Life Goes On

This morning I went for a run. The thing about running is you can pretty much tell in the first five minutes how it's going to go. On a good day, like one of those great, cool autumn days, I'm as light as a feather. Other days, it's like running in quicksand. My side starts hurting or my knee is giving too much. There is however a third option that I was thinking about this morning. Sometimes, if I just keep running I can move past the aches and pains and get into the zone.

I had a rocky start today. Not just on my run. I popped into the grocery to pick up a couple of things and the only other person there was a mom with a baby. This baby looked just like my son only she was a little girl. Same wild hair, same chubby legs, same pout. I started to well up, fighting back tears. When I was pregnant I didn't want to be and now that I'm not, I'm sentimental. I think this is the fundamental problem we face as human beings - how to be happy with what we have and where we are and not regret what's past or what we can't change.

When I checked email this morning, I had lots of Facebook messages from my ongoing thread. The six of us have been at it now for months. There will be a flurry of activity, then silence, then someone finds a picture from 1982 and we're back at it. As I've said before I really love my thread. I'm getting to know people as adults that I didn't know all that well as kids for the most part. They're all really stellar human beings.

This has been a tough year. Friends have lost jobs and worse. This one woman Shannon is such a hot shit. She's an artist and a golfer, mom to four and recently divorced--just battling back from the depths and still funny as hell.

Today Shannon sent this message to the group:

I have no idea why, but "Bungle in the Jungle" is playing in my head. This morning was my last time in the car pool line after almost 20 years of doing it. Bittersweet. I can't tell you how many times I've sat idling in the high school parking lot picking up or dropping off and have seen all of us in flashbacks. There's always the kid that starts the school year looking like he's ready to join the ROTC and ends the year looking like a rock star. I just have a hard time believing it's been so many years since we were all there.

For Shannon, her kids are moving on. For me, my pregnant days are over. For some of the threaders, it's losing a job and becoming Mr. Mom. But life keeps moving and we'd best do the same.

When I run with my son, he hates it because he hasn't quite made it to that place where you feel like you're flying. To him every step is taking away from something else he'd rather do. To me, I'm grateful to still be taking the steps at all. Just keep running I tell him. It will get easier. He's young. He'll learn.

I saw Dave Matthews interviewed on Sunday Morning. It was a fairly somber piece about the near break-up of the band and the sudden death of their saxophonist. Dave said to the interviewer, "The fact that we're going to die is a pretty good reason to stop complaining."

To watch them grow. To stop complaining. To just keep running. Life goes on.

Will's Birthday

I've been catching up with friends this week and I have to say what a great group of friends I have. Lucky girl I am. Instead of spending more time worrying about my stuff, I'm going to write about the day Will was born.

It was a Memorial Day weekend just like this one, also a Sunday. Around four o'clock in the morning I got up to go pee and just kept peeing. I called out to Rod, "I think something is wrong." Then I realized this must be what happens when your water breaks. We called the doctor who asked me to describe the contents of the toilet bowl. Because the water was yellowish they wanted me to come in immediately. They would explain later that they suspected meconium which means Will had likely taken his first tiny poop in utero.

Because of the meconium there is a risk of infection to the baby, so the doctors wanted to get him out as quickly as possible. We decided to induce using pitocin, a nasty drug that has to be administered through an IV. For me that meant my Lamaze stuff was out the window. No showers or baths, no rolling on a yoga ball, no walking around the hospital. I had an IV, a catheter and a fetal heart monitor so I was tethered to my bed. The pitocin seemed to have no effect as I lay there not effacing and not dilating. It took me hours and hours to get to two centimeters. So the day and then the night wore on and on.

Rod very kindly agreed to let me watch the Stanley Cup and the NBA finals. I was so uncomfortable I really didn't care. Sometime in the middle of the night they called in an anesthesiologist to administer a blank? I've blocked it from my memory. Just asked Rod and he said, "The saddle block?" Yes Rod the saddle block like they give horses. What the hell is it called? Administered into the spine. Should remember that.

Anyway, sweet relief. I dozed for two hours. I can't remember if it was before or after, I think before, that one of my awesome nurses let me take a shower. It was completely against the rules for her to do this but I really appreciated it. I could glimpse why being in the water while giving birth could be a good thing.

As the morning rolled around, I was finally at the right station or effaced enough to start pushing. Unfortunately at that point, some 30 hours after being induced, I no longer had any energy. I was tapped out. My epidural (THAT'S THE WORD) had worn off and I was back to uncensored pain. The OB finally came in and it was the one guy I didn't want. Hair plugs man. I remember looking down at his hair plug head and wanting to kill him.

After pushing for two hours and getting nowhere, hair plugs said something like, "We probably should've done a C-section but it's too late. So you need to get your ass in gear and push this baby out." Those weren't his exact words.

Finally, there was Will. He didn't cry. He was very calm. They had a special team in the room at that point to check his lung function and make sure he didn't have an infection. He just sat there under the warming lights. I could see Rod put his hand on his chest and almost cover it entirely. Will was a big baby, 9 pounds 4 ounces.

As Rod loves to remind me, I was not feeling particularly maternal at that point. I had a fourth degree tear and had to have stitches. I hated Dr. Hair Plugs and Rod and pretty much everyone except my nice nurses. So Will waited patiently for me to change my attitude and then I got to hold him for the first time. He was a beautiful boy. Really the most beautiful boy with a full head of dark hair. But the thing was his demeanor. To come into the world as he did through much pain and chaos and to just sit there quietly observing, was amazing.

He's still a beautiful boy. Still even keeled. Not really quiet anymore but calm. Happy 11th Will! Love, Mom

The Irish Goodnight

Last Friday we went to a neighbor's house for a dinner party. My sister-in-law started this supper club and Deb and John were the next to man up. I'm sort of hoping no one calls me on this obligation because our dining room is a disaster area. Like one of those burned out buildings in Saving Private Ryan.

Right before dinner my husband started to feel unwell as we say. His stomach was bothering him. He was truly bummed because the man loves his dinner. And his lunch. And his breakfast. He asked me to say his goodbyes so he could go home without making a fuss and off he went.

When people noticed my husband was no longer with us, I told them he'd headed home. Our host John then said, "Oh the old Irish Goodnight." I've never heard this phrase before but that's exactly what happened. It was all great to see you, glad handing, munching on hors d'oeuvres and then poof my husband vanished.

So here's to John Carley for a classic one-liner. The Irish Goodnight.

Toby's New Trick

I find particularly with TV commercials, the stereotypes still out there about women are absolutely infuriating. Because I'm also in the marketing business, I'm even more offended that creative people like myself could come up with these concepts and then sell them to clients without so much as a thought as to how ridiculous women look.

To that end, I'll be pointing out major offenders as I see them. First up, Stanley Steemer and the dog butt scrubbing incident.

First of all, I don't know what they did to that poor dog to make him scrub his butt. Either they had a casting call for dogs with worms or they infected the dog with worms. Either way, just cruel.

Second I think the two women are wearing exactly the same ugly sweater in different colors. (cheap ass production budget)

Third no mother is going to shriek in horror at dog butt scrubbing. Let me tell you Stanley Steemer copywriting team, mothers are bad asses who have seen all manner of horrors. You can't imagine what comes out of a child's body, from their noses to their bums. Absolutely horrifying. Not only that, it often ends up on our clothes and we walk around town wearing it, completely unfazed.

Get a grip. You want to throw a woman a curveball? You'd better come up with something better than worms. Because that's the least of our worries.

Dear God Don't Take Him Now. You Don't Want Him.

I've been a little too Mommy Dearest lately in my blogging so I'm moving on. Normally that would mean ripping on my husband. I am pretty sure he's going to cock up Mother's Day again but I usually get something sweet that my son was forced to make in school. Hopefully that's the case this year.

The reason I can't slag on my husband is because I had an eye opening experience about two weeks ago. I was in the kitchen making dinner when I heard a loud thump like something big dropping hard. I thought my husband's computer or printer had fallen off his desk. I called his name and he didn't answer. I poked my head in the door of his office and couldn't see him. That was because he was lying on the ground out cold.

I ran over to him, shaking him trying to wake him. His eyes were open but his breathing was heavy and he was not responding at all. About a month ago we cancelled our home phone because we really never use it and only get telemarketing calls on it for the most part. I'd turned my cell phone off because I didn't want to be bothered while cooking.

I scrambled to get my phone, turn it on and wait while that stupid hourglass sifted the hands of frickin' time. When the phone came on I dialed 9111. That's 911 with an extra 1. When I realized my screw-up I was mashing the hang-up button and trying to redial when my husband woke up and looked at me like I was crazy. I was crying hysterically thinking he was having a stroke. He has those bad Southern genes, high cholesterol and high blood pressure. He has the blood pressure under control now (for the most part) but you never know.

So he's sitting there on the floor like he's just come out of a deep sleep. He had no recollection of what happened and no idea why I was crying. I told my friends it was like that scene in On Golden Pond when Norman appears to be leaving this life and Ethel is trying to keep him here. She says, "Dear God don't take him now. You don't want him." Believe me God, the same goes for Rod.

We just sat there for a few minutes - me trying to stop crying and Rod looking like a little kid who thinks he's in trouble. I am so thankful our son was in the shower and saw none of this. Rod tried standing up and it went pretty well. He had a huge knot on his head, a scrape at his temple and a small cut in the corner of his mouth - all on one side. He'd hit the metal base of a chair on the way down.

We sat there debating going to the ER when our son appeared. We decide it would be best to take my son to my brother's house if we were going to the ER.

By the way I called two urgent care places to try to have him seen there. The first was closing. The second had a seriously rude doctor on call. Fairfield Family Medical Care has no heart. I called them and got a receptionist who passed me to the doctor. I explained what had happened and the doctor said he would not see us - we had to go to the emergency room. So I started to explain why we didn't want to go to the emergency room, namely because my husband hadn't paid our COBRA for the month and I wasn't sure if we would have to pay for an ER visit ourselves. The doctor interrupted me to say he knows no one wants to go the ER but that's too bad. When I explained the possible lack of insurance, he continued to be an asshole but suggested that at the ER they would probably observe him until midnight. He told me not to give my husband anything to drink or eat except sips of water and no medication.

So that's what we did. We sat up until 12 and then I set my alarm to wake up every few hours to make sure he was still breathing. He is by the way, still breathing.

The next day my husband went to see our doctor and she prescribed a series of tests from an MRI to a carotid artery test. He passed the EKG and MRI. We're still waiting to hear about the carotid artery and the echocardiogram.

The doctor thinks my husband overdid it the weekend before - playing hours of baseball and then tennis with our son. Before he passed out he'd had a glass of wine that he drank quickly. She thinks the dehydration combined with the wine caused his blood pressure to plummet and he passed out.

Since my husband resigned from his job he's been working at home and that's always a bit irritating, but particularly now because we are also renovating our house and are basically sitting side by side in what used to be our dining room.

I guess I learned a few things from this experience. One be better prepared for emergencies. Two pay your GD insurance premium. Three I'm not ready for my husband to leave this life.

Things I Found at My Mother's House

I did not perform my annual refrigerator purge at my mother's house this time. I had the full high-maintenance crew with me and just didn't have the time to get to it. As I explained in an earlier post (Easter Potluck with a Side of e Coli) my mother has old person refrigerator. I'm actually terrified that I'll come back next year and find the half a BLT I left in there. Really good BLT by the way from B&D Burgers on Broughton.

I did find some interesting things in and around the house and started compiling a list as follows:

• 7-10 day old tea in a mug with a coaster on top. I estimated age based on moldy film. I'm no CSI but guessing I'm close on the estimate.
• Lemon pepper expired May 2001. I momentarily considered reviewing the expiration date on all her spices but decided it would take me too long. And as I mentioned, I had plenty of high-maintenance to deal with already.
• Washcloth containing what appeared to be two disintegrated dog pills
• Rocks aka landmines. My mother had her gardener bring a bunch of stones to the house so she could stop the dogs from digging holes in her lawn. He didn't set them in the ground. She just placed them willy nilly creating little obstacles all over her yard. Like a toe stubbing nightmare.
• Scary BBQ sauce
• Why she still likes Sally Miller. Really a story more than a thing but interesting nevertheless since Sally is a serious biatch and I always wondered why my mother continued to deal with her. Now I know.
• A piece of paper towel containing dog fur under the bathroom sink.
• Way too many cashews. I've read several articles about snacking on a handful of nuts everyday including in this month's issue of Fitness Magazine. I cannot keep nuts in the house at all or I will eat them, every one of them until they are gone.

My mother says I enjoy these moments of finding old food or that bottle of rusted shaving cream. I feel like I'm giving her quite a bit of room on this stuff. I did throw out the paper towel with dog fur but I let her have the shaving cream because a gooey green gel still came out of the spout. You never know when you might find yourself in a shaving pinch and think, "Hey this stuff's still good, as long as I don't cut myself on that rusty metal bit there."

Southern Gothic

Yesterday my mother hosted brunch to celebrate Easter. There were about ten of us, including her priest, Father McDreamy they call him, two couples and another woman. It was a cast of characters that could only be assembled in a place like Savannah.

Early in the morning my husband told me he understood what was going on with me and my mother. He said I was like the herding dog tasked with looking after stray cattle. My mother and son are co-conspirators, the stray cattle. They make fun of my worrying and general anxiety associated with leaving the two of them alone together. The thing is I have good reason to be anxious. There are several examples on record of my leaving them alone and something bad happening. In all fairness, the same is true for all the grandparents. I love a metaphor with me as the dog.

We assembled at two in the afternoon. My mother wanted me to barbecue lamb. I have never cooked lamb, I never eat it and I don't own a charcoal grill. She assured me another guest was an expert and I needn't worry. The other guest was not an expert and I did worry. I asked the Father to bless the grill, he did and things worked out all right.

One of the couples lived in Paris for many years. I lived in Paris for one year as a student. The wife was not happy to be back in the US particularly back in Statesville, Georgia where they own a 6,000 square foot home in the middle of nowhere. They also own a home in nearby Thunderbolt which is apparently more to her liking. They were both very stylish if not over the top for a brunch in my opinion, but my taste runs to the very casual. I rarely get out of jeans. This couple bickered much of the afternoon, she having very clear disdain for living in the boonies of Georgia after spending 25 years on the Boulevard Saint Germain. The husband is from Statesville and quite ill. He decided to come home to ride out the rest of his life and his wife wanted no part. I sat next to him and she was across from me.

At one point, the husband realized he'd lost his wedding band. I began a frantic search only to find out later his wedding ring was not from his current wife but from his first wife which would explain why she, the second wife, showed so little interest in finding it. Who keeps his wedding ring from the first marriage and carries it forward to the second? I didn't ask.

The other couple was equally interesting. The wife was from South Dakota. She brought these delicious dumplings she said were the equivalent of Russian ravioli. Her mother in South Dakota made them and shipped them to her for the occasion. Delicious. Her husband was a pistol, making fun of my mother's manic behavior so of course I was a big fan. Then Father McDreamy and one other woman rounded out the crew. This other woman was from Fairfield, Connecticut where I now live. When she walked in, I thought wow, another over the top 60-something with her huge sunglasses and big jewelry. But the more we talked, the more I liked her.

And so it unfolded, from the Parisian couple and their little dog, to my mother, her friend from Fairfield and the couple from the Great Plains. Did I mention the little dog walked in the house and immediately wee'ed on the carpet? Orleans, the little dog from Chartres, did that several times and also took a poo that my mother's dog graciously ate to cover up her tracks.

All and all it went fairly well in spite of the lost wedding ring, the pee and poo, the mysterious reference to the 60 something's husband's death by accident and my feeble attempts at lamb grilling. My son was the only child as is often the case. He did dump his entire ginger ale all over the dining table. But he held his own until the end of the night when he started having asthma again.

My mother gets very agitated because my son has asthma. My entire family has asthma. My mother outgrew hers. My father's family moved from Ohio to Texas for the dry climate. He outgrew it. My brother outgrew it. I still have it and so does my son. Everyone else in my family wants to push my son to outgrow it. I wish he would too. I really do, but so far it's not happening. So my mom was pissed at me for giving my son a breathing treatment with the nebulizer. I don't really get it but because of this behavior (wishing to ignore the asthma) and the other grandparents' behavior, my son has wound up in some type of emergency care on more than one occasion.

My son was so upset he started crying. I thought my mom and I were going to get into it again. We often get into it to the point where we typically go for some period during every year not speaking. I have three more days here in Savannah so I was hoping to stave off a major argument until I was leaving. But that may not happen. I may have to kill her before we leave.

In the meantime, it's all very Southern here with the wedding ring feud bubbling just below the surface, my mother and her agitation about my son's asthma, all of this being pushed below the surface because by all means we have to be well-mannered. There are many times when I miss the South, particularly the weather, and today was a spectacular example of the weather. But the stifling and the bullshit I can do without.

I can see why so many great writers come from the South. There's so much material. There are so many characters. The place writes itself. But this place is not for me. I've kept secrets my entire life. I've stifled and been well-mannered. But it's not for me.

A close friend once said to me I have no filter. I was offended because I obviously don't think that is a good thing. Still at this point, I'm starting to think I don't give a shit. I don't want to keep the secrets. I want to know why the man still has his wedding ring from his first marriage. I want my son to be able to say he's got asthma and not have to hide the fact we're doing something about it. I want to say what's on my mind, write about it and have a good laugh later.

Flashback

Today, Good Friday, we had a very good Friday. My son played outside all day. It was like a 1970's day for those who experienced the 1970's. No fear of bad people, no fear of bad drivers, just horsing around all day.

Don't get me wrong the 1970's was rife with danger. We just didn't know it. And that was the beauty of it all. For a 70's Christmas, my parents gave us the Ronco bottle cutter. This was funny on multiple levels. First it was primarily used to cut wine bottles, of which there were plenty, at least in my house. Second, who gives a child a cutting tool? Third, the cuts were not exactly precise so what you were left with was a jagged edge open wine bottle to make, say a votive holder for your memorial service once you developed Hepatitis C.

My parents had that rule, the one everyone had in the 70's. Be home by dark. The idea being how far could you push dark before you were punished. In Arlington, Texas where I grew up, dark meant when the street lights came on and the bats started to circle. Again, bats probably not all that sanitary or safe. But we lived in that bubble where nothing bad ever happened.

Today kids are subject to all sorts of badness and cruelty. It may have been the same then, but we had no idea. As I've said before on this blog, Mystic River scared the crap out of me. I was terrified someone would take off with my son and do terrible things. I'm still worried. Look at the news. A young girl found in a suitcase in a drainage ditch.

But today, we were free from worry. Today was like the old days before media and news and whatever else told us how really scary it is out there. See we live in a fringe neighborhood where people drive too fast, do burnouts and throw their airplane bottles of liquor outside. Today was a good day in the hood.

Easter Potluck with a Side of e Coli

I was reading Dooce.com this morning and she took on the subject of vaccinations. I debated the vaccination issue myself until I realized my son wouldn't be able to attend public school in Raleigh. At that point I decided he really needed to get out of the house. Obviously not making fun of parents who've made another choice, it's just that in my case it was more important for me to get my son off to school.

This year my son will be 11 and out of vaccinations, moving on to being treated for STDs in high school no doubt. Reminds me of a funny story about my brother who as a high schooler thought he had an STD, went to see our pediatrician, had to sit in a little clown chair and read Highlights while he waited. All clear by the way in case any of Clay's former girlfriends read this.

Moving on, my mom has called me about seven times this week in advance of our trip to Savannah. I think my mom has pretty serious OCD. She called me yesterday, Tuesday, to tell me she'd set the table for Easter Sunday. That's six days from now. Dishes won't even be clean on Sunday.

Mom called me this morning to ask if you boil the eggs first or dye them first. She couldn't remember. I explained that she would need to boil them first but make sure to refrigerate the eggs after coloring them. She then told me her ex, Gerhard, told her eggs will keep outside the refrigerator for a month.

Gerhard was known as one of the biggest characters Savannah had to offer. Now that's saying something in a town like Savannah. Read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil if you doubt me. So I'm not going to consider him a reliable source for storing eggs and dairy. Did I mention he lived on a tall ship in downtown Savannah until it sank? Again helluva guy but not sure he was all there.

At this rate, I am expecting to arrive in Savannah to find rotten eggs and dirty dishes. This in addition to the refrigerator purge I schedule for every trip home to visit mom. My mom has old people refrigerator now. It's strange because when we were kids, there was no food in the fridge. Now that it's just her, gal could make it through Armageddon with a stocked fridge.

I'll ask her about suspect foods like the last time I found green gunge in a jar in the side pocket. "It's delicious mint jelly from the church bazaar," she said. Mmm. Chuck, in it goes into one of those heavy duty garbage bags that can catch a piano. Just between you and me, I don't think those things can catch a piano.

Last time I checked, mom had a piece of salmon in her freezer that would feed 20. Honestly I have to catch myself sometimes to stop that little bit of vomit from coming up. I'm predicting I'll find more squash blossom hot sauce that she's used one time, expired maraschino cherries and frozen mystery meat. I pray that salmon is gone. Last one to get their stomach pumped is a rotten egg! My friend Lou Lou always says, "Drink enough vodka and you won't get sick."

Trying to bring this whole thing full circle. I really admire Dooce and the other very funny mommy bloggers out there. But I'm not one of them. I'm not mommy anymore. Maybe I'm a sandwich mom, taking care of my own kid and my parents.

If I am a sandwich, I hope I'm not a rotten Easter egg salad sandwich. If I am a sandwich, I hope the "me" in the middle is delicious, refreshing and just a little bit tart.

I Got You a Puppy! April Fool's!

I spoke to my mom this morning and she pretended she'd bought me a puppy. We're going to visit her next week in Savannah. I immediately started thinking how the hell am I going to get a puppy home. Noticing my silence, she said "April Fool's! But I almost bought you this adorable little black poodle." And it went on from there in that non-stop mother talking.

My dog Bailey died two years ago. I had to put her down. It was one of the most difficult experiences of my adult life. I won't go into it because it's too sad. Instead I was reading Jack Gray's blog on AC360, In Dog We Trust, and thought of this very funny story about my dog Bailey.

When I first got Bailey, I used to take her with me from Raleigh where I was living, to my dad's beach house in Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina. It's a two hour drive from Raleigh to Wrightsville, a long stretch of pretty much nothingness that connects these towns. On this occasion, I stole my stepmother's Mercedes out of the garage. She and my father were out of town so I "borrowed" her car in lieu of driving my crappy VW Golf. My friend Peggy was visiting. We set off in the Mercedes and Bailey was riding in the back.

Shortly after getting on the Interstate 40, Bailey started behaving strangely. This was not unusual for Bailey. Peg took a look in the back seat and noticed there was something all over the seats. It was blood. Bailey was in heat for the first time. "In heat" is an expression I've heard before but it was something theoretical to me, not a reality. Bailey was my first dog after leaving my parents' home so we'd been navigating these tricky waters together.

Basically Bailey was getting her period all over the backseat of my stepmother's Mercedes. Not good.

We stopped in Meadow which is a tiny town, but they do have a gas station with a little store. At a loss as to what to do, one of us bright girls came up with the idea of putting a diaper on Bailey. Diapers being another area where we lacked any real expertise.

We walked confidently in this little store. Peg, a New Yorker, and me, a former New Yorker. "We need diapers," we said. "What size?" said the clerk.

Size? There are sizes? She pointed toward a corner of the store, giving us that look Southerners give Yankees that says I'm being nice because we have to do that here in the South but I'm not really going to help you.

Peg and I walked to the diaper area and finally chose a pair of pull-ups by approximating Bailey's weight. We took the diapers to the car and each opened one of the back doors of the car. Did I mention it was a Mercedes? Not one of those C ones either. More like an E-class. Big Mercedes.

Bailey knew something was up and in no way planned to cooperate. It was like calf roping. I've seen my uncle roping calves but he lived on a farm. Even in Texas I lived in the burbs. No experience with roping anything, particularly a bleeding, hysterical, Boxer-Bulldog-godonlyknows whatelse mix. We got her in those goddamn pullups and she looked ridiculous. We then wiped down the back of the leather seats, and sped off down the road leaving Meadow and all her charms in my rear view mirror.

Liked this bit from Gray's blog:

And thus began a chapter of my life unlike any I had experienced before. All of a sudden I was responsible for this peculiar little creature that liked to climb up onto the top of my head and fart. It was like being roommates with Danny DeVito all over again.

The Real Housewives of New Yawk

I have to stop this. It's really unattractive. I was watching the Real Housewives of New York on Saturday afternoon. My husband came downstairs and said, "What are you watching?" I said, "It's my wrestling." It's so ridiculous and tragic and I can't stop myself.

I saw Chelsea Handler doing a bit about the episode when Simon and Alex are swimming in their inflatable pool in their backyard in Brooklyn. Seriously, she's right. Put some people with real money on that show. I too can afford an inflatable pool. It's just their attitude of swimming about like they're poolside somewhere in St. Barth's when in fact you can probably hear sirens every five minutes, followed by car alarms.

I can't imagine the balls it takes for these women to act the way they do. I mean it's not like they are truly New York high society. I don't think New York high society allows someone named LuAnn into the inner circle - fake countess or not. I had a cousin LuAnn back in Texas. We called her Ludy

I went to DC last week to attend a Washington Post event. It's pretty swanky in terms of journalists but other people wouldn't recognize the bigwigs. My husband recognized Daniel Schorr from NPR. He recognized him because Mr. Schorr was also in the movie The Game with Michael Douglas.

Anyway, when I was checking into my hotel I had some problems. First of all, I normally stay at another place and this new place failed to note it was next to a fire station so I was thinking it could get loud. I asked for a quiet room. They put me in a quiet room but it was a double, not a king as I requested. I thought about letting it go but it really was tough to get around in the room so I called downstairs and got my room changed.

I'd put some of my things on the bed so I smoothed it before I left. I don't think Jill Zarin would've done that. She would've left her mark like one of those dogs that pees on everything willy nilly. When I got to my new room, I called to ask about ice. Then I called because my blow dryer stopped working mid blow-out. Then it took some time to get the blow dryer and I felt like calling back and explaining I have a very narrow window between the time my hair is moderately curly and when it can no longer be contained. Then I thought to myself, is this what it's like to be high maintenance?Am I Jill insisting Alex wipe her chair before she will sit down?

I have never been high maintenance. I always thought that if I ever got rich, I'd still be incredibly uncomfortable with getting too much attention. As I sat there, with my new blow dryer and my new room, I was proud of myself for being difficult. We used to have a theory in our marketing firm that the more you pull away from the client, the more they want you. I wonder if it's the same thing with being high-maintenance. Are you more attractive the more difficult you become?

I swear one of these days one housewife is going to grab a chair and smash it over the other housewife's head. Just like in wrestling.

NB Posted comment on Bethenny's blog yesterday

The Santa Killer

Last night my son asked me if Santa Claus was real. He's 10. He's been asking about it for a couple of years now so I told him. No Santa Claus isn't real. It was like the shot heard round the world.

I think 10 is old to still believe but he's an only child so he doesn't have anyone else to break the bad news. My brother and I figured it out when we found a stash of gifts in my parents' walk-in closet. Really not the best hiding place. I think I was 6 and Clay was 4.

Will was very sad about Santa. I could see some part of his innocence washing away in front of my eyes. "So you and dad, are you guys giving me the presents?" "Yes," I said. "We've been giving you the presents." He was heartbroken.

I tried to recover and tell him I believe there is a Santa who brings some of the other gifts of Christmas like people feeling happy, people singing and being cheerful. This is all really a stretch for me because I hate Christmas but that's another story for another cheery blog.

I called for reinforcements - hy husband - who is Mr. Christmas. We both sat there on either side of Will trying to console him.

It's all the Wii's fault. We said Santa got him the Wii and we got him the games. But I could tell he wasn't buying it. How did we know Santa was bringing the Wii? I said Santa emailed me and told me. He cast a sideways glance.

Today he seems okay. He said he thought it was pretty cool that dad and I gave him presents. I can tell he's still upset. What was I thinking?

In the Motherhood is Out

I read yesterday that ABC has already cut their season order of In the Motherhood from thirteen episodes to six. I watched it. I thought they had some funny bits.

When I was at the gym last week I saw Megan Mullaly promoting Motherhood on the Bonnie Hunt Show. As I watched, I had a bad feeling, a premonition. Everybody says shows about women don't fly in Hollywood. Married women or older women, I mean I'm surprised they got on the air at all.

This is particularly upsetting to me since I've spent the last two years of my life writing a film about women. What started as a group of 40 something characters has skewed to women in the early 30's. People also say write what you know. Well I don't know early 30's anymore. I'm trying to remember.

The show started online and they had clever hook of using viewer submitted stories from real moms as plot lines. But somebody up there doesn't want to see moms on TV, unless they're perfect moms like June Cleaver or wild and crazy moms like Peg from Married with Children.

Watching Megan Mullaly and Bonnie Hunt together I thought about how funny both of these women are. Really funny women. Why don't we want to see 40 something's? What's wrong with us?

I rented an HBO comedy called "The Comeback" with Lisa Kudrow. It's a show about an actress in her 40's who had a hit show when she was younger and is on the comeback trail with a new sitcom. Originally she was cast as one of the roommates in the show "Room and Bored". The network decides to go in a different direction and Kudrow takes on a new role as Aunt Sassy, the landlord. The Comeback is one of those shows that makes you uncomfortable it's so realistic. Like the Ricky Gervais version of The Office. Mainly it's about this older actress relegated to wearing a bad track suit and being completely overlooked if not persecuted by the show's writers. She's not a particularly likeable character but I really thought she was wonderfully written. I don't think that show was picked up either.

I had high hopes for In the Motherhood. If they can make it, we can make it. I suppose I should look on the bright side - that the show was produced at all, even though their season was cut short. We're going to finish this damn screenplay if it kills me. And I hope we get a shot at making a film. At least we're trying. That seems to be my mantra for the month of March.

Holed Up: Tales from the Motherhood

I spent this weekend in the City but didn't see the light of day except for a couple of coffee runs. Lou Lou flew in from Denver and Rosey trained in from Long Island and we all met in their mom's apartment on Sutton Place. Sounds pretty swanky, but swanky it ain't.

It's a lovely building in a peaceful, pretty part of town but the apartment was last used by their brother Pat, a former Navy Seal with a penchant for Munch-like art and even darker fiction. I slept on an air mattress and the sisters shared the bed.

We were working on our screenplay that we've been working on for longer than I care to admit. This is the toughest writing project I have ever attempted and it still isn't finished. I think because there are three of us with very different opinions. You add the difficulty of managing time zones and a total of 11 children (mostly Rosey's) and we just can't seem to get it together.

Rosey lives in Huntington, near Syosset home of Apatow and other movie kids. A woman in her local book group has agreed to pass along our screenplay to her c-level exec husband at WE if we can get it into MOW format rather than feature film format. They've promised to read it and that is big.

We've been writing all along what we hoped would be a feature film finally stumbling on Save the Cat to help us with structure. A Movie of the Week (MOW) format is different because you have to allow for commercial breaks roughly every fifteen minutes of film for two hours. Plus in this instance, they want what's called a Bible thinking this might be the next Desperate Housewives. The Bible consists of detailed character descriptions, 13 half-page episode synopses and the script in the event the movie launches a series.

It's like the closer we get, the more hurdles shoot up. This weekend we met with other hurdles. Lou Lou's husband is a long-time stoner who has recently decided to try his hand at more serious combinations of prescription drugs, pot and alcohol. On Saturday night, he pulled some major shenanigans that I think I'll not reveal but let's say it kept us up late that night and seeped into the next day as Lou Lou's family gathered round trying to offer their best advice.

I'd brought in a book for her about Adult Children of Alcoholics. I'm one of those. I have the gene and battle it myself. I do pretty well mainly I think because I'm too tired after working and momming all day to get into much trouble. But I understand the root of it and frankly am pretty sick and tired of dealing.

I tried to keep writing as the sister and a brother were counseling Lou Lou. I know the objective of alcoholics whether intended or not, is disruption. Same with any addict I'm assuming. After 40+ years of it it's really getting old. Same old stuff over and over again. It's very unimaginative.

My friend Lou is a tough bird. She's one of 9 children and they do not mess around when it comes to toughness. I think it comes from their mother who possesses a very black sense of humor for someone in their late 70's. She's also a ruthless tennis player, a very unlikely grandmother to scores and until recently a real estate tycoon in the Hamptons. I think they'll ride out this real estate storm; they will if Betty Ann has anything to say about it.

I feel for my friend Lou Lou. She's in a serious pickle with 3 kids and no work experience in roughly 15 years. She's trying and will no doubt find her way. As the old hand in the addiction department, I feel it my duty to keep us moving on the screenplay. Like I said, the disruptions have worn thin. No more drama as Mary J says. Or Mr. Eliot, "For I have known them all already, known them all."

With Friends Like These

I am perpetually on the lookout for moms like me. Deeply flawed but trying.


This weekend my sister-in-law had a friend down from her hometown. This friend is one I covet because she is really funny. I was telling her about my son's various sex questions from my Nag in the House blog. She shared this story with me. Her 9 year-old daughter had a friend over and they were in her room being very secretive. She could hear whispering but wasn't exactly sure what was going on. Then her daughter told her they were writing a book called The Valley of the Vaginas. Bonni called the other girl's mother and said, "I think you'd better get over here. They're writing porn."

I just got off the phone with my friend Lou Lou who lives in Denver. She'd sent me an email last night that her daughter is going deaf in one ear. They're not sure why or if it can be reversed. Her only comment? She said it was weird.

Lou's going through quite a bit right now so I figured she was holding back emotionally because what else is there to do? At some point, it's all just overwhelming. I called Lou today to check on her and she went on to explain that she felt like she had to keep it together so Olivia wouldn't get upset. But she stayed up half the night worrying about what had happened, what she could've done, all the things moms worry about when something is wrong.

She went on to say that on the way home from the hearing specialist, Olivia asked her what she couldn't be if she lost her hearing. "Can I still be a vet?" she asked. Lou Lou said, "Of course you can be a vet. But you probably shouldn't work at a shooting range."

I Am a Shit

My husband didn't get home until 9:15 last night - Friday night. He was just, I don't even know the word, maybe wrecked, defeated? He was texting me from the train like he always does about what's for dinner and the answer was nothing. I left a cupcake for him that my neighbor gave us. My intent was to split it with him but he looked so friggin' bummed out, I told him to eat the whole thing.

I told him I had a good day. I had three unsolicited positive remarks on my blog. One from my stepsister even, who read Adventures in Babysitting and somehow didn't want to kill me for that story about taking care of her son.

He couldn't be consoled my husband. He wanted to talk about what a shitty day he had. I should've just sat there quietly and listened. Instead I laid into him about what the hell are we doing if he hates this job.

I thought he was enjoying it. He seemed cheery enough. Maybe it was just an exquisitely bad day. Seriously though, what are we doing? Will and I never see him during the week. He leaves at 8am and the earliest he'll be back is 9pm. That's everyday, Monday through Friday. And he's working on the weekend. Baseball is starting soon and I can't help Will. I used to have an arm but now I throw like a girl. And no way I can catch Will now, he's throwing way too hard.

So I'm up now at 4am. blogging about this mess. Writing, writing, just keep writing. For what? The only money I make writing has absolutely nothing to do with this blog, which is unfortunately the only writing I really enjoy.

Yesterday on the thread (yes, the same thread, world's longest, will soon have a spot next to world's largest ball of twine), yesterday Jack took a "hafe" day as he put it. Jack is in the process of losing his job as a well-paid lawyer. In light of that situation, he decided to say f - it and he took off to watch his little girl swim.

I keep telling my husband you have more power than you think. Don't let them mess with you because you think you have no power. And in most years, that would be true. But this year, with the way things are going, there could definitely be another 100 guys in line to take his shitty ass job. We won't even have paid health benefits until April so if he quits now, we are screwed

Here's what Jack said on the thread:

Since these f-ers have turned me loose in the worst possible f-ing time, I said f-them today and left at 1:30 - watched my daughter Sarah's swimming lesson at 2:00, then went to the gym, then hung out with my kids (Sam too) and that's how I spent my hafe day, the other hafe.

Things are bleak. Things are grim. There's a feeling out there that the worst could happen at any point. I should've listened to my husband who has apparently been telling me for several weeks now that he's unhappy, but I missed the signs. Now he's downstairs sleeping with Will because he never gets to see him. And I'm up here, blogging in obscurity.

I have to write this thing. I have to keep putting it out there even if no one reads it and nothing ever comes of it. It's like the thread. My blog sustains me during tough times and we are in tough times. My husband is proof of that. I'll tell you one thing, that biatch at work who's giving him so much trouble, better back off. I will come after her. I will write about her and make her life a living hell, if only in my own mind and on this here blog.

You Know You Work from Home When

1) You eat taboule salad straight from the container at 10:15.
2) You change shirts, but the jeans stay the same.
3) You wish the crow would pipe down.
4) You have to muzzle your children during conference calls.
5) You covet other people's jobs on facebook.

Adventures in Facebook

About a year ago, I joined Facebook. A friend of mine who is a supreme networker convinced me to climb on board. At first I did the minimum, posting a picture and setting up my profile. I was bashful about inviting friends because I really have this deep seated fear that I've been invisible most of my life. We moved frequently when I was a kid and I had this feeling people forgot me after having known me only a short period of time. To my surprise people remembered me. People from 3rd grade remembered me.

I've become a more advanced user lately, again mostly due to this Facebook master friend that I have. She invited me to join a thread with about 5 other people, all from high school. One of the guys is in Costa Rica so I've been asking him about surf schools. I think we're all around the same age give or take.

This thread has been going on for about two weeks now. Someone will post a photo or make a comment and others respond. When I stopped responding for a few days my friends threatened to bounce me. So I had to jump back in. I'm finding I can't keep up. They've all kept their wits about them and mine are in the garage I think.

The thread is hard to describe. We've gone from the profane to the profound. One guy is forbidden to access the thread at work. One of the women got the boot from Facebook. Apparently Facebook, like Google and the FBI and cell phone makers, is watching us. Without giving it all away--because I think there is a code of honor or cone of silence connected to the thread--we've mocked people from their high school yearbook photo, slandered former teachers, tapped into other friends' photo albums to slake them and outed a few people who are not currently out.

Some of the better comments include:

• I think he's featured on the NAMBLA website
• I don't own any applebottom jeans and boots with the fur
• I once called shotgun on a motorcyle but my legs got tired before we crashed

But the thing that's struck me and the reason I'm writing this blog, is that at some point I realized the difference for us forty-somethings on Facebook versus those kids I hear use it. At some point, real life intervenes.

Two of the threaders are brother and sister. The brother sent his kids up to visit his sister. When they went back home, she wrote, "I think they each left with a third of my heart."

Yesterday we had this comment from one of the men working in Hilton Head. "Sorry kids, I can't play today. I have to go lay off a couple of really nice guys. Draconian projections for the resort."

Last night we got another Facebook warning, something about contains content that was removed by Facebook. No doubt we'll go back to obscene photographs, mocking yearbook inscriptions and making fun of old boyfriends and girlfriends. Just like the youngsters on Facebook. But from time to time we're faced with real life, being forty and all that entails.

Letter to Kim

I found this letter when I was cleaning up files on my computer. I wrote it to a friend or cousin I think of my sister-in-law's. She died from cancer. Good reminder to me to be grateful for my life and time with my son.

Dear Kim,

I am a friend of Rebecca Thorpe's. She told me you've been ill and now one of your children is as well. Although I hear you are all doing better. I wanted to find something funny to send to you to cheer you up. If we still lived in North Carolina, I could send you any one of a million postcards depicting the indigenous redneck. But we are living here in Connecticut now, home of the stiff upper lip.

Dragonflies are a symbol of good luck or that is what my mother always said. I decided to look up a description of their symbolism and this is what I found:

Dragonfly symbolism crosses and combines with that of the butterfly and change. The dragonfly symbolizes going past self-created illusions that limit our growing and changing. Dragonflies are a symbol of the sense of self that comes with maturity. Dragonflies are reminders that we are light and can reflect the light in powerful ways if we choose to do so. "Let there be light" is the divine prompting to use the creative imagination as a force within your life. They help you to see through your illusions and allow your own light to shine in a new vision.

I was thinking what it must be like for you as a mom, being sick and probably worried about your kids. I have a 5 year-old boy myself. And I was thinking about the day I became a mom and how truly humbling that experience was. I guess becoming a mom and being one every day is a good example of moving out of a state of illusion and getting right down to the nitty gritty. Carrying a diaper bag and a 20-pound infant around in a car seat while you are lactating is certainly something that changed how I perceived my formerly so-cool self.

And there are many days when I think that I will give up. I'm beaten down. I'm eating Teddy Grahams for lunch and I'm yelling at my kid in a voice that sounds exactly like my mother's and I think this is it. I am no longer the superwoman I was in my 20's. I am so far from Sex and the City it is not even funny.

And then there are days when I know I am stronger because of what I do and have done. And somehow I am a part of making this great kid. Sure my stomach is kind of poochy and I prefer elastic waistbands to buttonfly. But I can hold my head up high because I know that I am finding out who I am when everything is stripped away.

So what I wish for you is health and a long life for you and your kids. And I hope that somehow you see what you have been through as a way of finding your true self while you are still a young woman. Just think how free you would be then. Nothing would really get in your way because you've already done the hard stuff. Then you'd be one of those women who just gleams, because you know the light is within you.

All best wishes,
Becky Risher

Woe is Mom

I'm a mom, not that there's anything wrong with it. My husband says I'm a MILF which is sort of redundant if you think about it. Obviously if you are a mom, you've done some F'ing.

I met with a woman about a job this week. She's a really cool woman and also a mom. A Brazilian mom so her MILF factor is high. We were going down a path of talking full-time job. I knew she had a job opening but I hardly thought I'd be in the running. I've worked for myself for 10 years or more. I'm a risk for most employers who already think freelancers are nutters, much less one who's been at it for as long as I have.

So I'm sitting here with my phone turned off because I thankfully managed to call the recruiter back and get his voicemail. I'm panicked about this decision. All sorts of things are running through my brain like how will I find childcare. How will I know this person is good to my son? He's nine so I suppose I could just ask him.

Then there are my own insecurities. I've actually had a pretty impressive life but I can't quite get my arms around myself. I can't embrace the greatness of me, see what other people see. I just see me. Mom. Freelancer.

I'm very superstitious. It's my Scottish grandmother. Also I had a close friend as a child - Allison Millikin if you're out there - who had a Scottish babysitter and she used to scare the crap out of us with Ouija boards and sceances. When I woke up this morning I was thinking just go for it. My Brazilian friend said it when I met with her although she was talking about someone else. "You can always quit," she said.

As for my superstition, this is what happened. Right before calling the recruiter I checked my mail and saw three large white envelopes. This being the holiday season, I figured they were Christmas cards. Wrong. Three new letters from my Granny Inez who has employed the most prolific letter writer of all time to bombard me with guilt from her nursing home in North Carolina. The first two were the usual. She's not quite there, calls my son the baby even though he's in 4th grade now. But the guilt is there. Are you coming for Christmas? No I'm going to Mexico. Then she goes into this whole thing about my forgiving her for anything she did in the past and some god talk. I don't know who's writing this stuff but I'd say they're taking poetic license. "I pray that God's love will surround you, and help heal the wounds of the past." That does not sounds like Inez. She never went to church in her life as far as I know. She has not accepted Christ as her savior. She married a Catholic and managed to lure him away from the church so I just don't see it.

The person I am most like in the world is my Grandma Inez. I took bits and parts from all of them but we two share many qualities. If you read my earlier post, The Fighting Finn, you'd know what I mean. Inez was a workaholic. She retired at 88 only after being forced out of her business. She had one son, I have one son. I have always worked way too hard.

So what is the meaning of this sign? The three letters from my grandma who worked away her entire life, never stopping to smell the roses. Do the letters mean I should take a job? Or am I going to miss out on my son's life? What if I'm missing my own life?

Getting back to the whole mom thing. Sometimes, being a mom is like being a club chair. We're comforting and pretty and we stay in place. You can balance on us, jump on us and we won't break. If you want to be more than a mom, like say a working mom, well there's only so much time to decide that fate. If you want to be a MILF or a hot mom, you're going to need to work hard at it because that's a tough gig.

I know a job will bring change and I love to resist change. But all good things have not come to me waiting. Besides I can always flirt with the mailboy or ponder interoffice romance. Although my husband is working at the same firm so therein lies the rub.

Pull My Finger - The Saga Continues

It turns out my finger may be swollen for a reason. My doctor called me tonight at 4:30 to tell me I had elevated levels of rheumatoid factor, the factor that determines a propensity toward rheumatoid arthritis. I'm thinking this is crap because I was just at the gym and felt fine but wow....that's just shit. Have you ever noticed how doctors always call you on a Friday with something like this? It's like they want you to spend your entire weekend bummed out.

I googled rheumatoid arthritis. Big mistake. On Wikipedia it says people diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis are unable to work within 10 years. I'm not sure if that means people who work in a circuit board assembly factory or all people. Like if you work as say an usher in a movie theater, tear tickets, point to theater number 2, then could I still work? Sure rug weaving or make-up artistry are out for me. But I was never really in so I guess I can deal.

About ten years ago I went to see an ophthalmologist referred by a client. He was her brother-in-law or some other loose affiliation. I went in to get my eyes checked, no big deal. So he comes in all jolly in his faux Southern way and takes a look. Gets noticeably more serious and takes another look. Serious again and then says I have swelling of the optic nerve. So I'm thinking take two aspirins and call me in the morning.

Nope. Referred me to Duke Medical Center toute de suite. Turns out swelling of the optic nerve is a sign of a brain tumor. So I sat through a CAT Scan and if you haven't done that you really should. Particularly for the hyper set like myself, it is something. You have to sit still for a long time, stuffed in a tube while an IV is running into your arm and you're hearing a loud banging like a jackhammer. Not like a good New York jackhammer where you're probably close to a great slice of thin crust pizza if you just follow the banging. A CAT Scan is really loud because you're basically strapped into an echo chamber, no pizza in sight.

Anyway, it turns out I just have a weird optic nerve and all is well. No brain tumor. So I'm hoping for more of the same. Misdiagnosis on a Friday. But it still scares the crap out of me. First of all rheumatoid arthritis is a disease that seriously limits motion. And anyone who knows me knows I am constantly in motion. I can't sit still. Then there is the whole fear of an early death because I have this sort of second wind timeline that involves my living at least another 30 years and joining the Peace Corps at 60. I'm not going to make it to Namibia at 60 if I'm disabled.

I know I said I was the Wile E. Coyote of my own life and I have various and sundry martyr tendencies. But I don't really want to die early or be disabled. I want another chance. I want to be grand and fat and old. I want to be like those two crazy British women who ate duck fat all the time. Regrettably one of them died early with good reason but I want all of that. I will have that.

I'm spinning at 9:45 tomorrow so screw you arthritis!

I am the Coyote, Goo Goo G'Joob

There are signs and then there are signs. Sometimes signs are left open to interpretation. Others, not.

Today I went to the doctor to have her look at my right index finger - the ultimate pull my finger gag I told my dad. It's been swollen for about two months, closer to three, but I always downplay my symptoms to the doctor. So the nurse takes a look, asks me if I hit something.

"No. I think I would remember that."

Then the doctor comes in. Same thing. Impressed with my swelling and she says, "You know you really are a hard on." I think she meant to say hardass but I can't speak for her.

So she says she's going to take some blood to check for Lyme disease and orders an X-ray to determine what's going on. Lyme disease was not on my list of self-diagnoses. I figured arthritis or something related to sitting in a chair all day typing.

She takes some blood and then applies a Band-aid. A Wile E. Coyote Band-aid. That was the sign, the one not left open to interpretation.

Sometime in the past couple of months, I came to the conclusion that I am the Wile E. Coyote and others in my life - not my husband because I shit talk him enough on this thing - are the Road Runner.

Exhibit A: I actually work with a client called Acme Corporation. This is not a joke.

Exhibit B: I am frequently plotting my ascension (to a perfect body, to the perfect job, to a smooth canvas of a face made possible by Restylane) only to have some bird come along and drop an anvil on my head.

Exhibit C: I once worked for Herb Block, the editorial cartoonist for The Washington Post and close friend of Chuck Jones, creator of the Coyote.

Exhibit D: My Band-aid.

I don't need to be hit over the head here. I get it. I am the Coyote. For now.

I read that Chuck Jones said, "Wile E. is my reality. Bugs Bunny is my goal." I'm not sure I agree with that or even understand it. Besides I've always liked that big Southern chicken character who runs around saying,"Well I DO declare." I think he's also tortured by another, lesser bird.

Anyway, I'm going to look for the next sign. It's going to be a good one. I can feel it. Oh wait, there's something in the sky. It's big and shiny. It looks like a star falling toward Earth. Uh oh. RUN!

I'll tell ya' that anvil prank never gets old.

The Fighting Finn

From the time she was a young woman, my grandmother had to work. She worked as a domestic. She operated the Teacups ride for a small carnival, pretty much any low-paying tough job you can imagine, she has been there and done that. Inez Illona Lindqvist married my grandfather, James Arthur Risher, when he was working in a steel mill in Canton, Ohio. He was a hard-drinking, belligerent, bear of a man at 6 feet 6 inches tall. If there is anyone who had it tougher than grandma, it was my grandpa Jim.

Their marriage was reportedly turbulent when they were younger. My grandfather’s partying ways did not sit well with my grandma who must’ve even then had a vision of becoming a businesswoman. At first, she went with him dancing and drinking until the sun came up the next morning. But she fell away from that life while my grandfather was like a moth to a flame. One of her favorite stories is about my grandfather refusing to leave a bar one night. Without saying a word to him, she went down there and let the air out of the tires on his truck.

Grandma Inez loved to tell us stories about her people, the Finns, fighting the Russians for their independence. She said the Finns would dress in white jumpsuits and bury themselves under snow waiting for the charging Russian forces. Then they would ambush the Russian soldiers, jumping out of hiding and killing them using only a knife. I could see the blood red stains on the white snow. Note to self – do not mess with grandma.

My great grandfather was from Helsinki, Finland. He was something like a merchant marine who left home at the age of 14. His wife never learned to speak much English so both my grandmother and my father spoke Finnish in her home. I didn’t really understand the characteristics of the Finnish people until I had an opportunity to live in Europe as a student. Of the Scandinavian people, the Finns are by far the darkest of the lot both in coloring and temperament. Although frequently grouped with the Swedes and Norwegians, Finns are a different breed. The Finns I met were all highly intelligent but definitely morose in their worldview. I’m thinking of a word in German, weltschmertz, defined as a sorrow or sadness over the present or future evils or woes of the world. I tell my husband I am a pessimistic optimist. I hope for the best but am frequently let down. I think this is inherently Finnish.

Some years ago I saw a story on Sixty Minutes about the Finnish cell phone maker Nokia and how that company reflects another Finnish cultural trait. Apparently, the Finns avoid personal contact like the plague, hence, the insanely popular cell phone. Another Finnish pastime, the sauna, would seem an experience that would force intimacy. Sitting naked in a sweatbox would surely lead to conversation. But the Finns don’t choose to use this time opening up to their fellow man. Instead, this popular joke dictates sauna behavior.

One day Pekka and Toivonen meet after a long time apart and they go to a sauna in the woods. They drink vodka for a couple of hours. Pekka asks how Toivonen has been doing. Toivonen says nothing, but continues drinking for a couple of hours. Then, slowly, he replies, 'Did we come here to talk, or did we come here to drink?'

The one subject grandma will discuss at length is politics. She is very much a liberal in her views, typical of a long-standing tradition of Texas Democrats. She’s so liberal, I’m not sure she would even play well with other Democrats. Her father was a Socialist and actually headed up a Socialist group in Ohio when they first moved to the States. She liked to scour the newspaper everyday, looking for evidence of her conspiracy theories. Don’t even mention George Bush to her (father or son). She will launch into a tirade about this or that, usually something along the lines of “the working class gets no respect.” All Republicans are out to help the rich, end of story, no discussion. Sadly, she's lost her sight to macular degeneration and she is unable to read the newspaper. She listens to the news, but I don’t think it has the same appeal. It’s just the buzz of the television going all day long.

The “store” was the furniture store she eventually opened and ran for 55 years, something quite out of the ordinary for a woman in the 1950’s. She was the salesperson and my grandfather delivered the furniture. When we were kids she would let us come to the store with her and “work”. Mainly we would just sit around pretending to write sales receipts. She had one of those prehistoric machines that dispensed the paper in triplicate. You write something on the paper, pull out the receipt and give it a good rip. I’m not sure what our game did to her accounting system because the receipts were all numbered in sequence. She didn’t seem to mind.

Next we would wait for our lunch break, an activity I would liken to a long car ride. We repeatedly asked if it was lunchtime until she caved and took us. We also wanted to avoid my grandpa at all costs. He was a tough guy and any run-ins with grandpa might result in our actually having to do work.

On weekends, many weekends, my grandmother would take us out to Six Flags over Texas. We had a season pass to the coolest thing Arlington, Texas has to offer a young kid. I really never considered her age until I became an adult myself. At 40, a day alone with my five-year old boy would put me out of commission. My grandmother took me and my younger brother out to that theme park all the time, rode all the rides with us, and never even blinked.

I think she was in her 60’s at that point, going with us on tortuous rides like the Spindle Top. I don’t think this type of ride is even legal anymore. Basically, you cram a bunch of people in a huge barrel that spins around faster and faster until the G-force slams your body against the wall. Then the floor drops down and you're suspended in the air, stuck to the wall like a bug. No seatbelts or safety equipment of any kind were there on the Spindle Top. Add some candy and soda to the mix and you are looking at one hell of a long day with two wild kids.

One of her other favorite activities is laundry. It must be genetic because I am also a laundry fanatic. My brother’s friend Pete tells a story about coming home late night after hours of drinking in Boston. My grandma was lying on the floor between the washer and dryer, only her legs sticking out like the witch from Oz trapped under a house. So Pete and my brother run inside the house thinking she has had a stroke or something. She pops her head up and says, “Oh I was just cleaning up some lint under the dryer. You boys want something to eat?” My mother swears she broke every dryer we ever had. They finally began unplugging the dryer or removing the fuse for the dryer and telling her it was broken. Sad, really, considering she probably bought us the dryer in the first place. She just liked clean clothes, the smell of them and folding them with origami-like precision. One time I caught her sewing a hole in her pantyhose. She’d lived through the Depression, probably already poor when that catastrophe hit. She always told us to take care of our clothes. She would iron our jeans if we didn’t stop her. She had a thing about wearing shabby clothes.

She also hates food waste of any kind. My stepmother found her going through the garbage after dinner one night, retrieving pieces of uneaten food that were still “good” in her mind. At this point she’d actually done well in her life. The store was doing a brisk business and she owned several homes that were rental properties. It just bugged her to see that perfectly good food sitting in the garbage. Thus began the ritual of clearing the garbage out of the house after every meal, before she could take a look. My husband and I call her the food pusher. One time I had some friends stay over and we were eating breakfast. My grandma kept urging one of the guys to eat the last piece of bacon. He politely declined several times until she actually took her finger and gently flicked it on to his plate. Food pusher.

At the end of her life, Inez is alone. My grandfather died a few years ago. They’d been married for over 60 years, together every day, at home and at work. At the end, my grandfather seemed more like a schoolboy in love with her. I don’t think she really considered what life without him would become. She had to give up the store. Her purse was stolen right off the desk one day. The floors were hard cement and she was finding it more and more difficult to take the pain in her legs and feet. She couldn’t see to drive the old yellow Cadillac just down the road.

Finally, my father decided to close the place. He found out some relatives were skimming money from her, ordering loads of furniture that could never be sold. Grandma had actually run a cash business all that time. She hated debt. And now she was swimming in it thanks to them.

My grandfather waited his whole life to retire and never did because she would not give up the store. He said no wife of his was going to work everyday while he sat at home doing nothing. I know he cajoled her, tried everything he could to get her to stop. He’d had enough--enough with the customers and the lies about where the check was and hauling Barcaloungers up flights of stairs. But her whole life was tied up in that business. Her friends were long-time customers. She worked with her family. Who’s to say what’s right? What makes a happy life, when you look back at the end of that life? He wanted to go fishing. She just wanted to work.

I came to visit my grandfather in the hospital shortly after a botched hip surgery. He said, “You know, you’re just like her. Watch out.” My guess is he saw what would happen to her, knew her well enough to know that she would never quit until she was dragged out of the store and by that time it would be too late to really enjoy anything else in her life. I guess I am like her in many ways. I am an entrepreneur. I have one son. I’m married and plan to stay that way. I do work a lot, sometimes to the point of illness. I am afraid of relying too heavily on anyone other than myself.

When my son was born, my husband and I were both starting out in our business. At five months, I took my son to daycare and he went everyday all day. I regret that choice. I regret not spending more time with him as a baby. So I am trying to learn from my mistakes and maybe those of my grandmother. Life is not always about work. It’s easy to get caught up in that race, particularly as a woman. Never let your guard down, never stop or someone else will take your place. And oh the perils of being a housewife – of not “working outside the home”.

I’m not really sure where I’m going with this story. I just started writing about her late one night when I realized this is the end of her life. She's fallen several times. Her doctor thinks she’s had a minor stroke but he’s not sure if her disorientation is the result of stroke or dementia or maybe even a concussion from one of her falls.

She’s just not the same person anymore. And I wanted to remember some of the things about her before my own memory blurs more than it has. I am trying to understand what I should learn from her. What was my grandfather trying to say? Work less. Let others take care of you. Know when to fold. Who knows?

Before we got married my husband told me he was high maintenance. When you first fall in love you avoid hearing these things because they detract from the pretty picture. Eleven years later, it’s hard to ignore. And I am sure it is equally hard to miss the annoying things about me. Is that what I did? I told him I didn’t want anyone to take care of me. Well guess what? I may have lied about that part. I secretly hoped I would find someone stronger than me, someone who would offer to take care of me although I would probably decline.

Or maybe I should learn to be cared for in the manner it is offered. Is that the lesson? Because my grandmother has no choice now. She must accept care as it is given. And rather than accept that fate, she has decided to sit alone, quietly in her room.

I know this and this makes me sad. In the end, we are alone in this life. Sometimes our beloved spouse dies. Sometimes we live in a world of our own, no longer in the realm of the living. We become a burden to our children. We grow ill and incontinent and messy and difficult. These are not traits welcomed in the highly efficient culture of today.

So I suppose if I have anything to learn from Inez it is to live a life that pleases you, because in the end your thoughts will turn to that life. And the only comfort you may receive will be the knowledge that before you landed in this pseudo-world of assisted living you were once a ferocious warrior -- a businesswoman back in the days of home economics. The person in the wheelchair or the person on the gurney is the shell of what remains. You are still the beautiful young woman in a faded photograph. And no one can take that from you.

Why I Have to Kill My Husband

So it's come to this. I want to kill him. Sure I could divorce him, but where's the satisfaction in that? Murder. That's the stuff of Shakespeare.

He came home early yesterday because we had a parent-teacher conference. It was good to see him but I was in a foul mood because...well I was going to list the reasons but it doesn't really matter. They seem kind of silly now, but at the time I was pissed.

So we raced off to parent-teacher conference, raced home. I grabbed my son to take him to karate, changing in the car, came home and found my husband upstairs playing guitar and blasting Emmylou Harris. In re: my earlier post When George Clooney Comes a Knockin', another one on my husband's list is Emmylou.

I'm staring at my 50th bushel of laundry for the day, two unmade beds and dirty dishes and he's upstairs playing guitar. I haul the laundry upstairs and start making the bed, huffing and puffing to show my anger but he can't hear me of course because he's playing Red Dirt Girl or some other freakin' song for the tenth time. See he's playing guitar along with the song so he has to restart it when he gets off the pace.

I had a conversation with my friend LouLou the other day. She also wants to kill her husband. But we had this conversation about anger and why we're so angry all the time. It's basically the same situation only I think she may have it worse because her husband is actually in a band for cripe's sake. But she said something to me that made me think, so much so that I wrote it down. She said she was talking to a friend of hers and I can't remember exactly the circumstance but her friend was saying Lou should live everyday like it's her last and think about what her obituary would say. And Lou said, "Is that really how I want to be remembered? I kept a clean house?"

Oh I know what it was, her husband had ignored a pile of laundry for about three weeks and LouLou was testing him to see when he would notice. I believe the result of this test was that he never noticed and she ultimately had to fold. Anyway, that's what I wrote down. Is this how I want to be remembered?

Back to my annoying husband. My husband and I frequently argue about house stuff. His answer is always, "Just make me a list and I'll do whatever you want." But see here's the thing, and it is a thing because I saw a very similar scene played out in the movie The Break-Up. Do you remember that whole lemons scene? Baby wanted 12 lemons because they were show lemons. Then they have this big argument about him not doing the dishes and he said you didn't ask me to do the dishes and she says I don't want to ask you, I want you to want to do the dishes.

That is the principle of it. That sums it up for me. I don't want to write a list for my husband. I want him to notice the laundry and the unmade beds and the dirty dishes and take it upon himself to do something about them. Because he loves me. Because he wants to be helpful. Because he thought of it on his own. Not because I made him do it.

Women are looking for signs. Maybe not all women, but many women are looking for signs from their husbands. I tell my husband all the time, it's the little things that women want. Sure a big, fat piece of jewelry is nice every once in awhile but that's not what really does it for women. Women want the door opened for them. We're hoping for flowers, coffee in the morning or breakfast in bed. You don't even have to make the breakfast. You could go buy the breakfast. We're watching you, testing you all the time.

I told my husband about this a long time ago and we've discussed it several times since. So I know he knows this but he doesn't do these things or doesn't do them with any regularity. So I said to him one time, "If you know these things make me happy and you intentionally don't do them, you are making a choice." Then I think he said something about me making a list.

You see your Honor that's why I had to kill him. He didn't make the bed or do any laundry. Cooking? Forget about it. She'll understand. I know she will.

How to Explain an IV to a Six Year-Old

We went to the wrong hospital. There are two near us but we were new to the area and we were confused. The other hospital had a children’s ER. This one was open to all, mainly older people, who sat in their beds moaning. Our 6 year-old, Will, was nervous. The good thing about asthma is you get pushed to the front of the line in the ER. Especially with kids, asthma wipes that blasé look right off their faces. That’s the only good thing about asthma.

They moved Will into another area of the ER so he could have his own room. The doctor turned on Cartoon Network to try to distract him. Ed, Edd and Eddy. It didn’t work. Will was screaming that he couldn’t do this. He knew he was supposed to be calm but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop crying. I'd never seen him like this, in a complete state of panic. After two days of trying to reverse the course, two trips to the pediatrician, the ER doctor ordered steroids to be delivered intravenously. He was trying to stop asthma from drowning our son.

Asthma is a piece of shit, relic of a disease--an insidious, creeper, sometimes killer of a disease. Despite the research and high-falutin’ talk about maintenance and protocols and other jargon doctors use, asthma remains a mystery to them. No one can say what causes it, what ends it, who will get it, how seriously they’ll be affected. The truth is they just don’t know. And after centuries of studying and treating asthma, nothing much has changed.

To get back to my original question, how do you explain an IV to a six year old? Well the answer is that you don’t. If you tell a little kid he’s about to be held down by three adults including his parents while someone sticks a needle under his skin to begin dumping steroids into his bloodstream, well he is not going to be amenable to that situation. You can reason with him and force him and stroke his forehead, but the fact remains there is something foreign stuck inside his arm and he wants it out now.

Asthma medications are worse than the disease. They all induce nervousness or anxiety, if not outright mania. Even the naturopaths suggest drinking a cup of hot black coffee at the onset of an attack. Still all the medical professionals will tell you it is essential to stay calm. “We can’t help you if you can’t settle down.” The effects are startling even in adults. Hands shaking, nausea, irritability, irrationality, pulse racing, even cardiac arrest. But stay calm. By all means stay calm.

Sometimes as a parent, you realize you will do things that you cannot take back. Sometimes those things are done in the heat of the moment. You can’t take another question while you are trying to work. You’ve asked 367 times if he needs to go to the bathroom, and he swears he does not, until you are staring intently at the latest video selections and suddenly he can’t hold it anymore. You just snap. Every parent has their breaking point and kids are the masters of pouring gasoline on a fire.

That night I gave the ER doctor my consent to run an IV. It’s for his own good, I told myself. They strapped his little arm to a board to stop him from bending his elbow. The steroids were stinging and a red circle was forming around the needle. Will cried the entire time, almost two hours. I looked into his frightened, sobbing eyes and realized I couldn’t take this back.

Kids are really just so little and so easily hurt by the world around them. They actually think people are good, and I could see the very concept of betrayal taking shape as my kid realized I was going to hurt him on purpose. That no matter how you try to sell it, that he needs it, that you are trying to help him, that it will be over soon, it doesn’t matter to him. Because kids haven’t honed their life negotiating skills yet; the barter economy adults navigate as they trade this sadness for that reward. Kids believe you shouldn’t hurt somebody on purpose, no matter what.

This was our 5th visit to the ER. This past summer he knocked his two front teeth out and had to have his face glued together where one of the teeth pierced the skin. Each time, he suffered through it. We’d blow up surgical gloves to make him laugh or one of the nurses would slip him a popsicle. But this time was different. This he could not understand.

He fell right to sleep when we got home. Sleep does not come easily for my boy Will but he was so tired. We were all so tired. When I woke up a few hours later to give him his breathing treatment, I could barely move him to get him propped up on the pillow. He was so out of it, he was unable to help me, just completely limp in my arms. As I turned on the machine, the noise must have triggered a memory for him. He started kicking and moaning, still asleep but aware on some level that a terrible thing happened tonight and he needed to stop something terrible from happening again.

I tried to comfort him. I tried to tell him. “Will, it’s mommy. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” But that would be a lie. And he knew it, even as he slept.

Random Acts of I Don't Know What

Items that don't warrant an entire blog entry:

1) Okay why didn't any of my friends or family tell me I had a typo in the title of my last blog about the 80's? Are you not actually reading my blog, just saying you are?

2) I've recently started going through the top layer of garbage at my gym and pulling out plastic bottles to recycle. If anyone sees me, I stop immediately. Otherwise, I'm rummaging. This means I'm sorta green but not entirely committed in an Al or Leo kind of way.

Still, shame on you Fitness Edge of Fairfield for hiding the recycling bin--I'm guessing in an effort to save money. They scuttle the blue bin in the corner behind a column and turn the recycling sign inward so it can't be seen.

3) I am Mr. Miyagi. While my house is being renovated, I have a series of contractors coming in and out of the house. Flies get in and won't get out. I have a strict catch and release policy with flies although I find that when they are inside for too long, they will commit suicide by flinging themselves against my kitchen window.

As for my Miyagi act, I caught a fly last week in mid-air in a small drinking glass. I plugged up the other end with a paper towel, walked outside and released the fly into the wild. Later that night I boasted to my husband about my miraculous catch and he said, "Didn't Mr. Miyagi catch a fly with chopsticks?" Typical.

Barton Article

This article ran in the Barton Scope, the alumni magazine for Barton College in Wilson, North Carolina. I wrote the story about my husband Rod and it appeared in various forms in two other publications - The Rocky Mount Telegram and NC State University's Design Influence.

Barton1.pdf

Long Live the 80's

The pressure is on. My brother and his wife are having an 80's dance party this month and I have to find the perfect costume. I was looking for an old bridesmaid's dress but I couldn't find it - emerald green, full-length, shawl collar. Must've lost it somewhere along the way. So my whole Dynasty idea is out the window as is my idea for my husband's matching Zamfir the pan floutist costume. I believe Zamfir is or was once married to Linda Evans. Or maybe it was Kenny G. Six of one, half dozen of another.

As I sat thinking of ideas from the 80's, I began seeing flashbacks from those days. Tastes, sights and smells I remember like they were yesterday.

1) TAB. I think TAB is still around but it will never recapture its former glory.

2) Indian Earth. Unless you're a girl, you probably don't know Indian Earth. It came in this cool mini-clay pot and the applicator was the cork top. The cheek bone it created was rather severe.

3) Parliaments. No, not the George Clinton back-up group. Parliaments. Smoke'em if you got'em.

4) Walkman. The clumsy precursor to the iPod. A must have for tuning out the rents.

5) Mickey's Big Mouth or PBR, et al. Any beer you could afford as a teenager.

6) Famolare shoes. Okay I just found out those shoes are made in Brattleboro. I thought they were Italian for God's sake.

7) Buf Puf. I nearly scrubbed my face off with the Buf Puf. Someone should've said something.

Other things I remember are innocence. Having no fear or even knowledge of pedophiles. Getting out of the house as much as possible. Rick Springfield.

Those were the days my friend, we thought they'd never end.

When George Clooney Comes a Knockin'

The reason I married my husband was because he was the first man I ever met that I could be honest with and say what I thought. Of course, I still keep secrets from him but we are pretty open about the state of our marriage. Now in our 11th year of wedded bliss, the whole "until death do us part" can seem a really, really long time.

So we have this deal. Technically I have the deal but he's since joined in the fun. So we have this deal. If certain people were to show up at our door for whatever reason, we are free to leave. For me it's Dave Matthews, Viggo Mortensen and George Clooney. Viggo is new to the list. Sorry hon, I didn't tell you about that one.

My husband's list is an interesting one. Let me know if you see a common theme. Susan Sarandon, Isabella Rossellini and Drew Barrymore. It's sort of a toss-up between older, cool women and women who display their lovely breasts on film and television.

Back to the deal. Imagine my horror at reading the news about George Clooney and his latest 20 year-old girlfriend involved in a motorcycle accident in nearby Weehawken, New Jersey. My deal with George is, I know he's going through a phase with these young girls and someday soon, he'll come to his senses, and start looking for Mrs. Perfect. Me. A married mom in her 40's.

What troubles me about this new woman is that she's in a unique position - unlike her predecessors. Before the accident, the glow would've worn off for George. It always does. I mean she's a croupier or something for God's sake. Now she's something more. She's long-suffering. She's brave. She's wounded. These are qualities a principled man like George, the saver of Darfur, cannot easily dismiss.

If George were to marry this wrong woman, I'm not sure I could take it. Because when I started the list way back when, Dave Matthews had more hair and less paunch. And I love Viggo, but I'm concerned about a "vestigial tail" that my brother and his wife both say they saw in his nude scene in "A History of Violence". For the record, I saw no such tail, but it worries me.

If George is the last on the list and then George becomes permanently attached to this girl, then I am sunk. Frankly I think it's a conspiracy. I think she set up the entire thing. What would George Clooney be doing in Weehawken in the first place? Visiting Danny Devito?

There is a glimmer of hope however. George is not a forever man. He just isn't. He meets these waitresses, croupiers, ball girls and then he sheds them. That's his MO.

I don't blame him for having an exit strategy. So do I.

I'll meet you in Weehawken George. It's only an hour away according to Mapquest.

Soup and Coffee

My father's parents had a dining ritual that would drive my dad nuts. Wherever we went, local diner to upscale restaurant, they would order soup and coffee for dinner. He thought they were being cheap. I think they just stopped being hungry. This same thing is happening to me now and it's scaring me. Of course, I'm still young so I eat my way past the feeling. But the truth is I am usually full after eating the starter bread. I'm definitely full if I have an appetizer.

What does this mean? I must be getting older. This can't be, because mentally I'm still in my 20's. Still there are little signs all around me that I may in fact be getting older.

Other signs? A twinge in my knee before it starts to rain. Driving down the highway cranking a freakin' awesome song and then the station identification comes on. "Keep it here on Lite FM. The greatest hits from the 70's, 80's and very early 90's."

Marionette lines. Have you heard of them? They are the lines on the side of your mouth that become more prominent as we age. As I age.

I recently made a big decision about lines and wrinkles. I'm going to stop buying creams and serums and I'm going to start saving for the real deal. Procedures, surgeries, injections. That's where I'm going to put my money from here on out. Because I'm officially waging war against marionette lines starting now.

Still all is not lost. I actually got carded last year. I think I was wearing a cheerleading outfit so a bit deceptive. But it counts. Some misguided soul wasn't sure if I was 21 yet.

There are aspects of getting older that I really enjoy. Caring so little about what other people think. Anonymity. Or on a positive note, I like surprising people when I tell them my age. I love the crinkles men and women get around their eyes. Those lines that come from smiling. And I find it so distressing when people have them removed, Robert Redford you know who you are.

I do understand their decision and I no longer judge them. They are fighting the same battle. You go girl or guy. Nip, tuck, sew, suck. Whatever it takes to make you feel young and beautiful. I'm not ready to go gently into that good night.

In the beginning of this year I wrote down my goals and one of them was to get in Demi Moore shape. At 44, she's older than I am. I later heard from a reliable source, Entertainment Tonight I think, that Demi has had approximately $250,000 in plastic surgery. So I've modified my goal. I want to look as good as Demi did before she went under the knife a multitude of times.

I'm wondering if she orders soup and coffee when dining with Ashton. If she doesn't yet, she soon will. That's just the way it goes.

Steven Seagal Kicked My Ass

My brother called to tell me there was a film crew setting up shop in nearby Stamford and they were looking for help. They'd put up a huge sign in the window of their temporary offices with contact information. I've been writing a screenplay and taking film classes and I'm dying to work on an actual film set.

My brother gave me the phone number and then sent me a link to a classified ad on Craigslist. Results, the ad included an email address so I wouldn't have to make an embarrassing phone call. At 43, I'm guessing I'm not your typical intern / production assistant applicant.

I sent my resume and a cover letter to the email address in the ad. Maybe I shouldn't have used the phrase, "I know this sounds crazy, but I'd love to work on a movie and I'm a huge Steven Seagal fan."

Yes, it's one of my secret shames. I love Steven Seagal movies. I don't know why. They are idiotic and he is really just plain ridiculous, but there's something about him and his never-changing formula that I love. When he shows up wearing a full-length leather car coat or quasi-Asian smoking jacket, I know somebody's going downtown.

The working title of this movie is Marker. When it's released, it will probably be something like Death Marker or Death Comes a Marking.

My brother called me again. "Did you call them?" he asked.

"No. I emailed my resume."

"You have to call them. They're not going to respond to email."

"Fine, I'll call them."

Ring, ring. Someone picks up the phone.

"Hi, my name is Becky and I sent my resume in yesterday. I understand you guys are looking for help on your movie."

"How did you get this number?" she said, sounding very paranoid.

"My brother gave it to me. He sent me a link to your Craigslist ad." Just a thought. If you're trying to keep something a secret, you probably shouldn't hang a big sign out your window and put an ad on Craigslist. "I sent my resume to you yesterday," I said.

"What's your name?"

"Becky Risher," I replied.

"Right, yeah, I remember you," she said, now leaning toward smug.

"Why did I scare you?" I asked. "I mean, I'm not a stalker or anything."

"Right."

"Well do you still need help?"

"Have you ever worked on a movie?" she asked.

"No, but I can do lots of things."

"Like what?", she said. I thought I heard her typing in the background or perhaps whispering something to a co-worker.

"Well I can type. I can make coffee. I'm really good at finding things because I'm a researcher."

"You know, I think we're good for now. But we'll call you if anything comes up."

"What was your name again?" I asked.

"Meriweather."

"Meriweather? Like Lee Meriwether?"

"Who?"

"Lee Meriwether. From Barnaby Jones."

"Who's Barnaby Jones?"

Forget it. I knew I was sunk. I was just thinking how I might've played it differently. I was embarrassed to be blown off by a 20-something smugster named Meriweather.

Still I am compelled to watch Steven Seagal movies. There's something about him. I went to his official website when I started writing this blog to see what he had to say about himself. The home page states that Steven is an accomplished actor, musician, martial artist and philanthropist - a man of many facets. He's also just completed filming Marker and a critically-acclaimed blues album called Mojo Priest.

You're my Mojo Priest Steven. I don't give a damn what Meriweather says.

NB I think if I'd gone on to explain the Lee Meriweather reference, that the show starred Buddy Ebsen during his sexy years before he became Jed Clampett, well I think Meriweather would've peed in her pants laughing. Laugh all you want Meriweather. You'll pee in your pants plenty after you have a baby.

Activia Challenged

I am taking the Activia challenge. Activia is a yogurt enema. I mean that's not what they're saying but the signs are all there. Activia logo? A woman's stomach with a yellow "down" arrow superimposed on her navel. Activia tagline? Bifidus regularis (TM)

Regularis, even in its Latin form, is a word many of us dieters understand. It's code for laxative. Dannon, the makers of Activia, claim it is a bifidobacteria or intestinal microflora. But we know the truth.

See this all started because of a massage I got in Montana. I asked her not to pull my finger, not a joke, because it's swollen. Kim, the masseuse in Montana, told me that sometimes swelling is caused by bacteria in our intestines from the food we eat. Then she proceeded to tell me this disgusting story about eating sushi with her brother the doctor that I won't relay. Trust me, I don't think I'll be ordering yellowtail sashimi for a few months.

Back to the Activia challenge. What caught my eye was this whole idea of balancing the bacteria in your digestive tract. I'd assumed the swelling in my finger was arthritis. Or, and this is also not a joke, it could be gout. My mother thought she had gout in her toe and her symptoms were swelling and pain. One of the things that causes gout is red wine. And let me tell you that if I have to give up red wine, life as I know it will cease to exist.

Bacteria is my salvation. An entirely new way of thinking that would not interfere with my wine drinking AND erase the ugly spectre of arthritis in my early 40's.

So while others are taking the Activia challenge to flush their digestive system or get back to "regular", maybe they're looking for that next weight loss miracle, I'm taking the challenge because I wish to continue drinking red wine until that day when my right index finger falls off and I'll be left with four.

At that point, I think I'll go with a large cocktail ring to distract or kid gloves.

Inside the Actor's Studio with Gisele Bundchen

Can you tell this is a rehash from a 2004 writing class?

Gisele Bundchen, Brazilian supermodel, co-starred as the ringleader of a bank-robbing band of beauties in the 2004 movie Taxi. In her film debut, Gisele took on the role of Vanessa, a thief and master of disguise. Reviewers called it a breakout performance for this one time aspiring volleyball player. She recently took some time off from dating Tom Brady to meet with James Lipton and the members of the Actor’s Studio in New York. Here are excerpts from that interview.

James Lipton: “Tonight we’ll be exploring that most unlikely of thespian talents, the female supermodel. Gisele Caroline Nonnenmacher Bündchen is from Horizonte, Rio Grande do Sul, Brasil, one of five daughters born to Valdir and Vania Bundchen.

Gisele was discovered at the age of 14 when a modeling scout from Elite spied her eating a Big Mac and a large McFritas in a Sao Paulo McDonald’s. Naturally thin all her life, Gisele was frequently teased about her weight and she buried her sorrows by eating anything she wanted at any time.

Here we see another example of one of the common themes on this stage: childhood mockery. I know it touched my life. Cruel, unwashed children yelling at me as I walked home from dance class.

James Lipton: “Gisele, I understand you were also the subject of mockery when you were growing up.”

Gisele: “Yes I was so very thin the other children called me Somaliana, or one who comes from Somalia. It was terrible. But look at me now. Who is the mocker now?”

James Lipton: “In 2000, Gisele makes the first of many appearances in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. She floats onto the stage in the role of Angel with White Wings and Sparkly Bathing Suit Top. Later that year she graces the cover of the Victoria’s Secret “Christmas Dreams and Fantasies” catalog, donning two vintage doilies and a wreath. What some of you may not know is Gisele risked her career early on when she insisted on a “no-thong” rider in her contract with Victoria’s Secret.

Gisele works tirelessly to perfect her craft and her effort is rewarded when she receives the coveted Vogue ‘Model of the Year’ award in 2000 based on her perfect ratio of body to lip fat. In 2002, she appears in the critically acclaimed TV series ‘Fashiontrance’. Produced by the Style Network, Fashiontrance is billed as “fashion insider information and pithy quips popping up on-screen during great fashion shows set to hot music.” Hence the trance.

Gisele is a graduate of Brazil’s Escola Evangelica Frederico Jorge Logemann pre-school and the prestigious Dilson Stein Mannequin Course. She devotes most of her free time to “Tiny Shoes”, a non-profit dedicated to helping women with large feet camouflage their disability.

The Actor’s Studio is so very proud to welcome Gisele Bundchen.

After a five-minute review of Gisele’s film oeuvre, Lipton concluded the interview as always with the questionnaire by the formidable Bernard Pivot:

What is your favorite word?
Gisele

What is your least favorite word?
Bundchen

What turns you on?
Yahtzee

What turns you off?
Pregnant ex-girlfriends

What is the sound or noise that you love?
I don’t know the word in English but it is the sound you hear when you squeeze the bottle of suntan lotion.

What sound or noise do you hate?
EEEEEEEEKKKKK, like an angry seagull attacking me on the beach

What is your favorite curse word?
Puta

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Dog walker.

What profession would you not like to participate in?
Anything with fur.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Leo is here and he’s been waiting patiently.

The US Weekly Thesaurus

The staffers of US Weekly are all given copies of a modified Thesaurus on their first day. Some excerpts:

106 dating
Synonyms: canoodling, all smiles, only had eyes for, flirting, spotted cuddling, smooched, dined à deux, smitten, beau of six years

465a not dating
Synonyms: split, finished, ex-wife, dumped, romance came to a halt, ended their relationship, came to an impasse, Bridget Moynihan and Tom Brady, Jen and Brad

677 wear
Synonyms: donned, shopped in, stepped out in, paired, rocked in, looked chic in, toted (exclusively for use with handbags)

428 color
Synonyms: gunmetal-gray, vibrant green, crimson stain, peachy nude, Madagascar

170 exercise
Synonyms: Pilates, yoga, flab busters, Dancing with the Stars, Harley Pasternak devotee

66 source
Synonyms: fellow diner, the friend, mystery blond, his/her rep, an insider, pals in her inner circle, an onlooker

Roget's New Edition Thesaurus.
All rights reserved.

Doodie

My neighbor called me in a panic. "There is a gigantic shit in my Adirondack chair."

"What?"

" I just lifted up the kiddie pool and underneath was a gigantic shit. This is not cat poop. This is a really big poop. I mean what kind of animal could that be?"

"I don't know," I said. "Raccoon? Possum? Turkey?"

"No. There's no way. It has to be something bigger."

"Like what?" I said. "Do you think somebody took a dump on your Adirondack chair?"

We live in sort of a fringe neighborhood. The kind of place that will be super cool about a year after we sell. For now, it's the kind of place where bikes are stolen, where randoms drive through throwing cigarette butts or the occasional beer can. But could someone actually have taken a dump on my friend's Adirondack chair?

"Hold on. I'm going to call Gordon. Maybe he knows what it is. I'll call you right back," she said.

Duh duh duh .... duh duh duh .... duh duh duh....duh. Standard Blackberry ringtone that I can't figure out how to change.

"Hey. What did he say?"

"He said it was Cal." Cal is their youngest.

"What? What do you mean?"

"He said Cal came in the house on Sunday with poop smeared everywhere but he couldn't find the actual dump. It must've been in the chair.....He said he just missed it. He didn't see it."

I'm not sure what the point of this story is other than this. First, men are truly oblivious because even if you didn't see the poop, you probably should've smelled it baking in the sun in your Adirondack chair. Second, you win some you lose some in the potty training biz.

Close Encounter with Bagel Boy

This morning I decided Will should make his own breakfast. Rod, my husband and Will's dad, popped the bagel in the microwave while I wasn't looking. One less thing for Will to do.

I asked Will to take a knife out of the block and cut the bagel in half. "I thought I wasn't supposed to touch the knives," he said. "No you can use the knife," I said. "Finally you're going to treat me like a nine year-old," he said. "Yes I agree it's time."

Then I asked him to take the cream cheese out of the refrigerator. "I can't find it," he said. I foraged in the back of the fridge and found the cream cheese. "Here it is," I said. Still one less thing Will had to do.

He slowly smeared cream cheese across the bagel. Very nice work, I thought to myself. My husband walked out the door to put his backpack in the car, preparing to leave for work.

Will turned to me and said, "You know I'm only doing this because dad is here. Otherwise I would have to kick your butt." Kicking someone's butt is his latest threat now that he's taking karate. The whole nonviolence message hasn't really sunk in with him yet.

It's these special moments that really keep me grounded as a mom. Coming so close to karate blows with my nine year-old.