Fighting Finn

Life Goes On

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 16:29:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Sun, 24 May 2009 13:56:00 +0000

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

Nine Weeks

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 20 May 2009 17:22:00 +0000

I made an appointment with an OB/GYN for today. I'm not pregnant anymore. They're scheduling me for a D&C next week. Twins they think but he said there was something very wrong. I'm sorry to friends who will find out about this from my blog.

After we decided to ride out the pregnancy and see what was going to happen, we still didn't want Will to know anything about it. He would've been really excited about the prospect of a baby. So we kept it a secret from everyone.

Now Rod's brought me flowers. Think I might spend a few hours crying. I didn't want to have a baby but it feels so strange to accept what's happening and then it's over.

The Irish Goodnight

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Mon, 11 May 2009 20:59:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 06 May 2009 19:06:00 +0000

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.

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 06 May 2009 18:16:00 +0000

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.

Weeks

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Fri, 01 May 2009 12:02:00 +0000

I haven't measured my life in weeks for a very long time. How many weeks are you?

Last week I found out I was 5 weeks. Pregnant. At 45. I can't tell you the shock associated with hearing those words at my age. Obviously we were not doing fertility or taking other measures to make this happen. Complete fluke. I took the test and saw the faintest of second lines. Must be a mistake I thought. I called my doctor and told her about the test and she wanted me to come to her office immediately because I was also cramping.

I took a blood test there that confirmed the pregnancy and then she expedited an ultrasound for me so they could check for ectopic pregnancy or other irregularities.

I have said on more than one occasion that we made a huge mistake not having another child. The truth is we did have other pregnancies but no other children. And now, at 45, with a nearly eleven year-old son, now is not what I meant. I think this is the ultimate be careful what you wish for scenario.

We thought about it over the weekend and I googled all the horrors associated with pregnancy at my age. Let me tell you it is not good. According to one report the chances of my getting pregnant at 45 with my own eggs is less than 1% because all my other eggs are "abnormal". I have an over 50% chance of miscarriage and a 1 in 12 chance of birth defect.

After thinking and crying my husband and I made a difficult decision to end the pregnancy. So I called my doctor to tell her that's what I'd decided and she didn't even have the balls to call me back. She had her 20 year-old nurse call me to tell me she didn't think the doctor "would agree with that". Call Planned Parenthood or my OB/GYN - that I don't really have because I haven't been pregnant in 12 years. I have one doctor who saw me in the ER during my last miscarriage. So I called the offices of that doctor, clearly distraught, and the receptionist tells me, "They'd have nothing to do with that."

So here it is, the real deal. While abortion is legal, they're going to make it as tough on you as you can possibly imagine. I called Summit Women's Health, a Planned Parenthood like organization. The receptionist was very kind and we made an appointment. Because I was only 5 weeks, I was eligible to take a pill versus surgical option which I really didn't want to do. I am pro-choice by the way but it's a choice I never thought I'd have to make.

The receptionist at Summit told me to be prepared for the protestors outside and just to ignore them. I hung up the phone and immediately started crying again. Not only was I doing this thing, I'd have to deal with fanatics waving pictures of dead fetuses in my face and screaming baby killer.

I don't know. I guess I am a baby killer. I don't feel like a baby killer. I feel like someone who's got to make a terrible choice.

The same week I turned up pregnant, my husband collapsed on the floor of his office. I heard a loud bang and went running in and there he was on the floor, staring out eyes, open and breathing irregularly. He was out for a minute while I was frantically trying to a) turn on my cell phone and b) dial 911. I dialled an extra 1 and in the time it took me to try to end that call, he woke. He asked me why I was crying. "I thought you were dying," I kept repeating. As it turns out, I might have been a bit hysterical because of the hormones.

I ultimately cancelled my appointment at Summit. The radiologist who did the ultrasound told me about a new test they can do called CVS. She said they can do it before 12 weeks, "before I start to show." That's code for in case the test for abnormalities turns out positive, they can terminate the pregnancy. In all likelihood that's what will happen and I will end up getting that abortion only in a way that makes doctors more comfortable.

I have another week to do the pill option and I may go through with it. Part of me is horrified of ending up on the evening news, my son seeing it and all his friends seeing it. Part of me is fucking pissed off. What I learned last week is we can choose but the choices are tough. I guess that's fair but it seems like such a circus for something that is so private and sad.

Things I Found at My Mother's House

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:27:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 05:38:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 22:04:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 15:31:00 +0000

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!

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 17:50:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 21:32:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 12:12:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 10:53:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 18:24:00 +0000

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."

Looking Good Out There

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 12:32:00 +0000

My new profile picture is actually about 2 years old. My brother took the picture when we were out in Montana visiting my dad's place in Whitefish. We were on Whitefish Lake learning to wakeboard. I got up for about 2 seconds and that was it. My brother Clay rode around for quite a bit and my sister-in-law did well too.

It was a funny day. We thought we were taking a water skiing lesson but our instructors told us no one water skis anymore. Everybody wakeboards now. The water was freezing as it always is there. So every time I fell, I got smacked by water as cold as ice. It felt like I was hitting pavement.

One of our instructors was this guy named Link. He was much older than the kid driving the boat. He was in good shape, probably in his 40's like me. He was a small guy and he had what is probably the worst hair piece or weave or whatever it was that I've ever seen. I was thinking this guy has some nerves wearing that thing into the water. We nicknamed his hair the badger.

He was in the water trying to help me and my sister-in-law stand up on the board. You have to just stand up straight when the boat starts to move so it's an awkward feeling. On my first try I got up for a brief shining moment. And subsequently fell, fell, fell until I hit my forearms so hard on the water I thought I was going to cry.

At that point I gave up. I really should've kept going until I too could ride around the lake on my board. But I was embarrassed and I felt badly that they had to keep circling back to pick me up. Now I look back fondly on getting to meet Link who in spite of his badger hairpiece was a real sweetheart of a guy. He wanted me to succeed more than I did.

I like this picture for a couple of reasons. One, my legs and my arms both look pretty good. You can't even see the back of my arms waving behind me in the wind.

I also like this picture because it's a reminder to me to keep trying new things. It wasn't pretty and I really only saw what it could be like for about 2 seconds. But I tried and that's what counts.

Trapped with a Ten Year-Old

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 21:44:00 +0000

Yesterday we had a conference with our son's teacher. This is the second. The first was not that great. We're used to Will being good to great at pretty much everything so it was a shock to learn his teacher thought he was basically coasting. This is a specialty of mine so I can relate.

This conference went much better and I almost started crying at one point. I was so glad to hear his teacher say she thinks he's ready for the big leap to middle school.

Before the meeting began, we were in the hallway waiting. The three of us - me, my husband and son. My husband was glued to his iPhone and I was OCD-ishly checking my blackberry for new email. My son started in again about how he wants a phone. At ten, I just don't see that happening.

I said, " I was thirty before I got a phone." Oh sure I had that old Princess phone back in the day but that was tethered to a wall and closely monitored by my parents and brother. I neglected to mention cell phones weighed about 15 pounds until I was 30 but hey, I'm allowed to edit.

My husband was sitting about 10 feet away, again engrossed in iPhone. My son was harping, going on and on. Finally I said, "Dad said you can't have a phone and I agree with him."

My son whispered to me, "Daddy can't help you from over there."

What's a Renal Carbuckle?

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 15:29:00 +0000

Further Adventures in Motherhood: Taking Will to the Doctor with Me

I whacked my toe on a flashlight that I keep near my bed. This happened about two weeks ago but my toe is still bothering me. At first it turned black and blue. Now it's red and kind of swollen. This is particularly bothersome to me because I have pretty nice feet. So the thought of amputation or other foot scarring is upsetting.

I made a doctor's appointment for the following day and then quickly changed my mind thinking I'll take my son with me this afternoon . It will take five minutes for the doctor to say there's nothing he can do and then we'll leave. Why put off until tomorrow what can be diagnosed today?

When we got there, Will asked if he could come in with me. Thought twice about it, but how bad could it be? When we finally got in the exam room, Will started playing with the various plastic models they have of asthmatic airways and clogged arteries. Then he started studying this chart with kidneys and a bunch of lines leading here and there. That's when he asked me, " What's a renal carbuckle?" I'm pretty sure that's not the spelling but that's the gist of it.

A renal carbuncle (correct spelling) is a medical term for a kidney abscess. I'm not going into the rest of it because it involves the word pus and that word makes me faint.

The running commentary ensued. "You know Leprechauns drink a lot of beer." (It was St. Patrick's Day) "What's that glass they drink out of? Shots?"

"It's called a pint," I said. Then he says, "Are my eyes completely white?" He has this thing about rolling his eyes all the way back in his head until only the whites are showing. At this point, I started cracking up. Then he started laughing and we were both laughing until the doctor came in the room.

He asked us to switch seats so that I was on the chair beside him and Will got up on the exam table. Will started swinging his legs, swish, swish went the paper. Swish, swish, crackle.

The doctor asked him to settle down. Said he couldn't hear what I was saying. I asked Will if he'd like to wait outside. The doctor answered for him. "He doesn't have to go. I'd just like him to be quiet."

I don't like when doctors interfere like that. I've had that happen several times actually and it's annoying. You're the doctor not the parent. You do your job and I'll do mine. Of course I just sat there quietly, knowing Will wasn't about to stop fidgeting.

Finally the big reveal from the doctor, there's nothing he can do. He said something like, "The infection idea was a good thought. Well not really because I don't think you have an infection but.."

Then the doctor asks if I've ever heard of buddy taping? Yeah my dad used to make me run plays with him and my younger brother. I know about buddy taping and stick'em and ice packs and having a nice big shiner on my first day of eighth grade from getting hit with a baseball.

I didn't know about renal carbuncles but I'm thrilled to add them to my repertoire.

With Friends Like These

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 15:34:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 08:44:00 +0000

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.

Nag in the House

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 12:05:00 +0000

My husband started a new job in January. It's a good job and we're lucky, that's what I keep telling myself. But the hours are a pain in the ass. He works in the City from 10 until 7. You add the additional 4 hours of commute time everyday and that's a long day.

Sorry brief interruption. My son just asked me what is sperm? He's 10. Then he asked me, "What time is it?" That's the fourth time he's asked me what time it is since 8:03. It's 8:10 now.

What's been most difficult about this new job is I'm the only one here most of the time to answer questions like, "What is sperm?" What's a booty call? I got that one last week. What's foreplay? I got that after we went to see Pink Panther 2.

The ironic thing is I'm the last person who should be answering questions about sex from anyone. I didn't have sex until I was in college and that was with my 8th grade boyfriend. It took me 5 years to warm up to the idea and to him.

I'm the only one here with my son. I don't know how single parents do it. It's the monotony of hearing your own voice over and over again. I can't imagine being the recipient of that voice. Like nails on a chalkboard I'm guessing.

Brush your teeth. Put your shoes on. Where's your backpack? You need a coat. What's going on with your hair? Practice guitar. Hurry up. Slow down. Stop watching wrestling. Turn off the computer. Are you reading? On and on until he finally goes to sleep.

It's always nag, nag, nag. And let me tell you nagging makes you feel like a nag. You start to shrink. You don't brush your hair. Your clothes are mismatched. Who has time for these things when there's so much nagging to be done?

We had a schedule that was working out great for me. Now that my husband has this new job, we're totally off schedule and back to nagging. This weekend I'm making a new schedule, something that takes me and my nagging out of the equation.

It's amazing how I'll make something simple like changing a document this huge thing even though not changing it, is causing me and my son so much grief. Yes I'll have to boot up my husband's Mac, and email the file, change the file, save and print.

Is that really such a big deal in exchange for having my freedom back in the morning? No it is not. The nag has left the building.

You Know You Work from Home When

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 15:37:00 +0000

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.

Cooking Up a Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 23:09:00 +0000

I had an idea for another blog today. This is what happens when you limit red wine, ideas flow. At any rate, I had this great idea for a blog about music but I have to write it while cooking dinner.

Typically when I multitask while cooking, it ends badly. So far into this blog, I've burned my hand on grease (rather seriously I believe) and then I turned off the wrong burner. I am now typing with an ice pack. this is what my vtypy ing woulsd realyy look like.

Using left hand and right middle finger, I shall proceed. My idea was about oldies music and that eventually my music will be oldies music. It is to some degree already, but it's not quite like doo wop and a 57 Chevy. Soon my music will become doo wop and then I don't know what will become of me. Will I sing too loudly to the wrong lyrics like my dad? Will hip young groups be sampling my music? Gwen Stefani sampled Rich Girl but it was the Tevya version, not Hall & Oates.

On my Facebook thread we were discussing bad white man dancing to It Never Rains in Southern California which made me think of other gay songs from the late 70's like You Don't Bring Me Flowers and Escape aka The Pina Colada Song aka super gay. But I loved those songs. Hell even KISS was getting in on that morose action with Beth. But the one song I came up with that I don't think will ever be sampled is The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I loved that song.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee

They don't write'em like that anymore. I mean who else could rhyme Gitche Gumee? I looked it up and Gordon Lightfoot hit the #2 spot on the Billboard countdown in November of 1976 with Edmund Fitzgerald. Some entrepreneurial young rapper could've sampled that song and written the theme to The Perfect Storm.

Will Sweet Home Alabama become the next New York, New York? Will Summer Breeze become the next Summer Wind? Could some poor sap show up at the Carlyle boasting the musical stylings of Todd Rundgren?

Only in Moderation

noreply@blogger.com (Beck) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 16:24:00 +0000

My friend Christina told me I need to update my blog. Since she is one of 4.5 followers I have, I shall gladly comply.

What to write, what to write. I'm still on my Facebook thread. We're balancing bad joke telling with mocking distant family members. Also our friend from Costa Rica sent some pics from a local surfing competition and once again I'm wondering why I live here in Connecticut.

I had coffee last week with my friend Steven and we were talking about misperceptions surrounding women and technology, namely that we don't get it when in fact, women are on the web, women make most of the household purchasing decisions and women are speaking out about everything from annoying commercials to products we love. Women have had strong opinions all along - now we have a big ass megaphone for airing them.

This morning I've been researching women bloggers. I saw a segment on the Today Show at the gym about Digital Moms. I looked up some of their experts from Heather Armstrong who writes Dooce to Cafe Mom and Blogher. It's so funny to me that I've been plugging away thinking I was the worst mom of all time but well hidden here in the burbs. Then I read Dooce and Baby on Bored and truemomconfessions and am just so grateful there are others like me out there.

My hero for the day is Romi Lassally who actually wrote on Huffpoo about becoming the oldest intern of all time at 43 to get back in the workforce. It's the exact same thing I've been thinking--how to pull out of self-employed world and back into some level of social interaction. She also told a story about one of her kids throwing up in the middle of the night and she left it for the dog to eat. Yes! That's what I'm talking about.

I've said this before and I'll say it again. Never trust a perfect mother because it's just not possible. Somewhere there is a chink in the armor. As my friend Kristen says, "I love the chinks." This was right after she invited me to a Pilates class that will "work your ass off" while holding her 4 year-old. Hey I taught my son his first curse word. "Goddammit," I said when I guy cut me off and in almost a whisper from his car seat behind me I heard Will repeat, "Goddammit."

Or as Mrs. Mulderrig said about her pregnancies, all nine of them, "I always had two scotches a night. That was it." Hey at least she quit smoking.

http://dooce.com/
http://babyonbored.blogspot.com/
http://www.truuconfessions.com/channels/Mom