Sometimes Being Right Stinks

12/30/2009

Reblog

Most people would say that it’s nice to be right.  And it is!  Arriving at that  “I knew it!” moment can be very satisfying indeed.  However, there are times, even when you’re right, that it’s not the answer you want to hear.   There are times that you’d give anything to be wrong.  Times when the truth hurts more than a little.  I had no less than 3 of those ‘right but wrong’ answers recently.  Three times to wish I had been wrong.

For the past few years, I knew there was something wrong with O, in spite of the pediatrician telling me otherwise.  I just knew it!  But when the diagnosis finally came in, I was still a little surprised.  Guess I’d been wishing I were wrong.  It didn’t feel good being right.  But, right or wrong, knowing is better.  Now we are no longer waiting for something to happen - we are making things happen.  It’s a much better position to be in.  But still, a small part of me wishes I had been wrong.

I knew almost immediately after my surgery that my hearing was not going to improve.  I wasn’t being pessimistic.  I could just tell that things were not good.   But at every checkup, the doctor would tell me that my ear would continue to heal for a year or two.  He kept telling me to wait - that time would tell.  But I knew that the only thing time was going to tell me was that I couldn’t hear.  As other parts of my ear healed and improved, my hearing didn’t change.  My ear just wasn’t working.  Finally, at this last appointment, the doctor fessed up.  He said there was too much damage to the ear before and during the surgery.  My hearing forever will be what it is now, which is dim at best.  I’ve known this all along, but it still stung.  ‘Shoot!’ I thought, ‘this stinks!’  I guess once again, I had been holding out hope that I would be wrong.

And the third time I was right - but so wishing I were wrong - concerns this blog.  A couple of months ago, there was a shake up at the home office and my boss, the woman who hired me, got reorganized.  ‘This doesn’t bode well for me‘, I thought.  But it was the holidays and it was easy to put thinking about this on the back burner and slip into denial.  Since I hadn’t yet received any directive from corporate, I just kept plugging along, keeping my fingers crossed.  But I knew.  I just knew that it was coming.   I made the mature decision to not say the words out loud.   I figured if I told others that I had lost my job, it would become a major topic of our conversation.  And if we were spending so much time talking about it, it would have to be true.  Solid reasoning, right?  So, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t tell anyone.  But shocker of shockers, in spite of my silence, it proved to be true anyway.  No budget for bloggers in 2010.  Huge sigh.  I really wish I had been wrong on this one. 

So, arrivederci my friends.  Thanks for stopping by every week for our chats.  I’ve really enjoyed them.   Let’s keep in touch.  Happy New Year to all!

The Gifts of Christmas

12/22/2009

Reblog

This is my favorite time of year.  My three favorite days every year are Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the day after Christmas.  I try not to focus on the ever-increasing commercialism of the season, but rather on how much I love seeing houses decorated with lights both inside and out.  I love a fresh blanket of snow covering the wreaths, trees and bushes.  I love the smell of the Christmas tree when we come in from the cold, laden down with packages and hoping for some hot chocolate.  I love hearing those neighbor helping neighbor stories that the papers and newscasts are full of.  I love the cooking and the baking and the shopping and the wrapping.  And, I have to admit, I love getting presents.  That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it?

Growing up as the only girl in a house full of brothers, my pile of Christmas gifts was always very tall.  While Santa filled the boys’ stockings with practical items like socks and jocks, mine often held more fun things like jewelry, perfume or one year, a camera.  Those are practical, right?  I always thought so.  Santa always knew just what to bring, whether I had made a list or not.  

I may be a slow learner, but I have finally caught on to the fact that the best way to get something you want is to ask for it.  Genius, right?  So I have moved beyond the early days of our marriage when I felt that Wes should instinctively know what it is that I would like beneath the tree on Christmas Day and started giving him a list.  He likes the list.  Can you blame him?   I didn’t like the list at first.  It was too practical and took away all of the suspense.  With two children of our own to shop for, it felt wrong to put down whimsical things that I wanted, like a Hawaiian vacation, so I often filled the list with practical things that I needed like a new pair of gloves when I had lost mine, or on this year’s list, a new kitchen broom.  (Santa, I’ve been VERY good!)  But as I made my list this year, I figured out a way to bring a little bit of the mystery back into Christmas.  One of the items on the list is “something not on this list”.  Genius again, right?  So, since three heads are better than one, Wes consulted the kids as to what would fulfill that non-specific something on my list and it appears that MJ has taken over the cause.  She is literally chomping at the bit to tell me what my surprise gift is.  She keeps telling me that I’m going to love it.  That it’s something I really need.  That SHE would really love it if it were her gift, etc.  It has definitely brought the excitement back.  Or so I thought.  When I mentioned to Wes recently how excited she is by this gift, he got a truly pained expression on his face.  One that I haven’t seen too often.  What could that mean?  When I asked him whether he agreed with the choice, all he could say was that both MJ and O think it’s a great idea.  Interesting.  He doesn’t seem to be on the same page, although he did admit that it’s something I could use.  Is it something he thinks I’ll hate?  Is it something too practical to fulfill the mystery gift spot?  (Could it be more practical than a kitchen broom?!)  I just don’t know, but the look on his face - while I can’t read it exactly - is very telling. 

Now, I could use a lot of things that I didn’t put on the list.  Electrolysis, liposuction, a hat to cover my gray hair.  I doubt it’s any of those things.  For sure I could use some sort of memory pill that would allow me to remember what it is I was looking for when I entered the room.  But I don’t think that’s it, either.  Like most working parents, I could certainly use that Hawaiian vacation.  But, there’s no point entertaining that thought even for a minute.  I’ve seen Santa’s bank book.  But what could it be that would cause such a curious reaction from Wes?  I cannot wait to find out!!

Even without knowing what the gift is, I’d have to say that it’s exactly perfect.  Whether it’s practical or whimsical or one of those gifts that make you think “you saw this and thought of me?“, it has brought back that Christmas excitement that I always felt as a young girl.  That magical feeling of wonder and anticipation that goes unmatched throughout the rest of the year.  It is the best feeling I know.  It  truly is what Christmas is all about. 

Get Real, Ladies! It's Time to Grow Up!

12/15/2009

Reblog

I grew up with only brothers. There were no sisters at our address.  It was my mother (who is also sister-less) and I in a house of 5 men - 6 if you were to count the dog.  I never had a problem with this.  I’ve never once felt cheated by not having had a sister.  I have a wonderful relationship with my brothers and have always had a few very close girlfriends with whom I share my thoughts, wishes and unending laughter.  I have had many women tell me throughout my life how sorry they feel for me because I was never able to share that special bond with a sister that must come from raiding each other’s closet and stealing each other’s boyfriends, but I never welcomed or understood their pity.  I often found girls to be silly and moody and rather one-dimensional - usually focused on how much they loved someone, or how much they hated someone - oftentimes the same person being lobbied back and forth between these two extreme emotions seemingly hourly.  Even as a young girl, I never understood the lightening speed with which one friend could be kicked down into the gutter one day and vaulted to deity status the next.  I don’t remember this situation occurring with any of my brothers and their friends.  Their friends were their friends every day of the week and if there was a disagreement, it didn’t take over their entire lives.  They just dealt with it - or forgot it - and moved on.  As if that would ever happen in the Girls’ Room.

But thankfully, silly girls grow up to be women, many of them smart, secure and much less interested in being or hanging with the most popular girl in school.  Hallelujah!  It’s taken 30 years, but we have finally evolved beyond our junior high mentality!  Or so I thought. 

There is a woman that lives in my town.  I don’t know her at all, beyond her name and where she lives.   I’ve met her socially on a couple of occasions.   She seems completely unremarkable to me.  But boy oh boy, I must be wrong.  She clearly possesses some sort of power that transports those around her back to those wonderfully catty days of junior high and high school.  Can you say “meow“?   Last year I was at an event with a group of friends from town, none of whom I knew very well.  I’d say there were 8-10 of us - a big and varied enough group to get some good conversations going.  Things were quite enjoyable until this woman’s name came up.  For the next hour, while I sat silent and stunned (and rather disgusted), the women I was with huddled around the table, whispering like a bunch of middle schoolers discussing Friday night’s dance, each one trying to outdo the others with their stories of “listen to what she did to me” or “here’s what her neighbor told me”.   Wow.  Really Ladies?  This is the best topic of conversation we can come up with?  I thought we outgrew these ridiculous behaviors with our braces and mood rings.  But I was wrong again.  These women went on and on, oblivious to the other adults in the room who were having a grand time acting their age.   Once everyone had had their chance to vent about this woman,  I was finally able to change the subject and move on.  We left our table and were mingling with some other friends when the woman appeared on the scene.  Oh my god - they went crazy.  I wouldn’t be exaggerating one bit in saying that I thought someone really, really famous had just arrived.  The same group of women who minutes before were ripping her apart, now were running - literally running - over to this woman and throwing their arms around her with the “it’s so great to see you!”, “you look fantastic!“ , and “can we please get together soon?  I miss you!” fawning that even a toddler could identify as totally fake.  I was stunned, and very disappointed.  I thought this behavior was unnecessary and immature when we were younger.  In middle age, it’s moved way beyond immature to just plain sad and incomprehensible. 

Fast forward 365 days and here I am attending this same function, though with a different mix of friends.  I had forgotten about the woman from last year, at least until she arrived on the scene.  And then, it was Groundhog Day.  A complete reenactment of the previous year’s experience - though in reverse.  This year it was the hugging and groveling that came first, followed by the nasty tear down once she left our group.  Really Ladies, why does it have to be this way?  If you like her, like her and make no apologies for it.  If you don’t like her, why are you interested in gaining her acceptance?  Why is it necessary to greet her as if she’s your long-lost twin that was separated at birth?  Groveling is so unattractive. It really is.

Hey, maybe this woman is really something special and worthy of this sycophantic admiration.  I don’t know - though I doubt it.  She has to know of, if not orchestrate, the drama that surrounds her.  She has to know that not all of the women are genuine in their admiration.  Is she able to tell who is sincere and who is not?  Does she even care?   I don’t know.  I do know that I expected to leave this mentality behind when we became adults.  So grow up, Ladies.  Middle School was like, so yesterday.  

'Tis the Season!

12/08/2009

Reblog

Santa’s not bringing any toys to our house this year.  At least not any toys that can be found in the Toys ‘R Us holiday catalog. We’ve gotten a little old for that here. There’ll be no games or plastic work benches.  No million pieces of Legos.  No Zhu Zhu pets or Tickle Me Elmos.  No dolls whose wardrobes are more expansive - and expensive - than mine.  No kid stuff.  Which means - best of all - nothing that will have to be put together once the kids have visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.  Hallelujah!  This is going to be a great Christmas Eve!  Let’s spike the eggnog - this year, there is no assembly required.

As parents with young children know, Christmas Eve can be one l-o-n-g day.  Exciting, to be sure, but definitely long.  I’m certain my husband is not going to miss those late hours down in the cellar, putting together bicycles, kitchens, doll carriages and foosball tables.  While he’d be downstairs, muttering a year’s worth of profanities (Christmas is the only time he swears!), I’d be upstairs trying to bribe or drug the children into going to sleep so that “Santa can come“.  As I patted their backs, resisting the urge to lay down with them, I’d try to remember where I had hidden each gift.  Faced with the impossibility of each of our tasks, Wes and I both knew that we were never going to get enough sleep to be able to coherently function the next day but we just hoped we‘d be able to last through Christmas dinner.   Ah yes, those were the days.  In spite of the blinding exhaustion, those were good times.  Great times.  There are few things more precious than creating memories with your children - passing on old traditions and making new ones.  It’s the stuff that dreams are made of.  And as cute as the pitter patter of little feet in footy pj’s are - and they are! - I’m quite happy knowing that I won’t be hearing any of them running down the stairs at 4:00 on Christmas morning.  We’ll be sleeping in, like civilized folk. 

Gone too will be the quest to produce an award-winning and festive photo to include with our Christmas cards.  In past years, this endeavor could really set the tone of the entire holiday season.  Before the days of digital cameras we’d have to take roll after roll of photos, hoping that when the pictures were developed, just one of them would capture both children looking at the camera at the same time, not to mention smiling - or at least not crying.  The impossibility of this task required that we start long before the holiday season so that there would be ample time to take the best picture ever and then have it mass produced so that it could be sent to millions of people the world over.  The cost of all of the film and processing and matching outfits and props could break the Christmas budget.  This year, in spite of the digital camera, I’m pretty certain that I couldn’t get the kids to stand close enough together to capture them both in the same shot.  I know for certain they’d never be simultaneously smiling.  If one is happy, the other must be angry.  And they no longer own matching red turtlenecks.  So, family and friends far and wide will be deprived of seeing my kids wearing a Santa hat while posed before a roaring fire.  I think I can live with that. 

Now that the Santa Myth has been busted, gift buying is an entirely new thing.  When they were younger and the thrill of Santa and Christmas was directly related to the volume of gifts and the physical act of tearing them open, I was able to buy things that they needed - like socks and pajamas - and not be branded the worst mom ever.  While everyone still dreams of piles of gifts, the focus now is more on what’s inside the box rather than on the joy of ripping it open - quality vs. quantity, finally.  I like knowing that the things they have asked for are things that they really want and not just the latest, coolest, new hot-item toy that advertisers have repeatedly told them they really want.  It makes gift-giving a bit more meaningful, though shopping for it all can sometimes dampen the Christmas spirit.

Like many families, our Christmas budget is a tiny bit leaner this year, so I’ve been really focusing on listening to the kids to see what it is that really excites them, hoping I can turn that excitement into a killer gift.  I want them to know that we “get it”, that we’re paying attention.  My months of keen observation have made it clear that there are two things they really want this year - hand sanitizer and cash.  Those are the two things that capture their attention no matter what.  I can certainly understand their love of cash - what’s not to love?  But their fascination with hand sanitizer is one that has baffled me since the day it hit store shelves.  Neither one can walk by a dispenser without taking a squirt.  But what the heck, it’s Christmas.  Who am I to judge? 

So, I’ll be able to finish my shopping early this year.  A trip to CVS and a stop at the ATM will get the job done.  Sweet!  That will give us plenty of time to relax in front of the fireplace.  Now that would make a great photo.

Priceless Pets

12/01/2009

Reblog

Our friend around the corner just brought home a seven-week old fuzz-ball of a puppy.  Do I even need to say how ridiculously adorable this pup is?  When we pulled in to their driveway the other morning before school and saw Daisy out for her morning training, MJ and I literally sprang from the car to rush over and meet her.   I have to be honest and say that we were both cooing and squealing and “Oh my gosh”ing like a couple of school girls - which is fine for MJ, as she is a school girl -but I was making a complete fool of myself.  (I was behaving in exactly the way I promise myself I‘ll never behave if I ever meet George Clooney - though I’m certain it’s exactly the way I will behave!) (Let me apologize now, George, in case that day ever comes.)  And then we spent that night going on and on to Wes and O about Daisy’s extreme preciousness. Everyone can relate to this.  I mean, who doesn’t love a puppy?  (Or George Clooney?)

All puppies, cute or otherwise, grow up and become dogs.  Dogs are great and they make great pets.  Many people consider their pets to be members of the family.  I’d say that statement applies to our house.  I certainly consider both of our pets - we have a dog as well as a parrot - to be a part of the family.  We love them both like crazy. They certainly require as much time and effort as other members of the family.  They travel with us back and forth to New Hampshire and Vermont or anywhere else that the wind may take us.  And when we can’t take them where we’re going, I admit that I worry about them wherever they are - and about those that are caring for them - and I miss them.  Sounds like a family member to me.  But now that our dog is having some health issues - which translate into financial issues - I find that I’ve been thinking of her more as a pet than as a cherished member of the family.  It’s making me feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!  By day, I’m totally against spending the money that the vet says is required for her treatment (which includes an x-ray and overnight stay at the hospital).  And then I go to bed at night and close my eyes and think what a horrible person I am that I could even consider not having her treated.  “Just do it“, I tell myself as I go to sleep.  But a new day dawns, and I’m back to looking at the bottom line. 

When we were growing up, our family sat around the kitchen table and talked about everything.  We just liked to shoot the breeze.  We’d discuss anything - something we read in the paper, what was happening at school or with our friends, and as we got older, whatever life decisions we were going through at the time.   My father’s role during these discussions was always the pragmatic one.  He would listen to our side and then say, “Allow me to play the devil’s advocate here” and then would go on to present the opposite side of the argument - which was pretty much always the one we didn’t want to hear.  But like it or not, that side often has many valid points to consider.  Now I’m the one playing the devil’s advocate, and I feel like the devil is winning, and I don’t know that he should be.

There are many aspects to consider in this decision, many of them financial.  Let me start with the obvious - it’s Christmas.  That one alone should be enough.  But there’s more.  My boss - who is the person who hired me - recently got ‘reorganized‘.  Am I far behind?  Will I have a job come January 1st?  I can’t say for sure.  Like a lot of companies, Wes’ job forced 10 furlough days on them by the end of the year.  That’s a chunk out of a paycheck.  Will that be it or will further cuts and/or layoffs be coming down the road?  It’s anybody’s guess.   We’ve been down the layoff road before and I know it’s not a place I want to be.  I also know for sure that our bank account is finite and that there are way too many unknowns in the near future.  I feel like this is too large an expense to just say yes to.  And have you seen the cost of veterinary care these days?  The fees are out of this world and not to be taken lightly.  I feel as though I’m going to have regrets with whichever decision we make and that’s making it all the harder to make it. 

I love my dog and can certainly more easily imagine deciding to spend the money than not, but I can’t envision doing so with a clear conscience.  While it doesn’t feel like a frivolous expense, it surely doesn’t feel like it should get an automatic stamp of approval.  If emotions were the only things to consider, I’d be packing the dog a bag for her hospital stay and writing a big fat check.  But the devil’s advocate, which I guess can also be called maturity, insists that we look beyond our emotions and consider all the facts, even the ones that point in the opposite direction of what we want.   I’m hoping that we’ll decide to go forward with the treatment, though I’d like to explore options that may minimize some of the cost.  It would probably send a bad message to our kids that if they ever get sick, there’s no guarantee that we’ll be willing to foot the bill.  Or, it may serve as an incentive for them to eat their vegetables and get plenty of exercise.  Either way, I’m  not sure we’re ready to say goodbye to the dog yet.  I guess this is what we signed up for when we brought her home from the shelter, to stand by her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health.  In spite of what the devil’s advocate keeps telling me, I guess there are more important things in life than the bottom line.

A Cup Full of Memories

11/24/2009

Reblog

This time of year, with the holidays hurtling toward us at break neck speed, always makes me a bit reflective and very nostalgic.  It’s a time to think back to all of the things we are thankful for and to reflect on the year that is almost at its end.  Memories can be funny.  Sometimes they are vague and rather general - like ‘the summer I learned how to swim’ or ‘that was the year we moved to the new house’.  But sometimes they can be more like a time machine that transports us back to a day or an event from long ago and puts us right back in the thick of things.

My first Mother’s Day as a Mom obviously holds very special memories for me, which is pretty remarkable considering that O was still very new - only a few weeks old - so I’m surprised I have any memory of it at all.  The entire first six months of his life seem like one big blur, with each feeding and diaper change indistinguishable from the next.  Two years later, when MJ was born, is a similar blur of memories chock full of fatigue and cute pink onesies.  But my bank of memories also holds another Mother’s Day, one from much longer ago, that I had all but forgotten until this Spring, when the Stanley Cup came to my town.

If you grew up in the Boston area in the 1960s and ‘70s, you know, of course, which Mother’s Day I am referring to.  May 10, 1970 is as fresh in my memory as if it happened yesterday.  It was a brilliantly sunny  day - or maybe that was just the wattage being generated by my brother John as we sat down to watch the Stanley Cup finals.  Being the superstitious and rabid Boston sports fan that he was (and continues to be today), he dictated many aspects of our sports viewing.  If the Bruins were doing well during a game, no one in the room was allowed to change seats or leave the room.  If you had been present during a previous game that the Bruins had won, you had to wear the same shirt and sit in the same place in the room as you did during that winning game.  Conversely, if the opposing team were doing well and closing the gap on the score, we would be moved around (or even banished from!) the living room like pieces in a weird game of feng shui chess, hoping to give the team some good luck.  At the end of regulation, the game was tied, forcing sudden death overtime.  No one was allowed to speak.  We held our breath in our assigned seats as they dropped the puck and the overtime period began.  And 40 seconds later, history was made.  Bobby Orr had just scored the winning goal and was literally flying through the air as we all erupted in screams and jumping around the living room.  You knew this was a momentous event as we were never allowed to jump around the living room.  We didn’t live in a gymnasium, after all.   But our emotions got the best of us and we were wild!  The Stanley Cup was coming back to Boston after 29 long, long years.  My brother, literally unable to contain his elation, ran out front to join neighborhood friends who had also taken to the streets to celebrate.  Yes, that was a great Mother’s Day.

Though we never missed a game while growing up, there are no hockey fans in my house today and I miss it.  I’m ashamed to say that I’m not even sure I could name 2 or 3 Bruins right now.  Maybe because of that fateful Mother’s Day, when I think of the Bruins, I think of the team that brought the Cup back home  - Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, Johnny Bucyk, Wayne Cashman, Ken Hodge, Derek Sanderson, Gerry Cheevers.  A great team, and great memories.  Not surprisingly, it was my brother John who told me that the Stanley Cup would be in my town this Spring, although not due to the Bruins.  The Pittsburgh Penguins won the Cup this year, against long odds.  John knew that one of the coaches of the Penguins lives in my town and told me that every member of the winning team gets to spend a day with the Cup.  I figured having the Cup in the same town was as close as I was ever going to get to it.  A few weeks later, the front page of our local paper announced that the Cup was indeed coming to town and that the public were invited to come view it.  It’s no lie to say that I was giddy with excitement.  There was no way I was going to miss this!!  The Cup was being shown at a park very near my house so in spite of the darkening clouds and the forecast of rain, MJ and I headed down, camera in hand.  I was very uncertain as to what the turnout would be but was not surprised at all to see that the line was long.  We took our place and kept our fingers crossed that the rain would hold off.  A gentleman approached us and told us that he couldn’t guarantee that we would be able to see the Cup up close, as it absolutely had to be out of there by 3:00.  “The Cup has another engagement” was what he kept telling people who were joining the line behind us, leaving it up to them to decide if they were going to stay or leave.  We were definitely staying.  The closer we got, the more excited I became.   

As we got to the front of the line and could see other people posing with the Cup, it was obvious that every person felt honored to be there.  The Cup seems almost human, drawing you towards it.  Everyone touched it.  Many people kissed it.  No one left without having taken numerous photos, including us.  It’s bigger in person than I had imagined and it’s just beautiful.  The Cup’s handler, as well as the coach and his family, were all extremely gracious and very generous with the Cup, giving fans - even lapsed fans like me - a memory of a lifetime.

Today's Agenda? You Tell Me.

11/17/2009

Reblog

Is there a more humbling job than parenthood?  If there is, I don’t want to know about it.  I’ve never felt so “all thumbs” at any other job that I’ve held.  If I were as clueless in my career as I can be raising my kids, I’d have been fired long ago.  I can’t imagine that I’m the only parent that feels this way, but I’m finding parenting to be remarkably more difficult as my kids get older.  Making the simplest of changes throws me for a loop.  What happened to my maternal instinct?  It seems like it went out the door with nice skin and the ability to stay awake past 9 PM.  How can this be so hard? 

I enjoy wearing the many hats of parenthood - caregiver, provider, cook, teacher, disciplinarian, boss, friend.  The list is long and varied.  But there is one hat that I am so tired of wearing - and it’s a hat that has never fit me well.  I’m speaking, of course, of the dreaded  ‘cruise director‘.  What do I need to do to have this task removed from my job description?  I’m not even very good at it!  A day off or a long weekend leaves me in a cold sweat.  Let’s not even talk about the numerous school-year vacations or the 8+ long weeks of summer.  Actually, I’m not even looking to wipe this task off of my slate completely; all I’m really looking for is a little input, a little active participation.  I don’t feel for a minute that with a teenager and an almost teenager, that this should still all be on my head..  I think I’ve done my part and in the entertainment department and would like to pass this responsibility on to them.  They have opinions on most everything else that goes on.  Now is the time for them to take part in this aspect of our family life.  As things stand now, I’m the one ponying up for all of the gas, doing all the driving and paying for everything.  And I’m supposed to come up with the plan too?  Why do kids expect to be treated like visiting dignitaries, being escorted around to one fun-filled event after another?  Is it too much to ask that someone else comes up with an idea once in a while?  When do I get to ask “What are we going to do today?”

At our house, the scene goes something like this.  One of the kids will approach us asking what our plans are for the weekend or upcoming day off/vacation.  This question gets double results.  It makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and it brings forth the other child, who appears seemingly out of nowhere.  It’s obvious they must both be present during these conversations so that they can vote against each other.  If one says yes, the other must say no, regardless of whether they would like to do whatever is planned. Clearly there’s an unwritten code somewhere stating this must be the way between siblings.   (Interestingly, I don’t remember my brothers or I ever knowing about this code when we were growing up.  This one must have come out around the same time as the ‘new math’.)  So, one says “yes“, the other “no“, I push the issue one way or the other and one gloomily relents - but there’s no way they’re going to be happy about it.  Or, they both say “no” and I’m left feeling exasperated and wondering why this bothers me so much, why I take this so personally.  When the day arrives and there’s no plan, I can count the minutes until I’ll hear another of my favorite sayings, “I’m bored”.   Know what guys?  Me too.  We need to regroup.

To be fair, when really pushed, they will come up with an idea.  We each have our own default suggestions, none of which are any good.  O’s is “let’s go into Boston”, which is his code for ‘let’s go to Faneuil Hall so I can get a corn dog’, which, frankly, is not that exciting.  MJ, who is usually the more flexible participant, will not, under any circumstances, go to a museum, or anywhere that you just ‘walk around and look at stuff that you can’t touch.’ So, it’s tricky.  But I’m sure there was a time when we all liked doing the same things.  I think that period is known as ’they were too young to protest the things that I wanted  to do‘, a wonderful, but distant time in our history.   When they ask me for my suggestions, I usually suggest a visit to the Gardner Museum or the Boston Athenaeum - things I’ve wanted to do for the longest time!  But those never get the green light.  They don’t even get one vote, not even from Wes, who usually says yes to everything!  And we’re back where we started, at home, looking at each other. 

Something needs to change, but what?  And how?  How can I convince them that I no longer feel that I should  be orchestrating their free time?  Believe me, I think that I’ve made my thoughts on this pretty crystal clear.  But we continue on, stuck in this ineffectual rut.  And is it me that needs to change - or them?  I’d say all of us.  I see no reason that they can’t provide some input and be more open to other ideas.  And I probably should stop jumping through hoops to try to make them both happy.  But change can be slow to come and I need some instant results.   Any ideas?  Christmas break is fast approaching!

Real Men Wear Hats

11/10/2009

Reblog

I really like men in hats.  And by hats, I mean hats - and not baseball caps.  A baseball cap is just that, a cap.  It’s not a hat.  Let’s face it, baseball caps are nothing more than the tee shirt of hats.  And, unfortunately, just like tee shirts, they’re everywhere!  But that’s not what I’m talking about.  By hats, I mean real, Joe Friday, Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra hats.  The type of hats that men just don’t wear anymore.  The type of hat that does not go with a tee shirt. They are not just a thing on top of your head to hide your bald spot or your bad hair day.  They are pieces of your wardrobe, extensions of your personality.  They can make you mysterious and yet they are functional.  With the right placement, they can add or erase 10 years from your face.  What’s not to love about hats?

I admit that these days, a man in a hat is not all that common.  At least not in the circles I travel in.  They are definite attention getters at the grocery store or on the soccer field.  There never seems to be more than one person wearing a hat at one time.  I’ll also admit that when I see someone in a hat in the crowd, the first thing that pops into my head is  “Where’s your horse?” - but  really, I do like them!  While Wes and I were on our first vacation together, he bought a hat, but not the type of hat I’m referring to here.  He bought a big, fur, Russian hat.  It made sense, since it was February and it was northern Canada.  Believe me, it was cold.  Everyone up there was wearing them.  But not me.  It was our first vacation together and there was no way I was going to mess up my hair putting on a big fur hat.  My head got numb within seconds of stepping outside, but I looked good!  The hat looked nice on Wes, and given his eastern European lineage, kind of made him look like he worked for the KGB.  I was glad he bought it because I knew it would keep him warm during our vacation but I doubted that I’d be as happy to have him wear it once we got back home.  He pulls it out every now and then and the look on MJ’s face when he threatens to wear it out in public is absolutely priceless.  But it is a nice hat.

I wonder why men have stopped wearing hats.  They are practical and for the men I know, practical is usually good.  I mean, it still rains out and it still gets cold.  In spite of the Hair Club for Men, men still go bald.  My guess is that it’s because they do not go with men’s wardrobes of today that mainly consist of jeans and tee shirts.  How very uninspiring.  I think we all wear way too much denim.  Is it possible to go anywhere these days where the majority of the crowd doesn’t look like they just came from working in the yard?  I really like getting dressed up to go out.  I understand that may be partly due to the fact that I no longer have to dress up to go to work and it’s always more pleasurable to do something because you want to and not because you have to.  While I don’t believe that every man in every restaurant needs to have a jacket on, neither do I think they should have a tee shirt on.  Remember ‘business casual’?  It’s now wedding attire.  This summer, my mother and I spent an evening out on the town.  We went to our favorite four-star steak house and then to a show at Symphony Hall.  It was a beautiful night in the city.  A great night to walk the city in a skirt and high heels.  A great night for a nice meal in a restaurant that blessedly does not have a children’s menu.  I was more than a little dismayed to see that our restaurant had become popular with the pre-game crowd - who were all dressed in their Red Sox tee shirts and baseball caps, many which stayed on their head throughout the meal.  I put on perfume for this?  How very tacky.

I have a friend Mark, who lives in England.  He recently sent some photos from a party that he had gone to.  It was a house party thrown by some friends.  I’m not sure that they were celebrating anything in particular.  It was just a bunch of friends spending an evening together.  Every person there was dressed as if they had just come from visiting the Queen.  Men were in tuxedos or dress suits.  Some were in kilts.  The women had each pulled out their favorite little black dress and many had clearly had their hair done.  It looked like such a lovely party.  The type of party I’d love to attend.  I’m sure that I haven’t been in a group of friends during the last 5 years when at least one person wasn’t wearing their slippers.  We need an extreme makeover.

Maybe going to a party in a tuxedo is a bit much to ask.  But would it be that difficult to branch out beyond the standard uniform of jeans and a tee shirt when stepping out?  Give it a try.  Break out of the pack.  Start at the top and buy a real hat.

The Baby of the Family

11/03/2009

Reblog

They say you can’t go home again but last night I did just that.  Well, sort of.  There was a death in the family - my Aunt Teresa died - and I had to go back to my hometown for the wake.  It’s not like I’m never back in the ‘hood; my parents still live there, although not in the house where we grew up.  I had been hoping to run in to my brothers at the wake, thinking maybe one or all of them would be able to go out for a drink afterward, but my timing was bad.  So, I left the funeral home and decided to take a drive around my old neighborhood. Of course, I headed for the house.  I drove up my street, passing many friends’ houses on the way.  The houses were always close together, though I didn’t think they were back then.  But now there are new houses crammed between the old.  At least it’s nice to see small new houses.  The builders around our town only know how to build huge, silly houses.  I pass where my elementary school was - that was knocked down years ago to build townhouses. When did that become a one way street?  I’ve heard that our old house is a mess so I wasn’t surprised - only saddened - to see what bad shape it’s in.  Everything is familiar but nothing really looks the same. But in my mind, it’s clear as day. 

It’s no lie that I’ve been feeling very  nostalgic lately.  This can be blamed directly on my recently discovered and full-blown addiction to the TV show Mad Men.  I find the work-place story lines riveting, but it’s the home scenes that really capture me.  This was our life. The clothes.  The hair.  The smoking!  Most of my family smoked and our kitchen was often filled with smokers.  We obviously never thought anything about it.  But now, almost no one smokes, and it’s unusual to see someone smoking in public.  Can you even imagine sitting at work - or in a restaurant - and having a smoke?   Seeing Betty Draper smoking at her kitchen table when her kids come in from playing outside is like watching home movies.  But I think the unhurried pace of their lives is what really brings me back.  My father wasn’t an ad man but he put on his suit and hat (don’t you love men in hats?) and went to the office.  I’m certain there wasn’t the drinking and carousing going on that goes on in Mad Men, but I’m sure I thought that there was.  My life revolved around us being at home together and just being with each other.  There weren’t after school activities and sports.  There was school and home and the neighborhood.  And that was enough.

Believe me, I could take any subject and bring it around to Mad Men.  Sorry about that.  Back at the wake, being amongst my people (who, by the way, would never be mistaken for Irish), I become a different person.  I am no longer someone’s wife or mother. I am the baby of the family. The only girl.  I’m just me.  Once you have kids, how many opportunities are there for you to be seen as just you?  Just your childhood self?  Someone else’s baby?  Not too many.  And it feels nice.  It’s so natural and so easy.  I don’t feel this way when I’m together with just my immediate family - my parents and brothers and their families - only when I’m with the entire, extended family.  (La famiglia, if you will,)  So, basically at weddings and funerals. 

I stayed for the duration of the visiting hours, seeing my mother’s childhood friends come through to pay their respects.  We sat toward the back, chatting about this and that as you tend to do at these events.  Some people said the rosary - this being a wake, and all.  Many of us did not. There was a lot of reminiscing and a healthy dose of laughter.  When the crowd thinned out toward the end, just my mother, her cousin and I remained.  I knew it was time to go, leave behind being the baby once more and go home to become Mom again.  But then my cousin Marie turned to my mother and said “Did you see last night’s episode of Mad Men?” and we were off again and I got to stay the baby for a while longer.

My Runaway Imagination

10/27/2009

Reblog

So I get a phone call about 10 days ago.  It was my doctor’s office, calling with the results of my recent mammogram.  Well, that’s what I thought they were calling for.  But they were actually calling to tell me that they saw something questionable on the first set of images and wanted me to come back in so they could take a round of more detailed films.  “There’s nothing to worry about”, she told me.  “This is very common and usually results in nothing at all.”  Worry?  I wasn’t worried.  I mean, there’s no way I have cancer.  That’s not even remotely plausible.  I was more concerned - dare I say, aggravated - that I would have to carve additional time out of another day so I could go back and be inconvenienced even more.  “Plan on being here for at least an hour.  The Doctor will be here and will meet you immediately after he reads your films to discuss the results.”  An hour?  Were they serious?  The timing of the appointment meant that I would be getting back on the highway exactly at the height of rush hour.  God, don’t I have better things to do with my time? This was pointless.

The weekend passed without my giving the appointment so much as a fleeting thought.  Then it was Monday morning and I had managed to arrange our schedule to factor in me being in traffic for the rest of eternity.  My day at work was a typical Monday at work which means that I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there and get home so I could get some things together before I had to leave for the Doctor.  But at some point during the 2 minute drive from work to my house (I know, it’s brutal!), my mind starting playing tricks on me.  “I think she said the Doctor was going to be there to speak to me.  That seems odd.  Why would the Doctor want to speak with me?”  I started to feel a little sweaty.  By the time I pulled into the driveway, I realized that the Doctor wanted to speak with me because he had seen a huge tumor on the first set of films and was going to need to lay out the frightening future for me.  My brain, unaccustomed to this type of hysteria, clearly was not working right.  It seemed the only logical thing for me to do was to change into my good bra.  Now, I know this is pointless.  I was going to get there and be instructed to take my bra off without anyone ever having seen it.  Still, it seemed like the right thing to do.  As I was changing I noticed these huge red blotches all over my face, neck and chest.  “What the hell?”  Yes, I had broken out in hives and they were most impressive.  It was time to leave for the appointment and I was feeling way beyond anxious.  To be truthful, I was sweating like a pig and feeling really nauseous.  I hadn’t had a mammogram in 10 years.  10 years!  Who the hell do I think I am - that I can escape cancer?  How could I have been so stupid!?  I fought to resist throwing my arms around my husband when I left the house.  I was more than a little teary.  On the ride, I screamed at myself for being so callous and all but giving myself cancer.  I had no one to blame but myself.  I got to the hospital early and sat in the parking lot trying to pull myself together and wondering if this would be my last memory “before everything changed”.

I managed to get myself inside without hyperventilating, which I took to be an encouraging sign.  The receptionist looked a little alarmed when she saw me, which of course meant that she, too, had seen the huge tumor on the first set of films.  I knew exactly where to go, having just been here a few days before.  I entered the waiting room and saw things I hadn’t noticed on my previous visit.  There was a ginormous basket full of all sorts of wonderful pampering products that was wrapped up with a big pink ribbon. 
There was also a big bulletin board full of myths, facts and statistics.  I read that 80% of all biopsies are benign.  Those are good odds, but I just knew they didn’t apply to me.  I was definitely in that 20%.  I was escorted back to the changing area and took off my good bra and put on the neither functional, attractive nor comfortable piece of cloth known as johnny.  I tried repeatedly but could not calm my shaking hands enough to tie the thing.  My heart was actually racing -though not quite as fast as my mind.  I was contemplating writing goodbye letters to my kids while I sat in the waiting room.  I was definitely going to vomit.

Once you’ve delivered children, you realize that the mammogram is not the worst exam/test ever - as long as you don’t mind someone kneading and molding a part of your body as if it were made of clay, which doesn’t seem quite so bad once they flatten it out until it’s at least as thin as a sheet of wet paper.  I actually decided to schedule a mammogram not because it had been 10 years, but because I really need to schedule a colonoscopy and thought I’d work my way up to the indignity of that by having my boobs morphed into potato pancakes first.

The films certainly were  more detailed and hurt appreciably more.  I just knew that I could feel the giant tumor as the machine squished and pinched.  I cried out on more than one occasion.  The hives were hot and red.  I have never felt such palpable dread in my life.  It was over pretty quickly, as they only needed to do one breast - the one with the huge tumor.  I put my good bra back on and took a seat in the waiting room.  There were huge black spots floating around in front of my eyes.  When the technician approached me, I stood, but was ready to faint.  “OK, you’re all set” she said.  All set?  What does that mean?  All set for the Doctor to change my life forever?  I realized she was still talking and heard her say “Everything looks perfect.  Thanks for coming back in.  You’ll get a postcard in the mail in a year as a reminder to schedule an appointment.”  She turned and left, leaving me alone in the waiting room.  The Doctor hadn’t even wanted to speak to me.  I could feel the heat draining out of my face and sat down to gather my things.  I stopped in the ladies room on my way out and saw that I looked totally normal.  The blotches were gone and those black spots had disappeared.  When I got back in the car, I was surprised to see that I had only been inside for 25  minutes (could that be right??  It seemed like hours!!!) which meant that I would be ahead of rush hour traffic.  “Well, that turned out better than I thought”, (a huge understatement) I said as I pulled onto the highway.  But, I’m still not sure I’m ready for the colonoscopy.  Even my imagination doesn’t want to go there.