Call Me Crazy

I did it again.  Almost exactly one year ago, I wrote about the silliness of starting and committing to a blog in the midst of holiday season.  Insanity, I said, would be doing it again next year.   http://mauramusing.blogspot.com/2011/01/insanity-is.html

Oops.

But it made me wonder whether something about the winter solstice (or doldrums, for me) precipitates writing.  It's not the approaching New Year as I intend to neither reflect nor resolve.  My life still pivots with the school calendar, so January is a continuation not a true beginning.  My musing knows no season.  My devices facilitate mobile posting - from beaches or tennis courts.

Which leaves . . . coincidence?  Six months from my last post took me to late December.  Six months from that June piece hubby finally noticed the new dining room chandelier that inspired the post.  Six months . . . put me in the holiday season.  Insane, I know.

What crazy things do you take on?

Cheap Thrill

It never fails to make me smile . . . cars dressed like reindeer.  I laugh aloud driving on the highway, even as I dodge actual deer.  Merry Everything . . . http://mauramusing.blogspot.com/2010/12/christmakkuh-kwanzadan-and-other.html

Another Injeanious Idea, Not

Pajama jeans for men.  You know, those pajamas that look like jeans for the super-lazy-can't-be-bothered-to-button-my-pants crowd (as distinguished from the trendy jeggings bunch).  A version is now available for men.  Oy.

It took me years to get hubby out of the ubiquitous "dad jeans" and into "designer denim." He was attached to his cheap, baggy, faded Old Navy/Levis/Gap/Target/insert-name-here jeans.  Convincing him to part with more than $100+ for dark straight jeans that look great with a blazer, was an uphill battle.  And I won.  As long as they weren't too low, too tight, too straight, too distressed, button fly (as opposed to button with zipper) and really too expensive.  It was difficult but I found a pair or two.  He looked good.  Other wives noticed my success with envy.

With my kids, I've insisted that "pants must cover boxers and not hang below" and "pants cannot look like leggings." I guess I must add another for hubby:  pants must have button/snap/zipper.  Or they're not pants.







http://www.glamour.com/fashion/blogs/slaves-to-fashion/2011/12/alert-your-dude-or-um-dont-paj.html

Pro-propofol

Michael Jackson apparently knew his drugs. Propofol is amazing.

Yesterday I had that certain middle-aged procedure with the yucky prep which shall go unnamed, and I was put out with propofol. Conrad Murray was not on the premises. I asked. Twice. The pre-op nurse laughed and said he wasn't there. The anesthesiologist took it more seriously; Murray wasn't qualified to administer propofol. Fortunately, he was.

The nerves hit me as I was wheeled into the "procedure room.". It looked like a small hospital operating room. The anesthiologist waited for my doctor to finish an urgent call before loading my iv. I was watching some monitor as I felt a little chill in my vein. And then, I didn't.

Some time later - could have been two minutes or two years - I gently awakened in another room. No nausea. No grogginess. No disorientation. Peaceful.

Derailed By A Lost Train

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It's been six months since my last post. It was not for lack of desire. Nor was I devoid of thoughts. Certainly, like most, I've been busy. Life interfered with my best intentions. But something else happened: my lost train.

On June 15, as I often do, I wrote myself a note regarding a future post: "Not intended to be the maudlin musings of a middle-aged mom". Nice alliteration. Perhaps even
insightful. But, we'll never know. When I returned to write, the thought was gone. My own words no longer held any meaning. Frustrated that my great idea was gone, my blog went off the rails. It was hard to climb back aboard.

But, I miss the writing. And it strikes me now that my lost train could indeed be maudlin musings of middle age: the ideas that come and go may be stand-ins for the dreams and ideals that once were. Who I want to be is anchored by who I already am. Maybe my thought was flawed from the outset. Matter-of-fact replaces maudlin. Acceptance is closer. Is it possible I've grown up?  Or maybe I just forgot.  Either way, I'm back.  I hope.

SIght Unseen

It's been a month since I replaced my dining room chandelier.  Seventeen years later I still wonder how I picked that rococo brass monstrosity with carved faces.  But now, it's gone; replaced by a beautiful, understated, modern crystal one.  Or so I think.  Hubby apparently has a different view.

He has not yet noticed.  Despite four weeks of the shimmering illumination of work papers that clutter the dining table (don't get me started on that), despite the credit card bill that included the not-insubstantial purchase, hubby has said nothing.  No "wow."  No "where did that come from."  No "why'd you waste that money."  Nothing.

However, he recently lamented the placement of a storage pod on a lawn a couple of blocks away.  It has been there at least a year.  I guess he has 11 more months on the light.

Message to My Sons . . .

(and to a few prominent men).  I realize I may be stating the obvious, but given recent news events, it apparently needs to be said:

First, you will get caught.  Second, if you don't want it on the front page of the NY Times, don't do it, say it, email it, post it or tweet it.

I've been preaching some version of this to my children practically since birth.  You can't expect much privacy, especially now that the world has gone digital.  Even if you're just the average Joe/Jane, your nose-picking on the train may be filmed, your drunken stupor posted for your boss to see and that red light you accidentally ran, well, you'll probably still be ticketed.

Your emails and photos can be forwarded to anyone and everyone.  Posts and tweets never really go away.  Virtually everything is findable by google search.  Even before or without technology, anyone who saw you do it or heard you say it, can talk about it to anyone and everyone. Expect your actions to be a front page headline.

And if you're a public figure, oh say, hypothetically, a Congressman from NY with a funny name thinking of running for NYC Mayor, you should know better.  It's one thing to be a kid whose teenage sexts end up on his virtual resume, or whose petty crimes on tape lands him in jail.  But a grown man, an elected official, a leader, etc.  Where is the judgment? And common sense?

When the Governator's son with the family housekeeper became public knowledge, the most intriguing part of the story was "how did Arnold keep the secret so long?"  Surely, he didn't want the world, let alone his wife, to know, and it ended up on the front pages anyway.  And although he succeeded for awhile, the primary principle that you will be caught, still prevailed.

And how can I not mention my favorite goat, John Edwards, now charged with a crime related to covering up his campaign-time affair with his baby-mama and now fiancee, while his wife lay dying.  I believe he thought he'd escape detection for a completely different, though more loathsome reason:  he expected to be widowed sooner than he was.  I suspect his plan was to marry Rielle and raise the child together and Elizabeth's long-survival crimped his style.   That he proposed to Hunter shortly after the funeral seemed the nail in the coffin.

So my sons, live honorably, embrace discretion, learn from mistakes and know that the world is watching.  Don't be stupid.  And always remember, you will be caught.

The Unconscious Mother

Unconscious or subconscious? . . . or maybe it's just sleeping . . . Regardless, I'm a mother under all conditions.

Yesterday, I dropped my eldest at the airport for a flight to Europe where he and a friend will travel to several countries on their own with limited itinerary constraints and without any adult escorts.  [I know, I know, technically they're adults but that's not the point; they're still young and in their teens, even if only for a few more months.]   I did not park and escort him to the gate.  I didn't text him at the airport.  I asked only that he let us know when he's about to take off and when he lands.  And then I went about my life, attending to his brothers.

At 3:30 am I bolted awake in bed.  Unconsciously, subconsciously and half-asleep, I turned on the news and watched until after 4.  Still talking about Bin Laden.  Possible retaliations.  But, no plane disasters.  I breathed easy.  And turned on repeats of RHoNYC.  I then realized that my son's plane was scheduled to land at approximately 4 am our time.  The maternal alarm had gone off without a premeditated setting.

 

My New Man

His name is Roberto. Sometimes Mauricio. Or Erick. But mostly, it is Roberto. And I love him.

I write this pool- and sea-side from the most spectacular, luxurious resort I've ever been, using the iPad lent to me, following the foot massage with cooling eyepad from my lounge chair. My umbrella is adjusted automatically, my legs and neck propped with cushions and one employee followed me as I stepped out of the pool, in order to wrap me in a towel.

But back to Roberto. He is our butler here. Yes, butler, here to acccomodate my every wish and whim. He set up balloons and cake in our room before we arrived. He brings fruit and snacks. Tequila too. He knows what we want even before we want it. Even though we share him with about ten other rooms, he is always there for us. He is outside in the morning and still when we retire at night. He told us he missed us on his day off. We certainly missed him too.

And so, I love Roberto. I think husband loves him too.

War is Hell . . .

But is it real?   My eight year-old thinks World War III is a video game.  Or something else Barney (the purple dinosaur) started as in "I hate you, you hate me, Barney started World War three."  Either way, he didn't understand that we don't want WW III.

Silly me, I tried to explain about WWs I & II.  Real wars, real fighters, real people died.  I talked about the present wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The bombing in Libya.

He wasn't getting it:  No, not like the fighters in Star Wars.  Not like the mega multiplayer Lego Universe.  Finally, he says - like George Washington and the Revolutionary War - with real people in uniforms.  Okay, we're getting closer.

Cursed

@#$%&*!   It finally happened:  I cursed at one of my boys.  Pushed to the brink by a surly demanding teenager, I blurted that he was a . . . well, use your imagination.

I'm not proud of this.  But I think he was pleased.  He has long-inquired why his dad and I don't curse, and particularly don't curse at the kids.   Teenager thinks we should.  Teenager says "all" (to be taken with a grain of salt) the other parents, and his coaches, do.  Even my mother has been heard using salty language.  But we don't, or, I didn't until today.

I suppose it's amazing that I've made it nearly 20 years without kids hearing my potty mouth.  It wasn't a conscious parenting decision.  Hubby and I never really discussed it.  It just didn't feel right.  That's not to say, I didn't mutter things under my breath or in my head, especially at bad drivers.  I did; it was just silent cursing.   If mom curses silently and no one hears it, is it cursing at all?   To my kid, apparently not.

The question is, now that I've transgressed, will I continue?  I hope not but I fear that the floodgate may have opened.  What the eff do you think?

PS In an email, I told hubby that our son was behaving like an a@#hole.  Hubby wrote:  "I don't like that language."  I guess I have to keep a clean mouth.

Pocket Change

Coins fell out of my jeans.  A quarter, a dime, a nickel.  Flashback:  the exact change needed to buy a hot lunch in my elementary school back in the day.  Those three pieces, together, always take me back to that lunchroom, with the ladies in hairnets, the mashed potatoes and whole milk.  My boys will not have any similar recollections.

Our elementary school does not have a kitchen with lunch ladies preparing meals.   Hot meals may only be ordered in advance through a service that delivers the requested meals, individually wrapped.   Payment is online by parents; the students never handle the money.   Of course it costs more as well - a still reasonable $2.50 for a full hot lunch.  It might even cost more to bring food from home.

I make lunches anyway.  The coins stay home.

Doctor's Orders: Lighten Up

This is interesting advice from my internist.  It was not what I expected.  According to the doctor, it is something she rarely says to patients. 

During my appointment, I was, as usual, lamenting my belly fat and torso shape. The quest to whittle my middle began in high school and has continued into middle age.  I carry, and always have carried, my fat in the waist and stomach.   Even at 16, I bemoaned my perceived thick ribcage.   By my mid-20s, I realized that the only way for me to lose weight was surgery for medical (not weight) issues.  I later learned that, surprisingly, pregnancy also worked – I was unable to eat throughout gestation.  

<p><a href="http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/view_photog.php?photogid=1499">Image: Ambro / FreeDigitalPhotos.net</a></p>

Things are not improving with age.  Increasing exercise and decreasing food intake just doesn’t do it.   Tony Horton’s P90x routine kicks my butt six days a week.  Food logs with calorie counts detail a nearly starvation diet.  Not to make excuses, but I can’t exercise more or eat less. 

My doctor was not telling me to work harder to lose weight.  Rather, her recommendation was to ease up on myself about my body.   As she pointed out, poking the mildly bulging muscles in my arms and legs, I am in great shape.  I do all the right healthy things.   I am not actually overweight.  My issues stem from genetics and innate structure. In other words, the medical counsel was body-acceptance, which sadly still eludes me.  

It surprises me that, at this age, I still battle my own figure.   On the surface, I accept that I am short waisted with thin limbs and a larger bust:  an apple, an inverted triangle, an egg with toothpicks, whatever.   Per my Pilates teacher, I have tried to focus on my strength (and amazing legs).   But all I see in the mirror is belly fat.   I stare, I pinch, I poke, I suck in . . . and imagine ways to get rid of it.  I mentally calculate my thickness and how many inches away I am from a concave body (for the record,  . . . many). 

It is ridiculous.   But I don’t know how to change.  These doctor’s orders may prove to be the most difficult to follow.

A Sheening Example of Nothing

For those who requested this . . . To the others, I apologize.

It’s difficult to discuss Charlie Sheen without being moralistic.  Or fatalistic.  Or disgusted.   And unsurprised.

Sheen always has been a Hollywood “bad boy.”  He was on Madam Heidi Fleiss’s infamous client list in the 1980’s and 90’s.   The “Wild Thing” in the film Major League was type-casting; Sheen even played baseball in high school. I always thought that Charlie Harper in Two and a Half Men was Charlie Sheen, albeit with co-stars, laugh track and producers.   He’s been arrested several times, is a known and admitted abuser of drugs and alcohol and has a string of domestic violence charges against him.  That he now fancies himself as the Hugh Hefner of our generation (erroneously believing we’re otherwise lacking) is no revelation.

The shock is that we’re listening and watching.  Sheen garnered one and half million Twitter followers in less than a week.  A book deal.  Hours of television interviews.  On-camera drug tests.  Video of his children being taken away by authorities.

Admittedly, he is colorful.  He has a way with words.  It must come from the tiger blood in him that propels him on one speed to be a rockstar from Mars . . . go.  He entertains . . . though I suspect, at this point, there is more laughter at him than with him. 

It is time to shut him up.  Jeff Rossin, move out of Sober Valley Lodge.  Piers Morgan, stop giggling with your homeboy.  Your interview was less than impressive, to say the least.  I changed the channel.  I won’t be watching you again.

Sheen glamorizes his hedonistic lifestyle (which, by the way, he is free to follow as long as all involved are consenting adults, no one gets harmed, and the children are not around).   Piers Morgan, however, crossed the line with:   “You’re entitled to behave however the hell you like as long as you don’t scare the horses and the children.” But feel free to beat up on the women? Was that his point?  The press titillates about life with the “goddesses.” No one addresses the misogyny (hatred of women) and misogamy (hatred of marriage). This is a man charged multiple times with violence against women, and particularly against the women closest to him – fiancées, wives and the mothers of his children.    The way he calls his live-in girlfriends “ the goddesses,” while purporting to put them on a pedestal, is just another method of dehumanization.  Just wait until they cross him.

Sheen sidesteps these issues. Instead, he rants about his contract rights.  Although I confess ignorance regarding the television industry and certainly Sheen’s contractual arrangements, by all accounts, CBS, the entity that pays for the show, cancelled production.   Morals clause or not, I suspect erratic behavior, admitted absence from rehearsal (or “practice” as Sheen denigrates) and fear for the safety of employees including Sheen, are grounds for suspension. 

Sheen’s diatribes and anti-Semitic attacks (and, yes, I do believe they were intended as such – one’s Hebrew name is not one’s given name in this country), however, are leveled at the Executive Producer.  Oddly, and never mentioned, is the fact that Sheen’s own manager also is a Producer on the show.   There’s more going on than meets the eye . . . or the mouth of Sheen.

There is, however, one thing to be thankful for:  unlike the real Tiger or Hef, Sheen never was anyone’s idol.  At least until now.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

My youngest examined a black and white photograph hanging in the hall.   Although it has been there his entire life, it seemed the first time he really saw the image of a woman holding an infant.  He looked at the photo, looked at me and struggled to make sense of the two.   Finally, hesitantly, he asked if the woman is me.  I said yes and the child is his almost-15 year old brother.

He was puzzled.  The woman in the photo has darker hair and looks a lot younger than I, he said.

He's right; I've aged a lot in the last 15 years.

Win, Winning, Winner

I'm not talking about Charlie Sheen, unlike everyone else.  In fact, we should all stop listening to him.  But that's for another post.  This is about my jury service.

I think I made money.  It lasted all of three hours (details to follow).  I spent precisely $3.50, not including gas and a cup of courthouse coffee.  I believe I will be paid $40.  The only downside is I didn't get to sit on a jury.  Details to follow . . .

Citizen Carlin

I am on jury duty this week.  As a firm believer in the civic duty to judge one's peers, whether in court, by fashion, parenting or otherwise, I did not try to postpone my service.  I did, however, cancel all of my and my children's appointments for this week after receiving my jury summons merely three weeks ago (in other words, short notice).  I figured the Court wouldn't care that I need to have a doctor examine a new bump or that the kids need their tutors and therapists.  This week my eldest and only licensed son is home and can do driving in a pinch.  And next week I am fully booked.

It's been awhile since I was last called to serve.  Probably about ten years.  Not coincidentally, it happens about the same time I renew my drivers license which expires every decade.  Last time was a breeze:  I reported to Larchmont Village Court in the middle of a park for one day and was dismissed nearly immediately.  They didn't need us, but we were still exempted from service for some period of time.  Ten years before that, I went to federal court in Manhattan, sat for days before I was voir dired for two year grand jury service.  I begged my way out of that; two years was unreasonable, untenable and a financial hardship to a practicing lawyer paid hourly.   My ultimate escape clause, to myself, was a promise to immediately get pregnant if required to serve.  I was not but did get pregnant shortly thereafter anyway.

Now, the process is different.  I sit here at home, typing and wondering whether and when I will actually need to report to the Court.  This is not a complaint, just a fact, and actually an improvement on my first experience.  Per the summons, I called in Friday evening to find out whether my number was up; that is, whether juror #A0242 was to report on Monday February 28.  The answer was no; only jurors through number 166, if memory serves, were called.  I am to phone back this evening to find out whether I must show tomorrow.

It sounds good so far, but I've already noted flaws in the system.  I live in a suburban community where people like me drive to their destinations.  The Commissioner of Jurors doesn't seem to care that I am as likely to take a bus (no subways here) to White Plains as pigs are to fly.   I must park at my own expense of 75 cents per hour and make sure to bring enough quarters, unless I am actually serving on a trial.

I wonder, how much is this civic duty going to cost me?  If I have to hire someone to drive my kids it's $20 a pop.  If I'm not home to prepare dinner, what's the incremental cost of bringing in, not that anyone at home would complain.  I'm curious.  I hope you are too . . . stay tuned.

Never Wake a Sleeping Baby

It's one of the first things new parents learn:  if the child is asleep, let him/her sleep.  But, does that still apply when the kid is college-age?

My eldest returned home for a break late last night.  Despite my best efforts, I fell asleep around midnight, probably 30 minutes before his arrival.  Now it's morning and I know he's here.  I see his dopp kit in the bathroom, coat and shoes in the hallway and a half-eaten sandwich in the refrigerator.

I am tempted to go into his room.  Just to watch him sleep.  To see how he looks.  And maybe, just maybe, to wake him to talk.  Merely opening his bedroom door, will likely rouse him.  I won't.  I know intuitively that he's exhausted from finishing papers and midterms.   He needs some rest.

I'm still his mother, though.  I'm still fighting that instinct to wake the sleeping baby.

The Bionic woMom

Go ahead, step on my back.  It won't break this mother's back.  I'm strong . . . of back and abs (not to be confused with backflab).

I was showing my much bigger 14 year-old athlete some strengthening moves (yes, add trainer and physical therapist to the long list of maternal duties . . . for another post).   I put him in a modified plank, on his elbows, for a 30-60 second hold.  Then I topped him with his 52 pound little brother.  He collapsed.  He said it wasn't fair.

I assumed the position and had the same little boy climb aboard.  And I held it.

Go Mom!!!  Even the teen was impressed.

My Eight-Year Old Just Asked for An Apple

Ipad.  He said everyone else in the family has an iphone (he doesn't have any phone) but he wants the big one.

According to him, it looks like fun.  I don't disagree, as I've written before (http://mauramusing.blogspot.com/2010/11/eden-like-temptation.html).

However, besides my unequivocal unwillingness to buy a $700 toy for a little kid,  I just can't deal with acquiring any more technical "things" that require maintenance.  I am the family tech support, albeit without training or inclination.   I spent two-plus hours today convincing the PC to allow my son to play Lego Universe.  Apparently, my permission was not enough.  The firewall (also installed and updated by me) needed a formal say-so . . . and renewal of the anti-virus protection.  I also cleared out the cookies, cleaned up the disk and checked out the internet connection.  Making it more difficult is that fact that the rest of the house has gone Mac.  I no longer think like a PC and I don't do Windows.

Bottom line:  kid would be better off asking for a real apple - peeled, cored and cut.  Anything else would be the pits.  All puns intended.

She Does Yoga and Pilates . . .

With all due respect to Madonna and her "hotties"(in case you've forgotten the American Life rap song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nIxk2Oz2TbI) . . .  I too have become high maintenance, against my will. I've always been pretty low key about the "girl stuff".  Although I do both yoga and pilates along with other exercise, there's a long list of the things I don't do regularly:  manicures, facials, waxing, massage, laser, rejuvenation, and so on.  

But somehow I've been tripped up . . . by my hair.  Three hours, yes three, every five weeks or so.  The dates are scheduled months in advance and practically written in stone.  Two color processes, cut and blow-dry later, I look natural.  With the color I was meant to have, or did have when I was younger and still went in the sun. 

It's not about the gray, either.  Well, maybe a little.  But the coloring started long before I had any silvery strands.  According to my hair "consultant," I still don't have much, maybe 10%;  it just happens to be where I can see it.  Without a magnifying glass.

Apparently I'm not alone.  When faced with newly scheduled meetings that conflict with my appointments, women always understand.  And quickly find another date that doesn't interfere  with anyone's hair.

Someone Should Get the Booby Prize for this . . .

It's wrong on so many levels, but it did make me laugh:

Yes, a Barbie Foosball Table . . . it's only $25,000.  Check it out herehttp://www.fao.com/product/index.jsp?productId=10868853

Drug Deal

Doctors complain about patient non-compliance, especially the failure to take prescribed medications.  It's even grounds for a doctor to "fire" a patient, according to the American Medical Association's Code of Ethics.  http://patients.about.com/od/doctorsandproviders/f/Can-My-Doctor-Dismiss-Me-As-A-Patient.htm   I recently read about a program to incentivize (hate that "word," if it's a word at all) patients to take medication by paying them cash.  http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/14/health/14meds.html?ref=todayspaper

I have a much simpler solution, particularly as it relates to women:  Make drugs so that the number one possible side effect (and, better yet, if it's a promise) is weight loss.  One reason I'm often reluctant to take new medications is that weight gain is always a possible side effect.  Reverse that, and I won't fight it as hard.  It might even lessen some of the medical conditions related to being overweight.  Problem solved.

sTraining

MetroNorth ought to be ashamed of its New Haven line.  For the past several weeks, the railway has been plagued by cancellations, delays and overcrowding.    http://www.mta.info/news/stories/?story=186  http://www.lohud.com/article/2010102020331   Yesterday, during a morning rush-hour commute, fifteen minutes late and shoehorned into a car (lucky to make it in at all), I stood the entire way, squished against seated and standing passengers.  Others seemed to take it in stride; discomfort has become standard operating procedure this winter.

But that's the issue:  it's not just this winter and it's disingenuous for MetroNorth to consider this in isolation.  Some of us have memories . . . of the winter of 1995-96.  Trains were cancelled, delayed, crowded and overall unreliable.  I was very pregnant, ill and relegated to standing in order to work through my "partial bed rest" sentence.  No one cared.  No one offered me a seat, and I kept a card with my emergency info in my pocket, just in case I passed out.

I digress   . . . the point is, nothing has changed in 15 years.  There's been no improvement in the east of Hudson rail cars or rails, while the Hudson and Harlem lines are comparative luxury (I've taken trains to Dobbs Ferry and been amazed by the comfort and views).  The only difference perhaps is that passengers are resigned to this.  I wonder why.

Chicken Not So Little

I roasted a chicken last night, to rave reviews from the family.  That may not seem like a big deal, but I've been a vegetarian since I was 15.  I don't like dead animals, especially when they look like the animal.  In other words, while I've been able to cook a chicken breast or a steak, whole birds . . . not so much.  I am routinely relieved of the Thanksgiving nightmare . . . it's at my house BUT mom prepares the turkey which we cook in my oven.  There is no way I'm plucking feathers or putting my hands in a dead bird.

So, a roaster is an event.  I had a butcher remove all the inner stuff and clean it for me.  I put on gloves (yes, I keep a box here for just that purpose) and shoved rosemary (lower case "r" for the herb, not a friend) inside.  And I threw stuff in the pan and on top to minimize the touching.   No tasting for me.  But I nailed it . . . the meal, not the actual chicken.

Oy, He Did it Again

And I doubt there was any "oops" (thanks Britney) about it.   My husband has been out of town all week, as we were hit with a total of 19 inches of new snow.  He's not just away but in LA (and San Diego) where it's been 80 degrees.   He sends pictures of the beach and the Santa Monica pier; I return photos of snow tunnels and snow-boarded doors.  His joints are loose and limber.  I can barely stand up straight from the shoveling.

I will hold it against him (new Britney title "Don't Hold it Against Me"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJSm_QMO6zA).  Please don't hit me one more time (old Britney title "Hit Me Baby One More TIme http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-u5WLJ9Yk4) with any new snow.

Who knew Britney Spears could be so inspiring?

Did I really say that?

"When are you going to die so I can start sleeping around,"  I blurted out to my husband recently in the context of our estate planning discussions.   I don't want him gone, really I don't, but I want to know when it's going to be.  So I can be prepared.

Apparently, it's not enough for me to plan the financial future.  I need to plan my future sex life.  And as I reassured my husband, there's nothing wrong with ours.  The only thing possibly missing is, by definition,  the excitement of a new relationship.  But that has been replaced by the comfort of an old one.  Not an old shoe, but my favorite shoe.

This is about something different.  It's the ability to treat sex purely as sex.  Not as the prelude to a relationship or possibly marriage.  Pregnancy is unlikely.  Disease still has to be addressed.  But, reputation doesn't matter.  Nor does the "number."

You know what number . . . the sex partner count.  Just recently, one of my friends was tallying her pre-marriage men and still is somewhat mortified.  And her data is a quarter-century old.

Does anybody really care what an old widow does?  I'm not talking about the 30 year old hot neighbor who shovels snow in a bikini.  I'm picturing a middle-aged mother, possibly with grown children, making a new life for herself.  At that age, most women are invisible anyway (a subject for another post).   Others are involved in their own lives.  There's no longer a scorekeeper at the game.  And that sounds like fun.  And freedom.

A Knock-Knock Non-Joke

Who's there?  The child you gave up for adoption 45 years ago . . . That's the big Oprah secret I'm secretly watching now:  a long-lost half sister born to Oprah's mother.  This woman spent years looking for her birth mother, only to be rejected again and again, before ultimately putting together the story.  Touching, wonderful for them and so on  . . .

But, it takes me back to my teenage beliefs and the case against secretly giving a child up for adoption, as teenage girls were often urged to do.  Simply, it's never really a secret.  First, you always know you have a child in the world.   And then, you live in fear (or hope) for that ringing doorbell.  Assuming, the pregnancy was unintended and unwanted (and even accidental against all odds), you never escape.  

Oprah talked about this, although in different terms, with respect to her mother:  that she never got over the shame of giving up her child and that that is why she didn't initially want a reunion.   Oprah went so far as to even thank her deceased sister for revealing to the rags that a young Oprah had given birth to a child who died, because it freed her from the indignity.

More interesting though is what was not said (at least not during my viewing time):  not a word about the father.  No one seemed to be looking for the father.  In other words, daddy gets off scot-free while the woman suffers a life-sentence.  

Thoughts?

Sample Me

Perusing the aisles at Costco, and checking out the day's samples, I was reminded of a year-old incident:   During a cheesecake sampling at Costco, a man started to "chat me up."  When I mentioned my husband and children, he got annoyed:  "You're supposed to wear a ring," he barked.   A wedding band I presume.

Today, a young guy asked me to sample his nuts. . . cashews, all kinds of flavors.  He promised to serve me himself.

I declined.  I didn't want to take any chances.

Bio Pun

My ninth grader made some off-color remark about his biology class.  I recounted my high school bio teacher asking "does any one know how to make a hormone (aka whore moan)?"

My kid:  are they allowed to say that?

Probably not.  But, I do still remember all these years later.

Ice (R)Age and Rant

This ice storm has put me over the edge.  As if the mounds of snow and ice already covering my little plot were not enough, now I must contend with an additional frozen crust atop water and slush.  The cars are iced over.  The ice/snow/slush is heavy and hard to move aka shovel.   And yes, I, the lone woman in a household of men/boys, was left to do the heavy lifting.  In the frozen rain.  Again.

For the past year, I've been pushing for a move to LAla land, even though I don't exactly fit the demographic.  But, I need a warmer clime and different lifestyle.   I long to be the crazy old lady running errands year-round on a pink bicycle.

With this storm, though, a return to apartment dwelling is increasingly attractive.  Winter house maintenance is the pits:  shoveling, salting, chopping, chipping, ice damming, ice floing, icicling, dripping, slipping . . . and so on.  My home is my first experience in house-life and although I've been here 17 years, I fear I'll never adjust.  It gets harder not easier.  I don't want to do it anymore.  (look at the picture I found; how perfect).

Commercial Crazy

Does anyone else actually listen to the words in ads?  One really caught my attention last night:  Take Abilify with an antidepressant to relieve symptoms of depression.  Say what?  In order for this drug to work, you need an antidepressant.  What then does Abilify do?  Imagine frozen orange juice concentrate directing that you defrost and add orange juice.

Who writes this stuff?

Boyfriend Need Not Apply

Boyfriend sweaters (or jackets) don't work for me.  My husband, aka clothing boyfriend, is too tall.   Our eight inch height differential renders his sweaters and blazers unwearable for me.  On the plus size, at the peak of my pregnancies, I never approached his weight. 

Anyhow, today I "found" my alternative.  I'm wearing my college student son's cotton cardigan. His clothes are big enough for "the look" but not too big.  I actually am the one who paid, perhaps even selected, them.  And, more importantly, he's not here to protest.

Shop Free

I started this new year with a vow not to shop, actually not to buy, any clothing or accessories in the month of January.  Never mind whether I've stayed true to my goal,  the real story is in the why and how.

Typically, for me, a shopping-fest occurs in the post-Xmas days.  It usually lasts through January.  Great deals, great stuff.  Not just impulse purchases either; rather, I find items I've admired from afar for months.  One time it was a pair of over-the-knee fur-lined boots reduced from $1300 to $400.  Another was a similarly priced handbag.  We're talking 65-75% off here, folks.  Practically free, in shopper vernacular.

But this year, nothing.  Not a thing from the deeply discounted holiday deals.   And, now, mid-January, it's basically over - the big sales stuff has left, or is about to leave, the big stores.   The on-line selections are meager.

So why did I do it?  Yes, I didn't want to spend the money.  No, I really don't need anything.  And there was nothing I coveted from the fall/winter selection.  I didn't want to fall prey to the "it's on sale, so I'll buy it" mentality.  Yet, I did check out my favorite websites on December 26.  I wasn't even tempted.

Here's what I found:  if I didn't want it at full price, it's no big deal to pass on the discounted price.   More importantly, the sales aren't what they used to be.  No more double and triple reductions.  Not much selection.  Clearly the stores have successfully reduced their inventory and are selling more at full price.  Top store sales associates told me that a delayed price reduction in top designer merchandise led to higher non-discounted transactions.  In other words, if prices stay high, people buy at those higher prices, at least  during the holidays (we're talking high-end here, folks).

On the surface, it sounds great.  No discount deluge.  But here's the downside:  full price buying.  That's where I got tripped up by my vow.  Cryptic, perhaps - just read between the bar code lines and don't tell my husband.    :)

The Three C's

Cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring . . . the three C's of suburban weekend motherhood and not necessarily in that order.  This past weekend, if I wasn't cooking for the boys, I was cleaning up from the cooking.  Then I was packing up the car and driving someone somewhere.   Only to come home and start the cycle (another C) again.

No wonder C is a middling grade.  It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great either.

Snowbird

How does he do it?  For the second consecutive winter, my husband is managing to be out of town for every snowstorm.  To be fair, we both missed the big day-after-Christmas blast of 2010.  But he missed yesterday for a Florida trip scheduled weeks ago.

Last winter, he travelled through every single storm.  I don't think he even lifted a shovel or salted a walk.

Is it luck?  Or the Farmer's Almanac?  Or something else?

Update 1/12/11:  No escaping this one; hubby just shoveled!

Lice(nse) Check

As I pulled off the highway in Manhattan, I was pulled over by several NYC police (not traffic) officers, along with about five other cars.  I couldn't imagine what I/we had done.  The light was green; my turn signal was on; I was not talking or texting; basically, I was a good driving citizen.

We were put in a line on the right side of the road as a couple of officers approached each car, asking for driver's licenses.  Politely (really), they said it was a "random license check."  Lucky me . . . not, as I was, of course, heading to the all -important hair appointment.  But I digress. . .

A license check?  I've never heard of that.  Three police cars, six officers later, we were released one by one.  Other than the lapsed time, no big deal given my squeaky clean driving record, but still . . . Why?  Is there a rash of unlicensed drivers of passenger vehicles midday midweek.  And, why so many cops?  Clearly, they were training officers - they said as much - but surely there's a better way.

And then I remembered my teenage son's New Year's Eve experience:  randomly stopped by a cop to ask what was in his bag.  After showing him the unopened bottles of wine and cranberry juice along with his driver's license, my son said he wasn't doing anything wrong.  The cop agreed.  They parted ways.

Are teenagers no longer allowed to carry bags?  Do you need a license to walk in NYC?  I've had many talks with local police officers about these police "stops" without cause and the answer is never satisfactory.  Supposedly voluntary, the failure to submit, justifies an elevated police response and could result in an arrest or worse.

Just imagine if you were actually doing something wrong.  Given the number of unsolved crimes, you'd probably get away with it.  But the rest of us will be checked.

Lost in Larchmont

I played the mega millions lottery yesterday.  I didn't win . . . anything.  I pored over the tickets this morning hoping for a match in the money.  Alas, no.  The best I had was two digits, but no bonus.  So, nada.

Losing was no surprise.  Playing, however, was.  I've bought lottery tickets fewer than five times in my life.  With yesterday's pot approaching $400 million I wasn't even tempted . . . until . . . something else went my way.  Something very silly.

I called the kids' orthodontist to schedule a (hard-to-come-by) Saturday appointment and, lo and behold, the available date and time perfectly dovetailed with dentist appointments just down the road.  Luck was mine.  Just for the asking.

It didn't translate to the lottery.  So much for a lucky day.

Insanity is . . .

starting a blog in the midst of holiday season.  But, I thought, if not then, when?  Why put off to tomorrow what you can do today . . . and all sorts of other platitudes that ignore the reality of demands imposed and undertaken.

Really, though, insanity would be doing it again next year . . . as i often say, true insanity is repeating the same conduct and expecting a different result.

I'll be back on writing schedule soon  . . .