In a few short days, my first born will enter the doors of high school as a freshman. I’m feeling very ambivalent about the whole thing. On one hand, I cannot wait for her to be back into some sort of educational structured environment where she will learn something other than how to drive me to drink in thirty seconds or less. On the other hand … she’s my first born and seeing her go to high school is witnessing the beginning of the end of her childhood.

I simply cannot believe that the little four year old girl who grasped my hand so tightly when we walked through the deer park at Marineland and who ultimately wanted to be carried WAY UP HIGH, MOMMY! WAY UP HIGH! because a deer had brushed up against her is now going to walk amongst sophomores, juniors and seniors and anyone who is familiar with high school, especially high school girls, knows that this breed of animal is a whole lot scarier than anything you’re going to see at Marineland. And it’s not like you can just toss some alfalfa or barley or apples at them and they’ll nuzzle their thanks and then leave you alone. No, this is high school. They’ll take that apple, chew it up, spit it at your face, take a picture of you with their cell phones, photoshop a naked body on you and post it on the Internet for the entire world to see.

Not that I’m paranoid or anything. I need to stop watching Dateline. And 20/20. All of them, actually.

The past fourteen years have whipped by, taking with them the temper tantrums and meltdowns and stubbornfests that I thought would never ever end. They do and the subject of them is now busy with a social life and is never home and the house is silent and you can’t complain because this is what you wished for, remember? Like the time you spent all day arguing with her because she caused all three cordless phone batteries to die after talking nonstop for seven hours, after which she proceeded to use up all of her cell phone minutes by texting because apparently, those seven hours weren’t enough time to discuss Breaking Dawn and their summer reading assignments which should have been done weeks ago. Remember?

If I close my eyes, I can still see myself dropping off  Zoe at daycare, giving her a hug and a kiss, walking out the door, getting in my car and driving alongside the windows of her classroom so that I could give her one last wave before I went on my way. Occasionally I would find myself half way to work before realizing that I forgot to do my drive by wave. I would panic, knowing with sheer certainty that Zoe was having a meltdown, bawling her eyes out and wondering if I didn’t love her anymore and had left her forever. I’d veer off the nearest exit and race back to the day care, run to her classroom and stand there in the doorway, breathless and ready to hug the stuffing out of her only to see her laughing and running and playing with her friends with no trace of tears, or even a pout, on her little face. Her teacher would then remind me that Zoe loved her classroom and her teachers and her friends and that she was OK when I was gone and that she would always love me, even if I forgot to wave once in a while. In other words, don’t worry.

As if.

Telling me not to worry is like telling Nate to hand over the remote. Not going to happen in this lifetime.

In every practical way, Zoe will be ready for high school. The cha-ching bells will be ringing as we make our way through new jeans and the new shirts and the new sneakers and a new hair cut and all the folders and binders and pens and highlighters and whatever other supplies she’s going to need. Everything except that new $120 graphing calculator because her $110 calculator that we bought her last year better be sufficient. Otherwise, I’ll be hiking my butt before the school board to give them the last tiny little piece of my mind that I’ve been saving for just such an occasion. Lucky them, I know.

But what about the stuff I can’t buy at Target or Staples? The stuff that doesn’t appear in any of their fliers from the Sunday paper that I have to dig out of the recycle bin every Monday because when I say to Nate “save these for me, I need to go through them” he hears “get rid of every shred of this paper this instant and never let me see it again.”

What about confidence?

Fortitude?

Integrity?

Initiative?

Character?

Compassion?

Resolve?

Thick skin?

Determination?

Aptitude?

I think she has all of them. If I did my job right, she shouldn’t have to look too deep within her to avail herself of any of them. But what if I didn’t do my job well enough? I talked to her ad nauseam about good grades and getting involved in extra curricular activities and making good decisions and the consequences of bad decisions, even if it meant I was talking to her back as she walked out of the room in a huff, shouting “OH MY GOSH, MOM! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO HEAR THIS STUFF?” What if she’s just humoring me by making me think she’s actually listening to me when in fact, she’s memorizing her iPod wish list? What if the next time would have been the clincher?

Not that I’m paranoid or anything.

The next four years are going to be a roller coaster and I’m still wondering whether I meet the height requirement for the ride.

She’ll study Shakespeare while I lose myself in her finger painted turkey from preschool.

She’ll be wearing eyeshadow and eyeliner and lipstick while I leaf through faded photos of her playing dress-up with the plastic vanity I found on sale twelve years ago for her second birthday.

She’ll be dating and I’ll be drenched in panic sweat waiting up for her, staring at her date’s fingerprints that I obtained from the glass of water I offered him, wondering how fast I can get a background check done by midnight, all while reading her journal from kindergarten where she printed in big block letters KEVIN IS A STINK HEAD.

She’ll be going for her license and I’ll be calling up my doctor and begging him for a lifetime supply of Xanax.

She’ll be trying on prom dresses and I’ll be touching her tiny little christening dress and feeling the tears well up as I catch my reflection in her first tiny pair of patent leather shoes.

She might get her heart broken. I might need to make bail after I rip the guy’s spleen out with a spoon. I’ll let you know.

She might have to choose between what is right and what is popular. I might have to have someone tie me to a chair and duct tape my mouth shut and let her learn the hard way.

She might find herself in the middle of intense social pressure to indulge in drugs, alcohol, sex or any of the 1,893 risky behaviors that run amuck in my vivid imagination. Not that I’m paranoid or anything. I will cry and hold my breath and pray that she makes a good decision so that we can avoid rehab or jail or a baby or a funeral.

She might not ask for my help and I might not give it.

She might have the time of her life in high school and I might breathe a sigh of relief and thank God before I get ready for her little sister to take the same ride.

She’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s funny, she’s quirky, she’s not getting a cell phone with unlimited texting until she can afford to pay for it herself, she’s my first born and she’s going to be a freshman.

Whether I’m ready for it or not.

The other day, my youngest daughter came running up to me and started hopping up and down excitedly, shouting that she had the coolest thing ever to show me. She demanded I get my camera and I was all over it because cool stuff never happens around me. I returned with my camera and she said “are you ready?” and I said “yep” and she said “are you sure?” and I said “I’m sure” and she said “are you really really sure?” and I said “honey, c’mon, I’m getting old already” and she said “what does that mean?” and I went all Nike on her and shouted “JUST DO IT!” and she shouted “OK” and then she proceeded to break her tongue.

And I dropped my camera and yelled “Oh my God, what the hell are you doing?”

And she said “aaagh! ag aarr!”

And I said “What?”

And she said “Mom! Bad word!”

And I said “Who the hell cares, what in the name of holy hell are you doing with your tongue?”

And she said “aaaarrrhhh eeeeeh ooooo?”

And I said “What?”

And she said “Isn’t it cool?”

And I said “STOP DOING IT THIS MINUTE OR YOU WILL BREAK IT AND I’M NOT GETTING YOU A NEW ONE.”

And she said “I’m not breaking it! I’m just folding it! Look! I can do it over and over! See? It doesn’t hurt!”

And I saw her do it over and over again. And I’m not sure if I should be proud or worried or grossed out.

So far, I’ve decided to be none of the above and have no opinion whatsoever. I’ll wait to see what everyone else thinks and then holler “I KNOW, RIGHT?!”

In the interim, I will document it for posterity so I can be ready when and if that day ever comes when she is told by some idiot at recess that she can’t do anything special to which I will respond “Hey, no one else I know can fold their tongue in half so you tell him/her/whomever to take that and stick it where the sun don’t shine” because I just live for those moments when I am both motherly and eloquent. They don’t happen very often. At all.

Here she is, sticking out her tongue. Nothing is happening yet. Kind of boring, actually. But just you wait.

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Here she is, just starting to bend it. I think it looks kind of weird, but who am I to judge? I’m just her mom. My opinion doesn’t count. And I just remembered, I’m not voicing an opinion until everyone does.

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Here she is … it’s almost there … just a bit more to go …

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*BAM” - there it is in all its folded glory. Forgive the blurriness, she does it so fast that it kind of freaks me out and causes my hands to shake and my stomach to heave.

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Here’s a side view, just in case you haven’t grasped the magnitude of this event. No wires, no tape, no glue. Nothing holding that tongue down except sheer will and determination and some freakish genetic anomaly.

Does anybody else do this? Is this normal for an eight year old girl?

I have no idea where she gets this so I’m going to say it’s from Nate’s side of the family because … well, just because. Unless somebody says it’s a sign of extraordinary talent or the mark of a gifted child in which case it most definitely came from mine.

So, what do you think? Should I be proud? Should I be worried? Should I be throwing up? Should I be typing this from the emergency room?

She can also wiggle her ears. Just thought I’d throw that out there in case it matters.

There are only twelve days left of summer break and then comes one of the holiest of all days in our house. We call it THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. This is the day when rainbows appear over our roof and angels fly and sing all over our house and my kids wake up earlier than they have in the last 2½ months and trudge around the house all bleary eyed and half asleep and moaning and complaining while I jump and dance excitedly all around them, telling them to hurry up! Here’s your breakfast! Get dressed! Don’t want to be late! Let’s go, let’s go! Isn’t this wonderful?! The bus will be here any minute! Let’s go! C’mon! Out the door! LET’S GO ALREADY.

I love my kids. I adore them. I would kill for them. I could not breathe without them.

But.

And yes, I know perfectly well there should never be a “but” in this context but seeing as how I have been experiencing some sort of freakish premenopausal thing where my hormones wig out every so often, there is most definitely a “but.” If it makes you feel better, I’ll substitute the word “however.” Is that better?

And see? That snarky attitude right there is a classic example of my hormones getting their panties in a twist and wigging out. That reminds me … could someone call around for Nate? I haven’t seen him in awhile. Tell him it’s safe to come home.

Anyway … However, I have two girls, one’s a highly emotional teenager and the other is a highly emotional budding tween and they either love each other or hate each other, depending on the exact shade of blue in the sky that day. They have been with each other and me almost 24/7 for 2½ months with no camps, no vacations, no break. Get the picture? All but one of my nerves are frazzled. Shot. Destroyed. Decimated. And the one nerve left is scared shitless but can’t escape because they’re standing on it.

I will miss them after they go back to school. I always do. The house becomes too quiet. Too still. And I will berate myself for having had these thoughts of celebration to see them go, I will wallow in guilt by thinking that if I had been a better mother, I would have handled the summer better and I would have appreciated all the time we spent together, even if a good portion of it was spent breaking up fights and yelling. I’m all too aware that these days are going to be gone soon enough and like Trace Adkins says in his totally sexy deep voice, I’m going to miss this. When they get on that bus, I will wish that I was a different kind of mother, the kind with unending patience, the kind that can calm down a hysterical child with a kiss, the kind that doesn’t fly off the handle when being disrespected or when finding clothes dumped on the bathroom floor for the umpteenth time or when tripping over a heaping pile of soggy, smelly pool towels that have been clumped together for two days. I will wish that I wasn’t me. I will wish that I was someone better.

But this won’t happen until after they go back, when I’m sitting here alone and in silence, wishing that my kids would just stop growing up so damn fast and, since I’m at it, wishing that I would stop growing old so damn fast as well.

Until then … my windows are rattling as they are literally screaming at each other because one called the other a bratty snot and the other called the one a freaky loser so here I sit, counting down the days until THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. This is the countdown to an event rivaled only by Christmas in this house so in honor of this occasion, I present the following tune, based very very loosely … so loosely, in fact, that half of the lyrics are missing and the rhythm is all screwed up but it’s the end of summer and I’m lucky I can tie my shoes at this point so bear with me and close your eyes and just pretend … on The Twelve Days of Christmas.

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~ WITH TWELVE DAYS LEFT OF SUMMER ~

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With twelve days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

A dozen smelly, mildewy pool towels

and a one way ticket up a pear tree

With eleven days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Eleven “STOP IT, YOU’RE A BRAT, DON’T LOOK AT ME. MOOOOOOOM!”s

and a one way ticket up a big ass pear tree

With ten days days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Ten hours of crazy stupid

and a one way ticket up a really, really, really big ass pear tree

With nine days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Nine possibles for the stench emanating from the kitchen

and a one way ticket up a big ass. Oops, sorry. I mean, a big ass pear tree.

With eight days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Eight “I DID NOT! YOU DID! STOP LYING! I’M TELLING MOM! MOOOOOOOM”s

and a one way ticket up a big ass pear tree. With thorns.

With seven days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Seven reasons to run away

and a one way ticket up a big ass pear tree. With thorns. Surrounded by poison ivy.

With six days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Six hours of driving and driving and driving and then some more driving

and a one way ticket up the stupid pear tree that I swear to GOD is mocking me

With five days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

FIIIIIIIIIVE GOOOOOOLD-EN MIGRAINES

and a one way ticket up … you guessed it … the big ass pear tree

With four days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Four hours of peace and quiet interrupted by five hours of yelling

and a one way ticket up that goddamn pear tree that won’t die already

With three days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Three more summer reading assignments. Surprise! *Thud*

and a one way ticket up the &%$#@ pear tree

With two days left of summer, my two kids gave to me

Two tons of dirty clothes

and a one way ticket up … ugh, I can’t even say it anymore

On the last day of summer, my two kids gave to me

An apology and I love you’s

and a brand new, gift-wrapped with a bow and sealed with a kiss … ladder.

~ The End ~

My youngest, my peanut, my honeybuns, lovebug, poopers, babydoll, my baby …  turns eight today. I’m having trouble wrapping my head around that one. I feel like she was just born yesterday. That’s probably because I look like I just gave birth yesterday. Isn’t there a law that says you have up ten years to lose your pregnancy weight? I think I read that somewhere.

She’s my last child but I never thought she’d be my last child. I fully intended on having three children and I have no idea why except that I just did. But things never work out as you plan, do they?

As it had with Zoe, it took me awhile to get pregnant and every month, I’d hold my breath, pee on a stick and watch it say “NO SOUP FOR YOU” and be disappointed. And I apologize if you are not a Seinfeld fan because you’re probably wondering what soup has to do with pee and not in a good way.

So I’d pee on the damn stick, get no soup, sigh, emerge from the bathroom, look at Nate reproachfully and say “I have a perfectly good uterus that is going to waste and if we aren’t going to use it, then I’m going to sell it at a garage sale because I can lose ½ pound and make money at the same time.” Because I tend to be overly dramatic and efficient.  And he’d say “Give it time, it will happen.” Because he tends to be calm and rational. Then I’d yell “IT’S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN, EVER EVER EVER, ZOE WAS JUST A FLUKE, MY BODY HATES ME.” Because I don’t have a calm or rational bone in my body when my reproductive system bails on me.

And as usual, Nate was right and it did happen and one morning, I peed on the 296th stick and it said “OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE, YES! NOW STOP PEEING ALREADY AND LEAVE US ALONE” and I had to look around to make sure someone else hadn’t peed on the stick when I wasn’t looking. Then I got very very happy and broke the news to Nate that his swimmers had crossed over the finish line and he got very very happy and we stayed very very happy right up until the day I threw up.

And then I remembered that the reason my body doesn’t get pregnant very easily is most likely because it doesn’t like being pregnant. AT ALL. Hates it, in fact, and will only tolerate the condition for approximately three weeks at which point it acts like a spoiled little snot by heaving up the contents of my stomach all day, every day, for about nine weeks. And when there are no contents left in my stomach, it’s perfectly happy to heave up bile. And once the bile runs out, there’s a myriad of internal organs to choose from.

The beginning of this pregnancy mirrored my pregnancy with Zoe to a tee. My body starting rebelling three weeks into my first trimester to the point that I could not blink without throwing up and I landed in the emergency room and my doctor ordered me to go on disability from my job as a paralegal in a downtown law firm. I was worried that the attorneys I worked for would be irritated but instead, they were relieved. Apparently they didn’t appreciate finding vomit in their case files, the big sissy babies.

So I was confined to my home for nine weeks during which time I was placed on a visiting nurse’s rotation and I became best friends with an IV which I dragged around my house all day, every day. This lasted right up until I entered my second trimester and then *BAM* my body came to its senses, smartened up and started to behave itself. Not a minute too soon because Nate was in charge of grocery shopping during this time and he came home every other day with bags full of unhealthy, vitamin deficient, fat infused frozen dinners. When Zoe poked me in the shoulder and asked if Nate could make dinner forever, I ripped that IV out of my arm and yelled ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, I NEED TO COOK SOMETHING and that was the first and last time I ever uttered those words.

Life got back to normal, I went back to work and I gained weight and then more weight and then even more weight to the tune of fifty pounds until I couldn’t see my feet anymore unless I looked in the mirror and when I did look in the mirror, I was horrified to see that my feet looked like two fleshy balloons that were connected directly to my calves because my ankles had apparently decided to up and abandon me behind my back. Stupid ankles.

Towards the end, I was in agony. I was carrying a wild turkey in my uterus and my pelvis had relocated to somewhere between my knees. When I went to my doctor, she estimated that the turkey was cooking ahead of schedule and when finally done, would weigh in at over ten pounds. And I said there was no way I was having a ten pound turkey, that was not in the original plan, it constituted a total deal breaker and I wanted my money back. And she said no refunds, no exchanges but she could induce me early and hopefully shave a pound off the turkey and increase my chances for a VBAC. And for all of your birth virgins or men out there, a VBAC is a “vaginal birth after cesarean.” Isn’t this blog just a plethora of information?

So I said something like “Inducement? I don’t have to waddle around like I have a tree trunk stuck up my ass any longer? Sign me up!” We scheduled the inducement and my parents drove up for the event.

And immediately, my body decided to screw with me yet again and go into false labor around the clock. A very big, round clock.

I never had false labor with Zoe so I thought it was the real thing. I started to time the contractions and Nate started to wig out. And I assured him that if Zoe’s birth was any indication, nothing important was going to happen for a while so he should just relax.

So he mowed the lawn. Because Nate is Nate and that is how he relaxes. During my false labor, he’d mow the lawn, come back in, see me grimace, hear me say “ooomph” and run back out and mow it in the other direction. Then he’d come back in, see me breathing heavy, hear me say “holy crap,” and hightail it back outside and mow it diagonally.

For a two week stretch in August of 2000, our lawn could have doubled as a putting green for the PGA.

We did wind up going to the hospital at one point and no sooner did I walk through their doors when my contractions stopped. Of course they did. This is my body we’re talking about. The body that chooses to get a diarrhea virus on Thanksgiving when we’re hosting the meal, the same body that decides to have a period the day before leaving on vacation, the very same body that decides to get the mother of all cold sores on July Fourth, six hours before leaving for a picnic where I’m meeting 30+ people for the first time. My body.

They told me to go back home. Oh, and they said that Nate should stop giving me foot rubs because they more than likely contributed to the onset of false labor.

That’s like being told you’ve won a $10,000 shopping spree at Mall of America, packing up the kids, driving sixteen hours to the mall, getting lost, running out of gas, having your car’s engine drop onto the highway, hailing down a taxi, having the taxi run over your foot, transferring your luggage and kids and arriving at the mall, exhausted, sweaty and hungry but ready and willing to shop your heart out, only to be told that the mall was closed for repairs that day so come back in a week. Oh, and by the way, here’s a ticket for $500 for littering because you left your dirty, corroded engine back there on I-90.

Inducement Day came and Nate and I got ourselves comfortable in my hospital room and at 8:00 pm, they induced me and wow, what an anticlimactic disappointment. Never having been induced before, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I thought at least there would be some fanfare, a band, a raffle and maybe a dessert bar. But there was nothing except … well, nothing.

So we waited. And waited. And waited some more. I fell asleep in my bed and Nate fell asleep in the chair next to me and at 2:00 am, I woke him up to let him know that my body felt like it was being ripped apart by aliens and should we tell someone? We called the nurse and Nate rubbed my back and looked wistfully out at the lawn and I became suspicious that he had packed the John Deere in my baby bag when I wasn’t looking.

After a few hours, I received an epidural. Now, for 99% of women, this is a God send. But remember, this is my body we’re talking about.

First the anesthesiologist hit a nerve three times while giving me my epidural and it was like someone electrocuting me and then dousing me with gasoline and lighting me on fire.

Then the epidural didn’t work. Well, that’s not exactly true. It would work, then it stopped working on the right side of my body after thirty minutes, then they administered a bolus. It would work, then it stopped working on the left side of my body after thirty minutes, then they administered another bolus. Lather, rinse, repeat too many times to count.

Then my cervix decided to pitch a hissy fit and stubbornly refused to dilate any further than four centimeters.

And finally, my whole body decided that 721 epidural boluses was enough. Did you know that too many boluses can cause you to become numb right up to your collarbone and make you so sleepy that you can’t open your eyes? But you can still hear your doctor yelling at you to stay awake and you can feel him slapping your cheeks to wake you and you can hear him shouting “WHAT HAPPENED?” at the nurses who are all in a frenzy and you can feel lots of electrodes being stuck all over your body and you can sense the worry and anxiety and fear that has overcome your husband who is asking anyone who will listen “WHAT IS GOING ON?” and who is most likely frantically looking out the window for any patch of grass that needs pruning.

All of these things combined bought me a one way ticket to the nearest operating room and a c-section.

I remember crying on my way there because I was exhausted and scared for my baby and I simply couldn’t bear the thought of another c-section.

I remember my sister-in-law leaning down over me, giving me kiss on my forehead and telling me it was going to be all right.

I remember thinking “Did Becky just do what I think she just did?” because Becky didn’t do that kind of thing, especially with me. So I immediately thought I was dying and I cried harder and hoped that Zoe would remember me and that my house was clean and my dishes were done and that someone would remember to put some decent underwear on me.

I remember Nate’s eyes above his mask as he stood next to me when they made the first incision.

I remember one of the doctor’s exclaiming “Did you see that?!” and thinking that was an odd thing to say. Turns out my uterus did a little blooming onion type of maneuver during the incision.

I remember the doctor telling Nate that if he leaned over, he could watch his child being born.

I remember the words “It’s a girl!”

I remember knowing with utter certainty that every single second of my pregnancy and labor and delivery was absolutely, without a doubt, worth it.

I remember thanking God for Nate and Zoe and our new little one.

I remember seeing her little face and falling in love all over again.

Happy Birthday, Peanut.

My older sister is coming here for a visit this week and I’m really looking forward to it. I can’t wait to see her and catch up and hang out and my kids can’t wait to have someone new and shiny to play with, someone who is not addicted to a computer, willingly sweats, doesn’t yell WHO LEFT THEIR TOWEL ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR? and doesn’t make them clean their rooms. It’s a win-win.

She’s fifty-one years old, which makes her ten years older than me, which makes her ancient in the eyes of Helena who just told me the other day that So and So might just as well be dead, he’s so old. So and So is thirty.

If Elaine looked like she was fifty-one, I’d feel bad about referring to her as my older sister, but seeing as how she looks younger than me and has more energy than me and weighs less than me and has a better complexion than me, I’m going to continue to refer to her as my older sister because it makes me feel better about myself. Whatever it takes. That’s my motto and besides, it’s cheaper than therapy.

This photo was taken about twenty three years ago, when we were about eighteen and twenty-eight respectively. I’m the one on the left, in case you couldn’t tell. Hah! See what I mean? You couldn’t tell, could you?

Try not to be distracted by the bulbous honker in the middle of my face. Hello? Are you listening? I understand. It’s like an accident on the highway … you can’t help but stare at the carnage. So go ahead and stare and get it out of your system.

Are you finished? Yes, it was huge. A gift from my parents. It was fixed a couple of years later, courtesy of rhinoplasty. You’ll notice Elaine has no such monstrosity on her face. And she always had perfect teeth. Mine were fixed courtesy of orthodontics. My hair is brown courtesy of Linda My Hair Stylist and occasionally Nice ‘N Easy when I get desperate. Elaine’s hair is brown courtesy of God. Thanks, God.

I ask you … does she look ten years older than me? She was approaching thirty in that picture. Want to know what I looked like at thirty? Neither do I.

Here she is two years ago, with Zoe. She was nearing fifty at the time. Does she look fifty to you? Want to know what I’m going to look like when I’m nearing fifty? Neither do I.

See why she’s my older sister now?

Elaine babysat Tino and me quite a bit when we were young. She did a pretty good job and I’m just going to forget about that time she hid in my closet when I went to bed and every minute or so, jiggled my closet door ever so slightly to make me nervous and unsure about the whole “monsters aren’t real” conversation and then let out a deep, bellowing BWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH and whipped open the door and scared the living shit right out of me and I dropped dead right there on my bed, in my jammies and clutching my favorite stuffy named Chocolate. Like I said, I’m just going to forget all about that because it did not traumatize me whatsoever at all. I barely remember it.

Because we did not grow up in Leave It To Beaver Land, she moved out of the house relatively early in my life and although she came back a few times on a temporary basis, she never actually really lived there again. At some point, she had an apartment in a big old house and I can still smell the new white paint and see the yellow bathroom accessories she had purchased but more than that, I remember the ride over there. She drove something dark green that was a cross between a Pacer and a Gremlin and she was more concerned with who was on the radio than who was on the road. She used one hand to steer and the other to systematically change the station every nano second until I finally shouted STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT with an occasional OH MY GOD, WATCH OUT thrown in for good measure.

My entire family has done the Let’s-Abandon-Andy-And-Move-Out-Of-State bit so I’m used to it. Thankfully they’ve all chosen destinations that are nice to visit, like Las Vegas and North Carolina. But the best destination prize goes to Elaine because she chose Hawaii and San Francisco and those are two places that by law, must be visited in order to die happy. If you ask me, I’d say she chose Hawaii because in her heart she knew how much her little sister wanted to visit there. If you ask her, she’ll tell you it was the cheap rent offered by her friends. I prefer my version, don’t you?

We went to visit her in the early eighties when I was about fifteen. I remember the islands as being drenched in unspeakable beauty and I remember getting “leid” as I walked off the airplane and I remember luaus. And with striking clarity, I remember standing in Elaine’s living room with my parents and having Tom, one of her friends, walk out of his bedroom, shirtless. I was fifteen and he was smokin’ hot so I was happy. He was happy too because he had apparently been busy with the beautiful Hawaiian girl who emerged after him, bottomless. And then we all stood around in air thick with JUST KILL ME NOW until my parents dragged us out of there and we never spoke of it again.

After Elaine got tired of Hawaii, she moved to San Francisco where’s she’s been for the last 20+ years. I flew out to visit her when I was twenty-one and fell utterly, hopelessly, completely and totally in love with San Francisco and I would have brought the Golden Gate Bridge home with me if I could have fit it in my suitcase.

Elaine had to work one day so I spent the entire day by myself at Ghirardelli Square and Pier 39 and I saw so many new and wonderful sights like cable cars, quirky gift shops, totally cool jewelry and homosexuals. There was nothing like it, that I knew of, in my little podunk town back home. I was mesmerized and caught myself staring more than once and probably had “hick” written all over me in fluorescent pink paint.

That was the first time I had ever seen a street performer. He was on the sidewalk, decked out in this creepy, box-like, shiny silver outfit. I had no idea why he was just standing there, not moving a muscle. I stopped and did my “we don’t have anything like you back home” stare. And then I nearly jumped out of my skin when he moved his eyes to look at me. I smiled nervously and tightened my grip on my Ghirardelli chocolate because paranoid freak that I am, I was convinced that I was mere seconds away from being mugged by some Wizard of Oz Tin Man wannabe who had most likely just gone off his meds. But he wasn’t interested in my chocolate. He just kept dropping his eyes to this container at his feet. Over and over he would do this and I would just stand there, munching on my chocolate, nodding and smiling at him, wondering what the hell he was doing. Then he must have seen the fluorescent pink paint all over me because he proceeded to ignore me in favor of other people who had gathered around and who were throwing money into his container. Lots of money. After they threw lots of money, freaky guy did this robotic dance thing. And then I had one of those “OH” moments that I’m always so proud of.

Elaine came and got me and no sooner had we walked a couple of feet when this woman in a dingy, faded, torn police uniform stopped us dead and declared that she was sorry but she had to give us a ticket. And because I was delusional from the fumes of that pink fluorescent paint, I immediately yelled OH MY GOD, WHAT DID WE DO? WE’RE SORRY! WE’RE SORRY! and then I ran to hide behind Elaine’s back in case she was some insane lunatic intent on slashing my throat. Elaine rolled her eyes and and asked how much it would cost to get out of the ticket and the lunatic said $1.00 and Elaine gave her a couple bucks and I had another “OH” moment.

We went out to dinner to a place Elaine had never been and it was the first and last time I ever had Thai food in a gay restaurant. Half way through our meal, Elaine and I glanced around and we both had an “OH” moment when we realized that we were surrounded by same sex couples. That was interesting and I couldn’t wait to tell my podunk friends how worldly I had become in only a few short days on the west coast.

That was twenty years ago and I still count that trip as one of my all time favorite vacations.

For the past several years, Elaine has come over to the east coast to visit once a year, usually during the summer because she can’t take the winter weather. In that respect, she is like every other member of my family who moved away to far off, sunny locations and who suddenly become allergic to sleet and snow and ice and sub-zero temperatures because they have mentally blocked out the sentence they served in these here parts.

In every other respect though, she is different from all of us, especially me.

She is a free spirit. I am immediately suspicious of anything that is free because I know it’s going to cost me in the long run.

She’s very into health food and at one point in her history, you could find her taking 39 supplements a day and sprinkling wheat germ on kelp as a snack. I don’t like kelp. I’m not a seafood person; I don’t eat anything that swims in its own poop and I don’t eat anything that grows where things swim in their own poop. And besides, it’s brownish green. Enough said.

She goes with the flow. I go against the flow, I fight the tide, I swim upstream. I’m like salmon, except that I don’t swim in my own poop. And I don’t swim upstream to spawn, unless there’s a five star hotel and room service waiting for me.

She is very much into doing only what her body and mind tell her to do. I am very much into telling other people’s bodies and minds what to do.

She likes adventure and prefers to stay at hostels rather than hotels. The first time I stayed in a hostel was the last time I stayed in a hostel and I can sum up my experience in four short words: hair in the shower.

She backpacked through Europe. I don’t do anything where I have to carry stuff, let alone on my back.

She is very into holistic and alternative forms of medicine. I don’t stray from our outrageously expensive health insurance plan because I am a big fat chicken.

But as different as we are, we still manage to get along quite nicely and I can’t wait for her to get here. Her flight comes in after midnight and we’ve got Helena’s birthday party with nine eight year olds later that day, as well as a family party at night. I’ve already warned Elaine that she is not allowed to indulge any jet lag symptoms as I am expecting her to help me not screw up the hydro bracelet craft I’ve organized and then entertain the kids as I get the cake ready and then supervise the girls in beating a piñata to death and then not blink the entire time they are in the pool.

Sometimes it comes in very handy to have an older sister who is healthier and more energetic than me.

Earlier this week, Zoe and I ventured out for some school shopping. If you can call what we did shopping. Walking into a store and immediately turning around and walking out because a certain fourteen year old took all of one second to declare there was absolutely nothing in there that she liked so C’MON MOM, LET’S GO ALREADY … is this shopping? If so, we shopped 47 times that day.

I remember those days when I would go out shopping for her by myself, pick out all sorts of cute and adorable outfits, bring them home and have her face light up with excitement as she’d rip through the bags and ooooh and ahhhhh over everything and proclaim every outfit as MY MOST FAVORITEST OF THEM ALL and then she’d fling herself at me and hug me and tell me I was the BEST MOM EVER.

Zoe hasn’t called me the best at anything since 2004 and the only thing she has flung lately has been her sister into the pool and her clothes onto the floor. I’ve given up trying to buy her anything on my own because apparently, even though I gave birth to her and fed her and burped her and changed her and molded her young mind and shaped her personality, I do not know anything about her, least of all her taste in clothes and accessories.

Even when she picks out her own stuff, there’s no guarantee she’s going to like it for longer than it takes to get it home. Like the silver sequined purse she wanted last year, the one I hated on sight because it looked like the sixties had thrown up all over it but she just had to have, PLEASE MOM, IT’S GORGEOUS, I LOVE IT, PLEASE MOM, PLEASE!

Are we talking about the purse that everyone in our house saw Zoe carry to school for months on end but according to Zoe, was used once and only once and then only as a joke? The same purse that now houses all of Helena’s Littlest Pet Shop figurines? The one that Helena took to the mall two weeks ago because she wanted to be a big girl and Zoe refused to walk with her because the purse was so hideous and she didn’t want to be hideous by association?

Yes, that would be the one.

Zoe loves to shop. I hate to shop. If it meant the difference between starving to death and a knock off Coach purse, Zoe would opt for the bag and hope for coordinating shoes in Heaven. Me? Nothing is getting between me and food. That’s just a given.

Zoe has become a shopaholic and I have become a 5′2″ walking MasterCard with poor posture and astigmatism.

.

Zoe: Mom, I need to go shopping.

Me: What? Why? What do you mean? Didn’t we just go shopping?

Zoe: That was a year ago, Mom.

Me: Are you sure?  I don’t think so. It was yesterday. Look, my eye is still twitching.

Zoe: Mom, you always look like that.

Me: Don’t be smart. Count the creases in my forehead, Zoe. There’s one for every school shopping trip since you turned ten. See this one here? (pointing to my head) That’s for school year 2008-09, I’m sure of it.

Zoe: No, Mom. That’s the one from last year, when we bought ten pairs of jeans and you got all confused about low rise and ultra low rise and mid rise and boot cut and flair and straight cut.

Me: Is that when I yelled at the manager?

Zoe: No, that was when you cried in the middle of Staples when you found out my graphing calculator was $100 and then you yelled at the manager saying something about how, when you went to school, you weren’t allowed to even have a calculator and who did he think was, charging that much for contraband?

Me: My God, was that a year ago? Time flies blah blah blah, huh?

Zoe: So, can we go?

Me:  What’s wrong with the stuff you have?

Zoe: It’s too short, it’s too uncomfortable, it’s too faded, it’s too worn out.

Me: So am I.

.

Later, while in the throes of shopping, our conversations deteriorate at an alarming rate. Case in point:

.

Me: Oh Zoe! I love these!

Zoe: Ugh, no.

Me: OK. Ooooh, look at these!

Zoe: Mom! Those are ugly!

Me: Well, how about these then? They’re pretty cute.

Zoe: Just forget it, there’s nothing here I like.

Me: Wait! Look at this one!

Zoe: I’m leaving.

——————————————————-

Me: These are nice!

Zoe: Not.

Me: Hey, these look like they’ll fit.

Zoe: Oh my gosh, Mom! NO.

Me: This one looks comfortable.

Zoe: Ew.

Me: This one?

Zoe: I’m leaving.

——————————————————–

Zoe: This one, and this one, and this one.

Me: Those look exactly like what you already have.

Zoe: How can you say that? They’re totally different!

Me: Are we looking at the same things? How are they different?

Zoe: You always do this! You hate everything I like!

Me: I didn’t say I hated them! I just said that you’ve got those exact clothes laying on your bedroom floor. How about getting something that will look nice thrown under your bed or on your doorknob or tossed over your curtain rod? Mix it up a little?

Zoe: I’m leaving.

———————————————————

Me: What about …

Zoe: Ugh.

Me: These …

Zoe: Blech.

Me: How about …

Zoe: No.

Silence.

Zoe: Mom! I said no!

Me: But …

Zoe: I’m leaving.

———————————————————

Zoe: These are nice. Mom? Mom? Did you hear me?

Me: No. I am ignoring you.

Zoe: Why?

Me: Because.

Zoe: Do you like these?

Me: Honestly? No. I do not like them.

Zoe: I’ll get the blue one and the brown one.

Me: I’m leaving.

———————————————————

Zoe (whispering): I need underwear.

Me (loudly): What? You need underwear?

Zoe (frantic): Shhhhhh!

Me (even louder): Did you say you need underwear?

Zoe (freaking out): OK! OK! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!  Can we just buy some please?

Me: Sorry for what, exactly?

Zoe: I’m sorry for rolling my eyes at you, I’m sorry for stomping out of Old Navy, I’m sorry for not listening ot you, I’m sorry for being grumpy. I think that’s it, isn’t it?

Me: You forgot “I’m sorry for slamming a dressing room door in your face, I’m sorry for hating everything that you like, I’m sorry for putting you through sixty hours of labor only to act as if I don’t know you a mere fourteen years later.”

Zoe: OK. I’m sorry for that.

Me: Fine. Let’s get you some undies.

Zoe: MOM! Don’t use that word, it’s gross. They’re right over there. I’ll just wait here.

Me: What do you mean, you’ll just wait here? Do you need underwear or not?

Zoe: Yes! But you can get them. I can’t. What if someone sees me?

Me: I’m sure they’re wearing underwear too, Zoe. And if they’re not, I don’t want you hanging around them.

Zoe: Mom! Stop! Can’t you just get them? What’s the big deal?

Me: And how am I supposed to know what you like? Smoke signals?

Zoe: Just get me anything! If I don’t like them, you can return them.

Me: Excuse me? Get over yourself. I do not live to return items. Returning items ranks right up there with a barium enema. If you want underwear, you are going to pick them out and actually hold them. Now, here we are. See? Not so bad, is it? How about these? Zoe? Zoe?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Me: Hello?

Zoe (whispering): What kind do they have?

Me (whispering): Where are you?

Zoe (whispering): Over by shoes.

Me (no longer whispering): Zoe, I do not have time for this. Get over here right now. You are being ridiculous.

Zoe (still whispering with an attitude): NO! MOM! C’mon! Just get me the underwear!

Me (yelling across the store): Zoe, do you want hipsters? They also have briefs and bikinis! And solids and prints! They’ve got all sorts of styles! HEY, HERE ARE SOME THAT LOOK EXACTLY LIKE WHAT YOU HAVE ON! Can you see them? Over here, Zoe! I’m holding them up way up high so you can see them! Can you see them? ARE THESE THE ONES YOU WANT?

*click*

—————————————————–

Me: So, do you have everything you need?

Silence

Me: Zoe, you have to talk to me sometime. You can’t stay mad at me forever. I really think that one day, you are going to look back at this and laugh.

Silence

Me: Or not.

Silence

Me: OK then. Let’s go home. I need to iron my forehead and get ready for next year.

It was twenty years ago and I had one summer left before I would be gallavanting off to a SUNY campus to continue with my college education. I was twenty-one years old and thanks to a two year stint that I lovingly refer to as my period of WHAT THE HELL? I was a little late with my higher learning.

My days as Assistant Manager of Shed House were over and while I contemplated another ride on the retail express with all of its perks like minimum wage, $0.15 raises, working nights and weekends, no health benefits and two week notice of sick days, I ultimately decided against it. I wanted to make good money during daylight hours at a grown up job. I signed up with an employment agency and spent a couple of hours interviewing with them and completing their applications and questionaires.

.

Do you smoke? No.

Do you drink? Define “drink”

Can you type? No.

How many words? None.

Can you work on a computer? No.

Do you know shorthand? No.

Can you operate a multi-line phone? No, but I’m very good at talking on the phone for hours. Does that count?

Can you operate a fax machine? What’s a fax?

Have you ever done transcription? Not on purpose.

Do you have any skills whatsoever? No.

What kind of work are you looking for? Anything where I can earn a lot of money in a short period of time.

What is your strongest attribute? I look smokin’ hot in a mini skirt.

.

In less than a week, the agency called me and surprisingly enough, did not place me in a strip club but instead, found me a position as a secretary in the front office of a machine tool and die company. When I asked my placement counselor whether my lack of experience in typing and stenography and dictation and computers and all things office related would affect my employment, she had a coughing fit, told me she had another call waiting, wished me luck, hung up on me and I never heard from her again.

I was nervous. I had never worked in an office before and had no idea what to expect. I tried to dress conservatively, which meant I wore a skirt that did not go up all the way up to my thigh, I only unbuttoned the top two buttons on my blouse and my high heels were three and a half inches instead of four.

In my defense, I was young and stupid and had taken full advantage of my mall employee discount at Lerner’s and G&G when buying my wardrobe. And it was the eighties. And did I mention I was young and stupid?

Anyhoo … I got lost on the way there and my nerves were shot to the point that I wanted to throw up by the time I stopped at a Friendly’s to call them and clarify directions. The woman with whom I spoke was very nice and told me not to worry, everyone got lost their first time driving there. She was laughing and so friendly that I decided to put off throwing up until at least lunchtime.

When I finally arrived at the building, I walked into the lobby and tapped on the window of the front office. I saw two women sitting at desks and they both looked up at my arrival.

Kathy greeted me with a smile and I knew immediately it had been she who had been so nice to me on the phone. She was a gregarious, bubbly, married woman in her forties who took me under her wing right away. She was known as “Mom” to everyone who worked there.

Kathy and I clicked.

Joan was known as Grotesque Resentful Bag Lady Who Smelled Like Stink and Ate Small Animals When No One Was Looking. She was in her fifties, single, obese, homely and an all around bitch who took one look at me and wasted no time in calling the agency and loudly demanding my replacement immediately as in NOW. She didn’t even know I couldn’t type yet. When she found that out, she about had a seizure. When I asked her how to turn the computer on, she sucked in her breath so hard she swallowed her tongue. When I asked how to put someone on hold, the veins in her forehead exploded and for the rest of the day, I had to avert my eyes to the blood running down her face.

Joan and I didn’t click.

Kathy led me back to the shop to meet “the guys” and I can sum up my experience of meeting one hundred young, sweaty, good looking blue collar workers that day in two words. EGO BOOST.

I have to say, I enjoyed working there, even if it meant I had to deal with Joan and her ugly personality and ugly toes that stuck out of her ugly size 12 orthopeadic shoes. I had always lacked self-confidence and while my days working at Cavages Record Store and then at Shed House had boosted my self-esteem when I was younger, I was now coming off of a two year detour in my life in which any inkling of self-confidence I had ever had had been stomped on and ripped to shreds. But that summer I blossomed into a twenty-one year old knock out which opened up a whole new world of possibilities and I was working in a place where testosterone literally seeped out of the walls and ran amuck and my estrogen was more than willing to jump right into that muck and see what was up.

The door from the front office to the machine shop turned into a turnstile as one by one, workers found some excuse to stop by, whether it was to copy a blueprint, fax a part order or stand at the front window beside my desk because he could have sworn he saw some vagrant hanging out by his car so he better just stand there and keep watch for awhile to make sure nothing happened to it and by the way, what was I doing that night?

It would drive Joan crazy. Just batshit crazy. And that made Kathy very happy.

Kathy and Joan didn’t click.

And because I was born with not only a gene that caused me to inflict all sorts of mental and emotional anguish upon myself, but also a birthmark on my forehead that said “Attention losers, line up here” I didn’t date the nice guys. No, that would have made life easy. I never did easy. I always looked for the quickest way to make my life excrutiatingly hard. So I dated Asshole and his brother, Jerkoff and his other brother, Dickweed. And Kathy would just sigh and steer Perfect Catch in my direction and I’d bypass him and jump into Douchebag’s car. And Kathy would shake her head and I would moan “I know! I know! I’m such a moron” right before I walked out the door with Waste of Air.

And Joan would just sit in her corner and molt and watch her feet grow and gnaw her fingers and every so often she’d call the agency with her bloody stumps and demand to know when my replacement was coming.

Believe it or not, in my spare time I actually became good at my job. I was a quick learner and because I also had the gene that caused me to be a perfectionist that moonlighted as an overachiever, I did my job carefully and I did it well and once I mastered one task, I moved onto another. I did so well that the owner asked me to stay on and as tempted as I was to keep earning money and dating good-looking scum, I declined. I wanted to go to college - I wanted to learn stuff and live on my own and have the opportunity to date collegiate scum for awhile and see how they measured up.

So I only worked there for that one summer and during that time, I broke a computer, an adding machine and a couple of toner cartridges. I learned how to work a fax machine, how to compile and enter data, how to prepare invoices, how payroll worked and how to sound like a sexy 1-800-ALL-PORN operator on the intercom when announcing the arrival of the lunch van.

Hey, Joan? You know that “little hussy” you treated like shit? The one you thought was too stupid to answer a phone, the one you constantly berated and insulted and patronized until she cried, the one you knew perfectly well was within earshot when you declared to the room that she would be pregnant and on welfare inside of two months? She went off to college and wound up with a 4.0 GPA and graduated Summa Cum Laude and become a responsible and productive member of society before marrying and producing two little future responsible and productive members of society.

And she learned how to type.

Several weeks ago, I was tagged by the wonderfully talented Denine Zielinski. And because I am me, I immediately wrote myself a pink fluorescent note to remind myself to answer the tag questions as expeditiously as possible and then I promptly lost the note amidst the 5,742 other pieces of paper floating around my desk and on the floor around my feet.

And then the other day, when I could no longer see my feet for all of the crap on the floor of my office, I yelled at anyone who would listen that I was going to throw away every single piece of crap in my immediate vicinity if the rightful owners did not hence forth come hither and retrieve said crap.

And because my family is the way they are, no one came hither to retrieve anything and I assembled all of the aforementioned crap and shoved it into a garbage bag and tossed the bag against the wall and as it went sailing through the air, it hit my printer, causing my printer to move a bit to the left, thereby revealing a little pink fluorescent note stuck to the bottom of it. I realized immediately what it was and how late I was in responding and proceeded to proclaim rather loudly “I AM SUCH A LOSER” to anyone who would listen, which was no one because no one listens to me in this house.

So Denine, if you’re reading this, I apologize for being a loser with a messy office in a house where no one listens to me.

On to the questions:

Ten years ago?

Ten years ago, I was in the throes of a divorce. We had sold our brand new house and I was living in a dinky little condo on the other side of town with my four year old daughter, Zoe. I was working as a paralegal in the foreclosure department of a downtown law firm.

I hated my job. I hated that condo. But I loved living with Zoe, just the two of us, having our own place, even if it was tiny and had been broken into a week before we moved in. It had a putridly ugly kitchen floor and a downstairs powder room with a blue toilet that didn’t come clean no matter how many hours I scrubbed it and a coat closet with no door for the first two months of living there. It also came with a landlord that could not care less and neighbors who thought nothing of careening into their driveway and narrowly missing a four year old on her tricycle. But it was all I could afford and I think we did a pretty good job of spiffing it up, considering I had no flair for spiffy at the time. Zoe’s daycare was a mile down the road, there was a beautiful playground nearby and we settled into a routine of dropping off at daycare at 6:30 am, picking up at daycare at 5:00 pm, cooking dinner, playing at the playground, taking a bath, reading stories and giving kisses goodnight.

Also ten years ago, against my better judgment and despite every fiber of my being screaming NO, NO, NO, YOU DO NOT NEED THIS HASSLE, STOP IT RIGHT NOW, I fell completely in love with a tall, dark, handsome IT guy by the name of Nate. Nate came over on weekends and we did fun things like going ice skating and to the beach and not so fun things like installing iron bars in our basement windows, replacing locks and killing spiders. He also installed a garage door opener that had been his Christmas gift to me and for the record, I consider that to be one the nicest gifts he has ever given me. Nate ensured our safety. Did I mention I had a landlord that could not have cared less?

Ten years ago, I was thirty-one years old, a single mom, in love, ending a chapter of my life and starting a new one.

Five things on today’s to-do list?

1. Finish shopping for Helena’s birthday. I’ve got nine eight year olds coming to my house next week and I need a craft which is not messy, quick and makes me look incredibly creative. I decided that is not at all possible so I have chosen hydro bracelets because they are messy and time consuming and totally cool. I will ignore the very real possibility that they will come apart and spill glitter and microscopic beads all over my house because I’m not afraid to admit that I have lost my mind.
2. Get ready for Zoe’s birthday party. Her birthday is in April and she wanted a pool party but around here, April could mean 80° and sunny or 10° and two feet of snow. So to be safe, she scheduled it for August. The fact that she scheduled it four days before Helena’s party and has invited 10+ teenagers of both sexes just shows how little she cares for my mental stability. The fact that I let her is further proof that I have no mental stability, having already lost my mind as referenced in #1 above.
3. Clean Helena’s room. This is an ongoing saga. The child is genetically incapable of keeping anything neat. She is Nate’s child, for God’s sake … where did he go wrong?
4. Do laundry. No further explanation needed. Or wanted, I’m sure.
5. Back-up my hard drive to DVDs. I have Carbonite and I also have Memeo but because I am a paranoid freak of nature who knows without a shadow of a doubt that they’re out to get me, I absolutely must have another backup plan so DVDs it is. This means I have to take a run to somewhere to buy DVDs because I have about 90 GB of stuff to back up and only two blank DVDs when I used to have eighteen which makes me suspicious that Helena has been busy pilfering my office for shiny things again. So now I’m going to have to get dressed. Which means I have to take a shower. Which means I have to move from my computer chair. Nothing is ever easy, is it?

A snack that I enjoy?

Garlic bean dip. Surprising, isn’t it? Especially coming from someone who thinks hot fudge is a condiment and who will go to any lengths to avoid healthy food, including running out of the house naked and screaming if someone places steamed broccoli anywhere near her nasal passages.

But whip out a food processor and throw in some cannellini beans, extra virgin olive oil, feta cheese, parsley, three or four garlic cloves, lemon juice, and pepper, grind the hell out of it and give me a spoon. I will follow you to the ends of the Earth. I’ll even willingly read a map and give you directions to get there, that’s how much I love this stuff. I’d kiss you too but you’d probably pass out from my breath and get into an accident on your way to the ends of the Earth and then where would we be?

Things I would do if I were a millionaire?

Did you know that we have a subscription to the lottery? I didn’t even know you could do such a thing, but Nate scoured the Internet when I wasn’t looking and signed us up. Now, we can just sit in the comfort of our living room, open the window and simply toss out wads of money while watching LOST and sipping a lemonade, that’s how easy this subscription has made it for us.

I don’t like the lottery and every time I see a subscription renewal notice, I just look at Nate with my “no, no, no, no, no” face and he looks at me with his “you gotta be in it to win it” face and I stomp out of the room.

And if we ever do win, I will feel incredibly guilty that we didn’t exert one iota of effort to do so other than clicking “submit.” I will be wracked with this guilt right up until I tell my chauffeur to bring around my limo speedy quick … the black stretch one, not the white SUV one … because I’m late for my personal jet … the Learjet, not the Boeing … that is fueled up and waiting at my personal airport … the one on this side of town, not my other one … to whisk me off to the spa located in the casino I just purchased in the country I now own. The big country up there, not the little one over there. Pay attention.

Places I have lived?

I could take the easy way out and just say New York State. Or I could get all bogged down in the details of the many, many places I have lived within New York State. If I choose the latter, I’d feel compelled to explain various answers like “with a monumental asshole in the middle of nowhere” and “in my car” and then this post would become epic. So I think I’ll just leave it at New York State and then we can all get on with our day. You’re welcome.

So, there you have it Denine! Probably not worth waiting for but I always keep my commitments, even if it takes me upwards of an eternity to do so. Just call me Miss Conscientious.

Last week, my neighbor Sue and I went out for dinner without the kids. We had been planning it for about a year and every time we nailed down a date, inevitably someone would have a concert or a sleepover or diarrhea or a golf game that was never noted on the all-mighty calendar which drove his wife utterly insane and our dinner would never come to fruition.

So when Sue called me at 4:00 pm and said her husband was actually going to be home to watch the kids and no one was throwing up there and I said Zoe was actually going to be home to watch Helena and no one was throwing up here, we were silent for a moment, totally unprepared for this turn of events and trying to process what it all meant. Not wanting to jinx myself, I whispered “are you sure?” and she whispered back “yes” and then we both screamed and danced around and yelled “see you later!” and hung up. I ran upstairs to get dressed in decent clothes. And by decent, I mean clothes that had no paint, food or chemical stains on them and actually fit without the use of safety pins or duct tape.

After writing down all emergency numbers for her husband, as well as explicit instructions as to how to feed, bathe, entertain and otherwise keep alive their two young children, Sue ran from her house and drove up my driveway at 5:00.

Judging by the reactions of my children, you would have thought that I was abandoning them for a night out of clubbing and wild drinking and whooping it up. I haven’t whooped since … I don’t remember the last time I whooped. It was at least two kids and 821 stretch marks ago. I don’t know how to whoop anymore.

Me: OK - I love you guys! OK! I’m leaving! Love you! Please stop blocking the doorway. Love you! You need to move now. Get up, please. Love you! If you continue to barricade the door, I will simply jump out the window.

Zoe: This is so unfair. You go out all the time.

Me (looking behind me): Who are you talking to?

Zoe: You do!

Me: Have we met? You must be talking about your other mother because I do not go out.

Helena: You just went out yesterday!

Me: Grocery shopping does not qualify as “going out.” Neither does taking you to the doctor for your shot or returning movies to Blockbuster.

Helena: What about all those times you went to Bunco?

Me: Honey, that was one night a month for two hours. And if you recall, I quit Bunco over a year ago so that I could take you to swimming. You have playdates all the time. Mommy needs a playdate sometimes too.

Zoe: What are we supposed to eat? There’s nothing to eat in this house.

Me: I have a receipt for $249.61 somewhere in the bottom of my purse that would beg to differ with you.

Zoe: Where are you going?

Me: I’ve already told you, we are going to Cracker Barrel.

Helena: Why can’t we come?

Me: Because Mommy needs some grown up conversation. That makes Mommy happy and when Mommy is happy, we’re all happy. Anyone remember what happens when Mommy is sad?

Helena: You can talk to Daddy! Daddy’s a grown up!

Me: Let me rephrase. Mommy needs to talk to an adult who enthusiastically participates in stimulating conversation with no coercion.

Helena: What does that mean? Stop using big words.

Zoe: Will you bring us back something? Can you bring us back dinner? Can you bring us a pizza on your way home?

Me: We have a ton of food here! That doesn’t happen very often so take advantage of it. Go introduce yourself to the pantry. Now if you don’t move, I will step right over you and you know how iffy my balance is when I haven’t eaten. Don’t come crying to me if I accidentally crush your spleen.

Zoe: What time will you be home?

Me: In a couple of hours. My phone will be on, in case of an emergency. Now, who remembers the rule?

Zoe and Helena in unison: Don’t call unless we’re bleeding or throwing up or dead.

Me: That’s my girls! I love you both! Now, roll out of the way, please.

After several more kisses and “I love you’s” I managed to extricate myself from my house and jumped into Sue’s car and off we went to Cracker Barrel for our first real, live, grown-up dinner together.

As soon as we were seated, we busied ourselves inspecting the silverware, pushing the sugar packet bowl all the way back to the wall and collecting all the knives into one pile out of harm’s way.

Waitress: What can I get you ladies tonight?

I had to smile. The last time I was called a lady was … I don’t remember.

Sue: I’ll have the chicken and dumplings with a side of mashed potatoes, please. Sit up straight and keep your elbows off the table. Oh, and a coke, please.

Me: Scratch that coke and give her a milk. Don’t you want strong and healthy bones? I feel like doing something special tonight so I’m going to have breakfast for dinner! Won’t that be fun? I’ll have the french toast with a side of hash brown casserole, please. And an ice water, no lemon.

We smiled brightly at the waitress as she left to place our order.

Me: Can you believe it? I’m actually out at a restaurant and didn’t have to order chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese. I feel like a real, live grown up! Put your napkin on your lap, sweetie. How about you?

Sue: Oh my God, I can so relate! No sippy cups, no children’s menu, no hot dogs. Elbows, honey. I don’t want to remind you again. So, what have you been up to?

Me: I went school supply shopping today. Managed to buy all 739 items on the list! Stop biting your lip, do you want it to bleed? How about you?

Sue: I went through all my kids’ clothes, got them sorted out into piles labeled Keep, Donate and Burn. Stop fidgeting and face front, please. I can’t believe how fast they’re growing!

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sue: Hello? … no, do not stick your hands in there … just flush it and we’ll get you another one … do not do that … put Daddy on the phone … yes, it’s OK to wake him up.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Me: Hello? No, you may not go swimming … because I am not there …  Zoe is not me … because you could drown …  what do you mean, so what? … because I said so … put Zoe on the phone … yes, she has to speak to me … because I said so.

Despite a few interruptions, we continued chatting until our waitress arrived with our dinners. As I leaned over to cut Sue’s chicken, we tossed around various ideas for upcoming birthday parties. As she leaned over to wipe the crumbs off my chin, we discussed the improvement we’d seen recently in back-to-school fashion.

We celebrated the fact that she had finally eaten an entire dinner in one sitting while it was hot without having to share it with anyone under three feet tall and that I had finally gone through an entire dinner without having to hear the telephone ring incessantly for everyone other than me.

We absolutely reveled in being kidless grownups for a few short hours.

We finished our meals and when the waitress arrived, we contemplated dessert.

Sue: We shouldn’t. You didn’t finish your dinner and you know the rule. Dessert is the absolute last thing I need.

Me: I know. I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach.

Sue: I’ll have the cheesecake.

Me: And I’ll have the chocolate brownie sundae pie.

When the check arrived, we dove into our purses and pulled out fives and tens along with tissues, antibacterial wipes, Chapstick, Nintendo DS games, library overdue notices, Littlest Pet Shop figures, DVDs, extra socks, CD’s, matchbox cars, a mitten from last winter, and sunblock. We proceeded to the lobby and paid our bill.

Sue: I need to go potty before we get going. You should try going potty too, just in case.

Me: Good idea. Remember, do not touch anything in there! Do you remember how to hover?

Sue: I’m good. Let me know if you can’t reach the lever with your foot - sometimes they’re pretty high.

As we finished up in the rest rooms, we mulled over the possibility of going to a movie.

Me: Use enough soap. Remember to rinse it all off or it will irritate your skin. I don’t think I’ll have enough time for a movie. I need to get home and make sure Zoe and Helena haven’t killed each other yet.

Sue (sighing): Yeah, you’re right. I suppose I should make sure my kids aren’t playing “hold our breath until we’re blue” while their father isn’t looking. Make sure that water is hot. Here, use a paper towel to turn it off. It’s getting late, anyway - it’s almost 7:00! I’m exhausted.

We left the restaurant and after we ensured we were both properly buckled in our seats and I had a magazine to keep me occupied, we made our way back to my house. Once we arrived, Zoe and Helena whipped open the front door and looked at me accusingly when I emerged from the car with no styrofoam containers.

Sue: Watch your fingers, you don’t want them slammed in the door. We really need to do this more often!

Me: Definitely. It’s so refreshing to have some “me” time and not focus all my energy on the kids. Make sure you brush your teeth before you go to bed and rinse it out really well.

Sue: I’ll call you. Night night!

Me: Looking forward to it! Sleep tight!

We made plans to do it again the next time we had a free night or after our kids’ high school graduations, whichever came first.

I have an 84 year old aunt.

She’s short.

She loses about an inch of height a year. Pretty soon, I’m going to have to look under the coffee table for her.

She golfs a couple of times a week in the summer. She just golfed last week with my 79 year old dad and my 39 year old husband and held her own, as she always does. It was 210º outside.

I don’t golf anymore when it’s 210º outside.

I don’t golf anymore period. It doesn’t matter what the thermometer says.

She bowls during the winter.

I tried to bowl but even the lightest ball was too heavy for my pathetically weak wrists.

She’s incredibly physically fit and has better looking legs than I do.

Did I mention she’s 84 years old?

She used to live down the street from us when we were growing up. I loved her house. It was old and had gold carpet in the kitchen and a beautiful hearth and a scary basement.

I lived with her for a short time when I was losing my mind during a two year period and she knew I needed some space. She’s always been there like that.

One time when I was really young, I was in her bathroom and found one of her lipsticks and played with it and forgot to turn it down before I covered it and I smooshed it. I started to cry and went to my aunt and admitted my crime, wondering how she would dish out punishment. She asked me if I had learned a lesson, told me she was proud of me for telling her and gave me a hug. I’ll never forget that.

She retired from Xerox after a long, long, long time.

We grew up always having white paper handy to draw on.

She lost her husband about thirty-five years ago. It scarred her, it changed her, it saddened her but it didn’t stop her.

She used to call me up when I was a kid and ask me to go on bike rides that would make my ten year old lungs and legs weak with effort. She never broke a sweat.

She’s got more energy in her right ear lobe than I do in my entire body.

She’s got great taste in earrings and I borrowed a beautiful gold pair from her when I got married to Nate.

She’s the one everyone stays with when they come to visit because she’s got an extra bedroom with two twin beds and a long, gold couch that easily fits my brother. It’s older than I am. The couch, not my brother. We’re the same age. My brother and I, not the couch and I.

We don’t have any spare bedrooms in our house.

She knits and crochets and makes drop dead gorgeous afghans.

We have one of her afghans on our couch and one of her blankets currently resides on Helena’s bed.

I don’t sew. I use duct tape.

She has the most beautiful angel tree at Christmas. I always stare at it, admiring all of her angel ornaments and try to guess which ones are new that year.

She bought us beautiful Lenox Christmas ornaments, one for each of us, with our names on them. I love those ornaments. We all do. We each hang our own on our tree every year.

She volunteered for Ronald McDonald house for over twenty years. When Zoe was young, Aunt VeVe introduced her to Ronald McDonald and Zoe was awed into silence. That didn’t happen often AT ALL.

I used to go over to the house when Aunt VeVe was volunteering and sit next to her and do some of my homework on their Mac computers because we didn’t have a computer.

She makes a special effort to get Zoe and Helena gifts for their birthdays and Christmas that they will love. She always calls me weeks in advance for ideas and badgers me until I give her specific suggestions.

She’s got great taste in kids’ clothes. I always love what she chooses.

Sizes, not so much but that’s OK because she always includes a gift receipt.

She’s got a very loud voice but she doesn’t realize it. So, when she exclaims “Oh my God, why is she so fat? She’s never going to fit there!” when someone tries to squeeze into a seat next to us at a wedding, I have to turn to her and whisper “shhhhhhhhhhhh.”

I don’t like to shush my aunt. She doesn’t like it either.

She keeps her condo at 83º. We sweat when we’re there but no one wants to ask her to put on the air because it’s her house. No one except me. I’ll just say “Holy crap, Aunt VeVe, it’s hotter than Hell in here” and she puts on the air. I’m subtle like that.

She drives by herself to New York City at least once a year to visit her 80 year old cousin and do up the town.

You couldn’t pay me enough money to drive to New York City, let alone in New York City. I’m a wuss.

She drives by herself 800+ miles down to North Carolina to visit my parents. She takes two days to do it and won’t listen to me when I ask her to fly instead.

You know she’s 84, right?

She doesn’t listen to my advice much.

I don’t like driving to the next county by myself. I’m a wuss. I think I mentioned that already.

She flies to Vegas once a year with my parents to visit my brother. Last time, she beat the slots and came home with more money than she had when she left. This irritated my mother who didn’t do so well at the slots and came home with no money. My father doesn’t play slots. You can find him at the blackjack tables.

In the past fifteen years, she’s traveled to Russia, Australia, Alaska, Japan and she went on an African safari and she’s been to a lot of other places that I can’t remember off the top of my head.

The last time I went someplace exotic was never.

I did go to Hawaii and France. But that was over twenty-five years ago for both so I don’t know if that even counts anymore. My old passport is currently at the bottom of Helena’s toy box.

She will go to extremes not to be a bother. Like not calling me when her washer line breaks and floods her condo as she frantically tries to turn her water off, can’t and winds up calling 911and then has to stay in her bedroom for two days to escape the noise of the fans as a cleaning crew fixes her carpet.

I tell her to call me when these things happen. We will come and help her.

And she says OK but then she never does.

Like when she was involved in a golf cart accident and smashed her knee to smithereens and had surgery and waited to call me until she was back home with a huge brace on her leg.

I repeat my instructions to call me when stuff like this happens, for God’s sake and I will take care of her. I need to know that she’s OK. OK?

She says OK but I know she won’t.

Like when she had a bad car accident three miles from my house which shut down the main road and required several fire trucks and ambulances and police cars and she refused medical treatment and was driven home by a police officer because she didn’t want to bother her niece. I found out the next day when she called my mother in North Carolina who then called me in New York to see what I thought about the whole thing.

And I said I would have had an opinion ready and waiting for her if I had only known about it.

I called her, confirmed she was OK, asked if she needed anything and then yelled at her in sheer frustration, asking why she didn’t call me, for shit’s sake, what the hell was the matter with her?

She doesn’t like to be yelled at and told me so.

In no uncertain terms.

I don’t yell at my aunt anymore.

She did tell me when she was having heart valve replacement surgery. My mom flew up to stay with her and we were both with her in recovery and I’ll never forget the feeling of despair I had when I saw her for the first time after surgery. I had never seen my aunt look frail and helpless. I expected her to wake up at any moment and tell the doctor how to do his job.

She recovered incredibly quick, surprising everyone, including her doctor, but not me. I knew she would. Because that’s Aunt VeVe.

She always invites us to dinner when my parents come to visit and stay with her. She makes the best breaded baked chicken.

She always feels guilty for asking Nate to help her out with something, whether it be her phone, television or computer. I keep telling her not to, that Nate is happy to help her, she is not a bother.

She doesn’t believe me.

She has never missed any of my kids’ birthday parties.

She was there for my surprise 30th birthday party, as well as my surprise 40th and I fully intend on seeing her at my 50th. But I don’t want a surprise party. Everyone hear that?

I have an 84 year old aunt and she is one of the strongest, independent, capable, intelligent, caring women I have ever had the privilege of knowing.

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