Four years ago, I wrote a post called “Don’t Tell Me Things Will Get Worse.”   Yesterday, it appeared at 5 Minutes for Parenting.  You can read it by clicking here.

I still mean every word I wrote.

Just in case you wondered.

What I would like to know is this:  when did we start wearing bags?  Didn’t we used to just carry purses?

I came upon handbags for sale in Nordstrom’s the other day while searching for Easter shoes for my daughter.  An assortment of leather bags, some with chunky chains attached, were on sale, so I picked one up, dug around to find the tag and fainted dead away at the price.

Four hundred dollars?  All the money I’ve spent on purses in my whole life–including the pale pink fake leather number I carried in high school–have not added up to four hundred dollars.  Seriously.  And what in the world are women putting in those gigantic bags?  Small dogs?  Small children?  Portable television sets with attached VCRs?

I did buy a pair of shoes from Nordstrom’s.  I only shopped from the sale rack and found a suitable pair of black flats to wear with my dark “skinny” jeans because that’s what Oprah told me to wear.  You think I kid, but I do not.  I take my fashion advice from Oprah and only Oprah.  (I kid.)

Before my purchase, though, I thought it best to doublecheck the regular shoes, the not-on-sale shoes, to make sure I wasn’t missing a better deal and a cuter pair.

So, tell me, who in the world is paying two hundred dollars for flat leather shoes?  (Are you kidding me, Nordstrom’s?)  I guess the same people who pay two hundred dollars for a pair of jeans.  The same people wearing bags the size of Delaware.

I may have crossed a line from trying-to-be-semi-fashionable to fuddy-duddy-cheapskate.  I know.  What next?  Will I start wearing one of those disposable plastic bonnets to protect my hair from rain?  Will I slide my fake leather shoes into rubber overshoes?  Will I carry a purse with twenty-seven zippered pockets that is advertised in the backs of old-lady magazines?  (Do they even advertise those purses anymore?)  Will I buy my polyester pants at K-Mart?

I bought a designer bag from Goodwill not long ago.  I probably grudgingly paid $6.99.  It’s black, roomy and constructed from nylon and I would tell you the label on it, but I can’t remember.  What I do remember is the day that I rifled through that bag and discovered a small pocket, sized for a cell phone . . . and in that pocket a neatly folded $20 Canadian bill.  I left it there as a happy reminder of the serendipitous moments of life.

Because if you’re headed toward polyester pants and plastic rain bonnets, you need little reminders of your past life . . . when you used to look for designer labels at thrift stores.

Have you ever been talking to someone and right in the middle of your story you realize that you are rambling?  And that you are boring, deadeningly boring?  And then you wonder why you even launched into this somewhat overly intimate story?  And you can see your victim’s eyes darting about in the classic signal commonly known as I’m trapped by this lunatic who won’t stop over-disclosing to me?

But you can’t stop because you’re in the  middle of a ten-part story and why in the world did you start and so you rush to the end of the story and then you decide you will never again venture into public where you might bore people with your ridiculous stories about things that happened to you twenty years ago?

And so you renew your commitment to being  a hermit?  Only you call it Enjoying Solitude so no one will think you truly are missing a screw?  Even though you are missing about seven screws, but that’s another long story which you will avoid telling?  Because there are good reasons why our head rattles loose from time to time but honestly, none worth voicing aloud?  Especially to fresh-faced twenty-something members of the human race who have no time for 45-year old women who are starved for human interaction?

No?

Well, maybe that’s just me.

Forget I mentioned it.

Take daughter to school.
Clear all carpets for carpet cleaner’s arrival.
Wake up teenagers.
Buy:  Doorknob, lightbulb, school binder, five subject spiral bound notebook.
Figure out what to make for dinner.
Launder clothes.
Wonder why I didn’t get more done.
Consider shopping for more shoes.
Help teenagers with algebra.
Pick up kids, drive kids around, tell kids to be quiet.
Take kids to activities.
Fix dinner.
Meet with Community Group.
Work for three hours.
Drop into bed and wonder again why I haven’t finished writing that novel.

I love the word “launder.”

That is all.

What’s on your To Do List?

I am a lifelong snoop.  I’m the kind of person who cranes to see into lit living rooms if I happen to be strolling outside at dusk and spy a house with open curtains.  I eavesdrop.  When I babysat as a teenager, I’d check out the medicine cabinet and open up every single kitchen cabinet, just to explore.

Is it any wonder that I am a big fan of the memoir?  A memoir answers the questions that are often impolite to ask.  What was it like growing up in a crazy family?  How did you survive the wreckage of your parent’s divorce?  Why did you get divorced? (I am always inappropriately curious.)

Lately, I’ve been reading only memoirs.  Here, in no particular order, are the ones I’ve read most recently:

Blackbird by Jenny Lauck.
This book describes a “childhood lost and found.”  Written from a child’s perspective in first person present tense, you don’t just read the story.  You swim in it.  If you click that link above, you’ll find Jenny’s website with information about her and her books.  She is a Buddhist now.

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
My friend, MaryKay, told me about this book a long time ago.  I finally came across a used copy in a thrift store (I am so cheap sometimes) and read it.  Without flinching, Jeannette relates her childhood raised by eccentric, unstable parents (her father a gambler and alcoholic and her mother a mentally ill artist).  What amazed me was the sense I got that Jeannette never really felt self-pity.  Anyway, excellent read.  You will not believe the situations her parents put their children through.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Has everyone in the world read this book?  Again, it took me awhile to find a cheap used copy, but finally, I joined the masses in reading this bestseller.  (Julia Roberts is playing Elizabeth Gilbert in the movie version.)  I found myself almost immediately repelled, unfortunately.  Not by the writing, which was lovely and amusing and palatable, but by the writer’s description of having a crisis on the bathroom floor.  (I’m not really spoiling anything since I’m the last person on earth to read this book, plus, this happens at the very beginning.)  But when the writer experienced her emotional crisis (she didn’t want to be married anymore and didn’t want to have a baby), she prays and that prayer leads her to divorce her husband (in a nasty, drawn-out, horrible battle), have an affair and then embark on her trip around the world that is chronicled in this book.

I just don’t relate to a complete shirking of responsibilities and vows and obligations.  Also?  Her current book is about marriage and seriously, really?  Don’t even get me started.

But the book itself was well-written and all that.  I just don’t love feeling judgmental while reading but I couldn’t help myself.

Lit by Mary Karr
Have you read Mary Karr’s memoirs?  She wrote The Liar’s Club (about her childhood), then Cherry (about her adolescence) and now Lit (picking up where Cherry left off).   I really loved The Liar’s Club–I read it quite a few years ago.  Then, in preparation to read Lit, I read Cherry.  And I am reading Lit right now because I’m going to a conference where she’ll be speaking. (Personally,  I did not love Cherry but I needed that bridge from one book to the next.)

I am enthralled by Lit.  I can’t do it justice, really, other than to declare how much I adore her memoirs, but here’s an article in the New York Review of Books that can speak for me.

Thin Places by Mary DeMuth
A few years ago, I met Mary at a writer’s conference.  She taught a workshop I attended.  I have been watching her writing career ever since.  She is a novelist, but also writes non-fiction.  Her most recent release is a spiritual memoir called Thin Places.  This memoir recounts the various times in Mary’s life when she’s felt closer to God, “places where she was acutely aware of God’s presence.”  Since I’ve been in the midst of a memoir-reading marathon, this particular one (in comparison) felt more like a devotional book with short chapters recalling non-sequential events in her life.  (All the other memoirs I’ve been reading are more or less in chronological order.)  But I loved the insight into Mary’s life and her descriptions of her life and family.

Mary’s writing is lovely as she shares vulnerable experiences in her life. And she is a fun person to know in real life, too.

I’d like to give someone a copy of Mary’s book, Thin Places.  If you’d like to win a copy, leave a comment with your favorite memoir.  If you don’t like to read memoirs, just state your favorite book.

* * *

(I received a copy of Mary DeMuth’s book to review, but no other compensation for any of these books.)

Last summer, my husband and I decided to go to a movie.  I scanned the movie listing on my iPhone.  “The Hurt Locker has gotten really good reviews,” I said. I really wanted to see it.

“What’s it about?”

I read him the description and he declared he didn’t want to see that movie.  So, instead, we saw some forgettable movie.  Seriously, I can’t remember what we saw instead.

And then, before I could see it, “The Hurt Locker” disappeared from theaters.  I hate it when that happens.

In recent months, “The Hurt Locker” garnered various nominations and my regret over not seeing it escalated.  I strive to watch all the movies nominated for Academy Awards . . . and so, after “The Hurt Locker” was nominated, I rented the movie on DVD and watched it at home even though I hate watching movies at home on DVD.  I get interrupted too much.

Every time we’d hear something about “The Hurt Locker”, I’d tease my husband.  He ought to trust my judgment about movies.  After all, he is the man who dragged me to “Welcome to Mooseport” one year.  I have never taken him to a dud of a movie (to my best recollection).

So today, we went to the local independent theater where “The Hurt Locker” is showing again.  Watching it the second time around was even better than the first.  My husband loved the movie.

And when it won “Best Picture” and “Best Director” (among other awards tonight), I rejoiced . . . and not just because this gives me ammunition for years and years of teasing.  But mostly because it gives me ammunition for years and years of teasing.

Husband = Zero.

Wife = All the rest of the points.

We own three cats.  Each one sports an oddity.

Roy is a paranoid female shaped like a 10-pound deer, only gray, black and stripey.  She hates me and runs from me as if I’m Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” chasing her with an ax.

Chestnut’s back legs twist in slightly and she has only half a tail which ends in a hook.

Only Smokey has long hair, including tufts between all her toes.  She weighs fourteen pounds and if you attempt to lift her, she squeaks.

We adopted them from a neighbor down the street whose pets obviously did not practice safe sex.

Despite my pleas, I am usually the only one who cleans the litter box.

So, now that you know the cast of characters, let me tell you about last Friday.

Last Friday I was upstairs in my bathroom when I heard the horrifying sounds of a cat fight.  I ran downstairs to find Smokey and Chestnut tangled under the kitchen table in a cloud of hissing fur.  I began screaming like a lunatic, waving my hands, moving kitchen chairs away from the table.  They stopped mid-attack and hunched into defensive poses, making scary cats noises.  Chestnut had her back against the wall, emitting a low growl.

Smokey sprang back onto Chestnut and I screamed so loud that one of my impossible-to-wake teenagers emerged from his room.

Chestnut ran for safety with Smokey in hot, hissing pursuit.

I continued my ineffective screaming (STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!) and waved my arms.  Chestnut escaped and ran upstairs to Zach’s room.

Smokey followed.  So did I.

Chestnut hid under the bed and Smokey leered at all of us, ready to rip us into bloody ribbons.

By this time, both teenagers were on the scene.  We hid Chestnut from view with blankets and shooed Smokey out of the room.

You’d think that would be enough drama for one day but you’d be wrong.

Later in the afternoon, another attack.  Smokey was definitely targeting Chestnut while ignoring Roy entirely.  So I called the vet.

The vet couldn’t see Smokey until Monday, so all weekend, we kept the cats separated through an elaborate system of open and closed doors.  We’d enclose Chestnut in the laundry room (home to the food, water and litter box).  Then we’d take her back upstairs and close her into a bedroom.

Why the vet?  Well, I wanted to make sure that Smokey wasn’t ill.  I wondered if maybe Smokey’s aggression was caused by . . . . I don’t know, cancer?  a broken leg?  schizophrenia?

So, at the appointed hour, I retrieved the animal crate from the storage room.  I placed it on a chair, sneaked up on Smokey and tried to stuff her into the crate.  However, the crate slid backward and Smokey suddenly caught on and made herself enormous by extending all her legs.

As you may know, you only get one chance to shove a cat into a crate.  But, being hopelessly optimistic at the worst times, I tried again.  Twice.

Then I grabbed my  head with both hands and yelled, “WHAT DO I DO?  WHAT DO I DO?”  I circled the storage room looking for a solution.  None appeared.

So, like a crazy woman, I declared my hatred of the cats and then my teenager informed me that I was hateful and I retorted that I was stressed out and seriously, these cats have been nothing but trouble!  Because I am mature in times of trouble.

I needed to get that cat to the vet.

Fortunately, brilliant ideas come to me even when I am out of control.

The picnic basket.

I grabbed it, had one teenager handle the cat and the other slam the lid closed.  I sealed it with duct tape while the cat began to howl.  Then I worried the whole way to the vet’s office that the cat would suffocate–which would both solve my current problem and present a whole new problem.  (“Sorry kids, I killed the cat.”)

My daughter, Smokey in the picnic basket and I waited in the vet’s office for almost an hour past our appointed time.  An hour!  Finally, we were shuffled into a room and at long last the veterinarian arrived.

I backed away from the basket, fully expecting Smokey to spring from the basket like a Tasmanian Devil as soon as the lid lifted.  But she did not.  She just peered up with wide eyes and flattened herself into the basket.

Bottom line?  The cat is fine.  The vet launched into a gory story about his own cats who once fought bloody fights for supremacy.

I said, “Even after six years?  They are fighting for dominance after six years?”

And he said yes.

That cost me $38.  But at least now I know that Smokey doesn’t have a physical excuse for her behavior.

Yesterday while I was on a telephone call for work, the cats ran under my desk, Smokey in pursuit of Chestnut.  I instinctively jumped up and blurted, “CAT FIGHT!” which is always an awesome interjection on a business call.

I highly recommend getting two bickering cats to liven up your life if things have become boring and listless.  Nothing gets your heart racing like a pair of snarling, growling, screaming, meowing, hissing, freaked out cats pouncing and circling and attacking.

It’s just as fun as it sounds.

My lilacs have embryonic blossoms and emerging green leaves.  The daffodils are in bloom.  The crocuses have begun to fade.  The forsythia I planted last year is still alive.  The reddish leaves of the Bleeding Heart are unfolding.  Spring.  I love spring.

But I am alarmed at how fast the seasons come and go.  I know, I know!  That’s the theme that runs through this blog, my constant disbelief at how life slips through my fingers.  I can’t grip it, can’t turn it over in my hands, can’t examine it at length. Christmas turned into Valentine’s Day and Easter will pop up for a split second before summer pushes its way to the front of the line.

The worst of it all is that if you miss an opportunity, it’s gone.   That little kid who wanted a piggy-back ride now needs a shave.  The baby boy you rocked on those sleepy early mornings now sets his own alarm and gets ready without any interference from you.  Your baby girl doesn’t let you dress her like a doll–she has her own opinions about clothes and in fact, has a few things she’d like to tell you about your personal style–or lack of it.  And she’s only seven.

No one sits on my lap anymore.  We’ve all moved on.  Only they are moving on and I’m standing still, looking at their backs.

When I left home, I was eighteen.  I boarded a Greyhound bus for a three-day journey to college.  I didn’t look back.  I’d waited my whole life to board that bus and start my life . . . my childhood had seemed an eternity to me, so it never occurred to me that it had flown by faster than the speed of sound for my parents.

So, March marches on like those African ants you’ve heard about that ravage everything in their path.  Look closely before it’s all gone.  Gather up the stuff that matters.  Read the little kids a storybook while they still clamor for your attention.  All too soon they’ll be counting the days until they can get away from you.

Blink.  They’re gone.

I can’t sleep.

I’ve used to pride myself on my ability to sleep soundly.  I once slept through a hurricane in the Outer Banks.  The girls in my college dormitory never kept me awake.  My husband’s snores never bothered me.

And now?  I go to bed at 1:30 a.m., arrange myself carefully in my nest of pillows, close my eyes and lie awake.  Sometimes a parade of unhelpful thoughts march through my mind.  Oh yes, I do need to send off the paperwork to the tax guy.  I mustn’t forget to make that phone call.  Why haven’t I scheduled my mammogram and dental cleanings?

Then I put a halt to those thoughts.  I roll over, carefully so I don’t disturb my slumbering husband.  I have to lug my body pillow to the left of me, so my roll is something of a three-point-turn.  Finally, back in the pillows, this time facing the left and my clock radio which emits a yellowish light.

I rotate the clock radio away so the light isn’t in my eyes.  I tuck the covers under my chin.  I must breathe fresh cool air all night.  Feet must be under covers, nose must be free.

At that point, if I’m very lucky, I sleep.

But this week, at that point, I begin to hack up a lung.  I try to muffle the sounds so the snores continue their rhythm.  I settle back down and begin to cough again.

Lather, rinse, repeat, every ten minutes.

Finally, I wonder if the DayQuil will help and I stagger to the bathroom to swallow those gigantic orange capsules.  (We have no Nyquil.  The cough syrup I found in the cabinet expired last November.  I am doomed.)  It’s past 3 a.m.

Then I wake up and it’s 7 a.m.  so I must have slept.

Tonight–soon–when I crawl into bed, I will remind myself that tomorrow I should buy some cough medicine . . . and then I’ll remember that I forgot to schedule my mammogram . . . and then I’ll decide lying on my right side is what is keeping me awake, so I’ll make a quarter-turn, lug my body pillow to the left, make another quarter-turn, nestle my head on my down pillow, make a final quarter-turn and start coughing.  And so the adventure that used to be Sleep begins.

I just can’t wait.

You would think that by a particular age (say, forty-five), you might have found your niche.  You’d have People, a circle of friends that would open and admit you without question and understand you without cross-examination.  You’d look into faces that would reflect your own age, your own story, your own world.

I mean, it seems like other people have found their tribes.  They know how they fit in.  They don’t stare at themselves in the mirror and wonder if they’ll ever really, truly fit in.  They aren’t too old or too young or too fat or too quiet or too busy to have friends like them.  They find themselves in a crowd of people and they blend in . They don’t have to explain or wonder.

Or maybe I’ve idealized other people’s realities.  Am I making stuff up?  Is everyone having parties that I’m not welcome to join?  Has everyone joined hands in a wide-ranging network that excludes me?

Furthermore, will I ever stop thinking I’m the only one who isn’t invited?

Do I have a group?

When I was young, I was pretty grown up.  I didn’t have time for frivolity.  I couldn’t see the point in dances and football games and gossiping about boys.  I found safety in the school library.  I was just biding my time until I could be an adult.

When I was a bride, all I wanted was to be a mother like my peers.  Instead, I buried my 47-year old father.  Infertility blocked the door to motherhood for years.

When I finally became a mother, I was an old mother.  The oldest kindergarten mother . . . all the other mothers were so young.  And that was when my now-16-year old boys were five.  I am definitely the old mom now, finding myself around mothers who are young enough to be my daughters.  It’s weird.  I forget that they must think I’m ancient.

My peers have children in college and I have a daughter in first grade.

I just never quite fit in.  I’ve always been out of sync, out of step.  I’ve never had any rhythm, really.

I’m funny.  I’m a good listener.  I can make small talk.

So why does it bother me that I don’t have an entourage . . . a posse . . . a group of my own?

I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.  Meanwhile, I’m just going to assume this post was written by  my inner-ten-year-old.