gone? And look. THESE are supposed to be longs? Really? REALLY? Christ, these don't even reach my fucking ankles. 'Longs.' Hah. What a joke. Nothing fits me, ever. I don't know why I bother trying. There's never clothes long enough for me and my monkey limbs. Ohhhh, but there's always plenty of size fucking 2s to go around. Plenty! Look at 'em all! What the hell is WRONG with these people?"*

On this particular day, however, I was mumbling stuff like, "Uh, that color. Not for me." And "Sleeves are too short." I want that on my tombstone: "Her sleeves were too short."

All in all, pretty benign stuff.

But then, on the other side of the rack, there's this woman. She's got frizzy, salt and pepper hair and a slouchy hat and a pink jacket. I can't really see her face. She's carrying on a conversation, full of sentences and pauses, as if she's talking to someone on the phone. I glance at her briefly, she looks a little disheveled, and figure she's on her cell. Except, I don't see one. She doesn't SOUND particularly crazy, but I think she just might be.

So I gather up some ill-fitting stuff and go into the dressing room.

Presently, someone comes into the dressing room and takes the stall next to me, even though all the other stalls are empty, which irritates me enormously. And this person starts talking. Like she's having a conversation. She describes each thing as she tries it on. She talks about wearing it at a party, and how it will look once on. Each item of clothing, described in painstaking detail. With pauses in between sentences.

Again, these folks with cell phones in the store are hijacking my mellow shopping vibe! I'm listening closely, listening for some sign that she's actually on a phone. Maybe a distant voice on the other end, maybe some muttering about not being able to hear...something? And then she just continues on, rambling about what she's going to prepare for dinner, and this and that...at this point, I look beneath the stall, and notice a pink jacket on the floor.

It's the woman from the clearance rack. She isn't talking to anyone on any phone. It's now clear that she's in the Kohl's, just trying on stuff to pass the time, having a very real conversation with an imaginary friend on an imaginary cell phone. She's chosen the stall next to me, above all the other empty ones. And she's droning on and on to nobody in particular, and I recall all the times my kids have asked me "who are you talking to?"

She's a harbinger of my future. And my future wears a pink jacket.

*actual recorded conversation

today's pet peeve

"Enjoy!"

"Wow. Enjoy!"

"You are invited to view my online photos at the Gallery. Enjoy!"

"They created this amazing stunt with just two rehearsals. Enjoy!"

"I love the sentence about our arms..."flying squirrels in drag!"... LOL! READ ON. ENJOY!"

"I didn't think this was funny but I knew you would.......so enjoy!"

"Enjoy!"

These are just a few things from my inbox. Do you see what's going on here?

It's clearly a conspiracy to get me to enjoy!

Not just enjoy, but there's an unspoken GODDAMMIT after it.

ENJOY, GODDAMMIT!

If I wanted to enjoy! I think I'd know how to do it. I don't really need someone telling me I have to do it. Let the hilarity of yet another round of "people of Wal-Mart" or the alleged latest words of wit and wisdom from still dead Erma Bombeck and George Carlin and Andy Rooney..what's that you say? He's not dead? Really?...let that wild and wacky humor unfold and blossom like a flower in my inbox, revealing itself in such a way that I have NO OTHER ALTERNATIVE but to ENJOY! and LOL!

BAHAHAHA, because certainly, whatever you sent, especially if it's a FWD, is so absurdly comical that I need that reminder. I might forget to enjoy! So thanks for that, goddammit.

i'm only doing this once

Well, I know I'm in trouble when my mother admonishes me for not keeping this up. She's right of course, as (mostly) always.

I suppose if there were something new and wonderful and different to report...I'd do that.

Or perhaps a calamity. A disaster. A tragedy.

Or something sincerely and deeply meaningful. An epiphany.

Maybe all these things have happened and have passed me by and I didn't notice. Maybe that's the tragedy. I didn't notice.

Instead of really taking the time to enjoy the hush and quiet of nearly 2 feet of snow, I snarled about having to go out in it. When the snow weighed heavily on my front bushes, bending them low to the ground, disheveling the lights...I made no attempt to fix them. They're just out there now, hanging with no thought and no attempt to delight.

On Christmas I missed taking a picture of Jeremy when he opened his present from Evan, a "Young and Reckless" t-shirt, some skateboard lingo I have no idea, nor do I care, what it means. But when he unwrapped it, this crooked grin--he refused to outright smile, showing teeth--crossed his face, betraying his cool demeanor and his resolve NOT to let on how much he'd wanted it.

I missed that picture.

Stuffing the stockings with a golden dollar came easier this year because of our trip to NYC, which I'll try posting about later. I had some left over. But the dollars were just a prop, just one more tradition that I had to think about, and DO something about...rather than just enjoy.

I'm glad to see 2009 go, frankly. It got off to a very shaky start and settled into a yearlong ennui that accompanied a general low nagging level of discontent...and also brought about separation and guilt. Sometimes timing is everything. It brought to light the fact that I am not perfect and that I cannot please everyone all the time, and this was a difficult pill for me to swallow.

Even in 2009. The last of my 5th decade. You'd think I'd have that figured out by now. Wait. Is that right? Do I have to do the math?

Anyway. The end of the year was unusual in a lot of ways...new old friends reappeared, some surprises, good and bad. As my family grows smaller, my friends--close and far-flung--are there to fill the gaps and I am very grateful to have them in my little sphere of life.

Sometimes it just takes too much energy to be cynical. So for 2010...well, I don't know how it'll go. I don't want to go into it with any preconceived idea of what I want, what it should be, setting it up already to disappoint as it goes on. This year, I just want it to unfold and enjoy it for what it is.

More time.

big cheeks

Ok, just write, just write, just write.

No politics. That's making me crazy.

My boys think nothing about making fun of the way I look. They especially seem to enjoy poking fun at me and whatever added fat I might have accumulated in the last few decades. They will poke at my belly and make "boing boing" noises; they will howl if I run, pointing and laughing at my rather generous, middle-age bosom; they will flap my batwings with glee.

I go along with this, this ritual of being poked and prodded, because it seems to give them obvious, if not rather sadistic pleasure. It makes them laugh. And moms, you know, we're always self-sacrificing.

The latest round of physical humiliation at the hands of my children came the other night, when I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when Jeremy asks me to hold my breath, with "big cheeks."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"No."

"Please?"

"Why?"

"Just because, c'mon, just do it. C'mon."

Hard to argue with that kind of persuasion. So I did what I was told.

Jeremy comes up and slaps both hands against my cheeks, forcefully expelling the air inside with a farty-sounding "thwat."

He howls. Evan laughs in a way I haven't heard him laugh for a long time. Hilarity ensues as each child repeats this with my cheeks at least a half dozen times. Doing the math, quickly inside my head, that means I just sat there and allowed my boys to whack my inflated cheeks more than a dozen times, accompanied by cries of "Again!" "Again!" and followed by doubled-over laughter. I mean, they're 12 and 15, for pete's sake.

What other bodily noises will I be expected to make for their amusement as they grow older? I mean, I already taught them how to belch long ago. What more do they want?

head for the hills

Wow, I had no idea I could offend so many people with so...little. It's easy to lob those criticisms anonymously.

So I'll move on.

I'm getting ready to pile 2 big kids and 1 big dog into my big honking, gas-guzzling momvan and head to the Shenendo'h valley for some...well, I'd like to think it was R and R, ...if "R and "R" stands for "arrrrgh" and "arrrrrrrgue".

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this will be an excursion that is full of adventure and happy surprises. The boys will be nice and helpful, the dog won't puke in the van, the van will behave and get us to our destinations without incident.

Happy trails.