I made an escape!

I hatched a plan this afternoon while my ears were bleeding from the shocking amount of noise my four children produced.  When my husband arrived home at 5:30, I had my shoes laced up, a clean shirt on and my computer tucked into a bag. 

I went to the local Barnes & Noble which has an attached Starbucks.  I thought I’d work for awhile on a small writing project I have.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t get my computer connected to the Internet there.  I’ve never tried to do that before.  So, I went to the library and did my work there (still with no Internet).  I need to figure out the whole finding-WIFI-while-out-in-the-world-thing.

Working in the murmuring quiet of the library was lovely.  Staring at my reflection in the window was not quite as pleasant–outside in the rainy dark, headlights slid by, a traffic light shone red, then green, and I could see my naked face and somewhat frizzy hair in the window.   But I did get some work done, despite the distractions of my face staring back when I looked up from the computer in contemplation and thought.   

Then, I browsed the library shelves a bit, and then stopped by the store to buy some milk and other provisions before returning home at 9:00 p.m. 

I timed that so I would not have to put my daughter to bed. 

When I got home, I exercised–the amazing power of an exercise streak left me no choice–while reading P.D. James’ autobiography (checked out from the library last weekend–I am so thrifty!).  I am loving the book for so many reasons.  A glut of P.D. James murder mysteries is undoubtedly in my future.  I have several of her novels already on my shelves, just waiting. 

And with that, apparently, I’ve run out of things to say.  It’s nearly time for David Letterman and I need my beauty sleep. 

The End.

Today = Bad

Today turned out to be a four-cans of Diet Coke with Lime kind of day.  It was a find-and-eat all the dark chocolate in the house sort of day.   This was a day in which I hollered so loudly that my throat hurt, a day in which I crumpled a pile of papers into a ball and threw them with some venom onto the kitchen floor while shouting at my son, “I HATE THIS!”  I marched out of the room, straight through the laundry room and into the boys’ bathroom where I realized I was trapped and thus, I had to emerge sooner rather than later.

This was a bad day.  I blame pre-algebra.  Also, my hormones.  And attention deficit disorder and whatever processing disorder my son has which makes it easier for him to forget than to remember.  I blame the number 17 and the number 51 and the sneaky relationship they have with one another.  I blame the weather and the trajectory of the moon and February.  I blame the dentist and the virus in our house that makes me youngest son cough day and night.  I blame bad luck and the grimy carpet and Hillary Clinton.

At least it’s over. 

My husband didn’t return until nearly 7:30 tonight from his workday–some days are long like that–and I’m not sure which of us were more wiped out. 

Tomorrow is a new day.  Tomorrow, I will not yell.  I will smile and cheer and do six cartwheels across the kitchen floor.  I will not eat chocolate (I ate it all today).

My friends, my enemies.

I have these two really stupid friends. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to shake them. I avoid them, sneer at them, treat them rudely, yet still, they hang around. They’re sucking the life out of me like a couple of starving leeches. I know! Why would these two hang around when I show them no love?

My two so-called friends are Self-Doubt and Jealousy. I looked around today and realized that they are still here, whispering in my ear, reminding me that I am nothing special, that I am a giant empty cup with a chipped rim.

Self-Doubt is the worst because she’s quiet, muttering under her breath all the time, giving me ideas, bad ideas, dim ideas about myself. I can’t help but overhear, can’t help but wonder if she’s not right, even though she doesn’t look me in the eye and pretends that she wants what is best for me. She acts like a protector of sorts, like she’s providing me some great service by standing between me and the world.

Jealousy is a loud mouth, the kind of girl that just won’t shut up. She smacks her gum and rolls her eyes and shines a high-wattage spotlight at my neighbors and at my friends, highlighting their stuff, their accomplishments, their emerald green lawns without the blemish of a single dandelion. I try to ignore Jealousy and walk into the other room, but she follows me, taunting me, asking me if I’d like a Coach purse, one of those soft leather ones . . . and I don’t even care about purses, but this purse, this unobtainable purse, the purse other women with defined lips carry, somehow, after she talks about it, I want that purse. I wonder why I don’t have that purse. What mistake did I make that I ended up here, in this family room where the carpet needs to be shampooed, without a Coach purse?

I DON’T EVEN LIKE PURSES!

She moves on to things I want, things I dream about, things I think might be nice. A vacation in a warm place. A smaller pair of jeans than I can zip up now. A book contract. Children who instantly obey and never complain about putting their stinky shoes in their own room. Whatever I have, whatever I’ve accomplished, whatever I love pales in comparison to the shiny baubles she swings in front of my eyes. Instead of being pleased for other people, Jealousy suggests that I am diminished by their joy, which is a lie straight from the pit of hell, yet a lie that I roll around in my head like a silver marble.

With friends like these, who needs Satan?

At least I see beyond their straight teeth and glossy hair and recognize these two for what they are. Jealousy and Self-Doubt are poison, the kind of poison that looks pretty and tastes sweet, but which will burn my tongue like hot sauce and sear my soul like a toxic acid.

I am a blessed woman, a thankful woman, a woman who will push open an unlocked door and walk through it without fear. (God, please open some doors!) I am grateful.

Perhaps I ought to change the locks to keep out the lowlifes.

Gold hoops

When I was ten years old, my mother took me to a jewelery store on Colby Avenue in Everett to have my ears pierced.  Ever since all the cool girls in fourth grade had their ears pierced, I dreamed of wearing dangling earrings.  Who wouldn’t after seeing Ginger Herring wearing that pair of earrings that were tiny bottles containing little dried flowers?

I can’t remember the sting of the actual piercing, nor can I tell you much about the earrings I wore until college when I seemed to have a colorful pair of earrings to match each pair of socks which matched each shirt I owned.  (What?  You didn’t match your socks to every shirt you owned in the 80s?) 

As time went on, I realized I was not much good at accessorizing.  When I was newly married, I met a young woman at church named Anne who was the Queen of Accessories.  She had beautiful necklaces, carefully chosen earrings, pretty bracelets.  I admired her style, but always felt like a child playing with her mother’s jewelry box whenever I added a necklace to my outfit.  I generally wore only my wedding band and my engagement ring. 

The last four months of my dad’s life, my husband and I lived with him.  We’d intended to share housing, never dreaming that my dad would be diagnosed with fatal cancer right before we moved in.  Sometimes my dad would receive phone calls at 10:00 p.m. and leave quietly, returning after midnight.  I never knew who called or where he went, but he had no curfew and he was an adult, so I pretended not to notice.  I always wondered, though.  

One of his friends was a gray-haired woman named Helen.  I’m not sure how they became friends, but I think he was like a son to her.  He told me about the hot-fudge sundaes Helen served him and sometimes, he brought home leftovers.  I met her a time or two, but knew virtually nothing about her or about any of my dad’s friends.  

He died a few weeks after he turned 47.  Soon after his death, a card arrived for me from Helen.  In it, she enclosed a hundred dollar bill with instructions that I spend it on myself in memory of my dad.

I kept that money for a long time, pondering what a hundred dollars would buy, should buy.  I thought that clothes would fade.  I didn’t want to buy something mundane.  Flowers die.  Plants wither.  What should I buy?

I was at a department store when I saw that gold jewelry was fifty percent off. 

I spent my hundred dollars on a pair of gold hoop earrings.  They are almost an inch in diameter and they’ve been in my earlobes ever since, minus a fancy occasion from time to time when I’d match earrings to an outfit.

When I take the earrings off, I notice how often I reach up and finger those gold hoops.  That habitual gesture–touching the earrings, feeling the earrings, twisting them back into place–reminds me of my dad and his friend.  I wear them in memory of him.  My fingers reach for them without permission or knowledge of my brain. 

Fashion trends come and go, but I wear my gold earrings much as I wear my wedding rings.  They are a symbol to me of love and honor and remembrance.  Even when I don’t consciously think of what they mean to me–the rings or the earrings–they are a physical reminder of commitment and memory.

When I put on a necklace, I usually say “Oh, too much,” and then take it right back off.  But the gold hoop earrings?  They’re here to stay.    

Cold Swimming

Before lunchtime, my daughter and her friend were outside playing in the backyard.  She came rushing in, breathless, demanding her swimsuit.  I refused her at first, then finally gave in, figuring the natural consequences would convince her that it was too cold for swimsuits outside. 

She changed into her swimsuit and went back outside where she filled up the sandbox lid with water and attempted to swim.  A bit later, I went outside to check on them and found her friend complaining of cold hands while my daughter stood shivering with visible goosebumps covering her pale body. 

She said, “I’m trying to swim, but it’s too cold!”  Yeah, that’s what happens when it’s forty degrees outside.  Next time, listen to your mother! 

*  *  *

Tuesday night turns out to be the perfect time to shop at Costco.  One day I will be a regular housewife who can run errands during the day.  In the meantime, I’m some sort of errand-vampire, able to leave the house only under cover of darkness lest I shrivel and die in the light of the sun. 

Tomorrow is a half-day of school, which means I just might be able to answer the one hundred and eighty-three emails in my box before my afternoon baby arrives to monopolize my arms.  (I remember now that it’s virtually impossible to type while holding a wobbly 4-month old.)  If you are waiting to hear from me, do not despair.  One day, I’ll catch up.

Commentary on the News

A few hours ago, I heard a news story on the television which reminded me that I wanted to write about it. Then, I got all distracted by trying to find a link to the local story. I failed and then my attention was diverted by:

A) Fixing lunch.

B) Moving laundry from washer to dryer, dryer to basket, and then folding that load from this morning.

C) Looking in vain for my daughter’s new Gameboy game which comes in one delightful size (“Easy to Lose”).

D) Pulling out Hide-A-Bed and scooting a pound of trash, crumbs and unpopped popcorn kernels from under the couch.

E) All of the above.

So, anyway. You’ll have to take my word for it when I tell you that in this region, a baby was found abandoned yesterday morning on the steps of a church. The baby was said to be less than twenty-four hours old and a desperate search is on for the mother who abandoned this baby.

People appeared on camera to declare how wrong it was for this mother to abandon her baby on the steps of a church (sometime after 9:30 a.m. where the infant was found quite quickly when mass ended). The news reporters emphasized that police searched door to door, looking for someone who might have seen something. Where could the mother be?

I say, “Who cares where the mother is?” The baby has been abandoned. I know exactly what the Department of Health and Human Services will do next. They will try to reunite the mother and the baby. They always do. Even when a mother has repeatedly abused her children or abused drugs or neglected her children, the biological rights always come before what is best for the child.

In this case, what is best for the child is to be placed in an adoptive home. I am quite certain that the abandoned infant could be living with a new, permanent, adoptive family before nightfall, if only the insane governmental agencies didn’t give so many chances to biological parents.

If I were Queen of the World, parents would lose their parental rights forever in these cases:

1) Abandonment of baby immediately following birth.

2) Abuse or neglect of children or living with an unrelated person (“boyfriend”, etc.) who hurts the children.

3) Drug use, despite one chance at rehabilitation.

Parents should not have unlimited chances to ruin their children’s lives. And when a baby is abandoned, we should take that as a sign that the mother intended to relinquish her rights. Do not search for her. In this case, she left the baby where he would be found quickly. Good for her. I wish her well.

And I hope that baby is adopted immediately so he can begin to bond with his forever family.

An open letter to the lady using my right armrest

Dear Lady On My Right,

When you came into the movie theater and chose that seat right next to me, I thought, “Good for her.  She’s seeing a movie by herself,” because usually I’m the only single female in a movie theater.  I think women should claim their freedom and see movies by themselves and stop worrying what other people will think, so I applauded you, silently, in my head.  Silently, because we were in a movie theater, a rather crowded theater.

The movie was “The Queen,” and while the film has been nominated for a slew of Academy Awards, I hardly think it was the best movie of the year.  (My pick this year?  Babel.  Last year, I was right about “Crash,” you know or maybe you don’t know since we’ve never met.)  Helen Mirren may well win the Oscar, but the film was a bit of a snooze, if you ask me. 

Perhaps this is because I was distracted by your constant popcorn shuffling, Lady on My Right.  Did you not realize how much noise you were making by scooping and caressing your popcorn and then rattling the paper bag?  At times, I could hardly hear the dialogue and since the film was almost entirely comprised of talk-talk-talking, the noise you made was distressing.  And that snort of yours?  Do you have allergies?  And, honestly, the film was less than two hours long and you had to get up, scoot past everyone in our row and go to the bathroom.  Do you have a bladder infection?

I wish you well.  But next time, I hope you sit on the front row. 

Love,

Mel

*  *  *

Yesterday, a young man came by to install a new light fixture in place of the 1973 chandelier hanging in our dining room (in which we never, ever dine). 

My daughter chatted with him, or rather at him, non-stop.  I heard her say, “How many are you?” and he said, “How many what?”  She said, “How many?” and he said, “Oh, you mean how old?  I’m 23.”  She asked, “How old will you be at your next birthday?” and he said, “Twenty-four.”  Then she informed him that she will be five at her next birthday and I did some math in my head and realized that when she is twenty-four, he will be forty-three.  Life sprints on.  (I’ll be dead of old age.  Okay, not quite.)

Then she said to him, “Do you wear pajamas when you go to bed?” and he said, without hesitation, I might add, “I sure do,” and she said, “I wear pajamas, too.  But sometimes I wear a nightgown.”

To think that I used to believe she’d never speak to a stranger.  Those were the days.  Now, I hold my breath whenever I hear her chatting with anyone, in terror of what she might say. 

Back to the Present

I’ve been living in the future, hopelessly entangled in a story set in 2021 by author P.D. James.  I finished the novel last night and when I closed the book, I felt regret.  While I love finishing a book, often, I hate to reach the end of a well-written novel like Children of Men.

Although my friend, Diane, has recommended the author P.D. James to me for years, this was the first novel by her that I’ve read.  (And it’s not even in the typical murder-mystery genre that James normally employs.  Now I look forward to reading one of the P.D. James books on my shelves.)  But I read this book because I saw the movie.  I saw the movie because I suspected it would be nominated for some awards.  (I was right.)

I was unsatisfied with the movie, however, and so I turned to the book.  As it turns out, the plot and happenings in the book have very little in common with the movie.  I wondered if P.D. James is disheartened when she sees her novel transformed into a story on the screen which is entirely unlike her book.  The book was so much better than the movie.  (They always are, aren’t they?)

(I found an interesting article in the New York Times which compares the two.)

Anyway, the book is over for me, but I offer it to you.  Leave a comment and I’ll choose a winner by random drawing on Monday.  If you win, you can Paypal me a couple of bucks for shipping or not.  It’s up to you.  (Sending books by media mail is cheap.)

[Oh, and let me just remind you to visit my other blog, The Amazing Shrinking Mom every day.  Even if you don’t read it all (not everyone cares about weight issues, I know), my bosses over there take note of ever click, if you know what I mean, and so I’d be very grateful for your support.]

You Couldn’t Pay Me Enough

Sometimes, while in the midst of wiping someone’s bottom or while using my thumbnail to scrape crusted food off a place, I contemplate careers. For a few months back in 1990 (or was it 1991?), I worked in an office supply store and I loved it. Sorting pens into their proper bins gave me great satisfaction. I spent almost all my paychecks on merchandise in the store that I bought with my employee discount. And back then, I treated myself to a cookie-cupcake with thick frosting on it during every break, which was a big bonus. Mmmm, the mall food-court!

I loved that job. Not because I earned any money, but because I had fun interacting with the public and organizing stuff in the store.

I worked for two years in customer service for an insurance company. I wrote letters to customers, explaining how I had solved their problems or why I couldn’t solve their problems. I liked the independent nature of the work and I liked writing the letters. But I worked in a windowless cubicle and I was so bored and unchallenged (after the first couple of months). I grew to hate that job. I hated having to go to an office every day. I felt like my creative soul was dying. At that time in my twenties, all I wanted was to become a mother and so, I hated going to work. (Those were the infertile days for me.)

When I was a new bride, I was a legal secretary, not that I had any training whatsoever. My boss had just opened her private practice and I did whatever she told me to do. I typed, I transcribed, I answered phones, I wrote long letters to my friends in other states while I tried to stay awake. I didn’t have enough work to do, plus the law she practiced was mostly real estate and it was boring. But the office was in the center of New Haven, right on the green and it was a lovely location. I felt very cosmopolitan and grown-up working in a city, spending lunch hours at museums or swerving on the sidewalks to avoid crazy homeless people.

All that to say that I’ve been thinking of a few jobs you couldn’t pay me enough to do. I’d rather starve and end up living in a cardboard box on the sidewalk that participate in the following activities:

1) Pedicurist, podiatrist or any job involving adult toes other than my own.

2) Dentist or any job which involves touching other people’s teeth.

3) Any medical profession involving the digestive system.

4) Massage therapist. I’m just not interested in touching people I don’t know.

5) Plumber. Unclogging people’s drains? No, thanks.

Huh. I thought I had a bigger list. What job would you decline under any circumstances? What job would you like to have, if salary or training were not an issue? (I, for one, think working in a bookstore would be delightful. And I’ve always wished I were a midwife, ever since I met a midwife in 1993.)

Well, now it’s time to work with the boys on composition, which is about the most aggravating experience possible. I used to think writing could be taught. Now, I’m convinced that it cannot be taught, anymore than you can teach someone without rhythm or talent how to dance. (I cannot dance.)