Seventeen is the atomic number of chlorine. It is the seventh (lucky) prime number. When you turn seventeen you can see an R-rated movie or donate blood. It is the year when Harry and the other wizards came of age. “Seventeen” is a song by the band Winger. And it is the total number of syllables in a haiku (5+7+5).
Today is Kid A’s 17th birthday, so this one’s for her…
Born in a blizzard.
Middle name rhymes with “fire.”
You made me a mom.
Me with Parenting Experiment #1, January 1996.
Happy 17th Birthday, Kid A!
I love, love, love (most of the time) navigating this crazy, winding path of mother and daughter with you. My birthday wish is that you will always remember what brings you peace and happiness, and that you make time for whatever it is each and every day. I love you unconditionally, forever and ever. xo Mom
Hello, friends! Oh, how I have missed you all. And I have missed writing my stories, but you know the drill… December is a big, fat, hairy beast. And it defeats me every single year. It is my white whale (Call me Five Baby Mama).
I did my best to make our holidays uncomplicated, yet memorable. Full of quality family time, but not so much that we feel the need to move to a deserted island with no forwarding address afterwards. I did the planning and decorating and shopping and wrapping and delivering in small increments all month long so I wouldn’t be stuck down in the basement at 2AM on December 24th with nothing but scotch tape holding my eyelids open while I tried to assemble some crazy plastic contraption with more parts than there are letters in the Chinese alphabet. But December still got the best of me.
The kids started getting sick back at Thanksgiving. I have hand-outs from our pediatrician with the following titles… the stomach flu, croup, infectious mononucleosis, and pneumonia. Fortunately, there was no cross-contamination and everyone got their own special disease. Trust me, that did not happen by accident! And they were all sick at different times, so the “sickiness” seemed to last forever. A big shout-out to Kid B for staying healthy!
Then came December 14th and my heart broke so hard and loud that I felt it on the outside of my body. I don’t normally watch the news because it feeds my anxieties in a very unhealthy way, but no one could escape the horror story. My tears did not stop falling. They still haven’t.
Then came Christmas Eve and our new family tradition of Chick-Fil-A and peppermint milkshakes, and our old traditions of Sheepdog re-telling the story of Jesus’ birth and me reading ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and putting out a note and cookies for Santa. Our Christmas morning was full of smiles and hugs and Skype and wrapping paper and joyful noises. We are very, very, very blessed.
Kid A asked Santa for a vintage typewriter for Christmas. The Big Guy delivered an awesome one with keys en Espanol. Click, Clack, Moo (egg nog).
Then, since I couldn’t manage to get out of it, we had Christmas dinner for thirty people at our house. No, I’m not kidding. We had to find thirty places for thirty heineys to sit and eat. And we managed to pull it off! So on the night of December 25th, Sue, Tom, Bonnie, Joe, Tooker, Josh, Stacy, Ellie, Braden, Molly, Abby, Cal, Cam, Keri, Charlie, Foster, Luke, Nora, Rob, Kelli, Wilson, Phoebe, Mallory, Quincy, Brandon, Becky, Brady, Cooper and Eden all listened (most without giggling, although Brandon always fails at this) as Reverend Bob gave the blessing. Then we sat down and ate together and laughed and shared stories and memories and made some new ones too.
And speaking of holiday memories… one of my biggest projects this December came in the form of a request from my dad.
Many, many years ago, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, he fell deeply in love with a girl named Sue Speed. He loved her so much that he asked her to marry him when they were just nineteen years old. And being a dumb boy, he did it in a fairly unplanned, unromantic way… in the backseat of a car, with his pregnant teenage sister and her baby daddy up front driving. In the middle of the Cardiff Circle. Luckily, Sue Speed loved him back so much that she said YES anyway, and they have been together ever since.
But my dad has always regretted not having proposed with more style (partly because my mom tells him he should). So, this Christmas he had my cousin Ashley design my mom a fabulous new ring, with both old stones and new ones too, and he asked for his daughters’ help in planning a new and improved proposal that would knock her socks off. And we did it. We gathered together as many old (and some new) pictures of our family’s Christmas memories and I put together a DVD that showed them off and then featured our Top 10, with Number 1 being the lame proposal (which we so fabulously re-created using Rob and Kelli as “Uncle Bobby” and “Aunt Janice”), and at the end my dad turned to the camera and asked for a re-do.
We played the DVD on Christmas Day when all thirty of us were gathered together and at the end my dad walked over to my mom and re-proposed. He got down on one knee and talked about everlasting love and still getting excited to see her when he was driving home from work every day and it was sweet and romantic and my mom thought he was nuts. Luckily, she still loves him back so much that she accepted once again.
So, here for your viewing pleasure is the fruit of my labor and a peek into our crazy family antics…
And then I recorded the new proposal…
I am so proud to be a part of this big, goofball family. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Here’s to happiness and health in the new year. Wish me luck in 2013…
Kid B went to a party in the neighborhood last weekend. She had another friend from school with her. They spent hours getting ready upstairs. I’m talking pedicures on their toes, trying on all their clothes. I asked if they needed a ride to the clubhouse when they were finished.
My educated guess is that they were meeting up with some boys on the way to the party. Harmless enough. I remember making out with a boy or two playing spin the bottle in eighth grade, and I had waaaaaaay more freedom to roam around my hometown during those years. As long as they weren’t brushing their teeth with a bottle of Jack first, right?
But as more memories came flooding back of the things my thirteen and fourteen-year-old self thought and did, I decided that I should at least say something to them before they headed out for their night of (hopefully) harmless antics (after first doing a casual breath check for alcohol). They were clear so I gave them my standard going out speech:
“Girls, look at me and listen when I tell you this. When you go out this door, you are not only representing yourselves but you are representing this family as well. Have a good time, but also behave in a way that makes you proud of your actions. Don’t be whores.”
Kid B shook her head in acknowledgement (and a touch of embarrassment, as I had just yelled “whores” out the garage door and into the night) and her friend asked if she could have my spiel on an index card. I had given them a similar pep talk on Halloween night before they all went out trick-or-treating, so she knew the drill. She claimed that my speech made her feel cared for and good. Or she was making fun of me. Either way, at least the sentiment of being loved and worthy of self-respect was in their consciousness as they walked down the driveway.
I realize that soon my going out speech for Kid B is going to have to change a little. I recently included an aside on “not having sex in the basement guest bedroom” in one of my soliloquies to Kid A. At one time or another I will more than likely refer to the following… cheating, grinding, alcohol, 3rd base, sexting, skipping school, making out with teachers, shoplifting, prescription drugs, illegally downloading music, unprotected sex, meth, unprotected sex while on meth, vandalism, eyeballing, “No” means “No,” drinking and driving, and fashioning bongs from household items… and that’s just a warm up.
For the record, I am against most of those things.
But even though the topics that I cover (mostly for shock value and quite often ripped off from a recent episode of Glee) may vary and I may be a hypocrite for telling them not to do those things and they may or may not follow my sage advice, my kids (and their friends) will always know that they are important and special and that I care enough to yell “whore” out into the dark night for them.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
“Son, unless you are always wearing a hoodie, you’d better keep your bird in the cage. I tell you this because you are important and I love you.” Photo: Yahoo Images
There’s this Halloween tradition in the suburbs called “Boo-ing.” I’ve attached a copy of the note (go to http://www.beenbooed.com) that anonymous revelers leave along with the treats on your front porch, Ding Dong Ditch-style, that pretty much explains it all. I don’t care how it came about; I simply find it awesome that people leave candy for me right on my front porch. I hope that once day the girl scouts will start doing it this way with their cookies. And I wish they would do it during the day instead of at night when all of my pesky kids are around to lay claim to the goodies. But I’m also considering cutting my doorbell wire.
We got Boo-ed a couple of weeks ago. It was dark out and Kid B had just come home from soccer practice. The boys were already in bed. I have no idea where A and C were… I tend to lose track of a few them as the night goes on. Eh, they’ll come back home when they’re hungry.
I am a grouchy old lady, so I turn my front porch light off early in hopes that it will deter any late night visitors. Most people ignore this, so I was not surprised when I heard the doorbell ring after 8 p.m. Kid B answered it and proudly announced to everyone and no one that we got treats. I just crossed my fingers that the boys (a) didn’t get woken up by the doorbell, and (b) did not inherit my sixth sense about chocolate being anywhere within a 50-foot radius. Luckily, the boys stayed in bed. Luckily, we had candy in the house (not for long!). Unluckily, now we had a job to do. The very next night we had to go Boo some neighbors.
“There are three things I’ve learned never to discuss with people: religion, politics, and the Great Pumpkin.” – Linus Van Pelt, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966)
I don’t know if you have ever tried to do anything stealthily with little kids, but I can assure you it is next to impossible. Remember, Boo-ing is supposed to be done anonymously so you have to leave the basket of goodies and skiddoo. This created several technical difficulties for us.
Obstacle Number One: My youngest kids go to bed by 7:30, when it is still kind of light out. That meant that our mission had to be carried out without them (yeah, right) or at dinnertime in the daylight with the hopes that the recipients take at least ninety seconds to get up from the table and come to the door, so we would have enough time to run out of sight after we rang the bell.
Obstacle Number Two: Little kids can’t run very fast, no matter how much you yell at them. They aren’t very quiet, nor do they follow directions until they are given to them umpteen times. They also don’t react well in situations of panic.
Obstacle Number Three: Who to Boo? I never knew that these kids had so many “best friends.” Where are these so-called best friends when there’s heavy lifting to be done, huh? I immediately narrowed the list to one house. Boo-ing rules be dammed. This was going to be crazy enough once without having to do it again.
So with a basket full of Halloween candy and a “You’ve Been Boo-ed” note, we finally headed out into the pre-twilight to accomplish our mission. The house we had agreed upon was at the end of our street so we decided to drive most of the way down for a quicker getaway. But not in my (highly identifiable) XL truck. We opted instead to take Kid A’s car, which fewer people would recognize, and hide it behind some bushes. We mapped out a plan so that everyone got to partake in the fun, while also attempting maximum potential for a clean escape. When we got to the house we saw that both parent’s cars were in the driveway and the garage door was open, indicating they were most likely at home. It was on.
Kid A stayed in her well-hidden car, with both back seat doors open and ready for the quick getaway. Kid C held Kid E’s hand along the front walkway so he wouldn’t have to maneuver up or down any steps (face plant on the concrete driveway, anyone?) during their escape. Kid D had the biggest and most important responsibility of carrying the basket to the porch and dinging the dong. I stood at the end of the driveway to watch everything go down (that’s when I realized that Kid B wasn’t even with us… oops). After a minute or two of absolutely nothing I whisper-yelled to Kid D, “Ring the bell, dummy, so we can ditch!”
Several things happened at once. Kid D jumped off the porch. Kids C and E spun around to hightail it out of there, but C was giggling and E got confused and ran in the wrong direction. D and E collided somewhere along the driveway, but they quickly recovered and everyone headed for Kid A’s car. They made good time, but they were so pumped up from their caper (or the body slamming) that they went in one back door and exited the other one. Twice. Finally, I was like, “Get in and stay in!” and we sped away. With Kid E in the middle back seat yelling, “I’m not hooked!” I asked Kid D if he heard them coming to the door after he rang the doorbell. His answer, “I don’t even know if I actually rang the bell.” Awesome.
This morning parents and kids were in our driveway waiting for the school bus. Today was also my day to drive for pre-school carpool, so Kid E and his friend were running around all of the elementary school kids. They kept running to our front porch and then back to me, laughing hysterically. When I asked what they were doing, Kid E announced to everyone (in his little boy, lispy speech) that they were “practicing the ‘Bing Bong Bitch,’ I mean the ‘Ding Dong, Bitch'” so they would be better at it next time. Double awesome in front of a school bus full of kids.
Last Thursday I had some kind of unholy, unprecedented strain of PMS. All five of the kids were ganging up on me by playing a rousing game of Who Can Get On Mommy’s Very Last Nerve? So when Sheepdog came home from work and (uncharacteristically) asked, “What’s for dinner and when’ll it be ready?” before even saying hello, I felt totally justified in telling him that I wanted “to hit (him) very hard in the face with a(n effing) shovel.” Obviously, I needed a break. The very next morning I hopped on a plane to Philadelphia. We were all very pleased that I got away for a bit.
When I was a senior in high school I did what almost everyone else was doing and I applied to get into college. Three colleges, to be exact. I was smart, involved and had yet to experience any hard slaps-in-the-face from life. I was Miss Absecon 1987 and Holy Spirit’s homecoming queen, for goodness’ sake. So I was in utter disbelief and completely devastated when I received thin envelopes from all three schools telling me no, no and wait. It was April of my senior year and all I could say when asked where I was going in the fall was, “I honestly don’t know.”
I remember going in to see my school guidance counselor in a daze and asking what I was supposed to do at that point. He mentioned a small school on City Line Avenue in Philadelphia called St. Joseph’s University. I had not heard of it before, but my grades and SAT scores were on track to allow me admittance there. I do not recall the administrative details that followed, but I do know that my parents moved me into a college dorm up on Hawk Hill as that summer drew to an end.
But even with my very own spot in the SJU Class of 1992, it turns out that I still was not sure of where I was going. I spent the next two years floundering. I went to parties and bars, but not many classes. I changed my major and therefore my schedule countless times. I made stupid and sometimes dangerous choices. I got my heart broken more than once. Looking back on my freshman and sophomore years at St. Joe’s, I recall a general sense of sadness and isolation, which was made even worse by my belief that I was surrounded by so many people who all seemed to be having the time of their lives.
My parents saw that I was not happy and they finally convinced me to come back home (a fate worse than death at the time!). I would work and take classes at a local college in order to bring up my GPA. Then I could reapply to another school or schools, and eventually earn a degree. That is how I ended up at West Virginia University as a transfer student in the Fall of 1990. I met Sheepdog there after just a few weeks.
Short Aside… Yes, WVU was a giant party school back then (and still officially is, according to Princeton Review), but I had thankfully gotten most of it out of my system by the time I moved to Morgantown. Note that I said most, not all. Now that’s a true story.
After years of ruminating (and some good, old-fashioned therapy), I look back on my first years of higher education with a smile. It was the time when I walked on to the varsity cheerleading squad for the basketball team and I got to cheer on national television and travel all over the East Coast to other schools in the Atlantic 10. It was when I learned that accounting was definitely not my thing, but english and eventually journalism were. It was when I learned how I didn’t want to be treated by boys, and therefore what I did eventually want from a partner in life. Most importantly, it was the time when I learned what I did and did not like about myself. It was where I learned that having a rhinestone crown placed on your head doesn’t mean jack, so I needed to buckle down and start working for what I wanted. It was where I made friends for life, because college years can be so intense that bonds are forged deeper and stronger than during any other experience.
This past weekend I traveled back to City Line Avenue for Hawktoberfest 2012 and to celebrate the passage of 20 years since the Class of 1992 had been handed their sheepskins. Originally I booked my plane ticket and hotel room because it was an excuse to spend time with friends who now live scattered all over and I rarely get to see (save for the occasional wedding or funeral or milestone birthday celebration in the Dominican Republic), but it turned out to be so much more than that for me.
I saw people who I hadn’t seen in decades. I listened to the stories of how their lives had played out, as well as their plans for the future. I heard the classic tales again, but I also listened to new ones that I never knew about. One girlfriend teased, saying that I was quite the social butterfly… talking to absolutely everyone, but that was the best part of the experience for me. We went out to dinner and shared so many memories and bottles of wine. We played softball on the incredible new field. We posed for pictures in front of our old dorms. We tailgated (I know, I know… how do you tailgate without a football team?) and gossiped and laughed. I laughed until I was hoarse. It was very, very good.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. This was taken just before 2AM on 54th Street.
On Sunday, we roused our sad, over the hill selves out of bed with lots and lots of coffee. After we checked out of the hotel, a few of us who had later flights walked around the campus. It is so much bigger now, with all of the new buildings and dorms and fields, but it is still the same in so many ways. It was awkward but comfortable at the same time. I had to catch my breath several times as I walked through the old Fieldhouse (now Hagan Arena) and down past Finnesy Field. I actually had tears in my eyes as I went from Lafarge to the Chapel and the old Newmann Hall and then crossed the foot bridge to McShane. They fell silently down my cheeks as I walked down the tree-lined Lapsley Lane to the most magnificent view of Barbelin Tower.
What’s magis? It’s a Jesuit principle that underlies everything we do at Saint Joseph’s University. It inspires us to think a little broader, dig a little deeper, and work a little harder. More simply put, magis calls us to live greater.
The tears were few but they were powerful and cathartic. I felt such peace and comfort in knowing that St. Joe’s was the first of many steps in bringing me to where I am in my life today. It defined me, both good and bad. And it feels so awesome to own that.
I left Hawk Hill feeling light and happy, albeit a little old. I left with renewed friendships and some new Facebook friends. I left with a memory card full of photographs. But mostly I left with a palpable gratitude for the life I have now and the people who are in it. It never ceases to amaze me how life twists and turns, takes us up and down the hills and sometimes even mountains, and lands us where we are right at this moment.
Making breakfast every morning is not so bad, especially since most of my kids can pour their own cereal and milk. I will even occasionally make them an omelette or cheesy eggs or pancakes when it strikes my fancy.
Making sandwiches every afternoon can sometimes get my goat, especially since I have to line up the bread in assembly line fashion, 14 slices at a time. But I still spread the peanut butter and stack the turkey breast and cheese with love, because lunch lady duty is certainly not the worst chore in the world.
Making dinner every night is what sometimes makes me vexed, especially when I plan and shop and prepare and chop and sauté and grill and boil and toil, only to be met with insulting commentary from the peanut gallery.
“Can I have a sandwich for dinner?”“What’s that smell?” followed by a gagging noise.“What’s for dinner tonight? Can I stop and pick up something because I’m REALLY hungry?”“Is there any leftover pizza?”
Ingrates.
But my favorite thing to do in the kitchen is bake. I just love making cupcakes and cookies and pies and muffins and cakes. Especially the cakes! I love the smells that fill the house and I love flour on the counters and the perfect sweetness of a really good vanilla extract. I learned my mad baking skills from my mom and from her mom as well. They showed me how to sift flour and to grease a pan and to whip cream into perfectly stiff peaks. They taught me to bake bread and pie crusts and fill cream puffs, all made from scratch. I learned how to flavor and spread real icing, drizzle chocolate melted in a double-boiler, and how to make art come out of a pastry bag. The rest I have learned from watching hours of cooking shows and even more hours of trial and error. There is little that can make me so happy as a cake made and decorated in my own kitchen to celebrate someone I love.
As I have struggled with my stupid thighs and general time management over the years, so I have used mixes and canned shortcuts and cheaters, and even foregone the desserts altogether. It was just easier that way. I bought finished products right from the grocery store. It got the job done, but it just wasn’t the same thing. Oh, how I have missed real baking. I missed it so much!
Kid E contributed the last quality of “A Good Friend.” Cake is awesome.
I recently rediscovered the love and I started baking again. This time around I mix the old school with a few shortcuts, and I try not to sample the goods as much. I also try to have a reason for baking… holidays, birthdays, rainy days, PMS… you know, something legit. We celebrate five family birthdays throughout the month of September, two in this house alone, so I have had an excuse to bake until my heart is content.
Kid E’s 5th birthday came first and he let me bake him the moon. I made 24 cupcakes to bring to his school, a traditional double-layer round decorated cake which we used to sing “Happy Birthday” to him on his birthday, and an additional 24 cupcakes to “have around.” What? Cupcake Emergencies are a real thing. I even let him choose icing colors and decorate his own cake. It was fabulous.
“Happy Birthday” written out by mom. Lego guys (one on a chain), Super Mario character with a broken wing, Double X-eyed guy, blue plastic bear, and a “See No Evil” monkey all added by Kid E.
When Kid B’s 14th birthday rolled around, you’d think that I was all baked out, but no! I was on a roll. Bring on the sheet cakes, bring on the fancy decorations. I set aside a day just for baking on the weekend prior to her actual birthday. My mixer and my spatula were ready. I was about to explode with the baking love. I even offered to try making icing roses (if she wanted a girly cake), or an icing field that looked like actual grass (if she opted for the soccer theme).
So, I guess it was predictable that teenage Kid B asked for an ice cream cake from the store.
Sigh.
I definitely feel a Cupcake Emergency coming on now.
Last night at the dinner table it was just Sheepdog, Kid C, Kid D, Kid E, and me. The Olympics may be over, but… Let the Games Begin! School, sports and activities are already in full swing. Kid A was at ballet and Kid B was at soccer. I was excited because it was the first test of the effectiveness and executability of my New and Improved Plan (NIP) to address school night meals that get all screwed up by the craziness. Mine and the world’s in general, but mostly mine.
This year I am going to feed them all homemade (well, made in my home), healthy meals during the week!
This year no one will come home from a practice and have to eat a bowl of cereal or a Happy Meal because I forgot to save them dinner!
This year I will plan ahead! This year I will have all the ingredients I need on hand! This year I will take things out of the freezer in time for them to thaw!
I get so excited about the lamest things!
Let me explain this NIP… the beauty is in its simplicity. On Sunday morning I print out a schedule for the upcoming week. The family collaborated on a list of favorite meals, which I keep pinned to my bulletin board. On the schedule I write down specific meals from the list for each night, Sunday through Thursday (and maybe even Friday if I’m feeling especially ambitious, but Saturday is my night off, bitches). From that schedule I then create a grocery list of standard and meal-specific things I will need to prepare meals for the whole week. Then I go to the store and start checking things off the list. When I get back from the store, I post the schedule on a bulletin board inside my pantry (because I will most likely forget what I planned to make and when), where I will see it every morning and remember to take out or prepare what I need for that day.
With this kind of organization and service of regular, healthy meals, I can even get away with occasionally (or always) using cheaters and shortcut ingredients like organic frozen vegetables, prepared sauces and marinades, or meatballs not made from scratch.
My Slice-O-Matic sat, unused, in its original box for like 10 years until I finally sold it for 50 cents at a yard sale.
Last night during dinner I was patting myself on the back in reference to my NIP awesomeness. Then Kid D rained on my parade by announcing that he would not be able to eat the “sweet potatoes” (which he hates) on his stir fry plate. I clarified that they were actually carrots (which he loves) and he should gobble them right up. He presumed I was lying to get him to eat something good for him, but I swore a courtroom promise. Kid D still wasn’t convinced, so Sheepdog explained that their unfamiliar shape was due to the carrots being cut up julienne – style. And while I embraced the parental back-up and the notion of a man who knows his way around the kitchen (or at least the Food Network), I immediately shot Sheepdog a look that silently implied, “Why do you even know that word and did you have to trade away your man parts when you were given such information?”
Kid D just said, “Well, that puts the fudge in fudge-ina!” as he finished his dinner. I don’t really know what that means, or even if I should punish you for saying it, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I have told you all before that I am a viewer of some of the better (read: trashier and more outrageous) reality shows on television. Over the years I have watched cooks, bakers, chefs, survivors, racers, singers, dancers, models, designers, personal trainers, apprentices, people and things getting make-overs, home buyers, home sellers, house flippers, motorcycle builders, gun makers, pregnant teenagers, teenage mothers, self-involved twenty- and thirty-somethings, bachelors and bachelorettes, people getting married, people having babies, parents of eight, parents of eighteen and then nineteen, table flippers, screamers, and fighters… just to name a few.
Man, I watch a lot of television. But that’s not really the point here.
I remember when MTV first aired “The Real World” in 1992. I could not get enough of that show. At 21, I thought that what those kids were doing was what I wanted to be doing… living with strangers in a loft in So-Ho, trying to make it as a model or a dancer or a rapper, having interesting life experiences, and fighting the good fight about politics or racism or sexual orientation. Well, not really, but something like that.
Then I got married and watched “A Baby Story,” and I decided that I wanted to try a peaceful water birth in my living room, or at least have a professional TV cameraman getting the money shot of my baby coming into this world. Well, not really, but something like that.
Next I saw “Flipping Out” and wanted to be Jeff’s loyal assistant, who commiserated with him about all of the idiots in the world and how hard it is to find reliable help, all while I was the one who kept his businesses running smoothly and successfully. And then that Bethenny Frankel inspired me to always approach life from a place of “Yes.” But mostly she makes me want to drink margaritas. Again, not really, but (you know the drill), especially since I am the devil’s advocate and I prefer wine.
Then I discovered the “Real Housewives” series. My favorites are New Jersey and Atlanta, for obvious reasons. I grew up in Jersey (even though I must clarify that North Jersey is a completely different beast than South Jersey), and recognize so many of the places and Jersey-isms on the show. Atlanta’s Kim lives just doors down from my parent’s townhouse. Her daughter went to my daughter’s middle school. My column gets published in NeNe’s neighborhood magazine. I entertained the thought of buying something from Kandi’s toy line (Sheepdog can thank 50 Shades for that thought process, although I didn’t buy anything… so get your panties out of a twist, Kids A&B). These shows made me want to be like these women. Well…
I am being as sarcastic as the show title when I say that. I do not want to be anything like most of these women. I already am a real housewife and I love my life. Here I do dishes and laundry and Swiffer the floors all day. I drive my kids to lessons and practices and playdates. I go to Kroger and Publix and Target and Walgreens. I make dinners and pack lunches and I pick up pizza and chinese food. And I do it all in exercise clothes (earlier this year I wore workout clothes every single day for well over a month and I never got around to exercising even once – oh well, at least I burned some calories getting those sports bras on and off). How about they make a show about me? Well, not really, but something like that.
Sister B and her goofball neighborhood friends made this video while I suppose their unsuspecting husbands did the chores and watched the kids. It’s no “Bumpin in the Burbs” by the Notorious D-A-D, but it may make you giggle. Especially the pine straw chick.
In homage to those like Keats, Wordsworth and Shelley (and because my kids are all out of my house and off to the first day of school and I’m kind of bored and putting off my workout and other various and sundry chores), I have decided to write a poem.
“An Ode to Summer”
by Stacy Swiger
O! glorious season of unencumbered trotters and limbs –
How my soul thunders at your sweet smells and irradiated hours.
Why, thou art bursting with vivid comestibles and waterlogged reverie!
The waning of your days is forever married with my ebbing enthuse.
What splendor dreamt by deities in sculpting your essence.
Well, that didn’t take nearly long enough, despite the constant thesaurus look-ups. Maybe I’ll go a little less formal with a haiku.
“A Haiku Poem About Summer”
by Stacy Swiger
Bare… feet, legs, iCal
Summer is wet, bright and free.
Fall is too leafy.
*******
“And Another”
by Stacy Swiger
Haiku. “Gesundheit”
Must be the freshly mowed grass.
Where’s the ice cream man?
*******
Kid A = 11th grade, Kid B = 8th grade, Kid C = 6th grade, Kid D = 2nd grade, and Kid E = Georgia pre-K. Mom = sad that summer is over.
I am always bummed that summer is essentially over for us when school starts, even though it is still August. But I can say that I am happy to get back to writing more regularly. And I know that the kids could certainly use some time apart from each other.
Just the other day, I listened from my office as I heard Kid E driving his siblings absolutely batty. He went from one to the next, just nudging and annoying them with his, “Play with me” and “Get this for me” and “Will someone wipe me?” Finally I heard that he was left alone in the upstairs hallway, as everyone else had retreated to their rooms for some much-needed alone time. Never to be discouraged, Kid E knocked on someone’s bedroom door.
Knock, knock.
“Who is it?”
(In his own, undisguised voice) “It is NOT me. He he he he he he he he.”
Whatever. It got them to open the door.
Happy First Day of School, my southern peeps. And to those of you that still get to go to the beaches and the pools and sleep in for a few weeks longer, I hope you appreciate how good you’ve got it. Enjoy your vivid comestibles and waterlogged reverie.
I try (some days I try harder than others) to act civilized and “normal,” but there are times when I just let it all hang out simply because it feels good. Plus, it makes me feel closer to (Ma) Kettle. That’s my mom’s mom who died from cancer two years ago. She was the Queen of Letting Your Freak Run Around Unchecked and Unfiltered. Admittedly, she could be totally embarrassing in public but that woman was fun and funny as hell. And I sure do miss her.
“If you don’t like it, you can go shit in your hat!”
Anyway, I was at my home away from home the grocery store last week stocking up on items I buy in bulk that don’t fit in the cart during regular orders (10 or so cases of flavored seltzer water, a mega-pack of toilet paper and paper towels, 2-for-1 bottles of vitamins, multiple giant bottles of wine… essentials for the apocalypse). I packed my cart to the brim and I headed to the checkout. Being the frequent flyer that I am at this store (back in college a dive bar called Cavanaugh’s was my Cheers, now-a-days the ghetto Kroger is where everybody knows my name… sigh), someone scrambled to open a lane just for me.
I actually did not recognize the clerk who was giving me the red carpet treatment. He was definitely new. But he ran his lane with mad skill and had me through in a jiffy. As I was whipping out my credit card and preparing to swipe it he told me to hold up, as his register was spitting stuff out like it was a married Jewish girl.
“Ooooh! You got a lot of coupons today,” said the newbie.
“Oh yeah? Anything I can use right now?” I asked, unimpressed unless there was.
He examined the paper strip with feigned intensity. “Mmmmm… I don’t really know you (as he looks back at all the wine and TP) but you seem like you would probably buy Lunchables. And you’re a girl, so you can definitely use this last one for… you know.”
Insulted by his insinuation yet intrigued by his phrasing, I push back. “I know what?”
I look at the coupon that I now presume is covered in anthrax because this guy won’t even touch it with his bare hands. It is a coupon for tampons. Harmless, little cotton tampons. And just the thought of them is freaking this guy out. My ornery is just begging to come out and play.
“Tampons,” I say boldly. “Can’t you even say the word? Tampons, tampons, tampons.” My voice is getting louder. Several nearby heads turn in the direction of our lane. “It is 2012. You are a grown-ass man. You have got to be kidding me,” I whisper-yell.
“Shhhhhhhhhhh! You don’t have to say it!” he whisper-whispers back at me as his face turns the color of a baboon’s butt. “Stop saying that word!”
I figure that I have embarrassed him just enough to retaliate for the pre-packaged-kids’-lunch-box-product comment, but I insist on adding one more thing. “So you’re single, right? (He glares back at me but I see from his reaction that I am correct) Well, you will never get a real, live girlfriend if you can’t even say the word ‘tampon’ out loud. So here’s your homework for today… when you get done your shift you’re gonna get in your car and drive home. I want you to say the word ‘tampon’ over and over and over for the entire trip. Tampon, tampon, tampon, tampon. It will be good for you.”
I then go out into the parking lot and unload my cart full of goodies. During my own car ride home I proceed to chant not only “tampon, tampon, tampon” but also “penis, penis, penis” and “vagina, vagina, vagina” for good measure. I like to keep my reflexes sharp, you know.
When I got home I unloaded the car and went upstairs to take a shower before I started making dinner. Ironically enough, it was then that I realized that Aunt Flo had come for her annoying monthly visit. And guess what was missing from my bathroom cabinet?
I wish this post was in color so I could end it with a big red period. More than that, I wish I had used that stupid coupon.
This is How I Do It... 